Today Was A Fairytale

Today was a fairytale, I wore a dress...

It's one of those magical days between Summer and Fall where the change is in the air, but it hasn't quite happened and it isn't quite there.

It was one of those quaint days where you feel like wearing a dress or a skirt. Where nothing else would feel quite right- pant legs are more of a bother and a burden than anything else.

It was one of those lazy days where you really don't feel like doing anything with your hair. So you don't. You live and let live and avoid mirrors. When you do happen to pass one, you just smile indulgently at the mussed and carefree reflection... live and let live.

Can you feel this magic in the air...

It was one of those breezy days where the wind is alive. It plays with your hair and teases your skirt, lifting them ever so slightly before dropping them back and fluttering them like flags on the pole of your body. Where the trees whisper and the cornfields rustles softly, gently, happily. All borrowing life from the wind.

It was one of those gentle days where the sun is warm, not hot. Bright, not blinding. The shade is cool and it's warm out in the open. Laying out in it, lifting your face to it, soaking up the warmth that will fade in a few months. Letting it seep all though me and embrace me. Deep in my bones and deep in my heart.

It was one of those days where you did some singing out loud, in you head and in your heart. You hum love songs and think about someone somewhere. It's happy and sad, painful and wonderful all at once. It makes you smile, but it brings a tear to your eye.

Time slows down...

It was one of those days where it wasn't quite good, but it wasn't too bad. Everything was alright, though. Steady and simple like the beating of your heart. It was a day to be alive.

Today was a fairytale.

Ten Things

1. I read Mockingjay today. I cried about five times throughout. I shall not breathe a single spoiler, but it was amazing and you should read the series immediately. The rest of my life has been determined and I am at peace.

2. Life is simply complex. So are people. You should not allow yourself to be dissuaded from this fact.

3. I am going to have foot problems when I am an old lady. All the abuse I put my poor, aching feet through by running around wearing unsupportive flip-flops and flats or no shoes at all will one day take it's toll upon me as I sit on my porch swing, drinking lemonade reminiscing about the good old days. In a hideous pair of orthopedic tennis shoes.

4. I am a sucker for cake. It's up there on my ultimate weaknesses list (which is another post for another time). I simply cannot resist it.

5. I used to forget the numbers 5 and 15 when I counted. I have no idea why.

6. Distinctive laughs are like sprinkles. They enhance what was already sweet and beautiful.

7. <--- That's my favorite number right there. Say hello. Despite the rumors, he didn't really eat nine. It was just a friendly disagreement.

8. Is it just me, or do buttons beg to be pushed? Particularly the big red ones with big words like "DANGER" or "SELF DESTRUCT" ?

9. Are zebras black with white stripes, or white with black? I have always thought the latter.

10. That is all.

If I Was A Pollywog

If I was a pollywog

A fine thing that be

A pollywog is a little frog

Or rather, a frog-to-be

If I was a pollywog

With a fine name such as that

I'd swim around, but I wouldn't drown

Cause pollywogs are made like that

If I was a pollywog

Well that's just what I would be

Until I grew into a frog

And then a frog is what I'd be

Mockingjay

Today the final installment of the trilogy I have fallen in love with came out.

Mockingjay. The final book of the Hunger Games.

I wasn't planning on reading the Hunger Games. I like sad, tragic and romantic novels. Under no means should there be extreme danger, chew your nails off suspense and or mystery of any kind.

But one day, for inexplicable reasons, I caved. I read the Hunger Games. (I had nothing better to do, plus everyone else seemed to like it...) I was riveted. I. Could. Not. Put. That. Book. Down. I finally wrestled my eyes away at Midnight and threw it into the corner so I could try and get some sleep that night. The next day I finished it.

I was enthralled.

But I was also terrified.

I resolved I would not, could not read the second book. For the sake of my sanity. I wasn't cut out for the Hunger Games. Sure it was an amazingly complex plot and I was in love with every single one of the main characters and the writing was superb and the ending was a total cliff hanger and I was completely hooked... but I couldn't read the second one. Too scary. Not for me.

And then I told this to my friend.

"WHAT?!" he says "YOU HAVE TO READ THE SECOND BOOK!!"

And then he drops a spoiler that completely twists the whole thing up, as if that series needed any help in the plot department.

I caved again. I read the second book, Catching Fire. And if I thought the first book was good... heaven help me. It was amazing. Again. It captured everything the first book had and stacked a layer or two on top of it.

Of course, the ending of Catching Fire was even more of a cliff hanger.

And today, finally, finally, finally, the third book comes out. Mockingjay. The book that will determine what I do with the rest of my life (read as: if character who shall remain nameless (because I loathe spoiling books for other people and this is supposed to entice your curiosity so read them) dies, I will write Suzanne Collins angry and heartbroken letters every week till the day I die.)

Sadly, I shall not be reading this book today. Or probably tomorrow. I'm being a cheap-skate and borrowing it from the library. (Please, please, please hurry up and get it to me!!) But believe me, I shall read it. And when I do, I will be a changed adoring fan girl.

I'm still not cut out for the Hunger Games. The game/quiz found at the site linked above is proof of that. I tried that game ten times and lost every one of those.

But I still can't wait to read that book... and be caught up again in that masterfully told story and see it through to the end.

I wasn't planning on reading the Hunger Games, but I'm glad I caved.

My Sweet, Perfect Bosco

I feel kind of like a wrung out dish rag. I've been doing a rather excessive amount of crying this weekend.

Our dog, friend and family member, Bosco, passed away yesterday morning.

I was bracing myself for it... I have been for years. We knew he had a heart murmur and over the last two weeks, he's been fading fast. Sadly, it doesn't really hit you until it happens. I had a sliver of hope that he could hold on for... well, ever.

It was one of my biggest fears that he would lose his dignity in a long, agonizing death.

I was worried fluid would collect in his heart and lungs and he would suffocate.

I was worried I would lose the Bosco I knew and loved, before his death.

But none of that happened. He died just as I wanted him to. Fairly young, with most of his mobility and still Bosco in my memory. I never wanted to see my beautiful dog lose what I loved him for. And he didn't. He was Bosco, my sweet, perfect Bosco for every moment of his life.

Bosco was a Border Collie/Great Pyrenees mix. He was beautiful. Picture a gigantic Border Collie with a wider face and a lot more hair and you have Bosco in all his glory. He was protective, uncannily human, playful, loving and gentle. He adored children. He made friends with anyone brave enough to come closer to the big barking collie.

We've had him since he was just a little pup. I grew up with him. The past nine and a half years are all stamped with his memory. I remember when he was young and crazy... and the way he drove us all crazy with his incessant barking at birds and bunnies.  How the local vets loved him and remembered his name (he was a bit of a ladies man). How beautiful he was when he'd take a nap and sprawl out, mooning the world trying to warm his tummy in the sun. How he hated having his feet touched. The afternoon I spent looking into his serious eyes and explaining to him why he should join the army (true story. I was young and crazy too.) How he would only obey me if he thought my request was "reasonable". The day we gave him his full name (Bosco John Ernie Ignatius) How picky he was about everything from beds to bones. How perfectly dignified and majestic he was. How he used his paws like hands. How he seemed to be able to judge character.

As the years passed, it seemed as though he outgrew me. He got older and wiser and I got bigger and stupid in all new ways. He seemed to treat me with the sweet indulgence and tired tolerance you would have with a small child. Sometimes he would like at me like "Really? You ridiculous human. When will you learn?"

He watched over all of us. That's what we all were to him- his job, his responsibility. You could see it in his eyes. The way he alerted us to the presence of anyone outside of the family on the property. When he patrolled the yard with a seriousness that was almost comical. He was the sheep dog and we were the sheep. And if any little lambs forgot... well, he would set you straight pretty fast. Mess with his flock, and prepare yourself for the consequences.

He's leaving me with a big old hole in my heart, but I am so grateful to him... for all the joy he gave me. For all the times he let me cry into his fluffy mane. For his protection. For his undying loyalty. For his love.

I called him my "Furry Angel" (among other things) and I know he still is. After all, everyone knows all dogs go to heaven.

Good bye, Bosco. Thank you so much for everything. I loved you, I love you and I always will. You're in my heart just as you were and just as you are. Bosco, my sweet, perfect Bosco.

Dreams

Dreams... the occupation of any mortal with a discerning mind and a soul.

Dreams... our dearly beloved reprieve from the mundane.

Dreams... those created while awake and asleep, the wishes of our hearts.

Dreams... the refreshment of the restless.

Dreams... the sailboat of our imagination.

Right now I wish I was asleep

I often wish it so

I tire of trite consciousness

Unto dreams I wish to go

Where things are so much better

And life hurts not quite so

Until I wake back into pain

Unto dreams I wish to go

Ah, but like all mortal pleasure, how frail are our dreams. How weak the cloud castles we build in the sky of imagination. So often we dream of things reality cannot lend us. Sometimes even things we would loathe if they became realities. I suppose that is the glory of dreams. The possibility without the pain. The promise without the cost. Those are the sweetest dreams- the impossible ones. Because in dreaming they become more tangible and it consoles our need for the physical and attainable. Yet while they can bring relief, they can also bring discontent and cause the chains of our limitations to feel even more restricting. They can alleviate and frustrate us all at the same time.

Is it worth it to hope?

Is it okay to dream? 

If the world falls apart

Then were will I be?

Clutching the dreams

And the hopes I once knew

Clutching the lies

I was hoping were true

My hopes and my dreams 

 Are all that I can claim

But can they relieve me

 Or bring none but pain

Some of us try not to dream. Better to accept what is than waste our time dreaming of what could be. Best not to hope, you will never be disappointed that way. It may seem as though I am confusing the two types of dreaming, but I feel they are inextricably connected. They say nightmares are good for you, your body's way of working out internalized stress. But is dreaming an all together healthy occupation? It is certainly very natural to dream, both dreams our subconscious creates and those we weave ourselves. Does that justify our dreaming? Does dreaming have a purpose? I suppose if one was attentive to one's dreams, we could discover patterns in desire, subconscious attitudes and perceptions and the lack of the things we wish we could erase from our real lives. But does that make them good? Are dreams just another way of coping with the human condition?

The seeker seeks

The dreamer dreams

Both are restless

Un-sewn seams

Tied in knots

While at loose ends

The seeker; the dreamer

Two painful friends

Dreams are bitter.

Dreams are sweet.

Dreams are human.

Thinking Pinkly

The appearance of this blog may be deceiving, but in truth, I really like the color pink.

I wouldn't dare say it's my favorite color... that's such a massive commitment I am not sure I can make. The idea of having one COLOR... That's practically like signing away a bit of your soul and sending all the other colors a letter saying:
"Dear (Yellow). I hate you and have chosen (Pink) over you forevermore. Have a nice day. -Sincerely, Anna".
No, COLORS is far safer. That way, if they are out of blue scissors at Staples you can always fall back on green. (If green and blue are your thing, anyway). Besides, if I made that promise to pink, red and orange might get jealous and I dearly love them too. As it is, we are like a happily little foursome of friends who thoroughly understand the loyalties each one has to the other without being jealous.

Reasons I love pink (yes, I am going to give you reasons for something that is without reason. I do that a lot, you know. I don't know if it's because I feel the need to explain and categorize every little thing or because I just like to chatter on senselessly. Maybe its a combination of the two? Either way, giving reasons is a firm habit of mine and one I don't intend to break today. Or probably tomorrow, either.)

Reasons for liking pink: Pink is a sunset. Pink is the better side of lemonade. Pink is a flamingo (and how cool are those things!). Pink is nail polish and lip gloss. Pink is your first plastic tea cup, which you probably lost a long time ago but have fond memories of it none the less. Pink is the inside of young watermelon. Pink is a flower. Pink is the flush in your cheeks on a fall afternoon. Pink is the frosting on the top of the cupcake and the paper on the side. Pink is the shortest crayon in a little girl's crayon box. Pink is ballet shoes and a tutu.

Pink is childish, girly and fun. Which is why my blog is pink. Which is why pink is on my list of favorite colors (right next to Red and Orange, of course).

I have some positive associations with pink. It reminds me of good things, sweet things. But Pink is also a sister to one of my other favorite colors, Red. Red is always rash and bold and exciting while Pink is shyer, gentler and more refined. Much like real siblings, both are beautiful, but different. Red is blood, roses, apples and sports cars. Red is hearts, ruby slippers and wine. Red is a go getter while Pink gives you her best come hither look as she batters her eyelashes and giggles. They don't always get along or work together but when they do... you cannot help but notice.

I suppose since we brought up Red, we should give Orange her bit. She is the wild card of the bunch, as it were. She is so special, they named a fruit after her and decided no other word was worthy to rhyme with her name. Orange is construction cones, marigolds and Cheetos. She's a bad spray on tan and a glowing Jack-O-Lantern. She's sort of between Red and Pink. She's not Princess nor is she Type A. She's a bit of a free spirit who nobody understands but everyone loves.

You might be shaking your head, laughing about how crazy I am to attribute such personality to mere colors. "Ha!" says you and "Ha!" says I. It is rather silly. It is pretty crazy. But that's how I like it. That's how I am. I suppose that's what I like about colors, all colors, not just my three besties. They can't help but be themselves. Purple doesn't try to be Yellow and Black can't be White. They are what they are.

So let us be, Pink, Red, Orange and I. We'll be ourselves and show our true colors for what they are.

Beautiful.

My Favorite Sport

Behold... The Boots of My Desiring.

Aren't they gorgeous?!? I was looking for a new pair of little black flats and these beauties caught my eye. I'm thinking they are a definite need. Look at those! They'll peek out from under a pair of jeans or dance beneath a ruffly skirt and just be generally adorable.

And they would go perfectly with the Cowgirl Hat I have so long dreamed about, but have yet to find. Oh but believe me, one day... one day... I shall find that perfect hat. And when I do, you all shall be informed and photographic evidence provided

I suppose this would be a good time to talk about my favorite sport. If you are wondering how on earth that relates to anything, you are either a man, far too narrow minded about sports or both.

My favorite sport is shopping.

Oh! How I love to shop! I am, after all, just a little women.

Deals make my heart go double time, I love the thrill of the hunt for that perfect item and really, how can one  resist a good sale? A cute top is love at first sight and a new pair of jeans makes me weak in the knees.The aisles of clothing racks are my playing field and a loaded wallet my weapon (based on how often I have to reload, I might be a little trigger happy, but you never know unless you buy!)

My idea of fun is scouring the Internet for cute gowns and other things I would never really buy... but it's good to know what's out there, just in case, right? (I know what dress I'm wearing if for some reason I am ever crowned queen. Very useful information.)

Like any sport or hobby, it has it's expenses, but a shirt is so much more useful than a football! Besides, I have yet to see a football that makes you look as fabulous as a well cut blouse. Clothing is just so necessary, useful and wonderful!

I do try to limit myself... I only make minimum wage, after all. And to be honest, I am quite picky. But when something like this catches my eye... it's usual only a matter of time till I succumb, powerless against adorable clothing.

And after all... they are really, really cute boots.

Old Lady August

Ah, August.

I have a difficult relationship with August. It's suffocatingly hot, stuffy and those nasty cicadas are making that horrid noise high up in the trees (which is just plain creepy when you think about it). Summer is ending. School is starting.

August is a sad month, in my opinion (which, for the record is really all this blog is. I'm sure you figured that out by now, and hopefully, you share my opinion sometimes). It reeks of an ending, which is bitter in so many ways. It's like an elderly women, whose beauty, charm and allure are but memories.

But last night, I was shown a lovelier side of August that I am not sure I have ever seen before.

August was suddenly a cool, unexpected breeze.

August was tall, soft grass tickling my toes.

August was a game of tag.

August was appreciating a sip of cold water.

August was crickets and grasshoppers leaping about.

August was the sun setting gently.

Yes, those creepy cicada things were making that revolting noise, I got bitten by a chigger/mosquito/other blood sucking thing or two and there was a lot more sweating and stickiness than I would have liked, but last night, August was beautiful.

Last night, August wasn't the end of the summer. It was precious final days, like kissing a dying Grandparent. There was a finality about it, but there was also something sweet, perfect and necessary about it. Summer days are drawing to a close, but the August is a half open door. I tasted the sweet in August and savored the bitter.

I will admit my favorite thing about it was that it didn't feel like a hundred degrees outside, which is my biggest issue with August. They say it's a cold front from Canada (I love Canada today), but maybe it's just August out to prove me wrong. I can see her being ornery like that. She may not have the youthful beauty of May, but she is witty.

I can hear the cicadas singing now...

Bob and I Are Out of Luck

My name is probably inscribed in a massively large and appropriately dusty book entitled: The Official List of Boring Names. I'm thinking Anna probably lies somewhere before "Jane" and right after "Bob". But at least Jane can call herself Enaj. Bob and I are are out of luck.

Aside from the fact that I have been cheated out of that name made up of an unpronounceable jumble of constants by spelling it backwards, Anna is incredibly difficult to nickname (and I love nicknames). Yet even Bob has some consolation, because he has a charming full name (or at least he should. Heaven forbid someone just put "Bob" on a birth certificate. It's Robert.)  which can be nicknamed in a variety of ways. He could always shake things up and be Rob, Robbie, Bobby, Rob-Bob, or even Bobert for a day. Ann? Ana? Different names entirely.

It also doesn't really rhyme with anything good, unlike Jane which rhymes with Spain, plain, pain, gain and grain, and Bob rhymes with cob, rob, lob, sob, knob and mob. After a while you get sick of being called Anna Banana. I don't even like bananas. (No one should, but that's obviously just my opinion since those loathsome yellow things with a nauseating taste and texture continue to find their way unto a shelf wherever fruit is sold.)

Yet in spite of it's boringness (yes, that's a word), it could be worse.

No one ever has to have me spell it, which would happen if my name was Kathryn. Or Catherine. Or Katherine.

No one says "Wow... that's a very unusual name." like they would if my name was Mercedes.

When I have to write my name on a tiny little space, I don't have to squish the letters like I would if my name was Victoria.

So even in it's dull state, Anna is not so bad a name. Not the best, but at least it's not in a book entitled "Who Would Name Their Kid That? The Book of Strange and Embarrassing Names."

Fun at the Dentist

I had to go to the dentist today. Joy of my soul.

I have always hated going to the dentist. Like really, really hated it. It smells weird, like all sorts of chemical type things, air freshener and artificial flavors and odors to cover up what lurks beneath. The lights are those horrible off-bright ones that make everyone look bad and put you right to sleep. There are a bunch of hygienists with too big smiles and totally unflattering and much to colorful clothing. Not to mention they poke sharp pointy objects in your mouth. That's never cool.

I had escaped it for a long time. Last time I went was last year. (It was a nice year). But sadly, I couldn't put it off any longer.

So, I had to go. That's bad enough, right? Nope. Had to get worse. My Mother made the appointment for 9:00. In the morning. And it's still summer. Either she doesn't know me at all or she is just cruel. I drag my sorry self out of bed at 7:00 (no easy task), and try to make myself look presentable while half asleep, and then I get in the car and we drive to the dentist.

First you fill out a mess of paper work. Why do they need to know all this stuff anyway? Is it bad that I have no idea how to answer half of this? They are gonna know more about me than I know about myself by the time this is filled out. My personal favorite question: "How do you feel about your teeth?" Um... I dunno about you, but I really don't have that strong of feelings towards my teeth. They work, so they're alright with me. I was tempted to be really cheeky on that one, but I was only kind of cheeky. Scout's honor. Which actually means nothing to me as I have never been a scout of any kind.

Then we sit in the waiting room for a bit (that's a world of fun all it's own). They have no good magazines. Come on, people. If you are gonna make me wait to rip my mouth apart, you may as well have the decency to distract me from my impending doom. Alas, I was stuck reading People. (Ali, that little bachelorette chick is getting married and Lindsay Lohan is in rehab. What else is new?)

And then from out of no where one of those ladies in unflattering and painfully colorful clothing appears in the doorway and calls out my name with that voice that states something and asks a question all at the same time. I abandon People and follow her into the Twisted Hallways of the Dentist's. To her credit, she wasn't nauseatingly perky, more like pleasant. She also didn't babble on endlessly and ask me every question under the sun about school and what I like to do, while instructing me to open up nice and wide. I am sorry, that is just plain stupid. Either you ask me a question or you tell me to do something. How the heck am I supposed to answer you without moving my tongue or jaw? I would love to see you try that, ma'am.

I'll spare you the boring details of x-rays, the poky stick things that they use to scrape your teeth (those make a horrible sound, don't they? Ick.), the thing that sucks your spit (so charming), the brush that whines and complains loudly in a shrill voice while it brushes your teeth (I would complain if you stuck me in someone's mouth too) and that amazing foamy fluoride stuff (minty...). I am assuming you have been to the dentist before. Poor thing. In the end, I walked out of there informed that I had not one, not two but four cavities making a happy home inside my mouth. You would think I had never brushed my teeth before. Which, I assure you, I have.

Maybe this is why I hate the dentist. I have a horrific dental history. These are by no means my first four cavities, although I sincerely hope they will be my last.

Despite that depressing news and another impending visit to the dentist, I also learned I only have one wisdom tooth and can just leave it happily somewhere in my head. I'll take four cavities if I don't have to have oral surgery... I guess. I'd rather have neither, but that would be a little too perfect, right?

Hopefully next time they'll actually have an interesting magazine.

For My Older Little Sister

Today is the day between two special days.

Yesterday, my older sister, Kelley, left home.

Tomorrow is her birthday.

Yesterday she woke up at the crack of dawn (and sleeping in the same room I know this for a fact) gathered up all of her stuff, carted her very heavy suitcase down the stairs and hustled and bustled until about 6:00 AM, when she roused me from my beloved bed and I hugged her goodbye.

Tomorrow, Kelley is starting training with NET ministries She is also turning 19 years old. Training lasts a little over a month. Then she hits the road for eight months.

I am the second oldest of nine. Yeah. Nine. As in the number nine, like one, two, three, four and so on and so on. Kelley is my one and only older sister.

Growing up, she was my best friend. She was the leader of our wild and crazy games of pretend. She loved playing "family" and that meant I was often the guy, which also meant I was her older brother, husband or son whenever the need arose. We played paper dolls with towns streching over our entire bedroom. We played dress up with gowns, aprons and hats, becoming anyone and everyone from Cinderella to an evil stepsister. We announced, planned and held eleborate weddings for every pair of toys we could think of.

She has influenced me in a lot of ways she will never know, and probably some I don't even realize. I followed her into almost everything. I looked up to her and I still do. I was right behind her in everything for a long time, and the only thing I have ever surpassed her in is height.

Kelley is a leader. She is an organizer. She is an oldest. She is a good friend, listener and sister. She will be an excellent wife and mother some day, which is what she has wanted to do for as long as I have known her.

She is the first child to leave our family, and in a way, it is an ending and a beginning for the whole clan.

We will miss her very much while she is gone, but we are also very happy for her. For the past three years she has been so excited about NET and the work they are doing, not just in St. Paul, Minnesota, but in the entire country. I am so glad she finally is living what she has been dreaming about.

I am happy for her, and I am also proud of her. She has finally spread the beautiful wings I have watched her grow for over a decade and fly, showing the rest of the world what I was lucky enough to see first.

Happy Birthday, Kelley. I love you, Older Little Sister.

The Seasons of the Slob

Today I cleaned out my room- big time. We were moving furniture, thus making it an excellent opportunity to do so. (Okay, so truthfully I pretty much had to clean it in order to dig out the furniture, but what's really more important here? Cause or effect?) When I say "cleaning" I mean dust bunnies that have been living under my bed for months (if not years) were kicked out of house and home. Like you can finally see the floor, I found all the stuff I ever lost and now I'm disoriented because things are actually sort of put away. Yeah. That kind of cleaning.

That kind of cleaning is both fulfilling and draining (though I have found most fulfilling things to be). I wonder why I put it off so long yet at the same time I remember exactly why I did. I wish I had just put things where they belong in the first place instead of throwing them every which way. I contemplate pitching everything I own into the nearest dumpster and running away to be a hermit in the Alps with only the clothes on my back. And after going through all of this, after riding such an emotional roller coaster... now I only have a big pile of stuff left to organize instead of a mountain.

In case you were wondering, I don't clean my room all the often. At all. In fact my Mother takes my temperature whenever she finds me doing so and my siblings look out the window to check for flying pigs.

I'm not exactly a... slob. *wince* Okay, I am. But I don't mean to be. I like to have things clean. I like for things to be neat. Reality just doesn't always line up with that.

Why don't I clean my room, you ask? Lots of reasons.

Reason Number 1: I have a motto: Why do today what you can plan to do tomorrow? A.K.A Cleaning Procrastination Disorder. CPD. Or if your prefer, just plain old Procrastination. So I put it off and let it pile up and the dust bunnies keep breeding... and you get the idea.

Reason Number 2: I have a problem: Half way though the project I get bored/distracted/fall asleep. A.K.A Chronic Laziness Syndrome. CLS. Laziness. I often lack the follow through to just get it done. (Which is why my desk still looks like a disaster. I did do some cleaning...lots of cleaning...)

Reason Number 3: I have a teddy bear: I wake up in the morning, look around and think "Oh. Wow. Didn't look so bad in the dark last night, but I should really clean this place." And then I move on and completely forget about it until that night, just before I'm going to bed when I think "Oh shoot. I'll do it first thing tomorrow". At which point the cycle repeats itself and so on and so on. . A.K.A Forgetting the important things sort of kind of on purpose. Which would be something like FITSKP but that doesn't really abbreviate anything, but it confuses a lot of things. Yeah, I can't really blame the teddy bear, but it sounded good in my head.

So you see, the real reason I don't clean my room is because of my deep rooted psychological challenges that prevent me from functioning. (Hopefully you are buying that, because I'm not. Didn't think so...)

So after all that work you would think I would work harder to keep it clean, right?

Nah. I give it a couple days. Tops.

And in a few months I'll have to dig everything out again and repeat the whole process. Think of it as a cycle, like the seasons. Clean = Spring, Less Clean = Summer, Really Messy = Fall and Disaster Area = Winter. See? Natural, necessary and sustaining. Or you could just think of it as the result of forgetful and procrastinated laziness. I prefer the seasons thing myself, but whatever works for you.

Wishing for A Lightening Strike

Inspiration.

The ever elusive mistress of poets, writers and geniuses. The untamed spirit fluttering through humanity, gifting the occasional unworthy vessel it rests within. The welcome visitor of the artist, if only for a moment. The muse that whispers softly in the listening ear when least expected. She is the siren song of the restless heart. That which is but a dream for many; they seek, but they cannot find. Oh! How futile it is to pursue her! Like chasing the wind; she cannot be contained. She is like a spark. Igniting what holds the potential for fire, to grow into a flame, to burn into a blaze.

But you cannot create this spark. This spark is a gift, a beautiful, beautiful gift. But it is a gift. And a gift cannot be bought, nor can it be demanded. It must be given. And given it is. Given to many, yet received by few. I have entertained many a happy daydream about writing something great. Something that could one day be called a classic, even if not in my lifetime. To be a credit to my generation.

Alas, inspiration strikes me about as often as lightening does. (And I have never been struck by lightening.) I seem stuck in the endless rut, the never ending gutter that is mediocrity. Oh what a vast gutter it is! Plenty of room for anyone and everyone. Tragic, really. (I have plenty more to say on the topic of mediocrity, but that is another topic for another post for another day.)

Sometimes I think I'm getting it. That I have really been gifted with something exceptional, something worthwhile. Sometimes I feel like I am getting close. That with a little more effort, a little more time and a little more work, the spark could ignite. But the next morning I look upon what was yesterday's revelation to find it is really nothing more than today's failure.

But I wait in hope. I continue to try. I continue to write. I will keep looking towards the sky searching the horizen for sparks of new ideas. Because inspiration is like lightening. You never know when it might strike.


Writers Block

A dull decrepit desperation
A lack of every inspiration
That it's energies would lend
To my languid wandering pen
That some wonders yet untold
Would upon this page unfold
To hearten those without a prayer
Alas! Tis me that's standing there-
In this tepid inconsistency
That ever bores and frustrates

Coke and poly-the letter H-something-ides

Today I drank 7-UP. (Seven up? 7UP? You know what I'm talking about. Unless of course you are an alien who doesn't drink carbonated beverages. If so, try one. It's a pleasant surprise. And thanks for reading my blog.) Anyway, this was an odd and rather invigorating experience for me because I have an addiction to pop, but not 7-UP. An overwhelming passion for one and only one kind of pop. So wonderful, I forget all others exist.

While we are on the topic there is something I must say: it's called pop, people. Not soda. Not coke (unless of course it is a Coke. Coke is a brand, not a all inclusive word for carbonated sugar). Pop. It's a sound; it's a drink; it's the death of a balloon; it's a way of life.

And that's where I get to the point (however dull it may be) Today, I feel like raving about the greatest of all pop. Diet Coke.

I love Diet Coke (I have the t-shirt to prove it). It's a bad habit I picked up from my Mother. Maybe I can say it's in my genes? People are often disgusted by my deep obsession with this beverage. I am sorry, but I can't help it.

Well meaning friends try to cure me of my addiction through support and concern.

"Anna! That's disgusting! Just drink a regular coke!"

"You know that stuff is really bad for you, right?"

"You drink... diet?"

I could do some research... maybe one day I shall. But for some reason, everyone says diet is disgusting and whatever makes it taste so good also turns to formaldehyde in your liver. Charming, eh? But that substance that sweetens... (poly-the letter H-something-ides) are what makes it so much better.

It's like Coke... yes. And yes, Coke is good, but Diet coke is just plain better some how. Glorified Coke!

And it's not just any Diet drink. No. Pepsi is just as loathsome in diet as it is regular. I am left to believe that Coke was just made for those poly-the letter H-something-ides and it was love at first sip.

In order to describe to you the party this drink throws in my mouth and truly do it justice, I would have to sample great quantities and be a lot smarter, but the best way I can think of to describe it at this time is that it's more complex than just Coke... thinner and lighter somehow but deeper. There is a subtle undertone, a hint, a vague something that is lacking in Coke. Either it's those poly-you-know-what's or it's magic. It's pop, sweet, bubbly and painful when snorted, but somehow more.

In any case, when I have the choice of pop (savor that word everyone, POP) I always choose Diet Coke. Automatically. And so to consume another brand of pop was both strange and surprising. Strange because it rarely happens and surprising because I actually liked it. It was good. And yet it was not Diet Coke. My mind could not compute the two.

So I will drink Diet Coke. May it turn to whatever it turns to in my liver, I don't care. But when hard pressed... I can drink something else. It may not be magical, but it still pretty good.

National Girlfriends Day

I don't know about you, but I love strange and obscure holidays nobody really knows or cares about. Mainly because I loathe cliche expectations. Don't get me wrong, tradition is a lovely thing. What is Christmas without a tree, Thanksgiving with no stuffing? In my world, those are dependable traditions. Every year they appear without fail, lest my secure little world crumble to ashes.

And yet, there is something fun about a holiday like National Jelly Bean day or Put a Zucchini on Your Neighbors Porch Night (I kid you not. Look it up. What else is Google for?). It's just delightfully and arrogantly childish to celebrate such a thing. Probably why I like it.

Thus, I give you a post for a 'holiday' of sorts. National Girlfriends Day. Not quite as fun as Ninja Day, but it does give me a chance to ramble (and how I love such opportunities).

Girlfriends. Those friends of ours who are, in fact, girls and not guys. A truer, prettier friend you would be hard pressed to meet.

Below are my classic examples of a true girlfriend.

Someone who will:

1. Paint your toenails and not get upset when you get more polish on her toe than on her actual nail.

2. Tactfully convince you NOT to get that orange top that just looks plain awful on you, without saying you look like a pumpkin.

3. Call you up for no reason at all and talk to you about nothing of much importance for at least 45 minutes.

4. Support you in, give her two cents worth about and be available for consultations about your love life 24/7.

5. Know what you are really trying to say even though you just sort of kind of said it, or just gave her a look.

6. Faithfully loathe the jerk who broke up with you/you broke up/cheated on you/broke your heart/said the wrong thing at the wrong time for all eternity.

7. Share her stuff with you and goodnaturedly steal something of equal or lesser value when you never return it, give it to your kid cousin or sell it in your family's yard sale.

8. Know your phone number, e-mail address, favorite color, candy, song and the guy you currently have a crush on like the back of her hand.

9. Feel comfortable yelling at your siblings and call your Mom "Mom".

10. Share her chocolate.

Feel free to add to my list. I am sure I have forgotten something. I do dearly love lists.

So Happy National Girlfriends Day, ladies.

You go, girls. :)