I am notorious for losing things, most notably and frequently, my passport and cell phone.  With my passport I somehow manage to lose it right before I'm about to board a trans-Atlantic flight.  Not one, not two, but THREE times I have flown home from Europe (post 9/11) without that navy-bound declaration of my US citizenship.  Remarkably, the only time I've encountered any difficulty was when stopping through the not-so-far-from-Hitler-esque airport security regime in Berlin.  When asked by a German government official where my passport was, I responded simply that 'I wish I knew.'  This went over with the same floating grace of a lead balloon.  His face turned virtually indigo and he screeched maniacally 'You wanna KNOW where it is?!?  I'll tell you where it is!!! It's being SOLD! On the BLACK MARKET!! For ten THOUSAND dollars!!!!!'  When I shrugged my shoulders and said I was pretty sure I just left it at my friend's apartment, I thought his head might actually pop off his neck right there in the airport.  But it was a lie anyway... I had really left it on the toilet of a bathroom in Paris.  I realized it about a half hour later, but by the time I went back to get it and run around to all gates and lost and founds in proximity, the passport was nowhere to be found and my plane was boarding.  

Likewise, in the 2 years I've lived in New York, I have been through 8 cell phones.  It's embarrassing.  When I finally wised up and got insurance with cell phone number 5, my mom's first question was whether I had told the insurance company I was high-risk.  Hilarious.

Anyway, in typical fashion, on Saturday night I was coming home from Gramercy and stopped in a bar near my apartment to use the restroom.  Once again, phone was left on the toilet and, when I went back to retrieve it, someone had already pocketed my little Blackberry Pearl.  I called the phone from Jenn's phone several times on Sunday with no answer and, just before I crawled into bed, Jenn informed me that my phone was calling her back. Huh???  Long conversation very short, it turns out that somewhere between the bar, the 5 am phone calls to 7 of my friends, 2 friends of friends, 3 random colleagues (including my very pregnant BOSS), and late Sunday night, little Sticky Fingers developed a conscience.  She apologized and said she felt bad for stealing my phone and would like to return it.  Told me to come to a pizzeria today (about 30 blocks from the bar where she'd taken it) and ask for Raul who would give it back to me.  As if they hadn't already invaded my contacts enough by calling them in the wee hours of Sunday morning, Raul responded to my phone all day when people called.  Chatted them up like old friends and let them know I'd call back around 6:30.  How kind of him. Part of me wanted to get annoyed, but most of me is just happy to save face in front of the insurance company by not having to order phone #9.  

I think at the end of the day, I've just learned that God answers prayer in mysterious ways.  I lose my belongings, then I fervently pray that God will help me find them.  Instead of making me look, He just makes the amoral individual who stole them feel so guilty that they can't rest until they return my stuff.  The passport I left in France (aka 10,000 Black Market check) appeared randomly in my mailbox 3 months after it disappeared in a clear plastic bag with no postage.  I kid you not.  I almost feel like I should mark my valuables with the warning that people who take my goods without permission have been known to develop a moral compass within 24 hours. 

P.S. In case you're wondering, I did get my phone back in the end.  Sweet Inger went and picked it up at the pizzeria since it was close to her office.  My mom thought I should have given him a nice reward.  For returning the phone his friend stole.  I think he's lucky I didn't pocket a pizza.  

I just re-read my last post and find it pretty interesting that I chose to hope the bad day at the office was my 'crashing point.' Ironically, the literal crashing point actually came the following Saturday when I was walking to meet Jess for brunch and got hit by a taxi.

I've been told before that I should never walk and talk on my cell phone at the same time, and this would be a case-in-point scenario. Even without a phone in hand, my friend just yesterday said he felt like he was walking with a blind person. I'm definitely one of those who speeds up, slows down, swerves all over the sidewalk, and makes walking beside me akin to driving behind a drunk or geriatric driver. Yes, it's true, I am the girl you hate.

So that morning I was clipping along, chatting with a 'friend' from home (let's call him John Deere for future reference) noting what a beautiful sunny day it was when, out of NOWHERE, (ok, out of the intersection I was crossing), a yellow cab comes zooming toward me in reverse! I had no time to react and was knocked up onto the trunk of the taxi before falling back onto the ground. My new blackberry (replacement for ski-trip casualty) went flying; people came running; and the taxi driver stopped and rushed back to see if he was gonna get sued.

Unfortunately I wasn't knocked unconscious, so I was fully coherent for the mortification impact of the entire event. Lots of ooh, ouch, glad-that-wasn't-me kinds of expressions, followed by the obligatory concerned looks and inquiries into my well-being. I think the fact that the incident occurred at 2 in the afternoon and right on the heels of such an awful week made the cringe-factor more than I could bear. I popped up a little too quickly, grabbed my phone from one of the helpful strangers, screamed at them all that the driver should check his rear view mirror!!!, and darted away to nurse my ego and aching arm.

To my advantage, the real pain didn't set in until the shock that I had been hit by a taxi wore off. I mean really?? Seriously? Is that normal? Or do I just happen to be one of the few lucky ones with a point value hanging over my head visible only to those rolling on at least 2 wheels? I am TRYING to make some lemonade here but 7 days of lemons are making the sting a bit hard to swallow....

Insult to Injury

Oh. My. Gosh. This is not happening. Just as I'm thinking the week can't get any worse, it plummets to a record low.

First of all, it's important to know that I have been blonde my entire life. There have of course been different shades of this color over the years (from a deep gold in the winter to snowy white after a summer in Hawaii), but it has always been blonde. It's part of my identity. A huge part. And though I didn't realize it until now, a significant chunk of my security as well.

I have been really looking forward to a highlighting appointment at Bumble and Bumble which I waited weeks to get. It was crazy at work, an unbelievably inopportune time to leave, but I simply couldn't abandon the rendevous with my stylist I waited so long to obtain. I figured I could pop out, emphasize my rush to the stylist, then slink back in without an observable absence.

Once I was comfortably in the salon chair and had explained the desired highlights to my colorist, I allowed myself to relax, enjoy the tea, and dive deep into the latest trends of Vogue. I was never concerned as they painted, repainted, masked, then rinsed my hair of the new colors. But when they finally spun me around to see the highlights for myself, I was unprepared for the reflection which awaited. They, without beseeching my opinion or feelings on the matter, turned me into....a....BRUNETTE!!! And then, as I am shell shocked and fighting back the floodgates of tears , they started snapping photos of the terrible transformation and my subsequent reaction!!

So I did it. I did what I secretly disdain other vain, shallow girls for doing. In the middle of the salon, in front of clients and employees alike, I had a virtual MELTDOWN. I told them how even when a stylist in France had BUZZ-CUT my bangs, I still was not as unhappy as they had made me. I spoke to the manager, the senior stylist, the receptionist, even the man who swept up the hair to elicit pity for the stylistic ambush. But no one cared. They all insisted that it 'brought out my eyes' and refused to budge until I gave it a month to "oxidize". Whaaat?? A month?!? There was obviously some sort of disconnect between my nervous breakdown and their comprehension skills. In any other situation I would have stayed to argue and win my way, but by this time I had already been gone from the office for 3 hours and was too worried about the possible repurcussions to continue the futile attempt at empathy or persuasion. I took a deep breath, tied a scarf tightly around my head, and ran back to work to re-strategize.

As I rode the elevator up to the 5th floor, I steeled myself for the reaction to a 3 hour absence and the dramatic change of hairstyle. But that should have been the least of my worries....

I walked to my desk and the girl who sits beside me didn't even comment on the fact that I had gone from platinum to chocolate on my lunchbreak. She just said, "um, get ready for your inbox."

S**t! Angry clients? Pissed off boss? Unfortunately not. Instead I was greeted by a montage of pictures from the ski weekend and 2 VIDEOS (!!) from the Saturday night dinner. The first video started with a pan across several employees talking to the camera or doing a cute little dance, then conveniently focused on me in a bright red satin shirt as I attempted, alone, to do some combination of the Temptations, the Rumba, and the shimmy. As if I didn't look stupid enough already, the look was completed by a side ponytail I had apparently felt appropriate to secure perpendicularly to my head. But at least I was still able to walk independently....
Video 2 showed the whole office cheerily dancing past the camera in a congo line, then me, ponytail still intact, smiling sleepily at the camera, eyes half open, being coaxed along toward the exit by one of our accountants. My friend saw my crimson face and mortified expression and thought it an appropriate moment to insert, "oh yeah, ha ha, that was right before you fell."

OMG what do I DO??? the videos are in our effing sharedrive and were sent on a mass email to the entire NY office! are you kidding me? Do people not have a sensitivity chip?!? Couldn't we (me and the videographer) have just shared a private chuckle and called it a day?!

I'm at a loss for words and recovery strategy. Clearly I should not get out of bed tomorrow. On a continuing downward spiral, PLEASE let this be the crashing point....

Slopeside Chagrin

Last weekend we had a company ski trip and, after a stressful week at work, I was really looking forward to some snow, slopes, and strong toddies. Most of our New York office went on the trip, including our president and vice-president with whom I somehow got assigned to the same condo. I was committed to keeping all alcoholic intake in check because I'm still new to the company and prefer to maintain some semblance of respect and well-repute in the office.

Friday night was chill but fun. We went to the 'party' condo (not mine) and had a few cocktails accompanied by some lessons in Swedish drinking songs. I participated but was well-behaved so I could hit the mountain early on Saturday morning. As planned, I rose early and met a big group of skiiers at the pre-appointed lift. In my over-enthusiasm to ski for the first time in 2 years, I quickly got separated from the entire group, that is, the entire group except the one guy who chose NOT to behave the night before. The guy who woke up and immediately filled 2 thermoses for the day with whiskey.

To make 8 hours of him tumbling down the mountain and me needing to continually take the edge off my frustration very short, by the end of the day and a thermos of Jim Beam, I was tipsy. Thankfully, on the last run of the day we ran into another coworker. In my quasi-inebriated condition, I was able to convince him to ski down a completely closed-off slope with me which led, I thought, to the condo. Unfortunately the slope actually led to a smaller slope without snow (only grass and rocks) which dead-ended into a road winding back up the mountain. Our only option at that point was obviously to hitchhike, so we stuck out our thumbs and prayed for the best.

After a small detour by a bus of 43 guys entertained by my liquid enthusiasm and Southern drawl, we arrived at my place just in time to change clothes and make a cocktail before the company dinner. Had this been a company dinner with a cocktail hour before and half the attendees already drunk, I would have been in good shape. However, the rest of the office apparently liked to ski sober (who'd a thought?) thus highlighting my slurred speech, spontaneous dance moves, and outward affection for evvvveryone. I don't remember a great deal about the dinner or the party where I made an appearance afterward, but I do remember excusing myself from the meal 3 times to go to the "restroom" when I actually snuck into a Mardi Gras-themed family reunion party on the floor below. Baaad idea. Fast forward to...

I wake up in a the lower bunk of a bed in the party condo and am forced to do the walk of shame at 8 am while parents are chipperly loading their skis and children into sleds and SUV's. The stilettos made the trek in 3 feet of snow all the more fun and, to further increase my humiliation, my attempt to discreetly enter the condo without notice was thwarted by a dead-bolted door upon arrival. Fortunately the PRESIDENT of the company was able to get up and let me back in.

Soo, I'm desperate to know the details but too embarrassed to ask anyone and can only hope there's no photographic footage of my debauchery. My tailbone is tremendously sore and, since I didn't fall down skiing at all, this makes me verrry nervous. It will come as no surprise that I lost my phone. And at this point, after yesterday's incident at the bank, good news is that the week can only get better...

Am I overreacting?

I only have a few minutes but thought I would recount a quick moment of incredulity I just experienced. Tonight after work I went to a bank in Chelsea across from my office. When I first entered the small ATM room, there were about 6 people waiting to use 2 ATM's. The man beside me waiting for the adjacent ATM was tall, attractive, very well-dressed (suit, tie, expensive trench), and probably in his late forties. By the time I got my money, we were the only 2 left in the room. He had walked over to the corner by the deposit table and I did the same so I could deposit a check. As I walked over, I noticed he was facing the corner with his head down, so I assumed, naturally, that he was trying to discreetly count his money. I continued to the table and belatedly realized, once I was again standing beside him, that he was not in fact counting his money. His money was on the table. So that he could unzip his PANTS and PEE in the CORNER!!!! of the BANK!!!!!! I screamed in disgust and ran out, but he was unashamed. Didn't even turn his head at my high-pitched expression of horror.

I would say that I've never seen anything like that, except that last summer, when walking down a quaint little street in the West Village, I walked by a chic, attractive woman, in an adorable little skirt suit, adorable pair of ankle boots, standing in an adorable little flower bed on the sidewalk. Doing the SAME THING! While casually talking on her cell phone, in broad daylight in New York, she was relieving herself in the FLOWERBED, while her clothes and boots and pantyhose absorbed what the flowerbed didn't. I asked my ridiculously proper litte French friend if she had seen what the lady was doing, and she nonchalantly responded, 'yes, she is pissing in ze plants."

Um, am I the only one that is appalled by this?? Has our society of convenience really taught us to simply find the closest vacant corner or tree as a replacement for a trip to the public restroom? Am I supposed to leisurely stroll by as fellow New Yorkers "piss" on the sidewalks? And if this is the case, if this is not a rhetorical question as I'd hoped, I can't help but asking what's (logically) next....

Not so subtle suggestion....

Some background information on me: I am 27. I am single. I have been single for 27 years.

The following is the email I received from my mother this morning.

"OK... ! First of all, I have already told Daddy that this is where I want us all to celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary next summer (yes, I want the whole fam to go) and this would be a perfect location in regards to the Mediterranean ...mountains, everything! And listen...THIS IS THE BEST PART!!!!!.....if we LOVE it, then this is where we will have your wedding and reception!!! How wonderful is that! Call me when you get this and let's plan what time of year and colors for your bridesmaids would best compliment the ambiance.....I LOVE YOU....I AM SO EXCITED!!!! M." ·















Huh?? I need an emoticon for the confused look. Apparently she knows something, or someone, that I don't.....

Lost in Translation

I'm currently in Germany for a work trip, which is the first time I've been back to Europe since moving home from France and Spain 2 years ago. While I certainly wish it was a purely leisure trip, it's still nice to return to the quaint streets, outdoor cafes, exquisite architecture, and melodic foreign languages. Unfortunately I speak only 2 words of German, hello and thank you, so the possibility of melodically stepping in tune is doubtful. I did, however, during a conversation with a German woman, try to assuage her fears about my organizational preferences by saying, I liked order but was not a "Nazi" about it. When an awkward silence directly ensued, I realized that post-WWII Germany may not be the best place to make comparisons to Hitler or his followers. Eeeeek....

After that slip-up, I fortunately learned my lesson. I only wish I had learned my lesson as quickly 2 years ago when I spent Christmas in Sardinia with my Italian friend Cecilia. The problem then was that lack of inhibition was mingled with overconfidence in my ability to traverse the language barrier. Cecilia had spent 2 coffee dates with me teaching basic Italian, and I was determined to absorb and practice enough during my 2 week sojourn in Italy to claim fluency.

The first day we were there, Cecilia's father went to the port and brought back a feast of fresh mussels which were skillfully added to an amazing homemade sauce for my introductory Sardinian meal. Even more exciting than lunch was my first vocabulary word. Cozze. (Co-tseh.) Cozze. Cozze. This was simple. All week continued as such, with the entire non-Anglophone mix of family and friends patiently working to improve my "Italiano." This didn't come without a couple of embarrassing mix-ups of course: I spent 5 days complaining about my headaches by telling her family my "tit" was hurting; and, in an attempt to describe a guy friend's sweet and perfect parents, I actually described his sweet and perfect "genitalia." However, after a few blushing moments and awkward charade-like explanations, the group would laugh, pat my back, and lovingly say "Oh, Elizabetta...."

Fortunately, at the end of week one, I really got a chance to show off my newly-aquired skills when Cecilia and I were at a restaurant having dinner with a large group of her friends. The resto was loud, the friends were all excited to see one another, and in their rapidly chirped Italian, I quickly lost track of conversation. I must have been blatantly day-dreaming, because a friend of Cecilia's at the opposite end of the table stopped talking and yelled, " Elizabetta!!" Everyone stopped and turned. In his sing-song Italian he loudly asked, "Since you've been in Eeetaly, what has been your favorite food?" Nice. A hospitable gesture to include the sweetly (but blankly) smiling foreign guest. Everyone turned again. This time all eyes on me.

I was actually THRILLED to have understood his question and wanted to make the most of my opportunity to wow the crowd with my proficiency. So I bowed up, shoulders back, chest forward, and proudly proclaimed that, "Adoro...mangare... CAZZO!!!!"

Ta Dahh!! I had done it! I eagerly awaited the inevitable rounds of complimentary applause...and, then, nothing. Instead, everyone turned quickly to Cecilia with various looks of disgust and confusion as she begged me in French to explain what I meant. So with a red face and a deflated ego, I translated. "I love to eat mussels!!!" Relief flooded her expression and those at the table as she clarified what I had intended to cite as my favorite Italian delicacy. Unfortunately, as they all soon explained to my anxiously awaiting chagrin, I had BOLDLY announced to her friends and the entire restaurant, that "I LOVED, to EAT, COCK!!!!!"

Yes, that is what I said, to an appalled group of Italians who already think that American girls like this, um, activity, er, dish. So, while I would love to end this with a poetic finale or redemption of my numerous faux pas, I think it's best, if I learned anything from my experience, to just stop here. And be quiet.

The Day's Deductions

These are the things I know by deduction:

a) From the call log on my phone, I know that I called my little brother at exactly 3:17a.m. this morning.

b) From the back side of my white pants, I know that I sat in pike position on the floor of the bar, or some other equally wet and dirty surface last night, for an extended period of time. Unfortunately, the black mire did not seep through to the front of the pants so I was unable to deduce that my entire backside, from waist to hem, was black before I had already been at work an hour.

c) And from the large cloud of white dust that floats around my head each time I move, I know that, in my attempts to ameliorate the excessive amount of oil in my hair this morning, I put WAY too much baby powder in it. Beauty magazine editors should warn readers of this potential hazard before encouraging them to use any white powdery absorbant on their dirty locks. I look scarily similar to a founding father.

Now, these are the things I know as fact:

a) My new Italian boyfriend's name is Sergio and he likes me. (from a text sent at 8:45 am)

b) My pupils are the size of marker dots.

c) I am now wearing the following: black shirt, last night's makeup, black sweatpants (purchased at 9:30am at a discount store next to my office), and stilettos.

d) I will never again drink a tequila sprite.

Textually Active?

I am 27 which makes me old enough to remember when cell phones didn't exist, but young enough to be part of the cultural phenomenon called the text message. Old enough to remember the times when guys sought girls' numbers in the phone book to call them at home, but young enough to get sucked into the allure of internet networking, and, perhaps the most detrimental trend of all,
casual texts.

The scenario: I meet a guy at a New Year's Party. We have a great time, great chemistry, ridiculous dance-off, and he gets my number. Instead of calling to ask me out the following week, he sends an introductory text message to see what I'm up to. Brief exchange. Ending in nothing. Weekend rolls around. Another 2 days of consistent texting to find out my plans, where I am, what I'm doing, which ends in, again, nothing. Week 2 texting starts on Wednesday and by Sunday, I had seen him for 5 minutes, received 86 text messages, and answered yes to a text proposal that he come to my apartment to watch football. But Sunday night he never showed up. What did show up, however, was a little white envelope on my phone. Notification of a text which said, "Think I'll just chill at home, can't seem to get off my couch." Wow. Confused look. In my inevitable analysis of why he thought it appropriate to do something totally INappropriate in a TEXT MESSAGE ( i.e. say he didn't like me enough to get off his couch), I began to ponder the tremendous cellular impact on our generation. I looked around at my many young, beautiful, smart, witty, and fun SINGLE friends in Manhattan and couldn't help but wonder - is our single status just a result of too much textual activity?

From the deep reservoir of my friends' and my combined experiences with various textual partners, I am astounded by the stories of break-up texts, make-up texts, drunken texts, adulterous texts, revenge texts ... the list is endless but the pattern is the same. Are we allowing texts to replace substantive communication in our relationships? Is the text misrepresenting our actual potentials for compatibility and longevity with the opposite sex?

How many times have you really liked a guy upon meeting him, knew that one-on-one you were PERFECT, but later found the texts left you wanting....? Or experienced hot texts, exciting texts, texts that kept you guessing, but dinner was, well, less than impressive...? I know I'm not the only girl who, after being neglected by someone I liked, had some cocktails and sent a 'harmless little message' to someone I was totally uninterested in, just so he'd respond and provide some momentary affection; gratifying flirtation; textual healing. Or faked my enthusiasm for texts that actually bored me to tears. Textual regret? We're all very familiar....

On the other hand, I have other shy friends who would have never initiated what became a long-lasting relationship if it were not for the feeling of anonymity one can maintain from the inaugural getting-to-know-you texts. People who are able to mask their timidity with their textual skills.

So, text. What is it? Catalyst or clutch? Effective tool or temporary release?

Although I'd be dishonest in saying I don't love the immediate gratification textual interaction often provides, I hate to see a growing trend among myself and my friends of being chained to a cell phone. Enslaved to the beeps or chimes that tell us we're wanted. Addicted to the bondage of SMS. After weighing the pros and cons and risking the wrath of cell phone empires worldwide, I just can't help but ask, wouldn't it be better if we all began to exercise some caution? Protect ourselves? Couldn't we all benefit from just a little bit more cell-ibacy?

The stripper in me

For those of you who have ever wanted to go to the latest striptease cardio classes but never worked up the nerve, this will give you some insight. For those of you who have been and participated, you’ll be able to relate.

I, of course, was a little unsure attending a class which teaches dancing while disrobing as a spectacle sport. (I probably wasn’t quite as unsure as the 60 year old woman beside me, but seriously, I was nervous.) And it didn’t help that due North was a bouncy blonde in STILETTOS girating five times as fast as me for every move we did.

These are some things which are encouraged in a stripping class: pushing it. grinding it. rolling it. slapping it. and my personal favorite- twirking it. Actually, twirking is just kind of the base move. Like, when in doubt, just twirk.

After 30 minutes of dancing seductively in front of the mirror trying to mimic the moves of my large black male instructor, I was pretty ready to throw in the towel. But no, he had a better idea- let’s USE the towel! From waving it slowly above our heads like a lasso to pretending it was a shirt we had just removed, incorporation of the towel got pretty creative. And the crazy thing is that, somewhere between the struts and the thrusts, you really get into it. I went from rolling my eyes at the cheesy music to thinking Fergalicious was my favorite song. Mocking regards of bouncy blonde turned into envious frustration as I tried to imitate her technique.

When we ran out of moves in front of the mirror, we backed up against it. When that got old, we all got our own stripper poles. (yes, I said poles.) And when I was certain my muscles would not permit even one more body roll, we all had to get on the floor. I’m not going to try to describe the floor moves in this post, but suffice it to say that honeymooners and newlyweds could benefit greatly from a class like this. Grandma beside me tried to sneak away just before this point, but the draw of twirking on all fours was too much and she immediately dropped down on a vacant mat.

I think it will come as no surprise that the entire class led up to a climactic lyrical masterpiece by Ludacris, 'shake ya money maker,' in which we were, of course, encouraged to shake what our momma gave us. So until I find a more wholesome way to burn calories, for me, look out, crumping just might be the new cardio.

My fear of footraces

The New York marathon was last weekend. Thousands of people come from all over the world to compete in a 26.2 mile test of unimaginable endurance and discipline. My mom, as an avid runner and former marathon top-finisher, is currently trying to convince me to train for one with her. While I do like the idea of getting my body into the kind of shape it requires to complete a marathon and experiencing such a memorable milestone with my mother, I have to admit that footraces with thousands of participants are to me what enclosure in, say, a pad-locked phone booth is to a claustrophobe - a situation in which a previous experience or inherent fear creates a level of anxiety so heightened that putting oneself in the situation should be avoided at all costs.

My fear, in this case, comes from an experience I had as a senior in high school while running our city's annual 10K run. Every year people come from all over the world to my small hometown in Mississippi for Mother's Day weekend. I'm not sure how the race became so well-known and competitive, but every division, including the self-propelled wheelchairs, offers a highly sought-after trophy and money prize to its winner.

On this particular sunny morning in mid-May, I, along with over 10,000 other runners, was lined up at the starting line downtown. The gunshot sounded, we all took off, and I was feeling enthused and optimistic about the way I'd be spending the next 75 minutes (i'm a slow runner) of my morning. It should be noted that in my town, the race route spends the majority of its length along residential streets so that families and citizens can line the yards with picnics and posters to cheer on the participants.

About 15 minutes into the race, I was running along happily when I heard the loud determined voice of a man behind me screaming "Move to the left! Move to the left!" This rapidly and distictly barked order from the front-runner of the self-propelled wheelchair division was a familiar alert to race-goers. When you hear the riders signaling their approach with the call to "move to the left," simply jump aside, continue running, and allow them to pass. Easy, right?

Wrong. As mentioned before, I am a blonde. A blonde with absolutely no, and I mean not one HINT of a drop of, a sense of a direction. Things like North, South, East, West, Right, and Left come as a formidable challenge to me. So while the command to hop to the left was simple for the rest of the running world on that bright Spring morning, I panicked and, instinctively, jumped right....

At this point I was SLAMMED into with the force of a speeding missile by the aforementioned front-runner of the wheelchair race causing him to be FLUNG from his wheelchair as onlookers watched in horror. In order to acurately envision the situation, you must know that the wheelchair did not just bump into me, topple over, and create a brief hiccup of inconvenience for the 2-wheeled rocket. No, the chair hit me with crippling force and CATAPULTED its helpless occupant, like a poorly pulled slingshot, into a nearby lawn dotted with red-checkered tablecloths and children playing ball.

And he did not accept his plight quietly (while I fervently prayed that no one would notice the violent disruption in Mayberry bliss). No, he was a moaner. As he lay virtually lifeless on the ground inviting all within earshot to mourn this disaster with him, the subsequent reaction of the spectators was to find the MONSTER who had caused the calamity. I had only two real options at this point - run away at a speed which would make the barefoot Kenyan (favored to win) fade in my dust, or heroically run to the aid of my undeserving victim still groaning in the grass. Clarity, however, escaped me and I unfortunately chose neither. I instead opted for the highly-effective and undoubtedly more helpful response of running in place with my hands clapped over my ears while chanting "oh my gosh" incessantly. My leg that caused the catastrophe was gashed open and gushing blood, but I was unaware. Time for me had stopped and all I could do, like a bumbling idiot, was run. In. Place. I don't remember much of what happened after that point...the only thing etched in my memory is the arc in which that brave and ambitious parapalegic shot from his chair into a newly-mowed lawn because of my embarrassing inability to determine left from right.

Soooo, when it comes to the marathon, you can tell me I'm lazy; you can tell me I'm unmotivated; you can even tell me I'm unreasonable in my refusal to participate. But unless you can guarantee that I will not be called upon to have an instinctively accurate sense of direction at a moment's notice, you can probably never tell me you'll see me at the starting line....

Halloween

So this weekend was Halloween...the time of the year when guys try to look as ridiculous and perverse as possible and girls make it look like there's a worldwide ration on fabric. Costume companies make millions just by putting the word 'sexy' before female outfits, and from sexy nurses to sexy school marms, New York is a showcase for it all. I'm usually pretty disdainful of the justification to go from prude to pole dancer, but this weekend I decided to lower my v-neck (and perhaps my standards) and jump on the bandwagon. I also, in a last-minute decision to push the alter-ego limit even further, bought some temporary hair dye and sprayed my hair, which has never been darker than dirty blonde, completely black. Add fur boots and feathers, and my transformation to Tiger Lily was complete.

We, my 3 roommates and visiting Norwegian friend Lillian and I, all headed down to an apartment on the Lower East Side for a house party. With a smoke machine, laser lights, turn tables, a group of Buddhist monks from Madrid, and enough girls in little more than loin cloths to go round, I think it could have rivaled any club in Meatpacking. My penchant for foreign guys with long hair and strong accents was quickly satisfied with a group of 3 Spaniards, so I was feeling confident about the probability of a make-out later. However, said Spaniards unfortunately left the party to go to Plumm, and I was forced to look around and evaluate my alternatives.

Hmmm....Inger was kissing Crocodile Steve, Lillian was hooked up with Indiana Jones, Jess was with the Phantom of the Opera, and Candy and Jenn were talking to those guys too cool to dress up. Ugh. My options were boiling down to a walking phallus or a dude in a skirt, so I quickly realized I'd have to trek down the Spaniards if I wanted to see any quality kissing action. Jess, Candy, the Phantom, and some newly acquired friend named Alex kindly took pity on my situation and accompanied me across the city to Plumm on my quest.

To make a long story relatively short, the Spaniards came and grabbed me outside of the club as soon as we arrived around 3:45 a.m. and I gave my friends permission to leave me alone with them.
4:25 a.m. We all jump in their Durango to seek out another party.

4:28 a.m. Jose #1 and I make out in the back-back seat. Yessss....

4:46 a.m. Guys convince some girl standing outside of an amazing roofdeck apartment with a crazy-sounding party that we were there by invitation of her friend. We go up to crash it.

6:13 a.m. I meet tall hot Australian (my weakness) hosting the party and am unable to resist his advances...brief make-out session in the elevator. Yesss....

7:30 a.m. After an hour more of non-stop dancing, Spaniards and I are back in the Durango heading East toward my apartment. Jose #2 makes moves in the back seat. Light smooching (uh oh...) and then my vehement protests as I realize we are not stopping at my place.

7:45 a.m. Durango heads over the bridge to New Jersey and promises to bring me back tomorrow morning. I go to sleep in denial of my helpless situation.

8:15 a.m. Arrival at hotel in undisclosed location, explanation from me that the only thing I'll be doing in the bed is sleeping, and the longest smoochfest yet in the hall with Emilio. Estevez. Yeah. That's his real name. (eeeekkk...)

A look out the window upon waking revealed pasture for miles and a creek right outside the hotel. WTF??? A look in the mirror revealed that much of the black dye had rubbed off on my pillow creating a look more similar to Cruella De Ville than an Indian princess. When I asked the Spaniards where we were, they just kept saying "New Yersey." Me: "Yeah but what city?" Them: "Sheraton" Me: "No, that's the name of the hotel." Them: "Oh. Then New Yersey."
Only when I was free from the cornfields surrounding the parking lot did I learn, from the GPS in the Durango, that we'd been in a place called "The Meadowlands." wow.

All's well that ends well and by 6pm, after they had given me 9 hundred dollars cash for the 2 iPhones I bought them and a 40 dollar bonus for 'my smooch services' (ouch), I finally got home to normalcy.

So all in all, it turned out to be a pretty fun night. Yes, I am 27, and yes, I did kiss 4 boys, crash a random rave, and spend the night in a cornfield with 3 strangers, but I've decided these were all just the ramifications of misjudgment caused by the black hair dye. Would I do things any differently if given the chance? Um, next year I think I'm going as Cleopatra...heh heh...

The Tomato Toss

Well, right now, if you saw me, you'd be convinced I should be admitted to a shelter for battered women. But the bruises and cuts which now cover my body are not from "falling down the stairs." No, they are from the bushels of tomatoes that were launched in my direction with relentless force and consistency over 3 hours at "La Tomatina" tomato festival. Before going to what I thought was a fun little tomato fight in town square, I read a little on the internet and saw that there were only 2 rules- squash the tomatoes before throwing them and no ripping other people's shirts. Hmm, ripping shirts? Surely this won't be a problem. And of course everyone will smash the tomatoes...it would feel like a baseball hitting you if not...

So we got to the village of Buñyol and made our way to the main street (me and a group of Aussies and New Zealanders that I met the day before) along with tens of thousands of other locals and tourists. The fight begins when the first of 5 tomatoes is launched from a canon. I originally thought that everyone would just buy a bag of tomatoes from some street vendor upon arrival, toss them around at their friends once the first tomato was launched, then stop when the 5th one was shot. I was mistaken. Very mistaken. What actually happens is that the first tomato signals the arrival of an enormous DUMP TRUCK full of tomatoes which is steadily emptied into a tiny street packed with more people than Bourbon during Mardi Gras. You have to wear goggles and ear plugs, and if i was personally advising someone, football padding and helmets would also be appropriate.

I cannot accurately describe the anarchy that ensued with the first truck...suffice it to say there was no 'tossing' of tomatoes'. Only full-out hurling them at any target in the near vicinity. If you're too packed in the crowd to actually make a throwing motion with your arms, don´t worry - simply cramming the tomato into the mouth and face of the nearest person to you is also acceptable. And just when you find that there's a slight lull in the chaos, a chance to breathe and try to find your friends, there goes tomato number 2. And the subsequent unleashing of yet another few tons into the street-cum-lake of tomatoes.

But that is the fun part. Oh yes, that is the part you enjoy. Here, for example, are a couple of things you may not enjoy. When you start hearing people chant, "CAM-I-SET-A, CAM-I-SET-A." This word means "shirt" in Spanish and is a rally cry for all those around to violently rip off the shirt of any offending individual who might still have one on. It doesn´t matter if you're a girl, and it doesn't matter if want to keep wearing your undergarments. All will be ripped off. No mercy shown.

Unenjoyable part number 2. Attempting to climb onto a tomato truck. I thought it was a great idea - get a cute picture, impress my friends, see the crowd from above...until I felt the ruthless blast of a firehose pummeling me full-force at point-blank range. I immediately shot off of the truck into the street; but that wasnt enough. No, they wanted to make an example out of me. So they refused to cease, continued spraying me even though I was in fetal position on the ground in the river of tomatoes, stopped long enough for me to get to my feet, then forced me back to the ground until they were sure I would make no more attempts.

This all occurred around tomato number 3, which is how time is calibrated at Tomatina, so I still had 2 more trucks to go before getting to leave the undistinguishable red mob of tomato Nazis. My shoes were lost around tomato number 1, but upon finding my friends afterward, they were able to reach down into the murky flow and fish out two more fresh ones for me. (They also showed up at the moment my clothes were being ripped off and, fortuitously, provided me with a t-shirt they'd found on the sidewalk.) Needless to say it was an interesting experience; one I would not repeat but am disconcertingly glad to say that I've done once.

So, sorry this is a novel, or at least a sufficient chapter of one, but I wanted to fill y'all in on the brawl I survived at that cute little tomato toss. I only got rid of my tomato stench yesterday, and unfortunately have not a single photo or medal to show for my perseverance. Otherwise Valencia is great. I'm living with 2 Japanese guys and a German named Axel. As in Rose. Stay tuned for the certain adventures to come...: )