Slice of Pink

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:

Cheers

Red-eye flights SUCK.
Babies on airplanes SUCK.
Layovers SUCK.
Airport food SUCKS.
Cold wind SUCKS.
Taking the Metro at 9am with all the commuters when you are dragging a suitcase SUCKS, BIG TIME.

But, on the whole, DC is fabulous, just like I remember it.
(And so is the Georgetown University and their free internet access!)

Gina and Stacey, I'm having a drink for you tonight! One for each of you. And one for me. And one for DC. And we'll see where that takes me. Cheers!

I Heart DC

I'm on my way to Washington, D.C. where I am going to stay at a semi-fancy hotel, shop, and eat lots of Marvelous Market brownies. A Marvelous Market Brownie is heaven squished into a 5-inch chocolate square. They are delectable. I would bring some home for my local readers, but they just would not make it back. I would eat them all on the plane. Seriously. In 2002, Will tried to bring some back to California and he ate an entire bag of that gooey goodness on the flight.

Will arrived in D.C. yesterday, for a conference, and called my classroom this afternoon to say hello. I asked where he was and, behold, he was hanging out in Dupont Circle, the place I once called home. With a few, brief, over-the-phone instructions, I led Will right to the front door of that marvelous market. My mouth was watering just thinking about the rich, thick chocolate.

Seeing as I spent some time in our nation's capitol, Will also asked for walking instructions to the hotel. It's been a couple of years since I have been in D.C. and, although I couldn't remember the names of most of the streets, I sure as hell knew the exact location of all the shops. So far, all of my instructions to Will have been along these lines: Okay, keep walking until you pass Brooks Brothers and then you will turn left at Burberry...

Navigating via upscale shopping, is there any other way?

I Left My Heart

Usually, the piles of endless dirty clothes are caused by my laziness and my great hatred of laundry. Not today. Today I worked hard to get the laundry done and the fact that it is not done is not my fault, this once. At 6:30pm, I stood in line at Costco purchasing the wrong ink cartridge for my printer and I asked the cashier if I could get a roll of quarters. The cashier said she didn’t have any, but that I might check with Membership Services. At 6:50pm, I stood in the line at Membership Services and they informed me that they could not, in fact, make change.

At 7:20pm, I stood in line at Target to buy bleach and contact paper and, again, asked if I could get a roll of quarters. The Target cashier told me that she could not make change, but that I might try at guest services. At 7:35pm, I stood in line at guest services and, well, you get the point. No quarters, no clean clothes. I can't do laundry because nobody will give me a roll of quarters! And you know they've got them.

Our weekend jaunt to San Francisco was marvelous, because San Francisco is marvelous. We went to an Oakland Athletics game on Friday night and they let us on the field to walk where all the great Athletics have played ball. Would you look at that:

Right on the field.

The grass where many great Athletics have stood. Like, um, you know, um, Babe Ruth?

The Angels used to be my favorite team, but I am fickle where baseball is concerned and the Angels never let me on their field, so screw ‘em. Unless they win and go to the playoffs because I am totally for the winners. Fickle.

There was also the wedding. The Wedding. I don’t know what to say about The Wedding except that I am pretty sure that my salary this year wouldn’t cover the cost of The Wedding. And you can’t even hate Gina and James for having the perfect wedding with the perfectly delicious filet mignon and the 400 perfect, giant gold bows on each of the 400 perfectly draped chairs and the perfectly breathtaking three-foot centerpieces and the wine that never ended, not even after I poured half a glass on my blue silk skirt and should have been CUT OFF. You can’t hate them because they are two of the most kind and generous people on the face of the freakin’ planet and are perfectly perfect together.

I took the picture of James and Gina with my left hand while in my right hand I held my fourth glass of red wine. Sorry, it was the best I could do under the circumstances. It’s a good thing I don’t, like, teach photo or anything.

A flower, because when you are drunk you can always count on the flowers to hold really still for a photograph.

And the Golden Gate Bride which is weirdly attached to our heads. That, my friends, is called a background merger and it is not a good thing.

Golden

Blogging from San Francisco, y'all.

We've paid about 2 bazillion dollars in parking fees, but our hotel has down comforters and we're going to a big, fancy wedding in a couple hours to which I am wearing a fantastic Banana Republic skirt and really tall heels and I'm in The Apple Store which is right across the street from the place where I just ate a big plate of walnut-raisin-cinnamon french toast.

How happy am I?

Uh-huh.

I Heart DC

Will is going to Washington, DC for a conference for an entire week. I can’t go because I have a pesky job that won’t let me take vacation WHEN I FEEL LIKE IT and instead makes me take vacation at designated times, such as all summer and most of December.

But, hello? DC? Is one of my favoritest places in the whole Continental United States.

So I threw a fit and fell on the floor and threatened never to wash a dish again.

And it was decided that I could go.

Only for the weekend, plus one sick day.

I actually don’t know if I should go at all because I will just want to stay longer. Like, maybe three or four years longer. Or maybe forever longer.

I Heart DC.

What it Means to Miss New Orleans

Several years ago, Will and I took a trip to New Orleans. I am reluctant to post pictures because I had still had braces on my teeth and Will had a Backstreet Boys hairstyle going on, both of which are not very flattering, looking back. Actually, I knew the braces weren’t flattering even then, but Will’s hair is another story. A few years ago, blond streaks were tiiiight.

Like most of you, I’ve been thinking a lot about the Big Easy this past week and I’ve been reminiscing about my stay in N'awlins.

I’ve sorted through our photo album and scanned those pictures in which I am not wearing a pair of flowered capri pants that were a fashion disaster even at the time and in which Will’s $60 highlights are not too visible.

Okay, here’s one.

Our hotel was located right on Bourbon Street, where earplugs were complimentary, in case you wanted to get some sleep at some point.

A muffuletta. We ate the whole thing. Other non-pictured things that we ate: beignets, Cajun sushi, pralines, red beans and rice, jambalaya. Non-pictured things we drank: Hurricanes and mint juleps, for starters.

All along Bourbon Street are these tacky gift shops that sell Mardi Gras beads, feather boas, and lots of other junk. During the day, I would marvel at how these stores, with such cheap and wacky products, could stay in business. But, I’ll tell you, after three Hurricanes, the gift shops! So glittery! Magenta feather boas! Voodoo doll magnets! Beads! Need! Many! Things!

When we weren't drunk, we toured the city and took a ride out to the bayou where, y'all, I held a baby alligator in my own two hands. I'm lucky to be here today to tell the story.

Life, it is a bowl of gumbo.

Briefly

We're so lovely that you would never guess that we are both going commando in this photo because, ahem, somebody forgot to pack underwear.

That somebody was me, but doesn't it sound like the blame lies elsewhere? Last week I forgot the deodorant and I can only accept so much responsibility, yo.

More anniversarying here.

I am Not Drinking Any Merlot!

We are going to go get Sideways in Santa Barbara.

The Post Where I Misuse a Five Dollar Word

Here’s how to create stress.

I need to make 59 invitations for the baby shower (we are not really going for an intimate gathering). I went and bought the paper today. I was standing on the paper aisle and, wouldn’t you know it, the paper comes in packs of 50. So I bought one pack.

I need 59 invitations and I bought 50.

In a miracle of Jesus Christ proportions, I guess I just expected the 50 sheets of paper to miraculously turn into 60 sheets of paper, along the lines of that whole 5000 fish from two fish deal.

Once that phenomenon occurs, I am going to round the corners of the paper with this handy corner rounder. Straight edges? Straight edges suck! Rounded edges are so much, uh, rounder.

Because I have to go get on with the rounding and the thaumaturgic workings, I am going to amuse you with some boring photos that I would never print out and put in a photo album. I have to put them somewhere.

This is a picture that I took right after Will said, “That is my favorite weather pattern!” Don't y'all have a favorite pattern of weather?

This is a picture of a chicken sitting on a beer can.

This is a picture of how much you can screw somebody when you are the only gas station for a hundred miles and somebody has really, really, really got to pee, now.

This pretty much sums up the trip Laughlin.

And, there you have it.

Laugh-lin

We're leaving for Laughlin in the next hour, as soon as I finish packing Will's stuff. I normally wouldn't pack for Will, but he has been working all day while I've been home. By home I really mean the mall, Greenhouse Cafe, and sitting in a bucket at Target (which Kathryn will tell you all about, I'm sure). So, I am packing for Will which is very hard to do because I don't even know what I am going to feel like wearing tomorrow, so how can I have any idea what he is going to feel like wearing? He honestly probably doesn't even care.

Laughlin. Cheap buffets. Free drinks. Old ladies in gold sequins. Fanny packs. A Tribute to Neil Diamond. Keno.

Does it sound like the kinda place where you worry about your couture?

Viva Las Vegas

Despite the incident at the pool at 3am, despite the incident with the body glitter at Sephora, and despite the incident which involved sneaking out and a boy named Bob, the trip to Las Vegas with six teenagers was actually pretty fun. It was the first time in 10 years that I have walked down the strip sober, which is an entirely different experience than walking down the strip in a drunken stupor.

When you take six kids to Las Vegas, you start to notice things that you completely disregarded before. Like the porn. Have y’all noticed how much ass is hanging out all over Vegas? I personally have no problem with the ass, except that I’m pretty sure some of the girls had never seen so much ass plastered on posters and walking down the street in their entire young lives.

I’m just waiting for the parents to start calling.

I think they slept a grand total of 9 hours over the course of the 5 days, which was confirmed when they woke us up because they had locked themselves out of their rooms when they went to get ice at 6am. They hadn’t yet been to sleep.

And the junk food. We ate nothing but junk food. Pizza. Fried Twinkies. Soft Pretzels. In-N-Out.

One of the benefits of living on the west coast in the joy that is In-N-Out Burger. When you are on a road trip, driving across a barren desert in 107-degree heat, there is nothing like seeing the famous yellow arrow pointing to the hamburger mecca. We made a stop at a Vegas In-N-Out.

We trampled in and lined up to order our Double-Doubles, fries, and shakes. I ordered my fries Animal Style off of the In-N-Out Secret Menu. Animal Style is a feature in which they grill your burger or fries in mustard and onions, add cheese and lots of extra special sauce, and it is so delicious that you cannot have lived a truly happy life until you have made yourself sick over a big basket of Animal Style fries. The girls, they loved those fries.

On the way home yesterday we stopped at a food court for lunch. The youngest, sweetest, and most innocent of the six girls walked up to the counter at the generic food court hamburger stand. She ordered a combo meal and requested that her fries be doggy style, please.

DOGGY STYLE.

Just waiting for the calls.

Fancy

My submission for this week's Photo Friday. The picture is of a window display in Paris, France. Although I think that Will was actually the one to snap the photo, I am pretty sure that I was the one to say, "Oh lordy, we've got to get a picture of that fabulously fancy pink champagne."