Whaur's the Cludgie?

*Translation: "Where's the toilet?"*
As promised, I am here to document my no good, terrible, very bad day in Scotland. 'Twas a wee bit o' Hell, that one.

My first clue should have been having to wake up at 5 AM to catch a plane at an airport that was an hour away.

Did I mention that there were 2,000 round abouts between point A and point B? How about that I am especially prone to motion sickness?

Needless to say, being in the front seat with the air on full blast drinking small sips of cool water couldn't have saved me from the impending dizziness.

After riding a transport bus (my first of what would be MANY unhappy methods of public transportation for the day) from the parking lot to the hangar, we spent the usual exorbitant amount of time wading through security and the likes.

Gem was strip searched. My one consolation.
(I shouldn't have laughed... Karma sucks.)

Knowing that I was fresh out of my new best friend, Dramamine, I planned on purchasing some at the airport. After searching through the nearest convenience booth, the closet thing I could find was Travella. The 'all-natural' solution to motion sickness.

Ya know, I've decided to avoid 'all-natural' products.
Considering people die from 'natural' causes.

Regardless, the stuff was worthless because, for the first time in my life, I felt like I was going to put that little white barf bag stowed in the seat in front of me to good use.

An hour later, I was in Scotland.
And wished I was dead.

I spent the next 45 minutes in and out of the nearest restroom. My stomach never did decide to rid it's contents but, boy howdy, it sure toyed with the idea.

By this time, it was mid-morning and time was a wastin'. So we hopped in the nearest 'people carrier' (what we would call a van) and made our way up the windy roads of Edinburgh to the castle.

You read that right. Windy roads.

I sat, staring forward blankly, with a Dr. Pepper (Dad thought it would 'help settle my stomach')  in hand listening to the larger-than-life taxi driver chatter on about anything and everything in a heavy Scottish accent.

He kept glancing at me warily, no doubt wondering why I looked like death and hoping that I wouldn't ornament his dashboard with sick.

It was a close call. I'm not gonna lie.

Lucky me. The main entrance to the castle was barricaded in preparation for a weekend celebration. This equated in having to use my legs to trek up the steep cobblestone the remainder of the way. Which I did not appreciate.

Just past the main portcullis entrance of the almost 600 year old fortification was a public 'toilet' which we decided to utilize before exploring the many grand structures.

To make a long story short, my day became oh-so-much better upon realizing that not only would I be making good friends with mister nausea, but I would also be graced with T.O.M.'s weekly presence (for which I was not prepared).

Trudging back outside, I asked if anyone had 20 pence to spare.
"What for??", my mom practically yelled.

This interrogation was exactly NOT what I needed.

My nerves were shot.

"To buy a TAMPON." I snapped, "Shall I announce it to the world??!" I've never seen pocket change appear so quickly.

But oh. I've neglected to mention is the lovely weather Scotland afforded me. Namely, penetrating rain and overcast chilliness. To combat the elements I naturally wore fabric ballet flats and a light jacket.

Perfect.

Being the gentleman that he is, my older brother offered me his fleece lined hoodie which made matters considerably warmer, if nothing else. But nothing could have saved my feet from soggily sloshing with each step.

And so, there I was. Sick. Tired. Ornery. Wet. PMSing. Drugged.

and surviving on a few bites of birdseed bagel I had stomached hours earlier.

On a happier note: I did like the castle's architecture and impressive history. I just wish that I had been lucid enough to enjoy it properly.

Once we had finished our tour and listened to the 1-o'clock gun, we started down the royal mile, stopping at shops here and there to look at the plethora of kilts, umbrellas and Celtic jewelry. Things were starting to look up because aside from being hit by a bus, that was really the only way left to go.

We ate dinner at a yummy little Italian place and then made our way back down to the airport. Even our stoic taxi driver couldn't have upset new perspective.

Hooray! I was almost home. I had Dramamine and hope.
Wait. What? The boarding passes are incorrect?

The flight home isn't from Edinburgh to Stansted? From Stansted to Edinburgh? But we're in Edinburgh. How does that even work?

Is there another flight?
We have to wait two hours?
It's to another airport?
Is this the lowest circle of Hell?

Okay. Whatever. Just get us home at all costs.

The cherry on top of this blessed day was being groped by airport security after setting off the metal detector wearing the EXACT same clothing, electronics removed, that I had earlier. Gem was smart enough not to laugh, though she deserved the revenge.

Thus, I spent the next six hours on a plane, then a tram, then the subway, then a transfer, then a bus, having a breakdown, then another bus, then a train, then a transport, then a car.

I stepped over the threshold at 4 AM.
It had been nearly 24 hours since I had left that fateful morning.

I had almost pulled my first all-nighter.
And I had almost died in the process.

Yet my life had been spared leaving only one thing certain:

You were NOT good to me Scotland.
No you weren't.

You Snooze, I Lose.

As you may know, I just got back from a month long whirlwind trip through England, Denmark and Scotland. On the whole, I had an amazing time seeing castles, famous landmarks, Broadway musicals, the works.

However, knowing me, the events that I am most likely to document are those in which I did NOT have such a pleasant experience.

Because hey, I'm free from all prejudices. I hate everyone equally.
(New favorite quote found in a quote book I purchased at Edinburgh Castle titled 'Now Panic and Freak Out'.)

So what I will now recount is the story of what was most possibly the 2nd or 3rd worst night of my life. Prepare yourself.

Here's how it went down:
The fam (including my mom, pops, Gem and brother's family) were on a week-long road trip through Wales. After a long day of England-y fun, we pulled into the closest Travelodge to spend the night.

My brother and his family bunked down in the first room along the hall while Gem, the parents and I caved out in the next.

Feeling particular grimy after a day on the road, I decided to take a shower before hitting the sack. So after adequately steaming, primping and lotioning, I made my way out into the silence.

Amazingly, everyone was already asleep.
(Because, heaven's knows, my short showers are legendary.)

Happily snuggling into the crisp white duvet atop my creaky trundle, I let out a sigh of relief. I had almost dozed into a blissful dreamland when I heard...

IT. (Please turn volume to it's highest level for full effect.)

There was a LAWNMOWER in my room.
A lawnmower I lovingly refer to as Daddy-O.

Instantly my eyes shot open.

"Crap!" I remembered, "Dad snores!"
Panic fluttered through me for a brief instant but then I remembered something: I can sleep through anything!
(Or so I thought...)

Summoning all the willpower I possessed, I tried to ignore the foghorn immediately to my left.

...

Unfortunately, counting sheep or finding my happy place just wasn't cutting it. It was time for more aggressive measures.

I plugged my ears. Hummed my favorite hymn. (All lies, it doesn't work.)
By that point, I had wrapped my pillow around head like a bonnet, all to no avail.

And then, as if she were mocking me in my own private Hell, on my other side Gem began to softly snort. She remained unfazed through the cacophony.

Rolling to my back, I looked up to the ceiling and imagined if this was what death felt like.

I had reached my last nerve.
Moaning, I rolled over and tapped Dad.
"Dad. Dad!" I whispered, "You're snoring."

*silence*

Was fate kidding me??! Why hadn't I thought of this before??!
I began to relax.

(I'm sure you know what comes next.)

"SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!"
Immediately, I shot up.

"Dad, Dad, DAD.", I repeated, shaking him firmly.

He cleared his throat for a brief moment then rolled over.
Finally! I had achieved success! Because anyone who's endured my dad's roars knows he relentlessly claims that telling him to 'roll-over' is all you have to do.

After all, it's "NOT THAT BIG OF A DEAL". (His words. My eye!)

But it's all lies. Because, no joke, 30 seconds later, he started up the motor again.

If I were a nut, I would have cracked, and I think I did a little. Because suddenly, I found myself waking my mom. If I couldn't sleep, neither could she!

"Mom!" I hissed, "Keep Dad from snoring!"

She looked up, startled, and angrily made her way to the bathroom where she relieved herself, traipsed back to bed and within ten minutes was out cold.

SNORE.

That was it. I had hit the final straw.
"Oh my H***!!", came the war cry.
I was going to do something or I was going to die trying!

Gathering all of my bedding into my arms, I proceeded to drag my mattress into bathroom. I must have been making a zoo's worth of clamoring but, heck, why would anyone in this family rouse to excess noise??

Slamming the door behind me, I wedged the mattress into what little space the bathroom afforded, plopped down, accustomed myself to the muffled snoring seeping from under the door (doable) and remembered nothing else until the next morning when my very confused mother jammed the door into my side on her way to the loo.

In fact, it may be the best night's sleep I've ever had.

So it all goes to show that good things can come from bad situations. If you have a little ingenuity and a lot of pent up anger.

Stay tuned for a detailed description of my hellish day in Scotland.

Minty Shrimp Cupcakes.

I seem to be experiencing an overwhelming need for several things, as of late. It's creating an alarming trend.

I think my mom must've programmed it into me.

I swear. For a couple years there, every time we ate out, it was at Burger King, because she couldn't get enough of their Rodeo Burger.

But ask me now when was the last time I ate at Burger King?

Go ahead.

So long ago, I can't even remember.

In fact, Burger King's gross.

Since then, we've had intermittent bouts of food obsession ranging from Oreo shakes at Hogi Yogi to Mickey D's Mcdouble and fries.

But lately, oh lately, the winds of delicious change have been blowing.

Corinner-Elly's Latest Fetishes:

1) Shrimp: Why are those little fellas so tasty-licious??

Garlic creme sauce, coconut, fried, on-a-stick, honey walnut, fettuccine Alfredo, cocktail, you name it. If it has little crustacean legs and no head, I am going to eat it.



I mean, come on. That speech was pitiful and all...

but not pitiful enough to make me stop visiting Red Lobster!

mmmm....

2) Mints & gum: There's just something about fresh breath that fills me with joy.

My favorites? Icebreakers Spearmint mints...

and Eclipse Spearmint Big-E-Pak gum.

And somehow, 60 pieces doesn't seem nearly enough...

My adoration can be summed up by the following story:

"Gem and I were driving home one Sunday when she nonchalantly asked to have a mint from my purse. Realizing that I was almost out, I quickly reserved one for myself and graciously allowed her to partake of one herself should any remain. Luckily, there were exactly two left. Jauntily popping one into her mouth, she quickly dropped the other into what she thought was my open palm. It was not. It was instantly gone, lost in the abyss that is my car floor. Knowing that I was driving mint-less and slowing seeping into a state of panic, Gem offered to retrieve it for me. Long story short: she ended up diving head first under my seat to retrieve my beloved mint, legs flailing and wheels swerving. At some point, I'm not sure what, she pulled out a flashlight to further the hunt. There eventually came a moment where we almost gave up until finally... she found it! And I ate it. The End."

What?...

To the general population:
Yes, I did allow my sister to risk her life to retrieve an insignificant piece of breath refreshing sugar from under my seat while barreling down the highway at fifty miles per hour in an act of selfish desperation.

To my mother:
Of course I kept my sister safely buckled in the passenger seat while going well under the speed limit as I suffered from a severe case of halitosis all because I've built my life around being responsible and safe.

3) Cupcakes: Would you say that I enjoy a plethora of cupcakes? I would.

I made these little beauties for my last day of internship at the Orem Osmond Designs. They were banana cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, otherwise referred to as little pieces of heaven in a paper wrapper.

I'm sure you're wondering why I brought treats to my own farewell party? So am I.

Somehow it made sense in my mind...

They were a way to say 'thank you' for all of the help my coworkers had given me while I had worked... for them... for free... five hours a day... for four months...

Like I said. So am I.

But nevertheless, cupcakes are scrumptious. I especially enjoy the delightful, new-and-trendy gourmet cupcake shops.

Any one else notice how there's one on every corner now?
Right next the gajillion frozen yogurt places?

Not a complaint, just an observation.

That about sums it up.

Who knows what it'll be next week.

I hope it's chicken wings...

Cause & Effect.

Everything has a consequence.

For example:

This is what happens when you let your local 'foot-and-ankle-clinic-working' roommate paint your toenails. Yay zebra!

Aren't they fantasmical?

But this is what happens when you let your 'not-so-formally-trained-as-a-dermatologist' father come at you with a can of air duster and a Q-tip. And this was even a few days later.

The immediate consequences were too gruesome to document on my G-rated blog. We're talking blisters. Possibly even comparable to boils.

What is the difference between a blister and a boil anyway?

Huh. According to Wikipedia,  "a boil, also called a furuncle, is a deep folliculitis, infection of the hair follicle. It is almost always caused by infection by the bacterium Staphylococcus aureus, resulting in a painful swollen area on the skin caused by an accumulation of pus and dead tissue."

Okay. Maybe PG.

But I'm sure you're wondering why I allowed Daddy-O to freeze off my epidermis with liquid nitrogen anyways? The truth is: I'm still wondering myself.

Suffice it to say, I have bumps.

(Ha ha, Gem. Get your mind out of the gutter.)

I guess, technically, they're really flat warts. But that name grosses me out beyond all belief. So I prefer to call them 'bumps'. Tiny, colorless bumps on my hand and arm that nobody really notices except me.

Which is why I let strange men burn them off. (No offense, Dad.)

And yet, they keep coming back!

I've decided that the more I'm determined they must go, the more determined they are to come back. Stubborn little suckers.

Same thing with the diamond shaped mole I've had on my right arm for as long as I can remember. When I was little, I told my mom how intensely I detested it and, without fail, every time she'd try to convince me that it was a beauty mark.

Does this look like a stupid face to you???

Don't answer that.

So when I convinced her to fund a trip to the dermatologist, I thought my blemish free dreams had finally come true.

HA.

Don't ever dream. It always ends badly.

'Cuz here I am, a year-and-a-half later and the diamond shaped 'beauty mark' is making its reappearance. CURSES.

Somebody just chop off my arms and put me out of my misery.