Trail of Crumbs

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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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Fun fact: I tried killing it with fire, which just resulted in a lovely golden brown crust.

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Someone recently told me that I need to start “lifestyle blogging” instead of just travel blogging, which sort of confused me, because my everyday life isn’t necessarily something you’d want to emulate. Most days, I’m locked in a battle with myself about whether several cookies and a glass of milk are as nutritionally viable as oatmeal.

That fight often turns ugly. The Pioneer Woman does not have such quarrels with herself, I’m sure. I bet she makes really healthy oatmeal that tastes like a cookie. I bet her children have zero cavities.

I bet she never sniffs a shirt to see if she can wear it again.

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Rand is growing out his beard.

He can barely keep it clean on his own.

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I know, I know. This is supposed to be a travel blog, right? And for the most part, my husband’s facial hair plays very little role in our travel, much less yours.

Goodness, what if it did, though. That would be one crazy-ass superpower, would it not?

Me: Honey, we’re going to miss our flight!

Rand: What should I do?

Me: SHAVE, YOU IDIOT. SHAVE LIKE YOU’VE NEVER SHAVED BEFORE.

End scene. 

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One of the supposedly stolen images.

 

I’ve been hesitating to write this post. I don’t want to throw gasoline on a fire, and if all of this is some sort of weird or sick hoax, I don’t want people to know that it got to me.

But I’m angry, and creeped out, and I figure that if I write about it, maybe other people will have something to go on should the same thing happen to them.

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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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