Archive | September, 2012

(This is no doubt going to piss some people off. Oh, well. Isn’t that what Tuesdays are for?)

I’ve adhered to many of these rules for a while now, and I figured they were common knowledge. But the more I travel, the more I realize that they most certainly aren’t. So please forgive the obviousness of some of these edicts, but they must be stated. And with that, I give you the Ten Commandments of Air Travel:

  1. Thou shalt do all thou can to hold in thou’s farts. If thou really can’t contain thine own flatulence, thou canst either get up and release it in the bathroom, or at the very least turn on thy little overhead fan thingy.
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  2. When other people are trying to sleep, and thou has a window seat, thy little plastic curtain shalt be lowered so that the blinding light of the sun does not shine directly in the faces of other passengers.

    Thou should not do as this man hath done.

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I have to tell you about an important travel realization that I’ve come to: in order to have fun, you have to abandon the idea that you are too good for some things.

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And we’re off!

Rand and I are going to be traveling for the next little week or so. We’ll be in Ireland for a wedding, and then we’ll be roaming around the country for a few days. My husband was originally going to take a week off, but instead he’s lined up, like, four speaking events. I’m going to drink whiskey and heckle him from the front row about how he needs a real vacation. It should be good fun for all.

Fear not, dear readers – I haven’t abandoned you: I’ve got loads of “entertaining” posts all lined up for next week. But in the meantime, enjoy these links.

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I just found out about the Berners Street Hoax (via reddit). The perpetrator, Theodore Hook, sounds like kind of a dick. A dick with a great sense of humor, but still a dick.

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I couldn’t find any photos of my old cat, so here’s one of Anton, my dad’s pug. One little fuzzy bugger is the same as the next, right?

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Growing up, we had a cat.

You know what? That statement isn’t quite accurate. We actually had several cats. But there was one cat that sort of stood out from the rest. A spry little calico with markings that I still remember by heart: one eye was rimmed in black, the other in orange, like a little harlequin. She was brilliant and affectionate and in the 17 years that we spent together, I can only remember her scratching me once, unintentionally.

When we finally had to put her down, after a miserable tumor in her face made it impossible for her to eat, I cried. My brother cried. My grandmother cried. And my mother cried, as she pulled the cat into her arms, looked down into her face and said, “Honey, I really hope you have a soul.”

The point is, we loved that cat. As much as was sanely possible for someone to love a cat, we did.

“Sanely” being the operative word here.

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Hanging out in the hospital exam room.

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I was hoping that brain surgery would teach me a thing or two. That I would wake up from my operation with some sort of hidden knowledge that’s only accessible to those who’ve had their skulls cracked open.

It’s not that I thought I’d wake up speaking French or anything (though I wouldn’t have been against that. I’ve always wanted to learn French). Rather, I imagined I’d groggily rub my eyes and look around with a new appreciation for the world around me. My new perspective would prevent me from getting upset about the small stuff.

I thought that after brain surgery, I could rise above the trivial crap we often find ourselves miring in.

And for a while, that was the case. They say that your true self comes out when you are heavily medicated, and my true self, to everyone’s surprise, was an absolute sweetheart. I loved all my nurses, even the blond that Rand had dubbed “the nasty one” (“You just don’t understand her like I do,” I said, drooling onto my gown). I declared my mother the best mother – NAY, the best HUMAN – in the entire universe. I was even tempted to call a few people that I hated and tell them how I had changed my mind about them, how I was wrong to suggest that if they were a crossword puzzle clue, they’d be “a four-letter word that starts with ‘c’ and rhymes with punt.”

Trust me, no one was more shocked than I about my new-found niceness and goodwill.

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I become a huge, unmitigated dork whenever anyone points a camera at me.

Okay, fine: I’m a huge, unmitigated dork in most circumstances, and that includes when someone points a camera at me.

See?

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It’s Friday! And it’s September. I couldn’t be happier. This is the month of my birthday. And my wedding anniversary. As well as the month of the birthdays and anniversaries of dozens of people I know and love.

Seriously, it doesn’t get any better than September. And did I mention that the sun is shining? It is. Man, I love this month.

Here’s what I found interesting this week when I wasn’t running around enjoying the last bit of summer and hugging random strangers …

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This is just heartbreaking: a 14-year-old girl gets bullied for her appearance, so she gets (donated) plastic surgery to fix it. I know that teasing is tough, but can’t we teach the next generation to at least wait until they’ve grown into their features before lobbing them off?

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I’m not gonna lie: I have a little soft spot for Captain America (and even though I tend to prefer my coffee with a little more Manischewitz, Chris Evans made a positively ADORABLE Steve Rogers). That may be why I found this list of 8 embarrassing or bizarre dilemmas the Cap has dealt with over the years to be so darn entertaining.

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Have you ever returned from a trip, or a party, some sort of special, I-really-should-take-photos kind of event, and realize that you took barely any photos at all?

You may have a handful of them, but they are blurry or poorly-composed or they make you think “Why in god’s name did I take a photo of that?” or “Please, for the love of Pete, let that be someone’s elbow and not … gah!”

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