Tag Archives: Attractions

Kirstenbosch Botanical Garden, Cape Town, South Africa.

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I’m not a plant person.

I suppose that’s far better than not being a people person. Or not being a dog person. Or a cat person. (For the record, I am two of the three. I’ll let you guess.)

It’s not that plants and I have a bad relationship (except for blackberry bushes. Those assholes hate me), it’s just that we aren’t compatible. I shouldn’t be around anything that depends on me for nourishment, yet will quietly die without so much as a scream or a whimper.

The only house plant that we have is a poor, limp … you know what? I don’t even know what kind of plant it is. It’s a poor, limp, long-suffering green thing named Nigel.

I did this to him.

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But after a visit to Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden, just outside of Cape Town, I started thinking that maybe, maybe I could be a plant lover. Or, at the very least, a plant liker. Or maybe just less of a systematic plant-murderer (for Nigel is the sole survivor in a veritable chlorophyll-tinged bloodbath).

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Fortunately, even non-giants are allowed to explore the area.

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While we were in Northern Ireland, I decided that we needed to visit the Giant’s Causeway despite not really knowing what it was. When Rand asked, I replied with the rather vague and not-entirely accurate, “It’s a big rocky thingy. Um … with giants.”

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For once, they don’t charge you for the view.

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I’m a bargain-hunter. I’d like to think of this as one of my better qualities, instead of, as my husband puts it, “an acute kind of madness.” And granted, sometimes I do strange things to avoid spending money. Not unethical things, mind you. I’ve never shoplifted or stolen anything (okay, FINE, there was that one time), but I will go to ridiculous lengths to save a buck.

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Yesterday, I noted that I was freaked out because the Touvelle House was right next to the Jacksonville Cemetery, and the risk of encountering zombies was therefore very high.

I hope you all realize that I was joking. I am well aware of how ridiculous a statement like that sounds. We all know that if a zombie apocalypse does occur, it will be because of some strange, mad-made virus that will spread quickly and indiscriminately – like lice through a kindergarten class. It will have no impact on the dead (who will be envied for having been spared the plight), but it will turn the living into mindless, cannibalistic monsters.

Obviously.

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There’s an old Cary Grant movie called People Will Talk. If you haven’t seen it, go do so now. I’ll wait.

Wasn’t it amazing? I know. I love it, too. I have a weak spot for Cary Grant. Actually, I have several weak spots for Cary Grant, and they’re all located around my knees, or thereabouts.

And in that movie, he kind of reminds me of Rand.

Oh, STOP rolling your eyes. I need none of that nonsense. A girl in love is entitled to see things how she wants. If I want to think that cake is reasonable breakfast food and that I can pull off skinny jeans and that my husband is Cary Grant-like, I can. A little self-delusion never hurt anyone. Without it, Madonna would have never tried acting and JLo would have never tried singing. THINK ABOUT THOSE GEMS OF ARTISTIC MERIT, why don’t you, before you knock it.

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

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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.

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There are several places where Rand’s culture and mine overlap:

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At that intersection, you will find weird issues about food. And weird issues about mothers. Crippling guilt makes an appearance, too. And weirdly, the mafia can be found there.

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I hope Bill and I become friends.

He looks sort of like a grown-up version of the kid from Up. He has the raspy, mumbling accent of a lifelong west coaster. Where every word lazily drips out of his mouth and spreads itself out on a sunny patch of grass.

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