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“Um … you have something on your face.”

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I have some shocking news for you.

SHOCKING.

Are you sitting down? Have you cleared all breakable objects from your immediate proximity? (Because you are going to wail and fling about when you hear what I have to say. Seriously). Also, if you have a beverage, I sincerely suggest that you swallow your current sip before reading my news, unless you wish to do a spit-take all over your monitor.

Okay, all good? Here goes:

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It is 7:30am here in Seattle, and I woke up more than an hour ago, of my own accord but bleary-eyed, the lingering result of jet-lag after spending 10 days in Ireland. I rubbed my eye, and seeing the purple streak left on the back of my hand from makeup of days before, still stubbornly clinging to my lid, I realized that this is where I should start.

Before I tell you about my trips to Belfast and Dublin, before I described the ill-fated afternoon we decided to rent a car and drive on the wrong side of the road, before I start explaining how I gained several pounds in a matter of days eating Irish cakes and candy, I need to talk about eye makeup remover.

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Sometime around yesterday afternoon, I realized something: I was sick.

More than a few of you are likely thinking, “Well, obviously. It’s not normal for a grown woman to constantly obsess about baked goods and Jeff Goldblum. At least she finally admitted it. Now she can get help.”

And to those folks I laugh and say, No, no, no! I’m not talking mental sickness (I will write JEFF GOLDBLUM 4-EVER on the cover of my notebooks until the day I die, even though it’s been years since I’ve actually needed a notebook for anything.). No, I mean I’m actually feeling ill. Sick. Able to breathe through only one nostril, which keeps switching and I only notice it after the fact.

I blame my husband. He seems to be an incubator for all sorts of illnesses, yet never shows even a hint of a symptom.

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Okay, fine – this isn’t exactly a STINK that I need.

After all, I don’t need to spend several long hours being interrogated by Homeland Security. And I don’t need to be strip searched, and, most likely, cavity searched as well.

Still, these decals are just about the funniest way I’ve seen to make your suitcase distinguishable from the countless others that come sliding down the conveyor belt in baggage claim. It’s only $25 for a set of four decals: cocaine, piles of money, sex toys, and kidnapped flight attendant (which is my least favorite – I find it too disturbing). But while the price is probably more than worth a laugh, I suspect that these stickers are bound to get you into some serious trouble …

I can hear the latex gloves squeaking in anticipation. (Photo courtesy of TheCheeky.com)

I can hear the latex gloves squeaking in anticipation. (Photo courtesy of TheCheeky.com)

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Dont leave home without it.

Don't leave home without it.

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I was stuck this morning. Absolutely stuck. It’s yet another sunny day in San Francisco, my cold is almost gone, and I’m not letting myself enjoy this crazy city until I get a post up. Ill-advised, perhaps, but also noble. Which just my be my personal motto. Second only to, “If it’s fried, I’ll eat it.”

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This travel item isn’t even that superfluous. Actually, I think it’s a bit of a necessity. So I strongly suggest you hop into your car, head to the local Target or Wal-Mart or Costco or whatever, and pick up at least one, or possibly two, food bloggers. They will prove indispensable on your next trip. Just be sure to get the awesome, willing-to-eat-almost-anything variety, and not the stuck-up, won’t-touch-it-if-it-isn’t-certified-organic kind.

What’s that you say? Your local mega-mart doesn’t carry food bloggers in stock? That is indeed a tragedy. I suggest you get online and try to find one that way. And no, you can’t have mine. But I don’t blame you for trying. Because holy crap, is she awesome.

I met the effervescent Gastrognome on New Year’s Eve, at my friend (and fellow blogger) Rachel‘s house. When I found out she would be in San Diego for the same conference that Rand was attending, which was en route to Rachel’s wedding in New Orleans, which we were all attending, I was thrilled. We were going to be more than internet friends! Hooray! (more…)

The other day, fellow blogger and copywriter Philip posted this to his Facebook account:

You can tell hes an ad man.

You can tell he's an ad man.

I nearly peed from laughing and from sheer joy. Because “F*ck it, I give up” very often becomes my fashion motto roughly halfway through a trip. I start out hopeful. Delusional even. I bring three-inch heels and convince myself that I will wear them all over <insert foreign city here>. A few hours later, I have given up almost entirely on looking presentable, and find myself licking the stain on my sweater to determine what it was (jam, in case you were wondering). (more…)

I kind of hate Cory Doctorow. Like that one kid I can’t stand but keep seeing at parties, I can’t remember why I hate him, but I’m sure I have a good reason. For a while, I thought my animosity stemmed from some run-in he had with my hubby during which he wasn’t polite to him, but apparently I fabricated that. Rand’s never actually met Cory Doctorow, though he seems to think, based on what he’s read, that he’s pretty cool.

Then I thought I disliked Doctorow because he named his daughter Poesy Emmeline Fibonacci Nautilus Taylor Doctorow (Note: in the original draft of this post, which exists only in my head, I had composed some fictitious name for his daughter that was something like “Frenchie Spaghetti Tyro Brahe Doctorow,” and changed it after realizing her real name is far, far better). But then, the more I considered it, I realized how unfair that was, because how can you hate a man for the name he gave his daughter? Really, that will be her job when she’s 13. Besides, Emmeline sounds quite lovely.

But I still hate Cory Doctorow … right? I mean, even though he seems kind of interesting and accomplished and volunteered for Greenpeace and is probably a cool guy. I’m sure I have my reasons, whatever they are. (more…)