Bright Lights, Big City

I'm officially back in the old hood. Literally. Like only two blocks over. Except this time, only for less than two weeks. I drove here, just like normal, but I took the long way; stopping for two hours at Eddie Bauer (a $130 gift card was forced on me); doing circles around the Concord Mills Mall while eating my Chic-Fil-A chicken nuggets because I swear someone switched the I-85 arrows around just for kicks; spending a rather irate hour at a service station alternately cursing at/hitting/ripping off my interior dome light as regardless of how much WD-40 I sprayed into the door latches, it STILL would not turn off; almost being sideswiped by a semi doing 60 on I-95 just outside of Richmond (it took an entire day for my heartbeat to slow down to something resembling normal); and noticing upon my slow, rather bumpy arrival that the District has accomplished exactly nothing in the two months I've been gone to further the installation of the H Street trolley. Dixon almost reached a wheel around and slapped me for subjecting him once again to the horrors of H Street pavement. I'm sorry baby!! But I did thoroughly Rain-X all of your glass surfaces to a pearlescent, road trip ready, rain-resistant sheen! That has to count for something!

I'm at 'my' coffeehouse again, drinking tea, putting off being productive just like old times. It's like entering these city limits sucks every industrious tendency right out of me. Wait a minute... maybe I don't have any industrious tendencies to begin with. I foresee this being a problem. Shoot!

***THIS BLOG IS BEING TEMPORARILY INTERRUPTED DUE TO SELF-IMPOSED DEMANDS FOR FECUNDITY*** (and before you pull out your Impressed hats, I totally thesaurussed that word)

Bubble Gum Tutus

Does the recent royal engagement have any other 28-yr old girl wishing she were a princess? It's getting a bit ridiculous. I'd never even heard the name Kate Middleton until about a week ago, and in Germany no less, and now she's popping up everywhere, and I find myself running to the TV room the minute I hear her name. Although by all indications (we were born the same year, he's royalty, he's handsome, etc. etc.) I should have had posters of Prince William plastered all over my bedroom walls as a teenager, but I didn't. I'd occasionally read a story standing in line at the grocery store, but wasn't nearly as fascinated as half the world. I mourned the loss of his mother just like the rest of the planet, but more because I, too, was fifteen when it happened and couldn't imagine what he must have been feeling every time I saw his somber face grace another broadcast about Diana's death. The past decade, my finger has been as far off the pulse of British royalty as it could get, but now he's engaged, and I want to BE this girl. Not necessarily because she's marrying Prince William, I'm sure he's great, but she's gonna be a freakin' princess!! What does that feel like when one goes to sleep at night? It's every six year old girl's dream. It's why the girls' section of toy departments looks like a bubble gum colored tutu exploded and rained down tiara shrapnel.

In our late 20's, though, this dream takes on a much classier, elegant air and the tutus and tiaras are replaced with sleek designer dresses and Glamour and shiny expanses of floors just begging to be danced upon. This girl is taking up half a page of the Style section in the Charlotte paper and I am positively green with envy. I wanna be a princess! No fair! (cue protruding lower lip and foot stomp)

Lufthansa, where have you been all my life?

Let me just say, for the record, that I LOVE Lufthansa airlines. One, they give you booze for free. Not that I'm a huge boozer myself, but when the drink cart comes round and they're offering me red or white wine, champagne or beer at no extra charge, I am happy to oblige. After dinner, the stewardess even waived a bottle of Bailey's around to gauge interest. It's like the bottle was glowing and angelic voices were singing "Ahhhh!" I do love that stuff. If you're ever offering it for free, Yes ma'am, sign me up.

Two, they have Tillamook cheese slices with every meal. I enjoyed two delicious pieces, one with my glass of red, the other after a sleepless night sitting almost straight up one seat over from the funniest, most critical 80-yr old Czechoslovakian woman I've ever met. Her fingers were like sausages as they indignantly flipped magazine pages, she muttering her displeasure about the man in front of her practically sleeping in her lap the entire flight. And the whole plane heard about it.

Three, they brought around water and juice at least once an hour, regardless of the comatose state of the plane. Thank you sincerely, Lufthansa! I'm so glad to see that you're concerned about my possible dehydration. It's those small little touches that make all the difference. Airlines in America, please take note.

Please Record your Extended Absence Greeting

My apologies to my readers for my somewhat, but not really, lengthy absence. I simply cannot be bothered while in Europe. A huh huh huh (haughty laugh, hair flip).  That and the fact that I'm using a German keyboard which means the 'z' and the 'y' are switched so every several words I have to backspace because I have once again tzped something that makes no sense. However, for the faithful, I will copy a few back entries from my travel journal. Enjoz.

MINUTES THE FIRST
Still the coolest thing ever. Looking out the window of a ginormous aircraft as we ride the air pressure off the ground and the horizon line goes all wonky. It's almost a feeling of weightlessness, like if I took off my seatbelt, I'd go floating through the cabin; yet in the next minute, gravity pulls my lower back heavily into the seat. It's no wonder people need barf bags. I think my stomach just rolled back to the bathrooms.

The golden Lufthansa bird-like stick figure peeks off of everything, and the first language of every announcement is German. Not a problem, as I speak it, but what begins to frustrate me is not that my skills have gotten so rusty, but that they speak so damn softly! "I can't hear you!" I want to scream. I understand just fine, I just need an ear cone to pick up all of your super soft syllables. Why do people who don't speak English insist on whispering? Maybe that's why Americans sound like we're using bullhorns in comparison. Ahhh, that's it! Mystery solved. We're not the loudest people on the planet! Everyone else just speaks in secrets.