Tag Archives: Astoria

It’s grey in Seattle. And chilly. I’m sitting here in my office, contemplating grabbing a sweater.

For the record, I’m already wearing jeans and a t-shirt. But it’s in the high sixties in here, and I have goosebumps. It’s out of sheer stubbornness that I don’t grab a cardigan, because it is July, and that sort of thing is just not acceptable for this time of year.

Indeed, it hasn’t been the most summery of summers.

Supposedly Memorial Day weekend was nice, but Rand and I weren’t here for that. Instead, we popped down to Oregon, and spent that weekend in Portland and Astoria, where it was – you guessed it – chilly and grey.

But I don’t need the sun to have fun. These pictures are proof of that.

They are also proof that my husband in the cutest thing in the world. As though there was any doubt.


  1. Driving to Astoria (road near Longview, WA).

    Fact: there is sunshine right up until you get too close to Astoria.


View of Astoria from The Hotel Elliott.


I’m such a sucker for old things.

Whether it be grey-haired octogenarians or day-old pastries, I find myself smitten. Sure, they’re sometimes a bit crustier than you’d like them to be, and you can’t help but think of what they were like when fresh, but they’re still fun to nibble on. AND THAT GOES DOUBLE FOR THE PASTRIES!

(Rereads previous three sentences. Sighs heavily.)

Back to my original sentiment: I like old stuff.


Just give me one of everything. No, I don’t need a napkin.


Friends, let me tell you something: steroids are terrible.

Many of you are probably wondering why a perfect physical specimen such as myself would need to resort to steroids in the first place. After all, my body is temple (albeit one dedicated to sloth and cupcakes). The answer is, simply, brain surgery. Steroids are commonly given to folks to stop their pesky brains from swelling up and killing them, post-operation.


I know it’s not technically Friday, but I’m hungry and thinking about food right now, so time means nothing to me. 


There are statements I never thought I’d say. But after enough travel, I’ve started saying them.

To a maintenance man in a New York city hotel: “Oh no, I’m happy to plunge my toilet myself.”

Or, to a girl with whom I switched airline seats, so I could be next to Rand: “Can I have your middle seat for my aisle?”

Or the phrase that escaped my lips as I sat in the Blue Scorcher Bakery and Cafe in Astoria, Oregon:

“Oh. My. God. This is the BEST yogurt EVER. Rand, try this yogurt. It’s amazing.”