The Everywhereist

It’s Friday, I’m home, and it’s SUNNY OUT in Seattle. If my skin wasn’t breaking out while I was concurrently fighting off a cold, I’d be the happiest girl in town. As it stands, I’m just probably just the happiest girl in my neighborhood, which is good enough for me.

I’m off to make myself a cup of team while NOT PICKING AT IT. You enjoy these links.

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I know it’s nowhere NEAR Easter, but my jaw literally dropped when I saw these, and I had to share them with you: Cake baked inside of an eggshell. It’s WITCHCRAFT, I TELL YOU!

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Entire coastlines in Southern California are glowing electric blue, and – unlike most lovely things in So Cal – it’s totally natural.

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It’s with a bit of guilt that I tell you about the Donut Whole in Wichita, Kansas. I just got back from Peru last night, and while I loved the trip, there were times when Rand and I both looked at each other and thanked the heavens that we were born with all the privileges and opportunity and excess that comes from living in America.

We live in a land where pork is put into desserts and cakes and doughnuts, and that is no small thing.

In Wichita, I had no less than three bacon-scented sweets: a bacon caramel chocolate (I deemed it mediocre), a cupcake sprinkled with bacon bits (not bad for breakfast), and a maple-bacon doughnut (YES). This last confection, by far the most superior of the three, was courtesy of the Donut Whole. A small, eclectic shop downtown, they specialize in cake donuts, of which I am a fan because IT MEANS YOU CAN EAT CAKE FOR BREAKFAST. If you are partial to yeast donuts, or a vegetarian, you may want to skip this post altogether. I’ll understand.

The shop itself is shrine to … I don’t know. Something. Really, you tell me:

Let's just go with "America."

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Hi – I’m back! Forgive the lag in blogging. I blame Peru. That place is magical.

I’ve loads to tell you about that trip – and heck, I’m not even done telling you about Kansas or my trip to Lake Placid, Florida (please try to contain your excitement). But all of that will have to wait, because presently, I want to take a piece of sandpaper or, failing that, a cheese grater, to my ankle. It’s covered in bug bites attained at Macchu Pichu, and it’s positively killing me. While I’m blessed to not suffer from allergies (unless, say, I shove my face directly into a cat and breathe in deeply, which I’m sure we’ve all done once or thrice), there is one thing I am severely allergic to: mosquito bites. They usually swell up to the size of a quarter, and have literally woken me from a restful sleep with the sting.

I took a photo of my bug-bitten ankle thinking it would be impressive, but instead it looks disappointingly normal, so I now seem like a huge wuss. Behold:

The cropping on this photo is excellent. You can see neither my hairy legs nor my wonky toe. Huzzah!

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Rand once told me that people are happier when they’re given fewer choices. He’d read an article on it. Something about how we still like to have options, but when we’re faced with too many of them, we get overwhelmed. Our instinctual reaction is try to limit our options to only a few, and failing that, to curl into a ball and suck our thumb until someone makes a decision for us.

By the way, that latter technique? TOTALLY works.

He mentioned this phenomenon to me one afternoon while I was standing in the middle of an IKEA on the verge of one of my patented and adorable nervous breakdowns. If you are unfamiliar with the Swedish furniture mecca that is IKEA, let me tell you now: it could drive the most resolute soul into a mad rage, could reduce the happiest of mortals into sniveling mess. In 1998, Gandhi punched a dude who was trying to snag the last OMSORG shoe tree in stock. True story.

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Summer is officially over. In Seattle the rain has started to fall, and I’ve already taken out my sweaters (though to be fair, I never really put them away this summer in the first place). If you find yourself shaking a fist and cursing the heavens for the grey skies above you, please stop. I can tell you from experience that does ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

Instead, enjoy these links, which will hopefully put a smile on your soon-to-be-tanless face.

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I’ve already watched this video (of a little girl whose cleft palate is repaired courtesy of Operation Smile) twice , and I still can’t get enough of it.

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Aww, I totally want this to happen next time I go out to eat.

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A message to my bro, on his (AGE REDACTED) birthday;

Remember how mom used to make us celebrate our birthdays together on the 14th?

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And how we totally hated it? When you put your foot down and declared enough of that – SEPARATE BIRTHDAYS, DAMN IT! – I was completely happy. I didn’t miss celebrating with you at all. Nope. Not one bit.

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So, are you coming to visit again soon? Not like I care. Whatever. Have a happy birthday or something.

Sincerely,
Your sister

Open some windows, turn on some bright lights, and get ready for the exciting, claustrophobia-inducing conclusion of my trip to the Kansas Underground Salt Museum! And in case you missed it, here’s Part 1. 

After roaming around and TOTALLY NOT LICKING THE WALLS of the Kansas Underground Salt Museum, Jason and I decided to partake in some of the tours offered therein. We’d purchased the delightfully-named “Salt Blast Pass” which included the The Train Ride (which travels on the original rails once used to haul salt out of the mine) and The Dark Ride (a guided tram into the recesses of the mine, and its current operations).

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Note: This post was shaping up at over 2,000 words, which is just CRAZY PANTS. I think that’s longer than most of my college English homework assignments. As such, I’ve split it into two posts. So you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see if we made it out of the mine alive (spoiler: we totally did.)

There are times is your life when you are asked questions to which there is only one correct answer. If someone, say, asks if you would like whipped cream on top, you say “yes”, regardless of what you’ve ordered. Really, there is never a time when “no” would be an appropriate response.

So naturally, when I was in Kansas a few weeks back, and Jason (my friend Christine‘s husband) asked me if I wanted to go to the Kansas Underground Salt Museum, I knew I had but one answer.

“UM, YES,” I said enthusiastically, and it was only after the words left my mouth that I realized I wasn’t entirely sure what an Underground Salt Museum was. I understood the individual elements involved, but was unclear on how they worked together. In this respect, it is not dissimilar to my understanding of the Spanish-American War. Or deep-fried ice cream (how does it not melt?). Anyway, I’m sure you’ll agree: both of those things would be improved with whipped cream.

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