Archive | May, 2012

Look, London, I don’t ask for much (“Yeah, right.” – my husband).

I expect my tea to be served warm, with a bit of milk and sugar. I expect it to rain at least half of the time I’m in the city. I expect cab drivers to call me “love” or “miss” instead of the dreaded “ma’am.”

And, damn it, if I find myself on Knightrider Street, I expect David Hasselhoff to be hanging around somewhere close by.

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I have a confession. It’s kind of a doozy. Are you ready? Here goes …

I don’t love chocolate.

Hey, where are you going? Hello… ? Wait … what is that?

Is that a straight jacket? OH DEAR GOD WHY DO YOU HAVE A STRAIGHT-JACKET?

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Mmm ... "mit hackfleisch!"

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I’m not a big shopper.

Hold on just a sec, will you? My husband is reading over my shoulder, and has started laughing so hysterically at my opening sentence that I need to make sure he’s not gonna hyperventilate.

Yeah, apparently, he’s fine. The jerk.

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Not only is today the birthday of someone close to me, but it also the anniversary of the eruption of Mount St. Helens. Oh, and ONE OF MY FRIENDS FOUND OUT SHE WAS CANCER FREE THIS MORNING. I am using all of these occasions as excuses to eat lots of cake. What’s that? It’s TINA FEY’S BIRTHDAY, TOO? Someone get me a bib. Things are about to get awesome.

And speaking of awesome, here are this week’s links:

It’s so … TALL. A video depicting the evolution of Nicolas Cage’s hair. (I sincerely hope they do Travolta next.)

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While I’m not a fan of their restaurant suggestions, I’m charmed by the gratuitous cursing on the “Where the F#ck Should I Go to Eat?” website.

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Can’t help but be blown away (heh) by photographer Tadao Cern’s new series entitled Blow Job. Fear not: the site is totally suitable for work – Cern just places people in front of powerful air jets, and snaps photos of their windblown faces with hilarious results.

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My darling husband has a slightly inflated impression of my foreign language abilities. A haggling session in Cuzco left him believing that my Spanish was far better than it actually is (It’s not that great. I am, however, an awesome haggler). I allow it, of course. We all believe slight exaggerations about our loved ones. He wants to think I speak perfect Spanish? Fine by me. If he believes I’m trilingual, then I get to believe he’s suave enough to give Cary Grant a run for his money.

What? It could happen.

Besides, it’s not all untrue: I do have enough basic knowledge left over from high school Spanish that I can be of some help when we’re in Spain or South America. Not much, mind you, but enough to (hopefully) not get him arrested. For example, when were in Madrid he saw a sign that said señoras …

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Recently, I saw my first Banksy.

Despite all the trips I’ve taken to London, I’ve managed to miss the provocative street artist’s work. On more than one occasion I’ve walked right passed his creations, failing to notice them at all. That nearly happened again this time, owing to the steak and kidney pie that was holding most of my attention.

Forgive me. The steak and kidney pie was really good (but that’s for another post).

For whatever reason, though, I managed to tear my eyes from the flaky crust and unctuous filling, and I saw it:

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It reads: “Laugh now, but one day we’ll be in charge.”

Granted, it wasn’t quite as titillating as his depiction of two police officers kissing (in Brighton), as endearing as the image of little girl losing her balloon on Southwark, and certainly not as loathed as his latest piece in Haringen.

But I was still pretty excited about it. Almost as much as that meat pie.

Who knew keeping your shoes on would be such a luxury?

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I am not a gambler. Should there be any doubts of this, note that I was in Vegas for two whole days and the greatest risk I took in a casino was ordering a savory crepe (don’t do it. Cheese is no substitute for Nutella, and anyone who says otherwise is likely trying to sell you something. Probably cheese).

But the TSA has turned me into someone who takes chances, who rolls the dice again and again, because if I win, I get a bit of humanity back. How? Via the TSA’s new PreCheck program.

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It was bound to happen. Rand and I take a lot of photos. But this is basically like spotting bigfoot:

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This is a photo of my father. SMILING. Let’s take a closer look, shall we?

This, for him, is pretty much grinning maniacally.

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