Slice of Pink

Falling for You

I've been in D.C. in the bone-chilling winter, in the sticky, sweltering summer, and in the lovely cherry-blossom-filled spring, but this was my first visit to D.C. in the fall.

And what a lovely visit it was!

The weather was mostly magnificent this weekend, cool and crisp, perfect for a sweater and tights. Zandria and I even had drinks on the outside patio of a restaurant Friday night, although we failed to take any photos documenting this (what kind of bloggers are we, anyway?).

It rained one day, pouring just long enough for me to get soaking wet on the long ride up the Dupont escalator, but by the time I dashed across the roundabout to the CVS and purchased an umbrella, the sun had come out again. And then, as if the world was apologizing for my having spent $10.99 on the flimsy umbrella, I found a twenty dollar bill without a soul around to claim it.

D.C., I think I'm falling for you all over again.

Golden Yellow

On the Metro this morning, I was sitting next to an older man who was holding a large, clear Tupperware container full of Nilla Wafers on his lap. What's strange about the situation was not the container of wafers, however, it was that the man's outfit--the pants and the shirt and the sweater--were precisely the same color as the wafers. The outfit and the cookies were such an exact match, from head to toe all golden yellow, it couldn't have been on accident. Maybe he was attending a potluck where one was required to dress as the food they contributed?

Luz en Yucatan

These are a few of my favorite photos from one of the hotels we stayed at in Mérida. The hotel, Luz en Yucatan, was a real gem.

The pricing system for a night's stay depends on your perceived level of personal success, with the hope that the wealthier travelers will be sufficiently sporting to help to subsidize the less wealthy. Before receiving a price quote, one must choose between being exceedingly successful, moderately successful, or not at all successful.

Free beer upon arrival!

Plus! Free shots 'round the clock! I mean, really, does life get any better than all this?

Good times.

The website says this: "We eschew rules and regulations so that you can more easily free yourself from the usual constraints and prohibitions. Indeed, were there an "authority figure" on premises, we would encourage you to "DISOBEY." All this in an effort to enable you to exhale and fully participate in our slightly skewed but decidedly benevolent reality."

Fun, no?

There were in-room hammocks, too, although I was afraid to actually fall asleep in the thing, fearing the hammock would somehow come detached from the wall causing me to crack my back on the tile floor. Sometimes I can be quite adventurous, sometimes not so much. Will, on the hand, is very adventurous. Just look how adventurous he is:

If you find yourself in Mérida, it's really worth a stay.

Clink! Clink! Clink!

Do you know that slot machines in big Vegas casinos these days don't take coins? That's right: You can't put a quarter into a quarter slot or a nickel into a nickel slot or a penny into a penny slot. You can put in paper things, sure--dollar bills or paper vouchers--but you can't pull some loose change from you pocket and drop it into a coin slot for a chance to turn your quarter into one hundred billion dollars.

The result of this is kind of sad. Not only can you not put change in, you also can not get change out. Gone are the days when a jackpot win meant piles of quarters filling up the tray, clink!-clink!-clinking! one by one. A sort of computerized clink sound plays when you cash out, but all you receive is a paper voucher with a bar code to insert into another machine or take to the cashier to collect your winnings, whatever they may be.

Our friend Mike had a voucher for one penny and, mostly to see her reaction, he visited the cashier to claim his cent. The hotel cashier did not even blink, she simply scanned the voucher and handed over the single coin.

You can still find the old-fashioned coin-operated slots in some of the older casinos off the strip. These are the casinos that offer dollar hot dogs and dollar shots and dollar deep-fried Twinkies. These casinos have been open for decades without once updating the carpets or the cocktail waitresses or the slot machines. They probably have never even changed the grease that they fry the corn dogs in.

Somehow we ended up at one of the casinos, the whole gang eating greasy fries and drinking alcohol from football shaped cups. We were throughly enjoying dropping coins into the machines, hearing the satisfying clink!-clink! of money dropping into the metal tray, and filling up plastic buckets with coins.

Some hours later, upon arriving back at our hotel on the strip, heavy bucket of quarters in hand, we approached the cashier to redeem our coins for paper bills. And here's what's crazy: the hotel wouldn't cash in our quarters. Our coins--the very currency Las Vegas was built on, for Pete's sake--were simply no good. Not only can you not play with coins, not only are you deprived of the clink!, but you can't even turn coins into paper bills. Coins are officially obsolete.

In any event, we returned home from our Vegas trip with some good memories, a desperate need for a nap, and one big ass bag of quarters.

A Brief Summary and A Question

Wow. Friends, I have so much to tell you, so many photos to show you. I've slept in seven different beds, in six different cities, in the last two weeks during a whirlwind adventure that took us to Santa Barbara, a wedding, Krispy Kreme, and right across the Yucatán peninsula. There were six plane rides, several bus rides, crazy taxis, and lost luggage. There were mosquitos. I did the shopping cart on the stage of Señor Frog's in Cancún.

We've been having a grand time.

And! The fun is not over! I have tickets to Pageant of the Masters and a wedding in Santa Barbara this weekend.

But! Before I get started telling you about our adventures, I have a quick question. Should I continue uploading photos to the Typepad albums (which are great, yes, assuming I stay with Typepad forever) or should I pay for a Flickr account? Or something else? What do you love and recommend?

The sooner we decide on the place I should put photos, the sooner I'll upload approximately one bazillion photos for your viewing enjoyment. Wait! Hey! Where are you going?

AWOL

Somewhere between our overnight flight from Sacramento to Guadalajara, or maybe between our flight from Guadalajara to Mexico City, or maybe between our flight from Mexico City to Mérida, our luggage was lost. This is completely unsurprising considering the utter chaos that is Mexicana Airlines, an outfit that seemingly runs with about 50% of the employees actually required to properly operate an international airline. In Sacramento, for example, the person who checked us in at the ticket counter was the same guy who hustled over to put us on the plane--and that was while we were still in the U.S.A., in our state's capital.

Here's a good rule for air travel: make sure you have enough in your carry-on to get you by for a day or two in case your luggage is misplaced.

We did not follow that rule.

Upon arrival at our hotel, we conducted an inventory of the items that would need to get us by until our luggage was located in Sacramento or Guadalajara or Mexico City or Mérida or wherever it was and reunited with us.

Inventory:

1 Snickers bar
1 Nikon D200 camera
3 camera lenses
1 Vanity Fair magazine
1 hardcover copy of John Adams
1 package red vines
2 safety pins
1 small bottle hand sanitizer
1 lip gloss
1 envelope of cash
1 pair sunglasses

In other words, almost nothing practical or essential.

We bought a toothbrush and some toothpaste and made the best of the situation. There were cold beers in our hotel fridge and free tequila shots in the lobby. We attended the Ballet Folklórico in the same clothes that we had been wearing for a good 36 hours. We washed underwear in the sink.

I can't wait to show you some photos of our adventures. Of course, I may not show you any pictures of me prior to the return of the luggage the following afternoon. Lip gloss can only do so much.

Don't Leave Home Without It

Just after Will clicked "confirm" on two flights into Mérida and two flights out of Cancún, I realized that my passport was no longer valid.

Awesome.

The good news is: you can get a passport in two to three weeks, door to door.

The bad news is: they are gonna make you pay for it.

After spending two hours and almost $200, I twittered:

Passport renewal fee: $75 / Expedited processing fee: $60 / New photos: $12 / Overnight shipping there: $17 / Overnight shipping back: $15.

Instamom immediately responded:

Leaving the country for a few days: Priceless.

Mérida

I've checked out an astonishing number of travel books from the local library in the last few weeks as Will and I went back and forth, back and forth, trying to choose a vacation destination that suited us and fit neatly within our time constraints.

We started with well-known destinations--Jamaica, Cabo San Lucas, Mexico City, Costa Rica--but finally settled on a relatively unknown spot: Mérida. It's the cultural hub of the Yucatán Peninsula, a city with art museums, ballet folklorico, and sites of historical interest, plus we can take day trips to see the archaeological remains at Chichen Itzá and Uxmal.

We may also spend a couple of days back on the beaten path in Cancún for some umbrella-ed cocktails and late night dancing, although that is still to be decided.

Has anybody been to Mérida? Cancún? Any advice?

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

We've been in the process of choosing a summer vacation destination for some time now and it seems we really need some help! We were originally set on Mexico City but, hoowee, did that ever go right out the window a few weeks ago.

Here are the parameters:
+ I'd like to go out of the country, thus satisfying one of my 30 Before 30 tasks.
+ I'd like to go someplace where it is summer, because packing for winter can really suck.
+ The best week for us to travel is bookended by weddings, so we only have 7 or 8 travel days, which basically means we don't want to spend whole days on planes.
+ We are much more adventurous types than sunning-by-the-pool types.

(So, that would exclude Hawaii, Buenos Aires, Europe, and cruise ships, respectively)

Which pretty much leaves? MEXICO CITY!

Except:
+ We prefer not to get the flu, you know.

So--one week in a fun, sunny, not-to-distant, foreign locale. Where do you go?

Frequent Flying

I spent another weekend in sunny San Diego, this time slumber partying with these gals:

About two seconds after I booked my flight to San Diego for this trip, one of my favorite college roommates, Stacey, emailed me and said that she was now living in San Diego and that if I was ever in the area we should hang out (also, she's getting married! Congratulations Stacey!). I immediately called Southwest to inquire about extending my trip but, alas, I had booked one of those non-refundable sort of flights and it would have cost me $200 just to take a flight later the same day. Which was more than a roundtrip for a whole weekend.

Looks like I'll just have to visit San Diego again. Oh darn.

Blame it on the Bunnies

While I was meeting the Playboy Bunnies, one of their, um, handlers was asking whether or not they needed to freshen up before they went up to club. They looked fine--thick makeup, fake eyelashes, the whole shebang--but the Bunnies nevertheless requested some time in their rooms. I suspect that they didn't need to freshen up so much as they wanted a twenty minute break from all the drooling dudes with mullets and cowboy hats.

After meeting the Bunnies and getting packed up for the triathlon, we finally crawled into bed well past midnight, which was really 1 AM as far as we were concerned, because of the impending time change. We had to get up at 5 o'clock in the morning, a time of day I had not seen for a very, very long time.

And that's when the Bunnies started pissing me off.

The bass from the 9th floor club, where the Bunny party was taking place, was bumping through the walls, a constant rumble, rattling the window. I couldn't fall asleep and at 2:08, I plodded down to the lobby barefoot and in my pajamas to inquire about a set of earplugs.

The apologetic front desk informed me that the club would close at 2 AM, but that it was still only a little after 1 since the time change technically happened at 2. They could not locate any earplugs. They pointed out that the bumping was way worse for guests on the 8th and 10th floors.

I noted that I had to get up in three short hours for my husband's triathlon. The front desk clerk asked if I might like to speak to the manager. I said I would. It's not like I expected them to close the club or anything, I just wanted to point out that a hotel with a club poorly located over the guest rooms really ought to offer cheap earplugs to their early rising guests.

(I am thinking that it often appears that I am pushy or overbearing in these situations, which I assure you I am not. I am persuasive, yes, but only in the loveliest sort of way.)

They located earplugs. They also offered us dinner on the hotel.

(I suspect that I shouldn't completely blame the Bunnies. The Fantasy Springs Resort Hotel and Casino is surrounded by two things: desert and a trailer park. The casino was thick with smoke and people in fanny packs. It may sound like Vegas, but I can promise you that it totally isn't. My guess is that the Bunnies weren't super-enthusiastic about bumping in a club at an Indian casino in Indio, but that is pure speculation. Maybe they like that sort of thing.)

In any event, when we returned from the triathlon, I stopped by the hotel desk to inquire about the dinner. They asked about the race and I told them that Will had came in three minutes slower than last year but that it was definitely still fun. I expressed this in a most jovial, joking manner, but the clerk must have thought that Will was the Lance Armstrong of triathletes or something--where three minutes could really make a difference of some sort--because she told us that we could eat at any of the hotel restaurants! And that we should really bring our friends along, too! And order dessert! And charge it all to the room!

And I was like, no, no, no. That's crazy. It's really okay. Maybe just a pizza?

And she was like, Seriously! I insist! And get dessert!

And so we did. Monty, Lauren, Will, and I had mozzarella lollipops, Indian bread with apple butter, various entrees, and two desserts (something chocolate, something cheesecake). There was also sangria.

We were very happy:

And, also, drunk:

We intended to go gambling--you know, pay back our free dinner by losing at the slots--but by the time we were finished eating and drinking and eating and drinking, we were too tired to carry on. Had we gotten more sleep the night prior, we might have dropped a dollar or two.

30 Going on 13

About a month ago, my friend Jenny emailed me, saying that if I booked a flight to Southern California, she'd get us a hotel room in San Diego and we could have a fabulously girly weekend visiting two of our former students, Amber and Sarah.

I immediately booked a cheap flight for this past weekend.

Jenny reserved a room for us at the Westgate, a hotel so ornate that we immediately agreed the gloriousness would have been completely lost on our husbands who, incidentally, we left at home with an almost-two-year-old and a new puppy. We felt about two seconds of guilt--that we were enjoying sunny San Diego while they were potty training a puppy--until we realized that the grandness of the place could never be fully appreciated by two men who spent their day at Rubio's and then at a hardware store "for fun."

The hotel was full of sparkling chandeliers, antique furnishings, and tasseled drapes. Mostly everything was gold! gold! gold! in the most fabulous possible way.

This is how we turned on the faucets in our room:

We ate breakfast in the lavishly appointed hotel restaurant where the waitstaff inquired whether we were planning to attend the opera that evening. Some of the ladies at breakfast were actually wearing gloves--fancy dress gloves--and many were drinking white wine at 10:30 in the morning.

In two days we visited two candy shops so our purses were full of gummi raspberries, sour fizzy candies, and Bubbalicious Ink'd gum.

Classy!

We drank Cokes and ate huge sundaes at the Ghirardelli shop and ordered Milky Way Mochas at The Living Room Cafe in La Jolla. We had room service bring up coffee and stayed in our pajamas as long as possible.

Basically, we were 12-year-olds.

But, you know, totally classy 12-year-olds with credit cards.

Do You Know the Way to Monterey?

A recipe for a good time: combine lots of wine, rustic french food, girls vs. boys bananagrams, golf carts, an aquarium trip, sand dunes, huge bowls of chocolate mousse, and $13 worth of spice gumdrops.

More photos from our weekend getaway with Gavin and Jenny are here.

So Would Not Have Flown in NYC

On our anniversary trip this year, Will and I opted to go for the mid-week special that our bed and breakfast offered. For an additional $75, we would get a lunch and a dinner added to our stay, with all the details worked out for us. 

We had the lunch first, a lovely meal at the Historic Upham Hotel. Will had an Anaheim Chile stuffed with some vegetables and rice, I had a pasta dish. The whole thing was $35, but we didn't have to pay since we had some certificate printed up as part of our package deal. 

The following day was the dinner and we were instructed to show up at a place called Downey's at 7 o'clock in the evening.  We figured on a similar sort of experience--nice, but casual. Let's do the math: if  we paid $75 extra for the two meals and subtracted $35 for the lunch, there should be about $40 left for dinner. Maybe a little more, since it was the "special" and all. Nice, but casual. 

Will put on a t-shirt, some jeans, and some flip-flops. I put on a dress, but only because I always wear a dress, and we walked down to the place. Here we are on the way:

Will is wearing a black t-shirt, I am carrying an enormous handbag. And just like that we walked right into one of Santa Barbara's finest four-star restaurants. Who knew.

The meal was fabulous, with lots of delicious courses which, seriously, took three hours to get through.  There was a cheese course involved--a whole part of the meal set aside specifically to eat cheese (hello!)--and some seriously incredible desserts.  Our seventeen waiters were very nice and I think there was one person who had the single job of refolding napkins when people got up to use the restroom. Both times that I went off to pee (three hours of drinking wine and coffee!), my napkin was refolded all fancy-like before I got back to the table.

Our $50 estimate was dead-off, with the tip alone being practically that much. And, yet, nobody even blinked an eye at the flip-flops. While plenty of people were wearing suit jackets, one guy had on a hippie shirt and another was wearing a bright shirt with a fish pattern.  

People, if you want to drink $100 bottles of wine in your Tommy Bahama clothing, California is totally where it's at. 

Giraffe 101

If I had one of those 101 in 1001 lists on this blog--you know, where you think of 101 things that you are going to accomplish in 1001 days--I would definitely have put "feed a giraffe apple biscuits" right at the top of the list. 

And, also, I would make a note to wear my yellow-orange giraffe feeding dress. I mean, obviously.

Even though I haven't written down the 101 in 1001 list, I do have it right here in my head, and I am thrilled to report that I have crossed off another item. Feed a giraffe apple biscuits. Check. Done. Did it. 

Giraffe is looking for more biscuits and so not cooperating for the group photo shot. Good thing that I didn't have "take a group photo with a giraffe" on that list in my head because, boy, that would not have been good.

Also not on my list: brush a giraffe's hair, buy a giraffe a commemorative coin collection, make a giraffe-themed iTunes mix.

On my list? Well, I'll tell you. "Ride a tandem bike" is on there and I have a sneaking suspicion that if y'all check back soon, I might very well rent a bicycle built for two. 

My Davis

Real Simple has a fantastic My Hometown feature, where insiders share what's not to be missed about their cities.  The problem is: only 14 cities are listed, leaving the vast majority of America unrevealed. Last year, I told you about My Santa Barbara; today, I am telling you about My Davis. 

I'm hoping that you will also participate! Pretty please create a post on your blog telling us about your hometown--the place you currently live or the place you grew up, whichever you prefer--and send me the link. I'll post all of the links on a permanent page, that way, we will have great insider advice for the places we go. Need more inspiration? See RA's My Kennett Square and Janet's My DC!

My Davis: Janet Wallace 

Age: 28 

Occupation: Law Student 

I've lived here for: One Year 

I live here because: I am a student at UC Davis School of Law 

My neighborhood: South Davis 

My favorite restaurant: Cafe Bernardo 

If you go to this restaurant, be sure to order: The Amaretto French Toast 

My favorite museum: John Natsoulas Art Gallery 

My favorite tourist destination: UC Davis Arboretum 

Best insider spot: Wednesday evening at the Farmer's Market 

My favorite area: Downtown 

Best place to go shopping: Nestware and Pinkadot

When you visit, don’t forget to pack: Casual clothing 

But leave room in your suitcase for: Some Aggie gear

The one local cuisine you should try when you’re in town is: fresh fruit at the farmer's market

The best way to get around: Bicycle--in Davis, bicycles are more prolific than people!

If I had to describe this city in one word, it would be: Friendly! Davis was named one of the five friendliest cities in America. 

I tell my friends to stay at: Palm Court--or with me. 

The one thing most outsiders don’t know about this city is: Davis is the second most educated city in America. 

They say “Virginia is for lovers.” So fill in the blank: Davis is for bicycle-riding-tree-hugging families.

Double or Nothing

What Will packed for four days away: 

2 pair shorts 

1 pair jeans 

2 polos 

2 t-shirts 

1 jacket 

1 pair shoes 

1 pair flip flops 

= 

10 items plus socks and boxers 

What I packed for four days away: 

6 dresses 

3 shirts 

2 tank tops 

2 pair jeans 

1 skirt 

3 cardigans 

1 coat 

4 sets pajamas 

1 pair heels 

1 pair wedge shoes 

2 flat sandals 

= 

26 items plus panties 

What can I say, I like to have choices.

On Packing

I am a terrible packer.

Every time I am going somewhere, I have such good intentions. I resolve to pack only the essentials. I intend to lay out on my bed one outfit per day, all of which will match a single pair of black shoes or, at most, two pairs of black shoes--one dressy, one casual. I intend to bring only a single coat, probably black, which will match each perfectly selected outfit and which could be layered over a summer dress or paired with a sweater to meet whatever demands the weather may make.

I imagine it would look like one of those magazine layouts where five optimum pieces can be combined to make 78 outfits, ranging the spectrum from beach casual to elegant sophistication.

What I do instead is this: start piling things in my suitcase. Add more items until the suitcase is bursting at the seams. Squish in half a dozen pairs of shoes. Hide some sweaters among the items in Will's bag. Before we walk out the door, grab several hangers worth of jackets and sweaters. Forget underwear.

I think that I have travelled a respectable amount and, by now, you would think that I could pack one small carry-on bag for a long weekend away. Somehow, I'm not even close.

Are you a perfect packer or do you roll the one-weekend-four-bag way?

Sweet Suite

On Saturday night, after dinner at an Italian restaurant and a few glasses of wine, Lauren and I checked into our hotel room. Although the convention we were attending was right across the street from the Radisson, we elected to say at a lesser-quality (i.e. cheaper) hotel around the corner. We checked in a little after 10pm with plans to go get some margaritas at a restaurant across the parking lot. Lauren was finishing up a phone call and I opened the nightstand drawer to get out a notepad.

And do you know what I found in the nightstand drawer?

A bible, a book of Mormon, and a fat stack of paperwork belonging to a recently released convict. As in: A CONVICT WAS STAYING IN OUR HOTEL ROOM BEFORE US. And not just that, but he left behind his FBI number, social security number, personal letters, court paperwork, address, phone number, and photo.

Maybe we overreacted, but Lauren and I decided we wanted a new room. You know? Our convict could have realized that he left his paperwork behind and returned to collect it. And, I don't know, my feeling is that convicts don't always follow normal social protocol. And, therefore, our convict might not go to the front desk to get his paperwork like a law abiding citizen would, but he might very well come knocking at our door. Or he might bust through our window. That's how convicts roll.

We marched down to the front desk, Lauren and I, and requested a new room. But there were (allegedly) no available rooms. So, we got a little demanding.

Us: So, then we'd like to move out of this hotel. And we don't want to pay.

Lady at the front desk: I don't really see what the big deal is.

Us: Well, we could be KILLED.

Lady: We have his address. If something happens, we know where he lives.

Us: An address doesn't help us if we are DEAD.

(More discussion about KILLED and DEAD)

Lady: Fine! If you move out by midnight, we won't charge you.

We said that YES, WE WOULD MOVE OUT, THANK YOU. We packed up our crap, which is one hour was already scattered throughout the room, and lugged it out to our cars and, hallelujah, we were not going to be KILLED and DEAD.

There was only one problem. We didn't really have anywhere else to stay.

We drove over to the Radisson and repeated the story of our convict to everyone we saw. The Radisson didn't have any available rooms for the night. Neither did the nearby Holiday Inn. It was looking like we were going to be chillin' in the lobby until a room became available the following afternoon, but as Lauren pointed out, we wouldn't have slept had we stayed in the convict room, so we might as well not sleep in the lobby of the Radisson with some martinis.

But, then, lo! Somebody we knew had rented a suite for a party and now, at 1 o'clock in the morning, the paid-for suite (and its king-sized sleep number bed) sat empty. And we, being homeless, were invited to move on in. And so we did. And we were not killed or dead. And it was lovely.

That, my friends, is how our convict got us a sweet suite in the Radisson.

Burgernomics

A few weeks ago, Will and I were discussing our next vacation. We don't have a date set (and the way things look we won't be able to go anywhere until next summer) but we started to consider our options. One of the biggest concerns about our next vacation is that it will need to be cheap, what with me being a student and all. Will immediately suggested we use the Big Mac index to help us make a decision. The Economist's Big Mac index is a light-hearted guide to how far currencies are from fair value. There's a lot of fancy language about purchasing-power parity but you don't have to understand economics to see that a Big Mac in the United States is $3.41 while a Big Mac in Thailand costs only $1.80.

Norway is definitely out for us next summer, with a Big Mac costing a steep $6.88, although Egypt, with Big Macs coming in at $1.68, is certainly on the table for discussion.

Just for the record, should there be any confusion, I would never buy a Big Mac on vacation. Will and I abide by very strict, self-imposed rules which preclude us from eating anything that we can find right here in California. It may always be a safe bet, but I just can't imagine flying across the United States to eat an appetizer platter at T.G.I. Fridays.

'Tis Hard to Leave

On Friday at noon, when I was sitting in a bar drinking a glass of wine in celebration (or contempt, as it may be) of my first law school midterm, Will texted me asking if I would like to meet Anthony and Amanda for dinner in San Francisco.

We met them at a brewery, where a beer and a lemon drop were awaiting our arrival, and we chatted and laughed and I lamented about law school, the only thing I know how to talk about because it's the only thing I do. Ever.

(Seriously, I went to Target today, and I literally shopped from a list, steering the cart only in the direction of the items we needed. Glass cleaner? Check. Cat food? Check. Lotion? Check. Bleach tablets? Check. People, I did not even look to see what new clothes Isaac Mizrahi has out or whether there was a cheap pair of ballet flats that I couldn't pass up.)

San Francisco was as fabulous as always, and for the first time I didn't feel like I needed to rush around to see as much as possible in the limited time associated with a place that is too far away to visit with any regularity. Now, it is a mere hop, skip, and jump away, plus a $4 toll to cross the Bay Bridge.

After drinks, we ate at an Italian restaurant and then visited City Lights, a fantastic independent bookstore. At the end of the night, we were standing outside the bookstore, ready to go our separate ways. Although it was getting cold and we were tired, we couldn't seem to stop the conversation, and we continued to chat and laugh.

The story is so nice up until this point: the pasta, family, conversation, books, laughter. We probably would have stood out there all night--in fact, there's a possibility we could still be standing out there right now--but the party was broken up by a stream of pee that was flowing downhill, right in our direction, sprung from a bum that was using the wall of the bookstore as his personal urinal.

Walter Cronkite once said that "leaving San Francisco is like saying goodbye to an old sweetheart. You want to linger as long as possible." But just not long enough for the pee to get you.

Posing as a Post

Here's a fun task: try to pack a suitcase for a weekend trip by locating items which have been haphazardly packed into 40 moving boxes that are now precariously stacked in the spare bedroom. Fun and impossible!

While I attempt to locate two black high heeled shoes, one strapless bra, one camera charger, one wedding greeting card, and my sanity, please divert your attention to an album of butterfly photographs taken by Will and me this summer.

So pretty! Completely unlike the current situation in the spare room.

My Santa Barbara

I love the My Hometown feature at Real Simple and I immediately wanted to weigh in with my own hometown favorites. Unfortunately, my current town is not much of a destination stop. Instead, I decided to post about my former hometown, Santa Barbara, California. I lived in Santa Barbara during college and visit several times a year for my anniversary, with family, and for day shopping trips. Soon enough I'll be able to post about my new, absolutely fabulous hometown, but until then...

My Santa Barbara: Janet Wallace

Age: 27

Occupation: Teacher

I lived there for: Two years

I lived there because: I was a student at the University of California, Santa Barbara

My neighborhood: Isla Vista

My favorite restaurant: The Palace Grill. There's always a line, but it's worth it.

If you go to this restaurant, be sure to order: The Palace Swan

My favorite museum: Santa Barbara Museum of Art

My favorite tourist destination: The Courthouse

Best insider spot: State Street during Fiesta!

My favorite area: Downtown

Best place to go shopping: State Street and the Sunday Arts and Crafts Show

When you visit, don’t forget to pack: A bathing suit

But leave room in your suitcase for: Local wine

The one local cuisine you should try when you’re in town is: A Freebirds burrito and Sambos pancakes

The best way to get around: Your feet and a kayak

If I had to describe this city in one word, it would be: Paradise

I tell my friends to stay at: The Cheshire Cat, Fess Parker's Doubletree Resort, or Bacara

The one thing most outsiders don’t know about this city is: The first Motel 6 was opened in Santa Barbara in 1962.

They say “Virginia is for lovers.” So fill in the blank: Santa Barbara is for "the almost wed and the almost dead." But, really, it's for everyone else, too.

Tell us about your hometown and leave a link, please! If we get enough, I'll put together a permanent page with links to all of our local favorites. Unless there is some copyright issue or something. I better get lawyery and look into that.

Turned Off

Last night I took a look at the last few weeks on my calendar and, as it turns out, we have spent 20 of the last 40 days in a hotel room. I love staying in hotels especially considering that the last few weeks have been spent in fancy, modern high-rise hotels and luxurious, grand resort hotels. I would live in a hotel if I could--laundry service, daily clean towels, crisp white sheets. Who needs 2000 square feet when you've got warm chocolate chip cookies delivered to your door and a bar right downstairs?

One of the funny things about hotels for Will and I is that we never get much sleep in a hotel. No matter how comfortable the beds and the pillows may be, no matter how exhausted we are from a day of sightseeing or robotics, no matter how late it may be, we cannot just go to sleep in a hotel.

Because of the television. The television, it is a terrible, terrible thing.

As you probably already know, we do not have television at home. I haven't seen American Idol or Project Runway or Survivor. We occasionally rent a television show from Netflix, but that's about the extent of our television viewing habits.

Unless we are in a hotel.

When we enter the hotel, almost as quickly as he sets down the luggage, Will turns on ESPN. When he goes to take a shower, I flip to E: True Hollywood Story. I also like the home decorating shows. I recently saw Design on a Dime, a home decorating show where three designers re-do a room on a "dime" which is actually $1000 which is not exactly the same thing if you ask me. I'd like to see what they can pull off with a $200 gift card to Target. That would be impressive. Will watched an entire show about turtles on Discovery two nights ago. I traded a leg massage for control of the remote. I wonder obsessively whether The Hills is supposed to be reality TV or just has really, really bad acting.

We are home now, thank goodness, because it is TV Turn Off Week. With the exception of some hotels rooms and visits to my in-laws' house, we have been TV free for five years. I don't know how we could have accomplished half the crap we made it through--degrees, the LSAT, triathlons, robotics, laundry--if we would have had a television. People always ask how we can possibly live without a television. I will tell you, not only have we actually not fallen down dead, we may have become better for it. At least we got some more laundry done.

If we ever do live at a Doubletree resort, which I hope we do, I guess we'll have to request that the TV be turned off.

Overpriced Things I Have Purchased in the Last 2 Weeks

$3.99: Bowl of cereal (twice)
$3.49: Pre-made peanut butter and jelly sandwich
$4.99: Small deodorant from hotel gift shop
$9.00: Beer flavored ice cream from the White Dog Cafe (twice)
$24.00: Two wire frogs
$8.00: Ticket to a museum for the purpose of using the restroom (the pee, it cannot wait)
$5.00: Soft Pretzel
$7.00: PB Loco Cinny Nilla peanut butter sandwich

Seems like small, insignificant purchases, but that crap adds up to $78.46. Which is a Banana Republic skirt. Imagine how cute that skirt would fit if I wasn't eating so much peanut butter, pretzels, and ice cream!

Driving Miss Crazy

The weekend before we left for Philly, Will, Kiley, Benji and I took a quick trip to San Diego to attend a robotics tournament. We were going to scout out our competition for the upcoming trip to Atlanta. We never actually made it to the robotics competition.

First, we made a wrong turn and ended up in Palm Springs, which is marked with a pink star to the right of our route on the map below. We were chatting and laughing and paying absolutely no attention to the fact that we were on the completely wrong freeway until, hi, welcome to Palm Springs.

Then we went to Dick's Last Resort. With the intentionally rude waiters, the good beer, the inappropriate paper hats, and the even more inappropriate balloon animals, you can only go to Dick's if you have loose morals. Which we do.

Then there was this:

It came down to a choice between robots and margaritas. The margaritas won. All three days.

Roach Motel

Last week we made a last minute decision to visit some friends in San Luis Obispo and drove up Friday afternoon for a couple of nights. By the time we arrived on Friday, it was time for dinner; we were hungry and some of our friends had mentioned that they would wait for us so that we could all enjoy dinner together. Not wanting to keep anyone waiting we decided to get something to eat before we booked a hotel room for the night. By the time we finished the meal and caught up with Kayla, Andrew, Justin, and Scott, it was 11 at night and we set out to find a hotel.

We knew that a chain hotel off the freeway had availability when we arrived in town and headed over to get a room, only to find out that the rooms had all been booked while we had been chatting at the pizza parlor. We sat in the parking lot while I tried calling a few other hotels in the downtown area, all booked, and we decided to call a small motel that was across the street from where we were parked. The man offered us a room for $65 and then offered an additional $20 discount. I knew right away that it wasn't going to be a Hilton but, as Will pointed out, it was nearly midnight and we didn't have to stay there both nights. We could find something better in the morning for the following night.

We checked in at 11:45pm.

And checked out at 11:48pm.

Luckily we made it out before we contracted herpes.

Some of the highlights:

+ No shower curtain
+ An empty mini fridge right in the middle of the room, unplugged, opened
+ One towel with a handwritten note taped above it: "Do Not Stain the Towel"
+ Plastic sheets on the bed
+ Huge burn in the middle of the filthy, sticky carpet
+ Missing room number
+ Broken door lock
+ Holes in the walls
+ This hair dryer

I realized the motel must be charging $45 by the hour to prostitutes or people changing the oil in their motorcycles right in the middle of the room, which would be the only explanation for the black grease stains all over the carpet.

We left immediately. We were denied a refund. We were offered to be moved to room 205 and when I refused that offer, we were offered a room in a nearby motel owned by the same family.

I called American Express.

They opened an inquiry to get our money back.

But, also, I was kinda pissed.

And so we went back.

And talked the guy into an almost total refund.

Hopefully AMEX will get back the last few dollars.

We ended up finding an excellent hotel a few exits down the freeway. It wasn't downtown, but there were towels! and sheets! and apples and oranges and coffee and teas in the lobby! and a big breakfast spread in the morning! with waffles! We have stayed in luxury hotels far nicer than this one we ended up at, but considering where we had been, it might as well have been a five-star resort. We were totally impressed by the door on the bathroom and the television and what? A dresser! Tight!

The next day at lunch we were laughing about the horrible motel and Will described it this way: At our current hotel there is a continental breakfast if you get up before ten; at the other place there is continental breakfast, if you are quick enough to catch it.

Bezerkeley

Photos from our weekend trip to Berkeley are here.

How's My Driving?

We spent Labor Day weekend in Berkeley, California where we were visiting Benji and some other friends. We took a carload of people up with us for the 6 hour ride and were rotating the seating arrangement so that no one person had to spend the entire ride sitting in the middle of the backseat, a seat so small that it fit only one of my butt cheeks at a time. Being the only girl in the car, I think that I ended up spending the greatest amount of time in the middle. While in this horrible center seat, I stretched my legs across the center console, between the driver and front passenger, with my feet dangling disgustingly close to the front seat passengers' soda cups. Revenge.

I drove for several hours on the way to Berkeley and, although I don't particularly like to drive, I enjoyed the leg room and control of the air and radio for a short period. For the remainder of the trip I was the chief navigator, the only person capable of or willing to use a map. Whenever I asked for some direction while I was driving, everyone seemed to lose the ability to read words on a page.

On the ride home we stopped at Harris Ranch, the location of the only clean restroom on Interstate 5. I was ready for my chance to drive. We were all standing out at the car and Will was holding up the car keys.

Will: Who wants to drive?

Me: I will!

Will: Alan? No?

Me: I will!

Will: Rene, want to take the wheel?

Me: I will!

Will: How about you Tyler?

Tyler ended up driving and I sat back in the middle for most of the remaining hours, although I plotted revenge and spent the rest of the trip singing dramatically along with a mixed CD I made, a CD full of Elton John, Michael Jackson, Queen, and Carly Simon.

There was little talking going on due to my talented vocals. And by "talented" I mean "maybe a tiny bit better than dogs howling at a blaring car alarm." Also, I did not know some of the lyrics but went ahead and sang them anyway using whatever words I thought sounded okay. I used a cell phone as a microphone for a theatrical rendition of R. Kelly's World's Greatest.

They should have just let me drive.

Unscrupulous

I found an Apple computer station in the bookstore of this here place I am conferencing at, The University of San Diego, a Roman Catholic institution brimming with young students who are developing strong moral convictions.

I first checked my comments from the previous two posts, the comments which discuss alcohol and antibiotics and the effects of combining the two: YEAST INFECTION. Luckily, I am not taking any drugs that, with alcohol, will result in a yeast infection, thank goodness, and I am also done with the painkillers because oral surgery? Not so bad. Not worth swallowing a pill for.

So, next I visited a few blogs, although I did so with the fear of what might load on the page while a spiritually enlightened student of faith was looking over my shoulder. I was not let down. Amalah flipped us all off and Kathryn used the words Fuck and Asshole in her most recent post. Dooce was pretty inoffensive today, so I was able to enjoy the whole post without much minimizing.

Then I pretended to be shopping for an iPod Nano while the tech guy was restocking the shelf behind me.

And now I am typing this post as quickly as possible before I get kicked out for the vulgarity, the crude reference to vaginal infection, and the racy suggestion of alcohol, which whatever, Catholics drink wine.  Amen.

Working Hard

I am in San Diego, blogging from the Apple Store in some big outdoor mall called Fashion Valley, a place that is very, very bad when you are on a budget because everywhere you turn is Burberry! Sephora! J. Crew! Ann Taylor! Lilly Pulitzer! and every place has a big sign in the window announcing that there is a Sale! The Biggest Sale of the Year!

The good news is that I have per diem, which means that I can eat big, fabulous meals for free!!!!!!!! Freeeeeee!!!! Except I cannot order alcoholic drinks with my per diem because, despite the fact that my school district is willing to pay for a fancy hotel, buffet breakfasts, appetizer platters, thick steaks, P. F. Changs, milkshakes, huge chunks of Cheesecake Factory Cheesecake, room service at any hour, transportation, and Starbucks Coffee, they are not willing to pay for alcohol. THAT would be too lavish.

We did get free wine at the conference last night. All you could drink. Don't tell my district. They paid my registration and I'm sure that my bottle of wine was worked into that price.

All I Wanna Do

Last night, while surfing the Internet, Will found and printed a 6-page travel itinerary for a weekend in Los Angeles. The itinerary, all four days of it, centers around sports events including the Manhattan Beach Open, Dodgers vs. Giants baseball, and the JP Morgan Chase Open. ESPN proposed this weekend and I am sure men everywhere are bouncing around their apartments reading all 6 pages of the itinerary aloud to their wives and repeatedly asking, "doesn't that sound so fun?"

Uh-huh.

I tuned out at paragraph two. Blah, blah, blah, Dodger Stadium, U.S. Open, blah, blah, Lindsay Davenport, SportsCenter, blah.

But then? But then, I heard the words Beverly Hills Hotel come out of my darling husband's mouth. And, then, Pinks, the famous Hollywood Hot Dog Stand was mentioned. And I was pretty sure I heard Will mention the words famous pecan waffles.

I was definitely intrigued, but I played it cool.

After Will left for work, I took a closer look at the trip and found it chock full of great Los Angeles restaurants and even a stop at the Getty and a little bit of shopping in Beverly Hills (of course, they suggest you shop at Niketown where Kobe Bryant launched the Nike Air Zoom, whatever that is).

Suddenly I am feeling so generous and unselfish about this trip. Yes, I really think we ought to go. For my husband, of course. That's how sweet I really can be.

Finally

I know y'all have been on the edges of your seats and so I am here to tell you that we did go grocery shopping. Oh yes, we did. And now we have things in the pantry and things in the refrigerator and yet, despite filling up a cart full of items at Trader Joe’s yesterday, I still ate two tablespoons of hot fudge and a bag of mini carrots for dinner tonight. We could very well have left all our bags at the checkout counter because when I look into the fridge there is nothing that stands out except that damn jar of fudge that beckons to me with all its thick, rich, chocolatey scrumptiousness.

And, anyway, we technically ate dinner at an awards ceremony earlier this evening, if meatballs, little wieners, ruffles, and a variety of cheeses count as dinner. Which, in my world? Are you serious? That’s like a four-course banquet.

But, wait. Last night. Last night we made a roast chicken and mashed potatoes. By we, I mean I got all squeamish about touching the raw flesh of a dead bird which could have bird flu, you never know, and directed the preparation of the chicken from a safe distance on the other side of the sink. I did hold the mixer to mash up the potatoes, while Will added things like milk and butter and garlic salt and chives. Teamwork! We were quite impressive and I should have taken a photo of the finished chicken (which was nice and goldenish brown because I followed Martha's instructions and put a foil tent on it) but by the time the dinner was finally finished, I was so hungry that I was about to run to Del Taco for a quick snack. The recipe said the chicken would feed six people. Impossible. Six third graders, maybe.

And, finally:

Photos from Atlanta and some streaming video of me after two big bowls of mai tai from Trader Vic's. Rene took the movie and has more, including one of Will singing his unique rendition of La Bamba, coming soon.

Arriba y Arriba

Rene posted a set of pictures from Atlanta, including this gem with the caption, “Para Bailar La Bamba.”

This photo was taken at 2:30 in the morning and Will was leaning over the balcony of the hotel loudly singing along with La Bamba, which was being played from someone’s laptop computer.

Last night, I showed Will the photos in Rene’s album and when we got to the shot of him on the balcony I could tell he had no idea what the caption said or meant, even though it was being attributed to him. I asked him about it and he admitted that he had “had never seen those words in his life.”

Of course, I then asked him to sing some La Bamba for me and he gladly did:

Bra la la la la Bamba. Be nep itia. Bro no pro a la gras is.

All the words are made up, but he sings with enthusiasm and a surprisingly good accent.

Georgia on My Mind

The trip to Atlanta was fantastic. Rach has always told me that I properly use the term "y'all" and could absolutely be mistaken for a southern belle, which I take as the best of compliments. So, of course, I fit right in, y'all. I ate all the best southern foods, drank lots of coke, and rode on the MARTA, even though it smelled curiously like urine and windex.

Katey and I right before she died of boredom because I could not stop talking about robotics. I don't know what happened, but I totally took geekiness to a whole new level. She, on the other hand, is fabulous and fun and even acted totally interested in all my robot-related chatter.

Will and I at a Braves game. You'll have to take my word for it since I did not take any photos that actually document the fact that we walked a bazllion miles to see the Braves play the Mets.

Oh, and everybody go tell my friend Rene that you want to see the video footage of me nearly falling down in the hallway after too much mai tai, because, really, what's more fun than embarrassing yourself on the world wide web?

Fried Pickles, Fried Okra, Fried Chicken, Fried Green Tomatoes

Before we left for Atlanta, I stood on the scale and made note of my weight. Will and I were participating in an experiment in eating vegetarian and the itinerary promised a generous amount of walking, so I was sure that I would come back to California weighing a few pounds less.

Reasons this did not work, and I, in fact, weighed two pound more:

1. Coke. It’s the goddamn Capitol of Coke. I did not drink an ounce of water for five days straight

2. Macaroni and cheese is offered as a side dish at every restaurant in town

3. Peach cobbler

4. Daddy D’z BBQ (so the vegetarian thing went totally out the window on day three)

5. Coleslaw

6. Figo (Thank you, Katey and Travis!)

7. Trader Vic’s conveniently located in the hotel lobby and conveniently open after bed checks

8. Fried sweet potatoes

9. Cinnamon Spiced Peaches

10. This:

Oh, Atlanta, I Hear You Calling

Back in February Katey sent me a music compilation, the first song on the disc being Oh, Atlanta by Alison Krauss. At that time I had no idea that in a short two months I would be taking a redeye flight on my way to Georgia. That one fine day has arrived.

As we have been frantically packing for the trip, I have playing Oh, Atlanta as well as The Devil Went Down to Georgia and Georgia on My Mind. Thematic music is always so entertaining and informational, especially when it is Welcome to Atlanta by Ludacris. Apparently, according to Ludacris, in Atlanta there will be big beats, hit streets, see gangsta's roamin', parties don't stop til' eight in the mornin'.

(And, also, much over use of the the apostrophe.)

On the trip I’ll be reading Jen Lancaster’s book Bitter is the New Black, which I am only a few pages into but which is already hilarious and witty.

Upon my return, I'll have many photos, stories about meetin' up with my Atlanta blogging friends, and a review of Jen's book for you.

I'm already feeling so southern, y'all. Anybody for a coke?

Viva Sephora

It is our third night in Las Vegas.

Because Vegas is less than four-hours from our home, we visit Vegas pretty often, at least a couple times a year, sometimes with family or friends and sometimes just the two of us. This visit, however, we have quite a large party with us, including 30 teenagers from the robotics team who we transported to Vegas in four rental mini vans.

Last night, due to robot changes and modifications, some of the team had to stay behind and we made the decision to split up. Each van was to be responsible for their own eating arrangements and entertainment. Although we only had two and half hours before room check, our van decided to take a whirlwind tour of the strip.

We parked at New York, New York, saw the lions in the MGM Grand, ate crepes in the Paris, and watched the fountain show in front of Bellagio. We ended our quick strip tour at the Aladdin, for the sole purpose of visiting the make-up mecca, Sephora.

If there is a place to take teenage girls, it is Sephora. They—and I—went bonkers with turquoise eye shadow, purple mascara, all sorts of face glitter, bright pink blush, and lots of shiny lip gloss. Even the boys joined in, sampling the Federic Fekkai hair products and expensive colognes.

By time we left, just in time to make curfew, the girls looked like Vegas showgirls and the boys smelled like the men that pick up on Vegas showgirls in seedy bars.

I think one boy had mascara on.

I, myself, had created a sensational oceanic display on my eyelids; purples and teals and shimmering silver glitter three inches thick, which I accented with pink blush and super-shine pink lipstick.

We arrived back at the hotel at 10:30 on the dot, phenomenal considering that our hotel is in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles away from the strip to keep the teenagers from the sin and indulgence promoted by the contemptible and wicked Las Vegas tourism industry. (I, of course, love all things contemptible and wicked, but I don’t make the hotel reservations.)

As we entered the hotel lobby, giggling and carrying on, it suddenly occurred to me that the lobby was full of people.

PARENTS!

Yay. The parents have arrived.

What a pleasure to meet you. I don't usually, um, look like this.

Watch Me Unravel

This is me weighing myself on the robot scale:

This is a close up of my friend, Carol, laughing (See? Diet! Necessary!):

This is my sweater buttoned totally wrong:

This is why I should stay behind the camera.

(Thanks to Kiley for all the Maryland photos, a few of which I will be posting for y'all tomorrowish, once I weed out all unflattering candid shots.)

Caramel Frap, Extra Extra Caramel, Extra Extra Whip

Things teenagers want to eat: chocolate muffins, Starbucks, hamburgers, Starbucks, chili fries, greasy appetizers, pizza, Starbucks, candy, goldfish crackers, Starbucks. After returning home from six days with teenagers, I decided that I was totally going on a diet.

I’ve been doing very well so far.

Breakfast: Coffee, Ruffles
Lunch: Coke, Zingers

Ridiculous Questions and Requests on the Trip to Annapolis with 35 Teenagers:

Airport check-in lady: Can you have all the kids arrange themselves in alphabetical order?

Student: The National Mall? Cool! What kind of stores do they have?

Student: Can we just go to a REAL mall instead?

Crazy lady at the competition: Can you please have your kids sit down and stop cheering when their robot competes?

Girl students: Can we have boys in our room?

Boy students: Can we have girls in our room?

No, no, no, no, no and no. But thank you for asking.

We took the kids to Washington DC on our way to Annapolis for some touring. The typical teenage response: Vietnam Memorial, blah, blah, Washington Monument, blah, blah, blah, National Gallery of Art, blah. We’re so tired. Soooo tired. HEY!! STARBUCKS!! VENTI FRAPPUCCINOS!! World War II Memorial, blah, blah, American History, blah, blah, Le Ballet Mécanique, blaaaaaaaah, another STARBUCKS!! WHOOHOO!! LATTES!! Can we go to the hotel? We’re tired. We’re sooooo tired. Caffeine has no effect on us. We want to go to bed.

Of course, as soon as we got to the hotel they immediately began jumping on the beds and running around the lobby and What? Tired? We’re not tired! Can we go buy candy? Can we go get STARBUCKS? Please. Please. Curfew? Why a curfew? Can we get virgin daiquiri from the bar? Can we have boys in our rooms?

I started playing my own version of a drinking game in which I took a drink every time a student missed check-in or drank a Frappuccino and, y’all, I am still drunk. Yup.

And now I am going to bed.

Longer Letter Later

Even though I only have two minutes in the Apple Store before I have to catch a bus to the hotel, I just wanted to let you know that I had the choice of this store--to say hi to you--or Express right across the way.

I chose you, people. That is dedication.

Hello from Annapolis!

Let There Be Internet Access

I am taking a red-eye flight to Washington, DC tonight. I've done it before, not so long ago, and it was a horrible, horrible experience, perhaps one of the most horrible experiences of 2005. Except that last time I was flying alone and was able to check into the hotel as soon as I arrived and sleep; this time I am taking two dozen teenagers and, rather than checking into the hotel, we will be spending 12 hours touring DC.

I am going to need to start drinking. Now.

First, I am going to go home and take a shower and put on clean clothes, which I will need to wear for 24 hours straight so they must be comfy and cute.  I am going to put some deodorant and a toothbrush in my carry-on bag because I made the mistake of packing those things away in my check-in luggage on the last red-eye trip and had to pay $55 at the airport store to but miniature toiletries so I could freshen up in the airport bathroom.

I am then going to leave my wonderful husband a little note to say that I love him and will miss him (until he meets up with us in Annapolis) and the only reason I am telling the internet this is so that when I forget to actually do this, he can read about my good intentions here and know that I meant to leave a little note but I was in a big rush because, even though I was all packed and ready to go, I totally forgot 45 things and had to unpack and repack everything in order to make it all fit because I had already expanded the expandable luggage to its full capacity.

Phew.

And then I am going to get on the bus.

And then I am going to start drinking.

This Post is Long and Needy

One of the main differences between my family and Will’s family is directly related to the planning of family functions.

My family plans all family functions three weeks in advance. The big holidays require at least two months of arrangement time. There are weekend trips that have been planned for a year, including the hotel and restaurant reservations. We have Labor Day weekend booked in Santa Barbara through 2015. We necessitate this much time for important decisions to be made: dates, times, locations, who is responsible for bringing the dip, who is responsible for buying the margarita mix. There are emails and phone calls and, sometimes, functions to plan functions. The downside to this fanatical planning is that there’s really no getting out of a party that has been planned for two millennia.

Will’s family, on the other hand, plans most family functions on two hours notice. They will call you at 11am for a family barbeque that will be taking place at 1pm that very same day. Spontaneity is a fabulous thing, but for a girl who comes from a family where spontaneous means a last minute decision to bring apple martinis rather than the cosmopolitans you signed up for in the organizational email, spontaneity tends to be a difficult creature.

Will has many good qualities for which I will certainly keep him, but, I swear, he could not get six people to the same restaurant on the same day at the same time, even if his life depended on it. It’s a good thing his life does not depend on it. We are still in formal training phase of Planning 101.

In no way do I mean to disparage a family’s organizational processes and, in fact, it is sometimes superior to embrace a lackadaisical approach to life, but had better planning been executed, I would be at a party right now.

Yep. Instead, I am at home. Listening to Journey.

(Never mind that I just watched a movie, drank a watermelon martini and watched a friend blow $880 on blackjack. That’s not nearly as depressing, which is totally what I am going for here.)

The good news is that you get an overdue post, albeit a needy and disappointing one. I have all the time in the world because I am not at a party! Look! I am at home! Lucky you!

So, here’s a dilemma. One of my students has a clothing company. He designs and silk-screens t-shirts and tank tops and whatnot. The kids all over campus are wearing this kid’s stuff and I bought two tops to support his business. Twice last week I went to put on one of the tops (a rare pink edition shirt!) and decided against wearing it to school. Why, you ask? The brand is “Dirty Pony” which is emblazoned right across my chest. The student swears it does not mean anything bad, it’s just a logo he came up with and he is in the top 3% of the Senior class, but I don’t know. Dirty Pony. Doesn’t it just sound, um, dirty?

While we’re chatting (or, technically, while I am rambling and you are listening patiently—what a good friend you are), does anyone else get a horrible pain in their ear while flying? I have a super high sensitivity to elevation change and I can’t even go to the bottom of a 4-foot pool without my ears feeling like they are going to pop from all the pressure. I’m flying on Tuesday and need some advice, if anyone has any. I’ve tried chewing gum; I’ve tried EarPlanes; I yawn repeatedly. Nothing seems to control the feeling that a knife is stabbing through my ear into my brain which sure makes flying a lovely experience. Suggestions?

Also, how fabulous is Sarah Jessica Parker?

Happy New Year!

We spent New Year's Eve in Portland, Oregon.

At 11:45pm, 15 minutes before midnight, drunk, we walked down to Pioneer Square to join the festivities. Unbeknownst to us, there was a huge 5k race about to happen. Maybe because we had just finished off several glasses of wine and were in an agreeable state of mind, we went ahead and paid the fee to join the run.

The clock struck midnight, we kissed, and then it occurred to us that we had no idea where the race started. After cruising around the square, asking some people, and finally asking a cop, we were directed to the start line.

We were in dead last. It had been, like, 10 minutes since the race started.

We were in even deader last when we stopped by the hotel parking lot to drop off our wool jackets because wool jackets and running are just not compatible. People were already coming back by the time we really got started.

Having no idea that we would be running, I was wearing a brand new pair of Express denim slacks and velvet and suede loafers. Y'all, I ran a race in a pair of velvet and suede loafers. I almost wore heels out, which would have been a total disaster.

We finished 782 out of 930. Not bad considering the bottle of wine, the late start, the stop-off at the hotel parking lot, and the velvet loafers (now ruined).

I've added more vacation photos to the previous set and all are now here.

Forecast: Rain, Fame

Canada! After spending a night in the smallest town possible—and by smallest town possible I mean, there was one ten-room hotel, obviously without internet, and one pub and that pretty much sums the whole place—we have arrived at our northernmost destination, Vancouver.

We spent two days in Seattle where we went on a tour, bought some clothes, and where I, people, was recognized in Pioneer Square. Of course, I had no idea that I was being recognized and my hair was surely frizzy from the humidity and I was probably complaining about the cold and most likely I was gawking like an idiot at a brick building. Not so much in the way of humidity, cold, and bricks in California. Andy Warhol said that we all get 15 minutes of fame and I think I probably ruined mine staring at a map.

Elizabeth, fabulous and wonderful Elizabeth who I have never met, sent me an email saying that she reads SoPink and recognized me in Pioneer Square. See:

Hi Janet:
I have no idea how I ended up reading your blog, but I have for many months...and then today I actually saw you in Pioneer Square walking with Will at about 1:15. I was coming out of my office which is right there on 1st avenue and there you were. That kind of stuff always seems so weird to me....
Happy Holidays
Elizabeth

Elizabeth, I love you.

I have a Jacuzzi tub in my room tonight because, hello, I am a staaaaaar.

I was going to upload some pictures for you all, but I left the cable in the car and the keys are with the valet. I would totally send someone out to get the cable for me but I don’t want to go and get all diva (diva-y? divafied?). No, Slice of Pink will always remain modest and humble.

Supahstar. Su.Pah.Star. Tomorrow, dah-lings, I buy these.

The Few Moments the Rain Stopped so I Could Take Out the New Camera

Click for photos from the first week of our trip.

Coming to You Live From The Biggest Bookstore in the World

We are in Portland. It rained for a good part of yesterday when I discovered that my boots, which I assumed were waterproof, were not, in fact, waterproof. You don't think much about the waterproofness of your boots when you are from Southern California, the place where one steady hour of rain causes the schools to close due to the bad weather. However, when you are wading through your own footwear, it becomes apparent that the ability to resist water is a good quailty for boots to possess. Until yesterday, it never occured to me that boots should be practical in addition to fashionable.

Also, we left our pillows at a Howard Johnson motel. The pillows and cases cost more than the room for the night.

Next stop: Fort Lewis for Christmas with my Aunt Pam, Uncle Tim, Cousins Emily and Mack, and Gramma!

Brief Travel Update

We are currently in Redding, CA.

6 hours to Portland.

I want to go to the Tillamook Factory.

Did I Mention We Are Going to Canada?

Did I mention we are driving from sunny Southern California to the Pacific Northwest? Did I mention we are craaaazy? Did I mention we had to purchase chains for the car and have no clue how to put them on? Chains for our car are $70, by the way, which seems like a lot of money to people like us who have seen snow like twice ever; people like us who wear flip-flops year round.

It's been pretty hectic. So hectic, in fact, that I accidentally wore two different flip-flops to Target yesterday and didn't realize it until I got home. They were both black so it wasn't that bad but, seriously.

But, back to the trip to the freezing depths of the arctic, for which we are prepared with cute mittens and wool jackets and chains.

Night One and Two: We are staying at our friend's bachelor pad in San Luis Obispo. There is a snake that lives here and I need to go by a towel so I can take a shower and the Christmas tree is decorated with beer bottle ornaments. This is just lovely.

This is Cool

Since Will went to Washington D.C. before me last week, he took the camera in his carry-on bag rather than leaving it for me to bring. Upon my arrival, two full days later, Will had taken a grand total of 6 pictures, all of them at the airport. He had walked over ten miles in those two days, viewing monuments, the White House, the Capitol building, and the Smithsonian complex and had 6 pictures. All before leaving Los Angeles.

Despite this seeming lack of interest in photographing any of the great Washington D.C. hot spots, Will took a great deal of interest in trying to capture a photograph of a Zamboni machine at the Sculpture Garden Ice Rink where we stopped to skate one night. He took nearly a dozen pictures of the Zamboni machine as it went round and round, resurfacing the ice. Because our digital camera is moody and volatile, it sometimes will not take a picture when you tell it to and will instead take the picture when it feels like it, usually long after the subject matter has moved out of the shot. Such was the case with the Zamboni.

As Will ordered the camera to take photos, and as the camera refused to take any, as Will grew increasingly frustrated with the camera, I asked what the point was of having a picture of a Zamboni, anyway?

Will just thought it was “cool.”

I present to you, because it is (apparently) cool (and because I don't know what else to do with this photo), The Zamboni: