Feeling Aged (Parenthetically Speaking)

I got "ma'am"ed today at American Eagle Outfitters, waiting for a dressing room. (Seriously? Is 25 too old to shop for wordy underoos? But "World Traveler" describes what I do best!)
Shortly after which I returned home to find that L.L.Bean had sent me a catalogue. (And a British sensibility. Where did I pick up those extra vowels?) Unrelatedly, (or perhaps not; I believe this machine senses fear), I broke my iPod.
If anyone needs me, I'll be by the mailbox, waiting for my AARP card and asking that nice young man to help with my music player.

Just When I Was Totally About to Start Working Out

Sometimes I wonder about the 911 call I'll make. Hi, my bike was stolen...no, I don't know what make...um...purple and teal-ish?...straight handlebars....Serial number? I like Quaker Toasted Oa...oh. No. Sorry....yes, Officer, I understand. Thank you for your time.
My landlord had left a note: "Please move your bike. You have wrecked the flowers."
At first my feelings were hurt. How passive-aggressive, I thought. And then I thought it was funny. I will passive-aggressively not move my it to see if the notes escalate. And then I meant to move it. Honestly. But it was raining, so I took my car. And then I left for Mexico and forgot I had a bike.
A week later, it was gone. My landlord assuring me in her nearly Canadian accent that she was sooorry about my bike, but that she hadn't moved it. I checked all neighboring streets and I am suspicious of every two-wheeled contraption passing by. I've also checked Craigslist to catch the thief who stole the bike I had LOCKED TO OUR WROUGHT IRON STOOP. Also, I want my note back! It's not every day I get notes, Buddy.
Happy Independence Day, Asshat. Enjoy it, because you've infringed on my constitutional right to not have anything stolen from me. I'm looking that up and then I'm coming for you.

More Shameless Self-Promotion

I'm typing this at my parents' house, this little interweb window obscures a family photograph in which I am the only one looking questionable.
For pictures I take, in which people almost always look nice, please visit my professional site. And my new photoblog. Big thanks to Matty for the designinging (once I get started on that word...) and massive other technical support.

Silence, Lifted

It's been a little too long since my last post and I've been home for nearly a week.
There has been plenty of time for reflection. Plus, Muffin thinks that if I don't write soon, you'll think I've skipped town for good or killed someone or gotten my dang luggage left in the rain (two lies and a truth). In reality, the trip was blessed and wonderful, excepting transportation and the lingering smell of hot poo.
I did make a note to transcribe for you two instances:
[After much discussion of her fathers' diabetes and the diabetic's enormous responsibility] Me: Wow, it sounds like your dad could really use an insulin pump.
She: I don't understand.
Me: It seems like it would remove some of the stress on your family if your dad's insulin was regulated for him with a pump like [other kid on trip]
She: What?
Me: What?
She: I don't get it.

Later, following a discussion about Happy Fun Notes (positive messages written from trip participants to each other):
She: So I made a list and I think I wrote about 17 notes, but then I think I ended up writing a couple to the same people, and I'm not sure! I don't want them to think I'm a stalker.
Me: It sounds like these notes are adding some stress to your life.
She: What?
Me: The happy fun notes are causing some serious social pressure.
She: I don't understand. I think you and I have some trouble communicating.
Me: [dumbfounded. silent.]
She: Maybe we shouldn't talk anymore. Let's just draw pictures.
Me: Yeah, based on what we've got going right now, I'm not sure that would work either.

Up, Up and A Juarez

Our yearly pilgrimage begins tomorrow. I'll be sweating in the dry sun, thankful, at least, to not be sweating myself to sleep in the apartment.
The reason for our late departure: Matt and I spent today skipping the busride to photograph a double wedding (!) with sister brides (!!) and 26 ladies-and-dudes-in-waiting (wha?!!!). All of which means that we fly out tomorrow, so this post goes out to The Poppa, whose paternal celebration day I will miss (yet again) this year.
Dear Poppa,
Thanks for understanding. And thanks for giving me Carly, who would never ask me to have a double wedding because my head would implode at all the pressure. (Plus she'd have to wait between 3 and 7 more years.)
Love.

These Holes Are Too Small for Human Heads

To Whom It May Concern:

My sister, the recent college graduate, is still available for hire.
Though I suspect that her Red Cross Babysitting Certification has lapsed.

If I were topical and had HBO...

I didn't see the finale, so let's bypass and go straight to today's assignment.
Inspired by my book club homey Rachel (purveyor of all things distracting) and last night's Commencement ceremony (Congratulations, Class of '07. That backflip really spiced things up, no?), I'd like to know what you want to do before you die. For real. Big dreams, little dreams...You can share them in the comments or just write them in your secret love notebooks.
Here are some of mine in no particular order:

• Take some city kids to Africa
• Photograph religious people (nuns, Tibetan monks)
• Get a pixie haircut and wear it to a Pixies concert
• Get seriously ripped arms, but not the veiny Madonna kind
• Be really good at improv

A Theory

Related to our assumptions about the gender (and possibly sexual preferences) of God.
After an extensive GoogleMaps search, I have determined that cathedrals were built and then topped with domes to look like breasts, so they would be pleasing to the Lord as He looks down from above.
Please excuse my 7th grade boy readership who will now GoogleMap every major city in Italy.

When I Close My Eyes

Oy. In dreams I am not responsible for the occasional German accent:

[An Announcer:] Ladies und Gentlemen, I present to you: the amazing mobile telephone.
The device walks onstage and proceeds to dial itself and rings to an audience member's cell phone. (A plant.) The young man pulls the phone out of his pocket and answers incredulously: "Hello?"
Phone answers "I am calling to you from another time and place. Without wires. Wirlessfrauen and schoppenauer."

There is more. A dance or something.
Then I wake up to a surprisingly upbeat classical tune.
Possible contributing factors:

1. Carly's constantly ringing cell phone at dinner last night (also before dinner, and after dinner).
2. Matt is in Guatemala trying to cheat death and I feel guilty calling his phone because it costs so much. But he answers!

Trompe D'Oeil

Sorry about the slow posting. I'm busy making some new good habits. Bike riding (see also: coasting down the hills), lifting one weight, memorizing lines, watching NBC Nightly News (It comes up as a tiny fraction of my computer screen. If you have any insight, please email me before I discontinue my subscription to this helpful podcast).
Today my dad told me that my eyes look like marbles. Which is, in fact, a compliment. Where he comes from. Kids love marbles. Crooks do not.
Other things bearing some resemblance to marbles:

• bowling balls
• iridescent nailpolish
• sketches of eyeballs or marbles