This post is boring. deal.

WARNING: This post is long and reads like a "what I did at summer camp" letter from an 11 year old. I just don't have the strength to be witty.

I was a big girl and found my way around the London Tube all by myself. (I have a secret desire to one day write a book about how a city's public transportation says a lot about its inhabitants, but I won't go into that here). Ammo (previous roommate in Paris, longtime friend) met me at the train station. Went for a quick chilled rose in a cafe across the street while waiting for our friend Kate who was taking the Eurostar an hour after me. Barely 10 minutes of being in Paris and I'm already 3 cigarettes down and drinking at a bar.

I've missed Paris, its grayness, its arrogance. The people. But I won't wax lyrical, I went here to see friends and get drunk. And my goal is quickly on it's way to completion.

We are soon back in our old stomping grounds, the quartier Mouffetard. Strange to walk into Fifth bar with Ammo both as mere patrons, as opposed to bartender and wannabe bartender. But I guess it is a feeling I'll have to get used to.

The next day we go shopping for our friend's new baby before going to see her and her new son. We walk out with nothing for the baby, and lots of clothes for us. I basically stole a pair of jeans. They had no price tag, but were among other jeans listed at 17.99. The cashier goes to check the price and comes back with 3.99 as the price. I try to contain my surprise and take out the money to pay. Quickly before they realizelise their mistake. However Ammo and Kate are not so smooth.

"Oh my God! 3.99?? That's amazing! How did you do that? "
"Yeah seriously Lauren, I can't believe you're getting those jeans for only 3.99, that's insane"

I am trying to simultaneously give Kate and Ammo evil death stares to shut them up, while attempting to play it cook in front of the cashier, who is clearly amused.

As soon as we're out of the store, I yell at them for being so uncool, and then jump up and down screaming "I can't believe these jeans are only 4 dollars!"

Went to visit baby, who is only a week old. He is perfect. I nearly cry when I hold him. Ammo, being the ever maternal one, pushes the baby away, saying "don't spit up on me, Child". Now I want to have children purely for the ability to use "child" as an insult. It works with any age too. "Stop crying like that, 6 year-old " " This isn't real tequila, 31 year old".


Had a quick drink in the Shebeen, another ex-pat bar. I was telling Ammo how for the first time Paris doesn't feel like home anymore. I've finally moved on.

"Well you know what they say" - she said
"No, what do they say?"
"Home is where the heart is"
"Yeah, they do say that. "
"All the time."

Finally convinced the girls to go for Sushi. I had pile upon pile of sashimi. it had been way too long. I might have to open a Japanese restaurant next door to my apartment in Nottingham in order to feed my fix.

Spent Wednesday cuddling up with Ammo and blobbing around the house, she made me a delicious lasagna. Much better than my own, the bitch. Then we went out for my last night.

I first went to the shebeen to see my "brother" Anto. I fortunately ran into another friend, Marion. So we talked out on the terrace knocking back a few cold ones (well she talked, I tried to get a word in edge wise). We were having a lovely time when all of a sudden, a kitten fell from the sky onto the street in front of us. A kitten. From the SKY. We ran over to it, and I picked it up, turns out he had fallen out of the 6th floor of the building above the bar. Although the kitten was meowing quite a bit, I think he was ok. But I was relunctant to give it back to the guy. Who lets kittens jump out of their window?

Well, once the kitten fiasco was behind me, I went to Fifth Bar, hooked up my iPod to the stereo system and we had an all night sing-a-long. Drank too much, and sang a bit too loudly, but I had a blast, despite the many inward groans when Kate and I rocked out a bit too hard to Hanson's acoustic version of MMMBop.

Despite our inebriated state, Ammo and I went back to her place and drank more wine while writing a letter to Kylie Minogue asking her to give us money. We woke up in the morning to find paper filled with incoherent scribble from the both of us.

Contemplated throwing up, but decided to eat vache qui rit instead and get on the train.

Back on the Eurostar and I can feel the Flu coming to invade my body. The closer I get to England, the worse I feel. Stephane met me on the platform and I have been in his attentive care ever since. Yes. It is true what they say: Home is where the heart is. Now who wants to send me some sushi?



Here is my friend's adorable balcony.



This me and Marion outside the Shebeen just before the kitten tried to commit suicide.



Here is Kate with her beautiful eyes.



Me and JC. The man who makes the best warm goat's cheese salad you will ever eat.



And now this is me with the flu, unable to yell at stephane for taking my unwanted photo in such a vulnerable state.

Over the hill at 25?

One of my new Nottingham friends took me to a work aquaintances birthday BBQ before she and I went to the pub quiz. The work aquaintance was a young chap turning a mere 23. Awwww. He excitedly gave us the grand tour of his new home, which reeked of boy and took me back to Senior year in college when everyone's "new home" smelled like that. His cute little friends all brought wine, while we had arrived with some bottled domestic beer - I thought thats what all 23 year old birthday boys dreamed of..older women and cheap booze. Now I know all of this sounds very pretentious, because I'm only just over 2 years older than this boy, but it felt like light years away. Especially when his pre-pubescent little girlfriends came by and giggled over grilled sauseges about how he better be careful (tee hee) he's almost 25 (tee hee) and it's all down hill after 25 (giggle giggle). That comment in itself is not so terrible, its the fact that they then noticed my friend and I and quickly got all red faced at their "faux pas" comment in front of us two "mature" women (aka over the hill). Um what? I can still pass for 21, you underage little snot.

Actually the boy and his friends were all very sweet and my friend and I did have a lovely time (nearly missed the quiz we were enjoying ourselves so much). I think I'm more pissed off at the fact that a few years ago I LOVED being mistaken for older. Which happend a lot. I loved the look on some 45 year old (often married) man's face who would be hitting on me in some bar in Paris when I finally told him I was barely 20. At age 20 and 21, most people would mistake me for a mature 27. I loved it. My off and on English boyfriend literaly flipped out when he found out he was lying in the bed of a 19 year old american in Jamaica instead of a 26 year old as he had previously believed. I actually thought he was going to run out of the hotel room half-naked. Luckily he got over that (although it did take some time).

But I no longer get the joy of surprising men (or even women for that matter) when I tell them my age. 25? Yeah, that seems about right. how boring. Even on one of those "how old are you really" quizzes I scored 25. 25!!! How boring am I? I'll still occasionaly get the "really? Only 25, you seem so mature and put together for a 25 year old". But now I think what they really mean is "you seem so mature for an American

sick

Back from Paris, and as usual I have gotten the flu. Havng a hard time concentrating on typing, let alone what I want to say. Will post again soon when my body is back to normal and my brain decides to follow suit.

Off to Paris

You will all have to find some more entertaining blogs to help you procrastinate at work, as I shall be back in Paris and will be far too busy getting drunk in lesbian bars to keep you up to date on my life. My dancing shoes are packed and the beer goggles firmly in place. Wish my liver good luck.

My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble

So I survived my first week in Nottingham without Stephane.

Here is what I did to occupy myself:

Watched a lot of TV and looked at porn on the internet read really important thought provoking novels, made some delicious meals, attacked a cheap bottle of wine with a knife because I couldn't UNSCREW the cap, made it to the gym twice, went to a BBQ full of young men that made me feel old, failed miserably at a pub quiz, saw the movie Crash. rented CDs at the library to try and fill up my ipod (my choice of music falls into 2 categories right now: 1)songs I can work out to 2) songs that if someone went through my iTunes would think I was cooler for owning this music), took way too many compromising photos of myself in the mirror and then chickened out and erased most of them.

Now I know smugly happy 20 somethings gushing about how much they love their boyfriend is nauseating and certainly doesn't make for interesting writing, but when I heard the front door open and his sing song voice call out "salut" my stomach did a double flip and I nearly tripped over myself running to great him. The best part of him going away to these science conferences is him coming back again.

Gushing has stopped. I'm off to Paris sans beau this Monday, so i'm sure I'll come back full of plenty piss and vinegar and will have stopped all this silly love business.

Just a few small nips

Every so often a little bit of americana seeps into my little english world. It often has to do with TV, and most of it I find very welcoming. Like my 11 o' clock double showing of Friends (which lately has been taken over because of Cricket, which is not an English custom I have been able to adopt - however I do love the fact that they stop their cricket matches for lunch and tea. I do NOT love that the same channel that hosts cricket shows Friends and Will and Grace and that a match can last up to five days). Or I also quite enjoy the new series Lost (well, new to me - I don't know how long its been going on in the states for, so please don't ruin anything for me - I'm only on episode 3). I even ended up mildly enjoying a self-effacing Budweiser commercial regarding their sponsorship of the FA (that's soccer).

I DID NOT however enjoy the first episode of Nip/Tuck that I have ever seen in my life all because of that creepy kid who plays 'Matt' and who looks like a grown-up version of one of Michael Jackson's kids. Can someone that regularly watches this show please explain to me if there was some previous plot line involving drastic plastic surgery on this kid, why does he have eyelashes thicker than my eyebrows? Oh, and why does he have eyebrows thicker than my pubic hair? Please tell me there is some reasoning behind all this. Please.

Ok, I just went out looking for a picture of him to ad to the post, and hey! he has his own site. http://www.johnhensley.net/ And it is the creepiest thing I have ever seen. At first you think its just a picture of grown up Prince Michael, right? A still photo, right? Yeah, he doesn't stay still. I almost screamed when I saw him blink. I am sorry if there are any John Hensley fans out there, I'm sure he's a lovely guy. He just really freaks the crap out of me. So no, I will not be putting his picture on my site. You can go see it on his site, and try to have a staring contest with him. I bet you'll win.

MMMM, Food

Since things have been a bit dull in my life due to the lack of my little french muse being away on some boozy science conference, I shall distract you (and myself) with some of my latest dishes.

In ode to my Italian friend Puffi (not his real name) I made a shrimp, zucchini, and blue cheese pasta dish. Stephane enjoyed it so much I think he fell in love with me all over again. Although it didn't hold a candle to my friend's version.



And the melon was crap. I need to find a good fresh market here. But hey, you can't blame the tasteless melon on me.

Also had my first attempt at making a roast. splashed a little red wine on to the hunk of meat, some chopped garlic shoved it in the oven and Bob's your uncle. It turned out ok, added some zucchini (my vegetable of the month) and potatoes which were very good, but parts of the roast was a little dry. However it was even better the next day smashed all down into a sandwich with the zucchini and potato and a little ketchup. Especially at 1 in the morning after failing at the pub quiz.



While the cat is away, I made some soup. I was a bit worried as this was my first time making a soup. It was fabulous. I roasted zucchini, and vine tomatoes with garlic and steamed some broccoli. Put it all in the blender, added in some chicken stock and simmered it all on the stove. I didn't take a picture of it, well because it kind of looked like baby diarrhea. But honestly, one of the best soups I've ever had.

Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner...

Last Saturday me and three girlfriends went down to London for the day to see the Frida Kahlo exhibit at the Tate Modern. I had never really liked London. The few times I had been was to visit American friends doing their junior year abroad there. A poor american student over excited about the fact that they can legally drink becomes more of a booze fest than a cultural experience, you can still find a thrill in ordering the most ridiculous cocktail at a bar or walking down the street in broad daylight with a 2 litre bottle of cider. So my version of London's highlight was me in a saw dust strewn warehouse known as "the church" doing a strip tease with 15 other drunk women on stage with a bag of beer in my hand in front of hundred's of people. Fun, of course, but I can't say that it gave off a very good impression of London.

This time, however was lovely. Open air markets, boat rides, museums and a lovely meal. I think I also had such a good time because it had been so long since I had a proper girls day out. As much as I love spending time with Stephane, its a lot of "boy" time. I also don't think I had realised how much I miss proper city life.
I could go on forever about the Frida exhibit, but I won't bore you. all I'll say is If you're in London and only have one thing to do, go see Frida, if you are in London and have time to do two things, go see Frida and then go to "the church".

Here are photos.

Say it ain't so Ray, Please say it ain't so

One of my closest friends in Paris used to work at my favorite bar in the world, The Fifth Bar on rue Mouffetard in Paris. It was the most wonderful coupling I could have ever imagined. I had briefly worked at the Fifth Bar the summer of my 21st birthday and loved it. The thrill of being in charge of people's alcohol consumption, entertainment and often times their sex life for a girl who couldn't even legally drink back home in Chicago was a dream come true. I will forever thank my Mom for letting me stay on in Paris instead of studying in Spain over the summer. Spain could wait, I was going to be a bartender. In Paris.

Soon after I (tearfully) left Paris to finish my studies in New York state, my friend "Ammo", started working at Fifth Bar. When I came back a year later, there she was. My best friend behind my best bar. It was perfect. And not just for the free shots and cheap drinks, but for the fact that I felt like I still had some control, some "say" in what went on in the place (at the risk of sounding unbelievably like an american on Oprah) that helped me turn into a woman. If I wasn't drinking in the Fifth, or stopping by to get my mail (yes, for awhile it was even where my bank and my mom would send me letters), I was making CD making CD mixes for the Fifth bar, which Ammo would play with gusto. We'd either whip out the pink Star Academy microphones and perform for the crowd, or get everyone supplied with "straw" mics and have a giant sing-a-long. The only requirement for entering is being able to handle your Woof Woofs. The fifth bar was my home away from home, the place I could go and be myself, loud, obnoxious, contstantly singing and drinking. Sometimes after spending a long day being the sophisticated ex-pat living in Paris, you want to let your cleavage out, your hair down, and be a cheesy, Daniel Beddingfield singing, Kylie Minogue loving American with a capital A.

Now that my dear friend is moving on to better things, a proper swanky bar, a 9 - 5 working girl kind of existence which I'm sure will make her much happier, I can't help but feeling that I'm losing a home in Paris. Like my foot hold over there is slipping. Like its the end of an era.

Ammo, Fifth Bar will miss you. Who is going to drink all the Strongbow now that you're gone?

Damn you mother nature

My biological clock must be going into overdrive. My Uncle just sent over pictures of his first born son holding his first ever grandchild. I had been told only a few weeks before that my cousin's girlfriend was pregnant, and the news had yet to sink in completely when all of the sudden I am staring at a picture of my beaming cousin (who is only a year older than me), his proud mother and this little tiny creature new to the world. I immediately burst into tears. The emotional reaction startled me, but I just felt this overwhelming awe and pride in my cousin, who used to tease me and make me eat dirt as a young child and who is now a father. I went out to buy clothes for the new little guy, and again, while wrapping up the tiny set of blue baby clothes, the tears started to fall.

Now, I do not want a child. Not yet. But I've been plagued recently by baby dreams from which I wake up feeling fulfilled and whole. I feel like I have to keep reminding this female ticking time bomb within me, that while my child bearing hips might say otherwise, I would rather not have a poor defenseless little being become dependent on unemployed, unable to balance a checkbook let alone save money for a college fund me.

so why the baby dreams? Why all the tears at my cousin's new child and its mini clothes? Does my body know something my brain doesn't? Then again, I cried at an episode of the Simpsons a few days ago - you know, I don't think its a biological clock, just PMS. Age 25, going on 12. Thank God for birth control.

what's in a name?

Everyone and their Mom is named Lauren. I grew up thinking that my name was unique. As a scruffy little kid in Hollywood, I was surrounded by "Tiffany"s and "Jenni"'s, "Coyote"s and "Danni"s. My own dear mother told me I had such an original moniker. Named after Lauren Bacall according to my mother although as is typical to my life I have a french counter story to my origins: my french aunt swears I was named after some character in a french film. I have a hard time believing my aunt because the name Lauren was simply not known in France in 1980. It wasn't until about 8 years ago that I could find my name on those tacky souvenir key chains in tabac shops in the south of france.

When I was born in L'Hopital d'Aubagne, my parents had to fight to get them to put Lauren on my birth certificate. The French have always frowned on names that are not also the name of a saint, until recently (which explains why there are so many little "Kevin"s running around in Paris these days) so my father had to explain that my name was simply Laurent but without the T. I still use that line when explaining how to spell my name to a French person, otherwise they will spell it like the region/quiche Lorraine.

So I spent the beginning of my life thinking I was unique. That is until I move to Chicago and started elementary school.
"Is Lauren here?" Three little girls shoot their hands in the air saying "here". I also shoot them evil looks for having stolen my name while my hand strains to reach higher than the other two girls.

As school gets bigger, I meet more and more Laurens. "Do you mean Lauren L, or Lauren S. ?" "No, that Lauren in my math class 4th period, Lauren P. I think..."

At this point I'm thinking it can't get any worse, that we could start our own "Lauren" army, I take a year abroad from college to study in Paris. When I finally think that I will be back in the land of Laurent and Lorraine but no Lauren I am sorely mistaken. My quickly formed little posse of american students studying in Paris consists of not 2, not 3 but 4 Laurens including myself. In order to tell us all apart, we created nicknames based on our last names. I became LoPo, then there was LoJo, LoRo, and LoLo.

One night out LoRo and myself started complaining about our nicknames. LoJo and LoLo are cute, we however were some kind weird combination of Rolo Polos. I also complained about the fact that LoLo technically should have been LoKo based on the last name system. But LoLo explained that "Lolo" had just always been her nickname, so it was natural. This whole name fiasco finally rearing its ugly, all too common little head, I blurted out. "Yeah? Well I've always been known as LAUREN my entire life, but I've allowed you guys to give me this shitty nickname anyways".

A few years ago, my namesake, Lauren Bacall was doing a book signing in Chicago. My mom said that the majority of the people there were older women telling Lauren they named their daughters after her. Not even the reason behind choosing my name is unique. And her real name isn't even Lauren, it's Betty for christ sakes.

Now that I am living in England, no one understands me when I say my name. Clearly I don't know how to pronounce it correctly. So instead of hearing Lauren, they hear "Maureen" or "Lorna". Next time I'm going to say:

"Yes, Maureen, that's right. I was named after an actress in a french movie".

Bring It On

Stephane and I use to wash ourselves with Original Source Lavender scented shower gel. Claiming to have real lavender extract, it was a fragrant and pleasant way to wake up in the morning (or late afternoon - depending on your state of employment). I would often enjoy those early sleepy moments when Stephane would kiss my drowsy neck goodbye as he went to work and I would deeply breath in a faint smell of lavender fields baking in the sun and Right Guard Sport.

Well, this purple shower gel has since been all used up, and I let Stephane pick out the next form of body lather. He chose the same company, Original Source, but chose the fragrance of mint. Mint, you say? Yes, its a little odd, but I thought why not give it a go. This will be certain to wake me up that much more than lavender. And of course, Original Source claim to have real mint extract in this very green version. They also have slightly different directions on the back of the packaging. While Lavender said: Stay Calm the mint version said: Bring it on. Now while I think this was a fabulous movie with that little hottie Kirsten Dunst, I do not think its something I want my shower gel to be saying to me.

Have you ever accidentally gotten mint in an open wound? Or perhaps even just a recently shaved armpit? Ever wonder what it might feel like to gargle mint listerine with your butthole? Buy this soap and you'll find out! This stuff STINGS. Like really stings, but with an odd cooling sensation, like the first half of when you apply Icy Hot. This is not a pleasant experience for certain, ahem, sensitive bits that one is accustomed to washing while taking a shower. I don't know why anyone would make a shower gel that is physically painful to use. Stephane doesn't mind it. Says he enjoys the "tingle". I may have a lesser pain threshold than him, but while I enjoy being known as Candy ass, Mint butt is not a moniker I'd like to try on.

I've switched to Dove.

Here's to young Gary

This is just for your viewing pleasure. I'm sure many of you have already come across young Gary lip synching to the O-Zone hit. But he exudes such abandon, such pure joy - the essence of "me time" that I'm sure we could all use a little more of. Thank you Gary. You have impeccable comic timing. WARNING: For those of you reading this at work, the link does include music. And if you have the same reaction as I did, you may laugh out loud for a long time. Make sure your boss is not around. Click Here

Why do Americans have giant horse teeth?

The other weekend Stephane and I helped two of our friends (we'll call them Boy and Girl to keep their identities safe) move into their new gorgeous home. After a day of driving and moving boxes we relaxed in our local pub, Boy mentions that while we were driving he broke off part of his tooth after biting on a funky onion ring. He claims to have mentioned something about it as we were driving - I don't remember anything. He says he just dropped the broken bit of his tooth on the floor of the van without a second thought.

Now I have never lost part of my tooth before, but if I ever did, everyone within a five mile radius would be aware of the fact that a part of my body FELL OFF. He didn't seem too phased by it. Then Girl mentioned how she had lost part of her tooth eating a cornflake. A Cornflake! I mean, I had no idea that teeth could be so fickle and fragile. I then grabbed my front teeth between my two fingers and did the same to Girl (with her permission of course) and my teeth are at least twice the thickness of hers. Now I'm not going to go into stereotypes of the British having bad teeth. Its over played and not true. All Europeans have bad teeth, not just the British. Ok, ok, I'm being rude and I'm over exaggerating. I just happen to know a lot more Europeans (family, boyfriend, friends...) that have mouths full of metal fillings, dentures, plastic teeth. Now that doesn't mean they don't have beautiful smiles, we're not talking Austin Powers teeth or anything. But as Girl pointed out, Europeans only go to the dentist when their teeth hurt. Americans get cute little cards in the mail saying " time to clean those toothers" and reminding us to come in for our sixth month check-up.

But I have to think its more than just a country well informed about dental hygiene. Fluoride in the water? Apparently they do that in England too, so that can't be the only reason why Americans have unusually thick and wide chomps. I think its the hormones we give our dairy cows that then finds it way in the milk we consumme. But I have of course no evidence or scientific information to back that up. But seriously, a Cornflake and an Onion ring caused Boy and Girl to lose a part of their smile.

While I'm sure I am thankful that whenever I go home to visit my mother in the states she always makes me squeeze in an appointment with my dentist, there's something nagging me. My Irish friend, who runs a bar frequented by many Americans (ok its not just "a bar" its my 2nd home) mentioned that all the Americans she has met have the same smile: too big and white for their own good, making us all kind of blend in together as one massive generic billboard for the American Dental Association. Are we losing character because of our similar, albeit healthy, smiles? Perhaps my European friends with their slightly crooked, somewhat chipped grins give off a real sense of character and individuality when they flash their, ahem, pearly whites. Like Lauren Hutton or Vanessa Paradis for example. Maybe we Americans are bitting off more than we can chew... but at least our teeth don't fall off while we do it.

Beauty tip of the week

Use Johnson's Baby oil to remove make-up. This works particularly well for women like me that are too lazy to wash our face before going to bed (but don't worry Mom, I do remember to put in my mouth guard - yeah that's right. I wear a mouth guard. Have you seen my smile? Trust me, Its worth protecting) and the next morning wake up with "raccoon eyes". A quick dab with a cotton swab soaked in baby oil and you look fresh faced, shiny and a little less like Alice Cooper.

Workouts gone bad

Dear Guy who got on the treadmill next to mine when there were plenty of others free,

Don't ever run, walk or do squats near me again. Did you not hear me gagging almost as soon as you came into my vicinity? You stink. I mean "stale cold sweat reek" kind of stank. Do you not wash your work out clothes or bathe for that matter? I was having a great time huffing and puffing away with the Black Eyed Peas telling me to "keep running, running and running running" and then my eyes welled up with your stench (that was unmercifully blown my way by giant factory size fans the gym calls "Air Conditioning") and I had to cut my run short and go find the farthest stationary bike away from you in an attempt to peddle clean air up my nose. When I finally decide it is clear to go back to the treadmill, you are gone. Completely vanished from the entire gym (believe me, I checked out of nasal fear). So screw you for wearing your bottom of the dirty laundry pile sweat soaked work out clothes just to put in 10 minutes on the treadmill next to mine for the sole pleasure of ruining my exercise experience.

Take a shower,

Lauren

I see Cyber people

Having had problems with Blog Clicker ( a system that tells you how many visitors your website has) for the past month, i have abandoned them for Stat Counter in order to find out just how popular my Blog really is. It's not. But that's besides the point. StatCounter shows me everything, who you are, where you are from, how long you spend reading my blog, and which porn site you were reading before you found it. I love it. I feel like Big Brother. That's right, I see you NYU student who read my site for 15 minutes at 10 PM last Tuesday...hanging out in the library are you? Pretending to do work while reading strangers' blogs, huh? Well I'm glad to provide what I'm sure is much needed procrastination. That being said I'd like to give a big "shout out" to my three readers in Hong Kong.

I need to work on getting my "non-urban" readers up in numbers. New York, Chicago, LA... got it. Now its time to focus on the in between. And fellow residents of Europe (hey, Britons, this means you too), lets kick it up a notch, shall we? Numbers are low people, the States are kicking our cyber butts.

Nothing new under the sun

Charlie and the Chocolate factory, Bad News Bears, even the Dukes of Hazard... looks like the blockbuster makers are short on ideas. Am I getting old, or are these movies too recent to be doing re-makes already? Gene wilder is said to be anti the remake. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Which makes me almost not want to see it out of solidarity with the Wild man. Almost. I mean its Tim Burton and Johnny Depp. But I'll still complain about it through a bucket of buttered popcorn and a diet coke the size of my head. Hey, you know what was a good movie? The Bad News Bears. The first time around. Back when Tatum O'Neil was the next rising star.

True dedication

The other day in queue at the post office (Ok, I must go off on a tangent about the Post Office in the UK. They are fabulous, well maintained lines, a large gift card section, in and out in minutes. The tellers are courteous and succinct. Perhaps I'm so easily amazed at the post offices here, because for three years I had to deal with French post offices, which reek of Gitane unfiltered cigarettes, have tellers as slow as syrup, and always contain an old man standing behind me in the queue that is coughing as if he has just escaped from the lung transplant wing of the nearest hospital.) and I saw a middle aged woman with a tattoo of an alcoholic beverage on her arm. Is it me, or does that seem a bit too dedicated to the drink? I mean, don't get me wrong, I enjoy downing my pints in the pub as much as the next guy, but to actually get branded for life with an image of a bubbly libation on your forearm just seems a step too far. I'm sure if my mother ever caught me with a tattoo like that, I'd be one step away from wearing a "Hello my name is" sticker on my chest in the basement of my local church.

Rubble Rouser

Goddess'scomment to my love confession to "Joey" from Full House (she had a thing for R2D2) made me think about odd crushes. I'd like to find out if I am alone in having crushes on "non-humans".

Here are my childhood (ok lets admit it, well up into pre-teen) crushes:

Barney Rubble. How I longed to be his Betty

Fozzie from the Muppets. Everyone loves a comedien.

Kermit the Frog (this was only after I got over Fozzie)

Robin Hood the Disney version (who for those who don't remember was a fox, and far sexier than Kevin Costners version ever was)

Anyone else out there? Odd cartoon/muppet/robot crushes? Don't leave me hanging after such a vulnerable post. I need to feel the love and support people. Need to feel the love.