The Everywhereist

During one episode of Mad Men (which I realize I mention at least three times a week in this blog, and if you haven’t seen it, please do so RIGHT NOW. I’ll wait … Done? Good.), Don tells Betty that they need to go out with some important clients. Betty, deflated, replies, “Is this the one where I talk, or the one where I don’t talk?”

It is a line that, occasionally, I have used on my husband, though perhaps not very apt.

“You can always talk,” he tells me. Nevermind that it has gotten me into trouble on more than one occasion.

There was, for example, the time I got into a conversation with a lovely gentleman from the east coast who asked me what I did. I explained that I had started out in editorial journalism, but decided it was “utter crap” and considered broadcast journalism, which I deemed “even crappier” and basically had settled on blogging and freelancing, because it was “less crappy than journalism.”

Turned out the gentleman I was talking to sat on the board of the Washington Post.

Don’t tell me I don’t got a way with words. (more…)

Step 1: Be Irish.

Step 2: There is no Step 2.

A while back, my husband overheard a conversation in the security line for the Boston airport. It happened to be a few days after St. Patrick’s Day. Rand was flying from Boston to Iceland, and several young Irishmen ahead of him in line were going back home, and exchanging stories of the past weekend they had spent in the city. And for them, it was apparently a very good weekend.

Because, as Rand explained it back to me, it is very, very easy to, um, make friends on St. Patrick’s Day in Boston, if you are a reasonably good-looking young Irishman. And, having learned this, these young men made a yearly trip back to Boston in order to “make new friends.” One guy explained that on a particularly successful year, he befriended two ladies on the same night.

Wink-wink, nudge-nudge. (more…)

I was trying to think of a more clever name for this post, something like “Tuesdays with Dharmie” or something, but I think he might sue me if I called him that. Not because he’s overly-litigious or anything, but that title is awful.

I’ve mentioned Dharmesh on the blog before – he’s a colleague of Rand’s, but referring to him as such makes him sound stodgy and boring and not the sort who would be up for hopping in a car and driving to dinner, despite the fact that no one in the vehicle had any idea where we going. Oh, and I, directionally challenged and spacey, was the driver.

So, no, he’s definitely not stodgy. So perhaps I should just say, “My friend Dharmesh” instead.

This is a post about the dinner I had with my friend Dharmesh, while we were in San Diego a few weeks ago.

The first night, Rand was busy with something-or-other, so we had to go out without him. This already makes an evening exponentially less fun, so to counteract it, I invited our friend Lauren. (more…)

Back in my previous life, I worked as a copywriter alongside such brilliant minds as Philip and Angela at Cranium. While I was still a fledgling writer, trying to make the transition from secretary to copywriter (p.s., I love you, Peggy Olson), Philip was kind enough to let me help out on a few projects, gave me credit for the smarter things I did, and refrained from telling everyone about all my stupid suggestions and copy.

That’s right, Philip, you were kind. I don’t know what was wrong with you, either, but thank you.

One of the tasks that Philip let me help out on was creating in-flight content for America West; basically, writing Cranium questions that would appear on the little hanging tv screens throughout the plane. It was pure awesomeness, even though only 3 or 4 of the 40 or so questions I sent Philip’s way were actually usuable (“We try to refrain from using the phrase “mother f*cker” on content that children, or anyone else, may see.”). The point is, it was a lot of fun, and while creating interesting in-flight content is challenging, even a fledgling copywriter can do it with a relatively high level of success. (more…)

Rand and I are currently in Rye Brook, NY (as an aside, NEVER VISIT HERE), so you’ll have to forgive me if this post is a wee bit late in going up – it was a pleasant flight, but the non-stop string of trips we’ve been on has made us a little batty.

So batty, I might have started yelling at Rand when he politely stopped for me to take a photo of something, saying something like, “HOW CAN I TAKE A PHOTO?! It’s pitch black and we’re in a car. ”

A few Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies later (courtesy of the Hilton vending machine), all is well, and I have stopped yelling at my husband (and I’ve also stopped trying to take photos, because of the aforementioned pitch-blackness.)

Sigh.

(more…)

Dude, I’m know this is a little late, and that everyone has probably already said this before, but seriously: DICK MOVE, Underwear Bomber. Besides the obvious reasons (duh, killing thousands of people and being a fanatic asshole is LAME), you also made it seriously inconvenient to fly back to the states. Which I realize isn’t really that big a crime in light of all the other you shit you tried to do, but since it was the only thing you succeeded in accomplishing, besides burning the shit out of your legs, I’m going to bitch about it. (more…)

I’ve concluded that in my travels, at least, I can either see people or I can see things – but usually not both. On my last trip to London I went to the Old Operating Museum and the Tower of London and roamed all around the city, but I missed out on seeing nearly every person I knew there. This time I managed to see a lot of the people I love across the pond, but I didn’t so much get a chance to visit any of the places I had hoped to see.

I had wanted to get back to the Tate Modern, where I haven’t been in years. I had wanted to see a play or a show, and head back to the British Portrait Gallery. And I was ready, with a passionate vengeance and a freshly dry-cleaned glittered bodysuit, to spend a better part of a week at the newly-opened ABBA museum.

But none of that happened.

Because this entry is not a guide to London. And yet it includes some of the best reasons I can think of for visiting. (more…)

I’m not still writing about Scotland, am I? Have three days in a country ever been stretched into so many blog posts? Hemingway rambled less about Spain, I’m sure.

I hope you aren’t getting bored. Because Scotland really is a magical land. Even though my husband had to remind me repeatedly that Leprechauns are not, in fact, from Scotland, it’s still a fairly amazing place. But I’ve been blathering on about it for quite a while now, so consider this my last Scotland post. Really, I promise. My blog is currently three trips behind my travel schedule, so I really will make good on this.

Besides, what better way to close on Scotland than to tell you about William Wallace?

The Scots go ape-shit over Wallace, and it’s easy to see why: both a hero and a hottie, he reminds us of a simpler time when Mel Gibson wasn’t just some crazy anti-Semitic douche, but a dude with talent and a killer smile. Wallace Monument, erected in 1869 (tee-hee!), was built to honor him, and to torment visitors who already aren’t feeling top-notch. (more…)