133

That’s how many points I managed to accumulate in fantasy baseball yesterday. My first über-100 point day since the season began. I am inching ever closer to certain victory. (Never mind the fact that baseball season stretches into June. And July. And August. And September. And part of October. I’m still going to call it “certain” victory…) Actually, I’m only in third place right now. But at one point during this past week, I was in sixth place, and I have to say I found it completely unacceptable. It just wasn’t my cup of tea. I didn’t enjoy it. The predictions amongst my fellow fantasy players apparently have me finishing between fifth and tenth place. Which means, of course, that I am obligated to finish between first and fourth. So much pressure to prove the cynics wrong…

Not much to talk about today... my dad came over yesterday to make copies of my Mediterranean cruise pictures so my mom can start making a scrapbook. And as long as he was making copies of mine, he copied all his pictures for me, too. So here are a bunch more random pictures to peruse:

Eric and Eric playing checkers in the ship's coffee shop. I'm not sure who won, but I'm guessing it was Eric...

Ah... silly Dutch hat night. I'll bet Dutch people don't even wear these things, do they? They just make us wear them so all the waiters can laugh at us...

Eric and Eric walking through an alley in Monaco...

The Attack of Lisa's Umbrella-Mutilated Finger!

Picture of Prince Albert in a store in Monaco. And no, he was NOT in a can. (You know, I had no idea what "Prince Albert in a can" meant until I Googled it... apparently it was pipe tobacco. And here I was thinking maybe it was some kind of weird lunch meat or something. Like Spam...)

Me and Rick... I look sort of crazy in this picture for some reason...

Stoic statue with a disrespectful seagull perched on top...

Proof that my brother is in cahoots with those scary demon bunnies from the Dallas World Aquarium...

...but I love him anyway (the exorcist has been contacted...)

Rick and me walking through St. Peter's Square...

Where's the miracle?

Rick and I were talking about movies last night – mainly about how the first three Star Wars movies were better than the last three. And by “first three” I’m of course referring to the three that were supposedly last in chronological order. Which would mean the last three were the first three, but not the first three that were the last three. I don’t think I know what I’m talking about anymore… Our conversation got me thinking about old movies. And by “old” I’m of course referring to any movie made before, um, let’s say 2000. (I think that should prevent anyone from being offended by the “old” label. Basically, I think you’re ALL old… there. No offense, right?) :)

I started to think about how Eric and I used to rent movies every weekend when we were teenagers. James Bond movies were our favorite. We rented every single one – even “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service” with the very un-James Bond-like George Lazenby. Most of them we rented two or three times, until we knew the basics of every film: the Bond Girl… the likeable, hapless victim… the maniacally evil villain… and the completely improbable (and often downright impossible) blockbuster ending.

And then one weekend, we heard about a movie called “Miracle Mile” – I think it may have been recommended by someone in Eric’s class at school. So we rented it, and settled on the couch to watch. The movie featured Anthony Edwards (back when he had hair) as an average Joe kind of guy who picks up a ringing payphone one evening and hears a panicky voice talking about nuclear missiles. Whoever was on the other end of the line had just launched weapons heading toward the Soviet Union (yes –Anthony Edwards had hair, AND the Soviet Union was still in existence) and had meant to call someone else. So apparently the man was trusted with the codes to put a plan for world annihilation into play, but he was unable to dial a phone number correctly.

Anyway, in a nutshell, the rest of the story revolved around the small group of people who were privy to the fact that war was imminent, and their attempts to find a way to fly to Antarctica (as they assumed it would be the only part of the earth not contaminated with radiation). And to be honest, Eric and I were on the edge of our seats – literally. When we started the movie, we were lounging on the couch… after a few scenes, we were sitting up straight on the edge of the couch… by mid-movie, we’d moved to the coffee table… and by the time the film was drawing to a close, we’d abandoned furniture altogether and sat on the floor with our eyes perilously near to the “you’ll go blind if you sit there” position. In fact, the entire movie had had us completely interested and in suspense, waiting for the moment when our pre-ER hero would discover a way out of town, and start his new (albeit cold) life in Antarctica.

But then the helicopter he was riding in (with his girlfriend by his side) crashed in the middle of Los Angeles, and his hope for escape was cut off. But wait – the improbable James Bond-type ending was still on its way, right? Or perhaps the whole thing was simply a dream? Yes! That must be it! Eric and I waited for the “Surprise! Time to wake up!” scene, as Anthony Edwards spouted some sort of ridiculous dialogue about Superman, and how the heat of a nuclear blast could turn coal into diamond. As he and his girlfriend huddled in the back of the disabled helicopter, a white flash filled the screen. And then – the credits started to roll.

WHAT?? THAT’S THE WAY IT ENDS???

After watching the movie, Eric and I both agreed that Miracle Mile was one of the best suspense movies we’d seen, up until the final second. I’ve never seen a film that was completely ruined by ONE second, but that final moment left me feeling as if absolutely nothing was resolved. And if that was the case, then what was the point of the film in the first place? I mean, the word “miracle” is in the title, for goodness’ sake – was it too much to expect that SOMEONE would survive? Why didn’t they just call it “Everybody Dies” or “Futile Efforts” or “Nothing Happy Will Occur Within the Next Two Hours”? At least then we would’ve gone into it with a bit of preparation. Not that I think every movie I watch has to have a happy ending – but there’s a difference between “the end” and “THE end.”

After that, I think we pretty much stuck to James Bond movies. Yes, they can be a bit absurd, but at least you know that if James Bond is stuck in Los Angeles when nuclear warheads are on the way, he’ll be able to fly to Antarctica using his specially-designed suit jacket and ballpoint pen. And as long as he brings a few of those Bond Girls along, there should be no problem with repopulating the earth…

Txt me l8r

I love to send people text messages. I’m a bit of a text messaging junkie, which is why I now have unlimited text messaging with my cell phone. Apparently I was going over my limit every month, as was evidenced by the loud sighs of exasperation coming from Rick’s study when the cell phone bill arrived. Oops. But for someone who doesn’t talk much, all these new ways of communicating are like really fun amusement park rides. (So wait – with this email thing, I can talk all I want without ever actually having to talk? I gotta get in line for that!) Once you’ve ridden the roller coaster, you run right back to the end of the line so you can ride it again. It’s just so much fun…

But text messaging does present a problem – most phones seem to allow a maximum of 160 characters per message, including spaces. Which doesn’t give you much room to convey your thoughts. You couldn’t have a truly heated text message argument, for instance. Because by the time you got around to writing out “you are SUCH a--” you’d be at the end of your character limit. And would you really want to waste one of your messages to complete the thought? I guess that’s where unlimited messaging comes in handy…

The other problem with text messages is the struggle to convey proper tone within such a tiny, confined space. If you’re simply writing “how are you?” or “let’s meet for lunch” the intentions are pretty clear. But what about happiness, or sadness, or sarcasm, or annoyance, or confusion, or any of the other myriad of emotions or moods or inflections someone might want to make understood in a message? With only 160 characters, it’s not always easy to be clear. (And yes, Faisal, if you’re reading this – this entire post was inspired by our strange text message conversation about Chacon yesterday. :))

Text messages have also given way to one of my biggest pet peeves – the use of “text message speak” in everyday writing. I can completely understand typing “how r u?” in a text message, since not only can finding the proper key for the proper letter be a bit of a chore at times, but also, again – only 160 characters. So you leave out the “yo” in “you.” You spell “love” and “know” and “eye” phonetically. You use numbers in place of letters, like “2sday” and “gr8.” And when it’s a text message, I get it. No problem. Do whatever you have to do to stay within that cramped little phone prison. But I absolutely HATE (or should I say h8?) to see someone write that way in a regular email – “How r u 2day? Gr8!!” Does it honestly take up too much precious time to type out y-o-u? A-r-e? It’s a little disconcerting to see this trend. Will we one day end up with a country full of people who have no idea how to form a complete sentence? And will any of them know how to find India on a map? (Can u see it? Nope. Can u? Nope. U r so stoopid. No, U r.)

Perhaps the proliferation of email and cell phones is contributing to a sort of “dumbing down” effect on our population. I’d say we should just get rid of them all, but we can’t very well go around destroying all the rides at Six Flags now, can we? What fun would that be? Anyway, I suppose that’s enough rambling for today…

C u ppl l8r.

Eyes, interrupted...

I visited my eye doctor last week, because both of my eyeballs were behaving like spoiled brats who were absolutely refusing the lovely contact lens gifts I was presenting to them. I mean, when your cornea is misshapen (through no fault of its own) and can’t focus images onto its neighbor, Mr. Retina, properly, you would THINK a contact lens would be happily accepted. All I expect is a simple, “why, thank you, Lisa – I was unable to correct this vision on my own, but your gracious inclusion of a contact lens has made my job so much easier.” Is that too much to ask of an eyeball?

Instead, every time I attempted to wear my contacts, it would feel like little bitty eyelashes were trapped under the lenses. So I’d take them out, rinse them off, put them back in – same result. Eventually I gave up and resigned myself to wearing my nerdy librarian glasses – which everyone else seems to really like, but personally, I prefer the contacts. And since I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to actually wear the annoying little things again, I made an appointment with my eye doctor to ask about LASIK surgery.

Rick and my dad have both had LASIK, and they’ve both had really good results. But I tend to be rather cautious when it comes to the idea of allowing lasers near my eyes. Lasers. Like Luke-Skywalker-Star-Wars lasers… Don’t look directly at the sun! But you can look at that laser if you like…

After chatting with the doctor about LASIK, he led me to a room with a TV and asked me to watch a DVD detailing the procedure. Which didn’t seem too strange – until the narrator of the DVD introduced himself as So-and-So who plays Somebody on General Hospital. Wait a second – they couldn’t find a REAL doctor to narrate? They had to take the “I’m not a doctor but I play one on TV” route? Is that kind of thing supposed to appeal more to the masses? As if we would lose all interest in the ramblings of an actual doctor… but oh, if that dreamy guy from General Hospital tells me to laser my eyes, I am SO there!

Slightly less disturbing was the description of the actual procedure. The laser cuts away a flap of cornea, which is peeled away like the skin of a grape. The underlying tissue is then burned away until the proper shape has been formed, at which point the grape-skin corneal flap is replaced. It’s smoothed into place like wallpaper, and voila! 20/20 vision. That’s the hope, at least – Dr. General Hospital was legally-bound to explain that there are no guarantees, and side-effects can include double-vision, light halos, and silly little things like blindness.

At my appointment, I found out that my eye irritation had been caused by too much Benadryl – I’d been taking one a day for several weeks, and apparently the antihistamine had dried out my eyes to the point that my contacts felt like tiny little blocks of cement. As soon as I stopped taking the Benadryl, my eyes felt progressively better until my contacts worked just fine again. So with my frustration over my contact lenses abated, I’m back to feeling more wishy-washy about the LASIK surgery.

Maybe I’d be more certain if Derek Jeter had narrated that informational DVD…




I always feel like I have huge eyes in pictures... hmmm... should I get my big, giant eyes lasered?

Dave dared me...

So here are the pictures from Scooter's Viking funeral. Personally, I wouldn't have known what a Viking funeral was like, but as I've mentioned before, I have my suspicions that Eric IS a Viking. So he would know, I guess. Apparently they built the poor, deceased mouse a little boat, set it on fire, and then floated it down the river. At some point, Dave accidentally fell through reeds and ended up with soaking wet jeans, which annoyed him so much he decided to SHOOT the already dead and cremated Scooter. Seems like overkill to me...

And here are a couple pictures of Mr. Bill Bridge, which is officially a Montana landmark now. All that's left to build is a little booth for a guy to sit in while he collects tolls...

Extremely important questions (just kidding)

One of the popular things to do with these blogs seems to be to fill out little random question queries. Presumably so people can learn even more strange things about you than you’ve already revealed within your blog. So here’s one such list of pointless, rambling questions. Hopefully by the end, everyone will understand me just a little bit more…

1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18 and write down line 4.

“You return empty-handed, tailor! How could this be?” From the book I’m reading now – Tokyo Cancelled, by Rana Dasgupta

2.Stretch your left arm out as far as you can.

Uh, is this supposed to be some kind of pre-quiz workout? And stretch two three four… now the right arm! Okay, I think I’m ready for the rest of this…

3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?

Watched the end of the English Patient on Cinemax last night… I don’t know why… that’s one of the most depressing movies ever.

4.Without looking, guess what time it is?

10:45

5. Now look at the clock, what is the actual time?

10:49… Ooooo… so close.

6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?

Actually, I can’t hear the computer because I’m listening to my iPod… I’m on Gavin DeGraw’s “Chariot” right now…

7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?

Went to Seattle’s Best for my usual morning caramel latte…

8. Before you started this survey, what did you look at?

Um, I dunno… checked my email… checked my baseball lineup… looked at the menu in Seattle’s Best even though I practically know it from memory (and I get the same thing every day anyway, so why would I look at it?).

9. What are you wearing?

I’m not sure I know you that well, Mysterious Asker of Questions…

10. Did you dream last night?

I dream pretty much every night, and I can usually remember at least a couple of the dreams I dreamt… but nine times out of ten, they make absolutely no sense…

11. When did you last laugh?

Um, haven’t really been keeping track… yesterday some time, I suppose. Perhaps after visiting Austin’s annual Showcase of Homes and heading back to the parking lot with four dozen other home viewers on a shuttle bus designed for three dozen people. So the dozen of us who were unlucky enough to make it to the bus after if was full were told (by a driver who no doubt will be losing his license soon…) that we should simply stand in the aisle. Which made for an “interesting” ride back to the parking lot. The floor underneath my feet kept squeaking ominously, as if it were planning on falling away and introducing me to the asphalt. I’m just glad we didn’t have to travel on any steep gravel roads, because who’s to say whether that overloaded bus would’ve stayed on the road and avoided tumbling over the side?? And while it wasn’t necessarily all that funny at the time, as soon as we were safely back at the parking lot it was HILARIOUS…

12. What is on the walls of the room you are in?

Well, I’m looking into the kitchen, so mostly cupboards…

13. Seen anything weird lately?

I saw Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible III – does that count?

14. What do you think of this quiz?

Eh… I’ve seen better…

15. What is the last film you saw?

Uh, that would be Mission Impossible III. Duh.

16. If you became a multimillionaire overnight, what would you buy?

Plane tickets to everywhere… hotel rooms everywhere… and maybe a snowglobe from everywhere… so I could have a big set of shelves in my house full of snowglobes from everywhere, and people would come in and be like, “where’d you get THIS one?” And I could say, “oh, that’s from Uzbekistan.” And perhaps next to the shelves, I’d have a giant map – the kind of map you could cover with pushpins to signify the places you’d been. So my map would be covered with multicolored pushpins, because I will have been everywhere. As would be evidenced by my snowglobes, of course…

17. Tell me something about you that I don’t know.

Um, I like to dip French fries in mayonnaise… most people seem to think that’s gross…

18. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?

That’s a difficult question… I guess I’d love it if everyone could understand that people are people, no matter what they look like or what they believe. And each person, individually, is unique – so assumptions can not be made based on the superficial. The superficial things mean nothing – what matters is what KIND of person you are. The world spends way too much time and energy dividing itself over ridiculous things…

19. Do you like to dance?

Only if no one is watching. But Rick swears he has hidden cameras all over the house, recording my Shakira-like dance moves for everyone on the internet to see. I believe the address is www.dancelisadance.com

20. George Bush.

Um, what’s the question here, exactly? And are we talking Sr. or W? Are we talking about the one who CAN pronounce “nuclear” or the one who can’t? And can someone tell me why, exactly, no one in George W’s entourage has ever just gone up to him and said, “Mr. President, with all due respect, it’s pronounced NU-CLE-AR??”

21. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?

Hey You…

22. Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him?

C’mere… It would just save all kinds of time when I wanted them to come into the house if they were outside – “Hey You! C’mere!!”

23. Would you ever consider living abroad?

Absolutely.

24.What do you want GOD to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?

“Okay, lemme explain all of THAT to you…”


Now isn’t everyone glad I answered all those questions? Everything makes so much more sense now, right? No? You don’t think so? Nah, me either… :)

Happy Mom's Day!

My mom likes to tell the story of how, when I was seven years old, I decided it was time to get my ears pierced. I was, after all, a mature second-grader, having left the frivolous finger paintings and nap times of kindergarten behind me long ago (two years IS an eternity to a seven-year-old). So one night after dinner, overcome with a sudden surge of confidence, I announced that we should go to the mall and get our ears pierced. WE should go to the mall and get OUR ears pierced. Not just me – I expected my mom to willingly join in. And what’s more, once we did get to the ear-piercing kiosk in the middle of the mall, I made my mom go first. Apparently I wanted to observe the possible side-effects of introducing small, golden, foreign objects into the earlobe before I underwent the procedure myself. If my mom survived, then there should be a good chance that I would survive, as well. And of course my mom did go first – and although I can’t remember, I’m sure she must’ve said reassuring things to me when it was my turn. Because she’s a mom, and that’s what moms do.

These days, my mom is still one of the most compassionate, generous people I know. She’s always willing to help out with anything she can… She happily makes coffee runs and brings me a caramel latte even on days I’m too sleepy to leave the house in the morning… She always seems to discover extra stamps for me after she’s made a trip to the post office… She’s the best amateur travel agent in the world, and plenty of friends and family members can attest to the vacations and cruises she’s planned with the precision of a Swiss watch… She almost always has chocolate in her house (almost…) and makes better pies than anyone I know… I know I could call my mom, day or night, and she’d always be there if I needed anything. And I’m sure I don’t thank her enough for everything she does. So mom, thanks for all the coffee, stamps, cruises, pies, bird-watching tips, motherly advice, encouragement, compliments and support. I love you!

By the way, I’m thinking of getting my bellybutton pierced – will you come with me? But you’ll have to go first…






Mom and me in Hawaii, before she got her cool new haircut... :)

Chacon, we hardly knew ye...

Joe Torre only kept Chacon in the game for four and a half innings last night. Which meant that even if the Yankees DID manage to come out on top, I wouldn’t be getting any kind of decent fantasy points for it because Chacon wouldn’t be credited with a win. And up until that point, I was holding onto hope for a victory… I was still preserving my faith in Chacon and the Yankees. But perhaps Matsui’s broken wrist was an indication of how things were destined to turn out. Once Chacon was pulled from the game, the Yankees apparently set up a revolving door in the bullpen, so the six pitchers who followed could drift from warm up/pitcher’s mound/dugout with barely a commercial break in between. And I STILL believe the Yankees would’ve won if Chacon had been allowed to pitch just a little longer. Yes, his pitch count was climbing fast, but the Yankees were ahead and they had the momentum that comes with settling into a routine. Pulling Chacon broke the routine, and it was all downhill from there…

Fortunately for me, Jeter was one of the Yankees actually playing to win last night. I ended up with 11 points from Jeter alone – more than any of my other players managed to eke out. But it could’ve been worse – two of the guys in the league finished with -2 points last night. So it’s always nice to see that smidgen of validation that assures me I’m not a total loser.

And on a completely different subject (unless I can manage to tie it back in to the first two paragraphs) here’s another picture from Montana:


This is Eric and Dave at a place called Odie’s Big Sky Café. Odie’s is famous for its overabundance of fried food, its “can’t be bothered to update” décor, and it’s scary, mustached man-waitress. Okay, maybe it’s not actually “famous” per se… Odie’s also has great pie, as evidenced by this picture. Eric and Dave were not eating lunch. Or dinner. Or a midnight snack. This was breakfast – coconut cream pie and orange juice. And I’m told the pie was followed by blueberry pancakes and bacon. Pie, pancakes and bacon? Ugh… gotta go buy some Pepto Bismol…

I’ve also been told that Scooter the Mouse has met an unfortunate demise, and, thankfully, no pictures are available. I can only imagine that Eric saw the little thing scurrying across the cabin floor, pulled his gun, and ordered it to stay where it was. And when Scooter, in a display of mousey defiance, continued to scurry, the bullets must’ve started to fly. Honestly Eric – it was a MOUSE, and you’re in a cabin in the middle of Montana. Couldn’t someone have lured it outside with a cube of cheese so it could continue to run free with all the other living creatures that make those unnerving noises in the dead of night? Poor, poor Scooter…

“Scooter,” by the way, is ex-Yankee shortstop Phil Rizzuto’s nickname. And what do you know? I really DID manage to tie everything together…

Random picture

Eric and dad are in Montana right now -- just got this picture of them. Dad called me earlier and told me about a rogue mouse (who Eric has apparently named Scooter) who's been wandering around the cabin the last couple days. Last night when dad was falling asleep, he thought the cat had joined him on the bed and was preparing to curl up by his leg... until he remembered there ARE no cats in the cabin. Eek. So hey, dad and Eric -- if you guys are able to get online and happen to read my blog, send me a picture of Scooter when you manage to catch him... IF you manage to catch him...

Have a little faith...

Last time I wrote a post about Lost, my mom read it and said, “I had no idea what you were talking about.” And that’s why everyone should watch Lost – because if you don’t, you’ll be lost when I talk about Lost. And if you do watch it, you’ll probably STILL be lost, but at least you’ll understand my Lost posts. Maybe.

So I was impressed with the strong “don’t drink and drive” message the Lost writers doled out yesterday, when both Ana Lucia AND Libby were quickly dispatched from Anti-Fantasy Island. They were portrayed, of course, by the two actresses charged with DUI a few months ago. I think the message was clear – you do something stupid when you’re working on this show, and your character is toast. No one is safe. Everyone is expendable. We’re making this all up as we go along, so don’t think you have job security…

As much as I couldn’t stand Ana Lucia, I actually like Mr. Eko – I’m not even sure why, since the guy borders on crazy at times. The weird thing is, Eko seems to have picked up on the spirituality that Locke has apparently misplaced. Last season, Locke was the one talking about “faith” and saying cryptic things that made it sound like he believed the island was some sort of living, breathing entity. But this season, Eko is the one holding onto faith, building a church, walking around with his Jesus Stick. (Ha! You people who don’t watch the show are just DYING to know what a Jesus Stick is, aren’t you??) Anyway, next week’s previews look intriguing…

On a completely different subject – I was faced with a horrible fantasy baseball conundrum this morning. Shawn Chacon of the New York Yankees is pitching against Tim Wakefield of the Boston Red Sox tonight, and BOTH of these pitchers are on my team. I had to decide whether to pitch one of them, or both of them, or simply bench them. SOMEbody has to win, right? I could not, in good conscience, pitch Wakefield. I did that a couple weeks ago when the Yankees were in Boston, and felt like some sort of horrible Yankee traitor. Not to mention that since then, my team hasn’t exactly been piling on the points. I am certain that this is some sort of karmic punishment for my betrayal of the Bronx Bombers. In fact, now that I think about it, this subject isn’t so far off from what I was talking about with Lost – sometimes you just have to have faith that the creepy island you happen to be inhabiting is capable of speaking to you. And if that’s the case, then my creepy island is telling me to pitch Chacon. Or maybe Faisal told me that. I can’t remember…

So while I’m watching the Yankee game tonight, I’ll be holding on to the belief that Chacon can pitch a no-hitter. And if I’m deemed worthy, perhaps some mysterious force will guide me to the secret hatch that leads to the Yankee locker room…


C'mon Jeter... quit slacking in the dugout and get me some runs...

I'm feeling blue... or maybe purple...

Tonight is Lost night! Who’s excited? Anyone? Anyone? Just me, then? Okay. Moving on…

So when I was at the Dallas World Aquarium, I went into the gift shop and bought a stuffed jaguar and a mood ring. Yes, a mood ring. I was buying the jaguar anyway, and they had the rings up by the register, and they were only three bucks, and I thought, hey – how better to measure my emotional ups and downs than with a cheap metal circle of color-morphing wisdom? Now, setting aside the obvious question (why were they selling mood rings in an aquarium??) I have spent the last few days inquisitively pondering the various shades of my mood-minding novelty and wondering if – as the color guide that came along with the ring says – my three-dollar trinket can actually “reveal my inner emotions.”

Right now, for instance, I appear to be hovering somewhere between purple and green. And since there is no “purplish-green” color on my little guide, I have to assume I’m feeling a combination of purple, which is “cool” (is “cool” considered a mood? Can I be in a “cool” mood?) and green, which is “mixed emotions.” Okay, but hold on – wouldn’t a combination of two moods be considered “mixed emotions”? In which case, shouldn’t my ring be all green, with no purple?

Some of the colors are listed twice – yellow can be “nervous” or it can be “lovable.” Nervous or lovable, lovable or nervous. Kind of a bizarre choice to have to make. Dark purple can be “calm” or “very happy,” which seems less of an emotional leap. And green, along with “mixed emotions” can be “romance.” Wait a second – romance? That’s not even a “mood.” You could be in a “romantic” mood, maybe. But if someone asked you what kind of mood you were in, and you answered “romance,” you’d just sound like you were throwing out random words:

“So what kind of mood are you in today?”

“Romance!”

“Um, let’s try this again – what kind of mood are you in today?”

“Apple!”

“I’m sorry, WHAT kind of mood are you in?”

Lampshade!”

I’ve noticed that most of the time, my ring seems to settle into a uniform blue color, which I suppose would make sense, as the guide tells me that blue is “normal.” But what is “normal,” exactly? I could never pretend to be “normal” by most standards of society – not with my aversion to seeds and my fear of pool drains and my blog full of nonsense – so is my blue ring everyone ELSE’S normal? Or is it simply MY normal? And how would the ring know, anyway? What knowledge is hiding within the confines of this slender circle of dancing shades? Can it speak of inner conflicts I’m barely aware of? Can it caution me against venturing into dark, scary alleyways? Can it remind me that there is nothing to fear except fear itself?

Nah, probably not. After all, it was only three bucks…







Happy? Crazy? Normal? It's anybody's guess... but I'm going with crazy... if only I had my ring so I knew for sure...

Love those Yankee away uniforms...

Right, Nick? Yankee away uniforms rule! :) I wanted to get some pictures up last night, as long as I was looking through them all on my computer anyway. And now that I've done that, I can write a recap of my weekend (because, in keeping with the baseball theme, I’m sure everyone would like a play-by-play of how I spent my time). Remember when you were a kid, and your teacher would make you write an essay entitled “How I Spent My Summer Vacation”? And everybody in the class would always groan and roll their eyes and dread having to write out two or three paragraphs about their trip to Disneyworld. Remember that? Yeah, now I write stuff like that for fun… and I kinda miss the grades… :)

Anyway, so here’s the most interesting observation about Ameriquest Field, where the Rangers play – it’s actually easier to get to, and park near, Yankee Stadium in the middle of the BRONX than to get to the Rangers’ stadium. But after wending our way through insane traffic and settling on valet parking (we’d already missed the first inning of the game, and the line for “general parking” seemed to stretch to infinity…) the stadium itself was very nice. I was a little worried that our Yankee shirts and caps would stand out in the crowd, but for no need – I’d say at least a third of the people in the stadium were Yankee fans, if not more. It might’ve been closer to half – the crowd noise seemed about even, no matter what was going on. If a Ranger got a hit, the crowd would cheer… if a Yankee scored, the crowd would cheer… if a section would start up a “let’s go Rangers” chant, it was met with an equal number of “let’s go Yankees” shouts, until the whole stadium was ringing with a resounding “let’s go Rankerees.”

The first eight innings went by pretty quickly, with the Yankees scoring 8 runs and the Rangers down by seven. Mussina was pitching a great game, but when he allowed ONE little run in the eighth inning, Torre decided to pull him out and replaced him with Aaron Small. And suddenly three more runs scored. Out goes Small, in comes Farnsworth, and in come two more runs. At this point, every Yankee fan in the stadium just wanted the carnage to stop. The Rangers fans were getting much too loud and obnoxious, and needed to be stopped (Yankee fans are NEVER loud and obnoxious…). There was an ancient-looking Rangers fan sitting in front of me, next to his equally-ancient-looking companion, and he managed to rasp out an emphatic “go home Yankees” in the middle of an enthusiastic Yankee chant. I curbed the urge to toss him down the stairs toward the dugout, knowing that nature would eventually take its course anyway. And finally, FINALLY, with Rivera pitching, the seemingly never-ending eighth inning DID come to an end, but the Yankees’ comfortable seven-run lead was whittled down to one. The ninth inning was tense, but the final out elicited a victorious – if not completely smug, arrogant and Yankee proud – cheer from the crowd. And for the millionth time in my life, I wondered – why would anyone want to be a fan of any other baseball team??

Rick and I, fortunately, stayed in Dallas for the weekend – but my mom and dad left in the seventh inning to get a head start on the traffic heading back to Austin (they missed the nail-biting eighth inning) and our friends Tim and Ed drove back after the game and hit some serious thunderstorms on I-35. We’d been worried all week about the possibility of storms raining out the game in Dallas, and strangely enough, Dallas never got more than a nice light show from the storms in the distance. It was the people driving back to Austin who had to deal with the storms. (You guys shoulda stayed in Dallas! :)) So all in all, the game was a great experience. We’re hoping to go back again in July, when the Yankees come back for another series against the Rangers. And hopefully, we can get seats directly above the Yankee dugout. Because I want to be able to just crawl over the top, poke my head in, and say hi to Jeter. I’m sure he won’t mind…

Game pictures

Some pictures from the Yankees/Rangers game Friday night:

Ameriquest Field (which used to simply be called The Ballpark at Arlington... a much cooler name, in my opinion...)

Starting pitcher Mike Mussina, who pitched a great game -- the score was 8-1 when Torre took him out, and as soon as he did, the Rangers promptly scored another six runs...

Jeter waiting to bat

Jeter performs his pre-swing ritual

Jeter (yeah, I like Jeter... I have about thirty more pictures of him, but I'll try to refrain from posting them all to the blog... :))

Giambi tagging Young

Matsui, Damon and Bubba Crosby hanging out in center field during a pitching change

Jeter flips to Cano for an out at second base (oops, another Jeter picture...)

Cano

One of three pitching changes during the game (what DO they all talk about when they're huddled up on the pitcher's mound?)

Rivera in to close the game (and hopefully save it...)

And after two really nervous final innings, the Yankees managed to win 8-7

Go Yankees!!

This is the time of year when a lovely, sunny, not-a-cloud-in-the-sky spring day comes to a close with a sudden crash of thunder, relentless driving rain and a pelting of hail. It’s as if God is saying, “did you like that nice spring day I gave you? Well, you could THANK ME once in a while! Take that! And that! And maybe a little bit of this, too! Betcha won’t forget to thank me tomorrow, will ya?” We had one of those surprise spring storms last night, which was mostly composed of hard rain and some bearable thunder and lightning. But at one point, the wind started to gust in a way that made me wonder if perhaps my roof was about to be blown off by a tornado. My roof, fortunately, was fine – but my patio furniture wasn’t as lucky. The wind decided that the shading umbrella (which was closed, by the way) was sufficient to use as a sail, and it was ripped from the glass-topped table. The table was blown over on top of the umbrella, which I guess turned out to be a good thing, since the glass never hit the concrete and is still intact. I’m not sure about the umbrella, though… it may be beyond repair…

The only reason I mention this is that today we’re heading up to Dallas to see a Yankees/Rangers game. I haven’t been to a Yankee game in, let’s see, almost five years. And I’ll be very disappointed if my first chance to watch Jeter and Giambi and Arod and Matsui in person in five years is interrupted by one of those freak end-of-the-day spring storms that seem to be popping up all over the state lately. I wonder if there might be a way that the stadium in Arlington is spared the thunder and lightning and hail and table-toppling winds. At least for tonight.

Well, storm or no storm – I’m going to a Yankee game, and hopefully I’ll get to see my team win in person. Eric – we need some extra voodoo tonight! Don’t forget! As for me, I going to go thank God for this lovely, sunny, not-a-cloud-in-the-sky spring day.

And did I mention – I’m going to a Yankee game! :)

Nothing interesting...

So last night on Lost, one of my dreams finally came true – somebody shot that super-annoying Ana Lucia girl. Of course, it turned out to be Michael and not Sayid, but hey, whatever gets the job done. The ending actually surprised me a little bit. For weeks now, Faisal has been saying, “Michael is an Other! Michael is an Other!” But I wasn’t sure I believed that, because, let’s face it, how often is Faisal right about anything? (And if Faisal happens to read this – just kidding! And if he doesn’t – I’m totally serious…) I guess it’s not so much that I didn’t think Michael could’ve been brainwashed by the Others, it’s just that I wasn’t expecting more cast members to depart the mortal plane of Anti-Fantasy Island already. And I find it interesting that the two apparently dead characters (but this IS Lost, so who knows if they’re actually dead?) are the two actresses who were busted for DUI a few months ago. Hmmm… think that’s a coincidence? I pretty much think they write Lost episode by episode anyway – meaning I’m really not sure even the WRITERS know what’s going on with that crazy creepy island…

And on a related topic, I was slightly disappointed when I went to get my morning coffee on Monday and saw that Guy at Seattle’s Best Who Looks Like Guy on Lost decided to chop off all his hair. How am I supposed to pretend I’m getting my coffee from an Iraqi-ex-republican-guard-soldier-stuck-on-a-crazy-creepy-Anti-Fantasy-Island-computer-expert-keeper-of-the-useless-radio-misses-Shannon-who-wasn’t-good-enough-for-him-anyway-but-he-still-should’ve-gotten-rid-of-Ana-Lucia-when-he-had-the-chance-instead-took-out-his-rage-on-disturbing-so-called-Henry-Gale-still-has-that-Nadia-girl-waiting-for-him-in-California NOW?? I mean, now I’m just getting my coffee from a guy with short hair and no interesting back story…

So you know when you’re writing in your blog, and you KNOW you had something you wanted to say, but you just can’t remember what it was? Don’t you hate it when that happens? I’m fairly certain I had more to say, but at the moment all my thoughts seem to be stuck on the Anti-Fantasy Island with the Losties. And I’m probably the only one who watches that show, anyway. So perhaps my next blog entry will be slightly more interesting. But no promises... :)

Does anyone know where I am?? I am so lost...

Stop pointing at Greenland...

I read an extremely disturbing article on CNN’s website this morning. It said that two-thirds of 18- to 24-year-old Americans can’t find Iraq on a map. Iraq. You know, the country that’s in the news every single day. The one with that war that’s been going on for the last few years. Iraaaaaaaq. Also, 88 percent can’t find Afghanistan, 63 percent can’t find Saudi Arabia, and 75 percent can’t find Iran or Israel.

What’s more, 47 percent couldn’t find India on a map. INDIA! Somebody tell me this is incorrect, please. India? For the love of extra-spicy chicken vindaloo, people – it’s a big freakin’ triangle above the Indian Ocean. (What? India is near the Indian Ocean?) How hard can it possibly be to find this place? Which countries were tripping these people up in their search for the Indian subcontinent? Did their eyes wander to Japan, where they’d point questioningly, hoping perhaps they’d guessed correctly? Or maybe Greenland – it sort of looks like a more northern, squashed, island version of India. (Yes, perhaps India has migrated toward the Arctic! Point at that one!) Or maybe Brazil – it does have that triangular shape we associate with India. Never mind the fact that it’s in South America…

Seventy-five percent of these people thought that English was the most widely-spoken native language in the world. And while the “good news” of this report was that most people COULD point out China on a map (will miracles never cease??) half of them were under the impression that China’s population was only twice as large as that of the U.S. (Which I suppose would explain why so few people could infer that CHINESE is the most widely-spoken native language in the world?) And, in another example of how these people stringently avoided the news before this survey was conducted, only a third knew that the earthquake that killed thousands of people back in October occurred in Pakistan. No word on whether any of these people could actually FIND Pakistan on a map. (Well, if you can find India… no, that’s Greenland again…)

Possibly even more upsetting is the fact that out of these 18- to 24-year-old AMERICANS – people who actually LIVE in this country – only 50 percent could find New York on a map. And a third had no idea where Louisiana was – another location with incessant news coverage lately, thanks to Hurricane Katrina. Have we just completely stopped even TRYING to teach geography in school? Or am I just some kind of crazy freak because I actually find maps and countries and culture and geographical locations interesting? Maybe we teach people these things, but they simply don’t care to remember.

Either way, I think I should go spend some quality time with my map…

Sure, I can wear the hat -- but can I play the game?

I had a terrifying dream last night. A nightmare, really. The kind of dream that jolts you awake with a sudden start, and makes you wonder – just for a split second – if it might have been real.

I dreamt that I came in second-to-last in my fantasy baseball league.

In reality, I’m in third place right now, a standing I am NOT happy with at all. I started the season in first place, and had a pretty good hold on it for a while. But the last couple weeks, I’ve been switching between second and third place with Nick, and some sneaky interloper has moved in and taken over first place. This can not last. I must put a stop to it, and the sooner, the better. The interloper has had a string of good luck lately, and it has to come to an end eventually. And when it does, I’ll be there to reclaim my rightful place at the top of the league.

This baseball league has reminded me of the quiet competitive streak that runs through me – a part of my nature that tends to either stay hidden, or manifest itself in obscure, ambiguous ways. Like the silent cheers I would give myself if I happened to be the best student in a class – and the daggers of failure I would telepathically send out to any student who might happen to exceed my progress. I remember a biology class where there were only two of us who actually seemed to understand the material – this other girl and I would cast glances at each other when it was announced that the grading curve was once again thrown out of whack based on the two lonely A’s in the class. I made it my year-long quest to out-grade this other girl – if she got a 93, I wanted a 94. If she got a 100, I had to get the extra credit right.

In school, this kind of competition has to remain hidden, lest you end up with some sort of label like “teacher’s pet” or “know-it-all” or something worse. And my secret competitive streak was confined merely to academic pursuits – when it came to sports, I was the kid who was always chosen last for a team, and I suppose for good reason. I was never very good at ANY sport, so what was the point in being competitive? Get me back to the classroom with the books and the tests and the term papers. THEN maybe I’ll have a chance. In fact, the first taste I ever got of a sport-related victory was when I won a game of horse I played with Faisal. He’d just finished teaching me how to actually SHOOT a basketball (I really had no idea…), and lo and behold – I managed to get good for about five minutes. But that’s all I needed. I sank the winning shot, and that was it – I’d beaten a guy at a sport. (Well, a sort of random, made-up sport.) And while I still have suspicions that Faisal let me win, that one game made me so bizarrely happy that I suddenly realized my competitive streak COULD be persuaded to spill over into the vicinity of “sporting event.” (And the fact that I still talk about it after several years pretty much illustrates how few “sporting events” I’ve participated in recently…)

So I suppose fantasy baseball doesn’t actually count as a “sport” – but at least it’s ABOUT a sport. And if beating ONE guy made me happy, I have to imagine how much MORE happy I’d be if I managed to defeat ten. So maybe fantasy baseball is a perfectly balanced activity for my competitive nature – it’s like a pseudo-sporting event, but I get to rely more on my brains than my basketball abilities.

Which is good, because I really think Faisal let me win…

Just a silly, very short story...

You know what I’ve always wanted to do?

What?

Write an entire story using nothing but dialogue.

Sounds kinda boring.

It wouldn’t be boring. I don’t think. Hey, are you listening to him? He asked if you want cream.

Oh, yeah that’s fine. No, wait – milk. Nonfat. You have skim?

You’re gonna ruin a perfectly decent cup of Starbucks dark roast with skim milk? What’s the point?

Fine – you guys have whole milk? I’ll take whole milk. But no cream. No, wait – two percent. You don’t have two percent?

Just mix the whole and the skim – it’ll be good enough. Anyway, like I was saying, I’ve always wanted to write an entire story using nothing but dialogue.

Well, you’re the writer. I really wouldn’t know anything about that. Seems like you’d miss out on a lot of detail if all you wrote about was two people making small talk about, like, drinking coffee or whatever.

Who says it has to be about drinking coffee? That really WOULD be boring.

Okay, then what would these people be having a dialogue ABOUT, exactly?

Ouch, ouch! Burned my tongue. This is hot.

No kidding, Einstein. That’s why they put the warning on the cup.

No, they put the warning on the cup so I can’t run out and sue them for involuntary taste bud slaughter. Ow. Seriously, I don’t think I can taste anything now. Oh wow, thanks – since when did you get all chivalrous and start holding doors for women?

I’ve always been chivalrous. If you didn’t notice it’s because you don’t pay attention.

I don’t pay attention? Oh, that’s funny. That’s really funny. YOU on the other hand, are paying quite the amount of attention to that girl in the pink t-shirt.

What girl?

Oh puh-leeese. You think I don’t notice when you ogle other women?

Ogle? Ogle? I would never ogle anyone.

Really? Is that because you’re such a gentleman, or because you don’t know what the word “ogle” means?

I’m not an idiot. And I don’t ogle. Observe, perhaps.

And let me guess – your powers of observation are directly proportional to bra size.

That’s not fair – like you never look at other guys?

I might look… occasionally… but I just look. And then I look away. A quick look. A glance, perhaps. A glance and then a look-away.

And that makes you a better person because… ?

I didn’t say it made me a better person. Forget it. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Go ahead and ogle. Ogle all you want. Check out the blond walking the Chihuahua.

Ugh. Too Paris Hilton. I prefer someone a little more Salma Hayek. Maybe someone with a German Shepherd…

You’re such a liar.

It’s not a lie. Contrary to popular belief, not every guy in the universe has a thing for Paris Hilton.

I so do not believe you. You’re telling me that if you were stuck in an elevator with Paris Hilton, you wouldn’t—

Oh, elevators are a different story.

You’re such a jerk.

Well, I AM a man…

Glad to hear you take responsibility for it, at least.

We should get married.

Excuse me?

We should get married.

What are you— are you proposing?

I’m just saying… you know, it might be good. We should do it.

You’re proposing on a street corner with a cup of coffee in your hand?

Something wrong with that? Would you prefer I was holding a Coke can?

You’re seriously asking me to marry you while we’re standing here waiting for the light to change, across the street from a Paris Hilton lookalike?

Can you think of a better place?

Uh…

Hey, you know your story idea? The one about the dialogue? I think it’d be cool.

Really?

Yeah, really.

Okay.

Okay?

Yes.

Yes?

I’m saying yes, you Paris Hilton-ogling idiot.

Well, good. Now you have something to write about.

I Heart NY

This weekend, the movie “United 93” is opening in theaters around the country. And I have to wonder – is anyone really ready to see this movie? I know for a fact that I’M not. I haven’t even been able to watch the trailer. And any time the ad pops up on TV, I either quickly change the channel, or leave the room. If I can’t bear to watch 30 seconds of footage, how could I watch an entire film? I still can’t watch that infamous video of the planes hitting the towers, either. If I happen to stumble upon that video, my eyes involuntarily snap shut – it’s not so much that I don’t WANT to watch it, it’s more like I CAN’T watch it…


I was looking through some old photos, and found a bunch of World Trade Center pictures I didn’t even realize I had. I don’t live up in the northeast anymore, so I don’t see the city as often, but I wonder if the present New York skyline will ever stop looking strange to me. I wonder – when I hear of someone hoping to visit the Empire State Building to relive a scene in “Sleepless in Seattle” – if my first reaction will always be, “but the twin towers have better views of the city.”

It’s interesting the kinds of things we remember, and the details brought to mind, after certain events in our lives. The last time I was in the Trade Center, I wandered around the observatory floor, stepping up to windows and pressing my forehead against the glass. I’m not afraid of heights as long as I know I’m in a secure place – and I never could’ve imagined such a building would be brought down to earth years later. After my family and I had taken pictures or bought souvenirs or whatever it was we did, we rode the elevator back down to the nearly-deserted lobby. There was a great expanse of empty hallway, and blank wall, and freshly-vacuumed carpet. And the only other person I could see, as my small family group headed for the door, was a Muslim man praying next to the span of empty wall. At the time, I may have glanced at him, thought something like, “yup, that’s a guy praying,” and that was it. I walked out of the Trade Center, and I never visited again.

I doubt anyone else in my family even remembers that man, and I’m not sure why I do. In fact, he pretty much drifted away from the recesses of my mind the second I walked out the door. I didn’t think of him again until after September 11, 2001. As it became apparent that Islamic extremists were behind the attacks, and ordinary, law-abiding people who happened to be Muslim were interrupted from their daily lives by FBI visits and who-knows-what else, that man suddenly came back to my memory. I wondered who he was – did he work at the Trade Center? Was he just visiting? Was he in the building on September 11? Was he still alive? I wouldn’t even recognize him if I saw him today, but I still wonder about that man…

And I have to laugh at some of the “preventive” measures being employed these days. And I don’t mean “laugh” in a “ha-ha, that’s funny” kind of way. More in a “that’s just ridiculous” kind of way. Like when Faisal told me about how he and his brother were detained at an airport because the moniker “Mohammad” happens to be in both their names. I mean, putting aside the fact that Faisal is so far removed from “terrorist” that he’s a different SPECIES, it’s just a completely unreasonable approach. (Yeah. Let’s stop everyone who has the most common name on the planet and hold them for questioning. That’ll make a big difference.) It’s like the proverbial needle in a haystack…

But you know, maybe I’ll start applying the same logic to other people and situations. For instance – has anyone heard of Erik the Red? He was a Viking from Scandinavia, and he killed several people and probably pillaged and plundered and did a bunch of other bad Viking things, too. Obviously we wouldn’t want anyone like that to be hanging around an airport, or, God forbid, a ship yard. And wait a minute – my BROTHER’S name is Eric! Uh oh, and what’s more – my BROTHER is Scandinavian!! Whoa. This could be a problem. Obviously my brother is a Viking, and if anyone ever lets him on a cruise ship again, there WILL be pillaging and plundering. That makes perfect sense, right?

Anyway, I miss the twin towers, and their impact on the New York skyline. And I prefer to remember them as they are in these pictures. NOT as we’ve seen them so many times over the last several years – broken, torn apart, falling, in ruins. I hope that the man who was praying by the lobby wall was – and still is – praying for peace.

Caution -- graphic content...

I can't remember if I shared with everyone the picture of my stitched-up finger after my tragic Sicilian umbrella accident. So, if you like pictures of stitches, here ya go. And if not, well, that's too bad, because you're already here and you've probably let your eyes wander to the picture already...

Now THAT is one attractive finger... I just tried to take an "after" picture so everyone can see that my finger has healed quite nicely and barely has a visible scar -- but it's surprisingly difficult to take a photo of your own finger. Especially when said finger is on your right hand, and the button on the camera is also on the right side. Because then it's necessary to employ some sort of left-handed contortionist move in an effort to reach the button, while at the same time ensuring the camera is balanced on the table in such a way that it will NOT crash to the tile floor and shatter into tiny pieces. Yeah, I should probably just get someone else to take the picture...

And as long as I'm looking through my pictures, here are a few more random shots of random things:

Sunset over my neighborhood...

Shutters in Monaco... not sure if anyone else thinks this is a cool picture, or if it's just me. Probably just me. :)

Check me out -- I'm naked! Oh wait, no I'm not -- I was in Hawaii and I was wearing a strapless dress. (And this is not THAT kinda website...)

Fish at the Maui Ocean Center...

We also saw these jellyfish at the Maui Ocean Center -- I loved these things. They glowed in the dark, and sort of bubbled up to the top of the water and back down again -- they made the whole tank look like a giant lava lamp...

My brother Eric! The coolest brother ever! He's so great, and nice, and funny, and -- hey, is that a White Sox shirt?? I HAVE NO BROTHER....

Me and Rick, on some cruise somewhere sometime...

And this is a door... not to be confused with those shutters a few pictures above...

And that concludes another blog post filled with random pictures..... :)

Where in the world?

I am wandering around my house in a panic, opening drawers and looking through cupboards. I am overturning piles of books and flipping through pages of magazines. I am staring bewilderedly at my empty kitchen table, as if expecting something to materialize on its surface. I don’t know what to do.

I have lost my map.

I suppose this might not seem like a big deal to most people, but I think I’ve mentioned once or twice how I have a strange obsession with maps. And the map in question isn’t just ANY map – it’s a map of the entire WORLD. Every country, researched long-ago by vigilant cartographers, is represented. Color-coded. Capitals in bold, next to circled stars. Latitude and longitude. Arctic to Antarctic. And it’s gone. I’m sure it must be somewhere in this house, but I’ve always kept it here, close to my computer. And now it seems to be nowhere. And what do I wish for more? To find my map? Or to not be obsessed with finding it? Perhaps I’ll buy a new map. Indeed, a BETTER map…

Speaking of quirks, one of the fun things about visiting Eric was that I got to hang out with someone who has some of the similar strange habits that I have. I was reminded of this the night we ate dinner at the Indian restaurant down the street from Eric’s place. Eric ordered chicken tikka masala, and I ordered chicken vindaloo – they were similar dishes, although the vindaloo was much spicier. (Which at first, was absolutely perfect – but by the time I was finished with my dinner, my taste buds were holding up tiny little white flags of surrender…) And as we began eating, Eric and I suddenly realized that we were doing the same thing – scooping out chicken from the serving dishes, putting it on our plates, and then carefully dissecting each piece to make sure it passed our stringent meat qualifications. Had I been eating with anyone else, this bizarre ritual would’ve been mocked, or at least questioned. But with Eric, I can actually eat in peace. :)

I’m not sure what Eric thinks about maps, or if he’s spent countless hours studying their various colors and contours and wondering about the mysteries of the countries symbolized. But I AM fairly certain that he is behind my own map’s disappearance. I don’t know how, exactly. But I have to blame someone. And I blame Eric.

Oh wait – THERE’S my map…

I'm back! Did anybody miss me?

Dave recently pointed out to me that my blog needed some sort of background soundtrack noise – specifically, the sound of crickets chirping. (For anyone who can’t remember Dave, scroll down a couple posts. I feel it is my duty to keep everyone acquainted as best I can through the medium of cyberspace journaling. Really. It’s up to me to make sure everyone knows everyone else. Oh, who am I kidding – I just want everyone to look at the picture of Dave with food in his teeth again…) And I have to admit that Dave had a point – it’s been much too long since I posted anything here.

And what better way to update my blog than to talk about my recent trip to Chicago? I flew up on Tuesday and was met at the airport by a tall, crazy bald guy (who, fortunately, happened to be my brother). Eric was generous enough to let me stay with him, and he even cleaned his apartment before I got there. I think. :) No, actually, I really like Eric’s apartment, and I don’t know what it USUALLY looks like, but when I was there, it seemed a pretty typical guy apartment. I mean, there might have been some clutter lying around, but at least there was nothing weird growing on the walls or anything. And while it's true the only things in the fridge were bottles of water and a package of Swiss cheese, that just gave us an excuse to eat out a lot.

There are a few things about Eric’s living situation that really make me jealous. First, when you walk out the front door of his apartment building, you can make a quick left, stroll across a small parking lot, and you’re immediately at a grocery store. It’s so close that you could dispense with the whole idea of a neighborly, “may I borrow a cup of sugar?” inquiry if you found yourself short of cake-baking ingredients. All you’d have to do was grab your keys and a couple bucks, take the elevator downstairs, run next-door to the grocery store, and you’d be back in your apartment with a brand new bag of sugar before you could say “Betty Crocker.”

The second thing that makes me jealous about Eric’s apartment is something I’ll call “cappuccino proximity.” Again, if you walk out the front door of his apartment building and stand on the sidewalk, you have a clear view of two obvious caffeinated beverage vendors. (And perhaps there are even more lurking around that are less obvious...) But standing there on the sidewalk, you’d have a decision to make – should you turn left, and walk a block to Starbucks? Or – perhaps if you’re in a hurry – should you turn right, and walk the HALF-block to Caribou Coffee? Quite a dilemma.

And third, I’m rather jealous of the various options for dining (and even entertainment) that are within walking distance of Eric’s apartment. Two of the nights I was there we simply left the apartment and walked a couple blocks to various eating establishments. We spent some time one morning strolling past old historic homes on our way to the Pancake House (a great place, by the way). And the last day I was there, we made the difficult cappuccino proximity decision (it was Caribou Coffee this time) and hiked several blocks to the zoo. In the middle of this loud, busy city, we saw giraffes grazing and meerkats fighting and bats hanging in a cave and lions pacing back and forth… all of them, I’m sure, waiting for the day when they can make a break for it and run to the Starbucks down the street.

Anyway, I had a great week hanging out with Eric. And since Dave reminded me (in the middle of a conversation about “life-changing” fried chicken) that my blog has been less-than-exciting lately, I thought it would be a good time to update. And by the way, Dave, we ended up going for Indian food – and while I’m sure the chicken would’ve been good as far as chicken goes, the Indian food was awesome. Yum. Yuuuuuuuum. I’m sure there must be a decent Indian place in Austin somewhere, and now I’m determined to find it. But perhaps I’ll try the life-changing fried chicken next time I’m in Chicago. So thank you, Dave, for compelling me to update my blog. And thank you, Eric, for being such a cool brother and for letting me hang out with you.

And especially thank you for living so close to all that coffee… :)