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.
I’m finally (kind of, sort of) over the Colts’ loss a few weeks ago that I think I can finally talk about the Superbowl.
And I promise I’ll make only one catty comment about the Saints. Maybe two.
Some of Rand’s colleagues were over from the U.K. and joined us, along with a handful of our friends, to watch the Superbowl. And over the course of the game, we discovered a couple of things …
If you aren’t an American, football may be boring to you. Or confusing. Or pointless. Or really, really violent. Thankfully, after decades of it being part of our culture, we have become blissfully desensitized to this.
Understanding the object of the game only gets you so far. It’s one thing to know that the team needs to move the ball in certain direction. it’s another altogether to understand the rules, the logic behind downs (is there any?), and what, exactly, some of the penalties mean.
Don’t try and explain the scoring convention. People will just look at you like you are nuts. (”Wait … what’s the reasoning behind the ‘extra point’ again?” Here’s the thing: no one knows).
Cricket is even more complicated and longer than football. If your guests get a bit ornery, just remind them of that (in all fairness, our guests did not get ornery, nor did they fall asleep, despite being jet-lagged. The only person who ended up crashing was actually a local and a football fan. Go figure).
The Superbowl actually airs in the U.K., stretching into the wee small hours of the morning (due to the timechange). Also, it airs without commercials, which kind of defeats a lot of the purpose for many people.
Anywho, I felt fortunate that I had the chance to introduce our U.K. cohorts to something quintessentially American. It was actually a lot of fun, despite the fact that the entire country decided to become Saints fans for approximately 2 hours, before sinking back into the woodwork and forgetting Drew Brees’ name. My logic was this: I don’t hate the Saints, but how the hell can you root for another team when you’ve loved Peyton Manning for years? You can’t. Consequently, I defend my choice (and possible ensuing temper tantrum) as morally justifiable, and even noble.
But back to our very American Superbowl party … It was CRAZY.
Babies drank beer:
Though in all fairness, this behavior would simply describe any Tuesday in Bavaria.--
-
Grown men took naps:
Poor little guy. He had a long day.
-
And, like any good party in the U.S. of A, we had food on sticks. In this case, it was pizza:
Mmm ... on a stick.
-
I think if it fits on a stick, it has fewer calories ... right?
God, I love the Superbowl. Even when the Saints win.
It is stunning in Seattle right now. We’re only here for two more days, counting today, and that makes me a bit sad, because really, it is glorious.
We’re off for San Diego next week, and New Orleans after that, with Rand hopping on planes throughout for meetings all over the damn place. He’s important like that. Read the rest of this entry »
I am really, really tired. We got back into town about three hours ago from our Glasgow/London trip, and I am doing my best to fight off sleep – it’s not quite 8 pm on Wednesday, and I can’t really justify going to bed now, even though, as I type this, my eyes will barely focus.
So you’ll have to forgive me for the utter lack of photos and grammar in this post. Like I said, I’m tired. We haven’t been home in a week, and the house looks just as we left it. The over-ripe pears I forgot on the counter are a little closer to becoming sentient, but that’s about it. We’ve been traveling to the point that I begin to forget what it’s like to be home – everything around me looks vaguely familiar, but before I get too comfortable, we’ll be off again.
I attempt to stick my entire fist in my mouth. Not long after, it will be my foot.
Oh, shit.
I’m not perfect, right? I’ve never pretended otherwise. Next week I’m devoting an entire post to WTF was going on with my hair in Scotland. I can’t even give the semblance of normality for one-tenth of a second. I am a tragically flawed and neurotic person, and I’ve been lucky enough in life to have found someone who finds my many shortcomings to be charming.
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):
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). -
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. Read the rest of this entry »
My brother just returned to the states (with his wife) from Hong Kong. They currently don’t have an apartment, and my brother is crashing on couches (both in San Diego and in Los Angeles) while looking for a new place. I sincerely feel sympathy for whoever is hosting him, because my brother is not the best of houseguests, and it’s something that no one in my family seems to call him on.
Case in point: Last visit down to S.D., my cousins and aunt were rendered nearly speechless by the fact that my brother made the guest bed he was sleeping in. I kid you not. And it wasn’t like the bed-making was recent. My brother wasn’t even around. They were just still impressed by the last time he made the bed, several months after the fact. They went on about it for hours (”He’s changed so much since getting married.” “He’s so responsible now!”). I, on the other hand, was chastised for not REPAINTING MY MOM’S HOUSE (both interior and exterior) singlehandedly. Read the rest of this entry »
The other day, fellow blogger and copywriter Philip posted this to his Facebook account:
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). Read the rest of this entry »
It’s the Tuesday after the Superbowl. It is a day that holds a special place in my heart. Because on the Tuesday after the Superbowl, 2007, this happened:
