Archive | January, 2010

So, my hubby described my post yesterday as “provocative.” I disagreed, and there might have been some jumping up and down to emphasize my point. But while my intention had been to give shout-outs to the awesome bloggers, I think there was too much focus on my part on the negative side of of things (hell, it was a Dick Move! post, after all). I got a lot of emails and messages from people apologizing, thinking that they had offended me (note: don’t start unfollowing people on the same day you said you unfollowed someone who pissed you off. It’s a recipe for disaster. Including some notes from a few people who said, “What the heck? I’m not even a travel blogger. Why are you mad at me?”). So, in short, I want to say that I love you all, and stop worrying: it wasn’t about you. It really wasn’t.

And just to be on the safe side, I’ve decided to make it clear who I’m talking about in this post. It’s about me. Most specifically, about the stupid things I’ve done while jet-lagged or half-asleep. And I promise, all of these stories are true and unembellished. Looking through them, I realize that it sounds like I might be a little off, but keep in mind that my sleep deprivation in each of these cases was pretty damn extensive.

Wait ... wheres my hotel again? And who are you?

Wait ... where's my hotel again? And what's that thing sticking out of my head?

  1. (more…)

I’m am licking some wounds.

Not literally, of course. Though I sometimes bite the sides of my fingers.

But my feelings have been hurt. I’ve been slighted by a few people in the “travel blogging industry.” I suppose it’s not a big deal, and I suppose it shouldn’t matter. Perhaps the funniest thing of all is that I didn’t really reach out to them. I was just kind of minding my own business and our paths crossed, and they made it clear: “You sit over there, little girl, while the big kids play over here.”

One woman was introduced to me by a mutual friend. The friend thought we’d have much to talk about, but her friend in turn said, in so many words: I am too busy to bother meeting with novices.

Another blogger got snippy with me. She made one of those dismissive comments that I usually get about my age – but now that I’m getting older, it was about something else – something so ridiculously personal, I don’t know what possessed her to write it. And it hurt me so profoundly that I’m still trying to figure out what to do about it. Besides unfollow her on Twitter, which I did immediately. (more…)

A few months ago, we went to London so Rand could get some work done, and I could roam around the city and do fuck-all.

My life is good.

Our lovely friend Ben was with us, as he works with Rand, and their London colleagues needed him to reach things on the top shelf. No, wait. That wasn’t it. No. They needed Ben to provide the sort of unique and brilliant insight only he can offer. Besides that, he is very tall. Behold:

The title of this photo is Tiny Everywhereist, Tall Ben

The title of this photo is "Tiny Everywhereist, Tall Ben"

Okay, fine, so maybe, just maybe, I’m crouching in the above photo for dramatic effect. Ben isn’t quite that tall, but when you see the real photo of me standing next to him, it isn’t that dramatically different:

I like how hes looking down at me, somewhat bemused.

I like how he's looking down at me, somewhat bemused. "HOW'S THE WEATHER DOWN THERE? HA HA HA HA."


I’m still kicking the last of my cold, and while I’m completely exhausted, I’ve discovered that even 2 nights of taking NyQuil is enough to create dependency. As such, I couldn’t sleep last night, trying to figure out if one could become a meth-addict just by taking too much Sudafed. While I have no definitive proof of it, I’m pretty sure the answer is “yes.”

Still, I’m grateful that this cold hit me now, while we’re at home, rather than sometime in the next few weeks, when Rand and I will visit London, Glasgow, New Orleans, San Diego, and a few places in between. Because while being sick sucks, it’s far better to have it happen at home than one the road. When Pinguina and I last went to Italy, we both got crazy sick  (Pinguina was actually on antibiotics for whatever decided to take up residence in her throat) and lugging our huge suitcases across the country was not fun (p.s. to Italian men: if you are going to be sexist assholes, at least have the decency to be chivalrous, and help us with our bags).

Dont let the adorability of this photo fool you: Pinguina and I almost passed out on this trail roughly 20 minutes later.

Don't let the adorability of this photo fool you: Pinguina and I almost passed out on this trail roughly 20 minutes later.


I kind of hate Cory Doctorow. Like that one kid I can’t stand but keep seeing at parties, I can’t remember why I hate him, but I’m sure I have a good reason. For a while, I thought my animosity stemmed from some run-in he had with my hubby during which he wasn’t polite to him, but apparently I fabricated that. Rand’s never actually met Cory Doctorow, though he seems to think, based on what he’s read, that he’s pretty cool.

Then I thought I disliked Doctorow because he named his daughter Poesy Emmeline Fibonacci Nautilus Taylor Doctorow (Note: in the original draft of this post, which exists only in my head, I had composed some fictitious name for his daughter that was something like “Frenchie Spaghetti Tyro Brahe Doctorow,” and changed it after realizing her real name is far, far better). But then, the more I considered it, I realized how unfair that was, because how can you hate a man for the name he gave his daughter? Really, that will be her job when she’s 13. Besides, Emmeline sounds quite lovely.

But I still hate Cory Doctorow … right? I mean, even though he seems kind of interesting and accomplished and volunteered for Greenpeace and is probably a cool guy. I’m sure I have my reasons, whatever they are. (more…)

I, however, am still sick.

Despite spending much of the week on the couch (and offering up some pretty lackluster posts to show for it), I’m still not feeling 100%. I promise to be back next week with my same level of snark and general angst to which you’ve grown accustom, but today, I just want to reflect on how awesome my friends are. I’ve been home for the last month, and in that time, I’ve actually gotten to hang out and spend time with people in Seattle. It’s been amazing, and every time I decide I want to pack up and move someplace else, I think of my endearing group of stoners, entrepreneurs, and stoned entrepreneurs, and realize I could never leave.

For one, they seem to read this crazy blog of mine. Some of them regularly. Which is why my friend Vanessa immediately thought of me when she saw this:

This also came with a trading card that claims Apolo is 57. Maybe with skates on, kid.

This also came with a trading card that claims Apolo is 5'7". Maybe with skates on, kid.


I just read the dumbest article on Yahoo! Shine. Of course, given that I was actually reading an article on Yahoo! Shine, I suppose I deserved the ensuing assault on my intellect.

You can read the entire article here. But I wouldn’t, as I had to use a great deal of willpower to not jab myself in the eye with a spoon after reading it. It is entitled, I SHIT YOU NOT, “How Not to Feel Humiliated While Dining Alone.” It features a photo of an attractive woman looking dubiously at a book.

Of course, what the article presupposes is that eating alone is grounds for humiliation. Humiliation that is so extreme, they provide not one, but eight brilliant solutions as to how to avoid the clearly miserable situation of being seen without a husband in public (okay – maybe I’m reading into it a bit. But not much). Perhaps my favorite is number 6, which encourages you to pretend to be interested in whatever sports game is playing on the tv in order to give yourself “a sense of purpose” (after all, what woman would actually care about sports!). (more…)

Are you taking a photo?

Are you taking a photo inside a museum?


These words often play through my head whenever I’m inside of a gallery or a museum. Even if a museum allows photography (hopefully without a flash) it just doesn’t seem right to me. And if it doesn’t allow photography, and you still try and take a photo? Someone should slap your mother.

Of course, I’ve taken a few forbidden pictures in my time (never with flash, of course). But that was in the name of journalism. And by journalism, I mean blogging. But this isn’t about me.

Also, I might have taken a photo of this installation at the LACMA museum. But Katie put me up to it.

Also, I might have taken a photo of this installation at the LACMA museum. But Katie put me up to it.

It’s about those bastards who keep taking flash photos of art. (more…)