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…)

Actual times may vary.

We woke up this morning, smack dab in the middle of our two months of mad travel, under the distinct impression that we were, for the first time ever, going to miss our flight.

Now, several hours later, we’re eating breakfast with my family, and I am doing my best not to ridicule my husband. Because, as my dear friend Lauren says about her boyfriend, “Well, at least he’s pretty to look at.”

We flew in from New Orleans last night, landing in San Diego to spend one last evening with my family before heading home (on a side note, I saw my brother for all of an hour before he pissed me off to the point where I stormed upstairs. But more on that later).  Before going to sleep (at midnight, which felt like 2 am on account of the time change between Louisiana and California) I asked Rand if he had set an alarm.

“Umm-hmm …” he said.

For future reference, answers given by your spouse when he or she is severely sleep deprived and laying in bed probably cannot be held up in court. (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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I am really, really tired. We got back into town about three hours ago from our Glasgow/London trip, and I am doing my best to fight off sleep – it’s not quite 8 pm on Wednesday, and I can’t really justify going to bed now, even though, as I type this, my eyes will barely focus.

So you’ll have to forgive me for the utter lack of photos and grammar in this post. Like I said, I’m tired. We haven’t been home in a week, and the house looks just as we left it. The over-ripe pears I forgot on the counter are a little closer to becoming sentient, but that’s about it. We’ve been traveling to the point that I begin to forget what it’s like to be home – everything around me looks vaguely familiar, but before I get too comfortable, we’ll be off again.

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Valentine’s Day is approaching, so I figured I’d take a moment to acknowledge some of the people in my life who I love.

Because even though she’s occasionally certifiable, I love my mom.

I like this photo of her, but she'd probably hate it. Good thing she doesn't know about my blog.

And since I alluded to it in an earlier post, I think I should tell you about the time she yelled at Rick Steves. (more…)

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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Dear Friends,

As Valentine’s Day approaches, I am filled with the spirit of the holiday, as well as roughly 2 pounds of those chalky little conversations hearts. Consequently, I feel the need to share with you a secret: maybe I don’t hate Rick Steves all that much. In fact, maybe I love him just a little bit, and my feigned hatred just masks my true feelings. Because Rick Steves and I have so darn much in common. Behold, the top ten reasons why Rick Steves and I are soulmates: (more…)

The other day, Rand and I were talking about our upcoming trip to Scotland, and we had the following exchange:

Rand: What do you want to do in Glasgow?

Me: Catch a leprechaun.

Rand: (sighs heavily) Honey …

Me: What?

Rand: Where are leprechauns from?

Me: … it’s funny that you decided to go with the “Leprechauns are from Ireland, not Scotland” argument, instead of the more obvious, “THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS LEPRECHAUNS.”

Rand: With you, I’ve learned to pick my battles.

Me: That’s probably for the best.

(Note: I had hoped to have a more robust post up today, but the one I’m working on is killing me, so this is all you get, while I continue to pull my hair out, trying to keep Northern Ireland and The Republic of Ireland straight. And yes, they are very, very different).

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 ... 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…)