couch control

I recently received a request for more tales from the farm. Here's an all-time favorite, short but sweet:

Nick was 1, Katie was 3, I was 6, and Wayne was 8. At the time, Wayne still had a few years to go before reaching his peskiness peak, and I'd yet to earn the nickname "Big Bossy Booger." Katie spent a great deal of her time chasing butterflies, while Nick was ever improving his block-building skills.

One afternoon, my mom decided the "big kids" were old enough to watch over the little kids, and asked Wayne and me to keep Katie and Nick out of trouble while she took a quick shower. "Of course," we said, and we did.

When my mom got out of the shower, Wayne and I were downstairs watching TV. Katie and Nick were upstairs, tied to the couch by their necks.

the very couch

gainfully employed

Did I mention I got a job? Well, I did. Granted, it's doing the same thing in the same place as my so-called "internship," but now I have the salary, the benefits, and the longer hours to prove it. This is exciting. This is very exciting with the exception of the longer hours. For as much as I liked the idea of being an intern-for-life, the time had come. This means I'll be in New York a longer than originally planned, but I'm looking forward to it. I'm also looking forward to no longer living my life in four-month increments. But who am I kidding? This isn't my first job by any means. Now that I think about it...

A Brief Employment History
Weeding onions (two cents/weed, mind you): age 6 (Idaho)
Vineyard trellis removal: 7 (Idaho)
Training hops: 8-9 (Idaho)
Hoeing beet/bean/hop fields: 10-14 (Idaho)
Spraying weeds, washing windows, sweeping spiderwebs: 10 - present
Childcare (little bro and sis, mostly): 15-18 (Idaho)
Lawn-mowing: 12-18 (Idaho)
CBS (Intl Licensing Department, Intern): Fall 2002 (Santa Monica, CA)
Walgreens "Business Affairs Intern": Summer 2003 (Idaho)
BBVA Comercio Exterior Intern: Sept 2005 - March 2006 (Madrid)
BBVA Business Development Intern: May 2006 - Oct 2006 (NY)
BBVA Business Development Analyst: Nov 2006 - present (NY)

Keyword: gainfully

battwoman returns

Better late than never, we finally have contracted internet! My apartment mate and I did our darndest to survive two months' worth of pirated wireless, but when "jimmyb's" connection went wild and "qhouse" instated a network key, we knew our time had come. I don't even know what it costs yet. Whatever it is... it's worth it.

More soon.

pumpking pie?

I can not, for the life of me, type "pumpkin" without typing "pumpking". Can not. If I am typing along at anything that resembles a normal speed- even if I know full-well that the word is coming up- my darn left index finger slips over and pops in a final "g". Wha? I'm then forced to go grudgingly back and delete it. This gets particularly annoying at a time when one is repeatedly forced to acknowledge the name of a gourd that's ignored for eleven months out of the year. Pumpkin pie, pumpkin party, pumpkin fest... bah. I therefore suggest that "pumpking" be adopted into standard English. Yeah? Yeah? Surely I'm not the only one with this problem. There will be no need to pronounce it differently- a "silent g" will suffice- and I really think this will lead to a greater appreciation for some other words with multiple spellings. Call it stubbornness, call it laziness, call it ridiculous... I won't fight it anymore.

mmm... pumpking pie

new chair, blue chair

At work we would sit every day In chairs slightly thread-bare and grey Until late one night To our utmost delight The grey chairs were taken away. And then the next morning, what fun! There, before work had begun Sat waiting brand new ones Some shiny, bright blue ones Imagine the work we'll get done!

sweet dreams

I received a few concerns about my camp-pad situation last week, so you'll all be happy to know I'm now sleeping on clouds. Kind of.

Last week I went to Target with the intention of buying an air mattress, but after 30 minutes staring at the air mattress section (a surprisingly large section), I spied a sleeping bag in a neighboring aisle. Ooooo, sleeping bag... done deal. My bed is now assembled as follows: camp pad (so?) + sleeping bag + mattress pad + fitted sheet + (me) + sheet + quilt. Not bad. My logic was this: the sleeping bag doubles as, well, a sleeping bag! For visitors!

It's a trundle, of sorts.

many moves

I write from the “comfort” of my new apartment. I put “comfort” in quotation marks because, well, I'm currently using a camp pad for a bed. I actually have no problem with camp pads, but a lot of people apparently think that's weird. I'll probably upgrade to an aero-bed this week so I can really impress the visitors. Another option might be a real bed, but who does that? Not me, and not when I don't know where I'll live come January. One of these days I hope to stay in one place long enough to invest in such luxury, but the wandering continues for now.

Post grad house-hopping analysis:

# When Where Where? w/whom Pros Cons Note 1 Jun'04 Dulio’s house Monterrey, Mexico Dulio, Bea, Pedro guac tacos across the street one bathroom for four interim for apt search 2 July'04 Señora's house Monterrey, Mexico Señora, Bea cheap no A/C too hot, move to survive 3 Aug–Dec'04 Calle Nápoles Monterrey, Mexico Bea my own room for the first time since high school no oven, the occasional cockroach care packages never arrive 4 Jan–Feb'05 Alex's House Monterrey, Mexico Alex, Karla, Alex's mom my own bathroom alex's twin poodles winter session before Spain 5 Feb–Nov'05 Plaza de Castillo Madrid, Spain Bea, Karla, Joyce, Regis, Ileana six girls six girls all-time record: 10 months 6 Dec'05–March'06 Pacífico Madrid, Spain Bea adorable apt tiny apt after the six moved on 7 May'06 Meri's apt New York, NY Meri view of the gym Meri (jk, jk) interim for apt search 8 Jun–Aug'06 46th St & 9th New York, NY Chris rooftop everything on a slant summer sublet 9 Sept06 - Union Square New York, NY Julie TBD TBD TBD

mixing it up

I don't know what came over me yesterday, but I think we can all learn from it.

A few coworkers and I had adventured into a new deli for lunch, so I stepped calmly to the side while I surveyed the goods: pastas to the left, couscous to the right, soups in the back, hmmm. Then I spotted what I was looking for: the make-your-own-salad station. Perfect. Lots of deli's have a similar set-up, but the options will vary so I scanned the ingredients board as I took my place in line. Unfortunately, it was a line of two, and I soon found myself staring into the eyes of The Salad Man: "Yes, miss?" I started off calmly with the "Romaine mix," then requested my standard "mushrooms" (fresh) and "tomatoes" (cherry). I generally mix it up- so to speak- at this point, so I searched the mini-containers as Salad Man tossed the tomatoes and mushrooms. "And?" And... and... "blue cheese." And... and then I saw it: Pesto Chicken. Pesto Chicken?! I love pesto chicken! "Pesto Chicken," I said, "and oil and vinegar." Salad Man mixed it up, topped it off, and undoubtedly shook his head for the rest of the day.

Blue cheese + pesto + vinegar? Sick.

pictures worth a thousand words

Maybe not a thousand, but a step in the right direction:

a tribute to my summer school neighbors

If I ever say "summer school neighbors," I am without a doubt referring to those of 2002: Katie, Tyson, Jeff, and Jonny.

It all began that May. Katie and I were excited just to be reunited after my spring semester abroad, but little did we know that the summer had a few extra friends in store for us. We got a "taste" soon enough, as we met our across-the-hall neighbors, Tyson and Jeff, by means of a strawberry fight and its subsequent practical joke war. Soon after, we were playing tennis, a little later we were baking cookies, and in the end we were inseparable. Well, at least until Tyson left at the end of the May and we replaced him (but not really) with Jonny, even more tennis, and still more cookies.

We all pulled a mini-reunion in April, but a recent revival of emails has left me in need of another. Guys? Calling all summer school neighbors...

the return of the orange links

what a relief

blue links

Instead of writing a post this week, I thought maybe I'd just turn my links blue. Yeah? Yeah?

Actually I was deleting the link to a friend's [weak] blog, and I seem to have deleted some essential tags in the process. Looks good, no?

Drat.

Blue is one of my favorite colors, actually. The favorite, perhaps- though not among links. In any case, I don't feel like finding/fixing the problem right now, so I'll ramble on.

Mini update: I've recently extended my New York City life at least through December. This is for your visiting convenience, not to mention my desire to ice skate around Rockefeller Center. Ooo, and I should mention my job title is now "analyst" rather than "intern," though little has changed.

Actually, my title may soon be "homeless," as I have to find a new apartment by the first of September or I'm out on the streets. I thought I had something lined up with a fellow intern at the bank, but she's on vacation- and not responding- in Spain for the moment.

My volleyball team is now 0-6. No wonder I have blue links.

I burned my tongue on a cappuccino today, but it's more pink than blue, really.

That should probably do it for now.

scare package

I requested a few items- mostly volleyball stuff- from my family a while back, so I was excited last Friday to finally receive the goods. I ripped open the box in hopes of a few extras, and was not soon disappointed. I got extras, all right.

I wasn't at all surprised by the water-squirting octopus or a candy cane from last Christmas, and was most grateful for the two cans of mousse. Then, suddenly, I spied some zip-locked papertowels nestled in among the kneepads. "Cookies?" I wondered, but grabbing for the bag I felt the contents to be quite light and perhaps a bit crunchy. "Aw, dried flowers," I concluded, thinking of my mom's lilacs on the west side of our yard. Not so, I'm afraid. As I gently unrolled the paper towels, I was shocked to find three giant (dead) JUNE BUGS.

I realize that very few of you will have had experience with the June Bug (technically, I think, a beetle), so let me assure you that they are 1) very large and 2) very ugly. I loved the things when I was little, as their sticky legs allowed them to scale my entire arm without falling off. They also make a delightful hissing sound when you provoke them- which, of course, I did whenever I could. After all, they're only around for late June (thus the name?) and July each summer- at least at my house.

Unfortunately, they fell from my grace circa 1995, when I uncovered a pile of their unsightly larvae (also 1. very large and 2. VERY ugly). The bugs have been a family joke ever since, so I should have known better than to request a package in the middle of the summer. Ew.

hot town, summer in the city

60 degrees: shorts. 70 degrees: barefeet. 80 degrees: play in the water.

Those were the rules ingrained in me as a child, so lately I'm wondering where in the world is my Slip 'n Slide. I think my brothers, sister, and I slid our way through an average of one per summer in our early years, eventually earning ourselves a Crocodile Mile.

"YOU RUN! YOU SLIDE! You hit the ramp, and take a DIVE!"

Except you didn't, really. How those kids in the commercial caught so much air, I'll never know. Still, it was the Crocodile Mile! I was always a little disappointed our edition didn't have the arched Croc streamers and we all know the "giant splashdown pool" wasn't all it was cracked up to be, but streamers might have interfered with The Twist I was ever-perfecting, and a larger pool would have inevitably led to more dunkings by the older brother. Slip 'n Slides, running through sprinklers, wading in ditches, SuperSoakers and water balloon fights, trampolines and hoses... those were the days.

Where's my popsicle.

up up and away

You work on the 45th floor
So staircases simply won't do,
You press the ^ patiently, waiting
The elevators coming for you.

But others are not quite so patient
They press ^ and press ^ again,
They think that it makes it come faster?
One shakes his head: "slowest it's been."

But ding! one arrives, you assemble,
Pack in for that cattle-car feeling,
Every head now facing forward
Every eye, glazed, toward the ceiling.

No talking (well, maybe weather)
Prepare for the ear pop: one, two,
And that's it, that's elevator culture-
All worth it, I think, for the view :)

against all odds

Remember my inter-office World Cup pool? $20 buy-in, limit 3? Well, I won! Fine, fine, I got third-- but still! Nothing like a hard day's work; I collected a cool $108 to complement the bragging rights I was really after, and it's since become my number-one conversation piece. "Oh, you're the girl [American, INTERN] that won in the pool." Yes, yes I am. I figure now I can really start throwing my weight around in the office.

phlushing

So, I uh... flushed my cell phone.

What?

Yeah. Saturday afternoon I walked into a bathroom clutching my Samsung e105. Five minutes later, I walked out empty-handed.

As I entered the stall that fateful afternoon, I thoughtfully freed up my hands by slipping little e105 into my right-side shorts pocket. A shallow pocket- sure- but a safe place, right? I then went about business as usual, pulled up my shorts, and reached for a right-handed flush. With the stretch, my right-side pocket positioned itself directly over the bowl, and in doing so must have woken e105's suicidal tendencies. As I pressed through with the flush, e105 took a dive for the waters beneath. I saw a flash of silver and plunged my hand into the depths (what- you would have done it too), but it was too late. e105 was gone.

It all happened so fast.

world cup!

You know your office is World Cup obsessed when:

• every third word is "futbol"
• 35+ people watch the Spain games in the conference room (lights dimmed)
• trading room TVs are set to ESPN2
• twice-daily emails update the inter-office pool standings ($20 buy-in, limit 3)
• flags abound- you name it, we've got it
• people are seen kicking soccer balls in the hallway
• sudden groans, shouts, and sighs of relief are not uncommon
• lunch hours turn verrrry flexible
• your boss sports a jersey

I love it.

ID ID

If you're going to be from Idaho (not a bad move), and decide to carry an Idaho driver's license as your primary form of photo ID (logical), may I recommend not having it issued on 12/15/2004. Many ID-checkers have apparently "never seen one of those before," and a look-up in The Book will promptly reveal the example as issued on- you guessed it- 12/15/2004. Suspicious? They think so. While you're at it, avoid losing or cracking your card, as doing so results in a replacement screaming DUPLICATE across the top right-hand corner. As it turns out, "duplicate" is not a favorite word among ID-checkers. Worst case scenario? A duplicate ID from ID, issued right there on the 15th of December, 2004. Very suspicious indeed.

we've got mail

I opened a box of greeting cards last night, and what should flutter out but a note from Hallmark. They thanked me for joining in their tradition of "enriching lives through meaningful communication" and emphasized their belief in the "emotional value of written communication." No need to thank me, Hallmark- I'm all for it. In fact, aside from the closer-to-family-and-friends factor, good old-fashioned mail easily tops my "good to be back from Spain" list. There's no comparison, really: stationary is more available and much better looking; sending is at a lower cost and higher convenience; and receiving actually happens- even if dominated by my own internet shopping.

Don't get me wrong- I love (understatement) email- but there's something to be said for personalized, hand-written cards. Out-dated or not, I like writing them, I like receiving them, and I like subjecting poor people to my wannabe-chickenscratch. In the words of Hallmark, what a great way to "keep in touch and nurture relationships."

seat-swivel view from the office

-

an apartment!

Kind of. A future apartment, more like. After 42 craigslist emails, 18 replies, and 7 visits, I've found the lucky spot. From June 1st to August 31st I'll be living in "Hell's Kitchen," a neighborhood just blocks from Times Square. Yes, Hell's Kitchen. The apartment belongs to two girls who are taking off for the summer, and is the nicest, closest, cheapest place I saw. By "nicest" I mean the 5th floor of an old building without an elevator- ha- but it's a little bigger (almost has a living room!), a little cleaner, and a lot better taken care of than many (all?) of the others I looked at. By "closest," I mean 25 minutes walking to everywhere I'll frequent- work, the park, shopping, etc- and by "cheapest," well, we won't go into that. The neighborhood seems really clean and safe, and there are piles upon piles of restaurants, bars, and coffee shops close by.

The catch: I'll be living with "Chris," (a random guy) which was not part of my original plan. I did already meet him and he seems nice enough... maybe a little younger (?), from Florida, works with video/film. I must admit I'd originally hoped to live with 2-3 other "young professional" girls, but the apparent lack thereof- combined with the "nicest-closest-cheapest"- roped me in at the offer. Ah, and I'll have Internet (whew), rooftop-access, and A/C eventually. I can't say there's a whole lot of space, but I can say that visitors are more than welcome. Sign yourself up.

variations on voicemail

I did a very embarrassing thing last night. I "signed" a voicemail. I'm not sure how else to describe it.

It started off as a normal- if rambly- "welcome home" message to my little brother, but ended horribly with the words "talk to you soon. Wendy." Wendy? Wendy?! What is that?!? Granted, I'm just working my way back into telephones, but that's ridiculous.

and kind of funny.

the big move

So here I am in New York City.

I must admit it hasn't yet sunken in that I'm living here. I think it will fairly soon, though, as my days are much more business than pleasure. Still, I'm loving it. Here's what little is going on so far:

The Living Quarters
Temporarily staying at Meri's as I search for a ("cheap"?) place to live.

The Office
45th floor of 1345 Avenue of the Americas (6th) between 54th and 55th... let's just say I have an unobstructed view of all of Central Park at the swivel of my seat. I'm currently working on the corporate banking portal, a new effort to connect branches and information throughout Central and South America. I like it. I don't particularly like the dress code, which requires a full-on suit jacket. People in my office are from everywhere (23% American, I think?), and I definitely hear more Spanish than English. Above all, everyone has been really nice.

The City Life
Working on it!

details, as promised

I've been holding off on detail revelation primarily because I haven't had many details to reveal. What I can tell you is that on May 1st of 2006 I will enter BBVA NY as its newest intern in the Strategic Business Development department of the Corporate Banking Americas area. "Americas" as in "Latin America," and "intern" as in "temporary." That said, I must point out that- miraculously- I will indeed be paid, and I'd like to consider the post as much a trial period for them as for me. As for where I'll be living, what exactly I'll be doing, and whether I'll pick up the New York accent... stay tuned.

big news

There once was a girl- hey, that's me
Returning from o'er 'cross the sea
Was Idaho-bound
But then a job found
In "The Big Apple-" yes- NYC!

more details to come...

hiatus

Oops. I should have mentioned that the Whirlwind Tour of the Iberian Peninsula wouldn't include many (any?) Internet stops for trusty webpage updates. Sorry about that.

In other news, I'm back on US soil and currently working on some "leads" for employment. Ha.

23 days

Well, I've less than a month left in Spain. It's hard for me to believe that I've lived here over a year, but the 30th of March will mark my return to the US in pursuit of that inevitable "real job." I finished my last day at BBVA Madrid on Friday, so this week has consisted primarily of hanging out, packing up, and doing all those things I've put off for the last six months (app-sending, book-reading, city-exploring). The older brother arrives next Tuesday, and then we're off on Wendy's Whirlwind Tour of the Iberian Peninsula which I think will make for the perfect goodbye... or at least a perfect "see you later."

larval fish?

I was walking home from work today when I came up behind a guy. Ah, but not just any guy, a guy with a sports bag. And not just any sports bag, a sports bag embroidered "29th Annual Larval Fish Conference." I half-laughed to myself, wondering whether it was a joke or some sort of vintage-attempting knock-off. On closer inspection, however, I decided that the bag- and its owner- were convincingly authentic. Once home, I did what any other curious soul would do and Googled it. Sure enough, the 29th Annual Larval Fish Conference was held in Barcelona, Spain from the 11th through the 14th of July, 2005. Disappointingly, registration was closed. Oooo! but the 30th Annual Larval Fish Conference will be held in Louisiana this year from the 12th of July through the 17th.

I'll probably see you there. I need that sports bag.

happy post...poned

After a few whiny weeks' worth of Junkers, honking, and sock loss, my little brother informed me that it was high-time for an uplifting edition. I couldn't agree more and was about to sit down for the session when I realized I was in dire need of chapstick. There's no arguing with a chapstick call, so I went right over to my purse to dig it out. While there, I thought I'd go ahead and stash that cash I'd taken out of the ATM earlier... ah, but it's not there. Hmm... well, it must be in my coat (no), pants pocket (no), book? (no), bathroom! (no), bed?! (no), etc (no no no!) [repeat]. And so it seems that I managed to lose 110 Euros somewhere between the convenience store and my apartment.

I'm hoping against hope that it's here somewhere, but in the meantime it looks like I've made some lucky person's night quite uplifting indeed.

unsocked mysteries

Fuzzy, come back.

Every time I do laundry, I come up one sock less. Where do they go? Who- or what- is responsible? I can't even blame others like I used to, since my only apartmentmate wears a size five shoe. So, are they lost en route to the washer? Stuck in the depths of the machine? Vaporized during the spin cycle? Or are they shredded? Threaded? Dissolved? I've more or less ruled out a drop from the line, as I managed to lose socks throughout my dryer-dominated laundry career. One way or another, socks disappear.

This week's loss was particularly painful, as two total loads turned up an unheard-of THREE matchless socks: one white, one black, and one fuzzy. The black and white are the same style and I simply matched them together in anticipation of next week's victim(s) and a potential re-pairing, but the fuzzy is irreplaceable. More of a slipper than a sock, really- and a Christmas gift from the sister- the fuzzy really had a place in my heart. Here's hoping he'll turn up with next week's wash. If not...

It's better to have fuzzed and lost than to never have fuzzed at all.

ha! it's done then!

I went to Paris this weekend, returning on Sunday with a Masters of International Business in my hot little hands. It's amazing what a scrap of paper can represent, and the whole ceremony got me reflecting on the past year and seven months. From the first unsure weeks in Mexico to a final toast with classmates and friends, it's been an incredible experience of challenges and rewards that has taught me more than a paper could possibly say.

Now, to figure out what to do with it.

spanish-english shirts, vol 2

I've been slacking off in the spanish-english shirts department. It's not for lack of material, trust me, but for my unwillingness to take pictures of people actually wearing them. Nonetheless, I managed to come across a few good ones in stores lately, enabling me to "try them on" aka take pictures of them in the dressing room. Hopefully this is not illegal.

I plan to update the album soon, but "my beautiful duckling" ought to tide you over:

Yes, soft feeling.

ping pong, anyone?

Once upon a time in a faraway land, my apartmentmate was on vacation. She wouldn't be back for another two weeks and we'd just changed apartments, so I did what any other person in her right mind would do and took to exploring the new neighborhood. One fine evening, I tried an until-then-neglected eastern route and soon found myself staring at the door of La Federación Madrileña de Tenis de Mesa. That is to say, ping pong.

I walked by. I walked by again. I walked by, and went in. I made my way back to the office, then pretended to read the bulletin board while waiting for local champs to offer me a place on their league teams, or perhaps throw out an endorsement deal. I was my 8th grade PE-class ping pong champion, after all- singles and doubles. But ignored at the board, I shrugged it off, found my way out, and walked on.

The feet moved on, but the mind did not. Visions of my excuse-for-a-forehand and Christmas family tourneys flashed through my brain, and I knew what must be done. Forehand reform, potential new friends, and a revival of the 8th-grade glory days? So be it.

I'm in ping pong school.

honking

I was woken the other morning by honking. Woken. By honking. And if there's one thing in the wide world that I can't get a handle on, it's unwarranted honking. That's not to say that all honking is unwarranted by any means; it most certainly has its time and place. When a dog wanders into the road, for instance, or if someone needs a little encouragement with the light change, a little beep here or there can go a long way. If you've arrived at a friend's house or if someone starts rolling back on a hill, let 'em know you're there. You can even use the horn to critique bad driving or to simply acknowledge a friend in passing. It's a handy little device.

It's a handy little device that's abused. Unwarranted honking has gotten entirely out of control and can be defined primarily by one moment: stuck in traffic with the desire to express one's frustration. Unacceptable. I guess the fundamental question really comes down to this: will it make a difference? Will the dog move? Will the person go? Will your friend come out? Will traffic suddenly move? In that last case, doubtful.

If your horn has no little-to-no effect on the outcome, lay off and keep the streets that much happier.

beep beep.

junkers

My apartment's boiler, a JUNKERS brand ZW28 Euroline, lived up to its name Thursday night with a sudden decision to flash a red button rather than heating my water and apartment. I know nothing of boilers, but hoped the poor thing would come back to life and figured that a few extra blankets and showerless days never hurt anybody. Since Friday was one of the biggest holidays in Spain, (Felices Reyes, by the way) I decided to wait until Saturday morning to call my landlady. When at last I did, I found she knows less about boilers than I do. Her son thought it might be due to low pressure, however, so armed with JUNKERS manuals and my Eddie Bauer multi-tool, I fiddled around for an hour or two before calling back with my failure report. One cold day later, my landlady and her son came over with manuals and tools, fiddling around an hour or two of their own before calling it quits as well.

My landlady talked to the JUNKERS man today, and it turns out all we had to do was hold down the flashing red button for 10 seconds.

Where were you on that one, manual.

a five-hour layover in amsterdam

I'm on my way back to Madrid, a trip that somehow included 3.5 and 5 hour layovers in Minneapolis and Amsterdam respectively- not to mention the perfectly good New Years' Eve that I lost somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. It all seemed worth saving $300 in plane tickets at the time, but the second-thoughts are now freely flowing. Ah well, nothing a little airport Internet can't remedy, and anyway the blog was in dire need of attention. Again.

Since I bumped off a poem last week, here's a little piece- of sorts- from the plane:

"Veggie curry or chicken?" she asks
"Chicken," I finally say,
[Debating, but since I had curry last week]
She smiles, goes to hand me my tray.

Chicken goes sliding, hits cranberry juice!
Who teeters, then tips on my lap,
On my pants, my jacket, my carry-on bag
And on KLM's World-Wide Flight Map.

Six napkins later, as "sorries" subside
I return to the chicken at hand,
Joined by potato and green bean supreme
I find all "surprisingly" bland.

For salad: some lettuce, tomatoes in-wedge
Carrot and cucumber dice,
Then cheese and a roll, some cake and of course
My cran-apple remnants: just ice.

Not a bad meal, all-in-all, I suppose
My juice stains you hardly can see,
But seven full hours: wet pants and one thought:
That next time, it's curry for me.