The Everywhereist

I know this picture is blurry, but it’s still kind of magical. My mom was angry because I was doing dishes in her house.

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Dear Mom,

Please don’t read this post, okay? No, no, it’s not because I talk about how crazy you are. Sheesh, mom … Yes, I know you aren’t crazy. Yes, I realize I make you out to be crazier than you actually are on the blog. The reason I don’t want you to read this post is because it’s about your Mother’s Day gift. We don’t want to ruin the surprise, right? Of course we don’t.

So go browse some other site, okay? Like Facebook! You love Facebook.

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OMG. This is EXACTLY what Christmas morning looks like at our house.

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Apparently a lot of folks are currently outraged at Urban Outfitters for their most recent catalog, which is full of expletive-filled products. The hub-bub seems a bit unfounded. Let’s be fair – how can one celebrate the birth of Christ without a giant banner that reads “Merry Christmas Bitches”?

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It’s November 1st, and like any forward-thinking lunatic, I’m contemplating next year’s Halloween costumes. I only have 364 days to go.

We take Halloween rather seriously in our house. My mother is to blame. I don’t quite know when she learned about the tradition of dressing up for the holiday (I seriously doubt it had been exported to Europe back in the late 70s, when my brother was wee, so it must have been after she moved to the states and I was born), but I can imagine her hearing the word “costume” and getting that charmingly crazy look on her face that I know too well.

And so, on one October that I was too small to remember, a brilliant madness began, and continued throughout my childhood. My mother would make elaborate costumes, and do my hair, and wonderful things like this would happen:

My brother and I, circa 1984.

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Sunday was a landmark of sorts, and it passed without me realizing it.

That, I suppose, was most significant at all. Sunday was the four-month anniversary of my surgery.

At some point, I’d stopped counting the days since my brain surgery, and then the weeks, and now, it seems, the months. Rand had left town the day before, so I mostly sat around, working on our Halloween costumes, and yelling at the football game that was playing on the T.V. in a vain attempt to pretend that he was still home.

It almost worked. Turns out, I’m nearly as adept at taunting Tony Romo as my husband is.

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Greetings, replacement refs!

I wanted to talk to you a little bit about the officiating that’s gone on so far this season in the NFL.

It probably seems weird that I, a travel writer, am weighing in on this issue. I realize I’m sort of unqualified to do so. I’ve never played football, and I’ve only seen one game live, but I can scream “HOW IS THAT NOT A HOLDING VIOLATION?” at the TV with the best of them.

And besides, not having an extensive football background doesn’t seem to be stopping anyone else from being an expert this season, right? My opinion is just as valid as that of the real estate agent calling the Monday Night Game, or the menagerie of farm animals in striped shirts the league has ready to officiate the playoffs (I will give them this: that is a great way to boost ratings among toddlers. “PUPPY PUPPY PUPPY!” will be shouted across living rooms throughout the land while adult fans of the game will weep into their beers).

Yes, yes. Fine, Anton. You can be the line judge.

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So I’m weighing in.

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Rand and I have been home a lot this summer.

This is in part due to the fact that we hate to leave Seattle when it’s finally sunny here, and partly because I needed to let folks dig around in my brain. (You know how it is – when people have been digging around in your brain, you want the comfort of your own bed and an endless supply of pajamas. Also, pudding. Lots of pudding).

The nice part about being home for the summer is that I am able to catch up with all those friends who live in Seattle, but who I rarely see. Like my friend Mike. Here is a photo of the two of us, and our respective loves:

We decided to do awkward prom photo poses. Mike’s the one wearing plaid who isn’t Rand.

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One of the nice things about brain surgery is that you can pick out all sorts of clever things to say for when you come to. I had a few quips lined up (“I have a splitting headache!”, “Who wants morphine? I do! I do!”, and “Which of you bastards tried to tip my surgeon to ‘throw in a lobotomy’ while he was in there?”) but it was my friend Natalie who gave me the winner.

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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 them going in, save for one. I do remember that last one, because it felt like … well, it felt like someone putting a staple into your head. The poor doctor wielding the staple gun apologized repeatedly.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “This is why no one likes me.”

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