London - 7 July 2005

I’ve been trying to find the way to put into words how it’s felt to live in London in the last few days.

The bombings were terrifying, obviously. It seems silly to even mention that. Of course it was terrifying.

I didn’t even realize until I’d arrived at work that something was wrong. The buses were busier than usual, and I knew that the tube was shut down, but that can, and does, happen from time to time for any number of reasons. There have been power cuts and surges before, so I really didn’t think anything of it.

The first indication I had that there was a problem was one person on the 31 bus from Camden to Kilburn who was saying that there had been a bomb on the tube. But no one was really listening to him – there’s always the one guy who sees the worst in any given situation and will find the conspiracy or doom and gloom and imagine the worst. We all just assumed he was that guy.

I got to work only 10 minutes late, and found the office empty, except for Chris who was just sanding by the radio. He was the one that told me what was happening. At that point, they were still saying “power surges”, but there had just been reports that a bus had blown up in Russell Square, so it was seeming less and less likely that the answer was anything as harmless as a power problem.

Buffy works in Russell Square, so my first thought was of her – I called her, and it took a few tries to get through. The mobile networks were already starting to get overloaded. She was fine – she’d just left the tube station and was walking towards her office, so she wasn’t in any danger. She asked if I’d heard from Clare, as her office is on Tavistock Place, where the explosion had occurred. Fortunately, Clare was home from work on Thursday. She was fine.

I tried to call the people I worked with, but wasn’t getting through. I’d heard from Jo and Julie, so I knew they were okay, but I hadn’t had any word from Kerrie or Brendan. I sent out an email to my friends around the city, just to check that they were okay. I wasn’t worried that something had happened to them, really. London is so big – what are the chances that whatever this was had affected people I care about?

It was at this point that there was a report from the Tube workers union that someone had seen an explosive device on the tracks. And that’s when we started to realize what had really happened. We really didn’t know what was going on – there were rumours that there had been anywhere between four and six explosions, and they’d all gone off within minutes of each other. It was pretty obvious that it had been a terrorist attack. No one was claiming responsibility, and there was no word on how many people had been injured or killed.

I started getting emails back from my friends, and more than I’d expected had been personally affected.

Marcus was kicked off at train at 9:15 because of "power surges" and walked to his office. After he arrived, a colleague turned up and said he’d cycled past a bust that had been blown apart.

Heather had a meeting in Marylebone that morning. If she hadn’t had that meeting, she would have been on the Piccadilly line near Kings Cross when the bombs went off.

Leanne was actually on the platform at Kings Cross, but thought it was too crowded and went to take a bus. When she got to the bus stop, the bomb went off in the tube.

Jamie was on his way to Kings Cross when the tube went down. He got out and took the 390 bus. After sitting in traffic for ages, he got out and wondered why there were so many ambulances and fire trucks everywhere. He then got a call from Clare who told him what had happened, and he walked home. If he’d left home 15 minutes earlier, he’d have been in Kings Cross when it happened.

Clare works 10 meters from where the bus exploded. She was home ill, but her boss had just arrived when the bomb went off.

Tim normally works on Brick Lane, but wasn’t on Thursday. If he had been, he’d have passed Liverpool Street & Aldgate on the way in.

Kerrie doesn’t normally take the Circle Line, but she missed her train at Blackheath Station, so took an alternate way in to the office. When she got on the Circle Line, she got onto the waiting train, but the jumped off to double check the route she was taking. She missed that train, and had to get the next one. The train she was on was behind the one that exploded at Edgware Road station. She was trapped underground for two hours, and had to walk out along the tracks. It took her hours to get home.

I didn’t get any work done on Thursday. I spent the whole day listening to the news on the radio, checking the BBC and Sky One and CNN news sites and emailing friends. When I tried to work, I couldn’t concentrate.

I felt shaky and scared and like I wanted to cry all day. Nothing happened to me, and while some of the people I loved had close calls, everyone was okay.

I was reading the first person accounts on the BBC website, and they kept making me tear up. A comment from a reader in Paris had me choked up:

Yesterday, we were annoyed with Londoners and English people. London won the games and Paris lost them. And today we wake up. We realise that these little fights between old friends are for spoilt children. We are all facing a huge challenge. We have all to fight terrorism. We are all Londoners today.

In the course of a week, London had three topics of conversation. Live 8 dominated the beginning of the week. The Olympics were all anyone could talk about on Wednesday. And on Thursday, the entire city was feeling the same feelings of shock and horror and fear. But there was a feeling of unity, and a feeling that this would not stop London from functioning. That we wouldn’t be stopped by this, and we wouldn’t live our lives in fear.

On Friday morning, I got on a bus, the same as I do every morning. And like I do every morning, I went to the top level and sat in the front seat. It crossed my mind that had I been on that seat in a bus in Russell Square on Thursday, I could have lost my life, but I didn’t myself think about that. I listened to the radio, and daydreamed, as I do every morning.

Jo and Julie took the tube into work, as they always do. Jo had a moment of panic as she stepped on a train, but she sat down and read on the tube, just as she does every morning.

Millions of other Londoners did the exact same thing – went about their lives the same way they do every day. It’s pretty inspiring.

I’m not saying that people will ever forget what happened. I can’t imagine that they will. And there certainly will be people who are too afraid to get on a tube, at least for a little while.

But life continues as it always has. We’re all just a little more aware how fragile life is, and how much we lucky we all are to have the people we love in our lives. I know I feel that way.

The mission continues

An update on the Steve Guttenberg Project? Fantastic!

Update again

It's official - terrorist attack.

I've heard from almost all of my close friends & all of my coworkers, so that's one less thing to worry about it.

It doesn't make it any less scary though. I can't focus on work today - I just keep checking Sky News & the BBC website for more information.

Update

It wasn't a power surge.

From the BBC at 11:23:

Metropolitan Police Commissioner Sir Ian Blair said there had been at least six
explosions, but said the picture was still "very confused".

I've tracked down one of the missing co-workers. Her fiance called to say she was okay, but she was in the train behind one of the ones with an explosion.

That's cutting a little too close to home.

There are reports on the radio saying that there are 20 confirmed dead, and at least 90 injured at Aldgate station.

There are no buses or tubes running in central London at all, and the army is present in Covent Garden.

I'm Okay

London is a scary place to be this morning.

You've probably heard that there were several explosions in London this morning - two on tube lines, and one on a bus.

It was reported to be "power surges" at first, but it now looks like it was bombs.

The mobile network isn't working, and I'm the only one that made it in to work.

I've spoken to two of the girls, but I still can't track down two of my other co-workers.

I'm okay though - now I just need to track down everyone that I love.

The Mission Finds A Home

Inspired by Heather, who was so beautifully inspired by the beautiful work of The Steve Guttenberg Project, the mission has found a home.

You can now keep up with the exciting news about the project, and the Gütt, at it's new home - The Steve Guttenberg Project. (There's a link on the left.)

Be the first to hear the exciting story of film 1 of 36!

The Gütt

Imagine, if you will. A charity shop in Archway on a sunny Friday in July.

I was browsing with Leanne and Heather, in an amusing attempt to find “Canadian” wear for their kick ass Canada Day party. While they were checking out the denim skirts and cropped white jean jackets (stylish!), I found a few hidden treasures in the video section.

A used VHS of Three Men & A Baby for a mere £3? Sold and sold!

While watching this delightful gem of film featuring irresponsible parenting, and lighthearted drug dealing, I came to a revelation.

I am a Steve Guttenberg fan.

Now you may be saying, “But, I don’t even remember Steve in that movie”.

Well, that’s just sad. Sure, Tom Selleck is the “sexy” one. (Of course, if you can consider high waisted shorts sexy, then you have issues – but I suppose one can make exceptions for 1987.) Ted Danson is the “carefree bachelor”. But it’s Steve Guttenberg’s warm portrayal of Michael that really sells the film for me. Not every actor could make a thirty-something cartoonist, who has stuffed animals in his bedroom, and lives with two men in their thirties seem straight, but that’s just the kind of range that Mr. Guttenberg has.

So inspired was I by his moving performance, that I’ve decided to begin a mission. I am going to attempt to collect the complete works of Steve Guttenberg.

Now, the Gütt, as I like to call him, has an impressive body of work. In the past 28 years, he’s starred in no less than 43 film and television projects. And, as an aside, do we really think it's a conicidence that he began his career in the year I was born? I think not.

However, if we lose television shows and movies (although that does mean losing the delightful sounding “Miracle on Ice”), that still leaves us with an imposing 36 films.

This list may scare some people off, though. It’s not the most prestigious list of films I’ve ever seen. There’s really only one movie that could be considered “good” by a wide selection of the general public.

There are no less than four Police Academy movies. Three of his films have had sequels that he’s starred in. (He wisely turned down Short Circuit 2.) He’s costarred with a robot, an animated ghost, the Village People, and the Olsen Twins. He’s co-starred with two of the Cheers Cast – the ones that went on to make more sitcoms, not respected movies.

But does that frighten me? Do I fear owning these movies?

No, I do not. I relish the challenge, and look forward to the day I can sit down to a double bill of Amazon Women On The Moon and The Chicken Chronicles.

In aid of this lofty goal, I have begun a “Steve Guttenberg Project” wishlist (which can be seen to your left) on Amazon. Sadly, not all Guttenberg items are available in the UK, so I was forced to add a US wish list as well. If you’d like to help achieve the goal, please feel free. All generous Guttenberg gift givers will be publicly thanked, and invited to a Guttenberg marathon when the mission is complete.

The Gütt appreciates your support.

Helping the world, one survey at a time

Jealous? You should be.

And you should be a statistic too.

So. Freaking. Hot.

Today in London it was 33° Celsius. That’s 91° Fahrenheit for all you American types out there. It’s 9pm now, and it’s still 28°.

And that, my friends, is too freaking hot. Now, of course, I’d be all used to that kind of heat if I lived in Australia or California or even Toronto. But if I lived in those places I would probably have air conditioning.

I would sell my soul right now for air conditioning.

Seriously.

It’s too hot to be inside, because of the previously mentioned lack of air conditioning. It’s too hot to be outside, because of the scorching sun. I was sitting on the flat roof outside my window for about half an hour, and realized two things.

First that it was too hot for that kind of madness. And second that if I stayed out for any longer I would be the colour of … well, something that’s really red, despite my liberal coating of sunscreen. I’m just too pale for that kind of madness.

Add to that the fact that I was hungover, and the fan that I ever so cleverly bought a few weeks ago is too freaking small to do anything useful and the fact that I am currently trying to be on a budget and not do things like go to air-conditioned movie theatres, and what you have is an irritable and slightly sweaty Alice.

What does that leave me to do? Complain.

I want to have a garden, like Buffy’s delightful garden in which we barbequed yesterday afternoon. Or a garden like Nathan’s, in which we drank and made merry at his birthday party last night (please see the aforementioned hangover). Or a roof terrace like Clare’s, on which there were many delightful barbeques last year and many to come this year. Or a huge balcony/terrace thing like Heather’s, on which there is actually room for furniture and you can access it using a door rather than climbing out of a window, which is not very graceful and fabulous. Especially when you have to try to be careful to not knock over the fishes.

Did I mention that I’m irritable? Extreme heat does that to me.

I know that heat is relative, and if I was back in Toronto then I’d be all “ooh, it’s a bit warm today, isn’t it?”, rather than moaning about the heat.

Of course, in Toronto right now it’s 22°.

And, in Toronto, I lived in an air-conditioned condo, drove an air-conditioned car and worked in an air-conditioned office.

Like I said – irritable. And don’t even get me started on the conflicted weather reports for tomorrow. It’s either going to be sunny and again freakishly hot, or all thunderstormy. How is a girl to make sensible footwear decisions?

Did I mention? Too freaking hot.

The Birds

I had a very scary experience the other day. I'm really lucky tha I managed to survive. I could be writing this from beyond the grave, if not for my quick thinking.

It was a warm Sunday, and I had my window open. Now, it's quite a large window, which is lovely. I look out onto a flat roof and if my fish weren't in the way, it would be very easy for me to climb out and enjoy the roof.

Or, very easy for someone to climb in. You know, to steal my furniture or tv or fish. Fishnappers can be such trouble.

Now, don't worry. I wasn't accosted by strange men climbing in my window. I was not murdered by crazed daytime thieves. That's a huge relief, I'm sure.

I was across the room when I heard a vague fluttering sound. "Well, that's odd", I thought. I went and looked and what did I see?

Pigeons.

But not just one pigeon. Not even two pigeons, out on a nice Sunday afternoon date. This was a horde of pigeons. Or whatever the word is for a group of pigeons. They looked like a horde to me. A marauding horde.

There were dozens of them. Well, maybe a dozen. But that is a lot of pigeons. And they kept settling in one area, and then leaping into the air and flying around all crazy like.

This is probably when I should let you know that I'm a little afraid of pigeons.

But look how close they were!



They could have easily flown in and pecked me to death - that totally could have happened!

I did the wise thing and closed the window. I probably could have chased them away by throwing things at them or yelling, but I didn't want to draw attention to myself.

I've seen The Birds. I know what the horde is capapble of.

Just a couple of things...

Things have been crazy stressful at work, and I've been a bit on the ill side. And those would be the reasons that I haven't posted lately.

Since I feel like we're losing touch. (How are you? No, really. We must catch up.), I thought I'd update you on the things that have been on my mind lately.

• This is the cutest freaking thing I've ever seen. I want to have a pet penguin. Can they live in a studio flat? If not, I'll have to settle for seeing the film.
• I am finding it very hard to find the perfect pair of summer footwear. I want a flip flop that isn't plastic, doesn't have a lot of crap on the top of the foot area, and doesn't cost a fortune. Too much to ask? Apparently. If I have to go a differnt route, then I might have to go with these, or maybe these. Adorable, no?
• I am confused by vitamins. I know I should take them, because I don't always eat as well as I should, but it's so complicated. Is a multi-vitamin enough? Should I add calcium? And vitamin C? And E? What else?
• And why do British people say VIT-amin, rather than VI-tamin? What's up with that?
• Being ill sucks. Especially when you feel too guilty to take time off work, even when you know you should because it'll be the best in the long run. So, instead of recovering at home, you're totally unproductive at work. Good times.
• Back on the shoe front, how cute are these? Oooh, and these! Man, I need a massive pay rise so I can go shoe shopping.
• I cannot wait for a new series of Sweet Valley High books. I would so buy those books. The drama of a gated southern California community plus the wacky and unpredictable antics of the Wakefield twins? I'm in!
• I love broadband. I really love it. It's a delight. I've downloaded (not that I download things illegally, cause I totally don't, I don't know what you're talking about, hey look at that bird over there!) about seven hundred songs in the past few days. The internet is a magical place. And Canadian music rocks.
• I've been a teensy bit homesick lately. I don't know what's up with that. I guess it's because for the first time in my entire life, my entire family is living in the same city. I should visit. Stupid expensive flights to Canada and lack of money. What a pain in the ass.

And that's what's been on my mind lately. How's things with you.

Grossatating

Something has come to my attention lately, and it’s a bit disturbing. Actually, it’s more than disturbing. It’s gross. And it is literally happening all around all of us all the time.

Imagine this scenario, if you will. You’re at a party, or a gathering of some type. You pick up a tasty snack from the food table. It may be a chicken skewer or a tortilla chip or a carrot stick. You dip your skewer or chip or stick into the dip that has been kindly been placed beside the delicious snack. You take a bite. And then what do you do?

Do you finish the skewer or chip or stick? Or do you reach for the dip again?

If you just said “reach for the dip”, then you are tragically lacking in social niceties and I don’t think I can be your friend.

Cause see, here’s the thing. It’s gross. Would you stick your entire hand into the bowl and then pass it on to someone else? Would you lick the bowl? Would you drop a used Kleenex into the dip? Would you spit into the dip?

Well, if you double dip, then you may as well do all of those things. And, I’m sorry, but you are gross.

Double dipping is just plain wrong. It squicks me out just even thinking about it.

I just do not want to share germs with total strangers. I want to dip my skewer or chip or stick without worrying that I’m going to catch your cold, or your rabies, or your glandular fever/mononucleosis, or your yellow fever, or your malaria, or your bronchitis, or your herpes simplex, or your legionnaires disease, or whatever it is you may be passing to innocent people trying to make their skewer or chip or stick more delicious.

And, I know what you’re going to say. Of course there are exceptions. It’s obviously fine to double dip on your own, and it’s fine to double dip amongst friends. If it’s someone who you would share spit with on a regular basis, then the regular dip rules don’t apply. If you're with them then feel free to double or even triple dip that skewer or chip or stick.

But public dip rules are different. You do not double dip. If you simply must have more dip on that skewer or chip or stick then turn it over and use the non germ side.

Because, seriously. Ew.

People, you’re grossing me out. I don’t want to have to go into this again.

Peppermint Tea

I was in Sainsbury’s this evening, purchasing myself some dinner-type items, and I saw something alarming.

No, it wasn't the man who walks around by the cash registers chanting loudly – I’m used to him. And this particular Sainsbury’s is in Camden, so the punks and goths and other "peoples of interesting attire" are pretty standard.

What could be considered somewhat less than standard were the purchases of the man behind me in the queue. As I stood waiting for disorganised woman infront of me struggling to pay and put her shopping in bags at the same time, I couldn’t help but check out the items about to be purchased by the man behind me as he put them on the converyor belt thingy.

There were three bags of dog food, which isn’t strange. Maybe he has three dogs and they don’t like to share. And as he put his box of peppermint tea bags on the belt thingy, I thought to myself “mmm, peppermint tea. I should get some of that, now that I’m no longer afraid of herbal teas”. And then he put a second box on, and I thought to myself “I bet there’s a special. How annoying that I didn’t pick up some for myself”.

And then he added a third box. And a fourth. And a fifth. And that is when I began to think “man, that’s a freaking lot of peppermint tea”. And then he added a sixth box. And then seventh and eighth.

That, my friend, is a lot of tea. Now, I do understand the need to stock up on something when it's a good deal. I'd do it myself if I had any storage space whatsoever.

Now, each box has 40 tea bags. That means that this man was going to make 320 cups of peppermint tea.

Why so much tea? Is he an addict? Does he have a weird fetish? Is he under the impression that they are going to stop making peppermint tea? Because I’m pretty sure they’re not. Is he going to a tea party? A massively huge tea party with hundreds and hundreds of guests? What is the deal with this? Is he sending the tea to a person living in a country that has outlawed peppermint tea? Is he a herbal tea smuggler?

My lingering thought was that he was going to attempt an overdose, and I was more concerned than anything else. I really didn’t want to have this man’s peppermint tea suicide attempt on my conscience, so I did a bit of research when I got home.

A very handy website about health and wellness and what have you had the answer:

Overdosage
Although there are no cases of Peppermint overdose on record, pure menthol can be fatal in doses of as little as 2 grams, although individuals have survived dosages as high as 8 to 9 grams (about 2 teaspoonfuls). If you suspect an overdose, seek medical attention immediately.

Well, that’s a relief. But still, what’s the deal with all the tea?

Truly, this is one of the great mysteries of our time.

Fashion Avenger

Dear Woman Sarah & I Saw In The Pub Last Weekend,

Look, we’ve all been there. The unexpected arrival of gorgeous spring weather takes you by surprise, and you’re forced to trawl through last year’s spring and summer wardrobe for something that is both weather appropriate and cute.

But, the thing is, when most people do this, it’s the wardrobe from last year that they’re looking at. Not their wardrobe from 1734. Because that’s where you seem to have pulled this ... interesting ... number from.

Over a frosty cool Sunday beverage, Sarah and I had a bit of a discussion on the look you were aiming for. Sarah’s first thought was Ophelia, while I was leaning more towards Anne of Green Gables’ version of “The Lady of Shalott”. Normally you wouldn't have elicited such discussion, but a floor length, white, high-necked, long-sleeved, lacy cotton dress is not the kind of thing you expect to see in a pub on a Sunday afternoon.

Sarah finally hit on the best description for your look, though, when she came up with Miss Havisham. Or, to be slightly more accurate, Miss Havisham’s slightly more deranged bridesmaid.

You were probably just thinking that the dress was nice and breezy. Hell, maybe you were even thinking that it looks nice.

But do you really want strangers in a pub having lengthy discussions about which fictional character you are? Especially when those fictional characters are insane? Probably not.

The whole pseudo-Victorian thing is so not a good look for you, honey. Trust me.

Better luck next time,

Alice

Lame? Me? Surely you jest!

I know. I haven't updated since April 27th. That's three weeks.

And that? Is lame.

But there is a good reason for that. There really is. If by "good" you mean "slightly lazy".

You see, for the past four and a half months I haven't had internet accesss at home. It's a very long and drawn out story and it's quite painful to remember. To avoid the tears and recrimination, let's just say that Telewest owes me a full day of my life back and I hate them. And don't even get me started on NTL. But until today (joy!) I've been access-less at home.

What does this mean? It means that I do most of my blogging at work. Which is all well and good, as long as they don't realize I'm doing most of my blogging at work. The plan had been working well. Or it was working well, until about three weeks ago.

What happened three weeks ago? We moved offices. Now, I'm sure you're picturing me in my own private corner office on the 30th floor of a skyscraper with my personal assistant Juan getting me fresh coffee and pastries whenever I want them.

I love that picture, but sadly it is somewhat less than accurate.

This was the setup of my old office:



Ideal for the worktime blogging. As you can see, my monitor is not exposed to the the general public. Should someone enter through the office door, there's plenty of time to alt-tab into a spreadsheet and look all business-like.

But we're not there anymore. We're in our not-so-glam, but still fab offices. And they're great. They're much larger, which is super. (The size of the above office really isn't exaggerated at all.)

But now, the office looks like this:



It's great - bigger, more people, much laughter and fun. But, less ability to write blog entries when pretending to work. Because a budget in a spreadsheet looks a bit different to the blogger webpage. Weird, no? And it turns out, they kind of expect me to do "work" when I'm actually at work. I know. It's so odd.

So, that's my lame reason. No internet access at home + work office being less blog friendly = no blog entries. (But fact: excuses are always better if you have diagrams.)

I'm sorry. I'll try to not let it happen again.

And thanks to Aaron and Kobrinsky for yelling at me. Dudes, I know. Lame!

Oh, Broadband!

Broadband
To the tune of "Mandy"
Lyrics by Alice, Original lyrics & music by Barry Manilow

Oh Broadband,
Well, you came and you are so amazing,
And I think that you’re great.
Oh, Broadband
Well, now I can read my emails,
And update my blog.
Oh, Broadband!

Oh Broadband
Well, you came and you stopped my from moaning,
And you’re here to stay.
Oh, Broadband
Well, you’re here and you are so amazing,
And you’ll never leave.
oh, Broadband!

Converted on the Northern Line

You know what I love about London? I love how you can be on your way home from an impromptu weeknight drinking session, and someone on the tube tries to convert you.

Okay, that’s not something that happens often or anything like that and it’s not really specifically London-related, but it did happen last night.

I was on the tube with my good friend Mrs. D chatting drunkenly (and therefore loudly) when the guy sitting next to me turned around and asked me where I was from.

(That’s not as creepy as it sounds – I get asked that a few times a week. Apparently my delightful accent makes people want to talk to me. And oh, it’s delightful.)

So, I say Canada, because it’s true, and he then asks me if I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my personal saviour. You know, as you do.

Now, clearly, I should have given him the patented “Bitch Stare” and continued talking to Mrs. D. Or, I could have said “yes, I’m totally down with the big JC” and turned away. But I think those of you who know me will know better than that.

Did ignore him?

Oh no.

I obviously say “why, no”, giving him the perfect opportunity to enlighten me on all that I’m missing. Turns out he’s from Florida, and he’s moved to England to be with others of his kind, or something like that. ‘Cause there certainly aren’t any evangelical Christians in Florida. But anyway, in this informal missionary capacity, he apparently likes to chat to people on the tube about the Lord. He didn’t give us his name, so I’ll just have to call him The Believer.

The Believer probably though that we were in need of religion, as we were totally drunk on a Tuesday night, and figured that we’d be easy converts. What with the drunk. But, while I certainly can be talked into almost anything when I’m drunk, changing my personal philosophical and religious beliefs at the suggestion from a stranger isn’t quite so easy.

But I was the least of his worries. I may have been a drunken yet entertained agnostic, but he had a drunken theology-schooled atheist to deal with. And she was far tougher than me.

In the trip between Tottenham Court Road and Tufnell Park we covered whether the Bible is historically accurate, the true nature of faith, general spirituality, the original language in which the Bible was written (to which The Believer's companion kept saying "I am German") and when said writing occured. Mrs D also informed him that "one must always know thoroughly what one means to surmount", which I think just confused him. Too many big words.

It was all very enlightening, and highly entertaining.

Needless to say, the attempted convert failed, we're still hellbound and beyond saving. I'm cool with remaining firmly on the “going to hell” list. But really, all the cool people are going to be down there.

It’ll be a way better party.

Book time!

I have a fabulous and delightful friend who is considering moving to London for a bit. While she will right now remain nameless, due to the fact that this information could accidentally get to her boss and get me in trouble, I think she needs some reading material to help her get prepped for London life.

Any suggestions?

And, don't say Bridget Jones.

Bacon, anyone?

These may be the most awesome things I have ever seen. Gross, yet fabulous. Is there any better combination?

Man, you can always find the coolest stuff at Pop Culture Junkmail.

Anyone want to buy me some?

Things I think about when I’m ill...

What are collard greens? Are they greens that have been prepared in a collard manner? Are they a type of green? Could you have collard carrots?

Thankfully, then internet is there to help me out.

“Collards, also called collard greens, are vegetables that are members of the cabbage family. Because of this, they have a taste that is similar to cabbage and kale. Although collards are related to cabbage, they are also closely associated with the following vegetable types: broccoli, Brussels sprouts and cauliflower. Collards are grown in the southern United States, for example, in Mississippi, and in Europe. An example of a European country that uses collards quite often in their cooking is Portugal. Popular uses for collards throughout the world are to steam, boil, and microwave the vegetable or, to add it to soups and stews. While you can also add collards to cold salads, the collards should be cooked first prior to using them in a salad.”

And there you go. No, you could not have collard carrots. Unless you invented a new type of carrot and named it after yourself and your name was Jim Collard. Then you could have collard carrots. But it wouldn’t be the same.

Isn’t the internet a wonderful thing?

(If you’d like to know how to make “Awesome Collard Greens”, then I recommend you go here. They’re awesome!)

Fashion Avenger

Dear Lady I Stood Behind On The Escalator At Angel Station,

Sweet mother of god.

Do you hate me? Are you out to get me? Are you just angry at the world? Do you not own a mirror? Are you on a mission to alienate the whole world? Do you not feel a little breezy?

Because here’s the thing. You have a massive hole in your jeans. Actually, that’s not true. You have several massive holes in your jeans. Normally, I would not have a problem with this. You’re entitled to wear ripped jeans. I find it refreshingly casual. It’s clearly your look, and you’re making it work.

Or so I thought. I thought you were making it work until I was standing directly behind you on the escalator at Angel tube station. As you well know, the escalator at Angel is a very long, steep, scary one. And normally, I would be reading the adverts along the wall, and trying not to think about how easily I could plummet to my death if even one person faltered and sent us on a domino-like descent. But what was I thinking about on this particular escalator journey?

Your ass.

And why was I thinking about your ass? Because it was right in my face.

Here’s a tip for you. If you wear jeans with a massive hole in the ass, you might want to think about wearing underwear.

Sweet mother of god.

I did not need to know that much about you. I really didn’t.

Seriously. M&S. Just think about it.

Best wishes,

Alice

Stupid Catchy Songs....

So, I'm sitting at my desk on my lunch break reading a very insightful look into the use of steroids in baseball, and what gets stuck in my head?

Oh, that's right. The same song that gets stuck in my head almost every time I hear a baseball reference.

Well Mr. Burns had done it,
The power plant had won it,
With Roger Clemens clucking all the while,
Mike Scioscia's tragic illness made us smile,
While Wade Boggs lay unconscious on the barroom tile...

We're talkin' softball...
From Maine to San Diego.
Talkin' softball...
Mattingly and Canseco.
Ken Griffey's grotesquely swollen jaw.
Steve Sax and his run-in with the law.
We're talkin' Homer...

Ozzie and the Straw.

We're talkin' softball...
From Maine to San Diego.
Talkin' softball...
Mattingly and Canseco.
Ken Griffey's grotesquely swollen jaw.
Steve Sax and his run-in with the law.
We're talkin' Homer...
Ozzie and the Straw.

Do you know when that episode aired?

20 February, 1992.

That means that that song has been in my head for about thirteen years.

Scary, no?

Fashion Avenger

Dear Lady I Saw On Tottenham Court Road On A Lovely Spring Day,

Oh no. Oh, sweetie. Honey. Darling. Angel. Petal. No. No, no, no, no, no. Just no.

I have to let you know. I winced when I saw you on the street. And you just do not want to be making random strangers wince when they see you. You really don’t.

I think I see what you were aiming for here. You were thinking “Gosh, it’s a lovely spring like day! I think I’ll wear a mini skirt!” And I like that thinking. It’s sassy and springlike. You know what is not sassy and springlike? The horrible mistake just south of your lovely mini skirt.

Your fun green and white striped shirt and khaki skirt combo was quite delightful, and while not quite my personal style, it was a nice look. Preppy, yet cute. Your opaque tights, however? No. Especially not in green. Green. Opaque. Tights. Oooooooh, no. I just don’t think so.

Actually, I take that back. You could have made that work. I think that if you’d gone with a simple and neutral ballet flat or kicky kitten heel it could have been a creative look. But oh, no. You had to be “wacky”, didn’t you? You had to be “outrageous” and “fun”. And so what did you team with your green striped shirt and green tights? Oh, that’s right. Green trainers**. And you know what that is? Too. Much. Green.

I assume that you are not a Crazy All One Colour Lady. Because I could get behind that lady. She’s crazy! And she has a mission! She only wears blue! Or purple! She’s super fun and I support her enthusiasm. Sadly, you are not that lady. You are a lady who thought “hey, it’s all green! That must mean it matches, yes?”

And that is where you made your tragic mistake. Because “green” is not that easy. There are what we call “shades” of colours. And they don’t necessarily go with each other. For example, a purpley-blue does not necessarily match a greeny-blue.

I know this seems complicated. But just trust me. There can be too much of a good thing.

Just try and tone down the all-one-colour, okay? Because if I see this on the street again, I’ll have to give you the dreaded double wince. And do you really want that?I thought not.

Best of luck,

Alice

** As I now live in the UK, I will be using the British “trainer” rather than the North American “sneaker”. Please don’t be confused.

The Wedding

On Saturday, two of my most delightful friends got married. I was lucky enough to be a part of their wedding, and a part of their fantastic and magical day.

They’re both so awesome (in fact, they’re both founding members of the League of Awesome) and they’re such a great couple and they love each other so much and it speaks so highly of them both that so many fabulous people gathered together to celebrate their wedding.

I’ve been trying to write something that captures how truly fantastic the entire day was, but I’ve been struggling. Words don’t seem to truly sum up the day. I’d act it out for you in interpretive dance, but sadly that doesn’t work over the internet.

The answer has come to me, though. Two words: Photo. Essay.

Sadly, I took very few photos myself, but I am on a mission. If you have any photos, email them to me. Especially if I look super cute in them.

So, stay tuned and I promise that I’ll get back to y’all soon.

And Clare & Jamie? Guys, that was like one of the best weddings ever.

To make up for the lack of posts....

It's a two price of one blog-tastic day!

(and I got the idea from Jessica .)

Book Reco-meme-dations:

You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be?

I'd have to say Pride & Prejudice. I love that book. I really do. And I think a life of worrying about my sister's boyfriend's nasty sisters and not much else would really suit me.

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?

Who hasn't? Book-wise, there's always Mr. Darcy. I've never really liked any of the Pride & Prejudice films because they just haven't lived up to the Mr. Darcy in my head. I can't think of any other swoon worthy characters right now, but I know they exist. Oooh, I loved Mary-Ann's boyfriend Logan in the Babysitter's Club books when I was a kid. Does that count?

The last book you bought is?

The Well of Lost Plots by Jasper Fforde. Which I then realized I've already read. I hate it when that happens.

The last book you read?

I just re-read Shopaholic Abroad by Sophie Kinsella. It's like she can see into my soul. It really is. Should I tell you about the gorgeous dress I got for Clare's wedding?

What book are you currently reading?

Right now I'm re-reading (I'm in bit of a re-reading phase right now) Growing Up Twice by Rowan Coleman, but I'm finding that I'm skipping quite a few bits. It's not as good as it was the first time.

Five books you would take with you on a deserted island?

1. Love Story by Erich Segal. I've read that book about thirty times, and it's made me cry every. single. time. True story. I'd bring that for when the whole stuck on a deserted island thing was getting me down.

2. Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen. I love, love, love this book. It's just amazing. I know it's a chick thing, but I firmly belive that everyone should read this book at least once. At LEAST once.

3. Microserfs by Douglas Coupland. I know it's dated, but I think it's my favourite of his books. And I'm quite the Douglas Coupland fan. He's Canadian, you know.

4. Tears of the Moon by Nora Roberts. It's light, it's fluffy, it's a romance novel. But I've read it a million times and I could read it a million more. Don't judge me.

5. The Oxford English Dictionary. If I've got some time to fill, I may as well improve my vocabulary.

Who are you going to pass this stick to?

I would say Bette O, as she has her newly delightful blog.

The Luckiest Time Of Them All

“You know, we're now at 17 days since you lasted posted on your blog. It’s like I don't even know who you are anymore.” - Anon.

In honour of the lameness of my non-posting, I’m going to share something very special with you all.

I have a lucky time.

Now, I know that a lot of people have a lucky number. Mine, for example, is 27. And that is why I know that 2004/2005 is going to be awesome, because I am now 27, so clearly it’s going to be my favourite year. But that is not my point today.

And people have a lucky colour, or a lucky rabbit’s foot or a lucky pet or a lucky sweater or lucky underwear or lucky parents or any number of lucky things.

Of course, to be fair, it’s not my lucky time alone. It’s a generally lucky time that all can share in.

It just makes good sense when you think about it. It seems obvious that a time with a double number in it is mildly lucky. For example, 9:22 is a lucky-ish number. What with its double 2’s.

2:22 (or 1:11 or 3:33 or 4:44 or 5:55) appears to be very lucky, until you take into account the idea of a 24 hour clock, which you would use if you were in the military or Europe. Then 2:22 becomes 14:22 or 02:22 (depending on time of day) and it’s not so lucky after all.

Similarly 22:22 seems lucky in 24 hour time, but when you convert it to standard North American time telling, it becomes a disappointing 10:22.

I’m sure you’re seeing where this is going.

The luckiest time of all?

11:11.

Doesn’t it look pretty? And, clearly, it’s very lucky. Otherwise, how would I suddenly look at the clock at 11:11 on many, many days? How would I just instinctively know that it’s lucky?

I don’t have any conclusive proof of why it’s lucky. I just know.

And, now that you’re aware of it’s mystic and awesome powers, I hope that you’ll know too.

Keep a look out for things that happen at 11:11. I’ll just bet they’re lucky.

Imaginary Hobos & Genius Business Plans

You know sometimes when you have a fabulous messenger conversation about a fabulous imaginary hobo named Hobo Joe? And then you try to write a blog entry about him, but it just makes you seem crazy? Yeah, that totally just happened to me. So instead, I give you the conversation that spawned Hobo Joe.

***

Aaron: Bonjourno.

Alice: Bonjourno to you too!

Aaron: It means "nuts to work" in Italian.

Alice: I hear what you’re sayin’. I do.

Aaron: How’s the biz over there?

Alice: Tiring. How’s the biz over there?

Aaron: Sucks donkey ass.

Aaron: I’m thinking I should just wrap all my belongings into a bandana, tie it to the end of a stick, and then I’ll run away and join the circus.

Alice: That sounds FUN! I’ll come too, and we can be a team of acrobats.

Aaron: Oooh, I like it! And on our journey, we can befriend an old toothless hobo who will regale us with his tales of adventure on the rails.

Alice: That sounds delightful! His name will be Hobo Joe, and he'll be full of wisdom and hilarious stories. And he'll tragically become very ill while telling us the story of his lost gold, and then he’ll ask us to go on an adventure and find it. And he’ll let us have the money, and we'll be rich! Rich as Eskimos!

Aaron: That’s it. I’m doing this now!

Aaron: Oh, and how rich are Eskimos supposed to be?

Alice: Duh. Rich.

Aaron: Sorry. I’m stupid.

Alice: Don’t feel bad. Most people don't know that about Eskimos

Aaron: You should write a book about them.

Alice: That's a good idea

Aaron: And the irony is, the book will make you as rich as an Eskimo!

Alice: Ha HA! The plan, she works!

Aaron: You know, you should start up your own company with your book money.

Alice: You know, I should.

Alice: I’ll call it "Alice’s Emporium of the Weird and/or Wonderful"

Alice: And it will be a hat shop

Aaron: I think you should hire Hobo Joe as a salesperson.

Alice: He’d be so good. He’d really charm the customers.

Aaron: He would. You could set up a corner of the store just for him. There’d be a little campfire, and he'd have cans of beans to warm over the fire. People could sit around and listen to him talk, and he'd work details about your hats into his stories.

Alice: Such a charmer. I love that Hobo Joe.

Aaron: And I’d be outside pacing in front of the store, wearing a sandwich board, shouting, "HATS FOR SALE!"

Alice: Oh, you'd rake in the big bucks for that, I tell you.

Aaron: "COME AND GET YOUR HAT! HATS FOR SALE!"

Alice: Oooh, that makes it sound like we stole their hats, and now trying to sell it back to them. I LOVE it!

Aaron: That’s the best way to turn a profit.

Alice: So true

Aaron: But the best part is that you won't even have to pay Hobo Joe. He’ll just sleep in front of the fire at night, and so long as he's got his beans and whiskey, he'll be just fine.

Alice: Oh, Hobo Joe. He’s so good like that.

Aaron: Here, i drew a picture of Hobo Joe:


Hobo Joe 

Alice: You are a very talented artiste.

Alice: That looks just like him!

Aaron: Thank you.

Aaron: God bless hobo Joe.

Alice: Indeed

***

Hobo Joe has also won the lead role in Aaron's imaginary movie, so he'll be coming to an imaginary cinema near you very soon!

Which Johnny Depp Are You?

I don't know if I agree with this.

You Are Sam From "Benny & Joon." You are very talented at physical comedy. People are in awe of your abilities. However, you have many quirks which can either win people over or completely annoy them. But you're a sweetheart through and through, and it's hard not to love you.

Take The Johnny Depp Quiz!

Although, I am kooky. There's no arguing with that.

All About Bette

As Cheryl B's blog reminded me, my friend Bette (who is awesome) has five poems featured in Scene360.com. (I especially like Ladies Choice.)

As an added bonus, there's a link to one of Cheryl's stories!

Ten things I've done which you probably haven't

1. Been a mere one IMDB link away from not one, but five porn stars
2. Lived in the Bahamas (in 1980, I think. Maybe 1981.)
3. Had seminal 70's tune "You Light Up My Life" by Debby Boone as the #1 in the US the week I was born (It was #1 from 9 Oct to 17 Dec, 1977)
4. Named your guinea pig "GP" after the one on Polka Dot Door, without realizing that GP stood for Guinea Pig. (I was 6. Shut up.)
5. Shared an intense, and possibly life changing, moment with Christian Slater.
6. Had the song "Head Over Feet" by Alanis Morisette in my head for upwards of two months, during the summer of 1995 (aaaand, now it's in my head again)
7. Had the following hair colours: blonde, dark brown, light brown, auburn, pink, orange, blonde and brown at the same time, blonde with red streaks, and a few more I can't think of.
8. Lived at four different addresses in the last three and a half years.
9. Impulsively named a cat after a character in a book you were reading at the time, and then regretted it when people kept asking "Fenchurch? What the hell kind of name is that?"
10. Spent far too long at work coming up with 10 things about myself. For shame!

Thanks to Wendy for the idea.

Girl, you know it's true

So, here's the thing. A very very good friend of mine is leaving London in a few days. Now, I obviously find this completely unacceptable, but she has chosen to disregard my feelings on this matter and decided to “live her own life”. Whatever that means. Outrageous behaviour, if you ask me.

But, I digress. She’s leaving. And although I’m really happy for her and excited for the potential travel opportunities that a friend in San Francisco gives me, I’m really going to miss her. And as I’ve been thinking about all the reasons she’s so awesome, and how many kick ass times we’ve had, it occurred to me that many of you don’t know her. And I think that’s a damn shame, cause she’s awesome.

So, I’d now like to introduce y’all to a little gal I like to call Kobrinsky.

She’s the girl that, when you first meet her, you think is quite quiet – a nice North Dakota girl. But then you find that you’re attempting to do some kind of waltz with a barman at midnight on a Monday night, all because she demanded that there be dancing. And you know that there is no way you’d have ever found yourself in that situation unless she was there to orchestrate it. It’s a killer story and a great memory, and it’s thanks to her.

Once you get to know her, you realize she’s far from quiet. She is, in fact, one of the loudest people you’ve ever met. But that’s good, cause you’re loud too and you like that about each other. You find that when the two of you are together, you regress to giggly teenagers and that’s hilarious. You start pulling out phrases that you haven’t used in years, like “You’re double O C – out of control” and the word “dude” creeps back into your vocabulary. You can discuss the relative merits of the different New Kids, and she knows you’ll understand her Hans and Franz references. It feels like you’ve known each other forever.

She’s the girl who is dancing in a bikini made of straw at her going away party and keeps saying “I’m wearing a bikini!” and finding it amazing every single time. She’s also the girl that looks smokin’ hot in said bikini.

She’s the girl that knows how to dance, and is always pulling you and everyone else in the room into complicated dances and you find yourself spinning and twirling and being generally fabulous, even though you can’t really dance. She’s the girl that dances the Highland Fling with poets on train platforms in Scotland and entices them to come to Edinburgh with you. And you’re amazed to discover that they’re both really good at the Highland Fling, and you love that they will from now on be willing to dance on the street as long as there’s alcohol involved. (You also love that there’s video footage of this.)

She’s the girl that can keep a joke going forever, which is great because you enjoy the long running joke. It turns out that text messages that just say “cocksucker” are still funny, even seven months later. Who knew? When you both yell “Walk off!” in the middle of a party, you’re the only ones that think it’s funny, and there’s really nothing wrong with that.

She’s the girl that will perform folk dances at the drop of a hat, and even though you’re certain that the one involving all the animal impersonations had to be fake, you love that she tried to convince you it was authentic.

She’s the girl that loves her friends, and takes good care of them. She’s the friend that will be there for you if you need her, and would gladly drop everything if you needed to talk.

She’s a poet, and she’s so smart and clever and very good at what she does. You love her poem “Jesus Smokes”, and can never get enough of hearing it. She’s the girl that, even though she claims to not be good at performance, can charm an audience and have them eating out of her hand. She’s on the stage, and she’s barefoot, and she’s fabulous.

She’s the girl that keeps yelling “I love us!!” on a girls night out. And that’s before she’s drunk.

She’ll buy flowers for a cab driver’s wife on Valentine’s Day, because he hasn’t bought her anything. And then she’ll get the security guard at the petrol station to take your photo.

She’s the girl who helps develop the theory that it’s fine to have Bloody Mary’s for breakfast on holiday, because they have vitamins in them.

She’s very brave – moving countries is hard, and she’s done it more than once. She’s taking a chance and going to live in a new city with the man she fell in love with. And that is awesome.

She’s neurotic and gets stressed out, but can laugh at herself. She recognizes the fabulousness in others, and has some pretty kick ass friends. She throws a great party. She lives in a house with a costume cupboard.

She believes in her heart of hearts that Billy Zane is a poet. It’s so dark where she is right now.

She’s the Naked Kobrinsky. Even with her clothes on.

There are ten thousand other reasons why Kobrinsky is amazing. And I feel very sad for those of you that haven’t met her yet. But you’ve got that to look forward to, so I have to envy that a little.

When I think about how much I’m going to miss her, it’s a little bit much so I fall back on the standard sarcasm and humour. She’s become a huge part of my life in the year that I’ve known her. And there’s going to be a Kobrinsky shaped hole when she leaves.

I think that if there’s one message I want to leave with her before she goes, it’s quite a simple one. I’m going to fall back on the words of a couple of guys who really knew how to touch people’s hearts and souls.

It’s the immortal words of Milli Vanilli that say it best:

Girl, you know it’s true
Oooh, oooh, oooh
I love you.

Mice!

Recently received in an email: “Your blog has been entertaining but light on "Alice's life" details lately. How do expect people to stalk you properly when you don't disclose more aspects of your personal life?”

Good point, anonymous commenter. Good point. (Not that I encourage the stalking. Cause I really don’t think I have time for it. And now that I have proper curtains, I think the whole stalking proposition will be far less appealing to the peeping Toms out there.)

So, what’s going on in Alice’s life? Mice. That’s what.

Little horrible, disease carrying, terrible, scary (and yet disarmingly cute) mice.

Imagine, if you will. I am in my bathroom, brushing my teeth. And what do I see running from the steps in the kitchen to the bathroom door? A mouse.

Now, do I scream? Do I leap onto the toilet seat and start shrieking like a housewife in a 1950’s sitcom? No, I do not.

I think, “Aw crap. Not again.”

I do, however, shriek when I see the second mouse run across the floor as I'm standing in the kitchen. This is, of course, after I am already aware that the mice are there. I am ridiculous.

But I digress.

As many of you* may remember, I have had these issues before. It was autumn 1998. Steph and I were living in the basement apartment on Palmerston. And the mice, they invaded.

Twice.

The first time, we tried the traps. I became a heartless mouse killing machine. Steph discovered that she’s a bit of a wuss when it comes to dead rodents. And yet, no matter how many we killed, there was always another to fall out of the kitchen cupboard when you open it in the middle of the night. And let me tell you, you haven't heard shrieking until you've been attacked by an airborne mouse in the dark.

Finally, we got rid of them when we cat-sat for my parent’s cat Max. Max may have been hugely overweight and lazy, but she was a mouse killing machine. She scared them away, and they stayed away. Excellent kitty.

Then they came back. Like a horror movie – they just wouldn’t stay dead. (Okay, we didn’t have zombie mice. They were just regular mice. But still – ew!) By that point Steph had fled the apartment. Clever girl. So, I was facing the second mouse invasion alone.

Since traps hadn’t worked the first time, I tried poison. Ahhh, poison. I was told how it works, and even though it’s really really not pretty, I didn’t care. Like I said - heartless. And it seemed to be doing the trick. The damned mice were being defeated. I had beaten the rodent invasion!

Only not really. The mice refused to leave. Even though they were poisoned and dying, they were still so stubborn. And then I got my kitty. (Not to kill the mice. Because she was so pretty. I'm not that heartless.) And my kitty scared away the mice. And I’d really rather not get into the upsetting details of the whole cat-eating-poisoned-mouse-emergency-trip-to-vet-do-you-know-how-hard-it-is-to-give-a-cat-pills period of time. But the mice, they were gone.

And then I moved country and lived in three different flats before moving into this new one. This new flat that I love. Except for the mouse thing. I do not love the mice.

So, the weekend was spent cleaning. Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. And buying a rubbish bin for the kitchen. Turns out a garbage bag on the floor is a little too mouse friendly. I really hope they were confined to the kitchen. I did have a dream that I felt one of them walking across my feet as I slept. And I choose to believe it was a dream, thank you very much.

I hope they’re gone. I really do. If they’re not, then it’s time to get a cat.

I wonder what the fishes will think about that?

* Ha! I like to believe that there are “many” of you out there. Delusional? Perhaps.

Hate & Love ... I'm a complex woman

Hate!

Okay, here’s the thing. You know the lady in the ROC ad? The one who’s all “I feel like I’m in my 30’s but I’m about to turn 44”. And we’re all supposed to be so amazed because she's so much older than she looks?

She looks 44.

If I was to stand beside her, no one would think “oh, they could be the same age”. They’d think “is that her very very young mom, or her much older sister?” And that, my friend, is because she looks 44.

Now, don’t get me wrong. She has fabulous skin. Amazing skin. I’m sure people compliment her on it all the time. It’s gorgeous.

It does not, however, mean that she looks ten years younger than she is.

It’s nothing against her, at all. The ad just bugs.

Love!

You know the guy in the KFC "99p Mini Fillet" ad? No, not the singing guy - although I find him very amusing. The other guy.

It's the guy with the mini fillet burger who's standing beside the singing lady. Take a look at his face when you watch the ad.

Comedy gold, my friends. Comedy gold.

Fashion Avenger

Dear Joan Jett Look-Alike on the Northern Line,

I have something to tell you. It may be upsetting, but I really think it’s best that you know now that you look silly. I’m really just hoping that you can minimise your embarrassment.

You have a Joan Jett haircut. Circa 1985. Sweetie, you’re around fifteen years old. You probably don’t even know who Joan Jett is. You weren’t even born in 1985. You were born in about 1990. That upsets me, because it makes me feel old, but that’s not really your concern. You concern should be that you have silly hair.

I know what you’re going to say. You’re “rock”. You’re “retro”. You’re “individual”. You’re “just being you”.

I don’t mean to be cruel, but those are stupid reasons. You’re not being individual. You’re being manipulated by a hairdresser with too much time on her hands. This woman is obviously sadistic and somewhat evil, and you really need to keep your distance. I can only hope you didn’t pay too much for your silly, silly hair.

If only I could put a dime in the jukebox, baby, and turn back time to get you a better haircut. But, sadly, I can’t. I’m sure you’re a rock chick. I’m sure you are. I saw your friends, and I see your need to differentiate yourself from their bland girl band same-y trendiness. I get that. I’m pickin’ up what you’re puttin’ down.

But, sweetie. Really. There are so, so many far, far, far less painful ways to do that.

I approve of your need to be individual. I think it’s fab. And, so I’m not going to make any suggestions for your new look.

Okay, that’s totally not true. I’m going to make one suggestion. Get a new hairdresser.

Good luck, sweetie. I’m sure you’re going to be a super stylin’ vixen when you grow up. Just consider this a failed attempt. We all make mistakes. Better luck next time.

Good luck,

Alice

Seriously, this is so much fun...

I found the most fun thing ever yesterday, courtesy of Gwen.

This is me, on a casual day in the park.

This is me, on a picnic in an enchanted forest with my cat.

This is me at work. If I worked in a hospital/high school/business-y looking building. Which I do not.

This is me, taking a wander through some possibly evil purple flowered trees. Seriously, don't they seem a bit creepy?

This is me heading out for a night on the town. And my flat totally looks like that.

And this is the outfit that I'm going to wear to Clare's wedding.

Too much?

Best Search Phrase

As previously mentioned, there's a feature that lets me see how people came to be at the blog.

One way is search engines. And, happily, it tells me what they were searching for when they found me.

Best phrase yet?

"Where to sell your hair in Montreal"

Awesome.

I have no idea, but now I'm kind of curious.

Damn Locksmiths!

So, you know when you move into a new place? And you think “right, I’m going to do all the normal things like get keys copied and give them to friends because I live by myself and I certainly don’t want to lock myself out”? And then you don’t get around to that because you’ve only lived in your new place for two weeks? And then you do a very complicated key/cash/laundry juggle when you’re trying to go and do your laundry and you get outside and realize that you have your cash and your laundry, but not your keys?

No? Not familiar with that particular situation?

Well, let me tell you that it sucks. And not only does it suck , but it’s very expensive.

Imagine, if you will. Sicily. 1929.

No, wait. I mean, London. 2005. A girl, let’s call her Alice, is going to do her laundry. She gets out to the street, and realizes that she is the stupidest human being on the planet. She has locked her keys inside her flat. She is an idiot. She is also an idiot holding an Ikea bag full of laundry. She may as well take that to the laundrette.

So, once Alice pays the £3.50 to run the washing machine (it’s a double-loader, and that’s really quite reasonable), she goes to try and call a locksmith. This is when she realizes that in addition to her keys, her mobile phone is also sitting on her desk. She curses quietly to herself. It’s 9:30 on a Sunday morning. Only about two of the shops on her street are open. She decides that the coffee shop is a better bet than Sainsbury’s.

The kindly shopkeeper offers to let her use the phone. After several failed attempts to contact a locksmith open on a Sunday morning, she finally hits the jackpot. Alice, our resident idiot, has found a locksmith who has promised to be at her flat by 11:30. This is excellent news.

She thanks the kindly shopkeeper and returns to the laundrette. She figures that she may as well keep doing her laundry, so she transfers from washer to dryer and sits reading two year old Cosmo. Did you know that Casey Affleck is about to hit it big in Ocean’s 11?

Alice realizes that she doesn’t have watch. This isn’t really a big surprise,as she hasn’t worn a watch for over a year. She is used to having her phone with her, though. And her phone has the time conveniently displayed. She does not have her phone with her today. She is an idiot.

A random woman is startled by her request for the time and seems concerned that Alice going to mug her, but eventually tells her that it is almost 11:30. This is good. She goes to meet the locksmith. Alice worries that she is going to irritate her new neighbours by ringing random bells and asking to be let in. Fortunately, the kid who lives upstairs is very willing to leave the front door open for people he has never seen before. Alice decides to be worried about this lax security later. Now is not the time.

The locksmith, or Jack as he’s more commonly known, arrives. Alice thinks to herself “yay! I’m sure I’ll be in soon! And how much can it cost?” As previously mentioned, Alice is an idiot.

It turns out that Alice’s flat has a very, very good lock. And this means that it takes almost two hours to drill through it. This reassures her that thieves will not break into her flat at night while she is sleeping and murder her. Alice does not feel bad about mixing up murderers and thieves in her mind. She has other things to worry about.

Like the fact that it’s taking ages to open her door. But, finally, it is done. Two hours later. Conveniently, Jack has a new lock for her in his truck that perfectly matches her old lock. Unfortunately, it is chrome, rather than brass. He apologizes for this. Alice gives him a look that is intended to convey “are you kidding me?!?” and says chrome is just fine.

It takes almost an hour to put the new lock on. Alice drinks two cups of tea as she stands in her kitchen and watches this. It is very complicated. Alice begins to hate the makers of Yale locks. They are clearly sadistic bastards.

Jack finally puts the lock on. There is much rejoicing. And then Jack tells Alice how much this three hour odyssey will cost. There is much sadness. Alice is now broke. Fortunately, Jack is not a bastard like the makers of Yale locks. He only charges Alice two half-hour labour charges, rather than the six it took to actually complete the job. Alice is still broke.

This is a lesson to you all. Get your keys copied. Give copies to friends and/or family. Leave a copy in your desk at work. Make friends with your neighbours. Leave copies with them. Tape a copy to the front of your door. Do whatever it takes.

I paid the price for you all. Don’t make the same mistake I did.

Moving, illness, "misplaced baggage", Ikea and more!

Well, I have my luggage back. And no, it does not have a tan. Nor is it covered in stickers from all its travels around the world. But it obviously went somewhere, because it took them over a week to get it back to me. That is ridiculous. Did it come over from Canada in a canoe? Because that's the only reasonable explanation I can think of for the delay.

But, oh they'll pay. I will be writing a very sternly worded letter to Air Canada and Lufthansa (who, even though they aren't the ones that got me in this mess, are the ones responsible for my luggage) will be paying me the impressive sum of £42.01 to reimburse me for the toiletries I had to buy.

The "misplaced baggage" situation was even more irritating because I moved 5 days after getting back. So, they didn't have my correct address. And when I called to give them my work address to simplify things, they told me that they'd attempted to deliver the bags earlier and hadn't been able to because I wasn't home. When I pointed out that they were supposed to call me when they were arriving to avoid precisely this situation, I was given the killer response "Uh, yeah. They probably should have done that."

Idiots.

But the new flat is delightful. I'm very very happy with it. I don't have internet access yet (boo hiss!) or good tv (boo hiss!), but I'm working on those things. I am very pleased with the fact that I have a bathroom with a bathtub and a sink and a toilet. It's been two and half years since I've lived in a house with all of those things. And I have a kitchen. With an oven. And shelves that I put up myself. I'm so handy.

The move itself went fine. Thanks in large part to Clare and Jamie. Damn Ikea had oversold the slats to my bed, which is the part that holds the mattress up. A fairly essential part. Bastards. So, I had to go back this weekend. Annoying! But, amusingly, they actually gave me two bedframes when I'd only paid for one. And really, I only need one. I didn't realize I had two until I went to put it together on Sunday. Good times. I plan to sell the second one on eBay. I figure I can get at least £1000 for it. That's not unreasonable, is it?

Because I was off sick most of last week, I actually unpacked most of my stuff and I'm pretty much moved in now. Of course, the being sick wasn't any fun. It was the flu. Only, I don't think British people use the "the" when referring to it. So, since I'm in England, I had flu. That sounds silly. I have an unrelated cold now, which is fun. Keep the illness coming, body! I can take it!

That was me trying to be tough. I'm lying. I can't take it. I'm a wuss.

So, that's the story of the last week.

What's new with you?

Luggage 2: The Reckoning

I still don't have my bags.

It's now approximately 59 hours since I've seen my luggage. With all my toiletries, my cutest clothes, and my phone charger.

I called Lufthansa, for it was they who promised to find the bags, and they're still being traced. I'm somewhat alarmed that they haven't located them.

I wouldn't even mind if they were all "Oh, we sent them to Australia, you won't have them until they complete their world trip. Don't worry, at least they'll get a tan."

Then, at least, I'd know where they are. I went and spent £42 on toiletries after work today, since Apologetic Lady and Surly Man (the two people I spoke to today) promised me that I can get reimbursed for 100% of the cost of my toiletry needs. I still need to buy shampoo though. They didn't have the kind I liked at the Boots near my work. If it comes down to needing to buy some replacement clothes, they've said I can get 50% of the cost of that.

But let's hope it doesn't come to that.

Oh, and it's 2:34 in the morning, and I'm wide awake. Tired, but can't sleep. This jet lag is kicking my ass.

Jetlag Rocks!

The travel gods have it in for me. That’s the only way I can make sense of the travel nightmare I have experienced. Join me, won’t you, for a look through my attempt to get back to London.

(all times are listed first as Local Time, then on Alice's Body Time.)

Monday 3rd January, 2005

09:30 (09:30) I wake up to get ready to head back to London. There is laundry to do, there are suitcases to pack, there is lunch to be had.

14:00 (14:00) My ride arrives at the condo. I’m packed, things are looking good. We’re right on schedule. We sit, we chat, we laugh.

14:42 (14:52) Mandy suggests that we get on the road, and I concur. The timing, she is going according to plan. Mandy and Tim take my bags to the car and I lock the door and go and lock the keys in the parents car. I forget to start the dishwasher and leave Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell for the parents. Such is life. I meet Mandy and Tim at their car.

14:50 (14:50) We’re on the road. The plan, she is good.

15:20 (15:20) We arrive at Lester B. Pearson International Airport. Hugs and kisses goodbye are exchanged and I get in the line at the Air Canada International check in desk.

15:22 (15:22) I am approached by an Air Canada representative handing out flyers asking us to volunteer to be bumped from the flight in return for $500 in vouchers. I ask when I’d be flying. She says “maybe tomorrow, more likely Wednesday”. Sorry, I say. I have to be back at work on Wednesday. No can do.

15:40 (15:40) I reach the front of the line. I go to the check in desk and the very friendly check-in man informs me that I have been put on standby, despite the fact that my ticket was purchased three months ago. I ask him what that means exactly. I am informed that it is extremely unlikely that I will be on my booked flight. Air Canada will, however, do their “best” to get me on a flight today. Even, apparently, if it means connecting through Montreal, Halifax or even Vancouver. I point out that Vancouver is in the wrong direction. I think they must be joking.

15:55 (15:55) I normally would spend the time post check-in and pre boarding in the duty free shops or having a refreshing beverage at one of the fancy new Terminal 1 restaurants. But, as I am full of hope that I will get on my flight, I head to the gate so that when they call my name and tell me that I have a seat and it’s in business class I’m around to hear it.

16:15 (16:15) After a ridiculously long trip to gate 521, I take a seat and open my book. I would ask if I have a seat, but there is no one at the gate. This does not seem to deter a small but determined band of travellers, however, who have gathered in front of the desk.

17:20 (17:20) An Air Canada employee approaches the gate desk some what hesitantly. I understand her concern, as there are about ten very irate travellers hovering in wait for her. Her conversation as she sits down goes something like this: “Let me just get settled here… no I don’t have your information yet … please just let me … can you wait one second … I’ll be right with you”

17:45 (17:45) Hesitant Lady is joined by Assertive Man. He quickly gets on the PA and makes the first of two announcements: “If you are on standby, we will be unable to tell you if you are on the flight until 6:30. If you have any other questions, we will be happy to help you.” And then, about six seconds later, the second of two announcements: “If your question is regarding your standby ticket, we have no information for you. If you are asking about anything else, please come to the desk.” People, however, do not listen and continue to ask questions about their standby tickets. I begin to feel bad for HL and AM.

18:05 (18:05) I hear Assertive Man telling someone who is asking questions about their standby ticket that there are 35 of us in the same situation. This does not sound good.

18:20 (18:20) A few people have been called to the desk. I am not one of them.

18:30 (18:30) The plane begins to board. This is not a good sign.

18:50 (18:50) The plane has finished boarding. I go up to the desk to ask what’s up. As Hesitant Lady is telling me that they’re trying to get the 23 of us who didn’t make it onto the plane on different flights, I am interrupted by Angry Family who begin to rant about the fact that they’ve been repeatedly lied to and life is horrible and Air Canada hates them and blah blah blah. I am annoyed and sit down again.

19:00 (19:00) Angry Family has finally been subdued and they have found five spaces on a flight to Munich. They offer them to the first five people on the list. I am not one of those people. However Irish Girl has to make a connection to Dublin and would rather take her chances on the two later flights which are also overbooked. I am next in line, and head to gate 521 to receive my new boarding pass and my $500 voucher. The official “Air Canada screwed up and now they’re buying you off” voucher.

19:05 (19:05) There is much confusion at gate 521. Pregnant Lady and Scary Lady can’t figure out how to transfer us. Fortunately, I am the first in line and they figure it out for me. Unfortunately, the connecting flight from Munich is at 19:00 the following day. That doesn’t sound fun. But who knows? Maybe a day in the Munich airport will be fab. I am given my $500 voucher and promised a meal voucher in Munich. I have to run as the plane is boarding now.

19:20 (19:20) I board the flight to Munich. At least I’m moving.

19:45 (19:45) The plane takes off. I am treated to a delightful showing of Shark Tale and Sliding Doors. I cannot sleep. I am sitting beside Fat Winking Man and he’s taking up too much arm room. I can’t sleep. I fall asleep and then wake up after approximately ten minutes. I can’t sleep. This flight is long. I read. I can’t sleep.

Tuesday 4th January 2005

09:45 (03:45) We land in Munich. The airport is nice. Fortunately, there is much English spoken as I speak no German. I can’t believe I’m in Germany. This is very surreal.

10:25 (04:25) I convert my money to Euros, and go through Customs. I get a lovely new stamp in my passport. I call work an inform them that I will be taking an additional day off and I am so very tired and don’t anticipate getting any sleep today. This is agreed.

10:40 (04:40) I join the line for check in at Lufthansa. My plane isn’t until 7pm, but I figure I should check in now and then I can sit in the airport and read German magazines and eat German food. What better way to spend the day? Well, I could be at my flat already if I had been on the flight I had booked. But let’s not dwell on that.

10:55 (04:55) I reach the front of the line, and have a briefly confusing conversation about my luggage. We finally come to the conclusion that it is very likely that I will not be seeing my luggage for quite some time. Nice German Lady hands me my boarding card and tells me that I should be at gate H26 at 18:45 and what am I doing on such a late flight? I tell her I have no idea as Pregnant Lady in Toronto arranged it all. She suggests I go to the ticket people and get an earlier flight. I think that Nice German Lady is very smart.

11:10 (05:10) After heading over to the ticket area, the Ticket Lady with Too Much Makeup gets me on a 13:00 flight, which is clearly preferable to my 19:00 flight. She asks me what the ticketing people in Toronto were thinking. I have absolutely no idea. Crazy Crying Woman appears beside me and seems to be asking the ticketing people beside me to do something impossible. I am very intrigued and wish I spoke German so I could eavesdrop.

11:30 (05:30) I go through customs. Again. I visit a lovely little establishment that sells German food and beer. I have a beer and something called “meatloaf” which is just a really large hot dog. It’s odd but comes with potato salad. There are few things which potato salad cannot make better. The beer is a mistake. It makes me very sleepy. Or, I should say, sleepier than I already am.

12:30 (06:30) The plane to London boards. This is very exciting. And, I have an exit aisle seat! How fabulous. Wait, is this really exciting? I seem to have become delirious with exhaustion.

13:30 (07:30) After some kind of a delay, the plane takes off. I can’t sleep. Thankfully German Kid beside me isn’t taking up more than his fair share of armrest space. Is this flight over yet? I can’t sleep.

15:00 (10:00) We arrive into London, and for the first time ever in my travels the non-EU immigration queue is shorter than the EU queue. I get through fairly quickly. I have been awake for over twenty four hours.

15:30 (10:30) With some kind of deranged hope, I head to the baggage claim to look for my bags. As expected, they are not there. I fill out a “Property Irregularity Report” and am told that they’ll call me when they turn up. All my clothes, my makeup, my jewellery, and my toiletry bag are in my luggage. As well as my two cutest pairs of shoes. Damn.

16:00 (11:00) I get on the Heathrow Express. Thank freaking god. I debate the merits of getting the tube from Paddington and then realize I’m kidding myself and that I’m going to take a cab. I am so so tired.

16:15 (11:15) I get a cab to my house. I have never been happier to be home. Until I open the door and realize that I left my flat in a hideous mess. Fortunately the fish are alive. I give them some food and do some dishes. This pushes me to the edge of exhaustion.

17:00 (12:00) I have been awake for almost 28 hours. I lie down with the full intention of just resting my eyes.

Wednesday 5th January 2005

02:00 (Who knows?) I wake up. I am still tired but can’t sleep anymore. I check the status of my baggage. It is still being traced. They suggest I check back later. I check my email. I decide not to respond to them. I am too tired for that foolishness. Fortunately, there is enjoyable television on in the middle of the night. I watch some of it. I finish my dishes and have a shower. I think about tidying. I think about starting to pack for the big more. I decide against either of those things. I watch more television. I think about eating breakfast, but I have no food. I have ramen noodles. They are delicious.

I managed to survive the rest of the day. I have to go back to work tomorrow, then move on the weekend. I am still tired. Jetlag rocks.

Merry Christmas!

It's Christmas!

Well, not yet, obviously but I'm flying all day tomorrow and then I'll be recovering from the fam's Christmas dinner (and the resulting hangover) and then it's Christmas!

So, this is as close as we're going to get.

I hope you all have a very fun and fabulous Christmas (and/or religious or non-religious holiday celebration of your choice) and that it's filled with delicious food, yummy drinks, amusing traditions, holiday classics and the best Christmas record of all time.

I'll leave you with a delightful seasonal poem from the very clever Andy Jackson.

Merry Christmas, everybody!

Next Step: World Domination

So, there's this thing you can do when you've got a blog such as this one that invloves tracking who comes to visit you and see where they come from.

Most of my links come from Cheryl B's blog (hi people from Cheryl's blog!), and some from search sites. That is the jive that I'm usually hip to.

But, when I checked on the weekend, I noticed a new linker. Mediagirl.org. "Who is this media girl?", I thought. Being the kind of girl who gets straight down to business, I went to the website almost immediately. I may have had a diet coke inbetween the thought and the action. It was on the weekend. Who can remember?

It's a cool site for women and girls of all shapes and sizes who are involved in the media industry. Just like me! And, on the left hand side of the main page, there's a list of links. And who's on it? You'll never guess.

I'll give you a hint. It starts with M and rhymes with "smee".

It's me!

It's my first non-friend link! How delightful! I'm listed as "whimsical, serious blogging". Is that me? I suppose so. I don't really think of myself as "serious". But I like whimsical quite a lot!

I don't know how they/she found me, but hello! And send me an email or comment to let me know, cause I'm ever so curious.

So, now that I'm famous the next stop is clearly world domination. Woo hoo!

Christmas is coming....

... and I'm so unprepared.

I have gifts still to buy which either means facing the Oxford Street hordes in the weekend before Christmas, or waiting till Christmas Eve and trying to buy them in Victoria. I don't even know what I want to buy, which makes it even more difficult.

I still haven't sent my Christmas cards, which means that they'll either be late, or really early for next year.

I still haven't sent the work Christmas cards, which means I have to do it on the sly on Monday to make sure I don't get busted. It seemed really important to order them about six weeks ago. I can't remember why that was now.

I have to do my laundry (stupid laundrette) in order to be able to pack to go home for Christmas. Of course, when I say "home" I mean my parent's home. I don't have a Canadian home anymore.

I have to try and figure out how I'm going to see thirty people in the three days I have in Toronto. I'm sure I can do it. It may be done through a drunken haze, but it will get done.

I have to move three days after I get back from Canada. Assuming that I'm "approved" by the estate agents.

Oh, and I have to pack up my flat. How long can that take? An hour? Two? Okay, three at the max.

I have to buy a timer for my heater so that my poor fishes don't freeze for the twelve days I'm not going to be in the country.

I have to make an extra set of keys so that Clare can feed my fish so that they don't starve during the twelve days I'm going to be out of the country. Cause you know what's not Christmassy? Dead fish.

Of course, I could, y'know, actually be doing things to get all this done. But I think we know that's not going to happen, don't we?

Ahh, Christmas. Good times, good times.

Fashion Avenger #2

Dear Lady I Saw At Oxford Circus The Other Day:

Hi there. I don't mean to be rude, but I just had to say something. You probably didn't notice me. I was standing beside your friend outside of Shelly's waiting for my friend. As I was browsing in the window and checking my phone to see why she was late (LATE!), you turned up to meet your friend. You did the London kiss-kiss hello and headed inside the shop. As you were going in, your friend made the following upsetting comment: "I really like your new haircut".

Now, normally this comment wouldn't be worth a second thought. People get their hair cut. Other people comment. Such is life. This was a little bit different, though.

I don't want to be the one to tell you this, but someone has to. She was lying. I know this because you had a Fe-mullet. Also known as a mullet, hockey hair or the Goderich haircut. I'm not sure what you were trying to convey with this look. I don't think it was the traditional "business up front, party in the back" attitude, because you weren't a pseudo rockin' business man in the late '80s. You were a fashionable woman of the new millennium. You know, except for your disastrous hair.

Maybe you were going for a so-hip-it-hurts kind of look. And sure, why wouldn't you? You're a hip young woman of the new millennium. The rest of your outfit? Totally cute. Only this is the thing. Your hair looks awful.

Are you in a metal band in 1987? Are you trying to recapture your childhood by getting the haircut that your mother would never let you have? Was it a dare? Is your hairdresser out to get you? Did you steal her boyfriend or burn down her house? Did you hear Do They Know It's Christmas for the millionth time and it sent you over the edge? Are you clinically insane? Did you have to sell your hair to a wig maker like Jo in Little Women to make money to support your family while your father was fighting in the Civil War, but you only sold part of it?

I really think you should do something about this. The solution is obvious. Cut the rest off. You'll have a super cute pixie cut and I won't feel the need to cry if I ever see you again in the street.

I wish you a lot of luck with this. I'm sure you'll realize the error of your ways. You just need people to stop being polite. Trust me. No one thinks it's a cute look. No one.

Good luck, and have a Merry Christmas,

Alice

Well, you think you're pretty special, don't you?

I saw this the other day, and I really liked it. So I thought I'd give it a go.

1. Reply to this post if you want me to tell you how cool you are!

2. Watch my journal over the next few days for a post just about you and why I think you rock my socks.

3. Post these instructions in your journal and give your friends a much needed dose of love and validation!

Now, while I don't think I'd ever use the phrase "rock my socks", I still think this is a cool idea. So, comment away!

What did people do at work before they had the Internet?

I finally moved back into my office yesterday, after a two month long stint in a vaguely cubicled off area of reception-y area of our office while my office became a temporary edit suite. (It's hard to explain if you haven't seen it. You're going to have to trust me on this one.) And, as much as I loved that (or, to use a more accurate word "hated"), I finally finally finally got to move back into my office. Which was obviously a very yay! moment.

Until I realized that I'd done something to the computers when I hooked them up which rendered them useless. Well, not totally useless. I can do all my work, for example. And I can be productive. I just can't access the network at all. Or, and this is far more important, the internet. And dude! That's totally work related! I can't check my work email! I may be missing vital emails!

And, I can't use the internet for research. Vital, intensely urgent and important research that must be completed today. Sooner than that! This very second!

For instance, it seems that I urgently must find out how much I can expect to spend on the digital camera I plan on buying at Christmas. And, I have to check my hotmail. I may have many, many social engagements which need planning, or many "hilarious" chain mail forwards to read, become irritated by the sender and then delete. Or, and this is only if I'm very lucky, a few emails offering me enlargement of a body part I don't have. These must be dealt with!

What do they expect me to do here? Work?

Thankfully, the problem has been resolved. But, the scary thing is that it could happen at any time. Man, that's a frightening thought.

Still too busy to post....

Complain about me not posting, will you? Well, then your complaint will be the post.

(Although the actual words may be slightly altered, rest assured that the below conversation did actually take place.)

Aaron says:

By the way, I'd like to point out that it has been 3 days since you posted something on your blog telling us all that you're too busy to post. And let me tell you, my patience is wearing thin.

Alice says:

I appreciate your impatience. I will post something. When I have like THREE SECONDS TO MYSELF!

[pause]

Alice says:

I'm very busy this week. Sorry. I didn't mean to yell.

Aaron says:

That hurt my eardrums.

Alice says:

Hey, can I quote you on the blog?

[lengthy pause]

Alice says:

What, are you ignoring me now?

Aaron says:

You may.

[suspicious pause]

Aaron says:

Why... what are you going to quote?

Alice says:

You'll see. Heh heh heh.

Alice says:

Or rather, mwahhh ha ha ha!

Aaron says:

Is it my comment about 100% blowjobs?

Alice says:

No, but it will be now.

Aaron says:

Dammit.