“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:

I have terrible skin.

(I’m just going to sit back and let that news sink in.

… Okay, so I’ve just been alerted to the fact that this revelation isn’t shocking at all. Apparently, when you are comprised of 90% baked goods (10% other) your skin isn’t supposed to look good. Which means that the Pillsbury doughboy has led me astray. AGAIN. Giggling little clear-skinned bastard. Anywhoodle …)

The point is, my skin is not my best feature (nor is my sunny outlook or my impeccable manners. I’m not going to think about this any more, lest I end up crying on the couch eating – wait for it – BAKED GOODS. I see a pattern forming).

I deal with this problem the way any rational woman would: I complain and whine and occasionally – GOD FORGIVE ME – even pick. I know, I know. Oh, and I spend an obscene amount of time and money on various potions, lotions, creams, peels, treatments, masks, astringents, and gels that all claim to make my skin as smooth and unblemished as Scarlett Johansson’s.*

*I have nothing against Ms. Johansson, per se, but I recently saw The Avengers on a high-def TV – you know, the ones that show every single pore and freckle? – and she was still GORGEOUS. Her skin is like porcelain. Girlfriend deserves her fame, because she is a statistical anomaly.

When I travel, my skin decides to react in a multitude of ways:

• It spontaneously breaks out into a plethora of red, painful zits
• I lied. That’s pretty much it.

At home, I’m able to bombard treat these breakouts with substances that bleach the color of out of fabric – a characteristic which should probably alarm me more than it does. But since TSA regulations on liquids and creams mean that you can only bring an eye-dropper of fluid with you (give or take), I’ve found that I have to pick and choose which of my liquid acne-fighting arsenal I can pack.

That’s why I always have aspirin on me.

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I’ve found that those little pills are amazing on acne. Aspirin is an anti-inflammatory, so it helps treat the redness and swelling that stubbornly takes up residence in my face.

If you want to try it at home, just grab an aspirin tablet, lick it, and stick it on your face.

Kidding. The actual process is a little more involved, so I created a step-by-step guide. If it doesn’t clear up your skin, it will at least convince the hotel cleaning staff that you might be a drug addict. So it’s basically a win-win.

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Step 1: Assess your stupid, breaking-out, miserable, and irritated face.

Try to figure out what may have caused this current rash of acne (some culprits: stress; unhealthy eating; hormones; an ancient curse.) This exercise won’t do anything but annoy you, but as you inspect your pores, you might want to consider all the people out there who would love to have your skin. There are folks who are burned and scarred, disfigured or lopsided. To them, your mug probably looks like Scarlett Johansson’s.

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My point? Be grateful for what you have. And remember that when it comes down to it, looks don’t really matter much, anyway.

—————

Step 2: Grab a few aspirin (four or five should suffice) and place them on a clean, smooth surface.

I used the counter of the hotel bathroom, after giving it a good wipe down.

It really doesn’t matter what kind of aspirin you use, but the ones without coating are preferable.

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————–

Step 3: Mash the aspirin into a fine dust.

I used Rand’s shaving cream canister like a rolling pin. At this point, you might want to lock the door, because it would look really bad if someone barged in during the middle of this.

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Reaaaaaaaaally bad.

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Like, “this might get you deported” bad.

“Baby, what the HELL are you doing?” – Rand

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—————

Step 4: Grab a bit of lotion …

It just occurred to me that anyone who follows my Flickr stream would be horrified right now. Horrified.

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Add the powdered aspirin, and make a paste.

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.

I hope you will forgive me. But I’m so very tired, and this rather banal topic will be an easy out, before I head off to tackle the mounds of laundry, stacks of mail, and try to figure out how, precisely, I can recreate those tea time scones at home.

Regarding makeup: I wear a lot of the stuff. Or rather, I wear a lot of it on one part of my face – my eyes. I don’t do face powders or foundation. I rarely wear lipstick or use eye-brow pencils and I seldom need blush because I am always too hot, which I’ve found produces a nice warm glow about the cheeks (and sweat stains under the arms, but let’s focus on the good.)

But my peepers are positively coated in cosmetics, nearly every day.

-

Here I am attacking my poor mother on my wedding day.

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And this might not look like a big deal, but this is how much gold eyeshadow I wear TO GO HIKING.

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You get the idea. My travel toiletry bag is packed with cosmetics, and along with them, a plastic container filled with a small stack of eye makeup remover pads.

My eye makeup remover pad of choice is one made by Almay (as usual, this endorsement comes with zero compensation. I have many faults, but being a sell-out is not one of them).

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They have two variants – the “non-oily” kind and the “moisturizing” pads, which are coated in something akin to baby oil. As the years pass (ahem) – I find myself preferring the latter. They leave a bit of residue, but do actually provide some moisture to my eyes, which are the only part of my face that doesn’t get ridiculously oily.

For a long time, I figured that these pads weren’t exceptional by any means. I bought them regularly because they were inexpensive, easy to pack, and unlike an actual bottle of makeup remover, they didn’t count as a liquid (a big bonus when traveling) and weren’t as likely to spill. Plus, it was easy to count out how many pads I’d need for however many days I’d be on the road.

But towards the end of our trip to Ireland, I managed to lose them, case and all. It must have been when we switched hotel rooms along the way. At first, I figured it wasn’t that big a deal. I would just some eye makeup remover at the drug store.

Here’s what I looked like after a ten-minute struggle with the stuff:

If you think I look bad, you should see the other guy.

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It was though I had gone a few rounds with a prize fighter.

I’m pretty sure Kate Moss made this look work in the late 90s.

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By the end of it, my makeup still hadn’t come off, but the skin around my eyes was raw. And holy cats, did it sting. Needless to say, I do not recommend the following product, which can be found in various European drugstores, despite the claims of “vitamin goodness” which appear right on the package.

It costs about 7 Euros, or roughly $9. That’s about twice the price of my regular pads. And notice how much of it I used in one night.

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I don’t even know what “vitamin goodness” means, anyway. But if a cookie package said that, you can bet I’d run like hell.

I’m home again, and I happily have a huge stack of eye makeup remover pads sitting by the sink. I think I’m going to slap them on my lids like cucumber slices, while I lay back and eat chocolates. Just as soon as I get through everything else that’s waiting for me today.

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.

“Everyone in the office is sick,” he’ll say, and within a matter of hours, I will be afflicted despite NOT HAVING SET FOOT IN HIS OFFICE IN WEEKS. You’d think that he’d at least have the decency to feel rotten himself after giving me consumption, but no. NO. He just walks around with his rosy cheeks, haughtily breathing through both nostrils without a care in the world.

“I SEE YOU EXHALING OVER THERE, YOU SHOW-OFF.”

Here he is eating candy off the floor of a museum and suffering ZERO consequences (note: it was part of an interactive exhibit, but STILL).

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I would be cursing him even more had he not arrived home from work with a slice of lemon pie for me. (A slice which I just realized I probably can’t taste because of aforementioned clogged nostrils. That’s it. I’m so wiping my nose on a voodoo doll of him.)

I’m trying to keep in mind that it’s not as bad as it could be. If I’m going to be sick, at least it’s while I’m at home, where I have lots of soup and tea and countless episodes of The Office to cringe through. Because I’ve been sick on the road, and let me tell you: it sucks. Profoundly. I’ve talked about things you can do to make it better, ways to explore a city while quietly hacking up a lung.

But I neglected to mention one thing that I always travel with: my mobile medicine cabinet.

It’s nothing particularly fancy. It’s an old plastic cosmetics bag that I have constantly stocked with all manner of things. Before I go anywhere, I throw it into my suitcase along with my neti-pot, and I’m ready for any eventuality from sore throats to bug bites. And so, as I sit here too congested to bother telling you about the British Museum or Antonio Gaudi (soon, I promise), I’d like to share with you what’s inside my little cosmetic bag of medical tricks.

But let me say, before I wax poetically about all the over-the-counter goodies we get in our country, that I do think we tend to over-medicate a lot. Antibiotics should not be taken hastily. Pain meds shouldn’t be downed like Skittles (also, a lot of medications have candy coatings nowadays, which is just MESSED UP).

I generally try to fight most things off with a mix of fluids, rest, and whining (it has an eventual, though not immediate, 100% success rate). But there is something incredibly comforting about having this stuff with me, just in case (I doubt it needs to be said, but still – I’m in no way a professional, and this is not medical advice. Obviously, you should talk to a doctor before taking any sort of medication, over-the-counter or otherwise):

1. Sudafed. I realize it’s one of the key ingredients in any good family meth recipe, but it’s also a godsend at 35,000 feet when your sinuses won’t clear up and your head feels like it may, if left unattended, explode. Plus, new restrictions mean that this powerful decongestant is difficult – if not impossible – to buy in a lot of states (in Oregon, it’s only available by prescription), so I always have some with me.
   - 
2. Ibuprofen. Not only will having this in your bag come in handy if you get any aches or pains, but it will make your travel buddies forever indebted to you when they need some and you can deliver. “Why yes, I do have some Advil … It will only cost you YOUR SOUL.”
   -
3. DayQuil and NyQuil (in tablet form). I’ve heard that supposedly you can’t take liquid caplets on a flight without putting them in your 1-quart bag, but I’ve never had a problem packing these in my carry-on. Which is a good thing, because I honestly have never found an over-the-counter medication that holds a candle to Day or NyQuil.
   -
4. Band-aids. Forgive me. I obviously mean ”adhesive bandage strips.”
   - 
5. Moleskin. For when days of walking a city in search for cupcakes starts to irritate your tootsies, this stuff is a life-saver. I usually stick it straight on the inside part of the shoe that’s bugging me.
   - 
6. A small pair of scissors. As long as the blade is less than 4-inches, you can take these with you in your carry-on (pack them carefully so you don’t accidentally stab yourself while rummaging in your bag).
   - 
7. Antibiotic ointment (Neosporin) – This stuff is actually not terrific, and should – like all antibiotics – be used rarely. But if you get a nasty scrape, it’s always nice to have (pack it in your 1-quart liquids bag).
   - 
8. Hydrocortisone (anti-itch) cream. Perfect for bug bites, irritations, topical allergies, and any other skin issues that come up (again, pack it in your 1-quart liquids bag. And use sparingly, as long-term use can thin your skin).
   - 
9. Anti-diarrhea tablets. If you have them with you, you save yourself the embarrassment of having to explain your symptoms to the tiny Scottish woman working at a drugstore in Glasgow.
   

   Fun fact: they spell diarrhea differently across the pond.

   - 

10. Nail clippers and tweezers. Make sure the clippers don’t have a blade or knife attachment, as those are forbidden by the TSA (nail files are just fine, though).
    - 
11. Meclizine. I’m constantly looking for ways to combat vertigo, which often hits me while I travel. Meclizine is some potent stuff (use it sparingly, or you’ll just might end up wandering through Boston, sedated), but it’s available over-the-counter, and will send your nausea packing.
    -
12. Neti-pot and solution packets. I swear by the neti-pot. If you are unfamiliar with it, it’s basically a tiny teapot that you can use to irrigate your sinuses. I know, it sounds gross. And it kind of is. But it’s also fascinating (YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO LOOK AWAY), and it cleans the heck out of your nostrils – perfect when you’re sick, or recovering from a nasty flight.
    - 
13. Aquaphor. I use this petroleum-based product on cuts and scrapes, but it’s also great for intensely dry skin or chapped lips. It comes in tiny tubes that fit easily into your 1-quart liquids bag.
    -
14. Benadryl (or any other antihistamine). You never know when allergies might pop up, especially while traveling.
    

    Like when an unexpected sheep encounter leaves you sniffling.

    - 

15. Tissues. A necessity for sniffly noses, these are also handy when you find yourself in a bathroom without toilet paper (which happens a lot during my travels).
    - 
16. Multi-vitamins and echinacea. I’m terrible about taking vitamins when I’m healthy, but I do it without fail when I’m feeling sick, in hopes of getting my body back to normal. It might be just a placebo-effect, but hey – placebos work.
    

    Mimosas are great for a cold, because they deliver lots of Vitamin C. And champagne.

    - 

17. Wet-wipes. Ideal for all those times I can’t get to a bathroom, but still want clean hands. And they’re perfect for disinfecting germ-ridden places you encounter while traveling: folding trays on airplanes, remote controls in hotel rooms, the steering wheel on your rental car. Just don’t go overboard: it’s easy to get carried away and find yourself in Lady-MacBeth-OUT-DAMN-SPOT territory.
    - 
18. Any prescription medication you might need. I always carry mine with me in my carry-on or purse, so I know it won’t get lost, and I bring more than enough for the duration of my travels (you never know when you might get delayed, or want to extend your trip).

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)

It’s not that I think that TSA-holes can’t distinguish between two dimensional stickers and an actual tear in a suitcase that reveals massive quantities of cash or other suspicious or illegal items. But I do think that having a sticker like that on your suitcase is going to garner a lot of attention, and some of it will likely come from Homeland Security.

I can just see this conversation happening between two TSA-holes:

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Agent 1: Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Dude, check out that suitcase! It makes it look like it’s full of cocaine!

Agent 2: We should probably do a manual search of that bag.

Agent 1: What? Dude, it’s just a sticker.

Agent 2: Yeah, but what better way to fool us than to put a cocaine sticker on a suitcase that’s actually full of cocaine.

Agent 1: Whoa. That’s heavy, dude.

Agent 2: Like, it exceeds 50 pounds?

Agent 1: What?

Agent 2: Huh?

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——– End scene ———

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I can’t tell if these particular suitcase decals are more or less likely to get you in trouble than the x-ray bags I mentioned in a previous STINK. But they have inspired me to write a one-act play featuring the patriotic antics of two well-meaning but moronic TSA agents. Stay tuned.

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.”

But I digress (when don’t I?). Rand had to tear out of here quickly this morning, and since my  blog post simply wasn’t coming to fruition, I decided to give him a hand. Rinsing out the berries we had crammed into the hotel fridge so he could have some breakfast, ironing his shirt … trying to figure out exactly what that nearly imperceptible but still definitely there stain was on his left shoulder (I think it might be a detergent stain. Figure that one out). And when I was done ironing, I dabbed a tiny bit of talcum powder on the stain … and it hit me: I would be lost without this stuff.

I’m not sure if it’s a by-product of my Italian up-bringing, or just weirdness inherent to my family, but I always use talcum powder before putting on my shoes. I sprinkle it into my flats or sandals, or, if I’m wearing socks, right onto my toes. It keeps my feet dry and smelling nice, and prevents my shoes from sticking to my feet.

I remember once a co-worker lamenting a pair of ballet flats she had just bought.

“They fit fine at the store … and they’re okay with stockings, but they feel too tight with bare feet,” she said, frustrated.

“Did you try talcum powder?” I asked.

She hadn’t. In fact, she hadn’t even known that was something you could do. The next day, she came to work in her new shoes, acting as though I had discovered America.

“I can’t believe it,” she said. “They’re so comfy, now!”

Besides making what is arguably one of the most horrifying parts of our body less putrescent (yeah … I have issues about feet. But that’s another post), I’ve found other uses for talcum powder in my travels.

Dry shampoo: I keep swearing I’ll buy some dry shampoo for those days when I just don’t have time to wash my hair, but it’s yet to happen. In the meantime, I just sprinkle a bit of talcum powder on my roots and brush it in. This works far better if you have lighter colored hair, because it can make darker locks look a dull grey (and use only a little at a time, because if you sprinkle on too much, it will be an absolute mess). It absorbs the extra oils in your hair, making it seem less greasy, and it smells great.

Oil stain pre-treatment: I often wonder whether my husband and I should just resort to wearing bibs, because we so frequently manage to stain our clothes with oil. I’m not sure how it happens. A tiny speck or two might fly onto our shirts as we cook, and it will magically grow as it sits in the hamper, usually eliciting a WHAT-THE-HELL-IS-THAT? sort of response from me when I finally do laundry. Oil stains while traveling are even worse, because you probably won’t be washing your shirt until you get home. My pre-treatment is pretty simple:

• Lay the piece of clothing flat, stain facing up.
• Dab the stain with a bit of water.
• Sprinkle a ton of talcum powder on top and pat it down.
• Let dry and shake it off. Repeat if necessary.
• Later, launder as usual.

Usually, as it dries, the talcum powder will suck the grease up. I’m not kidding. You’ll actually see the outline of your stain in the talcum powder. It’s awesome. Yes, cornstarch works better (but who travels with cornstarch?), and sometimes the stain won’t budge no matter what. But it’s always worth a shot.

Untie a knot. Have your shoelaces woven themselves into a untenable mess in your suitcase? Or perhaps the necklaces you shoved into a plastic baggie for your trip are now tangled beyond comprehension? Relax. Sprinkle some talcum powder on the offending knot. It will help loosen the mess and you should be able to unravel it without wanting to pull your hair out. And at the very least, your hands will smell nice.

So, that’s it. My indispensable, absolutely fantastic, inexpensive Superfluous Travel Item I Need (Kinda Definitely). Shoe powder, dry shampoo, grease stain pre-treater, knot detangler. All available in a convenient travel size, and often for less than a buck.

Now, please excuse me while I sprinkle some on my toes and venture off into the city.

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!

And, holy cats, the Gastrognome did not disappoint in the friendship department. For a goody-goody like me, she’s a great foil – the girl who makes you try new things, like mooning cars or calling up the boy you like before immediately hanging up. Only, you know, with food. She went with us to Pho King, a trip which we had arranged months ago, after she found out that the hole-in-the-wall in San Diego had stolen her future restaurant name (I understand entirely. If someone ever starts a bakery called “Much Ado About Frosting”, heads will roll).

So much Pho King ...

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And, rather than be creeped out by the somewhat sticky tables and weird guy roaming around the parking lot with his belly exposed, she was totally at ease with everything: picking through the menu, ordering appetizers for the table, sampling unusual soft drinks, and testing the heat of each of the three hot sauces at the table. No snobbery. No elitism. No “I-know-more-than-you-so-do-as-I-say” attitude.

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The adorable Gastrognome and my almost-equally-adorable husband: immediately prior to the impromptu jalapeno-eating contest that took place at our table.

In short? A great person with whom to share a meal, or even a trip.

A scandalously short time later, we went out again to eat (what? Don’t judge me. Pre-meal meals are awesome), and as we shared a plate of oysters, she once again showed her chops, explaining what each of the oysters were, the accompaniments, and telling me tales of a place in New Orleans with 25 cent oysters. Fairy tales for foodies.

Like I said before, you absolutely must find yourself a food blogger. And once again, no – you can’t have mine.

But, holy crap, is she awesome.

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).

This happens again and again.

And now there are pajama jeans. For those who want the ill-fitting, droopy-ass look of pajamas, with the glamour of denim!

I can’t get these, right? Because then I might actually wear them, and that would be very, very wrong. Hygienically, the idea of sleeping in something, wearing it out and about, and then sleeping in it, again, is kind of horrifying.

And yet, isn’t that what happens with any item of clothing I wear on flights?

Besides, if I’m going to give up on looking fashionable and not care at all what I look like on a trip, shouldn’t I at least be comfortable?

Honestly, I think these are a revelation. They’re the sort of thing that could only exist in the great, great nation that is America. We’re the home of chocolate-covered bacon, Cop Rock, and now sleepwear pretending to be pants.

The last time I was this impressed with a piece of clothing disguised as yet another piece of clothing was when those t-shirts that look like tuxedos first came out. Remember?

Photo courtesy of vintagecotton.com

Maybe I’ll pair one with my jean-jamas.

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.

And it was those clearly thought-out and not-at-all forgotten reasons that had me conflicted about blogging about this STINK.  Because, frankly it seems weird to cover something that  Cory Doctorow already wrote about. Oh, and I was also conflicted about the fact that I have to suggest you all go out and buy guns. And travel with them.

Hello? Are you still there?

Because this is insane. And I don’t actually advocate it, but it is pretty damn fascinating. Doctorow’s advice, gleaned from this blog entry, is that if you want to make sure the airline doesn’t lose your checked luggage, you can always pack a gun in your bag. When you notify the airline (during check-in) that you are carry a weapon (legally, of course), they are required to take extra steps to secure your bag, lock it, and track it like hawks. So not only is your bag less likely to be lost altogether, but the odds of someone reaching in and helping themselves to your valuables becomes pretty much nil.

If you’re like me (god help you), you’ve probably managed to injure yourself while opening the mail. Consequently, the idea of not only owning, but packing and traveling with a weapon sounds horrifying. Besides that, wouldn’t acquiring and registering a weapon actually be a ton of work? Apparently not. The TSA considers starter pistols (as in those little pistols that fire blanks and make a loud noise to signal the start of a track meet) to meet their gun criteria – as in, they’ll track your bag if you’ve got one in there. But according to U.S. laws, you don’t actually need to register starter pistols anywhere.

Of course, I’m not saying that you absolutely must travel with a starter pistol – truth be told, the whole idea sounds insane to me, and potentially disastrous. But given the course of the TSA as of late, and how you basically can’t sneeze or even pray on a plane without getting yourself into trouble, it’s kind of comforting to think that there are things you can do to make sure the TSA works for you.

It just involves carrying a gun.

Of course, the closest we've ever come to packing heat was the time Rand has a menorah in his suitcase. Ba-dum-dum!

But none of this changes the fact Threadless has some absolutely adorable t-shirts out there. And since they’re now not as en vogue as they were, say, 4 or 5 years ago, it is now officially cool to wear their clothing again. Hell, one could probably get away with wearing their tees even if she’s pushing 30 … or pulling 25, as it were.

So even those these aren’t technically travel items, they are tangentially related to travel. And let’s face it: so is my blog.

I particularly love the design that won their Threadless Loves Travel II design competition. It’s entitled Globetrotter, and it features a woman riding a HORSE THAT’S ACTUALLY A GLOBE.

As the kids would say, “ZOMG”. Which, I believe, is an expression of excitement. Either that, I just proposed to you in Klingon.

Oh, and then there’s this:

If there is a god (and if there is one, I’m pretty sure he lives in Italy), I would already own this. Hell, everyone in Italy should own this shirt.

Sigh. I miss John Paul.

Yeah. Well, maybe not everyone. But still, it’s cute.

No, really.

Okay, fine – but they’ve changed the way I pack, and that’s a big part of my life. So there.

I first became aware of packing cubes when I went to Italy with the lovely Pinguina in 2008. I had seen them before at luggage stores, but the price kept me away. I figured they fell into the vast category of entirely unnecessary and potentially satanic products: like peep-toe Ugg boots (designed for getting pedicures in cold weather), a yodeling pickle, and anything from the Paris Hilton “clothing” line.  These things were just invented to make you spend your money and question the existence of god, right?

Pinguina had a few packing cubes in which she carried smaller articles of clothing (socks, bras, t-shirts, etc.). And they while they first seemed totally unnecessary, the ease with which she unpacked and repacked her bags, and was able to find exactly what she was looking for without leaving her hotel room and suitcase in shambles had me convinced that I needed them, too.

I bought three of them for a subsequent trip, and I have used them ever since. It was glorious. For a hyper-organizer like myself, there’s nothing better than putting things in little bags BEFORE putting them in your bag. It’s like the Russian nesting dolls for your luggage. Plus, everything fits into your suitcase so easily and symmetrically, you’ll find yourself humming the theme to “Tetris”.

Also, I just realized I managed to squeeze two references to Russian pop culture into one paragraph. Which is bizarre, but nevertheless makes me proud (after all, I’m half Russian. It was bound to come out somewhere).

Of course, the downside to all this is the price. I have three of Eagle Creek’s Pack-It Cube Organizers (because that’s the brand they carried in the store I went to), and they ran me about $12 each. You can find them a little cheaper on  Amazon.com, but not by much. There are also less-expensive options made by ebags and (sigh) Rick Steves. I don’t think there’s a big difference between the brands, so I’d go with cheaper if possible (as long as it’s not Rick Steves).

Okay, fine. So Rick Steves' Packing Cubes don't actually have his face on them. I don't know if that's a selling point or not.

Of course, the true test of the awesomeness of the packing cube came from Rand. Every time he leaves for a trip, I ask him if he wants to use one of the cubes, and he emphatically refuses, saying he doesn’t see the point. So for his trip down to California last week, I didn’t even bother offering him use of the cubes. But I found he had taken one, anyway. When I commented on it, he immediately got defensive (for the record, defensive Rand is adorable):

“What? You said I could use them if I wanted to!”

You may not realize it, but this is actually a glowing endorsement, masqueraded as a whine, from someone who travels far more than I do. If Rand can admit he needs a packing cube, you might need one, too.