I am recapping, excruciatingly slowly, the two-week trip we took to South Africa last year. Here is part one, about our layover in Paris; here is part two, about Cape Town; and here is part three, about Cape Point and the penguins of Boulders Beach. Expect me to be finished with this sometime in 2014.
I don't know if you've heard this, but it's a cover of Whitney Houston's "How Will I Know," as sung by Evan Dando. I didn't really ever listen to her music much—unless you count that period in late 1992 when The Bodyguard soundtrack was on every teenage stereo in the south of England—but listening to this still feels like I'm paying my respects.
I turned 32 on Wednesday and it was charmingly low-key. I worked from home to mark the occasion—well, it was coincidence, really; my new company has a fairly benevolent policy towards Work From Home Wednesdays, and I figured, given the choice, that it would be more fun to wear my slippers on the day of my birth than not wear my slippers—and man, I do not know how I did that for six months. It was lovely and quiet and I was highly productive, of course, but I was also dying to talk to someone by about hour three.
They tell you marriage is hard. They tell you it involves sacrifice and compromise. And this weekend, Internet, I found out just how true that all is. I agreed to arrive at the Denver airport five hours early so that my husband could watch the Superbowl.
Did you hear me? Five hours early? At the airport? So I could sit in a mediocre sports bar and nurse a watery beer over my Oprah magazine while barrel-chested men bumped fists around me? I'll take that medal engraved with my full name, thank you.
One of the things I've always wanted in my house—and forgive me for my silly aspirations; you might want an original Saarinen but I aim a lot lower and dream a lot smaller, apparently—is a sunburst mirror.
Alright, let's settle this once and for all: what mascara do you use?