Hey Neighbor

Dear Fellow Writers,

Do you ever come across bits and pieces of writings you've never finished that are just sitting on your hard-drive making you feel more and more guilty about their lack of completion? Here is something I found that doesn't really belong to anything. I was in a stand-up comedy class in my last semester of school and I think I was trying to turn this into a joke. But when I reread it, I came off like a Yankee or something. Not the ball team. This is a true story though. And no; I do not remember what I was drinking when I wrote this.

I’m incredibly self-absorbed. Whenever I’m walking I never look up or notice people waving to me or trying to say hi. Later they’ll tell me that they were waving and I have to tell them about how I really only care about myself and my thoughts. But I can’t always do this with everyone, especially the people I don’t know. I had this neighbor who was always strung out and high and he would have these random visitors in Beamers come to the apt complex to “chat” or something then leave after 20 minutes. Now I think I have this thing where I do not ever want to risk being considered racist, so I go over the top to be nice and cordial. This neighbor of mine happened to be a black man and whenever he walked by me he would say, “Hey neighbor.” I would not say anything back because I only care about myself. After a while of this going on, he stopped me one day while he was talking with one of his clients and said, “You’re mean!” “What?” “Yeah, you’re mean! You never say hi to me.” Well, I was really fucked because he caught me and I couldn’t tell him how self-absorbed I was because then I would just come off as white-absorbed. So I did what I thought brilliant. I made him carry up my dresser that I just bought. This was not a small dresser. He was a nice guy and kind of rotund, so I didn’t think carrying up the dresser would be that difficult for him. So I watched and drank my tea as he carried the dresser on his back. I thought it was a very polite gesture, on my part. It really made up for all those times I didn’t say hi back. When he was done, I told him good job. I thought I needed to compensate him, but not with money. Someone left an unopened pack of Malboros in my car so I ran down and gave them to him. He said, "No, look at my skin. What do you think I smoke?" I said, "I don’t know. Do black people not smoke cowboy cigarettes?" He said, "No we just always smoke Newports." I said, "Sorry I didn't know."

Are you ever just grateful for your arms and legs?

Bestiality

The goat isn't kidding.

The happy triple

Saw an interesting play called "Twisted Wine" about a threesome on Saturday. Read my review here.

The boy going on 20 and the girl who said "whoa"

I needed to cross, so I pushed the button. The light turned green but the little white permission man never replaced the red foreboding hand. If you've ever crossed a street with me, you probably tried to continue in our conversation for a moment then realized I had already raced to other side. My fear of intersections does it to me.

I stood and threw a silent tantrum on the darkening corner, even though I knew the white permission man was probably just out and the green light would still allow me enough time to cross unharmed, and without any jay walking accusation. An out-of-nowhere blond boy raced past me and, seizing the opportunity to have a crossing buddy, I raced with him and arrived at the corner as he was pressing the next crossing button.

"It's scary! When there's no white man light!"

"Ah, fuck the light. Excuse my language."

"That's okay."

"And there's what I missed," he said, pointing to an OCTA member driving away.

"The bus?"

"Yeah."

"Was it stopped there when we got to the corner?"

"Yeah."

"Well, is there another one coming?"

"I think so."

I noticed the functional white permission man beckoning us, so I pointed and started walking. He followed.

"Sorry for walking in the same direction. I'm not following you or anything."

"That's okay."

"I guess it's back to work."

"Where do you work?"

"Right between those two office buildings."

"What do you do?"

"In a nutshell, real estate. In not a nutshell, something very complicated."

"Is it legal?"

"Well considering that when I was doing it when I was 13, 14, and 15 years old and it was definitely not legal then, it must be legal now."

"How old are you now?"

"19. Going on 20."

"Cool."

"You?"

"22."

"Sorry, I guess I'm not supposed to ask."

"It's okay. I asked you."

"Where are you off to?"

"The library."

"You like to read, then?"

"Yep."

"Reading's good for you. It's good for your brain."

"Yeah, I've heard that."

Then I said something that was very much something I would say. If you've ever become friends with me it's probably because I said something like, "Hey let's be friends!" Or, "Hey, look. We're hanging out. We must be friends." Or, "Want to get a drink some time? I think we could be good friends." My friendships never seem to happen organically. I always feel the need to comment on the conversational or relational development, or lack thereof. So I said something like this, something like, "Look we became crossing buddy friends!" Or, "What a fast conversation we started and are now ending as we part our ways." But I don't remember exactly what it was because at this point I saw the fire hydrant, made to pass to the right of the fire hydrant, subsequently failed and incurred a bruise I'm sure will be hideous by tomorrow morning. I do remember what I said after that, though.

"I just ran into the fire hydrant."

"I saw that."

"It really hurts."

"I believe it."

"Owe."

"Well, it was good meeting you."

"You, too."

"And best of luck to you."

"Bye."

Returning from the library and approaching the same intersection, my new crossing buddy had an interesting outfit: helmet, wrist pads, knee pads, elbow pads, and a bike as an accessory.

"Why are you walking your bike?"

"I forgot my light."

"Oh. You should just wave your cell phone in front of you while you ride."

"I don't think the police men would like that," she laughed.

"Where are you coming from?"

"The library."

"Me, too!"

This middle-aged woman told me about how hard her tax class is and that she lived by the high school, which was in my direction, so of course I said, "Hey! Let's be walking buddies!"

"Okay!"

I held up my phone to her and said, "I'm expecting a phone call soon, though."

"Where do you go to school?"

"I just graduated from Vanguard University."

"Whoa! You look like you're in high school."

"I'm 22."

"Whoa. What did you study?"

"English. Literature."

"Whoa. That's deep."

"Where are you from?"

"Venezula. You're Californian?"

When people say "Californian" or "Oregonian" or "Delwarian" it seems to clarify that each state does in fact have its own culture, own people, own ways and shit of that sort. I like it.

"Born and raised. What's your name?"

"Korkee." (Clearly not spelled right, but it sounded something like that while we shook hands.) "Yours?"

"Hannah."

"Hannah, like..."

"Montana."

My phone rang and I answered, finishing my conversation so Cyntho could hear all the way in Miami.

"Well, I have to take this. Good meeting you."

"You, too! Have a safe walk home!"

"You, too!"

Harbor and Baker is a good intersection to meet two-minute friends.

Unmade

I can't exactly go to sleep just yet. My sheets are still in the dryer and I need to make my bed.

I just had a drink with a couple of my favorite people: a friend and a mentor. (I do consider this person a mentor, whether he knows it.) Every time I get together with these folk I get inspired; not necessarily in the artistic sense, but in the sense that I want to do things out of my routine.

My routine being...work, internship, walk the dog, hang, and read a book at some obscure place until I tire of it or it tires of me.

I had been reading "Wuthering Heights" until a few moments ago when I closed it and dog-eared page 168, although I never hope to open it again. I keep telling myself it takes a strong, a courageous, person to stop reading a book midway through. The other tiny person on my shoulder tells me I am being lazy. Honestly though, this books is boring. I have a problem reading things with such dated themes such as class conflict, romance, love, revenge!!!!!!

For now, I will give you a list of things I have in my mind. As good of a bullshitter as I am, these nuggets simply cannot be fleshed out into any paragraph worth reading.

1. My feet are clammy. 2. My nail has finally fallen off. 3. I picked at the remains of my nail. 4. Now my nail hurts. 5. I think I'll try my hand at fiction writing again. 6. I like preppy things and am too embarrassed to wear them. 7. My friend (boss) from work got engaged. 8. After this I am going to reorganize my bookshelf. 9. These pictures have nothing to do with my post. 10. I miss school. 11. Sometimes "Family Guy" takes it too far. 12. I draw 3-D boxes a lot. 13. I'm hungry. 14. I can't wait to see "Atlas Shrugged." But why are there so many newbies involved in the project?

A cluttered thought

Dick Hickock and Perry Smith,
the murderers of the Clutter
family and stars of "In Cold Blood"

The Clutter family before anyone
knew their names

Yesterday I met a man whose father knew the Clutters. That probably means nothing to you, unless you happened to have read the book that has turned out to by my favorite I've read all summer.

The Clutters were a family murdered for a handful of change in their farmhouse in Holcombe near Kansas City. Truman Copote--whose name is more famous among my generation for the title of a movie starring Phillip Seymour Hoffman than for his successful writing career--followed the case for six years and compiled what he called a "nonfiction novel" called "In Cold Blood." I had just finished the book the day before while lying on my bed covering my ears from Elle hurrying me up--she wanted to talk about Hawaii. (The last two pages of a book are crucial to your overall feeling of it. Don't let people ruin it for you.) Not only had "In Cold Blood" made me cry two distinct times, but I didn't exactly stop thinking about it since I had picked it up.

The next day, yesterday, I was ringing someone up while asking a fellow employee what he was reading. I like to try and include customers into the conversation, otherwise they get huffy and puffy about standing around as if in my living room while I completely ignore them and talk to the more amiable people in my life: the baggers. So I asked the middle-aged man in front of me, "Are you reading anything right now?" To which he said "no" but reciprocated the question.

"Yes, I just finished 'In Cold Blood' now I'm reading 'Wuthering Heights.' Have you read 'In Cold Blood'?" I asked.

"Yeah, I have. I was good."

"I loved it."

"My dad lived in Kansas City."

"What? Really? That's crazy!"

"Yeah and he knew the, what was their name? The people who got killed. The Clutters."

"He knew the Clutters."

"Yeah."

"Your dad knew the Clutters, Herb Clutter?"

"Yeah."

I was shocked and he acted like it was completely normal. Now, he most definitely could have been blowing smoke up my ass because, let's face it, some real freaks come into that store. (Just today a man named Hector came in, shook his hips, and sang a few bars to me and two other girls then carried on to do his shopping.) But I chose to believe he was telling the truth.

If you still can't understand what a big deal this was to me, imagine this. You just finished reading "The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand. It took up most of your time and now it's all you think about. You are recommending the book to everyone. Then you recommend it to one more person and that person tells you, "Oh yeah, my mom went to school with Howard Roark and was neighbors with Dominique Francon." Or, let's see if you need a more pliable situation. You just finish the "Twilight" series and someone tells you his uncle knows Edward Cullen. Wouldn't that blow your mind?

The most disheartening moment when reading a book is knowing you can never meet the characters. I guess it's a little different when the story is true.

OCAC

I started writing theater reviews for an online magazine. Check out my first one here.

Not funny

1 I am reading "In Cold Blood" by Truman Copote. It is exceeding my expectations. 2 The Rhianna and Eminem song about abusive relationships made me cry in my car randomly yesterday. (For the record, I've never been in a physically abusive relationship. It's just a good song.) 3 Borders is great but too many people know it. Too crowded. Too loud. 4 The bruise on my finger has grown astronomically, both in its annoyance and its size. 5 Grad school....having thoughts about it. 6 Self-realizations are not fun, according to me. They're scary mostly. 7 Staring a new blog with Laura. Here's a teaser: It's called "Free Bean." Look out. 8 The most exciting part about not liking my job is knowing I won't be there forever. 9 Can you spell the contraction "will not" as "wont" and "won't"? It seems the apostrophe has become obsolete. 10 If there was a Gilmore convention, I'd go. 11 A dear friend moved to Miami for school. Lucky girl. 12 Elle made me watch "Jersey Shore." I puked. 13 I want to find a decent, quiet place to enjoy a beer and read a book. Suggestions? 14 I can't end on no. 13 becuase I hear it's unlucky.

It seems not to matter

"I broke up with a girl once because she didn't know how to put make-up on."


This is something I overheard the bartender say to the cocktail waitress while I was stewing in my early bird loneliness. Knowing shows always start late wasn't enough to keep me from getting there right on time, the wrong time, two hours before the right time. I filled the lull with a phone call to my best bud and also using up precious pages of my Moleskin with thoughts about how hipsters are cool and I want to be one but I hate them because they're too cool for me and on second thought they need to get their act together and just be themselves instead of buying fedoras and wearing scarfs in 80-degree weather. I also wrote down a few things others said around me, "others" being folks in the band, folks with the band, and folks paid for serving drinks.

Stimulating conversation rarely comes during a loud show. The only thing I can think of asking that is relevant and understandable is "What are you drinking?" And the answer can sometimes be followed by, "You know, they have $4 well drinks." But if there is no special deal, you're left with "Hm. Cool" (thumbs up sign.) Even before the show starts, while people are still milling in and the speakers aren't drowning the crowd yet, the conversation seems to be reduced to "yeah, uh-huh", keeping some sort of discussion going while you look around to see who's there: if you know anyone and if you see anyone you want to know. The most provoking conversation, for me at least, has been when I listen to others' conversations and respond to them in my mind. That way I can say anything I want back and will never cause offense because no one will hear it. Such as, "You're so shallow. You seem really nice and all, and I like your 'Go Fuck Yourself' tattoo to some extent, but you're fat and I think you need to get in a bit of shape before you start telling a girl she can't do her make-up right."

I realized tonight that I have a great fear of being insignificant. It must be my greatest fear actually. And if my years of pretending that I know what I'm talking about have taught me anything, I'd have to say with great confidence that people's greatest fears are what drives them to do what they do. I, for instance, cannot waste time sitting and enjoying a drink. I have to do something, anything, like write down anti-hipster quips and other people's shallow comments, even if it amounts to nothing. To me, wasting time is as good as throwing away a perfectly good bowl of soup. I read something once by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., that's always stuck with me.

And now I want to tell you about my late Uncle Alex. He was my father’s kid brother, a childless graduate of Harvard who was an honest life insurance salesman in Indianapolis. He was well-read and wise. And his principal complaint about other human beings was that they so seldom noticed it when they were happy. So when we were drinking lemonade under an apple tree in the summer, say, and talking lazily about this and that, almost buzzing like honeybees, Uncle Alex would suddenly interrupt the agreeable blather to exclaim, ''If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.''

So I do the same now, and so do my kids and grandkids. And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ''If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.''

That’s one favor I’ve asked of you.

-Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., "Man Without a Country"

This is one of the only times that I have heard this concept, the slow down and smell the roses concept, outside of a religious context. At least that has been articulated in such a vivid, convincing, non-hippie way. I'm not sure how I feel about my greatest fear that I have just now labeled. All I know is that I want lemonade now and will ask if Laura will have some with me tomorrow.

This post turned into more like a journal entry than I had hoped. My apologies.

Thank you Abe and FDR

So far it has been 14 cents in three days. Four pennies and a dime. I'm not sure when it began or if it's already over, but it has come to where I expect just to look down, reach a bit, and resurface with a tiny round piece that, had it been in my wallet moments before, would have been a petty insignificance barely called change for a chump.

But when it's on the ground, a penny is worth more than a penny.

After bumming for 12 hours about a lost internship, I hardly thought pennies and dimes were enough to lift my spirits. If anything, I thought whatever divine being was placing these coins in my path was trying to teach me to wear more practical pants all the time, not just at work.

Sometimes I would actually consider not picking up one of the coins because I didn't want any more of Hannah revealed than needed to be in that Jamba Juice.

The unapologetic hand that boldly keeps your pants up while kneeling down was useful. Though after I realized it's not that embarrassing to try to keep my underwear out of sight, the real embarrassment was clear to me. Who stops in the middle of an intersection to pick up a penny? It's a penny, for Pete's sake.

What seems to be Hannah walking in the tracks of a leprechaun is actually either a simple gift from something I've heard called Karma or an eccentric way to foretell coming providences...flukes, fortunes, serendipities, whatever you want to call it.

Something as mundane as picking up a dime is easily forgotten; but I know exactly when the luck started. Wednesday. And I know exactly when it snowballed. Friday.

("All of a sudden" is one of my least favorite phrases. Think about it. You have a bit of a sudden; it's there; it's big; it's using semi-colons relentlessly. Then, just when you don't think you can take any more of that sudden, you get all of it!)

All of a sudden, doors have been opening. Things have been happening. I've been feeling excited about working my ass off on various unpaid projects. Hard work is such a turn on for me.

The coins were not the point, I think. But the coins certainly had a point. They were like those numbingly sweet-natured, recorded women who tell you that your call is very important to them, you are next in line, please stay on the line and they will be with you shortly.

How a Facebook status saved my life

I do not believe I will be sharing any more stories from Ireland. There isn't much to say. We drank so much beer and cider in classic, heavy bar glasses that I got an accidental bruise on my finger that will soon castrate my nail; Galway was like heaven after a grueling eight hour bus ride from Belfast; and we didn't exactly do a damned thing in Cork besides go to the Blarney Castle, which I found a waste of time, money, and effort lugging around my camera just to take pictures of what I'm positive is simply the mini version of the Hogwarts theme park.

I must describe to you, though, how I happened to go to one of the best cities in the world. Our last night in Cork consisted of devising the several plans we had for our last days in Ireland. The group consented that returning to Dublin would be the best idea since we all were to fly out of there anyway. But I was a bit tired of Ireland and didn't see what else Dublin had for me, and I happen to have an enormous crush on the l'île de France. So I bought a ticket and the next evening was headed for Paris.

(Although this shot is not exactly

flattering, I found it fitting. You

can see the bruise on my finger

and how sweaty and lonely I was at the Louvre.)

For some reason I wasn't at all concerned with where I'd lay for my head for the three nights I was to stay there before I returned back to Dublin to catch my flight home. I only got concerned when nearly all the hostels were booked (and expensive), and the one Parisian I knew was in Thailand. The other dear French girl I knew was several hours away from Paris. On my Facebook status I asked if anyone knew a place I could crash in Paris for a few nights. Well, if the one Parisian guy I knew was in Thailand, my one Californian Aunt would certainly be in Australia, right? My Uncle George relayed the info to Aunt Carol, who commented on my status.

"Tonight is my last night in Paris. Let me know if one night helps."

Um, yes.

My first thought was, great! This will save me 40 euros and give me time to find my own hostel.

My plane was too late to use any airline shuttle service, so an expensive cab ride seemed to be the only option. I didn't even tip the guy, but in my head he didn't care because I winked at him. A doorman helped me out of the car and opened a golden door into the Park Hyatt Vendôme. Oh. My. God.

Traveling with a backpack and having a weakness for Top Shop means you have to wear as many clothes as possible, plus those boots you swore you'd need, with your extra socks stuffed in your coat pockets and the mini backpack your friend gave you on your front side like those trendy baby sacs, except I was the one who needed to be carted around because I looked like a special child sweating from the Parisian heat soaking through my multiple layers. I smelled. My backpack looked like a huge boil bobbing through the immaculate lobby.

After verifying that I was in fact Carol's niece and I was not here to assassinate her sumo-wrestler style, they gave me a key and I crept into her dark room.

"I'm awake."

"Oh, sorry. I'm just going to take a shower."

"Did they tell you I got you tomorrow night, too?"

"No you did not." I tried not to yell.

I was almost mad at her. It was too nice. Here I am, Miss Mooch, advertising on Facebook for a measly couch, perhaps a blanket, and come to find out I will be staying, not one, but two nights in a very posh hotel often visited by celebrities and the like. (Apparently that same weekend Eva Longoria and her husband were there, and I think Justin Timberlake? I don't remember.)

I stirred at the sound of her getting ready in the morning to eat breakfast and leave for the airport, but the next thing I knew I was alone in the room. Later she told me she tried to wake me up several different times but I was a stubborn sleeper, probably because it was the first real, comfortable bed I had slept in in two weeks. Luckily, breakfast was complimentary to me, another big thanks to Carol and her golden or diamond or some other gem or metal membership.

With a tummy full of fresh juice, coffee, smoked salmon and other trimmings of the sparkling buffet table, I set off to get lost in search of the Rodin Museum. After I came back to the hotel, changed rooms, showered again (the shower was bigger than my space at the hostels and had two faucets), and ate the complimentary chocolates, I ran to the Eiffel Tower to meet up with a bike tour group I had booked online while in Cork, then shared some wine with some flight attendants and pilots on the Eiffel Tower lawn at 1 in the a.m. Weird day.

I drank a lot of wine on this trip. I, like most people I guess, pledge allegiance to the saying, "When in Rome, do as the Romans do." As you know, Ireland for Hannah meant beer and cider. And so Paris had to mean wine and cheese, two things I would take a bullet for.

The next day I roamed around a bit and sat in a garden staring at a map not looking for anything in particular for about 20 minutes. I heard some Americans, so I wandered over and sat down.

"Hi."

"Hi." A couple stood up after they concluded the conversation and left me and the tall, well-postured young man to ourselves.

"Where are you from?"

"Chicago."

Jonathan was a dancer who, just for fun, auditioned for the Opera in Paris and was now taking the week to travel by himself. After we talked for four minutes and each discerned we were not interested in romancing, killing, or mugging the other, we spent the rest of the day together consuming three bottles of wine, walking until I got the blisters described in a previous post, eating cheese on the Champs Elysées, and dancing a bit to smoky techo music. I stayed up all night the last night so I wouldn't have to find a bed to sleep in then flew out the next morning.

I want to go back to Paris desperately. But more than anything, I want to share it with someone. I don't know what it is, but Paris really is meant for lovers. I didn't really believe it until I experienced those few days I had to myself, probably because my last trip to Paris was anything but charming. All I want to do is take someone I love to a crêpe stand and show them how delicious the simplest treat can be. (Sorry for the sappiness. But I'm really hungry and nothing sounds better than thinly fried batter and Nutella.)

Thanks again, Carol and George, for this extraordinary adventure. I am not only grateful for the coincidence but also for your extreme generosity. You're great!

Looking on the brightside

I'm so happy I don't have enough money for more than half a tank of gas at a time. Now I don't have to wait around while I fill up a full one.

Guinness is good for you

Disclaimer: Although I don't feel I need to defend myself for all the drinking stories I've posted lately, I feel a small preface is necessary. While I was not drunk my entire time abroad, drinking did happen to be our main activity, at least in the evening. Not only is it the Irish way to have at least one beer at some point during the day, drinking in another country is the best way to meet people and have a good laugh. Also, I think any reader, whether my relative or a cyber buddy, would rather hear a story about a fun night than about how I sat on a tour bus for five hours and saw some cool rock formations. Pretty scenery is better told in pictures; Hannah's disheveled experiences are better told in words.

This post will include a few words on Dublin and Belfast. Later, I will continue my account.

We were having a couple beers at Karl Strauss when Erin was telling me about her upcoming trip to Ireland and Spain next month. I got really jealous. So I bought a ticket. A very expensive ticket.

Having already been to Spain a few years ago, and having no desire to return, I was just going to travel with the group of six (me, Erin, Heather, Chris, Jen, and Kallie) in Ireland then return home from there. Our first day in Dublin, Erin and I knew we just wanted to get a Guinness at a pub: the quintessential Irish initiation. The next night was when I indulged in many a quintessential beverages. Too many, if you care to know. I don't know why. I think I was just excited to be in Ireland and really thirsty I guess. Erin and I still wanted to go out, because the bars seem never to close in the Temple Bar district. Kallie wanted to go back to bed because she had just gotten in that day and was tired. But when we dropped her off at our room (Kallie and I shared a room with four strangers; Erin and the other three in our group shared another room with other people) she got scared because our Swiss roommates were apparently really drunk and turning lights off and scratching at the door or something. (When I asked the boys about it later, they didn't know what I was talking about. But then again, we had a bit of a language barrier and they were probably a bit out of their minds and unable to remember anything.) I tried to lay down to go to sleep, but I had the spins. Never go to sleep with the spins. You'll wake up with them. So I went downstairs to use the pay phone to call Theodore with my phone card. Phone cards will be the death of me, I swear it. After sitting there for about five minutes unsuccessfully connecting with the boy in California, I started crying. (Surprise surprise.) I turned around and see a pretty French Canadian girl waiting to use the phone, but she was too polite to kick me off. I sat on the steps while she used the phone and her friends talked with me, letting me practice French.

"I'm sorry I'm so drunk. This is so frustrating and embarrassing," I said.

"No. Don't worry about it. It's normal," one girl said.

"Normal?"

"Yeah. In Canada, it's totally normal to be drunk. Don't worry."

For some reason, they made me feel so much better. I didn't feel good enough to drink that much on the trip again; but at least I no longer felt guilty for having a couple extra beers. (NOTE: If you want to sleep in on a trip to Dublin, or even Galway, don't stay in the center of town. Around 6 or 7 in the morning, you will hear a clank-clanking so loud you'll think it's your shitty, hostel bunk bed crashing around you. It sounds like a screamless riot in the street. No yelling. Just throwing things at each other. You will look out the window with a blistering headache and see people rolling their empty kegs--the kegs you helped finish--down the cobblestone streets. They will do this for about two hours. Good luck.)

(TIP: If you go to Ireland, yes, order Guinness. But be sure to order the cider they have on tap as well. It's Bulmers, normally. It's delicious always.)

The next few days in Dublin were fine. We did some good dancing, saw some pretty parks. The next town we went to was Belfast. Every time we would tell people about the cities we were going to visit, they would nearly vomit when we told them we were going to Belfast.

"Why would you go to Belfast?"

"I don't know. We just kind of picked it."

"But it's so boring."

"Well, we'll decide for ourselves."

They were right. The moment we got off the bus, we were a bit disoriented. We had to exchange our money because Belfast is in Northern Ireland, which is a part of the UK, which still uses the pound, which sucks for us because it's a higher exchange rate than the euro, which is much easier to use than the pound. We walked for what felt like an hour (later I was told it was only 30 or 40 minutes) until we finally found our hostel: The Linen House. Sounds like a hip name for a hostel. But no. It smelled horrible and it was so crowded because I guess a bunch of people were staying there to see Pearl Jam that weekend. We were all scared to sleep on the beds because there were all these stains and almost visible bugs crawling in and out of the pillow case threads. (We all dressed our pillows in shirts and sweatshirts for the two nights we were there.) But we liked the brick walls, even if it felt like we were sleeping in an alley.

The city was weird, too. I have a theory that the reason the city is a little less defined than most major cities is because it doesn't really know who it is. It's not quite a tourist spot; (They have Giant's Causeway and boast being the construction site of Titanic, which Erin thinks is rather presumptuous given the fact that the monstrous boat is now only known for sinking.) it's not quite a party town; (We went out one night and it was just bizarre: weird music, bad dressing. We did see our first real Irish bar fight in Belfast, though. The club was closing up, the DJ kept shouting "Give it up to our California girls Hannah, Heather, and Erin!!!" and playing an embarrassing techno, Irish jig rendition of "Single Ladies", when a girl tapped Heather on the arm and said, "Look. Look. A fight. A bar fight. Look." Like it was some sort of pack of animals: those coyotes everyone knows roam Mission Viejo because we hear their howls; when you see one you're not shocked, but you stare until it's passed so you can talk about it over breakfast the next morning. We look over and there is a group of eight or so people tangled up and moving around like a blob. I really thought they were playing that game, Pretzel, where you get tangled then have to untie yourselves. The bouncer and DJ ran over to break them up. Excitement.) and it's not quite a shopping town. (We went to a mall that looked almost identical to an American shopping mall. It was weird.) Everything closes early and we never really felt comfortable.

What was cool about Belfast was going on the tour of Giant's Causeway. I don't feel like taking the time or energy to describe it, so just look at the pictures. But basically it was an all day tour with the Carrick-a-Reed rope bridge, Giant's Causeway, and the Bushmills whiskey distillery. Our tour guide was hard to understand over the bus speakers; but when we did catch his anecdotes, they were all incredibly depressing.

"See that thing that looks like a shadow in the water? That's actually a salmon farm. One time, jelly fish stung all the salmon and they all died a horrible death and the people in this village lost their income for the entire fishing season."

"See that castle on the right hand side? There used to be 200 servants working in that castle for the family that lived there. Then lightening struck the side of the building and all 200 people fell to their deaths into the water."

"Coming up on your left hand side are three famous caves. The third cave was where kids would came to do horrible things because they did not have a fulfilling home life."

Meat eater

Airplane stories are not the most original. Everyone's got one. I don't have any real statistics, but I'd have to guess about 80% of all stand up comedians have at least one airplane or airport joke. Even my last blog post involved my misery on a plane. And alas, here comes another one: how I managed to get to L.A. from Paris sleepless and tipsy, blistered and bruised, and still managed to keep track of my luggage while following TSA regulations.

Only by the explanation of a bona-fide miracle did I manage to sleep two nights in one of Paris' nicest hotels right in the center of Place de Vendôme. (More on that later.) But, due to empty pockets, I was left sans bed for my last night, so staying up until I had to catch my flight at Charles de Gaulle early in the morn was my only option. I hung with my new dancer friend all day until he got tired and dropped me off at a bar, where I met some new friends to keep me company, one of whom stayed with me right up until I got in the cab. Out of pure thirst, honest, I drank a beer and a half in about 40 minutes. And after drinking wine all day and only getting a few hours of sleep the night before, that is probably what did me in. I got my luggage from hotel storage, changed out of my dress and uncomfortable shoes and realized I had huge blisters all over my feet. I had been walking all day.

I sat down in the cab and the driver was very sweet, letting me practice French with my limited knowledge of the language. It's when I got out of the car when I started hobbling and feeling dizzy. I think when I'm buzzed I tend to get really dramatic in everything I do. When I was going through the security check point I started acting like I was queen of the conveyor belt, over emphasizing my unbuckles and unzips, taking my shoes and coat off so quickly that I almost hit the man next to me. I envisioned myself a little George Clooney from "Up in the Air," snapping and twisting my luggage to the rhythm of the outdated music I had in my head from the bar. (Note: I love to dance. I don't know why. Every time I have an opportunity to go out and dance, I will. I went out dancing in Ireland and Paris a few times but the music was always just a bit off. Even in an of-the-moment type of city like Paris, the music they play in clubs is always from five to 10 years ago, and often with an unnecessary electronic twist that is really such a turn off. A club we went to in Dublin actually played "Summer Lovin' " from "Grease" and the kids went nuts. So while I was performing my little running through the airport masquerade I had some old song stuck in my head, pretending like I was in a movie from many years ago. I hope I lost readers months ago so no one really goes on this site anymore; that was terribly uninteresting information and not exactly relevant to the story.)

I make it to my gate with just...an hour to spare. I was running around for nothing. I eventually made it onto plane number one (I had two more to go), sat down in my seat, and that was the last thing I remembered. I guess I passed out or something because I don't remember taking off, looking at the person next to me, or mouthing the words of the flight attendants explaining to help yourself with your oxygen mask before you help others. The next thing I know, we're landing, I have a box of food on my lap, and I'm not just opening a package or holding a package. I have some sort of meat inside my mouth and I am unwillingly chewing and digesting something I hadn't eaten in over three years. After I became vegetarian I had accidentally eaten meat in small forms, in pastas and soups and such. But two days ago, sitting on that plane with my eyes barely open and blurred from Carlsberg and sauvignon blanc, I was eating a significant amount of some sort of thin ham meat thing, until I realized what was happening and I threw it down. I ate the rest of the breakfast, although I don't think I was hungry, then waited for landing so I could hobble off to my next plane.

In the Dublin airport, the alcohol had worn off and I got all the feeling back in my feet...to my dismay. After I came home I took off my shoes and discovered about 10 blisters as the reason for my tears, yes, tears while going through customs and finding my gate. When I sat down on the next plane while everyone else was still filing in, I started to cry. Like I said, I get dramatic. I think I was crying because a) I was tired, b) I just spent a lot of money on my trip and was now in debt, c) my French skills had been lost with years of neglecting practice, and d) I just ate a few handfuls of meat and was awaiting the uncomfortable repercussions in my digestive system. I stopped crying when my Danish seat mate sat next to me. He was very nice but smelled like he hadn't had a shower in days. Then I realized I hadn't had a shower in a while and probably smelled, too. So I had another beer on the plane because I had some extra euros left over that I wasn't going to be able to exchange. We watched "Taxi" with Queen Latifa and Jimmy Fallon; we both laughed a lot and kept looking at each other with our ear phones on while pointing at the screen and making a ruckus. It put me in a good mood.

I was a bit more optimistic on the next plane because it was my last one until Theodore was going to pick me up from LAX and I could pass out in the car. There was just one problem. Oh yes, the quintessential problem of piling hundreds of passengers into an airborne tube and keeping them there for five hours: a shrieking child. After that ride, I don't think I ever want to have a child. It was the kind of shrieks where it starts off low for a short second then suddenly bursts into high gear, expelling the air from the angry lungs in a loud, unbearable, dizzying moment then a pause to contemplate the meaning of life then starting low and shrieking again. It was like sitting in the stands of a NASCAR race, minding your business, eating a pretzel, then hearing the cars scream past in a thunder that riles up the crowd until they're gone. The audience looks at each other with disbelief then waits again for the next loud whir. My temper was rising.

I disembarked the plane with the reminder of my bubbly painful feet and walked outside to wait. Apparently Theodore drove past me once in the busy LAX arrival circle, yelling out the window trying to get my attention. But I just stared right past him with tears in my eyes. When we finally saw each other on the next round, I sat down in his car and started that little laugh/cry thing I do when I don't get enough sleep and I can't read my feelings. Then I showed him my feet.

This is what I love about Theodore. I smelled like shit and I was acting like a mad woman. But the only thing he could really say is, "Ohhhh, can I pop those for you?" Gross, I know. But he did. He cleaned up my feet for me with water, a safety pin, and band-aids. Just like a real disciple.

Valentines on a plane!!!!!!!

The only thing worse than having nerve rattling stomach pains on land is having those same pains expanding and contracting while flying in a United pressurized metal tube.

The only thing worse than not grabbing a beer at the bar a few yards away is spending an hour regretting sobriety while stuck on the runway and another 5 hours wondering how to steal the $10 2 oz. bottle of Jack.

The only thing worse than sitting next to Miss Los Angeles on land is being forced to crawl over her to get to the restroom, even though she was only pretending to be asleep so she wouldn't have to get up.

But in all honesty, the only thing worse than being forced to watch "Valentine's Day" in flight is choosing to watch "Valentine's Day" in the land of America, a magical place where you may always move about the cabin and make choices that define you.

So if you have rented "Valentine's Day" out of curiosity, I pity you. If you bought a ticket to see it and ended up enjoying yourself, I am ashamed for you. That was the worst movie I have seen all year, which of course means I had so many witty remarks to share, alas, with no one: Miss LA was watching the film but I was too afraid to say much to her because she scoffed at everything the flight attendants did; and my travel-mate, Cynthy, was in a coma next to me.

The movie is really impossible to critique because it was sans good parts. If I had to pick a story line I thought was kind of well-written and even a bit surprising, it would have to be the one with Bradley Cooper and Julia Roberts. But that is all. The rest, even without detailing the lack of chemistry in the scenes or about the painfully bad acting from the actually good actors, was crap. There were way too many story lines to follow, and bad story lines at that. Just looking at the billboards you could tell the flick was only a big money maker. It makes me sad.

More than that, I am curious. What drugs did the agents use to make their actors join the cast, or even finish reading the script?