Tag Archives: Life at Home

I have a mustache.

Acceptance now, you guys.

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I’ve mostly come to terms with this. I’ve had it for the better part of twenty years, and like my weird toe (which we will not be discussing) or my amazing European nose, it is very much a part of me.

But every now and then, I get the crazy idea that maybe I should get rid of it, which is what we are sometimes tempted to do to the things that put the “unconventional” in our “unconventionally beautiful.”

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If you live the northwest, you have to convince yourself of a lot of things.

Rand and I in downtown Seattle, last night.

 

Like that you don’t need sunshine, or Vitamin D. That it’s perfectly reasonable to live in a city where it rains nine and half months out of the year.

You have to tell yourself that it’s completely normal to spend hours in traffic just to go a few miles. That paying rent which far exceeds what the rest of your non-northwestern friends pay in mortgage is totally reasonable.

You have to tell yourself these things, otherwise you might leave.

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This is the face of a man who has been bested.

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Dear Rand,

By now, you have probably noticed that the milk in the fridge has been dyed pink. You are probably wondering why I did this. My motivation for that act (and so many countless others) is simple: I wanted to mess with you, dearest.

Because you had it coming. Especially after what happened on Monday night. Let us take a moment to talk of that unpleasantness.

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Despite a few rather notable exceptions, I’ve found I’m not a big crier.

I have nothing against it, mind you. I think tears are rather good for your skin, and they can be rather poetic and lovely and necessary, like when Emma Thompson totally loses it at the end of Sense and Sensibility.

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It’s just not my thing, I guess (come to think of it, it wasn’t Elinor’s either, was it?). I don’t conceal my emotions: they are apparent to everyone. But more often than not, they choose to present themselves not through tears but rather through sarcasm, weird facial expressions, and an insatiable hunger for cookies.

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The thing about being married to a nine-year-old-boy who’s trapped in the body of a 34-year-old man is this: you are the only one that really knows him.

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See, he’s done a pretty good job concealing the fact that, at heart, he’s still nine-years-old. He’s been hiding it from everyone for the past (counts on fingers …) TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. There are people who he sees, each and every day, who have no clue. To them, he’s Rand FancyPants-Does-Something-With-Computers-Maybe (?? note to self: find out what husband does for work).

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I have a deadline tomorrow, and I’m caught between working on the project that’s due, freaking out that the project is due tomorrow, and then wasting time surfing the internet because I can’t seem to focus on the project that is OMG DUE TOMORROW.

So that’s why I didn’t really get a post up today. And lord knows if I’ll get one up tomorrow which, if you are just joining us, IS WHEN MY PROJECT IS DUE.

Clearly, I’m holding my sanity together by an even thinner thread than usual, folks. If you need any evidence of that, you need look no further than the note I wrote myself last night as I was falling asleep. The idea hit me, and I thought it was so brilliant, so incredible, that I just had to write it down.

Ignore the scribbles at bottom right. Those are just directions to my friend’s house. And yes, this is on the back of a light bill. Because that is how I organize my life.

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Things are different now.

I feel like I could make a note in the timeline of my life to reflect this. “Here is everything that happened before brain surgery. Here’s everything after.”

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I have trouble with this; I’ve never been that good with change. I like things to stay as they are. I become very unpleasant to be around when changes happen that are beyond my control.

Hell, I get annoyed installing new versions of programs on my computer. I’d still have Windows 95 running on my laptop if it were up to me.

I’ve avoided talking about how things have changed since my surgery because I figured it wouldn’t make for good reading. But a recently conversation with a friend made me realize the merits of discussing my feelings on this issue. Having passed the anniversary of my surgery this summer, I’ve reasoned a follow-up is in order.

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I’m sick.

I mean physically (though everything else is up for debate).

I spent the weekend in Los Angeles, visiting my wee little nephew, who is, for those of you playing along at home, the cutest person on the face of the planet (even though he screams like an 1800′s dental patient whenever one of his parents leaves the room).

Here he is eating a paper towel after he refused his lunch.

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I arrived late on Thursday, and woke up on Friday morning with a wicked cold. I likely passed it on to my brother, his wife, and their child, which would mark the first time ever that a childless aunt was the one to make a child and its parents sick. I’m somewhat ashamed of this.

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