-via MaggieMason on Instagram

So last year the Jamaican Tourism Board sent me an email asking if I wanted to come to Jamaica, which I naturally assumed was a Nigerian prince scheme. Remember?

A few weeks ago, the same thing happened with Hawaii. The Polynesian Cultural Center was like, “Want to come to Hawaii for free?” and I was like, “Do I have to carry a suitcase, the contents of which is unknown to me?” and they were like “No.” So I was like, “Are you a human trafficker who traffics in the sale of humans?” and they were like, “No.” So I was like, “Do I have to pay you in sexual favors?” and they were like, “No, thanks.” So I was all, “Aloha!”

Apparently, Mario Lopez and Danica McKellar work at the Polynesian Cultural Center now. I asked Danica to do some quadratic equations for us after she finished dancing, as a kind of intellectual finale, but she ignored me. Rude.

Now you may be asking yourself, “Will Maggie just get on a plane any time a random stranger requests her presence in a tropical location?” And the answer is yes. Yes I will. Call me.

Is this a racial thing? -via MaggieMason on Instagram

This particular trip was a press junket, where they fly you out in hopes that you’ll talk about the trip (which, durr), and then you allow them to control your life for the duration. It’s sort of like vacationing with your manic uncle who cannot tolerate the idea of missing a single activity or historical marker. So you stumble around after him as he books a kayaking trip on top of a surf lesson after you learn to Hula.

Except! He’s paying for the whole thing, so all you have to do is show up and say, “I have always wanted to go hang gliding in a grass skirt. I will have this Mai Tai in a go-cup, please! I will have two!”

I made a lei, then learned to hula. In a coconut bra. Holding a Mai Tai. -via MaggieMason on Instagram

This is sort of how I wound up inebriated on a surfboard a few days ago. For the record, inebriated is the only way I’d end up on a surfboard, because I am terrified of surfing. Well, not surfing in particular, more the sharks who wait under surfboards trying to decide whether you look enough like a seal to eat one of your limbs. I’m also afraid of old-timey sailor sea-zombies pulling me to a watery grave. (I feel like we’ve discussed this.)

Revelatory breakfast. I have been eating terrible papaya my whole life. -via MaggieMason on Instagram

Anyway, pro tip? Tipsy is not the best approach to surfing. Unless you feel like making out with the reef. And maybe I did feel like it. Did you ever think of that?

-via MaggieMason on Instagram

Let’s meet back here tomorrow to discuss why my nose hurts.

Hi, everyone. About a year ago I told you Bryan and I were separating. You left hundreds of comments on those posts and sent a host of emails. I mentioned this at the time, but it bears repeating: None of your notes was mean spirited. That still drops my jaw.

I’ve been writing online for twelve years now, and I’ve learned that emotional topics don’t always go over well. Divorce has affected so many of us, it’s a cultural raw spot. It can be easy to confuse the pain of someone touching an open wound with the pain of someone inflicting a fresh one. I expected some hurt, and even rage, to pepper the support here. In fact, I thought it was inevitable. So I braced myself before I hit post, and walked away for a few hours. The kindness I returned to was humbling.

All of us have seen people offload pain onto someone else online, or simply fail to consider the weight of their words. I so appreciate that no one here did that. Perhaps you had to hold your tongue, and if you did, I’d buy you a beer if I could. Your restraint saved me some downtime. To those of you who offered condolences, thank you again for your kindness.

I’m writing this because our divorce was recently finalized. Until the papers came, I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath, though I know it’s been obvious to some of you. What do you write about when most of what you’re thinking isn’t meant for public consumption?

That said, I’ve learned so much through this period, and I’ve spent a lot of time in crash position. (Growth. Ow.) Some of you have said you’re going through your own divorces right now, and oh kid, I know it’s awful. I wish I could wrap you up.

In the coming weeks, I’d like to talk about the helpful things people have said to you, some of the realizations you’ve had about the divorce or break-up process, and the coping mechanisms you’ve found useful. I think it’s good to have that information out there, and I trust you guys to keep it sane.

I also have good news to share. I’ve been snorzeling my kid (who is doing well, to my profound relief), and traveling, and making lists as usual. This has been the most difficult period of my life, but some time has passed, and the bad stuff is always mixed in with the good.

Through all of it, your grace as a community has been a comfort and a source of pride. Thank you again, everyone. You lend me honor.

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!” -Jack Kerouac

Glowing Man HD from Jacob Sutton on Vimeo.

(via @boltron)

(via bb-blog)

Upon passing a beauty shop:

Girl 1: I know what a Brazilian wax is, but what do you guys think a Brazilian Manicure is?
Girl 2: Maybe they have you strip naked, throw your legs up behind your ears, and then paint your fingernails?
Girl 3: Actually, I’m preeetty sure they paint your anus.
Girl 2: Is this the new vaginal bleaching?
Girl 1: You can get designs!
Girl 3: “I’d just like a circle of arrows, please? Pointing inward? Thanks.”
Girl 2: That’s nice! Like a little directional aid. Maybe it also says, “Enter here!”
Girl 1: I want mine to say entre vous! Because if it’s French, it’s classy.
Girl 3: Right. Keep it classy.

Yesterday I picked a dandelion
For your buttonhole.
I chose it for its primary color
And because it is a humble, hardy weed.
But you had no buttonhole
So you carried it for an hour
Sniffing it now and then
(Its scent is yellow)
Until we had to go home
And you found a hospitable bush
To place it on.

Today I snapped a spring of lilac
For your buttonhole.
I chose it for its delicate tint
And because of its exquisite grace.
But you had no buttonhole
So you carried it for an hour
Sniffing it now and then
(Its perfume is intoxicating)
Until we had to go home
And since it had wilted
You dropped it on the ground.

Tomorrow I will give you
A bright green inedible fruit
And see what you do with it.

—Deborah Pease

Since my sister became a chicken farmer a few years ago, family gatherings have gone so Norman Rockwell. (More photos on Facebook.)

As part of my Life List, I’m photographing all the public libraries in San Francisco.

I love libraries, but as of now, state funding for California libraries has been cut entirely. Oof, it makes me queasy. I know you guys like books too, so please take a minute to write a letter or two in support of restoring funding. All the information you need is here. Go team.

If you liked this post, you might also like Go Read a Book.

Moments before both of us were mauled by guard dogs.

From her mouth. It gathered its small, soft body and leapt
forward, up and out. And then it was gone. She knew
because of the dark hollow in her chest, like the place a woodpecker makes,
keeps making, until it’s emptied the wood of food
and moved on. She didn’t try to stop it, because she didn’t know
what it was; what came from her mouth
looked like a white moth, the kind that eats wool, so she clapped her hands,
chased it to the window, pulled the shade down
and pretended that was that. It’s surprising it stayed
as long as it did, because most of all, she made it wait. She made it wait
while she beat a dead horse, hit the nail on the head, drove her point home,
split hairs, threw fat on the fire, killed birds with a stone.
Naturally, it grew tired of waiting,
tried to tell her, made a few practice runs, beat its wings;
she could feel it, don’t tell me she couldn’t, she could hear
the wings beat. She still feels it, like when you lose an arm or leg
and it aches but there’s nothing there
to ache. That’s how hollow she feels. She talks a lot, laughs
with her mouth open wide. Not everyone knows why,
but I do: she’s making a place for it to come back to.

—Amy Dryansky

The Easter bunny was always so good to you as a child, why would he abandon you just because you got taller?

Sunlite Classic Crate Wooden Bike Basket

Felt Bunny

Vintage Pink Egg Cups

Macarons

Pussy Willow Earrings

Heath Single Stem Bud Vase

Green Grass Letterpress Notecards

Rabbit Shadow Tea Towel