The question of L.O.V.E

Dear babe,

Around the holidays, one tends to think about one's loved ones. I have shown my picture of my beloved pup Sammy (RIP) to counting, three people today...and the day is not yet done! In addition, I have found myself engaged in an emotional battle of the heart on none other than gchat. Better yet, my own flesh and blood mother won't return my phone calls because I have historically viewed her as our modern day Santa Claus and begged like a true middle child for more presents. "Is a bed not enough?" she asks me. To which I respond, "mother, please!" and proceed to cry in the middle of the work place about all the things I need because I am too much of a stingy Jew to buy them myself. I think she is starting to think that yoga is making me more selfish. SNORTY SNORT SNORT SNORT i say to that!

Anywho, dear denn, love is really very complicated (or as my new paramour says about EVERYTHING, "it's really intense and complicated.") Megan Marion and I were discussing this subject and thought hey! let's get to the bottom of this crazy little thing called love.

Now all we need is a forum for this discussion, a few avid listeners, and romantic experience. Megan, you bring the ice cream, I'll bring the window to the soul. Den, just be there to listen.

Love ALWAYS,

your girl

It's official: i have been invited to my "company" holiday xmas party!!!

Dear Den,
Christmas time is coming, and the Chelsea gays could not be happier.
Walking down the street yesterday, me and a fellow pedestrian stopped
to enjoy the same display of handcuffs, topless fire men calendars,
porn and tinsel. He turned to me and smiled, saying “It’s really
beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.” When I walked into Lew’s
apartment, Christmas carols were playing, 117 red and green candles
were ablaze, and where there wasn’t a wreath there were garlands. I
was alarmed about the possibility of a gay fire, but he assured me
that all the candles were more than 1cm from anything flammable. Cozy
with flannel throws and a bottle of wine, we debated between “17
Again” and “My Best Friend’s Girl”, deciding on the latter which we
realized we had both seen on minute in so opted for smoking cigarettes
and talking about gingerbread houses. In the xmas spirit, Claire (who
really is actually Jewish, maybe??) and I have started our first
annual Christmas list. And so it begins:

Spiritual reading from Susan Miller
Spiritual reading from Cheryl Lee Terry
Tickets to the premier of Nine
The war to be over if it’s still happening
Anything related to John Mayer- CD’s, magazine, signed posters, ANYTHING
Functioning heat
A pug for Stella to play with
A French Bulldog for my pug to play with
Xanax
non alcoholic or functioning alcoholic bf
a desk

Precious, Part V

Precious update, as the details unfold:

At the Tim Burton $5000 a plate dinner. What I wouldn’t give to hear a convo between Prec and TB, on his big night.
Adam and Lew approach her, in ALL her purple taffeta glory. So much gay and so many bowties and sooo much taffeta in one conversation. Again, what I wouldn’t give to be in Prec’s head as the two ‘mos rattled off about how much they loved her and her movie. Adam also lies to (LIES TO!) Precious, telling her Lewie and he had gone to see the movie in Harlem. I mean, the day that Lew steps black patent leather penny loafer into Harlem is the day I stop dating alcoholics. I wish she would come to family dinner on Sunday nights, except Jules would probably slip up and call Stella Precious in front of human Precious.

Denny, see you in Jersey!
Xx,
mm

EMERGENCY POST!!!!!!!!!

PRECIOUS SIGHTING!

MOMA.

PURPLE GOWN.

LEWIE.

MENTION OF HARLEM (BY LEWIE).

FAILURE TO BEAR HUG (LEWIE).

LOTS TO LOVE (PRECIOUS)

Denny, my Keats

Dear Denny,

“Bright Star” is about romance, and not the kind of romance I had with the California surfer-cum-documentary filmmaker le weekend passé. It is about the truest love that existed in 19th century England or probably ever ): the love between John Keats and his sassy, seamstress girl Fanny. I have never tried to kill myself because a boyfriend didn’t correspond with me because he was away on his summer rental with his bff, nor have I made my brother and sister fill the room with butterflies (dead or alive) to remind myself of my love. I am therefore convinced that I have never experience love at all and I will not settle until I find my own androgynous and tortured writer. It actually may not be that hard. Anyone who has seen this movie and not wept about it for hours, even days, I am totally convinced doesn’t have a feelings or even a soul. It makes me want to write poetry about my love for you, Den, but I know John Keats would say that women can’t write and I would probably agree.

Love,
Your Bright Star
Megan Marion

Precious Part II

Claire my precious is the new writer and, as per your request ML, I will formally introduce her (to you).

Like the real Precious, Claire grew up in NYC. In fact, not so far from Precious’ home in Harlem, Claire spent her formative years in the Upper West Side. Unlike the real Precious, Claire is skinny and without her father's children.

At 18, Claire moved to Middletown, CT to study at Wesleyan University, “majoring in boys.” Perhaps you remember, Denny, when Claire was convinced that you were in love with her? Well, I remember meeting Claire. She wanted to stab me in my face. Now we are neighbors and both love TV.

Cheryl Lee Terry, my heart and soul!

Perhaps we should all consider the advice of Thomas Crum: “Instead of seeing the rug being pulled from under us, we can learn to dance on a shifting carpet.”

Dearest Denny Wenny,

Since I am now obsessed with the blogosphere, I thought I would share with you someone else out there who inhabits the cyberspace as well as my heartspace. Her name is Cheryl Lee Terry and you may have heard me talk about her every Monday of every week. She included the complicated and wondrous quote above in this weeks reading. She likes Leonard Cohen (so do I!), she tells me what days are just NOT going to be MY days, she inspires me with heartfelt lines from an array of influential individuals, sometimes Mr. Cohen himself, other times, poetic women such as Maya Angelou. And if you're feeling particularly in the mood for a challenge, she may even throw in a Zen koan to get your mind buzzing.

And Denny, let me just say that when you are truly in the dumps, when the rolling credits of FNL or HIMYM come up, when you text every person in your phone and they ALL ignore you, when you take that last bite of brownie and know that you just want more but can't have any more, just turn on your computer, search the site for your weekly Leo reading, and Cheryl Lee will guide you to the light.

Oh and did I forget that her motto is "Be the Change."??? I'm currently trying to decide the appropriate place to tattoo those words of wisdom onto my body. Perhaps on my heart?

Sin"cheryl-lee,"

your bestie

Just One of the Gang!

Dear Denny,

This first post goes out to you, babe! Last night, after a crazy black out night after two glasses of red wine with my dad and brother in "Soho," I rushed home and lit a candle, tucked myself into bed, put the US Weekly next to my pillow, and turned on my favorite night time companion: HIMYM!

Let's just put it this way: I laughed, I cried, I texted you, you didn't respond, I laughed some more, I texted you again, I smiled with my eyes....you get the point. Now, some may think that having a date with the gang from How I Met Your Mother on a Thursday night is somewhat oh-i-don't-know pathetic. Others may be reminded that the last time I dedicated this kind of time and love to a friendly gang on screen was when I was depressed and hiding a bar here and a bar there of my favorite kind of chocolate next to my bed. Ah Felicity and Ben Covington, you guys really got me through a hard time and forever I will be reminded of you when I wake up with chocolate on my pillow and a bellyache!!

Anyway, back on track. Denny, last night when Barney and Ted were being best pals and really supporting each other by drinking, high-fiving, sitting in their booth, and flirting with dumb skanks, I was reminded of our friendship. Remember just the other night on Halloween, when we tried to flirt with the guy in the white t-shirt? We asked him innocently "what are you supposed to be"? Only to have him and his friend look at us and laugh hysterically and then turn their backs? Remember that Den? Well good thing we have each other! Dennis "legendary" Jones and Claire "says I love you on the first date" Typaldos!

Oh man, it's nice to be part of the gang!

Fondly,

Saint Clarice!

Even the poster gets me

Dear Den,

Today is a very big day for large black women and those of us that celebrate them. Second ONLY to the Maryl Streep/ Alec Baldwin romcom coming out in December, Precious is my most anticipated movie of the fall.

“Life is hard. Life is short. Life is painful. Life is rich. Life is....Precious.” Precious is an overweigh teen from Harlem. I normally am not totally into fat people, but when they are overcoming huge emotional and societal obstacles I can’t help but sympathize.

In another world- Texas, I think- “a poor, oversized and under-educated teenager” is taken in by Sandra Bullock’s family. I have seen the preview three times, and I still cry when I see how the poor, oversized and under-educated teenager tells Sandra Bullock that he has never had a bed before. Since “The Proposal” I have decided that SB is the best actress maybe ever and I am certain this movie is going to earn her a well deserved nomination.

Denny, I cannot wait!

mm

Spooky pudding for LUCAS the genius

Mon Cherie,

Quel ete, non? Since I last wrote, I’ve become a temporary employee at some of New York’s finest financial institutions and media groups/a babysitter/a freelance writer (okay, heavy on the middle title). Though my written correspondence has been tenuous, I’ll remind you that I have been in good touch over the phone and just saw you a few weeks ago. You came to New York and we raised a glass for the future Kelley Kelly and then drank un peu trop and ate un peu plus trop and what happened at the end of the night shall stay buried in the most secretest of secret treasure boxes, forever and ever to be sealed. JKJK! DENI, remember that we had a totally private Mexican fiesta of fish tacos and I pocket dialed my dad's cell phone and he was privy to 20 minute of pretty darn private conversation and then just you and I listened to podcasts till 3AM and then had a slumber party!! It was so spesh!!

I have to make this super brief because I am temping today and I keep trying to write this and then keep almost getting busted. WORST. TEMP. EVER. Which is weird, because I have so much experience temping in like 4 different cities. Okay, so really quickly-- I totally understand that girls dress sluttily for Halloween and I've done it one million times and my more mature younger sister just admitted to me that she was "slutty cotton candy" a few years back so obviously every girl does it, blah blah blah. What I don't understand is how girls can wear these costumes to work. We are having an office wide Halloween party in 30 minutes and all these girls are gathering around and there are a bunch of slutty police women, a slutty fire woman and like so much more and it just looks totally weird in the office, no?? And, there are not cute boys around to even impress so I just don't get it.
Oh, Denny, I can't wait to see you this weekend!!

Perdu sans toi,
Julia Andrus Kelly

PS- I am in charge of the telepone switch board and I really wanna grow out my nails longer because its so fun to type in someone's phone extension and then hit TRANSFER if you have big clunky nails!! This temp is going all the way, yo.

CLAIRE, THANK YOU

Its a trilamb party!

Mon cheri,

Holy vache! I've just heard the most spectacular news! We're having a slumber party tomorrow night?! Thank goodness I found out at this early hour, as there are considerable preparations to be made. TO DO:

MEGAN:
Get materials for friendship bracelets
Buy the game Girl Talk
Figure out how we can make s'mores in our apartment and procure the makings

ME:
Rent Jacob's ladder
Compile mixed CD with Regina and Rent and that song "I don't want, anybody else, when I think about you, etc, etc."

Oh, Den, I went through this magic phase in Morocco, in which I really wanted to be proficient in the craft or art or whatever it is, or at least learn a few party tricks. Well, on this Thursday, the eve of your coming, I feel re-inspired to perform, bewilder and dazzle the senses of my awe-struck audience (Meggie and Denny, that's you). So, be prepared, young children, for an evening of intrigue, marshmallows and singing our hearts out. It shall be!


Waiting with baited breath,
TUTU Fantasia, enchantress extraordinaire

Social butterflies

Dear Den,

I’m so sorry to hear of your troubles en Allemagne and please let me know if I can do anything to lift your spirits. Commiserate with your pain, I can do. When I was in the 7th grade, I too, was socially ostracized and my mother was forced to sing my sobbing-self to sleep every night for a year. J'exagere pas. Fortunately, I became homecoming queen a few years later – the peak of my popularity thus far – and now, I suppose I fall somewhere just below average in terms of the social spectrum. Some might say I “peaked” in high school and I’d morosely agree. Anyway, chin up, you…If you follow my trajectory, in a few years you just might be riding around in a horse drawn carriage surrounded by scores of praising minions at the Yale-Harvard homecoming match. Game. Whatever the football one is.

Speaking of social behavior, this summer has been an interesting experiment in mixing social circles. I’ve been introduced to Megan’s Wesleyan crowd and she’s taken a dip into the Trinity pool. Just last week, she willingly made the rounds at the ultimate Trinity bar, which shall remain unnamed but rhymes with Bart and Eddies. She was a real hit (preppy dudes are totally bewildered my Mimi and her “alternative” style - who IS this girl with SHORT and BROWN hair they wonder).

A few days later, Megs mentioned that her friends were making a music video down the block from our apartment and needed a few extra girls to participate. Well, I thought, I love attention and I love dance parties, so why the heck not. Call time was 7am, Denny, and I showed up to location – a public park - bright eyed and bushy tailed. Whistling to myself, I entered into a tent full of naked girls who were in the process of being smothered with bright pink body paint. My whistling ceased and I tried my best to backtrack slooooowly out of the tent without anyone noticing but was immediately caught by Megan’s friend, who was a body painter for the day. “Julia! I can’t believe you came! Thank you,” she exclaimed.

“Wow, I can’t believe I came either…So, this is what’s happening?” I inquired, hoping that perhaps my role in the video was of a different, more clothed and less ho-ish nature, then the flock of girls around me. No such luck. I proceeded to strip buck naked, allow two girls to slop pink paint all over my body (yes, I mean all over), put on a fur bikini and feathered head piece and carry around a cage of hipster boys singing electro-pop for 6 hours. I left feeling very sunburned and itchy (body paint is so scratchy, Denny!) but with a slight feeling of accomplishment that I had left my comfort zone and perhaps became popular among a new group. Well, truth be told, none of the girls really liked me, but hey, c’est la vie, mon cherie.

What doesn’t kill you…

TUTU

The Up and Up

Having begun my career as a temp yesterday, I am really convinced my life is taking a turn for the better. I was certain going in that the Free Masons were a secret society/ cult, and was sorely disappointed when I found no evidence of this. My mission tomorrow is to figure out exactly what it is they do, but this is what I did today:
Drank a cup of coffee
Drank a Diet Coke
Chewed half a pack of gum
Wrote an extensive to do list
Crossed off the things that I had already done
Read four newspapers
Wrote down highlights of each one
listened to Rose tell me about her last ten cats (all of them strays that just showed up at her door!), including names and characteristics. One was named Psycho.
Played who would I date in the office. Decided on the guy who changed the water cooler around four.
Wore heels.
Listened to Rose's commute. It is really long and complicated and about to get worse when her 2nd train changes from express to local.
Did four crossword puzzles. Completed zero crossword puzzles.
Ate in the park. Tanned. Nobody in the office noticed I was more bronzed in the PM than in the AM.
Picked a random person off of the phone list. Sent all calls that I didn't know what to do with to him.
Greg- who goes by the name Grand Master to everyone in the office- told me the scientific reason why girls are always cold and men are not. Until menopause, which his wife is currently suffering from BIG TIME.
Listened to Rose gossip about everyone in the office. Everyone in the office is over 60. I tried to play if each person were a character on Gossip Girl but I got sleepy.
Made note to follow Antonio Cromartie on Twitter to witness first hand his interchange of the letter "c" with the letter "k." Came home and twittered him. Crossed it off my to do list.

Another one bites the dust

Dear Diary,

You know the saying "Fool me once, shame on you! Fool me twice, shame on me!" Well, I was sort of wondering what happens after the twice thing, when the THIRD boy has lied to me about what state (is that capitalized to indicate neither the physical nor the mental?) he was in.

Case #1: Me, played by my sister, the actress. Boyfriend played by Jesus look alike. Except with many tattoos.
"Hey boyfriend, where are you going"
"To visit my dad, Megan. Stop talking so much."
Next day. "Hey boyfriend's dad. Sorry to bother you! Just wondering if bf made it up, as his phone is off. No? He is not there? Check downstairs, I know he is! No? Ok weird." Six hours of utter panic later, BF #1 is located. In upstate California with his ex.........

Case #2: Me, played again by my sister. Boyfriend TBD
"Hey ----, thank you so much for flying allllll this way to meet my family and friends in MN. It really is nice to have you THE FIRST BOY TO EVER COME TO MN, and I will do everything to make you happy here."
"I'm not. I want to go back to the unnamed N. African country where I came from. I haven't had a cigarette in three days and that, combined with all of the freakishly friendly Minnesotans, is seriously making me want to die."
MEGAN: "Ok, go back to Morocco but my life totally sucks and this is super embarrassing."
BF 2: "Right? I would be super humiliated too. But my going back to Morocco (oops) is the only thing that will save our relationship."
Oh, by Morocco, you also meant Northern California, and by our relationship, you meant you wanted to save your relationship with your other American Girlfriend. Got it. I guess those are just the cultural differences in dating a french guy!

and finally, the most recent:
Case #3: Me, played by my sister. Friend, played by little Jenny. New Boy, played by Zach or Cody.
TEXT from boy that I have been dating for a few weeks: "Hey can't see you. Shit to do. Leaving town to go to my ridiculously fucking WASP douche filled CT town where all my friends have so much money they don't need to work or do anything but talk about money and tits."
Me, in a text: "Cool, have fun. TTYL."
but that's the weird thing.. I never TTYL'ed again with him!
Me: Call, text, text, call "where are you?"
Him:
Friend, who set us up but is excused from all responsibility as I should have known better when he blacked out on the first date: "Hey I thought you were in CT."
Him: Oh, I am.
Friend: But that's totally not possible, you were just with my boyfriend in the city ten minutes ago getting wasted."


And so, my few faithful readers, is the three scene story of how boys that I date seem to think that the little lies are not enough. Why lie about just being tired and wanting to go home, when you could say you urgently need to go to another State.

Three times is a charm,
Love,
Megan Marion

I am starting a new section

I am starting a new section on the blog. It is called "today in unemployment."

Yesterday, in unemployment, I decided to color coordinate my jewelry with my hot pink nail polish by painting it hot pink.

Today, in unemployment, Kelley dressed me up and I styled my hair to make me look like Robert Pattinson.


Love,
Megan Marion

Don't even read this appaling entry

DENIS,

There has been an unfathomable outbreak of bugs in my room that is colossal in number. Just thinking about this situation makes my stomach turn and vomit begin to tickle my throat. Here are the facts:

1. Two weeks ago, I saw a few little black bugs flitting here and there about my room, though I barely took notice as we had just moved in and were dealing with much larger issues.

2. A week and half ago, I woke up and noticed that these little shithead critters were actually scattered throughout my floor. And, oh look! There was one on my bed!
And on my book shelf! I slowly inspected the room and was eventually led to my large windowsill. At this moment, my life changed forever. I see that there are about 100 bugs scattered throughout the large windowsill. Some are ugly baby bugs that are running around like chickens without heads, some are repulsive teenage bugs that are stupidly flirting with other disgusting promiscuous teenage bugs (and believe me when I say these girls are FAR FROM CHASTE), some are adult bugs that are just basking in the sunlight and some are bug corpses that have evidently met their death on one of my favorite books or with heads bowed silently against my new perfume. SICK.

3. Exterminator comes and says that there is no way any insect will survive after the number he did on our place. Phewfta. NOT.

4. Four days ago, after I washed everything I own, moved all of my things back into the room, and vomited one million times, I noticed that a few bugs were back.
Exterminator tells me not to be a baby and that those were just the last survivors and "everything is fine."

5. Yesterday, I find dozens more chilling on what once was my windowsill and is now just a vast terrain of smushed bugs and live ones rolling around. SICK SICK SICK.

6. My landlord came today after I called 10 times to inspect the situation. He brings his own extermination kit. Together, we find about 100 other buggies living in the creaks of my windows. He tells me "everything is fine" and I begin to cry hysterically. You know how a baby can go from being totally fine to, like, wailing crying in 10 seconds flat? That is exactly what I did.

7. Landlord becomes extremely uncomfortable and says "ahh, you are pretty...bye," and runs out of our apartment faster then a teenage bug procreates with another one in the vile, vomitous, revolting space formally known as my bedroom.

I am moving back to Minnesota.

Julia

Make new friends, but keep the old, some are silver and the others are amazing extermanators.

Well Denny, I am sorry again for not making my day visit to the Haven this weekend. If I had known then what I know now (ie that I wouldn't find a boyfriend and there would be a infestation of carpet beetles in my apartment), I would have been on the fast Metro-North to ghetto-ville.

Yes, there has been a bug infestation in our apartment. And the exterminator is here. And he is a talker. In fact, he is talking our faces off as I pretend to be involved in very important iBookG4 matters..

"I am more than an exterminator, I am a friend. I am your friend, you are my friend, we are friends."

"I wake up every morning and I can't wait to go to work. I love it, I just love it."

"I get to see new assholes every day, not the same."

"There are hundreds of different kinds of ants. Fire ants, harvest ants, red ants, stinging ants, hot ants, Florida ants, carpet ants, army ants. I can name a lot more."

"I am not looking to make a million dollars a month or a million dollars a year. I am not lookin for nothing in life."

He just left. Then came back in to tell us that he is always the most popular guy at a BBQ (I love BBQs and I love popular friends, I just knew this would work out!) because people always want to hear his stories. He left us with this:

"People always give me bugs to look at. Once, this woman brings me a bug and asks me what it is and I look at it and I tell her 'Woman, this is a booger. A booger.' I got lots of stories like that."

God Bless,
Megan Marion

I feel majorly excluded

Hey Dennnnn,

The icky nightmare has finally ended and we’ve moved into our new apartment, aka, The Lexington Council. Doesn’t that sound totally fancy-pancy?? Honestly, we originally wanted to move into this purple shiny building that is called The Princess Manor, but I’m really starting to like the LC. The place is cute as pie. My room has these crazy, HUGE church-like windows and is almost blindingly bright and Megs has a smaller little room that is reminiscent of a tree house, which is obviously a good thing for the little one.

So, I know two things about our neighborhood in Brookyln. One, there are tons of Polish people around here and I really might have to become part of that social group given my predicament with #2. Which is, I am positively, categorically, without question, not cool enough to live here amongst the cool kids. I feel like I am in 7th grade again... That year I went to this new school and none of the girls liked me and I cried every night for one year and used the words "clique" and "exclusive" in almost every sentence. It is happening all over again!! I don’t know the bands, I don’t know the dress, and I don’t know the language. The other day I wore my white running shoes and Megan would not walk next to me. My own sister is excluding me. My friend Erica, who is pretty cool, keeps saying things are “epic,” so I dropped that word into a convo this morning when ordering a coffee and of course it was the absolute wrong use of the word and I sounded dorkier then ever. Also, I ordered a diet coke in a restaurant the other day and the waitress looked at me like I was a disgusting child molester. "WE ONLY HAVE NATURAL SODA," she barked back at me. And, this might be common knowledge but don't ask anybody if they carry Splenda. That seemingly harmless request is not received well. The kids just don't seem to like me here.

What to do?
Julia

The total pits

Dear Dennis,

As you might have guessed, Megos and I made it back to the US of A in one piece, only to be broken apart into millions of dejected and bitter little pieces, which are rapidly multiplying into zillions and shmillions of smaller, spiritless and weary pieces. We are on day 12 of our apartment search in NYC and it is truly one of the most grueling experiences.

Yo brokers, can you please stop lying to me??? I’m in touch with about 15 different brokers and each day, one will call me and say, “Julia, I found your apartment. It is perfect for you!” For a second I wonder about his real estate promises and remember I've been burned before, but then I quickly shelve those hesitations and let myself be hopeful and excited and relieved that today is the last day of this nightmarish search. He proceeds to show me a place where you have to walk through the bathroom to get to the kitchen that is barely a kitchen and mostly just a sink, and the bedrooms have no windows or closets and, the place smells like baby diaper filled with vomit, and now that he thinks of it, there is a slight mouse problem, and woops, he totes forgot to tell me that even though he’s listed as a non-fee broker, he’s actually a fee broker for the day.

So, please, please, Mister Brokers, stop your incessant and egregious lies. Here’s the thing: I’m eventually going to SEE that the apartment is not spacious and has no view of anything, and I'll soon be able to smell the revolting odor in the place because, well, I have a nose, and I’m not going to suddenly have the money to pay you a brokers fee, you sneaky slimy sneako, so just stop your fibbing and wasting everyone’s time. We have 5 days to find a place. Holy cow.
I miss Marrakech.

Love,
Julia

To Erica, with love, on cinco de mayo

October 19, 1993
Me and my sister and my brother have a club caled the Kids Club. Are (our) family basement is really gross. Me and my brother and my sister are planning to claim the space and sweep and put in carpeting a couch a tv and a bed my brother is very good at art and he is going to paint a portrat on the wall.
I can't think of anything to rite 1000,000,000,00 times + 14 = 100,000,000,014

Tears on my pillow

To the lovely Alexsandra Ghez and the mediocre-at-best Denis Jones,

Perhaps you have already heard from Megos, but much to my sorrow, she has bid adieu to Marrakech and returned stateside. She left yesterday after a very busy week of goodbye dinners, lunches and drinks. Also, as tends to happen, she met the most wonderful guy just 6 days before D-day. After just one day, Meds and Megs appeared to have been dating for months, so you can imagine how heartbreaking it was for all when she left.

After dropping la petite off at l’aeroport, I spent the afternoon wandering dejectedly around the medina and ended up completely lost. I have no sense of direction and have depended entirely on my sissy to get me around the medina (cue the violins). Without her, I was hopeless and ended up in the Bab Doukkala bus station, where I sat for sometime among other seemingly cheerless faces. As the sun began to set, I decided to terminate my day of dramatic and depressed wandering about, and I also began to crave a Kit-Kat, so I headed home.

I wish I could say my night ended well. Well, the Kit-Kat totally hit the spot, but the movie selection did not. I’m that person who everyone hates watching movies with because I have seen like every single movie ever made. I don’t really understand how that happened because I feel like I spend a very average amount of time watching films, but inevitably, when choosing a movie with someone else, I have seen every possible choice. Anyway, sometimes I pretend not to have seen a movie so the other person won’t be annoyed with me and can think that we are sharing in the excitement of a first-time viewing or whatever. So, Pascal picks out Dancer in the Dark. I remembered seeing it in the theater and crying at the end, but I figured (like the complete idiot I am) that it probably wouldn’t be as sad the second time around and I had already negged his previous 5 selections and could tell he was getting ticked off. I will tell you something guys, it is just as sad if not 10 times more sad the second time around. I was not just crying, but like bawling, chocking, snot-all-over-myself, sobbing for the last 45 minutes of that film. Every time Bjork calls herself "Silly Salma" I wailed. During the last 107 steps to her execution, I had to excuse myself because Pascal could not even hear Bjork’s lines. I think he was pretty grossed-out with me by the end of the movie and I don’t blame him.

Meggie, come back to your sister.

Pain in my heart,
Julia

Out with the old

Hello William Denis Jones,

Your negligence has become egregious and therefore, I shall re-direct my future letters to our more attentive and appreciative friends. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.

Now, to start afresh…

Dearest Megan Leafblad and Zareen,

We’re on day 4 of the taxi strike in Morocco and (as strikes tend to do) it has made me realize how totally dependent Meggie and I are on taxis. I’d like to make it clear that my reliance on cabs in this country is not entirely due to laziness. We travel by foot often enough but it does get slightly exhausting. As an ostensible weekend tourist, vendors relentlessly beckon us into their shops (“Just come in for one look… The best price only for you!”), and as women, we’re pretty consistently pestered (not in a lecherous way but in an annoying, like your older brother won’t stop poking you (or farting in your face, which our bro had a propensity for) kind of way). Megan has learned how to say, “please let me be!” in Arabic and I often throw out “laissez-moi tranquil,” but believe it or not, sometimes they don’t listen to us! When it gets to be 80 + degrees, my patience wears thin and it is just easier to cab it.

I’m not entirely clear as to why the taxis are striking, and I’ve heard several different explanations, but I think it mostly has to do with a new point system that people want to enforce, in which after a certain number of points incurred for bad driving, you lose your license. On one hand, the driving is pretty atrocious here and as traffic rules seem to be optional, I wouldn’t mind some enforced laws. On the other hand, I’ve heard (and I’m not saying this is true! What do I know? Nothing! Nothing at all!) that there are some minor issues with police corruption and whether or not they’d enforce the laws properly. I am sure Megos will be in touch with her #1 best friend/taxi driver Omar today to get to the bottom of it.

Well, ZZ and Meggie-L, thanks for being lovely friends. As a reward for your commitment to our letters, Megan and I’ve decided to write and perform for you (and you only!) a two-woman musical medley that features hits from Les Miserables, Rent and Greece. We shall start practicing immediately! We must see if Lew is available to design outfits for us (Sandy and Rizzo meets the Lower East Side in 19th century French attire? I just don't know!).

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes,

Julia Andrus Kelly

UBS: A medical condition

Hi, Dennis.

Perhaps you’ve been fortunate/unfortunate enough to have witnessed one of my siblings or me experience UBS (Unprovoked Blushing Syndrome) in the past. It really is something else, Den. This malady is seemingly genetic and entirely unfortunate for its victims. What happens is this: Something not at all embarrassing occurs that provokes the UBS victim to blush. This could be a passing hello, an innocuous inquiry, or even a probing question but the point is the victim is NOT embarrassed or phased by it. As soon as the UBS victim becomes aware of the impending blush attack, he becomes increasingly self-conscious of it and in an attempt to assuage the deepening color, gets even redder and as a result, becomes definitively embarrassed. This of course leads the other person involved to believe that it was in fact his or her question or greeting that prompted the UBS victim’s response. UBS is a violent chain reaction.

One such UBS incident occurred last week. I was having lunch with Pascal and his parents and casually discussing Minnesota and what it was like growing up in the land of 10,000 lakes. I was feeling easy-breezy, and rather on top of my game, in fact, as they were finally understanding my mediocre French, laughing a lot and maybe even having “the time of their lives.” I was cool as a cucumber until Madame F asked me what kind of agriculture is produced in MN. BOOM…I felt the color creeping up my neck to my face and dug my fingernails into my skin because sometimes that helps relieve it. No dice. I became rapidly redder by the second and I saw Pascal’s eyes narrowing in confusion. I was so red at one point that my brain froze and I could not think of one thing produced in MN let alone ONE agricultural product in the entire world. The parents were clearly wondering whether in English, the question “qu'est-ce que l'agriculture” actually meant something like, “how heavy is your period flow today?”

Everyone was totally squirming in their chairs, praying that I would say SOMETHING…anything! But I simply could not. I didn’t even know how to speak English anymore. After seriously about 90 seconds of ridiculously awkward silence, some angelic member of the family changed the subject. The incident passed but I am certain it was not forgotten and very sure his parents will not go around asking that question to Americans anymore.

For crying out loud,
Julia

Livin' la vida locarb

Dear Mr. Jones,

I’m on day five of my semi-Atkins diet (my version doesn’t prohibit fruit, veggies, un peu de wine) and so far, the results have not been particularly outstanding. In fact, I’ve steadily put on weight since I started this thing. However, Mimi and Pascal are really having “the time of their lives” (this is Pascal’s fav new expression… the other night we prepared our usual mostly-inedible dinner for him and mid-way through, he told us sweetly, “Your food is delicious. I’m having the time of my life!”). Anyway, those two rascals like to place whatever carb-ey items are on the table in front of me, feigning dramatic ignorance of my dieting attempts, and erupting in laughter each time. Sometimes Megs breaks out in a song about Kit Kats or Pain au Chocolate, which is starting to majorly tick me off. I kind of feel like that blond chick in Mean Girls who believes she’s on a strict diet regime and unbeknownst to her, the destructive but attractive Lindsey Lohan (ahem, Megan Marion Haynes Kelly) is slipping her heavy-duty carb-powder and laughing all the while. I’m onto you Mimi and unless this stops, and I mean pronto, you can count on your beloved “blankie” taking a suicidal jump into Pascal’s bug infested pool.

Regards,
Julia

Tu Tu eats Toulouse

Cou Cou, Denny!

I’ve just returned from my week in Toulouse, known as la Ville Rose for its unique red brick architecture, and am back in Marrakech, also known as the Pink City for its distinctive mud wall architecture. So, how bout that?

Toulouse is one of those almost impossibly charming French towns. It feels like a village but is the size of a city and there is a huge university – I think the second largest in France- and consequently a very youthful energy abound. Wonderful little bridges that reminded me of Paris soar over the arresting River Garonne. They don’t skimp on religious buildings over there and we visited all the biggies: Saint-Sernin Basilica, the Church of the Jacobins, and the Saint-Etienne Cathedral.

Oh, the family Foltran and co. def does not skimp on eating well. Foie gras is an integral part of every meal. My summer wedding diet is jump starting today after a week of ma regime francaise… My typical day, and I exaggerate not:

Breakfast: Pain au chocolate, eggs and bread with various jams.

Lunch: Foie gras and baguette to start, followed by a Cassoulet (a stew-like dish famous in the region that consists of beans, pork sausage and/or duck) and french fries, then a plate of Roquefort cheese and bread, perhaps a green salad, and ending with a tart de pommes. Various wines throughout.

Dinner: Foie gras and baguette to start, followed by a magret de canard – duck breast- with mashed potatoes, a plate of various cheeses (always accompanied by the French peeps teasing me about Americans being fearful of cheese) and ending with a crème brule or mousse au chocolate. Various wines throughout.

As you might imagine, Deni, I’ve packed on quite a few and in order to fit into Mollie’s bridesmaid dress in a few months, I’ve got to adjust my diet pronto. Other then eating, I also went to my first rugby game, which was supposedly one of the biggest matches in France – Paris versus Toulouse. I purchased a bright red Toulouse t-shirt and scarf to wear to the game, which perhaps caused Pascal a moment or two of hesitation about dating an American-American who kept asking where the popcorn and beer was at the game.

Vaca is over and I've returned to piles of work, an insufficient funds notice and not a few scathing e-mails from my boss. Gotta run.

Later D.

JAK

Day Five: I think that people are the greatest fun

Spending time alone really allows one to find out who their true friends are. These are things I have discovered:
My boss is in my top five best friends. She cooks for me and berates me for my bad choices in men. She is my Marrakesh Claire.
I have gone back and forth on this one but have decided that a phone company cannot count as a friend, even if they call/ text more in one week than any other friends have in one month. Am still borderline on this one, since they often give me free things like cell phone minutes and "points."
My sister's boyfriend is both my roommate and and my best friend, and though he is rather forced into the latter two roles, he doesn't seem to mind if it keeps sis merry. He also feeds me and berates me for my bad choices in men. We will call him my Marrakesh Thomas, except he is more fun than Thomas because he actually gives us his passwords instead of us having to sneak on his email/ phone/ facebook.
The other day I criticized the man that owns the school-supply-stand-cum-butcher-cum-phone-credit-store and brashly proclaimed that he was not part of my clique. Since he reproached the drunk crazy man that was trying to hug me yesterday and wildly gestured for me to scram, he's in the in crowd now.
Our friends Samuel and Caitlin got a puppy. #2, #3, and #4, in no respective order.
Finally, I have picked a best friend. I was similarly undecided on this one, since I think if you are paying someone to drive you around, you can be skeptical about your status as friend or just client. But Omar, my taxi driver and #1 really proved himself this week when he took me out to lunch at the most dude of all men cafés in the factory district. Ground beef, bread, tea, piece of paper for napkin. Just a couple of friends hanging out (where perhaps no other white girl has ever gone before). Over lunch he told me that my sickness (terrible reaction to Moroccan "antibiotics") was caused by not doing sports and not eating enough Kefta (ground beef). Okay. Omar is a former Moroccan boxing champion, an excellent dining companion, and a real lifestyle mentor.

Love,
Megan Marion

Day Four

Well, Denny, I cooked again. Tonight I started with a yogurt salad- I was told that it would kill the antibiotics that are killing me and I'm a believer- consisting of yogurt and cucumber. Then Kel told me how to cook garlic, so I did and burnt it, also while boiling green beans. I never give up on anything (oh, except cities, jobs and boyfriends), so I retried the garlic, got stressed that it would burn again so threw in the tomatoes and eggplant (I was making pasta sauce), put the pasta to boil, burnt my tongue trying the green beans, didn't know what to do with them so threw them into the pan with the tomatoes and eggplant, because pasta sauce can have green beans, added a ton of hot sauce then just put the whole pot of pasta in the pan. Then I ate a huge bowl of choc choc chip ice cream to make the memory of it all go away.

I think I will start smoking again so I can have something to do while cooking.

Ever Adoring,
Megan Marion

Have you seen mother, baby

Mother learned how to comment. TOOOOO cute.


"Anonymous said...

honey... i am so proud of your marketing and cooking skills. i hope that you poste them on your bros blog so that we might all share in your culinary delights. kachmara mama"

On my own, pretending you're beeeside me

Dear Dennis,

In the absense of Jules and Pascal, I have become a vrai chef. Last night I prepared couscous with a stir-fry sauce. Tonight I made pasta with a stir-fry sauce. With my not so modest addition of Moroccan Chili Spices, they both taste exactly the same.

Love,
Cosette

Worth the walk

Hobbies

Dear Denny,

Mom and Dad are in France and I have the house to myself for a week! Unsure of what to do with my new found freedom this afternoon, I decided to write to you and then head to the market. We have a lovely little vegetable stand near our house and while I wouldn't say it is my favorite social activity, it certainly ranks near the top of the list. It is about a ten minute walk and I always bring along my diskman to tune out the commentary from the men driving by on scooters and because I have to pass by a high school (I think you are familiar with my perhaps irrational fear of high school students). When I get there, I am warmly greeted by one of three men that tends to the stand. There is also a guy that works in the adjoining market who I am familiar with, but I suspect he makes fun of me in Arabic when I turn around, so he is not so much a part of my social clique. First, I pick the most colorful and beautiful veggies. I always buy a cucumber and an eggplant, the latter because I feel a strange pressure from my pals that my meal wouldn't be complete sans it. I don't really like eggplant and I always fuck up when I am trying to cook it, but you have to make sacrifices in the name of friendship. I will never buy over ten of anything because I use the excursion to show of my Arabic and I only know how to count to ten. I believe Pascal, who is already confused by my near obsession for vegetables and Kit Kats, is totally dumbfounded by my extended outings and the resulting overflowing refrigerator.

Well, Denny, I must go pick up my market excursion outfit, so this is goodbye.

Lovingly,

Megan Marion

Q and A

Dear Den,

It has arrived. Finally. We went to the video store last night and in the corner, standing out like a vampire that is exposed to sunlight, was Twilight. With roommate #3 outta town, Jules and I settled in like two 7th graders watching Titanic for the 400th time (sleeping bags, diet cokes, kit kats, and the remote control so we could pause and analyze every five minutes). I didn't realize how diverse the high school is! Will Charley have romance with the waitress at their reg cafe? Arent Mike Newton and Jessica casted perfectly?

Well in honor of my viewing, and of Smocks very own Kelley Culp's entering into the world, and of Alex Ghez viewing the fil three times, I will post the short interview conducted by les soeurs not long ago:

Tim Riggins or Edward Cullan?
Taylor Kitsch or Robert Pattinson?
Would you rather have a boyfriend who can fly or the captain of the football team in a place where football means everything?
Which do you appreciate more: Riggins long locks or Edward's piercing eyes?
Would you rather go to first with Edward, but know that he would be there watching you sleep all night, or home run with Riggs, knowing that he would leave you for a Christian the next day?
Drunk/broody or blood hungry/broody?
Who would win in a fight?
Who would look better beat up?
BONUS QUESTION:
Coach Taylor Edward C.'s adopted father, the doctor?

For the sake of her privacy, I will post my first set of responses from an anonymous fan (clue: older sister of my best friend, style guru, Greek and ultimately a Riggs fan).

...That being said my lust for teenage lust would have easily led me to say Edward Cullen, circa Christmas time.

However, the cold weather and comfort of my couch (and living with my sister) drew me to FNL. Riggins makes my heart swoon. He blows Jordan Catalano out of the water and he is, as we speak, my screen saver. My boyfriend even told me I could cheat on him with Rigs! Not really true, he actually said he would dump me....AND in response, I said I would actually dump him for not letting me make out with Tim Riggins.

Edward is super hot and rich which is awesome. I bet he is a really good kisser and let's face it, vampires are SUPER hot. However, there is something even more animalistacally hot about Tim Riggins!!! And he is funny!

So gals, to conclude, "CLEAR EYES, FULL HEARTS CAN'T LOSE"

Thougths Denny?
mimi

A hair by any other name.

Hey D.

So, “The Great Fig Debacle” (stay with me, it is slightly complicated):

Megs and I had lunch at Pascal’s restaurant on Saturday afternoon. We each ordered salads and everything was fine and dandy till we spotted the longest, darkest, rattiest clump of dreaded, foul hair, drenched in a piece of lettuce in Meg’s salad. The waiter approached and noticed the ghastly sight and quickly apologized and removed the salad. We wanted to make sure he knew that we were not fussy girls and would never tell Pascal about the hair and gave him this sort of easy breezy wink. We were on his team.

Salad #2 was delivered to Megan. In it, we found a small piece of hair that was attached to a fig. Pascal joined us at this moment and noticed that we were examining the hair. He proclaimed that it was indeed the hair of a human and returned it to the waiter. Moments later, Pascal’s brother joined us and Pascal grumbled something to him about the hair in our Salad #2. His brother whispered in French under his breath, “well, it was a fig hair and the girls just don’t understand that.” P-skizz then totally threw us under the bus and agreed with his brother that it was clearly a fig hair and we just “don’t understand.” “Pascal, I can understand what you are saying in French and just because we don’t cook often does not mean I don’t know what a fig hair is,” I exclaimed bitterly.

We proceeded to explain that it was possible – even likely – that the hair in Salad #2 was a fig hair, but there was no conceivable way that the hair in S#1 was anything but the hair from a long and dark haired human being. Pascal and his brother repeated in a very condescending way, “you girls just don’t understand that figs have little pieces of hair and that was all you saw.” At this point, we became incensed and called the waiter over to back our story up. He arrived with three other waiters and the host who all explained to us that what we saw was nothing but a fig hair.

Now, not only were my annoying boyfriend and his brother speaking to us like stupid little girls who don’t know the diff between a fig hair and a nasty clump of human hair, but also, the waiters have completely turned against us and are pretending like Salad #1 (which only a select few people saw) never existed! By now, I was nearly shouting at Pascal and we had definitively and swiftly gone from being the non-fussy, cool as cucumber customers who don’t rat on the waiters, to two, wildly out of control and prissy girls who don’t even know what a fig hair is.

It ended with us storming out of the restaurant and Pascal coming home and apologizing to me that I was, “so very upset about a simple fig hair in your salad.” I had to walk around the block several times before returning and telling him that if we hoped to maintain a relationship, we would never again speak of the fig incident.

Eek,
Julia

Julia, Megan, Pascal and Dexter Foltran. One happy family.

Salut mon cherie,

Oh geez, we have really been busy little bees in the last few weeks but have much exciting news to report. First and foremost, le grand frere des soeurs miserables, Thomas Michael Kelly III, proposed marriage to la belle et charmant Kelley Culp last week, under a Moroccan desert sunset. Most fortuitously for la famille Kelly, she accepted (insert Kelley Kelly joke here).

Our Barthhhhhelona groupie adventure was a real jam-packed, grand slam of a time. We zipped through the Picasso Museum, bought awesome euro sunglasses on Los Ramblos, ate scrumptious tapas up the wazoo, purchased portable coffee, ogled at the super crazy Gaudi buildings, and enjoyed one rather star-struck night of romping around town with the fetching boys of Jogger.

We returned to Marrakech and spent a week living in the Medina with the newly engaged couple and our sweet Mamma. Now, renting a riad in the medina is a marvelous thing to do but renting a riad that neighbors a huge mosque in the Medina can be an uneasy nighttime experience. The 4:30 AM call to prayer that is projected from loud speakers in the mosque, was a very alarming and dramatic wake up and made for several nights of pretty nutty and skittish sleep.

La famille left us a few days ago and Megos and I are back to the ol’ grind. We’re currently in a very precarious situation with my boyfriend and his entire restaurant, in fact. I'm still pretty hot and bothered about it, which going forward we shall refer to as “The Great Fig Debacle,” but once I cool my jets a bit, I’ll fill you in.

For now, Saint Denis, just know that I adore and miss you.

MWAH.
Julia

PS. Den, we have a new pet turtle named Dexter. After a long observation period this morning, we simply cannot figure out if he's a supremely cunning little guy or dumb as rocks. I've consulted the web and found a forum addressing this subject. This is a question posted from another turtle lover:

"I've only had my turt a bit over a month now, so still getting used to behaviour and habits etc. The main reason I'm asking is my turt bit my girlfriend on the nose today. Now my ultimate question is, was this deliberate or accidental do you think?"

Den, have you ever had a turt and do you know anything about turt-intel?

Barthelona

My dear puce,

Back from our 48 hours of intense backpacking in Barcelona. It was lovely. My upcoming move to New York may need to be postponed for a year eating Tapas and drinking cheap wine. I tried to convince Amir that it was indeed a good idea to leave behind LA and try Barcelona avec moi, where him and Jonathan's band already has something of a cult following, but he was not entirely persuaded.


I had meatballs, ham, fish, salami, steak, lamb, steak and eggs, crab, and rum coffee.

Thomas and Kelley arrived ce matin, jetlagged and ready for the sun. We are throwing a grand fête for them at Kechmara tonight. I imagine I will be peer pressured to take a shot of tequila that I will secretly spit into an empty beer bottle.

Chubby,
Megan

my most favorite thing to come from the wolf sanctuary

and tom kelly knows how to scan!

Reverting to four year olds, again and again

Les soeurs are in Casablanca. My intention was to go button and ribbon hunting, while my sister tackled the one guide book cultural institution in the city (the Jewish Museum, of course!)

Alas, armed with our oversized parapluie (uie, uie uie), we hit the streets determined to not let the cold air and rain stop us. It did, and we are back at our hotel and on the Internet.

In other far more serious news, we developed a new game to try to make the train ride go by faster today.. To imagine different friends news to sitting on whoopie cushions. That was funny for a little while.

Love,
MM

They call me Grace Kelly

Sup Den,

C'est vrai, ma petite est tres malade and I'm crossing my fingers that her health improves before our turn as groupies next week. On Monday, we leave for Barcelona to see Mimi's friends' band play. The boys are in an electronica band, which is a musical genre I'm unfamiliar with but fairly certain I don't like. However, as Meg previously mentioned, we'll be able to act out our Penny Lane dreams, so, whatevs (currently on the lookout for my very own shaggy fur lined coat).

In other news, we made quite a spectacle at a dude cafe yesterday. We've already talked about how most of the cafes in Marrakech are spilling over with men, sipping on tea and smoking cigs for hours on end, right? It's rare that you find a Moroccan woman enjoying a beverage at these cafes, as this seems to be a generally discouraged activity for les femmes.

Often I feel intimidated going into these cafes, as typically upon entering, total silence ensues and all eyes are on you for the duration of your stay (not in a sleazy way per se, but more in a totally baffled and confused way). Yesterday, Megs and I decided to suck it up and have lunch in a particularly crowded dude cafe. We entered confidently and ordered two cheese omelets. While eating, we were quietly discussing how we'd each gained some weight recently, and I realized I had an old US Weekly in my bag, with a "Diets That Work!" cover story.

I was covertly flipping through the magazine, which was partially tucked into my bag, softly explaining to Megan that she should go on Kate Beckinsale's "Can't Give Up Carbs" diet, when I tragically over-gestured. I made this sort of karate chop gesture in emphasizing Kate's diet regime, and with that, time slowed down... I hit the side of my plate, causing it to fly surprisingly high into the air, and my omelet to separate from it. With cat-like reflexes, I howled something like "myyyyy omeleeeeeet," and mid-air, CAUGHT the omelet in my hand as the plate crashed to pieces on the floor next to us. Half-way off the chair, and with my hand proudly raised in the air, grasping my miraculously unscathed omelet, I looked at Mimi. Her jaw was dropped to the table and eyes bulged out. A quick glance around revealed a similar reaction from all and I attempted to subtly place my omelet on a little side coffee plate. Well, lunch was cut very short and I was barely able to eat my omelet after that mishap, but I suppose, ultimately, that was good for my diet.


Sincerely,

Lady Victory with omelet in hand

More fun with my sister's boyfriend's facebook

dear den,

at home and sick as sick as a dog. i miss finn. like my sister before me, being sick means hours in bed with only Scizzle's facebook to keep me busy. if the next person to come to morocco on march sixth would be so kind as to bring me the 2nd book in the twilight vampire series, so i can find out if they go to vampire 2nd base, i would be oh so obliged. until then, any suggestions for the facebook will be appreciated and reviewed. today...

Pascal is... on team Rihanna. Did you see the pictures? OMG

tu chiant,
megan

The fair and witty Claire, read on and bookmark away

Mon Best Ami,

Yes, it's true, while you have been spending your hours toiling away at the Yale Libes (ok, looking at cute Art Library boy), I have started my days at a new job. So far it can only rival the previous jobs- smoothie and juice girl, LUXURY apartment building concierge, vintage kaftan salesgirl, mirror-making apprentice- in its bizarre tasks, peculiar hours and low pay.

So far the job has entailed going on market wide searches for a yellow bandannas, a certain brand of tomato can to make a cactus vase, a cactus, the pants that the industrial workers wear, a black baby, a blond man, fabric, pom-poms, red peppers, and the list continues. It has brought me to some of the dodgier parts of the Medina where I am trying to learn how to pronounce "laissez-moi tranquille, s'il vous plait" in Arabic (always glancing at my french-arabic dictionary before I say it). It generally just encourages my gentlemen callers to heckle and hassle me more. While waiting for our fabric to be dyed in one of the aforementioned areas, we had tea with the workers. We all know that I am something of a hypochondriac, and a bit phobic of germs, so to drink from the same cup as the rest of the men caused me distress that I thought manifested itself in being jittery and a bit nauseous. "I have realized, Megan, that the herb that they use to make this tea is absinthe," new boss says, as she tossed back her third cup. That explained a lot. We also eat a lot of couscous together, and complain about men.

In other news (and in the interest of FULL blog disclosure), I have met a boy at the notorious music night and actually used an emoticon in our conversations to keep up with his excessive use of them. It slipped and I regret it. If we start dating, will I start listening to Norah Jones and having genuine responses when questioned about my passions?

=),
Megan Marion

I have a special box, too!

Salut Saint Denis,

Did you host your annual Oscar bash last night? I hope that you were pleased with the winners (Megs scoffed at me this morning and called me a “such a dork” because when she told me Slumdog Millionaire won, I tried to high five her in joy) and that you did not overindulge in your famous seven-layer bean dip, as you’ve been known to do.

After several nights of my own overindulging last week, I declared this past weekend to be dedicated to physical activity. On Sunday, we drove about 90 minutes from Marrakech to go hiking in Imlil. This is a wonderful little mountain village that is filled with pink mud-brick houses and walnut trees galore. When you drive up to Imlil, you’re basically attacked by dozens of local "tour guides" who offer to take you on a hike. A tour guide is necessary, as you can easily get way off track in the mountains and things could go all Sheltered Sky on you. The trick is finding one that doesn’t totally rip you off and isn’t completely focused on procuring a kiss (a lesson we learned from our guide in the Ourika Valley, who almost proposed to young Mimi and has been calling here for three months, now).

We chose the one guy who was not sticking his hands in the windows of the car, and I think we chose right in young Brahim. He took us on a great hike through a few different villages and into the mountains. From the top of our climb, we could see Ouikaimeden (remember, the ski station with all the cool onesies) and Jabal Toubkal, the highest mountain in North Africa. Pascal thought it was super funny to trip me in the snowy areas and watch me tumble down the hill. Well, I really fell for Brahim when at one point, out of nowhere, he pinned Pascal down and yelled to me in a mix of Berber, Arabic and French, to demolish Pascal with snowballs. I did so and Brahim and I were subsequently partners in all snow ball fights.

He invited us back to his family’s house for mint tea and walnuts and placed this big box on the table in front of me. The Brahim show began… It was filled with postcards from friends, a few pictures of his one year living in Agadir, and ALL of his important documents (he’s also a bus driver and a ski station operator and I saw the paperwork to prove it, yo). After scrupulously examining all of the contents in his special box, he gave us freshly baked bread for the road, and we headed back to the city.

That’s really all the news from these parts, Den. Oh, I nearly forgot, Mimi got herself a job assisting a stylist and is quite the working girl!! She’s 9-5 these days and I think is currently hunting through the souks for a bright orange bandana for her boss.

Missing you,
Julia

Pascal is a small fish swimming in an ocean of love (last week's status)

Dear Mr. Jones,

I’m over the flu and I think Pascal might be the happiest about it. As Mimi mentioned, I appointed myself Creative Director (and little Megs was given an Editorial Assistant position) to Pascal’s facebook profile. With all of this flu induced down-time, I’ve really been able to commit myself to beefing up his interests and activities and also regularly updating his status. Pascie is extremely complex, with a deep passion for both karate and croque monsieurs. He’s memorized every word in the film Titanic and likes to shake his booty to Beyonce. He’s digs pizza and loves Sunday Fundays. He wishes every day were Valentine’s Day and today, he’s living La Vida Lo Carb (thank you, Dede, for that submission).

Probably almost dumped,
Julia

Under Pressure

Dear Den et les autres loyal readers,

It is a special week. This week is reader participation/ testing who really reads our blog because comments have been scarce of late. What do we want? YOUR STORIES! It can be quick, it can be pages, it can be a poem, it can even be a lie. Just a petit ditty about a travel experience. Romance gone wrong (ahem mmhk), food gone wrong (ahem jak), days upon days spent in a Paris McDonalds (ahem Denny), baggage stolen (ahem Tara), comme tu veux.

Please submit in the next week.

This is a test,
Love,
the MGMT

Pity City: Population 1

Mon petit prince,

Happy belated Valentine’s Day, my one true love! Did you do anything particularly romantic pour la fete? Perhaps find yourself a pretty, little artsy thing to take to a fancy-pantsy New Haven establishment?

Oh Den, I cannot say my Valentine’s Day was all that I’d dreamed of. Pascal planned a lovely weekend trip to Essouria, the little seaside town in Southern Morocco that we’ve mentioned before. Our plans to leave first thing on Saturday morning were thwarted by what I thought was a passing stomach ache. Around noon, I feigned recovery and we hit the road, Jack. The drive is just over two hours and is typically very pleasant, as you pass through some wonderful country side, olive tree farms, quaint towns, etc. But, when you are entering into the initial stages of war with a vile stomach flu, it loses its charm. I tried to keep up the charade of feeling well but that was difficult to pull off, when, at one moment, I was forced to curl up into a ball in excruciating pain, and the next, I would unintentionally fall into a deep, sweaty, flu-ish sleep. He called my bluff soon enough, but I convinced him that I would recover by the time we arrived to the sea.

That was not so. Upon arrival to our perfect hotel, I went directly to sleep. Later that evening, I pulled myself out of bed and insisted that we could go to our romantic V-day dinner. I’m not sure why he agreed to be seen in public with me as I looked like I’d been run over by a bus and had no energy to primp myself. My super hot outfit consisted of a black hooded sweatshirt, sandals with purple socks underneath and my hair was, well, I suppose its usual unkempt-self. Dinner was brief. I had a sprite and he had carpaccio and chocolate cake. I tried to be cheerful and cute, but again, that is hard to do when you have to stop talking every five minutes to wince in pain. I was asleep by ten.

Next morning, same charade. I pretended to be okay for our day on the beach but after a few minutes, I insisted he go surfing so I could camp out in the car. We called it a weekend after that. Oy va voi.

Lots of love,
Julia

My sister is a freelance writer based in Marrakech and New York

William Dennis Jones:

Julia Kelly is a freelance writer based in Marrakech and New York and has written for Interview, InStyle and InStyle Weddings.

http://entertainment.ralphlauren.com/magazine/editorial/sp09/morocco_modern.asp

Julia is practically famous. Denny, I am so proud.

Off to celebrate at Music Night! Rumor has it there is a battle between Trio Lab and Azziz no Good.


mm

What's eatin' Zubides

Our femme de ménage, the illustrious and oft-spoken about Zubida, is in a huff today. Is there a problem with the engaged-to-be-engaged engagement with Mohammad? Is she offended that the amount of empty wine bottles in the house has multiplied since our return to Pascal's? In my pursuit to discover what's irritating our easily affected friend, I am discovering perhaps it is time for me to get a full time job.

Denny, I have been reading, reading, reading my days away

"By now I was beginning to form some generalizations about the International Set (not that I ever even found out if they were the Real Thing, I mean what standards would I have to judge them by anyway?). First of all, though very few seemed to be married at the time, they were all passionately involved with one another, This had a way of making conversations rather difficult. For instance, when one of them began talking to you it was impossible to predict which of the others was going to get sore. And the reason they got sore was that it was assumed that the one talking to you was also making a pass at you, and the reason that was assumed was that it generally was true. And the reason it was generally true, was that they had nothing else to talk to me about. Past parties-past and future parties, resorts in and out of season, their own lineages, and those of their friends were their only real contributions to a conversation, except for the one that went "I was in America once..." and then petered into a series of place names, so that by making a play for me I suppose they felt they were keeping their end up. Another thing about them was the way they kept inviting you places; they invited me to a different place on an average of every five minutes, but I discovered there were two rules of governing this: first, it had to be a place you'd never been to, like "What, you've never seen the Blue Grotto? I must take you there on the yacht this summer"; and second, it was understood that each invitation canceled the previous one- I'll leave you to guess what the very last one always was."

-the Dud Avocado, 1958

Sally Jay, you explain so much! I have a proclivity to reading literature that idealizes wherever I am living. I ready John Fante and Charles Bukowski when I moved to LA (okay, so they don't exactly romanticize the city, but somehow it did the trick) , switched to Paul Bowles and Gertrude Stein for Morocco (again, maybe they didn't paint the best picture and Mom almost didn't let us go after reading The Sheltering Sky) and now Elaine Dundy is almost convincing me to move to Paris.. in the 1950s. Well, Ms Dundy, thank you for explaining why Julia and I keep invited to go places, never with a follow up call, and why the married and "taken" men of this international set seem to continue to omit mention of very significant others. Oh, le Maroc!

Love you dearly,
I really do,
MM

file under good ex boyfriends

Dear Denny,

You remember Amir and Jon from our glory days in LA? Well the boys of Jogger have been featured as Urb magazines top 100 new artists for 2009. Alas, I know not what Urb magazine is, but I swell with pride all the same. The handsome duo are off to tour Europe this month after a hot gig DJ'ing a Valentine's Day Dance at Princeton University. Well, finally Julia and I are to live out something of every girl's rock star (groupie) fantasy. Penny Lane. Thanks to Mr Mark Stinson, a clip of dialogue:

William Miller: You said we were going to go to Morocco. There is no
Morocco. There's not even a Penny Lane. I don't even know your real
name.
Penny Lane: When we go to Morocco, I think we should have completely
different names and be completely different people.
William Miller: What will our names be?

Yes, maybe it had something to do with us moving to Morocco.. And now, we are scheduling (albeit carefully, impulsively is not a trait of our American selves) to follow the band. This blog may really change directions now that we are band girls. Oh dear, I though I gave up boys-in-bands-in-tight-pants-who-prefer-whiskey-to-me during my Wesleyan Days.


Inside of your heart,
Megan Marion Lane

Wowee-wowee

Hi dude,

The sun has finally returned to Morocco after an unprecedented ten days of non-stop rain. Let me tell you, ol' boy, this town is not equipped for that much rain. The streets were constantly flooded and there wasn't a roof sans leak in sight. We celebrated le retour de soleil yesterday with a Sunday Funday that involved eating various fatty things in different outdoor locations (chicken sannies and Rose by a pool, chocolate fondant on a deck, etc.). We ended Sunny-Sunday-Funday with dinner at Pascal's house avec his lovely neighbor Marco. Mimi prepared harira, a traditional Moroccan soup that is filled with lentils, onions, saffron and various other spices. Typically, we purchase vegetables only to watch them rot in the fridge and occasionally comment on their slow demise, but in our efforts towards self-improvement, we tossed every last veggie in the fridge into a huge salad. Finally, Pascal prepared some sort of baked cheesy pasta dish that was pretty yummy.

Den, I'm not giving you all of these food details because it was some sort of culinary masterpiece to be replicated, rather to help us both understand what happened at the end of our meal. It was that post-feast moment of satisfied silence and digestion. I had just taken sip of wine, when from across the room came a distinct, not-to-be-messed with, burp. My eyes widened when I saw that the origin of the burp was none other then our beloved little Mimi. Yes, the delicate, lovely and always proper Mimi quite unintentionally let out a very gratified and guttural belcheroo. All guests were in a state of collective disbelief and Meggie herself looked rather baffled. Though, within just a few seconds, I was barreled over in hysterical laughter, attempting to keep the not yet swallowed wine in my mouth. Pascal then erupted into laughter and Marco soon joined in. After Mimi recovered from her initial shock at the most distinguished burp of '09, she, too, fell victim to an uncontrollable giggle fit.

I mean, people burp all of the time and it's no big woop, but ma belle soeur simply does not…If I only had a video of the whole fiasco to send around, many pants would be peed in...many, many pants.

Lots of love,
JAK

There are two types of people in the world

Dear Den,

Remember when we were living with my mama for a bit before our "unique" living situation in the attic of the mansion? Well, I know you will appreciate the new theme of things that Libs is saying because honestly, Den, Mother is still making the most silly comments. It delights me to no end.

Elizabeth: i don't think that my daughters are interested in communicating with their mother who carried them each around for nine months throwing up and losing her youthful and perfect body to bring them into this world. i guess i will have to adopt new daughters.

Libby, what are you talking about?!?

Saturday night and I ain't got nobody,
Megan

Denny,

In lieu of posting a blog entry today, I will redirect you, my faithful four blog readers, to an apt description of our year of spiritual discovery.

http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/2009/01/11/120-taking-a-year-off/

Perhaps someday though, I will tell you about my visit to the home of the former fashion editor at Italian Vogue to see her collection of vintage Italian designer clothing, Julia's sabotaging of Scizzle's facebook (he is now a fan of Beyonce, rose and karate), the mysterious "chocolate pudding" that we ate at a dinner party the other night that was certainly, we found out ex post facto, infused with a certain something that I will not disclose on our blog (Brokedown Palace? We always thought Claire Danes could play Julia in her biopic) but that makes me a bit anti-social and Julia a bit completely giggly goop (a word we just taught Pascal...), and the new game that the cleaning lady likes to play with me, where she hides my belongings all over the house and then pretends not to understand when I ask where they are. So for the moment I am off to find my running shoes, which could be under the kitchen sink, in the garage, or au salle de bains.

Love,
Kate Beckinsdale

Libby Andrus is so hot right now!

D-dawg,

My sweet, sweet mother is being so redunkulously funny lately. I don't know what to make of it! Until recently, some technological advances have been rather intimidating to Libs. Pour exemple, le cell phone. She TOTALLY freaks out every time her cell phone rings. A common scenario: we're driving in the car (when her reaction is most perilous for bystanders) and her celly rings... a look of panic/doom falls over her lovely face, she begins waving her hands violently, forgetting entirely that she is operating a moving vehicle, and screeches something like, "there is a RING, coming out of this BOX, what on earth do I do, Julia??" She's slightly more comfortable with computers then cell phones, and has become a fairly adept e-mailer. In the last week, though, her hipness and techiness have reached insane new levels. The following are direct quotes from e-mails she wrote us via "interweb" correspondence:

"You ask me if I know how to skype? I am the QUEEN of skype!"

"I am starting my own blog soon and your lives will never be the same."

"The Frey has a new album coming out. FYI."

"I saw your birthday pictures on flickr and you look slammin'"

Holy cow, Momma. Keep it up!!

Signing out,
Julia

Les enfants

Hey boy,

Alors, mon petit garcon. Mimi and I visited the orphanage yesterday where we will be working. There are about sixty five children living there, ranging in age from a week old to a few teenagers. Many of the children were abandoned by their parents in Marrakech and the surrounding villages. I have never actually been to an orphanage and was a little worried about how hard it would be to see these kids, but they all seemed surprisingly happy and were smiling and playing and having fun. The building is new and clean and they're even building a lovely little library. Tomorrow morning, Meggie and I report to the orphanage first thing in the AM to feed the babies. Eh, Deni, YES with bottles.

Love love,
Julia

PS
Not to make light of this subject, but have you seen the movie El Orfanato?? About the woman who returns to her childhood home and it is an orphanage for handicapped children and they come back from the dead and sing really creepy songs in the yard? Holy crapsville, I have never been so terrified by a movie in my life. IN MY LIFE.

Neutral Zone

Oh me oh my, Denny, Flickr has been updated. Photos from the fete, lots of pictures of Pascal, Julia and me (the gang, you know.. Jesus Christ), and all the pictures from Morocco August- December that were hiding on Julia's camera until now. So if you have an hour, or five, take a looksies and don't hesitate to comment on any pictures where we are looking skinny or tan.

Breakups = great for the waistline,
Megan Marion

L'anniversaire

Mon chere Den,

Well, the party was wildly successful. I shall recount the events of Saturday, January 31st as best I can. Zoubeeds, Megan and I went to Marjane (a gargantuan grocery store that makes Sam’s Club look like a corner drugstore) on Saturday morning. Zoubeda went a lil’ bananas with the shopping and bought half the store. We returned to Pascal’s and proceeded to chop, peal and clean for several hours. Much like preparing for a party under my father’s charge, Zoubeda ran an extremely tight ship. No breaks were allowed and we couldn’t eat lunch until most of the work was done. At one point, I tried to covertly paint my nails in the living room and was immediately busted. She shook her head at me in disapproval, brought in a bowl of potatoes and asked me to peal them mid-painting. Anyway, thank goodness for her work ethic as the place looked fabulous and we served at least ten lovely dishes (including mini burgers!!) to our guests.

Megs and I wore our best party dresses and of course had a pre-party pump ourselves up dance to the Macarena and YMCA (see above). We had about eight Americans and ten Frenchies over, and somewhat unfortunately, there was not much mixing between countries. The French were firmly planted in the living room and the Americans took over the hallway. Despite la separation, I think each group had fun. Pascal’s apartment was pretty much hot boxed with the amount of smoking. That was gross. Megan made a super awesome party mix. The notorious and enigmatic Leonard returned from his travels and he and Mimi engaged in their typical … banter, let’s call it. Zoubeed's future fiancé attended the party and though he only spoke Arabic, he actually mixed among everyone far better then the French or Americans did. He obvi gets most valuable player award. We had a delicious strawberry birthday cake and champagne. The night ended with Pascal and I singing Serge Gainsbourg’s “Bonnie and Clyde” as I danced atop a table. How very Paris Hilton of me.

Older and questionably wiser,
Julia

Je T'aime... Moi Non Plus

To my most forgetful friend:

Today is a very special day. Twenty-beep years ago, Julia Andrus Kelly graced all of us (and those of us still to come), with her sweet freckles, pretty eyes, and strong singing voice. While I wish the picture accompanying this blog post were actually of her, it is only a child attached to a defamer article about how Warner Music has the rights to "Happy Birthday" (what???!!!)... But ce soir I will take a picture of the party girl herself, party dress on, sitting in the middle of the floor amid the giant cake courtesy of Keshmara.

Totally Cranaxed,
Megan

Chronic + Drunk: A History Lesson

Dear Dennis,

My sister exaggerates. I have never been one for drinking, smoking, keg stands, or body shots. And I hardly think I have suitors in Marrakesh. I have, however, developed a recent interest in "urban slang," and an ability to drink upward of two glasses of wine. So Denny, I give you the history of the word crunk, with a promise of stories from my weekend to come:

In 1995, Conan O'Brien and Andy Richter were scheming ways to get past the TV censors on Conan's late night talk show, and they settled on an all-purpose, suitable replacement for the infamous seven dirty swearwords that they couldn't say on TV: Crunk. The choice to use that word was definitely not random. Ice T just happened to be on the show that night, and he likely fed the word to them beforehand and certainly helped fuel its popularity during the telecast ("That was seriously crunked up, right there."). But Ice never claimed to have come up with the word--he probably got it from Dirty South rappers, who had been using it for years as a euphemism for getting really crazy and fucked up on marijuana and alcohol (stoned and drunk. Chronic plus Drunk = Crunk). Or maybe crack and drunk. Or coke and drunk. Or maybe just being crazy and drunk. Whatever it is, it means getting really crazy and fucked up. And with Conan's introduction of the word to northern suburban audiences, Crunk came into its own as the recognized sound of the new generation of Dirty South Rap, prompting white college fratboys everywhere to wander around going "WHHHUT!! OKAAY!! YEEEAAHHH!!" like annoying dipshits. and it's all thanks to Lil Jon, and by Lil Jon I mean Dave Chappelle.

Kelley, this weekend I suggest you go out and get crazy+drunk because after two weeks of the the-most-shitty-week-in-2009 award going to yours truly, I am ready to pass it on. If you would like to be considered for this, please email or post your sob story and I will consider you for the coveted prize. And by prize, I mean very special Moroccan paraphernalia and a list of suggested reading self help books courtesy of Oprah and Julia.

Love,
Megan Marion Eckhart Tolle

And it's just getting started

It's a Trilamb party

It isn't wrong, but not quite right...

Hey pally,

Well, Mme Mimi has returned to Kech with quite a bizzity-bang. I’m not really sure how ma soeur does it but after one public outing she’s acquired two new suitors. That kind of thing just does not happen to me but I’m not jealous or bitter or resentful at all. No siree, I'm totally cool with it. She probably has zero idea how to cook a tagine, so whatevs. Anyway, she’s come back quite the new woman, with a certain unprecedented joie de vivre that, honestly, is kind of freaking me out. Let me explain. As anyone who knows la petite is aware, she is not one for boozing or late night clubbing. Well, we’re having a small get together tomorrow evening at Pascal’s and Megs wholeheartedly suggested setting up a beer pong table. As anyone who knows me is aware, I welcome this idea with open arms, but Megan?? C'est pas vrai. Apres-pong, she wants to go dancing. Like, not dancing to Rent in the bedroom with me, but dancing in a real club where they don’t generally play the best of Andrew Lloyd Weber. THEN, this afternoon I mentioned that it was supposed to rain this weekend, and she responded, “it doesn’t matter…I’m gonna get crunked all weekend, anyway.” Ummm, really? What does that even mean?

Un peu peur,
22