Is he cute? Ask him if he wants to stay.

I have lost my Vegas virginity. I think it's somewhere on the pool floor of the Venetian.

So, all the movies that talk about Vegas and what happens in Vegas? All those movies are accurate. Well, excepting the whole acid trip thing from Fear & Loathing. Skipped that one...this time around. Honestly, its enough of an acid trip without chemical stimulation (not like I know what acid is like, please take note potential employers). Seriously, I had red hair. Like RED hair.


I've always wanted to be Rainbow Bright...

Your ego's writing checks your body can't cash

Twitter. Tweet. The Twizzle. Twitphilia. Twat. Twitching. Tweeple. Twitaphobia.

I now have a "handle" on Twitter. Ugh. I am more than sorta angry about it. But I was forced (no, seriously, forced) to sign up by Mr. Roadmonkey. Literally, dude went onto the site, made up some dumb name for me (Roadmonkey Girl? Do I look like the kind of chick that wants "girl" or "ette" on the end of anything? Do I dot my 'i's with small hearts? Hey, while your at it, buy me some pink stationery with "Steffie" at the top and put a bow in my hair....maybe will make it easier for you to hold when I puke on your shoes).

So, I've quickly become interested in the mass hysteria around "Twitter ruining civilization" and being only for megalomaniacs (since I, of course, as a self-deprecating blogger can not yet be counted as an egoist). Do I believe I am witty? Of course. Do I think I'm interesting? No. Should anyone other that the 6.3 people who read my blog have to be exposed to my inane ramblings, propensity for politically incorrect comments and toilet humor? Of course not. (AND I can't even do any of those things in Tweets because I represent a "brand" of "educated travellers" who "want to make a difference." Apparently, people who want to make a difference aren't allowed to make fart jokes.)

Which leads me to the question of the hour:
What the hell am I going to Tweet about?

Topics I've considered are as follows -- please email/FB/tweet/blog comment/text/call/fax/mail/sign language/write in snow any and all suggested additions:

- Wanting to hire a cleaning lady for my apartment that's the size of a small yurt

- Liking the word "yurt" and all stories associated with "yurts"

- Being slower than people pushing baby carriages while running

- Liking marshmallows....a lot

- My personal recipe for disaster: Agua de Valencia

- Is it quicker to Chicago or by bus?

- Food I missed the most while backpacking: Sushi

- Food I missed the most while living in Europe: Sushi

- The glory of the Stroopwaffel

- How much I hate Rachel Ray, for no reason

- The non-altruistic reasons I want to go to Brazil

- Singing in the shower

- Paper vs. plastic

- Appreciation for mandatory recycling

- How to get rid of fruit flies

I'm sorry son, but you must have me confused with someone else. My name is Roger Murdock. I'm the co-pilot.

My weekend trips to "paradise" are cursed by evil airlines. First Ibiza and now the Bahamas. I can't believe I'm going to say this, but thanks to Blackberry, this trip home wasn't quite as bad as Ibiza (read: I could alert my various superiors without innumerable freak outs, searches for numbers, etc. It also helps that I am no longer a corporate bottom feeder -- I'm now an upper bottom feeder. That sounds gross...). Thank you Mr. Man in a Purple Shirt for letting me hijack your BB charger for 30 minutes while saving my spot in line. I owe you one and yes, the Wire is the best show on television in recent history.

(Ibiza was also way crappier due to 1) a hangover of unreal proportions, 2) lack of food/book options in the airport, 3) the only people to commiserate with were Germans, 4) I was in the process of getting dumped, trans-Atlantic style, 5) we didn't actually get out of the airport until 3am and 6) the hotel we were staying in REFUSED TO LET ME USE THEIR BUSINESS CENTER because they are Spaniards and it wasn't open -- when sh*t is closed in Europe, sh*t is CLOSED.)

So, I got caught in Miami and then had to stay in some skeezball airport hotel with, oh, probably 80% of the little league baseball players in all of Venezuela. Missing a day of work and having to go to Newark aside, I'm now running-shoe-less and phone-less because my charger was in my suitcase, as (obviously) were my kicks. The bitch of it is, the guy with my suitcase can't get a hold of me now that my phone is dead (off to give $30 more dollars to Verizon, those soul suckers).

I understand that there were thunderstorms of biblical proportions in New York so it's not really American Airline's fault...but let's just say they could use a little customer relations training. Announcements went something like this:
- Everyone, unfortunately the plane to LaGuardia has been cancelled due to weather. Please see the re-booking agent at Gate D36.
(we all rush, like a herd of elephants to D36. Then, 15 minutes later while in line...)
- Flight 1226 to LaGuardia may be reinstated. Please stand by. (no one moves from the line)
- Again, Flight 1226 may be reinstated. We ask that anyone on this flight return to the lobby (no one moves from the line. Hello! You said "may be". We are not going anywhere)
- Flight 1226 has been reinstated. However due to the curfew in LaGuardia, the flight will be landing in JFK (stampede back to the gate. Also, this was new news to me -- I though DCA was the only place with a curfew because of spoiled congressmen who like to go to bed without, gasp!, the proletariat noise of planes)
- People on flight 1226 -- the flight may be cancelled again as we do not have a flight crew. Please remain at the gate and we will have an update within the hour.
(10 minutes later)
- Unfortunately, flight 1226 is cancelled as we do not have a pilot. Please report to the re-booking agent at gate D-36 (the herd moves again...)

Congrats to Greg and Leigh -- beautiful wedding for beautiful people.

I'm going to give you the choice I never had.

I have put this off as long as I can, but it's time to talk about vampires. I friggin love the new obsession with vampire books, vampire movies, vampire shows, vampires, vampires, vampires.


It all started because the Philadelphia airport has a crappy bookstore. On a layover to L.A., I was browsing the "best sellers" rack, looking for some "literature" and came across Stephanie Meyer's Twilight. Judging the book by it's cover (clean, black, tasteful -- note that I tend to judge shampoo bottles in the same fashion, hence I will never buy Herbal Essences, sorry ATD), I purchased it and by the time I landed in L.A. was so crazed over the thing that I couldn't actually have a real conversation with my friend who came to pick me up.

And then I sorta forgot about the book until the movie came out and I learned (gasp) that there are three other titles in the series. Oh snap. I even brought a hardcover copy of the fourth one with me to Tanzania (though I didn't carry it, or, uh, have a porter carry it, up the mountain). In short, this stuff is literary crack. Why/How, you ask? A friend (who refuses to read them) put it best: The books are about a girl who falls in love with the dark, brooding, bad boy who actually likes her back and will do anything in his immense power to save her, make her happy, etc. It's every teenage girl's fantasy (see episodes of My So Called Life for full explanation of this concept).

Anyway, I've been impressed at Meyer's ability to promote waiting until marriage and semi-Mormon values while still writing teenage romance thrillers. I feel about her the way I feel about Ayn Rand -- I don't agree with her ideals, but I like her books, even though her books not-so-secretly promote her ideals. I can't believe I just equated The Fountainhead to Twilight. Please don't tell anyone.

Meanwhile, I started reading additional vampire literature. And I will call these books literature because they were recommended by my brother (brother = english teacher, english teacher = snobby taste in books, snobby taste in books = legitimate reads, therefore anything my brother recommends is legit; including graphic novels and wacked out Russian fantasy stories). This series -- called The Nightwatch -- is also a four-parter, written (originally) in Russian by Sergei Lukyanenko. Lower on the romance side of things and higher on the magical fighting and vodka sides. A real winner.

I haven't gotten on True Blood train (yet -- on the Netflix list...as are The Nightwatch movies, which apparently use "special effects" in how they put up subtitles. Confession: I just signed up for Netflix this month and the first movie I put in my queue was Twilight). But have a feeling I'll like the series, no matter how annoying they've managed to make Anna Paquin's character. I also have been encouraged to dive into Anne Rice (another female writer...hmmm...). I wonder if women are more naturally inclined to be obsessed with vampires (see reasoning on dark brooding men above). Except Lestat is such a ponce in the movie version of Interview with a Vampire (but that could just be Tom Cruise's fault).

You're wearing the shirt of the band you're going to see? Don't be that guy.

First of all, some confirmation that golf is stupid and shouldn't qualify as a sport.

Second of all:

Third of all, I bought a sweatshirt that says "BQE" on it. I'm now that girl. I mean, I have an Amsterdam t-shirt too, but I don't live there any more (though I have already been called out for that one, even though was for Queen's Day, so I maintain it doesn't count).

Fourthly (can you said "fourth of all"? hmmmm), I like sake.

Fifthly, let's talk about the fact that it is already July. What the.... Time hasn't flown like this since college. Not sure if that's a good or bad thing. I blame the weddings, which are a big step up from keggers, but give a nice structure to my travel/party schedule. Happy pre-bdays to the Governor and Mrs. P.

Michael Jackson didn't come over to my house to use the bathroom. He was about to. But his sister did.

13 meals of Indian curry, 30 potatoes, 7 pineapples, 16 mini bananas, 30 hours of flying, 2 ambien, 6 movies, a broken toe, 2 kankles, 21 desks, one jellyfish sting, 19,340 feet of altitude and zero pain from a stress fracture later, I am officially back from Africa. Photos to come.


What is it with me going into the woods and American musical icons kicking the bucket? One of the last times I was in Canadian wilderness I returned to the news the Jerry Garcia had died. The biggest question on my mind is not who's talking to the man in the mirror but who owns all the Beatles music...

You stay alive, no matter what occurs! I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you.

Dear Blog,

I am sorry for ignoring you the past few weeks. And now I am going on holiday and will continue to slight you. In fact, I'm having an affair with another blog -- http://roadmonkey.net/blog/.

Follow me there and when I return, I promise to give you some TLC.

Love,
Stef