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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The other day, Rand and I were talking to one another, which is something we do when we aren’t sleeping, eating, or staring mindlessly at our keyboards (Yup. Our lives are full of romance. ENVY US). I can’t seem to retrace the steps of the conversation to how we got where we did, but at one point, I said one of those crazy, unprecendented statements that causes everyone to pause and reflect on how weird the discussion has become.

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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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To the little blond kid on Alaska Air Flight #232,

It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.

I see this as largely your fault, of course. When you saw me quietly sleeping in my chair, you – for reasons that defy logic (Was it curiosity? Thoughtlessness? Demonic possession? I’m leaning towards the latter) – decided to shake the back of my seat vigorously until I woke up.

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There are times when the universe likes to remind you that it, and not you, is in charge.

And the reminders are not entirely painless. They’re reminiscent of the love bites my cousin’s dog gives. You think you’re playing around, and then all of a sudden -

“OUCH.”

You make it through intact, but still – it’s shocking, and it stings a bit, and it reminds you that the universe is not kidding around. And this past week, the universe nipped us. Big time.

In truth, we might have been asking for it. Life was getting just a little too easy. A little too fun. And maybe, just maybe, we were starting to take it for granted. And so the universe, in an effort to keep us humble, to remind us of how lucky we actually are, decided to remind us that it was still there.

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This man is a god:

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What’s that? Er, no, I’m sorry. Not the man in foreground. The man in the foreground is my husband. He has many lovely attributes, of which “god-like” is not one. He is charitable and kind and good, and he often smells fantastic. While he is one of the best humans I’ve ever been fortunate enough to encounter, he is still human.

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On our last trip back from Europe, we were unfortunate enough to discover the one thing that could make an Air France flight worse. And it is having to share a cabin with this guy:

Bastard.

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I’m referring to the one on the right, closest to the window. I realize that he doesn’t look that evil from this picture, but neither did that little kid from The Omen, and he was the son of Lucifer.

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