One of the favorite things I always have loved is seeing where people list all of the places they spent the night in the last year. And since I spent almost no time blogging in 2011, I had some time for travel. I will try to go back and post tales from my trips.

• Charleston, SC (birthday present trip)
• New Orleans, LA (conference)
• San Francisco, CA (conference)
• Austin, Texas (SXSW and PubCon)
• Santa Fe, NM (vacation)
• Sonoma, CA (wedding)
• Steamboat Springs, CO
• Beaver Creek, CO
• Vail, CO
• Chicago, IL (wedding shower and trip)
• Nederland, CO
• Portsmouth, NH (wedding)
• Lima, Peru
• Cusco, Peru
• Macchu Pichu Pueblo, Peru
• Arequipa, Peru
• Colca Canyon, Peru
• New York, NY (Trada launched Facebook!)
• Detroit, MI (Thanksgiving and Christmas)

Last year for the holidays, Vikas and I had two rules for our present exchange. It had to be under $100, and all the presents had to fit in a stocking. This year I kept thinking about what to get someone who doesn’t really need or necessarily like “stuff.” As I sat there gazing at gift guides where they suggested an Alpaca tie for a man who made us stop by Banana Republic last summer before a wedding because he needed a suit or I contemplated whether I could needlepoint an iPhone case (definitively, no), we both came to the conclusion that we didn’t need anything so we opted for the charity gift.

One of my dad’s favorite charities had always been Heifer International where you can buy people in poorer countries (or even in America) an animal that will serve as a source of income to them.

I suggested buying a llama.

“Will the llama write us letters?”

“No.”

“Will they send us a picture of the llama with its new family?”

“No.”

He was kidding on the first question, but thinks the marketing department should honor his second question. Perhaps Sally Struthers is available for an infomercial.

Since Heifer International doesn’t send out pictures and updates on the animal you purchase, you can envision a llama just like this one.

(Fun fact: Llamas are friendly when their ears are up. Llamas are seconds away from spitting in your face when their ears are down. Llamas truly do make great presents.)

Saturday my bike was stolen. Monday afternoon I got it back. Here’s how it went down, and how Boulder’s Twitterati got it back.

Saturday morning I noticed my bike was gone. I lock it to a lock latch that was drilled into brick, and a jerk had pulled the lock out of the brick. I was a special kind of livid reserved for people who have a 100 percent Irish temperament. What made me so angry is that he took my locked bike, which was next to THREE unlocked bikes. And while my bike is nice, so was one of the other bikes.

I told my roommate, Rachel (@wittytwit), and she told me our office neighbors saw the theft go down and took a picture of the thief while they were in the midst of moving. Our amazing next door neighbor, Amy, helped me track down the neighbors with the photo, and she sent it to me early Monday morning. I had a blog post geared up and ready to go, dropped in the picture and asked, “Have you seen this bike thief?” I posted it at 10:45 am, posted it to Twitter and Facebook.

From there, #Boulder Twitter absolutely blew it up. Boulder is a community that watches your back for you, and is extremely helpful. Plus, Boulder is full of avid bicycle lovers and bike thievery runs rapid in our town that typically has few crimes. Within hours, I had 138 people tweet about the thieves, 24 people share it on Facebook and nearly 900 views on my blog post.

Boulder was full of helpful information, so by the time I went to the police station @WendiTV told me he was known as Dready Dave, @eatullis thought she had seen him on the bike path with a different bike, @bikestohikes had seen him ON my bike at Baseline Liquor, @CDR16 let me know he had seen him multiple times on Pearl St. previously and @thecupboulder spotted him on the bike path under the bridge on 9th. I was armed with knowledge due to Twitter.

By 3 pm Monday, I had a suspect with a trail by the time I filed my police report. Having a suspect changed how they filed my police report. Plus, the officer filing my report told me she had actually seen him riding my bike at LiquorMart. She let me know if I saw him WITH my bike to call 911 but not to confront him. People were asking if 911 was appropriate for a bike theft. Not to report it, but only if the perp was seen with your stolen goods.

I got to my desk by 4 pm and saw that 2 minutes earlier @DanPierson tweeted that he had seen the suspect riding my bike, called 911 and needed backup.

I told Dan not to confront him. Talked to some of my co-workers at Trada, and Trada’s account management team decided they would go with me (@fasterstill, @dantisser, @brandonhess) as well as Trada’s CEO Niel Robertson (@nielr1) and our head of community (@nadaalami). My co-workers are incredible, and I’m lucky they were going to roll out with me in a moment’s notice. Mount up.

We arrived at LiquorMart but @danpierson was no longer in pursuit. He was staying put because the man had left behind his blanket pictured here, and Dan thought he would come back. As two cars of my Trada co-workers rolled up to LiquorMart, we saw a man that looked like my picture from earlier but we weren’t sure. He didn’t have the bike, but he DID have the dreads, the hoodie and the Nike sneakers. He was with a female. So we called Dan to get more details, and he said that he had been with a women as well. We had our guy so we followed him at a distance while we called the cops. While speaking to 911, we flagged down a cop car. In the meanwhile, @danpierson and his backup of @andrewhyde came and joined us. They nabbed the suspect that Trada’s account management team had circled up on and his girlfriend led us to where they had stashed the bike. Justice service.

So to summarize, within six hours, we found the suspect thanks to @danpierson and all of Boulder’s twittering. Within seven hours, we had my bike back. A huge thank you to every single person who tweeted, posted on Facebook and commented on my blog. And an extra huge thanks to @danpierson, @andrewhyde, @fasterstill, @brandonhess, @dantisser, @nadaalami and @nielr1 for literally having my back. On a special note, Dan is new to town and looking for a biz dev/sales position, preferably at an early-stage startup. Please follow him on Twitter, welcome this awesome new citizen to our town and take him out for coffee.

I have my bike back and the thief upgraded it to include a bell and cup holder. If you are missing either of those items from your bike, please let me know. And if you haven’t registered your bike with Boulder, PLEASE do so.

Cheers to Boulder (and Twitter). I’m so glad I live here.

My bike was stolen Saturday. And this is the picture of the person who stole it. Have you seen this bike thief?

This man felt entitled to my $500+ Trek Allant despite not paying for it. He felt so entitled to something he didn’t own that he felt he could rip the lock out of brick. He rifled through the unlocked bikes next to my bike and took mine. But Karma is a bitch and this story can have a happy ending. Because peopleacross from my courtyard took pictures of the person stealing my bike.

If you hate people who feel entitled to steal things that they don’t own, then you can help me get out the word about this bike thief. Not that I’m bitter. Bike thieves are one of the worst things about living in Boulder. And this is our chance to make sure we ruin his joy ride of thievery. And could you please keep an eye out for a man riding around on my olive green Trek Allant? It’s a popular model but I’d love to get it back.

This is what my book looks like but you'll notice I'm not on it

Oh, and bike thief?

“You don’t have to confess you did it. We are looking for you. We gonna find you. I’m letting you know now so you can run and tell that homeboy.”

A glorious sea of cheese balls

As much as my food preferences might have gotten more sophisticated from my days of Happy Meals, there is one way my palette has refused to get more sophisticated. Cheese.

I love fancy, smelly cheeses like any yuppie. But my true love lies with cheese that comes out of a package in an orange color so glorious that God himself must have made it. You know what I’m talking about – Kraft Macaroni Cheese (spirals only, please).

If you grew up in Arvada, Colorado – and you wish you did – then you know that cheese doesn’t come from cows. It comes from a box or in foil packets. So let other foodies regale you about the glories of Haystack Mountain Goat Cheese. I want to give you the ultimate guide to the cheese from the eighties.

This is America. And here, our American Cheese isn’t so much a cheese as a “cheese product.”

Suburban Cheeses:

• Kraft Macaroni and Cheese: Oh man. A staple of childhoods everywhere, Kraft Mac & Cheese is the stuff dreams are made of. Every child makes a foray into cooking by getting to open the package of glistening powdery cheese and dumping it onto the noodles (again – sprirals only). A completely unnourishing meal for less than a dollar. Pro tip: Add the milk and butter first, it makes the cheese go on smoother.

• Cheese in a Can: Don’t turn down your nose until you’ve enjoyed this glorious concoction. Imagine: It’s the eighties and you are in a great white station wagon with your family on the way to a hike. You’re car sick and your sister is shoving you over as far as possible to your side by taking her bare foot and smashing your face on the passenger side window. Then, behold. Your mom takes out Ritz crackers and begins spritzing cheese out of a CAN. It was magical. Don’t discount the can when it comes to food. It giveth us both whipped cream and orange chemicals that spray out cheese.

• Cheese Balls in a Canister: Another staple of the Ellis family picnic. You whip out a canister to seal the freshness of balls of chemicals slathered in orange chemical cheese. Foods should always stain your fingertips. (see also: Cheetos)

• Ball Park Nachos: Grating cheese is for the ambitious. Real people know that cheese comes out in pumps. 1… 2… 3… squirts and you’re out at the ole’ ball game.

• Velveeta Cheese: Bless Kraft for this giant block of chemical-y goodness. My college roommate Jackie was the one who made me aware that this was the proper methodology to grilled cheese. There is no better way to follow a day of Natty Light and yet another Irish loss by grilling out on your Formica countertops with the Foreman.

• Kraft Singles: These just gross me out.

In my next post, I will expand upon the virtues of Lunchables.

This week was the first night with my kickball team.

I’m not sure how I got here. I spent my elementary school world avoiding all group sport events. Neighborhood kickball games in the cul-de-sac were a shameful experience. I can’t kick, run or throw.

I’ve never been much of a sport enthusiast. Some people might call me lazy, but I prefer the words, “voracious reader.”

In my nerd world, which was supposed to be a safe zone from the humiliation of group sports, we’re lining up again and again to play the sports of playground fields. Kickball, Foursquare, Dodgeball. Good Lord. And I am putting the proverbial “kick me” sign on my back by agreeing to join in.

I played Catcher. I found this position confusing. First, you’re supposed to toss the ball back to the pitcher. But you’re also supposed to tag out anyone coming in from third base. I couldn’t keep track of the who, what, when and where. Suffice to say, there wasn’t much catching. In the future, I’d like to think that when people look at me that they assess my athletic prowess and think…outfield. Or perhaps…snack provider.

I don’t understand with all the nostalgic sports that have come back why no one brings back Red Rover. Two opposing groups of children line up across from each other while one child dashes across looking to break the linked arms of some poor small child.

This is a game I could get back into. Think Ultimate Red Rover. Like Ultimate Fighting but with more clotheslining. And each time someone took the field, we’d play the Mortal Kombat soundtrack.

Hello there! I finally found my blog. It was hiding under my bed along with my 2010 New Year’s Resolutions. I left it there along my backpack after getting back from Europe. Now that I found my blog, I thought I’d write on it. You know, so I don’t have to finish cleaning under my bed.

As we begin the New Year and begin new challenges, I thought I could help people with an often sought New Year’s Resolution – avoiding dancing.

While many people may seek to enhance their dancing skills in 2011, there is a select group out there looking to avoid dancing in any sort of public situation. I thought I’d lend my knowledge to the uncoordinated, the unbalanced and the particularly hard up — the un-rhythmed.

A helpful look back into my hard-earned knowledge:

1984-6: So uncoordinated as a child, I had to have coordination therapy. Didn’t know that even existed? Well, now you know.

1989: I ask my parents for ballet lessons. Feeling this would be a humiliating experience for my poor soulless little feet, they tell me that I am “better suited for pottery.” Spoiler alert: The pottery wheel? It requires rhythm.

1996: Elaine of Seinfeld infamously breaks out her horrible dancing. People for the rest of my life will ask me if I’m a bad dancer like Elaine. Knife twisting in the wound.

1999: I attend a statewide student council retreat in Greeley. Unbeknownst to me, the weekend ends with a dance. Panic stricken, I tell them my aunt died and have my Mom drive up to get me. It was a close call but dancing was averted.

2007: I complete a life goal of taking ballet lessons at the Arvada Center. My parents were right. I am “better suited for pottery.”

2011: My boyfriend buys a Kinect. We play the dancing game. I am unable to perform “the tower,” “the say what” and anything else that requires the ability to move. At all.

Now that we have established my history, let me share my techniques to avoid dancing in public.

The food table: The food table is your friend in dancing and any awkward social circles. People who are eating, can’t dance.

Drinking: You know who else can’t dance? People in line at the bar. Careful kids, this is an advanced strategy. If you end up in line at the bar too many times, you may end up drunk, thinking dancing is a good idea. That your dancing is good. That your dancing partner is good. That your dancing with a partner, when you’re alone in the middle of the dance floor.

Family emergencies: See 1999, student council retreat.

The bathroom: This is where I spent the slow dances of my youth.

Don’t make eye contact: It is a truth universally acknowledged that women are always in need of a dance partner. Sometimes men really want to dance with you. Sometimes it is a friend telling her boyfriend, “go ask Elaine to dance.” Sometimes it is your friend Wags telling the really drunk guy that you’re really into him after your date has passed out for the evening. And then the really drunk guy steps All. Over. Your. Feet. And then he proceeds to tell you what an awful dancer you are. Look at the floor.

Making out: When in doubt, make out.

So now you’re ready to go into 2011, head held high in your corner, refusing to dance.

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Dublin, Killarney, Galway, London and back to Reykjavik. (Bonus: New York City!)

I did not see this painting. I do not care.

People warned me about it. They said it was a pitfall of traveling so long. Culture-it-is. When you simply can’t stand to see another painting, courtyard or cathedral.

I swore I wouldn’t get it. I thought those who got it had less cultural stamina. I mean, I was a card carrying member of the Denver Art Museum. I dedicated my entire month of August to culture. I may be the least outdoorsy person in the entire state of Colorado, but my culture stamina is equivalent to a triathlete.

But by the time Munich rolls around, I don’t want to see a painting. Any kind. I don’t care how famous the painting is. I totally skipped Gustav Klimt’s The Kiss in Vienna. I even skip Neuschwanstein Castle in Munich. Meh.

My first part of the trip was very planned out. I knew the top sights. And I saw them. By the time

I would use this car to pick up men. Bond Boys, specifically.

Munich rolls around, I have thrown out my guidebook because it was dead weight. By Munich, I have mastered a better technique. I find someone with an agenda and let them stress the details.

After a walking tour, I end up tacking onto an Australian named Manning to the BMW Museum. And with two Koreans with the best names of all time – Commodore and Henne. I may just change my name to Commodore. Commodore Elinor Ellis.

I like cars. I’ve seen Fast & The Furious 1, 2 and 3. I still one day would like to own Dylan McKay’s 1961 Porsche 356 Speedster. But I drive a Civic that I couldn’t care less about. In fact, my sister calls it “the Terminator” because every time she sees me it is missing a piece.

So I’m surprised with what total abandon I love a museum dedicated to cars that I would probably destroy with my indelicate driving hands. It was honestly one of my favorite days in Europe. Context is everything in travel. I would recommend the BMW Museum to anyone who visits Munich. But if I wasn’t suffering from an extreme case of Culture-it-is while in the company of three really fun guys, I doubt it would have been such an adventure.

I also had one of the worst colds of my life but am presented with the modern-day miracle that is the German pharmacy. I tell them I have a cold, and they hand me a box. With all instructions and ingredients in Germany. It is really scary to not know that. I mean really, you have no idea if you can drink or not in one of the European capitals of beer. But I handed it to an Australian and medical school, and he gave me the medical go-ahead. This despite German cold medicine being chock full of Codeine.

The best part of Munich is that a central part of this city is bratwursts and beer. It’s like my two favorite components of sporting events, but I don’t even have to watch any sports to get them. Munich is a miraculous city. Beer, Brats and BMWs.

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern, Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Dublin, Killarney, Galway, London and back to Reykjavik. (Bonus: New York City!)

The City character: Olivia Palermo

As I mentioned earlier on my blog, I was dying to attend a fashion show while in New York as one of my life list items. But it looked like it wasn’t going to happen. Then I got the best news of my life. I mean even better news than the time I won a case of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese in college. I was going to attend the Marc by Marc Jacobs fashion show! Sure, it’s unfortunate that my life has peaked at this stage in life, but what can you do?

Foursquare was running a promotion with Marc Jacobs. Those who friended Marc Jacobs on Foursquare received the fashion victim badge, and four were selected to attend the show. God Bless the people at Foursquare and Marc Jacobs because it really was one of the coolest experiences of my life.

The front row of the show was the Vogue masthead brought to life. Carine Roitfeld, Hamish Bowles and Grace Coddington. Grace Coddington!!! As I’ve written previously, she is the Gold Medal winner of Vogue editors. Afterwards, I walked by her, and she gave me a once over with a clear look of disdain. I am not a squeeing person, but even her cold look of acknowledgment was a highlight. I dress like I fell into the Gap, and my outfit was chosen from backpacking clothes. (Hint: It wasn’t pretty)

Models Are Fast!

I was surprised at how fast the show moved. Then again, as tall as those models are, it is not surprising they walked at a fast clip. It is good to know if modeling doesn’t work out for them, they have a Plan B with speed walking. I felt I could barely take it all in. Carine Roitfeld’s eyebrows, the clothes, Karlie Kloss, the 2,336 photographers, Marc Jacobs at the end of the show. Ruby Aldridge opened the show, which is a big deal for a model. Like getting to carry the torch into the stadium for the opening ceremony. (But this time Canada isn’t there to ruin the show.) I think I learned more about fashion in one hour than I have in my previous life on the planet.

I was in adoration with Foursquare before, but now I am completely in love. Thanks for helping me cross of at item off my life’s to-do list.

(You can check out pictures and a review of the clothes on Style.com.)

My posts are completely out of order at this point. Here are the places I’ve visited in order: Reykjavik, Oslo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Istanbul, Athens, Barcelona, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, Interlaken, Bern , Milan, Venice, Florence, Siena, Rome, Privas, Paris, London, Edinburgh, Amsterdam, Dublin, Killarney, Galway, London and back to Reykjavik.

My friend Lauren was leaving for Paris as I was arriving, so we were ships passing in the night. So I

Singing in the Subway

spent my limited time in London doing some of the touristy spots and heading back to the wonder that is the Borough Market. Seriously, if you go to London and skip this, you are missing one of the best food markets I’ve ever seen. I repeated my visit this time as my mouth watered from memories of a farm-to-plate hamburger with veined blue cheese, burnt sugar fudge and organic pear cider with nutmeg and cinnamon spices.

Marie Claire

While on the subway, post fashion exhibition at Albert & Victoria museum and pre-Twinings tea shop visit, the subway was flooded with people in costume. I happened to be on the subway for Waitangi Day, which is essentially New Zealand day. If you were wondering how Kiwis celebrate this day, and were hypothesizing that it involved a pub crawl on the Metro, wearing costumes, drinking inordinate amounts of alcohol and ultimately gathering on Parliament Square to chant, you would be right.

I was asking one girl what was going on, and she invited me to come with her and her friends. Pre-trip, I would have politely declined. But really in life, if your entire subway car is singing along, then why not join in? If a native Londoner is willing to let you tag along, then join. Plus, as my Kiwi friend Jonathan points out, try to cram in as much living as possible.

So I embarked on a mini adventure with Marie Claire. Everyone seemed to be in costume but me. But! I’m the type of women who carries around a sheep around in her handbag, and was thus prepared for such an occasion.

Seamus, my spare sheep. You should see what else is in my purse.

I pointed out that one of Marie’s friends was not wearing a costume, and asked what kind of Kiwi didn’t show his pride by wearing a costume. He retorted by asking me what kind of American was I, not taking over anyone’s country. Well played, Kiwi. Well played.

A short adventure with new friends. Life is pretty awesome if you let it be.

Important Side Note: My friend Eric mentioned to me that I forgot to mention in my last London post that not only was Blonde Jackie part of my college trip, but Eric, Adam, Brown Jackie and Ryan were part of the madness that was the week in London. Plus, we were visiting the incredible peeps that are Keith, John and Jeanna. Speaking of Ryan, I recently saw his wedding announcement made The New York Times. Congrats!