So my parents came to Europe for two weeks. Below is proof that they are, in fact, crazy.
*******************
I noticed my face wash cap was not properly closed for the second day in a row (thus eliminating me as the culprit since the day before I made sure to close it tightly). Since the tube was of the stand upside down variety, this was causing major leakage so I asked my mom if she was using it:
Me: Hey mom, are you using my face wash?
Mom: No.
Me: [puzzled] hmmm…
Dad: What’s the problem?
Me: [holding up the tube] Well it’s leaking because someone didn’t close it properly.
Dad: Oh I’ve been using it…
Me: [my dad uses face wash?]
Dad: As shampoo.
Me: [bingo]
*******************
My mom is someone who is not what you would call “technologically savvy”. For example when we got call waiting, instead of learning to pushing a button, she would instead come running all over the house to ask someone to switch over for her with panic in her voice.
Anyways so she’s not real good with digital cameras so my dad and I end up taking all the pictures. Which means my dad and I could never be in a picture together because she never takes them. I decided to ease her into the digital age and showed her how to do it.
Unfortunately zooming was too much for her to handle so she opted instead for manual zoom. By this I mean she would walk closer to or further from the object of the picture in order to decrease/increase the size. And she would do this while still in the position of the “slightly crouched down bent knees still looking through the viewer” position oblivious to anyone or anything that might be occupying the space in which she was moving towards.
You can imagine it took her a pretty long time to take any picture. And any humor I got from watching her ridiculous tactics was overshadowed by my sympathy for any poor soul nice enough to wait for her to take the picture before walking through her line of sight.
After one particularly long photo session, I decided to check out her picture taking ability to see if the whole process was worth it. Except, there was no picture. I clicked back through all the other pictures.
She never managed to take a picture. Not a single one.
*******************
My parents are terrible travelers. As in my father is always asking “What’s so special about this place?” (read: I am not impressed, why is this famous) and my mom is always demanding to leave as soon as we set foot anywhere.
Take for example the Vatican. The entire time my mom wanted to rush through and barely took any time to admire the great beauty that surrounded her. When she finally got her way and we exited the Sistine Chapel, we stopped by the gift shop.
There she sees a calendar with pictures of the Sistine Chapel . I then have to witness as she takes out her glasses (glasses which have firmly remained in her fanny pack before this moment), puts them on, and exclaims with awe: “Wow, how exquisitely beautiful!”
Right, you took a 7 hour flight, a 12 hour train ride, and spent how much money to come to Europe? To do what? Admire a PICTURE of the Sistine chapel in the Sistine chapel BOOKSHOP after just snubbing the real thing a few steps away?
Right.
By the way I know I have been very delinquent in my blog updates. This one’s for you, L Bossy.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
there’s a guy at the bus stop that stares at me and eats things
So I’ve gotten into the routine of doing my major grocery shopping every Tuesday (minor grocery shopping every Saturday) because I run out of things to eat on a weekly basis due to the lack of two things 1. Car (I have to carry what I buy so it’s not much) and 2. preservatives in French food (so things go bad after a week).
Since the grocery store is like a 20 walk from my apartment I always catch the bus back. Usually I can catch the 6:30 bus but sometimes I miss it and have to wait for the 7:00 bus. And that’s when I see him.
Thin, white, pimply faced, and carrying a large briefcase that, if it’s label is to be trusted, contains a trumpet but due to the creepiness he oozes could contain a basement made bomb.
Every time we’ve been at the bus stop together he stares at me. While eating something.
The first time I saw him he was eating chips and staring at me. The second time it was some kind of French snack I didn’t recognize. Today it was a baguette. Same shit every time. Eating. And staring.
And not like the slick staring where you look and then look away or you stare but when they see you you either look away or smile. No, he’s eating and continuously staring at me. Like how one would eat popcorn and watch a movie.
The staring is weird but the eating part is totally creeping me out. I’ve tried to ignore him. Nope. Munch, munch, stare, stare. I’ve tried to move out of his line of sight. Nope. He moved to put me back in range. Munch, munch, stare, stare. I’ve tried to give him the “look I know your staring at me stop it already” look. Nope. Munch, munch, stare, stare.
How is this ok?!?! Do you not have parents that teach you social norms?!?!
I’ve also tried to elicit the help of other people at the bus stop through pleading eyes but all I get is the “better you than me” look.
So far he hasn’t done anything aside from stare and eat which in and of itself is totally harmless so maybe it’s ok?
We’ll see.
Since the grocery store is like a 20 walk from my apartment I always catch the bus back. Usually I can catch the 6:30 bus but sometimes I miss it and have to wait for the 7:00 bus. And that’s when I see him.
Thin, white, pimply faced, and carrying a large briefcase that, if it’s label is to be trusted, contains a trumpet but due to the creepiness he oozes could contain a basement made bomb.
Every time we’ve been at the bus stop together he stares at me. While eating something.
The first time I saw him he was eating chips and staring at me. The second time it was some kind of French snack I didn’t recognize. Today it was a baguette. Same shit every time. Eating. And staring.
And not like the slick staring where you look and then look away or you stare but when they see you you either look away or smile. No, he’s eating and continuously staring at me. Like how one would eat popcorn and watch a movie.
The staring is weird but the eating part is totally creeping me out. I’ve tried to ignore him. Nope. Munch, munch, stare, stare. I’ve tried to move out of his line of sight. Nope. He moved to put me back in range. Munch, munch, stare, stare. I’ve tried to give him the “look I know your staring at me stop it already” look. Nope. Munch, munch, stare, stare.
How is this ok?!?! Do you not have parents that teach you social norms?!?!
I’ve also tried to elicit the help of other people at the bus stop through pleading eyes but all I get is the “better you than me” look.
So far he hasn’t done anything aside from stare and eat which in and of itself is totally harmless so maybe it’s ok?
We’ll see.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
hot 995 milf contest
Kelly’s top three (assumed) sources for contestant pictures:
1. MySpace page designed to get some
2. Mail order bride catalogue
3. Teaser picture for internet porn
God I don’t want to do any work.
1. MySpace page designed to get some
2. Mail order bride catalogue
3. Teaser picture for internet porn
God I don’t want to do any work.
le zzzzzzz
So I got a job at the research facility at my school and my first day of work coincidently started the Monday after I got back. Exhausted by my nonstop traveling for the past week, I considered whether or not that if I hauled ass I would be able to catch the last train back to Rouen so I could finally get a good night’s rest in my own bed before starting work the next day (the alternative was getting up at the buttcrack of dawn to catch a train early enough to get me to work on time).
When I arrived at the airport to check in the lady handed me my boarding pass along with the news that my flight was delayed by one hour effectively dashing any hopes I had of making it back to Rouen that night.
My flight actually ended up departing two hours late and by the time I got into Paris it was midnight where an unhappy Alex (who also had to wake up early the next day) was waiting for me (good thing I bought him Austrian chocolates).
At 5:30am the next morning I woke my ass up to catch the 7am train back to Rouen. On the train ride back I wondered to myself if there was any chance I could pull off “forgetting” today was my first day of work (I seriously considered this).
I finally got back to my apartment at 9, dropped off my bags, changed clothes (sans shower), and proceeded to sit at my desk for the next 3 hrs trying to avoid interacting with anyone in my catatonic state (which is not easy given it was my first day and people wanted to know all about me – en francias bien sur). I’m pretty sure I got dubbed that unfriendly girl of questionable hygiene.
Finally it was lunch time and I went home and took an hour nap in lue of eating (not like I had anything to eat anyways since I cleared out my fridge before I left) and returned to work afterwards still exhausted but now also hungry.
It sucked but I made it through the day (with help from the fuck you penguin blog that people blatantly saw me reading but whatever) but still I couldn’t go home and pass out because I had to go to the damn grocery store to buy some damn food (I was tres grumpy at this point).
I finally got home at 7pm, got some food in me, and put myself to bed.
Sometimes this traveling bniz isn’t as great as it seems.
When I arrived at the airport to check in the lady handed me my boarding pass along with the news that my flight was delayed by one hour effectively dashing any hopes I had of making it back to Rouen that night.
My flight actually ended up departing two hours late and by the time I got into Paris it was midnight where an unhappy Alex (who also had to wake up early the next day) was waiting for me (good thing I bought him Austrian chocolates).
At 5:30am the next morning I woke my ass up to catch the 7am train back to Rouen. On the train ride back I wondered to myself if there was any chance I could pull off “forgetting” today was my first day of work (I seriously considered this).
I finally got back to my apartment at 9, dropped off my bags, changed clothes (sans shower), and proceeded to sit at my desk for the next 3 hrs trying to avoid interacting with anyone in my catatonic state (which is not easy given it was my first day and people wanted to know all about me – en francias bien sur). I’m pretty sure I got dubbed that unfriendly girl of questionable hygiene.
Finally it was lunch time and I went home and took an hour nap in lue of eating (not like I had anything to eat anyways since I cleared out my fridge before I left) and returned to work afterwards still exhausted but now also hungry.
It sucked but I made it through the day (with help from the fuck you penguin blog that people blatantly saw me reading but whatever) but still I couldn’t go home and pass out because I had to go to the damn grocery store to buy some damn food (I was tres grumpy at this point).
I finally got home at 7pm, got some food in me, and put myself to bed.
Sometimes this traveling bniz isn’t as great as it seems.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
vienna
So there’s more to Vienna than just balls and although we arrived Saturday morning and left Sunday afternoon we were able to squeeze in some time in to check out the sights. Ill prepared for sightseeing we decided to take the European approach and just wander around. 
We wandered into the Neues Rathaus where there happen to be ice skating in front of the beautiful building. The day was clearing up so we figured why not, laced up (well the skates for my childlike feet didn’t have laces, they had the ice skating equivalent of Velcro which also happens to me when I rent bowling shoes) and Dan proceeded to zoom around the rink with annoying agility whilst I trudged along practicing how to skate backwards much to the dismay of any unfortunate soul behind me.
Our ice skating adventure ended in my final attempt to push Dan over (like I said, his agility was really annoying) causing me to fall over into a large puddle (it was a bit warm for outdoor ice skating) in a classic “serves you right” moment.
Other Austrian activities included admiring the fine architecture of kaffeehaus (coffee house) whist figuring out if the sashaying waiter was wearing makeup:
Vienna’s cool and wish I had more time to check it out. Especially the gasometer.
We wandered into the Neues Rathaus where there happen to be ice skating in front of the beautiful building. The day was clearing up so we figured why not, laced up (well the skates for my childlike feet didn’t have laces, they had the ice skating equivalent of Velcro which also happens to me when I rent bowling shoes) and Dan proceeded to zoom around the rink with annoying agility whilst I trudged along practicing how to skate backwards much to the dismay of any unfortunate soul behind me.
Our ice skating adventure ended in my final attempt to push Dan over (like I said, his agility was really annoying) causing me to fall over into a large puddle (it was a bit warm for outdoor ice skating) in a classic “serves you right” moment.
Other Austrian activities included admiring the fine architecture of kaffeehaus (coffee house) whist figuring out if the sashaying waiter was wearing makeup:
Eating sacher torte and wiener schnitzel and snickering at all the stops on the metro that ended in “gasse”.
Vienna’s cool and wish I had more time to check it out. Especially the gasometer.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
vienna ball faq
What kind of ball was it?
The International Atomic Energy Agency Ball.
Where was it held?
Imperial Palace:
How did you, she who only pretends to be fabulous, get invited?
Through my friend Dan’s IR master’s program that gets invited every year. Due to our current commonalty of a shared time zone (I actually haven’t spoken to Dan for years) we end up chatting a lot on gchat and he mentioned it. In attempts to invite myself I asked if people completely unrelated to the program whatsoever could go. Turns out they could.
What do you do at a ball, exactly?
Well you get really really dressed up and then spend the rest of the evening standing in heels that look great with your dress but makes you wish you had the good sense to surgically remove all your nerve endings beforehand. While you are standing you can watch things like African tribal dances or an Alba cover band.
You can also dance to music in designated rooms like the Reggae room or Scottish folk room.
There is also the time classic option of drinking and conversing. Girls complimented each other on dresses and commiserated on sore feet while sipping on champagne. Guys talked about how cool it would be if they all came to the ball with mustaches over a beer.
Since Dan’s master’s program is in international relations, a lot of the conversations revolved around subjects that begins with words like postmodern realist something or other.
I excused myself from those types of conversations and instead found a girl who, like me, is not part of the IR program (she works in video promo in L.A.) and together we discussed the intricacies of the fine line between a ball gown and homecoming dress (some people were not aware of this difference – I judged).
Oh and you can also stand in the ridiculous long line for wieners.
Did you do the waltz?
Depends on how you define “waltz”.
When perfectly executed the waltz is like the teacup ride at Disney land where people traverse a designated space spinning round and round in perfect synchronization (it is also just as fast). Unfortunately since I don’t really know how to waltz, and from what I could tell neither did most people on the dance floor, what I did was more like bumper cars.
So if you want to consider Dan leading me around the dance floor round and round in circles whilst I giggled and Dan concentrated on not hitting people until the music was over then yes. Yes, I did do the waltz.
The last and most frequently asked question: What did you, queen of running pants, wear to the ball?
Voila.
Je crois une 15 euro dress goes a long way.
The International Atomic Energy Agency Ball.
Where was it held?
Imperial Palace:
How did you, she who only pretends to be fabulous, get invited?
Through my friend Dan’s IR master’s program that gets invited every year. Due to our current commonalty of a shared time zone (I actually haven’t spoken to Dan for years) we end up chatting a lot on gchat and he mentioned it. In attempts to invite myself I asked if people completely unrelated to the program whatsoever could go. Turns out they could.
What do you do at a ball, exactly?
Well you get really really dressed up and then spend the rest of the evening standing in heels that look great with your dress but makes you wish you had the good sense to surgically remove all your nerve endings beforehand. While you are standing you can watch things like African tribal dances or an Alba cover band.
You can also dance to music in designated rooms like the Reggae room or Scottish folk room.
There is also the time classic option of drinking and conversing. Girls complimented each other on dresses and commiserated on sore feet while sipping on champagne. Guys talked about how cool it would be if they all came to the ball with mustaches over a beer.
Since Dan’s master’s program is in international relations, a lot of the conversations revolved around subjects that begins with words like postmodern realist something or other.
I excused myself from those types of conversations and instead found a girl who, like me, is not part of the IR program (she works in video promo in L.A.) and together we discussed the intricacies of the fine line between a ball gown and homecoming dress (some people were not aware of this difference – I judged).
Oh and you can also stand in the ridiculous long line for wieners.
Did you do the waltz?
Depends on how you define “waltz”.
When perfectly executed the waltz is like the teacup ride at Disney land where people traverse a designated space spinning round and round in perfect synchronization (it is also just as fast). Unfortunately since I don’t really know how to waltz, and from what I could tell neither did most people on the dance floor, what I did was more like bumper cars.
So if you want to consider Dan leading me around the dance floor round and round in circles whilst I giggled and Dan concentrated on not hitting people until the music was over then yes. Yes, I did do the waltz.
The last and most frequently asked question: What did you, queen of running pants, wear to the ball?
Voila.
Je crois une 15 euro dress goes a long way.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
aMAZEing venice
So I have a really bad sense of direction. It’s so bad that I often get lost in the Northern Virginia area; an area I have lived for over 20 years. I also used to get lost in Sapporo and would have to rely on those who didn’t live in Sapporo to help me find my way. It’s pathetic, I know.
When faced with a choice to either go right or left, one would think one has a 50/50 chance of being incorrect. Well if one is me that chance is actually 95%. For some reason any time I randomly choose a direction I am almost always wrong. I don’t know why or how it happens, it jus tdoes.
I know what you’re thinking. If you’re always wrong, why don’t you pick a direction but then trick your bad direction sense and actually take the other direction? Yeah, I tried that. I still end up wrong. I don’t know how my sense of direction knows whether or not I will try to trick it AFTER it has already made its decision, it just does. It’s amazing really.
Anywho my point is Venice was built on top of 117 small islands and consists of 150 odd canals, 400 bridges, small, narrow streets and alleyways. In other words Venice is a giant maze.
Every guidebook says the same thing. “Everyone gets lost in Venice, but don’t worry, it’s a large island so you can’t leave it!” (the exclamation mark being some kind of reassurance or something). Right, but you can still get lost for like, ever.
Which is of course what happened to me the next day when I want exploring Venice solo (Dan went back to Bologna for school and Nancy had work). Getting to St. Mark’s square wasn’t a problem as there were signs to it everywhere in the city.
There weren’t, however, any signs pointing to other points of interest to me like say, Nancy’s house so I wandered. Of course I ended up wandering in the opposite direction of where I wanted to be (Nancy checking up on me on the phone: “What are you doing all the way over there?”). In looking for the Frari church I ended up in the opposite direction to another church which housed a bunch of stray cats. 
After much searching for Frari square I got tired and finally decided to just go back to Nancy’s for the day. It was then that I accidently found my way to the Frari church. 
Although it was late I figured finding the Frari church was a gift from fate so I paid the 2.50 euro admission fee and went inside.
No regrets. The church houses some of the most magnificent paintings I’ve seen yet in Europe (unforch no pictures allowed) making the church an excellent place for me to rest my tired feet.
Afterwards I went back to Nancy’s (that was also a struggle I assure you) and we went out for a dinner of pizza where I ordered shredded horse meat lemon pizza (after I got Nancy to clarify with the waiter that it was just lemon juice and I wasn’t getting a pizza with slices of lemon on it – because, you know, that would be gross). Delish.
After dinner I deferred going back to Bologna for a day because I was wiped out from a day of continuously lost walking. I ended the day by curling up with her cat (she’s a snuggler) and catching up on the latest trivial gossip. 
When faced with a choice to either go right or left, one would think one has a 50/50 chance of being incorrect. Well if one is me that chance is actually 95%. For some reason any time I randomly choose a direction I am almost always wrong. I don’t know why or how it happens, it jus tdoes.
I know what you’re thinking. If you’re always wrong, why don’t you pick a direction but then trick your bad direction sense and actually take the other direction? Yeah, I tried that. I still end up wrong. I don’t know how my sense of direction knows whether or not I will try to trick it AFTER it has already made its decision, it just does. It’s amazing really.
Anywho my point is Venice was built on top of 117 small islands and consists of 150 odd canals, 400 bridges, small, narrow streets and alleyways. In other words Venice is a giant maze.
Every guidebook says the same thing. “Everyone gets lost in Venice, but don’t worry, it’s a large island so you can’t leave it!” (the exclamation mark being some kind of reassurance or something). Right, but you can still get lost for like, ever.
Which is of course what happened to me the next day when I want exploring Venice solo (Dan went back to Bologna for school and Nancy had work). Getting to St. Mark’s square wasn’t a problem as there were signs to it everywhere in the city.
There weren’t, however, any signs pointing to other points of interest to me like say, Nancy’s house so I wandered. Of course I ended up wandering in the opposite direction of where I wanted to be (Nancy checking up on me on the phone: “What are you doing all the way over there?”). In looking for the Frari church I ended up in the opposite direction to another church which housed a bunch of stray cats.
After much searching for Frari square I got tired and finally decided to just go back to Nancy’s for the day. It was then that I accidently found my way to the Frari church.
Although it was late I figured finding the Frari church was a gift from fate so I paid the 2.50 euro admission fee and went inside.
No regrets. The church houses some of the most magnificent paintings I’ve seen yet in Europe (unforch no pictures allowed) making the church an excellent place for me to rest my tired feet.
Afterwards I went back to Nancy’s (that was also a struggle I assure you) and we went out for a dinner of pizza where I ordered shredded horse meat lemon pizza (after I got Nancy to clarify with the waiter that it was just lemon juice and I wasn’t getting a pizza with slices of lemon on it – because, you know, that would be gross). Delish.
After dinner I deferred going back to Bologna for a day because I was wiped out from a day of continuously lost walking. I ended the day by curling up with her cat (she’s a snuggler) and catching up on the latest trivial gossip.
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