We Didn't Start the Fire

Those of you who've been stopping by for awhile now know that my claim of terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad luck isn't just a myth. Things just seem to happen to me. Lately, many of these so-called misfortunes have entailed fires. And of all things you want on your resume, Girl Who Fire Follows sure isn't one of them. It's a sure-fire (ahem, excuse the late-hour puns) to get your name taken off of every social invite for years to come. (And once the Earthquake Gods realize that I've only lived through ONE earthquake, which wasn't even a California one, but one with an epicenter in Atlanta, Georgia, one which I SLEPT THROUGH despite the fact that it burst various pipelines in Sewanee, I'm sure they'll send a plague of earthquakes out to the Bay Area, or wherever I may be at the moment.) But I digress.


You see, my mom and sister are out here visiting for 10 days. The same mom who lived the first four years of her married life in the Bay Area and who hasn't been back to visit since 1989. The same sister who is but 19 and has explored 49 states but also hasn't graced San Fran with her presence since she was a toddler. So they came to play. Hooray! While some people get uber-stressed out by a family visit (hi, Jemima!), I want nothing more out of life than for my family to pack up their fancy Southern home and move next door to me on the West Coast.


My mom was dead-set on visiting Yosemite this time around. I was weary. I mean, sure I love me a national park as much as the next adventuresome gal (though after the fact, I would have to say I definitely prefer Arches and Zion in Utah), but Yosemite...in the heat of summer...at the height of tourist season...really, Mom??? You pretty much have to book a room a year in advance if you want to stay at the park from June-September, but luckily my little career as a travel writer landed us one night at the adorable, rustic Evergreen Lodge. Seriously, if you're heading to the park, why fork over $500+ to stay in the stuffy, pretentious Ahwahnee when the super-cute Evergreen is less than half the price and, um, did I mention, adorable?


So go to Yosemite we did. And heavens to Betsy, guess who followed us? You got it, the fire! The very day we headed east in pursuit of a nature-filled few days! Luckily, the fire was 50 miles away from us, so we weren't in danger, though initially I had looked at staying in Mariposa, which was evacuated the same day (the poor, poor people of Mariposa, so many have had to leave their homes with no warning whatsoever). And regardless, the air was full of smoke, even at that distance, and halfway through our first afternoon, it was so thick, we couldn't see Half Dome or El Capitan or, heck, even the shoulder of the Tioga Pass.** Which just made driving with my mom all the more fun.


My mom, sister and I are not the type of people with whom you want to go road trippin'. You see, we know every word VERBATIM to all Disney musicals, old and new (even the extremely lame, sub-par ones like Hercules, Pocahontas and Mulan), not to mention every show that's ever taken the stage. I'm sorry, that's just how we roll in mi casa. Growing up in Tennessee, the natural place you vacation is Orlando, Florida. My parents had a time share, so we visited my pals Mickey, Minnie and the whole gang a handful of times a year. So when my mom goes on a road trip, she comes ready to party. Which translates to an iPod full of playlists that read something like this: Best of Disney, Second Best of Disney, Broadway Favorites, Andrew Lloyd Webber, etc. I wish I were kidding. And we sing at the top of our lungs. IN HARMONY. Um, I guess now would be the prime time to tell you that I grew up on the stage, musical theater, church productions, vocal performances, the whole nine yards. I even performed at Disney World. But I'll save that embarrassment (complete with sequin-clad pictures) for another day.


So around the time our Disney playlist took a turn for the worst (from Hakuna Matata to Burl Ives' Ugly Bug Ball), so did the driving conditions. I had changed spots with my mom at our Wal-Mart snack pit stop an hour earlier, as I was falling asleep at the wheel, and boy was that mistake. Because my intrepid, fearless mother? HAD BEEN STRICKEN WITH A CRIPPLING CASE OF ACROPHOBIA. When and where this happened, I do not know--especially given that she and my sister spend several weeks out of the year exploring some of the nation's coolest (and steepest) spots by rental car--but all I can say is the second Josie, my GPS, informed us "THERE ARE BETTER ALTERNATIVE ROUTES AVAILABLE"--a warning I had never heard, which only hinted at the severity of the situation--the shoulder and railing of the steep, windy road that led into the Sierra Nevadas DISAPPEARED and my mom began to grip the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white, and straddling the yellow line, um despite the two-way traffic, as we reached 7,000 feet. She even dropped the F bomb, this from a woman who scolds me for saying "crap." Luckily, I caught the momentous occasion on film.


In Which Mom Drops the F Bomb from krysleigh on Vimeo.

The next day, we traveled the diameter of the park and it got progressively worse, as Jeanie creeped closer and closer to a premature heart attack. We probably pulled over onto the shoulder no fewer than 15 times to let cars pass, as the Altima was topping out at 23mph.


Only this time, we were cruising at above 10,000 feet altitude (that's almost double Tennessee's highest point!), and even I got a little nerve-y at points (don't tell my mom!).


Driving in Yosemite from krysleigh on Vimeo.

The best part of the whole situation? Once we reached level land and got back on the highway, we were pulled over and mom got a ticket for speeding. And that, folks, is what I might call good ole American irony.


**Lest you think I'm lying, these pictures were all taken in the mere three hours we had before the smoke set in.

Baffled by Banff

Have you ever been to Banff before? Because HOH MY GAWD, I want to take it behind the middle school and get it pregnant (for you 30 Rockers out there). I’ve logged visits to 44 of the 50 U.S. states, and while there are some amazingly stunning parts of my own country, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a spot quite as spectacular as Banff National Park in the Canadian Rockies. Exhibit A:


While I had all these grand plans of hiking and canoeing and other things outdoorsy and calorie-burning during my three days in Banff and Lake Louise following the magnificent journey aboard the Blue-Haired Express, I'm sorry to say that Evan and I pretty much spent an entire afternoon atop Sulphur Mountain just admiring the view.


I mean, wouldn't you?


(Side note, which will only make sense if you watch this video: Why is it considered derogatory to classify a group of people as "Asian"? I mean, sure I could have distinguished between Japanese or Chinese, but I wasn't entirely sure as I didn't hear them speak. Yet Evan got a little offended when I remarked about this tour group of people from that one massive continent north of the South Pacific and quickly corrected me. It struck me as odd, because I wouldn't be the least bit put off if someone categorized me in a group of "Americans," as I'm sure an Aussie wouldn't be offended to be called "Australian," a Canadian a "Canuck," and so on and so forth. Just saying.)


Banff 2 (Alberta, Canada) from krysleigh on Vimeo.

This is where we wished we'd stayed, the Fairmont Banff Springs.


Instead, we had to settle on dinner there at the chateau, before retreating to our own backpacker-like inn that was oddly laid-out with the bathroom situated between the two double beds so I literally (yes, literally, Ali) had to yell around the median or else rig a can-and-string communication device in order to get Evan's attention. Also? Evan claims I "pose" in every shot I'm in. I beg to differ. Tyra would so not call this anything remotely close to fierce.


On our last morning in Banff, we signed up for a wildlife tour. We had heard grand stories of all of this alleged wildlife that Canada boasts, but had yet to see a trace in the week we'd been bopping around BC and Alberta. The tourism board rep we brunched with even went as far as to tell us of the "bear jams" when downtown Banff was thrown off course by a hungry visitor and how many mornings the elk in her backyard were so many, she couldn't even open her door. We figured this just a ploy by the tourism board to increase numbers--"Canada: Where the Moose Roam Free and the Locals Co-Exist Peacefully with the Bears"--as we had seen one "long-horned sheep" (AKA ram) on our 24 hours aboard the train, and little else besides some osprey and eagles. But we wanted the goods; give us the two-ton beasts. We'll gladly make friends. So when we boarded our tour bus, we took an informal poll of our fellow tourists to inquire as to whom had actually had a real wildlife sighting (sheep and birds so don't count). Twelve of the 14 raised their hands, the two losers with their arms firmly pinned to their sides being Evan and me. Boy, did we feel like the cool kids on the bus. We did spot a horse, oh but he was on reins and pulling a cart.


And a chipmunk, which just about made my day. Evan, on the other hand, was not impressed. "It's still a rodent!" she exclaimed. True, but a cute one at that.


So we had high hopes as we embarked on our wildlife excursion, as anyone who forked over $55 for a three-hour tour (a three-hour tour) might. Instead, we had a gem of a guide (the sarcasm, it drips from the keyboard) who claimed to work on some big bear project but refused to take us anywhere near where the bears supposedly chill. But we want to see the bears! Teddy Ruxpin was my bestest friend as a carpet-crawler! I even brought a pot of honey and everything (I hear it helps to establish rapport)! And just to further ensure that there was no way a bear would stick around for our arrival, Douche Guide would yell out, "Ho Bear!" to scare them all off as we approached (something to do with a Pavlovian association between that phrase and them getting whacked in the butt with a dart; I don't blame them, if someone was using my ass as a target, I might be inclined to run the opposite way, too). But hey, we saw plenty of scat (AKA poop), and as our guide so sagely pointed out, "that's wildlife, too, you know."


In the end, we saw two GROUND SQUIRRELS, some juniper, and a lot of tracks, indicating that a bear, wolf, some elk and WILD PEOPLE had been somewhere in the area sometime in the past months or so (all things I could have seen in my backyard in San Francisco). All-in-all? Fifty-five bucks well spent. NOT.


Moral of this story: When in Canada and you're tempted by flashy promises of four-legged, antlered friends by Discover Banff, remember that they're liars, all of them! And also that poo is wildlife, too.

Your Body is a Wonderland

So you all know I work for that little celebrity magazine that rhymes with Weeple. What you don't know, perhaps, is the precise lengths Weeple reporters must sometime go to for a good scoop. Now before you get your panties in a wad, I didn't get said scoop last night, but I'll relay to you the order of events anyhow.


On my way back to San Francisco Friday, one of my editors called me urgently, asking if I could attend a John Mayer concert in Sac on Friday and one in Mountain View (home to Google!) on Saturday. They wanted the obvious: Jennifer Aniston sightings. Clearly, that night was out as I was chilling in Vegas en route, but I spent the next few hours on the phone with my publicist friends trying to track down where he was staying (score), as well as find a scalped ticket online (double score, thanks StubHub!). This was perhaps more trouble than it may initially seem, but hours of searching online and stressing that oh no! I couldn't find a ticket up front! were in vain because in the end I scored a seat in the front section for a mere $279 (seriously, people pay these prices to go listen to John Mayer??). Though I'd never sat so close at such a massive concert before. I could practically see his nose hairs from where I was sitting.


Now, I was a Mayer fan back in the day, in the peak of his awesomeness, say 2001-2004 maybe. I even saw him at Exit In in Nashville in 2001 when he was but a mere man who strummed on his guitar solo, before he'd gone mainstream, before he graced the cover of magazines like Weeple on a regular basis. But I haven't been a fan in years, his last album just didn't do it for me. I even met him in 2007 at the Time 100 gala and wasn't impressed to say the least (he's not the most outgoing and approachable of individuals). However, I'm mildly obsessed with Colbie Caillat's album, and she was opening for him, so that did excite me. Though, girlfriend, what is up with this outfit? And I couldn't help but think she strongly resembled LeeLee Sobieski, who has to be one of my least favorite actresses to ever have graced a Josh Hartnett movie.


I've never really thought John was hot--his shaggy hair always looked like it needed a brush run through it, his limbs are far too long and awkward for his body giving him the grace of an orangutan, not to mention he's a total womanizer (Jessica Simpson, Cameron Diaz, Jen Aniston all in a few short months? PUH-LEASE!)--but he was a sporting a short, new 'do last night, and there's something about his raspy speaking voice (oh and um, maybe the fact that he can sing like no other) that kinda made me like him again. Plus, he sang Free Fallin', which was probably one of the better covers I've ever heard of the number.


John Mayer singing Free Fallin' from krysleigh on Vimeo.

Though he still has this disturbing propensity to hump the guitar as he plays.


The best part of the whole night? I got SVV to go with me! We haven't seen each other in 12 days, per my usual crazy travel schedule, and now my mom and sis are in town and we're heading out to Yosemite, Mammoth Lakes and Tahoe for the week, and I could tell he wasn't crazy about the idea of seeing JM in concert--um, Scott's more a punk rock and electronica kinda guy, not a whiny soft pop lover by any means--but he obliged, which was great, because four eyes on the lookout for Jen are better than two. He even brought his binoculars and kept sentry for the likes of JA. Prior to our arrival, SVV announced: "I'm going to form a hypothesis. I bet there will be three types of people at this concert: teeny-bopper girls with their dads in tow, avid gay guys fans and gay guys going as a favor to their gal pals." He wasn't wrong. But even SVV ended up having a good time. Not to mention, unlike outdoor amphitheatres I'd been to in the past, Shoreline let us bring in a cooler, meaning booze (for him) and granola bars and pudding cups (for me). I'm such a bad ass, this I know.


Back in Stalking Ville, I'd spent several hours earlier that day trying to track him at the Four Seasons in Palo Alto. Success! I had "a source"--yes, all "sources" quoted in celeb magazines actually do exist; we don't make this stuff up--there who confirmed his arrival, but no one had seen JA. So SVV and I headed to the Four Seasons for a drink post-concert, but no JA or JM sightings. We lost hope around midnight and turned in. It was all far more low key than when I worked for In Touch three years ago and they flew me to Knoxville for the Dukes of Hazzard premiere. They also sent a very experienced photographer from London, who was well-versed in being a pap, and most of our time in Knoxville was like a high-speed chase--racing to the airport, from the airport, to the hotel we thought they'd be staying at, to the premiere. I felt like I should be rocking big sunglasses and tinted windows. When we discovered where Jessica Simpson and Sean William Scott were staying (Johnny Knoxville, or Phillip John Clapp as is his real name, was staying with the fam), I had to stake out the lobby all day long.


As my luck would have it, after I'd been trying to blend in with the scenery and spent hours typing away on my computer and reading a book downstairs, my new dress--a Gap outlet purchase, the last I ever made--split all the way down the back along the zipper, leaving most of me exposed. I just couldn't have Stifler meeting me like this, not a first impression at least! I ran out to the rental car, where I was concealing my luggage (I stupidly booked a room in the Hilton nearby, not knowing where they'd be staying), quickly changed clothes and made my way back to my post. At that very time, Jessica and Seann had come in, mingled with the starstruck cheerleaders staying at the hotel, made a quick trip to the bar and gone up to their rooms. As I've said before, I've always had impeccable timing.


I did get to talk to them at the premiere later that night, and somehow finagled my way into Sapphire Lounge, where they were drinking post-party--though the 10-foot-tall bodyguard kept me at bay--but if anything, that experience taught me to test drive my wardrobe before partaking in high-speed chases, or really, any celebrity assignment.

Bookworm

I did an interview on being self employed/ freelancing/ working for peanuts with the lovely entrepreneurial ladies at Loaded Bow. They rock, and you can check out the results HERE. And because I love memes--this you know--and because I'm headed out the door back to San Francisco, but first a lunch with my CIA agent friend Tracy in Nashville then a couple hours to kill on the Las Vegas strip WITH my lovely mom and sister in tow, I might not have a chance to say hi until after the weekend, so I thought a meme post is better than no post at all, am I right? (Oh right, and I'm back in Tennessee, lest you be confused. I never thought I'd say this after cursing the nighttime chill in the Bay Area just about every night, but the South? I've forgotten how unbearably miserable it is in summer months. Ready to be back on the West Coast!) But back to the meme. This is actually an educational one...of sorts. Although I already gave you my summer reading list a couple months ago.

But anyway. Here goes.

The Big Read reckons that the average adult has only read 6 of the top 100 books they've printed.

1) Bold those you have read.
2) Italicize those you intend to read.
3) Underline the books you LOVE (I opted for asterisks).
4) Reprint this list in your own blog.

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling**
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee**
6 The Bible
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell**
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19 The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald**
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens**
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis**
34 Emma - Jane Austen
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis**
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden**
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown**
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery**
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens**
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley**
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold**
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68 Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding**
69 Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens**
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce
76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte's Web - EB White**
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl**
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

And please refrain from burning me at the stake for having never read a Tolkien book. (I plan to, I swear.) (SVV will dump me if I don't.) (No, I haven't seen any of the movies either.)

But yay, I'm above average! 48 out of 100 ain't bad (and I've seen the movies for most of the rest, ha, so I should get half points for that), especially as I don't consider myself an avid reader of "the classics." I'm more of a pink books, bestseller and Oprah's Book Club kind of reader. How do you score? What books should have made this list that didn't? I'm going to go with Water for Elephants; Cold, Sassy Tree; A Farewell to Arms; Ethan Frome; A Glass Castle; Fahrenheit 451; and I know I'm missing more than a couple. And c'mon, no Ayn Rand? A Million Little Pieces? Poisonwood Bible? I could think of tens of others.

The Blue-Haired Express

Because I generally write for an older and much more affluent audience than myself, I’m accustomed to oftentimes being out-aged by decades during many of my on-assignment travels (when I’m jet-setting on my own dime, consequently, I find I’m often the oldest of the bunch because I still opt for hostel travel, a means that is frequently reserved for college kids studying abroad and Euro teens on their gap year away). I’ve been on trips before where the next youngest person was roughly triple my age. I’ve always felt much more comfortable conversing with people much my senior (maybe I’m a bit of an old soul in some respects?), so I’ve never really found this a problem. Well, when Evan and I decided upon a trip upon the Rocky Mountaineer—a glorious scenic train ride through Canada’s British Columbia and Alberta provinces—we were quite sure we would be the only ones without an AARP card.


We were not disappointed (for the most part).


The two of us, thirty-something tour guide Kieran (more on him later) and a family from, shocker, Tennessee (we’re everywhere!), were the only ones on our train car that traveled sans hearing aids and Depends. And we loved every moment of it. You see, much of our car was a group of rambunctious Aussies who were on a three-week tour of Canada led by Kieran, and you’ve never seen a more lively crew (ironically). A train ticket included all meals and unlimited alcohol for the 12 hours we were on the train each day. Funny enough, Evan and I had A glass of wine the first day and an after-lunch Bailey’s the second, while the Senior Citizen Brigade was probably averaging a cocktail an hour.


As the hours ticked by, the car got progressively louder and more rowdy (and drunker). Behind us and pictured above, Bill, an Aussie, and Laurel, a Kiwi, two 80-somethings who didn’t know each other prior to the trip, were seated side-by-side, and proceeded to bicker much of the journey (clarification: Laurel would make snide remarks in Bill’s direction—“Well, that’s the first time I’ve heard that story in the last hour”—while Bill was oblivious to the fact that anyone would dislike him, as he was quite the popular old fogie aboard our car). I knew I would like Laurel when the first day mid-afternoon we heard her order, “a DOUBLE gin and tonic, light on the tonic,” and she refused to surrender her drink when we neared the station and the attendants were clearing the cabin.


Another funny thing about old folk is the slightest thing pleases them to no end. The train cars boast dome-shaped windows to maximize your viewing pleasure, and every few seconds one of them would jump up in glee at a wildlife sighting, run to the window, and the rest would follow. Now, we were told we would possibly see elk, bears, moose, and the like on this journey that predominantly traveled through the mountains, so each “oooh” and “aaah” had Ev and me stoked for our first sighting. Which never happened. All we saw were osprey and eagles, of which we probably saw 50 or more, but the old folk never got tired of this. They would see one, jump up, take photos, sit back down, until another osprey flew by the train five minutes later. Rinse and repeat. Or maybe they’re merely suffering from dementia.


The first morning as we departed Vancouver at 7am, Evan and I opted for a little power nap, so we’d be at our fullest once we reached the really stunning scenery. We never slept, as the Senior Citizen Brigade chided us “whippersnappers” for sleeping; they even took pictures of Evan as she tried to catch a power nap, ha. Instead, we drank mimosas to wake ourselves up.


After each time our commentator Matthew would give a historical account of the area, which was approximately every 10 minutes or so, the whole cabin would erupt in ceremonious applause. They even sang “For he’s a jolly good fellow!” in their cute Aussie accents on more than one occasion. I only hope to be so exuberant 60 years from now. Perhaps my favorite couple on the train was an older woman, say 70’s, from Boston and her male companion from Connecticut, both of whom now reside in Hilton Head, SC, who we dined with during breakfast on day one. After much confusing talk about his “wife” (not her) and her “kids” (not his), he clarified: “I guess I should have told you all before,” as his voice got hushed, “we’re living in sin!” “That’s awesome—me and my boyfriend, too!” I responded. I got such a riot out of both of them (even though he’s a UConn fan, and we volleyed back and forth about Pat Summitt and Geno Auriemma for a good while).


As to not discourage all of you younger folk (wow, I even talk like I’m a grandma now, don’t I?) from undertaking the same journey, I should say that after we disembarked in Kamloops on the first night, we were surprised to see quite a few families and younger travelers at the station deboarding from the cars behind us. It’s just that we’d been assigned the fancy-pantsy Gold Leaf first class car, which primarily houses those with dispensable income who entered retirement before I was born. (I’m not complaining; first class anything is A-OK with me!) Regardless of which way option you choose to take—the Red or Gold Leaf service—the scenery was unmatched, and the food surprisingly gourmet. I don’t know what I expected—maybe the equivalent to what you’d be served on Amtrak or a flight (you know, back in the glory days when airlines still served complimentary meals)—but the Rocky Mountaineer was fine dining at its best. And they even gave us mid-afternoon homemade oatmeal raisin cookies with (soy) milk! Love. There were also outdoor viewing points on the back of each car, which made perfect spots for photo opps.


I’ve always been a huge proponent for train travel: I find it much more comfortable and less time-consuming if you really think about it. There’s no driving out of town to the airport (most train stations are located in a city’s epicenter), and best of all, you can relax, read a book, get some work done, watch a movie, while someone else navigates. It’s just a shame that Amtrak in the US is so pricey (and unreliable—the two times Scott and I have trained it from SF to Sac, the train has been half an hour to two hours late). But if you’re looking for a nice week-long getaway without going far, check out the Rocky Mountaineer. The organization offers several different trip and price options, with stops in various locales like Jaspet, Banff, Kamloops (pictures to come of these soon), and it’s the perfect, “Ha! You haven’t gotten the best of us yet!” response to the airline industries, whose ever-rising prices have prohibited you from your annual summer vacation to southern Europe. And if you need a companion, I’d be happy to oblige, because really? You can never tire of the views you’ll see from this train.

Oh, Canada

I’ve been to Montreal before and, as of a few weeks ago, Victoria, as well. But never Vancouver, or, I’m sorry, “North Hollywood,” as everyone kept feeling the need to remind us. Seriously, every restaurant we went to had been graced by ScarJo or Bennifer in recent weeks; hotels had dubbed certain quarters “the Halle Berry Suite” or “the Harrison Ford Room.”


Actually, I was nearly afraid Canada was going to reject us in the first place. I’d had this trip aboard the Rocky Mountaineer planned for months, and the deal was I’d fly into Seattle since I was to attend Francie’s wedding there this week in the first place, and Evan and I would drive up to Canada for a week prior to the big event. Ev, Francie and I were joined at the hip when we all studied abroad in Edinburgh five years ago (pic below from 2003), and aside from a quick sighting over the 4th of July weekend, I hadn’t seen either of them since 2004. So Ev and I decided to take this one last hurrah before she moves back to Minnesota next week to start med school and basically sacrifices all traces of a social life for the subsequent eight years.


After a very early, 6am Virgin America flight to Seattle (Virgin=OBSESSION), Evan picked me up at the airport and we drove her Minnesota-tagged Beamer north to the border, where we were surprisingly met with a three-car line in each lane. If you’ve driven from the US to Canada, or vice versa, in the time since passports have become standard in North America border-crossing, you know it’s usually upward of a two-hour wait. But despite our surprising revelation that apparently no one enters BC on Tuesday mornings from Washington, as always, we managed to pick the wrong line, the slow-moving lane, the one that was monitored by Canadian Border Nazi.


Where were we from? Seattle and San Francisco. How long were we going to be in the country? One week. Business or pleasure? Business for me, pleasure for Ev (for being in my company of course, HA). Why did our car have Minnesota tags? Because Evan originally hails from there. Why didn’t she change plates when she moved to Seattle? Umm, isn’t that for the state of Washington to be concerned with?…because she was moving back to Minnesota next week. Were we leaving anything in the country? What, like our bombs? No. Why was our luggage in the backseat and not the trunk? Again, because Evan is moving cross country next week and already commenced the packing process.

And then we were asked to open the trunk so she could search us. Seriously, do a good ole girl from the South and the Midwest really warrant a search? We were both makeup-less and, by default, already look about 12 as it is (I’m sure we’ll be happy for this when we turn, say, 40, but right now my youthful appearance seems to harm more than it does help)—are we really that suspicious of characters?

Regardless, we are law-abiding citizens, and Ev’s car is an older model, so she had to physically get out to open the trunk.

Stop! What are you doing? Canadian Border Nazi demanded to know.

Um, opening my trunk, Evan responded. Like you demanded.

Why do you have to get out to do that?

Because my car isn’t fancy enough to do that within. CBN glared at us both through her thick, horn-rimmed glasses.

Evan opened the trunk, and CBN forced her to get back in the car as she searched. The funny thing is that Evan ended her job at the Fred Hutchison Cancer Research Center the afternoon before, and had we been searched then, CBN would have found bags of needles and tourniquets and vials cramming the vehicle (Evan conducts research studies on women with cancer; I promise she doesn’t deal on the side). CBN was let down to find nothing suspicious on her clearly suspicious-seeming new underlings, so she fired off a few more questions in our direction—questions which we passed with flying colors—and dismayed, let us through. But seriously, people. We’re passport-holding American citizens, and apparently Vancouver (this told to me by Vancouverites, mind you) allows any and every one to take up residency there—why all the hassle?


This could have been a bad omen for our trip, but aside from half of the city being powerless due to a major blackout, Vancouver was pristine and charming and quite similar to Seattle actually, only with a North Dakota accent. And we proceeded to eat our way through the city, as every breakfast, lunch, dinner, and sometime even afternoon coffee, was planned for us with various publicists around town. The food was on par with New York and San Francisco, I’m happy to report, but sadly, our busy schedule left little time for seeing much of the sites, other than brief strolls through Yaletown, Gastown, and the waterfront in between meetings. (If you’re planning a jaunt to BC anytime in the near future, hit me up for dining recs—I have lots.) Though we managed to steal away to Grouse Mountain for a couple of hours and partake in this:


Ziplining in Vancouver from krysleigh on Vimeo.

Ever opposed to jeans, I wasn’t properly prepared for such an activity.


If my ballooning dress-cum-diaper weren’t enough, my feet were clad in flip-flops, and I had to borrow the ugliest pair of 70’s-style athletic VELCRO shoes from the zipline center you ever did see. And when I did the starfish pose the instructor made us do mid-flight, I’m sure I gave a nice view to all the lake-goers below. Let’s just say it’s a good thing I’m adamantly against butt floss (AKA thongs).


Evan, on the other hand--ever the mountaineering gal--actually dressed the part.


In essence, our first couple days in Canada were fun and adventure-filled—and tack Vancouver on to places I could easily live, because Canada, I’m so falling for you.

Blogorrhea

Well, it's that time of year that thousands of the country's most talented, snarkiest, writer gals descend upon my city...and I'm not there! Wah. I have impeccable timing.


Yes, the majority of you reading probably know exactly what I'm talking about, as you were likely directed here through a friend of a friend of a BlogHer member, but in case you don't, then well, I just told you really: BlogHer 2008 is taking place in San Francisco (which basically translates to a lot of ladies who have befriended one another over the Internets convening in one place for a long weekend of boozing and harmless debauchery).


Now, truthfully, I knew of the conflict in schedules before I took this assignment to Canada but at the time a) I was quite fearful to be in the presence of such well-known, witty, respected bloggers and b) well, would you pass up a free trip to Vancouver, Banff and Lake Louise? Thought not.


But that still doesn't make up for the fact that I won't be meeting face-to-face with Ali, Heather B., Jennie, SLynnRo, et al. On second thought, maybe that's a good thing, as they'd likely find me far less amusing than my blog =)


Still...some of my favorite BlogHerers are San Francisco residents, and thanks to a Moosaganza in honor of homegirl Moose turning the big 3-0 last Friday and a beach bonfire in honor of Holly's Sean and Alison's Nathan turning another 365 days older (each, not collectively), I did get to participate in a mini-BlogHer of sorts last weekend (minus long panel sessions made painful by recurring hangovers). I also finally got to meet the elusive Simon and Leah (pictured with me and Moose below).


So have fun all you fabulous BlogHer attendees and toast one for me! I'll be there next year come Hell or high water, you have my word!

Bonfire photos appropriately from Nothing but Bonfires.

An Ambiguously Ambiguous Award

Last week, boXer girl bestowed upon me the very special Pico y Arte award. Now, I'm excellent in Spanish (ha! not so much, but I'm not half bad either), and the translation still doesn't exactly explain this title. But who am I to pass up any sort of award? Vain, party of one, right here.

So, in essence, as I'm not really sure who to mention in my acceptance speech for what exactly (as again, this award is for...???), I'd like to thank The Cat for finally learning that the white sheet is his bed, and thus preventing my purple duvet cover from turning into one giant black hairball.


And yeah, here are the rules for this super awesome, LEGEN...wait for it...DARY award:

1) Pick five blogs that you consider deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language.

2) Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.

3) Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of “Arte y Pico” blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award which is here: Arte y Pico.


Well, now, when I read 50 or so blogs religiously, how am I to choose just five? Especially since all the blogs are creative, interesting, unique, etc. etc. etc., or else why would I be reading them? So I'm going to give one Arte y Pico award to bloggers in five different categories instead...drum roll please:

**Best Canadian Blog (eh?)
Cheaper than Therapy

**Most Aesthetic Site (i.e. Most Talented Photographer)
Life in Pajamas

**Best "Anything Goes" Blog
Chelsea Talks Smack

**Most Likely to Be the Next Bobby Flay
Jemima Blog

**Most Loyal Commenter Who Doesn't Blog Nearly Enough (hint, hint, Teej!)
Smells Like Happy

Oh wait, I'm breaking the rules and adding a sixth...and seventh:

**Best New Redesign
Speedy Canizales

**Best Site Written by a Lawyer that has Nothing Whatsoever to do with the Legal System
SLynnRo


Um yeah, so this was essentially just a way to tell you all what I'm reading this days. Ha, fooled ya!

Speaking of Ali and Canada and how we're country flopping this week (boo!)...here I am (eh)! I'll try to post regularly while I'm gone, you know considering I'm really just in a more northern part of America (ha! kidding, Canadians! I know you bunch hate nothing more than to be considered part of our country), and since it's not like I'm traveling the far depths of Bhutan where Internet access is non-existent. But just in case I'm having too much fun with my friend Evan who I studied with in Edinburgh ages ago to pop by and say hello, I've pre-posted some content to keep you all nice and fat and happy. And more Alaska when I come back, I promise. Until then, tootles, y'all!

I'm a Believer

Then I saw the fog...now I'm a believer! Not a single patch...of blue in the sky!

So, I've heard of this alleged fog for decades now. And I'm sure at one time, my very first jaunt to San Francisco (aside from the ones as a baby, which sorry but I don't recall a thing) when I was but a wee thing of six years old--and what do you know! I have a picture of that very plane ride from Nashville to San Jose--I saw the fog. But I don't remember much about that trip except that it was August and we had to wear jeans and sweatshirts to the beach, something I didn't quite comprehend as I had lived my six long years in Tennessee and vacationed in Florida regularly, both places where you rarely ever needed a windbreaker at anytime of year, let alone summer. And also how on the car ride down some unknown mountain, I kept telling my mom I was hungry, even though we had just eaten an hour before, and she eventually got mad at me because how could my stomach possibly need food right after lunch, and then I puked everywhere in the van. Turns out I was inflicted with motion sickness even then and often mistook it for hunger. (Side note: Until I was 12 at least, my mom always outfitted Kari and me in matching Kelly's Kids outfits, if it wasn't something she smocked herself. Side note to my side note: And who even knew the line was still around??? The bows, however, were all self-made by my mom with puff paint and a glue gun.)


So when I went on my last of my 20-milers last Thursday before the marathon in, gosh, just 19 days and some-odd hours at Facebook so unnecessarily continues to remind me, I was surprised that someone had dug up The Bridge and misplaced it, maybe even in a dumpyard, somewhere. You see, in the six months and more than 50 runs I've been traveling the Marina waterfront by foot, I've gazed in awe at The Bridge. Every. Single. Run. Sometimes there would be a slight mist hovering above it, giving the structure an even more majestic air, but it had never been blanketed to the point that it simply disappeared.

Until Thursday. It was beyond eerie. And running over the bridge into Sausalito was a bit disconcerting, as I couldn't see more than 10 feet or so in front of me and was being periodically pelted by water (which turned out to be rain, duh, but since we haven't seen a single shower in months now, I just assumed someone was spitting on me from above). But that didn't do anything to ward off the tourists, oh no. I suppose since it's summer, we're currently experiencing the regular influx of visitors--even more now that domestic travel is taking over thanks to the dollar sucking and that lil recession everyone can't stop talking about--and rightfully so, as San Fran is easily one of the most beautiful cities in the world. And I'm heavily in favor of tourism--of course I am, I promote it for my job--however, every traveler should take a Tourists' Code of Ethics class, in my opinion. For one, when you're standing in the middle of a two-way footpath that is as wide as 10 feet at some points, as narrow as five at others, and there are cyclist and runner signs at every turn and you're traveling in a large group, please don't walk six-people wide and not have the audacity to step aside when those moving faster than you are approaching from the other direction. As Stephanie Tanner would say, how rude!


Now, after living near Times Square for a lengthy period of time, I became a pro at dodging tourists, and trampling over them at times if need be, but it's rather hard when you're in such tight quarters on a bridge. When I come to your city, I respect you and your other residents and don't gaze mystified at your skyscrapers and other landmarks, so much so that I don't noticed when I'm holding up a line of 50 people. So, tourists take note: If you want to be liked around these parts, get out of our way! (I kid, I kid. Sorta.)

Anyway, back to the fog. The second, literally, that I stepped foot into Marin County, about two-thirds of the way across the bridge, the sky opened up to reveal a gorgeous afternoon. It was pretty bizarre how once second your clothed in fog, the next you can see for miles. Once I was down in Sausalito, I could see the fog from afar absolutely cloaking the bridge and the Bay. I don't know which weather was worse, the fog or the intense 90-degree Sausalito heat (despite all of my recent tanning efforts, I now sport heavy tank top lines). Both sections were equally as windy, though: In fact, when I was making the descent into Sausalito, I actually felt sorry for the biking tourists who were huffing and puffing their way up the hill but getting nowhere fast, as if someone had attached a giant bungee cord to their bikes and was pulling them in the opposite direction. And something about the wind in San Francisco--and residents, you can vouch for me--but whichever direction you're heading, it's always working in your opposition--i.e. when you're on a run against a hard headwind that feels like a wall of bricks, you take solace in knowing that the way back will be easy-peasy. And then you turn around, and yet again the wind is whipping against you. You just can't win. (BlogHer attendees, listen up: It also does absolutely no good to straighten your hair here, and like Holly said, lip gloss is the Devil, as it's simply a magnet for your hair.) So in essence, if any of you have an in with Mother Nature, please request that Aug. 3 be sunny but not too hot, hovering around 60, fogless, and not windy, yet emitting a nice, gentle breeze. That would be just fab, and I'll even bake you a Bundt cake for your efforts!


I don't know if it was the wind, which required exerting twice the effort, my increase in pace, the fact that I hadn't eaten much the day before--I'd been saving room for a feast at the fashion show, a feast which never happened; when I got home, it was too late to eat dinner--or the fact that there is so much smoke in the air from the fires, or maybe because I'm physically drained from all the globetrotting of the past month or emotionally fatigued from the family situation--FYI, my grandmother and grandfather (both of whom live with my family) AND my dad have all been in the hospital within the last week--but Thursday's 20-miler was the hardest run I've logged yet. Confession: I even had to walk a couple 30-second stints after I entered the 16th mile, and I usually NEVER do such a thing.

It's come to my attention, too, that I need some type of SuperWoman undies to wear when I run, because my usual hipster briefs from Victoria's Secret are giving me the most uncomfortable of wedgies. (And wow, aren't we getting intimate here? Next thing I know, you'll be asking me how I take my eggs!)(Scrambled with cheddar and sometimes a bit of salsa or ketchup, if you must know.)(Though my ultimate favorite in egg creations is huevos rancheros.) Do any of you active types out there have an athletic underwear you swear by? And please don't recommend a thong, because, well, I simply don't do butt floss. (I've tried, but just can't.) (I told you I'm just not that cool.) Back in my intrepid days when I was living out of hostels and doing my laundry with pure soap in the sink, I rotated in and out these quick-drying Patagonia panties that were uber-comfy, but that's been so long, I doubt if they even make them anymore.

On this particular run, I also tried Gu for the first time, despite having purchase an economy-sized box three months ago. To avoid another run-in with the Donut Girl, I took two packets with me, a chocolate and a vanilla. While I still would've preferred my glazed -sugar treat, they were both surprisingly yummy--you probably can tell by my blog title, but I'm slightly obsessed with cacao, I make it a mission to have something chocolate-y at least once a day--though just knowing I was consuming power gel was enough to make me want to gag. (What can I say? I'm a psychological eater. Hence why when I purchased my first lobster roll in Maine last fall, I promptly through out the meat, the ARM, and only ate the buttered bread.)

Also, it came to my attention that there is horse poop all along Marina Boulevard from the old-fashioned police people who travel by equine. Why, oh WHY, must dog owners clean up after their canines, when a piece of shit five times the size can just be left alone to fester? POLICE PEOPLE: I'M LOOKING AT YOU.

So yeah, the run was HARD, to put it mildly. But ever the cheerleaders, my running mentors Autumn and Jemima, are always quick to motivate me. After I finished a little more than three-and-a-half hours later, Autumn phoned to ask how it went. When I relayed all the difficulties I experienced and how nervous I was for race day, she responded calmly: "Well, you already know you can do the distance. You've done 23, what's three more? It's good that you had a bad run, because now your body knows how to power through it in the race, because there will be times in the race where it just doesn't feel good at all. I still think you did awesome."

Still, when I was finishing mile 20 and rounding the corner to the Starbucks, which was my reward, my light at the end of the tunnel, I began to think, "AHHHHH, I'm doomed to fail miserably at this marathon, why was today such a rough day, what if three weeks from now is just as bad?" But at that very moment, and I kid you not, my boy George--no not Boy George, the other George...no not W! People, seriously!--came on to serenade me. That's right, you know what he told me...cause I gotta have faith, faith, FAITH!


And if that's not a sign, folks, I don't know what is.

A Neighbor Even Mr. Rogers Wouldn't Like

You see, we live in a neighborhood in the 'burbs of San Francisco. And in neighborhoods, you have, well, neighbors. (As you do anywhere really, unless you live on a farm in Iowa or an iceberg somewhere near Greenland, s'pose.) I've lived her going on six months now and cannot tell you a single one of their names. (I'm thinking there's a Dian across the street somewhere, but I could not successfully pick her out of a lineup.) Basically, if I ever need to borrow a cup of sugar, I'm screwed. Good thing I don't bake.

The couple to our immediately right--or um, left if you're facing the house--likely entered the AARP realm six decades ago. I'd say they're both 80 easily, 127 possibly, and while the wife seems perfectly nice--besides mistaking me for SVV's SISTER the only time we've actually exchanged pleasantries (no offense to Lisa, but I'd hope I'm not sharing a bed and, well, life with my sibling!)--the husband, on the other hand, is one old, crochety piece of work (SVV and I accordingly refer to him simply, lovingly, as "Old Balls").

So back in April, he took up this little home renovation project a la Ty Pennington, in which he has TORN APART EVERY LAST SHINGLE AND BRICK ON THE WALL THAT FACES OUR HOUSE. (Apology for the heavy use of caps, but I know no other way to relay the precise annoyance that this little fixer-upper hobby has caused.)


But isn't his kumquat tree divine?

I don't think he really "gets" that I'm a WRITER and WORK FROM HOME (he's not the only one, I'm sure; I get questions from all sorts of people, politely: "what do you do all day?" "um, blog, isn't it obvious?" Ha!). I bet every time he sees me during daylight hours he thinks, "Oh, it's SVV's little unemployed girlfriend again, heading off to run or attend a yoga class. Doesn't she do anything else with her time?!?" Strike that, he's so old, that's too many thoughts running through his mind at once. Instead, it's probably something like this: "But look at her ass in Spandex!"

In May, he was drilling on a daily basis, and not your run-of-the-mill power drill, but this heavy duty sucker that you can hear from five blocks away. It's so loud, in fact, he has to wear some serious headphones to protect his precious, aging eardrums. I, being his direct next-door neighbor, must put up with this crap. I'm too timid to say anything--thanks Southern upbringing!--but finally one day in May it was just too much. I marched over to the front door and knocked. And knocked. Banged some more. Rang the doorbell. Nothing. I considered leaving a note, but decided against it. So finally when the drilling recommenced, I popped over the fence, Wilson-style in Home Improvement.

Cordially, I inquired: "Excuse me, sir, I'm just wondering when you might expect to be done with your project (at the time, it had been a good month since he started). It's just that I'm a writer and work from home under daily deadlines, and it's pretty difficult to work under such circumstances." I failed to add that phone interviews many stories require were completely out of the question.

"Heh?" he volleyed back over the fence. "Yeah, I know it's loud (if you understand the depth of pain you're imposing on others, why keep doing it???). Um, I should be done in 10 minutes or so."


And so he was. That day. But two months later, the daily pounding still goes on. Later that same afternoon, he did come over and apologize and ask when I'd be done with my work, so he could know not to drill. That was nice of him, sure, but he meant for that one day, not all subsequent. I told him that, it's not as easy as that, as I'm constantly working on assignments. I asked if he could just give me a timeframe on when he works every afternoon, so I could plan on being out of the house at that time. He responded, in his crochety manner: "Well, it varies, depending on how I feel that day."

Now, I realize we're all entitled to work on our respective houses at our convenience, but don't you think it's a tad rude to make so much noise for four months ongoing, when you live in California and have neighbors at every angle just feet from your own house? Or am I being a bit out-of-line here? It pisses SVV off, too, who often comes down with migraines, but can't get a nap in, because our bedroom windows face Old Balls' casa. Besides that, ever the jack of all trades and friendly neighbor--with his sewing skills, carpentry genius, handyman ways (and dashing good looks, of course!), he's the type you want to live next door to--SVV had gone over in early days and offered to help him (his offer was declined), analyzed the situation and realized Old Balls was going about it all wrong. Translation? A seemingly easy, few-weeks project would turn into months of unnecessary banging. SVV tried to relay this, but Old Balls, once again, didn't really get it.

I've been out of town so much in the last month--19 out of the past 30 days if anyone's keeping track--that the noise hasn't gotten to me in awhile. But now that I'm furiously trying to finish up this manuscript that was due, oh, three days ago now--no, transient travels and The Running Bob, I'm still nowhere there--the noise? IS KILLING ME. I've tried music, but then I end up singing along to the song or too distracted to write if it's purely instrumental. I've tried noise-canceling headphones, but even they do little to mask the jack-hammering that's going on just 10 feet from my computer. Our house is so small--just over 1,000 square feet (which I realize isn't that small after various apartments half the size shared with three others in Manhattan, but for an actual free-standing establishment, it's pretty tiny)--that it's not like I can just go in another room and the noise will miraculously disappear.

So how would you deal with such a pain-in-the-ass neighbor? Is it rude of me to continue (politely) asking him to stop? If not, then how should I nicely broach the subject once again?

Fierce

First off, people crack me up. American people crack me up even more. What is it about our lazy ass society that walking a block or two here and there is far too much to ask? You'd think you were pleading for their left kidney at times. When Megan and I flew to London on a whim for my 23rd birthday to see Kelly Clarkson in concert--hey, don't judge; I stick by my loyalty to the Clarkson and was probably the only person who didn't think her last album totally sucked--we were doing the tourist thing the next day, despite that both of us had visited London no fewer than 17 times, and encountered two American couples. Since they were so clearly Professional Tourists, and we didn't even bother to travel with a map--yeah, I'm that kind of backpacker--we politely asked how long they thought it would take us to walk from Trafalgar Square to Big Ben, where we were interviewing a political activist, Brian Haw, who has protested, day and night, outside Parliament for more than seven years now. They looked at us, shocked. "Oh no, honey," one of the men said. "You can't walk. it will take you at least 25, 30 minutes. You should take the bus." First of all, since when was a leisurely 25-minute walk on an uncharacteristically sunny day in the UK the equivalent of boot camp? Not only that, but we did walk, of course, and it turned out being just under half a mile, which took less than 10 minutes.

Then, last night, when I arrived at Fort Mason and parked in the public lot where I leave my car each morning while I run to the bridge and back, I asked a limo driver where the entrance to the show was, and he pointed in that direction and said, "but you'll need to drive." Now, seeing as he was a driver by profession, I thought maybe I would really need to drive, until he pointed to the end of a pier--which was, at most, a third of the mile--and said, "it's all the way at the end there." I was almost insulted. I run an average of 40 miles a week, who are you to assume that a measly five-minute walk is beneath me? And we wonder why America is the third most obese nation in the world (thanks Australia and Palau for beating us out on that one).


But anyway. So why was I at Fort Mason at 8pm on a Wednesday night in the first place? Well, I attended my first ever fashion show, as I'm sure you gauged from the title. First fashion show, you say? This from a girl who lived in Manhattan through four fashion weeks, worked at various women's and fashion mags, and occupied a cubicle right on Bryant Square? I know, tell me about it. It's not like the fashion houses were just beating down my door to have me attend the shows, and even at Lucky, while 2/3 of the staff was out for a solid week and a half every February and September, sadly I was not one of them. Sure, I got asked to cover a handful of events, but I always "conveniently" managed to be out of town (shocking, I know) each time they rolled around. And shameless confession? I never felt cool enough to attend a fashion show--I still don't.

And so when a super-cute fashion publicist (whose name will remain redacted seeing as everyone with a computer has Google Alerts these days, and far too many of my professional contacts have been stumbling upon my blog of late) invited me to the Nordie's fall fashion show preview/charity event, my first thought was, huh, fashion? In San Francisco? (I've seen some of the wackiest ensembles--leg warmers on arms, paired with a silk dress, beads and Converse kicks--I definitely don't consider it any sort of fashion mecca.) Followed by a quick, of course I'll be there! My initial concern was what to wear, because while I have well over 100 dresses filling my dresser, my closet and Lisa's (no exaggeration), I wasn't quite sure what was fashion-show appropriate for the West Coast. I find that most places I go, I'm way over dressed, which I'm usually fine with, but at a fashion show, I didn't want to be a walking faux pas. I settled on this:


Navy Grecian Dress: BCBG from Bloomingdale's
Gold Bracelets: vintage store in Miami's South Beach
Gold Ring and Earrings (none of which you can see): Alexis Bittar
Shoes and Chain Purse: Ann Taylor Loft

When the first two people I saw walking toward the warehouse were both donning jeans, I was worried that I would feel out of place, but man, if I was out of place, it was because I was too natural. I haven't seen that much Botox, highlights and fake tans in one room since I left New York visited LA in April. And the outfits on these people, wow; you'd think Carrie Bradshaw had walked in and vomited all over the place. Taffeta, tulle, feathers, fur--nothing went unworn among the 200 or so attendees at this event. I was suddenly glad I went for neutrals, that way I could just sort of blend in and go unnoticed.


When I first arrived, I felt ever-so-awkward--strike that, I felt awkward the entire time--as I came alone and stupidly didn't try to get one of my friends to take the extra ticket I had to keep me company. So I headed the only place I felt comfortable--the bar. I've never really cared much for fashion--sure I LOVE to shop and know all the big names and a bunch of independent designers from my days working the red carpet and toiling away at Lucky--but I prefer what's comfortable, not necessarily what's "in" that season. Besides, what writer do you know that can afford such lavish buys (except maybe Dooce with her $40K a month in ad revenue)? So I thought I would be on the bored side. But years of watching Top Model and Project Runway clearly educated me--or at the very least, made me more interested--and I found myself on the edge of my seat thinking, "gurrrrrl, you are one hot tranny mess!" And who says TV's a waste of time?


Speaking of the seats, I guess the people who set up the show expected the models themselves to be sitting in the crowd, because they were so small and close together that the rail-thin girl to my left practically had her elbow resting on my right boob; there was simply no room to move around whatsoever. The entire night I couldn't help thinking to myself the famous Emily Blunt quote, "I'm one stomach flu away from my ideal weight," as I ogled all these tiny, odd-looking people: 50-year-old women whose bones you could see straight through their arms they were so skinny (not attractive), girls my age who wanted to think they stepped right off the cover of Vogue (they had a loooong way to go), still others who never should have worn a skirt THAT short (cellulite is not a nice accessory, sorry ladies; neither is a glimpse of yo booty).


There were 12 designer's collections in all, including Cavalli, Versace, Stella McCartney, Donna Karan and Vera Wang (the last three of whom I've interviewed...Donna Karan? Yeah, she sucks in real life. Just so you know). Only a couple pieces in the 100-plus-outfit show would I actually have worn, but there was this precious pink-and-gold Peter Som wool coat with toggles that I fell in love with. Oh, I guess I forgot to mention, this was also a shopping event. Nordie's was funding the whole thing and had racks of items from the preview available to buy, including an entire buffet of Jimmy Choos (luckily, I've never been much of a shoe girl, though I did lust after a $2000 pair of black suede boots...I could get by with a wardrobe of solely dresses and boots if it were practical). After I wandered out to the cocktail and "dessert" hour--dessert in quotes, because I never saw so much as a cream puff; SVV: "well, of course, there wasn't food, silly. Models don't eat!"--I stumbled upon the Peter Som rack with MY COAT on it. I admired from afar. The sales lady at the rack took note and invited me over to try it on.

"Oh no, I couldn't," I blushed. I don't fit into model sizes, duh--while I'm not huge, I am a size 4, not negative 4--and all of the items were runway samples.


"Just try it," she urged. And so I did, the XS-sized model coat. And it fit! Of course, it fit. When it's an item you adore and you clearly don't have the financial means to make it yours, it always fits like a glove. It not only fit, it was a bit big, which I suppose would be perfect when I needed to where a sweater underneath (though let's be honest, who needs a sweater and a coat in SF ever?). It was love at first fit. Also, while everything else had a price tag, this did not. I had seen some items in the two and three hundreds. I thought it might be my lucky day (who am I kidding? when have I ever been the lucky type?), until the sales girl came back and declared it was $1650. That was about $1200 more than I was willing to pay, so I handed it back to her and said unfortunately that was not within my budget. She looked at her coworker perplexed.

"Well, do you want us to put you on the contact list when it hits store?" I don't think she was understanding. I'll NEVER be able to afford a $1650 piece of fabric--unless, hey SLynnRo, you're a lawyer, want to buy me an early birthday present, ha?--not today, not this fall, not ever, but I don't think Nordstrom's employees are accustomed to people not being able to afford their goods, at least not people of this caliber at that event who shelled out $250 a ticket just because they could. Sigh. One day, when SVV strikes it big...

But hey, at least I walked away with this platter, which is probably one of the coolest gift "bags" I've ever received:

Welcome to the World, Baby Girl

Every little girl wishes for a sister as a best friend. Since my own only sibling didn't come along until I was nearly six years old -- making for quite a bit of an age gap -- I became close with my mom's only niece, Rebecca, from a very early age.


Just 17 months my senior, but always my junior in height and weight -- she's a wee thing, that Rebecca, still only 4'11 AND A FOURTH, she always manages to add -- we grew up two peas in a pod. She lived five hours by car in Memphis, but luckily, I had one thing down the street from me that she didn't, which brought her to my house quite frequently: my grandparents.


From the time we could barely walk, we adopted nicknames for each other based on our lack of diction and inability to pronounce each other's real names. For the rest of our lives, I would be Kiki to her (derived from the first sound of my name), and she Coco to me (stemming from her last syllable).


I would see Rebecca, and her twin Andrew and older brother John, several times a year: holidays, family reunions in Paris and Lake Loudoun, Tennessee, annual vacations to Gulf Shores, Disney World, and Destin. So it never really fazed me that I didn't (at the time) have siblings of my own. They were my brothers and sisters, only even better: sans all the biting and hair pulling.


Though, don't let me fool you: Being at least twice her size, Andrew, John and I picked on Rebecca at every given chance. Lucky for her, she always had our grandmother Dede on her side -- even when we didn't actually do anything to her, she'd tattle and we'd be punished. One time in particular, I remember us chasing her down the beach in Alabama, writing "Reba Sheba" -- a nickname she hated with a passion -- in the sand. We got a good talking to by Dede when we returned to the condo. But did we learn our lesson? Likely not.


To Rebecca's delight, Kari, my little sis, came along a few years later, and thus, absorbed all of the teasing -- or at least a good portion of it -- until Kari herself outweighed Rebecca (at probably just three years old or so). Rebecca and I only grew closer with age, but unfortunately, saw each other less and less as getting older meant more obligations and less time to make the cross-state journey to visit one another.


Many moons ago, when Rebecca was 16 (come September, she'll be receiving the senior citizen discount when she turns 27), she started dating another John -- our family has a serious problem when it comes to contriving names; nearly every male on that side of the tree bears some form of the name John -- whom she would eventually marry nine long years later. I stood up at the altar with her that chilly December evening in 2004 as her bridesmaid, while the two exchanged vows. John was the perfect addition to our family: fun, sarcastic, musical, and accepting of the quirkiness (ahem, Andrew) of the whole Housholder clan.


Although she frequently told me over the phone that there would be no little Cocos running around anytime soon, I wasn't all that surprised when Rebecca called me last fall to share the news that she was pregnant. (While they weren't necessarily trying, at the same time, they weren't not trying.)


In the past three years, I've only seen Rebecca three times, and never for more than a few hours, but she kindly drove her bloated belly down to Tullahoma to see me in April; it would be the last time we'd hang out without the title of "mother" decorating her repertoire of accolades.


At 1:50pm on June 19, 2008 in Memphis, Tennessee, McKayla Yates Rawlinson came into the world, weighing in at 5 pounds and 9 ounces and spanning 18 1/4 inches. She kind of resembles a gremlin in this picture, but she's beautiful nonetheless (and keeping in the tradition of our family, popped out sporting a full head of hair...it's just a matter of days until she adopts a full-on fro).


While she's not my niece per se, I still feel like a proud aunt and will treat her like so. After all, Rebecca was always much more a sister than a cousin. Cousin denotes someone you see maybe every other year at funerals or extended family gatherings and exchange awkward pleasantries, not someone with whom you share an entire encyclopedia set of memories.


So McKayla, take note, baby girl: When you get older and need someone to buy you booze and help you finagle a fake ID, well, you know who to call.


Until then, I'll be meeting you in November.

Love,

Your (Fun) Aunt Kristin

P.S. And for good measure (and to ensure she murders me after reading this), your momma at her finest:

Ice Ice Baby

First off, can I just say that I can't stop repeating WAAAALLLL-EEEE, EEEEEE-VVVAAAA, to the point where I think SVV might just break our lease so he can move out and not have to hear me say it over and over again. One more time, all together now: WAAAALLLL-EEEEE. And if you are one of the hundred billion people who also saw this adorable, thought-provoking movie over the past week (critics are already talking some serious Oscar bidness), then you totally know to what I am referring. If you don't, then I suggest you jump on the bandwagon and get your booty to the movie to see it.


Also, I'd have to say the worst thing about leaving for vacation for 10 days is the coming back: the laundry; the grocery shopping because everything's gone sour or staled or was thrown out even before you left; the coming home to TWENTY-SEVEN bills with due dates all looming, um, now; the trying to cram all workout days you missed while on vacation into a mere afternoon (because I made it to the boat's gym all of once, and it's now just 27 days, gulp, until I must run 26.2 miles); the catching up on your work. Oh right, I guess I should mention that I have 60,000 words -- roughly a fourth of my book manuscript -- due tomorrow. As in, the day after today. How many words have I written, you ask? TWO THOUSAND. No, not even 20K, but a mere two. Wish me a speedy writing day, kids, and a forgiving editor. SVV also came down with a horrible virus-y like thing on our last day on the boat, Thursday, and still hasn't recovered, making his birthday weekend -- yes, he's an Independence Day baby -- in Seattle not exactly how you want to spend the foray into your 35th year (clarification: He turned 34, for all of you who failed math, but this marks the beginning of numero treinte-cinco). And my mom just called to say my dad's come down with the same thing, so I'm just biding my time until I get a hacking cough and 103 degree fever.


And it never fails that loads of things go wrong when you're gone. Like you wouldn't even believe the news we came back to: four kids in my hometown (of just 19,000) my sister's age died of car crashes and carbon monoxide poisoning, my good friend's dad found out he has cancer of the esophagus, a close family pal -- the DA in the area, it should be noted -- who got me out of my own arrest when I was but a baby of 18 was arrested for drunk driving thus ending his career and prompting a check-in to a rehab facility, and then there was the bad news that befell my own family, times two. News that makes me realize just how far away I am, because it pains me to not be home right now with my parents, sis, and all the extended family coming in and out of our home at the moment, and thanks airline industry, because do you know how much a last minute ticket from San Fran to Nashville costs? More than seven hundred effing dollars, that's how much. Who pays that, I ask you? I could go to Asia for that ludicrous price! If you have seats leftover the day before a flight that you need to get rid of, SELL THEM FOR CHEAPER. They're just going to go unused anyhow. So now I'm at a moral crossroads of sorts. And poor SVV doesn't know what to do with me, as I break out in tears at random about every 17 minutes, including at the Gonzaga alum Fourth of July kegger we attended (don't even ask; neither of us even went to school there, and it just completely reinforced why I never want to go back to college, because the drunken party lifestyle--PBR at that? So not for me. I only managed to choke down half a beer, that's how lame I am). And wow, who invited Debbie Downer to the party? But onto cheerier topics, and if you already popped that anti-depressant, sorry for that, back to our regularly scheduled program: Alaska.


Without a doubt my favorite part of our jaunt to Alaska was the scenic cruising through Glacier Bay. My mom insisted on the particular route we took just for this day of iceberg-gazing (um, did anyone by chance see that little-viewed movie about the cruiseliner and the ice, and yeah that was exactly what was going through my head as I marveled at the majestic of the quickly melting ice caps).


It really was an amazing sight to see, particularly as the world's ice is disappearing at alarming rates. (Did you read that later this summer the North Pole will likely be devoid of ALL ice??? Also, the penguins are becoming sick and endangered, which saddens me to no end. And damn, am I just a bucket of cheer today. Global warming, you can stop now, please and thanks.) We did witness a massive chunk of the glacier break off and fall into the ocean far below. It was quite surreal to see in person, but apparently my catlike camera reflexes weren't so catlike in Alaska, as I failed to capture it on film.


What was possibly the coolest thing of all was all the whale-watching we got to do. One of the many excursions you could book at each port of call was a whale-watching day, but my mom had been told you saw so much wildlife from the boat that there was no need to do this. And she was right. I've never had much luck when it comes to spotting whales (with my overall propensity for things to go wrong, you're shocked, I'm sure): There was the time in Iceland when I went on a trip with a company with a 99 percent success, and as fortune would have it, my day fell within the one percent margin of error. Then, when SVV and I were in Hawaii last year, during whale mating season, everyone but me caught glimpses of humpbacks breaching every time they looked out at the ocean. I maybe saw a splash or two (but I'd ooh and ahh with the rest of them, just so they didn't think I was all Helen Keller). Luckily, July 2008 was my time at last. The day we cruised Glacier Bay, we saw no less than 50 humpbacks and gray whales. The final day, after we re-entered the Pacific, we were greeted by three pods of orcas in high numbers. Those entire days, our whole group just sat on the Lido deck and gazed out intently from the floor-to-ceiling windows; it was quite the crowd pleaser. Not five minutes would pass without a sea otter or seal swimming by. My mom and Justin even saw four puffins float by on a piece of ice; as I'm a HUGE puffin aficionado, I'm still bummed I missed this warm-and-fuzzy spotting.


So, if you do go to Alaska, don't pass up on Glacier Bay. The cities themselves weren't much to marvel at (more on that to come), but the ice formations were truly spectacular, for lack of a more descriptive adjective. It actually wasn't even that cold: After working out, I went on the deck in a tank and shorts and was fine for a good half hour (granted, we were there right after the solstice, so it was the warmest--and lightest--time of year). But it was funny to see all these wusses fully cloaked in wool hats, mittens and blankets when it probably wasn't any cooler than mid-50's out (they've clearly never visited San Fran in "summer"). And with that, more pictures:

The Land of the Midnight Sun

Wow, it's been a long time, hasn't it? How are you? Have you done something new with your hair? Or have I simply been out of commission so long that the bouffant has gone out of style once more? Things sure have gotten dusty around here in my absence. But I promise never to leave you unattended to this long again...erm, well until a week from now when I leave for Canada (coincidentally, where I was just yesterday) for an assignment. At least in Canada they have Internet...don't they? So theoretically, I could blog while on the road. Whereas, in Alaska, they have this thing called dial-up, which was even worse on the boat and went for astronomical prices of ONE DOLLAR PER MINUTE, and even my global edition CrackBerry rarely picked up a signal.


What's that you say? You actually want to hear how Alaska was? And to think all this time I merely thought you kept stopping by to admire my tan and impeccable ability at avoiding ending sentences in prepositions (a major pet peeve of mine). Well, sorry to bust your bubble, but there wasn't a whole lot to snark about, so you'll have to simply make due with me waxing poetic. And posting LOTS of pictures. Like, don't be surprised if the subsequent week's worth of entries are heavy on the photographs.


So where should I start? I guess I should tell you that I'm very anti-cruise. That probably doesn't surprise you, as those in my line of profession must loathe organized travel based on principle alone. Sure, I think it's perfectly acceptable for you to embark upon such a journey, but personally, cruises aren't my preferred method of travel. But. When your parents sit you down over Christmas and say, "hey! We're going on a family cruise to Alaska! And we'll even pay yours and Scott's way if you can get yourselves to Seattle," you don't exactly retort, "me? I don't do cruises." (Yes, my parents are insanely generous and amazing people. No, you can't have them; in fact, I refuse to even share.) But when you're stuck on a boat with the people you love the most in the world surrounded by some of the most amazing scenery you'll ever witness, I suppose it's bearable. =)

But I digress.

We'd been planning this trip for years actually. We were supposed to go two years ago, but my sister and dad voted on the Caribbean instead and somehow won out. (Now, that was a rather miserable cruise, aside from the company. The ports of call were these horrible tourist eyesores like Grand Cayman and Cozumel. I didn't even get off the boat on a couple of stops. Not to mention, it was on a Carnival ship, a line which I'm pretty convinced is reserved only for those who reside in assisted living facilities.) So we finally got around to hitting up Alaska, as well, which was my 19-year-old sister's FORTY-NINTH STATE, meaning she's five up on me and I'd better get to working if I'm going to explore Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, the Dakotas and Iowa before she slums it in Hawaii. (Pic from last cruise, July 2006.)


What I didn't realize until about a month ago, is aside from the five of us (four Lunas and a van Velsor), we wouldn't be alone. Nine of their friends would be joining in our endeavors. Now, group travel usually gives me the shudders, because have you ever tried to organize 14 people on a trip, factoring in personal preferences and desires? NOT POSSIBLE. So I cringed at the thought of eight days of this. Luckily, everyone was just as fun as accommodating as could be, and I was quite pleased at the end of it when they all decided upon a Baltic and Russian cruise in 2009 (which means yet another cruise, but hey I'm coming around). Doesn't this group just scream fun? (That's the top of my dad's head concealed by Danielle and Karen's heads in the back lefthand corner. My mom? Well, she's the shortest one in the group; you should be able to pick her out no sweat. My sister's my blonder, better-looking clone. NO, we aren't twins; I outnumber her by six years, thank you very much. I think we all know which one SVV is, the one of the really, really good-looking variety. Tell him he doesn't have douche curls, so we can end this debate once and for all.)


So we all met up in Seattle and headed north to the Land of the Midnight Sun...