Tag Archives: Random Musings

… Aaaand I’m back.

Ideally, I’d return from my nearly month-long hiatus with something incredible to share with you – some fantastic travel stories, or a first draft of something exciting, or a preview of some amazing project that is about to launch.

But I got nothing. Sorry about that. Instead, I’ve spent the last few weeks dithering away my time doing a whole lot of nothing. I baked some cookies. I wrapped some presents. I spent some time with people I love. That’s what December is for: whiling away the last few short days of the year with friends and family and stuffing your face with as many baked goods as possible (because come January 1st, we all start anew, and the post-Christmas consumption of an entire pan of cookie bars was shameful, sure, but it happened last year).

And now, good heavens, it’s 2014. Which just sounds absolutely bonkers.

We’ve been down in Palm Springs for the past few days, and it was here, in a spacious and structurally unsound rental house (as best as we call tell, the sewer system is connected to the central air) that we rang in the New Year. I hovered around the television screen with our friends Sarah and Eric, and yelled at Rand to hurry up (every year, he picks the worse time to pee – when there are roughly 58 seconds left until midnight). He bounded out of the bathroom with a few seconds to spare, and we watched the ball drop in Times Square, ignoring as best we could the fact that it was a three-hour old recording, playing again for the convenience of us West Coasters.

Confetti rained down over the New York crowds and we kissed, and there was nothing particularly significant or special about it except for this: it has happened so, so many times before. Which is kind of remarkable, in and of itself – that I have spent 13 New Year’s Eves with my beloved.

And it is from that kiss, and of all the ones that preceded it, that I take inspiration for this post (and after a month of not posting, inspiration was needed). I suppose I could have recapped the year that was with stats and figures, miles flown and cities visited. Instead, I’ve decided to look back on 2013 by sharing a few photos of Rand and I, doing what we do best together.

If you find a series of photos of the two of us sucking face to be offensive or boring or completely not worth looking at, then odds are you aren’t going to like this blog at all in 2014. Because while I have some wonderful and exciting plans for this year, I will, in some respects, be sticking to my old habits.

May they forever die hard.

  1. Bushman’s Kloof, South Africa. January.-
  2. Hayman Island, Australia. March. (more…)

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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Addressing Wil’s team at the end of the week.

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Philadelphia was hard on Rand.

Don’t get me wrong: it was well worth it, and he was grateful for the experience, but damn it, it was hard.

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I went to L.A. and brought him a toy train on a string. I figured it would go over well, and it did. I wasn’t really surprised.

He is my brother’s son, after all.

He dragged the train around with him, and then he showed it to Rand.

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I’m sorry for the lull in blogging, and the long delay in recounting the highlights of our Philly trip. I promise to get back to all of that tomorrow. Today, though, I wanted to tell you about something that happened during our weekend jaunt to California. Because I think the full force of it hasn’t hit me yet (pun not intended). 

A member of hotel staff tries to figure out what the hell happened outside of our room.

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I often have odd reactions to things, both emotionally and physically. To me, they make sense, of course. But anyone else would think I was a bit strange.

I have slow reflexes, and my flight or fight response is clearly broken. I once saw a car careening towards my friend Lauren, and my response was to rush over to her, put my arms around her and … stand perfectly still. So, you know, she wouldn’t be alone when the car hit her. That was my way of protecting her, I guess. (Spoiler: we were fine.)

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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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I am climbing the stairs up and out of the subway, and before I even reach street level, I know: I’m lost.

There are only two subway lines in Philadelphia, and I’ve managed to get on the wrong one. There’s plenty of amusement to be found in the situation (seriously, how the hell did I even manage this?), but at the moment I feel only stress.

I look up and down Spring Garden, the street for which this subway stop gets its name. None of this looks even remotely familiar, though this feeling of being lost in a strange city is one I know all too well. I am distracted, and so when a cigarette-wielding young man asks me if I have a light, I only mumble no, and look past him for some landmark, something I will recognize.

“Hey,” he says, gesturing to my camera. “Will you take a picture of us?”

“Sure,” I say, without thinking twice.

This catches them off guard.

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