Trail of Crumbs

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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:


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.


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.


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.


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).


View out our porthole window, the Maritime Hotel.


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.


It’s cute how excited he is for lunch.

I know him.

I know everything about him, really.


Some days, you go for a walk.

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Sometimes I will grab my husband, usually by the head, mash up his cheeks in my hands and say,

“Your face. Your STUPID face. I LOVE YOUR FACE. I’m … I’m gonna eat your face because I LOVE IT SO MUCH.”

I assume that all couples who have been together for more than a decade behave this way, expressing their affection through threats of cannibalism.

The thing is, though, I really do adore his face, every (tiny) crease and freckle and even the errant chicken pox scar on his forehead (that is almost, but not quite, a mirror reflection of one I have). To quote one of my favorite movies, “It’s … it’s a good face.”