Archive | April, 2011

I am blogging. From my new office in our new place, and not, say, surreptitiously using Rand’s computer while he’s in the shower or at work or otherwise distracted (note: shiny things, scotch, and old NFL highlights from seasons past work well to draw away his attention). Now, this does not in any way mean we’ve moved in, but it means we’re getting there, which really, is all you can ask for after having been in a place a week (that, and knowing where your next clean pair of underwear is. And my friends, the answer to that is IN THE DRAWER. YES. WIN.)

So while we’re celebrating our home-organizational success over here, and the folks across the pond are celebrating the Queen’s birthday or whatever, I give you my first link round-up in absolutely ages. Enjoy.

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Congratulations are in order for my hubby and the rest of the crew at SEOmoz. They were ranked #6 on the list of Seattle Met Magazine’s Best Places to Work.

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Sorry, Kate and Will, but this is the most blissful union I can think of. But it still doesn’t explain why I can’t feed the little guy after midnight.

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You guys will forgive me for phoning this one in, right? (As a side note, I do not know where my phone is). But yesterday’s post made me realize exactly how much moving to a new place really is like travel, and since it’s been ages since I last did a top ten post (or any post, for that matter) I figured it was high time for one.

Oh – and for those of you playing along at home, take comfort in the fact that last night Rand and I successfully built an enormous IKEA bookshelf together without killing one another (and also, we’ve returned to our habit of making out in alcoves and being mistaken for street people. Thank you, JEEBUS).

Where was I? Ah, yes: 10 reasons why moving is a lot like travel.

  1. Strangers see your underwear. While on the road, it may happen when vicious airplane turbulence sends you careening out of the lavatory with your skivvies around your knees (this, far more so than falling out of the sky, is my greatest fear when flying). Or when the hotel staff comes to clean up your room, and you find that in a fit of passion (a.k.a., laziness), you tossed a pair into the air and it landed on a wall sconce, where the staff mercifully left it. During a move, it may happen when a drawer comes flinging out of a dresser, spilling your unmentionables across the street like confetti at a Fourth of July parade. Whatever the case, I pray neither group judges me for my collection of granny panties (What? They’re comfortable). (more…)

We got a ton of boxes from the local grocer. I'm sure the movers thought we were alcoholics ... who really like bananas.

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Hi. Remember me?

Yeah, it’s been a while. And I’m sincerely sorry. Those of you who’ve followed the blog religiously for last year or so (to whom I say both “thank you” and “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”) know that this is out-of-character. My highly-developed sense of Catholic guilt combined with an over-achiever attitude and the fact that I usually have nothing to do, mean that I can blog usually 5 times a week. But the last month or so has been chaos. And when one is living out of a suitcase IN THEIR OWN HOME and wondering how many more days she can go without doing laundry (because who the hell knows where the laundry detergent is at this point), some things fall to the wayside. Like blogging. And laundry.

And relationships.

In the interest of full disclosure, I’ll tell you now: Rand and I have been, more or less, at each other’s throats.

Now, don’t go freaking out. It’s not a big a deal. It’s nothing we can’t handle. This blog post won’t be the first in a long list that leads up to a post announcing our divorce, possibly titled, “The Everywhereist Goes Solo” (though that is a cool blog post title, and I might use it for something else. So if you see it, don’t freak out.) It’s just that moving is incredibly, incredibly stressful, as I’m sure many of you know. And moving for the second time in two years, and the third time in four years, is exponentially more so (and we have the luxury of actually moving around in the same town, sans kids. Deanna, you have my life-long admiration and my well wishes. You are amazing.)

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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 from getting to your next hotel/shower/meal, they do not bother you at all. (If they do threaten to come between you and your destination, beware. I’ve gone from exhausted and apathetic to crazy-ninja-attack-mode in 3 seconds).

In my personal experience, it takes me roughly six or seven days on the road to reach a point of imperviousness. After that, my response to most things is, “meh.”

Packing mishap has led me to wear the same pair of ill-advised skinny jeans for 6 days in a row? Meh.

Inexplicably on a subway to Queens, when I really meant to go to Chelsea? Fine. I’ll check out Queens.

Accidentally found ourselves eating baby horse (after a translation mishap in Venice)? Whatever. Pass the eel (yes, we also ordered eel. Many mistakes were made on that night, long ago. It was awesome).

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“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 shake your meteorological understanding of our planet. I’ve experienced thundersnow. Seen highs of 70 degrees and lows of 20 in the same month (November, 2010). I’ve seen it hail on a sunny day. Weather in Seattle is a fickle mistress. It promises nothing, it lures you along, it abuses you and crushes your dreams.

But today? Today there is a promise of spring in the air. And unlike all the times I swore to my mother that I’d keep my room clean and stop kicking my brother in gonads (he deserved it), this promise seems to be real. So as I stare out my window at a view that we won’t have for much longer, I’m reflecting on the months passed, and the winter that finally, finally seems to be over. I feel like I’ve weathered a storm. And miraculously, I’ve come through it unscathed.

It reminds me of our drive back from Portland a few months back (admit it: you were wondering where the hell I was going with all this wordy nonsense, weren’t you?).

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Um, no. "Phishing" not "fishing."

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 on people when I don’t believe them – a process that involves, quite literally, me screaming “SHENANIGANS! I CALL SHENANIGANS!” with little regard to volume or social mores.

In short, I’d like to think that I’m not a complete and utter mark (well, mostly).

And yet, and yet, and yet …

On Friday, I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, having just returned from Germany the night before. After three lonely hours on my computer, relishing in the joy of being (I assume, at least) the first person in Seattle to see today’s Groupon offers, I received a chat from a friend of mine, who I shall call L, because really, girlfriend deserves some anonymity after the last few days.

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It’s been a week. I’ve been home (and in the U.S.) for approximately 16 hours, during which I’ve been frantically packing up my home, throwing out anything that I don’t need immediately, and wondering exactly where I left my toothbrush (seriously, it’s a toothbrush, why do I keep putting it ANYWHERE BUT THE BATHROOM? That is neither practical nor hygienic). I sincerely hope I did not throw it out.

Since the blog has been neglected these last few weeks, I figured that The Week was in order, and a particularly long one at that. Browse to your heart’s content. I’m off to find that damn toothbrush.

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This might be in violation of Sesame Street’s copyright, but damn it, it’s funny. And apt.

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Because Murphy’s Law is just the beginning, a list of philosophical axioms, postulates, rules, and corollaries. I personally love O’Reilly’s Law of the Kitchen: Cleanliness is next to impossible.

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We're not in hell, I promise. Hell's flags are different.

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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 Italian.

And while the more culturally sensitive of you are rolling your eyes at the broad brush with which that joke paints Europeans, a few of you, like me, are knowingly nodding your head. If you’ve traveled at all, you know that the police in the U.K. are generally lovely, and you know the feeling of pure relaxation that comes after hearing your airplane pilot speak to the cabin in German-accented English. And if you are truly unfortunate, you know the hell of any organizational, governmental, or bureaucratic system in Italy.

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