Vaguely Suspicious

After complaining about sharing my recent bout of unfortunate circumstances, childhood friend/commenter/namesake Kristin sagely input, "they always say things happen in 3's..." Does the same go for good luck? I think it might. You see, after butting heads with Karma, my luck has changed. All minor things, of course, but as someone who constantly has a rain cloud hovering slightly over her head, you notice the little stuff. Take Tuesday, for example: After a nine-mile run in the Presidio, in which I left my car parked for 2.5 hours in a 90-minute lot because I got extremely lost somewhere along Lincoln Boulevard and accidentally ended up at the entrance to the Golden Gate Bridge (oops!), I returned to find my car untouched. I then went to Nook for the rest of the afternoon, finishing up a bunch of work and grabbing a couple coffee breaks with friends, leaving my car parked in a two-hour from 10am to 3pm. Not so much as a single ticket, defiitely no tow truck in sight. In Nob Hill/the Marina. For five hours, I tell you. This is so unlike me to be the recipient of good fortune.

Yesterday, I put in an emergency call to my dermatologist because my skin is breaking out like a 13-year-old boy who bathes in peanut butter and chocolate (come to think of it, my diet does incorporate both of those staple foods...). Normally, my dermo in Tennessee wouldn't be able to see me for six months minimum; however, again Karma smiled down upon me: There was a cancellation this morning, and I was welcome to come in. (Again, luckily, it turned out to be only a hormonal thing, because my gyno recently changed my BC prescription. She switched me back, and I should be back to normal within the month. In case you were worried. I also opted for a microdermabrasion treatment next week for the Hell of it; if any of you have had that done, please let me know what you thought of it!)

While I don't necessarily buy into all of the Buddhist beliefs, I have been over at my friend Autumn's a couple times in the past few weeks, where she was burning incense in her Buddha Good Luck/Abundance corner. Autumn's really into yoga -- like, really into it, as in she recently attended a retreat in Thailand and is going to another in India -- so spirituality goes hand-in-hand. While I may not practice it, maybe her Buddha did feel sorry for me and gave me a little something-something to take with me. After my dermo appointment earlier today, I headed to Anthropologie to search for Autumn a birthday present. The sale room was an explosion of color, so naturally I had to check out any possible deals. Lo and behold, everything I loved was either a 4 or a 6, my sizes exactly. Normally, all the steals are 0s or 14s, from one extreme to the other, and with no amount of improvisation could I fit into either of those. Armed with two skirts, a blouse and nine dress (SVV will rolls his eyes when he reads this I can already predict -- "don't you have enough dresses, woman? We only have one small closet to split between the two of us, after all!"), I was flying high. I only ended up buying one, a mustard silk number that I tried on month's ago in NYC -- I know what you're thinking, mustard, really? But I have a pretty dark complexion, and besides when something's 50 percent off at Anthropologie, suddenly mustard's as good a look as any -- but still, all those pretty things in my size were a definite upper.

I think clothing maybe only counts for .5 of my three good things, but the final .5 comes from Old Coot next door who has been jackhammering away at his wall for the past month straight, sending me nearly knocking down the door at the closest psych ward, as all the noise just feet outside my kitchen is driving me to the point of hysteria. SVV said he tried to give him advice on how to get the job done quicker, because he was doing it all wrong, but Old Coot declined his help. I finally (politely) asked last week when he would be done, considering I work at home and am under daily deadlines and all that banging is simply not good for my sanity (or writing at that). He's a bit senile, so I didn't really think he understood my point, but alas, not a peep out of him since then. So yes, overall, my luck has taken a turn for the better...for now at least. (Ed. Note: Doi! I spoke too soon. It just this second started again. I knew this was all too good to be true.)

So who tuned in for the two-hour season finale of Lost last night? Holy smokes, Batman, is that shit getting CUH-RAZY! I think I might just spend these next few TV-less months rewatching the first four seasons, because even though I watched 1-3 last summer, the show is so intricate and complex, that you really have to watch each episode multiple times to fully understand it all. Thank God for Doc Jensen's intellectual recaps, otherwise, I'd be one lost (no pun intended) lass.

Are you going to see Sex and the City this weekend? I don't care if I'm a walking cliche, but I am psyched. My friend is holding a cocktail and viewing party on Sunday night, where everyone is donning appropriate attire, and man am I excited. Speaking of which, when did it become the "uncool" thing to like SATC? Remember when it was still on and every woman you knew between the ages of 12 and 50 eagerly awaited each Sunday night? Now, five years later, it's all of a sudden the "cool" thing to scoff at the phenomenon. Sort of like how when there's a hit song, and you smugly say, "Oh Umbrella? I was listening to that way before it was popular -- like six months at least. It's so over in my eyes. I just hate when things get so mainstream." What is with that??? In essence, I will be seeing Sex and the City on opening weekend and proudly sporting my prettiest pink.

Can I interrupt this stream of consciousness for a minute to share some of my new favorite things? Why thank you. Firefox 3. Despite my computer saying there were currently no updates, I visited the Mozilla website upon SVV's suggestion, because my year-old MacBook has been running super slow, and what do you know, four happy little words -- Sneak Peek Firefox 3 -- were there to greet me. I downloaded the new version, and voila, life was instantaneously made better for both me and my Mac. Additionally, I'm digging the new tool and address bars (and yes, that officially makes me a dork). Victoria's Secret Body by Victoria IPEX strapless bra (wow, that was a mouthful to type). Ever since I wore out my bandeau strapless a couple years back -- which lasted me a good five years at least, until the underwire began to poke me so badly and it landed itself in the trash -- I've been unable to find a suitable strapless to take care of the girls when I'm decked out in my summer duds. It turns out all this time I'd been wearing one bra size too big. Who does that, I ask you? It's so common to wear a bra too small, but too big?? That could explain why every strapless I've ever bought has wound up somewhere around my belly button by the day's end. Jello pudding cups in an assortment of sugar free flavors. It's nice to know that now those of us with sweet tooths who prefer fat free and sugar free dining options can have tasty desserts, too. In NYC, I could only find sugar free pudding cups in vanilla/chocolate swirl, but would you believe they now come in caramel, dark chocolate, mint chocolate sundae, dulce de leche, moccachino, chocolate raspberry, creme brulee, and I'm sure many more??? (I currently have four flavors sitting in my fridge.) And all for a guilt-free 60 calories. Even SVV, hater of all things made with Splenda, is digging them. Seriously, divine. Google Reader. I'm such the more attentive blog reader with the discovery that I can get instant alerts(!) every time one of you posts something new. I held off as long as I could, but I just didn't have the strength to fight it anymore. Hurrah!

Duffy. I'd be reading about this girl on other blogs and had heard a song or two on The Hills (it seems all you have to do is land a single on that show, and poof, you're sales increase tenfold), but Autumn made me a copy of her CD and I can't turn it off. She's sort of a cross between Lily Allen and Jem. And if Duffy was the latest thing, say, three months ago, you have my permission to say, "welcome to the party two hours late, Kristin!" I'm notoriously uncool when it comes to music, just ask my mom and sister. I'll call them saying, "I just heard the new Miley and Billy Ray song, and I just love it!" And they'll be all, "yeah we loved it, too -- a year ago, when it came out." But I do love the new Coldplay song Viva la Vida that I'm pretty sure has just recently come out, even though it sounds just like every other single they've ever released (but ever since seeing them in concert in Germany a few years back, I think I would name my kid , or maybe dog even, Chris Martin, you know like Lorelai named her mutt Paul Anka). I just checked their summer tour schedule, and wouldn't you know it my last two days in Canada in July, they're playing in the Bay Area, and the day after I get back, they'll be up in British Columbia where I just left. Bummer. Speaking of music, who has some good tunes to recommend me for the summer? I've worn out Colbie Callait's CD, Madonna's Hard Candy is only good in small doses, the Journey live album I just bought was a disappointment, and Sheryl Crow's new disc is possibly the worst $13 I've ever spent. I'm in dire need of recs, people! Help a sista out, please.

Apologies for the random ramblings and so many questions -- you're probably exhausted by now if you've made it this far down -- I think I may have ingested too much caffeine before noon today. SVV and I are headed to Sac this afternoon to attend Lisa's housewarming party/do book research/visit with his lovely family/(hopefully) catch up on the rays we were deprived of last weekend. Wishing you all a happy, sunny weekend, particularly those of you running the San Diego Rock 'n Roll Marathon on Sunday! May your feet be able and stomach tolerable of beer once it's all over!

Karma Gods, What Did I Ever Do to You?

Italy left me exhausted and unable to sleep, so the first couple days after I got back, I was someone you didn't want to be around. In fact, I didn't leave the house until 7pm the first two nights -- the first, to go to a scrumptious dinner at Local with South Africa winemaker Kevin Grant and two lovely ladies in the wine industry. (This whole West Coast wine culture is totally new to me, and I still may not be able to tell you about tannins and distinguish whether or not something has an "oak-y" quality, but man, was that Ataraxia wine delicious.) The next night, Moose invited me over for homemade chocolate brownies and freelancing in her adorable new home. I didn't stay too long, as I was a very rude guest with my yawning every five minutes. But when I went to retrieve my car, it was gone. Just like that. Vanished without a trace. No note saying, "Kristin, I went to the corner market to pick up a few 40s; back in a jiffy. xo, Your Car." No sign that it had even been there. I was perplexed to put it mildly.

Now, if you live in San Francisco, have lived here in the past, have ever rented a vehicle in this parking-forsaken city, you know that finding a spot to leave your car is about as painful as having each fingernail removed by a pair of pliers. I actually have friends who turn down social invites if they have a really sweet parking spot for fear of losing it. It's downright impossible to park in certain neighborhoods and times of the day. A Tuesday night in Hayes Valley was no different. After circling the area for a good 20 minutes, looking for a smidgen of space or even a pay lot, I was at a loss for what to do. There are plenty of spots between houses that would fit a Smart Car (why did I invest in an Altima? I'm now only slightly regretting my decision), but are a foot or two too short for a normal car. However, as a San Franciscan, you learn to improvise, so I parked in one of these spots, with the butt of my car hanging over a foot or so. There were garages on both sides, but I took great care to make sure I gave the residents of Page Street plenty of room to come and go as they pleased. My first ticket as a California resident was given to me in this very area, but I figured after dusk on a weeknight, I'd be fine.

So when I came back to find my car missing, I was convinced someone stole it. (Now I know this isn't really possible, as my car has keyless start, meaning you have to have the computerized chip in your pocket in order to turn it on, but nonetheless, I wasn't thinking rationally at the time.) I called SVV panicked, and always the calm one that he is, he tried to tell me I had just misplaced it. Then, I started going crazy. I walked the span of Page for 10 blocks -- each way -- five times or more. It was freezing out, and I was in capris and flip-flops. My hands were blocks of ice. The streets were deserted, save a bum or two here and there, and I was convinced someone was lurking around the corner, waiting to jump me, at all times. But the shiny, slate Altima, she was nowhere to be found. Another thing that gets me about SF is that rarely are the streets properly marked. When I parked, there were no street signs on either side of my car, so I just had to remember based on landmarks. I was 99 percent positive I knew where I had left her, but an old white clunker was in her place, so that left me even more confused. I shamefully rang Moose's door again, the tears beginning to stream down my face, when SVV called and said, yup, someone had called in my car, and the Tow Truck Wankers had taken her in to the lot at 7th and Harrison.

Moose kindly drove me there, after many trips circling Sketchville trying to find the entrance to the lot, and I was prepared to flirt my way out of the ticket -- or at least get it significantly reduced (hey, it's happened in all but one occurrence, the one time I actually got a speeding ticket in Alabama in 2005). But for the second time that day, Karma laughed in my face and gave me a tight-lipped female. I joked and asked, "well, don't I get a discount at least for being so speedy in retrieving her?" Crickets. On top of that, after I paid the whopping $250 charge, I got in my car to find a $75 parking ticket awaiting me on my dash. Awesome. Love you, too, Karma. Don't be expecting a Hallmark card on your next birthday.

(Since that white car was illegally parked in the place of mine, SVV and I concluded the inhabitants of that building must have called in my car because I took their usual street parking space. Scott said I should have then called in that car as retaliation, assuming it was the vehicle of the Jerkhead that phoned in mine. I thought that was too mean, given the small unlikelihood the owner of the car was just passing through -- I wouldn't want any kind, unsuspecting, innocent soul to suffer the same scenario. However, next time I'm chilling in Hayes Valley, and the same car is still parked there, I'll know it's Jerkhead's and revenge will be mine. Take that, Karma. Cue evil laughter: mwahahahahaha.)

Here's to Hoping Your Weekend Was Warmer Than Ours

Isn't it a written rule somewhere than no matter where you live, no matter the climate, each Memorial Day, the clouds and fog give way to some glorious sun, tanning your bod and warming your soul? Well. Apparently, California never got that memo. You see, last time we were up at Discovery Bay, it looked something like this:


And this:


This time around, however, it went more like this:



And this:

That's right, folks, I'm wearing long sleeves, a sweatshirt AND a fleece, and still freezing my bedonka-donk off. Um yeah, the two sundresses and three bottles of sunscreen I packed turned out to be overkill. As my mom called to gloat share, "it's warmer in Reykjavik than it is in Northern California right now!" Granted, it's not usually bathing suit weather in the Bay Area at this time of year, but we were up in Discovery Bay, where the mercury grazed 105 degrees -- IN MAY -- just the weekend before. But not this holiday weekend. Even the dog was cold.


Still, you know how boys are, and SVV, Nate and just had to show off their manliness (AKA their ability to catch hypothermia just like the rest of us) by insisting on wakeboarding and skiing in the 50-degree weather regardless. Do you see the ominous clouds in the background here?


Wakeboarding at the Delta from krysleigh on Vimeo.

Scott emerged purple after spending a half hour in the water, I kid you not. It was hot.


Despite the weather, we still had a blast, I must add. We were at Danny's parents' house, which is right on the water, and besides the two of us, Danny and Jill, DJ and Val, there were about 20 members of the Buss clan, of all age and size and geographical location, present, including Danny's hippie aunt, who as Scott says "is one of those people who never quite checked out of the 60's." She was a riot and a one-woman show in herself, hitting on all the "young men" more than half her age.


And did I mention Scott and I took on another guidebook? Well, we did. (Actually, it's more my baby and my name on the cover, but he's been gracious enough to agree to travel all over northern California with me, staying in five-star accommodation and being treated like a king. Bless him.)


So every weekend from now until my deadline in early October, as well as many weeks, too, will be consumed with book research. Northern California -- from San Luis Obispo to the Oregon border -- it turns out, is MASSIVE. We began our journey this weekend with a night's stay in Lockeford (never heard of it? You're not alone) at the Inn at Locke House, which was one of the cutest B&Bs I've ever laid eyes upon. (They gave us the Water Tower suite, which has a spiral staircase leading up to a dayroom! Too adorable.) And I was so taken with the owners, Richard and Lani, that I wanted to bring them back to San Francisco with me. If you're ever in the Sacramento/Central Valley neighborhood searching for a place to stay, or else need a weekend away from the Bay Area, GO THERE. We also took a brief tour through Lodi, which was a cute little pinprick of a town, though not much there, and stayed a night in Stockton, where we were able to cover in a short afternoon. As excited as I am to get to explore every nook and cranny of my new home, I'm intimidated by the sheer volume of work this book entails (on top of my regular assignments and other travel, mind you). If any of you have any favorite places in Northern Cal, please share them with me; I'd be eternally grateful and even considering naming my firstborn (dog) after you.


Scott mounted a map for me to draw on and mark up, and holy mother of pearl, it's occurred to me I will not be sleeping from now until October 15 (the due date for the entire manuscript). Wish me us luck!


Annnnnyway. Hope you all walked away from this Memorial Day with a better tan than me! (Sun doesn't penetrate fleece, it turns out.)

Only Slightly More Enjoyable than a Trip to the Gyno

In Telese Terme, we were all scheduled to be the recipients of some spa treatment or another in our hotel, which was built on thermal springs (and also strongly resembled The Shining in its sprawling, vacated corridors and abandoned rooms of dusty baby cribs that I eerily stumbled upon). Although I had received two massages already in the same number of weeks -- call me spoiled, but it comes with the territory! -- I didn’t want anyone scraping off the skin on my face or tickling the soles of my feet, so again, I opted for a full-body rubdown. And what a rubdown it was. Luckily, Heather, bless her, had warned me in advance.

“You’ve had a European massage before, right?”

“Um no, come to think of it, I haven’t actually. Unless a Swedish counts?”

“Well, let me just tell you they’re…how do I say this…a bit invasive,” she carefully selected her words in perfectly diplomatic Swiss-like conduct.

“Oh...um...OK...well, I’m sure it will be fine,” I hesitated, the Southern modesty in me rising to the surface.

But still I wasn’t prepared for the next half hour that would await me. If you’re not familiar with European spas, I should preface this story by telling you that they’re clinical and used more for longterm, alternative treatments for ailments and injuries. The entire facility resembled a hospital, if not mental institution with its sterile qualities. Hospital beds and IVs filled the rooms and hallways, and the massage tables were only separated from one another by a thin wall and lacked any sort of ceiling, much like being in a tanning bed.


Cheesy 80s Italian pop filled the air, and the phone rang off the hook. I could hear old Renzo blabbering on over the divider in his rapid Italian, and I sort of felt sorry for whomever was responsible for kneading his wrinkly body (OK, now I feel The Guilt for saying that, because he is very nice, but seriously, a bit creepy and you really deserve the full mental image). I entered the room and prepared to remove my clothing and get situated under the sheet before my treatment began, only a) there was no sheet and b) my massage therapist followed me in and motioned for me to remove my dress and delicates right in front of her -- with her eyes boring into me like a man at a strip club. Not disobedient, I did as she demonstrated -- she spoke no English -- and she immediately began caressing my leg, all the way from my ankle up to...well, you know where. I couldn’t figure out if I was getting a Brazilian or on my annual visit the gynecologist’s office. Neither are my favorite ways to spend an afternoon, for sure.


The whole massage took place with me laying on my back, exposing all of my womanly assets, and I just squinted my eyes shut and pretended I was dreaming. When she was finished, she took paper towels -- what, terry cloth is asking too much? -- and patted me dry of the oil. I emerged from my room less relaxed than when I entered and decided to remedy that with a dip in the thermal hot tub which was the size of a small swimming pool. Only, there were two problems. First, in my haste to make it to my appointment after waking up late from a nap, I grabbed my bathing suit top and a nude bra, no bottoms. Second, Renzo floated atop the sulfur-y waters. I didn’t really want him ogling me in anything less than a nun habit, so instead of retrieving my bathing suit’s other half in my room, I chose to blog instead.


Moral of this story? If ever given the opportunity for a spa treatment in Europe, opt for the facial.


Benevento, Italy from krysleigh on Vimeo.

And since I unfortunately don't have any pictures of the aforementioned experience, I give you a few shots of earlier that day in Benevento (including the priest on the cell, which only edged out the nun who was snapping pictures with a camera phone):

Enough to Make You Lose Your Own Lunch

My first trip to Italy was in 2001, armed with my mom and 15 pals and their moms. It was a great couple weeks full of sight-seeing and delinquency (if you recall, I was new to drinking; this proved fatal, after consuming about 10 too many vodka tonics and suffering a nasty fall down the ramp at one of Florence’s most hopping discos). On that trip, we hit the majority of major cities and regions – Rome, Florence, Venice, Milan, Pisa, Tuscany – but as far south as we got were Pompeii and Mt. Vesuvius, which overlooks Naples. I returned to Italy in 2003, when I was backpacking all over Europe solo, and while I spent a few adventure-packed days in Lake Como, I didn't make it back down south again. One thing I never did get to visit, which while touristy, has always been on my list of must-dos, is witness the Blue Grotto. While I was jealous the Foodies headed down south to the Amalfi Coast, my group, the Cool Ones if you will, got to see my wish fulfilled. We spent the first two nights in Naples at the Grand Hotel Santa Lucia, and on the second full day, boarded the hydrofoil to Capri.


I’ve never been great with modes of travel that rock. Planes are fine: In fact, the only time I’ve ever lost my lunch on a flight was on the first leg of my initial trip to Italy, from Nashville to Chicago (the Windy City’s nickname, it turns out, is legit). But more than half of that flight utilized their handy barf bags, so I didn’t feel quite so crummy about my weak stomach. However, boats are another story. It’s sad actually because I absolutely love ferries and water travel. But there have been many a time – the first when I was on a Disney Big Red Boat cruise to the Bahamas at age 8; another time on an 18-minute boat ride from Greece to Turkey in 2006, our steering wheel broke in the middle of the Ionian Sea, and we spun in circles for three hours straight, which is enough to send anyone heaving over the side of the ship; the most recent being that tumultuous whale-watching excursion in Iceland last fall – when a boat ride did not end up favorably for me.


The 50-minute journey to Capri was one such incident. Let’s just say I was one of the few who opted out of heavy alcohol consumption the previous night after our trip to the Opera, and ironically, it was I who spent much of that bouncy ride across the Med paying homage to the Porcelain God. I was nicknamed Pukey for the rest of the trip, not a title you want tacked onto your name when you’re already trying to give off an air of maturity to compensate for any such age deficiency (let it be known, I am very young in the travel writing world; often, people in the field mistake age for experience, thus it’s pertinent that my quarter century on this Earth goes unaddressed).


The Blue Grotto from krysleigh on Vimeo.

It was a few hours until my stomach felt stable again, and once we took a very bumpy bus ride up a windy, one-lane road through the island to the Blue Grotto. When I saw that we were to board another boat, the Sprite swishing around in my stomach, doing its best to work its calming effects, immediately jumped into my throat and threatened to come to the surface if


Luckily, the "boat ride" was all of 50 feet at most, and I handled it just fine. However, one thing I failed to address in advance was my choice of attire for the day. Now, I've never met a dress I don't like, so per my normal wardrobe, I was wearing a knee-length, sleeveless frock, nothing that normally would have threatened to expose any parts of me that shouldn't see sunlight.


When we climbed into the boat, Ricardo got in first, Heather followed, sitting against his chest, and I had to fit in the remaining space against Heather. Renzo, the older flirtatious Italian was directly across from me. I didn't even take notice of this, but later on at lunch, Renzo was telling an animated story to his side of the table, made a sweeping motion with his arms, and showered me with champagne. As he apologized and offered to remove my dress right then (ew) and dry clean it for me, he said (in his heavy Italian accent): "Oh but I was just telling them how the boat driver said, 'don't be looking up her skirt,' and I said, 'oh no, I won't -- instead I'll just be looking at a beautiful pair of legs.' And I only peeked a couple of times." Ew. EW. Maybe from now on, I'll exercise my right to wear pants on future press trips where old creepy men are on board.


The Blue Grotto was stunning --unfortunately, none of my pictures could do justice to the sparkling sapphire color -- and not at all overrated; however, it was quite a quick trip, and if I'd paid to take the boat all the way around the island for five minutes inside (as opposed to getting in a canoe right beside the interest), I might have felt the slightest bit jipped. It's definitely not one of those have-to-visit-before-you-die type of places, like Angkor Wat or Giza, but if you're in southern Italy and have the time, I'd suggest making a trip over, if for nothing else, the island of Capri is gorgeous. (And if you loathe tourists, take the hydrofoil to the even more beautiful and less visited, Ischia, nearby.)


After we each had our five minutes in the Grotto, we boarded the bus again and drove to the other side of the island, where a lunch (seafood, as usual) and even more booze (they seriously didn't let us go more than an hour or two without pumping our stomachs with wine and champagne) awaited us.


I just had to dip my toes in the Mediterranean, and had Renzo not been around the corner, I might have been tempted to take a dip in my skivvies (I'm a water rat, despite my overwhelming fear of sharks). Oh well, there's always next time.

Some more pictures of my day at Capri with the Hooches:

When in Napoli

Let me preface this by saying while penning this post (Thursday night, though it may take days to go live), I’m one sleep-deprived, pasta-stuffed hot mess. So kindly don’t judge my ability as a writer by this unedited, unpolished stream of consciousness; I argue that a change of nine time zones will do that to a girl. The shades below are completely necessary, lest you be scared away from my blog entirely due to the premature bags under my eyes that are a result of excessive travel and lack of sleep.


When I accepted the invitation to Italy months ago, I didn’t read the fine print. I saw ITALY and FREE and immediately jumped on board. As the time approached, I realized the trip was just for four days and that I no longer lived in New York. As a Manhattan resident, I took for granted that a flight to Europe was quick, simple and cheap. I only cashed in on this once after moving back there, when I flew to Iceland and Germany last fall. It didn’t occur to my scatterbrained, often misplaced head that flying from San Francisco would tack on a good six to seven hours of travel time (not counting connections). Not only that, but I embarked upon my first group trip to Brazil back in March (retro blogging still to come, I promise), and while our leader, Joao, and the other three gals were AMAZING, there was the token Diva that just about ruined Rio for the rest of us. When I found out there were going to be TWENTY-FOUR on this trip, my odds for Crazies increased tenfold.


Arrivederci, Napoli! from krysleigh on Vimeo.

Press types are often stuffy. And ancient. In fact, you can practically blow dust off them at times with one rapid exhalation, and you sometimes need to cover them with that plastic furniture wrap that has protected your great-grandmother’s sofa since the 1950s, if that gives you any feel for their antique qualities. They’ve been “doing this twice as long as you’ve been alive,” and feel the need to tell you this every 2.5 seconds because they’re extremely threatened that you’re going to take their job (with the mega layoffs going on all over the country in both newspapers and magazines on a near weekly basis, leading to more and more freelancers scrapping for assignments, their fear is justified). I was expecting a group full of the aforementioned, so when I met the other Hooches (Queen Hooch, Cuban Hooch, Canadian Hooch), not only was a I pleasantly surprised, but I was thinking, “hmm, I wonder if I could base my life around taking press trips with these three awesomely cool women?” (Answer still yet to be determined.) In three words: They. Are. Awesome. And completely defied all my previous press stereotypes and misconceptions.


The trip from San Francisco to Munich took 12 hours (an aggravating two of which were wasted snoring through Jumper, another two by rewatching Dan in Real Life) – 12 hours in which, naturally, not only was the Italian man next to me so large that he draped his arms and belly folds into the confines of my seat (I have a serious issue with personal space), but he also held a toddler in his lap for most of the time, and not a sedate one at that, but an enraged child who simultaneously kicked my shins while screaming his lungs into a coma – followed by a two-hour layover and an additional two-hour flight to Italy. There were three other Californians going on the trip on the second leg, but none of us realized it until we all disembarked in Napoli and wound up with the same driver. While the East Coast and Canadian participants had all day Tuesday to explore, we didn’t make it to the hotel until nearly midnight, thus giving us one less day, meaning there was no time to regain neglected sleep.


Still, jet lag, loss of a day, and all, we were up bright and early and ready for our private open-top bus tour of the city the next morning, before we were divided into two groups and sent our separate ways. My three Californian compadres were in the southbound Amalfi Coast foodie group, while I was in the northern Campania random amalgamation. The others had the whole first day before to bond, so I was a little intimidated being a newbie and not knowing anyone, but upon meeting Heather, columnist for the Toronto Star, quickly nicknamed Switzerland, because you couldn’t meet anyone nicer (who’s still fun without being to chaste), those feelings of anxiety dissolved.


Before boarding our group buses, I glimpsed the Hooches for the first time. Hooch One and Two, AKA Toni and Nelis, produce a weekly segment for PBS out of Florida (how cool, right?), and the camera equipment and all-around cool girl, bad-ass vibe both exude more than intimidated me at first. I mean, come on, I decorate my desktop with Post-Its and postcards; Toni’s are bedecked with Emmys and other of the industry's biggest TV awards. Nellie’s style alone made me cower in her presence: She looks like she stepped off the cover of a fashion jetsetter magazine (while still being casual and not at all look like she’s trying). Louis Vuitton, if you’re reading this: Give her a call. They were definitely the Cool Girls you want to be seen sitting at the cafeteria lunch table with, and luckily, first impression is also deceiving (besides, they probably initially perceived me as a total high-maintenance, one-dimensional flake, and wouldn’t be the first – ahem, SVV! – something about being blonde and wearing dresses often give people that impression): We hit it off within the first bumpy hour-long bus ride.


Two of our remaining 10 were Italian men: Ricardo, the suave, personable Italian who’s been in NYC for 22 years, and Renzo, the flirty one who’s probably pushing late-60’s and has been in New York as a correspondent just as long (it must be said, he is completely nice and harmless, but the Three Other Hooches and I were the recipient of many an old, creepy guy comment – the first thing he said to me when I met him was, “You are the best thing that could have happened to me and this trip” –and we all had to completely be on our guard at all times). The others – Kelli, Martha, Patti – were great, and then there was GOONIES. You’ve seen the movie, right? If so, I don’t need to describe her any further.


GOONIES personified every bad stereotype you hear about travel writers. A writer for several Philly papers FOR OVER 30 YEARS, she told me at least 17 times – in the first hour alone –she refused to pay for anything the entire trip – even a four euro piece of pizza! – and complained about everything: the heat, the food, the 10 steps we had to walk from the car to the monument, the Hooches. You name it, she hated it. And she was so obviously jealous of Toni and her sexiness (sista’s got enviable curves) that she directed all of her negative energy toward the Back of the Bus (the four of us, well minus Heather, who again remained Switzerland). While I feel bad for her because she clearly has issues, no one wants a Negative Nancy in Italy, particularly when the rest of the group gels so well. But still, we’re in ITALY, and really, no one -- not even an old fart with an unfortunate 'do -- is going to spoil my next four days. Lucky for me, I have the Hooches to ensure a fun – and interesting – time.

Oh yes, and may I just pause a moment for a random aside? I'm guessing so since this is my blog... Anyway, have you guys seen the ELECTRONICS VENDING MACHINES in airports? I read about these luxury inventions in 2007, but I usually fly international out of shitty airports like JFK that definitely don't sell iPhones, Bose headphones and digital cameras from a VENDING MACHINE. SFO, my favorite airport in the world that is conveniently located three miles from my house, does, and oh my God, while the last thing I need is another electronic (I currently have three iPods, three digital cameras and two computers -- I know, I'm an addict), how gratifying would it be to buy one with a simple swipe of a credit card as if you're asking the machine to dispense you a Twix?

Livin' the African Dream

And why does the hulk of an African mammal grace the computer screen you’re looking at?

I’m glad you asked.

I have this ability, with shocking esotericism, to bring a completely random and interesting – to me at least – fact to your attention. Ms. Kristin has on a number of occasions reminded me about the little factoidal anecdote I recited for her pleasure whilst cruising the snowy and windswept highways of Romania.

It is what captured her heart.

So let me introduce you to the wildebeest. Their herds number in the millions and every year they migrate a vast expanse of desert in the plains of Africa. During this migration over 1800 miles are traveled and 500,000 baby wildebeests are born on the fly- which start walking within ten minutes. Grasses are eaten, predators are outrun and general ungulate frolicking is performed for over-charged eco-tourists.

At least a quarter of a million of the herd doesn’t finish the trip. Hey, a lion’s gotta eat.

However, the really fascinating thing about the wildebeest that makes them stick in my brain is the Mara River crossing in Kenya. The rainy season happens to coincide with the mass migration of our new favorite animal and swells the river to dangerous levels. But two million of our friends need to move across the turbulent river, regardless.

Downstream, hoards of scavengers and predators - like the hyena and the massive Nile crocodile – simply pick them off at will or patiently wait for them to float on down the river. Thousands of animals feast on thousands of unlucky wildebeesties.

Poor Blue wildebeest. But without you we wouldn’t have anything like the diversity of life in the deserts of Africa, and without you I wouldn’t have been able to drop a nuclear geek/life science bomb on Ms. Kristin’s unsuspecting heart.

For that I give thanks. May you live long and herd well.

~ SVV

An Uphill Climb...Quite Literally

I’ve gotten cocky lately. Or maybe just gone crazy. But that’s what adrenaline does to you, you see. While running my half marathon in Nashville, the whole time I was thinking, “how the Hell am I going to do two of these back to back? One’s hard enough!” Then, the feeling of accomplishing that is so great that it overtakes any aches and pains and thoughts of morose you had while running. The aftermath – once the nausea and occasional vomiting has subsided, of course – is so intense that you immediately forget how hard it was to reach that point. You just feel successful and fit and skinny.


Which is exactly why as soon as I got back to San Francisco, I signed up for the Mt. Tam Wild Boar Run, a trail race that was just 11 miles long and one which I figured would be a breeze. I’m getting to the point in my marathon training where each weekend run should be 15, 17, eventually even 22 miles, so I find it easier to accomplish these via an organized run than going out and doing them myself. Something about hundreds of others perspiring and wanting to kill themselves right alongside you is an excellent motivator.


The whole “Mount” part in the title of the race should have immediately been a deterrent, but somewhere on the page I saw “easy flat run” (apparently a description for another race later this month on the same flyer, but I often misread the fine print) and thus I quickly signed up online. The Mill Valley area is so gorgeous, I figured it would be a refreshing way to spend a Saturday morning. As usual, SVV was willing to come along with me and play photographer – being his girlfriend is like having your own personal paparazzo! – and bright and early, we drove out to Marin County, past Stinson Beach and up Mt. Tamalpais (for those of you not from California, they have weird ways of pronouncing things out here. Whereas, I would have said it the Spanish way, it’s actually “tam-ul-pie-us,” kind of how Milan, Tennessee is pronounced an illogical “mie-lun.”).


The night before the run, I read the packet they sent me that said “No iPods or mp3 players allowed.” In case you haven’t been able to tell by now, I don’t like to be told what to do, so I almost rebelled and took mine anyway – in fact, I was going to print out a copy of the race homepage where it didn’t say anywhere that you couldn’t listen to music – as I took this to be some hippie-dippy purist way of saying “enjoy the scenery; be one with nature,” and I need me some Fergie and Queen to keep me going if I’m going to be running for a couple hours. Last minute, though, I handed over my Shuffle to SVV not wanting to cause a scene, and the second I stepped foot on the dirt trail that was miles four through 11, I totally understood the rule. Let me rewind.


The race began at the bottom of an outdoor amphitheatre with the director coordinating a singalong of “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” (I so wish I was kidding), before he started the clock and we had to race up the stairs and off down the road (which was, um, normal pavement, not yellow brick at all, though ironically enough, as we drove up the mountain on the way there, San Francisco seemed to float above the clouds way in the distance and I did comment to SVV: “It looks just like Emerald City! Only, well, not emerald, but you know what I mean.”) The first two miles were very hilly, but not too bad, because every time you would climb up, you knew there was a dip coming soon. I befriended a marathon vet from Golden Gate Running Club and ran alongside him until we hit the mountain trail, knowing I wouldn’t be able to keep up with him at the 7:30-mile pace we were breaking. Come mile four, we veered off onto a dirt path roughly half a foot in width at parts, with pot holes, rocks, and knee-high grass – none of which I was expecting. I’m still shocked I didn’t come home looking like Sarah’s twin, with chiggar bites and a hearty dose of poison oak.


Here comes the part where an iPod would have been the cause of my demise. On the other side of the trail, the land dropped off onto a steep slope, and anytime I tried to look down to admire the scenery and Pacific Ocean in the distance, I nearly went tumbling after the rocks my shoes sent scattering down the mountain. I’m not really sure how you can be running uphill for seven miles straight, with no downhill breaks, and wind up at the starting point of the race, but that’s essentially what we did. The course was brutal – there were some 70-degree inclines, trees to duck under in the redwood forest, rivers to ford, buffalo to kill for dinner. It wasn’t unlike Oregon Trail, only no one fell victim to cholera or dysentery (that I know of).


I met Autumn somewhere around mile 4.5, and the first thing she said to me (or really just anyone in the vicinity) was, “There better be hash in this banana bread!” (The flyer for the race said to plan on sticking around for Dave’s World Famous banana bread; upon sampling it, we all agreed it came straight from a box.) I knew we were destined to be friends. A yoga instructor who sells medical devices for children on the side, Autumn does her share of traveling, having just returned from a month in Thailand and planning an upcoming jaunt to India. If it weren’t for her, I might not have made it through the next six-mile climb. But a marathon vet herself – she’s run nine and hundreds of other halves and other races – she said if I could handle Mt. Tam, the San Francisco Marathon would be no problem (in terms of hills). I’m holding her to that and sending her my medical bill should I pass out on mile 22.


She also opened me up to this whole new niche of running that I never knew existed: the Hash House Harriers. Have you guys heard of this? They’re all over the world and promote themselves as “a drinking club with a running problem.” It’s basically a social/fitness organization with runners of all skill levels and just about the coolest thing I’ve heard of lately. Particularly with all the travel I do, it’s hard to get my runs in if I don’t know the area, but I’ve already done a quick search of places I’ll be in upcoming months – Macau, Beijing, Seattle, Honduras – and there’s a Hashers club in all of those places. You have no idea how much this excites my Obsessive Compulsive behavior.


I did finish the race with no big impediments, other than the typical nausea that stuck with me late into the night (and I didn’t even consume any Accelerade this time around!). SVV got some stunning photos (as evidenced above), and although several days later while writing this, I’m still sore in the oddest of places, we got pampered that evening at the swanky, new InterContinental San Francisco – the aquarium-like edifice that towers over downtown SF just south of Market – which I was reviewing for Newsweek. While SVV wasn’t as lucky, I was the recipient of an aromatherapy massage from the iSpa – perhaps not the best massage I’d ever had, but far better than the 20-minute back rub I got in Tullahoma a few weeks back in which the masseuse, excuse me massage therapist, proceeded to talk to me the entire 20 minutes and inquire about my job, when I graduated high school, who my parents were, etc. – and we later celebrated his graduation for the second time, just the two of us, with dinner at Oola in SoMa (we got our own private little balcony! It was a pretty cool, industrial space, and the food was divine). Then, there were lots and lots of cosmos at some dive bar around the corner, served to us by a 20’s-era-looking Maggie Gyllenhaal clone who I wanted to take home with me and a scrum-diddly-umptious brunch the following morning at St. Francis in the Mission, upon Moose’s recommendation. And really, you can’t complain about any of that.


P.S. Hi from Italy! I’m here for "work" on the world’s quickest trip ever from San Francisco to Naples, in which the staying time barely edges out the time en route! I’ll bring you back some pizza, I promise – if I don’t eat it all first, that is.

Channeling Jeanie

Growing up it's hard to fathom that there's a good possibility your mother may someday be your best friend. You hate her this week because she won't let you go to the movies with your high school sweetheart (never actually a problem for me, as I didn't date in high school -- but theoretically), next week because she enforces a 10pm curfew. (Though let it be said, I was quite anti-social in high school, and my mom was so worried about this she a) made me join a high school sorority/hazing society and b) would make my punishments for back-talking to go out with my friends on a Friday night. I've since more than made up for that. Obviously.) And yet she does become your closest confidante sometime between the ages of 18 and maturity, and before you know it you're calling her up five times a day: "what's the recipe for your world-famous spaghetti?" "what should I get SVV for his birthday?" "did I tell you I just got another book deal?" "I completely forgot to ask about the grandparents," and "oh yeah, just wanted to tell you I love you."


On any given day, there are no fewer than 10 texts from Jeanie in my inbox -- she's quite savvy and was on that whole text train, T9 and all, years ago before all the kids were doing it. She also has a Wii and is a (video game) boxing goddess -- how many of you can say that about your mothers? When I was a child, she was the most popular mom on the block: She owned Zelda before the rest of the little boys in our neighborhood could get their grimy jam hands on it; thus, they would come over every day and watch her save the princess over and over again. And I bet you your bottom dollar your mom didn't date Jimmy Buffett and hang out with the Eagles, now did she?


Jeanie was always the cool mom, but she knew when to draw the line (i.e. she was lax enough that the kids loved her, but wasn't one of these parents who allowed her daughter's friends to smoke and drink just because she was that cool; though she did buy me and Diana WINE COOLERS in Florida when we were 18 and 16, respectively, and I swore I would never let that leak, but don't worry, Jeanie, the Blog won't tell). Plus, she drives a snazzy little convertible, so we can forgive the fact that she'll never shop anywhere other than Chico's and on more than one occasion has been spotted around town donning her Canadian Tuxedo. That's not to say I was always her biggest fan: At age 15, I believe, we got into a tiff, which resulted in me pushing her into the closet, which resulted in her shoving me back into the door, which then led to me painting the entire front porch and back deck for my entire summer break. With a toothbrush. I may not have gotten in trouble that often -- that was more Kari's forte -- but when I did, it was brutal.


If you're anything like Jeanie and me, you fought with your own mother from that golden age of 13 until you moved out of the house because you were so much alike. Jeanie and I don't so much resemble each other -- she maintains that I was fortunate to get her feet, not the finger-like toes that escape from my dad's feet like an octopus' tentacles, but "luckily your father's dainty hands, not my ugly, fat ones" (for the record, I think her hands are quite nice). I also got her bedonka-donk -- her rear end, if you will -- or so she tells me. She claims it's a blessing -- "not flat and wide, like your father's, but a nice shape without being too big." But other than that, my mom is barely 5'1" with hazel eyes and unruly dark brown hair. I'm 5'6", still maintain much of my original blonde, albeit much darker (vouched by my hairdresser, I promise), have blue eyes and a much different build. If you put the two of us in a line-up, I'd bet 50 bucks you wouldn't know we were related.


But funny how history repeats itself, in this case I shadowed my own mother's young adulthood. Following her graduation from Vanderbilt at 20, she hopped around the country hitting up 20-something states with two guys from her graduate school. She then moved to Europe for a couple years, crashing at her brother's pad in Germany (and dating his roommate, oops!), bumming around, taking odd jobs here and there (she was a computer consultant during the birth of the computer, so her skills were always in demand). I don't think I need to tell you again about my days of moving 14 times in 7 years, or living in Scotland, Holland and Denmark. Many of my trips while living in Europe, mirrored hers without my knowing it until much later. Upon flipping through old, yellowing photo albums while I was home a couple weeks ago, I even discovered that we had several pictures captured in identical spots. The only differences were in clothing and hairstyle (I so wish I lived in the 70's).


Upon moving back to the States, Jeanie had a choice between an awesome job in Atlanta where she could live like a queen and BUY A CONDO at just 23 or live like a pauper in NYC. She chose to live like a queen; I opted to be a pauper. After meeting my father and marrying him in her 20s, she moved to San Francisco. Here I am. I would say the next logical step is for me to settle down in Tennessee, but alas, I don't foresee that happening (sorry, Jeanie, but this is where I must draw the line!).


So, since you won't answer my 37 calls, happy your day, Mom, from your shadow (and biggest fan!). I hope you were pampered, even though your favorite daughter (me) wasn't there to do you the honors. And I hope you enjoy the box of electronics that will arrive in the mail for you tomorrow (I'm such a bad secret-keeper! At least I didn't tell you that it contains two seasons of a highly-acclaimed TV series on NBC and a super-fun Wii game).


And to all the other mommies and grandmommies out there, like Joan and Vanessa, I hope your day was fab!


In honor of Jean Watts Housholder Luna, I give you a photo montage (too bad I didn't swipe any baby pics while I was home!):

California State Line!

Grand Canyon, Arizona

Florence, Italy

Eiffel Tower, duh: Paris, France

Skiing in Austria

Wedding Day: Tullahoma, Tennessee

Sausalito, California

Don't Rain on My Parade

All week long before my Nashville race, there were forecasts calling for thunderstorms Saturday morning, AKA Country Music Marathon Day. I kind of brushed this off and didn't come prepared, considering the rest of the week was a hot-and-sticky 86 degrees, and despite my deep base tan, I still got fried from two afternoons spent poolside. So when I woke up in our hotel room at 5am Saturday to ominous clouds and rain coming down in sheets, I could have kicked myself for not listening to Bill Hall, Nashville's own weather expert. (Is it bad that I was more worried how my Garmin GPS watch and iPod Shuffle would fare in the weather than my own health?) But that was the least of my worries. I almost didn't even make it to the race in time.

Never one for punctuality, my mom and I left the Marriott for the start line at 6:15, half an hour after we meant to leave considering it would be a 20-minute drive sans traffic, and 15 minutes after they asked all participants to be there. I wasn't too worried, as I had registered the day before and only wanted to make it there by 6:55 to get situated in my corral by the 7am start, but once we got to the Interstate and the West End exit was backed up for miles, I started getting antsy. Kudos to Jeanie here, because she pulled some fancy maneuvering techniques -- guess that's completely plausible with her wee Chrysler Sebring convertible; my Altima would never have been able to fit in the spaces she squeezed into -- and I got out and walked the rest of the way in the rain once we got on West End Avenue.


My cousin John and his brother-in-law John (my family is very creative when it comes to names) were also running the half, and I was supposed to meet them in Corral 11 at 6:45. Well, mother of pearl, I knew this was a big marathon, but 100,000 people? Yeah, good luck finding anyone. (I later tracked them down in the aftermath, as is evidenced in the family photo above. Their cousin on the other side, Scott, the skinny 17 year old, finished third in his division in 1:26. Ridiculous.) I was a couple corrals ahead -- Corral 9 of 40+ groups -- which were arranged based on projected finish time. My time was optimistic; way back in December when I registered, I figured I could do it in two hours. However, in my training I've been averaging 9.5- to 10-minute miles on long run, as I'm not doing this for the time. But I'm a competitive soul, even against myself, so I vowed I would finish in under two hours, no matter what it took.


I was a little worried about my energy level, because I hadn't eaten much the day before. I had planned to OD on carbs at dinner, and met up with Lucy, her boyfriend Jon, my cousin John, Megs and about 10 other Nashville peeps at a popular Italian restaurant, but after two hours of waiting for our food, they then got it wrong (we asked for all veggies; they gave us a meat pizza) and in the end, I had to return to the hotel room and have my mom run out for fruit and carrots. But I survived and felt fine the next morning, luckily. Each corral started a minute or two behind the previous one, and by the time my corral reached the start line, the rain had subsided. I started out running an 8- 8.5-minute mile the first few, which might have been stupid, but I wanted to get out of the bulk of the pack. Claustrophobes should not run marathons, I learned.


And alas, I finished in 1:57:54, about 12 minutes ahead of what I figured I was capable of and a grand average of a 9-minute mile overall to the dot. Just goes to show you what your body can do once you set your mind to it. And for all those of you who might want to run a half marathon -- or even a full -- heed my advice: It can be done. Until February, I hadn't run in more than three years. Granted I was a college athlete, but after leaving Sewanee in 2003, my fitness took a backseat to just about everything else in my life. Heck, in NYC, my exercise regime consisted of walking to and from brunch and shopping. So if I can train for and kick ass in a half marathon in just two-and-a-half months, so can you!


Oh, and a little word of advice to someone's who's been there? DON'T DRINK THE ACCELERADE. My cousin had alerted me to this months in advance, but come race day, I plum forgot. Let's just say, Accelerade is packed with protein, and my stomach was revolting for a good 36 hours afterward. From now on, I'm sticking to water and orange slices on race days.


Now, three months exactly until I have to run 26.2 miles in one afternoon. And no, walking is not an option. After how my body felt after just a half that weekend (and will likely feel tomorrow after my 11-mile race up Mt. Tam), I'd have to say I'm more than a little freaked out by the prospect.

MARATHON BY THE NUMBERS
-Time: 1:57:53
-Calorie Burned: 1602
-Fastest Pace on Race Day: 5:23
-Place Overall in Half Marathon: 4372 / 21398 (Top 20%!)
-Place by Gender: 1543 / 13477
-Place by Division: 414 / 2950
-Water Stations Taken Advantage Of: 3
-Number of Rihanna Songs Listened To: 5
-Odd Places to Get Chafing: 2
-Bathroom Breaks: NONE (Go me!)
-Number of Bleeding Men's Nipples Seen: A LOT
-High Fives Given to Spectators: 107 (approximately)
-Weeks Trained: 11 (Minus 3 for trips to Brazil and Southern Cal)
-Days Run: 30
-Miles Traveled: 164
-Bikram Yoga Classes: 18
-Pounds Lost: 16
-Sizes Dropped: 2, from a 8/10 (dresses and skirts/pants) to a 4/6; I fear my soccer player legs will never allow me to squeeze into any jeans smaller than a 6

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

It's always an odd, and fun, occurrence when you move to a city and start running into people you know at random venues or events. Just a month and a half after my arrival, I saw Lucy and Jon's friend Swift running at 6am at the Marina, only two days after meeting him. I called out to him, and he gave me a funny, almost panicked look. I'm sure he was thinking, "Who the Hell is that girl? Did I try to pick her up at a bar or something?" Last night, SVV and I went to Bubble Lounge for the 10th anniversary party, and just 10 minutes after getting there and sifting through the crowd to find the hosts, Olga and Kate, someone called my name, and the crowds parted to reveal two of my favorite people in San Francisco, Trish and Tami (and Tami's boyfriend, whose name I still can't remember after meeting him a couple times, oops!). Something about running into people randomly at an event which you didn't even know they had ties to is comforting. It makes a city that once seemed so daunting and unfamiliar seem small and more manageable. Not to mention, those two are some of the most connected people in the city -- they're publicists, it's their job to be -- so SVV and I were introduced to the cream of the media crop.


SVV had his last class yesterday (hallelujah! It only took six years! And for those of you completely confused, he was in the Navy for most of his 20s and didn't start journalism school until nearly 30) and went out for Mexican and margs with his classmates, so by the time her returned to me and we left for the party at 7, he was well on his way to being toasted. I figured we'd show up, schmooze a bit and retire early. Instead, we were there practically from the time they served the first cocktail until last call -- and on a school night, at that! (Side note: SVV never made it to work this morning; I slept in about three hours longer than I usually allow myself. He's currently back in bed, as I write this at 2pm. It was that fun of a party.)


The second SVV had a drunken stumble, pouring his Cosmo all over my slingback and breaking the martini glass on the floor, I figured we were done. It was time to go. That was at 10:30. At midnight, we're still there, knocking back the drinks (well, I stopped after three, seeing as I'm a lightweight and have to run today) and dipping strawberries into the chocolate fountain. By that time, we'd befriended the French owner Emanuelle, artists, musicians, designers, architects, publicists, the bartender, everyone within a 100-foot radius. Everyone's so warm and friendly on this side of the country that it constantly amazes me. I remember every event I covered/attended in New York, whether at the Mandarin, Cipriani's or somewhere equally as pretentious, I couldn't wait to get out of there because everything was so clique-y, and no one talked to you unless you were a Mortimer or Vanderbilt or carried a roman numeral after your name.


SVV has many shining attributes, but I think the one I value the most is that I can throw him in any setting with any group of people, and he's as smooth as butter. He always joked that I was a professional schmoozer, but if that's true, a lot of that must have rubbed off on him in the three years we've known each other. Several people last night commented on how he makes the perfect plus one, and I'm inclined to agree. Now, if only we could both quit or day jobs and become full-time San Francisco socialites, mingling with the likes of Gav (Newsom) on a nightly basis, we'd have it made!


The BART ride home was an interesting one, spent discussing important issues of global concern: French manicures (SVV was very intent on learning exactly how they're done: "I mean, when the nail grows, what happens to the white part?" "I bet I could give you a kick ass manicure better than any salon!" And he's straight; I promise!), his dual-toned eyebrows (he's like a freak of nature -- blonde roots, black tips) and ear hair, a realization that I feared might bring him to tears.

"I have ear haaair??" SVV slurred, a bit disheartened.

"Well, more like a hair, and it's pretty minuscule."

"Gooood, cuz the moment I get an ear haaaair, it's all ooooover."

And that's all she wrote.

Ed. Note: I may very well not have a boyfriend after publishing the above photos. Hey, at least, I didn't post the video, too, right? ;-)

Laundromat Thieves

My boyfriend is seriously crafty. So much so that it puts me to shame. For Christmas, I bought him a new sewing machine, and while many people would find this an odd present (especially for a dude), he was elated. He's put that Brother to good use, too, first with curtains for three sets of windows, last night for an entirely new endeavor. And have you ever seen him with electrical tools? Whew, ladies watch out.

The best thing about having such a crafty beau is that you can suggest things like, "wouldn't it be nice to have a reversible table cloth to match the placemats for all those dinner parties we never host?" and he's in the car, off to JoAnn's, and back in half an hour with the exact shade and texture of fabric you envisioned. Last night was no different. I was sick of being able to see all the boxes spilling out from under our bed -- we have one closet to share between the two of us, a tiny nook of a closet that wouldn't house my shoe collection alone and which I have completely taken over, and still don't have enough space for my belongings, so I had to opt for under-the-bed Tupperware, as well -- and had purchased a bedskirt from Target. Naturally, I got home to find that much to my chagrin said bedskirt was about eight inches too short. A normal person would have just exchanged the purchase. SVV has never been what one might call normal conventional. He looks at everything as something to be conquered. Two hours later, we'd picked out fabric that matched my bedspread, he'd gone to work, and I was the proud new owner of a pretty dual-toned bedskirt that just grazed the top of the hardwood floor. (A hardwood floor, I must add, that SVV varnished himself, seeing as when he moved into the house last summer, there was this ugly, molded shag carpet permeating every room, so what did he do? Rip the entire thing up and turn it into hardwood. Saints come in many forms.)


I should also mention that on our way to the fabric store, we stopped to pick up our laundry. Now, we have a washer in our garage, but no dryer, and sometimes just line dry our clothes, but more often than not deposit them in an industrial-strength dryer at the laundromat just half a mile from our house. It's never been much of an issue before: Most days when I go, I'm the only one there. This whole laundromat thing is sort of new for me: In college, I always had a washer and dryer, in my dorm the first two years and in my apartment the last two. When I moved to New York, I spent one afternoon doing my laundry with Lemon, which was enough to make me realize that I would spend the rest of my laundry days in Manhattan sending it out. This may sound on the spoiled side -- hey, at least I dropped it off and picked it back up; none of that curbside service for me, primarily because it was a whole dollar more expensive -- but have you been to a laundromat in New York? It's like a competition, blocking people out for the use of the sole dryer, waiting on the sweaty bench for the coach to put you in (AKA your clothes to stop tumbling). And it takes FOR-EVER. And is expensive. When I discovered that basically any laundry service would wash and fold my things for me FOR THE SAME PRICE AS DOING IT MYSELF, my life as a New Yorker was forever changed. For the better.

So yes, the whole laundromat scene is relatively new to me. I should preface all of this by saying we live in a largely ethnic neighborhood and are often the only crackas for miles. Seriously, my whiteness is glaring, like an obese sheep in a coal mine. Why does this matter? Well, it doesn't really, except for the fact that I feel I am often the recipient of cold stares, looks that say, "Hey, white girl, why don't you get out of the 'burbs and back into the city where you belong?" So I can just see the 70-year-old woman who was waiting to pounce on the first open dryer scheming, "Snowflake there probably has a dozen duvet covers from which to choose. She won't notice if I swipe her pretty purple one with embroidery detailing." Au contraire, Granny; that was my first and only duvet cover, so thanks for being the one to rob me of my laundromat virginity.


Because when we got all of our laundry back home, MY DUVET COVER WAS GONE. The very duvet cover that SVV had spent so much care to match with his bedskirt creation. The duvet cover that we built the color scheme in our bedroom around. The duvet cover that I expended blood, sweat and tears to trek out to Elizabeth, New Jersey and back on a horribly crowded Sunday in November 2006 to purchase.

OK, Internet, I'll admit: My duvet cover came from IKEA, the IKEA in Jersey nonetheless; it didn't have any sentimental value, wasn't something that's irreplaceable. But BUT, it was a $59.99 purchase (plus tax!), which for a duvet cover -- and one at IKEA at that! -- is quite pricey, and honestly? I don't really have multiple chunks of $59.99 (plus tax) laying around to spend on frugal purchases like more linens. And really, what are the odds that the same afternoon SVV gets all crafty in our decorating pursuits that my duvet cover is swiped right from under our stuffy, pollen-ridden noses?

This has confirmed my very fears about laundromats, and I'll resume hang drying my skivvies from now on out. Have any of you encountered similar laundromat thieves? I know I'm not the only one with a horror story, so here's your chance to come clean, people.

Editor's Amendment, 2:55pm: To the 70-year-old woman who took my duvet cover and promptly brought it back to the laundromat today upon obviously reading my blog, I won't hold it against you that your eyesight is going and that you clearly had to dig through my entire pile of laundry to find it in the first place. That's just weird, but still, I forgive you and thank you for making sure I got her back unscathed.

Summer Reading List

Remember when you were 14 and complained all summer about having to read The Iliad and Animal Farm and The Old Man and the Sea for your freshman honors English course, and wasn't Mrs. Smith just such an old hag for making you do so, because clearly three books in three months was asking way too much, when you were already finishing a whole Sweet Valley High book every night, whilst hiding under your covers with a flashlight?

I'll be the first to admit, I hardly read as much as I should anymore, or as much as I would like. I find that every spare moment set aside for reading is spent scouring you guys' blogs and flipping through each of the 25 magazines I get every week/month. It's not that I actually like reading a lot of the publications I get in the mail -- I mean, really, who has the money to jet-set in the way that Travel + Leisure and Conde Nast Traveler require? -- but as a magazine writer, it's sort of imperative. How else would I know that every publication and its mom felt like a Wine Country update was necessary this spring, and thus I shouldn't pitch anything on the subject for a full year? Or that Ecuador and Guatemala are the newest hotspots, what with Europe being way out of most Americans' budgets? And at the risk of my house getting egged, I'll fess up: The New Yorker nor Economist rarely never make my list of weekly reads, because I'm just not that kind of girl (speaking of which, Vicki Glembocki wrote a hilarious essay about her own struggles with the The New Yorker in this month's Women's Health. Read it.).


As scared as I still am as flying -- I maintain that my odds are much higher compared to your average individual who doesn't hop a flight or two a week -- I look forward to my plane time because it's always when I flip through the 10 back issues of New York that I have yet to crack and look at all the pictures before discarding moments later (seriously, New York has got to be the most boring, pretentious weekly there is out there, and had it not been for the $5 special that I couldn't pass up, I would not have a subscription), devour the last few weeks worth of Entertainment Weeklys from cover to cover, and start a new novel that will inevitably not be picked up again until the next flight.

Still, it's hard to walk into a Barnes & Noble without leaving with a bag full of shelf stuffers, which stresses me out even more as my growing bookshelf looms with uncracked spines. However, as it's nearly summer -- OK, technically there are about 49 days left of spring, but it feels like it at least -- and some of you live in sunny places where you can lay on the beach all day and read books, or at the very least, sit on your sunporch and catch up on your reading , I give you my top picks (though, be forewarned that I'm the type of reader who heads straight for the Bestseller table -- hey, if it's good enough for Oprah, it's good enough for me -- but you will never find Eat, Pray, Love on my list of recs, so there's that, at least).


Love Walked In
If you're a fan of Moose in the Kitchen (and if you haven't checked her out, GO NOW), then you'll love this fictional tale of her Philadelphia clone. I finished this book just weeks after first meeting Moose in person, but everything about the character reminded me of her witty, heartwarming posts, and I think if Cornelia came to life like Giselle in Enchanted, you wouldn't be able to tell Moose and her apart -- petite gals with huge hearts and charismatic personalities. I'm not too big of a sap -- I've only cried at a total of two funerals, and not for lack of trying -- but I sobbed, in a good way, after finishing this read on a plane back from Brazil a couple months ago. If you love Love as much as I did, pick up Marisa De los Santos' sequel, Belong to Me. I must confess, I am cheap, and am waiting for it to come out in paperback before buying. That was a tough decision to make, though, as I'm DYING to read it, like now. Maybe I'll give in and purchase it from Amazon for $10 less than the bookstore....

Water for Elephants
The older I've gotten, the more I've begun to appreciate historical fiction, perhaps because I went to one of those public schools, the kind where the coaches run the social studies department and you learn little more than what a royal flush is from your days spent playing poker with your classmates. I walked away with more of a grasp on the Great Depression in these 350 pages than I ever did in any organized lecture, as it's a bittersweet tale of what life was like in those days. If you've been discouraged by the first chapter -- it begins with a 90-something-year-old man in a nursing home and trying to escape to relive his youthful days at the traveling circus next door -- persevere. I promise you'll be glad you did.

The Princess Bride
You've seen the movie 783 times, but have you read the book? (Did you even know it was a book? If you recall, in the beginning of the film, Grandpa reads to Fred Savage from the very book written by a fictional Morgensten; it wasn't just made up for the movie's sake.) Bride will forever be one of my favorite movies, and often it's tough to do the read-the-book-then-see-the-movie reverse. But there is so much in the film that was omitted, like Humperdinck's torture dungeon of strange and dangerous creatures that Wesley must navigate his way through in his quest for Buttercup. As the author William Goldman say, the book has ""Fencing. Fighting. Torture. Poison. True love. Hate. Revenge. Giants. Hunters. Bad men. Good men. Beautifulest ladies. Snakes. Spiders. Beasts of all natures and descriptions. Pain. Death. Brave men. Coward men. Strongest men. Chases. Escapes. Lies. Truths. Passion. Miracles." How could you ask for more? Bonus points if you can find a highly coveted, never-printed copy of the sequel, Buttercup's Baby (it's rumored to finally be released in January 2009, more than two decades after Goldman started writing it). And if you do, remember your favorite blogger to whom you will promptly send the novel once you are finished.

I Was Told There'd Be Cake
As I mentioned in a previous post, I had been dying to check out Sloane Crosley's first book of essays ever since the Observer article in the fall lauding the book publicist as The Most Popular Book Publicist in New York (no, I've never crossed paths with Crosley, but what can I say, I'm a sucker for hype). Subsequent mentions in the Chronicle and EW solidified my need to find this book (smaller shops in Nashville and Cincy proved fruitless). The thing about hype is you're often disappointed (think: Garden State. Juno and Knocked Up for some; not me). I'm happy to say this was far from the case with Cake. My best comparison to Crosley's way of turning the mundane, everyday happenings (well, to her; other people likely don't hoard plastic ponies from ex-boyfriends and lock themselves out of two apartments in one day), is if you were to bind all of the posts from Nothing but Bonfires and put them in a book form (Holly, what are you waiting for??). By the way, if you can't find it in nonfiction, check the humor aisle (or order on Amazon for half the price of what I paid).

The Zahir
I found this inspiring novel by Paulo Coehlo even better than his popular The Alchemist (another recommendation if you've yet to read it). I'm not usually one for fiction with spiritual undertones, but this book was touching: A writer's wife, a war correspondent in Iraq, goes missing in Paris without a trace, and he dedicates his life to finding her, not for a moment thinking that the inevitable (death) could have possibly robbed her of her life. His quest takes him from Paris to Kazakhstan on a remarkable journey of self discovery and love (God, I sound like a Hallmark review).

Yes Man
Danny Wallace is a funny man. The kind that are usually only invented by the cleverest of authors. So when he agreed to a bet in which he could only say "yes" to requests and demands for a certain period of time (something like six months, I believe), Wallace, a British producer for BBC, found himself saying "yes" to becoming a rabbi, attending meetings about aliens and UFOs, hopping a last-minute flight to Singapore, all sorts of bizarre-o scenarios. Once you've finished Cake and are in need of more laughs, pick up this page-turner.

The Summer Fletcher Greel Loved Me
Disclaimer: Just because it has the word "loved" in the title, in no way makes it chick lit. I'm not sure why this book never made it big, and I owe it to my literary guru/college suitemate Ashley for turning me on to this piece of genius five years ago. This book about a pair of high school students in Mississippi on the brink of adulthood -- they must conceal a murder and an illegal adulterous affair, deal with racial issues that still plague parts of the South today (so, you know, basically the story of my childhood...KIDDING) -- it's one of those reads I could pick up every month and never get sick of it.

Travel Memoirs
As a travel writer who one day aspires to actually put all of her globetrotting in book format as opposed to commercial accounts of where to go, what to see, how to do it, I've been attempting to read more travel memoirs. (The much overrated Eat, Pray, Love does not count, so put it back on the shelf! As Lemon intelligently pointed out, that book became a hit based on two marketing factors alone: the cover and the title. The fact that Gilbert, with whom I took a college writing class and I think is actually a wonderful person despite that I loathed the book, was already a famous magazine writer -- she penned the GQ article on which Coyote Ugly was based -- didn't hurt either.) Some I would recommend (based on other travel writers' recs; I haven't actually read all of these yet) include Swimming to Antarctica, Unlikely Destinations: The Lonely Planet Story (I'm currently switching between this and The Glass Castle, a memoir but not of the travel variety), Avoiding Prison and Other Noble Vacation Goals, and anything by Bill Bryson.

Classics I Never Tire Of
If you feel the need to boost a few IQ points (or at least look well-read in public, should you need a novel to kill some time while waiting for that next business meeting to start), may I suggest a few that never get old: The Great Gatsby, Catch-22, Brave New World, 1984, Breakfast at Tiffany's, A Farewell to Arms. You may never visit again after this startling confession, but I've never understood the obsession with Catcher in the Rye (again, the hype).

What have you guys been reading lately that I must add to my list? And what do you find completely over-rated?

Your Couch or Mine?

I don't often post my stories, except when it's something I feel will aide you in your travel needs or something fun and pop-culture-like (such as my recent Madonna story, to come later this week). But I wrote an essay for World Hum last fall that was finally published this week and highlights hospitality exchanges and their various uses. (Side note: if you're an aspiring travel writer, World Hum -- owned by the Travel Channel -- is an excellent forum to start with, as the lovely editors, Mike and Jim, are open to all ideas and dispatches, and the writing is top-notch and often featured in the Best of American Travel Writing series. Additionally, so many of the magazines and online travel publications have gone commercial, it's nice to know there's still a forum to write about your actual travels.) An advocate for CouchSurfing and the like, I unfortunately don't use these free organizations as much as I would like anymore, as much of my travel is on assignment these days. However, some of the coolest people I've met through my country-hopping -- from Spain to Iceland and beyond -- have been as a result of CouchSurfing, so if you're hitting the road soon or simply want to meet others in your area, I highly recommend joining.

*****

Speaker's Corner: Why I CouchSurf

The first time she crashed at a stranger’s home, Kristin feared she’d wind up an Agence France-Presse headline. Now she looks forward to sleeping on others’ furniture—and not just to save money.

My heart was pounding as my travel companion, Helle, and I trained from Paris toward Marseilles. To say I was nervous about meeting Vincent, our host in Marseilles, would be an understatement. Would he like us? Would we like him? Would we have anything to talk about? More importantly, would we wind up the headline of the Agence France-Presse’s next lead story: Two female travelers go missing after stupidly agreeing to sleep on a complete stranger’s couch?

In retrospect, it’s slightly odd that we had never met Vincent but were traveling 400 miles to take up lodging in his spare bedroom. I didn’t even know the most basic things about him: his family background, place of birth, favorite Beatles album—things I generally knew about even the most casual of my acquaintances. The most interaction we had was an email exchange or two. Yet he was picking us up at the station and taking us to his secluded Provence villa for four nights. The setting for a made-for-TV, “Texas Chainsaw Massacre"-esque slasher flick perhaps, but we were willing to take the risk.

Where had we met this seemingly perfect stranger? CouchSurfing.com. Prior to departing Denmark, Helle and I had joined a couple of online hospitality exchanges that would set us up with local tour guides and, we hoped, safe places to lay our heads—all for free. The site we’d received the most welcoming responses from was CouchSurfing.

I saw Vincent the second I stepped off the train. Tall, lanky and good-looking, I fell completely in love with him in a purely platonic, he’s-so-nice-you-can’t-help-but-want-to-give-him-a-big-hug sense. His jittery demeanor—it was clear he wasn’t completely comfortable in the presence of two semi-attractive blonde foreigners—was somehow endearing. I sensed I wasn’t about to become a missing persons pin-up girl.

He drove us 45 minutes to his chateau among a grove of olive trees and made us feel right at home. As luck would have it, he was also one of the kindest, most fascinating, caring individuals I have encountered and the type of person you can only dream of meeting while on the road because of his appreciation for other cultures. After Vincent, my future involvement with CouchSurfing was inevitable.

I will admit that had I not had a travel companion, I would never have initially dipped my toe into CouchSurfing waters. As a solo female traveler, there are some chances just not worth taking, and staying with a complete stranger topped that list. But after a month of couch-hopping my way through Southern France and Corsica, I now don’t think twice about staying alone.

It seems utterly bizarre if you stop to think about it. You’re flying solo to Norway for a week and aren’t too keen on forking over $50 for a mere hostel bed, let alone five times as much for a basic three-star hotel. So what do you do? Email a complete stranger whose profile you stumbled across on a web-based travel community and request to crash on his couch.

With CouchSurfing, anyone of any age or nationality can create a profile free of charge. You fill out your basic information—where you live, what you do, your life goals and ambitions, whether or not you have a couch to contribute. Then other users trekking through your town can hit you up for advice or a meet-up, or vice versa. A three-tier vouching system exists for security purposes, as do references from other members.

After immersing myself in the CouchSurfing scene abroad, I moved back to New York and assumed my participation would take a backseat to my career and social life. Besides, I was your typical Manhattan resident living in cramped quarters with roommates. It would hardly be fair for me to offer up the sole piece of furniture in our communal living room. Sure enough, the second I switched the status on my profile to New York, I was overwhelmed with messages from CouchSurfers wanting everything from lodging and assistance finding a job to grabbing a drink or going for a walk in Central Park. I realized that while I couldn’t participate in the traditional sense—letting others stay in my home—there were other ways I could contribute.

As a fashion journalist by day, red carpet reporter by night and travel writer on weekends and holidays, every square inch of my New York life involves media types. It’s nice to occasionally associate with others not in the industry. So for me, CouchSurfing has provided a venue where I can meet people interested in travel from all walks of life. By participating in the weekly meet-ups and odd party or two hosted by fellow members, I’ve encountered investment bankers, photographers, computer programmers, actors, dancers, professional nomads, people from Togo and Siberia—and even Queens and New Jersey. Some of my closest friendships in New York have resulted from an email thread via CouchSurfing. I even vacationed in Latin America with one member after meeting once, for a simple Thai dinner and stimulating conversation.

I must admit, CouchSurfers can be a crazy bunch. While they have a routine get-together in Union Square each Thursday night, they also organize events every other night of the week, whether it’s a rooftop masquerade where you will not be admitted sans costume, or a unitard pub crawl. Sometimes I can’t keep up and the thought alone stresses me out. That’s when I have to sit back and remind myself that I don’t have to respond to every email I receive through the site (though I often do anyway), nor am I required to make it to every social gathering.

Sure, I’ve had a negative experience or two. After a few unsuccessful attempts at meeting up with a traveling Frenchman, through no fault of my own, I received one of the most inappropriate, profanity-laden emails I have ever read—all in French. Another time, I took a New Zealander out in Manhattan with a group of my friends, and he proceeded to offend every one of them with inaccurate generalizations about Americans and his statements about U.S. foreign policy. But, thankfully, these incidents have been few and far between.

Generally, most CouchSurfers seem to be seeking the same thing: to break down cultural barriers and spread an impassioned desire to know more about this vast world we all share. True, CouchSurfing is not for everyone—I once met a painfully shy Scot who acted as if she’d rather endure a root canal than be stuck in a room full of total strangers—but my own life would surely be much more mundane without it.

A Surefire Cure for PMS

To my two male readers: Before you go clicking to your next daily read as fast as you can say "Jiminy Cricket," this post has no mentions of that monthly visitor. Just so you know.

Have you ever had one of those days where nothing goes terribly wrong, but enough small things annoy you to the point of seeing anger management classes? I had such a morning, which was probably not aided by a 5:30am start when I'm already a bit worn down from family time and cross-country travel. After Sarah and I did our twiceish-weekly Marina run, I had to hop on 101 down to Redwood City to pick up my car at the Nissan dealership, after its doctor's check-up and oil change. Now, this dealership has given me more than enough headaches after forking over my life savings in February (note to Bay Area residents: DO NOT buy a vehicle from Boardwalk Auto), and once again kept me waiting, shivering in the meatlocker-like service garage in my damp running clothes -- which I'm still in, eight hours after putting them on.

From there, it was back to the doctor's office in Burlingame, the same doctor who called me after my first visit and ominously demanded I return for bloodwork, despite the fact that I had all my annual bloodtests back in the fall, but wouldn't tell me what for, thus invoking the standard hypochondria that I was indeed dying (turns out, I'm fine, not even a trace of iron deficiency), so this did not bode well for my Friday karma. (For the second time already in this post, I'm going to give a non-recommendation: While not purchasing a vehicle at Boardwalk Auto, also don't stop by Peninsula Women's Health if you have an ailment. The doctors are pretty good, but the management SUCKS and will inevitably leave you thinking you have some sort of severe auto-immune disease.)

I then received a bummer of an e-mail after emerging from my semi-painless check-up: My two-week trip to Beijing in June has been postponed until October, but hey that won't affect me much, the organizer said, because none of my stories were Olympic-oriented. Quite the contrary: Turns out I have five stories due to the Travel Channel in mid-June for an Olympic package, stories for which I signed the contract a month ago, and a lot of other Olympic pitches floating around in cyberspace. Shortly after that, my editor at Glamour e-mailed me to say that she was only going to use one of the submissions I sent her for this tattoo removal story, when I spent the last four days not working on my Forbes and Travel Channel stories due next week but rather tracking down people who regretted getting inked. So since she's only using one of the four I got for her, she's just paying me FIFTY DOLLARS for a good eight or nine hours of work -- that's like half of minimum wage! (On the management note, my editors at PEOPLE have been being beavers, too: They told me to get credentialed for the whole San Francisco International Film Festival yet don't respond to my 17 e-mails asking which events I should attend; at the same time, I'm expected to always be "on call," because you know, I have no life apparently. And I've had several pitches rejected/go unaddressed in recent weeks, so I'm a little discouraged. To all of you who think you might want to be a full-time freelancer one day, learn now to take rejection with a grain of salt. This is something I have yet to do, as three years later, I still feel insulted every time someone turns me down.) For the remainder of the day, everything succeeding in adding to my spiraling state of annoyance: the woman who occupied the sole photo machine at Kinko's for half an hour, the guy who cut me off in Millbrae, the train holding up my day in San Mateo.

Now, I realize my daily distresses are nothing in the grand scheme of things, because despite what one reader thinks (she called me "pretentious" but I maintain that snark can often be misconstrued for arrogance, and isn't it funny how the ones with unfavorable comments are also the same people who don't leave their name or website behind?), I do realize how fortunate I am and don't take things for granted. I'm healthy, so are all of my friends and family (Kate aside, but she's one Hell of a strong individual), I'm well off enough financially to get by, I have a fabulous boyfriend and comfortable living situation. But still, there are everyday things that, when piled up get you down.

So what did I do? Well, I didn't want to be in a crummy state for the rest of the day while working on next week's stories and catching up on last night's Lost, so I did what anyone in the need of an upper would do and went to the Barnes & Noble at the WT mall Tanforan down the street. I picked up copies of the latest travel mags that didn't grace my mailbox, as well as Sloane Crosley's I Was Told There'd Be Cake (which I've been dying to get my hands on after all the hype) and Thomas Kohnstamm's controversial Do Travel Writers Go to Hell?, and hit the in-store Starbucks for a skinny vanilla latte. And you know what? IT WORKED. Because there's no better cure for a bad mood than literature and caffeine it seems. This was further aided when I nipped into the mall's Target in search of mother's day ideas for Jeanie and Joan, and came across Orbitz three new flavors of gum: Sangria Fresca, Fabulous Fruitini, Strawberry Mint. Naturally, I had to sample all three. (Other things I love today include Leona Lewis and Google's new designer themes. Mine is currently set on Tory Burch. In "world news," this morning I learned about scented text messaging in Germany. SAY WHA??? My thought exactly. I also listened to not one, but TWO programs, accusing John Mayer of being a serial dater and womanizer. I must admit, I've never been on the John Mayer train, and I think he's far undeserving of such arm candy as Cameron Diaz and Jennifer Aniston. Jessica Simpson can keep him.)

How about you guys, do you have days like this that feel like a row of dominoes falling in slow motion? What are your go-to pick-me-ups?

A Word from Our Sponsors

Pound Puppies Sing the Blues from krysleigh on Vimeo.

Did I not mention I hail from a musical family? Happy first day of May, y'all!