I Have an Addiction, Sir.

Whenever we would have tea together, my Grandmom always said, "I like my tea the way I like my men: strong and a little blond." I probably should've questioned her a little more about this statement beings as my Grandfather was a brunette, but I never did. I'd just wait until she took the bag out before I handed her the milk.

I sincerely believe that all the women in my family are genetically addicted to tea (the men are partial to their scotch, but that's a story for another day). Every one of us is Irish and English within an inch of our lives; we never stood a chance. The second thing any of us will ask you after you arrive (after "how are you?") is if you'd like a cup of tea. Are you not feeling well? Then have a cuppa tea. Did your day go badly? I'll put the kettle on. It's reached a level in my life where my dear friend in Altoona took me straight from the train station to the tea cupboard in her house and said, "Whenever you feel like it, just help yourself. I know how you feel about your tea."

Visiting my family in N. Ireland, I had my first high tea...and also my second in the same day. Thousands of miles away from my Grandmom's dining room in Collingdale, I still felt at home in Uncle Billy and Aunt Dolly's living room as Uncle Billy raised his mug and said, "I never thought I'd be having a cuppa tea with ya."

When I moved back from Chelts, I smuggled as much real English tea across the Atlantic as possible. Some of it was fancy, expensive tea, but the majority was just plain old Tesco brand. It was lovely, and I tried to make it last as long as possible. However, when one averages about five cups a day, well, the supply dwindles quickly. It's a sad fact that American tea sucks. Some types, like Tetley British Blend come close, but I still find myself spending a little extra money on Twinings' Irish Breakfast or Prince of Wales. The best I've had since coming back to the States was a loose leaf blend that Rictor's dad brought back from Russia. Clearly that doesn't count.

And when I go back this year, it'll be tough to resist the temptation to bring an extra suitcase solely for tea smuggling. I'm sure I'll manage, tho.

Ben Folds?

Not that many weeks ago, I sat in a tiny hole-in-the-wall diner near Rittenhouse Square with the Katherines. As we tried to chase away our Hoegaarden hangovers with powdered-sugar-and-maple-syrup drenched Challah French Toast and bacon, I turned to the Katherines and said, "Isn't that guy standing by the door Ben Folds?"

"I don't know what Ben Folds looks like," answered the Katherine to my left.

"He looks like that guy standing by the door...even down to the glasses," I yawned.

And he did. The olive green cap, dark-rimmed glasses and modern bohemian style of the way he tied his scarf around his neck all seemed to scream, "Yeah. I'm a hip musician."

I went back to smearing grape jam on my regular toast (because diner toast is probably the best food in the world). I silently cursed the fact that my red-headed roommate from Freshman year-who nursed an intense infatuation with the music of Ben Folds-was living far away in Pittsburgh and unable to help me determine if the man at the door was in fact Mr. Folds himself. I felt too silly to get up and actually approach this guy on the off chance that it was just some French guy called Peter who couldn't understand why twenty-something Americans kept coming up to him and asking if he was this Ben dude.

Two weeks later we find out that Ben Folds had a show in Philly the night before we possibly spotted him at the diner. So it actually could've been him....

And I wondered, why can't I speak to famous people? We're bombarded every day of photos of Jude Law at the drugstore, Julia Roberts buying cheese at the market, and Harrison Ford having a chat with the five other people that live in Wyoming. Magazines are constantly reminding us that "Celebrities are Just Like You!" I have no problem talking to people on planes or strangers like the German lady who sat next to me during the train ride between Marburg and Kassel; however, if Kate Winslet sat next to me at the airport I'd forget how to speak.

Yet when I have the gall to do something like stage door Eddie Izzard, all I can do is squeak out my name and add some cheesy sentence he's probably heard a million times before. Perhaps I was suddenly intimidated by the fact that I was standing in front of quite possibly the funniest man alive today. Perhaps I would have been less intimidated if he'd been dressed in women's clothes.

Perhaps....

Tough Skinned Philadelphians

I've started taking the El when it's either too cold or gross enough to keep me from walking the eight blocks from the train station to my office building or in the afternoon when I want to catch the express train home. One Wednesday Steph and I left the office on time, but the El was late getting to the station. Worried that I'd miss the express and have to sit in the station for an unnecessary half hour, I ran down to the platform....only to be stopped by a cop.

Several other commuters and I were told to go back up the stairs; there was a suspicious package, and they had to wait for a verdict from the bomb squad before letting us any further.

Back up the stairs we all trudged. I met up with a couple other T&F people who ride the same train line as I do, and we stood and joked amidst the ever growing group of angry and confused suburbians. The police officer was forced to explain the situation over and over again; his already unconcerned tone and mannerisms growing more weary and annoyed as the minutes ticked by. Amidst the tropical background music of the steel drum player, we were told to stay in the waiting area at the top of the steps where we'd surely be safe...10 feet away from potential explosives.

Not long after the platform was cleared (though the platform across the tracks still bustled with people and trains), several Philly police officers arrived and calmly consulted with the original officer. No one seemed concerned-not even the bomb-sniffing dog that trotted excitedly down the stairs. I suppose it was probably a good crowd control technique, but I got the distinct feeling that even the police weren't worried and didn't take the mystery box to be a serious threat.

And so we stood until the bomb squad carried off the box (deemed nonthreatening) and the trains filed one by one along the platform once more. Even my friends and I stood unconcerned except for the thought of how we'd be able to get out of the city if they suspended the train for the rest of the evening. Though I can't for the life of me understand why the woman nearest the stairs (and the suspected bomb) just stood there with her two-year-old boy as though nothing was wrong.

And somewhere, someone on the R5 to Paoli smacked their forehead and thought, "Crap! My box!"

In Honor of Spring

Even though it was 25 degrees this morning, spring is technically here. And with it come tourii and the resurgence of the squirrel population.

I'm the kind of person who often seems to find herself in strange situations with some equally strange people. I'm also well aware that, in addition to being the City of Brotherly Love, Philly is also home to many, many weird people. I just didn't know that they also worked for the National Park Service.

Often, when the weather is nice, I'll have lunch in the park across the street from my office in Olde City. One lovely late-October afternoon, I was sitting on a bench in said park talking on the phone. The trees had begun losing their leaves, and the heavy winds of the night before had also brought down a few branches. The National Park workers were scrambling to clear these branches from the cobblestone streets in addition to their usual tasks of grass-cutting and leaf-raking; I didn't think anything of it when a tall, thin man in the olive green coveralls of the average park employee walked past me carrying a weedwacker.

I think that now would probably be a good time to mention the ungodly amount of squirrels that live in and around the park. On occasion, when I have lunch in the park with some of the girls from the office, I see the tourii (Rictor's and my term for flocks of tourists) feeding the squirrels, and I shake my head. People should know better.

So I wasn't really paying much attention to this guy until I turned my head a bit and noticed that he had put down the weedwacker and was now several yards away from it, on his hands and knees, crawling toward the base of a tree. I looked a little closer and saw a squirrel squatting on its hind legs and staring at the man who was crawling towards him. The next thing I knew, Park Employee had reached out, snatched the squirrel with one hand (!), and then started to unbutton a few buttons on his shirt with his free hand. I wanted to stare openly, but, as this man was clearly out of his mind, I tried to watch from the corners of my eyes while pretending to mind my own business.

With the stealth of a professional animal trainer, Park Employee slipped the struggling squirrel inside his shirt and cradled the wee thing against his stomach with one hand. He then stood up, walked over to the weedwacker, picked it up with his free hand, and calmly strolled off across the street and behind a few colonial-style homes.