I'm not a big believer in fated coincidence and things being "meant to be." This is perhaps unsurprising for an atheist, just another manifestation of my unwillingness to let faith, rather than reason, steer my life.

But against my better judgment, sometimes I feel myself falling into a fit of credulity when things just align a little too perfectly. It's never about life's great concerns, no matters of life or death. It's little, silly things like what happened on a random stop into a used book store today.

I actually went in to look for a DVD. But, being that I was there, I decided to test the very, very slim odds that a certain book would be there. The author of the book I'm currently reading penned a different book about one of the places we're considering for our next trip. It's not a popular destination, particularly for Americans, and this author has a number of more recent and more popular books. Checking for it was akin to looking for a lynx in an inner city backyard.

But there the damned thing sat, in the first place my eye rested in the travel section.

In my surprise, I picked up and cracked it open to touch the pages. Stuffed up close to the spine was a folded note. I opened it, expecting to see someone's scribblings about being in this place. The disjointed jottings on the paper weren't terribly remarkable or forthcoming — a flight number, a reminder to buy something. So, I looked at the red and green printed information along the bottom margin: the note paper was from a hotel in another destination we're considering, a whole continent away from the subject of the book.

And though I knew I had a stack of unread books waiting for me at home, I took it to the counter and swiped my card, my head spinning through a dozen travel fantasies at once.

How could I leave it there when it was so clearly meant for me?

This week, I judged someone else's dream. I judged it so hard, you guys.

A woman on a radio show said her ultimate travel dream was to go to a Disney resort and my god, my head just about collapsed in on itself.

As I am currently deeply entrenched in scheming my next trip and exploring travel options ranging from anywhere to everywhere, I was probably being even more judgmental than usual about this particular topic. I'll be honest, I spent a lot of time thinking about how sad an existence this woman must lead, how awful it would be to live a life so bound in by a lack of curiosity and devoid of creativity, how this woman represents the worst brand of insularity and xenophobia that America has to offer and how unforgivable it is to have so little interest in the vast spectrum of humanity.

Over the course of a couple days of parsing this in my head, I moved on from a place of ridicule to a point of self reproach. Who am I to judge this woman's desires, small and dull as I might think they are? It made me wonder what she would think of my hopes and dreams. Would she think it's terribly sad to live a life without children? She might. Would she think it's insane to consider a list of travel destinations, all of which carry warnings from the State Department? Perhaps. Would she think it's terrible to live in a "transitional" neighborhood in a 109-year-old house of roughly 750 square feet with four animals? Very possibly.

In short, she might think my life is just as miserable as I think hers is. We all judge strangers like this, don't we? That might not make it "right" per se, but I think it's true.

So, I was kind of passively watching TV this weekend and it took all of five minutes for me to swear off network television (other than my beloved PBS) yet again.

NBC was running ads for shows in what looks like a truly execrable new fall line up. One is called "Whitney." The premise of the spot was the titular character, who is evidently supposed to be very tart and maybe sort of Sarah-Silverman-esque, saying that women giving men "the silent treatment" isn't a punishment. Actually, says Whitney, the silent treatment is a reward for men.

Because oh my god, those women never stop flappin' their traps, amirite?! And god, to have to listen to them go on and on and on! What a drag!

Are we really still there? By "we," I mean "people other than Jay Leno" and by "there" I mean "playing on the trope that women are a bunch of dingbats that couldn't possibly say anything of interest to their male spouse or partner"? Is this what passes for humor?

As insulting as that is to women, I also kind of think it's insulting to men - or at least decent men - who are with women whom they consider to be engaging, interesting and, wonder of wonders, worth talking to.

I hope "Whitney" fails as hard and as fast as it deserves to.

Embarrassing taste in music is relative, but there are some things that are just understood to be bad, like "Who Let The Dogs Out" or "Cotton Eyed Joe" or "Anything by Nickleback." There is no ironic pride that can be scrounged out of liking songs like those. If you like them, society rightly says that you should be at least a little embarrassed and never listen to them anytime or anywhere other than in your car with the windows fully rolled up.

But there are other kinds of embarrassing musical taste, and I am afflicted with one. I hate some of the most universally appreciated singers and bands of all time -- people and bands that are constantly referenced by other musicians as inspiration, whose albums that are consistently ranked in the top 50 of those constantly rehashed "of all time" lists. Even my everyday fellow citizens seem to hold them up as sacred cows, and I just try to hold my tongue for fear of being outed as some sort of philistine.

But I hate them. I can't help it. It's not like I actively chose to despise these lauded musicians because of some rebellious streak, it's just that their voices and personas trigger in me a gag response and a frantic avoidance - I can't shut off the radio or leave the room fast enough when I hear them. And yet, I feel bad about this.

So who do I hate, despite my embarrassment?

* Joni Mitchell
* Neil Young
* Paul Simon (and/or Simon and Garfunkel)

Those are the three big ones. I will allow one caveat: I really like "Cecilia." Beyond that, though, I do not understand how anyone can find listening to these people pleasurable.

However, the other day, I was listening to an interview with a singer that I do like, Laura Marling, and she mentioned Joni Mitchell, unsurprisingly, as an influence or one of her favorites. But then, she said something that made me feel more acceptable as a human being; something along the lines of "her voice doesn't resonate with everyone, but it does resonate with me." I was just so surprised by the way she said it -- she wasn't condescending at all, which is not something I can say I've heard before in relation to Joni Mitchell. It was just like, "some people like heat, but others like cold." Not a judgment, but just a fact. I was kind of amazed that this pup of girl (21 years old, I think) was the first person to ever say something that made me feel OK about hating Joni Mitchell, who is a favorite of her own.

It also made me kind of marvel and the diversity of taste out there in the world. I'm sure that there are people who can't stand the tone of the voices of my favorite singers, but who on earth knows why? Paul Simon makes me wretch, but somewhere else, someone is repulsed by Rufus Wainwright (what is wrong with you, if that is you?). Is it something to do with the tones of the voices of the people we grew up around? Is this something that starts in the womb? Who knows. Humans are a weird and fascinating species.

In any case, you should give Laura Marling a listen, because seriously ... better than Joni Mitchell.

Here we are, in the time of the Father's Day Gift Guide bombardment. Left, right and center, all I see are things I should get for my dad. But the thing is, most of the things on these lists are the last things on Earth my dad would want. Let's take some examples:

A nice, single malt Scotch. Ignoring for a moment the fact that my dad can't drink (on doctor's orders), I don't think my dad would drink anything more expensive than a Miller Light.

A handsome watch. My dad owns a watch, the one his company gave him for however many years of loyal service. This is not a man who thinks multiple versions of accessories are necessary, particularly watches, which I have seen him wear once -- to my wedding.

A high-grade (merino or cashmere) sweater with jaunty elbow patches. My dad does not give a shit what sheep or goat the wool came from, no matter how soft it is. And elbow patches? Could possibly be cause for being beaten in the street where he lives.

Golf clubs. Is everyone with a penis obligated to be interested in golf? Because I'm pretty sure that a lot of dudes want nothing to do with it. Starting with my dad.

Records. God, these are on every list. Why? What does my dad want with a Sticky Fingers LP? If I gave this to him, I cannot even imagine the look of incredulity on his face.

Custom stationery. The fuck you say?

Gorgeous shoes. My dad keeps geese and Labradors and part of his house isn't heated. His interest level in cordovan monkstraps, on a scale of one to 10, is roughly negative nine trillion. (I will take them, though?)

And so it goes. The problem for me is that I know what my dad wouldn't want -- and I'm fairly sure that anyone would be able to assess that immediately upon meeting him -- but I have no idea what he would want. We're not close. I did not share a home with him after the age of 2. I think he is unsure of how to deal with me, and I am unsure of how to deal with him. Is there not someone out there compiling a list of Father's Day gifts for people with awkward and stilted relationships with their fathers but who still love their fathers? Maybe I should get on that. The first two items: a card, and a phone call filled with awkward pauses. We'll see if I can find anything else.

I have rotating travel fixations. Sometimes they exist side by side, sometimes one dominates; I experience them in undulating intensity, sometimes with such a fury that I burn myself out and have to move along to the next. Given that I exist in a state of constantly wanting to go somewhere far away, and my bucket list of travel destination is far longer than the number of years I have left in my life, it's a little like riding on an infinite, rolling sea, each swell underneath my boat a passing fantasy that will rise again in time.

Invariably, shortly after I fixate on a destination, I see it pop up in mass media or somewhere in the blogosphere. It happens with maddening frequency.

Over the past two weeks, Kerala has been one of my top daydreaming go-to destinations. Floating through the backwaters in a kettuvallam, seeing elephants with enormous gold headpieces, walking crowded streets, seeing men in lunghis and women in saris, talking to people selling things I want to buy ... I build up a rather elaborate slideshow in my head. Then, about a week ago, we saw an acquaintance, and though we were only together for about five minutes, it was enough time for her to encourage us, out of the blue, to go to Kerala. I practically exploded, "Oh my god, I've been obsessing abuot Kerala lately!"

And then. Oh, and then. The Anthropologie catalog shows up somewhere on my Internet radar. And it's shot in Kerala.

It shouldn't, but this drives me a little nuts because it happens over and over again. Last year, I was freaking out about Cartagena. This year, I can hardly turn around without seeing Cartagena in a travel magazine or blog or as a backdrop to something. When we got back from Guatemala, with which I became totally enraptured, that a J. Crew catalog showed up, shot in Antigua and Lake Atitlan, where we had been. It doesn't bother me when individual people talk about things I'm obsessing about - I just get really excited about that. Perhaps it's watching a money-hungry corporate machine setting its sights on something I've fallen in love with that really riles me. And the more I see it in the mass media, the more I worry it'll be ruined by disrespectful tourists who don't really care about the place but just want to go there because they saw it in a catalog. I'm judgmental like that.

And on to the next fantasy I drift.

For people who take literally thousands of photos when we travel, we don't have a lot of photography up in our house. It was only last year that we put any up, and at that point we had clocked 18 countries visited. I "collect" pictures of turquoise-y blue objects (because I guess I'm a bower bird), something that started unconsciously, but is now a thing, so to speak, and we hung a little quartet of them.

But I've been wanting to do something a little grander than 5x7s in the bathroom. My tasted for dramatic artwork has been nudging me toward blowing up one of our photos and hanging it on the conveniently blank wall in our kitchen. And then I found out about a nice little giveaway on From The Right Bank: a 24x36 stretched canvas printed with any photo you want.

That, of course, sent me straight to my Flickr to choose options from our most recent trip. Which of these do you like?

The rational part of my brain knows that it's not unheard of that snow should fall in Minnesota in mid-April. I mean, I remember a Memorial Day snowstorm. However, this winter has made me irrational. After months and months of being battered by record snowfalls and cold temperatures, I am willing it to be spring. It's like I'm going through the first three stages of the Kübler-Ross model all at once.

So, despite the fact that snow is forecast for this weekend, I am listening to the sunniest, cheeriest music I can find.

I strongly suggest you join me. Maybe we can conjure up some crazy mind-power juju that will make it sunny and 70 from now until July, when I give the weather permission to climb into the 80s.

That's not a metaphor, and I'm sorry if you now have the Eminem song in your head.

I like to go on about how, really, I don't have that many clothes or shoes. I mean, compared to other women. But, I've been trying to gather up an inventory of what I have, and, um, yeah, I have kind of a lot of clothes.

This seems be due to two things:

1) After I got my current job, I went on a shopping bender. I had been on a self-imposed, year-and-a-half-long clothes shopping diet while working as a freelancer, so when I suddenly had this exotic disposable income, I lost my shit, mostly at Target and Old Navy. I think I must have about 15 t-shirts, all the same v-neck style, just in different colors. I bought four dresses from the Liberty of London collaboration (hello, urgency marketing). I don't even want to start counting the cardigans.

2)  I have been hanging onto some stuff for eons because I just can't bring myself to throw it out. Most of those items make me feel like a disgusting hag, but they don't have holes and some of them were gifts from people I care about.

Lately, I've fallen prey to an obsession to try and streamline my closet, but I am finding that I am genuinely terrible at this. I swing open the doors to my wardrobe and I am paralyzed in front of my overfull closet because I am sickened by the thought of how much I spent, in $10 or $20 increments, on things that I don't even want to wear. Like Stephen Colbert says, "I am America and So Can You!"

I've done two closet sweeps now, but I know I have to go through the closet again, and make even harder decisions. The ones in which I go, "I wore this once. That one wearing cost me X amount of dollars. Are you ready to essentially give away that money for a second time?" or "So and so gave this to me. How would he/she feel if they knew I was giving it away?" It's going to be painful.

I hope that I am involved in some sort of active learning process through all of this. I think I am, but my brain is an unwieldy thing. While I've cut my boredom-shopping at Target and Old Navy by about 90 percent, I'm still actively accumulating more clothes. I'm just attempting to require that my purchases to meet more criteria, such as:

* Am I excited to wear this?
* Would I buy it if it were not on sale?
* Can I immediately think of three interesting ways to wear it with things I already own and like?
* Would I wear this in New York/Europe/various worldwide cosmopolitan cities?
* If not intended for *fancy* wear, does it at least have a bit of verve or creativity and is it extremely comfortable?
* Will it last, in terms of both construction and style?

Also sometimes on that list is "How will this work out if I eat an apple and suddenly become bloaty?" It helps to consider things like the simple white cotton Oxford I'm wearing today, which I received as a gift nine years ago. Thanks to the fact that I was for years too afraid to wear it, it's not grimy or dingy, in case you're picturing me walking around in an off-grey shirt. It fits like a dream, I can wear it a million ways, it's got great structural integrity and it will never go out of style -- exactly what I should have been spending my money on, all that time.

Photo of Nan Kempner's closet by Levi Brown for New York Magazine. Yes, my closet is also color coded.