Is Qi Really a Word?

I am loathe to talk about Facebook again, but I have to give props to my favourite new application there – Scrabulous. If you’re like me, just seeing this name has you singing Fergie’s song “Glamorous” but with cool Scrabble-themed lyrics! "Its the Scrabulous! The Wordy! Wordy! It's the Scrabulous!"

Just me? Really? Ok, let’s just pretend we never talked about this…

The application lets you play a game of Scrabble with other cool Facebook friends and comes complete with dictionary, list of “legal” two-letter words, and will soon even allow you to play in different languages. I often play with one or two friends who, as you can imagine, enjoy playing against me since I am well known for not having a bibliophilic vocabulary, or a ten-year-old’s ability to spell.

Despite these deficiencies, I have learned several tricks which have allowed me to appear not completely without brains. The easiest way to rack up points is the use those coloured squares to earn you double and triple points on your word. Since that isn’t always possible, your next best tool is the list of two-letter words that, as one person noted, seem to only exist for the purpose of Scrabble. Using this wonderful list, I have managed to earn as many as 20 points putting down only one letter.

All of this is nice, but for the sake of honesty, I should admit to something: just because I spend twenty minutes finding the perfect word online doesn’t mean that my non-cyber game has become any better. Something tells me that in real life, people will take umbrage with me trying dozens of words to see where they will best fit – only to discover that the letters I’ve been playing with don’t even spell a real word.

Finally, since you all mocked my Scrabulous lifestyle, I’m going to leave you with these words of wisdom - most of which are even spelled correctly.

If you ain't got no good words take your dumb ass home!

If you ain't got no good words take your dumb ass home!
S-C-R-A-B-U-L-O-U-S, yeah S-C-R-A-B-U-L-O-U-S

I got vocab up to here
I've got cool words in my ear
Spelling me these crazy terms
I don't know what they mean!
I've got letters in the bank
And I'd really like to thank
All my teachers, I'd like to thank
Thank you really though
Cause I remember yesterday
When I misspelled the word daze
And I rocked out the word jird, that’d be sixty points
Damn, It's been a long road
And the dictionary’s cold
I'm glad my daddy told me so, he let his daughter know.

If you ain't got no good words take your dumb ass home!
If you ain't got no good words take your dumb ass home!
S-C-R-A-B-U-L-O-U-S, yeah S-C-R-A-B-U-L-O-U-S

A Sign of the Apocalypse

Capturing a leprechaun so you can steal its gold. Spotting a unicorn beneath a full moon. The Loonie being on par with the US Dollar. What do all of these things have in common? They were all pretty much fantasies of myth… At least until today when the US dollar fell so far in shame that my brave Loonie is equal to its greenbacked splendor.

If this could happen, I’m beginning to think that it isn’t beyond the hopes of we mere mortals to hope for a wee bit of Irish gold.

Loonie catches greenback
Tavia Grant

The Canadian dollar has broken through parity for the first time since Nov. 25, 1976.

The first official trade at parity took place at 10:58 a.m.

“Strong currency. Proud currency,” said Stephen Butler, director of foreign-exchange trading at Scotia Capital Inc., who said he's seen a slew of buyers from corporations to speculators, today. “All the fundamentals point to Canada right now.”

A cheer went up in currency trading rooms across the country on Thursday, but the loonie's astonishing appreciation carries mixed blessings. It's a lot more affordable nowadays to travel abroad and to buy some imported goods, such as clothing. On the flip side, exporters are left scrambling to cope with the sheer speed of the rise.

The currency's 60-per-cent surge over the past five years “represents its most rapid climb on record,” said Jeff Rubin, chief economist for CIBC World Market.

It's a sweet vindication from some who predicted the move. Last year, National Bank of Canada said the currency would hit par by the fall of 2007.

“It would appear that we could miss our forecast made back in April 2006 ... by a couple of days,” quipped Stéfane Marion, economist at National Bank.

He figures that the surge of the dollar combined with rising borrowing costs for businesses “are equivalent to more than 150 basis points of tightening in monetary conditions since the start of the month.”

Thus he's calling on the Bank of Canada to lower interest rates at its next meeting on October 16.

The loonie since retreated from the $1 mark, trading recently at 99.90 cents (U.S.). The highest the currency has reached so far today was $1.0002.

The Canadian dollar has seen some steep ebbs and flows in its history. In 1864, the greenback traded at less than 36 cents (Canadian), an all-time low for the U.S. currency. In 2002, by contrast, the loonie traded as low as 62 cents.

Since then, rising commodity prices, a strong economy and buckling U.S. dollar have sent the loonie into orbit.

On Thursday, the loonie jumped more than a penny as investors continued to shun the American dollar, which sank to a record low against the euro. Gold prices are trading at a 27-year high while oil is near a record.

This year alone, the Canadian dollar has soared 16 per cent against the greenback, the strongest performance of any G-10 country.

The U.S. dollar meanwhile fell to a new low against the euro on Thursday as the European currency breached $1.40 for the first time since its debut in 1999.

Breaking the $1.40 barrier for the euro has long been seen as a key turning point in solidifying the euro's position in global currency markets, providing more impetus for it to be the reserve currency of choice — a position long held by the now-weakening U.S. dollar.

The greenback also fell against other currencies, dipping against the British pound to $2.0082 compared with $2.0025 late Wednesday. It also slipped against the Japanese currency to 114.96 yen from 116.09 late Wednesday.

“We expect more U.S. dollar weakness is looming,” Bank of Nova Scotia said in a report.

Last Minute Madness

Tomorrow at 9:30 a.m., I have to attend a meeting for my book group. There’s only one problem - I haven’t actually finished the book yet. Heck, I only started it yesterday night!

Thus, I’m afraid that I haven’t much for you to read today. Unless one of you has read what appears to be a tedious book, “Blessings” by Anna Quindlen, and wants to tell me about it. *sigh* That’s what I was afraid of.

So now, I’m off to read this boring book so I can discuss it tomorrow morning. And I have to ignore the two really interesting books I’m currently reading until I’m done counting my “Blessings.” Bleh!

PS. Said interesting books would be Colleen McCullough’s “Fortune’s Favourites” and “A Long Way Gone” by Ishmael Beah. Both of these books are incredibly good reads and get my full endorsement of two bookmarks up!

McMuseum

I have a bizarre memory for weird things that nobody needs to know. Where I sat the first time I ate at my favourite Italian restaurant in Maryland, Il Pizzico. I remember exactly how Hubby was standing when I opened the door and saw him in person for the first time. I can even recall the pretty yellow dress my parents bought me when they sold the yellow Honda back when I was a kid. I may not remember how to spell basic words, any elements (other than aluminum) on the Periodic Table, or even my own cell number most of the time, but darnit, I can recite whole passages from Shakespeare at a moment’s notice.

Now, I realize that most people know and can remember (without the aid of note cards, or a teleprompter) important information like cures for diseases, how to remove tomato stains from t-shirts, and their own addresses. But the one thing I think we all remember, from the brain deficient like me to the smarties like Hubby, is the commercial that taught us how the most famous hamburger of all time was made: "Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun."

What? You mean it was just me? Well, for the sake of today’s blog, just pretend and read on anyways…

This entire preamble, of course, is because of a new museum dedicated to an icon we all know and love. Or I do at any rate. What historic icon of culinary Americana am I talking about? The Big Mac, of course! But we may not have realized or appreciated this wonderful burger’s place in history. Well, that oversight has thankfully been taken care of!

A genius in Pennsylvania recently opened the Big Mac Museum – the world’s first museum dedicated to Jim Delligatti’s marvelous creation. (It even has a giant Big Mac statue out front!) Surprisingly, though, this cultural pit stop isn’t a drive-thru.

All this makes me wonder though… Does the price of admission include a sample? And can I have fries with that?

Big Mac Museum in Pa.

IRWIN, Pa. - It started out as a culinary idea and turned into a global icon.

The Big Mac, arguably McDonald's most famous sandwich, was first served by its founder Jim Delligatti 40 years ago.

To mark that lucrative feat, the Big Mac Museum Restaurant has opened in North Huntingdon, just 40 miles north of where the first double burger, triple bun sandwich was served in Uniontown for 45 cents.

The museum has it all: the world's largest Big Mac — 14 feet tall and 12 feet wide — a bronze bust of Delligatti, a high-tech global Big Mac map and wallpaper peppered the ad "two-all-beef-patties-special sauce-lettuce-cheese-pickles-onions-on-a-sesame seed-bun."

It took Delligatti, now 89, two years to convince McDonald's to allow him to serve up the sandwich. After the first day, he realized that two buns was too sloppy, so the middle bun was injected.

A year later, in 1968, the Big Mac was on McDonald's menus nationwide. Today, 550 million Big Macs are sold annually in 100 different countries.

Delligatti, whose family owns 18 McDonald's in western Pennsylvania, said he still eats an average of one Big Mac a week. And, contrary to those who blame fast food for contributing to the nation's obesity problem, Delligatti — who still works every day — says it keeps him going strong.

North Huntingdon is about 30 miles southeast of Pittsburgh.

Spring Cleaning

You would think that having a maid who comes three days a week would help keep our home neat, tidy, and free of clutter. Well, if you thought that, then you obviously don’t know us very well! Hours after clearing a counter, clutter will magically appear to mess it up again. And it drives me nuts.

Before we begin, I should admit that I am not the tidiest of people. (Hush, Mother!) I throw my clothes on my dresser or in a pile on the floor. I take of my necklaces and leave them scattered around the apartment. My shoes can always be found under the coffee table in the living room – where I usually take them off and forget about them.

While my slob-transgressions are numerous, I am obsessively orderly. All of my papers are neatly stacked so I know where to go back to find them. All of our books and DVDs are alphabetic or otherwise arranged so that I know where each and every one is located at a moment’s notice. I can also tell if someone has moved my things by so little as a millimeter – not that I’m obsessive like that. I realize that people might call it OCD but I prefer the term organized.

Which brings us to what we did on Sunday…

Since all of my attempts at tidying up small areas backfired this week, I instituted a spring-cleaning day. The first order of business was Hubby’s office, which has become our catchall place to put things when we don’t have anywhere else to put them. Consequently, there isn’t a spare inch of space on his huge desk, and even the shelves and the top of the safe have become dens of disorganized clutter.

While Hubby attacked that big project, I started in on all of the little fires throughout the apartment. The junk drawers, the paper piles, our kitchen counter that had become a black hole of junk, and even my own messes – like the book shelf in the guest room which wasn’t alphabetical. *gasp*

I realize that I use a liberal amount of literary license in this blog but Hubby is forcing me to own up to something today. He was the good boy who cleaned his office and I was the naughty girl who barely started her list of jobs. In my defense, I want to point out that I was working on various projects for the Association, which took me away from cleaning. (Anyone buying that excuse? Anyone?!) Oh well…

The best part of our spring-cleaning plan is that it is actually springtime here in Kenya. Nothing beats a bit of timely tidying.

Il Pleut

Would someone please tell Mother Nature that it is only mid-September? She has been pouring down rain upon Nairobi consistently for the last several days. So much so, in fact, that the leak in my living room has made another appearance.

The season known in Kenya as “the short rains” usually begins in mid-October – a solid month from now. The short rains normally end about a month later in November. The past year or so; however, has proven otherwise.

When Hubby and I first visited Kenya, it was in the midst of a drought that we kindly ended as it never stopped raining the entire weekend we were here. Ever since that initial visit, the rains seem to have taken up permanent residence and show no signs of taking a vacation any time soon.

The first sign of this seemingly endless rain was last December when it rained constantly through the Christmas season. Several people I know even got stuck in the mud at the Mara due to this. From that point on, it continued to rain at least once a week or so through to the “long rains.” (You’ll recognize that term from the last time I complained about the rain and blogged about the dreadful moisture here.)

The last week or so has proven that unlike India, where the monsoon season rarely changes its habits or calendar, the rains in Kenya are less easily pinned down. The muddy, potholed roads that follow any rainy day in Nairobi are a reminder that Man holds no sway or power over Mother Nature. Even if she is having a bad day and insists on soaking us all from dawn through to noon the next day.

Happiness Is…

I can now officially say that I have the best husband in the world. A title he will retain until the next time he annoys me which will likely be later today. But until then, he’s my favourite husband of all my husbands!

Many of you may have heard me wax poetic about the trip Hubby and I took to Namibia about six years ago. More specifically, you probably heard me drool over descriptions of “the soup” we had at the Hotel Heinitzberg in Windhoek. (Oh my god, but that soup was beyond amazing!)

Well, Hubby found out recently that he has to go to Namibia for a quick business trip. While the trip was supposed to be quick, it was also scheduled to begin on a federal holiday here. It isn’t bad enough that his job takes away our weekends, now its confiscating our Kenyan holidays?!

That’s when Hubby decided that he wanted to be the best husband in the entire world.

Yesterday, he called me to ask if I wanted to go to Namibia with him. I pointed out that while that was a lovely idea, we couldn’t exactly afford it. (At least not if I didn’t want to hear him bitch about it later when we planned our Christmas holidays.) “Well, what if I could get you half way there for only $65?” he asked. I was positive I was being mocked but agreed that would a good deal.

“Then it’s a done deal!” he exclaimed while I squealed with joy.

It turns out that he used my airmiles to buy me a ticket to Johannesburg (where we will have dinner but not stay overnight), and we will then pay for my ticket onward to Namibia. While we won’t be able to stay at the Heinitzberg, we will have dinner there one night. (Soup!!) Best of all, Hubby has agreed to move the Kenyan holiday to Friday so that we will have a long weekend all to ourselves for driving around Namibia.

So look forward to tales about (if not from) Namibia in mid-October. Because I have the best husband ever! (Until he annoys me later today and makes me forget all the good stuff.)

A Dash of Funny

Today's bit of humour is brought to us courtesy of Aurenna the Wise.

Enjoy!

A Decade Later

Since they beat us to the altar by two whole hours they get the first shout out…

Happy 10th Anniversary to BBS and his sainted wife, the Queen!!

And finally…

Happy fake anniversary to my sweetie.
**hugs**

Thanks for ten great, not so fake years.

A Flower for your Thoughts

One of the best parts about living in Kenya is the abundance of flowers and fresh plants. These flora and fauna can be found for sale at dozens of street corners throughout Nairobi, at our local veggie stands, and some people even have them delivered to their front doors every week.

Before you can say that you’ve got the same thing at your local FTD and supermarket, let me stop you. The two-dozen yellow and pink roses that are sitting in a vase in my kitchen cost me 200Ksh. Which is about $3.00 US. Now what were you saying about your local source?

The article below can, perhaps, give you a better idea of Kenya’s flower industry. But until you see the abundance of flowers available here year ‘round, you can’t begin to comprehend what an Eden the Rift Valley truly is.

Kenya's flower farms flourish
By BBC News Online's Mary Hennock

Flower growing has overtaken coffee and tourism as a source of foreign exchange for Kenya and ranks second only to tea, according to the Kenya Flower Council (KFC).

And Kenyan growers have developed a factory-style business that can deliver wrapped bunches to UK supermarkets, where staff need to do nothing more than stand them in water.

"Part of our product offer from Kenya includes a bouquet ready to go, labelled, date-coded," says Martin Hudson, managing director of importer Flamingo UK which supplies British supermarkets and Marks & Spencer. Last year, Kenyan sales of cut flowers abroad were worth $110m (£77m), or 8% of export earnings, according to the KFC.

Dutch connection
Kenya has become the European Union's biggest source of flower imports and overtaken Israel as market leader.

It has a 25% market share, beating Colombia and Israel which each have about 16%.

Two thirds of these blooms go to the Netherlands, which dominates the trade in cut flowers worldwide through its auction halls where Dutch wholesalers buy flowers for re-export to markets as far away as the United States and Japan.

But direct exports to the UK also account for a quarter of Kenya's sales to the EU, making it the country's second market and one that many growers focus on.

Valentine's Day is a big date for Kenyan growers, thanks to the country's perfect match of high altitudes and equatorial sunshine.

Logistics
Roses make up 74% of Kenya's flower exports, followed by carnations which are the most popular flower in Britain at less romantic times because they last longest.

Flamingo UK, which has annual turnover of £30m on flowers, expects to sell up to 2 million roses, mostly red, in Britain on Valentine's Day, Mr Hudson told BBC News Online.

Getting so many blooms to market in just the right state at the right time involves major preparation for growers, who must try to manipulate flowering times by debudding their bushes.

Flowers are then cut and wrapped and exported in cooled containers, often on chartered aircraft, to reach consumers within 48 hours, KFC chairman Rod Evans said.

Tesco, Sainsbury
The rise of supermarket flower-selling has stabilised the industry by creating constant demand and enabling farmers to get enough steady sales to guarantee quality, Mr Evans told BBC News Online.

"Many of the sales don't fluctuate quite so much as they did in the old days," he said.
"Investment in greenhouses and covering the crop means the customer knows he's got the supply there and he'll buy."

The industry is capital intensive, needing investment of about $50,000 per hectare, but it's high-yielding: flower farms cover a mere 20 square kilometres of Kenya's total land area - 0.00003%.

Horticulture, which includes vegetables, employs about 50,000 workers directly and supports half a million people, Mr Evans said.

Low wages?
Critics of the industry accuse flower farmers of exploiting cheap labour, harming the environment and workers' health with toxins.

The Kenya Human Rights Commission (KHRC), a non-governmental organisation, held a conference to highlight these issues ahead of Valentine's Day.

It says some workers get as little as 2,000 shillings ($25) a month. Gross domestic product per head is $391 in Kenya.

The KFC counters that it has drawn up a code of practice and monitors its members, who represent 65% of exporters though a lower percentage of growers, twice a year.

Wages paid by KFC members average about $3 a day, or just over $50 a month, said Mr Evans. "Our competition in Zimbabwe are paying half a dollar a day."

Workers also receive transport and medical care, he points out.

Just Another Day

Do you remember if you said, “I love you” to someone today before they left the house? Do you recall the last time you said sorry first? Do you remember the last time you went to bed without any regrets over the choices you made that day?

Do you remember when 9/11 was just another date on the calendar?

In the days that followed those few minutes of terror, people started pulling together against their common enemy. We didn’t know yet who that enemy was, but they recognized that love, friendship, and goodness were the first steps toward beating it down and winning the war against Evil. It’s too bad that those days ended.

Eventually, we had a name for the Evil and we had people to blame and to whom we could direct our anger. Having named the scary monster in the dark, we gave it power and left behind the memories of promises to never forget our fellow man, to always be there for people with a helpful hand or at least a smile – regardless of whether or not we knew them. That was when everyone started forgetting all the warm and heartfelt promises we made to each other during those first dark nights.

And that, my friends, sucks.

Imagine that today was just another day on the calendar: Do you remember if you said, “I love you” to someone today before they left the house? Do you recall the last time you said sorry first? Do you remember the last time you went to bed without any regrets over the choices you made that day?

Oy Vey

I just spent my entire weekend working on various projects for the Association. And if El Presidente ever gets off her butt, I will likely be spending the rest of the day doing the same. And if I’m very lucky, her edits won’t cause me to yell loudly and vehemently at the computer like they did last month. Now, I admit that part of the problem is my self-professed addiction to procrastination but it is also the fault of tedious people who don’t understand what deadlines are.

I shared my Friday deadline with everyone via personal emails, group emails, text messages, phone calls, and even multiple reiterations at our board meeting on Tuesday. And yet I still got calls this morning asking if it was too late to squeeze something in. “Well,” I said silently, “Since today is Monday and the deadline was three days ago – I’m afraid that I’m going to have to call you an effing moron, buy you a calendar, and tell you that NO, you are NOT getting your article in my newsletter!” What actually happened was far more polite complete with sympathic sounds from me while I lay in bed answering this 8:15 a.m. phone call.

Then there are the people who called me on Saturday night asking to include their new advertisement in the current issue. I apologized politely, and told that they missed the deadline but I would be happy to include their ad next month. I then directed them to the Person they needed to speak with to ensure their advertising future. Said moronic Person then called me and asked if I could fit the ad in. No. She then emailed me to ask me the same thing. I realize that some people don’t learn until you yell at them but this was getting ridiculous.

The deadline drama came after my pulling a major hissy fit on El Presidente for trying to waste my time on a secondary project. She was then aided in her goal of pushing me over the edge when I received an email from an idiot telling me that the work I had done was incorrect. Not only was it NOT incorrect, I explained in an expletive-filled email, I was PMSing and the next time her old, talentless, busybody ass wanted to get in my face about things she didn’t know about – she should save herself the time and not go there! My email was not quite that evil but even Hubby thought the version that I hit “send” on was scary bitchy.

All of this kvetching is to explain why I can’t be bothered to share anything terribly witty or well written with you today. I’m sorry but I promise to try to amuse you later in the week when this newsletter nonsense is done for another month. God help me.

Read, Eat, Quote

I just finished reading “Eat, Pray, Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert. If you haven’t read this book yet then go out and find a copy and read it. Now! Well, after you finish reading and commenting on my blog – then you should go and read it.

Fat girl that I am, my favourite part of the book was the first section which took place in Italy where our author spent four months exploring that country’s beautiful language and amazing food. That said, the quote beneath stuck me as very personally autobiographical, and can be found in the India portion of the book. And finally, I keep bugging Hubby to go to Bali for Christmas this year so I can follow Elizabeth’s travels there myself.

By the way, please feel free to say that this quote is nothing like me and that I don’t curse, interrupt, or need any fixing what so ever. And try if you can, to sound more sincere saying this than Hubby did when I asked him.

For instance, I’m never going to be a wallflower, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take a serious look at my talking habits and alter some aspects for the better – working within my personality. Yes, I like talking, but perhaps I don’t have to curse so much, and perhaps I don’t always have to go for the cheap laugh, and maybe I don’t need to talk about myself quite so constantly. Or here’s a radical concept – maybe I can stop interrupting others when they are speaking. Because no matter how creatively I try to look at my habit of interrupting, I can’t find another way to see it than this: “I believe that what I am saying is more important than what you are saying.” And I can’t find another way to see that than: “I believe I am more important than you.” And that must end.

All these changes would be useful to make. But even so, even with reasonable modifications to my speaking habits, I probably won’t ever be known as That Quiet Girl. No matter how pretty a picture that is and no matter how hard I try.

Groove Armada

Hubby has been bugging me to post this video for several weeks now. What can we say? We like naughty bunnies!

Enjoy!!

Who Needs Luggage?

Our final day in the US was Friday, August 3rd. We left Hubby’s aunt’s house around 8:00 a.m. with four suitcases, and six carryons. The suitcases, it should be noted, were somewhat heavy – at least 2 of them were over the 50-pound limit. We were not, however, worried because I had silver status with Northwest and we both had silver status with Emirates and thus should be allowed 12 kgs each in excess baggage.

Our itinerary had us arriving home in Nairobi on Sunday evening. Before we got there, we had a flight from Illinois to Detroit, Detroit to New York JFK, JFK to Dubai, and then after a night at the Hilton, Dubai back to Nairobi. We anticipated being able to send our bags from Illinois through to New York and then rechecking them at that point through to Kenya. Good God were we wrong.

It started at the Northwest desk in Illinois and evil B!tch of a desk agent who was on a power trip. The agent refused to check our bags beyond Detroit. Since it wasn’t with their airline, it was against the rules, or so she claimed. She also claimed that Emirates wouldn’t let us onboard with the overweight bags despite our silver status. Working for a rival airline in a small Podunk town would give her far vaster knowledge than we had. Somewhere around this juncture, I had a small, tiny bit of a hissy fit and was escorted by Hubby to a seat in the corner while he continued to check us through to Detroit. For my own sake, I want to point out that She looked very superior when Hubby took her side and made me sit down. That B!tch. Oh and we had to pay for all of our overweight bags.

With three hours before our flight to New York was scheduled to depart Detroit, we thought we would have plenty of time to recheck our bags with Delta. Despite stopping for about ten minutes to “discuss” what had happened back in Illinois, by the time we arrived at the baggage belt our first three bags were sitting front and centre for us. Of course, since we had checked four bags through, this didn’t seem quite right.

After about an hour and a half of staring at the belt and waiting for the bag to magically appear, we went to the Northwest desk to ask about our missing bag. The first thing we discovered is that the B!tch was just that – an evil daughter of Satan on a power trip. Northwest has no such rules and our bags should have been checked through to New York at the very least. Lovely. Does anyone here have a feeling that She might be behind our missing bag? Me too.

Filling out the missing baggage paperwork took about another half hour and more than a few tears of anger and frustration. With our remaining three suitcases and six carryons, we headed upstairs to the Delta desk to check back in. Those lovely people said they would check us all the way through to Dubai. Thus cheered, we went back through security, stopped for sushi and bagels, and then sat at our gate for several hours – the flight was late.

When we finally boarded, the stewardess told everyone to hurry up and get seated because we had to take-off in twenty minutes or we would miss our “window” at JFK. Five minutes later, she made a second announcement: the plane was too heavy and they needed to off-load three passengers. Hubby and I looked at each other guiltily remembering our overweight suitcases in the hold below us. And then we waited. And waited. And waited.

When Delta finally realized that no one was going to volunteer, they came up with their own solution: they were going to randomly remove several pieces of luggage from the hold. Exsqueeze me?! Hubby immediately piped up and mentioned that we were flying overseas, so forwarding our baggage would not be quite as easy as they seemed to think. Not to worry, they assured us, anything going international was tagged and at the back of the hold: our bags were safe. For reasons completely unbeknownst to me now, we believed them.

The three hours we had at JFK turned out to be the exact amount of time necessary to change terminals and get through the incredibly long line at security. We likely would not have made it if we had had to check our bags. To add insult to injury, while boarding Emirates told me that one of my carryons was too big and heavy. Thankfully, I have the ability to look very cute and innocent when the situation warrants so they didn’t weight the extremely heavy bag (which, although full of hardcover books, was an officially sized carryon), and believed me when I said that it couldn’t be *that* heavy if little ‘ole me could lift it. Suckers!

Fast-forward 14 hours to Dubai. Guess how many bags were waiting for us? If you guessed zero, then you win the cupie doll! At this point, however, it was all becoming rather amusing and I wasn’t surprised, or even stressed. And, if I may say, if you’re going to lose luggage, then Emirates are the folks to do it with. They had a lovely office designed to calm you down and reassure you about their abilities to find your luggage in record time.

The next day, the Dubai Emirates clerk told us that our luggage had been found! It was even on its way to Nairobi! Once again, gullible us believed them. You’d think we would have learned our lesson by this point.

If you guessed that zero suitcases heralded our arrival in Nairobi. then you would be correct. It took two more days for us to receive the three that we suspect Delta removed from the hold back in Detroit. The final case containing all my clothes turned up on Wednesday.

In case the Greenpeace folks are reading this, then let me break down some environmental numbers for you. Hubby and I took four flights to get from Illinois to Nairobi. Our suitcases, since they were lost, took between 4-5 flights to return home to us. I’ll take a size 14 environmental shoe please!

Birthday Time!

Happy 26th Birthday to ME!!
(Yes, I said 26. And you can't prove otherwise! Nyeh!)

Knitting and Reading

The final stop on our cross-continental journey was Portland, Oregon for a conference of nerds where Hubby was speaking. The best part of these conferences is the opportunity to catch up with old friends and make new ones. Plus, Portland is a great city for exploring and drinking and we did plenty of both.

One of our first pre-conference stops was the Doc Martin store where Hubby walked away with a great pair of boots. I, on the other hand, discovered that every single pair of size eights was out of stock. Every single one! Not that I’m still bitter about it or anything…

The other great Portland Mecca for me, at least, was Powell’s bookstore – a large independent bookstore with new, used, and even out of print books. I could be graphic about how amazingly orgasmic this store is but I realize that my mother reads this blog so I won’t go there. But it really is amazing!

The huge store calls itself “The City of Books” for a reason – there is no way you could leave this multi-level store without finding at least a dozen books that you can’t live without. Wandering its halls, I looked at the clock to discover that I had spent two and a half hours in the store without even realizing it. Due to Hubby’s strict (and miserly) rules, I left Powell’s with only six books. But I know that I’ll be back the next time we’re in Portland.

Our final great find in Portland was happy hour. On Sunday, we went to a bar called City Lights where we enjoyed tapas for between $2 to $3 per plate. The drinks were regular price but you didn’t notice because the snacks were such great deals. When we left the bar, no one had spent more than $15 or $20 total for food and drink, and no one left hungry or sober.

Unfortunately, we had one downturn during the trip. Although I was able to attend all of Hubby’s talks and presentations (which were surprisingly interesting), I was feeling slightly under the weather and missed out on several nights out. Hubby got to experience far more of the famous bar scene than I did because of this, but I did, at least, get to catch up on my knitting!

One final note about Portland: there are a lot of beggars and street people in this Hippie town. But worse than that: there are do gooders! Rare was the corner in downtown Portland where someone did not accost us from Save the Children or Greenpeace asking us for our time, money, and attention. Hubby had a nice conversation with a Save the Children person who also wanted to be a Cow Counter when she grew up. I simply avoided them by trying to impersonate a Republican. When that didn’t work with the Greenpeacers, I told them how many flights I was taking during my month and a half trip home, and how big my Environmental Footprint was. That always scared them off.

Portland was the end our journey. When we left that town, we only had a few days left in the Real World. A Real World we had never been so excited to leave behind for the Developing one. We were ready to go home.

We just didn’t yet realize what a comedy of errors that was going to be.

California Dreaming

Monday morning, we left Vegas for various points in California. We were both looking forward to this phase of the trip; driving for hours has been one of those weird activities we miss most in Kenya. When else is a girl supposed to get a few hours of sleep and still have it count as spending time with sweetie and doing something he enjoys?! The best part was that we would able to indulge in one of my favourite things to do in a car: listen to Jim Rome and various other sports news programs. What did you think I was going to say?

After checking out of the Venetian we headed back to the airport to pick up the car Hubby booked. The Las Vegas airport has a really cool rental car “terminal” that makes renting a car an organized and stress-free experience. Driving to California on the 15 is also a relaxing experience – especially when you have a sausage and cheese McMuffin (no egg!) in your hand. Oh, and when you’re not the one driving and can nap most of the way there.

Our first Cali-stop was in Chino to visit K-Fu, the little Fus, and his wife Fu-ette. (Hubby Edit: K-Fu lives in Chino Hills, not Chino! I keep telling Typ0 this but she insists on taking “literary license.”) I was tres hyped to see K-Fu whom we hadn’t seen in several years. To put it into perspective for you, the last time we’d seen the Fus, there was only one little Fu and the second wasn’t even in the planning stages.

Villa del Fu was really nice. Hubby enjoyed the small basketball court while I ogled the huge jungle gym on the other side of the large backyard. K-Fu seemed to be enjoying his life near the former home of Ryan (from the OC). Our first night there, we did some shopping and then went out for great Italian food - so you know I enjoyed myself!

The remainder of our Cali-expereience was really laid back. We checked into an ocean-side hotel in San Clemente just south of Newport (Ryan’s new home!). Hubby and I ordered pizza and ate in bed while drinking champagne. We were finally enjoying the type of relaxing day we had been dreaming of when we told people we were on “vacation.”

I’ve already mentioned that we went to Hubby’s former stomping grounds of San Diego. Our “Chilling out in ‘Diego” day was spent the day driving around looking at the people from Comic Con in their cool costumes (that Hubby mocked), seeing Hubby’s old high school (with still higher fences surrounding it), and driving by his old house on our way to Lolita’s for some yummy rolled tacos.

My apologies that today’s blog is reading like a laundry list of “Things Typ0 did in California.” But this was such a nice and relaxing portion of our trip - driving around aimlessly, catching a vine with Rome, seeing old friends, not rushing for a flight, a date, or even having expectations to live up to. Just being us – in the best sense of the word.

Harry Potter and the Midnight Release

I hope that by now you have all read, enjoyed, and dissected “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.” For those of you who think that you are too old, too good, or above reading a book designed to appeal to children and teens, I have this to say – Get over yourself!

One of our latest nights out in Las Vegas was spent waiting in line to purchase the new Potter book. And I wasn’t alone – there were hundreds of people in the Fashion Mall that evening waiting for the same thing. This was my third midnight release party and I wasn’t going to miss out on a single minute!

The Borders that hosted Potter Night started with a showing of the fourth movie, “Goblet of Fire.” (Hubby and I had seen and somewhat enjoyed “Order of the Phoenix" the previous week with SIL back in Illinois.) As the movie wound down, you started to see people edging toward what they hoped would be a line for books. Some people watched the Borders employees so carefully that people not realizing what was going on might have thought they were double agents and we were back in the Cold War era. “She has a microphone. Follow her!” “The tall one is moving toward the escalator. I repeat toward the escalator!” There were even news crews there to observe the melee.

When the movie *finally* ended, we all eagerly looked around for someone in charge to tell us all what to do. Unfortunately, the girl with the microphone was not terribly charismatic and didn’t get her point across very well. All I could hear was, “Concentrate on the room of requirement,” which I thought was really weird and vague. I left Hubby lounging on a comfy looking chair while I sprinted to where I hoped a line would form. Then I noticed the floor beneath the movie screen rising up.

The room of requirement had arrived.

I really wish I had thought to bring my camera that night as Borders did a *great* job of putting this display together. Uncharismatic girl aside, watching the room rise out of the recesses of the Fashion Mall was very cool.

What was less cool was the incredibly poorly organized “line” to purchase your book. First of all, everyone received the same colour bracelet so any attempt at staggering the purchasers was completely lost. There was also a lot of pushing and shoving – I, of course, did not take part in any of that. Mostly…

Hubby and I got back to our hotel room shortly after 1 a.m. from the “midnight” release party. After reading the epilogue to verify who had died, I actually went to bed fairly early that night and dreamed about Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and Ron and the adventures they were having in that orange book on my night stand.

Finally, the book was fairly good – not great, but a wonderful few hours of reading. I won’t ruin the ending but will say that the death that affected me the most was Dobby’s. *sniff* That little guy died for something and someone he believed in – he was valiant when a lot of people in the wizarding world were acting like cowards. I enjoyed the fact that a lot of clues that started all the way back with book one were neatly tied up – or knotted up into some sort of Gordian knot that no one other than JK Rowling will ever fully comprehend.

So now we’re done with Harry Potter and all that we have left are fanfics and dissections of what came before. I’ll miss Harry but I look forward to giving these books (new copies, not mine) to other children who can discover the wonderfully magical world of Harry and his friends.

The Sound of “Bobble Head"

Let me start by saying that Hubby and I had a really enjoyable home leave. Let me also say that it was exhausting. From the time we arrived to the moment we returned to Nairobi, we took 17 flights, slept overnight in at least ten cities and three countries, and basically didn’t stop moving the entire time. That’s why we enjoyed our “us” portion of the trip so much!

Our “us” trip included three days in Las Vegas and five driving around Southern California. What made this part of the trip so lovely is that we did what we wanted when we wanted to: there was no schedule to keep. Well, almost no schedule…

After much researching, I decided that we would be staying at the Venetian. This seemed like a good idea as the rooms looked large, it was within walking distance to the bookstore, Mario’s B&B was located there, and we had already stayed at the Bellagio which was considered the other “best hotel” in town. For the same money, the Bellagio is a much better hotel with nicer rooms, better amenities, and far better service. Bellagio is also more centrally located on the Strip – a fact that we would be reminded of frequently when wandering the steamy, 40+ºC streets. I’m pretty sure that hell feels a lot like Vegas in July.

The deficiencies of the Venetian aside, we did win a bit of money there – even if it was by mistake. Allow me to elaborate. Our game is roulette as it is entirely all chance and there are few skills needed in order to win money. Put your chips on the number, on the half number, on the four corners, or you can pick a colour… Well, you get the idea. Hubby and I have a system that usually keeps us in the black (unless I’m trying to cheer him up) and means that we still have lots of fun.

One of the more interesting aspects of sitting at any table in Vegas is watching people bet. “One hundred on red,” only to watch the wheel hit 00. Hubby and I would be in tears, but these people just keep on betting like chips grew on trees. Our first rule is that we only go to $5 tables, which means that we get $1 chips and can play a minimum of five chips at a time. This let’s us maximize our fun, time at the table, and our money.

Back to the Venetian… After having won quite a bit of money across the street at Treasure Island (or TI as it likes to be called), I insisted that we tempt the gods and play one last table. Unfortunately, at a place like the Venetian, $5 tables are not exactly easy to come by. We finally found an electronic game of roulette where there is a real person in the middle of a circle of computerized betting seats. It wasn’t our cup of tea but we waited patiently for our turn.

Our first game we pressed the screen to indicate where we wanted to put our chips and discovered that the touch screens were VERY sensitive. Luckily, we managed to move our chips where we wanted them before the “No more bets” voice came over the speaker. We lost that round. The next round Hubby decided to get in on the game and started to press the screen seemingly at random. He had accidentally put money on number 14 rather than the corner and our time to move the chip was running out. He tried desperately to move the chip to the side and ended up playing a second chip instead. “No more bets.”

I chastised him for putting money on 14 in the first place as it had already come up two numbers prior. Then the wheel stopped and I strained to see where the little silver ball had fallen. I looked up at the screen displaying the winning numbers. Hubby had won – it was 14. We left the table that instant with $71 dollars in chips in our hands. I still have one of the $1 chips in my purse for luck – and to remind myself that sometimes accidents happen for a reason.

This installment of the blog is becoming rather lengthy and I still haven’t talked about Harry Potter and the room of requirement, K-Fu and California, or reliving Ryan’s odyssey in the OC. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll start to share those stories. In the meantime, I’ll fill you in on the photo at the top of the page – Hubby is standing next to Sponge Bob. And was sober. ‘Nuff said.

PS. I almost forgot to explain today’s title/Zen Koan. Hubby believes that the sound which exists even in your dreams after a few days in Las Vegas is what bobble heading would sound like. Close your eyes and listen to the sound of hundreds of slot machines singing, ringing, and winning. Now picture someone bobbling their head. It may not be the sound of one hand clapping, which a taxi driver did describe to great hilarity, but it isn’t bad.

I Was Thirsty

Today’s blog is more of a photographic tour of our trip home than a long explanation of what i did. A picture, after all, is worth a thousand words... So I thought that I’d share a few of our favourite photos from those weeks back the Real World – the ones we took of our alcoholic beverages. I should note that these pictures in no way reflect the actual and total amount of alcohol we consumed, but it should give you a good solid idea of our constant state of inebriation.


Sometimes Hubby and I each had a pint of cider (for me) or beer. This photo was taken during our pub-crawl with SGH.


Strongbow is usually better on tap but I’m more than willing to drink it this way too. As a waitress in the States once told me, I’m a “bottle baby!” This photo was taken during a pub-crawl we took with the Illinois boys.


More bottles of Strongbow. As many of you know, I enjoy taking the labels of my bottles to use as “tickets.” Three that night in Toronto!


Woman cannot live by cider alone.


I enjoy ordering all the martinis on the menu!


The giant margaritas in Las Vegas were amazing! This one was about a foot tall and had no less than four (maybe even five) shots of tequila. Needless to say, I was wasted long before I reached the halfway mark!


Let this be a lesson to you: too many drinks can only lead you to become a bus driver. And that’s never a good thing!

Time to Eat

Shockingly, I spent most of Home Leave eating. And since I don’t believe in discriminating, I ate everything in sight! No burger, piece of sushi, or salad was safe from my Real World cravings. I also didn’t believe in eating on a budget so we hit everywhere from Harvey’s and Qdoba to Mario Batali’s new restaurant and even the Olive Garden!

Whilst in Toronto, we celebrated my parents’ 40th wedding anniversary and my brother BBS’s zillionth birthday. Sadly, he wasn’t there to celebrate with us but we still drank in his honour because, as you know, we need excuses like that to drink in my family. The location of the festivities was a Yorkville restaurant called Pangaea.

The venue’s name was amusing if only because just days before we made the reservations, I had been explaining my favourite “continental drift puzzle game” to my family over dinner. Yes, I’m a geek but that doesn’t make the game any less fun!

Although our next big meal didn’t include caribou (which Hubby greatly enjoyed), we still had a great meal at Mario Batali’s Las Vegas restaurant B&B. By this point, we had heard to expect little to nothing of any celebrity chef restaurant in Vegas. But since this dining experience was part of the reason we were staying at the Venetian, I wasn’t going to let bad press dim my enthusiasm.

The first big plus was that unlike many celebrity ventures, B&B was relatively small. This, naturally, meant that the tables were a wee bit too close together for my liking but that was only a half-star deduction. Unlike other similarly priced Vegas restaurants (*cough* Picasso *cough*), we were permitted to dine at our own pace and the courses were very nicely spaced out.

Our meals, while taken from Mario’s various cookbooks, were great if not highly memorable. The knowledgeable wait staff was able to advise us on wine pairings and even which dishes they felt were “winners.” Wine-wise; however, we did extremely well – from the champagne cocktails we started with to the gloriously lovely Muscat we ended the meal with. The Muscat was so nice that even I had a glass of the slightly sweet dessert wine!

These fine and pricey restaurants were lovely but our truly great “dining” choice of the trip was our dinner at Casa Bonita. Those of you who are fans of “South Park” will recognize the name from the season seven episode “Casa Bonita.” You may not have realized this was a real place but it is – complete with cliff divers, Bad Bart and the relatively bland “Mexican" food.

I wish we had nicer things to say about Casa Bonita, but the two hour wait to order, pick up our food cafeteria style, and then finally find a seat, only to eat bland food was less than thrilling. Don’t get me wrong, I’m ecstatic that we experienced Cartman’s dream – but we’re not heading back any time soon.

Our final “destination” meal was in San Diego. The Corvette Diner is one of my favourite restaurants for several reasons not the least of which is that I enjoy having sassy waitresses throw straws in my face and tell me to hurry up because they have better things to do. Obviously, the diner is an acquired taste and popular with families, but the food is good and the milk shakes are great.

The downside to this fun venue is all the families who think that sassy waitresses are a good way to occupy their otherwise un-parented brats. We witnessed several children being downright belligerent to one waitress while the parents watched on and said nothing. Wait-chick finally stood-up for herself and told the children and parents off after the kids had thrown one too many napkins and straws (purloined from various other tables) at her. We applauded her and added extra money to our tip as a monetary high-five.

In between these adventures in eating, we ate lots of great home cooking with my parents, fast food in Illinois, tapas in Portland, and cider and beer everywhere else. It’s weird but as much as I love dining out in restaurants, and we all know I do, I was happy to get back to Nairobi and yummy, healthy home cooking Typ0 and Hubby style. That said, we’re going out to dinner tonight – and that’s good too!

Friends and Beers

The Toronto portion of our home leave trip was especially remarkable for all of the reunions we managed to squeeze into our time there. From mini high school reunions to mini pub-crawls and even miniature people that made me want to have my own mini me. Of course, due to “Wandering the World” rules, I can’t actually post many of the amazing photos of these events. So, if you were there, you’ll know what’s missing. And if you weren’t there – well, you’re just going to have to use your imagination.

I should start by giving props to that wonderful invention: Facebook. I realize that I blogged at length about how it was ruining my life with addiction and insecurities but in this case it actually begat something really cool. Several of the girls from my high school are all on Facebook and we even have a group for our graduation year. As luck would have it, someone came up with the brilliant idea of having a “mini reunion” which just happened to be scheduled so that I could attend.


All the former Ladies met at a local bar where we proceeded to catch up on old times, find about new times, and even gossip about the times of people who couldn’t make it. It was amazing how much we all still looked like our 18 year old selves – not a day had passed. Most of the Ladies seemed to be teachers and/or mothers, which left me as the odd chick out on several levels. Of course we also had artists, lawyers, nurse practitioners, and, of course, me who blogs.

It was sincerely amazing to see all these people again and I wish that even more of my classmates had been able to attend. KC showed up and told us the happy news that she was expecting soon. Hubby (who arrived to pick me up) thought that A was hot. (I can always count on him to drool over someone when it is least appropriate.) After being the odd girl out in North York all through high school everyone seemed to have moved to the neighborhood in the intervening years. Several Ladies promised they’d come visit Casa del Typ0 in Kenya (and I really hope they do!!). I know I’m leaving out a lot of people and I apologize. It was awesome seeing each of you, even if I don’t mention you by name here. **hugs**


Next up on the reunion front was seeing She of the Gratuitous H (or SGH for short). SGH and I went to Dalhousie together back in the day and she was responsible for my showing up for several of classes when I would have otherwise slept in, chatted online, or just ignored class all together. More importantly, SGH was there when I met Hubby. She was there when I accidentally proclaimed my love to him via email to the wrong person (her). She was there when Hubby and I first met in person.

It is this topic I should address first. You see, She of the Gratuitous H claims that she didn’t want Hubby as he was on her “B-List.” Hubby has always claimed that he visited Toronto to see me because he loved me even then. (Cue: awwwwwwwwwww) Yet they were both there! If you had seen these two during our pub crawl you would have seen them making goo goo eyes at each other, casting longing glances when they thought I wasn’t looking, and just generally wishing I wasn’t there so they could get it on.

Hubby would probably like to point out at this point that I’m a paranoid conspiracy theorist who sees things that aren’t there like ghosts and people hitting on him. SGH would point out that she doesn’t like Hubby that way and it’s always my body she’s wanted and not his. (That’s my version of what she would say, anyways.) And then finally they’d both lock lips and laugh at me for believing either of them.

Needless to say, we had an amazing time during Pub Crawl ’07 and as you’ll see in a blog this weekend, much beer, cider, sake, and martinis were consumed. Now if only we could get SGH and her bf Chip to visit us in Nairobi the circle would be complete. (‘Cause unless I lose a bet, I’m not going to North Bay. Love you!)

The final reunion was with Carebear, her husband, and her ADORABLE son Cub. (The picture here isn’t Cub, obviously, but one of his toys that I desperately wanted to steal and Hubby thought was a hat.) The Care reunion was two fold as she and I partied it up on our own for lunch and shopping one day and then we let the boys in on the festivities at her place for Chinese.

I really can’t understate how much seeing her son made me want to have a baby. I bugged Hubby about it for days. The only reason we are not parents right now is that he pointed out that babies don’t come potty trained. Dang it! Of course meeting her Hubby (then bf) named Ubby made me go out and find my own version: same age and name, just less buff and taller.

Of course, there were also family reunions but I’ll tell you about those another time. I need to go and drown my happy memories in cider and drunk-post on Facebook.

And They’re Off!

Later this week I’ll tell you guys about the wonderful people I was able to hook up with in Toronto. I may even tell you about all the shopping I did – both the window (literally) and clothing varieties. But first, I wanted to tell you about the awesome day I spent winning money.

My parents are avid horse racing fans – some of you may remember that my father goes every May to watch the Kentucky Derby live and in person. As luck would have it, a race known as the Queen’s Plate was being run in Toronto around week two of my trip. Some of you may be worrying at this point since it isn’t exactly a secret that I have an addictive personality (Martini, anyone?) and probably shouldn’t be gambling without close Hubby-supervision. Well, stop worrying and reread the first paragraph – I made money, baby!

But I’m getting ahead of myself…

The ‘Rents and I made our way to Woodbine racetrack and parked as far as humanly possible from the front door. Before we could bet on any races, my mother had to explain how to read the racing form/booklet I had been given at the door. I evaluated her advice and weighed it with my own careful research before betting on horses whose names sounded the best. I headed over to the betting window and bet $5.00 each on various horses to win (first), place (first or second), or show (first, second, or third).

The seats we had gave us a wonderful (and wonderfully shaded) view of the finish line. My first ever, live race ended with me winning - absolutely nothing. Over the course of the next few several races I managed to bet a total of sixty or seventy dollars while winning only about ten or twenty. I was obviously in the zone… the losing one, that is.

Immediately after race number eight, the three of us placed our bets on the Big race – the Queen’s Plate. The horse I wanted to bet on had been scratched (withdrawn) so I quickly chose another one at random. From the betting windows we head out to watch the parade.

The parade is a pre-race opportunity to see the horses and their jockeys up-close. The real competition at the parade appeared to be among the owners who strutted and peacocked around as if they were the ones who were about to run rather the pricey investments behind them. That’s when I saw horse number nine and it’s pretty aqua horse blanket. I wish I could tell you that I looked into that horse’s eyes and saw something but the truth of the matter is that the horse was pretty and I liked the colour of its silks.

Team Typ0 rushed back to our seats so that we wouldn’t miss a moment of the race. While the ‘Rents got comfy I stopped off at the betting window to place $5 on #9 to win and, as a hedge, another $5 to show. Shortly after I got settled into my seat, the race began and everyone was cheering on for their horse to go faster, stay in the race, and win them some money. That’s when I noticed #9 edging up to the front of the pack. I joined the screaming masses encouraging my horse to be a leader and pull ahead.

It was a clear win!! Horse #9 (whose name I really wish I could remember) and his jockey won one for the history books - the jockey was the first woman to ever ride to first in Plate history. As for me, it was a double win since I had believed in my horse enough to bet on it twice! My final haul was almost $100. Quite the return on my $10 investment, eh? Not including my entrance ticket (which my parent’s had paid for) I ended my day $30 up.

My time at the Queen’s Plate was a winning trend that would continue throughout my gambling-themed vacation. I may not have had a complicated system, or even basic knowledge about what I was doing, but I had proven that a little naivety could go a long way. Including the bar where, that night, drinks were on me!

Forgive Me

It has come to my attention that I may have been rather lax in the blog updating department for the last few months. To everyone who has commented in person, by phone, email, or commented directly on the blog: Thank you for reminding me that my first obligation is to you guys and this blog, not to writer’s block and being pouty. I have abandoned my Devoted Readers for too long and promise to get back on the blogging horse and stay there!

When last we read the blog, I was about to leave for Toronto to see my family. Let me start by pointing out that while we all know that while I love Emirates, 14 hours on any one plane without a break is simply too long unless your husband loves you and lets you upgrade to business. Needless to say I flew economy.

My first adventure started before I’d even made it home. The flight from JFK to Toronto was delayed so long that I ordered a venti, triple shot macchiato and didn’t even think that it tasted too much of espresso. I was that tired. I should point out here that I had awoken on Wednesday around 8 a.m. Nairobi time and by the time they finally announced my flight was going to leave JFK, I had been awake for 48 hours. (In my next life, I want to come back as someone who can sleep in economy. Or better yet, someone who only flies business or first class.)

When I arrived at Pearson, I went to the taxi desk and gave them my name. My mother, who was in Ireland at that moment, had pre-booked a taxi for me. The taxi desk had no idea what I was talking about. Smiling in a polite Canadian way, I went off to find a pay phone so I could call the company to confirm that they really did have my reservation. Of course, since it was almost 2 a.m. and I was four hours late, they weren’t entirely thrilled to hear from me – but they were expecting me.

Happy once again, I dragged my two cases, carryon and purse the kilometer or so to the correct desk where I gave my name. The gentleman at this desk hadn’t heard of me either despite the fact that I had just hung up from speaking with a dispatcher. This was approximately the moment when I lost it.

“I am not an orphan! My mummy ordered a taxi for me! I’ve been awake for 48 hours and I want to go home! I’m not an orphan and I just want to go home!” I wasn’t just hysterical, I was crying and sobbing with huge tears falling down my pathetic face.

At this point, I think the guy at the desk was going to offer to drive me home himself if only to get me out of his airport. Luckily for him, my taxi showed up at just that moment. I would like to point out that I did apologize for having a nervous breakdown and the kind gentleman told me that he understood. Of course, he also looked VERY relieved to know that I was about to leave and he would never have to deal with me again.

By the time I arrived home and had found a key to the front door, I was so overly tired that I couldn’t sleep – so I called Hubby and told him my pathetic story. He laughed at me, as I’m quite certain that you are too. But at that moment it didn’t matter; I went upstairs and tucked myself into a bed in the room with the same baby wallpaper that had been on the walls since before I was born. The world map on the wall was new but as I fell asleep I drew a line from Nairobi to Toronto and smiled - I was home and all the heartaches, tears, and bad airplane food that got me there was worth it.