Trail of Crumbs

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Later, when we talked about that dinner, we spoke with reverence of many things. The sky. The lanterns. The food.


But none of these could hold a candle to the bathroom.

We could not stop praising that tremendous toilet. That remarkable restroom. That lavish lavatory. That wondrous … wiz palace? (Sorry.)

Which is not to say that the rest of the evening wasn’t incredible – it was. But I’ve been to nice restaurants. I’ve seen amazing things.

But I have never peed in a nicer toilet.


At some point, all of the cities on the Amalfi coast started to blur, so I hope you’ll forgive me if I resort to describing all of them as “lovely” and “charming” and “like a tower of colorful stone blocks precariously piled one atop the other.”

Positano. But it could be anywhere on the coast.


But, see, they all were.


I have so much to tell you.

I don’t know where to begin. I’m finally home (for more than just a few hours!) for the first time in three weeks. In less than two, I’ll be in Cambodia.

My blog posts are still stuck in Italy, aren’t they? And yet, since then, we’ve been to:

  • Ft. Lauderdale
  • Whidbey Island
  • San Diego
  • Boston
  • Minneapolis
  • Port Chester
  • Flemington
  • Philadelphia
  • Seattle
  • San Diego
  • San Diego
  • San Diego
  • (sigh)
  • San Diego


I am at it again. Spending way too much time replying to spammy requests for guests posts or ads. Apparently I haven’t made it clear enough here or here.


This time, I’ve started including photos and graphics in my replies, which I think is a nice touch. It really tells these people who haven’t bothered to read a single word on my site that I care. Because anyone can tell them to fuck off. But me? I take that extra step to confuse them.

While I was answering these emails, my husband’s reaction was as follows:

“Baby … what?”

“I don’t know if this is the best way to spend an afternoon.”

“Shouldn’t you be working on your book?”

“Is that my shirt?”

And the answer to all of these questions is a resounding “MAYBE.”

Here’s the third installment of this series. Earlier blog posts can be found here and here.


After the delightful success of my email conversations with Ted (spoiler: we’re now totally besties, and talking about gelato), and all the fun I had last time I replied to PR pitches and the like, I decided to respond to a few more emails that I probably shouldn’t have.

I’m starting to think I have too much time on my hands.


These are actual emails (or portions thereof) that I have received, with my replies listed beneath them (yes, these were emails I really sent.) No one has written back, except for the last guy, and I’m guessing he wishes he hadn’t.


The place was literally falling apart. Whatever. NBD.


Dear Vacation Palm Springs,

Hi guys!

I wanted to send you a letter just between us, you know? But since you aren’t answering any of our emails, and it’s pretty obvious you aren’t going to reimburse us for the money we sent you, I figured I’d just drag all our dirty laundry into the middle of the street and air it out here.

It smells a little like sewage, but I’ll get to that in a moment.


Rand, sniffing my coat. Though to be fair, it kinda looks like he’s licking it. Which is gross.


I had hoped that I would be able to get my post about our visit to the townships of Cape Town up before we left for Australia, but that didn’t pan out. I was rushed for time, and found that I just couldn’t give the tour the attention that it deserved. Rather than draft a post that didn’t do the experience justice, I figured I’d wait until I got home.

Also, between researching the history of Apartheid in South Africa, and Wednesday’s post about the epidemic of rape that’s currently plaguing the country, I needed to switch gears. To talk about something lighthearted, if only for a little bit.

So I want to tell you about how I freaked out and was convinced that I sat in pee last week in a Dublin cab.



OMG. This is EXACTLY what Christmas morning looks like at our house.


Apparently a lot of folks are currently outraged at Urban Outfitters for their most recent catalog, which is full of expletive-filled products. The hub-bub seems a bit unfounded. Let’s be fair – how can one celebrate the birth of Christ without a giant banner that reads “Merry Christmas Bitches”?