IKEA

Today is beautiful -- sunny, crisp, pretty. Looking out my window through the treees, I see the lake sparkling.

The perfect way to spend today would be strolling around Brussels or Waterloo or Amsterdam.

I'm going to spend it in the vast, crowded aggressive dollhouse that is IKEA.

Today I'm getting an oven stand... and maybe an oven... and some lighting fixtures. And since I'll be in IKEA anyway, probably some candles.

Definitely candles. Can't have too many IKEA candles.

Waterloo.

Today I was in Waterloo. Yes, that's the Waterloo. In Belgium. I thought it was in France until recently, which is pretty embarrasing given that I took quite of lot of European history in university. Must remember to turn in my smarty-pants badge tomorrow. Seems I no longer need it.

I went to Waterloo to buy chairs and kitchen stuff from an expat who just settled into Belgium when, WHAMMO!, he had a family tragedy and has to sell all his stuff and get out of Dodge. Or rather, out of Waterloo.

I borrowed my boss' Espace for the trip. "A whaa"? you're probably asking. An Espace. 'Espace' is basically French for 'Space". As in, "this fucking vehicle is as big as space". As in, "this vehicle it has it's own galaxy but we're not sure if it's inhabited because we've only explored the delta quadrant". It is a Very Big Vehicle. I hate it.

I hate that the GPS is in Dutch, that it's like driving around your living room, and I hate that the road to Waterloo is confusing. I hate that I have to do all this by myself. Everything. I hate that all the nice people I meet, like the guy who sold me the chairs, are married and are leaving the country.

I hate it when people complain in their blogs. It's boring and it bothers me that I'm complaining. To the Internet. Like the Internet is going to go "oh, hey, wow, I had no idea you were so upset. I should have been more attentive". Like the Internet will be all like "Geez. Hey, is there anything I can do for you? I mean, hell, it must be a real challenge moving your whole life to a country where you don't know anyone or anything... why don't you sit back and I'll take care of a bunch of the stuff you need". Nope. The Internet is good, but it's not that good.

.0O (hmmm... But maybe it could get me a boyfriend)

So here I am at home, it's 9:30 and I just bought 7 MORE chairs. So now I have a total of 15 chairs in this place. It's like I collect chairs. Which, as of an hour ago, I guess I do.

Honestly, I bought them because they are new and are 40Euro each from IKEA. And he sold me all 6 for 40Euro. So now I have a house full of chairs and am questioning whether or not it was a great idea to fill my whole place up with chairs. As if I am ever going to have 15 people using the chairs -- given that I know roughly 3 people in this whole country. Maybe I'll let anyone who visits me keep their chair... that should be incentive to keep visiting so that they can earn a whole set.

Guess who's lonely tonight?

Sweet Dreams and Flying Machines in Pieces on the Ground

This post may sound melodramatic.

It's not intended to.

It's just that when someone dies, the thoughts that come flooding in and take over everything are big, rhetorical, and dramatic. I'll take what comes today because I'm too tired of censoring myself.

Jennifer is dead.

Her body was recovered from the helicopter crash site in Nepal. There were no survivors. The flight was only supposed to be 20 minutes and they didn't make it 5. Bad weather. Probably a bad decision was made - a risk was accepted because the distance was short, or maybe there was no place for so many people to sleep that night, or maybe it was something as stupid as they had to get the helicopter back to the army and someone was 'just following orders. Anyway, they hit a mountain.

The cliche things that come to mind are to do with the pointlessness of it, how desperately sad and tragic it is, and that it makes me think about my own life. The conclusions I'm drawing about it aren't entirely compatible with how I currently find myself live it. Another cliche: words can't express any of this properly. I'm experiencing the news of her death as a physical, emotional, spirtual melancholy. These words... are nothing much.

Jennifer was lovely and amazing. She was the sort of person that I want to be. She lived her life in a way that, if more people lived like that (myself included), we'd have a lot more gardens, well run schools, species walking around the planet, clean air, healthy food, and healthy people. Her obituary from the WWF website is here:

Jennifer Headley

Jenn worked as the WWF-UK’s Coordinator for Himalaya/South Asia Programme.

She joined WWF-UK in August 2003. Prior to this, Jenn had worked with the Canadian government in Alaska, and in Nepal for two years, one of which was with WWF-Nepal supporting species conservation.

She was based in Nepal in her current role, focused on community-based conservation in the Eastern Himalayas,
since November 2005.

Jenn had a Bachelors Degree in Political Science & Philosophy from McMaster University in Canada, where she was the recipient of the McMaster Chancellor’s Scholarship and Director’s Award for Dedication to Residence Government. She also held a Masters Degree in Public Administration (M.P.A.) from Queen’s University, Kingston, Canada, 1996, where she received the Queen’s University Graduate Award.

Jennifer was an important part of the WWF Nepal family where she lent her
expertise and supported important initiatives in the region.

She was a Canadian national who is survived by her parents and two sisters.

What it doesn't say is that she danced with an air of freedom, that people were drawn to her because of how good it felt to be with someone so kind and comfortable, that she lived the moments of her life, that she had a really neat way of clapping, and that she had a warm and wonderful smile and laugh that I'm sure so many of us who are mourning her death have a clear image of right now. As for me, I will always imagine Jenn the way she was the last time we parted... young, beautiful, healthy, wearing an indian cotton shirt, hair clean and shiny, smiling broadly, and saying 'travel safely. See you somewhere in the world'.

The helicopter that crashed was carrying some impressive people. They were the sort of people who thought about a world well beyond themselves. The sort of people who express their care for the world in a way that people like, well, most of the rest of us, don't. They were the sort of people this world needs a lot more of.

Today a friend from Canada said this:

Reading the bio's it makes me sad that we have lost such a remarkable group of people.

Sometimes I wonder what I am doing with my life that my main focus is trying to help a bunch of old geezers in Brazil and Belgium make a whole lot more money than they made last year.

And Christine said this:

Maybe she had already fullfilled her goal in life.

This really makes me think. The idea that Jennifer may have already fulfilled her goals is the only way that any of this makes sense to me.

There's more to say but it will have to wait.

I've got something to say to you.

I've been wanting to tell you this for a long time.

It's about your weight.

This is going to be hard to hear, but you're overdue for the truth, so here it is: it is useless to worry about your weight. However, it is not useless to do something about it. People who blame their weight on metabolism or bad genes or whatever are lying to themselves. Figure out why you weigh so much and address it. Or don't bother with the self-analysis... just do something about it. Here are some things to do:

1. Stop making excuses. Admit you're the way you are because of you. Not because your mom never taught you how to eat properly, not because your dad told you you had a fat ass when you were a kid and you internalized it and made it a self-fulfilling prophesy, and not because you can't change. Because you can change. If you believe you're big, also believe you're bigger than the problem.

2. When you feel powerless to resist food and you are about to eat something that you know will make you miserable in 10 minutes, don't eat it. Walk away. This is very hard. Acknowledge that it is very hard and do it anyway. Even if you run back and eat the damned thing 5 minutes later, that's 5 minutes -- and at least you were running. Maybe next time you'll go 10 minutes. Maybe you won't eat it at all next time.

3. Realize that if you are able to stand up to read this that you are: a) alive, b) able to stand up and therefore c) able to walk away from whatever is tempting you and (oh my god) d) able to take a few more consecutive steps and exercise. Your mom was right about a few things... one of these things is that you're lucky you have legs and that you can walk. Not everyone does and can. Your grandparents were also right when they told you that your health is the most important thing. Stop squandering it and start cherishing it.

4. Realize that you are overweight. Realize that everyone knows you're overweight. They all think you are 'fat in those pants' and exactly noone is fooled by the fact that you leave your shirt untucked to cover yourself. It doesn't miraculously disguise the fact that you have a large ass. It makes you look sloppy and bigger than you need to. What's important to know is that noone cares as much as you do. There is noone in your office, at your church, in the supermarket or on the planet who will care as much as you do about how your outfit looks on you. Get over it and stop imagining that baggy clothes render you invisible, or that noone has better things to think about than your outfit. Well-fitting clothes are more attractive. If you have a waist, show it. If you are really curvy, bring it on. You don't look like a model. That's because you're not a model. Stop trying to look like a model. Also stop trying to look like a campground.

5. It's going to take time. That's ok. If you're lucky, you have time. All things equal, you have exactly as much time left as you have left. No more. No less. With respect to your weight, you have two options: A) Stay fat -- love it, hate it, pretend you're not it, imagine you're bigger than you actually are, or whatever. Live the rest of the time you have fat or getting fatter, or B) Lose weight for a while until you get to where you like what you look like again. It doesn't matter which you choose. The same amount of time will have passed. You will have the same amount of time left (assuming you're not destined to die of an obesity-related illness). You'll just have eaten a few more salads and gone for a few more runs than you would have otherwise. And you may end up a bit happier than you otherwise would have. Maybe not. There are no guarantees.

The thing about it is that it's your choice and your responsibility. Stop blaming others. Start taking care of yourself. You're not stupid. Stop acting like this is the biggest deal on the planet. Really want to think about food and weight all damned day? Try contributing to solving world hunger. I assure you, your mom was also right that there are people starving in the world. You're now old enough to get that and to do something about it. Your damned problems are less than trivial.

And if anyone wants to write to me to tell me that I'm being insensitive, you can save your energy for the stairmaster. For anyone reading this who thinks I'm talking to them. I'm not. I'm talking to myself.

Jennifer

I met Jennifer just over a year ago.
We had both flown into London for a conference called "Be The Change" -- I from Canada and Jennifer from Nepal.

We met on the first day and instantly made a connection. Jennifer is definitely a soul sister. We met in the womens' bathroom before the conference and struck up a conversation, laughing that the only 2 Canadians had managed to find each other within 10 minutes of arriving. We spent 3 days at the conference enjoying each others' company, soaking up the positive vibes from the amazing people around us and engaging in interesting conversation about how to better the planet and our part in all that.

For Jennifer's part, she works for the World Wildlife Fund. She walks her talk and does it with a great smile and a non-judgmental peacefulness that makes people like to be around her.

This weekend she was flying by helipcopter in eastern Nepal. She had been at a ceremony where the Nepalese government turned over the conservation of the wildlife and habitats surrounding Kangchenjunga — the world's third highest mountain — to a coalition of local communities.

Her helicopter hasn't arrived and there is a search party for her and 23 others.

It's raining heavily in Nepal and the searchers are having a hell of a time.

It's unimaginable what her parents must be going through. I cannot imagine what she is going through.

I hope to have an opportunity to tell Jennifer that she is one of the finest people I have ever met.

Nearly Random

I'm in my new place, streaming the CBC and not organizing my apartment.

I went grocery shopping, bought a charger for my home phone (in French) and did my laundry in my landlady's washing machine (in Dutch). I live on a language border.

Yesterday I took the day off and hung out with my *gulp* former roommate Yoka's (sniff, sniff) boyfriend. We assembled a bathroom and a hallway cabinet. The hallway cabinet doesn't have a door on it yet... or drawers... He had to leave before finishing. I'm pathetic and don't do things like this myself.

Today there are clothes allllll over my apartment. I don't mind. I was down to my last pair of underwear and now everything is wet but clean.

The Internet keeps cutting out. I do mind this. It makes me nervous.

Andre wrote a poem for me:

The shortest message
the shortest breath
the sound of you sleeping
beside me
while oceans yawn
chasm-like dreams
of rocks skipping over them
to flatlands

Andre is a poet. Until now, I've only read him in French.

Yesterday my cousin from Nova Scotia sent me an email:

Hellooooooo,
Comment ca va?
A friend of mine saw Andre the other day and he said
"Je suis en amour" {Iam in love} but she is in Belguim.
My friend replied "Colleen"?
To his
surprise, he said yes.
He also said he thought the
feeling was mutual.
You never told me.HA!HA!
By the way it was Helen,
she could not
believe it!
Hope all is well.
Love Ya!!!!!!!!!!
Dar

I'm not sure what would posess anyone to tell other people they are in love before they tell the person they are in love with. Especially if you live in Nova Scotia where the speed of gossip exceeds the speed of light.

Another Normal Tuesday

It's 7:30am and it's my second morning waking up in the new apartment... it's peaceful here. I can see a pretty little woods through the back door... the sun is quietly rising. I would like to stay here all day -- reading books, doing some writing, playing guitar. Right now, it's easy to imagine that there is no such thing as traffic, or large, looming, impersonal office buildings full of people who don't realize that this is a beautiful day to just be ourselves.

But we're not going to be ourselves today. Not really. Because everyone checks their selves at the front door before walking into the office. It's as though we take everything that's fascinating and quirky and funny about ourselves and hang it on an invisible meathook outside the building. Shed of our selves, we can enter and play a role for 8, 9, 10, or more hours. The play, a black comedy, is alternately titled "mortgage" or "fear" or "this is what I'm meant to do". At the end of the day, our selves are still hanging where we left them. But they feel a little older and tired-er at days end.

How is it that we have organized our society like this? How is it that there is so much acceptance that this is simply the way it is. Even worse, what if some people like this? Even worse, what if some people never question it?

Then again, perhaps they are the lucky ones. It is only people like me who find it painful. People who embrace or don't think about it just find it normal.

Just another normal Tuesday.

We'll see. Maybe it doesn't have to be.

The morning after the party...

Last night there was a birthday party for a friend's friend's husband. He's someone I've not met, but who, it turns out, works for the same company I do.

The hosts were a very nice Lebanese couple and the guests were a great international mix of Lebanese, Egyptian, Syrian, Belgian, Palestinian, a Scot, an American, and a Canadian.

If this party was an exemplar of "A Lebanese Party" (which, maybe it was, maybe it wasn't... but let's just say it was) here are the conclusions that can be drawn about how Lebanese throw a party contrasted against how Canadians do it:

Lebanese Party: All lights are on. Very bright lights. At some point the hostess will go to the lightswitch... and turn the lights up even brighter. Don't know why.
Canadian Party: Exactly the opposite. Lights are set to 'ambiant' and duct-taped in this position. This is possibly because we are shyer in groups and bright lights make us nervous. Also, we become more attractive in lower lighting. Middle-Eastern people don't need props and special effects to achieve this.

Lebanese Party: No music.
Canadian Party: Very loud 80's music mixed with some BNL and Tragically Hip

Lebanese Party: 20 people, 2 bottles of wine, many bottles of fruit juice
Canadian Party: 20 people, 20 cases of beer, 20 bottles of wine. Possibly also tap water.

Lebanese Party: Include party games that are meant to be fun but that have to first be explained repeatedly in 3 languages and that torture the otherwise quite reserved birthday boy to the point that he starts looking for escape routes from his own apartment. Including estimating the cost/benefit of a 3-story leap from the balcony.
Canadian Party: No games, per se, but always high potential for a backyard 'light sabre' fight with leftover fireworks.

Lebanese Party: Children are present and well behaved. They will fall asleep under the guest's jackets at their regular bedtime.
Canadian Party: Children are tolerated and if they are present are mostly there to interrupt conversations, get their parents another beer, and to trip over. They are also are a handy excuse for their parents to leave the party early.

Lebanese Party: Guests all intermingle, talk to everyone and have interesting conversations about the world. If you don't know everyone at the start of the party, you will by the end of it.
Canadian Party: Guests talk to whoever they arrived at the party with unless they know others. Conversations are mostly about people's jobs, fishing, and who just bought a big barbecque. Whoever you knew at the start of the party you will still know at the end of it.

Lebanese Party: Unless there are pretty, young, single women at the party, all handsome, single Lebanese men will leave the party before midnight. No excuses are given and none are expected.
Canadian Party: There are no handsome single men in Canada. That's what the low lights are for.

:-0

Friday
or "thankyouthankyouthankyou sweetmotherofgod"

Can you tell I'm happy it's the weekend.
What a week. Sooo much weirdness...

My favorite quotes this week:

"Of course I can do that for you. I'm your friend. I'm not your family".

"My robot lawnmower must have run over the hedgehog"

Me: "Yoka, any reason why you are wearing your caving boots and your underwear this morning"?
Yoka: "I couldn't find my slippers"

"Didn't you notice the lamp was, you know, brighter"?

Colleague: HaHa... so if your car is towed you maybe have to take a boat to work
Me: Yes, so if you see me taking a helicopter to work you'll know my boat sunk.
New Guy: Oh wow, really, you live on a boat?
Me: No. No I don't

Oh the fun of it all.

Tonight I'm going to a party with the cavers. We spent part of last night planning party games...

And now, all I want to do is sleep.

I'm officially old.

Pity Party. Table for One.
or "Hey, how'd it go moving into your new place"

It's funny what the mind can do given a little time.

Early in the summer I found an apartment in Belgium that had it all. Groovy, cozy, spacious, a bit elegant and, importantly, in a little woods with a view of the lake. Anyone who has ever been to Belgium will know that this is not typical (~understatement~). Anyone who hasn't been to Belgium will have to take my word for it.

Since my love-at-first-sight decision to take this apartment (no small commitment as a standard lease here is 3 years), some months have passed and I've spent most of my summer in Canada. Yesterday was the big day -- all of my furniture/worldly posessions cleared customs in the port of Antwerp and arrived at my new apartment. This makes me happy. It's just that, not having seen this apartment all summer, my mind seems to have played around with my memory of it. Yesterday, I noted the following elements were out of sync between my memory of the place and the reality of it:

1. Could have sworn there was an oven in the kitchen. Nope. No oven.
2. Really could have sworn there were lights anywhere in the apartment. Hmmmm.. that's funny, lightswitches yes. Lights, no
3. Thought it was bigger. Much bigger. Why does this place now seem half the size of my old place?
4. Couldn't remember whether or not it had a fireplace... turns out it doesn't
5. Assumed that the drawers in the kitchen were real. Actually, they just look real and when you try to open them, you break your fingernails. Because they are not real and you are just pulling fake drawers. That don't open. Ever. No matter how hard you pull them.
6. Thought for sure there was at least one closet in the place. Anywhere. Nope-a-rino.
7. Remembered that it was really clean... but guess what??? Hey, you're getting good at this
8. Definitely did not remember the VLS (Very Large Spider) living in my front foyer (this now-former resident is again living in the lovely woodsy backyard where I expect it will live the rest of its natural life thinking "you know, when I first got thrown out here, I was thinking 'hey, what the fuck is this all about -- you can't do this to me bitch', but now that I'm living in the woodpile again I see that it's really the best thing that could have happened to me. That dump didn't even have lights anyway").

Last night as twilight was setting in, I rooted around in my tickle-trunk and found an electrical adaptor for the Belgian electrical sockets. I plugged in my lamp (a funky, heart shaped lamp from Ikea) and for about 15 minutes it cast a lovely, ambiant red light on my living room... the place looked tres cozy... then suddenly -- BANG! My lamp exploded.

Kids, let this be a lesson. Electricity is not a toy. The bag electricity comes in is not a toy. Nothing about electricity is funny. And especially not European electricity which is, uh, bigger and more ferocious than North American electricity. European electricity will bitchslap your silly little North American appliances. European electricity will make your imported re-naturalized euro-shit wish it had never been mass-produced. Honestly, I'm lucky I didn't burn my damned house down.

So last night, not wanting to spend the night in the dark/in flames. I drove back to my *other* apartment where the electricity doesn't try to kill you. I parked my car in the parking lot which, by some overnight miracle, by morning had turned into a Farmers Market. Immediately I thought 'oh look, my car has turned into a fruit and vegetable stand -- breakfast!!'. This fleeting optimistic thought was quickly replaced the realization that my car had been towed and I hadn't a clue to fucking where.

So, I spoke in Flemish-English (this is mostly me first talking in English while the Flemish person nods their head in near-complete incomprehension and then me nodding while the Flemish person answers a question I may or may not have asked) to the fruit market frau who seemed to have some experience with directing the English to the police station across the street. And that is how I found myself at 8:05 this morning in the police station in Kortenberg explaining to Lieut. Luc Somethingsmecksomething that my car had been towed.

Lieut. Luc, a tidy looking characature of a Belgian police officer, informed me that my car had, in fact, been towed. And so we began to play the particularly Belgian bloodsport of 'I will answer any question you precisely ask me without actually offering any new information'. After some rounds of this, I managed to learn where my car had been taken and was allowed to use the phone to call my boss to explain why I would not be able to facilitate the 9am global teleconference. It went something like this:

Me: Hello Johan. This is Colleen. I'm calling to tell you that I have run into an unexpected problem and won't be able to facilitate the 9am global teleconference.

Johan: Where are you?

Me: I'm at the police station but don't...

Johan: The call display says "Interrogation".

Me: Well yes. I'm in an interrogation room I suppose. I'm calling to tell you that ...

Johan: (beginning to question the intelligence of hiring the foreign) Ok, you are at the police station? In an interrogation room?

Me: Yes, well, my car has been towed away and I...

Johan: What is "towed"? (his first language is not english)

Me: (speaking very slowly and without contractions). Johan. I parked my car somewhere I should not have parked it. This morning it was gone. The police tell me it is now in a garage. I will be late for the meeting this morning.

Johan: You should be very careful where you park in Belgium.

Me: (trying not to freak out). Yes.. Yes I should. That is very good advice Johan.

Johan: (getting it) Sorry. That does not help you now I suppose.

Me: No. No it does not.

So, half an hour later I'm in a taxi, speeding toward the office, looking at the passing scenery and mostly thinking thoughts related to the futility of life and why I make choices that put me in situations that I can't understand and what is the point of working so hard when all that happens is I get older and more unhappy.

35Euros later, my taxi dropped me off at the office and I'm not in a great mood. I work in a large office building and, being a beer company, they play popular music in the front reception area. This is, I guess, to make visitors aware of how so oh-so-very hip we are. There is one dance song that, for reasons completely unknown to me, has always made me cry. This song is Alphaville's "Forever Young". I don't know why it makes me cry. I don't want it to make me cry. I just know that it does make me cry, and that I haven't heard it in 5 years. Until this morning. For anyone not familiar with it, the lyrics go something like:

So many adventures couldn't happen today.
So many songs we forgot to play.
So many dreams are swinging out of the blue.
We let them come true.

Forever young.
I want to be forever young.
Do you really want to live forever.
and ever...

etc...

I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the word "forever" so many times in succession, maybe it hits home with my desire to not want to miss a single thing and realizing that, in the trying I miss a lot. Futility of life shit. Regret. The crazy cab ride to nowhere. I don't know. Point is, it ... it was playing in the foyer and ringing in my ears all the way to my morning meeting.

And that was how my day started.

So now I'm at 'home'. My roommate isn't here and I'm not just wallowing in self-pity. I'm fermenting in it.

Yes waiter. Pity Party. Table for 1 please.

Weekendings

Weekends around here when Yoka is away are pretty quiet.

I often use the time to rest, read, organize and lately, to work on a book about the Mayans that I’m editing (52 pages done this weekend – yay!).

It's cozy. I burn incense, listen to acoustic guitar, light candles and drink tea or wine. These days,weekend social interactions are limited to a little shopping, perhaps a few phone calls to and from friends, and the occasional random caller who thinks that a great use of Skype is to call strangers and try to become best pals. By the way, it isn’t.

The point is, it’s pretty calm. Any of you thinking ‘yah, and pretty damn-ass boring’ would not be entirely incorrect.

As a social person by nature, I admit to having a love/hate relationship with how I spend my weekends lately… I crave companionship, but I’m also really reluctant to give up the solitude. I came to Europe for a European life (insert images of travel, exotic food and interesting people, about here)… and my life is interesting, just in a really quiet way lately.

Social life is different here and I don’t feel like it’s necessary to be out constantly. When I’m home alone, I’m really here. When I go out, I really go out. On Friday night, for example, I met my friend Veerle at a restaurant where we stayed talking, eating, drinking wine and laughing for almost 5 hours. This would be impossible back in Canada where the efficient hosts in even the best restaurants will start to politely encourage you to pay up and get the hell out after a couple of hours.

Anyway, no matter what else has been going on all weekend – Sunday nights at about 7pm, this is what our apartment suddenly looks like when Yoka returns:

YIKES... Blogger has a technical issue with pic uploading at the mo. So it's on you to imagine, if you will, a lovely, candlelit living room scattered with climbing ropes and belts, and neoprene gloves that don't lose their shape so that they appear to be trying to crawl across the floor to attack the mudspattered caving helmet. That's it. You got it

Yoka is a caver and spends entire weekends underground. She has various neoprene suits for diving in water-filled caves and heavy ‘dry-suits’ for, um, not diving in water-filled caves. The former get soaked and filthy, the latter get only filthy. It’s important to get everything dry as quickly as possible and the very best way to do this is to spread it all over the apartment. On Sunday nights our apartment looks like the scene of a terrible caving accident.

Don't look now, but is that a headless miner on our balcony?

(note: If blogger pic upload was working, that last comment would be really funny! Sigh....)

Making a Mess
or "how to annoy very nice people that you'll never meet"

There is a very nice person somewhere out there who has nearly the same email address as me (she's obviously also very witty... and faster than I am). I hate to admit this, but I've been harrassing her a bit lately. I want to know why I've stopped getting email to my gmail account -- as if it's her fault.

Without going into the whole thing... I'll just say that it's my mistake. I posted the wrong email address to this blog. Specifically, I posted hers. Not mine.

Dumb.

I mean, really dumb. Who would do that??

So, I sent her an apology and I owe anyone who has sent me an email through this blog link an apology because you've actually sent email to someone I don't know.

So I've fixed the email address thing on this site... and, for better or worse, your email is coming to me now. I write really good apology emails -- let me know if I owe you one.

Operators are standing by...