the alamo

The other night, I was sitting in a restaurant in San Antonio, sipping a margarita the size of a baby’s head and chatting about balancing motherhood and work and travel with a writer from National Geographic. “It’s hard sometimes,” I said. “I know that my husband finds it challenging when I’m gone one weekend and then again the next weekend and then again the next. But we manage. He does a lot of his work from home.”

“And he doesn’t mind?” she asked. Keep reading…

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I Really Don’t Understand American History, Like, At All

March 4, 2011

This was parked outside the Alamo last night, and I’m really pretty sure – although, please, do correct me if I’m wrong – that it is not how Davy Crockett got around. (Yes, I’m at the Alamo. Well, in San Antonio, in a hotel across the street from the Alamo. I’ll explain later.)

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