Archive | October, 2011

Man, was I cranky this week. One weensy little cold had me whining on the couch and complaining to my dear husband for days. I am a wimp. He is a saint. I am going to go do something nice for him (like … I dunno, laundry. Who doesn’t like clean laundry?) You, in the meantime, enjoy these links.

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What happens when you get a Twitter stalker … and it’s your dad

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The wittiest comebacks of all time. Happy to see my literary idol, Dorothy Parker, made the cut.

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Today’s guest post is from my friend John Doherty. Rand and I met John last spring in Boston – right before he was about to move to New York. Since then, I’ve been keeping up with his life through his twitter stream and updates to Google Plus. His insights and observations are always interesting, but it’s his photos that really fascinate me. In an era where every kid with a Canon SLR thinks they’re a photographer, John is creating art with his camera phone. You gotta respect that.

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I am a fairly new New Yorker, having moved here in the middle of June from Philadelphia, and before that I was living in Switzerland for a while. Having grown up in small-city Virginia, I have been used to fairly homogeneous surroundings (I’m not saying that’s a good thing, I’m saying that’s what it is). Since I’ve moved to New York though, I’ve become enthralled with the variety of people around! I started this Instagram pictures series a few months ago on Google+, and Geraldine loved them so much that she asked me to write this guest post for her.

Some of the subway photos may come across as creepy, but I think they give us an interesting view into the world of New York City. The shots of the protesters at Occupy Wall Street will hopefully help put a face to the people that you see on the news.

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Occupy Wall Street
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The protesters down in Liberty Square were peaceful when I went down there on the afternoon of October 8th. Shouts were rising from back in the square and music was playing, but everyone was calm and peaceful. Here are a few shots of what I saw.
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The American Dream is the American Plight

"The American Dream is the American Plight."

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Can't we all just be adults here?

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When I left for Peru, I took a small pack of tissues with me. I’d read that in more rural areas, we might not find toilet paper in public bathrooms. This didn’t really phase me: one time in Italy I’d peed in little more than a hole in the ground. A place not offering toilet paper isn’t that big an offense.

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I like how the marquee reads like a weird birth announcement: "Congratulations! A school!"

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Elementary school was not an easy time for me. I know, you’re shocked, right?

I mean, who wouldn’t want to  be friends with a 70-pound girl with an adult-sized nose? (Quote from my friend Peter: “You must have looked like a pterodactyl.”) Plus, I was awesome. My incomplete Babysitter’s Club book collection, my gender-bending hairstyles, my failed knitting projects (I could make a scarf. Provided your definition of scarf is “a slowly unraveling trapezoid”.)  I only wish I was that cool now.

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I am taking a sick day. Possibly two. My head feels like it is simultaneously underwater and in a vice.

And yet, all I can be is grateful for this diabolical cold (can it even be called that? Colds seem to be adorable, light little things easily relieved by a pack of tissues and NyQuil and THAT IS NOT WHAT I HAVE) because it’s had the decency to strike while I am at home. I’ve heard plenty of horror stories of being sick on the road, even experienced it myself, and I can say this: nothing compares to the warmth of your own bed, the familiarity of your local drugstore’s over-the-counter medicines, and your own DVR full of unwatched cooking programs.

So please forgive the lack of travel-related posts today (and possibly tomorrow), as I am going to spend my time doing this:

Yahr! I am not attractive!

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Rand: Wow. That photo is great. All of your friends are going to be so glad you shared that online.

Me: You think so?

Rand: No. No one thinks that.

And with that, I’ll see you kids later this week. If you get bored in the meantime, you can always dip into the archives and check out my tips on what to do if you get sick while on vacation.

It’s been an eventful week. Yes, the pioneer of modern personal technology died, but perhaps more significantly (at least, in my world) one of my friends lost her mother, while another became a mother. I suspect there’s nothing that wraps up existence more succinctly than that. Just when you are getting to the party, someone else leaves.

If you are less inclined to sit and contemplate existential ideas such as these (and believe me, I do not blame you), please enjoy these links – an act which, I promise, requires very little philosophical thinking.

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It’s fall. You know what that means, right? It’s decorative gourd season, motherf*ckers!

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Sigh. When I was a kid, I remember loving this Pepsi commercial starring Michael J. Fox. Twenty-five odd years later, and I still get a kick out of it.

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It seems so odd that I’m doing a round-up of photos from Florida, of all places. I lived there for years. I might as well do a photo round-up of my own house. Actually, come to think of it, I have done that.

Aaaaaaaand on that note, here’s ten photos from that strange and magical place I used to call home.

  1. I show my enthusiasm for Jews for Jesus. And vacation rentals.
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    I'm also fairly intrigued by Boston Nails and New Wave Fitness.

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  2. I may have screamed when I saw the license plate on the car in front of us – it read “Pastry Chef.”
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    Pardon the quality of this photo. My hands start to shake whenever I think of dessert.

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As a kid, I never understood the expression “You can’t go home again”. I thought it was idiotic. After sleepovers at friends’ houses, after long afternoons at band practice, after a week at SeaCamp (oh, don’t act so surprised: I was and still am a dork), home was always waiting for me. No matter how much time had passed, I’d reasoned that the one thing that you could always go back to was go home.

As I grew older, my understanding of this concept changed slightly. You could still go home, but you might find that someone else lives there. Or that you aren’t welcome any more. Or that your room has been turned into a storage closet and all of your personal possessions are “in the attic” or were “given to the Goodwill.”

Time passes, people change, and sometimes home is no longer that. This realization hit me a few weeks ago, when I returned to the only place besides Seattle that I’ve ever called home: Indialantic, Florida.

What’s that? … Oh, please. You have NOT heard of it. You are thinking of Indiana. Or possibly Atlantis. Both of which have a larger population of residents/mer-people than Indialatic (pop: 3,000).

Indialantic lies on a spit of land sandwiched between the Atlantic Ocean and the Indian River, and its name is as portmanteau of those two bodies of water. It is not vibrant or bustling. There’s no movie theater. I don’t know what kids nowadays do on a Saturday night (I know what we did. We rented Jeff Goldblum movies and giggled at his impossibly small waist. Kids today now ogle hairless, poreless young men who were probably genetically engineered by Disney. How sad.)

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