Body Check

Today, I did something stupid. I ran close to TWENTY-THREE miles (close to=22.5something). The day before I have to sit in a plane all cramped up and stuff (well, likely not that cramped as I'm FLYING VIRGIN AMERICA FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER, word, and I hear it's like JetBlue, my favorite airline ever, on steroids). But still, that does little to ease the pain and cramping that I feel from my toenails to the tips of my earlobes. Because 23 miles? Um, that takes me two hours alone to just drive in this city, so why did I think it was a brilliant idea to brave the hills from Union Square to the wharf in Sausalito? (For the record, with all the hills, it took somewhere in the vicinity of four hours to run; I'm shooting for 4:30 on race day.) Maybe because I had yet another crazy idea to RUN A MARATHON despite hating running more than hardly anything else in life, and THAT MARATHON is in just five weeks. YIKES. But holy Kris Kristoffersen, I feel like that skunk over on Hillside Boulevard that was recently mowed down by a semi (RIP skunk). Scott rubbed me down completely, erm on top of my clothing of course, with some sort of Icy Hot substitute, and now not only is my body throbbing in agony out of soreness, but it's effing freezing and tingles like Hell, as well.

Of course, as you might expect, the second my feet hit the pavement for said run, my semi-new iPod Shuffle that I purchased just for running purposes, broke. Just like that. I really was about to burn down Steve Job's house, or at least feed Ex-Lax to his dog, but I'm learning to handle situations without violence more calmly, and I was meeting Autumn in Nob Hill for the first six miles anyway, so she loaned me her fancy new Red iPod, you know the kind that's for "a cause" and likely contributes all of two bucks from every $200 purchase to AIDS.

After I split from Autumn and was over the Golden Gate Bridge and in Sausalito (one of my favorite little towns in the area), I stopped on mile 14 for my sugar surge (highly advised to anyone who runs more than 10 miles or so), since I'd "conveniently" forgotten to bring along any nasty ass delicious Gu packets. Last time, I stopped at the Starbucks downtown and wolfed down half a donut (and didn't feel bad about it one bit, dammit, as each of my long runs I burn 2,5000+ calories). This time, to my dismay, they were clean out of donuts. Still, I inquired to the pretty college-aged barista, who didn't have a hair out of place.

She looked at me skeptically. "You don't want a donut."

First of all, who the heck are you to tell me what I do or do not want? Secondly, I couldn't decide if she was 1) implying I was overweight (I'm not...am I?) and didn't need the donut (normally, I would agree), 2) saying they simply weren't that good, or 3) looking out for me and taking note that I'd obviously been working out quite strenuously and why would I want to counter all that hard work with 30 fat grams that take 45 seconds to consume? I'd like to think the third option.

Still, I was livid and wanted to scream, "GIVE ME THE EFFING DONUT!!!!" but my mama raised me better than that, so instead I calmly explained that I was in the midst of a verrrry loooong run and needed a sugar surge, lest she be responsible for me going into hypoglycemic shock right along Highway 101 and wouldn't she feel so guilty about that?, and ordered an organic apple juice and ginger cookie to spite her. I thought this might shut her up, but then the peppering of questions began: "have you always been a runner?" (kinda, in the sense that I was always an athlete", "how long have you been training?" (about four months), "is it hard?" (umm...duh?), etc. Finally, I escaped the evil clutches of her perky ponytail and finished the last 8.5 miles feeling like my knees would snap at any second, freeing my legs to detach from my body. Last week's 18-miler seemed like a breeze at the time, and I don't know if it's because I ran 4+ more today, if I haven't been doing good enough at taking my vitamins regularly (true story) , or the fact that I stupidly logged a total of 37 miles and a few sprints in 3.5 days that just made me feel like the poor skunk. Still, I live to tell the tale, and that's what's important, right?

And now I'm off to Alaska, then Seattle with SVV for nine days to meet my lovely family, the first real vacation Scott and I have taken since Hawaii in January 2007. Wishing you all lovely holiday weekends; and to all of you non-Americans, well, don't be too jealous we get the Fourth of July off, considering you have like 16 weeks of vacation per year! Cheers; I'll try to post if ever I have Internet access on the boat.

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A video of SVV and me playing tourist/scouting locations for our future home (lease is up in August; we could technically move back to the city then if we wanted):

Crooked Street, Crooked People from krysleigh on Vimeo.

Michael Jackson's Got Nothing on This Guy

I came across this video a few days ago and have watched it so many times, I just had to share. I challenge you not to laugh (and cry) while viewing. Oh, and make sure to watch it with the sound on; it's more touching that way.

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

I love this video for so many reasons. Matthew Harding (of Where the Hell is Matt?) succeeded in dancing his way around the globe and uniting countless strangers of all walks of life along his journey. And he's freakin' hilarious while doing it. Read his About Me, and you'll be crying out of laughter. Matt, if you're reading this: I love you, man.

I think Matt sets a great example for homebound Americans (and other nationalities who don't get out much) that there's so much of the world out there to see. So be like Matt and do a little exploring of your own! It can be done, ya know, even without a trust fund (seriously, traveling can be cheaper than you may think -- and if you don't believe me, shoot me an e-mail and let me convince you). So many friends and acquaintances of mine -- the Lost Girls, Holly, Lisa Lubin, etc. -- have quit their fabulous jobs to travel around the world for an extended period of time, and I'm definitely an advocate for this act of bravery (I've never actually done it myself per se -- unless you count my extended stints living in Europe -- but Scott and I will get around to this eventually, I assure you). Although, not everyone lucks into a sponsorship like our little dancing friend here, but hey, whatever works. After all, I made a career out of my wanderlust, too, (clearly) -- you just have to get creative!

The Undeicpherable Mystery of the Bloody Toe

***Disclaimer: No puppies were harmed in the writing of this post; however, big toes were maimed and massacred, and there may be occasional mentions of blood (a warning for all you squeamish types like me out there; I almost passed out just typing this).


While chilling in Avila Beach last week, I woke up Friday morning to a throbbing sensation on the side of my right foot's big toe. Initially, I assumed it was the onset of a blister from my 18-miler earlier that week, on top of sprint work and boot camp, but it had been a solid two days since the last time I strapped on my running shoes and I'd been rocking the Havianas instead, and blisters don't just mysteriously crop up a few days later.

While nice and comfortable, heat stroke aside, the boutique hotel I was staying at didn't have air conditioning, which is actually surprisingly common for lodging in California. When my friend Karen came to town last week, she had trouble tracking down a place to stay in San Francisco that actually offered A/C (and with her luck, she arrived at the same time as a heat wave). This is because California nights are so cool, you usually don't need it. Then, there are the times when the thermometer grazes ONE-HUNDRED-AND-ELEVEN -- like all of last week in Central Cal where I was exploring -- and you start to wither under the sun's glare.


I didn't remember what it felt like to be in 90-degree weather, let alone 100+. Thus, one must improvise when such rarities occur. I slept in the nude (don't judge, I was alone), pointed two high-power fans on me full blast, and left the balcony wide open, and I still woke up one sticky hot mess. I was afraid I would open my eyes to find some Peeping Tom peering into my window, ogling my naked bod, but instead I awoke to a hole in my big toe.

Had a seagull swooped in for a snack? Had the bloodthirsty protagonists in the vampire series SVV's sister had brought me to read come alive off the pages and mistook my foot for a neck? Had this ailment been there for days and I just hadn't notice? Apparently, that wasn't the case, as there were splatters of blood on the floor that formed an illogical pattern and a small blood stain on the sheet (sorry, hotel, you can send me the drycleaning bill!). Had I been John Locke or Kate Austen, I could have cracked the case with my keen tracking abilities, but unfortunately, I've never been stranded on an idyllic island in the middle of the South Pacific.


The hotel, bless them, gave me a whole handful of medical supplies to doctor my scathed foot and protect the toe from the sandy perils of the beach. As I settled into my lounge chair down by the pier -- I know you guys are convinced that all I do is lay out and stay in fancy hotels all the live long day, but I work, I do! I actually had turned in eight stories to the Travel Channel that morning (eight of which I left to the last minute, per my usual work ethic) and needed to recharge my batteries -- I noticed a spot of dried blood on the opposing ankle.

As I reached down to examine it -- turns out it was but a lingering gift from the injured -- something landed on my left bicep and stung me. OUCH! I sat upright in pain, completing neglecting the fact that I had untied my bikini top to minimize tan lines, and, as a result, bared my bazonkas for all of Avila Beach to see, particularly the two six-year-old hooligans (what am I all of a sudden, your grandmother?) who were already staring me down from a blanket just a few feet away. Their eyes widened in distress behind the plastic dinosaur shades that concealed their faces, as I apologized (in my mind) to their mother -- who was bedecked in a wide-brimmed hat and a full body suit IN THE MISERABLE HEAT; seriously, why do people come to the beach if they're just going to cover up from head to toe? seems like agony to me -- and gave her a referral for a respectable child psychologist.


And the mystery of the bloody toe remains unsolved. But at least my girls are still glowing from being allowed out in public, so there's that.

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And on a completely random note, a mildly entertaining video of some dude dancing at the XYZ party at the W in San Fran last night (people behave like this at the W??? apparently after enough eco-friendly elderflower martinis they do). Commentary provided by Autumn and my "boss" MRP.


XYZ Opening at the W from krysleigh on Vimeo.

Things We Lost in the Fire

For the past two weeks, everywhere we've gone, we've seen traces of the all-consuming California blaze: Paradise, King City, the Santa Cruz Mountains, Oakland even. It's usually within a visible distance but not close enough to affect us at all really, other than provoking a hacking smoker's cough now and again.



This whole fire concept is completely new to me. Growing up in Tennessee, "all" we had to worry about were tornadoes, hurricane aftermath and the occasional earthquake (of 2003, remember that one?); in New York City, it was Spitzer and tipsy socialites. No threats of smoldering kindle for miles.



On my way down to Paso Robles last Wednesday -- WHEN I SHOULD HAVE BEEN INTERVIEWING DAVID BECKHAM, AND WILL FOREVER MOURN THE DAY I PASSED ON THAT PARTICULAR OPPORTUNITY -- the fires from Santa Cruz weren't even showing inland. Four days later, you can see how the wind carried them (and also deem how windy it is -- never a good addition to any burning scenario -- judging by my hair and dress whipping around like so):



It's so eerie, like the calm before the storm. The skies are an amazing ribbon of yellows and oranges (which aren't as visible here, as we stupidly only had our Canon point and shoot and not the almighty digital SLR; note to self: never leave home without it, you never know when you'll bear witness to a natural disaster). Don't you know this is exactly what Dorothy saw before she was swept up from her quaint Kansas home and deposited in a hellhole full of buoyant midgets and airborne primates?



When we got back to our pad, all was good on the homefront. The Cat had held down the fort while we were away, save a semi-serious ant invasion that clearly resulted from the heat wave. We could see a layer of fog settling in over the city, but alas, as always, it stopped just at the edge of South San Francisco where we live, and there was no trace of any substance in the air. Then, no more than 20 minutes later, alarms started sounding, the air all around us smelled of burnt hair (and for once, my straightening iron wasn't the cause of it!), and we walked out our front door to find this:



Never the sight you want to see from your own driveway. It was pure insanity. And while our neighbors gawked and Scott joked around about it -- he's a true pyro if ever there were one -- I got to worrying a little. Particularly, because we're leaving town for 10 days on Friday (Alaska, here we come!), and what if we return home to a pile of ash and some measly rubble? At least, maybe then the ants will be gone.

Video of the madness:


Fire on San Bruno Mountain from krysleigh on Vimeo.

And more pics:






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Update 10:49pm: News stories here and here. The fire at San Bruno Mountain is nowhere near contained. And more than three-and-a-half hours after the blaze began, there's still not more than a few paragraphs on the web. I love what one of the commenters wrote: "Newspapers can't even scoop ice cream, never mind the news."

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Update Monday, 7:55am: Seventy-five percent contained! For once, I'm praising the fog for rolling in and taking control of what could have been an otherwise dire situation. Two hundred acres is a lot of acres, after all.

Good-Bye and Good Riddance

Mercury in Retrograde***, I can't say I'll miss you. Suffice it to say I didn't even know about you a mere few weeks ago, nor did I buy into this whole astrology biz (still not sure if I do, but regardless, I'm using your alleged presence to justify my recent streak of bad luck), but you've impacted my life more than you'll ever know. First, you caused me to get my car towed (on top of that, a parking ticket). Thanks for that, by the way. Then, you were clearly at the root of my hard drive failure, resulting in hours of time lost and hundreds of dollars doled out to Apple's Genius Bar. (Side note: If ever I were to quite my job as a writer, I'd totally lobby to become an Apple Genius, if only so my business card reads just that, because while we're being honest, I know little about computers other than how to check my e-mails and occasionally post a blog on the Internets.) You ruined my second favorite summer dress (seen here) after I wore it just once, and you almost broke my three biggest toes on my right foot while in Napa Valley last week, sending a wave of panic through me that I might not finish my marathon after all, but alas, you knew when to draw the line. Or so I thought.

On the drive from San Francisco down to Paso Robles on Wednesday -- book research, as always -- I was cruising at my normal highway speed, 70-80 the whole time (CA standard speed limit is 70), when I noticed a cop perform a quick 180 about half a mile behind me, come barreling over the grassy knoll and turn on his lights. Who, me? Sure, I was going 77 at that point, but um hello, isn't that about standard on the highway? And surely not enough to prompt that whole scene. But yet, I was quickly blinded by visions of red and blue lights.

I rolled down my window, handed over my license and registration and went through the routine. I started to cry silently -- I can't help it, this is just what I do when angry -- but I wasn't even about to let him see that or to try and get out of this one. I was going seven above the limit, I was going to take it like a (whoa)man. Then, he demanded my insurance form, and amidst the handfuls of paper I'd frantically pulled out of the glove box, I couldn't find it. Great. I asked him if he could just check on it using my registration; he refused. Then, he handed me my ticket to sign and I saw the glaring error: NINETY-FOUR MILES PER HOUR. Now, I'm no leadfoot. Sure, I speed like your average person, going five above the limit at times, occasionally 10. But SEVENTEEN FREAKIN' MILES? I'm sorry, but I don't even know what that feels like.

Me: "Um Officer, I'm afraid you've made a mistake. And I don't feel comfortable signing something that's such an obvious lie."

Jackass Cop: "You were going 94."

Me: "Do you have proof of this? How can you be sure? I'm having a little trouble coming to terms with the fact that it's your word against mine, when clearly you're not being truthful."

Jackass: "I could tell based on visual estimation and a lot of training."

Me: "Well, I don't really see that that's fair, now do you?"

Jackass: "Contest it in court."

Me: "Well, if you'd just be honest about the whole thing and write down that I was going 77, then I would just pay the fine and not worry about the whole little court thing. Speaking of which, if you think there's something to contest, then why don't you write down my truthful speed?"

Jackass walks away, his jiggly behind wobbling as he went.

He also cited me for not having proof of insurance, despite the AAA card I keep in my wallet and packet they sent me that crowds my glove compartment. Also, please tell me how I could have a registered car if I lacked insurance? It just ain't possible.

While I kept my composure the entire time I was speaking to him -- well up until the last couple minutes -- the second he headed back to his car, I took the liberty to scream at the top of my lungs. With all the windows still open. I'm sure he's thinking, who let the crazy out of the ward? And then, since I knew he had to wait for me to leave first, I proceeded to sit in my car on the side of Highway 101 and call Scott, my mom, Eva at Cheval whom I was supposed to be meeting um five minutes ago, anyone that needed to hear about the situation. Because heaven forbid he cite me for talking on my cell phone, too, while driving (though that law technically isn't implemented until July 1). Plus, it was kinda fun just sitting there making him wait. As I would say to him in Swedish, jaevla bevar.

So if you ever see an officer with a badge reading DL HALL, of stoutly stature and an unfortunate face that looks as if he were once a pigeon that ran into an 18-wheeler's windshield while hauling 100 on the Interstate -- why else do *most* people become police officers? they're overcompensating for something (and before the hate mail begins to roll in, I recognize that there is a very tiny, minuscule, so-small-you-can-hardly-see-it percentage of officers who join the force for the right reasons; unfortunately, Mr. Hall does not fall in that category) -- paroling the streets of Monterey County, or even the bar scene, you have my permission to give him the stink eye and maybe even the bird. (I would say pour your beer on his head or send a flaming bag of poo to his house, but I don't want to do anything that might prompt a warrant for my arrest, because this guy? King of all assholes, really. OK, OK, no one likes cops -- or "peace officers" as the DMV likes to kid itself -- but every one that ever pulled me over in Tennessee was actually quite kind and felt too guilty to ever give me a ticket, hence this being my second ever, the first after an unsympathetic old geezer in Alabama caught me off guard. This Mr. High-on-His-Horse Hall clearly was given one too many swirlies in high school, and thus poor innocent souls like myself must pay for his shortcomings many years later. Sure policework is a noble profession when DONE PROPERLY. Like Matt Parks on Heroes. But when you're just trying to meet a daily quota and you tack on an extra SEVENTEEN MILES PER HOUR to a gal whose insurance just decreased significantly because the one ticket she ever had in her life finally fell off her record, you're just an asshole. And I apologize for using profanities on this blog -- I try to keep it as clean as possible, I am a Southern girl after all -- but DL HALL = prickassholejerkfacemeaniehead.)

(Luckily, when I arrived at the charming Hotel Cheval and Pony Club in the too cute town of Paso Robles, the lovely people I was late to meet immediately made me forget my worries, and in fact, all had their own Mercury stories to contribute. While it still doesn't make up for the fact that I'll be appearing in court in Monterey once or twice this fall and forking over enough money in gas alone, who even knows how much oil will be up to by then -- all ticket costs and traffic school aside -- at the very least, the smile returned to my face. Thanks, lovely people of Paso Robles and your too cute town!)

Basically what it comes down to is I can't afford you, Mercury in Retrograde. You've already cost me well over $1500, and I am but a struggling writer. And it's not just me you're harming, Merc. Friends have been assaulted with pepper spray and suffered Interminable Break Ups of Hell Fire and Doom. What did we ever do to you, pray tell?

But today, you're skipping town, and for that, I am grateful (though the bartender at Pony says I should lay low for two to three days following your departure). At least we don't have to put up with you again until September 24. At which point, I will be fleeing the universe entirely.

Oh, and if anyone other than Mercury has any legal advice as to the most successful (and preferably, cheapest) way to contest a speeding ticket of mammoth proportions (of lies, ALL LIES!) in California, I'm all ears and eyes. I'll even bake you a cake in exchange for your kindness. Or send you free Benefit Cosmetics products, whichever you choose (though if I were you, I'd opt for the make-up, as baking isn't exactly my forte. Unless you're a dude, in which case, that might be a little weird).

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***If you're wondering what language I'm speaking, you're not the only one. I knew nothing of this concept until all of these mishaps began occurring, and my very San Fran friends (read: hippies and new-age thinkers) all kept throwing out this "Mercury (in) Retrograde" philosophy. Here's what Astrology.com has to say on the topic:

The Mercury retrograde is perhaps best known of all retrogrades. This celestial body requires 88 days to make a complete pass around the Sun and remains stationary for anywhere between a few hours and a few days, depending on the time of year. This planet goes into retrograde three times a year for around three weeks each time. Mercury has the highest frequency of retrograde and stays in this position for the shortest length of time of any other planet.

Communication is Mercury's main domain. Therefore, communication is greatly affected by this planet's pull. During the period Mercury is in retrograde motion, individuals may find their message is better conveyed through another less familiar medium. Messages may be misunderstood; whispers may be overheard and mail or email may be misdirected. Those who are usually constrained by public speaking may have moments of clarity, while those giving a public address may be dramatically misquoted. This is a good time to explore new outlets of communication. Choose your words carefully.

Uh-oh, and I gave that interview to the Christian Science Monitor yesterday. I'm destined to be misquoted, it seems. Which wouldn't be a first. Sometime for your amusement, I'll post a recent Q&A with me published in a Knoxville magazine, which makes me appear to have trouble with subject/verb agreement and that ever-going struggle between "a" and "an" (funny, I thought I mastered both in the first grade).

Tag, You're It!

OK, I'm a sucker for these "pass it along" type thingies (though forward me a chain letter, and it immediately goes into my online trash can), so when the most in-shape blogger I know, boXer girl, reached through the Internet, tagged me on the shoulder with her pink boxing glove and shouted, "You're it!" I got all giddy with excitement. (You're never too old to play Duck, Duck, Goose, you know.) Here are the rules:

Think back on the last 15 years of your life. What would you tell someone that you hadn't seen or talked to for 15 years? How would you sum up your life? You get 10 bullet points. A list of 10 things to summarize about you. At the end of your list, tag 5 more people and send on the love.

1. In 2001, I was bitten hard by the travel bug. The doctors say it's a permanent condition with no hopes of recovery. The infection has since sent me to 50-something countries on five continents. It also caused a slight change in the career path, by prompting me to leave the world of "hard news" once I figured out I could somehow swing a job out of jet-setting. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, some might say. I say, if you can't have the standard six weeks of vacation time most Europeans get, become a travel writer. Or a hooker, one.

2. I made my national TV debut a few times over, the first being on the pre-game show of the Fiesta Bowl in Arizona four New Years' ago. My friend Staci and I were recovering from alcohol poisioning the block party the night before and were stopped somewhere in downtown Tempe by an NBC crew asking our thoughts on tramp stamps. I'm sure if I hadn't been suffering a headache the size of Texas, I might have been able to come up with something clever. Last year, I was randomly asked to memorize a couple spots for CNBC's Fast Money. It was the highlight of my career, speaking about the economic stimuli in the stock market and other such terms that are Greek to me. I then filmed two shows for the Travel Channel weeks later; five hours of footage and I was maybe on air for four minutes. Oh yeah, and there were those two times I made it into the background of Good Morning America and (ashamedly) some Fox News program, of which I can't remember the name (though my grandfather would disown me for any slam on Fox News, so shhhh, forget I said that).

3. At one time, I was an advice columnist. I know what you're thinking -- who am I to give advice? At least, that's what I was thinking when I got the gig. The entertainment editor, John, an indie dude from Chi-Town permanently clad in Chuck Taylors and band tees, and I, the features ed, penned a he-said, she-said Friday column for our university newspaper, which was a daily and published roughly 20,000 copies per issue. We received several e-mails a week from students with questions ranging from roommate issue to thoughts on threesomes (I sent those ones to John). I read back through those columns at times and think, "wow! I really sucked as a writer back then." Since Scott is likely to track them down with his expert knowledge of Google -- he's already threatened to do so -- I'll save him the trouble and post one or two for your amusement. My most shining moment was when I was in Florida for Spring Break during senior year, and a group of frat guys recognized me from the column mug shot. "Aren't you that sex columnist girl from UT?" "Um, I don't know what you're talking about..." "Let us buy you a drink!" "On second thought, why yes I am!"

4. I got arrested. Yes, 'tis true. Granted, it was expunged from my record shortly after -- the best part of hailing from a small town is having a father with influence -- but it's still a blip on an otherwise spotless record. I should also note that I got arrested after drinking ONE DAIQUIRI and being responsible enough to enlist a SOBER FRIEND to drive my car home, but apparently when you're a group of 18 year olds going 10mph under the speed limit on a country road in Tennessee at 3am and a cocky cop who has to meet a nightly quota stumbles upon you, you're destined to be thrown in the slammer. I should also note, we weren't actually taken down to the station, nor was I handcuffed -- though that would have made for a much better story, so let's envision that I was.

5. I published my first book (a travel guide, but still). And a year from now, my name will grace the cover of another. While the ultimate goal is and always has been novel writing -- full of travel anecdotes, natch -- it's a start.

6. I moved to Europe, twice. I fell in love the second time. Two years after returning from Europe for good (at least for the time being), I chased him out to the Left Coast. I'm completely ecstatic about how things have worked out thus far. We have a lovely home in South San Francisco, which consists of a Cat, an aquarium full of fish, two tomato plants and a lemon tree.

7. I was a college athlete. I originally went to Sewanee: the University of the South with the intention of playing soccer, as I had attended clinics with the coach since I was in middle school. I wound up on the tennis team instead (funny how those things worked out). I had a great two-year run, made lots of friends, and walked away with more stories than could fill a book (most not G-rated enough for this blog, sorry!). Then, I transferred to the University of Tennessee and became the tennis team correspondent for the newspaper instead. Sewanee's the most beautiful campus you'll ever step foot upon; UT (Knoxville) is likely the most fun. Particularly during football season.

8. I interviewed my first "celebrity," Ron Jeremy, at the ripe age of 21, in the "green room" at the UT auditorium after a pornography debate. No, I did not shake his hand. From then on out, my life would consist of random celebrity encounters. If you'd told me 10 years ago -- heck, even five -- that a normal girl from small town America would wind up with a job that allowed her to banter with the likes of Stephen Colbert, Ben Stiller, Steve Carell, Jon Stewart, Hugh Jackman, and hundreds of other celebs on a daily basis, I would have told you you were crazy. I'm still holding out for the day when Clooney wants to chat.

9. On that note, I purged my DVD collection of all things Richard Gere. Dude's a jerk in real life. He yelled at me inside Cipriani at an AIDS event last year, in front of the likes of Woody Allen, Beyonce, Kim Cattrall and Eve. I did not appreciate it one bit.

10. Through my travels, many of them solo, I've had some crazy adventures: been held at gunpoint in Italy, helped free African refugees, was almost killed by a pack of rabid mountain goats in the Italian Alps...but those are all stories for another time. I can't reveal all my best in one mere post, otherwise you won't have reason to come back! ;-)

Most of that is probably not news to any of you if you read my blog semi-regularly, but it was the best I could come up with spur of the moment. So now I'm tagging a handful of people I think are the most likely to read this (and in return, respond): Cheaper than Therapy, The Misadventures of K, The Life of Me, She Likes Purple, No Pasa Nada. Ready...set...go!

Ho-Hum

I'm wiped, people. I feel like it's a Monday, and Tuesday morning and early afternoon have already come and gone. The only thing worse than a Monday itself is a Tuesday disguised as a Monday. And I have to hit the road again tomorrow, thus missing my interview with David Beckham on Thursday (WAH!!!), and all I want to do is curl up on my IKEA chaise and catch up on the last two weeks of The Bachelorette. (STOP rolling your eyes right now! I know it's trashy and boring and DEEE-AHHHNA totally annoys me to no end, but what else do you expect me to fill my DVR with from June to September?) I guess today was a good day to get probed by the dentist (ouch!), get my second dose of Gardasil from the gyno (double ouch!) and have my lady bits landscaped (OOOOOOOWWW!) because I'm really not useful for any other purpose at the moment. Kind of scary when I have five stories due by Friday that aren't going to write themselves (any ghostwriters out there?). Instead, I write to you from the Peet's in Burlingame, where I stopped for my SECOND day in a row of pumpkin pancakes -- stop judging! I had the fruit plate, too! And in my defense, I ran EIGHTEEN freakin' miles all the way from San Francisco to Sausalito and back yesterday morning. I'm sure I'm still burning calories...right? -- en route to my waxing appointment. Although today was exactly not the day I should have been interviewed by the Christian Science Monitor -- thanks to S. at Transient Travels for the referral -- because while I had a lot to say on the topic at hand, a fatigued Kristin does not an intelligent Kristin make. Also, for some reason, when I switch roles form interviewer to interviewee, my normally articulate self miraculously takes on the IQ of, say, Paris Hilton, with my vocabularly dwindling to a handful of one-syllable words. I'm sure the reporter was thinking, "and you call yourself a journalist??? You can't even string together a coherent thought!"


Anyway ... so this weekend was a bit of a whirlwind, as they're all seeming to become. I missed my good friend Kate's wedding in upstate New York (which would have also served as my first lesbian nuptials, darn!), and this saddened me to no end -- there was a photo booth the reception, complete with props! -- but alas, this book is not leaving a lot of time for extracurriculars. Thursday night, I stayed in Napa Valley at the charming Harvest Inn (amazing amenities --- like a temperature-controlled hot tub on your own personal deck and a massive stone fireplace that caused me to stub my toe and break off at least three toenails; not so amazing staff) and got up bright and early (5:30am) for my long run, only to find I left my shorts back in SF. I briefly toyed with the idea of running in my bikini bottoms and a tank top, but figured the poor tourists of Wine Country should not be blinded by such a sight (besides, have you ever run 18 miles in something other than runner's shorts/tights? Chafing, owch!). On Friday, I "worked" by the pool all day, because hey! It was actually summer in Napa! Not the ridiculous 50 degrees we had yesterday in the Bay Area that's prompted us all to turn on our heaters and don our woolly best. Any time I'm in above-70 weather this summer, I fully intend to get my tan on. I'm a total sun person, in case you can't tell, so it's quite ironic that the only vacation I'm taking that isn't work related this summer is to Alaska.


After successfully frying my right side -- who's the idiot who failed to put on sunscreen? and the tard who sat typing away for three hours with her same side faced toward the sun? -- I drove to Davis via Lake Berryessa to pick Scott up at Amtrak and drive the rest of the way to Nevada City. We were meeting his fam at the annual Grass Valley Bluegrass Festival the following day, so we used the opportunity to check out the area for the book. Nevada City is the cutest little town in Gold Country, and I wished we could have stayed longer. Plus! It's only 45 minutes from Reno -- who knew? -- and while I've never been to Vegas, I did learn to ski (and gamble!) after a trip to Reno and Tahoe when I was 8. I love it there (or at least Eight-Year-Old Self loved it there).


We stayed at this adorable brand new B&B, Bella Rosa Inn -- should you ever be passing through, DEFINITELY check it out -- and got up early the next morning to head to the festival campground, where the whole crew had already set up shop. Now, I love Scott's entire family as if they were my own (they kind of are these days anyhow), and since I don't have children of my own to brag on, and The Cat is only interesting once in a blue moon, I have to dote on Scott's niece and nephew, Jack, 2, and Kiva, 4. Everyone says this about "their kids" but I mean it when I say these two are the cutest, most intelligent children you'll ever meet (if you don't believe me, read this). We spent several hours grooving to the bluegrass and hanging with them before packing up and driving the two hours back to Wine Country -- Rutherford, if you're keeping track -- where we spent a relaxing evening at Rancho Caymus Inn (highly recommended again, if you're ever in Wine Country -- actually, while we're on the topic, if you ever do venture out this way, I'd be happy to plan your entire trip for you...God knows I've stayed in enough places to qualify as an expert).


The next day, we headed even farther west, almost to the coast, on the way to cover Outstanding in the Field in Marin County that evening -- an event which I will rehash in detail at a later date . We stopped over in Petaluma, which I had just been reading about in Sunset mag the previous day. Cute town though it is, we quickly bored of it, though were surprised to see that Billy Bob Thornton and his band (he has musical aptitude??? News to me, too!) will be playing there on July 11. Were it not one of my favorite people's 30th birthday that same night, I might be inclined to make the trek back to Petaluma and check it all out. I actually interviewed Billy Bob Thornton three years ago when he was doing press for School for Scoundrels, and he's surprisingly charming and uncreepy in person (aside from that whole blood-in-the-vial Angelina Jolie bidness).

And while I'm putting my own self to sleep typing this post -- have I really become that boring? I blame it on the onset of fatigure; even though I slept a good 10 hours last night, 18 miles drains you of any and all personality -- I'll save you any future boredom and leave you with some pictures instead. And promise you next time to do better. Or take a blogging class. Or do something that actually merits an interesting post (not that the bluegrass festival wasn't a load of fun, because it totally was! There just weren't any naked hippies or other interesting mishaps for me to snark away at).

How was everyone else's weekend? How did you celebrate Father's Day? Sadly, I couldn't be with my own father -- but he was rocking out to Willie Nelson at Bonnaroo, so I don't think my presence was missed -- but I will get around to a daddy post sometime this week... Also, on a totally random aside, I'm heading to Paso Robles/San Luis Obispo/Pismo and Avila Beaches early tomorrow morning for five days -- any chance any of you live down there and want to meet up? Or else have recommendations on what to do, where to eat?

**********

He dressed himself ... no really, he insisted on tie-dye. Dude's wiser than his years: It was a hippie fest after all.

Those eyes are going to break many a girl's heart one day.

Jack to Kiva: "Sissy, you have chocolate on your face!" Someone's one to talk.

Who invited the snowflake?

I made fun of Scott for ordering a snowcone when there was perfectly good ice cream to be had (who orders ice shavings as opposed to a cold, creamy cup of lard, I ask you?). Then I proceeded to eat more than half of his...hence the red tongue.

Scott and bro Jim called each other in advance to coordinate outfits; don't let them tell you any different.

Kiva's pretty face paint didn't last long; it "bothered" her.

Confessions of a Kleptomaniac

I steal. I'll admit it right now. (No, no, I won't steal from you, so next time you invite me over don't go to all the trouble of hiding your Frette linens and Rock Band accessories.) But staying at hotels so often, I've come to realize that I have a serious problem with taking (complimentary) hotel garnishings In fact, the toiletry obsession has gotten so out of control, our hall closet is suddenly overflowing with mini bottles of Bliss, L'Occitane and Kiehl's products. Oops.

Exhibit A: I've spent the last three nights in hotels -- in St. Helena, Nevada City, and Rutherford, respectively -- and walked away with 11 mini bottles of shampoo, conditioner and body wash (not to mention, two bottles of wine, a chocolate bar and a vial of Italian liqueur) from my endeavors. Who does that (other than homeless people in the Tenderloin)??? It also never fails that each time I check out of a hotel, I do the twice over to make sure I haven't left anything and spot a lone hotel-branded pen sitting on the executive desk across the room. Should I take it? Leave it there for the next guest? I pause. Then I do a quick lunge-and-grab maneuver (similar to Elle Wood's bend-and-snap routine) and conceal it in my bag quicker than you can say "Kristin's swiping pens again, Mom!" And if the hotel leaves bottles of water by the bed, it's on. Even if I haven't cracked the cap, they're all going in my purse before I leave. Particularly with this book I'm writing, every time I check into a hotel, they leave an fancy amenity -- whether it's a plate of Godiva-covered strawberries or an expensive bottle of wine. While I usually don't check in until too late to drink an entire bottle, I always take it with my in my suitcase. A couple weeks ago, I even walked out of the inn we were staying in in Sacramento with the plate of chocolate-drizzled berries and took them as my contribution to Lisa's housewarming party (what's the opposite of an Indian giver?). Scott and I have such a collection of fancy comp booze these days that I really should invite you all over to help us consume it.

I'm not really sure what it is about frivolous freebies that gets my adrenaline pumping. Maybe it's the fact that you pay so much for a hotel room that you feel you need to squeeze every last penny out of the company (granted, I'm not paying for any of these rooms, but still...). It got so bad when I was staying at the Raleigh in Miami for four nights a Glamour shoot last December that I would hide the Kiehl's shampoo and conditioner in my makeup bag each morning just so the maid would leave me more. You'd think I grew up on the streets and this was a defense mechanism for having to fend for myself.

Actually, though, as a child I used to take things that weren't meant to be complimentary. In fact, as a four year old, I would get really excited to go to Kroger's with my mom -- that's one of the major Southern supermarkets for all of you non-Southerners -- because while she was in the produce section, I would steal away (no pun intended) to the candy aisle and pocket an individually-wrapped caramel or two (or five). She never really noticed until Kari came along when I was almost six and I used her carseat to hoard my goods. I may have been sneaky, but smart I was not. I guess then it was no surprise that Kari would follow suit -- when she was two (and wow, talk about your Terrible Twos -- my little sis epitomized this saying), she somehow managed to take a handful of keychain photo frames from a homes store my mom frequented. (At least my stealing was productive: While I could eat my thefts, what was a two year old going to do with keychains?) My mom found out and was mortified: She marched her right back to the store and made her return them. The owners thought it was hilarious and let her keep them. Not the best example to set for an impressionable toddler (terror).

Luckily, I grew out of that by the time I entered elementary school and learned only to steal things that were actually meant for me (like hotel goods and boys' heart...buh-duh-dum). I recall hitting middle school and being with some friends at Wal-Mart and seeing them stuff packets of gum and Tic-Tacs in their pockets. I was so shocked, goody-two-shoes that I was/am, I was tempted to narc on them (I didn't, of course). While it seemed perfectly acceptable to steal caramels as a kid, when you hit your teen years, you weren't supposed to pull those shenanigans anymore.

How about you guys: Do you have a theft story from your youth? Is there anything you have a tendency to take now (I'm talking like free pens or mints; I don't want to know if it warrants a felony!)?

Off to run 18 miles now, uuuuugh, please leave me some lovin' for when I return! xoxo

For Sirius

I finally got with the times and purchased satellite radio. With the thousands of miles I'll be covering by car this summer alone and the epiphany that Northern California stations kind of suck once you venture outside the city borders, I thought it pertinent for keeping my sanity (and not abusing the new "no talking on cell phone while driving" law that goes into effect July 1). And having a handy-dandy boyfriend who can do anything and everything (sew bed skirts, take apart and reassemble a car, wire my GPS and radio for me), you really save on installation fees. Plus, another tax write-off, yeah!


Also, I was quite pleased to find that since I already have a fancy GPS with satellite capabilities, it cost me less than a hundred bucks to buy -- for some reason, I was envisioning sacrificing eating for a month in order to fund my recreational needs. Why did I opt for Sirius over XM? Well, no reason, other than my boyfriend told me to (and I *generally* do what he says) and at a recent dinner at Mulvaney's in Sacramento, the restaurant played channel 75 (ALL SINATRA, ALL THE TIME) for the duration of our meal, and I fell in love (with Sinatra and Sirius, simultaneously). Also, I just really like dogs.

But no one was more thrilled with the purchase than our (usually) anti-social Cat. He who usually bolts at the slightest rustle of paper -- he's extremely skittish, dating back to Scott saving him as a stray kitten back in Sicily a decade ago -- came running into the office area the second we opened the package and plopped his big-boned butt into the squishy pile of foam peanuts.


And without so much as blinking an eye, he'd readjust every few seconds:


Comfy yet, Dude?


The fetal position never disappoints.


Being a cat is such hard work.


Then, I threw a peanut on the floor, and it was instantly playtime (see video below). Does this post automatically land me a position in the category of Crazy Cat Lady? Because truth be told, I loathed the general species (tigers, leopards and panthers aside) until I moved back in with Scott (I'm highly allergic). But the Cat has been in his life seven years longer than me, so I had no grounds to complain. And he, being the Cat, took it upon himself to make sure I liked him, though I tried my hardest not to. Damn felines.


The Cat from krysleigh on Vimeo.

**Apologies for the quality of pictures and this video. I usually Photoshop most things, but thanks to my recent computer malfunction, I no longer have any programs on my computer. Stupid Steve and his stupid Apples.

An Open Letter to Steve Jobs

Dear Stevie J.,

You may not remember me -- after all, we only briefly brushed shoulders at the Mandarin Oriental in New York this time last year, and I have a feeling you meet a small handful of people a day, so I won't hold it against you -- but I have a bone to pick with that little company of yours. You know the one I'm talking about, it's pomaceous and someone apparently was quite hungry when he conceived the whole idea of the logo.

I was always a PC user at home, Mac at work. I never particularly liked my work Macs, but I got used to them and after using quite a few friends' iBooks and MacBooks, I bucked up and purchased my own 13 months ago. The Dell laptop I was using was far too bulky for the amount of travel I do, and anyway, all the pixels were dying, thus creating giant purple blobs all over the LCD. So I forked over 2Gs to purchase your sleek, highly-acclaimed model.

And I was happy, oh was I happy. After a year, my battery still holds for three hours or more, She never takes more than a minute to load up (versus the 10 minutes it took my Dell), I can run multiple programs on her at once and all still runs smoothly, She is incredibly user friendly. And I've even converted many a PC-loving friend to the wonderful world of Macintosh (including my 19-year-old sis who bought one and promptly had her motherboard fail RIGHT BEFORE FINALS. She wasn't all too happy with me for the recommendation, but I stood by my faith. At the time.)

Then, the day I moved to San Francisco, February 4 if we're being specific here, I had three stories due to one editor, on top of finishing packing up my apartment and making it to the JetBlue terminal in time for my flight. I turned Her on on that dark, rainy Monday morning, and the Apple began turning. And turning. Still turning. For an hour, it turned. It turned while I packed, turned while I ran to the UPS store one last time, turned while I ate my last sundried-tomato-on-everything bagel from the bodega next door, turned while I was on the phone with Apple Support. In the end, your technical department failed to assist me, as my install disk was somewhere on a moving van around Boise, and while my year warranty hadn't yet come up, apparently you only dole out three months worth of phone support with each model. Sorry, they essentially told me, you're SOL. So I conveniently tracked down a handy-dandy Apple Man just 10 blocks from my apartment who spent three hours patching her up, and I still made my flight and sent in my stories via JFK's free WIFI in the JetBlue terminal. I didn't appreciate the hundreds it cost me, but whatever, sometimes the money is worth the stress relief.

Then, yesterday, while it was a glorious 80 degrees and I would have preferred to be working from my backyard again -- yet couldn't, because someone mowed down a skunk somewhere along Hillside, and the rank smell permeated all of South City, our house worse than others, as apparently said skunk shimmied through our yard, tearing through our trash and leaving a stench along the fence -- but instead took up residence at the handicap booth at Peet's in Burlingame, right beside the Apple store there where I used your Internet connection all day long (thanks for that, by the way). She (being my Mac) was running smoothly for hours as I typed away working (and reading blogs, of course), yet when I came home, She wouldn't start up again. Uh-oh. I knew this scene all too well. Luckily (or so I thought), I had both the install disks and Apple Care this time around, so I figured a brief phone call would cure Her. It did not. The phone technician -- friendly though she was -- sent me to downtown SF for an appointment with the Genius Bar. (Lucky for you, I was already heading directly across the street from the Stockton store for a dinner and stay at the Four Seasons SF, and extreme comfort + one serious dinner with two amazingly wonderful publicists and an equally amazing boyfriend who sat at the Apple store trying to recover every last bit of data on my hard drive were about the only things that would lift my mood. If it weren't for the aforementioned, I might have come hunting you down, and you might have heard, but I have a bit of a temper. Actually, I'm a redhead at heart.)

Even though I had an appointment at the SF headquarters store, I was still kept waiting nearly half an hour (forgive me if I'm wrong, but isn't this the whole point of having an appointment in the first place, so you're not kept waiting?). Andrea, the darling bright-eyed Genius who helped me out, tried to doctor her up, but alas, her hard drive, it was failing. It was only a matter of time. I, being of Carrie Bradshaw-like mind (OK, for the record, I absolutely loathe when journalists -- particularly ones based in NYC -- call themselves Carrie Bradshaw, but I'm simply referring to her idiocy in backing up her comp in that one episode, you remember the one I'm referencing) have not put my external drive to use . You'd think I would have learned the first time; you'd be wrong.

So since you already charge an astronomical fee for a data transfer for a faulty hard drive -- again, I'm not understanding, your product UNDER WARRANTY failed me TWICE, and yet you still have the nerve to charge me a fee for it??? -- what the Hell, I just bought a new external drive to do the work for me, since it was the same price and at least I walked out the store with something for my money. Also, while Apple Care covered a hard drive replacement, I was forced to dish out an additional $100 for your ProCare plan, since it would be more than a week before I would get Her back, and as her laptop is a writer's heartbeat -- a writer who's under multiple magazine and book deadlines in the coming week -- this simply wasn't an option.

All that said, I do appreciate the enthusiasm and extensive knowledge of your Apple-certified Geniuses. In the end, it only took half a day to get Her all patched up (guess that speedy ProCare works, after all), and once She was ready to come home from Her trip to the Apple Hospital, I receieved two e-mails and two phone calls from the store alerting me to this. Now, that's service (but why couldn't it have gone as smoothly all along, I ask you?). Is it just that you're producing so many products and coming up with cutting-edge technology like the new iPhone that you're neglecting the original products that made your company so ubiquitous in the first place? Something's gotta change here, my friend, because two failed hard drives in one year is a little ridiculous; if it were a PC, I'd even say the same, but since it's an Apple, it's doubly so. I expect more from your mutli-gazillion dollar corporation.

So Stevie, send me a check for costs incurred (roughly $400, more if we're counting time lost), and all will be well with the world again. I also accept payment in the form of cash or PayPal. Deal?

xoxo,
Me

P.S. I currently type this from a PC desktop, and as infuriated as you've made me, Steve, I'm now convinced I will never go back to a Mac-less existence. So uphold your end of the bargain, and that way, I can keep my word.

What's in a Name?

Have you ever wondered how different your life would be if you'd been given a different name? Say your parents had named you Gertrude instead of Ashley, or that your assigned surname was Kamakowski instead of Bennett, and thus you would have never sat next to that Campbell boy you ended up marrying who was seated beside you alphabetically in ninth grade homeroom? Do you ever ponder these things, or is it just me?

I was never one of those kids who hated her name. My mom designated me Kristin Leigh, because she said it sounded like a movie star name should I ever make it to Hollywood and want to drop my family name. Although, I wasn't always supposed to have been a Kristin. My parents -- hippies in San Francisco in the late 70's -- wanted to name me "something earthy, you know, like Lake...or Tree...or Grass." Thank GOD they went with something normal. Because Grass Luna just doesn't have the same ring to it, now does it? After they opted for a more normal-sounding name, my mom and dad each made a list of girl names they like and then compared. The only two names they had in common were Kristin and Jessica. Can you imagine me a Jessica??? Not that there's anything wrong with Jessica -- I've known quite a few brilliant ones in my years -- but it just doesn't suit me one bit.

When I was named Kristin, it wasn't a popular name. Have you ever stopped to think that you hardly know a Kristin who was born before 1982? Well actually, that thought's probably never crossed your name unless you do indeed share my name...but now, think about it. Can't come up with a Kristin over 30, can you? It was a name that kind of just cropped up at the start of my generation, it seems, and a popular one at that. Why, on my third grade basketball team, there were SIX Kristins -- well, three were KristEn, the improper spelling of the name, but we won't hold that against them -- on my team of 10. Now, what are the odds of that happening?

And still, as common a name as it is, NO ONE can seem to spell it right. Doctors' appointments, trips to the hair salon, waiting lists at restaurants, they get creative with the spelling -- I've gotten everything from Krysten to Christan to Khristyhn, no joke -- but never EVER do they get it right. It almost makes me wish I'd been named something simple and easy like Ann, but then inevitably people would be tacking on an "e" to my name for the rest of my life.

While I was always completely fine with my name, I did have some favorites that I would have probably traded for if given the option, and every one of my My Little Ponies bore some combination of that particular handful of names -- Elizabeth, being my absolute favorite, with Grace, Emma, Hope, Reagan, all being up there, too. It seemed like everyone I knew growing up had Elizabeth as a middle name, and I was extremely jealous -- particularly, since I come from a place where double names run rampant, so you almost always knew someone's second name.

My friend Jill recently sent me a link to UrbanDictionary.com -- the same site I used to try and prove to Scott it's "SHORT BUS," not "yellow bus" (because duh, all buses are yellow); it turned out, according to Urban Dictionary, that "yellow bus" is a Bay Area term used interchangeably with "short bus;" I still maintain that I'm right -- and she told me to search my name. So I did. The results? Quite spot on, I'd say:

kristin

One of the coolest people you will ever meet. She is always there when you need her. She likes to kiss her guy friends. She got that cashflow. Drives a silver mustang, and don't take shit from no one.

Ex: "She be fly", Nah, she be kristin.

That's right, you heard it: I don't take no shit from no one. HA. The next one was even better:

kristin

A pathological liar that loves Asians.

Ex: I bet that Kristin is off making Asian babies.

And then the last one:

kristin

a language used by someone who wants sex, used to turn people on.

I'm not even going to give you the example for that one...I mean, who comes up with this stuff? But Scott and I had hours, OK 10 minutes, worth of fun with this thing searching every combination of our names.

What about all of you, did you grow up resenting your name? Was there something you always wished you'd been named instead? I mean, if Hannah Montana can change her government name from Destiny Hope to Miley Ray, what are you doing sitting around wishing you'd been born with a WASP-y label like "Preston Anna Louise Roosevelt III?"

Our House Definitely Feels Warmer

After Scott moved into our South City pad last August and I followed in February, we finally got around to throwing together a housewarming barbecue over the weekend. Now, a bbq in the Bay Area is risky at any time of the year, because you never know if it's going to be 40 degrees in July or go all schizo on you and hit 90 in January. This bipolar-personality weather constantly has me in a state of stress -- do I wear boots and a winter coat, or is it more of a strapless dress and flip-flop sort of day? One just never can tell. (On a side note, I use to mock all these natives who would make such a big deal if the mercury dropped below 50 or rose above 70. They're used to mild, steady temps, these crazy San Franciscans. But now I fear I've become one of them. "72 degrees! Quick, put on some sunblock and invest in one of those portable mister fans. We'll perish in this heat!" As a matter of fact, it's currently EIGHTY-ONE FREAKIN' DEGREES and sweltering, and I'm working from my backyard -- yes, that's right! I have a backyard! In San Francisco (well, the 'burbs really)! -- in my bikini, with my part-black lab of a companion for the day hastily chewing a bone at my side. I'm thinking of even purchasing a baby pool to dip my feet in so Sweetie Pie and I don't get too overheated. How's that for high maintenance?) So boy was I surprised when I woke up Saturday morning to a glorious 70 degrees. It was already the perfect day.


What wasn't perfect was that Scott and I had left everything to the last minute. Not true, completely, I guess. I had tried to get some stuff done earlier in the week, but one night he had a headache, the next our friends Dan and Tina unexpectedly dropped by, the day before the party, I was summoned to CubeVille in Sausalito, then Scott decided to go to a show in the city shortly after I got home that night (and then call me at 2am to come pick him up since he missed the last BART back; you haven't seen cranky until you've woken me from my much-needed slumber the night before I'm hosting a soiree). So Saturday morning came around, and a few details had gone unaddressed. Um, like the fact that we were having a cookout but there was no grill in sight. And no one we knew had a functioning one to contribute even. The thing I love about the Internets is a few minutes of browsing can change that completely. Scott just happened to find a dude in Brisbane, about two miles away from us, who was moving back to Australia and selling his electric grill for the bargain of 60 smackers. So half an hour later, we were the new owners of yet another toy. Craigslist rocks.


Then, there was my montage of 18 travel photos I'd gone to the effort of printing but had yet to frame. I thought that was going to be a process, having to place each one and measure where to hammer in the nail, but luckily double-sided tape does wonders (until one fell off a few minutes later and shattered all over the living room. Oops). By 1:30pm, a mere hour and a half before the party was to begin, I still hadn't even gone grocery shopping for food and booze. Another slight panic attack later, and I was back with six bags of groceries, and still had enough time to shower, look presentable, and prepare the snacks (thanks in part to the earliest guest arriving 45 minutes late).


At the end of the day, the party was a success. Twenty-four adults, two children, two dogs, a cat and a Mexican Hello Kitty -- how could it be anything but a barrel full of fun? The Hello Kitty pinata alone was a hit, especially after Roy busted her open with one swift move and we had to perform reconstructive surgery on various body parts.


And can I just ask who else's boyfriend gives a SEWING DEMONSTRATION in his workshop at a party to a handful of very enthusiastic participants?


It truly amazes me that when I moved here four months ago, I didn't even have enough friends I could count on one hand. And my birthday dinner just weeks after the move was pretty meager (while still a whole lot of fun, thanks to SVV). But now, I've met so many great people, through the blogsphere, through running, through Scott, at media events -- people that were willing to drive or BART it out to the 'burbs on a Saturday to celebrate with me and Scott! -- and while it may sound slightly cheesecake-y, I'm extremely grateful how this whole move has worked out, and for all the new friends who have landed in my life. Unfortunately, I didn't take too many pictures (hostess with the mostess doesn't have the time for such trivial matters), but I do think this one pretty much sums up the day:


And unfortunately again, someone here was recovering from a two-daylong headache and decided to heed her boyfriend's advice when he handed her half a pill of codeine for the pain. Someone had also been generous with the jungle juice, and apparently the combination doesn't mix. That same someone would be the one who passed out at 7:30pm in the midst of her own party (granted, the shindig started at 3 and there were only stragglers left at that time) and woke up comatose the next morning at 8am. So in essence? If you need someone to plan your next event, don't call this someone. Unless, of course, it's dry, or you keep her far from the wet bar.

Welcome (Back) to Cubeville, Earthling

It's 11pm and I have yet to read a blog today (other than Ali's, who I peruse at 6am each morning over my bowl of Cheerio's Oats & Crunch and mug of lukewarm coffee, because she's on Toronto time and extremely diligent about posting first thing every day; gold stars to Ali!). Um, WHAT? This from the girl who usually spends her first four or so "working hours" catching up on e-mails and the daily happenings of all of you. And all day long my Google Reader sat there TAUNTING me, begging me to go through and see what Chelsea and Holly and Jennie and Jonna and everyone else who updated their blog today had to say. Because Internets, the not knowing? WAS KILLING ME. We've become a society of Big Brothers, and I'm just a mere pawn in the game. But you see. I returned to CubeVille today for the first time in 4.5 months, and CubeVille when you're one of seven in an Internet start-up does not allow for much blog-reading time, I'm sorry to say.

It was a strange feeling being back in an office environment and wearing something other than a T-shirt and granny panties when doing so (ashamedly, 'tis my daily "work" attire, considering my "office" is the blue chaise I purchased from IKEA and a breakfast tray from Bed, Bath & Beyond; before you start feeling sorry for me, we have two actual desks, but the makeshift, pillow-padded corner in my cave is far more comfortable). I have exactly three kinds of outfits in my wardrobe: dresses and flip-flops; skirts, long-sleeved tees, leggings and boots; and yoga pants and tank tops. There really aren't any in-betweens. I've tried, heavens to Betsy, I'VE TRIED, to become one of these jean wearers like the rest of you, but I just can't do it. I even splurged on a pair of Joes (on sale) and J Brand (also on sale) because the lone pair of nice jeans I've ever owned, Sevens from college because everybody was doing it, was lost with the rest of my belongings by the Dutch Post when I moved from Holland to Denmark 2.5 years ago. But I just can't do it. It's not because I'm high maintenance or anything -- actually, it's probably quite the opposite. Whereas with a dress, you just throw it on, add a pair of earrings and you're ready to go, with jeans, you must accesorize and really make an effort. And the real truth? I feel so uncomfortable in jeans, like the denim is trying to force every previously unnoticeable ounce of fat on my body up and over its waistband, creating the most attractive kind of muffin top that I generally only see on biker babes racing down I-5. My mom said she couldn't even get me in jeans for the first 10 years of my life, and once she did, it didn't last long. In essence, I was always a dress girl. Or maybe I just liked showing off my legs from an early age.

So I threw on a reasonably cute ensemb -- a skirt this time, J. Crew if you must know, paired witha J. Crew top, Steve Madden boots, Zara leggings, and a white jacket from Italy -- and headed out to Sausalito. How did this day in CubeVille come about, you might be wandering. Particularly for those of you with whom I mingled over a couple Heffeweisens just last night when there was no talk of holing myself up in a concrete cave today, or and day for that matter. Well. Last night, on my way home, I got a frantic voicemail from my-friend's-ex-cum-my-new-book-editor-cum-pal M saying he really hoped I wasn't busy and would I come into the company's new office in Sausalito to write copy for the first newsletter that will be sent out to 1.5 million Northern Californians next Tuesday. Hrmmm. Then, talk of huge sums of cash -- well, maybe not huge, but a better hourly rate than I've ever made, that's for sure, and I'm guessing tax free, but don't tell my CPA father, or the IRS either, please -- was tossed around, and the wheels started turning. Not that I necessarily needed the money -- I mean, I'm rolling in the dough, ROLLING I tell you (HA! Do we remember that trivial detail that I'm a writer by trade? Which basically means I'll never be rolling in much more than deadlines and stress) -- but when he promised me there would be a never-ending Chinese buffet, that's when I quickly piped in, "YES!" Because clearly nothing gets me to Sausalito quicker than a steaming plate of garlic noodles and Kung Pao chicken. YUM. Fat girl, party of one.

The website is actually an extremely cool concept involving California travel and is sponsored by Frommer's. For those of you living in the area, I'll give you more deets when it launches, because it might aid you in your future travel endeavors, and there I go again with the whole copywriting talk -- it's kind of like how after you read a Seuss book, you speak in rhymes and riddles for the remainder of the day. So yeah, I wrote copy. A lot of it. And hot damn, my brain has never hurt so much in my life. Whereas I've held journalism jobs for practically the last decade, usually when you work in-house, you're not writing more than a news article or two a day, maybe a sidebar or capsule here and there. Even now when I'm under constant deadline from the comfort of my own chaise, I'll read some blogs, write a story on the world's best mountain lodge getaways, watch some sub-par Bachelorette, pen a feature on summer spots south of the Equator, beat my record on Wii Mario Kart, churn out a lenghty piece about secret celebrity hideaways. When M said "come in and help out," I was thinking more along the lines of sprucing up someone else's work, not writing two full pages of copy -- ad copy, at that -- essentially from scratch or all of 20 properties. I have a newfound respect for my editor friends at Travelocity who do this daily, because man if I have to stare at the words "charming," "sumptuous," "grandiose," "amazing" -- all words I don't usually allow to creep into my writing, yet somehow when it's advertising, hey! it's suddenly OK! -- one more time, I may vomit up an entire dictionary of five-cent words.

The work quarters in Sausalito were extremely chill and located right on the waterfront in a warehouse that I assume once housed some bad-ass boat. When the mercury hit 80 degrees and we were all sweltering because Bay Area natives don't believe in A/C, we hit a button and the room opened up just like a garage door or maybe a spaceship. Voila, an immediate 10-degree temperature drop! I had to be there at 8:30, as in THE MORNIng -- meaning leave an hour before because although just an 18-mile drive San Francisco has this little problem with traffic, you may have heard -- which would have bothered me in NYC, as I never rolled into the office until 10am (who am I kidding, it was more like 10:20), and didn't get up until 9 even, but now that I'm a West Coaster -- damn straight! -- I'm quite used to being up before it's light, thanks to Sarah and Autumn dragging my lazy ass out of bed for sunrise runs and boot camps.

And then I worked. For a solid nine hours straight, I worked. Heck, when I "worked" at Lucky, the majority of my days were spent blogging and reading blogs; that's how Camels & Chocolate came to be in the first place, out of boredom (sorry, former boss Susan at Lucky! I still love you! But come on fact-checking fashion? Not the most riveting stuff out there). With only a 20-minute break for Chinese. Wah wah wah, all you people with real jobs really pity me, I know. But seriously, I've never sat down and wrote text for 540 minutes straight. The thing about writing is it's not one of these mindless tasks where you can only be semi-checked-in and still get the job done. You have to be all on, all the time.

So needless to say, when 5:30 rolled around, while the other six staffers were probably only two-thirds of the way through their work day seeing as they're launching on Tuesday, I was out the door and on my way to Jack Falstaff to meet Scott, drown my brain fatigue in raspberry lemon drops and basil juleps, and gorge myself on a seven-course tasting menu.

But hey, when it was all said and done, it was kind of nice being back in the daily social sphere, and everyone who works in the travel industry is generally pretty awesome. These guys were no exception. And I got to drive over the Golden Gate Bridge twice today and utilize my FasTrak, which makes me feel so cool despite the fact that it's just deducting $4 out of my bank account each time, but the little brrr-oop sound it emits just makes me all warm and fuzzy inside and eliminates all thoughts of "sweet Mary and Joseph, this little drive to Sausalito is costing me nearly $5 a gallon!"

And now. Now, I will resume my blog reading. Despite the fact that I have to be up in a few, short hours, before squeezing in Boot Camp and returning to another day in the office. Because yes, when 5:30 rolled around, they asked me to come back tomorrow. And despite the fact that after today, I concluded that I will NEVER AGAIN hold an office job -- hold me to this, dear Internets! -- I said yes. That's just how much of a pushover I am. (And now you all know, so when I start getting requests to plant sit, pick up your mail and drive your granny to the hair salon, I'll only have myself to blame.)

When the Moon Hits Your Eye

After being felt up in Telese Terme and losing my breakfast and then some en route to Capri, my workcation to Italy could only look up...right? Although, my story assignment is on Naples itself, I actually hadn't spent any time in the city, so on the last day, we were bussed back to the thriving pile of garbage metropolis. Seriously, though, I found Naples charming and invigorating, despite all I had read and heard about it being one big landfill. It's true, there were piles of trash lining the streets (I opted to not photograph this, sorry), but still, it had character, kind of similar to New York, you know back before Giulani stole its identity rid the streets of bums and waste. An odd thing for a government-sponsored media trip, we were given the last day free. So armed with the Hooches and a guide, Massimo, we headed where any American tourist in Naples would go. Duh, the pizza parlor.


Now, this wasn't just any old pizza parlor. This is "the best pizza in the whole world," we were told on at least 17 occasions by different people. Liz Gilbert, from whom I took a college course that I loved yet later ironically turned out to be the author of my least favorite book I've read in recent years (but I won't go into that yet again), wrote about this particular place in the Italy chapter of that little known memoir she penned a couple years back. While Da Michele was always extremely popular among locals and the occasional in-the-know tourist, apparently business further increased tenfold, and now if you don't arrive before the noon rush, you're waiting outside all day for a slice of cheesy heaven.


I won't go as far as to say it's the best pizza I've ever had -- actually, di Napoli, a pizza parlor half a mile from my house run by tried-and-true Napolitans, takes the cake -- but it was surely delicious. Michele only serves two kinds of pizza, marinara and margherita, so service is extra speedy, and each person gets an entire pizza to his/herself.


And Michele himself (below) is 86 years old and STILL makes the dough every day. He also hasn't ever raised prices -- though he could increase them by 300 percent and it wouldn't affect business in the slightest -- as a whole pizza is a whopping four euro. FOUR EURO for an entire pie. It's pure insanity.


As I was leaving, one of the cooks came running out after me. He motioned for my camera, and I thought he was asking if I wanted a picture in front of the facade. "No, it's OK," I told him, but he took my camera and handed it to an innocent bystander. Apparently, he wanted this:


Then, one of the younger cooks who had (I thought) been giving me the stink eye the entire hour or so we were inside filming/eating followed me out and in broken English asked if I would come back inside and be in a photo with all of them. It was quite bizarre actually; I still don't really know what to make of it. And on the day I opted out of showering and putting on makeup , naturally (I was planning on avoiding the camera entirely).


After I'd inhaled an entire pizza by myself, while the Hooches filmed me with marinara practically dripping down my chin, I had my five seconds of Italian pizza parlor fame, and we chatted up Johnny Renaldi from Pompeii to my immediate right, we left. A little shopping down Via Toledo later, the Hooches needed a few more stand-ups for their weekly PBS segment. This is where I started to lag. I was tired and my poor little feets hurt, but we persevered until we found the perfect backdrop for Toni's shot. And I wasn't disappointed. You know why? There was PENIS PASTA. Lots and lots of it at that. And parts of the female anatomy, too, but that wasn't nearly as much fun for us ladies.


Penis Pasta in Naples from krysleigh on Vimeo.

So yes, I was glad I stuck it out, if not for returning home with the perfect souvenir. SVV and I actually consumed the penis pasta the next night after I got back, and while a bit flaccid, it wasn't too bad. There was also olive oil and bruschetta and limoncello (oh my!) galore. I could have moved into the small space that was no bigger than my bedroom in Manhattan and never needed to leave. The elderly owner was so cute and got the biggest kick out of pointing out the penis pasta to us (if it weren't for him, I might not have noticed) and his other favorite bestseller, Viagro bruschetta paste.


And as this will be my last Italy post -- seriously, y'all, how did I manage to squeeze so many blog-worthy incidents into a mere four days? -- I'll leave you with a video of our suave guide Massimo -- who claims to be pals with de Niro, Rachel Weisz and a handful of other stars, and for all I know, it could be true -- and some more pictures I haven't previously published:

A Walking Tour of Naples from krysleigh on Vimeo.

The castle at night from Heather's balcony.

Nellie and me before the last night party. Renzo doesn't have the steadiest of picture-taking hands.

Can you even begin to guess my favorite color? The Hooches got a kick out of my ensemb. Even my drink matched!

Italians make out everywhere. Seriously, we watched this couple move a few feet every few minutes, making out the whole time.

This woman had to show us into the sistern. She didn't look too happy about it; of course, we were interrupting her lunch (then again, Italians take an entire three hours for lunch, so we weren't really at fault).


I thought the architecture in Naples was pretty impressive.


Goonies is in front to the right. I so wasn't kidding. Though, honestly? This was maybe one of three times I saw her smile the entire trip.


Hoocheriffic from krysleigh on Vimeo.

Hooches getting their mac on on the last night.

Summer Travel for Less

Now that it's officially June -- three cheers for summer months -- and the clouds have given way to some glorious sun (well, if you live elsewhere than the Bay Area, that is), let's talk summer travel, shall we? It pains me when my friends and family say they don't have the funds to travel, because, hey, guess what -- jetsetting doesn't have to break the bank. I know, I know, easy for me to say, right? I get paid to do this stuff. Still, I do plenty of globetrotting on my own dime, and what kind of intrepid nomad would I be if I hadn't picked up some tips along the way (which I'll so keenly share with you below if you so desire)? So I challenge you, good peoples of the Internets, to all to step away from the computer this summer (going cold turkey is the best way!) and inject a good dose of travel into your stationary lifestyles. Your blogs will be waiting when you return, I promise.


1. Travel by train. With gas prices on the rise again, and the cost of plane tickets not any better, trade in your car for an old-fashioned trip on a locomotive. Take a long weekend journey through New England, along California’s southern coast, aboard Canada’s famed Rocky Mountaineer, or else hop the cross-country Amtrak that will transport you from one ocean to another in less than a week.

2. Embrace the Great Outdoors. You don’t have to go far to take a break from the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Whether you live near the Rocky Mountains, in the Smokies, along the East Coast, or even close to the Great Plains, you can always find a patch of grass to call your own (S’mores and late-night gab sessions come with the territory). Sleeping on a hard, dirt-packed ground not your thing? No worries: Glamping – a glammed-up version of camping that offers a more luxurious night’s stay in a cabin, yet still out in the wild – is on the rise.

3. Travel close to home. It’s a common misconception that the most desirable locations are located halfway around the world. Not true. From Portland, Maine, to Austin, Texas, some cool and quirky spots can be found right at your doorstep and don’t require much advance planning– other than filling the tank with gas, booking a place to stay, and making a restaurant reservation or two.

4. Jet set midweek. If you’ve been receiving alerts from search engines and airfare trackers regarding flight deals that seem too good to be true, they a) probably are, or b) likely leave and/or return on Tuesday and Wednesday. Airfare prices for midweek travel are often reduced by a third or more (these are the prices airlines tend to advertise), so consider avoiding weekend travel and book flights that fall midweek instead.

5. Consider off-season destinations. Good news to all of those who like the heat: Sunny locales like Mexico, Central America, and the Caribbean see the most visitors in the winter and early spring months (December through April), meaning prices are at their lowest during the summer. Just be sure and check the weather forecast in advance to make sure you’re not planning to hit up Haiti during hurricane season or Guatemala when mosquitoes cloak the country.

6. Couch Surf. If you’re outgoing and open to meeting new people, this non-profit organization that allows you to crash in other people’s homes is a fine way to make new friends during your globetrotting (and get a free place to stay while you mingle). Visit CouchSurfing.com to create a free profile and browse others.

7. Take the Roads Less Traveled. That European rail tour isn’t looking so good with the daily weakening of the dollar, now is it? While a jaunt across the Atlantic could quickly empty your bank account, there are still destinations where the dollar goes far. Consider less-traveled spots like Honduras or Nicaragua that still provide a plethora of cultural offerings—and a killer tan.

8. Embark on a road trip. While the cost of fuel is nothing to scoff at, if you rope in a few gal pals to join you on your trek, taking a road trip can actually be an economical way to travel. Combine that with glamping or CouchSurfing, as mentioned above, and you’re practically traveling for free. Pack a cooler of refreshments and a trunk full of non-perishables, and you’ll further reduce expenses incurred.

9. Seek last minute vacations. Want a weekend away but failed to plan anything in advance? Not a problem. If your departure and arrival times and location are flexible, you’re the prime candidate for budget travel. Most airlines sell remaining seats a week or so in advance for a much reduced price. Check out airfarewatchdog.com or lastminute.com, which post weekend travel fares from one to 10 days beforehand, or else visit your preferred airline’s website to see what kind of last-minute deals you might find.

10. Extend a work trip; get there for free. Already heading to Los Angeles (or somewhere equally as vacation-worthy) for a midweek business meeting? Make the most of it: Ask ahead of time if your company would consider extending your ticket a few days for a much-needed break, provided you use vacation days and pay for any extra nights in the hotel.

Now what are you waiting for? Get to planning that much-needed vacay! Speaking of which ... what are your summer travel plans? And do you have any money-saving tips I didn't touch on above? If so, share them with the Internets, please!