Dinner reservations have been made. I rummaged through my closet, pulled out an array of dresses, tossed half of them back in, pulled out some different ones, and think I finally decided on an outfit.
Later, I’ll start the 2-6 hour depilatory process required of all Italian women before going out on a date. Because tonight? Tonight is going to be fun.
It’s the day after Valentine’s Day, after all.
The nice thing about the amount that Rand and I travel is that it’s made me less fussy about things.
No, really. It has.
What? Why are you laughing?
I’m serious. I’m far less picky and difficult about things.
STOP LAUGHING.
Okay, okay, fine – I’m still difficult about some things. Certain members of my family think I’m an over-privileged brat because a few weeks back, the following expression escaped my lips:
“There is absolutely no way I’m flying cross-country on a red-eye in coach.”
Seriously, who said that? It’s like I was temporarily possessed by someone who was raised in an upper-middle class family. But those weird instances aside, I try to keep my travel expectations within reason.
Take hotel rooms, for instance.
Fact: If the rules aren't in a language you can read, you don't have to follow them.
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 rules are broken, it makes me anxious. If restaurants have a crowd of people out front, and no discernible means of figuring out who got their first? I start to panic. I’m convinced that unless someone pulls out an numbered list with names (and party sizes) written on it, we’re going to be seconds away from pure anarchy. People will pull hair and choke one another as they fight to get to the buffet. Lobsters will be pulled out of the tank and eaten, live, or used as weapons. And absolutely no one will use their napkins.
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 above me.
Those of you who know what I’m referring to will agree: that’s short.
I’ve no particular issue with my height. At times I wish my legs were longer, because skirts look ghastly on me, but that’s about it. I don’t actually wish to be taller, except on those rare occasions when Rand puts the cereal on the top shelf, and I can’t find my stepping stool.
Oh, and during concerts. Because concerts, when you’re 5’2″? Those suck beyond belief. Here, in brief, is what it’s like:
Arrive at venue. Suddenly become aware that nearly all of your friends are absurdly tall. Seemingly at the same moment, they notice your height for the first time. They stare at you blankly, with an expression that reads, “How did I never notice before that she’s a pygmy?”
After a few seconds, you friend will utter the phrase that you’ve heard time and again – the one that is always on your mind: “Are you going to be able to see?”
You shrug, and say your are going to be fine, because that seems easier than screaming, “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK?” and insisting they carry you on their shoulders.
Folks begin filter in. Claustrophobia ensues, as you become intimately acquainted with the middle of people’s backs.
Every concert I've been to, EVER.
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It’s been a crazy-busy week. So busy, that I was contemplating simply writing, “Here. Links. You like.” And having that be it. But it seemed a bit … I don’t know … minimalist? Still, isn’t minimalism a good thing?
Probably. And in that spirit: Here. Links. You like.
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50 states, 50 breakfasts. Damn it. Now I’m hungry.
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How to win any argument online. (Warning: intelligent debate will be a casualty). (via @nerdseyeview)
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A great analysis of The King’s Speech, and Oscar bait in general.
My blog is very up-to-date.
The things that I write about? They happened very recently. Even if it seems that I’ve purposely left out any allusions to time or dates, that’s not because I’m writing about things that transpired months ago. No.
Definitely not. (Look around nervously.)
And now, I’d like to present ten pictures from our San Francisco trip, which totally didn’t take place way back in December, and I’m only getting around to putting up the photos now. Nope.
The lights behind us are definitely NOT from a Christmas tree. They're from ... um ... fireflies! Yes. Fireflies. In the middle of downtown S.F.
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Rand explained that most Victoria's Secret shops are called Victor's Secret in S.F.
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Over the years, I’ve developed a mantra. A little phrase I repeat to myself, when I become so fed up with the entire world that I just might scream. I close my eyes, I take a deep breath, and I say it gently to myself.
“I hate humanity,” I say.
Okay, fine. So it’s not exactly a mantra. Mantras are supposed to calm you down and bring you inner peace. Mine simply serves to put words to the blackness that I feel in the center of my soul for my fellow man, a blackness so dark and hateful, that if I don’t channel it, distill it into those three powerful words, I will start screaming.
I simply utter them under my breath, usually once, maybe twice. My confession instantly makes me feel better. And since I’ve declared hatred for all humanity, my expectations are ridiculously low. If you define people as being generally loathsome, you can’t get angry when right-turning drivers honk impatiently at pedestrians who have right-of-way, or when restaurant patrons belittle the waitstaff for things they can’t possibly control.
I hate humanity. So I can’t be disappointed by it.
Our trip to San Diego last over the holidays was marred with some heinous weather. It rained, for 7 straight days.
In Seattle, this is known simply as “a week.”
But in San Diego, land of sunshine and mirth, it was a sign of the end of days. People were acting weird. Like, vacant-eyed, moody, maybe-I-should-take-up-the-guitar-because-I’m-stuck-inside weird. Being from the Pacific Northwest, this phenomenon was not unfamiliar to us.
Rand and I watched them as though they were hamsters in a cage. We’d occasionally tap on the glass, to see what they’d do. Mostly, they complained/marveled at the weather, acted confused, and then got into fender benders because they can’t drive in any sort of precipitation. (Insert another zinger here noting that this is how we Seattlites react to snow).
While we are no strangers to wet winter weather, we were bummed by San Diego’s downpour. Rand and I hoped that we’d get to enjoy the sun, and some long, lazy days spent outside, drinking margaritas and laughing at people who consider 65-degree weather “chilly”. Instead, we were soaked. And miserable. Probably more so than had we stayed at home. Because Seattle is supposed to be rainy and rotten in December. San Diego is not.
I suppose you want to know what all this nonsense is about. You’ve come to the right page...
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