I wasn't actually going to confess this to anyone, but apparently I'm seeking absolution or something, because here it is: I've eaten breakfast at McDonalds twice this week. This may or may not be shocking to you, depending on your opinion of McDonalds, but it's pretty shocking to me, because I generally try to avoid fast food where I can, for a host of cultural, ethical, and (mainly) nutritional reasons that I'm sure I don't need to get into.

Yesterday marked the first day in my week-long stint of working in my company's Singapore office. Like most first days, it was fraught with nerves, and like most week-long stints, it was fraught with complete and utter exhaustion after just a few hours. Apparently my body had been falsely tricked into vacation mode the minute I got on the plane in San Francisco, and when I forced it into a pencil skirt and heels on Monday morning and plunked it down in front of a computer, it was all WOMAN, YOU HAVE BEEN LYING TO ME.

A friend once told me about a guy she knew who hated going to the bathroom anywhere but his own house. If he was out and found he suddenly had some, uh, business to attend to, he'd hightail it back to his own facilities rather than perch his buttocks on the rim of an unfamiliar porcelain throne.

Apparently, there is a guy living in my parents' apartment building who has the exact opposite problem.

When I lived in Connecticut, and also San Diego, and also Charleston, a disturbing number of people would ask me whether we had Thanksgiving in England. And after I had stared at them incredulously for a few seconds to figure out whether or not they were joking (they never were), I would urge them to think about why we didn't have Thanksgiving in England, WHY THAT MIGHT NOT BE LIKELY, and I'd be met, invariably, with a blank stare.

For the last few days, my parents have been in India. My dad had a business trip there, and my mother's mission was to prove how much she loved me by buying me multiple pairs of sparkly bejeweled shoes. I drew around my foot on a piece of paper before she left and then cut around it, so that she'd be able to place my stand-in "foot" inside each pair of shoes to see if they were going to fit properly.

At a loss for something to do today, my sister and I wandered into The Body Shop and started trying on all the testers. (Please, I'd like you to memorize this line and repeat it back to yourself the next time you find yourself thinking how exciting my life in Singapore must be.)

I've been meaning to tell you, Internet, that your Christmas shopping just isn't going to do itself. And I don't care if it's November, you need to get organized now. Why?

For the past few days, I've had the same three songs on a constant loop in the private listening booth of my head: Bob Dylan's "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue," "All These Things That I've Done" by The Killers, and "Sloop John B" by The Beach Boys, specifically the part in the chorus that goes "let me go home." No prizes, then, for guessing what's happening tomorrow.