A completely impractical and financially insensitive step-by-step guide to staying warm this holiday season!

1. Head to California.
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Yesterday afternoon, and in the wee hours of the morning today, a group of Occupy protesters headed down to the Port of Seattle. There they blocked traffic, attempted to shut down operations at the port, and clashed with police. Eleven people were arrested.

I, unaware of where the action actually was, walked along what was left of the Occupy encampment at Seattle Central Community College (the protesters were evicted last week, but there are a few errant tents and scragglers left over). I’d been too timid to go when there were actually people there – I’d visited the Occupy Protests in London and New York, and felt like an interloper. Now that most of the Seattle outpost was gone, and there was little to see, and few people milling about, I felt braver.

But still, I was an outsider, and the one man who I spoke to made that clear to me.

He responded to my questions in clipped answers. At the time, I didn’t think I was being terribly invasive. I asked where everyone had gone and what was going to happen now. He was clearly bothered – either by how little I knew about the movement or by the suspicion that I was, in fact, part of a bigger media outlet. The truth, had he known it, would likely have gone over far worse: that despite my unemployment and money woes, despite my Converse and old wool coat, I’m married to a CEO. And my life is pretty damn good.

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My head is a little scattered right now.

I just unfriended a young man on Facebook who I’ve known since high school. He was always a fun guy – clever and hilarious and really a joy to be around. I unfriended him because a comment of his on one of my posts left me so angered and so hurt, I simply didn’t want to deal with it or him. Perhaps it was impulsive of me. Perhaps I overreacted. But I’m of the mind that if we haven’t talked for a decade, then you don’t have the right to hurt my feelings.

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“Um, do you feel anything?”

“I feel my boogers drying up.”

“This feels weird.”

“Yeah.”

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Dear Rand,

You know what today is, right?

Yeah. Holy shit.

Sorry. I know cussing is only for special occasions like the Superbowl and visiting your family. But still. HOLY SHIT, RAND.

I think we might need to count them, to make sure it’s actually true.

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The signs above grocery aisles are always amazing to me. Not only do they serve as a highlight reel for whatever is located in that aisle, but they also provide me a brief glimpse into whatever corner of the world I’m in. The items listed on those signs sustain the population of that area. These are the things they fill their carts with, what they pop out to grab in the middle of the night.

And occasionally, those signs are hilarious.

According to this one, spotted in a Portland drug store, a lot of folks in Oregon are searching for douches (I know of several in Seattle I would be delighted to send their way). And a good number of folks in Idaho are evidently looking for beverages whose popularity peaked sometime during the Reagan administration:

I can't decide if this is brilliance, or madness.

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On occasion, I like to think of myself as a badass.

I’m not, mind you, but I like to think of myself as one. I also like to think of myself as elegant, demure, clear-skinned, and clever. Compared to those far greater delusions “badass” doesn’t seem so unreasonable. Especially when it comes to food.

A few weeks ago, I stood on my soapbox and prattled on about this precise subject. How I fearlessly gobbled guinea pig in Peru, and how in the past I’d tackled tripe without thinking about it, polished off pig’s feet with panache.  Food, it seems, is the one area of my life in which I’m not a coward.

In fact, when it comes to cuisine, I may actually be a badass. A little bit, at least.

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Rand thinks I’m overly superstitious. I, in turn, think that he’s constantly tempting fate into screwing with us.

Take the following scenario, which happens at least once a month:

Rand and I are driving to the airport. We are almost running late, but not quite. If we are able to keep up the miraculous average speed which we’ve attained, we’ll be fine. If not, we’ll have to engage in that awful sport, long forsaken by the Olympics:  The panicked running-to-the-gate dash (in this race THERE ARE NO WINNERS). As the surprisingly light traffic rushes along, Rand will often say something like,

“Man, I can’t believe how light traffic is.”

At which point I will scream like mad woman, because really, WHY WOULD YOU EVER SAY THAT?

He has to know how physics and the universe works, right? The second you say something like that, the exact opposite will happen. Comment on light traffic, and you will find yourself in a parking lot in the middle of I-5. Make a crack about how you can’t believe that the dress you wore to last year’s holiday party still miraculously fits, and you will instantly gain 15 pounds (I’ve seen it happen. TO ME) It’s not luck. It’s science.

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