Notes from the Iberian Coasts Cruise (part dos) Alternate Title: French lessons for assholes

For the entire week leading up to the cruise, B -- who usually suffers from extreme motion sickness whenever he sits in the back seat of a car -- would spend a good 20 minutes of each day with his head back and his hands in the air and that Man Cold voice worrying over the fact that ooohhh gaaaah he's going to be sooo seasick and he will suffer and will sweat but most of all he will suffferrrrr. Which, as you can imagine, was always met with my sympathetic-wife-like response of "B! Can't you whine someplace else?! Wife Swap/Color Splash/I Didn't Know I was Pregnant is on! GAH. Inconsiderate asshole."

So as we stepped on to the boat, visions of B projectile vomiting off the ship's balcony were dancing through my head. Obviously -- and I'm sure you knew this was coming -- it was me who spent the majority of the first night on board lying on my back in our cabin, devoid of all skin pigment, sweating, staring at the ceiling and wondering if I would even be able to crawl to the bathroom to upchuck my five-course dinner, should the need arise, while B was happily enjoying himself down at the ship's casino drinking beers and blowing euros (that's what she said). Thaaat's about right.

So about that boat. Since we were traveling with the press group, we had access to all of the nicest dining areas and amenities, which basically means we ate like kings for 10 straight days, while trying really hard not to behave like hungry orphans who had been eating nothing but cold porridge for the past year because holy escargot that food was INCREDIBLE. And that was just the food ON the boat.

After a night of uncomfortable seasickness, we docked at Marseille, France. B and I spent the entire amazing day walking up and down the cobblestone streets, ducking into cathedrals, struggling with our French, and enjoying fresh baguettes and coffee in little sidewalk cafes. And don't forget the beer and olives!


And here's the thing about French. Studying Spanish for six years does not in any way mean that you will be able to speak French. I know, it surprised me too. So while I can hold my own in a conversation held in Spanish, I'm about as good at French as I would be at performing a root canal. I'm assuming, anyway. I could be some kind of dental prodigy, but I guess we'll never know.

And when I don't speak a language, I have a slight but relatively constant paranoia that the people who ARE speaking in that language are talking about how stupid I am for not understanding what they're saying. Case in point: After our absolutely wonderful day in Marseille and anticipating another night of eating to the point of nausea, B and I decided to take a gander at the cruise ship's fitness center. On our way to the gym, we passed a couple from our group who were on their way back to their cabins after a little workout. Good luck, they told us, because the gym was packed. As they said this, a French tween passed us in the hallway, turned back and said something to us in French before hurrying onto the last open elliptical machine.

"That little ASSHOLE," I said to B because OBVIOUSLY he had just said something along the lines of "I'm taking the last elliptical machine, you fat, stupid Americans." And B was all "what?" And I was all, "did you HEAR what he just said to us?" And B was all "um, no, because it was in French and I don't speak French. Aaaand neither do you." And I was all "EXACTLY."

So yeah. Now besides "take a shower" and "put on pants" I've added "learn French" to my daily To Do list. So far, I've totally mastered get off that exercise machine, you little asshole so next time I'll be ready. Oh yes, I'll be ready. Obtenez outre de cette machine d'exercice, vous petit abruti! Tweet

Notes from the Iberian Coasts

I'm going to admit that it took me a long time to sit myself down at this computer and start writing about my trip, because when you've just spent the past two weeks bopping from country to country all down the Iberian Coast, where do you even begin?

Anyway. Europe. Eurooooopeee. It was exactly as amazing as I imagined it would be. B and I flew into Milan and had a day to explore ourselves before meeting up with the rest of the press group and taking a bus to Genoa for the cruise. That's right, the motherflippin' press group, ya'll. We'll get into that later.

It looks like I'm really excited about these pigeons right now, but really I'm in some state of shock over their aggressiveness. It's like "The Birds" of el Duomo over there. Only with flying street rats instead of crows. Also? Two words: pigeon lice. This is pretty much an obsessive hand washer's biggest nightmare. I'm only laughing like a little girl because it tickled. That's it. Not because I've always dreamed of commanding a flock of birds with my hands. That's just silly.

In Milan, we walked our little hearts out. And every corner we turned, I fell more in love with the city, with it's electric trolleys and zippy mopeds and cobblestone streets and flowerboxed windows and colorful facades.

And and when we thought we couldn't walk any more, we popped into a little bar and enjoyed a few beers and some olives and crisps. And you know what's the best thing about popping into bars for a few beers? The complimentary olives and crisps that they always bring to your table. And about those olives? I could eat them forever.

We met up with the group for our first official Italian dinner and good gah that food was a party in my mouth. Not just a party, but a full out Carnival celebration of the most delicious foods you can imagine. Ever.

And when the restaurant closed, we hit the hotel bar with another couple in our group. And when the hotel bar closed, we hopped on the tram and found another bar. And when that other bar who's name and exact location escapes me, which might or might not have something to do with three bars of Italian wine, we hailed a cab and stumbled into our hotel room. And I'm not gonna lie, but I do have a distinct memory of throwing open our hotel room door, dropping my purse, throwing open my arms and shouting, "THIS is AWESOMEEEEEEEE."

And here's the thing about European hotel rooms: they are very energy efficient. As a way of ensuring that no lights are wasting energy in an empty room, guests must slide their key card into a slot by the doorway and keep it there. When you leave your room with your card, any lights that were left on shut off within a minute or so.

This, however, was not something that B and I could quite figure out after three bars of Italian wine. So when we came in and turned on all the lights, we couldn't figure out why everything went black while B was in the bathroom and I was fumbling around the bed.

We did figure that the key card needed to be inserted into that slot to turn the lights on, but our wine soaked brains didn't connect the dots that the card needed to stay in the slot in order for the lights to stay on. After a few more minutes of fumbling around in the dark than I'd like to admit, we finally gave up and went to bed.

And here's the kicker. Apparently, the housekeeping also use that little slot to determine whether a room is vacant, so they know when it's safe to enter in the morning. Since our key card slot was empty and the room was dark, housekeeping entered, where they found B and I sprawled across the bed, buck nekkid, and no doubt reeking of booze.

Eurotrip Day 1
Europe: 1
Yellaphant: 0

Good gah, I love Europe. Tweet

I'm baaaaack. And I can't wait to make you barf with jealousy because I'm subtle like that.

I'd like to start off this post by stating that if you're as attached to the butt to social media as I typically am, 10 days with about as little communication with the outside world is both exhilarating and a slightly nerve-wracking. After about 48 hours without phone, Internet, or English-speaking television programs I was all, I don't even know what's GOING ON anymore. Why are these Italian game show hosts so EXCITED? IS THIS GONNA LAST FOREVER? And B was all, I HOPE so, there's a TOPLESS WOMAN on that billboard.

In other words, the past 10 days were mindblowingly awesome. Literally, my head was sawed open, my French and Italian soaked brain matter was scooped out and thrown into the air, and it was all dropped back in place as we boarded that plane back to Boston. I saw so much I feel like I've been gone for months. And after a few days, those Italian game shows and obscure German-focused Olympic events are actually quite compelling. And OH YEAH, there was Europe and North Africa.





As you might imagine, for someone who likes to run her jaw as much as I do, there's a lot of words that go along with all the photos I took, but the lack of sleep and the constant activity and all the eating and eating and eating and good gah don't forget the drinking that has been going on for the past two weeks has me a bit run down. Either that or that recycled airplane fart air. And let me tell you, when you've just spent 10 days eating a medley of Mediterranean foods, you spend a good amount of that 10-hour plane ride home thinking about recycled airplane fart air. And I'm sorry, B, but there's no way a person can be expected to hold it for 10 hours. That's just absurd. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week, Alternate Title: PEACE OUT, PUMPKINS

I was in the car Monday night driving home from a particularly vigorous spinning class after a particularly active afternoon of interviews. And, in case you were wondering, they went great. Both the spinning class and the interviews.

I was pooped in really great way. My eyes were a little bleary, my leg muscles were a little burny, and I was feeling good. And as I turned onto our street, fiddling with the radio because I haven't yet learned all the stations up here, I stumbled upon a song.

I had never heard it before, and after about five seconds, I was completely absorbed. I pulled into the driveway, cut the engine, and sat in the cold, dark car until the song ended. I was totally schmitten.

When it did end, I skipped into the house and plopped my swamp butt down in front of the computer to Google the lyrics. And thus, I am able to present to you Mumford & Sons' "White Blank Page:"





In other news, PEACE OUT, ERRBODY!!!11!!1!! B and I are off on the 10-day Mediterranean cruise where I will be tasked with the daunting job of "inspecting" and "blogging." Sweet baby pandas I can barely stand it.

Unfortunately, that means there won't be much action over at the Yellaphant Club House, as my time will be spent on things like making sure the views from the ship's deck are up to snuff, the wine tastes as good as I always dreamed it would, and the shores of Europe are as satisfactorily orgasm-inducing as they should be. It's a hardknock life for me, but someone's gotta do it. I'll miss you terribly I'll probably think of you I think I'll be okay. And I shall return with what I promise to be plenty of heee-laarious stories of How Yellaphant Makes a Fool on Her European Cruise. Just for you.



P.S. Since I won't be here for it, Happy Valentine's Day, ya'll. Wear your good undies, just in case. I'll be wearing mine in Barcelona. Rawwrrrr. Tweet

I am the motherflipping Dog Lady

When I was growing up, there was an old woman in the neighborhood all us neighborhood chitlins called "The Dog Lady." There really wasn't any reason for this, except the fact that she was ancient, crooked, and gray and could always be seen walking around the neighborhood with anywhere between one and three little dogs. It's not like she lived shut up in a house with 36 cats who would ultimately eat her face after she died in her Lay-Z-Boy watching "The Price Is Right." Lots of people have more than one dog. And lots of people walk those dogs around their neighborhoods. But for whatever reason our little brains decided, she was and will always be The Dog Lady. And The Dog Lady was a classic neighborhood fixture of my childhood.

It was the dogs though that attracted our attention to her, and -- whether she liked it or not -- often brought us to her doorstep. We'd walk a bit with her, she'd let us pet her dogs, and then she'd invite us in for juice. And now that I've written that, it definitely seems like the beginning of "To Catch a Predator" and I can't wait to get all those e-mails and anonymous comments about how a child so stupid as me is lucky I'm not decaying in a back alley right now. Yeah, well Mrs. Hanahan didn't raise no fool, The Dog Lady was a little old lady, pervs. And also, I hadn't yet been educated by "Law & Order" marathons, so whatevs.

The downstairs of her house -- because we never made it past the living room -- was exactly what you'd expect the downstairs of a house of someone who's older than your grandparents to look like. Dark, carpeted, musky, and cluttered with knick-knacks.

And the thing that amused us most about The Dog Lady was the way she spoke to her dogs: like they were furry little humans. And that just cracked our shiz up. We loved her for it. Well, I did anyway. Monica was an ardent believer that The Dog Lady was a witch because no neighborhood is complete without a witch, right? I didn't buy it though. For me, she was just The Dog Lady who talked to her dogs. Monica did, however, manage to convince me that the family on the corner was a group of vampires who loved making little children into meatsicles. It made sense at the time.

Anyway. Anytime The Dog Lady would ask one of her dogs a question, I fell into giggles. What do you think of the weather, Pebbles? What time would you like to eat tonight? Do YOU think you've done enough walking today? Ooooh what a crazy old bat. How wonderful.

It's probably been a good 10 years since I've even thought of The Dog Lady. After a while, she was seen around the neighborhood less and less, and eventually she was gone altogether. Her house still sits quietly, no doubt filled with new people, but the only real sign of life is the holiday decorations that go up and down depending on the season. The reason that I'm thinking of her today is because it dawned on me that, at 25 years old, I have become The Dog Lady.

While walking Rooney, I often kill the time by talking to him. I'll tell him about my day. I'll see if he has opinions about what I should make for dinner. What he thinks of the weather. How he likes my new haircut. It never occurred to me how batshit crazy this most certainly sounds to people passing me by. It's only a matter of time before the neighborhood children give me some kind of slightly degrading nickname and start following me home.

Not only do I talk to him like a human, I treat him like one too. When Rooney jumps into bed with us at night, he walks right up to the pillows, burrows himself under the covers, and falls asleep with his head on our pillows and his body completely covered. Whenever I'm in the mood for an apple, I ask Rooney if he'd like to split one with me. Of course he fecking would, he's a dog, he eats poop. And I share my apples with him. Why don't I just shove a pile of poop in my mouth?

When Rooney starts a-yelpin', I come a runnin'. Good gah I annoyed myself just by writing that. And, perhaps worst of all, when I was presented with the opportunity to go on a 10-day, all expenses paid Mediterranean cruise, the first* thing I thought of was, but I'll miss my dog so much. Uuugggh I'm disgusting.

The next thing you know, I'm going to be walking around with one of those hoodless sweatshirts with a picture of Rooney silkscreened on the front and his name in Comic Sans font across the chest. And I'll be calling it my "dress sweatshirt." Kind of like how my mom got my dad a bunch of new sweatpants for Christmas and he calls them his "dress sweats" because they don't have holes and paint splatters all over them on I'm pretty sure I made it until December 26 before I exploded "THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS DRESS SWEATPANTS. AND YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO USE THE WORDS 'DRESS' AND 'SWEATS' IN THE SAME SENTENCE EVER AGAIN." And now I totally sound like the type of person who would have grown up in a neighborhood with a Dog Lady and a family of vampires.

* The second thing I thought was, DAMNIT all those retirees and housewives are going to get so far ahead of me in our fitness classes. And the answer is yes, sometimes I do make myself sick. Tweet

Making friends is haaaard toOOoo do

Moving to a completely new place without any friends is a hard thing to do. And it's been so long since I've made a new friend that I forget how to do it. The act itself of making friends isn't so difficult -- just don't be a dick -- and I'm sure it will be exponentially easier once I actually have a job and interact with people on a daily basis again. But the act of finding a group and establishing myself in said group proves to be more challenging than I quite remember. Right now, I'm just rowing along in my little rowboat with B, sending out meek distress signals and hoping a rescue boat filled with attractive people who like to drink a lot of booze come our way and pick us up. At least, that's my hope anyway.

In college, all you had to do was walk into someone's dorm room during that first week of school, when everyone was so desperate for friends we clung to each other like drunk little otters, and you'd be biffle bizzles for the next four years. "ZOMG you love macaroni and cheese TOO?!?! I can't wait to tell my mom about you." And just like that, we had a group.

Naturally, there was also a sheets ton of alcohol involved too, which in the beginning, is like the sloppy glue that cements every new group of college friends together. Boozing aside, these people are some of the most important people in my life. And when I think back on all the amazing times we've had together throughout the years -- good and bad that we've gotten each other through -- it still kind of blows my mind. And gives me a little bit of a boxed wine hangover. Franzia for the fail.

Like that time Mojo and I got in a RAGER of a fight at Dewey Beach bar during senior week over something that neither of us can quite remember, but then spent the rest of the weekend attached at the butt. Literally. Okay, not literally, but I'm pretty sure we were holding hands for at least 90 percent of the next three days. Even in the back of the Dewey Beach Police Department paddy wagon that I had flagged down to drive us to a party because it was raining. And he did.

Or the time we had a five-keg party in our tiny Baltimore rowhome and I discovered mid-party that someone had snatched my electric toothbrush (sidenote: WHO STEALS A TOOTHBRUSH?!) but at that point, although piiiiiiissed, I was too tired to make a fuss, so Carolyn marched down the stairs, put her hands on her hips and screamed, "CUT THE MUSIC! SOMEONE STOLE MY TOOTHBRUSH!!" And hundreds of heads snapped to her attention, the girl screaming about a toothbrush in the middle of a party.

Or the time we invited Guster back to our house for a party and they came.

Or the time sophomore year when I was really homesick, and Caitlin drove me all the way from Baltimore to Philadelphia for a weekend trip.

Or the time Julita made us all go to a Haunted House outside Baltimore when we discovered that "outside Baltimore" is actually Confederate Country, ya'll!

Or the babillion times we crawled out of bed, went to brunch in our sweatpants and laughed until tears were streaming down our faces about the events of the night before or boys or boys from the night before.

But when I first went to college, I was convinced that I'd never find a group of friends as good as my "home friends." All those crazy girls and boys who I'd gotten myself in trouble with for the past four years and, um, life.

Like the time Lauren and Caitlin told their parents we were going to a New Year's Eve party at the Poconos when we were actually on our way down the shore to meet our guy friends when we got in a car accident as soon as we crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge and we spent the next two hours in the back of Officer B. Zimmerman's patrol car while we waited for Caitlin's dad to come pick us up.

Or the time Monica and I had our first sip of beer from the can of Red Dog we stole from her dad's fridge and walked around the neighborhood forcing down gulps in disgust. Red Dog: the gateway beer.

Or the time we made up gangs in the hallways of our all girl, private, Catholic high school, named the rivaling factions The Nipple Cutters and The Sandy Vaginas, and divided ourselves accordingly.

Or the time during the snow storm when we all made our way to each others houses for an intense few hours of leg wrestling. We were, um, a little weird in high school.

And that time Michael planned an entire weekend "retreat" down the shore in the middle of February and we sat around writing letters and sharing feelings and telling each other how much we loved each other. I could go on, but I'll spare you.

It's the combination of these people now that make it impossible to imagine what my life would be like had we never bonded over fake I.D.s or musical tastes or Kairos letters or passed notes. And when I opened a package last week containing two Paul Newman movies and a giant cookie, from the same two people who drove from Philadelphia to Baltimore to celebrate my 21st birthday and STILL managed to make it back in time for 6 a.m. crew practice the next morning, I wondered if I'd ever find friends who know me so well and went so far to show me they cared again and now we're 400 miles away from each other and what will I do? (Cause, you know, I'm kind of a big deal in Philadelphia). GAH I AM SO EMO SOMETIMES I CAN BARELY STAND IT.

But not having a job gives me a lot of time to watch Paul Newman movies think about how my life will never be the same again OH MY GAH I MIGHT AS WELL JUMP. But also, since I tend to always get a little emo in the midst of a gigantic change that throws me completely out of orbit and leaves me writhing and writhing and writhing and gnashing my teeth, I've learned by now that it does usually get better. In fact, it usually gets awesome. More awesome than I had ever expected.

So for now, I'm just waiting for my awesome and occasionally gnashing my teeth. So step right up, future friends. I am ready for you to love me! Any day now. Today would be nice. Maybe tomorrow if you're busy. I'm flexible. Tweet

Wednesday's Song of the Week just got hijacked by the Philadelphia Inquirer

I'M FAMOUS! I'M FAMOUS! HOLY PANTS ON THE GROUND I'M FAMOUS! I knew this day would someday come. It's only inevitable, after all. Today, my wedding story is is in the Inky. I'm in the "LOVE" section because helloooooo, have you met me?

First I'd like to thank all the little people who have been there for me from the very beginning. My parents, because where it not for their own wedding 28 years ago and certain subsequent actions, I wouldn't be where I am today. In fact, I wouldn't be at all. My grandparents, for calling me this morning to tell me how proud they were, or else I might have slept through this day and missed it all together. My husband B, for making my dreams of being featured above the fold a reality by popping that question. And most of all, my dog Rooney, for not swallowing my engagement ring when he picked it up after I dropped it during B's proposal.

I'd like to be very clear here -- and this is VERY important -- I'm not just in the Philadelphia Inquirer. I'm in the Philadelphia Inquirer ABOVE a story of the OBAMAS, who, I'd like to point out, are described as "ordinary." PSSHHH.

I, however, was described as "25 years old," "a bad dancer" and "the type of girl you'd find in a dive bar the night before her first day of college classes." BAM! I WIN! CELEBRITY! Where do I sign my contract for my talk show? I'd like David Bromstad from HGTV's "Color Splash" to be my first guest and next husband please. He's so smiley I just want to lick a pile of spaghetti and tofu meatballs off of his gay-as-can-be washboard abs.


To celebrate, I put on a pair of pants today that don't have an elastic waist. My mother would be so proud. I can't wait for everyone to come home from work so we can pop that champagne!! I guess I'll just wait here on the couch until then. Only three hours and 27 minutes to go. So ... yup. OH, "Color Splash" is on! Hellooooooo, Davie-wavie. Tweet

I probably shouldn't even be allowed to get out of bed without direct supervision

You know what? Looking for a job sucks. Desperation reeks worse than an un-bathed body, and I am two for two today. Putting on pants is pretty much the most work I do all day, and I'm beginning to think I'm even unqualified for that. Because that's the thing about job searching. By the time you get your 8 crabillionth rejection letter, you begin to doubt your own capabilities.

I've applied for jobs that I've been well qualified for, and I've gotten rejected. I've applied for jobs below my skill level, and I've gotten rejected. I've even applied for jobs a slightly above-average fourth grader would be able to pull off, and I've gotten rejected. What exactly, then, am I qualified to do?

Not much, it seems. I probably shouldn't sit at home without supervision. I barely trust myself to form coherent sentences anymore. And I definitely should not be allowed to operate the oven by myself. It's probably amazing that I know how to tie my shoes. But I have great references!

I have $3.93 in my checking account right now. I was no math major, but I'm pretty sure our monthly mortgage is going to be a lot more than $3.93. Which means, the longer I don't have a paycheck, the longer it will be before we can get into our house. So right now, I'm jobless, homeless, and just about penniless. Which, now that I think of it that way, is kind of hilariously ironic. Only picture me, if you will, laughing at this with that high-pitched cackle that gradually fades into an even higher-pitched scream.

As my pal Deidre recently said, after a while, all of this rejection makes you start to use words like "down-trodden." For me, down-trodden is so two weeks ago. I'm down right desolate. I'm the mother-flippin' Mayor of I Suckville and the pay sucks. And the only benefits offered are oodles of free time to dwell on how much this whole thing makes me want to get into a car, crank "Party in the USA" up to 11, and drive off a cliff with a pile of resumes sitting shotgun.

Now I've gone and worked myself into a tizzy. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to high-pitch cackle-scream into a pillow, pour myself a glass of wine, have a bath, and hope that I don't drown. Tweet