First Class

For the second time in two weeks I had to fly to London for a quick work trip. The first time I went I flew coach. On the way home from that trip, the flight was canceled due to snow, so my work friend and I had to fly into Boston then get driven to NYC in a blizzard by a crazy man. We got home at 4:30am. I would elaborate more on that story but my brain has blocked the experience from my memory.

But this trip was different. We sprung for business class, and upon boarding the plane, I realized that American Airlines had bumped me up a notch. I have NEVER flown first class but I learned that I could certainly get used to it, fast. I walked on the plane and looked around, and was a little disoriented. What was happening? Why are the flight attendants so nice? They asked if they could hang my coat. HANG MY COAT?!? The pilot smiled and waved from his compartment, and angels sang. Then we were off. As soon as they were free to get up, the lovely flight attendants took care of my every whim. "Would you like your pillow fluffed?", "Can I get you a mimosa?", "May I wipe your behind, please?" (or something like that). But seriously - Burt's Bees products, Bose headphones, consomme, and ICE CREAM. It was incredible.

I landed in London refreshed, clean and for the first time in my entire life, sad that the flight was over. How will I ever go back to coach?

really?

We used to live next to this crazy chick who was so histrionic with her, uh, relation-making, that Crissy wanted to bring a golden Oscar statuette back from Hollywood to place outside her door.

Unfortunately, she never got around to buying the Oscar before the girl moved out.

Then the new guy moved in.

The new guy is a tall, suave, Spanish dude who likes to throw loud dinner parties at least once a week.

There are a few things that seem to be pretty consistent with his parties.

1. They like to cook big-ass feasts.
2. They like to play loud-ass music.
3. They like to speak loudly in Spanish
4. They like to smoke cigars.

Cigars.

When you live in an apartment the size of a walk-in closet, highly pungent, offensive smells tend to linger. Trust me, I'm lactose intolerant.

But there is no more offensive smell on earth than day old cigar smoke on your towels.

The thing is, since we share a vent with this guy, their little cigar hotbox sessions turn our entire apartment into a 600 square foot wet ashtray at around 3am. Usually, it's so offensive it wakes us up.

It's a real problem.

We've complained about it twice now. We'll see if anything comes of it.

One thing's for sure...it's making us miss the hell out of that crazy chick.

P.S. I'm in LA shooting diaper commercials, so I don't have any recent pics. Please enjoy this old pic of our mini Thanksgiving feast.

app nerdery

A buddy at work just introduced me to this iPhone app called CrossProcess, that makes your crappy iPhone pics look all faded and Polaroidy. Not bad for a buck.

Doesn't everything look so painfully cool? You'd never guess that you were actually looking at:

A project manager hassling me about my diaper commercials.

An overheated cab from inside a Starbucks.

My partner Tweeting.

The alley where we take Franny to poo. We call it Poo Alley.