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.

Too busy to blog...

I'm just posting to say that I'm sorry for not posting lately. I've been all busy with work. Work. Whatev. I'm so over that.

I did find out today that I'm thought very highly of at the channel we're working for now, so that's nice. "Oh, if Alice is working with you, then you'll have no problems. She'll sort it out. She's good stuff". I'm paraphrasing, but that's the general gist.

Almost makes up for the fact that I was at work by 6:30 this morning. Almost.

Self Realization 101

I’ve realized something about myself. It came as a bit of a shock, but I think I’ve come to terms with it.

I may, in fact, be a little impatient. And I can, in fact, lean slightly towards the paranoid at times.

I know, I know. It came as a shock to me too.

Of course, my paranoid impatience doesn’t apply to everything. I have no problem waiting in line, or being on hold. I’m easily able to entertain myself for ages. I don’t have a real problem with horribly slow service in restaurants and I don’t really mind waiting for the bus.

But if I had to wait for a response to anything, I go a little insane. It can be anything – a returned call, a response to an email, or a reply to a text message. If any of these is even slightly delayed, I don’t just accept that things are delayed. My mind goes a bit crazy. I immediately begin thinking of all the reasons for the lack of response.

- I have done something horrible to offend the person I’m expecting to hear from without realizing it.
- She hates me.
- I broke some kind of unwritten rule by replying to his email too late, and now I’m being punished.
- I broke some kind of unwritten rule by replying to her text too soon, and now I look like a freak.
- He hates me.
- I accidentally sent the text to the wrong phone number.
- My email got sent to her junk mail folder because I’m not important to have inbox privileges.
- She hates me.

It’s at this point that I send a “safety” text to someone else. Y’know, to make sure that my phone is actually working.

Of course, invariably there is some kind of delay in their response. My mind, which you have to remember is already working in overdrive, steps up a notch and begins to reach truly frightening speeds. I go through all the reasons why I haven’t received any responses at all.

- My phone is broken.
- The internet is not working.
- I have inadvertently done something to offend all my friends.
- Everyone hates me.
- My phone isn’t broken, but my text messages aren’t getting through.
- I have entered some kind of parallel universe and although I think I’m still here, I no longer exist.
- I am invisible.
- Should I use my invisibility for good or evil?
- Wait, if I’m invisible I should still be able to operate a mobile phone.
- Okay, I’m not invisible.
- But it is likely that everyone hates me.
- What did I do?

At the point that my mind is truly spiralling out of control, my phone makes the friendly little noise that it makes when I have a text message. Or my computer makes the happy little noise that it makes when I have an email.

It seems that I have two text messages. Or two emails. Huh. Weird.

Aaaaaaaand relax.

Until next time.

ExtravaGANza!!

I may have mentioned that I officially entered my late twenties last week. Well, to celebrate, I had a little party on Saturday night. A little party that I like to call the extravaGANza!

(Just so you know, when the "gan" part of that word is said, it should be accompanied by a slightly raised voice and an expansive hand gesture)

Because I can be ever so clever when I set my mind to it, I remembered to bring my camera. And, because I am sometimes not ever so clever, I don't actually appear to be in any of the photos. But, I promise. I was there.

Now, I obviously missed the action in this photo, as Bette, Buffy and Amber are clearly fascinated by something juuuuuuust to the left of the photo. But, I choose to believe that I made an artistic decision here.

At one point, the party seperated into a male/female divide. It was just like a dance in the seventh grade. The boys are just waiting for Groovy Kind Of Love to come on so that they can get the nerve to ask a girl to dance. Ooooooooh!

And, now we have the girls. Clearly anxiously awaiting the Phil Collins and the potential for feet-shuffling slow dancing. Awww, romance!

Bette made a new friend. She looks a touch tipsy. But I'm sure Tom isn't afraid. That's a look of glee on his face.

Hannah thought that Nathan looked fat in this picture. Hee. I'd also like to clarify that Sarah isn't drunk. Well, she is. But she's also jet-lagged. She flew in from Fargo, North Dakota especially for the extravaGANza!

Jet lag + red wine = the pitching of film ideas tentatively titled things like "The Adventures of Sammy the Speculum" or something very similar. In this photo, Tom is definitely afraid.


Woo hoo! Things are getting frisky now! Matt and Jenny are sharing a few little kisses. But in a purely innocent seventh grade kind of way. Get those dirty thoughts out of your head! Dirty!


Cheers! Adam and Tom are certainly looking jolly. And why wouldn't they be? It's the extravaGANza!


James looks a little bit eeeeeeevil in this photo. And I can't remember if Jess, Jamie & Madeleine were actually talking, or doing the "pretend to talk so it looks social and like everyone's having fun" thing. I think they may have been really talking. The napkins on the table were because "someone" (I'm not naming names) spilled a full pint.

And you know what they say. It's not a party until someone falls out of their chair and ends up sitting on the floor. Thanks Kobrinsky!

It was a lovely party. And I had a great time. Thanks to all of y'all that came, cause it was a really good time. (We'll ignore the nasty and mean thoughts I'm thinking about all of y'all that weren't there. Except those of you in other countries. You all have an excuse.)

Now, to plan next year!