Camels & Chocolate: Tales from a Travel Addict

The Unveiling

2008-08-29T05:00:00.000-04:00

Top of the morning to ya! Did you know that Camels & Chocolate has a brand new look--and home? You didn't? Well, go on over there and check it out, now would you!

And if you've been so kind to bookmark me or add me to your link list or Google Reader (I'm honored! Really!), please update it to www.camelsandchocolate.com and I will be eternally grateful.

See you on the other side!

Confronting My Fears (or How a Shark Tried to Play Finsie with Me)

2008-08-27T13:26:00.000-04:00

So we've established I'm the tiniest bit afraid of SHARKS. That said, did you think you would ever in a million years see this?

No? You're not the only one! You see, after Holly (also afraid of all finned things) and I had completed our first day of check-out dives in the Bahamas, we were all, "bring on the sharks! We can take 'em!" A definite change of tune from us grasping each other for dear life on the boat, whimpering, "but what if we see a shuh-shuh-shuh-SHARK?!?" But something about getting comfortable in the water made us change our tune. Unfortunately, then I came down with the Bahamian Diet (AKA stomach flu) and was unable to join in on the fun. Holly went diving with the rest of the group--Brendal, another Holly, John, Linda, Sue and Angie--as planned, which was all good as there were many BODIES and her chances of being attacked were severely diminished. John and the nurse shark even made friends, as the shark really liked to be pet like a cat.

So after seeing the pictures Holly took and slightly getting over my bug (I was still quite paranoid about vomiting in my regulator, but alas, I was fine), Brendal took me diving the next morning so I could complete my certification. Took me diving with just the intrepid Angie, who came along for the ride, on a day when there were far less people for the sharks to feast on. The second we anchored the boat and I entered the water, I took a brief peek underwater and saw two or three Caribbean reefs circling below me. Zoiks!

As we descended 40 feet to the bottom--and I won't lie, I was shaking in my dive booties--Brendal made me do one last skills check, which entailed taking out the regulator, removing the BCD (the life jacket thingie you wear when diving), and even removing and clearing my mask--as the sharks circled above us.

Now, it's never fun to be blind underwater, and mask removal always gives me a slight panic attack, but it's far less fun to be blind underwater when you look up and see this prior to performing the task:

Those suckers weren't small (nurse sharks, aside), let me tell you. The reefs and bulls were a good five or six feet in length, at least.

But you know what? It oddly wasn't scary. They're such peaceful, graceful creatures, I've come to find, that I would actually get excited every time another one swam around the corner.

However, toward the end of our dive, as we were beginning our ascent, a friendly nurse sharks started circling me. Brendal motioned for me to pet it. I got closer. And closer. As did it (he? she?). It grazed my fin, and I bolted upward. I guess you can't completely triumph over trepidation in a mere hour. I'm still kicking myself that I didn't get to leave the Bahamas boasting that I pet a shark.

Several of you have written me that you're terrified of the ocean and sharks, as well, and that you could never learn to dive for those very reasons. I get you, I do; if anyone can relate it's me. But it's far less intimidating than snorkeling--at least you have a full range of vision, whereas with snorkeling you never know what's lurking behind you--and you're missing out on so much by not exploring life underwater (did you see The Little Mermaid and Finding Nemo? Case in point!). And if you need someone to hold your hand and accompany you to your therapist session beforehand, consider me your girl.

The pre-shark dive interview, courtesy of Miss Burns. Seriously, could I be any hotter in my dive garb?!

Well, Glad That's Behind Us...

2008-08-25T15:45:00.000-04:00

...was what I was going to say in reference to Friday's court appearance. Unfortunately, it's hardly been resolved. I was terrified to go into court Friday. TERRIFIED. Stupid, I know, for a measly speeding ticket, but I had such a scarring experience with the Pigeon-Faced Cop that I really didn't want to have to see him again. My stomach had been in knots since June 18, when I got cited for doing something I didn't do. I can't help it. The law scares me. I've maintained such a clean record in my 25 years that I wasn't really sure what to expect in court. In fact, just to illustrate how little I got in trouble growing up, my mom still laughs about the time I came home from school at 13 pleased as punch that I got detention--finally. And for being tardy, at that. I guess that was me releasing the "rebel" within. While my sister Kari was always in trouble, I was the one in the corner with a permanent halo etched above my cranium.

I have been to court one other time when four friends and I were "arrested" (I use the term loosely as it never appeared on my record) for underage drinking. Funny, though, all of us passed the sobriety test with flying colors, and even at 18, I was smart enough to find a sober driver to drive my Mom-Mobile (that was back in the Taurus days) after consuming HALF A DAQUIRI. In a six-hour period. Unfortunately for four of us in the car, the fifth (a total idiot who did have a previous record) jumped in the backseat on our way back into town and left an open, unclaimed beer can that got us all in trouble. Luckily, though, the judge took one look at us clean-cut, well-coiffed ladies and dropped all charges, expunging everything from our records. (It doesn't hurt that I hail from a small town, and the DA knew us all from the time we were in diapers.) Justin (the idiot with the record) didn't get off so easily. Still, that was more than enough court time to last me the rest of my life. But at least I was accompanied by three friends and our parents. This time I had to go at it alone.

I had been needing to get back to Monterey/Carmel anyway, as my book deadline is looming a month and a half away (I've turned in ONE of 10 chapters...ack), and I hadn't been down that way since Helle's trip in April. So I went down a day and a half early so I wouldn't be getting up at the crack of dawn for my meeting with the judge. And desperate time call for desperate wardrobes, I say. For the occasion, I broke out Corporate Kristin, a look that hasn't seen the light of day...um, ever. Or maybe since mock trial when I was 17, if then. To give you some idea of how rarely I wear anything office-y, this ensemble hails from Express circa 2003. You know the days when I deemed Express actually worthy of wearing (present time it's all sparkles and Jonas Brothers fans). It helps that I'm preparing for LASIK surgery and am condemned to wearing my geek glasses for three months. Instant sophistication points right there, I say. A tightly knotted bun completed the look, and I could have passed for a college librarian. I've also never tucked in my shirt, EVER, so it was just a day full of firsts.

Getting up early is probably one of my least favorite pastimes, right up there with cleaning the toilet and going to the dentist. If Jemima isn't enticing me out of my warm bed at 5:30am for a run with lures of a bikini-ready body, chances are I lounge around until nearly 8. I do work from home for a reason. I really didn't want to get out of the luscious goose feather bed at Bernardus Lodge in Carmel Valley, but I've heard tardiness does not go over well in court. So rise at 6 I did, and I arrived at the courthouse to a line 30 people deep. I couldn't have felt more out of place. Everyone else was in sweats, ragged jeans, sometimes even pajama pants. Um, did they not get the memo about first impression being somewhat important? I had spent over an hour on the phone earlier that week trying to get a hold of someone at the court to discuss the procedure, considering every state's traffic court is different, and the lady I finally pinned down was very brisk with me and said I needed to show up at 8 and request an arraigment. Which is exactly what I tried to do, only they wouldn't let me speak to the judge. To do so, I would have to request a trial by court and return six weeks later. Ummm, NO. That would cost me more money in gas and time lost than if I just paid the $283 ticket. So I opted for trial by declaration (AKA writing a letter), with the option of traffic school should I be found guilty. All that time worrying and perfecting Corporate Kristin for nothing. And I'm a bit bummed, as I had my routine down pat, and I think I would have had a much better chance pleading my case in front of the judge than on paper. (P.S. Does anyone have experience with such a matter? I need to write a kick-ass letter to which the judge simply can't find me guilty.)

The silver lining to my cloudy day (both literally and metaphorically) was that SVV came down to join me for the weekend. We had a good time seal watching from our balcony on Cannery Row and visiting the famed Monterey Bay Aquarium (and me eating my weight in salt water taffy, something that seems to happen every time I'm down that way). I really like Monterey, even as touristy as the Cannery is and despite how the area seems to attract the World's Most Obnoxious Children, accompanied by the World's Most Obnoxious Parents Who Let Their Children Tear Around Restaurants, Ripping Down Curtains, Repeatedly Dropping a Rock on the Table Until Every Patron Gets Up and Leaves Out of Annoyance and Never Uttering a Single Scolding Word (none of you, clearly). Even despite all that.

So I'll leave you with some pictures (all taken by SVV, natch):

And videos of the weekend that I tried to upload yesterday (Flickr's video function ROCKS! I've so been converted):

(Best viewed with sound off. Trust me.)

(Why I'd rather have an otter than a cat.)

Signs I Might Have Something to Worry About

2008-08-24T14:56:00.006-04:00

SVV: I don't like how shiny L'Occitane makes my skin. Other "products" just don't seem to do that.

Me: Um...

I feel like this conversation was taken directly from Esquire's "Gay or...?" page. What's more disturbing: The mere fact that SVV notices a distinguishable difference in luxury bath goods or how he refers to it as "product"? (I think I've spoiled him with all these five-star hotel stays and the closet we now have bursting of Kiehl's, Bliss, Molton Brown, Gilchrist & Soames--all swiped, of course. I'm far too cheap to actually spend more than $5 on shampoo!)

And I've been trying for THREE hours to upload videos from the Monterey Bay Aquarium to Vimeo so you wouldn't be starting your Mondays off with a measly post like this, but alas, the site hates me and it will have to wait until tomorrow when I have more patience (does anyone have a better alternative to Vimeo that isn't youtube? because Vimeo has some serious kinks to work out). Good-night, y'all!

Relocated

2008-08-21T20:54:00.004-04:00

Hi! I'm chillin' over at Secret Agent Josephine's pad, home to the beyond adorable Baby Bug, for the day, while she takes a much-deserved blogcation. Come say hi when you have a minute! Oh, and there's a very good chance I might be in court in Monterey while you're reading this (Friday morning) silently cursing that lying Pigeon-Faced Cop who's solely responsible for my high anxiety these past couple months politely pleading my case with the judge. Wish me luck!

Spoiler Alert: SAJ designed me the cutest banner(s!) ever for my site, which will soon occupy its own URL. Huzzah! Big reveal to come soon when it's all gussied up and ready for visitors!

Bahama Mamas

2008-08-20T14:36:00.001-04:00

I never had much desire to visit the Bahamas. I mean, I was here back in 1991 on a Disney Big Red Boat cruise, but that hardly counts, right? I just sort of envisioned the whole country being one giant, tacky Spring Break destination like Panama City (apologies to my PCB native friend Alison), or else littered with tourist eyesores like every port-of-call you visit in the Caribbean. And that's just silly, isn't it, expecting a country that consists of 700 islands to fall under one large umbrella of generalizations? Because I'm here to tell you, you'll nary find more crisp, clean, stunning water than we saw in the Abacos, the island chain in which we were staying. (In fact, it supposedly has the best visibility in the world, making it all the easier to see if a SHARK is approaching well in advance!). Much like Canada before it and the Maldives before that, the Bahamas has stolen my heart.

While there, too, I thought it would be fun to come back a few pounds lighter, as opposed to heavier like one usually does on this type of self-indulgent vacation (even though this was technically a "work trip," when it comes down to it, let's be honest, IT'S THE FREAKIN' BAHAMAS, and really served as little more than an awesome, sunny, five-day break from chilly San Fran). So I opted for a new diet, one that consists of contracting a deadly stomach bug likely from my germy 8-year-old airplane seatmate, and one that surfaces as you're sailing upon placid water, so upon the first hour of severe vomiting on board, you mistake it for an odd case of motion sickness. Then, when 18 hours later, your stomach is still thrashing around like a fish trying to rid itself of a pesky hook, you realize, hmm, that's really odd for seasickness and write it off as a virus that will dissipate after its scheduled 24 hours...or so you hope. And then you proceed to rid yourself of anything that enters your system for going on four days and come to the realization that 24-hour viruses don't necessarily last only 24 hours and sometime stick around just to be a nuisance for a full 96. But hey, you do return home FIVE pounds less, possibly the only time that will ever happen after a Caribbean escape.

I felt really bad ditching Holly on our second day of diving, as not only was the first day a real blast, but we were the only two divers getting certified and we were, after all, Dive Buddies. I mean, what if she drowned without her buddy there for support? I wouldn't want to go through life with that burden hanging on my shoulders (besides, I kind of adore the girl, so that would just generally suck all around). But she passed with flying colors and even swam with SHARKS(!), and upon getting back to the resort, accompanied me to the beach because I was feeling slightly better.

And because she's a true pal like that and in her obvious Olympic spirit, she went as far as to join me in my intense pain, by possibly breaking a toe or two (no exaggeration) through performing a death-defying Nastia Liukin-like leap on a deserted beach. Because friends don't let friends be condemned to the infirmary alone.

The thing about Holly is that when I was but a mere fan of hers on the East Coast, I thought, this is The Nicest, Most Down-to-Earth Girl Ever. But now that we've become friends, I've learned that that's simply not true. She's even nicer and cooler than The Nicest, Most Down-to-Earth Girl Ever. Definitely someone you want as your travel, dive and infirmary cohort.

By day three, however, I was feeling well enough to hobble around in a hunched-over positions, so I completed my dives, and Holly and I got all grad-u-mated at Brendal's Dive Center. Sadly, the caps and gowns were still at the cleaners.

And can I just brag for a minute on my underwater digital camera case and suggest that if you're planning similar snorkel or dive trips, you follow my lead and invest in one, as well? Because, well, just look at the evidence below and see for yourself.

Manga Me

2008-08-19T00:26:00.000-04:00

What do you think?

Uncanny resemblance?

Not one bit?

(Excuse my pronounced wrinkles and lines in the above shot. I have no idea when I got so old.) Before you click on THIS LIN K, don't say I didn't warn you. (And don't send your boss my way when you get fired for lack of productivity.) Nearly as much fun as elfing yourself!

(Picture from last year's holiday soiree evite.)

Fish Out of Water

2008-08-18T00:58:00.005-04:00

I fear you're going to have to live with me blogging about my new obsession, my new favorite easy travel destination, my secret Bahamian diet, and the like for weeks to come (sorry in advance), but Holly and I just arrived back in San Francisco after 13+ hours of flying and a pretty exhausting, albeit interesting past few days, so for now, a teaser on what's to come (worth the click, I promise--and I love you guys so much I just spent over two hours waiting for stupid Vimeo to upload it!):

Silver Cloud from krysleigh on Vimeo.

See y'all soon!

Under the Sea

2008-08-14T09:00:00.001-04:00

Have I mentioned before how DEATHLY AFRAID OF THE OCEAN I AM? And um, really all forms of water? It's so severe, actually, that I avoid swimming pool drains at all cost (blame that on the 90's screamfest Pirahnas), won't go in a pool alone, and then often keep my head above water, as if something is lurking just below the surface and will bite off my head if I submerge. I even refuse to shut my eyes in the shower if that relays the severity of my fear of water. Why am I so neurotic, you ask? Well, I really have no idea--I mean, I had a pretty normal childhood, no traumatizing events to speak of--but clearly, clearly, the SHARKS will come out of the faucet and rip out my eyeballs with their menacing teeth if my eyes are shut. Clearly.

I'm sure I've bored you at least 734 times with my crippling fear of the sharks, and I hate to sound like a broken record, but I HAVE A CRIPPLING FEAR OF SHARKS. AND ALL THINGS WITH FINS. Flipper included. (Flipper does technically have fins, right? I'm no marine biologist and I would Wiki it, but I'm not going to risk a picture of a shark turning up on the results page.) I don't really think many people take my supreme paranoia seriously because everyone is so-called "scared of sharks." But we're talking extremes here, people. Just ask my mom. As a child, I made her remove the "S" volume in my set of children's encyclopedia from my bedroom, as well as any book that contained a picture of underwater life. I wouldn't sleep in the same room with it. In college in Knoxville, there was a billboard on the Interstate boasting a threatening picture of a great white. I drove off the side of the road with Megan in the passenger seat the first time I saw it. All subsequent passes, I covered my eyes--probably not good for the driving, but better than the alternative (a mid-driving, panic attack-induced car wreck). I still suffer medium to high anxiety and launch my MacBook across the room if I happen to stumble upon a Web page with a picture of a shark on it. And I made SVV scour my diving books prior to the course and tear out any such photos that might cause my nightmares to resurface. Even seeing the word SHARK so many times on this hear post is causing my heart to palpitate wildly. Is this normal? Seriously, are any of you this afraid of something that, statistically, is responsible for a mere FOUR deaths, worldwide, a year? (Just so you know, the four deaths have already happened in the first half of this year, so we're in the clear...until 2009, at least.)

So why then did I think learning to SCUBA dive (that's Self Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus for those of you who have yet to take the 16-hour SCUBA School, ha!) was a good idea? Blame it on the Maldives. I never had any desire to be more than toe-deep in any body of open water until the Maldives cast its spell over me, told me I was pretty, and courted me harder than even Colin Firth ever succeeded in doing in a single 90 minutes of a romantic comedy. Weeks later, I went to the Dominican Republic on assignment and again went diving--with a much more disappointing result: overfished water, no marine life. And still, I was hooked.

When I got the opportunity to go on a worktrip to the Bahamas to finally get my full certification and not have to take that uber-boring pool skills class one more time before doing a Discover SCUBA day, my immediate reaction was a "HELLS YES!" (shouted in all caps, of course). And I even roped in a good pal (trust me, talking her into jetsetting to a beautiful, serene, remote spot in the Bahamas on the work clock was like asking her to cut out and lend me her spare kidney, let me tell you), so I had a reliable underwater buddy who could handle being responsible for my life at 100 feet below the ocean surface. And thus, SCUBA School commenced.

As she'll tell you, there were highs (underwater tea parties; passing our written exams with nearly flying colors; doing the sprinkler and lawnmower at 10 feet below sea level, which we will hopefully re-enact in the Atlantic Ocean for you all if my underwater digital case does its job), lows ("summer" San Fran conditions, meaning a chilly pool; the repetitive surrendering of our weight; having to remove our wetsuits, BCs, tanks, booties, flips, et al every half an hour when we inevitably had to pee), and all in between (having a cool police officer dive instructor who seemed to love us one minute, loathe us the next). Then of course there were the tens of emails we sent back and forth beforehand pondering issues of extreme importance: was it really pertinent we do all the homework (um, YES), would they all think we were freaks if we turned up in bikinis (not to our knowledge), was this even a good idea in the first place (yet to be decided)?

But we passed the "easy part" (freezing our asses off in a suffocatingly-small swimming pool) and now just have to complete our check-out dives somewhere in Green Turtle Cay in the Abacos, where we're likely sitting at this very moment drinking pink drinks with matching umbrella stirrers--ha, fooled ya! (I just love that I can set up my drafts to post in advance!) And here you thought I was sitting behind a computer somewhere in the greater Bay Area. Hopefully, we'll both return with killer tans, a universal referral form allowing us to partake in recreational dives anywhere in the world (at the maximum of 100 feet, of course, because we follow the rules like that), and sans decompression sickness...but only time will tell (call this here post a cliffhanger if you please).

***P.S. I really want to thank you all for your incredibly kind comments about my grandmother, as well as your encouraging words after my marathon. You all rock! I'm constantly in awe of how caring the Internet is, and if I didn't have a chance to respond to you individually (I don't have e-mail addys for a lot of you, unfortunately), please know that I was touched by each and every word!

A Grandmother is an Angel in Training

2008-08-12T09:00:00.002-04:00

It's never easy to lose someone you love. If they go from an ongoing illness, you always think it's going to be less painful, because you knew this day was coming for years. But nothing can prepare you for that day when you finally have to say good-bye to that someone for good...or, depending on your religious beliefs, at least for now.

My grandmother, Doris Jeans Watts Housholder (now that's a mouthful, isn't it?) was born on Dec. 15, 1921 in Knoxville, Tennessee. She was the middle child of three, with an older brother, Tom, who had a tendency to "accidentally" dip her pigtails in inkwells, and a younger brother, Jimmy, who she always felt the need to look after.

When she was but a child, a mere teenager, she met my granddad. He was one of seven children, living with only their mother, as their father passed away years before. My grandfather was--and still is--an extremely brilliant man. He graduated high school at just 15 years old, and while he won't admit it, he could have gone to any Ive League college he wanted (his brother Charlie, who's 91 and lives in Memphis, went to Harvard Med). But he stayed in Knoxville, because he'd met the love of his live, my grandmother. She went out on a date with him, as a favor to his older brother Quinton, and the rest is history.

They got married, and my grandfather left for war for four years. He was in the Battle of the Bulge, one of the bloodiest battles in WWII. It was weeks before my grandmother found out he had lived to tell about it.

It's been something like 70 years since my grandparents met--can you imagine being with the same person every day for nearly three quarters of a century? It's simply unheard of in today's society--and I don't recall ever being around the pair of them without seeing some form of PDA, whether it was a peck on the cheek or a full-blown hand-hold (ew!). It was sickeningly adorable. Even at 86, when her brain was gone and she barely knew her own name, one thing remained unchanging: her blissful love for my granddad. I've never seen two people so in love, and after seven-plus decades at that.

They had two kids, my mom and her older brother Bernie, and moved to the house in Tullahoma in 1955, in which they still resided until early 2006 when they moved in with my parents.

I was born the fourth of five grandkids, but I was the luckiest of the bunch: I grew up just five minutes down the road from my grandparents and spent much of my early years drinking "pudge juice" (the Kool-Aid my granddad named after me, despite that I was anything but chubby) and playing in my grandmother's garden. From the time I could utter coherent sounds, I called her Dede--no one knows why, other than to suspect I was trying to pronounce Doris. Even as I got older, I continued to spend every Saturday night with Dede and Granddaddy, and I speak the truth when I say you couldn't ask for two cooler grandparents.

Even though sometimes I was convinced her many granddogs were even more spoiled than the rest of us! (She always had five or six at any given time.)

I think I get a lot of my wanderlust from the two of them. True, they weren't the most intrepid of jetsetters--they were more cruisers and organized group travelers--but once my granddad retired and my dad took over the CPA firm, they were always hopping a plane to Egypt, Israel, Russia, Greece, and I quickly garnered quite the armoire of (dusty) international souvenirs.

Dede always had a propensity to pinch her grandkids’ “tushes” when we walked past. Cousin Rebecca and I learned this at a young age and were pros at flexing our bum muscles just as she would make a reach for them. This always resulted in a “rock hard!” response from her. She never caught on--or if she did, she never let us know. This trait must run in the family, because my Uncle Tom, her brother, still does it, too.

Much like my friend May's grandmother, who passed away just a couple months before mine, Dede called everyone "shug," short for "sugar." I'll never be able to hear anyone say that without thinking of her. She was incredibly talented with a needle and thread and smocked many of the dresses my sister and I grew up in (and we wonder why I still refuse to wear jeans). There wasn't anything she couldn't fix or alter, there was nothing she wouldn't at least attempt to remedy.

Dede was always so eager to marry me off—as many grandparents are—perhaps because growing up, I was more concerned with school and sports than dating. One time, in recent years, while I was home visiting, she handed me a Tullahoma News clipping.

"What's this?" I inquired curiously.

"It's a singles night at one of the local churches; I thought you could attend!" she exclaimed.

"But Dede, I have a boyfriend," I told her. We had just gone over this.

"You do?” she paused, mystified, despite the fact that we had just gone over this. “Well, it doesn't hurt to keep your options open!" she winked at me. She was constantly surprising us and a comedian in her own way. So far, two grandkids have been checked off the list, three more—myself included!—to go.

I’ve always been an enthusiastic shopper (this you know)—despite that my hobby doesn’t exactly mesh with my writer’s salary—and my mom always swore I got my love for clothes from my grandmother. Even after she moved in with my parents a couple years back, she would never emerge from her bedroom in the morning until she was fully outfitted in a cute ensemble, had her accessories on to match, and made sure her face—her makeup—was on. Another thing along these lines I took from her was an obsession with pink. I don’t think my grandmother owned an outfit that didn’t at least have a hint of her favorite color.

Sometime around 2001, after I had gone off to college, Dede started acting funny. They sent her to various neurologists and couldn't figure out what was up, but she wasn't acting herself. After awhile it was finally discovered that she had advanced dementia. Still, she was smart--even if she had no clue who any of us were, as happened toward the end, she would give you a huge heart-melting smile and a wink and act like she did, that you were the most important person in the world.

One of my favorite recent stories was from Andrew and Kelly's wedding last December, which happened to take place on Dede's birthday. At the reception, they brought her a big birthday cake, and she exclaimed, dumbfounded, "Well, it was just so nice of all these people to come out for my 90th birthday (it was her 86th)! I don't even know most of them!"

She honestly thought the party was completely organized in honor of her.

While we were in Alaska, she suffered the last of many strokes that tore up her poor little body in recent years and left her unable to eat or walk. My poor granddad, her biggest fan, had to make the devastating decision to let the sickness run its course, as there was absolutely nothing that could be done to help her condition. She died on July 17, 2008, peacefully, at my parents' home. I think it was God's way of ending her misery once and for all; she'd been through enough already. That mentality still didn't make it any easier to let her go.

More than 300 people filled the church, despite that her funeral was held on a Tuesday morning during the summer, while many of our family friends were away on vacation. Many of the attendees sported blue- and white-haired do's and were accompanied by a cane or walker; it was rather endearing. Some even outaged my grandparents by a decade. All had tears streaming down their cheeks, for they were her friends far before I was on this planet. But my sister at the sage age of 19 hit the nail on the head: "At least she's somewhere where her mind is completely back now. And it's only selfish of us to want her to stick around in pain just so we feel better." She's right, and we all know this and have reached the point where we can tell her story with joy, not out of sadness.

My favorite part of her obituary was this: "She was a friend to everyone, and a mentor to many--the first to arrive with food for the sick, and the last to leave when someone was in need of a comforting hand." As my mom said in her letter to her mother at the funeral, Dede went as far to take coloring books to the neighborhood children when their beloved dog passed away.

Until I was 7 years old, I honestly thought she was my best friend (that's what I would tell anyone who asked). I never thought it odd that I would much prefer having a 60-something best buddy to a child my own age.

She was the Dede who would climb Rutledge Falls with us well into her 70s; the Dede who would let us, her grandchildren, consume an entire bag of chocolate chip cookies and gallon of ice cream—much to our mothers’ chagrin–if we so much as asked; the Dede who so generously took us on family vacations to Florida or the Bahamas. The Dede who would rather undergo a double root canal than miss a Sunday of church. And while toward the end, she barely knew us, that’s still the Dede we’ll all remember.

Olympic Fever

2008-08-11T02:16:00.004-04:00

I confess I haven't much followed the Olympics over the past few times. Something about changing from every fourth year to every other year seemed to steal a bit of the magic. The last Winter Games took place while SVV and I lived in Denmark, and go figure, the only event you could catch on the tube was curling. TWENTY-FOUR HOURS STRAIGHT OF SHUFFLE BOARD ON ICE. But Kristin, you say, they probably only have 24 hours total of curling the entire Olympics, you must be exaggerating! But oh no, they played that sucka nonstop, over and over again, like a CD track stuck on repeat, because you see, it's the only winter sport in which the Danes actually excel (sorry, Denmark, but 'tis true). And while the Summer Games have always been my favorite, last week I couldn't have even told you where the last ones were held--that's how little I've paid attention in recent years. In fact, the last Olympics I actually strongly recall were the 1996 Atlanta Games, and that's because I grew up in the glorious South, just two hours north of the Georgia capital, and well, it was kind of hard to bypass the chaos.

But I'm trying to get back on board, I really am. I'm a patriotic American, after all, and I do love my country (and um, the brutal honesty that we kind of kick a$$ and take names when it comes to athletic competitions and (almost) more than my love for my country is my love for WINNING). So I turned on the women's basketball and what did I find (besides the USofA clearly rocking the house), but three out of the five Americans on the court were my Tennessee homegirls! My Lady Vol homegirls, to be precise. And if you don't know what a Lady Vol is, well then why are we friends again? (Though it took SVV a good year and a half into our relationship to actually be able to define a Tennessee Volunteeer, so I guess I can forgive you and spare you a bit of a learning curve--but only this one time.) Anyway, right there on our projector screen were Candace Parker, who I had the pleasure of seeing on a daily basis during college (I was on Pat Head Summitt's marketing team for a year, meaning I was at every home game and a lot of practices; and yes the Legend herself is every bit as scary, intimidating and AWESOME as she seems), Kara Lawson and Tamika Catchings making me proud to bleed orange

Then, I was watching swimming, and whaddya know? The silver medalist in the 100m butterfly, Christine Magnuson, also a Lady Vol! I think maybe you get my point that in the South, Tennessee in particular, we don't mess around when it comes to les sports. (Now if only this would spill over into our football team come kick-off day in just three weeks(!).)

But my favorite event of all--and I'm sure you needn't even guess this--is the gymnastics. In fact, as the Opening Cermonies began, I flipped through my DVR schedule for the upcoming two weeks and set every hour to record that promised even a glimpse of the event. I don't care much for the dudes, but man I'm pretty sure I have a girl crush on every one of the tumblers on the women's team (which in retrospect sounds a bit creepy, as the average age hovers somewhere around 16). But how cute are they? And wee? With adorable little ponytails that make me want to chop off my own locks. And abs I can never even dream of looking down and seeing. And way more personalities than any of those drab (albeit talented) Chinese, Romanian or German gymnasts. And every one of them could beat me into the ground with the pinky toe of her 4'11" frame, I have no doubt.

So there's really no point of this post at all, in case you haven't yet reached that conclusion, but I'm curious, have you all caught the Olympic Fever? What/Who are your favorite sports and athletes? Is there any event that I mustn't miss out on?

Step 1

2008-08-08T16:05:00.006-04:00

I have a problem.

No, it's not drugs, I'm not pregnant, my health is in the clear, and I don't gamble. (I've learned that if you cover all the worst case scenarios up front, it delineates the severity of the actual matter at hand.) But I do have a serious addiction that should be addressed: shopping.

Yes, I'm female, so most dudes will think this is pretty standard. I beg to differ. I cannot walk into a store, see something remotely cute and not walk out without owning it. (Which is why it's probably a good thing I don't allow myself to enter spaces where the price tags surpass $200.) It's just who I am. I'm not sure where I get it, because my mom (unless Chico's is involved) and sister aren't plagued with such compulsions. My grandmother, on the other hand, had a wardrobe that could have filled my entire house, so maybe this is all her fault. It probably wouldn't matter much, say, I'd chosen a different career path, I had indispensable income (AKA an infinite trust fund) like some other bloggers, was a skilled thrifter/sewer/vintage shopper like the adorable Jessica Schroeder, or heck, even a friend who was a designer and cut me some sweet deals. Unfortunately, none of the aforementioned apply, and so I must live with my addiction and, thus, dwindling bank account.

I don't say this with pride. I really do envy my many friends who are perfectly capable of walking into a store, seeing something they're crazy about and leaving without it because they "just don't need it." I seem to "need" everything that I find pretty. Well, not true entirely. While many women lust after shoes and purses (SVV will swear I have a huge collection of both; I beg to differ--if you peek into my closet, you'll find compared to the "average" woman, my number of stilettos and handbags is on the very modest side), I tend to be lured over to the dresses. And winter coats. Which would be sensible purchases, sure, if I lived in a normal place with normal seasons. Instead, I live in San Francisco, where it's never quite warm enough to justify a dress (I do it anyway, sacrificially, and freeze my tush off as a result), never quite cold enough to need a heavy coat.

Another facet affected by my shopping addiction has more to do with space than anything. You see, SVV and I live in a WWII house. With all of three meager closets (one of which is the linens closet, another in which SVV's sis Lisa, who commutes from Sac, stores her work clothes...um and my collection of coats, as well). I blame a lot of my problem on a lack of space. If I had ample closet room and not a mere shoebox (which I share* with SVV, I might add), then I could actually see what I had to work with and not always buy something, thinking it was a necessity.

This whole rambling was prompted by a mere stroll down Union Street in the Marina. I was helping my friend Autumn shop for her brother's wedding and we stumbled into Ambiance in the Marina (my new favorite store ever). Given the previous paragraphs, I'm sure you're not the least bit surprised to learn that I walked out with this BCBG number:

As did Autumn. But it's just so freakin' cute and so me, how could I not?! Most of my closet comes from J. Crew, the Limited (when I'm home; they don't have it out here or in NYC), and a tiny, tiny portion from Banana Republic or Anthropologie (when I get a particularly sizable paycheck, it seems). But I adore BCBG and sometimes spring for it when deemed essential. I wore it to dinner with SVV in Half Moon Bay last night and was going to completely try to pass it off as "this ole thing," figuring he wouldn't even notice, considering my entire wardrobe consists of casual-ish dresses, and boys don't pick up on that type of thing, do they? Not more than five seconds after I emerged from the bathroom, he remarked that he hadn't seen that one before. Busted! And I'm a terrible liar, so I confessed. "Good thing you make so much money," he commented. Um, ironically, I should add. I take on about a million assignments more than I can actually handle just to be able to shop, and I still make very average wages (and the way I look at is I don't spend money going out to bars or clubs, I don't have expensive hobbies like dirt bike riding, ahem SVV, that require a lot of equipment, so if shopping's my one big vice, let me have it already!).

Perhaps I would be more on the livin' large side if my publishers would actually pay me. In fact, I'm owed a whopping $25,241 in assignments and expenses from the first half of this year. Reason 943 why being self-employed is frustrating: No one ever seems to want to pay you. (Why is that??? Is it only me who has this problem? Fellow Freelancers, tell me if you're going through this same problem and we can gripe to each other. Why is that a major publication--REAL SIMPLE, I'M LOOKING AT YOU--can manage to get away with not paying you for NINE MONTHS? Seriously, do these editors and payroll people not think I have bills to pay and rent to meet? Ahem, and dresses to buy? Technically, I'm a contracted employee just like anyone who works in their offices. I'd like to see how those in-house would react if they're bi-monthly check turned into bi-annually.)

And since the cat's out of the bag, and SVV already knows about yesterday's recreational activities, I should just 'fess up. Because there was this that I saw the second I walked into the store:

I mean, how could I leave not knowing it would land a good home? That would be fashion homicide, as far as I'm concerned.

I guess the silver lining of all of this is that I only allow myself one credit card with a modest limit, so I can't ever get into too much trouble/debt. But heaven help me and my bank account if I ever do get a lucrative job and up the caliber of stores in which I shop (Marc Jacobs, Alice + Olivia, Christiane Celle, you could all be mine one day!). (And yes, I've read all of the Shopaholic books, and yes, the potential consequences terrify me.) Because while admitting you have a problem is the first step of many, repenting is surely a bit further down the list. And I'm not quite ready to give up my addiction to clothes, not just yet. Call me vain, call me shallow, call me Kristin.

Now someone invite me to a cold weather destination so I can try out my new find!

How about you guys, what's your vice? Does shopping consume your life as much as it does mine? Do you officially think I'm the most vapid human being in the blogosphere?

*Sharing doesn't imply equal proportions, does it?

26.2

2008-08-06T22:55:00.002-04:00

I've never been as nervous in my life as I was last weekend--not any of the several times I had to take the stage in front of thousands of people, not even when I was meeting up with SVV in Hawaii after not seeing each other for seven months, not knowing what the future would hold, or if there even was a future. On Saturday, my stomach was in knots, so much so that I had to make a visit to the little girls' room every 10 minutes or so. On Sunday morning while I was waiting for the elevator, I had to run back into our hotel room and vomit up my dinner from the night before (too much information?). Point is, I was a little on the edgy side.

The day before my first marathon, my mom, sister Kari and I went into the city early day and checked into the Mandarin Oriental. While I only live 15 minutes from downtown on a traffic-less day, I'd learned after the Nashville half marathon, not to risk trying to get into tthe heart of the city when tens of thousands of others are trying to do the same. Not to mention, the race started at the ungodly hour of 5:30am--why? WHY, I ask you? SF is coolest in the summer; it could have begun at 7am and wouldn't have made a bit of difference--and I wanted every last second of sleep possible. While checking in, the woman at the reception desk gave me a funny look and told me she'd be right back. Great, they lost our reservation, I thought, this is just perfect. Au contraire! She returned to tell us that we'd been upgraded to THE Thai Pan suite, which had a kitchen, parlor, living room, bedroom, giant bathroom and 50-foot balcony overlooking the Financial District and the Bay. Could I have better timing (for once)?

I was stoked and immediately laid out my race day outfit to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything. Attire and running shoes, check. Gu and sports beans, check, check. Ear buds and iPod, got it. Body Glide. UH-OH. Possibly the single most important thing for a runner logging more than 10 miles or so is the lifesaving Body Glide, which I rub on my legs, on the underside of my arms, around my sports bra line and all over my feet to prevent chafing and blisters (it works so well I have yet to get one blister in all the miles I've logged this year). It comes in a deodorant-like stick and is just five bucks or so, so I figured I could run out and get some.

Niketown and North Face didn't carry it. They told me I'd have to go to a running specialty store. Well, there are none in downtown SF, not to mention it was very close to 6. I ran to GNC, got there at 5:55pm, and they'd already locked their doors and wouldn't let me in. I started crying. Yes, I am that lame. I get very stressed out if things aren't perfect. I mean, I have to wear my hair the same way every time I run, in a braid; I can't eat anything other than Cheerio's or a granola bar or I'll be sick; I must have some kind of sugar rush after 9 miles or so; I just don't do well with anything upsetting my routine. Not to mention, the one time I neglected to glide myself, I ended up with such bad chafing I was walking like I'd undergone childbirth for an entire week. It wasn't pleasant.

When I phoned him in a panic, SVV, Boyfriend of the Year that he is, calmly offered to take the train into the city and deliver the goods to me that night, but I thought that a little bit silly. So per the suggestion of the lovely North Face employees, I turned to a last resort and called REI, and lo and behold! They had Glide! And didn't close until 7! It was now 6:35, and we didn't have in-and-out privileges with our parking garage, so my mom, a saint in Chico's clothing, hailed us a cab, and he drove us down to REI, waited as I ran in and got the paraphernalia, and drove us back to Belden Place, where we dined on Italian and consumed pasta and TWO desserts to carbo-load for the following morning. (Which turned out not to matter, as my nerves caused me to relinquish my dinner anyway.)

I took an hour-long bath in the suite's Jacuzzi and went to bed at 9:30. Which didn't matter much, as I never really did sleep, and when I finally dozed off I woke up in such a pool of sweat that I had to remove my pjs and take off the sheets. When the wake-up call came at 4:30am, I wasn't happy. I'm not a morning person in the slightest--that's actually my least favorite part of running, the getting up before the sun. The first wave of the SF Marathon starts at 5:30am; my corral time was at 6. But whatevs, at least this way I sleep through the first few miles of the race or so. And it took me until the first quarter mile to realize I'd completely neglected to put on deodorant that morning. Party foul.

The run over the Golden Gate Bridge was slightly overcast but not foggy and relatively windless for San Fran, so Weather Gods, I praise you for this. It was strange, as they only roped off two lanes of traffic, so we were running alongside the cars. I didn't need my sunglasses in the nearly five hours it took to run the race, though ironically I carried them the entire way, dropped them in the last quarter mile and they shattered on the course. Good going, Kristin.

I'm not going to lie, I was quite disappointed in the turn-out of race goers. Granted, it was at a very early hour, but the race was still going on well after 10am. The NYC Marathon is the event of the year in Manhattan, and even Nashville had over 100,000 in crowd support. There were a couple viewer-heavy areas along the route, but more or less it was a straggler here and there and small sporadic groups of people wearing odd costumes, likely still drunk from the night before (only in San Francisco, kids). The best part, however, was the fact that the Hell's Angels came out in full support and spread their leather-and-chain-clad selves throughout the 26.2 miles.,acting as course monitors. They were the best cheerleaders a girl could ask for, and if I ever were to run into them at a biker bar, I'd shower them all with a million passionate kisses.

One thing I would tell any future marathoners that helped me was plastering the front and back of your bib with "First Timer" on it. I did just that and had so many fellow racers cheering me on throughout the day that it was encouraging. So many of them quipped, "You're running SF for your first, gurrrl, are you cuh-razy? This is one of the hardest out there!" I was beginning to get that very feeling.

San Francisco Marathon: Mile 1 from krysleigh on Vimeo.

From about mile five on, it was all uphill (no, really). I definitely went at it harder than I should have, but my friends Autumn and Eileen were running the second half marathon and I had to time it perfectly if I wanted to cross paths with them.

By the time I found them on mile 15, I was huffing and puffing and extremely light-headed. While Eileen raced ahead--she was going for time--Autumn ran alongside me the entire way, even though she was chipper and fresh and spry and could have finished in about half the time. Although I wanted little more than to die on the last 10--yes, TEN--miles, Autumn coached me through it (and regaled me with tales of drunken mishaps and dates gone wrong) and even prompted me to sprint the last half mile, in which I smoked a couple dozen people, holla.

San Francisco Marathon: The Finish Line from krysleigh on Vimeo.

I've had several people e-mail me after the fact asking me my time. But does it really matter? I FINISHED! That's all I need. (Though realistically, I am extremely competitive--even with myself--and I said I'd be happy with anything under five hours, though I was secretly shooting for 4:30. I made it in 4:42. C'est la vie.)

While I've never been so exhausted in my entire life, it was comforting to have my peeps waiting for me at the finish line. My fam and SVV:

Who really must love me if he let me hug him in all my stinky glory.
And Autumn, too, who was the one person responsible for getting me over the finish line. Gotta love good friends like that.
After it was over, I skipped the BBQ and huge soiree and ran, erm I mean WALKED, back to the Mandarin to soak in the tub before we had to check out. As I hobbled out of the Jacuzzi and over to the shower to rinse off, it occurred to me that my braided hair WOULD NOT BUDGE. I called for my mom--what, am I 12?--and she came running and tried to detangle the mess, to no avail. I had to wrap myself in a robe and sit in the middle of the floor as Mom and Kari each worked on a side of my head (um, I have A LOT of hair). Again, no success, and once reception called up to tell us it was time to leave, I had to douse my hair in conditioner, tie it in a ponytail holder and wait until we got home to remedy the situation. A couple hours later, my hair was tangle free with scissors and a large clump of knots sitting at my feet. Next time, perhaps I'll consider an alternative mean to keeping my hair out of my face.

Although the full-body pain is just now starting to subside and my entire house reeks like an IcyHot factory, I'm already contemplating where I'll run my next marathon...running, it's like a drug. I'm thinking...somewhere cool...lacking humidity...nice and flat...maybe Iowa?

FINAL STATS

Place Overall: 2658 out of 4358
Women: 689 out of 1483
F 25-29: 175 out of 369
FINISH: 4:42:30
7.5 Mi: 1:15:23
Half: 2:12:19

San Francisco Marathon: The After Interview from krysleigh on Vimeo.

**Thanks to my three lovely photographers--SVV, mom, sis--for getting up far before the crack of dawn with me and capturing that special, sweaty day. Official race photos still haven't been made available, but once they are, I'll steal screen grabs and post them here.

***And if anyone knows how to get my videos upright, please e-mail me or comment below! I rotated them using both QuickTime Pro and TransformMovie, but when I exported and uploaded on both YouTube and Vimeo, they came out on their sides! GRRRR!

Homecoming

2008-08-04T22:08:00.001-04:00

Dropping everything to fly home for the funeral of a loved one is never easy. But grief and hard times aside, it's often the perfect excuse for a family reunion.

You see, as much as I love my cousins, Rebecca and Andrew (twins) and John, and the twins' spouses John R. and Kelly, due to logistical difficulties, we haven't all been in the same place at once since Rebecca's wedding in 2004 (and that was pre-Kelly days).

Also, distant cousins who we hadn't seen in more than a decade made the trek to Tullahoma to pay their respects to my grandmother, which was just testament to what an amazing person she was and how many lives she touched.

And then there are my grandmother's ever-hilarious brothers, Tom (88) and Jimmy (82), who used to dip her pigtails in the inkwells at the schoolhouse and chop off her luscious curly locks, much to the chagrin of her own mother.

The burial, visitation and service all took place in one day, which was ROUGH and tiring and many tears were shed, many times over. But surrounded by family members galore, we managed to power through it.

And even have some fun when 25 or so of us convened at my house after it was all over. Because there is one thing to be said about Southern hospitality: It never fails in times of need. The casseroles, pies and other baked goods are still coming out of the woodworks, and my parents' palatial pad looks like a florist's shop.

And then there was a chance to meet the Little One.

Who was ADORABLE. Even when her Uncle Andrew tried to cook her in the microwave.

And a much-needed miracle in the face of such sadness. Once the lights went down, the beer tasting (from two true connoisseurs who spent all of the previous week driving from Tennessee to California, stopping only for brewery tours) commenced.

Though my grandmother herself claimed to have never drank--she was a Southern lady, people, lest you forget--I did find this classic photo in the files. Wine Country, circa 1980.

And even my grandfather had a smile on his face for much of the evening. Because that's how she would have wanted it. All of her family gathered together again in one place, laughing about the old times. But boy, do we all sure miss her.

But a Mere Toddler

2008-08-01T00:00:00.002-04:00

Camels & Chocolate turns one year old today!!! I was all geared up for some philosophical post about the loads of good juju the blogosphere has brought me, all the fabulous friends I've made (even ones I've yet to actually meet in "real life"), how it's given me a venue on which to channel my snark, and so on and so forth. But I'm simply too tired, sorry! Maybe for the second birthday. Instead, you only get this:

Camels & Chocolate turns 1!!! from krysleigh on Vimeo.

We even had pizza and beer and ice cream to commemorate the occasion (umm, not really; I kind of totally forgot tomorrow was a year since the conception until the pizza and beer and ice cream were already consumed and well on their way to padding our bellies). Anyway, happy blogoversary, me!

We Didn't Start the Fire

2008-07-30T23:07:00.004-04:00

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

2008-07-29T01:36:00.011-04:00

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

2008-07-27T12:05:00.008-04:00

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

2008-07-25T14:17:00.001-04:00

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

2008-07-24T07:05:00.002-04:00

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

2008-07-22T01:29:00.013-04:00

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

2008-07-17T06:55:00.006-04:00

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

2008-07-15T15:25:00.001-04:00

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

2008-07-14T01:55:00.001-04:00

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

2008-07-11T06:31:00.002-04:00

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?