As I’ve noted before on the blog, the list of things that are beyond my understanding is vast and ever-growing.

Take Go-gurt, for example. Did we really need a faster way to consume yogurt? Were a bunch of people really sitting around thinking, “Well, we love yogurt, but it just takes so long to eat … is there a way we could leverage Otter Pop technology so we can get those calories faster?”

Or those commercials where the chickens want to be mistaken for ones from Foster Farms. Why, oh, dear lord, why do those poor chickens want to be eaten so badly? Is it some sort of sick death wish?

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Rand and I have been home for twenty-three days. Twenty-three. This is the longest stretch of time we’ve both been home together for nearly a year. It’s also the gestation period for a female human (Edit: No, no it’s not. I’m just seeing if you were paying attention.) And it’s roughly the amount of time I need to spend in one place before I start going absolutely bat-shit insane.

Even on a good day, I tend to lean pretty far towards the crazy end of the sanity spectrum. But leave me at home for three weeks, and I start to go a little bonkers. I’ve plotted it all on this chart.

It took me forever to find a picture of Velma from Scooby-Doo that wasn't all porny. I severely am bothered by this.

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It’s been snowing for days here in Seattle, effectively shutting the town down. Buses are stranded on hills, schools are closed, and Rand and I have done our best not to go all “Shining” on each other while stuck indoors together (except for a brief bit of hatchet chopping which he really had coming, it’s all been rather pleasant).

Snow rarely happens in Seattle. We might get a few inches over a few days, but it’s been ages since we’ve seen this much snowfall, and actually had it stick around. The first night, the streets were filled with people. The park near our home was a snowball battlefield, and at least a dozen snowmen had been erected.

And … um, speaking of things being erected … (Note: if you work in a particularly conservative environment, you might not want to keep reading) let me tell you about the snow sculpture we encountered in the park.

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Note: Due to yesterday’s SOPA blackout (which I spent in my pajamas, eating M&M cookies and I REGRET NOTHING) this week’s WTF Wednesday is appearing today. Which, I’m told, is a Thursday. But really, who’s keeping track?

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Looks lovely, right? But WAIT, there's more.

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I began questioning authority at a tender young age. This is in no small part due to my Floridian primary school education, which could have caused the most obedient of children to stand up and scream, “WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON AROUND HERE?”.

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In my younger years (of which I have increasingly more and more … TIME, SERIOUSLY, CUT IT OUT) I often dreamed of spending New Year’s Eve in Times Square. I’d be huddled alongside the masses, and it would be cold and clear and wonderful. The ball would drop, the crowd would cheer, and I’d have someone to kiss.

But as the years passed, and I actually spent some time in Manhattan, I realized that my dream New Year’s Eve, much like my girlhood vow to marry Charlie Sheen*, could not stand the test of time.

This year, we found ourselves in Jersey at the end of December, and we were contemplating going into the city for a few days. We had different agendas: some of us wanted to shop (okay, fine. It was me), some of us wanted to eat cupcakes (also me), but we all agreed on one point – we had to get out of the city by New Year’s Eve. Because it was going to be a madhouse.

And boy, were we right.

We could barely walk through Bryant Park. There were people everywhere.

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In my family, I have six male cousins, all of whom are older than me. Add to the mix my big brother, and I was left the sole girl amongst 7 boys.

They read comics and played Atari, and sometimes I got to watch.

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Last month, Rand and I flew to Boise for the weekend to visit some friends, and ended up attending their daughter’s school fundraiser with them.

I know. Glamorous, right?  I got to hobnob with Idaho’s elite and get outbid on art created by 6-year-olds. In all fairness, the event was lovely (Ballgowns. Tuxedos. IDAHO. Do not ask more of life.) and when we left, we found that whoever was working coat check had placed little tubes of expensive hand cream everyone’s pockets. They smelled wonderful and looked like something you’d find in the regular-priced section of Anthropologie (which is literally the fanciest place I can think of). I realized they were TSA-compliant (less than 3oz) and they’d easily fit in my toiletry bag, so I figured I’d take them home with me.

Damn it. I just realized that I now can't re-gift these to any of my friends who read the blog. Poop.

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