I can’t take his money … I can’t print my own money … I have to work for money … Why don’t I just lay down and die? — Homer Simpson, The Simpsons
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“… I think it’s repellant in every way. In fact, I think most Scottish cuisine is based on a dare.” – Mike Myers, So I Married An Axe Murderer
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I didn’t find haggis repellant: just for the record. It tastes like all other offal, like liver or kidneys, which I rather enjoy, even though my aunt describes them as “tasting of urine.” (Note: never tell her you love something she hates, because she will try to destroy it in your heart. She doesn’t mean to be evil … she just is.) Trube told, the hubby and I rather liked haggis. I wouldn’t eat it everyday, nor do I think it would make good hangover food. But as a bite here and there? Pretty fantastic.

All in all, Scottish food has a fairly bad reputation (especially stateside. Tell me the last time you visited a Scottish restaurant), but there are definitely some culinary bright spots during our trip to Glasgow. (more…)

I was originally going to make this a Dick Move! post, but honestly, if I did that every single time I felt the inclination, that’s all this site would be (and I’m pretty sure I can’t get the domain dickmove.com, and if I did, I would probably get a lot of misdirected traffic). But I digress. Besides, sometimes potential Dick Moves allow me to learn something useful that I can pass on to you, faithful reader.

This week’s lesson? If you’re catching a sightseeing bus tour in Scotland, you have to act like you want. I mean, really, really want it. Make a banner saying, “PLEASE STOP!” or “NAUGHTY CATHOLIC GIRL TRYING TO UPSET HER PARENTS” or “FREE WHISKEY” or something to that effect. Show some leg, and possibly some other body part. Jump up and down like a moron. Anything to get the driver to stop.

Otherwise, that tour bus will pass you right by.

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I figured I couldn’t take the piss out of my brother yesterday without taking a few moments to talk about what it means to be a gracious host. Because yes, opening up your home to someone is a wonderful and generous thing to do, but if you leave them so emotionally scarred that the cost of future therapy sessions will far outweigh what they would have spent on a hotel, it’s not at all worth it.

Here are my ten rules for making sure that your guests have a lovely vacation (and if it isn’t lovely, these rules will make sure they can’t blame you):

1. Give them clean sheets. Not everyone has a spare bed (or spare bedroom). But even if someone has to sleep on the couch, a nice pristine sheet can make all the difference. Our host’s once graciously gave up their own bed for us, but after we climbed in, we realized the sheets had not been changed. I spent 2 hours the next day trying to wash someone else’s B.O. out of my hair. (Shudder).
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2. Clean up communal areas. While no one expects your house to be spotless (it’s where you live, after all), take some care in cleaning up a bit before your guests arrive. Remove embarassing ointments and fungal creams from the dining room table. Secure whips and chains in the hall closet. Kindly ask your husband to put on pants. You know, that sort of thing.
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The other day we were hanging out with some friends – some American, some not, and we realized that none of us were really sure what countries are included in the phrase “United Kingdom”. Nor did we know what’s a part of “Great Britain.” England, we pretty much figured out (they’re those wussy guys who tried to tax us, right?).

The point is, along with which colors indicates positive and negative charges on a pair of jumper cables, these are things that we all should probably know, but don’t (For the record, red is positive and black is negative). I figured it was best to set the record straight (for myself and others) before we actually head out Glasgow and London next week. So while our British reader (Hi, Will!) sits back and cringes, the rest of you should pay attention, because we might all learn something. (more…)

When it comes to picking travel companions, I’ve been lucky. Save for a totally useless kid I dated in college who was a walking disaster both at home and on the one trip we took together, I’ve managed to find people who are fun, adventurous, and not-at-all embarassing to come along with me on trips (or, more appropos, who let me join them while they go on trips). Of course, most of these said people are my husband. And Pinguina. But they’re both so awesome that they should count as more than one person each.

That’s not to say that I haven’t heard horror stories: from a friend of mine who nearly got arrested because of a didn’t-know-when-to-shut-up travel buddy, to another who got sued because the girls he traveled with wanted him to pay for the entirety of their hotel (he won the case, and the girls were found guilty of being lame). With all the things that can go wrong on a trip (losing luggage, having a crazy naked dude attack you, seeing the pants of the guy sitting next to you erupt into flames), a crazy travel companion is not something you want to add to that list. (more…)

I don’t have kids. I won’t insult anyone who does have children by pretending I understand what it’s like to have a child. I can only assume that it’s unbearable. Not that it isn’t wonderful and amazing and all, but just that loving someone so entirely and completely must be kind of exhausting and all-consuming and kind of difficult to stand.

I say this because I spent about a week with my cousin’s kids, and I swear, my heart couldn’t take much more than that. When you kneel down next to someone and ask them what they want for Christmas, what would make them happier than anything else, and they reply in a raspy little voice, “a choo-choo train” … Christ. I just can’t take it. It feels like my heart will implode.

We totally bought him a choo-choo. I'd have gotten him a real damn train if he had asked.

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During my last visit to California, there were inevitably a lot of questions from my family members about my life.

Or rather, there was one question, but it was asked roughly 400 times.

“When are you having kids?”

I swear to holy god, next time someone asks me that, I am going to punch them in the esophagus. As long as you’re asking questions that are none of your goddamn business, why not be more graphic about it? How about, “When are you going to allow fertilization of one or more of your eggs by your hubby’s sperm?” Personally, I can’t understand why questions about when we’re going to have kids are acceptable, but questions about someone’s sexual mechanics aren’t. It’s the same damn thing.

Besides, my husband clearly hates children:

See? They're killing him. It's awful.

This is my husband and my godson. And no, it does not make my heart hurt. Not one bit. Nooo ...

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You probably know what I’m about to tell you already. It’s painfully obvious. But it’s so damn important, I figure it needs to be said.

Take lots of photos.

I know, I know – this isn’t news, you’re thinking. She must be really hard up for something to write about, you’re thinking (and okay, you wouldn’t exactly be wrong about that. I’ve been home for the last three weeks, and my cup isn’t exactly runneth-ing over). But as I’m going through my numerous Flickr sets, I’m beginning to realize something.

Travel is all about the memories. And the memories are all in the photos.

Ugh. Sorry. That was a bit of a Hallmark moment there. I try and stay away from those. The thing is, no one returns from a trip thinking, I should have taken fewer pictures. Souvenirs are well and good, but photos … well, photos are kind of everything. And so many people I know take far too few of them. (more…)

Cat-calling, I’ve found, is somewhat universal. At least, from my experiences it is (whether or not the Amhara of Djibouti experience this phenomenon is unknown to me). It varies a bit across countries, like sit-coms: the Italian ones are cheesy, the Americans are a bit vulgar, the English ones are kinda lame, and the German ones are non-existent.

At home, I kind of don’t have a problem with it. Or, rather, if I have a problem with cat-calling, I know how to deal. Once, while walking through Westlake Center (a mall and courtyard in downtown Seattle), a huge, imposing man (he must have been at least 6′2″ and pushing 300 pounds) leaned in and said, well …

Let’s just say he complimented my reproductive organs.

And I might have freaked out. While I can’t precisely remember what I said (or I can, but don’t want to repeat it), it was something about how he should be fruitful and multiply (with himself), and that I doubted his opinion on female reproductive organs, because he probably hadn’t seen any but his own mother’s. (more…)