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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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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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There are no roses in Palm Springs. At least, none that we saw. So if we couldn’t stop and smell those, there was only one thing left to do:

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We had to pause and contemplate the cacti.

(Note: Rand is growing out his facial hair and having way too much fun doing it.)

I won’t be traveling much between now and the end of the year, so posting will be rather slow until early January. I’m still doing a lot of writing, but it’s being channeled into some side projects, as well as the Travel Guides, which I intend to launch in early 2014 (stay tuned!)

In the meantime, I find myself home in Seattle, with little to report. But before I say goodbye to this year, I wanted to share with you a few photos from the last couple of months (all of them are courtesy of Rand’s cell phone).

Times Square, September:

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Addressing Wil’s team at the end of the week.

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Philadelphia was hard on Rand.

Don’t get me wrong: it was well worth it, and he was grateful for the experience, but damn it, it was hard.

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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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View out our porthole window, the Maritime Hotel.

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Do you ever have those moments where you pull something off (a meal, an event, a project), and it comes together so beautifully, and was almost effortless, that you are tempted to think, “This is my calling. This is what I was put on this earth to do”?

I totally haven’t, unless you count cake eating, which I’ve been repeatedly told is not a calling.

Usually I have quite the opposite feeling: I’ll try something, and it will be such an epic disaster that I am able to say definitively that genetics and the universe clearly never intended for me to carry out these tasks.

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It’s cute how excited he is for lunch.

I know him.

I know everything about him, really.

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