Really these were all taken within a couple hours of each other. Everything else I did this week revolved around either consoling and coercing five year olds for one reason or another or trying to stay relatively attractive in this profusely overheated weather. Neither of which were that successful. So you all get to see my Saturday instead, which was spent sailing the seven seas!!! Or the Gulf of Thailand….whatever. So we went on board a catamaran trip with a bunch of Joey’s coworkers and it was loverly. Joey got attacked by a stagnant black sea urchin that might as well been glued to a rock, but what’s to be expected out of my trouble maker? Murphy is the name of the basic law of science that follows that boy around. All in all it was the perfect day. Sadly, my career in sailing only lasted long enough for me to realize that A. I can't walk on a boat without the help of a crew member saving me from falling overboard and B. monkeys can steal alcoholic beverages from my husband better than I can on my most suave days. After a monkey shows you up in piracy there's only one thing you can do, take your sun burns and sea legs with you back a shore and hope you won't crash into any other stagnant objects, like a wall.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Right click to save and print.
Just have your kids write their name all pretty at the top and hang :)
Monday, May 13, 2013
All of these colors make it look like we’ve recently been experiencing cool and breezy nights. Do not be fooled. Last week the heat index reached 118 degrees Fahrenheit, which can only be explained as not cute. I often find myself standing by the window debating with myself the worth of walking to the produce market, which leads me to the next set of questions of how much we’ll want to eat dinner that night. So last week we went to the toy store and updated our pool toy collection and have spent the duration of our free time trying to cool off in ours and our friend’s pools; all of which kind of feel like bath tubs at this point. But the company is nice, the views and cocktails haven’t been too bad, and the sunsets have been magical. Thanks Bangkok/Pattaya for the pollution! We owe you one for these colorful skies.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Among one of my favorites. This is beautiful and everyone should read it. :) Viva la vida lovelys.
You Should Date an Illiterate Girl
By Charles Warnke.
“Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in a film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. F*** her.
Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale or the evenings too long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.
Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.
Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.
Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, goddamnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.
Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.
Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.
Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. Or, perhaps, stay and save my life. ”
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Sorry if these posts are getting a little redundant, I just can't help myself from uploading ever pic I have ever taken of a yak onto the internet. It gets better though, scroll down :)
On our way to Langden
The view out of our bedroom window in Langen the morning of Renjo La pass
The view in our bedroom the morning of our pass, thrilled?
Everest, Lhotse, Nupts,e Lola, and Makalu
Yak pondering life on the side of Gokyo Lake.
Part 4 Route: From Thame to Langden over Renjo La to Gokyo
Ignorance is bliss my friends. Ignorance is bliss. Prior to our trip I think I felt because I can run really far that I was going to go from sea level to 17,500 feet in a matter of five days like a champ. Ha. haaaaa. Wrong. Well, I didn't have problems per se but the fact that you feel like your drowning is a bit of a hindrance. I don't think any amount of Joey telling me how thin the air was going to be could have prepared me for how thin the air was going to be. We had about 60% of the oxygen you get at sea level, while those who climb up Everest are climbing in 30% oxygen. A friend asked if it felt like I was breathing through a straw and I guess that question is as good as I can answer it. Yes, it feels like you're running while only being able to breathe out of a straw. With that, I have even more respect for those climbing the eight thousanders now. To think the peak of Everest is still a good 13,000 feet higher than our first pass and that people do that without oxygen. I will applaud those people for the rest of my lives.
But anyway, We got over our first pass, Renjo La Pass with flying colors which were hanging all around the peaks and ridges in the form of prayer flags as a proclamation that we made it. That and Everest, she congratulated us too. We learned that she can be a little shy and doesn't like to expose her self at all times but she was feeling like a straight up exhibitionist at that moment. For only about an hour the clouds parted and we could see her in all her glory and with all of her boisterous neighbors right next to her. So a big thanks to the most perfect and clear weather that allowed her to show her wild side.
But back to the flying colors, at the top of every pass and of every mountain peak are the prayer flags. Their actual purpose is to bless the countryside and each color represents a part of that (blue/sky, yellow/sun, red/blood, white/clouds, and green/nature). Tibetan Buddhists believe that the mantras that are written on the flags will be blown with the breeze and the meaning of them that is good will, compassion and peace will spread throughout the region. So of course, every pass we did (except the last one because we forgot to buy more) we hung prayer flags while our Sherpa sang the Tibetan prayers and mantras that are a part of that ritual. It was beautiful!