A Love Affar With My Washing Machine

If you were to walk around my apartment, one of the last things you might notice would be my washing machine. This is probably for a few reasons:

1) There are more interesting things to look at, such as the view from my balcony, or the built-in seat in my shower. 

2) The washing machine is standard-looking—white, with stylish touches of chrome—so it blends in rather nicely with my white kitchen walls.

3) It is in the corner of my kitchen,a not-very-fun part of the apartment where there is a not-very-interesting view.

4) Washing machines are common. You expect to see one. They are like shower curtains, or toilets. It would be more noticeable if I didn't have one.

It is worth clarifying one point: calling it a washing machine is slightly misleading because it also is a dryer. It took me some time to come to terms with this—the combination sounds as plausible as a freezer/oven—but after doing a little research, I found out they are quite common, especially in Singapore.  

The machine has a countdown timer that tells you how long until your clothes will be ready. One Saturday, I was about to leave to meet up with my parents and my brother. Before I left, I checked to see if my clothes were almost done. The timer said "15." This was at 1:45 in the afternoon, and there seemed to be something fortuitous about my washing finishing exactly at two o'clock. I decided to wait. (I partially blame this decision on my mother, whose genes I carry. She finds meaning in different times of the day and in certain number combinations. Had the timer said "14" or "16", I would have left, and I am not sure why).

Soon it was two o'clock and I went to get my clothes, and to my surprise, the machine said there were still six minutes to go before my clothes would be ready. 

It ended up being, ironically, 15 more minutes after that. This was the first time the machine lied to me. 

Last week, I stayed up so I could put another load on before I went to bed. It turned out to be a poor choice, as the machine promised it would be done by 10, yet wouldn't unlock its doors until 10:23 (another one of its fun attributes: the door locks, and because the manual is missing quite a few verbs, I cannot figure out the right button combination to unlock it). I unplugged the machine once, because it was nearly an hour behind schedule. 

Now, instead of wondering why my machine blatantly deceives me, I simply appreciate my machine's optimism. I really think it believes it will get the job done when it says it will. It wants to live up to its promise, to impress me with its work ethic, but somehow it always fails to do so and ends up limping towards the finish, a good 20-40 minutes later than it said it would. I now see the countdown timer as a rough guess, a potential best-case scenario. This has helped.  

Probably anywhere from 1:54-2:13 left.

Another wonderful thing about my machine is that it is the slowest washing machine/dryer on the market. That is probably not true, actually, but for a small load it takes roughly four hours to do the complete wash/dry combination. I have played around with the settings, but if you try and speed up the process, the clothes come out damp. Four hours, it turns out, is about as good as it gets. The "quiet" setting takes north of seven hours.

Fantastic, I say. In a world where we are constantly pressing to be faster, more efficient, more convenient, I do appreciate a reminder to celebrate patience, to slow down and appreciate life. There is something refreshingly honest about a machine that has the courage to say "I will do my best, at my own pace. If that is not enough, then perhaps you should buy another machine."

The machine also moves by itself. 

You see, the machine has a motor, which then spins the drum inside at insane speeds (the fastest is 1,400 rpms per minute). Now, you might be thinking (as I did), "if the machine has such a powerful motor, why does it take four hours for a single load to be washed and dried?" I don't have an answer. 

But what I can tell you is this: when you set the machine for anything over 600 rpms, the machine begins to rumble and shake violently—so much so that it actually moves on its own. Watching it at 1,400 rpms is pretty spectacular because you are certain it is about to break, or explode. This means that if you make the mistake—as I did—of trying to put things on top of the dryer—like washing machine powder—the machine will shake so violently that whatever is on top will fall off and either break, or in the case of powder, spill all over the kitchen floor. 

Fair enough. It wasn't advertised as a table. 

Just where I left it.

Perfectly lined up against the wall

And then there's this, which is fantastic: 

As you probably guessed, that little song lets you know that your clothes are ready. It has woken me up from a nap before. I sat by the machine for seven minutes to get that video—the timer read "2" the entire time. I only was able to get half the song because it went from "2" to "END" without going to "1." Yet another reason I respect my machine.  

And that little jingle is for every time you power this guy on. 

Imagine my surprise when I saw this exact model at Best—a store that sells these kinds of things in Singapore—and it was on sale. After the discount, it was the cheapest front-loading machine available by nearly $200.

I had a strong urge to buy it, and part of me still regrets that I didn't. 

Ours Forever

I want to tell you about tonight.

After work, Joe and Dad and I walked from our office down to a restaurant by the Singapore River. We spent a few hours drinking beer and eating nachos, though in truth, we just drank pints of cold draft beer and split one plate of nachos between the three of us.

The only thing really missing was little Mom, but she was off doing yoga so that made her absence a little bit easier to take, knowing she was at peace, probably balancing on her head, enjoying not having to listen to some of the jokes we make. We missed Ellie and Amelia, of course, but my sense is that they would have spent a lot of the night rolling their eyes and being unimpressed, or wishing that Mom was there to keep us in line.

After Dad paid the bill, we got up and gathered our suit jackets and briefcases and then Joe and Dad went off to the taxi stand and I walked back to the MRT to take the train home.

Not long afterwards, in response to a short text I had sent, Dad wrote me:

“Likewise. Times that are ours forever. Sleep well.”

It was one of those texts you can’t really respond to, though I spent some of the train ride trying to think of one.

What are the moments you think of right before you die if you never have those conversations and those beers? 

I spent some of the train ride thinking about that, too. 

Editing

I edit and write for a living. It sounds like two different jobs, but in truth it is hard to edit without doing a bit of writing and it is equally as hard to write without editing.  


For years, I have loved to write; the blank page is unforgiving and always there, but when I sit down and fill it up with the right words I get a sense of fulfillment I don't find in much else I do. About the only thing I haven't tried to write is poetry, because I find most poetry needlessly difficult and I have never enjoyed reading things that make me feel stupid and I have never wanted to write to make others feel inadequate.  


No, I love to write screenplays and stories and novels, and the authors I loved—and still do—were Ernest Hemingway and George Orwell and Elmore Leonard and Raymond Chandler and Steinbeck and some contemporary Cormac McCarthy and strangely enough, A.A. Milne; men who have such a mastery of the language they write good books using simple words. 


Of these, Hemingway is probably the most famous, but definitely the most outspoken and adamant about the need for writing to be simple and direct (Orwell comes a close second). There is a well-known story about Hemingway I love and want to share because it fits here and I think everyone who reads Hemingway should know it. 


Hemingway wrote around the same time as William Faulkner. Both were literary celebrities during their day—and obviously remain giants in our day—though they wrote in opposite styles. Faulkner was verbose and flowery, Hemingway short and terse. There is a semi-joke exercise in the literary world: you write two sentences over the same subject, one as if you were Faulkner, the other as if you were Hemingway, to make yourself a more versatile writer.  


You actually don't need to do the exercise to see what those two sentences would look like. Here is how both wrote about the tiredness at the end of a day: 


Faulkner: "He did not still feel weak, he was merely luxuriating in that supremely gutful lassitude of convalescence in which time, hurry, doing, did not exist, the accumulating seconds and minutes and hours to which in its well state the body is slave both waking and sleeping, now reversed and time now the lip-server and mendicant to the body's pleasure instead of the body thrall to time's headlong course."


Hemingway: "Manuel drank his brandy. He felt sleepy himself. It was too hot to go out into the town. Besides there was nothing to do. He wanted to see Zurito. He would go to sleep while he waited."


For reasons I'm not exactly sure of, a publicized back-and-forth started between Hemingway and Faulkner. They met only once in their lives, of which neither man speaks much about other than in passing. Some label Faulkner as the instigator, others say Hemingway. One Ohio State professor wrote a book—a short one—about this rivalry, and he concludes both Hemingway and Faulkner were competitive, proud authors and though they never really spoke in person, they read the other's work and waged a sort of literary competition through their writing and speeches because they both wanted to be the best and recognized as the best. Who knows?


At one point in their back-and-forth, Faulkner insulted Hemingway's simple style and said:"[Hemingway] has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary." 


Hemingway's response was: "Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?"


It is perfect, as Hemingway can be at times. 


There is another story of Hemingway where he is sitting around a table with his writing buddies and they are all drinking. His friends bet $10 each, which Hemingway promised to match if he lost, he couldn't write a story—with a complete beginning, middle and ending—in only ten words. 


Hemingway wrote down six words on a napkin and won the bet. 


"For sale: Baby shoes, never worn."


Faulkner would have never taken the bet, let alone win it, which is part of the reason I have read Hemingway but haven't found the courage to start Faulkner. I am in no position to lecture on writing and I won't try to—especially not to two Nobel Prize winners—but I have found saying less—as Hemingway does—allows you to say much more. When given ten words, you write six. 


This all started because I was talking about my new job as an editor and writer and the point I was getting at was that I have known for some time that I loved to write and just recently, through this new work,I discovered that I love to edit, possibly more than I love to write. 


All sentences are supposed to say something and unfortunately most of them don't. An editor—usually an intolerant old man, a scowl permanently etched on his face—goes through and simplifies: 'utilize' becomes 'use' because nothing is lost except four letters. In the next paragraph 'future potential' is cut down to 'potential' because there's no such thing as 'past potential'. Samuel Johnson would have been a great editor. He once famously advised writers to re-read their work and then they come across a passage "that you think is particularly fine, strike it out." He seemed to have the intolerance part. 


Some changes are judgment calls, but most people agree 'remuneration" should be changed to 'pay' because they both say the same thing, except one is more widely understood and direct while the other sounds impressive and scholarly. It is an interesting lens to look through; what could be cut or simplified without any loss? And if it could be simplified, if it could be cut and not missed, then why hasn't it been cut, why hasn't it been simplified?


I started with no real experience in editing other than re-reading what I'd written and making some changes, though your own work is always the toughest to change, no matter what Samuel Johnson advises. 


Now, I'm reading everything I can because it seems an obvious way to get better. Hemingway is a good place to start because he is an editor's dream. He shows what you really need, proves nouns and verbs are enough most of the time. His work as a journalist is fantastic. 


There are more technical books, like Elements of Style, which is the closest thing most editors and writers have to a bible. Style guides from various publications tell you which words should be avoided (guesstimate being a popular one), and other words  should be hyphenated (wartime is one word, as is trademark, but well-being is hyphenated and some day is two words). 


There is no substitute for time, though I am trying. Dad has been wonderful, too. He is an artist at this; sometimes I'll send him something I've spent hours simplifying and he'll send it back fifteen minutes later and it is much simpler, much better. I have print-outs of these—my draft, Dad's draft—and sometimes I'll look at the differences and wonder how the hell I didn't write it like Dad did because it sounds so easy and simple when you read it. 


It is not feeding the poor, but it is nice to do work where you improve something. 


Consider this sentence: "Mistakes were made and we are currently exploring a number of various solutions to remedy the situation."


It sounds ridiculous, right? The sentence should say: "We made mistakes, and are now working towards a solution." Direct is best. 


Bad language is everywhere. Look at a few paragraphs from a front page ESPN article some months ago:


"It has been an arduous path the NFL and its players have traveled these past four months. It has been at times ugly, unnerving, nasty and unsettling. Labor disputes always are, and this one has been no exception.

Both sides took hits and neither will walk away unscathed now that they have finally agreed to a new collective bargaining agreement.

That the NFL Players Association had to decertify, that the owners had to lock out the players, that there had to be a halt to league business was just silly when everyone was making money hand over fist.

The league was healthy, not broken. This dispute was about greed, plain and simple. It was not about putting the best product on the field or playing for the love of the game. It was about money, and how much everyone got.

Of course, the answer is that the players and the owners will continue to print money. The television contracts will only get larger. The fan interest will only grow. The stadiums will continue to be packed (most of them), and the merchandise will continue to fly off the shelves.

The NFL is a $9.3 billion business today. Who knows what it will be in 2020, but it will not be less. It will be more, potentially much more. So there had to be a way the two sides could come to an agreement. There had to be football in 2011. And ultimately, now, there will be.

As we prepare to finally discuss football, free agency, trades and training camps, it is worth a look at the winners and losers of the past four months."

Arduous and unscathed are words you find in a thesaurus; let them stay there. Adverbs like "ultimately" and "finally" should be cut because they add nothing but length. So should expressions like "plain and simple" and "print money" and "hand over fist"—they mean nothing. "That" is almost never needed, yet is used six times by my count. 

These phrases should be cut:

—"...and how much everyone got," 

—"...and this has been no exception," 

—"Of course,..."

This article is about a collective bargaining agreement. Why must merchandise "fly off the shelves", money be "printed", the sides walk away "unscathed"? Why use silly? Why not delete everything and just tell it like it is?

In Modern American Usage, Wilson Follett explains journalese, which the author of the ESPN article is painfully guilty of: "In general, journalese is the tone of contrived excitement. When the facts by themselves do not make the reader's pulse beat faster, the journalist thinks it is his duty to apply the spur and whip of breathless phrases." 

I am young and have not been editing for long, so I still love the attention to detail, the arrogance of approaching the work of somebody else and making it better by cutting out the fat. I still enjoy the difficulty of making things simple, of looking at ESPN and seeing which articles need editing. 


Maybe one day I'll pick up a Hemingway novel again and be good enough to find a word or two to cut or simplify, because no matter what my job title is or what I'm, getting paid, I'll think I could have even helped Hemingway write a little better. 

Six Months

Six months ago it was December and cold in Austin. People thought Newt Gingrich had a shot at being president, I hadn't heard of Jeremy Lin—nobody had—and Whitney Houston and Joe Paterno were still alive. 


Things were different then, which is no surprise; time passes, things change, and that's how it is and always will be. Even though change is one of the few certainties of life (unless you're an accountant or an actuary), occasionally all of this change hits you at once and you sit somewhere quiet and look back at what was and then think about your life now and in that quiet place you remember all the little moments between what was then and what is now and you don't really have any words, you just have a few gaps that you still can't fill in. 


I'm talking about myself, as most writers tend to, and I'm being vague, which most writers tend to be. How about instead, I tell you what I mean?


Six months ago Austin was cold and I was working in a bar and among all the other things that had not happened yet, I hadn't told Kristin that I liked her. That would change on December 9th, when I let Kristin know how I felt over a text message. In my defense, Kristin was studying for final exams and I would have had to wait some time before I could have told her in person—I have never been fond of waiting. I needed to clear this up because telling a girl you like her over a text message is something I did in eighth grade, when I had size ten feet and would still stand next to Mom and see if I was taller than her or not. 


On December 9th, I told Kristin—after some prodding, mind you—I liked her. I remember being nervous as I waited for her to text me back and I remember feeling lame about how nervously I was waiting for a text, but she told me she felt the same way and we decided it would be a good idea for two people who liked each other to start dating. Since that day—and the days before, when I was getting to know Kristin well enough to know I liked her—my life has been better. 


Kristin and I have been to DC (twice) and walked along a beach in Florida. We have driven across the country together, stopping at a great microbrewery in Knoxville. The day before we had a picnic lunch in Virginia in the back of my truck. Singapore is next. 


Early on, there were nights where we stayed up until eight in the morning talking because there was so much to say. Other nights were more routine, with a nice dinner and a glass of wine and we were in bed by ten, laughing at how old we are for such a young couple. We have gone for late night drives and  other nights we sat in my room late and listened to the rain when it was so dark you couldn't even see the ceiling. When it was February and still cold, Kristin would bundle up and come in to the bar and stay until I was done cleaning at 4am, just sitting and smiling and talking, and then I'd walk her to her car and give her a hug and we'd drive to a 24-hour cafe and we'd talk some more and warm up over some food. 


These are some of the little moments I spoke of earlier, the ones that bridge then and now, or try to at least. But at best this bridge is like the one Indiana Jones seems to walk across in every movie—noticeably incomplete, with planks missing. It is a poor bridge, I am saying.


Why am I talking about Indiana Jones?


In ninety minutes Kristin and I will have been dating for six months. I do not know what that means, though I know holding a job for six months doesn't look impressive on a resume, which doesn't really mean anything for Kristin and me and what we are building, though it does provide a sort of worthless perspective that is still perspective nonetheless. I also know that everyone who has lasted longer than six months has hit the six month mark and thought about how short six months can feel.  


I'm being vague again. 


I wanted to say these months have been wonderful in ways I could not have pictured or dreamed of six months prior. I do not know where we will be in six more months, or even in one month. I can not promise Kristin will still laugh at my jokes, though I think she will. I can just think about then and now and be grateful it all happened the way it did; I still get to hold her hand; tomorrow will be six months, and we will have a simple dinner and probably be in bed before ten. 

A Museum and My Family

Hemingway said you should never travel with a person unless you love them. I took his advice, and Kristin and I flew to DC. 

Hemingway is right about love and travel. Kristin sees the world in a different way than I do. Occasionally, she offers me a glimpse of how different we are and the only thing I can do is smile or sometimes smile and shake my head. It could be different, and I suspect it is for some people. I do not envy them. I love that she packs nail polish, that she drinks a lot of tea before we board the plane and then has to go to the bathroom minutes later. I love that she always worries about being too hot so she never brings a sweater anywhere and then winds up being cold. I bring a sweater everywhere. I love that on our first trip to DC she packed three baseball hats (to match different outfits) and multiple purses (same reason). I genuinely do love this.

Kristin walked on to the plane that would take us from Austin to Chicago and said, "it smells like a grandmother's house...like old moth balls...you know?" I nodded; I know what old moth balls smell like, though never once have I associated them with Granny. You see what I mean? 

About an hour in to our first flight, I looked over and saw this:

Here's what's happening: 

1) my sweater has become a full-body blanket, or a tent 

2) Kristin is curled up on a seat that fat people can barely fit in to, hiding beneath my sweater

3) I am standing in the aisle taking a photo. 

A stewardess came by and noticed me taking a photo and then saw Kristin. Actually, she couldn't see Kristin and that's why she stopped to talk to me. In a southern accent, the stewardess said she'd never seen anyone "do something quite like that." She said that as if there were four a's in it: thaaat. We looked at Kristin the whole time we spoke, then agreed it was best we didn't try to do what Kristin was doing because we might injure ourselves. 

Time went by too quickly once we arrived. The dinners were fantastic. I love being home; I tried to stay in the house, to just sit and talk and be around as much as possible. But I loved the dinner and lunch at J. Pauls, the walk along Rock Creek, the beers at The Heights, walking through Target with Lilly. It was a wonderful week. I discovered that I like whisky better when Dad's having a glass with me; just as I've discovered (quite a few times) that beer is nicer when I'm having one with Joe. I discovered that Lilly asks why? about everything and I usually only have the patience for three or four why's? and then I'd smile and go into the kitchen or to the basement and tell myself that a three year old was not going to get the better of me. I'd come back up, ready with an answer, but she'd moved on and was asking Joef to help her build a snowman.

Mom would sing to Jack and then talk to Lilly about why the plants didn't need any more water, and then Mom would be in the kitchen and say to me that I hadn't had enough to eat yet and could she make me something? So little of Gigi's day is spent thinking about Gigi, so much of it is spent radiating love. 

Amelia was sober for most of the time, which was nice. She has a way with Lilly that is so wonderful, and of course with Jack too. Watching Amelia has forever changed the word mother and its meaning; for the first time I'm seeing what it takes to raise children. It is amazing what she does, and I am thankful for the bits I have gotten to watch. I

Ellie has a way with Lilly, too. There is a part of Lilly that Ellie understands better than anyone except Amelia and Jim, and it shows in the games Ellie and Lilly play together, the songs they sing, the look that will every so often come on one of their faces. When Ellie wasn't asking Lilly if she was a girl or a Muppet, Ellie went for long runs in preparation for a half-marathon. That race is today. I'm excited to hear the post-race report; she'll be the first person I know to run 13.1 on three different continents. 

I wish Joe could have heard the conversations about him when he wasn't around. Most of them were positive. 

I'm kidding, of course. He does so much good for the right reasons. The Pakistan offer, the baseball road trip -- Dad calls it justice and we all agreed. 

And Dad was Dad. He continues to be the best man I know.

Kristin and I flew out on Tuesday, so on Monday we decided to go with Mom to see the American History Smithsonian Museum; our tourist activity for the week.

We arrived, parked in a surprisingly close spot, and after having our bags inspected and walking through a metal detector, we were allowed in. It was free, which surprised me; places still charge for wireless internet. 

We wandered about the museum and found our way to the First Ladies section on the third floor. 

There are some amazing dresses, but it is hard to notice anything except how hideously ugly some of these women were. I know times are different, but there simply had to better options. Nancy Reagan and Jackie Kennedy were both pretty. The rest were forgettable. A select few were absolute beasts.

Martha Washington set a precedent that it was ok for the First Lady to be ugly. George Washington was a military hero, a political genius, a Founding Father -- he could have done better. Dad suggested that when the candles were out it wouldn't have been so bad for George and I think there's some truth in that. But either the artist who drew this disliked Martha (and so did the museum director who chose this for her picture), or the artist was being kind and somehow made her less hideous. It's hard to imagine the latter.  

Why is the focus of this drawing on her face? 

Abigail is a step up from Martha, but that's not saying much. She looks like she would spend a good part of her day nagging in a shrill, terrible voice. John! JOHN! JOOOOHHHNNN! Come look at what a mess John Quincy has made! 

Sarah Polk's face is as forgettable as her husband's Presidency. Her hair looks greasy, too.  

Mary Todd Lincoln was a beast. This picture of her isn't bad compared to the others, and that's saying something. One of her dresses was on display and she looked to be a short, wide woman. No wonder Abe spent so much time reading. 

*There seems to be a theme here -- two of the greatest presidents had dogs for wives. Now, as Sarah Polk proves, having a dog for a wife doesn't guarantee a president will be great, or even memorable. My theory is that knowing an ugly woman is waiting for you in bed inspires you to work longer and love your work in a way you can't love your wife. These long hours and love of work then allow you as a President to develop an attachment to the job that a healthy sex life would have otherwise killed. 

Kristin's take on Ida McKinley: "she actually looks like a man." I agree. Ida's hair is regrettable and her face is masculine. If you drew a mustache on Ida, photo-shopped in a dress shirt and tie, she'd pass for a little-known congressman at the turn of the century. 

Woodrow Wilson upgraded during his term. Granted, Edith isn't much of an upgrade, but she's younger than Ellen and smiling. I wonder why more presidents haven't done this (my guess is plenty of presidents have done this, but Woodrow had the stones to make it official). 

And then there's Florence Harding. She must have had a great personality.

Helen Taft looks like the photographer just made a fat joke about her husband. You can see Ellen in this photo, and together they look miserable. 

Jackie Kennedy's photo follows Mamie Eisenhower's, which makes Mamie seem even uglier. I'm surprised the photographer didn't ask Mamie to sit a bit farther away -- minimize the emphasis of that schnoz and her ears.   

There were other exhibits. 

In one exhibit where they displayed a bit of everything -- from Dorothy's shoes in The Wizard of Oz to Ben Franklin's walking stick to a Roberto Clemente jersey -- they had this interactive station:

You could write a response in pencil and pin it up on the wall. The responses told you more about America than any exhibit in the museum. 

Right out of the gate, a Hitler reference. It's a bit too vague to be of much help -- his body? his uniform? a signed copy of Mein Kampf? 

And beneath that is Freddy Sanchez, which I'm guessing is a reference to the San Francisco Giants' injured second basemen. Odd place for him to pop up (baseball pun intended).

My favorite response. There is a museum with plenty of "Native American stuff" -- it's called the National Museum of the American Indian. 

A nice jab at the Cubs, which I always appreciate. And a drawing of a penis above it. Well done, America. 

Indiana Jones is misspelled, but I agree with the kid. Criss Angel is misspelled, too. He's a magician with his own tv show and refers to himself as "Mind Freak". What makes him a significant part of American history?

Not a bad idea, but I think the ball is in the Baseball Hall of Fame, in Canton. The only one on the entire board that wasn't stupid. 

Queen Victoria, the monarch of Britain, wouldn't belong anywhere in the American History Museum. Neither would her crown. 

We had to stop at another interactive area because Kristin was getting bored. Here, she stood in front of a look-a-like Presidential podium and recited Reagan's famous speech about the Berlin Wall. 

From the monitor, she actually looked like Reagan. 

We kept exploring. 

This is a casting of Abe Lincoln's hands. I thought it photo-worthy because those hands helped write, quite literally, American history. He held a broom handle during the casting process because his hand was swollen from shaking so many hands the day before. An amazing man, though I still don't know what he saw in Mary Todd. 

The hat Lincoln was wearing at Ford's Theater. 

Another opportunity to engage museum visitors that I photographed:

If someone sent me that piece to edit, I would gladly do so. The part about her brother's relationship is unnecessary dirty laundry. And of course you've known your brother for a long time -- that's redundant. It should read: "In 2009, my brother was stationed in Kuwait and couldn't make it home for Christmas. He sent me this seashell along with a card that read: "I hope you'll forgive me, and when I get home we will get along better." The part about it being the best gift is probably hyperbole. Bang. You've shortened your piece, made it more powerful, left the readers with a few questions that they'll have to answer on their own. 

But it's still just a fucking seashell. 

This was the outfit worn by Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven. One of my favorite characters (Will Munny) played by  my favorite actor in one of my favorite movies. 

Well done, Smithsonian. 

I write about the Museum for so long because it is the easy part to remember. I still get a lump in my throat when I think of six months and how long that can be. I will miss having dinner with my family and I will just will miss my family. I will miss my little niece and her hats and my nephew and his ga's and ung's and I will miss my sisters laughing at my brother and I will miss the hugs Mom gives and I will miss my Dad at the head of the table.