I can’t take his money … I can’t print my own money … I have to work for money … Why don’t I just lay down and die? — Homer Simpson, The Simpsons
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Hold on ... this seems like a good time to hit on the groom.

I’ve loads to tell you. I have a few more posts about Scotland I need to get out of my system, a couple on San Diego, and at least a half dozen on New Orleans (which might be one of my new favorite cities). Right now the trips are racking up faster than I can blog about them – and I’m well aware I shouldn’t complain. Blah, blah, blah, boo-hoo for me because my life is awesome.

But keep one thing in mind: I am a neurotic spazz. Several weeks ago, I had the sort of exchange with one of Rand’s colleagues that make you want to crawl into a cave, and never, ever come back. It was entirely unintentional, but without meaning to, I inadvertantly might have said that I presumed the guy didn’t wear the same size underwear as Rand, because he was clearly bigger than him.

I could explain more about the circumstances and the context, but really, I doubt it would make things better. I’m basing this on the fact that when I tried explaining myself in the moment, after having seen Rand et al’s faces, things only got worse. (more…)

I’m finally (kind of, sort of) over the Colts’ loss a few weeks ago that I think I can finally talk about the Superbowl.

And I promise I’ll make only one catty comment about the Saints. Maybe two.

Some of Rand’s colleagues were over from the U.K. and joined us, along with a handful of our friends, to watch the Superbowl. And over the course of the game, we discovered a couple of things …

• If you aren’t an American, football may be boring to you. Or confusing. Or pointless. Or really, really violent. Thankfully, after decades of it being part of our culture, we have become blissfully desensitized to this.
• Understanding the object of the game only gets you so far. It’s one thing to know that the team needs to move the ball in certain direction. it’s another altogether to understand the rules, the logic behind downs (is there any?), and what, exactly, some of the penalties mean.
• Don’t try and explain the scoring convention. People will just look at you like you are nuts. (”Wait … what’s the reasoning behind the ‘extra point’ again?” Here’s the thing: no one knows).
• Cricket is even more complicated and longer than football. If your guests get a bit ornery, just remind them of that (in all fairness, our guests did not get ornery, nor did they fall asleep, despite being  jet-lagged. The only person who ended up crashing was actually a local and a football fan. Go figure).
• The Superbowl actually airs in the U.K., stretching into the wee small hours of the morning (due to the timechange). Also, it airs without commercials, which kind of defeats a lot of the purpose for many people.

Anywho, I felt fortunate that I had the chance to introduce our U.K. cohorts to something quintessentially American. It was actually a lot of fun, despite the fact  that the entire country decided to become Saints fans for approximately 2 hours, before sinking back into the woodwork and forgetting Drew Brees’ name. My logic was this: I don’t hate the Saints, but how the hell can you root for another team when you’ve loved Peyton Manning for years? You can’t. Consequently, I defend my choice (and possible ensuing temper tantrum) as morally justifiable, and even noble.

But back to our very American Superbowl party … It was CRAZY.

Babies drank beer:

Though in all fairness, this behavior would simply describe any Tuesday in Bavaria.--

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Grown men took naps:

Poor little guy. He had a long day.

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And, like any good party in the U.S. of A, we had food on sticks. In this case, it was pizza:

Mmm ... on a stick.

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I think if it fits on a stick, it has fewer calories ... right?

God, I love the Superbowl. Even when the Saints win.

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It’s the Tuesday after the Superbowl. It is a day that holds a special place in my heart. Because on the Tuesday after the Superbowl, 2007, this happened:

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The other day we were hanging out with some friends – some American, some not, and we realized that none of us were really sure what countries are included in the phrase “United Kingdom”. Nor did we know what’s a part of “Great Britain.” England, we pretty much figured out (they’re those wussy guys who tried to tax us, right?).

The point is, along with which colors indicates positive and negative charges on a pair of jumper cables, these are things that we all should probably know, but don’t (For the record, red is positive and black is negative). I figured it was best to set the record straight (for myself and others) before we actually head out Glasgow and London next week. So while our British reader (Hi, Will!) sits back and cringes, the rest of you should pay attention, because we might all learn something. (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"

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

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This past Christmas, I was down in California, on the front lines of the ongoing war that takes place amongst my family members. It’s been happening for years, punctuated by little battles every time enough of us get together.

We’re all participants, though many of us don’t know it. We become casualties as a result of some slip up in our actions, often without realizing what we’ve done.

We might put parmesan on seafood pasta (as my brother did one year, which elicited a gasp from my aunt), or we might make our lasagna with ricotta instead of bechamel sauce. I was guilty of the latter several years ago. It was the night before my Uncle Walter’s funeral, and Rand and I had stayed up late making lasagna. I was too tired to make bechamel, and I didn’t really know how, so I used ricotta. When we arrived at my mother’s the next day, two huge pans of lasagna in tow, my aunt and mom nodded approvingly. (more…)

Dear Carl’s Junior,

We live in a melting pot. Did you know that? I swear, it’s true. I have friends from every part of the world. It’s awesome. They teach me things all the time (like that in England, “Friends” is considered funny!). And they have adorable children. Here we are at our wedding with some of our world-savvy friends:

That right, kids - I've made you poster children for multi-cultural awesomeness.

Their daughter is friggin amazing, and fluent in Japanese and English. She’s wonderful, and I’m not just saying that because her dad is one of the four readers of my blog (Hi, assface Philip!). They also blog about their adventures with their super-cute kid, which I suggest you check out). (more…)

Branding is everything.

Whenever anyone disputes this point, my husband brings up Altria. They saw a jump in investors when they stopped calling themselves Philip Morris. Altria sounds new and youthful. Philip Morris sounds like a hacking cough.

So while I was impressed with some of the copywriting I saw in the U.K., as well as the food, their cuisine needs a bit of rebrand. Let’s take a look a few examples from our lovely day in Brighton …

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Pickled Eggs

Ewwww .... and also, ewwwww.

This might be the one instance in the history of time where “devil” is a preferable word to “pickle”. Even “brined eggs” might have been preferred here. But “pickled eggs”? No no no. Combining two things you find in most people’s refrigerators, and then NOT REFRIGERATING THEM is a very bad idea. With a better name they might be … ah, hell. Who am I kidding? The name doesn’t matter at this point. Just don’t eat these unless you want Botulism. (more…)

Ladies and Gentleman, when I’m not doing a half-assed job of recounting my trips across the world with my husband, I am (removes glasses a la Clark Kent) … A COPYWRITER!!!

Okay, fine. So it’s not that exciting. I don’t pop into phonebooths and tear off my clothes at the first sign of trouble … There’s a joke there, folks. I’m not going to do the work for you.

But it does impact the way I see a lot of things. I feel a strong kinship to Peggy Olson, the secretary-turned-copywriter on Mad Men (and spoiler alert – don’t click on that link unless you are all caught up on Season 3). I hate the new Snickers ads (don’t tell me “they stay with you”, because you know what else stays with you? Genital lice.).  And I find So Sayeth the Anti-Chris (a blog written by friend and fellow-copywriter Chris Elzinga) to be all kinds of awesome. He even shares my disdain for Kenny Rogers’ plastic surgery, and my love for John Stamos. But I’ll ask you kindly not to visit his site, since he’s far more clever that I, and you probably won’t come back here. (more…)