Archive | August, 2011

My family members do not always understand me. I feel like a foreign exchange student in their homes – I’m most definitely welcome, but damn it, I’m strange. My accent is funny. I don’t eat pasta daily. I don’t have several gallons of sauce sitting in my freezer, in the event that we might have unexpected company. I purchase pre-made gnocchi, and I don’t drink wine out of a box.

And most significantly, I like sweets. This is perhaps one of the biggest things that separates me from 80% of my blood relations. They are perfectly content to go days, if not weeks or lifetimes, without anything that even remotely resembles sugar. I’ll never forget the time my aunt once told me not to frost a cake that I had made.

“You know,” she said, gently, “because some people don’t like frosting.”

“Bwa-whaaaaa?” was all I was able to sputter out before promptly fainting. She might as well have asked me not to bake the cake, too, so ridiculous was her request. (When I came to, I frosted it anyway.)

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I love New York. I’ve visited enough times that the magic, really, should have worn off by now. I’ve gotten horribly lost on the subway (I once ended up in Queens), watched someone rip off my cab after I ran half a block to hail it, and had the girl at Zabar’s Cafe let my order grow cold even though she was staring right at me. Even with the dirt and grime, the streets crowded with tourists (of which, I realize, I am one), even with the prevailing smell of sewage mixed with gyro meat that will not escape my nostrils, I find myself smitten. I’ve seen it, I smelled it, I’ve had it shove me on the subway- and I still love it.

So much so, that at the close of every trip we take to New York, as Rand is packing up his bag, I usually say the following …

“Why are you bothering to do that, when we’re never leaving here?”

He smiles and reminds me that our home and friends and his work are back in Seattle, as is the rest of my wardrobe. And if we lived in New York, it would be in an apartment the size of a shoe closet.

With a sigh, I pack up my bags, and grumble something about rent control.

Of course, this scenario changes radically if we happen to be in the city any time between May and August. I do not fare well in hot weather. And by “hot”, I mean anything above 73 degrees. After my third shower of the day (brought on by a Lady-MacBeth-like desire to be clean) I will squeeze Rand’s hand, and gently whisper that if we do not get out of the sweltering concrete dungeon that is New York, there will casualties.

“You’re cutting off circulation to my fingers,” he replies sweetly (his is absolutely adorable when he winces in pain).

“I know,” I say, mere centimeters from his face. “And that will be the least of your troubles if you do not return me to the 70-degree bliss that is a Seattle summer.”

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Life is not convenient.

You are most likely not shocked by this revelation, right? I mean, you probably suspected that life wasn’t meant to be convenient from a very early age. Like when you were curled up in bed during winter break, all snug and cozy, and you realize that you desperately have to pee.

Or when you created a truly awesome fort from the pillows on the couch, and you managed to hole yourself up inside with, say, a flashlight and a book or two, and the set-up is ABSOLUTELY DYNAMITE, but you can’t exit the fort without destroying it. And at that moment, you realize you desperately have to pee.

Of course, there are more examples of life not being convenient that don’t involve having to pee, but guess what?

Yeah. I’ll be right back. (Runs off to the bathroom).

Okay, where was I? Right. I was complaining about the inconvenience of life. Or, not really complaining, really, but simply stating a fact. Life, even when it is really good, is by no means simple. And when it’s bad … oy.

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I’m home for a little while, enjoying what’s left of the Seattle summer (it was late to arrive – let’s hope it will be late to leave, too). After days on the road, it’s fantastic to have access to my entire closet, a fridge full of food, and that lovely group of vagabonds, drop-outs, and ne’er-do-wells that I call my friends. Appropriately enough, most of this week’s links are courtesy of my pals. I hope you enjoy the sites they recommended, while I go enjoy their company.

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The new lorem ipsum (the place-holder text that is often used when mocking up websites) is hipster ipsum. You’ve probably never heard of it. (via Philip, whose glasses aren’t just an accessory)

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My love for John Stamos is no secret. So you can imagine my delight when a friend sent me an instructional cuddle video starring Uncle Jesse himself (I may have drooled on my desk while watching it. I wish I was kidding. I really do. There was a little puddle next to my keyboard).
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I’m getting a little too comfortable with San Francisco. We go so often – probably a half-dozen times a year or so, that I’ve started feeling like I take it for granted. That city has an astounding amount of beauty and quirkiness (and just plain weirdness) to offer, but I’ve grown so used to it, I often to neglect to take photos.

I tried to rectify that a little on this last trip. I dragged my camera everywhere. I even – shudder – took a few photos inside a museum (it was for the good of the blog, so I hope you’ll forgive me). Here’s a recap of our trip, in ten photos.

  1. Quiet contemplation at the De Young Museum.
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    I am absurdly happy with how this came out.

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  2. Row houses, San Francisco.
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    I used to want to live in one of these so badly.

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I feel sorry for people who have normal friends.

I’m sure befriending normal people has its merits. It must be nice to go out to a restaurant without having to apologize to the family next to you for what transpires at your table. And having someone dependable who can pick you up from the airport because they are not, at the age of 40, stoned out of their gourd and watching The Transporter 3 (in this PURELY HYPOTHETICAL SITUATION), would probably save you a bit in cabfare.

But, damn, it must be boring. No giggling until you are doubled-over, breathlessly gasping, “I’m going to pee!” No late night invites to drag shows starring people who were invited to your wedding. No immature, tired innuendos when one of you is eating pie. How sad.

I prefer my company to be just slightly unhinged. Not terribly so, mind you (keep your moon-landing deniers – I’ve no interest in them). But if you tell me your new hobby, is, say, painting tiny little leather-clad gimps into beautiful landscapes, or force me to spend half an hour on the floor of my home while you gently perform sacral realignment on me (which involves barely touching my scalp), or decide that even though we’ve just eaten lunch, some Chick-fil-A  sounds like a really good idea, well, we are probably going to be friends.

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I’d like to think that I’m pretty up-to-speed on important, world-changing events. I read reddit daily. I’m following the situation in Libya. I heard about the passing of Jack Layton, leader of Canada’s Official Opposition party (though in all honesty, up until this week I had no idea who he was). I’m even somewhat aware that one of the Kardashians got hitched recently, proving that even vapid people are deserving of love.

So naturally, you can imagine I might have been slightly beside myself when I saw this a few months back:

WHAAAAA ...?

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I’m not done talking about ice cream.

I know, I know – you think I’d have gotten it out of my system after the thousand odd words I dedicated to it last week, right? But you’d also probably presume that at some point, I’d also have gotten tired of eating all these sweets, much less writing about them.

And yet, I haven’t. My passions clearly die hard.

I don't remember what was going on here, but I suspect it was adorable.

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