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… :)

And I had to clean up the kitchen myself...

On Monday night there were ten guys crowded into my kitchen, eating pizza and chicken wings and chocolate donuts and ho-hos. After everyone had eaten their fill, cluttered up every available space with empty plates and chicken bones and ho-ho wrappers, and finished setting up their laptop computers, it was time for the fantasy baseball draft. I’d already started worrying about the draft a week before, when Rick asked me what my “strategy” was going to be. Strategy? I was supposed to have a strategy? He followed that up by asking, “you know why they asked you to join the league, don’t you?” Well, of course I know why they asked me to join the league – because I am the goddess of baseball, and I demand offerings of leather gloves and Louisville Sluggers. “Yeah, because they think I’ll be easy to beat,” I answered. To which Rick replied, “you’re not as naïve as I thought you were.” Greeeeaaaat…

So apparently expectations were not very high for me, the rookie. As I nervously awaited the announcement of the first pick and the official start of the draft, I shuffled through pages and pages of players, watching their names run together in a giant conglomeration of baseball mumbo jumbo. I had no idea what I was doing. The only thing I was pretty certain about was my first pick – Alex Rodriguez, third baseman for the New York Yankees. Not only is he listed as a top pick in many fantasy baseball magazines, but he’s a Yankee. And I HAD to have at least one Yankee on my team. And everyone in the league figured the first few picks were already set in stone – Pujols, Santana, Carpenter. And then me, at number four, choosing Arod.

So imagine everyone’s surprise when the guy with the first pick turned around to face everyone, said, “I just can’t pick a Cardinal,” and took Arod as his first pick. The shockwave traveled through the kitchen as we all realized that every subsequent pick would be influenced by what had just happened. So much for my star Yankee. I ended up taking Chris Carpenter, which might turn out to be better, anyway. From what everyone in this league keeps saying, “pitching wins the league.” So I guess we’ll see about that…

The rest of the draft turned out to be not as confusing and nerve-wracking as I’d expected. Once I got the hang of it, I was able to start researching my next pick in advance, while everyone else was calling out their choices. By the fifth round, my team seemed to be shaping up nicely, and I was pretty happy. Carpenter, Ortiz, Ichiro, Lidge and Jeter. And I was already getting some preliminary kudos from the guys who I’d been certain, only a couple hours earlier, would be making fun of me from the get go.

By the end of the draft, when I started making picks based on darts thrown at random names (no, not really – but at that point I really DIDN’T have much of a clue who I was choosing), I was fairly confident that I might actually be able to pull off this fantasy baseball thing. My friend Nick used some kind of projection software that calculates where a team might end up by the end of the season, and it predicted Nick would finish in first place, and I would be second. And since Nick has fifteen kids and probably needs the first place money more than I do, I’d be perfectly content with second place.

But baseball is an unpredictable game, so who knows what will happen over the next six months or so. All I want is to be doing a halfway decent job at some point during the season. To NOT be in last place. Because if I had a bit of a lead over a couple of these guys, then I would feel I had the right to change the name of my team to something more appropriately competitive. I’m thinking it’s gonna be, “Yer Gettin’ Beat by a Girl.”

The Reason I Get Up in the Morning

That would be my Seattle’s Best coffee. I suppose I AM one of those people who just doesn’t feel right until they have their morning coffee, and I’ve found, through years of serious research, that I like Seattle’s Best just a teensy bit more than Starbucks. Maybe it’s because they stir the drinks before they give them to you – unlike Starbucks, where they simply pour the shots of espresso into the cup and leave it at that. This results in an extra-strong coffee taste for the first half of the drink, and (if you’re like me and order a caramel macchiato or some other flavored coffee) an extra-sweet taste for the last half of the drink. Or maybe I like Seattle’s Best more because THIS guy just started working there: www.naveen-andrews.net. I don’t know why he’s working at Seattle’s Best. Seems like that “Lost” gig would’ve provided him with enough spending money. But I guess everyone needs a little extra cash now and then…

This morning, after the Lost guy gave me my coffee and reminded me to watch this week’s episode (in which he promises to avenge Shannon’s death by tossing Ana Lucia off a cliff into the ocean… no, wait – that’s just my own wishful thinking because I find the character of Ana Lucia so annoying…), I came back home, set The Reason I Get Up in the Morning next to my computer, and went outside to clean the pool. For some reason, Texas is overrun with these ridiculous live oak trees – they don’t lose their leaves in the fall, like normal trees. They wait until March, when unsuspecting pool owners assume the approaching spring season will bring nothing with it but blooming flowers and an occasional thunderstorm. THIS is when the devious, vindictive live oak tree exacts its revenge on all the pretty trees – the trees that actually change colors in the autumn, and bloom with flowers in the spring, and are covered with canopies of lush, green leaves in the summertime. The live oak, its trunk splattered with ugly patches of lichen, starts to drop its leaves – leaves that can never seem to find a decent shade of “green,” but rather hover somewhere between brown and washed-out chartreuse – in the middle of March. And this is why, when spring approaches, I must make sure to rid the pool of leaves every day. The live oak next to my pool hurls all of its chartreuse-y leaves into the water, and if I don’t get them out, they clog the pump.

So that’s what I did today, as The Reason I Get Up in the Morning was waiting for me inside my house. And what made the job even more tedious was the fact that it’s windy today – so as soon as I’d scoop a net full of leaves out of the pool, several thousand more would be blown into the water. But eventually I had the pool looking as blue and sparkling as it was going to get this time of year, and I headed inside to finally partake of my coffee.

As I took the first sip, I felt what I thought was one of my long hairs brushing against my neck, and reached up to pull it away. But instead of a hair, my hand was touching something that felt suspiciously like a bug. Hoping it was just a stray leaf or twig, I did a sort of “get rid of the bug” dance – arms flailing, hands shaking, fingers flicking my neck to remove whatever it was – all the while hopping up and down to dislodge any other stray entomological stowaways. Then I searched the floor, figuring the little guy must’ve been wandering around on the hardwood somewhere by now. But I couldn’t see anything on the floor except a couple stray dog hairs and a sequin from a sparkly shirt I was wearing a few days ago. Where did that stupid bug go? As I pondered this question, I reached for my cup to take another sip of The Reason I Get Up in the Morning, and there, on the plastic lid, was a bizarre little beetle with orange and black stripes and a malicious grin. (I might be making up the part about the grin…) I could tell, from the way it was walking toward the sipping hole in the lid, that it was about to take a nosedive into my precious morning cup of coffee, in retribution for the fact that I’d just launched it, what in bug distance must’ve been, about a mile and half across the room. I had to quickly carry the cup over to the sink, remove the lid, and wash the offensive creature down the drain. And there was no way I wanted to replace the lid and allow my mouth anywhere near it – what with the little invisible buggy footprints all over the place. Fortunately the coffee in the cup was unharmed, and I simply poured it into one of my own ceramic mugs and continued to enjoy it.

I suppose if I’d been a better person, I may have carried the strange little bug back outside and set him free – but you can NOT mess with The Reason I Get Up in the Morning.

Happy Birthday Dave!

Since I know Dave checks my blog now and then, I thought I'd take this opportunity to wish him happy birthday! As everyone can tell from the picture, Dave is a very mature 30 years old today. Happy birthday Dave! Hope you had a great day! :)

Just a bunch of nonsense...

In an effort to help everyone get to know me better, I thought I’d talk about some of my weird randomness – you know, all of those quirks and qualities and possible personality disorders that make me “me.” I think I promised, in one of my older posts, to talk about some of my strange food aversions, so I’ll start there.

Let’s see… first of all, I hate seeds. Well, that’s not completely true – some seeds are okay. Like sunflower seeds. Sunflower seeds are big enough to actually chew, so they’re acceptable as little pieces of food. But all of those little itty bitty tiny seeds – poppy seeds, sesame seeds, the miniscule seeds in strawberries and raspberries – I absolutely can NOT stand those things. They’re too small to chew completely, and too big to ignore, so most of them end up getting stuck between your teeth. Or even worse, they make disturbing little crunching noises that cause a split second of “did I just crack a tooth or lose a filling?” panic before the realization of “it’s just a stupid tiny seed” sets in. What’s sad is that I really like the TASTE of strawberries and raspberries, but I can’t bring myself to eat them when they’re in their original form. But give me seedless jelly or jam, or some kind of juice, and I’m there. Good stuff. Bad seeds.

And then there’s meat. I’d have to say I’m one of the pickiest meat eaters on the planet, and if I’d been born in ancient, Neanderthal, kill-the-antelope-and-drag-it-back-to-the-cave times, I probably wouldn’t have survived very long. I’d have been munching on leaves while the other cave-dwellers devoured the antelope, and then I’d timidly ask if I could have a few bites of tenderloin. But no fat! I’d have to use my sharpened rock to trim off the parts of antelope I deemed unacceptable, and when I was done, I’d probably be left with about an ounce of edible meat. And that’s pretty much the way I am in my own kitchen. (Except I use knives, not sharpened rocks…) It’s not my fault, though – Eric is the same way, so this is obviously some kind of genetic occurrence. I’d say it was a “disorder,” except I really feel that if Eric and I were in charge of the meat industry, everyone in the country would be eating THE highest quality meat possible. I mean, yeah, the industry would probably also be bankrupt… but sometimes you have to make sacrifices for decent food.

And while I’m on the subject of meat – I also have a problem with any kind of meat that’s been ground up and squished back together. Hamburgers, hot dogs, sausages, chicken nuggets – I can’t eat them. I used to be able to stomach a hamburger now and then, or a hot dog if I happened to be at a Yankee game. But now it seems my palate is completely anti-processed meat. Thank goodness McDonald’s has those fruit and yogurt parfaits… except that they’re full of strawberries… evil seeds. It’s so hard to find truly edible food sometimes.

I think that’s about it in the food category (although I could also get into how I think carrots taste like dirt, and I don’t like it when certain types of food touch other types of food, etc…). So now for the “borderline OCD” category:

-- When I wash dishes in the sink, I have to dry them with paper towels – NOT cloth towels. I feel like cloth towels hold onto all kinds of crazy germs, and if you dry off your clean dishes with a towel full of germs, how clean can the dishes actually BE? Of course, as a consequence, I end up using a ton of paper towels and I’m probably personally responsible for the destruction of many, many trees. Thank you, trees, for keeping my dishes germ-free.

-- I have to double check page numbers when I read a book. Like every single page. When I turn a page, I have to check the page number I’m on, and then check the next page, and make sure they are, in fact, in sequential order. I also have to read EVERY single word in book. If I skip a word – even if I know what it is – I have to go back and re-read everything I’ve already read, making sure to include the neglected word.

-- I wash my hands about a zillion times a day. Okay, that’s not true – I’m really not “obsessive” about the hand washing. But I do tend to wash my hands if I have even the slightest suspicion that I may have touched something super-germy. Like when somebody makes me hold a baby. Ha ha! That’s a joke! :) (No it’s not…) But I will mention that they say the best way to avoid illness is to wash your hands a lot – and another weird fact about me is that I hardly ever get sick. Coincidence? Maybe not…

-- I’m addicted to lip balm. No explanation for this. I really, really am. It’s the one thing I can not EVER be without.

Well, that’s probably enough weird stuff for one day. Check it out, Eric – two new posts in less than 24 hours! Don’t pretend like you’re not impressed…

P.S. Allegro says hi!

Not-so-subliminal advertising

I just got a pedometer – you know, a little gadget you clip on your belt or your pocket, and it records how many steps you take. Rick’s parents gave one to my dad for his birthday last week, and Eric and I immediately stole it and had a walking war. I think he may have won the first round… but now I have my OWN pedometer, so I can work on training for round two. Today, according to my pedometer, I walked 11,377 steps. Which is WAY more than Eric walked, because he doesn’t even have a pedometer. And everyone knows that steps walked in the absence of a proper measuring device don’t count for anything. You know, it’s like the tree falling in the forest when no one is around to hear… or something like that…

And speaking of walking, I have to say that I love the new VW GTI commercials. (Okay, that has nothing at all to do with walking. But a car IS a way to get from point A to point B – and so is walking.) So like I was saying – I really love the new VW GTI commercials. The ones with that guy from Prison Break – or rather, the guy who USED to be on Prison Break, before his character ended up with a slashed throat (wow, this post got ugly really fast…). You know the ads I’m talking about? He’s dressed all in white, with a long-legged blond sidekick, and they both have these great fake German accents. Every commercial starts with a “Pimp My Ride”-type car, which the fake Germans promptly dispose of – by hitting it with a wrecking ball, or dropping a giant metal box on top of it, or hurling it over a catapult. And then the GTI comes into view, and the fake German guy steps in front of it, calling it a “vee dub” and flashing a pseudo-gang sign “VW” with his hands. They’re great ads – and probably the only time in my life I’ve actually felt compelled to buy a car based on a commercial. And I don’t even LIKE hatchbacks…

Of course, I have to admit that the only reason I have the car I have now is because of the movie “Ronin.” At the beginning of Ronin, there’s a car chase with an Audi – it speeds down a narrow street, engine racing, zipping around obstacles. It’s a cool scene, but the movie itself wasn’t the reason I decided on an Audi. It was only when I went to test drive one that my mind was made up – as I accelerated onto the highway outside the dealership, I noticed the little test-drive Audi was making the same racing sound as the car in the movie. I realized, as I maneuvered down the highway, that the movie wasn’t a big conglomeration of special effects – it wasn’t simply sights and sounds, in bits and pieces, smashed together by audio technicians. The car really, honestly sounded that way. Wow – I had a chance to own an honest-to-goodness, Hollywood-tested, movie-car-chase car. Not that I care about that kind of stuff. But I did end up buying the car.

But maybe it’s time to trade it in for a GTI? Of course, Audi is German, too. So either way, I’m still “representing Deutschland.” Ja wohl.

Looking for the hidden meaning...

I just finished the last of some freelance proofreading I’ve been working on for a few weeks. Annual reports. Not the most exciting stuff in the universe. I still have words like “amortization” and “consolidated” and “allocated retained earnings” running through my head. I’ve spent hours digesting lilting prose such as, “the core surplus ratio measures available core surplus capital relative to risk-adjusted assets and off-balance-sheet contingencies.” Contiiiiiingencies. It just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? The sad thing is, I’ve been reading this kind of writing for years, and I really have no idea what most of it means. And even if someone explained it to me, I’d probably just end up forgetting. Because is it really important to me whether or not I understand what allocated retained earnings are? Not really. I just need to make sure proper grammar is used and everything is spelled correctly. Fortunately, it’s not my job to write anything for an annual report. Otherwise, they’d sound more like, “So here’s the thing – we made some money this year. And maybe we lost a little bit, too. But it’ll probably all even out in the end, so no worries.” Actually, maybe I SHOULD write annual reports. They’d be a whole lot shorter…

Another phrase I’ve read a hundred times but I’ve never understood is “know all men by these presents.” Know all men by these presents?? It’s on just about every legal document I’ve ever seen, but I’ve never been able to make sense of it. (But I suppose legal documents really only make sense once they make NO sense whatsoever. Does that make sense? No, of course not.) Even after some research, where I discovered that “know all men by these presents” supposedly means “know all men by the words/statements in this very document,” the phrase STILL makes no sense to me. So are we talking about “presents” as in, present and accounted for? Or is it "present" as in, “I hope I get a lot of birthday presents”? Is the document considered some kind of gift? If the word “presents” in “know all men by these presents” refers to the words and phrases in the document, then my gift shopping just got a lot easier. (Happy birthday! I got you a last will and testament and a power of attorney! It’s the thought that counts…) I’m pretty sure I’ll never really understand “know all men by these presents.” But I DO know that it’s usually spelled correctly when I read it…

When I first started proofreading, I made a big goof by allowing the word “responsibilities” to slip by me with a misspelling. I can’t remember how it was spelled – maybe an I and an L were reversed, or maybe an I was left out altogether (I mean, is it really necessary to have four?) – but however it was spelled, it was printed that way before anyone noticed. And once my boss saw it, she pointed it out to me, in the nicest way possible, with an, “I barely even noticed it myself” attitude. And my first reaction was to think, “hey, that’s a really easy thing to miss.” But then I realized that I was the proofreader. It was my JOB to catch the things that were really easy to miss. Ever since then, “responsibilities” is a kind of obsessive-compulsive word for me. Any time I see it (even if I’m not proofreading), I feel compelled to sound it out, syllable by syllable, to make sure it’s spelled correctly. It’s not responsibilities. It’s re-spon-si-bil-i-ties. I’m not happy until I’m certain that all the I’s are accounted for. Are they all there? Are they, in fact, present? Yes, I know from my nitpicky inspection of the word that all I’s are present. Therefore, I feel I have a right to say that I know all I’s by these presents.

And that’s what I’ll be telling my lawyer to write at the top of my last will and testament.

Random picture day...

Eric is here! So we ate at mom and dad's house last night, where I spent some time after dinner browsing through pictures on their computer. And I discovered that they've been hoarding some good photos. My favorite was this one of Eric and me, which I think is from the Mediterranean cruise we took last year. And we both look pretty cute in this picture, which is so rare. I mean, I look cute all the time, of course. But Eric? Ha! How often does HE look this good? :)












This one is from a cafe in Rome. They had great coffee and ice cream, and really weird sandwiches on white bread with the crusts cut off. In fact, I found a picture of one of the weird sandwiches on mom and dad's computer, too. Apparently someone found them unique enough to document for posterity...








Me next to an itty bitty smart car. Is it me, or does that tiny car make me look even shorter than I already am? You'd think I'd look like a huge giant next to a tiny little smart car, but no. I just look like a short person next to a tiny little smart car...















Wandering around Rome, looking a bit melancholy. Perhaps dwelling on my short stature... ("oh why can't I be tall like Eric?")













In front of the ruins of the Circus Maximus.



Okay, now I should go tell Eric that I posted some new pictures on my blog. He's very pushy about the blog posts. "Where's a new post, Lisa? Haven't seen a new post in a while. Blah, blah, blah..." It's a good thing we get pie every time he comes down here... :)