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wednesday, august 30 I've been neglectful in welcoming Judith to the neighbourhood. Welcome Judith! I'm almost absolutely, positively sure that I can see her wonderful abode from my front step. If we can convince Caterina (if she's not too annoyed) to join us and then a fourth moves to upper Castro/Twin Peaks, well then we'll be all set for Mah Jongg (I'll need to learn how to play). Mah Jongg seems a little more au courant than bridge. My mother was a big bridge player. Every few weeks, she'd get together with her girlfriends for a game. I loved the evenings when they would play at our house. I would wander out in the wee hours, fuzzy and sleep rumpled, to find the four women elegantly coifed and dressed, with cocktail and cigarette in hand, having a good giggle. My mother seemed so happy then. One of the women was May - a stunning woman, the epitome of divine elegance. She told me once about the first time, as a teenager, when she'd had a little too much to drink. She knew that she was going to be sick and didn't want to mess up the area so she pulled open a mailbox and vomited into it. Mailboxes were different then and the design has since been changed, most likely for this very reason. I can't help but think of her story whenever I pass a mailbox. I wish I could have been as neat and tidy with my own first drunken adventure. I stepped down from a bus and projectile vomited down the side of a glass bus shelter. Nasty huh? Oh, it gets better. Directly on the other side of the glass was Terry Barns, the boy with whom I was madly in love with. I never had a chance - even without the stunning visual special effects. [pause] So, if people from Ontario (I want to say Ontarions but that sounds just plain silly) call a rolling stop a "Quebec stop," why is it that people from California call a rolling stop a "California stop?" Why waste a perfectly good opportunity to malign your neighbour? It could be an "Oregon stop" or a "Nevada stop," then again a "Nevada stop" is most likely a wedding. Canadians tell Newfie jokes and the English piss on the Irish. We've (that's an inclusive we - you're in there too) a rich history of making our neighbour the butt of a "good" joke so why, oh, why is a rolling stop in California a "California stop?" This piece of information was passed on after my driver's test Monday. I passed with only four teensy, weensy errors. One of those errors was a fabulous rolling stop at one of those four way stops that plague San Francisco. Doh! I knew the minute that I'd somewhat stopped, that I'd been a booby. It wasn't enough to torpedo my driving career and in two to three weeks I'll receive another piece of identification with a dubious photograph. [pause] Do you have aspirations of authorship? Do you have questions that need answering? Well, you're in luck as you can Ask a former professional literary agent. John Hodgman to the rescue! Speech Therapy has begun a series of interviews. Here's mine. The day before yesterday? First impressions. Stillness, the cicada's cry drills into the rocks. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku  monday, august 28 This is definitely going to be the week that I develop Tourette's Syndrome. I have no doubt. It will begin shortly before my driver's test this afternoon, and proceed full blown by Thursday afternoon, just in time to meet a certain someone's family. Really, I have no doubt. Tourette's or possession by the devil. "There is no Heather, only Satan!" What a way to make a good first impression. That and perhaps a gallon of split pea soup would really liven up the proceedings, don't you think? This weeks maxim: "You only have one chance to make a first impression" Utterly trite, but strangely true. Things can go from bad to worse though, enriching the entire experience so that it will be forever imprinted on the brain. Like my first impression of moving to America. We'd just crossed the border (which in itself was an experience) and stopped at a mall. Now, if you're from Lockport New York, close your eyes. Everyone in the mall was clothed in some sort of nasty, unnatural stretch polyester fabric in the most unflattering colours. "My god," I thought. "What have we done? Who are these Americans? Is television just a lie? Where are all the beautiful people?" The Baywatch babes? The men with their handsome Magnum PI mustaches? The thin, the tanned and the lovely? You Americans, bombarding us with your movies and television... Selling the dream of life in America. You bunch of polyester sporting liars! Oh, don't go and get your panties in a bunch. If I believed that, well, I would have turned and high tailed it back to the land of people who say "out" (oot) funny. It turns out I was just overtired. However, I would recommend avoiding Lockport New York though, for they seem to have an unnatural love affair with man-made fabrics. [pause] 
It's been a very fine week for updates at FOJM. Come see the likes of
RageBoyTM,
Sarah Jane,
Kylie,
Claire,
Rebecca,
Jesse,
Jessamyn,
Crazy Uncle Joe,
Jon,
Davezilla,
Carl & webchick, and
Sara. "i wanted to meet her before the big trip o/s. when i pulled out the camera in a mirrored cafe, she knew exactly what was going on!" Kylie & Claire "After a week of foie gras, we learn to scowl in fluent French." Carl & webchick The day before the day before yesterday? KFC cutie. What would Brian Boitano do? Winter garden, the moon thinned to a thread, insects singing. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku friday, august 25 Calendar girl. Would it surprise you to know that I was once Miss March in a Kentucky Fried Chicken calendar? Yup. Moi! I haven't thought about it in a long time. Claire has sent a wonderfully sentimental Ottawa post card. Typical stuff. The Peace Tower in the background with the Changing of the Guard marching down from Parliament Hill. She's circled a wee bit of print in the bottom right hand corner - "Photo: Malak." Ah, Malak. My father had taken my sister and I to a sugar bush in the Gatineau Hills. I highly recommend visiting a sugar bush if you are ever in the north east in spring time when the sap runs. It's all about Maple Sugar, baby. The best is the taffy. Hot, thickened syrup is poured over fresh snow. You're given an oversized wooden tongue depressor with which you roll around in the hardened goop. Very sweet and guaranteed to piss off your dentist in a major way. Anyway, my sister and I were waddling around in our snow suits. If you ever worn a snow suit, you won't forget that "shushing" sound of your legs rubbing together. For many years Claire and I wore identical clothing or the same clothes but in different colour combinations. This was my mothers doing. Therapy has resolved many of my issues about this but that's another story. Claire's was blue with yellow quilted insets and mine, well, mine was what can only be described as shit brown. Shit brown and piss yellow. My father was approached by a man with a camera and asked if he could photograph my sister and I feeding taffy to one another. He purchased tins and tins of the stuff and we headed into the bush to a scenic location with fresh snow, bare trees and the sugar bush puffing smoke quaintly in the background. I can't remember how long we sat in the snow but I had one hell of a stomach ache when it was over. My father returned my sister and I to my mother... Two kids hopped up on more sugar than one child should ever have. To say that she was rather annoyed doesn't even come close. Malak sent a number of prints and they were framed and sent to all and sundry. Quite a few years later the image must have been sold to KFC as it turned up in their annual freebie calendar. Oh, it also turned up much later on an Air Canada time table. I remember standing at a ticket counter and spying the image out of my eye. Two children in the snow.... Me immortalized in shit brown and piss yellow. A word of warning. If I find a mirror shot on your site, I will harass you to submit it in FOJM. I just wanted to be clear on that. Nothing personal. Anyway, shame you for not thinking of me. Yesterday? The answer to everything. Eric is famous in Canada! See, we Canadians have finer tastes (don't even think of bringing up that damn Blame Canada business - you know you love us. Hell, some of you would be lost without us. I won't name any names, but you know who you are). Lime blossoms! let's talk about the old days making dinner in the kitchen. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku thursday, august 24 This space left intentionally blank for some provoking commentary which currently escapes me. Wasn't that brilliant? I'm so glad to get that off my chest! [pause] Do you know that moment when you think that one of your friends has done gone and lost it? Well, that moment came around this time last year when Eric sent an email regarding the full sized R2D2 he'd built out of Lego. "How interesting" I wrote, "he's cracked," I thought. After R2D2 came Alice and following that more wondrous and marvelous objects. It continues. Earlier this summer, Eric sent word of a commission - a desk for someone who was in a position to ask for the moon, and did. And he built it. The day before yesterday? Bio hazard. Happy birthday Blogger! Damn! How could I have missed the Flip Flop Trunk Show? The thong page alone could put me into bankruptcy. And let us not forget the jewelry - who wants to spring for the $585 toe ring I have my eye on? It's always rather strange to get of an URL from you sister, but Claire passed on 405 which I had been completely oblivious of. If Architects Had to Work Like Web Programmers [via Zeldman] Not yet become a Buddha, this ancient pine tree, dreaming. - Kobayashi Issa, The Essential Haiku tuesday, august 22 Writing a brief bio is a nerve racking experience. How does one write with brilliant succinctness so as to convey all the aspects of one's fascinating, multi-faceted, complex personality and not sound like the byproduct of a pulp and paper mill? "Heather is a sweet, but simple girl. She plays well with others and would be happiest in a home with other dogs."Sounds a little to "omega" doesn't it? Yes, I will roll over and pee on myself to avoid confrontation, but that's not something that one really wants to share with the rest of the world. I came up with the following for work: "As Creative Director, Heather relies heavily on her National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Programmers to understand her co-workers. At night, she wistfully dreams of <font size=1> and a world where cross-browser, cross-platform issues are mere whispers across time from our ancestors."It's one of the tamer entries. I once ended a contributor blurb for Microsoft Interactive Developer with the following: "Away from the web, Heather finds herself at the beck and call of her new five-pound Chihuahua, Tigger."Yes, they thought I was insane. I forgot about that "Microsoft + sense of humour = false" thing. I'll just breath deeply and let the force course through me. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. "In her spare time, Heather makes all her own clothes, jams, jellies and marmalade. Her secret recipe for "Marinara a la Heather" is a family favourite and will be bottled later this year by a well-known national food containment mega-conglomerate. She recently completed the Hawaiian Ironman, coming in 26,532 - a personal best. Heather wants to be a fireman when she grows up."Damn! That sucks. It's just not working. I guess I'll need to give it more thought. If you'd like to help, well, drop me a line. Strange packages in the mail. A couple of months ago, while cavorting in a moment of food pornography, I managed to organize a massive airdrop of Caramellos to San Francisco. James was one of the kind folk, and in exchange, I raided the Sanrio store which lead to his Strange packages in the mail. Jeffrey does it again. "Not enough designers are working in that vast middle ground between eye candy and hardcore usability where most of the Web must be built." Zeldman's latest, "Style vs. Design," is a must read. Yesterday? True confessions. "My colleague just farted, and left the room, the bastard" [via Kottke] A urine-stained quilt drying on the line- Suma village. - Yosa Buson, The Essential Haiku monday, august 21 A confession. I've developed a horrible habit. It's evil, nasty and just another reason why I'm going straight to hell one of these days. I don't know how it started. I don't know when it started. It just sort of crept its way into my vocabulary of filthy tricks. Doesn't it sound dire? You're most likely thinking that I secretly tipple all day long at the computer spending inordinate amounts of money, shopping online, or maybe that I urinate in washing machines a the local laundromat while people valiantly struggle to remove the grime of their daily lives, or maybe that I shoplift then return dirty panties? No, my horrible habit is far nastier. I poke yawns. Yawn poking? I bet you are scratching your head with wonder.... "Yawn poking?" I know, I know. It doesn't sound all that bad, but have you ever had a yawn poked? Huh? Didn't think so. A poked yawn is a ruined yawn. It is a yawn that will never fully be the yawn that was meant to be. It's not even a half yawn. It is a deflated yawn. There is no joy, no sense of accomplishment. Only failure and despair. Course, I'm talking about the pokee as opposed to the poker. For the poker, well, the experience is decidedly different. Poking yawns is addictively delicious. Just wait... sidle up and then wham, with a fleeting finger, poke the yawn. "Don't you dare...." came from Claire as some devilish gleam appeared in my eye. I watched the tiny rose mouth of my newly born nephew stretch outward, an involuntary reaction to the fatigue of his long, difficult journey. This was the bridge too far. And I chose not to cross it. The day before yesterday? A chance encounter. Derek recounts an Italian tale. Screenshots [via peterme] Wrapping the rice cakes, with one hand she fingers back her hair. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku saturday, august 19 Small world take seventy-five. I was walking down eighteenth street this morning to It's Delectable. They have scrumptious croissant that are so divine and I was in a piggy mood. I was walking behind a couple and it dawned on me that they were speaking French. I thought that the man looked familiar but I know so few people who might be up that that hour walking down eighteenth street who would be speaking anything other than English, that I didn't think much of it. As I drew abreast of them I looked over and realized that it was Guy. Guy was my favourite step aerobics instructor at the YMCA in Montreal where I embarrassed myself daily. I pointed and very clumsily said "you were my aerobics instructor in Montreal!" He smiled and we all began to laugh. He's in town for just a few days, staying with friends just up the hill. Course, I don't think that he'll forget me for awhile. I'd never been good at step aerobics in my native language let alone French. I was always heading left when the group was heading right. I have enough difficulty with left and right so it figures that I would be as equally lame with "gauche" and "droite." How fleeting was the chance of running into him? I wonder at the universe some times.
FOJM Updated:
Michael,
Elisabeth,
Teri,
Melanie,
Lindsay,
Rachel,
Ryan,
Herb, and Cyn. It's quite an eclectic mix:"m protested at lugging the full length mirror around, but i said, 'we have to do it for heather!' people gawked, but the interesting results were worth it." Cyn "The bathroom at the pet cemetary where I worked was a stark, flourescent-lit white. This mirror was out of place." Ryan And the next chapter in the cult of the digerati loo: "don's 4th of july party doubled as a housewarming and while giving us a tour of casa-de-bastard, someone said, 'lets take a picture and send it to heather!', the rest is history." Micheal Yesterday? Hairdo hell. Does anyone want to join me for California Coastal Cleanup Day on September 16th in San Francisco? The beaches give me so much pleasure, I'd like to give something back. Alzheimers Jezebel! from the Treasury of Geriatric Erotica - "She mates - and she forgets." Nicole sent me that link. I love you Nicole. And finally, I'm seduced by this ugly sweater, or is it just as fabulous as I think it is? You tell me. A solitary teahouse- the willow beside it has grown old! - Yosa Buson, The Essential Haiku friday, august 18 Unless you shave your head (like some people) hair can be an ongoing adventure. Length, shape, colour, texture - they're all opportunities for the good, the bad and the downright ugly. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty particular about the person to whom I'm entrusting the fifty thousand or so bits of refuse that continue to force their way out of my scalp. Granted, I'm pretty pissed with over half of them at the moment. They've decided to take after my father's side of the family. That's the side that goes prematurely gray. If I leave it too long, my center parted locks have a certain skunkish attitude. I've left it too late and now I'll have to wait another week until Tina can transform me back into the stunning brunette I aspire to be. Only my hair dresser knows for sure. Well, I guess you do as well, but you'll keep my secret won't you? I'm just getting to know Tina. She's quite amazing. She's the lead singer in an all girl punk band. Before Tina there was Jo. I first met Jo when I wandered into her salon after a self imposed bang cut. Cutting your own bangs should be illegal. No good will ever come of cutting your own bangs. You'll look stupid and you'll give yourself a headache by trying to angle your head to level your bangs with the horizon. Anyway, Jo was fabulous. She had close to fifty body piercings, of which I could count only twenty-something. The other twenty something must have been pretty interesting. Jo embraced life fully and I always felt so much better about myself afterwards. Jo had magic. Before Jo there was Aurora. Once, and once was enough. Aurora specialized in hair "painting." He spent forty five minutes slapping various amounts and types of toxic sludge onto my long hair. It was all fabulous until a few washes later. A giant bleach spot appeared on the back right side of my head. Someone asked if I had been struck by lightening. Before Aurora there was Jerry. Jerry cut my hair when I was at University in Guelph. Guelph is a small town to the north west of Toronto. It was rumoured that Jerry had been a star in some chi-chi Yorkville salon in Toronto. Apparently it had all been too much for him one day when he spied a beautiful man walking down the street on the arm of an equally beautiful woman. Jerry ran from the salon and screamed down the street "ditch the bitch and switch." Ciao bambino! Forty Italian mirror shots for your perusal. I'm sorry to say that there aren't any that might satisfy our friend Uncle Joe.... Well, there are but you can't see them. Oh, don't get all pouty. You'll have to wait for the coffee table book. Every coffee table book has to have a little nudity. It sells. Paul introduces "biosolids" into my vocabulary. Oh, and I forgot Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop. And caca... You've got to have caca. Have I missed anything else? The day before yesterday? Shit happens. I'm a sucker for any personality test. "Introspective Sensitive Reflective." Was there ever any doubt? [via Firda] A gust of wind whitens the water birds. - Yosa Buson, The Essential Haiku wednesday, august 16 A couple of weeks ago as I wended my way to the gym down Cole, I read a telephone pole notice of a very different ilk. It wasn't about a lost cat or dog. It wasn't about an estate sale, an advertisement for the job that will earn me more easy income than I could ever imagine or even some magical weight loss genie. I can't remember the exact wording, but the author was concerned about the mental stability of a fellow resident. Apparently, someone has been spreading "feces" on car door handles along Cole Street. The author, quite rightly, was rather disturbed with this unusual behaviour. It was a warning to car owners to not only look before you unlatch, but it also conveyed a "watch your back" attitude. I've only seen the one sign. It was gone shortly after that, never to reappear. So what's happened? I don't know. I wish I did. It has all the makings of a fine neighbourhood drama. It also got me to thinking about how much I hate the word "feces." Fee-cees. Ick! Shit is shit isn't it? You can dress it up in fancy and or simple words - excrement, ordure, dung, crap, sewage, sewerage, muck, coprolite, guano, manure, compost - but it's still poo (the word of my childhood - it goes with "poof" but that's another story). This comes to mind cause I'm feeling downright poopy today. A little exhausted and weary. I have absolutely no trouble falling asleep, I just can't stay asleep. I can feel my old friend insomnia gathering me into her prickly embrace. Anyway, enough of this shit. [pause] Ah, Bardi! I've put the first of my Italian photographs online. First up, a selection from the Bardi Web Awards. I kept today's "celestial advice" in mind while writing the comments: "Edit your rhetoric for offensive content. You enjoy a verbal jousting, but don't let it get too personal. You'll be in a hurry to surmount the midweek hump, but it pays to remember that a disaster can happen in a careless flash. Travel defensively and use caution in every endeavor. Good cheer will help you glimmer as you socialize."Works just as well for opening car door handles, doesn't it? Yesterday? Temper tantric. I know exactly how this guy feels. And more Canadian humour. That snail- one long horn, one short, what's on his mind? - Yosa Buson, The Essential Haiku tuesday, august 15 They (whomever they are) say that coming back from Europe is far easier, jet lag wise, than going. But you know what? I think that's utter crap. Then again, maybe it's just me. I'll confess something, I don't travel well. And in some instances, "well" doesn't even come close to describing my behaviour. This trip's highlight centered around the Air France ticket agent removing the I-94 visa from my passport in San Francisco. San Francisco! I hadn't even got off the ground yet. It used to be that my sweet little TN visa was stamped with a giant, red, block lettered "MULTIPLE ENTRY." The one little slip was good for all three hundred and sixty five days until expiration. The vivid stamp gave ticket counter agents pause, though there was a little fiasco with that Air Jamaica ticket agent in Newark one year, but we don't have to go into that. It was years ago and I think that her nightmares may have stopped by now. Anyway, so after we get our boarding cards, I flip open my passport at the ticket counter to discover, much to my horror, that my beloved I-94 has gone AWOL. This provokes a somewhat lengthy conversation between myself, the ticket agent and also the ticket agent to her left. After a wee bit of whining and foot stamping, the visa is returned. Both women have regaled me with stories of friends who have run into trouble upon returning to America because they had neglected to surrender their I-94s. The ticket agent admonished "I hope that you don't have any trouble getting back in." It was the way that she said it. What she really meant was "I hope you have difficulty getting back in because you've been a major pain in my ass." You know how people do that? They say one thing, but really they mean the exact opposite. Feeling somewhat victorious, I tucked it away for safekeeping for my return. Guess what happened? When it came time to return, I couldn't remember where I'd put it. After all that, well, it was just gone. There is a duplicate stamp within the passport itself but I didn't have the stupid little card that I'd raised such a fuss about. Upon arriving at SFO I was confronted with the lengthy "non-US Citizens and all those you dare to think about coming here, even if it's only for a visit" line. I stared longingly at the far shorter "US Citizens & Residents" line. Technically, I'm a non-resident alien and given that I'd lost the card, well, I didn't want to presume anything, so I just bided my time with the rest of the tired, weak and hungry. It was all fine. A brand, spanking new I-94 with all the visa info is now tucked safely into my passport. I felt a little stupid yesterday when I came across the original, the one that caused me to regress to a foot stamping four year old. It's sitting on the table now. I don't know what to do with it. I've just noticed that my passport is going to expire next month. That should be interesting. My mother once had six sets of passport photos taken before she was happy with the results. I'm not that anal, and after all, I have better things to do. I have to practice for my drivers test. Yesterday? Trail mix(up). Webtype.org is sponsoring a typography contest - "The main goal of the Webtype Typography Contest is to make designers think harder about how and why they use typography on their sites. A secondary goal is to collect the entries into a gallery where they can serve as inspiration for others wanting to improve their type skills." Felling a tree and seeing the cut end- tonight's moon. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku monday, august 14 All things considering, I'd have to say that it was a good trip in that I didn't manage to maim myself in any manner similar to previous vacations. Yes, I did manage to roll over my left big toe with my fabulous Samsonite wheeley bag, but it only caused a small amount of blood loss and one quarter of the nail. Pale nail polish will disguise most of the damage. It's not that bad.... Really. Oh, and I have a few scratches. Minor superficial little things on my hands and arms. You see, I had a little adventure. One of the beauties of the Cinque Terre is the path that strings along between the five small fishing villages. Add not being able to follow a trail to my list of hiking deficiencies. What happened? Sometime shortly after leaving Monterossi, I found myself strangely alone on the trail. This should have twigged in my brain, but I stumbled along gamely, hugging all manner of prickly bush and shrub in an attempt to step along the narrow trail which seemed somewhat overgrown. It was lovely, alone with the Mediterranean spread out beside me, so I tucked away any niggling doubt. It was a bit dodgy at times, a wash out here and there, crossing a stream over slippery rocks. The first time I heard voices, above me on the hillside, I put it down to locals working in either an olive orchard or tending to the vines, but as I ventured forth I began to get the feeling that I had somehow erred. This path couldn't be the path of the Cinque Terre, trod by all manner of vacationing tourist, and perhaps those voices above me were in fact those of my fellow trekkers making their way along the path. After one particularly horrible section I decided that the accumulation of scratches, the increasing adrenaline rush and escalating terror weren't really amounting to the natural pleasure I was hoping to experience. More voices drifted down from somewhere above and I decided to keep an eye out for any opportunity to move upward. With a few steps here and there, and then a scrabble up a steep, dusty incline, I popped out on the trail. I was thrilled to find myself alone and that no one had detected my sudden appearance on the the trail. Hearing voices to my right, I dusted myself off and smiled brightly at a group gathered, taking a break at the trails edge a small distance away. I attempted to quell the huffing and puffing that had developed during the final ascent and pointed down the trail with a questioning "Vernazza?" They nodded though they must have been rather perplexed at my question. If I had just come from Monterossi, wouldn't I be on my way to Vernazza? By this point I was past the point of caring and trotted off to continue my journey. The trail itself was only moderately improved, but the company of others on the trail was a relief. I continued on my way arriving forty five minutes later in Vernazza a rather soppy, but contented mess falling into Derek's arms. I don't foresee a future as a trail guide, in fact, I probably shouldn't leave the house by myself. Ever. On flying. After reading about the woes of United travelers, I'll bite my tongue about Air France. I will say however, that their idea of a vegetarian is someone with tall, floppy ears and a fluffy tail. The two meals of assorted greens and vegetables left us nibbling on each others fingers and toes for want of protein. It wasn't a pretty site and I think the INS agent waved me through with alacrity because he could read the hunger in my eyes. In the end, when a decent meal presented itself, I was too tired to eat and keeled over sideways into slumber with a mouthful of half chewn cheese and spinach crepe. I'm so damn classy. Yesterday? Waffle waffling. Huh? As the sound fades, the scent of the flowers comes up- the evening bell. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku sunday, august 13 Throwing in the towel. There's something that I've never understood about Italy. It's not about walking into a bathroom and finding a porcelain "hole in the ground" rather than a toilet seat. I got over that awhile ago and I can squat with the best of them - it's just a matter of ensuring that all clothing is strategically positioned away from the line of fire. It's those Italian "waffle" towels. Do you know what I'm talking about? Italian waffle towels. Bath sheets typically resembling large table cloths with a sort of two dimensional texture woven into the fabric by some marvel of technology. I've never experienced towels like this anywhere else on the planet. Granted, I've not gone on an exhaustive trek to document world wide towel characteristics but, in the places I have visited, the towels have attempted to resemble a more traditional looped terry. This is not to say that they have always been the deep, pile, luxurious, Egyptian cotton that is heralded by Martha Stewart and Bed Bath Beyond as the epitome of good bathroom taste. Sometimes the towels have been so damn thin that a good, decent sneeze would render it in two. But waffle towels? You have to rub yourself briskly to encourage any form of absorption. That might sound pleasant but it's not. The Ca' del Lupo bed and breakfast outside of Bardi, the Hotel Firenze in La Spezia and the Hotel Villa Argentina in Riomaggiore all featured these fabulous textured events. The Excelsior Hotel Gallia on the other hand was another story all together. We wandered into this posh, completely over-the-top palace for out last night in Italy. I could have sworn that the concierge sniffed in disapproval at my travel weary, rumpled appearance, but my plastic is just as good as the next travelers. Our room was larger than my apartment and rather attractive if you like any semblance of faux Louis the fourteenth through sixteenth style. But what did we spy with our little eyes in the bathroom? Thick, white, deep pile, Egyptian cotton towels hanging on a heated towel rack. Yes, a heated towel rack! Derek and I fell on them like hungry wolves. Oh, I should mention that I have my own personal, complete set of waffle towels. A gift from Claire from one of her own adventures. They are the equivalent of my laundry indicator underwear. When the waffle towels appear, someone needs to do a little laundry. Last week? Post cards from Italy. saturday, august 12 San Francisco. My word! Well, I managed to quell the overwhelming sense of air rage that began to creep into our return home when the oh-so-thoughtful gentleman directly in front of me decided to recline his seat in the extreme, prior to take off. He was instructed once to return it to the upright position, but the dirty, little sneak slid backwards immediately afterwards. I was concerned that this would inhibit my assuming the "crash position" in the event of an emergency and instructed Derek to tell Claire to sue him or his family in the event of any calamity. But, the good news is that nothing happened. If I add the nine hour time difference, it's about 3:30 tomorrow morning and I'm never my best in the wee hours. I'll cease and desist until such time that my wits have gathered (well, as much as they possibly can) and I can bring you up to date. The bottom line? A good time was had by all. sunday, august 6 La Spezia, Italy. I must confess that this trip has confirmed that there is no way in hell that I come from a family of hardy, exploring travellers. My ancestors must have found one wee plot of land and stayed put. I just don't have any sort of stomach for travel - be it by car, boat, bus or plane, my stomach is just a big fat pussy! Take your index and middle finger and press them to your lips and you'll have a perfect picture of how I've been feeling the past few days. All roads that lead to Bardi are twisty and turny, and turny and twisty. In the end, last night was rather trippy. Trust me when I say that you've never experienced anything quite like the Bardi Web Awards. Emanuele was ever the wonderful host taking such great care of us until the very end. It was a pleasure to meet Gianandrea and also Frederic and Antonio of .netArt. Stefano was rather sweet and tongue tied upon meeting Derek - check out Stefano's site for snaps D in action. Oh, and Ken taught D all sorts of naughty words and phrases so be sure to ask him what they are! Have I mentioned how jet lagged I feel? I can be rather difficult in the late afternoon at the best of times, but believe me, I'm living up the name Ms. Heather Harrumph. Caio bambino! friday, august 4 Bardi, Italy. There's something rather ironic about sitting, waiting for the web awards to begin with the wrath of God pounding down from above. The terminals flicker and fail as the power pops on and off. I haven't experienced a storm quite like this for some time. The first ever Bardi Web Awards may be presented by candlelight... I'd love to write some witty travel tale involving great feats of survival against all odds, but travelling today doesn't really involve that sort of thing - we didn't even get a stamp in our passports at the Italien frontier. They are merely somewhat amused by our vegetarianism, though they expressed understanding in that anyone who had visited McDonalds with some regularity, might want to avoid meat. I'd forgotten how really good gnocci can just melt in your mouth... My first introduction to gnocci was the faux Primo past kind - hollow, pupi shaped pasta, not at all the little melty bundles found here. I'll roll off the plane next week, a la Verucca Salt, having become a giant gnocci myself! The last time I posted? Nothing much. wednesday, august 2 Ack, ack, ack! Mere hours before the Italian adventure begins, and well, have I packed? Debris is strewn all around in an attempt to both tidy up as the landlords will be dropping by to install a lamp and ensure that I have something to wear for any and all occasions that might arise "across the pond" (if you say that with a few grapes stuck in your mouth, you'll sound like my mum). Updates may be sporadic or non-existent. In any event, I'll be back on or about the twelfth. Secret message from Search Engine revealed... "10 stop saying baby ok" Honestly, that's not going to happen anytime soon. Is it so bad? Does it make the hair on the back of your neck stand up like it does (or should) when someone drags their finger nails across a chalkboard? I didn't think so. Sounds like somebody needs a hug. Why don't you walk up to the next person you see and ask for a hug, baby. You'll feel much better, oh, and here's the comment form for next time. Yesterday? License to? In this world we walk on the roof of hell, gazing at flowers. - Kobayashi Issa, The Essential Haiku tuesday, august 1 Oh my god! Just shoot me. Put me out of my misery now. I am besides myself with frustration. Do you want the good news or the bad news first? Well, I'll give you the good news. I passed the written portion of my drivers test. I missed four questions. FYI, the speed in an alley is 15 mph, when approaching a railroad crossing and you can't see if any trains are coming, you should be driving 15 mph, light rail vehicles can preempt traffic signals and always dim your high beams when you are 500 feet away from an oncoming vehicle. See, to have a car in California, you need to be insured and to be insured, well, you have to have a California Drivers License. When I moved to New Jersey, they quite gladly took away my Ontario license and gave me one of theirs when I jumped through the hoop of the written test (I had great fun remembering imperial numbers, coming from a metric country). I kept the NJ license all through my traumatic New York years and then exchanged it for a Quebec one. In Quebec, they just give you one in exchange. You don't have to do the written test. I guess they figure that (Mike, Ed, Aaron and David cover your eyes) Quebec drivers are so damn bad that it doesn't matter. Go ahead, drive in Quebec... See if they care. You'll be run off the road by some psycho driver in due time anyway. None of this license barn dancing, do-see-do ever involved a driving test. Do you see where this is going? Do you want the bad news? Well, I have to go back to the DMV at the end of August and take the driving test. All states have different rules and regulations. I have an out of country license so I must jump through the additional hoop. Can you tell how thrilled I am at this prospect? How pleased I am that I need to go and take a driving test after having had a license for twenty fucking years? I'm sure that I've lost you at this point. You're doing the math in your head. I can hear you now.... "So, she's been driving for twenty years and you can get your license at sixteen, well, then, she must be fucking fossil..." Snap out of it. You're only as old/young as you feel. And today, all things considering, I feel about sixteen. Yesterday? Sono stupido. Cold night: the wild duck, sick, falls from the sky and sleeps awhile. - Matsuo Basho, The Essential Haiku |
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