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.

Which means, of course, that I was in Ireland last week. And that our travel schedule is now officially reaching crazy-pants territory (no, I’m not complaining. Shut up, I’m totally not).

So last week (at least, last week at the time I wrote this), we were in Dublin for a day, and London for four or five.

Rand had recently finished this book by one of his investors, Brad, and Brad’s wife Amy (you may remember them as the folks who decorate their guest bed whenever we come visit). It talks about what it’s like to be in a relationship with someone who is running their own startup – the difficulties that emerge from it, the conflicts, and ultimately, how to make it work. Rand even wrote a small contribution for it that appears in an earlier chapter.

Brad and Amy note that during every international trip, each person in the relationship is allowed one major and one minor meltdown (or, if major meltdowns are not your thing, two minor meltdowns can replace it). In Dublin, I used up one of my meltdowns. I labeled it as a major, but Rand claimed it was minor, because he’s a mensch like that.

Either way, it was ridiculous.

Dublin and London were scheduled to be cold, so I lugged my parka with me on the trip. It isn’t the prettiest of coats, but it fits over my hips (nothing short of miraculous, if you’ve seen my waist-to-hip ratio, which is evidence that God isn’t subtle. Also, he has a weird sense of humor), and it has a hood, and it’s grey, which I find to be a good neutral and excellent camouflage if you want to blend into a Pacific Northwest sky.

While he is usually swamped, Rand actually had a bit of free time on this trip, so we walked around downtown Dublin together. We popped into a few museums, grabbed lunch, dipped our heads into some shops, and then decided to take a cab back to our hotel on the other side of town.

That’s when things went awry. I realize the infinite number of events that had to happen for us to catch the cab that we did. An extra minute spent at this museum, a bit more time lost to the bathroom. Had we skipped the gift shop, or spent more time in it, or decided to get dessert (let this be a lesson to you: always get dessert) – any of these things would have led to a different cab. But no. We got into the cab that we got into.

I maintain that it was a toilet on wheels.

I did not notice any of the signs: the cabbie’s windows were open even though the day was cold, and there were an unreasonable number of air fresheners hanging from the rearview mirror.

But I’m not in the habit of (prior to climbing in a cab) checking to see if the seat is wet or anything like that. I just assume that’s dry and relatively clean AND NOT SOAKED IN AN UNIDENTIFIED SUBSTANCE. So I climbed in (still wearing my parka) and sat, thinking about how lovely the day had been, even though it was ridiculously chilly. And goodness, did it get even chillier now that I was sitting in the cab? Yes, it certainly seemed to. The cold felt like it was seeping through my clothes and into my bones.

We arrived at our hotel, and Rand generously tipped the cabbie, because we’ve decided that if Americans are going to be known for something in Europe, damn it, it’s going to be that we’re good tippers.

We walked through the hotel lobby to the elevators. That’s when I noticed something was wrong.

The cold that I had felt in the cab hadn’t dissipated. I felt downright damp and chilly. I pulled up the hem of my parka, and felt my jeans. The back pockets were wet.

“Babe,” I said, unable to quite wrap my head around what was going on, “I think my jeans are wet.”

Rand soon realized that this was not a veiled come on. I insisted he feel the seat of my jeans. That, also, was not a veiled come on.

“Huh,” he said. “Yeah, they’re kind of damp.”

I tore off my coat, and began examining the back of it. Sure enough, there were darker streaks where the fabric had been saturated.

Now, a reasonable person might, when faced with a situation like this, look at all the evidence in front of them and draw a conclusion. For example, if it’s pissing rain out, and you later sit in something wet in a cab, you could safely assume that it was rainwater. Or if there was an empty Sprite can on the floor of the car, you’d conclude that it was soda on the seat.

But I’m not a reasonable person. NO. I’m a germaphobe. That means that my thought process was something like this:

Also, if I step in anything, ever, it’s poop. It’s always poop.

-

I immediately started to panic.

“I just sat in pee,” I said, starting to shake.

“You did not sit in pee,” Rand said, already knowing that trying to reason with me at this point was futile.

“I did. I just sat in pee and the cabbie didn’t tell us and we fucking tipped him for it.”

“Babe, please -”

“I need to change my clothes. And I need to burn this coat. Shit. I didn’t bring another coat. I’m just going to have to freeze for the rest of the trip.”

“Honey, please, please don’t be crazy about this, okay?”

“That’s really easy for you to say, isn’t it, Rand? YOU DIDN’T SIT IN PEE.”

“NEITHER DID YOU.”

“THEN WHY IS MY COAT WET?”

“It’s Dublin. The entire town is damp. Someone got caught in the rain, or spilled something.”

This answer, obviously, did not suffice. The day was sunny. There was no rain, except for the golden showers that I now imagined had saturated my coat. When we got to our room, I stewed and steamed for a while. Rand acted like he was locked in with a caged tiger. He eyed me warily, and every time I made a movement, he jumped out of the way.

“Why are you doing that?” I asked. I was now both crazed and tearful. Whatever answer he gave, it would be wrong.

“Um, I’m really freaked out about upsetting you more right now,” he replied. This, of course, was the wrong answer.

“You think I’m overreacting,” I snapped.

“Well, yeah -”

“You think I’m behaving like a crazy person.”

“Um …”

“God, you don’t even want to be around me right now, do you? Because I’m crazy and covered in pee. FINE. FINE. I’ll just go sit in the bathroom so you don’t have to be around me anymore.”

I marched over to the bathroom and slammed the door.

“THERE,” I yelled. “NOW YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE TO LOOK AT ME.”

“You know,” Rand said, his voicing finally betraying a bit of impatience, “I wasn’t the one who peed on your coat.”

“I DON’T KNOW THAT FOR SURE,” I yelled back. And even before the last word had left my mouth, I started giggling. And I could hear him laughing just outside the bathroom.

I waited a beat, opened the door, and he was standing there. I rammed my face against his chest.

“Dime sowwy,” I breathed, my voice muffled by his shirt.

“It’s okay,” he said. And then he told me about Brad and Amy’s meltdown rule. Everything that had happened was allowable, and forgivable.

“Anyway,” Rand continued, “We need to go – we have to get to dinner.”

I nodded.

“I’ll get your pee coat,” Rand said.

And once more, I laughed.

As for the coat, it’s now sitting in a bag at the bottom of my closet back home. After I had numerous parties sniff it (all of whom maintained that it did not smell like pee and that it was, in fact, probably water or some other innocuous clear liquid), I decided to quarantine it until I could clean it.

Or burn it. Whatever.

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”?

This season, they seem to be offering a wide array of “edgy” products that have people up in arms. Like these photo albums:

“I’m totally buying this for my in-laws!” – no one

-

You know what? A “BYOB” can full of gummi bears is actually a brilliant idea. I should keep several in my car in case of emergencies.

-

Or this festive little candle, which I’m sure would look great in your stepmother’s guest bathroom:

-

And what holiday season would be complete without a glass featuring Santa that reads, “Merry Christmas, Bitches”? (Seriously, I’m sensing a theme, here.)

I’m gonna get this for all the Jews in my life!

-

This stuff doesn’t really bother me. On a good day, I swear like a sailor. On a bad day, I could make Samuel L. Jackson blush.

Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m happy with Urban Outfitters – I’m fed up, though for entirely different reasons. Over the last decade, the store went from being one I adored (but could not afford in the starving years of my early 20s) to one that I am distinctly too old for. It is a indication of the relentless passing of time, much like when I realized the Olson Twins had gotten boobies.

Needless to say, I am suitably horrified.

Last time I visited Urban Outfitters (or “UO”, as I presume the kids would say, since they seem to hate spelling things out. AMIRITE?), the manager, who was easily a decade my junior, asked me if I was looking for a gift for someone. The unspoken message was that I was way, waaaay too old to be buying stuff for myself.

I mumbled something about how I had wandered away during our senior home outing, and proceeded to admire what I thought was a belt. It turned out to be a mini-skirt.

(Also, when did midriffs come back in? I thought, like the Leprechaun canon, we said goodbye to those horrors in the mid-nineties.)

Aghast, I retreated towards the door, mumbling something about how I needed to be home before Jeopardy!

I’ve pretty much stopped shopping at UO altogether, except to purchase the occasional “granny-style sweater” (worn unironically!), but I do still receive their catalog. It makes me feel positively ancient.

The worst part of it – more so than the clothing – is the scenarios that play out therein, the Lord-of-the-Flies-like vignettes that make me want to scream, “NO, CHILDREN, NO.”

Dear god, I am old. And so keep that in mind: this post contains the ramblings of an old person. If you don’t like it, simply smile and nod, and get me a glass of hot tea. The way you would when your grandmother starts yelling at TV commercials.

This is how the catalog begins: with the image of a young woman, sitting atop a phone booth in the middle of the woods.

-

Let’s ignore the obvious hair-pulling observations that one could make about this scene (“Why is there a phone booth in the woods?” “If she’s cold enough to wear a hat and gloves, WHY IS HER SHIRT SLEEVELESS?”) and instead focus on what she’s doing: she’s making a phone call on her cell. While sitting a top a phonebooth. And if you look closely, she’s apparently plugged an old-fashioned telephone receiver into her cell phone.

That is now a thing, in case you were wondering.

The phone is yellow leopard print because … because … THERE IS NO REASON.

-

Dear god, we’ve just started, and I already need to lie down.

Let’s move on … to a bunch of young people delightfully hurling presents into the water.

“ZOMG! Bourgeoisie excess is SO much fun!”

 -

Everyone knows that kids imitate stuff they see on TV, movies, and in trendy catalogs. Our rivers are now going to be FLOODED with unopened Christmas gifts, and we’re going to have indigenous wildlife choking on ribbon and lace panties.

That is no way to die. (Unless maybe you are Keith Richards.)

Seriously, who is taking care of these kids? They’re clearly neglected. In this scene, these little urchins are so hungry, so lacking in social graces, that they’ve taken to eating turkey right off the carcass.

I actually can’t judge them too harshly for this, as it’s my preferred method for eating cake.

-

I suppose it’s just good to see them eating. But honestly, what if they had to have dinner with the Queen, or someone equally fancy, like Martha Stewart or Mr. Belvedere?

I’m sincerely worried about these kids. They seem to be out in the woods, but I’m not sure they have the skills to survive out there. Take this poor girl at the top of this snuggly scene, who appears to be freezing:

-

Did no one teach her about pants? I can almost guarantee they warm you up more than no pants.

And when, pray tell, did it become acceptable to stop matching our socks together? Do you know what my parole officer would say if she saw me running around like this?

AND AGAIN WITH THE NO PANTS.

-

(Note: At this point, I just started screaming directly at people in the catalog. Because clearly their mothers aren’t around to do it.)

Just what the hell were you thinking, missy? WE HAVE FAMILY PHOTOS IN TWENTY MINUTES. Also, you’d better not get glitter marker on the couch because you know how your father feels about glitter. Also, HIS NAME IS DAD AND NOT “ROBERT”. CUT THAT FIRST NAME CRAP OUT.

On an entirely unrelated note, your cardigan is cute.

-

While I appreciate the handiwork that went into it, this is NOT how we use frosting, young lady. We PUT THAT ON CAKES, which we then eat in a completely non-sexy way, while wearing pajamas that are oversized and equally non-sexy.

And I feel like a broken record here, but PANTS. IT IS DECEMBER. PUT THEM ON.

 -

NO NO NO YOU AREN’T EVEN ACTUALLY KISSING EACH OTHER. You are just mashing your faces together in an attempt to look cute. Which is arguably working quite well, but STILL.

Fine. This is pretty damn adorable. What product are they selling again?

-

Sigh. All this CapsLock yelling is exhausting. Can we see something a little less shout-inducing?

Aww, you look upset. Did someone take your bike? Huh, little guy?

-

Okay, you know what? This young man is adorable. He almost makes me forget my rage. Seriously, doll-face, call me in 20 years when you are old enough to grow some chest hair, okay?

Wait. Wait. WAIT. There’s something by your ear. What is that?

-

I just need a closer look. That can’t be what I think it is.

-

OH, DEAR GOD IS THAT A MULLET? ARE MULLETS BACK?

See? This is the stuff that should be worry us about the Urban Outfitters catalog. Cussing I have no problem with (here’s proof: Crap. Piss. Wiener. Hee.)

But if the children are our future, and they can’t be persuaded to put on trousers (or, hell, LEGGINGS. I will settle for leggings as pants at this point), and they keep running around in mismatched socks while throwing things into rivers and kissing mulleted boys and …

-

Sigh. Whatever. I guess the future is screwed. I need a drink.

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

-

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!

I wanted to say thank you. And also, to tell you guys to stop wasting the nice seats on me.

Here’s the deal. On my last flight, I was given seat 17A, the window seat in an exit row. My beloved was sitting across the aisle in 17Q or something like that (the alphabet has never been my strong suit).

As far as riding in coach goes (because let’s face it: people like me do not get upgraded. We embarrass the patricians), my seat was pretty swank. It’s got lots of legroom.

-

I mean, lots of legroom. The seat directly in front of 17A is missing, either intentionally, or as a result of an incident with the Hulk, or maybe the architect was just drunk. That happens sometimes, you know? How else can you explain Antonio Gaudi?

Structure on the top of one of Gaudi’s buildings in Barcelona. Out of context, it looks a wee bit naughty, no?

-

While this seat is highly desirable, it was utterly wasted on me. I’m 5’2″, which isn’t very tall to begin with, but on top of that, I have “disproportionately short legs.” That’s an actual quote from the woman who taught that spin class I went to once and only once (I was emotionally scarred. Also? Spinning is awful. It’s like torture, except that no matter how many secrets you spill, it won’t stop. After I screamed my social security and pin numbers for the fifth time, I was asked to leave).

I don’t even use the 3/4 of an inch of legroom that regular airplane seats have. Even after I shove my bag underneath the seat in front of me (nobody does that, by the way. I’ve been watching), I still have gobs of room. Sometimes, my feet don’t touch the floor. They just dangle, much the way a child’s would.

If it sounds like I’m bragging, it’s because I am, just a weensy bit. It’s not often that a girl with “disproportionately short legs” (seriously, I should get that trademarked) has a leg up on everyone else, you know?

Also, did you notice that pun I just made? Go back and read it again, if you missed it. It’s very clever.

So what did I do with all the space I had on my last flight? I tried slumping down in my seat and extending my legs as far as they would go, just so I could say that I tried to appreciate the gift given to me, but people started staring and pointing.

“What the hell is the girl in 17 A doing?” someone asked.

“I don’t know,” someone else replied. “I think she’s drunk. And she may have designed the plane.”

Also, my extra legroom meant that my bag was waaaay up ahead of me, making it very difficult to reach the cookie I had in there. I finally got to it after we landed, but by then Rand had seen it and I had to share with him.

Stupid matrimony.

I would have much rather had the aisle seat, since I have a weensy bladder and need to get up often, but the guy sitting there thought I was kidding when I said I had too much legroom, and LAUGHED OFF MY REQUEST TO SWAP SEATS.

So I sat there, with my gobs of unused legroom and my full bladder, and tried to think of other things, but then I started obsessively dwelling on the fact that I was in a exit row.

Officially, let me state that I don’t have a problem with sitting in that row (I have clicked many a button confirming this fact while checking in online). You can be damn sure that the second anything goes wrong on a plane, I will be out of my seat and ready to use my pillow as a flotation device. Sometimes I bring my regular pillows into the shower, just to practice.

It’s just that I’m not sure I should be the first person with access to the door in case of an emergency, you know? I’m worried I might jump the gun and try cranking open that sucker in the event of something minor, like when someone gets a paper cut on their copy of US Weekly, or when the beverage cart runs out of Bloody Mary mix.

Plus, I’ve heard that the door weighs 50 pounds. Occasionally, I’ve tried lifting 50 pounds at the gym, and I can definitely do it, but damn – that’s a lot of weight, you know? Sometimes when I’m working out, I have to inspire myself, so I start screaming stuff like, “Don’t worry, fellow passengers, I WILL SAVE YOU ALL,” while bench-pressing.

That gets me almost as many weird looks as the seat slumping I mentioned earlier.

Anywho, please give some thought to the points I made in this letter. I can’t really remember what they were, but it was probably something important.

Sincerely,

Geraldine

P.S. – Please consider handing out more of those Biscoff cookies. Those damn things are delicious.

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

-

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.)

Once, someone mistakenly sent me the vacation photos of a bunch of English octogenarians. That was rather delightful. May we all be as spry and limber and able to frolic in the Mediterranean when we reach that age.

A large percentage of the emails I get are press releases. I know I shouldn’t waste time on those, but I occasionally do. Other times, a spam email or three will creep in. I really should ignore those, too.

But sometimes I can’t help myself. I feel some weird need to set these people straight. Even though I’m certainly not the best person to do it.

It’s like the time I rolled down my window to yell at a woman who was stealing someone else’s parking spot (No, it wasn’t my spot. BUT SHE WAS WRONG). Rand stared at me as though I was the unreasonable one.

“Geraldine,” he said, placing his hand on mine, “No. NO. NO. That is a bad idea.”

So is wasting time answering these emails. But I do anyway. Because of justice. Or something.

—————

Hey, Geraldine,

Did you know the Sunday after Thanksgiving is the busiest travel day of the year? In fact, more than 24 million people are expected to travel this Thanksgiving.

-

Kim -

I did not know that the Sunday after Turkey Day is the busiest travel day of the year! Probably because I’m often still drunk on Sunday. DRUNK ON PIE.

Damn it. Now I really WANT pie.

-

—————

Hi Geraldine,

My name is Zelda, and I write for redacted. After publishing our most recent post “7 Bands You Didn’t Know Were Christian”, I thought of you and your readers because it tackles the same kind of issues you often discuss on your blog. If you’d like to share it on your site, we’d love to keep the discussion going.

-

Hi Zelda,

I am trying to figure out when I tackled “the same kinds of issues” on my blog. Does this have something to do with the fact that I’m in love with a Jew?

I like him so much, I mash my face into his.

-

Anyway, I’d don’t think we’d be the right venue to post your article about Christian bands. My husband and I don’t believe in bands.

—————

Was so good talking with you the other day hon, just sorry you weren’t feelin so well. Did I tell you I got a 2 month old shorthair calico kitty from the humane society? I’m trying to come up with an appropriate name.  Any suggestions?

Love,

Bevy

-

(Note from Geraldine: I HAVE NO EARTHLY CLUE WHO THIS PERSON IS.)

Hi Bev!

I like Mr. Woogums as a name. It’s what we called my great uncle. That’s not bad luck, right? I mean, it’s not like a cat can die of emphysema.

—————

Hello!

We are a huge supporter of your blog and we would love to be apart of it as a sponsor or under the section “Sites we love.” Please consider us as a sponsor as we love participating in all things mom oriented! 

Jessie

-

Wait, my blog is mom-oriented? And I have a section titled “Sites we love”?

AND I’M SUDDENLY A “WE” NOW?

I’m freaking out. FREAKING OUT, JESSIE. Like, “The call is coming from inside the house” FREAKING OUT.

—————

Hello dear blog owner, 

My name is Nina, i am the community manager of redacted. We have tried to contact you for the past couple of days. We currently are offering a paid video placement that will suit your audience and blog. You will be pay for the placement of the video. The video can could remain for as long as you want, minimum 10 hrs.

-

Dear Nina,

Hi Nina!I charge $200,000.00 (U.S.) for video placement. I would like to be paid in nickels.

Also, can this be the video that you use? That is the one that best suits my audience and blog.

Thank you,
Geraldine

—————

After I replied to Nina’s email (which really confused her), I got ANOTHER one from the same company. This time from a guy named Chris. It was equally delightful …

Hello again,

My name is Chris Nutt.

Really? Nutt? That’s kind of unfortunate.

I am e-mailing you again because I did not receive a reply to previous mails.

Seems like that should have been a red flag, Chris. Or can I call you Mr. Nutt?

DO NOT MISS THIS OPPORTUNITY!!

GAH! STOP YELLING AT ME.

We pay publishers to post branded videos.  If you join our network, you’ll be able to participate in campaigns that suit you the best.  You are not obligated to do anything and you can handpick the video campaigns that you like the best.

I tried that, Chris. But I got vetoed by Nina over there. Y’all seem to have something against the keyboard cat. Fascists.

—————

Aaand that’s it for today, because Rand has requested I stop screaming at the computer. Which apparently I do sometimes.

P.S. – To Deenie in Brooklyn: Erik from the frame shop says your artwork is ready to be picked up. Also, he has the wrong email address for you.

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

-
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.

Forget all those trust-building exercises where you have to assemble a puzzle together, or fall into one another’s arms with your eyes closed, or break into an paramilitary complex, undetected, in order to erase any evidence of your existence (that last one is a thing, right? I’ve been unemployed for a long time). I cannot imagine a more rigorous test of any professional or personal relationship than being stuck in a car together, with only the fickle bastard that is Google Maps to guide you.

Think of how much you learn about one another as you struggle to …

• navigate roads that should have been decommisioned in the 70s!
• choose a snack at the gas station that isn’t produced by a company primarily specializing in petroleum products.
• find a radio station that doesn’t describe itself as “playing the hits of yesterday, today, and tomorrow.” (Parenthetically, when did those weird moan-yodel noises that all the pop stars make become substitutions for actual singing? Also, music is too loud, my hip hurts, and the kids need to get OFF MY DAMN LAWN. #oldpersonrant)

It is not a situation to be taken lightly.

Now go fetch me some Halvoline cupcakes. Like mom used to not make.

-
And so, to ensure that Rand and I do not traumatize his colleagues, and due to the “success” of my 10 Commandments of Air Travel (hate mail counts as success, right?), I’ve decided to issue another ten commandments – this time about riding in cars.

These aren’t rules for driving, per se (because there are a a hell of a lot more than ten of those), but guidelines for when you decide to pile into a vehicle alongside people with whom you’d like to remain on speaking terms long after you reach your destination.

1. Thou canst not call “shotgun” unless thou can actually see the vehicle. Also, no calling shotgun for future trips, because that sort of shit is bound to get people really angry (and rightfully so, because thou is being a dick).
   -
2. Regardless of whether or not thou hast called shotgun, thou shalt let the tallest/largest passenger ride in the front seat when thy vehicle is full. The tallest/largest passenger should initially decline this offer, but thou shalt continue pressing the issue until they take the damn front seat.
   -
   (If thou is not the tallest occupant of the vehicle, thou may still request to sit in the front seat on grounds of motion sickness. However, thou hast better have some serious evidence to back that claim up. Either that, or thou should just take thine own car.)
   -
3. When thou is a passenger, thou shalt pitch in gas money for all trips over 15 miles, unless thou is doing someone a favor by going to the destination with them (then thine friend should probably offer you lunch or something). This situation does not hold true for professional trips, when the most senior individual should be responsible for covering the bill and enduring the dreaded expense report that ensueth.
   -
4. With regards to flatulence, thou shalt “hold it in” for as long as possible (for though physical discomfort may fall upon thee, no real harm to thy person should occur) and wait for the opportunity to unleash thy foulness outside of the vehicle.
   -
   If such an opportunity does not present itself, thou shalt roll down the windows ahead of time before passing gas inside thy vehicle. Thou is not exempt from this rule, even if it is thine own car.
   
   –
5. Thou shalt defer to the driver’s choice of music. If the driver’s taste is really terrible, thou must suck it up, except for trips lasting longer than 20 minutes, at which point thou and thine driver may take turns controlling the stereo.
   -
   The content of mixed CDs shall not be considered grounds for ridicule, because we all went through the stage where we thought that “Breakfast at Tiffany’s“ song was catchy. (Don’t lie. Thou didst, too.)
   -
6. Unless it interferes with thou’s legroom, thou shalt not critique the cleanliness of thy friend’s car. Nor shouldst thou mention that weird smell.
   -
7. When the car is full, that person bearing the shortest legs shouldst offer to sit in the accursed middle back seat. After they have done so voluntarily, their position must then be referred to as “sitting awesome” instead of “sitting bitch.”
   -
8. Thou shalt take any opportunity to use the restroom, even if thou doesn’t really have to go, in order to reduce the chances of needing to stop in the future.
   -
   If thou feels thine bladder or bowels reaching fullness, thou should make it clear that a bathroom will be needed soon, so that thine driver has time to find a convenient place to stop.
   

   Otherwise you might be forced to pee out the window. While zooming across a bridge.

   -

9. If thou is deemed navigator, thou shalt give directions in a clear and timely manner, providing the driver with more than 15 seconds to move three lanes to thine right. Those who point vaguely while repeating, in escalating urgency, “Go there … There! No, THERE.” willst be flogged.
   

   The phone CANNOT teach you how to drive.

   –

10. If thou ist driving, thou shalt defer to the opinions of those forsaken souls in the backseat when determining vehicle climate controls. Those who are doomed to spend an eternity (or, you know, 20 minutes, but it feels like forever) burning in the hell of the backseat should be allowed full control over the A/C.

-

And, and one last thing you should take into account before venturing out on a long trip. It’s less of a commandment, and more just good, common sense (Rand, you listening?):

Thou should never, under any circumstances, think that watching YouTube videos are enough to teach thou how to drive stick-shift. Especially not in Ireland.

I’ve adhered to many of these rules for a while now, and I figured they were common knowledge. But the more I travel, the more I realize that they most certainly aren’t. So please forgive the obviousness of some of these edicts, but they must be stated. And with that, I give you the Ten Commandments of Air Travel:

1. Thou shalt do all thou can to hold in thou’s farts. If thou really can’t contain thine own flatulence, thou canst either get up and release it in the bathroom, or at the very least turn on thy little overhead fan thingy.
   -
2. When other people are trying to sleep, and thou has a window seat, thy little plastic curtain shalt be lowered so that the blinding light of the sun does not shine directly in the faces of other passengers.
   

   Thou should not do as this man hath done.

   -

3. Thou should store only one bag directly above in the overhead compartment, and the other bag should be placed underneath the seat in front of thou. I’m sorry if that gets in the way of thine legroom, but those are the rules. Thou should have thought about that before lugging all of thine crap onto the plane as carry-on luggage.
   -
4. Thou shalt be forgiving and patient with crying babies, for they are in pain and in need of sympathy. (Thou can totally feel free to get angry at any of the following: bratty children who art old enough to know better, drunken frat boys, and anyone who speaketh so loudly, they can be heard from more than three rows away).
   -
5. Thou shalt not bring really stinky food onto the plane, if thou can help it. I understand that thou is hungry, but that stuff is going to stink up the cabin for the next three hours. Seriously. I don’t know how thou can eat that stuff.
   

   Thy food is odoriferous.

   -

6. Flight attendants are not thine own personal slaves. They should be treated with respect and kindness because they work really damn hard and don’t need thou giving them a hard time or hitting on them.
   -
7. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s arm rest. Unless, of course, thou is seated in the unholy and accursed middle seat, at which point thou gets to use both armrests, because that’s only fair.
   

   Also, thou should keep thy unkempt toes to thyself.

   -

8. If thou hast an aisle seat, thou shalt get up without complaint when others in thine row need to pee.
   -
9. Thou should really be able to lift thine carry-on into the overhead compartment by thyself. If thou really needs help with that sort of thing, perhaps thou should have packed more lightly.
   -
10. Thou shalt not kill.

-

Fortunately, I have a constant influx of press releases sent to my inbox against my will, the contents of which consistently reassure me: I have missed nothing. Nothing but hyperbole and useless gadgets and the opening of exhibits I will never see; I am repeatedly told which destination is the new summer hot spot, to the extent that surely, as a race, we are running out of locations. Soon we’ll be told that we need to spend our summers on a remote island off the coast of Madagascar that doesn’t appear on any known maps, or on the back porch of Lake Placid resident Murray Skolnitck’s home, for these are the only two places that have not yet been covered extensively by every major travel publication out there.

For the record, I’d take Murray’s place. But I happen to find Lake Placid totally delightful.

Having been pushed to my limits by this endless stream of PR pitches (some of whom – shudder – actually used the word “staycation”), I have decided to respond to several of them today. I’ve only posted the first line of their emails, because that’s all I can read before I start screaming at my monitor, begging it to reveal how these monsters of publicity found me in the first place.

—————

PR Agency: With summer just around the corner I thought you would have interest in this new trend in teen travel.

Me: Is the trend “giving blow jobs to strangers”? Because let me tell you, that has been around for decades.

—————

PR Agency: How are you? Below are the least expensive hotel rates in 10 of the world’s top cities by redacted (a site that features properties that average 40 percent less than typical nightly rates in cities worldwide).

Me: Who are you kidding, Julie? You don’t give a damn how I am.

—————

-

The buildings ... they're so FLAT-FRONTED.

-

PR Agency: The flat-fronted buildings in the Grunerlokka District of Oslo, where the actor Anders Danielsen Lie and the model Iselin Steiro live, are crisp, stately and designed for sunlight.

Me: Dude, seriously? Pretty sure you’re just making up fake Scandanavian words. In fact, I rearranged the letters in “Grunerlokka” and was able to spell, “AKK, LOG!  RUN! … er …” Coincidence? I DOUBT IT.

—————

With summer vacation season almost upon us, now is a good time to remind your readers that crime never takes a vacation and in fact, crime increases between six and sixteen percent during the summer months.

“It’s true,” admitted Crime sadly. “I never take a vacation. People think my life is so easy. That’s it’s just a non-stop, drug-addled whorefest. But you know what? I AM EXHAUSTED. Just once I’d like to take a flight without concealing a condom full of cocaine in my rectum. I’d like to buy my kids clothing that isn’t poorly counterfeited (“NIKEY?” WTF, China.) But there’s never a day off for me. I mean, that meth isn’t going to cook ITSELF, people.”

—————

Hope you enjoyed your weekend!

Pretending you care is only making this situation worse.

—————

Happy Friday! On the move to a sun and sand filled destination this Memorial Day?

Yes. If by “sun and sand filled” you mean “rain- and ennui-filled.”

-

—————

Whether you’re traveling out of town or opting for a local staycation -

DELETE.

—————

My name is Sarah  from redacted, and I noticed from your blog that you’re a big fan of world travel.

Pretty astute there, Sarah. Try not to get eaten by wolves, okay?

—————

I would like to know if you would try our product for free, and write an article about it afterward.

That doesn’t sound like free, Josh. That sounds like some sort mafia-type deal where I get my legs broke if I don’t claim your product gives me a girl boner.

—————

Redacted is giving consumers insight into their own vacation behaviors and those of their fellow global travelers via its new “How the World Vacations” infographic.-

Cool. I made my own inforgraphic:

—————

It felt like it’d never come, but summer is finally here.

Where do you live, Lauren? Because in my world, summer is not here. Not technically, and certainly not metaphorically. You know what’s here? Fall, maybe. Or perhaps a really miserable beginning to spring. Or a new season that exists only in the Northwest, which is the meteorological equivalent of stepping in a patch of wet carpet with your socks on. I call this new season “sponge.” IT LASTS FOR 11 AND A HALF MONTHS.

—————

Imagine it – the scent of fresh lemons and the aroma from freshly chopped herbs circle through the kitchen.

Awww, that sounds really nice. Especially since I forgot to empty out the trash before I left for the weekend, and my kitchen now smells like a mixture of failure and a scent I have dubbed “zombie orgy.”

—————

I write to ask you to help in a creative effort by my office to educate consumers about the pitfalls of internet scams.

That sounds great, Barbara! Send me your SS#, your date of birth, and your mother’s maiden name, and we’ll keep in touch.

—————

She has been beheaded twice, lost an arm, and been daubed with paint at least seven times.

I give up. Courtney Love?

—————

The ultimate competition is about to begin…and it’s NOT the Olympics…-

Fact: THIS PRESS RELEASE IS FOR A TV SHOW ABOUT SANDWICHES.

Take THAT, Michael Phelps.

-

—————

We are a professional manufacturer which researches and produces CNC Lathe, Vertical Lathe, Gear Hobbing Machine, Boring & Milling Machine, Conventional Lathe, and Machine Center and so on.

Holy crap. This may be the greatest press release I’ve ever read.

Our company has awarded certificates of “ISO9001:2000″ quality system and CE and so on … Our products sell well in Asia, Africa, America, Middle East, Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia, such as: Iran, India, Canada and some other countries.

Wait, not the certificate  of ”ISO9001:2000″ quality system? OH. MY. GOD. No wonder you are selling well in “some other countries.”

By this email, I sincerely invite you to be our guests in the Exhibition Trade Fair in Moscow in 28^th, May, 2012. And our exhibition booth number is in the annex. Please kindly check it.

HELL YES I WILL BE THERE.

-

After 48 hours or so, I was run out of town by an impeccably-dressed, gorgeous mob with chiseled abs, all screaming in unison: “DEATH TO THE SQUISHY MORTAL.”

Okay, fine. I’m exaggerating.

They actually said, “LASER HAIR REMOVAL AND NO MORE DESSERT TO THE SQUISHY MORTAL.”

Which is way worse, I’m sure you’ll agree.

But hey, a vicious mob is a great way to meet new people.

“You wield a torch like a pro!” or “OMG, that pitchfork matches your earrings!” are good ice breakers.

So is talking about your spouse. He came up several times, and one or two folks were absolutely tickled when they heard that he was a tech CEO in Seattle.

“So, is he Christian Grey?” asked one Los Angeleno. Cue laughter from the crowd.

This is what I’m now up against when I travel. People find out I’m a Seattle native, and that Rand owns a small tech company, and they immediately mention 50 Shades of Grey - the new erotic novel by British author E.L. James that happens to take place in my hometown. I haven’t read the book, and I know how the adage goes, but here I am, judging it by its cover (and its reviews. And the impression it’s left on my friends).

Apparently the lead character, a young, virginal, awkward woman by the name of Anastasia Steele (Sigh. Really?), falls madly in love with Christian Grey, a 26-year-old, fluent-in-French, gorgeous billionaire tech-mogul with a penchant for BDSM.

Forgive me, but everything I’ve heard makes it sound absolutely ridiculous. And while it’s topping everyone’s summer reading lists, I won’t be touching it.

Here are my 50 reasons why:

1. It started as Twilight fan fiction. Yes, really. For the record, this should never, ever be the inspiration for a book. “I ate a really good sandwich” would be better. Even “I was so moved by the collected works of the cast of The Jersey Shore I decided to put in it words” is more acceptable. “I read Twilight and wanted to make an erotic version of it” is not.
   -
2. It’s about 20-somethings in the Northwest, but apparently the protagonist talks like this: “I want you very badly, especially now, when you’re biting your lip again.” NO 20-SOMETHING IN THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST HAS EVER UTTERED A PHRASE EVEN REMOTELY LIKE THAT WHEN COURTING SOMEONE ELSE.
   -
3. The author doesn’t know what “subconscious” means.
   - 
4. I never finished reading The Great Gatsby.
   -
5. Not even Paul Allen flies around in a helicopter. It’s dangerous and impractical, and probably invalidates your life insurance. Private jets leaving from Boeing Field are way more “in.”
   -
6. If I want a really good love story that features bondage, I’ll just watch Secretary.
   -
7. I can’t actually stress this enough: you cannot sign over your sexual rights via a legal contract. No lawyer in their effing mind would draft that up, and no judge would even consider enforcing it.
   -
8. I don’t get it: is she is employee or his girlfriend?
   -
9. If she were really smart, she’d have asked for stock.
   -
10. I’m willing to bet that no Seattlite has a”Red Room of Pain.” It’s the Northwest. We’re cold and tired and prone to silly dreams. We have “Dingy Basements Where We Grow Pot” and “Garages Where One Day We’re Going to Rehearse With Our Band” and, if we’re lucky, “Kitchens That Smell Like Pie.”
    

    No, that wasn't a euphemism. I really meant pie.

    -

11. This book is about Americans and is set in America, yet it’s peppered with Britishisms. Like “rucksack” and “smartly dressed” and “ringing” someone up on the phone. I can only hope “spotted dick” was included, too.
    -
12. Explain to me how someone’s eyes can be “smoldering embers”. Without sounding stupid.
    -
13. Apparently one book ends and the other
14. just starts and there’s no real transition between them.
    -
15. The female protagonist says “Holy cow!” 84 times throughout the trilogy. Which, you know, is an expression 20-somethings often use. (Also, this Amazon review has compiled other phrases that are overused in the book. It is delightful.)
    -
16. I bet not even this Christian Grey fellow can get into the secret room above Tavern Law.
    -
17. Seattle CEOs do not ask their assistants/girlfriends/sex-slaves to make them sandwiches. When they are hungry, they go to Wild Ginger, which apparently they all collectively own.
    -
18. I have to do laundry.
    -
19. Apparently the author “borrows” certain scenes – like ordering everything off the hotel room service menu – from Pretty Woman. Which, lest you’ve forgotten, IS A TERRIBLE MOVIE.
    -
20. I still have to catch up on Sherlock.
    

    I knew this photo would come in handy someday.

    -

21. I’m worried it will make me regret being literate.
    -
22. No self-respecting tech mogul in Seattle would buy a woman an Apple computer.
    -
23. On that note, why is she a college student without a computer? How does that even happen?
    -
24. One day I want to hang out with Joss Whedon, Dan Harmon, and Tina Fey, and I don’t want to preemptively lose their respect.
    -
25. Stupid stories stay with me far longer than good ones. I’m afraid that, like Raising Helen, this book will haunt my dreams.
    -
26. Because when you think about it, life is really short.
    -
27. Where do they find the time to have all this sex (and not-sex)? It’s been my personal experience that Seattle entrepreneurs are really busy.
    -
28. I’m really, really sick of female protagonists who are virgins, waiting to give it up to the perfect guy. Why can’t the heroine be a self-actualized, sexually-active 20-something who decided to get it on with a guy who later turned out to be perfect? I mean, hypothetically speaking. -
29. I already have enough things I’ll need to confess to on my deathbed. Having read this book should not be one of them.
    -
30. Someone’s mouth cannot “quirk up”. That is not a thing.
    -
31. Seattle entrepreneurs don’t own ties. Certainly not enough to have a tie-bondage sexfest.
    -
32. I don’t think loving a person means you should want to change them.
    -
33. Twilight-author Stephanie Meyer has refused to read it. And it’s not like that woman is a literary snob.
    -
34. I have a sneaking suspicion the two leads are gonna get hitched. What are the odds they actually include a chapter about prenups? I mean there’s fiction, and then there’s fantasy.
    

    No it ain't.

    -

35. Billionaires aren’t in their 20s. And if they are, they aren’t single. Or drop-dead gorgeous. Instead, they’re stressed-out and sleep-deprived and have terrible diets.
    -
36. It actually contains this line: “My inner goddess is doing the dance of the seven veils.” In the author’s defense, that is comedic gold. Unfortunately, the book is not supposed to be comedic.
    -
37. The book is set in both Seattle and Vancouver. The author has never been to Seattle. Or Vancouver.
    

    New rule: you have to visit this town at least once before setting a novel here.

    -

38. James originally wrote under the pen name ”Snowqueens Icedragon.” (Actually, the more I think about it, Snowqueens Icedragon is kind of an awesome name. I might have actually read the book if it had been released by Ms. Icedragon.)
    -
39. I’d be way more interested if he was the submissive.
    -
    

    Pinchy pinchy.

    -

40. He says she can’t snack between meals? DEALBREAKER.
    

    You can't simultaneously love someone and tell them they can't have snacks.

    -

41. I cannot imagine his board of directors would be cool with any of his behavior.
    -
42. If he were really a tech entrepreneur, there would be a lot more freaking out about servers and code and metrics and budgets, and far fewer nipple clamps.
    -
43. Why does preferring a BDSM lifestyle automatically necessitate that you had to have a fucked-up childhood?
    -
44. I lost enough credibility when I read The Hunger Games trilogy. In like, two days. And loved it.
    -
45. I’m a weensy bit jealous of the author’s success. #thereIsaidit
    -
46. I’m scared I might like it a little.
    -
47. Like Twilight‘s Bella, the female protagonist is constantly tripping on things, which is apparently sexy. And, you know, notthe sign of a serious inner ear condition that needs medical attention.
    

    Me, December 2001, in the hallway of Rand's apartment. I was clearly trying to seduce him.

    -

48. Because Seattle deserves better.
    -
49. Because erotic fiction really deserves better.
    -
50. Because if I really want a good love story about an adorably disheveled Seattle CEO and the absolute mess of a woman that he loves, I need look no further than my own life. You just need to swap out the whips and chains and ball gags and violent sex for cupcakes and cuddling on the couch. –

And here’s the one reason why I might read it:

1. It sounds hilarious.

-

Weigh in, kids. What do you think? The comments are open.

Who knew keeping your shoes on would be such a luxury?

-

I am not a gambler. Should there be any doubts of this, note that I was in Vegas for two whole days and the greatest risk I took in a casino was ordering a savory crepe (don’t do it. Cheese is no substitute for Nutella, and anyone who says otherwise is likely trying to sell you something. Probably cheese).

But the TSA has turned me into someone who takes chances, who rolls the dice again and again, because if I win, I get a bit of humanity back. How? Via the TSA’s new PreCheck program.

The TSA’s website doesn’t offer a ton of information about how their precheck system works. But here’s what I learned:

• You must sign up for it beforehand. Rand and I did so via an online form through Alaska Airlines which had virtually no information on it. It wasn’t an agreement by any means. It just asked for our name and frequent flier numbers.
• We were eligible via Alaska Airlines because we both have status on the airline.
• In signing up for the program, we agreed to let Alaska share our flight itineraries with the TSA, along with our frequent flier numbers. (This surprised me, as I assumed the TSA already had access to this information).
• The only airlines currently participating in the program are Alaska, American, and Delta (with plans to add more this summer). They usually only offer the ability to sign up for the program to their frequent fliers. Active service members are also eligible for the program. Or you can apply for the Global Online Enrollment System; if accepted, you will automatically be eligible for the PreCheck.
• In addition to flying a participating airline, you also need to be traveling through a participating gate at a participating airport (Yeah. Lots of caveats there).
• Even if you meet all the requirements and are traveling on a participating airline at a participating airport through a participating gate, you still might not be selected. From the TSA’s website: “… no individual will be guaranteed expedited screening in order to retain a certain element of randomness to prevent terrorists from gaming the system.”
• If you are selected for PreCheck, you won’t know until you get to the gate. The airline will encode the message on the barcode of your ticket. If you are traveling with someone who has not been selected for pre-check, they don’t get to ride your coattails.

Based on all of this, it seems highly improbable that anyone would be selected. But if The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy taught me anything (besides that I should always take a towel) it’s this: highly improbable is not the same as impossible.

And so, on our flight down to Vegas, flying Alaska and departing through SeaTac, the improbable happened, and we were selected. We were sent into a separate, shorter lane (the one folks get to use when they are frequent fliers or first class). Our IDs were checked against our tickets by an agent, and then we headed through security.

There was no line ahead of us – just a metal detector. And that’s when the TSA, for the first time in years, treated us like normal people. Here’s how:

• We didn’t have to remove our shoes (and thank goodness, as I wasn’t wearing socks)
• We could keep our laptops and TSA-compliant liquids in our bags.
• Sweaters and like jackets did not need to be removed.
• We could keep small amounts of metal – such as that found on jewelry or belts – on.

So we tossed our bags on the conveyor belt, walked through the metal detector, stared at each other incredulously on the other side, and that was it. It took roughly 45 seconds, if that. It was like we’d died and gone to 1998. Traveling was suddenly easy. Security was a breeze. I no longer hated the TSA!

We’d hit the jackpot.

We managed to luck out again on our way back from Vegas. And this time, I was gambling big-time. I was wearing a dress.

Why is this significant? Because I am often selected for the full-body scanners. And every time I am, I opt out, and am subject to a pat-down. I was willfully walking into a situation where I might have to be patted down while in a dress. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but I wasn’t going to change.

I mean it’s a really pretty dress. It’s a white dress covered in green leaves, packs beautifully, and cost me $6 at the Goodwill. And according to that dress, I’m two sizes smaller than I actually am. Besides, I’ll admit: I was kind of curious. How were they going to pat me down on my legs? The procedure is that they run their hand up your leg until they meet “resistance” so … were they going to reach up the skirt of my dress?

That sounded mortifying, but better I have it done voluntarily so I can tell others about it, then have someone else get caught off guard. Nope. The dress was staying on. I’d suddenly become a gambler.

But it didn’t matter: we were selected for PreCheck, and breezed through security in Vegas.

Of course, it doesn’t always work so smoothly.

At Newark airport this past Sunday, we were again sent through a quicker line for frequent fliers/first class passengers. I was hopeful that I could keep my shoes on (and I wasn’t wearing a dress), but soon realized we were headed towards the regular queue. And nearly everyone was being sent through the full-body scanner. The line was quickly stacking up as the agents refused to send anyone through the metal detector.

Rand was selected for the full-body scan ahead of me. He opted out, and the agent began telling him – in impatient tones – how it wasn’t dangerous, etc. Rand held up his hand gently in objection and said, “I’m opting out. Thank you.”

We have years of experience: Rand gets a pat-down in London, February 2010.

-

The woman ahead of me was sent through the metal detector, but I was selected for the full-body scan. I opted-out, was submitted to the same speech, and then sent through the metal detector before the pat-down.

It’s ridiculously, really. I was no different that the woman in front of me, but because I’d demanded to be treated like her (to go through only the metal detector), I was subjected to more screening. The TSA punishes those who dissent. It’s creepy to think about.

It’s also disturbing to consider that, with the new TSA PreCheck, those who are eligible are usually the upper class. Think about it: if you travel a lot, you likely have the finances to do so. Most of the folks who are frequent fliers are also first class passengers (one of the perks of flying a lot) – so a strange dichotomy is created between the haves and have-nots. The three-child family who takes one trip every few years is sent struggling through security while the businessman who travels all the time breezes through.

If you fly first class, you are treated better, even by security.

Don't fret: if we ever fly first class, it's usually by mistake.

-

We ended up making it through Newark fine. We are often patted down, so it was no big deal. But I’d seen what it had been like to be treated humanely by the TSA, and I was having trouble going back to how things were.

Is the TSA PreCheck worth it? Absolutely. There’s nothing to lose, really. If you don’t get selected, you’re treated like everyone else – a shoeless nobody getting their nether regions prodded by a stranger in latex gloves.

But if you do get picked for PreCheck? You get treated like a person by the TSA. Which, really, is like hitting the jackpot.

Bavarian food is the guy at the gym in the tiny muscle tee who’s lifting weights so heavy, the veins in his neck and head (and other parts of the body that you didn’t even know HAD veins) start to pop out.

Bavaria‘s cuisine is a monster truck. It crumples the delicate-by-comparison culinary offerings of Spain, Italy, and France like tiny little Fiats and Peugots in its path.

Do you want to eat Bavarian food? OF COURSE YOU DO. It is rich and doughy and filling and is the only thing on the planet that can soak up German beer. Every other fare will simply hide in the corner of your stomach, petrified at the sheer awesomeness of the brew that resides in there with it, and it will never get digested.

In short: if you don’t eat Bavarian food while in Germany, you could die. Here are some of my favorites. They will turn your tastebuds into receptors of SHEER ECSTASY.

—————

Pretzels

-

Have you ever had an enormous pretzel? I’m not talking about the ones you get at the mall or the movie theater, sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. Those aren’t pretzels. Those are doughnuts that took a yoga class.

Real Bavarian pretzels are hearty, doughy twists of bravado, studded with salt. They are meals unto themselves. They are not served in delicate little paper sleeves. They are handed over in giant wooden baskets along with a few steins of beer and a grunt. Tear into one with your bare teeth and suddenly, you will be able to speak German. Try it.

—————

Weisswurst

Bavarians are so badass, they eat sausage for breakfast. And I don’t mean those little tiny breakfast sausages that we get here in the states. No. They go for these:

-

That is a weisswurst (literally, “white sausage”) – made from ground up pork and bacon. There are many smart-ass remarks to be made here, but since I am a lady, I will leave them up to you. (Okay, fine, here’s one: “GERMANS DO IT WITH BIGGER SAUSAGES.”)

You pair them with the aforementioned pretzel, and maybe a dab of sweet mustard.

-

And then you run outside and pull a plow across a field in the middle of winter because THIS IS the breakfast of champions, no matter what Wheaties tries to claim.

—————

Schweinshaxe

The Germans have a dish called schweinshaxe that is particularly popular in Bavaria. It is a roasted pig knuckle, and it will punch you in the mouth with its gastronomical awesomeness.

And yes, it often comes to the table with a knife sticking out of it.

-

The still-attached skin on the outside of the schweinshaxe becomes a crackly and delicious pork rind, while the meat becomes fall-off-the-bone tender. It comes with a enormous potato dumpling, which probably weighs somewhere between 5-10 pounds.

Don’t ignore the dumpling. It will help you to soak up the delicious pork juice that has filled the bottom of your plate. It is nectar of the gods. Drink it, and you will LIVE FOREVER. Probably.

—————

Schnitzel

-

Germans can schnitzel the hell out of anything. First, they take a slab of meat and hammer it flat.

That’s right: they are so damn badass, they beat their food after it’s dead.

Then they batter dip and fry it up, because if there’s one thing that makes hammered meat even better, it’s a crisp, golden crust.

I mean, it’s like fried chicken – which is already one of the greatest things in the world – with an EVEN BETTER MEAT (usually veal, sometimes pork). You can ask for no more out of life.

—————

Spaetzle

Noodles are wimpy. You can’t feed a noodle to a German, because if you do you run the risk that they will scream at you IN GERMAN and it will be the most terrifying thing you have EVER encountered.

Instead of noodles, they have spaetzle, which are little chewy dumplings of HELL YES. They are often served with cheese and fried shallots on top, and if you are very lucky you can even get them with bacon.

-

But perhaps you should just stay away, because they will ruin you. The next time you have mac n’ cheese, you may find yourself screaming at how pathetic they are in compared to spaetzle.

“NEIN!” you will holler at the top of your lungs. “Ich möchte Spätzle!” (Which in and of itself will be amazing, because you didn’t realize you spoke German. THANK YOU, PRETZEL.)

And everyone who hears you will run in fear, taking their weakling noodles with them.

—————

Sauerkraut

You know who are badasses? Pirates. Pirates are totally badass.

But even pirates can’t stand up to scurvy. You know what can? Sauerkraut.

WHICH MEANS SAUERKRAUT > PIRATES.

I hated this stuff as a kid, but that’s because I had only known what we have in the states – a nasty, soggy, shredded concoction that is plopped on top of hot dogs. But German sauerkraut laughs at that impostor-sauerkraut’s face.

It is vinegary and salty and crisp, studded with rye seeds. Eat it, and your immune system will become the Hulk. This is why German people live to an average age of 165, and why their children wrestle bears at summer camp.

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Kuchen

And this is just the cake that they had at Starbucks. IMAGINE WHAT BAKERIES HAVE TO OFFER.

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In recent years, there’s been a culinary trend toward itsy-bitsy, tiny little hand-crafted desserts. I say screw that. So does much of the country of Germany. Cakes in this part of the world are ginormous.

It doesn’t matter what kind you get: order a slice, and be prepared for a piece of cake the size of a child’s head. Two servers are required to carry it out, and it will contain enough sugar to put an elephant into a diabetic coma. Don’t ask a friend to split it with you – that’s the coward’s way out.

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That’s it. My favorite Bavarian (/German) foods. If you eat them, you will grow hair on your chest and you will never need to call a tow truck because if your car breaks down you will be able to PUSH IT HOME. Gender equality being what it is, I’d say that’s a pretty desirable outcome for any man or woman.

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