I was sitting here on my couch just now, trying to vanquish writer's block through that ancient and time-tested method of staring at the blank computer screen and wondering idly whether Alec Baldwin thinks it's as funny as I do that his girlfriend's name is Hilaria, when my gaze wandered over to the bookshelf and I saw my passport up there on the highest shelf.
(Hilaria! Her name is Hilaria! Isn't that hilaria....ous? I can't read it in Us Weekly—wait, I mean, uh, The New York Times Law Review, that's an actual publication, right?—without pronouncing it HILAAAAAAAAARIA. I'm assuming that's how you pronounce it, isn't it? To rhyme with malaria? Not that malaria is hilarious or anything but.....hang on a second, I just need to write this down in case I ever decide to write a rap about the importance of using mosquito repellent. Words that rhyme with malaria are few and far between.)
(Hmmm. I just checked Rhymezone.com—oh, like you don't have it on your bookmarked tabs—and it turns out there are actually a few more. Bavaria, hysteria, Bulgaria? This is going to be one hell of a rap.)
Anyway, I looked up at the shelf just now and happened to see my passport there, which was something of a shock because I've been home from London a week now, and I think I just figured I'd put it away in my desk drawer straight away, but no, apparently my new storage place for the crucially important documents that allow me to get in and out of a country of which I'm not actually a citizen is on a SHELF, right on top of Tess of the d'Urbervilles and below Emily Post's Wedding Etiquette. More frightening still is that I have absolutely no memory of putting it there. And it seems like maybe I should have, right? Hang on a minute, I think I should probably just go check the toaster for my engagement ring. Oh, is that my grandmother's silver in the kitty litter?
Luckily, I did not need my passport to enter the state of Montana this weekend, which is where we traveled to see a friend of mine get married. This friend was actually once my boss, but she was always the kind of boss where you were like "damn, I wish we could be friends instead"—took us out for fancy dinners, sent us links to Go Fug Yourself, owned excellent shoes, you know the type—and then one day she got another job, stopped being my boss, started being my friend, and also (ew, I'm sorry, I know this is going to sound kind of gross) became something of a mentor to me, and you will have to imagine me saying the word "mentor" as though I were actually saying "giant flesh-eating cockroach" because I'm not sure why but it gives me the willies. Like, I mean it as a compliment and everything, but mentor sounds so Good Will Hunting when I say it, as though she were stroking her chin and explaining complex mathematical formulas to rationalize the mysteries of life, rather than giving me half-sober career advice over a Miller Lite.
Anyway, Sean and I traveled to Big Sky, Montana to see her get married, which gave us a nice little opportunity to explore Yellowstone as well, which I should really post some pictures of—once I've stolen them from Sean; we have a mi casa es su casa sort of relationship when it comes to each other's pictures, except for some reason he never wants to come to mi casa—because Yellowstone is CRAZY, and I know I should do better than CRAZY and use my actual words like an adult, but CRAZY seems to be the best I can come up with for the moment, because Yellowstone looks like the moon.
Eh, okay, I did take that one myself. But I took it with Instagram, which means it looks like the moon in the seventies.
Look, I pride myself on living up to my favorite line in one of my favorite Lemonheads songs ever—"I can't go away with you on a rockclimbing weekend / What if something's on TV and it's never shown again?"—but the park was so huge and gorgeous and natural and immense that I started thinking that maybe I could be the outdoor type. (If pushed, I mean. And only for camping. For a day or two. First one to suggest I cut the handle off my toothbrush to make my backpack lighter changes my mind.)
Either way, if you ever get a chance to go there, I would take it. I would also check the weather forecast before you do, because it was 32 degrees and snowing IN JUNE, but luckily I found that this didn't bother me too much if I simply thought of it as a glass half full situtation. Excuse me, a mug half full situation. You don't get many other opportunities to drink Baileys-spiked hot chocolate in the summer, after all.
(You know I wore my Off! to protect against malaria / But Alec Baldwin didn't and neither did Hilaria / So now their itchy calves are a real disaster area / Something something something something something else Bulgaria.)