Archive | November, 2011

I forget that, during my travels, I occasionally hand other people my camera. I won’t realize it until after I’ve uploaded all my photos to Flickr. There will be a few snapshots in the stream that I didn’t know existed. Sometimes, they’re awful. And sometimes …

Yes, yes. More of this nonsense. Quit gagging, already.

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I generally hate surprises. Let’s be fair: they usually suck (“SURPRISE! I PUT PLASTIC MOTHS ALL OVER YOUR BATHROOM! Isn’t that hilar- … why are you convulsing?”) But this surprise? It put me in a damn good mood. Heck, it might last all day.

And that, in and of itself, is pretty surprising. In a good way.

My first vehicle was a 1976 AMC Pacer. (Please try to control your jealousy.)

Because the seat did not adjust properly, I needed to sit on a large pillow to see over the steering wheel (I am short). Because the breaks were not the strongest in the world, I had to stand on the brake pedal with both feet (with so much force that it lifted me off the seat) in order to stop the vehicle. That vehicle was not with me long, because, as I politely informed my mother, if I was going to die prematurely young, I hoped it would be from something slightly more creative than “death by shitty car.”

So the Pacer was sold off, and I got myself a Hyundai Excel. The brakes worked and I could see over the steering wheel, which I suppose was better, but damn it, was it dull. And so bourgeoisie.

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Since my post last week about our life-threatening encounter with a moth the size of a pigeon* I’ve had a lot of people kindly inform me that moths cannot, in fact, bite.

They keep pestering me with “facts” and “reality”. Ugh. The biggest argument as to why moths cannot bite is that they have nothing to bite with. Apparently moths have a proboscis (instead of mouths full of razor sharp teeth) which really can’t be used to inflict pain on humans.

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Breaking Philip's number one rule.

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My friend Philip gave me a great piece of advice many years ago, around the time that he himself became a father.

The rule, simply, was this: do not take photos of children you do not know.

If you think about it, it’s rather genius. No one wants to be the creepy photographer, standing in the corner, snapping photos of children that aren’t theirs. No parent wants to have that awkward exchange with a stranger (and yet, I am told, they will have it. And if they do, you’d better listen).

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It’s a grey Friday here in Seattle, and while I should be rather bummed about it, there’s too much to celebrate to let a few clouds get me down. Let’s talk about the week that was.

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Today is Veteran’s Day. Take some time to read up about the history of this holiday, and if you have the chance, why not hug/make-out with a Veteran? It’s basically your duty as an American to thank those young, muscular folks who’ve chosen to serve.

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Today is also Nigel Tufnel Day, which means that, for the first time in a century, the date goes all the way to 11. Celebrate by reading NPR’s analysis of Spinal Tap’s 11 greatest songs. And for your viewing pleasure, my absolute favorite song from Nigel and the crew.

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My husband occasionally has moments of brilliance. He has moments of utmost stupidity, too, but since I love him more than Seattle on a sunny day (a rare phenomenon that I can see outside my office window as I type this) I’d like to focus on the brilliance.

At the end of our trip to Peru, we were talking about our experiences in the country. I noted that Peru was much cheaper than Italy, yet seemed to be just as culturally rich. Even though we got ripped off a few times, it wasn’t nearly to the degree that we might have in Rome or Naples. It was far less costly to see Peru.

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This week’s WTF Wednesday takes us to an open-air market in Barcelona. A few weeks ago, I found myself there with Rand and his coworkers Joanna and Kenny. (Here is a photo of them, posing for there as-yet-unnamed, un-recorded, and un-released first album.)


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Having imbibed one-too-many aguas sin gas, I left the three of them outside the market, in front of a plant nursery, while I popped into a bathroom. Though none of them spoke Spanish, I figured they’d be fine for a few minutes without me.

Famous last words, if ever there were any.

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Flying out of Cuzco, back to Lima.

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With the exception of my thighs and derriere, I am not what you would call a hearty girl (though those two parts of me could survive drought, famine, pestilence, and probably a nuclear war. Everything, really, save for another season of skinny jeans). But excluding my well-developed lower region, I’m kind of wimpy. My arms aren’t particularly strong, I have a small waist, I’m prone to migraines and colds, and I’m constantly suffering from motion sickness (just the sheer number of other illness-related posts I was able to link to in that last sentence should convince you of my alleged frailty).

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