I should not be left to my own devices while shopping in other countries. I get it into my head that I should buy something avant-garde and unique and so European that when I get it home to the states I will be hailed as some sort of fashion goddess.

“Where on earth did you get that?” I imagine someone will ask of the parka/rollerblade ensemble I am rocking.

“Oh, you know,” I will reply casually, “I picked it up in Europe.” And then they will all die of jealousy right before my eyes.

This of course, is never the case. Fashion rarely, if ever, translates across international lines. The instant I cross the border into the states, whatever treasure lurking in my suitcase will transform from “totally hip and envy-inspiring” to “exclusively appropriate for Halloween”. And it will usually inspire a conversation more along these lines:

“Where did you get that thing?”

“Europe.”

“Take it off. It looks like you were dressed by a five-year-old who hates you.”

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There are plenty of things in life that are beyond my understanding. The entire field of Physics, for one. The enduring appeal of Two and a Half Men, for another. Grooming your dog to look like another animal. The fact that Snooki published a NY Times best seller (sweet Lord in heaven, how? I DO NOT UNDERSTAND). But perhaps the biggest mystery that I’ve encountered thus far is this: How can a city as advanced as London not understand the concept of shower curtains?

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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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Thanksgiving is tomorrow, and it is with no small measure of shame that I realize I haven’t even talked about Halloween. Or last summer, for that matter. I’ve fallen so behind on my blog I’ve become unstuck in time. So much so that I didn’t realize how bizarre this next photo was. I came across it while going through a set of pictures from a trip to New York and New Jersey.

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Naturally, I’m intrigued by the premise. Watching a dinner theater show called Gilligan’s Island of Death sounds like a great way to spend an evening, and not just because I always kind of wanted the Skipper to choke Gilligan for ruining their chances of salvation YET AGAIN (I only hope the food is on-theme – plentiful seafood entrees and a slice of coconut cream pie to finish it all off?). I figured I must have taken this photo in September or October – and that the show was intended for Halloween, right? Nope. Not all. Look closer at the dates.

Because May to August is really the spookiest time of year in the Northeast.

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A creepy horror dinner show that runs from MAY TO AUGUST? Does the entirety of Bucks County has some sort of seasonal jet-lag? (Because if so, I totally understand. This year, summer did not come to Seattle).

For some reason, the elaborate Christmas displays that have already gone up, and the 12-decibels-too-loud holiday music that’s currently being pumped into every public space in America suddenly doesn’t seem so strange. In the spirit of the season, I’m going to go hang some mistletoe, dye some Easter eggs, and pass out candy to trick-or-treaters. Because, really, I have no idea what’s going on anymore.

And with that, Happy Thanksgiving, folks. Don’t eat too many of those candy conversation hearts, okay? You’ll get a tummy ache.

Since my post last week about our life-threatening encounter with a moth the size of a pigeon* I’ve had a lot of people kindly inform me that moths cannot, in fact, bite.

They keep pestering me with “facts” and “reality”. Ugh. The biggest argument as to why moths cannot bite is that they have nothing to bite with. Apparently moths have a proboscis (instead of mouths full of razor sharp teeth) which really can’t be used to inflict pain on humans.

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This week’s WTF Wednesday takes us to an open-air market in Barcelona. A few weeks ago, I found myself there with Rand and his coworkers Joanna and Kenny. (Here is a photo of them, posing for there as-yet-unnamed, un-recorded, and un-released first album.)

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Having imbibed one-too-many aguas sin gas, I left the three of them outside the market, in front of a plant nursery, while I popped into a bathroom. Though none of them spoke Spanish, I figured they’d be fine for a few minutes without me.

Famous last words, if ever there were any.

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"Don't hate me because I'm hairless."

(Okay, fine – so today is actually Thursday, and not Wednesday. But I’m sure you’ll agree – “WTF Thursday” just doesn’t have the same ring to it. I’ve been on the road this week, and blogging’s been a little slow. Cut me a weensy bit of slack and I’ll love you forever.)

Allow me to say something which, though painfully obvious, we tend to lose sight of more often than not. Ready? Here goes:

Looks aren’t everything.

I know, I know. This isn’t shocking news, right? You’ve probably been told this since you were a kid. But the more I watch television, and see countless tanned beauties with veneers (because at some point as a society, we started to think it was cool for people to have chiclets instead of teeth), shaking their glossy locks as they parade around in skin-tight jeans- AND YES I AM TALKING ABOUT BOTH MEN AND WOMEN – I begin to wonder if we’ve lost sight of this.

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