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.