Archive | September, 2011

The place: a restaurant on the lower west side in Manhattan.

The time: a few weeks ago, on a very warm summer night.

The characters: Tom Critchlow (admitted smart-ass); me (totally not a smart-ass AT ALL).

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Tom: You know what your blog needs?

Me: What’s that?

Tom: More photos of you and Rand kissing. There’s definitely not enough of those.

Me: Piss off, Tom.

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Rand and I just got home from our anniversary trip to Ashland, and I have a serious vacation hangover. (Fun fact: driving 8 hours in one day does not make for a happy couple. It makes for a cranky, slightly bummed-to-be-home couple). I spent half the night awake, wondering if our house always smelled like it now does. I mean, it smells fine (like berries and old wood, actually), but did it ALWAYS SMELL LIKE THIS AND WE COULDN’T TELL?

Sigh. That’s just one of the symptoms of a vacation hangover – finding things that should be comforting and familiar to be downright weird. Other symptoms include repeatedly whining, “Why couldn’t we stay one more day?” Poor Rand faced this question at least 2 dozen times yesterday (sorry, babe).

Fortunately, he had a very good response: “We have to leave Ashland early so we can go to Macchu Picchu.”

That’s right: this spoiled brat is going to PERU. Nothing like a little hair of the dog to help you get over a vacation hangover. But really, did our house ALWAYS smell like this?

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The internet is abuzz about California taxidermist Chuck Testa, and his delightful commercials. Can I get enough of it? Answer: a resounding NOPE.

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Super proud of my bro, Edward, for having the story he wrote turned into a script and made into a movie … involving a two-headed shark. I really wish they had named it Bigger Jaws, instead of 2 Headed Shark Attack, but still – Awesome.

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Three years ago today, I made you laugh until you cried.

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I was so grateful I had brought a cardigan.

I chalk it up to my Auntie P. “Bring a cardigan,” she tells me, even if it is 85 degrees, and we are leaving the house for approximately 5 minutes, all of which will be spent in the sunshine. “Bring a cardigan,” she says, even if I am already wearing one. And if I refuse? She will carry an extra one for me. She is unstoppable in her quest to clothe the bare arms and shoulders of America. You’d think she had stock in … I don’t know, some company that exclusively makes cardigans (that’s a thing, right?)

The cardigan is, to my aunt, what the towel was to Ford Prefect in Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. The ultimate travel accessory, it solves all problems, tackles all inconveniences, and somehow, according to her, “prevents you from catching a cold.” And when I left the house that morning, and stepped into the 90-degree Kansas heat, I was thankful that I had it with me.

Within 30 minutes, I had tugged it on. Was I chilly? Nope. I was in the midwest in the MIDDLE OF A HEAT WAVE. But I was more than moderately ashamed of my tank top and shorts. We had just walked through the door of Carriage Crossing – a Mennonite restaurant in Yoder, Kansas, a fifteen minute drive from my friends’ home in Wichita. My friend Christine had to work that day, and her son Jackson was at daycare, so it was just her husband, Jason, dressed in a polo shirt and shorts (he politely removed his hat as we walked indoors), and me. Dressed like a TROLLOP.

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With the man I love, in the city I love. Not a bad night.

September 11th came and went, and I was somewhat relieved it was on a Sunday, meaning that I didn’t necessarily have to post about it. Because, as selfish as this may sound, I’m truly terrible when it comes to writing about tragedies or events that deserve respect. I try to seek out the good in the bad, even when it’s not entirely appropriate to do so. I’m the kind that tries to crack an awkward joke at funerals in order to lighten the mood, and usually ends up offending everyone. I know. I’m a disaster. Never invite me to your dinner parties.

You can see why I was relieved that September 11th, then, fell on a Sunday, and that I was able to leave it to newscasters and journalists and writers to do it some justice while I sat back and watched highlights from the Redskins and Giants game and kept my mouth shut.

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Oh, the things I did this week. I turned 31. I blogged. I ate cupcakes.

So, you know, it was mostly like any other week, except for the whole turning 31 bit. That was new. And wonderful. Thank you to everyone for all the fantastic birthday wishes. While I go contemplate eating even more cake, here are some links for you to peruse. Enjoy.

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Giggling like a madwoman at the incredibly weird, random, and crudely drawn “Sherbert” comic strip. This might be my favorite.

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If We Don’t, Remember Me is a haunting, strange, and utterly compelling collection of “living moving stills” from famous films. I couldn’t look away.

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Though I was in Wichita for less than four days, I took more than 900 photos. Yeah. Since whittling that pile down to 10 pictures was pretty much impossible, and would require me leaving out photos of pink (yes, pink) milk, I decided to share my 20 (20!) favorite photos from Kansas. Enjoy.

  1. Road to nowhere.
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    I could have stayed in the middle of the road for as long as I liked. There were literally no other cars to be seen.

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  2. Chocolate and strawberry milk in glass jugs, Dillon’s grocery store.
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    Harbinger of a city gal: I don't know that I've ever seen milk in glass jugs before.

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I was going through some photos from the past year (yes, I was feeling nostalgic for 30), and I came across this little gem, taken last summer when I was visiting family down in California:

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The doll belonged to my cousin’s youngest daughter – and it was headless. My cousin’s eldest helpfully pointed out this obvious fact to her younger sister.

“Laney,” she said, “your doll doesn’t have a head.”

“I know,” Laney replied, giggling. The head was … somewhere. I think in her pocket. Laney was completely unbothered by this fact. She played with it just the same (and truthfully, if you’ve ever had to undress a Skipper, you know it’s easier without the head.)

It was a nice reminder that things don’t have to be perfect for you to enjoy them. And if someone points out the obvious flaws in your possessions, your life, your  blog, even your husband, you can simply giggle and reply, “I know.” And go on loving them just the same.