R&R Strikes Again!

My apartment is, shall we say, quirky. The prior tenants were fond of getting drunk and punching holes in the walls and ripping the kitchen cabinets down. (Seriously - every single door had a hole in it.) The landlords made a lot of repairs before I moved in, but we keep finding new things that need maintenance. A heavy wind blew all the insulation out from under the house, and my pipes froze two weeks ago. The pump that brings fuel into the house had a leak and a loose switch that was propped up with a folded-up piece of paper. Those issues have both been fixed, but the heater upstairs has been on the fritz for awhile. The property manager finally figured out why. This is what he pulled out of the heater's fan:

Please note the Carhartt logo on his jacket.

That, my friends, is what my family used to call a "blooper." It is the top of an R&R bottle - the stopper that makes the liquor come out more slowly, in "bloops." It was jamming up the fan on my heater, which is now purring like a kitten, keeping my upstairs toasty warm, sans blooper.

59 Bottles of R&R on the Tundra...

A few days ago, I went on a walk on the tundra boardwalk, intending to get some fresh air and maybe take a few pictures. Instead, I found a new game to play: Count the R&R Bottles!

You see, R&R is the most popular alcohol around here. It stands for Rich & Rare Reserve (yes, I know that's three R's, not two) and is a "fine" Canadian whiskey. According to the website, it is "Full-flavoured and peppery with creamy maple syrup, clean oak, hints of rose petals, dark fruit, and tangy oranges." According to my esteemed colleagues who have taste-tested it in a purely academic pursuit, it is a cross between melted-down licorice and cough medicine. However, it has one unique characteristic that redeems it above all else: it is dirt cheap.

You see, Bethel is "damp." That means that it is somewhere between "dry" and "wet" on the legality of alcohol. Most of the surrounding villages are completely dry, meaning alcohol is completely prohibited in all forms, making "hootch" production quite the business enterprise. (And also, "hootch" is fun to say.) In Bethel, it is legal to possess and consume alcohol, but there is no way to buy it - there are no bars, the restaurants can't serve it, and there are no liquor stores. You can bring it in from Anchorage, but that gets expensive pretty fast...thus, the popularity of R&R.

Additionally, PFD season is upon us. PFD stands for Permanent Fund Dividend; this is the famous "the government pays you to live in Alaska!" money that is distributed to every Alaska resident in late October. It comes from the oil money and varies each year; this year, the amount was $878. That means that every man, woman, and child who lived here during the calendar year 2011 received $878. (Alas, I do not yet qualify, as I have not been a resident for a calendar year.) It also means that that October is a joy-filled time full of PFD sales on expensive merchandise and lots of drugs, drunkenness, and debauchery that make the ER a glorious place to work if you love trauma and treating people high on interesting substances.

This brings me back to my original story: Count the R&R Bottles. Whilst wandering across the tundra boardwalk, I noticed quite a few empty bottles on either side of the walk. On a whim, I started counting. In the mile-and-a-half walk between Owl Park and Pinky's Park, I counted 59 empty bottles of R&R, among other litter. I made other very scientific observations as well:

Leslie's Very Scientific Observations Regarding R&R Bottles on the Tundra

1. R&R bottles were usually found between 1 and 6 feet from the boardwalk, but never more than 8 feet, suggesting that throwing an R&R bottle far after one has emptied it in the traditional fashion may be difficult.

2. R&R bottles can occasionally found in clusters of two, but never more than two. They are usually lone findings on the tundra.
3. The highest concentration of R&R bottles can be found around the benches set slightly off the boardwalk in the open tundra, not, interestingly, surrounding the covered pavilions that could perhaps offer some shelter from the elements.
4. The next most common findings were empty cigarette boxes, Vitamin Water, Rockstar/Monster energy drinks, and Powerade. No other type of alcohol container was found more than once.
5. The lowest concentration of R&R bottles was in the immediate vicinity of both parks, a reassuring finding. Interestingly, the concentration of other bottles and cigarette boxes remained constant, suggesting this finding would approach statistical significance if formal analyses were undertaken.

This ain't your Atlantic City boardwalk!

I live on the tundra now. Tundra is essentially a giant sponge on top of permafrost, soil that never completely thaws out. As you can imagine, this makes it difficult for trees to grow (which is why there are, sadly, no hottie lumberjacks). Tundra is very mushy, and as a result it is difficult to build roads and houses and buildings. Even lightweight off-road vehicles get stuck in the mud all the time. When I was in Dillingham, I remember laughing at the fact that it is actually easier to get around in the winter when things are frozen. It's easier to hop on your snow machine and drive 50 miles than to get on a plane. The people in remote villages use wintertime to stock up for summer!

In Bethel, as in many of the remote villages around here, they have built boardwalks as lightweight alternatives to paved roads. The boardwalks have become one of my favorite things up here. They cut across the tundra, forming shortcuts and links all across town. From certain parts of the boardwalk, you can see way out across the tundra. It's beautiful. I'm a fan.

Building on the tundra is a bit challenging, to say the least. Remember the permafrost? Well, if you build a house right on top of permafrost, the heat from the house will melt some of that ground. However, it melts unevenly, so the house will become unstable and fall down pretty quickly. The ingenious solution? All the buildings here are on stilts. Raising the house up also raises the heat up, so the permafrost below will stay frozen and stable. (I suppose it's a little more complicated than that, but that's as much as my non-engineering brain can comprehend.) A fun side effect is that the houses sway in the wind...and we get a lot of wind off the tundra! Lying in bed at night, you can feel everything swaying. It took some getting used to, but I like it!

And now please enjoy some Hipstamatically-enhanced photos from the boardwalk. I had a little too much fun photographing my shadow as it waved back at me.

So I have to tell you something...

We're going to deviate, briefly, from specific men to a post that highlights my least favorite phrase in the English dating world.

So I have to tell you something.

I'm not sure that I can really explain exactly how nausea-inducing that phrase has become.  I've asked around to some of my female friends, and let me tell you, it is always followed by a doozy.  Let's discuss.

Scenario 1:
Him:  So I have to tell you something.

Me: o.O

Him (paraphrased): I've been skipping work for the last 6 months, and lying about what I've actually been doing with my time.

Me: O.o

Scenario 2: 
Him: So I have to tell you something.

Me: o.O

Him (paraphrased): My ex wife and child are living with me in a one-bedroom apartment.

Me: O.o

See what I mean?

Shall we explore some of the other excellent statements that come after "So I have to tell you something"?  Of course we should!

In no particular order.... (and not all of them are mine)

Him: I live with my Mom, brothers and 8 year old daughter.

Him: I may have been recently exposed to herpes.

Him: I haven't done this.  (Yes, that's in reference to what you think it's in reference to).

Him: I lied.  I don't really have a job.

Him: I want to have a relationship with you, but I want to see other people at the same time.

Him: I promise I own my own place, but I live with my Mom to help her out.  (Of course you do).

Him: I won't be able to see you for a while.  There's a bench warrant out for my arrest.

Him: I'm going to marry my other girlfriend.

Him: When I get too relaxed, I have a cardiac arrhythmia.

Him: I've joined the cheerleading squad.

All of this is classically met with:
Me: o.O

So, dear readers, what else do you have?  I need to commiserate some more with people who have experienced this too!  Comment with your best follow-ups to "So I have to tell you something"!

I'm not from around here.

Phone conversation between me and the woman at the electric company:

Me: Hello, I'm new to Bethel, and I'd like to set up an account at my new address.

(long pause)

Woman: Okay.

(long pause)

Me: so...ah...can I do that?

Woman: Yes.

(long pause)

Me: Okay. Um...how?

Woman: You have to come in.

Me: Okay. Well, I heard that I would have to put down a deposit. Can you tell me how much that will be?

Woman: Not without the address.

Me: Okay, I'll be living at 110 Owl Street.

(long pause)

(rummaging in the background)

(long pause)

Woman: 110 Ptarmigan, you say?

Me: No, Owl! Owl. 110 Owl.

Woman: No, Ptarmigan.

Me: Are you sure?

Woman: Yes.

Me: Okay, can you tell me how much the deposit will be?

(long pause)

(more rummaging in the background)

(long pause)

Woman: $748

Me: Whew! Okay, thanks. Where are you located?

Woman: We're in a small gray building.

(pause)

Me: Where? What is it near?

Woman: Near the police station.

Me: Is that near City Hall and the DMV?

Woman: No.


Me: Okay, what is it near?

Woman: It's on the highway.

(pause)

Me: Do you have an address?

(long pause)

(rummaging in the background)

(long pause)

Woman: 160 Eddie Hoffman.

Me: Great! Thanks so much!

<click>

Conceptual troubles

On my way here, I read a book called The Sex Lives of Cannibals by J Maarten Troost. It is the self-deprecating story of a man who moved to a remote atoll (a coral island) in the South Pacific for two years. As I read it, I marveled that our situations were somewhat parallel, if in reverse. (Inversely parallel?)

Over the past week, this passage has particularly resonated:

"We began packing...More difficult was my inability to imagine equatorial heat. 'I don't think you're going to need those,' Sylvia said, observing the wool sweaters I was packing.
"'I'm sure it will be a little cool in the evenings,' I replied. 'Particularly in the winter.'
"'I see. I think, perhaps, you might be having a little conceptual trouble with the idea of living on the equator.'"

Now, allow me to share with you the contents of my top dresser drawer at the moment:

Did you see them? Did you count them? No less than 12 tank tops and 9 T-shirts.

Now, please enjoy the only long-sleeved shirts and socks I brought with me for the month.

I haven't been warm since I landed here.

Additionally, this packing paradox has proved especially problematic the past week. You see, it has been snowing - on and off, just a dusting here and there - but enough that I've been REALLY wanting my full complement of warm clothes...and warm bedding...and warm hats and scarves and boots and gloves.

The colder it gets, the more uncertain the moving company becomes about (1) where all my stuff is, (2) when it will get here, and (3) why I am upset about this. The other new doc in town refers to our contact at the moving company as "the dingbat." She is disinclined to use the phone. She responds to about one in five e-mails. When she says "the 26th," turns out she actually means "the 2nd of the next month...maybe." She didn't think to tell Bethel Bob that I exist and that he'd be picking up and unpacking my shipment.

...which brings me to the sole silver lining of the day - Bethel Bob is awesome, as advertised. Stay tuned for tales of his epic awesomeness.

Oh the guy who's not from around here...

I have minimal excuses for my hiatus, given that my fellow co-blogger-now-Alaskan-resident partner-in-crime has so many posts!

So this tale comes to you from the end of August actually.  I've been trying to figure out how to phrase it.

I meet guy on the now-infamous interwebs, some chatting happens, some emailing happens and lo and behold, we decide to meet.  I know, you're thinking that this sounds awfully familiar.
Prior to meeting I discover that guy moved from the Ukraine "a while ago" and works in computer science-y stuff of some kind.

He says "why don't we meet at Starbucks, get a coffee, and walk around the Boston Common?"
For late August, this sounds like a great date!  It's outside...everyone knows I love coffee...a good walk always sounds good.  He picks the Starbucks and the time, since he's driving in from out of the city.

Cut to me, sitting in a Starbucks, alone, 15 minutes after date time.
He texts that he's 5 minute away, got backed up in traffic.
10 minutes later...nothing.  Finally I text him and discover that he is at the wrong place.

Yes, I'm sure you backed up to read that again and remembered that he in fact PICKED THE PLACE.
So we meet.  No, of course he doesn't look like his photos.  Cue awkward hug.
Then he says (insert whatever opening phrase you want) and I realize...his accent is so thick I can barely understand him!

We buy coffee, skip to walking around the Common.  Ironic place for a date, as it becomes apparent that we have NOTHING in common (ba dum bump).
We have been texting back and forth for a week ahead of time, but now for the life of me I can't figure out what we even talked about.  I try to ask about where he's traveled...all he brings up is going back and forth to New York to visit his ex.  We talk about said ex and trips to New York approximately 8 more times over the course of the night.  I try to ask what he does in his free time.  Turns out, I should introduce him to guy with the gun.  He's a gun instructor and has MULTIPLE (as in more than 1) gun safes in his home.  Say what?

Then, as in slow motion, he tries to grab my hand.  I deftly move my purse and rearrange my coffee to not have to hold his hand.  But wait...he tried again.  And again.  I end up having to cross my arms for him to get the hint.  I'm so skeeved out at this point I can't even look him in the eye.

Attempting to make conversation, I ask if he is still a citizen of Ukraine and if he gets back home often.  He decides to respond with "don't worry, I'm not trying to marry you for a green card.  I'm a citizen of the US."

UGH.

Really, how do I meet these people?  Thank goodness I feigned having to get home, and I haven't heard from him since.

We shall saddle up and go forward...I have a few more in the works with hopefully good stories for all :)

Don't tell my father!

After I found an apartment (I found an apartment! Yay!!) I turned my attention to acquiring a vehicle. It has been...challenging. Part of the issue is adjusting my New Yorker sensibilities to vehicles up here. The town is on a river, so there's either mud or silty dirt everywhere. It's not...shall we say...clean. The roads are mostly gravel, so the cars get beat up pretty quickly. It's very expensive to get a car in or out (barge in the summer and air freight in the winter - several thousand dollars each), so cars live here forever and are eventually laid to rest at the dump, where there is a field of cars and a school bus with trees growing out of them.

Despite all this, it's a seller's market. All the cars I looked at or inquired about were going for at least twice the Kelley Blue Book value and were in a condition that made this engineer's daughter tremble in fear. Today I heard that one of the managers at the clinic just bought a car - it's a 1986 with rust holes you can see through! My father would disown me.

A few days ago, I test-drove a cute little Kia 4x4. It was a 1998 model with 132K miles on it. The owner assured me it belonged to his wife's grandfather and ran well, and he was only getting rid of it because the gentleman in question had just had his license taken away. It had four-wheel drive and was fully winterized. He claimed it had run all winter last year. The only thing wrong, he claimed, was that the rear shocks needed replacing.

I hopped in with my roommate, and we bounced away. It was raining, which meant the pot holes were bigger, and bounced was the operative word. The car stank of cigarettes and was filthy inside, but I was lulled into a bouncy fantasy world where Febreze and seat covers heal all ills. We drove a few blocks, and then my roommate made the wise suggestion to turn the car off and start it again, just to be sure. I stopped at a corner and turned it off. I turned the key, and the engine made a few pitiful coughs and then wouldn't start. We were stranded on the side of the road in the cold rain with a dead car! Cars drove by, splashing and spraying us. We got colder and colder. I called up the owner, who seemed surprised. He came to our rescue and then said accusingly, "Did you turn it off?" I answered, "Well, you didn't tell me not to!!"

I did not buy that car.

However, I did buy a different car. It runs very well and is partly winterized. I had a mechanic (whom everyone speaks highly of) check it out, and he told me what was wrong with it. I used that to knock a couple hundred off the asking price and then took the plunge. I got a cashier's check, we did the paperwork, and it's officially mine. The inside smells like fish, but that's okay.

I'm feeling pretty good about it, despite the fact that the car has been driving longer than I have.

If it's yellow, let it mellow.

I am having trouble finding a permanent place to live. They are putting me up in temporary housing for a month, and then I'm on my own. Trouble is, school just started and most of the available rentals have been taken by the teachers. (Darn teachers!) I also don't quite know how to do this without the Internet. I've never found an apartment without craigslist!

Most of my leads have been word of mouth, like...I was at Saturday Market and happened upon the Register to Vote table. While I filled out paperwork, the lady and I got to chatting, and it so happens she has a friend who has a rental and is looking for someone. She gave me the number, but you see, the owner was about to leave for a moose hunt (it's always something) and won't be back for who knows how long...7 days, 10 days maybe, who knows? She'll call me when she gets back.

So goes the apartment search.

Meanwhile, I've been enjoying my walk to the hospital. I pass a dark purple house with a giant Tweety Bird painted on the side, a yard of sled dogs that bark at me as I go by, the county jail that appears to have disturbingly little security, and this lovely lawn ornament. I'm not gonna lie - it makes my day every time!

It's especially appropriate, as there is complex bathroom etiquette here. I'm still learning. First of all, if it's yellow, let it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down. After I repeatedly violated that rule, I made the following sign for myself on available scrap paper; it now sits atop the toilet as a reminder:

See, most of the town is not on city water, so the houses get water delivered twice a month. If you run out of water, that's it, until the next delivery. Apparently a rule of etiquette when you go to someone's house is to ask, "Can I flush your toilet?" Call me a prude, but I wasn't thrilled with the idea of peeing on top of someone else's pee. I think I'm used to it now, but I have a feeling my new home will provide ample fodder for scatological humor in the months to come.

I must be adapting.

Flattened

"Travel broadens, they say. My personal experience has been that, in the short term at any rate, it merely flattens, aiming its steam-roller of deadlines and details straight at one's daily life, leaving a person flat and gasping at its passage." Mary Russell, you do have a way with words.

Eighteen hours after leaving PA, I arrived in Bethel, via four flights and five cities. This was especially remarkable, as cloud cover, gusty winds, and runway construction have prevented many flights from landing, including the afternoon flight today. We came in on the "princess plane" - a Disneyland-decorated plane that sports fairy dust on the inside, princesses on the outside, and a constant stream of Disney music from the 90's classics. Apparently Alaska Air knows how to do up a plane.

As you can see, I tried to find a photo of the plane (it's famous in these here parts), but instead I'm sharing a screenshot of Google's honest opinion of my situation. Apparently Google doesn't think much of my new home. Too bad, Google! I like it so far!

And now I'm putting my flattened, steamrolled self to bed.

Oh the guy with the wife

Never fear, intrepid daters.  Despite my brief sabbatical (I have no excuse, really) I am here to regale you with my adventures in moving to Boston.

So here I am, moving to Boston, still single.  There was an ill-fated dating experience a few months ago, which I'm sure will be featured here eventually.  In honesty, it had been about 3-4 months since my last actual date when I got here.  I feel like my dating repertoire gets a little rusty if I haven't used it.  So I can't say I was the pickiest I've ever been.

Cue guy from mutual internet forum.  Again, site withheld to protect the guilty.  This is a forum and not technically a dating site, and his profile says he is "looking for friends".  We email back and forth, he seems great!  Turns out, he's also in medicine.  Single good dudes in medicine are few and far between, plus someone who may understand my life is a bonus.

After a while, we decide to meet for brunch.  We're meeting as friends, it's good to get to know people in the area.  Brunch is good, there is plenty to talk about.  He's from India, and I'm learning about his training and his culture.  We highly enjoyed ourselves, and weren't quite ready to say goodbye at the end of the meal.
Somehow we end up spending the REST OF THE DAY together, touring the harborfront, getting some cocktails, enjoying a beautiful summer day.  He holds my hand - suddenly this has turned in to a marathon date which neither of us expected.

At the end of the day, we're walking towards the T to go our separate ways.  Suddenly he looks frantic.  He sits me down and says...dun dun dun..."I have something to tell you"
Can I tell you how much I hate that phrase?  NOTHING good ever follows that phrase.

Turns out - after he moved from India his (ex)-wife followed him!  She is also in medicine, but came here without the promise of a residency, a fellowship, a job, nothing.  Now...because he is a NICE guy, she is living with him.  They are LIVING TOGETHER in a 1-bedroom apartment!

I have many questions about this.  I'm sure, so do you.
Such as
1) Are you together?
2) Where does she think you are?
3) WHERE DOES SHE SLEEP??!!

Now, in our profession, we are trained to take whack-a-doo information in stride, stay stone faced and absorb it.  So here I am, having no reaction to this craziness and he takes it as a sign of approval.  Which clearly means he needs to GO ON.  Yes friends, there's more.

The reason he got suckered in to letting her live with him is because, you guessed it, she brought their son with her!  Now, I can't be mad.  I can't even be a bit upset.  He's a great person for providing for his son and wanting to be with him.  ARE YOU SERIOUS?  I can't even be upset about this nonsense?!!  I.  am.  irrationally.  livid.
Only I would end up dating a married guy with a kid, and end up feeling like I'm the one at fault for it!
Truly, this is par for the course.

Stay tuned, dear daters.  I can promise you there will be more.

What?!?! I can't pack my instruments of war?

I am very slowly preparing for my move. Today I will have a phone survey, in which I will describe everything I own over the phone to a "professional surveyor" who will then estimate a weight. Then next Wednesday I will have my "pack'n'load" in which all my worldly goods will be packed onto the first truck. Yes, the first truck. My things will then be transferred to another truck and driven to Seattle, where they will be transferred to a steamship and barged up to Anchorage, where they will be transferred to a plane and air-freighted out to Bethel, where an apparently lovely gentleman named Bethel Bob will deliver and unpack everything.

My head is about to explode.

Speaking of explosions, here is a list of my favorite explosives that I am not allowed to bring:

Explosives
-black powder
-dynamite
-spear guns having a charged head (Am I allowed spear guns with an uncharged or previously discharged head?)
-aircraft engine compartment fire extinguishers
-explosive auto alarms (Do these things exist? Wouldn't that be counter-productive?)
-instruments of war (A little vague, don't you think?)

Mostly the movers have been very professional. They sent me a checklist full of helpful information like "don't pack your plane tickets" and a treatise on why I should dissemble my Ikea furniture. This has already led to several Wrath-of-Khan-like moments of howling, "IKEAAAAAAAAA!!" amidst screwdrivers and partially dissembled, now broken, furniture.

Is noon too early to have a drink?

The Cheese Stands Alone

People keep asking me what I'm doing to get ready for Alaska. I always reply with the most logical answer that comes to mind: I'm making cheese. Inspired by an old childhood friend (whose other suggestion was that I learn to fly), I bought a book and a kit and started learning about MILK. I mean - MILK, man! Milk.

It is possible that I am a bit bored in my unemployed/between-jobs state.

Anyway, I made feta. The adventure began on Thursday when I spent the afternoon at Whole Foods reading labels and hearing, "Can we help you, ma'am? Are you sure? Well, we'll be over here if you change your mind..." over and over and over. I guess their typical customers don't spend half an hour in the dairy section...or 20 minutes looking for extra rennet in the supplements section. (Turns out - rennet is only available online!) I came home with more milk than my lactose-intolerant-self typically drinks in a year.

Saturday was the big day. I sterilized everything and fantasized about breaking into the OR supply room to steal sterile kits to save time. Then I improvised a water bath in my kitchen sink and heated the milk...and let it sit. I added the culture...and let it sit and "ripen." I added rennet...and let it sit to "coagulate." I cut the curds...and let them sit. I heated the curds slooooooooowly...and let them sit. I drained the curds...and let them sit. As you can imagine, my ADD self does not do well with tasks requiring patience.

Now, three days later, I have a Tupperware full of feta awaiting consumption. I haven't tried it yet, but it's sitting on my counter looking at me.

I'm afraid.

Oh, The Guy With The Gun

So many of you know that I was in a very long relationship.  At the end of this relationship, I actually felt a little excited to get back out into the dating world.  I mean, c'mon!  I'm older, wiser, significantly more confident about myself...this can only be fun, right?!  Right?!

As a female living in a very small place in a very small state with essentially only female and attached friend from residency, I turned to the vast interwebs to find these dates.  In short, I have been through numerous dating websites, all of which shall remain nameless to protect the guilty.

Some of you have heard this one.  Others haven't.  But to start this blog right, let's begin with the scariest of online dating stories!  AKA - The Guy With The Gun

GWTG and I found each other through the magic of the internet.  We chatted over multiple messages.  He was very complimentary, seemed nice, attractive in his photo.  He mentioned having been in the Navy and now was out, working over the border in PA.

We met at a local hangout, just for a drink.  We sat at the bar, and on a Tuesday night they were playing bingo (which trust me, is more fun than it sounds).
The bingo was fun, the drink was good, but GWTG could ONLY talk about himself, how cool he was in the Navy, and I'm pretty sure was breaking some kind of military code by telling me about his "top secret" operations.
For example - I have met a man who is PERSONALLY responsible for securing an Iraqi village and saving a US base.  Ya know, he had no help or anything.  Ooh...ahhh.

Color me unimpressed.

He continued to talk about how he now works for the FBI or some such, pulls out his badge (no, I don't know why he's wearing it on a date either) which I read and states he is a "fugitive recovery agent".

Think it through.

GWTG is a bounty hunter!
Despite my horror, he launches into multiple stories which place him in the dark, in a shady neighborhood, breaking down doors and going in to a bad guy's lair, guns a-blazing.
I successfully resisted the urge to call him Dog for the rest of the night.  I deserve a cookie for that.  We make it through a significantly awkward night and he walks me to my car.  We hug.

At that point I bumped a firm object at the small of his back.  I hope I was polite when I asked what it was...and this is why we are calling him GWTG.  I can't even make it up when I tell you he is carrying a concealed weapon!  Which he states he has at all times.  I guess now I understand the need for the badge.

Holy smokes.  Despite a future call, I will never see GWTG again.

But don't worry folks.  Internet dating has not beaten me with this story.  For your sake (and mine, why not) I will live to see another date.  Stay tuned for future misadventures!

Introducing...

Look at us. Aren't we adorable? Heather's the one in blue doubled over in laughter, and Leslie's the one in dark purple sitting scrunched up in a chair like no one ever taught her how to sit properly. Everyone else in the photo is super awesome, too. We love them.

As part of our awesomeness, we both love to tell stories, sometimes embellished for comedic effect, but often bare-bones truth that no one believes could have possibly happened. Trust us; it happened. Just like that. Could we have made that shit up?

For instance, Heather once went on a date with a guy who turned out to be armed, not to mention a bounty hunter. You can't make that up! And Leslie is planning on moving to FRICKIN' ALASKA after spending a month there, during which it was negative 40 degrees for a week. (Not 40 degrees - NEGATIVE 40.) Who would make that up? No one would believe it!

Anyway, given our MTV-worthy true-life exploits, and, goaded on by the lovely Jess Tomas-something (whatever - YOU try to spell her last name!), we gave in to peer pressure and agreed to start this whoosy-whatsit-blog-thing. It will document Heather's continuing adventures in the dating world (which are, alas, much less glamorous than Sex and the City) and Leslie's approaching efforts to stay alive in Bush Alaska, where there is NO TRADER JOE'S (she hasn't made peace with this part yet). We hope you will join us.