The Everywhereist

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Note: While this was written on Monday night, I only just posted it now. Fear not – Rand and I are safely home and out of our terrible hotel.

Folks, I am currently in hotel hell. I will elaborate more on it when I get home – right now I am toiling away one last night in a room the size of a hatbox with my husband. There is only room for one of us to sit at the desk they’ve provided us at a time (and only one chair) so I’ll try and get this post out in the time that he’s done brushing his teeth.

Why do I suspect this photo, taken a few months ago, will get a LOT of use on my site?

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Did I mention that the Plaza Inn and Suites in Ashland, Oregon, is horrible? NEVER STAY HERE. But, again, that’s for next week. In the meantime, I’m thinking about how lucky I am to have the support of my awesome friends like Christine, who tore the manager here a new a-hole on my behalf. Thanks, Christine! You’ll be happy to know that they sent us a cheap bottle of wine as an apology. Rand and I are at the point that we’re laughing our asses off about the whole thing: we joked that they were next going to move us into a janitorial closet (but the good news is that they’ll be giving us another bottle of shitty wine we won’t drink). (more…)

In my constant search for comfortable travel shoes, I am amazed by the number of heinously ugly options out there. If these shoes were horses, they would be shot, immediately.

I once thought that I was immune to such ugliness. When searching for comfortable shoes online, there were so many options, I’d simply skip over the unappealing ones and straight to the cute. My brain has its own filter for this sort of thing. And yet, there are times when a shoe is so unsightly, it will not be ignored. It screams to be noticed. “LOOK AT ME!”, it shouts. “I WAS DESIGNED BY DRUNK KINDERGARTNERS!”

Some of these shoes are impractical. Others are baffling.

All of them are very, very ugly.

Here are the top twelve worst pairs I’ve encountered while digging through the bowels of Zappos. Enjoy.

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1. Arcopedico N42

Seriously? N42 is what you are going to call the shoe? Sweet Jesus. Put in a little effort. Give it a name. May I suggest “The Bertha”?

Also, they appear to melting.

Ugh. These look like what the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man would wear when he wants to get laid.

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Dear Seattle Center;

Okay, I admit it: I’m officially worried about you. This post was going to be another Dick Move!, but when I started to consider things a little more, I switched gears from “blinded by rage” to “concerned about your well-being.”

Seriously, we need to talk.

Have you completely given up?

Because it’s starting to feel like it. When I visited back in the spring with Desiree, I had hoped that the things I witnessed (cranky personnel, jacked-up prices, and a general air of pure hate for mankind) were simply a phase you were going through. I mean, you have gone through phases. Remember this? Or the time you thought you should go back to your original color? Sigh. But we got through that together, didn’t we?

I figured, the next time I see Seattle Center, it will be cheerful and upbeat and back to its old tricks. But that wasn’t the case.

I once again had out-of-town visitors (including Katie and my poor, easily-corrupted cousin) and since none of them had ever visited the Space Needle, it seemed like an obvious excursion. Why? Because people LOVE you, Space Needle. And for some reason, you think that it gives you license to suck.

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It’s Canada Day! I’m sure many of you have donned your favorite sweaters and maple-leaf long-underwear and are headed out to enjoy a summer’s day on one of Canada’s many beaches, possibly while listening to the musical stylings of Bryan Adams. For those of you unable to make it out to a chilly northern beach (seriously, it’s a whole country north of Minnesota – think about it) – I present my top reasons Canada (and Canadians) are awesome.

1. Socialized medicine. I love how we’re at eachother’s throats about this issue, thoroughly convinced that if we pass socialized medicine in our country, it will instantly signal the end of days, and everyone will become bankrupt because they’ll have to pay for elective plastic surgery for illegal immigrants. Canadians, on the other hand, sit quietly on the other side of our shared border, wondering what all the fuss is about, breathing maple-syrup scented air into their healthy lungs.
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2. Poutine. For you those of you unfamiliar with this heavenly concept, it’s french fries, topped with cheese curds and veal demi-glace. It’s also proof that if there is a god, he might just live in Montreal.
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   Mmm ... fries-cheese-gravy.

   Photo courtesy of sashafatcat, via Flickr.com
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You owe me one.

Because Tin City sucks ass. And now you know, so you will never, ever have to go there. Not that you would. But if you found yourself starving near Naples, Florida, and your husband innocently said, “Hey, that place looks interesting,” you could unwittingly end up spending the better part of an afternoon there. And it would be somewhat awful.

I know. It happened to me.

As you know, from my tedious and extensive but nevertheless sporadic coverage of it, we were in Florida a few weeks back. We covered a lot of the state. A lot of it. This was mostly due to miscommunication, and the fact that my cousin, while lovely, tends to make plans without actually consulting people first. So while we landed in Ft. Lauderdale (where he lives), he thought we were landing in Orlando, so he planned a trip to Disney with the kids.

The result? We ended up driving three hours in the middle of the night through Florida. I do not recommend this.

My husband at a Denny's in Plantation, Florida, at 10:45pm. He is unhappy.

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I’ve been carrying this one with me for a while. Wondering if I should write about it, but mostly hoping I would forget about it. Because this, dear friends, was the Dick Move that started it all. It happened years ago, during an otherwise almost-perfect trip. And when I think of all the others that followed it, I realize they pale in comparison. Because this one was calculated. This one was personal.

It was the Dickest Move of them all.

And finally, nearly 2 years after it happened, I’ve decided to acknowledge it for what it was. Because I’m tired of carrying it around with me. Tired of thinking about it. Tired of feeling that tightness in my chest whenever that weekend is mentioned. After all, it was my wedding weekend. And I deserve to keep only the happy memories from those sun-scorched September days, and dismiss all the bad (even if means pretending that certain people weren’t at my wedding at all). I’m going to let it all go. But first, let me tell you what happened.

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I can’t actually believe I had to write this post. I think that what I’m about to say falls firmly within the bounds of obvious human decency and etiquette. I feel that it’s something everyone one should already know – like how we shouldn’t shake babies nor pick our noses while performing surgery on someone.

And yet, apparently, there are a few morons wandering around out there who simply have no clue. Consequently, this blog post, however obvious, is now necessary. I am going to take a deep breath before I start. A breath that will not only signify my exasperation, but also give me enough air to scream through the rest of my post.

(deep inhale …)

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This blog entry doesn’t cover a new topic. In fact, judging by the number of results I got from a Google search, it seems like a lot of people have addressed it. But even though it isn’t new, I still think it’s something worth talking about.

I want to know why the hell Alaska Airlines insists on including prayers with all their food.

No, I’m not kidding. Every time you purchase food on Alaska Airlines, you’ll get something that looks like this:

WTF?

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