My life in Sing and the first installment of my Asian travels

I work long hours. I'm in before 9am (sometimes 8) and I leave anywhere between 6:30 and 9pm. Except on Fridays. Fridays, we have a happy hour in the office, it starts at 4pm. Sometimes I start at 4, sometimes I start at 5. Always, once I pick up a glass of wine, I don't work again until Monday morning.

Some days I'm frustrated and I hate my job. It can be overwhelmingly. Sometimes I can feel like I am in over my head. There are moments I want to quit.

I love my job.

Not once have I regretted being here.

I love the people I work with. We are an eclectic, international mix. We are a living Benetton ad, constantly mocking each other's nationality and race. But there is great affection and respect between us. It's weird being outside the US political correctness. The teasing each other about racial stereotypes at first was shocking to the American in me. (And the liberal). Now I join in. When Rebecca was here she asked, "When did you become so racist?"

My usual gang from work is compiled of a couple Aussies, some Irish, a few Indians, and a couple Americans and a Sri Lankan. That's our immediate team. When we hang out with other googlers, throw in some French, Brits, Malaysians, New Zealanders, even the Finnish.

What has been the most surprising to me? To realize that America's best export is Hollywood. Everyone, I mean whether you grew up in a long house in Borneo or a cottage in Ireland, watched Friends and listened to Michael Jackson growing up.

I love my house and get along with my flatmate. We are friendly with each other, but haven't done much socializing outside of the apartment. When I'm home, I tend to spend more time in my rooms, but that's mostly a product of having being used to living alone, and having a job where I’m dealing with people all day. I do feel at home in the house.

Singapore is clean and efficient. The MRT (the subway) always runs on time and I've rarely waited more than 3 minutes for a train.

Singaporeans walk into you. Personal space is a different concept here. Walking down the street, sometimes I feel like the sidewalk is like the game that's a board with a silver ball and you tilt the board, and the balls rolls down the incline. That is Singaporeans rolling towards me on the sidewalks. Drives me crazy.

Also, Chivalry is a Western concept. Holding the door open, giving your seat to a pregnant woman, holding the elevator door. These are actions that are not viewed as necessary to be polite, and not doing them is not considered rude. As a westerner, it feels to me like Singaporeans are rude. They will push and shove you out of the way to get on the MRT before you. A pregnant woman will not be offered a seat, and, she will be pushed and shoved out of the way. It drives me crazy. And the MRT is never not full of people pushing to get on the train before you. I have to remind myself that to them it isn't rude to knock you out of the way get on the escalator before you.

Politeness is in different rituals. For instance, in business, you hand your business card over using 2 hands. The recipient of the card must take the card and read it. Take at least a minute or 2 to actually read the card, and then place it on the table in front of you for the duration of the meeting. As an American my instinct would be to take the card and shove it in my pocket. Which, to a Singaporean, would be considered incredibly rude.

I miss Chinese food. I mean, American Chinese food. It's weird to be surrounded by Chinese food, and miss it. Its fish with the heads on (including eyes) and shrimps completely shelled with heads. And the chicken consistency is different. But, I do love dim sum and noodles. Some of the Hawker Center food is really good. I’m especially a fan of really good Chicken Rice. But sometimes, I just want some good old American Chinese Chicken and Broccoli.

So, my travels:

When Rebecca was here we went to Bali for the weekend. Too short of a visit, but it was fun, but the story there was the whole moped business. Stupidly, I forgot that I don't know how to ride a motor bike and that I do have a fear of death. So of course, we rented motorbikes. Which involved the very complicated process of calling the front desk and asking for 2 bikes for 2 days. An hour later someone came to our room with a receipt for us to sign, helmets and keys and told us they were parked in the parking lot. I did comment that it's a little bit weird that they didn't ask for driver’s licenses. (Since, you know, I'm no longer licensed drive)

We got on the bikes someone from the hotel helped us start them, and gave us directions to an ATM. We shakily took off down the road only a couple doors to a Circle K that had an ATM. Except when we got there, the ATM didn't accept my card. We got back on our bikes to find a new ATM, Rebecca hopped on her bike, revved the engine and took off down the street. She's in her 20's. She has no fear, all her body parts work and death is something she thinks will never happen to her. I'm in my 30's. I'm losing coordination and confidence. It took me a bit of time to balance on the bike, strap on the helmet and turn the key.

There I was, sitting the in the tiny driveway of a circle K in Seminyak Beach on the Island of Bali in Indonesia. And I heard, "click." The engine wouldn't turn over. I turned the key again. Tried revving the engine. Nothing. Rebecca had evaporated into the landscape of motorbikes and trucks and cars. And the needle on my motorbike engine was sitting snug and defiantly on E.

I hopped of the bike, took off the helmet and stood there.

What to do?

So, of course I stood there a minute more.

What to do?

I took out my phone and sent Rebecca an email. Because she could get wireless on her phone even if she couldn’t make calls.

I waited another minute.

Motorbikes, cars, and trucks whizzed by and beeped as they passed.

I waited another minute, and then decided to walk, assuming she have must noticed at some point that I wasn’t not driving up behind her and probably stopped.

I found a few hundred yards up the road, perched confidently on her moped waiting patiently for me. She greeted me with, "Where the hell have you been?"

I told her about the bike being on empty. She was waiting for me in the driveway of another ATM. So I tried that ATM, placing my helmet on a ledge inside the vestibule, noticing an offering to the gods. It was a dried palm folded into a bowl shape filled with dried spices, fresh flowers and Ritz crackers. Versions of these are all over Bali. Some on sidewalks, in driveways, and in ATM vestibules.

That ATM also didn’t accept VISA. Rebecca and I decided that I would ride on the back of her bike we'd go get gasoline for the bike and find another ATM. I hoped on the back of the bike and she took off down the road, her face in the wind, mine tucked behind her back, terrified. We pulled into a gas station that also had an ATM, one that luckily took my card. While I was in the ATM she filled up her bike with gas. As I walked back to her bike, I realized, I didn’t have my helmet. She was trying to ask the gas station attendant if we could bring some gas back to fill my bike. They don't understand English, we got frustrated.

I told her about my helmet. We decided it was probably back at the other ATM, so decided to ride back there. Once again, I hopped on the back of the bike. As we were turning at an intersection, a policeman stepped out in front of us and signaled for us to pull over. On the corner was what looked to me like a photo hut, but was a police station. They sat me down on a bench outside, and brought Rebecca in.

There they were, her, tall, blonde in a tank top and shorts, looking very much like an American tourist. And him, tall, rotund, a policeman. Looking very much like an over weight, middle-aged policeman. He could have been in New York, Chicago, or Bali.

He asked for her ID. Told her there were big problems, she didn’t have an international driver's license and I wasn't wearing a helmet. She tried to explain that we were going back from my helmet. He just shook his head saying, "Big problem. But for 200,000 it can be done." (200,000 IDR is roughly 20 bucks). Rebecca had no Indonesian money. She had American dollars. She offered him 20 US dollars, trying to explain that she was out of the Indonesian money that she had changed at the airport. They brought me into the photo hut/police station. He said to me, "200,000. It’s not for me, it's for the government."

It was, at that moment, that I understood what was going on.

Something to note, I can’t do math. And for me, currency exchange can be confusing. Even the most basic, at times, can throw me out of whack. It gets worse when I'm holding a 100,000 bill. I mean, What? It's hard for me to wrap my head around it being 9 dollars. So, I opened up my wallet and I pulled out 1 bill of 5,000. I can't count zeros when there are too many on a bill.

As if I was bargaining, he shook his head at me and held up four fingers. "One, two, three, four." Right. 4 bills at 5,000, for a total of 200,000. Or one for him and each of the cops hanging around the photo hut/police shack. But, it's for the government, not him.

I gave him 4 bills. They then let us go and get back on the motorbike, without international drivers licenses or my helmet.

At the ATM vestibule, my helmet was waiting for me, sitting next to the offer to the gods.

Rebecca was furious that we had pay off the Indonesian Cops. I put on the helmet, and we decided to leave my bike where it was, and find a place for lunch, and deal with the bike later. So, once again, we were zooming along on the frenetic, chaotic streets of Seminyak Beach, Rebecca with her face to the wind, me cowering, my head down behind her back, holding on tight.

We found a lovely cafe and ordered burgers. Yes, we were those tourists. We ordered burgers. I love Indonesian food, but I think both of us needed something familiar. She was still all in a tizzy and angry about the forced bribe. I found it hysterical. I kept reminding her that it was my money after all. And, in the end, it was 20 bucks.

We finished our burgers, decided to do some exploring, so back on the bike we hopped her driving, me hiding behind her. She was Dark Knight all over the streets, eventually I raised my head and took in the scenery and stopped imagining death by moped in Bali. We worked our way back to my abandoned bike.

Rebecca suggested that we try one more time to turn it on. She sat on it, turned the key and revved the engine. It burped, coughed, then hummed. Mocking me, of course. Apparently I was trying to turn it on wrong. It was on empty, but it wasn't actually empty.

Rebecca got a good laugh. Suddenly the whole Indo Police Shakedown was funny.

She road off, I wobbled and we returned the gas station to fill it up. Well, not only was I not comfortable with starting the bike. I also wasn't comfortable stopping it. Luckily, I'd slowed to an almost stop, so I sort of hopped off it to make it stop (and solicited the help of the gas station attendants that I almost knocked over). Rebecca had to start it again for me.

For the rest of my motorbike driving, I was wobbly but ok. Until the last day.

On our last morning we had time to drive around and do some shopping. We took off on the bikes again. Well, Rebecca took off, I wobbled and sputtered. On the way she took a left turn rather than a right at an intersection, heading in the opposite direction then we intended. She pulled over, and I (almost) smoothly pulled up next to her. She might be Dark Knight on the bike, but I’m the one with the gift of a Sense of Direction. I pointed out the wrong turn, so we turned our bikes to make a U - turn, waiting for a break in the flowing stream of motorbikes and trucks and cars. She zoomed off, I waited for my turn. I was definitely getting a bit over-confident. There was as safe enough break in the traffic flow, I turned the bike wheel and revved the engine, except, I didn’t U-turn. I sped across the street, and with my lack of finesse for stopping, slide sideways and landed on the other side of the road. The bike on it’s side, and me as well. People came and helped me up. They couldn’t have been kinder. Although, I’m sure they were thinking, “Stupid American tourist lady shouldn’t be riding a bike.” We got the bike up right, and I checked my limbs, my fingers and toes, and my sanity. Rebecca came back to check on me, and I said to her, “And I’m done with motorbikes.”

I wont be getting on a bike anytime soon.

That was Bali. I’ll catch you up on Macau, Hong Kong and Ho Chi Minh later. (what you have to look forward to are hookers, casinos, Buddha, a Vietnamese pop band that covers only American music, sparklers, Pho, blown fuses, more Pho, and stories about me being cranky)

Singapore so far ...

SFO > HKG > SIN These are long flights. 14 hours to Hong Kong, another 3 to Singapore. I watched 4 movies. Read a book, slept.

On my flight from Hong Kong I sat next to a gentleman from China who spoke no English and obviously couldn't read English. The Embarkation card that the flight attendants passed out was in English. He and I engaged in some sloppy and awkward sign language when he asked for assistance filling his out. Finally I just took his passport and filled out as much as I could. I find it odd that an Asian airline wouldn't have something in Chinese. After the exhausting task of helping my seatmate, I slept.

When I got to Singapore, my luggage didn't. And they were so friendly and helpful, it was hard for me to cranky with them. Which, considering how tired I was, is pretty miraculous.

Friday, in my smelly sweater and leggings, I took a short walk around the block of my hotel. It was hot, I was stinky, I went back to the hotel. And I waited and waited and waited for my luggage. Initially it was supposed to arrive at 1pm. They then called to say that it had arrived to the airport, but wouldn't be delivered until between 3 and 6.

and so I waited.

and then my luggage arrived. and my shampoo had exploded. of course.

Sarah and her husband Ben invited me over for dinner that night, and told me to bring my shampoo drenched clothes to wash at their place.

It rained, down poured most of the night. They have a great apartment with a beautiful roof top deck, and had hoped to dine up there. Instead we ate in inside, but I did get a tour of the deck once the rain stopped. It was great catching up with them, and to see a couple that I knew when they were first dating, now settled into married life with a toddler. I started to yawn about 8pm. The combination of tiki masala, white wine, Jack Johnson and jet lag were doing me in.

I was back in my hotel room asleep in bed by 9:30. I slept until about 8am and woke to rain again.

I thought I'd make good use of the rainy morning and decided to go to the gym. Only, when I got to the floor I found that to get to the gym, you had walk outside by the pool. As I was standing there perplexed and unsure of myself, wondering if I should go back to my room and get an umbrella, or just give up on the undertaking all together when a man appeared with an umbrella for me.

After my work out, and my shower, the rain had stopped. So I decided to venture out into the city that would be my new home. I walked to the same shopping center that I had walked by the day before, but this time, a little more awake, and in clean clothes, I was in better spirits.

My hotel is on the edge of Chinatown. I was in the minority, and yet, I didn't feel like I didn't belong. There where people out shopping and walking, stores and restaurants. I felt a similar energy to New York. Everyone kept asking if I was excited about moving to Singapore. And really, I was so bogged down with the weight of the logistics to get here, and with the emotional task of saying goodbye to everyone I love, that I hadn't been able to feel excited yet. Walking down the street in Chinatown in Singapore, I finally felt excited. Like, finally, this is what I’ve been waiting for, this is what all the stress was for. I’m pretty sure I walked around with a goofy grin and wide eyes.

My plan was to just wander, and if I wasn't sure where I was, to than take a taxi back to the hotel. I managed to not get too turned around. I stumbled on the Maxwell Road Hawker Center. I wandered the stalls a little overwhelmed by everything, not sure what was what, or what to buy, and pretty much starving, until I settled on some dumplings. yum. Then I tried to some Almond Milk Tea, and continued on my meandering walk.

I then decided that I wanted to live in Chinatown. Before I thought I wanted to live in a modern High Rise. But seeing the shophouses, the winding streets, the shutters, I thought, this is Asia, this is where I should live. Of course, I'm sure the next neighborhood I explore will be where I decide I have to live.

I made my way back to the hotel. It was about 4:30. I laid down on the bed to rest, thinking I'd take a short nap. I slept until 11pm. I woke up annoyed with myself for having slept through the rest of the day. I was awake for a few hours, watching (I'm ashamed to admit) the Legend of Graystoke on HBO. I then fell back asleep, until 6am.

I decided to explore areas beyond the immediate neighborhood, so I took off for the MRT (Singapore’s subway system). It is CLEAN. And EFFICIENT. (Which I'm noticing, is pretty much how most of the country is, clean and efficient, hmmm...maybe there is an upside to canning).

Two stops on the MRT, and I was near City Hall, the Raffles Hotel and St. Andrews cathedral. I attended service at the cathedral. The Building is shiny white. Very beautiful. Inside, the pews are dark wood and feel ancient, but the walls are white, ceiling fans are white, and the front of the church is painted a bright blue. It feels both old and new.

After church I walked around the Raffles Hotel. I debated doing the high tea in the Tiffin room. Instead opted for lunch in the courtyard. I sat under an umbrella, drank a Singapore Sling and ate some chicken curry. It did feel very colonial. And it was both sweaty and cool, sitting the shade. There was a breeze, but I couldn't figure out where it was coming from. This is one sweaty place.

I headed back to the hotel, and spent a few hours by the pool. I ordered room service, and fell asleep by 9:30. I woke up at 4:45am. I was annoyed that I woke up that early. But, when I logged onto email, I had an email from Joey, he was working the night shift, so he called my hotel and we got to chat a bit. I then, worked out, and got ready for work, had breakfast in the hotel lobby, and headed to the office. In the less then 10 minutes of walking, I was completely covered in sweat. And now I am sitting at my desk, which is next to a window with a view of the harbor. And so, I survived my first weekend in Singapore. And I think I’m already a little bit in love with this place.

The little joys of packing and preparing to move to the other side of the globe

I’ve learned a lot about in the past few weeks. For instance, even if you believe that your apartment has been re-rented. Check, double check, and check again. Otherwise, four days before you leave you could be on the phone with the leasing director screaming and crying that they failed to inform you that the potential sub-leaser you sent them was rejected three weeks earlier, and that subsequently you turned away four other possible leasers.

If you are a disorganized pack rat, packing can be an emotional minefield. You can open a book and see that when your mother was ten, she signed her name in it and that your sister, who died two years ago, did the same thing when she was ten. You might also come across caricatures that were drawn of you and friends six years ago in New York city, one of the friends being the late husband of your best friend. This means that in the middle of packing boxes, tape and stacks of your things, you will break down and cry. Allot time for this.

Also, as a disorganized pack rat, you could open a purse, wallet, or make up bag and find a Ritalin pill that, by your estimation would have to be four years old. You, of course, will take the pill. And you will get much done that day. However, when you lie in bed that night and your heart is pounding, you will remember, half doses. You used to take half doses.

If you live in a third floor walkup in the back corner of a courtyard building, with the trash room at the front of the building, every time you throw something out it will involve three flights down and about 250 yards to walk there, then back and up the three flights. Even as a disorganized pack rat you will find yourself opting to throw away rather than pay to store or ship most of the crap that you should have tossed years ago. This means blisters on your feet, sore muscles, angry shoulders and a crick in your neck from the approximately 40 bags of trash you carried down those three flights and through the courtyard to the trash room.

If you decide to sell your furniture on Craigslist, don’t carry all the cash in your wallet when you go to TJ Maxx to treat yourself with a new summer top. When you are in the dressing room, if you have more than the 8 items limit to try on, bring your purse with you while doing the hangar exchange. Otherwise some jackass of a bitch will go into your dressing room stall and rob you of the cash you just got for selling your sofa. This does not make you happy. However, it does make leaving Chicago a bit easier, if for only a few minutes.

Check and double check the baggage limits for all flights. Especially if you are flying to Washington DC and then San Jose California before leaving for Singapore. Miscalculating the weight requirements could cost you over 300 dollars each leg of your trip. The realization of this might cause a brief moment of hysteria. Then you discover UPS Ground. If you pack at least 5 days early, you can ship your two 60 lbs packed suitcases to your Mom’s in California.

Don’t pack all your winter clothes right away, especially if it’s March in Chicago. One day it will be in the 60’s, the next it will snow. This means you will be head first into a wardrobe box trying to find your boots and a sweater. Also, once you pack up everything, and keep a warm jacket, not a cool spring one, one a winter jacket, the weather will reach 70 degrees. You will wish you had packed that jacket for storage.

You need to make sure you get enough sleep, that you don’t forget to eat, and that you don’t over caffeinate. This combo could make you a bit insane. Especially a few days in row.

Salvation Army will stand you up for picking up your donation. If you haven’t eaten, you are overtired and over caffeinated, this will make you hysterical.

When your apartment is empty, you have all your windows open, it’s a 70 plus light breeze day and you are sitting on the back deck, you will be overcome with nostalgia and sadness about saying goodbye to what was your favorite apartment to date. And you’ll feel a little bit panicked and nervous about the property-less wandering life for which you are about to embark.

Goodbye to the Aughts

Before Christmas I started to draft a decade retrospective blog entry. A listing of the things I said goodbye to in the last decade. Things like an answering machine, a landline, DC, New York, and people lost. I had envisioned it being part nostalgic, part sentimental, part, sad, part funny.



But seriously, just the number of funerals that I went to in the past decade, was depressing. (btw, that number is 7). I just couldn't lighten it up enough.

Rather than a quippy retrospective, this is what I have:

In sum, the past decade, I switched careers, moved to NYC, entered my thirties, switched careers again, moved to Chicago, did some traveling (Spain, Morocco, Italy, London, Dublin), had some boyfriends, made some friends, lost some people, had some stories published, grew to appreciate my family (and the few really amazing friends that I have known for decades) and their love.

It is time to say GoodBye to this decade.

I'm ready for the tweens.

update: I forgot to add, started a blog.

Driving in Morrocco

I haven't been blogging because 1. I've been hyper-focused on my jobsearch and 2. I've actually been working on other writing. So in the meantime, here is an old essay that was part of my thesis:

On a drive from Rabat to Marrakech, October 2002

Colorful stands selling pomegranates, apples, tangerines, eggplants and live chickens for slaughter line the highway.

Most public restrooms, even in the European-looking gas station, have two sinks and two stalls, the stalls equipped with a drain in the floor to squat over. Though Heather declares she has to go so bad she doesn’t care, she comes back to the car admitting she chickened out.

Driving eight hours from Rabat to Marrakech in a rental car that doesn’t have a CD player, to entertain ourselves we make up lyrics to the Arabic music on the radio. When the keening hurts our heads too much, we decide to sing American songs.

Problem: The combined musical knowledge of the three women in the car does not equal one complete song. At most the three of us come up with the chorus and half a verse to Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline.

Maps in Morocco: futile. Streets change names frequently and the locals are never are told the official names.

When asking for directions at a gas station, men gather, some from other cars filling up, some walking by. Strangers to each other, they sound like they’re arguing as they point at the map in our guide book. Even when friendly while delivering directions with a smile, Arabic sounds angry.

Told in Spanglisharabic to veer at the circle, we don’t know which circle or in which direction to veer.

Problem: There is a circle at every intersection.

Something curious: No left turns. To turn left you’re directed into a right lane that turns and somehow you end up left.

Marrakech, an ancient city, teems with Berbers and Moroccans as well as English, German, French and Canadian tourists. Three New Yorkers trying to maneuver a sedan through centuries old streets at night: not a good idea.

We realize sitting at a red light when a series of cars pause and then drive on that, after dark, traffic lights are treated like stop signs. Street signals become suggestions.

Since our hotel is inside the medina, we should have called ahead and arranged to be picked up; instead we attempt to drive to the hotel. Problem.

The attempt is complicated by street sign’s placement at the top corners of buildings and they’re in Arabic. We decide to give the address of the hotel to a taxi driver, offering to pay to follow him in our car until he finds our hotel.


Driving up to a line of mustard-colored dusty cars at the taxi stand, a collection of drivers comes to our window and argues over who will take us. Maybe it isn’t arguing; maybe it’s the Arabic.

As we drive down a narrow, winding street, donkeys and people hurtle out of our way and some pound on the car yelling. A young woman with kohl-lined dark eyes wearing a yellow djellabah spits Arabic at us and waves her hands in the air, for a moment we think that we’re back in New York.

Forty minutes of crisscrossing the medina following the cab driver, leads to worry that he might be setting us up for abduction. We wonder if we have made a rather large mistake.

The cab driver suggests calling the elusive hotel for directions. Giving him some Dirhams, we watch from our car when he makes the call from a pay phone.

Something else curious: There are payphones in Marrakech.

The driver takes us to a parking lot, which is really just the alley behind three buildings, and in disjointed English instructs us to park the car there for 15 Dirhams a day. Kara, whose name is on the rental agreement, worries something will happen to the car. She first resists, then panics. Eventually she acquiesces.

After explaining we have “beaucoup valise” and “mucho luggage,” a man appears with a cart. He tosses in our Samsonites and Touristers, then vigorously pushes the cart through crowds. Following him, we’re not sure where he is leading us and are nervous that if we lose him we’ll lose our luggage.

We laugh that we’re about to become a State Department statistic, but stop laughing when we turn off the crowded street and continue down an unlit path.

We hear the sounds of the square just on the other side of the walls, where there are food carts and snake charmers and acrobats, but we are a group of five slithering through the dark. I wish I could remember all of a “Hail Mary.” I get lost after “Blessed art thou among women.”

The cart stops suddenly, a little door within a door opens, and there it is, the lobby of the Riad Enija, a garden with fountains, birds and soft music.

The taxi driver refuses our Dirhams. He is a university student named Mustafa majoring in Mathematics. He smiles big when I take his picture with Heather and Kara, then gives us his email address so that we can send him a copy.

When shown to our room we find rose petals strewn on silk linens and Moorish tiles.

The three of us sink into the beds. Kara tells us that while talking to Mustafa, when he heard we were from New York, he grasped for his French, struggling to remember the word désolé. Kara tells us it means I’m sorry; he was referring to September 11th.

Through out our stay we are continually touched by how generous and kind everyone is that we meet.

We fall in love with Marrakech.

I saw my shadow (and I wept)

Randomness to follow (mostly thoughts from the past couple weeks):

• I love Obama. We know that I love Obama. I'm all about slurping up the Kool Aid. And I was pretty damn happy about all of his nominations. And then like dominoes, they keep falling. Weird, right, that Hillary seems to be the least controversial. Even with her husband cozing up to all those foreign nationals?

• Apparently, Daschle and Geithner are on board with tax increases for the wealthy, because well, they just don't pay all their taxes.

• And the pen, it appears, is pretty mighty. Or at least the editorial is.

• The City is the worst show. Ever. And yet I'm watching it. There's all kinds of fabricated drama, I mean real drama, and yet it still feels slow. But it's quotes like this that keep me coming back "You know you can trust me baby." I forgot that guys actually say things like that. Oh and I love that Olivia Palermo is so stereotypically bitchy and snotty. These people have no soul. And I love it.

• Blago-crazy - why isn't his PR firm writing his speeches? His rambling, pointless, emotionally, whiny plea to the Senate was, well, rambling, pointless and whiny. Did I mention pointless? And then the press conference in front of his house, that awkwardly wouldn't end. And he walked into the crowd and told some kid he would play ball with him sometime, and then continued to reiterate the fluff that he had already said. He's beginning to be like Starbucks. Enough already. You're on every corner and we're sick of you.
  

• Karaoke in South Haven, MI is serious stuff. They should do an American Idol audition there. There is a man named Bob, who has his name on his shirt, and man named Charles who sings Ray Charles, and young guy who looks a little Kevin Federlineish who sings love ballads and never cracks a smile. It's serious stuff..

• Damages is so great, Blair even referenced it on Gossip Girl. I'm so addicted I have to watch it at 9 and again at 10 to see if I missed anything. And I love that the main character is a tough bad ass girl who is smart, smart, smart.

• My apartment needs a steam cleaning from ceiling to floor. It looks like an agoraphobic had a break down there. Or, I didn't leave my apartment and didn't clean up after myself for like a week.

• I think my cat should pitch in and help me clean. Maybe scoop her own litter or wash a dish once in awhile. I think a lack of opposable thumbs is a poor excuse.

• I love chicago. I hate Chicago. This winter sucks. I have a hit out on Punxsutawney Phil.
  

Do your mother a favor...

My mother called me last night. She read my latest story, and this is what she had to say: "Can't you write anything happy? Do your mother a favor and write something happy."

Ugh. Mothers.

I didn't sleep last night. Not at all. I packed (last minute) did some tidying up in my apartment, explained to my cat that I will be gone for 10 days but that I am coming back and someone is checking in on her (yes, I am a crazy cat lady, I don't usually like to advertise that, it's my dirty secret) and then suddenly it was time for the cab to pick me up (4AM thank you very much).

I hate people who hum along with their iPod on the el. That was me this morning. Well, I haven't slept. I didn't realize I was doing it until I opened my eyes and saw the looks. Oops.

Then I was in line behind a Romanian family of 6. yes, 6. They opened a special lane for them. Thank you TSA for family lanes.

Then I actually got on my plane. One of the only flights not delayed. I sat in my chair and watched them de-icing the plain, thinking Is this a good thing? when they announced we were deplaning because of mechanical difficulties.

WTF

I am trying to use my time wisely. But I ask you, why am I TRYING to write something happy?

Ugh. Mothers.

Things I saw last weekend in San Fran and San Jose

This was at my company Holoiday party ...it was insane...I don't konw if you can see it ...but there's a man floating in the air ...

And this is me shooting a cork gun... I should point out that I didn't hit one target...and that was after five tries
This is my mom's cat, rolling around in the mulch. not sure why, but she was having fun.
And my Mom's Dogs..looking pretty after coming back from the Dog Laundry



This poor horse was giving a ride to a cop.

on the road again

(This ones for you JW.)

Why, although I do it ALL the time, I hate traveling:

stocking feet with the inevitable hole in the big toe or at the heel, on slick linoleum airport floors

people who put their shoes back on right at the point on the security conveyor belt where your stuff comes out, causing blockage from the line of people behind them, and forcing me to stand in my stocking feet just that much longer.

scratchy announcements about which rows are boarding that are illegible.

anyone pushing to be the one to enter the plane before me (come on people, we have "assigned" seats)

coach.

if you order a soda, the flight attendant gives the can. if you order a water, you get a dixie cup of water. give me the damn bottle!

baggage claim. children climbing on the baggage carousel and parents not stopping them. people who push me to stand on the edge of the carousel, blocking as many as possible from both viewing access of the baggage on the carousel as well as actual physical access.

Shuttle drivers who drop me off on the wrong side for the street, forcing me to roll my suitcase across 3rd ave while I'm are carrying a laptop, purse and my coat.

not having my cat sleeping at my feet.

showering in someone else's shower- trying to figure out how to turn the water on, how much hot is needed and how much cold, trying to find the spot on the tub edge for my shampoo, trying to figure out how to turn the water off.

not having the intuitive experience of the best way to walk to the subway, which stairs at the exit are the most efficient, which subway stop is the closest.

not having a badge for the office building and having to have a black and white digital photo taken of me that looks like I just smelled a fart.

carrying my laptop all over Manhattan.


why I love traveling:

seeing my friends

being in new york again

seeing my friends

seeing my friends.

Nil aon tintean mar do thintean fein: there's no fireside like your own fireside

i'm baack.

it's good to be home.

irish blogging to come...

i will soon post:

the dogs of Ballyvaughn

collaborating ... otherwise known as ... the making of tron 4

realworld- county clare :when writers stop being nice and start being real

all the things i love about ireland

all the passive aggressive ways the irish tell you to Feck off

aran islands...falling in love with ireland again

the cows of county clare, the cows of innis mor and innis main

synge'ing on a soft day...



...or something of the like... the burren is wild country ...and for this city girl it's been an adventure not having things like the internet, a tv, a working ipod, or even a hot shower.

still and all ... i love the craic in ireland.

where's she been?

and here: in Ballyvaughan

What she be saying?

Where have I been?

the burren college of art ....

(not my pics btw ...)




















i am having issues with the internet connection in county clare ...and with blogger ...so bare with me... will post more later

11:20 PM on a Thursday night in Dublin

Yes, that's 11:20pm. Still some light in the sky... this was taken at the top of my street

A few things to note

I've met only one Patrick.

Seen only a couple redheads.

Gaelic is not "Irish". There is a separate Irish language; it's one of THE most ancient languages.

The Irish call soccer soccer, rugby rugby and football, well they have their own sport that they call football.

Policemen/cops are referred to as guards.

Your home is your "gaff"

If you are drunk, you are "locked" (let's just say that the Dubliners, the ones from my office in particular, have gotten me quite locked)

After a night of being "locked" you will be knackered the next day (tired).

The guide books were not kidding about the buying of "rounds", get in there early as soon as possible to do your duty.

Apparently I’m a “bird.”

Neighbors know neighbors, even in Dublin.

Again, can’t say it enough, Dubliners are lovely.

* I promise PROMISE that I will start posting photographs...next post.

Craic

Definitions of craic on the Web:

• (CRACK) conversation, chat
  www.erinhart.com/glossary.htm
• Craic, is a pseudo-Gaelic spelling of the English slang term crack, meaning good fun. Most commonly this word is associated with Ireland and its slang.
  en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Craic

a Craic'ing good time ...otherwise known as my first irish week

Ireland so far …

My challenges have been:

• dialing the phone. (sometimes you add an 01, sometimes a 0 in front of a number)
• placement of the shift key on the keyboard

• I keep saying dollars instead of euros
• Standing on the correct side of the street when attempting to hail a cab
• Crossing the street (knowing which way to look to check for oncoming traffic)
• Pronouncing things in a way that the Irish understand me (for instance my apartment is on a street called Fitzwilliam Quay - I keep wanting to pronounce it Kwaay…the Irish pronounce it Key)

What I've done ….

When I arrived on Wednesday …It was beautiful weather outside, sunny and in the 70's. But when I got to my apartment, I fell asleep. My plan was to get the lay of the land in my neighborhood, work out the walk to the office, and do a minimum amount of grocery shopping. Instead, I got to the apartment, and then feel asleep. So of course, didn't sleep much(if any) on Wednesday night. I did, through a serious of flipping through the local phone book and all my guide books realize that my apartment is "off the map" at least in terms of tourist maps. But I managed to figure out where I was off the map and found in the phone book a Chinese restaurant around the corner from my apartment and I ordered dinner.

Thursday, I went to the office, as I suspected there were both expecting me and not prepared for me. Everyone was charming in the office, and when explaining that I would be here for a few weeks and then taking a course out west, the frequent response was "brilliant." The Irish have proven to be quite lovely so far. An SAIC friend (cc) was in town for the night. We had a tasty Italian meal in a charming restaurant off of Merrion Square and then went to a pub, which is apparently frequented by more Dubliners than tourists (according to the cab driver- Dubliners go there for "a wee bit of drink and a wee bit of music"). We anticipated lively Irish jig type of music, instead it was rather melancholy and slow. On my ride home that evening, my cab driver shared with me his love life whoas and gave me instructions on what areas I shouldn't walk though at night…he also pointd out that his "mad exgirlfriend" kept calling his mobile on the cab ride, in a 7 minute ride, she called 10 times. I gave him love advice, and a big tip as he dropped me off. And when I came home, I actually did sleep a bit, but not as much as I needed.

Friday, went to the office. Struggled again with the shift key, and dialing out … but getting the hang of it. Then came home, took a nap, discovered a web site that you can order delivery from (yeah the internet) …ordered Indian food, watched Irish TV (which from what I can tell is a lot of BBC shows, dramas of various sorts (as in the soap opera family), American shows (a season late), and there is even a channel that from time to time has shows that are all Gaelic, and more than once it's taken me several minutes to realize that it isn't just the heavy Irish brogue that I can't understand, it's another language) I then fell asleep for the night sometime around 1am, and slept til 12:45 the next afternoon.

Saturday, hadn't expected to sleep away the morning, and I woke up to the type of weather I had been expecting, wet and grey. I walked around and found a spot to buy some coffee and yogurt and dish detergent and all that stuff. And then I ventured out into the city. I read, in more than one guidebook, about a literary pub crawl, and according to the website, it was a good activity for women traveling alone. So I took a deep breath, walked into the pub that was the starting point, and solo, bought a ticket and joined the pub crawl.

It was fun. The crawlers were a mix of americans, candadians, dubliners, aussies, even a norweigan (who used to live in new zealand) the Norwegian (or Viking as our guide referred to her) was a charming woman in her fifties, recently divorced, traveling ireland on her own because she has always wanted to visit ireland and had no friends who were interested in coming. She and I pal'd around on the crawl, and at the end of the crawl ended up in a pub with the dubliners from the crawl who kept buying us round after round of guinness and not letting us return the favor and buy them drinks. They were lovely and entertaining and we were in the pub past last call when finally we declared a cease fire …it was time to head home.

Sunday, I wasn't as hungover as I worried I would be, although I was a tad rough…. and CC was back in the city for the day/night. We ventured out for lunch, of course not before I took us in the wrong direction (and forget to bring the map with me) as we walked the Ballsbridge nieghborhood. After lunch I took her to one of the pubs we hit on the crawl, one that Osar Wilde and Samuel Beckett frequented while students at Trinity. Watching the World Cup, outside the US, is an experience. Everywhere people were draped with either french or italian flags. I'm not one for watching "football" but even I got caught up in the exitement of the game. We had sort of arbitrarily decided to route for France. Which seemed like a good idea, up until the end …and in particular up till the controversial head butt, and were genuinely disapponted when they lost. Although we both agreed the Italians had more hotties on their team.

CC left me this monday morning to fly back to the states …and here I am … back at the office, mastering the shift key, and struggling to make calls outside the office….

leaving on jet plane

It's finally here...the day I leave for Ireland.
My new passport didn't arrive until Monday.
I didn't pack until this afternoon.
But ... here I am at Ohare, waiting patiently for my bargained priced back of the plane window seat.

Little Black Curly Hair

Sometimes I think of something that I want to write about and I make a note in a journal.
I imagine it's kind of like m.lady's post its and notes that she has stuffed in pockets.
Some are phrases that came to me or just a word to remind me of something or possible titles to stories.

Here's some notes I've written recently:

Life on an Ant Farm

Touch

The night I was rejected

Journey songs at Happy Hour

He waves like he is gesturing "Come here"

Breaking up and ex-friends

Midgets on the train.

And my most recent jotted down phrase…. Little black curly hair.

I laughed when I read that. I was on the el and looked like a lunatic. But of course it reminded me of what I was going to write about.

Last Thursday night I spent five hours sitting on the runway at LaGuardia. That does not include taxing time or flight time, that's the time that the plane pulled over and waited…and waited…and waited. There were storms in Ohio and Pennsylvania so all traffic headed west was blocked.

When I first sat in my tightly compact window seat, I noticed, lovingly resting just under the window, a little black curly hair. I recoiled in horror. But there is no room to recoil in a couch-budget-airline sit with a larger than average business man sitting next you.

I'm a fidgeter. In my defense, it's not because I can't just sit still. It's because I have arthritic joints (I've always had them - since I was a toddler). So when I am sitting in an airplane seat, I cross my right leg over my left, then ten minutes later, my left over my right, I try sitting crosslegged, I try sitting with my legs not crossed, I shift and move every five to ten minutes.

I read a great book and for a short time was engrossed in it and almost oblivious to the sitting still in an airless can for hours. Then, being attention span challenged, I lost interest in the great book. And my hips had locked into an arthritically painful position. I closed my book and tried to strectch out my legs straight and raise myself off the seat. Then dropped quickly once I remembered the little black curly hair. The larger than average sized business man next me turned his head slightly, trying discreetly to look at me as he wondered what the hell kind of spasm I was having.

I was relieved, and repulsed to see that the little black curly hair was still in tact, waiting patiently in it's spot just below the window.

I flipped through a magazine.

I called my stepmom, whispering in to my cell phone, trying as hard as possible to have the semblance of a private conversation. While on the phone, I curled towards the window, watching other planes roll down the runway, while we continued to stand still.

When I got off the phone, I checked again, it was still there, the little black curly hair.

The two men in my row stood up and went to the bathroom. I decided it was probably best that I go then as well. Plus my stomach was crying out since I hadn't eaten since lunch time. The bathrooms exhibited the strain of being used frequently over the several hours we sat on the runway. I asked the flight attendant if there was ANY food to eat. Between bites of her peanuts she said No. I eyed her, and then the bag of peanuts and said, There's NOTHING to eat? With her mouthful she said Nothing.

I crawled back into my window seat. There it was, the little black curly hair, hanging on for dear life just below the window.

Finally, finally the plane took off.

I was able to get back into my book. I distractedly read for the rest of the flight. Until right before we landed. I turned off the readers light, plugged into my Ipod and listened to Wilco while we landed. The lights came up, the people sprang off their feet only to stand still, cramped into place until finally we could deplane. As I pulled my bag out from under the seat, I looked again, and there it still was. The little black curly hair. It silently bid me farewell.

I was finally home.

The best kind of conference calls...

I'm in New York this week ... working from my old stomping grounds in our new york office. I just had the best conference call..the kind when you call in and your co-worker/friend in California is on the call, and your manager who is sits right next to you is on the call and you spend ten minutes goofing off and gossiping waiting for everyone else that needs to be on the call ... only to be stood up.

It's like going to class and seeing a note that class has been cancelled.