There comes a point, when traveling, that you simply cease to care. You may find that everything in your suitcase inexplicably smells like sauerkraut, or that you are sharing a train car with a guy who you are absolutely certain has a hacked up body in his bag, and provided none of those things prevent…
“You know what they say … if you don’t like the weather, shut up.” – text of an email I received from Groupon today. Spring is coming. I know technically it’s already here, should have started roughly a month ago, but in Seattle all bets are off. In this town, you see things that will…
I like to think that I possess a healthy dose of skepticism. I never truly bought into the whole “Santa” myth as a kid, though I totally pretended to in order to bond with a friend of mine (my commitment to the Catholic church also had similar origins). I have been known to call shenanigans…
– You know that old joke about heaven and hell? How in heaven, the police are British, the engineers are German, the cooks are Italian, the lovers are French? And how in hell, the roles are jumbled up? The police are German, the cooks are British, and, perhaps most cruelly of all, the bureaucrats are…
I’ve been reading a lot about Italy lately, in anticipation of an upcoming trip. Blog posts from my fellow Americans, mostly, about their thoughts on the country, and specifically Rome. They all tend to center around the same themes: the city is crazy, the people are crazy, the traffic is crazy, watch your purse/wallet/bag, and…
There are the travel stories you can tell everyone. The people at the bus stop, your dentist, your co-workers. You can safely tell them about how you went to Southern California and it poured every day, or how in Scotland they offer scotch as a topping for oatmeal. You can do this without fear of…
And we never did stop talking and you still light up the room/ I was made for sunny days. I make due with gray/ I was made for sunny days and I was made for you. – There’s a song Rand has been playing a lot recently. It breaks my heart a little, each time…
I obey the rules. Like, always. I can’t help it: I’m from Seattle. We don’t jaywalk. We wait our turn. And if someone cuts in front of us in line? Well, you can be damn sure we will politely glare at their backs and pray that the universe will smite them for their transgressions. When…
I am short. I mean, not dangerously short. I don’t run a risk of poking my eye out on a door handle or anything like that. But short nevertheless. As in, if I’m not wearing heels, I can stand straight up from my seat on an airplane and not hit my head on the console…
Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury
by Geraldine DeRuiter
Available Now!
In Hardback, e-book, and audiobook from these booksellers:
