Trail of Crumbs

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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.

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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.

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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.

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The place was literally falling apart. Whatever. NBD.

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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.

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

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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.

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

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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”?

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THERE IS A GREMLIN ON THE WING. No, I kid. It’s just a Celica.

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Dear Alaska Airlines,

Hi! It’s me, Geraldine. You might remember me from such notable trips as AA Flight #476, Seattle to L.A. (the one that was so bumpy, NO SNACKS WERE HANDED OUT, which turned out to be not that big a deal because I spent the evening throwing up, anyway) or last month’s AA Flight #12, Seattle to Boston, during which I could not stop farting (a.k.a., Stinks on a Plane) and also, I lost my camera.

Let me know if that thing turns up, okay? There are some photos on there that I want. In particular, several snapshots of a collage I made of Elvis Presley being eaten by a robotic T-Rex wearing a bow-tie. I used my copy of Alaska Airlines Magazine to create the masterpiece. After all, you said it was mine to keep (also, your editorial staff keeps ignoring my article pitches on how to conceal your farts on cross-country flights. Granted, I am clearly unqualified to speak on that topic.)

I have utterly lost my train of thought.

No, wait, I got it!

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Why does no one ever mistakenly deliver cupcakes to my house?

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I get email. Lots of it. Sometimes, it’s not even meant for me. (A phenomenon that I can’t quite fathom. When people don’t have someone’s email address, do they just guess, and follow it with “@gmail.com”? Do they deduce phone numbers by punching a random series of numbers? Instead of asking where their friends live, do they drive around neighborhoods and knock on door after door? Because otherwise I DON’T UNDERSTAND.)

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From our eventful and nail-biting last road trip, in Ireland.

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Rand and I are currently in Boston; in a few days, we’ll be driving up to New Hampshire for a conference; a few of his colleagues will be making journey with us.

That’s right: we’re going on a road trip. WITH PEOPLE WE LIKE AND CONSIDER FRIENDS.

Oh, dear.

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