In my younger years (of which I have increasingly more and more … TIME, SERIOUSLY, CUT IT OUT) I often dreamed of spending New Year’s Eve in Times Square. I’d be huddled alongside the masses, and it would be cold and clear and wonderful. The ball would drop, the crowd would cheer, and I’d have someone to kiss.

But as the years passed, and I actually spent some time in Manhattan, I realized that my dream New Year’s Eve, much like my girlhood vow to marry Charlie Sheen*, could not stand the test of time.

This year, we found ourselves in Jersey at the end of December, and we were contemplating going into the city for a few days. We had different agendas: some of us wanted to shop (okay, fine. It was me), some of us wanted to eat cupcakes (also me), but we all agreed on one point – we had to get out of the city by New Year’s Eve. Because it was going to be a madhouse.

And boy, were we right.

We could barely walk through Bryant Park. There were people everywhere.

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In my family, I have six male cousins, all of whom are older than me. Add to the mix my big brother, and I was left the sole girl amongst 7 boys.

They read comics and played Atari, and sometimes I got to watch.

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Last month, Rand and I flew to Boise for the weekend to visit some friends, and ended up attending their daughter’s school fundraiser with them.

I know. Glamorous, right?  I got to hobnob with Idaho’s elite and get outbid on art created by 6-year-olds. In all fairness, the event was lovely (Ballgowns. Tuxedos. IDAHO. Do not ask more of life.) and when we left, we found that whoever was working coat check had placed little tubes of expensive hand cream everyone’s pockets. They smelled wonderful and looked like something you’d find in the regular-priced section of Anthropologie (which is literally the fanciest place I can think of). I realized they were TSA-compliant (less than 3oz) and they’d easily fit in my toiletry bag, so I figured I’d take them home with me.

Damn it. I just realized that I now can't re-gift these to any of my friends who read the blog. Poop.

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The signs above grocery aisles are always amazing to me. Not only do they serve as a highlight reel for whatever is located in that aisle, but they also provide me a brief glimpse into whatever corner of the world I’m in. The items listed on those signs sustain the population of that area. These are the things they fill their carts with, what they pop out to grab in the middle of the night.

And occasionally, those signs are hilarious.

According to this one, spotted in a Portland drug store, a lot of folks in Oregon are searching for douches (I know of several in Seattle I would be delighted to send their way). And a good number of folks in Idaho are evidently looking for beverages whose popularity peaked sometime during the Reagan administration:

I can't decide if this is brilliance, or madness.

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Since my post last week about our life-threatening encounter with a moth the size of a pigeon* I’ve had a lot of people kindly inform me that moths cannot, in fact, bite.

They keep pestering me with “facts” and “reality”. Ugh. The biggest argument as to why moths cannot bite is that they have nothing to bite with. Apparently moths have a proboscis (instead of mouths full of razor sharp teeth) which really can’t be used to inflict pain on humans.

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This week’s WTF Wednesday takes us to an open-air market in Barcelona. A few weeks ago, I found myself there with Rand and his coworkers Joanna and Kenny. (Here is a photo of them, posing for there as-yet-unnamed, un-recorded, and un-released first album.)

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Having imbibed one-too-many aguas sin gas, I left the three of them outside the market, in front of a plant nursery, while I popped into a bathroom. Though none of them spoke Spanish, I figured they’d be fine for a few minutes without me.

Famous last words, if ever there were any.

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"Don't hate me because I'm hairless."

(Okay, fine – so today is actually Thursday, and not Wednesday. But I’m sure you’ll agree – “WTF Thursday” just doesn’t have the same ring to it. I’ve been on the road this week, and blogging’s been a little slow. Cut me a weensy bit of slack and I’ll love you forever.)

Allow me to say something which, though painfully obvious, we tend to lose sight of more often than not. Ready? Here goes:

Looks aren’t everything.

I know, I know. This isn’t shocking news, right? You’ve probably been told this since you were a kid. But the more I watch television, and see countless tanned beauties with veneers (because at some point as a society, we started to think it was cool for people to have chiclets instead of teeth), shaking their glossy locks as they parade around in skin-tight jeans- AND YES I AM TALKING ABOUT BOTH MEN AND WOMEN – I begin to wonder if we’ve lost sight of this.

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