Trail of Crumbs

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I have to tell you something.

I’m an absolute sucker for weddings. I basically turn into a squealing frenzy of crazy every time we find out we’re actually able to make it a friend’s nuptials. It probably doesn’t take very much explaining to understand why.

 

If I got an email from a wedding, telling me it was a dethroned prince, and offering to share millions of dollars with me, I would IMMEDIATELY give it my bank account and routing numbers. That is how much I love weddings.

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I have a mustache.

Acceptance now, you guys.

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I’ve mostly come to terms with this. I’ve had it for the better part of twenty years, and like my weird toe (which we will not be discussing) or my amazing European nose, it is very much a part of me.

But every now and then, I get the crazy idea that maybe I should get rid of it, which is what we are sometimes tempted to do to the things that put the “unconventional” in our “unconventionally beautiful.”

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There has been a lot of talk lately about Rand’s facial hair. And not just by me. Other folks have been blogging about it, too.

He started growing it out after Thanksgiving, just to see what it would look like. And it looked pretty much the same as it always did – a bit shaggier perhaps, but that was it. But then, after a few months, the whole thing started to curl.

I, personally, thought this was hilarious. Rand was not as much of a fan. I remained fascinated at how much his look changed. Some days he resembled an old-timey-prospector …

There’s a joke here … something about how he could pan my river anytime …

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If you live the northwest, you have to convince yourself of a lot of things.

Rand and I in downtown Seattle, last night.

 

Like that you don’t need sunshine, or Vitamin D. That it’s perfectly reasonable to live in a city where it rains nine and half months out of the year.

You have to tell yourself that it’s completely normal to spend hours in traffic just to go a few miles. That paying rent which far exceeds what the rest of your non-northwestern friends pay in mortgage is totally reasonable.

You have to tell yourself these things, otherwise you might leave.

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This is the face of a man who has been bested.

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Dear Rand,

By now, you have probably noticed that the milk in the fridge has been dyed pink. You are probably wondering why I did this. My motivation for that act (and so many countless others) is simple: I wanted to mess with you, dearest.

Because you had it coming. Especially after what happened on Monday night. Let us take a moment to talk of that unpleasantness.

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Despite a few rather notable exceptions, I’ve found I’m not a big crier.

I have nothing against it, mind you. I think tears are rather good for your skin, and they can be rather poetic and lovely and necessary, like when Emma Thompson totally loses it at the end of Sense and Sensibility.

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It’s just not my thing, I guess (come to think of it, it wasn’t Elinor’s either, was it?). I don’t conceal my emotions: they are apparent to everyone. But more often than not, they choose to present themselves not through tears but rather through sarcasm, weird facial expressions, and an insatiable hunger for cookies.

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The thing about being married to a nine-year-old-boy who’s trapped in the body of a 34-year-old man is this: you are the only one that really knows him.

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See, he’s done a pretty good job concealing the fact that, at heart, he’s still nine-years-old. He’s been hiding it from everyone for the past (counts on fingers …) TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. There are people who he sees, each and every day, who have no clue. To them, he’s Rand FancyPants-Does-Something-With-Computers-Maybe (?? note to self: find out what husband does for work).

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I have a deadline tomorrow, and I’m caught between working on the project that’s due, freaking out that the project is due tomorrow, and then wasting time surfing the internet because I can’t seem to focus on the project that is OMG DUE TOMORROW.

So that’s why I didn’t really get a post up today. And lord knows if I’ll get one up tomorrow which, if you are just joining us, IS WHEN MY PROJECT IS DUE.

Clearly, I’m holding my sanity together by an even thinner thread than usual, folks. If you need any evidence of that, you need look no further than the note I wrote myself last night as I was falling asleep. The idea hit me, and I thought it was so brilliant, so incredible, that I just had to write it down.

Ignore the scribbles at bottom right. Those are just directions to my friend’s house. And yes, this is on the back of a light bill. Because that is how I organize my life.

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