Dr. Google

You guys! BIG NEWS.

I've diagnosed myself with Raynaud's Phenomenon. I wanted you guys to be the first to know because, well, that's the kind of deep love I have for people who read my blog. Thanks to google, you too can diagnose yourself with all kinds of diseases and conditions! Come on! Join in! It's FUN!

For the past six months or so, every now and then, I would lose all feeling and color in a few of my fingers. I figured it was just one of the many symptoms of veganism that everyone keeps warning me about. Seriously. Okay. No one suggested this one in particular but I'd heard the usual stuff--protein deficiency, blindness, traumatic death, etc. and figured this was on the same level. In fact, for the first few months after I went vegan, my mom suggested it was the cause for just about everything.

Me: My CRAMPS! ARE SO BAD!

Mom: I think this veganism thing is making you devoid of nutrients.

Me: Nutrients like what?!

Mom: You know, nutrients that can be found in meat and cheese!

Me: Like...saturated fat and hormones??!?

So, I figured losing blood in my fingers was a direct result of giving up animal products, kind of like how now I'm bald. And too weak to tie my shoes. And I set people who wear fur coats on fire.

BUT ALAS! I WAS WRONG! Who knew?! Now, I have a PHENOMENON! Apparently not caused by anything in particular! Well. Maybe. Maybe I have this condition because I'm friends with The Homosexuals.

Anyway, last week, before philosophy class, I was on the phone with my cousin Tom.

Me: Dude, did you ever like, lose color in your fingers?

Tom: AND THEN I MADE THE MOST AMAZING DINNER WITH TRADER JOE'S MANDARIN ORANGE SAUCE AND IT WAS UNBELIEVABLE!

Me: Like, I can't feel certain appendages and they're like white and kind of purple, you know?

Tom: AND I MIXED IT WITH BROCCOLI AND RICE AND SQUEEEEEEEEE!

Me: I'm...gonna go.

I asked the boy next to me in philosophy if it was totally weird that a few of my fingers were lacking circulation. It did not hurt that this boy was sort of dreamy and spoke with a Southern accent.

Dreamy Boy With Southern Accent: Laura, get your lil' self the doctor, ya hear?

Okay, fine. He didn't talk like that. But I can dream, can't I?

Dreamy Boy With Southern Accent, Take 2: Laura, you need to see a doctor.

Me: What? Why? They're just kind of pale and white.

DBWSA: Laura. DOCTOR.

Me: WHAT!?!? THEY ARE JUST *FINGERS*!!!

And since I don't have health insurance, I did something more reliable. I GOOGLED IT.

And voila! Raynaud's Phenomenon! Not too serious. Unless of course, it gets serious. And then, they cut your fingers off and THAT IS SERIOUS.

My favorite website went on and on about how Raynaud's Phenomenon is usually caused by your occupation, namely, using a lot of vibrating tools.

Haaaaaa. The opportunity for a joke is just TOO PRICELESS. I will keep it clean.

You know how I get all crazy with my jack hammer! Woo boy!

So, I wanted you all to know, that along with being a bald, weak vegan, I now occasionally lose feeling in my fingers. Don't worry, though. The color/blood/feeling always comes BACK. All I have to do is gnaw on raw cow intestines and faster than you can say SOYMILK!, I'm cured. Thank you, Dr. Google, for giving me one more thing to obsess over.

In His Name,
Laura

I Just Want You To Know...

I meant to post yesterday, to complete my second week as FREQUENT UPDATE LAURA! but I was busy sitting at a blues club in the Village drinking some Tom Collins.

Before you judge me, like my coworkers around me who did and before you point out that elderly people drink Tom Collins, like my cousin Tom who called while I was sipping, I want you to know that I DID NOT CHOOSE THIS DRINK. This drink? It chose me.

Alayna and I can't do vodka. It hurts her head. It hurts my soul. So we told the waitress this and asked for a suggestion, which seems to be the best way around the problem. It was THE WAITRESS who suggested a Tom Collins, a delightful Old Man drink with the most important ingredients: gin, soda, lemon and sugar. So basically, it's like drinking geriatric lemonade. Maybe the waitress was being sincere. Maybe she was making fun of us and looking to see if we were actually going to order that.

Naturally, at the mere mention of "GIN AND SUGAR" I was all, "I don't need to hear anything else. Please, lovely girl, gosh you're so young lookin', go fetch Nana some of that goodness and I will give you 50 cents to buy yourself somethin' nice."

So fetch us some Tom Collins she did. In fact, she fetched us three apiece. Before we parted ways, Alayna remarked at how well I held my liquor, especially considering that earlier, at dinner, I had two glasses of pinot grigio. Something similar happened at my birthday party, where everyone around me was stunned that I could stand on my own two feet after sipping alcohol all night long. I think it's because I never really drink. So when I do, people get very concerned. And by concerned, I mean that they grab the drink out of my hand and say, "Okay Big Girl! You've had enough!" And I stare at them completely sober and give them the finger.

But I'm learning that Nana can not only hold her liquor (IF I HAVE HAD A FULL MEAL BEFOREHAND! Very important!) she can also pull Alayna into an Italian pastry shop around midnight and buy her gelato, like a doting grandparent.

"I AM GETTING US READY FOR ITALY!" I announced and then ordered a scoop of chocolate chip.

"Thanks, mom," Alayna said, as I paid the boy at the cash register.

"No problem darling," I said, patting her shoulder and then, like any good grandmother/mother/old person who drinks a Tom Collins, I stumbled my way up Broadway until I found the N train.

I want you to know that I COULD HAVE WALKED A STRAIGHT LINE IF ASKED.

But no one asked me, so why not have a little fun and sway back and forth? Besides, I had my walker with me to support me in case anything happened.

Today, I'm thinking of going to the mall to power walk and then maybe take my grandkids to the park. Maybe I'll hit up The Early Bed special at Applebee's for dinner and then cruise on home in my Bonneville. I don't know, you guys, after last night, the sky's the limit and I may not look it, but I've still got a few good years left in me! WOOOOOOOOOT!

Grateful

Tonight was the perfect New York City night. Not too cold, not too hot, sun setting brightly, a breeze blowing warmly. From the moment I stepped out of my office onto the bustling sidewalk, I couldn't stop smiling.

I got off the train at Union Square and walked down to meet Dan for dinner. I walked through many streets I've never walked down and passed many buildings I've never been inside. I was in a very crowded NYU area and the undergrads littered the sidewalk. They smoked cigarettes and flirted, ate sandwiches and laughed, carried books and generally looked cooler than me. Their youth took me by surprise. Their academic air made me remember.

I wondered, as I walked, what I would be like if I had stayed home for college. I wondered about the girl I'd be now if my parents had had money then to send me to NYU. If I would've gotten in, if I would've succeeded, if I would've grown up at all. If I would've followed my high school boyfriend there, the way we talked about over the phone in whispered conversations at night while the rest of my house slept.

We envisioned ourselves going to class together, snuggling in a dorm, sharing meals and studying for exams. I imagined going to college in my very favorite place, in the heart of New York City, in the shelter of the Village, strolling through the parks, dining at the restaurants. It topped the list of potential schools I showed my mentor.

He was informed, intelligent and abrupt. "The undergraduate theater program at NYU is a waste of time and money. It exists to support the graduate program. You'll be lost there." I nodded slowly. I second guessed. I believed him.

Then my mother, "We can't afford it. And you can't afford to compromise yourself. If you follow him there, you'll regret it. He can live his life however he wants to and so should you. Don't let him manipulate you."

I threw out my application the next day.

I moved far away for college, eight hours away in fact, to a state school that my parents still could not afford but who dutifully paid the loan on it while I was still attending. Now I pay it all on my own. They each hugged me goodbye, standing in my small dorm room on the third floor. My father leaned down to kiss my cheek and then coughed a little as tears clouded his eyes. He quickly headed for the door, not looking back. When I saw my mother's body exit the door frame, I sobbed so hard into my pillow that I thought I would choke.

My new roommate wiped tears from her own eyes, reached out her hand and said, "We have to go meet people and we have to do it now. We can't sit here like this." So we did. We wandered the halls and awkwardly said hello and I went to sleep at night with a heavy ache in my heart that dulled a little every day. I slowly adjusted to this new place I'd never been, to a quaint little town with restaurants and libraries and a park with a waterfall and the coldest winters I'd ever known.

My boyfriend and I broke up after my first semester there. 9/11 happened and I was long gone, far away, unable to reach him for hours. As the months went on, it was increasingly difficult to reconcile my romance with him and my new life. He overcompensated and I struggled to breathe. I developed an alarming crush on a tall boy who worked at the Student Union candy counter and I called home and broke it off. I cried for four weeks straight. But I never ever went back. I tried to. But I couldn't.

The boy at the candy counter had sparkling eyes and a car and a way of chopping up a tomato that made my knees weak. When I fell into the deepest depression of my life, he was there to catch me. He made me coffee and did my laundry and tucked me into bed at night. He walked me to class, he kissed me goodbye, he was the brightest light during the darkest winter.

And now I'm back in this city, with neither him nor the other. Still struggling to find a new one or to replace an old one but men are tricky people and they are all so different. I suppose tonight, I was observing other young women make a choice of their own, to stay or to grow. Living in high-rise tiny crowded dorms, basking in the sun after class among the noise of taxis and sirens. As I walked around tonight, I marveled at their bravery and at their nonchalance.

Surely they were missing out on so much by going to school here? Or else, they were having the exact same experience as me except...backwards? An alternate college universe? City girl goes to the country? Country girls go to the city? Was there a girl sitting in her NYU apartment sobbing and breaking up with a long distance boyfriend over the phone? Very, very possible. Very, very likely. Except, she would be dumping him for some bartender in the Village as opposed to a boy working the candy counter in suburbia. But ah, very similar indeed.

Dan and I ate vegetable dumplings while a breeze swept through the restaurant. I sipped white wine and the talk was easy and effortless and fun. Afterwards, we stumbled on a bakery. And by stumbled, I mean I noticed it and dragged Dan inside it while screaming, "SUGAR SUGAR SUGAR SUGAR!"

We bought a chocolate chip cookie and a brownie and walked until we found a small private alley off of 5th avenue, right above Washington Square Park. By then, the sun had set and people strolled past in the dark with lovers and dogs and doggie bags. We sat on someone's stoop and ate our dessert, my legs stretched out on the cobblestones, high heels leisurely splayed on the street.

"It sounds like the perfect New York night," my roommate said when I came home and collapsed on the couch.

"It was," I said and closed my eyes as my lips twitched into a smile, a hand on my belly, full of rice noodles and chocolate.

There are those rare times after all, when even I can admit that I did the right thing all those years ago. But most of the time, I forget that I'm a strong woman, capable of making decisions and confident enough to follow through. In the end, I'm really glad I moved away and gained a new perspective and grew up to be a girl that I like to be around. And as I come up on my third anniversary of living in New York City, I'm really really glad I came back.

One With Nature

On Wednesday night, I attended an amazing paranormal lecture at the haunted Merchant's House Museum on East 4th Street. My good friend Dan heads a paranormal investigation group in the NYC area that hits up haunted places and gathers super spooky information about GHOSTS! and SPIRITS! and GOBLINS! and DEAD PEOPLE! Dan gave an amazing talk and while it gave me chills a little bit, I didn't think much about how freaked I was until I was walking home from the train alone.

The quickest route from the subway to my apartment involves walking under a huge train tressel. By day, walking under the bridge isn't scary at all, it's just a little dark and it always smells like a combination of pee and lamb kabobs from the vendor who sets up shop on the street corner. (Who would decide to sell kabobs under a bridge? I have no idea how he stays in business.) Anyway, it's just kind of gross and there's pigeon poop all over the ground below since gaggles of birds like to sit up in the rafters.

But at night, it's kind of creepy. There aren't many stores on the avenue so it's not very bright. And though my neighborhood is ridiculously safe, particularly on Wednesday night, I was feeling kind of creeped out.

I tried to think positive as I started walking under the bridge. I put a country song in my iPod, I had just busted out my spring coat for the first time, etc. I was beginning to feel secure, almost home when all of a sudden something warm and rancid smacked me in the face.

It was pigeon poo.

You got that right. A pigeon SHAT ON ME.

It covered my nose, went in one nostril, got all over the lapels of my coat and collected in the rim of my glasses.

The best part about this story is that I didn't scream or stop and clean myself off.

I just...kept walking.

After the inital shock of excrement landing on my face, I just kind of reacted like, "Well. That happened."

I wiped my face off as best I could on my COAT SLEEVE! And walked the remaining blocks home.

My roommate nearly fell on the floor when he saw me and then begged to take the picture below. I kind of love my expression and also, the bright blue gum in my mouth.

Please note the black bird doo on the coat and the lovely white parts on my glasses. At this point, the poo on my face had been wiped clean because I love you guys, but I don't love you enough to walk 5 blocks with bird shat in my nostril. Also missing here, the bird doo IN MY HAIR. May I present, for your amusement:

A BIRD DONE SHAT ON ME!

People tell me this is good luck.

So, I'll keep waiting for something awesome to happen to me.

In the mean time, Happy Earth Day! Watch out for falling pigeon poop and have a great day.

Not Easy Bein' Green

In honor of Earth Day, I'd like to reflect on the environment and what I've done in the past year to help reduce energy and waste.

Let's all pause for the cause, shall we?

Good.

I'm glad we shared that together. I feel so close to you now.

OKAY!!! So, gathering inspiration from a passionate SAVE THE WORLD ex-boyfriend, various articles and books and of course, my crunchy chicken cousin Deanna, over the past year and a half or so, I've tried to do as much as I can to "greenify" my life. It ain't easy in NYC but let's see where I'm at.

I'm going to make a list now because nothing pleases me more. Except maybe crossing off things on lists. Or putting things on a list just so I can cross them off. But, I'll spare you that for now.

Things I've Done
by Laura Elizabeth, Age 25

1. Gone vegan
2. Frequent the farmer's market when possible
3. Gotten on the waiting list for the Astoria CSA
4. Use a diva cup
5. Replaced lightbulbs in apartment with CFL's
6. Routinely bring canvas bags to grocery store
7. Decline extra bags, packaging, etc. at other stores
8. Cut down on wasteful, spontaneous spending
9. Switched to 100% recycled paper towels and toilet paper
10. Continue to avoid to buy produce that is out of season
11. Use public transportation
12. Avoid paper products, especially at work. Use own coffee mug and utensils
13. Unplug cellphone charges and other devices when not in use


That's a few things off the top of my head. I'm sure there are more. But even if I kept brainstorming, my list would still pale in comparison. The people that frequent Deanna's blog are so committed. And sometimes I feel like yes, if I was raising my family in a suburb and had the ability to have a garden and a washer and dryer on hand, I could do a lot more. I could give up toilet paper completely or lower my thermostat in the winter but in New York City it's incredibly difficult. I have to walk to the laundromat, I have no control over the temperature in my apartment, I can't compost or grow my own herbs.

And then there's dudes like this who live in New York City and COMPOST THEIR OWN POOP and I'm all, how can I complain!? Why aren't I doing enough!? I'm such an asshole! And also, will I get dumped if I compost my own poop?

There's people all over the place making their own butter and riding their bicycles and families of six surviving on a grocery budget of less than $100 a week, which is the equivalent of mine. It boggles my mind and I feel like such a jerk. If they can do it so easily, why can't I?

So, okay. I guess I should be happy that I'm aware and that I do what I can. The problem is that it never feels like enough. Especially when my cousin goes batshit crazy and posts a challenge like this. It's probably true. It's not that I CAN'T do these things, it's that I don't want to. But man, I KIND OF WANT TO. Don't I? But...give up plastic? My freaking organic bananas come WRAPPED IN TEN THOUSAND PIECES OF IT.

I guess I have a hard time reconciling the two parts of me--the crunchy granola vegan and the New York City girl who yes, damnit, likes to go shopping and likes to eat at restaurants and why do I feel guilty for being that girl? I suppose because others do so much more? It kind of feels excessive and wrong.

I mean, it could be worse. I still see people piling their groceries into mounds and mounds of plastic bags and I want to scream. Hell, I think even my parents still use plastic grocery bags. But that's not because they're ignorant. That's because my mom openly admitted to me that she doesn't believe in global warming.

Incidentally, when she told me that over the phone, my heart stopped beating for almost an hour. You're all lucky I'm still alive.

So! Okay! Let's wrap it up! I do a lot but I need to do more! And I will pledge to do more! If anyone has examples or suggestions of other changes I can make, I would be eternally grateful. I'm frustrated that so many people are wasteful and unaware but I'm also amazingly impressed with the amount of people I meet that are working towards something bigger. I really think that the changes I make every day DO make a difference even when I'm told that they don't and that I'm just one person and that I don't matter.

I'm here to tell you that I DO MATTER, damnit! Hell, I have my own blog. Doesn't that make me famous?

YES IT DOES. TO ALL THREE OF YOU READING THIS.

Happy Earth weekend!

Banality, Thy Name is Photo Blog Entry

Look! I cleaned out my cabinets! Bake much, HMMMM?


I made pizza on Thursday night. Half vegan. Half for regular people. For the varied palates that frequent my home for Thursday Night Dinners. WOOT WOOT! Do you want to come over? I made the whole wheat dough from scratch! Come on! You're looking too thin. EAT UP!


For any of you playing along at home, the answer to "Can Laura Donate Platelets?" is "No, She Cannot." Apparently, my veins are too small but as you can see, it wasn't for lack of trying.


The picture really doesn't do it justice. It's SO gross. My poor little veins. They ended up puncturing the other arm and just taking a pint of blood instead of syphoning out the platelets, which was the original plan. And also, why is my arm so long? Why?

And to finish off this entry, I will now post a video of Owen singing "Too Late To Apologize" that I took a few weeks ago. It's genius. Especially because River is in the background going on and on about hippos. That's all. HEY HEY two posts in a week!


Too Late To Apologize from The Spectrum on Vimeo.

New Thing

I'm going to attempt posting on a regular basis, most likely Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

I'm hoping this will keep me within the waves of creativity so that I may better serve you Spectrum addicts who can't get enough. Yes, all three of you, you matter to me. You're welcome.

So that's my new thing.

Also my new thing, eating a ton of avocado. Why is this? I do not know. My body can't get enough.

I also kind of like that song "New Shoes".

If I had to walk into a crowded room while strutting in a sexy dress, I would pick that song to be playing in the background.

I also would like it if the room was full of guacamole.

That is all. 

And yes, this counts as a real post. Here's to regularity! For blogs and bowels alike! Rah!

Just Checkin' In

Anyone else feel like this blog sucks?

Okay good.  You're not alone.

I need to either post more often or shut it down completely because man, this once a week random posting of something not even remotely funny is boring ME. I can't begin to imagine that any of you make it past the first paragraph before clicking over to something cooler than me. Like this.

I've read quite a few articles lately about bloggers and how boring it is to read a blog and how narcissistic it is to have a blog and on and on. And these articles make me THINK, you guys. They make me think about how I've had this blog since 1998 and how it's like the only thing in my life that I've stuck with besides you know, being awkward and getting an education.

And I think about that and my brain starts to hurt and I feel like I'm on the cusp of a revelation, y'all, a REVELATION and then I get distracted by something bright and shiny. Like the box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch my dad bought for me because GUESS WHAT? Cinnamon Toast Crunch recently became a vegan product.

Amount of People Reading This Blog Who Care About That: .5

Speaking of weird things that happen on the subway, I was walking down the steps to the train platform this afternoon when I overheard a touristy family say, "Well, then we just have to ASK SOMEONE WHO LIVES HERE." And I knew, I JUST KNEW that they would zero in on me because apparently, I always look like someone who 1) knows if the train is running express today B) knows where the nearest bathroom is 4d) knows if you'd look fat in that skirt.

The family rushed over to me but took me completely by surprise when I saw that the high school age daughter was crying. She was ridiculously pretty, with gold hoop earrings and big brown eyes and she asked me, "Do you ride these trains!?"

"Ummm. Yes."

"See...uh...they're dark...and...I can't...I just..." 

Then she burst into tears. 

Her mother came to the rescue and explained to me that her daughter (Becca! We're from Seattle!) was extremely claustrophobic and they really wanted to take the ferry to see the Statue of Liberty except EVERY TIME they got on the train, Becca would panic, start screaming and run off of it.

I kind of almost laughed because dude, I'm insane but I've never done that but instead I said, "I totally relate. I'm claustrophobic and I don't deal well with elevators."

In that moment, Becca from Seattle slipped her arm through mine and whispered, "Will you ride the train with me?"

"Sure."

The train came. I got on, the family got on, Becca got on and then FLIPPED OUT LIKE I'VE NEVER SEEN. It was honestly incredible.  She started screaming her head off and running for the door while her mother blocked it and yelled at her to just STAY ON THE TRAIN, BECCA! YOU CAN DO IT!

"NO, I CAAAAAAAAAAAAN'T!!!!" Becca wailed and her mother insisted that she hold onto me tightly.

Wha??

She grabbed my hand as she muttered that it was dark, it was very dark, and the train is fast and then she progressed to hugging my arm and then, THEN, she threw her arms around my neck and hugged my ENTIRE BODY.

"Let's talk about something, Becca!" I suggested, talking into her hair. "Let's take a deep breath and talk about something!"

"Let's..." stammered Becca, pulling away and staring into my eyes, "Let's...SING RENT!"

"What?!" 

"RENT!" shouted Becca as the other people in the train car stared.

Her mother, realizing what a great idea it was got excited, "Becca loves Rent! Don't you Becca!? Don't they sing a song on the train! Do you know Rent?!"

"Um. Yes. I do."

"SING RENT WITH ME!" pleaded Becca.

And you guys? 

Much like Meatloaf, I can do anything for Becca, but I can't do that.

"You sing Rent, Becca," I told her, "I'm a little too old and jaded to do that."

Her mother offered up a concerned, "We are totally freaking you out, aren't we?"

And the truth was, they honestly weren't.  

"I'm a musical theatre actress," I replied, with Becca still gripping my shoulders. "You'd honestly have to try really hard to freak me out."

It sounds odd. I mean. There I am, innocent with pretty hair, going to the farmer's market on a Saturday afternoon and suddenly, an entire subway car full of people is staring at me while Becca from Seattle alternately screams, cries, rips out her hair, latches onto me for dear life and then bursts into "WITH A THOUSAND SWEET KISSES!!!!!" from a hit Broadway show.

I chatted with the family a little bit more while Becca changed her mind and wanted to know if I could sing some Hairspray with her. I had to get off at the next stop and told Becca to just keep singing showtunes to make it through her crisis, I mean how do people think I get to work every day!? I get on the elevator and then suddenly I'm Patti Lupone until I get off at the 9th floor where I revert back to myself, younger and thinner than Patti but without the fierce belt.

There really isn't a good way to sum up this story. I'm not sure what I learned from my experience with Becca and the train and the fact that it didn't freak me out to have a stranger clinging to me and singing in my ear in public. (In private, well, that's another story.) I suppose I will say what I always said in acting class when I didn't know what to say: that I grew as an artist and as a person and that I'm so much better for having gone through it.

I don't know about Becca though.  It was a long way down to the ferry and honestly, I hope she knew a lot of Jonathan Larson lyrics to make it through.

Mambo Italiano

Sooo...

Italy.

Oh. Yeah. Huh. I'm going there. A month from today. Still have not busted out ANY OF THOSE GUIDEBOOKS. Still don't speak a WORD of Italian. Still have no idea exactly what I want to see and in what time frame I want to see it in. Well. To be fair, Alayna and I did book our rail tickets and hostels and so we know how many days we are spending in each city. But that is about it.

And so, I give you, my grand plans for Visiting Italy in 2008.

Keep in mind, that I have been warned by various sources that

1. Italian food is awesome. The pizza does not have cheese on it. (courtesy of my neighbor.)

2. Venice is romantic and I will cry when I get there. (courtesy of my coworker.)

3. Italian men will pinch my ass. (This warning comes from my mother who has never been to Italy.)

3. Gypsies will attack me and beat me down in the street and probably kill me and I will get hospitalized just like that woman who was traveling with Father Bob and she was WARNED not to give the gypsies money she WAS and she NEVER CAME HOME, NEVER. (Thank you Dan's mom!)

4. Italian people will mug me. (Everyone told me this.)

5. Gypsies will throw their babies at me so that I will catch them. When I catch the gypsy baby, the gypsies will take turns mugging me since my hands will be full with the baby. In essence, if a baby is thrown at you, DO NOT CATCH IT. (Thank you Atlanta James, expert traveler!)

So, I looked over the above advice very carefully and this is how I plan on spending my vacation.

Italian Itinerary

by Laura Elizabeth, 2008, One Month Before Departure

1. Arrive in Rome. Find railway station. Get to hostel. Do not get raped or killed or mugged by gypsies. DO NOT CATCH ANY BABIES.

2. Find cannoli. Eat it. Find gelato. Eat it.

3. Find a piazza of some kind. Twirl around it and sing the title song from "Light in the Piazza."

4. Go to Vatican City. Request audience with The Pope. Slap him high five, refer to him as "Big Benny!" and ask him to canonize my mom for sainthood.

5. Pop a lactaid. Eat as much fresh mozzarella cheese as I can find.

6. Take train to Florence. Look at famous statues and stuff. Find more piazzas. Twirl.

7. DO NOT CATCH THE BABY.

8. Hang out in the Duomo/Take Pictures of the Duomo/Find out what the fuck a Duomo is.

9. Find a gaggle of Gypsy children. Sing to them, "God Help The Outcasts" from the Hunchback of Notre Dame, the Bette Midler version. Most likely, get mugged by gypsy children.

10. Take train to Venice.

10b. Cry.

11. Stay in super expensive hostel with Alayna because OH MA GOD Venice, just because you're UNDERWATER doesn't mean you can charge me 8,000 Euros to stay in a bed and breakfast!

12. Ditch expensive lodgings in Venice. Sleep with the gypsies. Sing to them from the musical Gypsy. "You'll be swell! You'll be great! Gonna have the whole world on a plate!"

13. Buy all the gypsy children gelato!

14. Take 50 pictures of famous pieces of art that I can post on flickr that no one will want to see because WHO WANTS TO SEE PICTURES I TOOK OF THE STATUE OF DAVID? Answer: No one.

15. Who wants to see pictures of Laura catching a gypsy baby? Answer: EVERYONE!!!!

16. Get on train back to Rome, bid a teary farewell to gypsy children. Sing to them, "Climb Every Mountain."

17. Tell Alayna we are staying in Italy forever, America be damned.

18. Stay in Italy forever.

19. The End.

So, I think that like most travel arrangements, this will all go according to plan.

Haaaaa.

Honestly? My previous trip to Europe was SO horrendous on so many levels that any problems on the way to Italy will pale in comparison.

I remember when I went to Greece with Tom and we figured we had it all made--the perfect departure from JFK, arriving in France, transferring planes to Athens, arriving in beautiful sunny Grecian weather looking like Jackie O. (Both of us! It could happen!) I was young. I was naive. I was optimistic.

I was very, very stupid.

In actuality, our flight was due to take off about two hours after the Eastern Seaboard was struck with the Power Outage of 2003. We waited in the airport for nearly eight hours before our flight was canceled. We took a plane the next morning and our seats were no longer together so I ended up spending my first international flight sitting next to a crotchety old Frenchman. I sobbed hysterically while watching The Hours. Twice.

Then we arrived in France where they put us up at a hotel airport for about five hours. I ate a croissant and drank a cup of tea and fell asleep for about twenty minutes before Tom was shaking me to get up and catch our connecting flight. I shouted BON SOIR MES AMIS! And that is all I know of France.

We arrived in Athens on a putrid August day, where it was 115 degrees. They had lost our luggage with all the blackout/flight changes chaos and though I thought to buy some new clothes, all the stores were closed for some random Greek holiday.

I will never forget walking up the stairs to our Athens hotel room, after paying 5 extra euros for AIR CONDITIONING, and collapsing onto the bed realizing that I was going to be stuck in my sweaty disgusting traveling clothes for at LEAST a day or so. (HA! Our luggage was lost for a total of SIX DAYS.)

Tom went out to dinner with a few of our friends who met us there while I stayed in the hotel room, scribbling furiously in my journal. At one point, I closed my book and went out to the balcony that looked over the city of Athens. I never felt so lonely and tired and helpless. But just looking out over the buildings, I was overcome with a sense of wonder. I remember thinking to myself, "I will most likely, never ever see this again." Even then, I knew to savor it.

In almost every picture I took in Greece, I am sweating like crazy and smiling wider than ever before. Lost luggage, miscommunication, sweltering heat and I never ever wanted it to end.

Dear Italy,

I promise to catch the baby. Please please don't disappoint me. I am so very excited to meet you.

LYLAS,

Laura

Gypsy

On a whim this afternoon, I bought two tickets to see the 8:00 performance of "Gypsy", starring Patti Lupone. Alayna met me for dinner and then we walked to the theater, and sat in the front box seat in the first two chairs. The lights dimmed and the orchestra started playing and the audience started screaming. People get excited by showtunes they recognize and that is a fact.

Three hours went by and it felt like ten minutes. At one point, I laughed so hard I almost slammed my head on the railing in front of me. I don't think I took a breath for at least sixty seconds, I just grabbed Alayna's hand and howled. And then, a little bit later, I cried (BIG SURPRISE), tears dripping down and falling on the carpet.

When I left the theatre, I was so speechless, so awed, so struck dumb by what I had just witnessed that I walked headfirst into a bus and I died.

I'm writing to you from heaven and I want you to know, that all of us angels can't wait for Patti Lupone to get up here because OH MA GOD THAT WOMAN IS MY HERO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The End.

Erica

This is my darling friend Erica.  She had too much to drink at my party on Saturday night and I took this video of her calling a boy outside the bar.  This boy will not commit to her so Erica decided to make sure he knew that she "has options" and that while she was at the bar, she was getting "a lot of offers". 

It's hard to pick a favorite part of this video.  It could be her very animated expressions or her sheer amazing Long Islandness or the fact that even when inebriated, she is the prettiest girl around.  If I had to choose, I'd say that what makes me laugh the most when watching it (and what made me laugh uproariously while I was taking the video, I apologize for my guffawing) may very well be the various musical theatre dance terminology that she weaves throughout the conversation in both voice and body.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, Miss Erica at her finest.

(There is a bit of cursing in the video just in case you are watching at work.)


Drunk Dial 101 from The Spectrum on Vimeo.