I’ve never understood the need for personal space.
While wandering around Palo Alto, I spotted this toy hanging from a rack at a grocery store: –
For several days, there were staples in my head. I wish there were a more technical term for them, but there isn’t. They were not sutures or metallic head brackets or anything like that. These were good, old-fashioned, industrial-size staples, like the kind you’d find at the hardware store. Miraculously, I don’t remember most of…
– There are things that you can imagine yourself saying. Things like, “Why thank you, yes, I will take a third helping of dessert.” or “We can hang out at our house, but you guys have to not touch the dust piles. I’ve been collecting them for three months, and there’s one specimen that I…
I have the emotional maturity of an 11-year-old. A really immature 11-year-old. Remember how I laughed maniacally at the scene where Jean Claude Van Damme walks around naked in Universal Soldier? Not much has changed since then. I think the human anatomy is hysterical.
– Rand and I spent a few days in New York City last month. The city was bright and busy and full of crazy. There were a million stories being written all around us: tourists seeing their first Broadway play; couples falling in love; and whatever was going on with that drunk guy in Times…
There’s a gentleman who plays guitar on the banks of the Thames, near the Tate Museum in London.
Words are funny little things. I know, because I spend most of my days wrestling with them, trying to manipulate them into what I want them to be, often to no avail. Have you ever tried chiseling someone’s likeness in a a hunk of jell-o? It’s something like that. But I love them, and I…
Look, London, I don’t ask for much (“Yeah, right.” – my husband). I expect my tea to be served warm, with a bit of milk and sugar. I expect it to rain at least half of the time I’m in the city. I expect cab drivers to call me “love” or “miss” instead of the…
Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury
by Geraldine DeRuiter
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