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.
"It's surprising how much memory is built around things unnoticed at the time."
-- Barbara Kingsolver
So I thought I should probably pop in and say that no, I'm not dead, I've just been in London.
I got a wild hair this weekend—haha, see what I did there?—and chopped nine inches of tangles into a chin-length bob, which was sort of a ballsy move for me, considering I'd been growing my hair for the last two and a half years, but I got the idea into my head and I couldn't get it out, and so that's how it went.
1. Eaten baked potato pizza. It tasted like it would taste if a person carrying a platter of potato skins collided with a person carrying a pizza, and calamity ensued in such a way that the potato skins ended up on top of the pizza and everyone ate them anyway. Slathered in sour cream, brought in a little plastic container for this express purpose.
2. Accidentally called the skybridges that connect most of downtown Minneapolis "sky malls."
I have some things that I would like to discuss. The first is that Jared Leto is currently at my office and I am not. Trust me, I'm not even sure how this actually happened—how he came to be at my office, I mean, not why I'm not there; I know why I'm not there and it's because it's after 8 o'clock at night—but I have deduced, through a flurry of tweets and Facebook messages, that this is indeed where he is. What's he doing there? Eh, probably just wearing a jacket with a sheepskin collar and leaning against things, I guess. Does my office have a boiler room?
Oh god, I've become the sort of person who gives her blog posts titles from TS Eliot poems, have I? Apparently I have. I do apologize, but every time I've had to lie on one of those crinkly paper-covered chairs in a doctor's office, that line from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock has popped, unbidden, into my head. Blame the in-depth critical analysis of it I had to write for a foppish professor in 1999, if you must, but don't blame me.
We are currently in the middle of a bathroom renovation, as you may have guessed from the title of this post, which for some reason I saw fit to write as though I was rapping it (there are just so many good words that rhyme with renovation!)
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; here is part three, about Cape Point and the penguins of Boulders Beach; here is part four, about wine tasting and stroking a baby cheetah in Stellenbosch; and here is part five about shark-diving in Gansbaai. Expect me to be finished with this sometime in 2014.