Yes, I dare call them thoughts.
I almost fear opening my mouth right now, or at least letting my thoughts appear on this screen, because I am really not at all sure what I am going to say. I feel vaguely full of words and my fingers keep moving so I suppose I shouldn't try to squelch the muse and just let the dang thing happen.
Ah control. That tentative thing we all try to grasp. That security we all like to pretend we have.
(I say "we all" all the time. In case you had not noticed. I like to identify with humanity and yet I feel as though I am selling you all short in a way. Like I expect you to be as imperfect as I am. If it comes off that way, I apologize. It has not escaped my notice that many exemplary people exist and many of them to not have the vices I portray "us all" as having. I know I have them and, in my narrow scope, I like to think maybe those good and wonderful people once had them too, but they outgrew them. It's a very optimistic view and it gives me hope, so let it be. Just know that I am condemning no one but myself when I make overgeneralized statements about "us all.")
And that was a tangent! But it felt good. Today I just want words on paper (or blog as it were.) These short posts, as I mentioned before, seem so incomplete, so half hearted. I need some sustenance. So I will ramble and maybe something semi-readable will emerge and I will feel better and you will be like "Whoa..." (There are worse things than shocking people with your strangeness. Better than shocking them with your cruelty or your bad breath, for example.)
I may have failed to mention I am home schooled. It may or may not have been on purpose. We shall delve into my feelings on this subject at a later date, because while I feel like posting something long, that deserves it's own header instead of being lost in this free write of randomness which is basically me trying to get a grip and let the words loose. (Hey- we came back to control again! Why does this excite me?)
Returning to the sentence the home schooled thing was supposed to support, I am loving the Literature program for Senior year. Like, seriously. Where was this stuff all my life? You know, back when I was too young and (because I was/am not a child genius) stupid to read it? It was there, I assure you. (Dickens is a lot older than I am.) They are so deeply refreshing.
I won't lie (this time), I read a lot of what is best classified as crap. (Sorry, Mom.) It's light and the stories are trite, recycled and... mediocre. Not to say this stuff isn't popular, because it often is. But many times, it just isn't quite art. I realize that in order for the artist to get paid (a.k.a. pay the bills, not starve, keep the electricity to run his/her computer) he needs to sell a product. It's basic economics (yeah! I am learning something from that loathsome book!) But when the product becomes our main goal in art, sometimes the creativity and quality of that product is compromised. And so, we have lost the meaning of art. True artists often don't get paid and those who write to sell do get paid.
Economics. You give the people what they want, they pay you, you make money and can support yourself. Yay! Good things! But should art be sacrificed for its sake? Perhaps it shows how the focus needs to shift. In a materialistic world, material (product) is the goal. We forget about the means and the people behind them. But... (Here comes the impossible, riduculous, idealist statement: run!) prehaps we can balance these two? Maybe one does not have to die at the feet of the other (wow, Anna, that was graphic). Maybe the two can co-exist and... maybe... they can even strengthen each other.
I do apologize for the scatterness of this post. This was more for me than for you. Though if you ever glean, like, loathe or laugh at anything in this blog... you're welcome.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Peanuts
I don't have a lot today. Just a few things I'd like to say.
I owe you and me and this poor blog a long post. It's starving over here and I just keep feeding it a peanuts and promising it a sandwich tomorrow. (Tomorrow as in that fictional 'later' that is postponed indefinitely) I keep on posting thoughts I should have expanded on and I didn't due to time constraints. It's annoying me.
Sweaters are knitted hugs. That's probably why Grandmas are famous for making them.
I hate this post. I will publish it anyway though, because peanuts are supposed to have some nutritional value.
I owe you and me and this poor blog a long post. It's starving over here and I just keep feeding it a peanuts and promising it a sandwich tomorrow. (Tomorrow as in that fictional 'later' that is postponed indefinitely) I keep on posting thoughts I should have expanded on and I didn't due to time constraints. It's annoying me.
Sweaters are knitted hugs. That's probably why Grandmas are famous for making them.
I hate this post. I will publish it anyway though, because peanuts are supposed to have some nutritional value.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
What is Nothing?
Nothing.
What is nothing?
Everything is something... what is nothing?
What is not something?
To me, nothing is best described as that that best and blackest level of sleep. Where you don't dream, don't know, aren't aware at all. A sleep so deep and complete, it is almost death like in that when you awaken, it is like being recalled to life.
Nothing.
What does that mean to you?
What is nothing?
Everything is something... what is nothing?
What is not something?
To me, nothing is best described as that that best and blackest level of sleep. Where you don't dream, don't know, aren't aware at all. A sleep so deep and complete, it is almost death like in that when you awaken, it is like being recalled to life.
Nothing.
What does that mean to you?
Friday, October 22, 2010
Some Semblance of Success
Tomorrow morning, at a ridiculously early hour, my mind shall be timed, stretched and measured.
It's called the ACT.
Nervous? Yeah. My strengths do lean toward English, (though if you read my blog you should know that they don't lean very far) but I am horrible, awful and in all other terms hopeless at Mathematics.
I could honestly fail that portion of it... numbers do not make sense to me. Words are much kinder. Numbers are staunch, strict and they are always the same. Yet I can't remember for the life of me how they work. You can give me a problem and I can invent a very charming way to get an interesting answer for you... but it's just not the right one. Like, ever.
With words, on the other hand, we have this delightful gray area. The answer is completely dictated by the creativity of the individual. You give people a writing prompt and none of the essays will be the same. They will all be different. And yet, all of them could be right. It's truly wonderful, isn't it? (Don't be fooled into thinking that I am not worried about writing the timed essay. I am. Yet I don't think it will as massive a disaster as my Math score.)
Word to the wise- do not wait to do this for the first time until you are a Senior. I had my reasons, of course, (I was bound and determined not to go to college until my Junior year. That's another story for another time) but I regret it very much.
So as I count down these last terrible hours, I torture myself with 'maybe's' and 'what if's'. People tell me I will do just fine (I know really nice people), but of course, I am unsure.
Funny thing is, I will be an internal disaster tonight and tomorrow, but once it actually starts, I will probably shift into survival 'kick this thing's butt' mode.
Hopefully kicking butt translates into success. Or at least not total failure. That is some semblance of success, no?
It's called the ACT.
Nervous? Yeah. My strengths do lean toward English, (though if you read my blog you should know that they don't lean very far) but I am horrible, awful and in all other terms hopeless at Mathematics.
I could honestly fail that portion of it... numbers do not make sense to me. Words are much kinder. Numbers are staunch, strict and they are always the same. Yet I can't remember for the life of me how they work. You can give me a problem and I can invent a very charming way to get an interesting answer for you... but it's just not the right one. Like, ever.
With words, on the other hand, we have this delightful gray area. The answer is completely dictated by the creativity of the individual. You give people a writing prompt and none of the essays will be the same. They will all be different. And yet, all of them could be right. It's truly wonderful, isn't it? (Don't be fooled into thinking that I am not worried about writing the timed essay. I am. Yet I don't think it will as massive a disaster as my Math score.)
Word to the wise- do not wait to do this for the first time until you are a Senior. I had my reasons, of course, (I was bound and determined not to go to college until my Junior year. That's another story for another time) but I regret it very much.
So as I count down these last terrible hours, I torture myself with 'maybe's' and 'what if's'. People tell me I will do just fine (I know really nice people), but of course, I am unsure.
Funny thing is, I will be an internal disaster tonight and tomorrow, but once it actually starts, I will probably shift into survival 'kick this thing's butt' mode.
Hopefully kicking butt translates into success. Or at least not total failure. That is some semblance of success, no?
Thursday, October 21, 2010
To My Abandoned Coffee Cup
Dear Half Finished Cup of Coffee,
Is there anything in the world sadder than the sight of you? Cold, lonely, and bereft. The milk I so carefully measured into you now risen to the top in a little island of white I prepared you with love, my coffee cup. That first hot sip of you was estacy, like a kiss of caffeine. We started so strong... what happened to us? I held you to my lips and gently sipped your creamy contents. I carried you with me, close to my heart. Everyone said we were perfect together.
What came between us, my darling? How did I forget you? I set you down, promising I would be back soon. And you waited. You believed me. You waited for me. But I forgot about you. I left you all alone, while you life force, your warmth dwindled.
Still you hung on. Waiting for me. Scanning the horizons for my under-caffeinated soul. I needed you and you knew it. So you were faithful, staunch and loyal. You held out, waiting, trusting... dying alone.
But when I finally came back, by chance, not even remembering you, I saw you... cold... dead.
Ah! The guilt of wasting you! Of letting one who was so dear to me pass away without so much as a goodbye.
I pick you up, laden with sorrow, your remains swirling slowly about. I take you to the sink and pour you down the drain to the place of your eternal resting.
I am so sorry... I know its too late... but please, know that I cared about you. You were so good to me and I am sorry... so sorry...
In sincerest sorrow and regret,
Anna
Is there anything in the world sadder than the sight of you? Cold, lonely, and bereft. The milk I so carefully measured into you now risen to the top in a little island of white I prepared you with love, my coffee cup. That first hot sip of you was estacy, like a kiss of caffeine. We started so strong... what happened to us? I held you to my lips and gently sipped your creamy contents. I carried you with me, close to my heart. Everyone said we were perfect together.
What came between us, my darling? How did I forget you? I set you down, promising I would be back soon. And you waited. You believed me. You waited for me. But I forgot about you. I left you all alone, while you life force, your warmth dwindled.
Still you hung on. Waiting for me. Scanning the horizons for my under-caffeinated soul. I needed you and you knew it. So you were faithful, staunch and loyal. You held out, waiting, trusting... dying alone.
But when I finally came back, by chance, not even remembering you, I saw you... cold... dead.
Ah! The guilt of wasting you! Of letting one who was so dear to me pass away without so much as a goodbye.
I pick you up, laden with sorrow, your remains swirling slowly about. I take you to the sink and pour you down the drain to the place of your eternal resting.
I am so sorry... I know its too late... but please, know that I cared about you. You were so good to me and I am sorry... so sorry...
In sincerest sorrow and regret,
Anna
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Your Heart is Like Mine
I think everyone must be a someone, even if they are no one at all.
I am existing. I am living. I am. And by that simple act of being, I am a someone. You are a someone, too. We are some bodies.
It does not matter what I look like, or were you came from, or the color of our skin.
We were born with these things and they define us, but that is not who we are.
It does not matter what you like, or what I have done, or the creed we profess.
No, these are the things that we choose, that we adopt and allow into ourselves, but that is not who we are.
We are someones, no matter what.
Yet we often feel like no one at all. In the presence of greater someones, even someones feel a bit like no ones. And in the presence of lesser no ones, even no ones feel they have become someones.Why is that?
You and I will always have existed. It happened, it is and it cannot be taken back.
You and I, we will always be someone.
Everyone is a someone to someone. And no one is a no one to everyone.
If every man hates you, you are still someone.
If every man loves you, you are still someone.
Yet each is equal.
Tell me, why is it so difficult to accept each other?
Why do we get caught up in the things that don't matter and forget the things that do?
You and I, we are one of a kind.
Why do I forget that your heart is like mine?
Why do I feel I am so alone, when you are right next to me? Why do you feel the same way?
If I find a fault in you, I can often find it in myself. Why is it so much worse to me in you?
Tell me, why do I hurt you? Both intentionally and thoughtlessly? Have I so soon forgotten what is right before my eyes?
The face, the heart, the being of a someone.
Someone important, valuable, beautiful and worthy.
Useful to me or not, good to me or not. That does not matter.
Whether or not I can perceive it, every someone - everyone is valuable. Priceless.
You and I, we are someones.
Don't let me forget how important you are.
I am existing. I am living. I am. And by that simple act of being, I am a someone. You are a someone, too. We are some bodies.
It does not matter what I look like, or were you came from, or the color of our skin.
We were born with these things and they define us, but that is not who we are.
It does not matter what you like, or what I have done, or the creed we profess.
No, these are the things that we choose, that we adopt and allow into ourselves, but that is not who we are.
We are someones, no matter what.
Yet we often feel like no one at all. In the presence of greater someones, even someones feel a bit like no ones. And in the presence of lesser no ones, even no ones feel they have become someones.Why is that?
You and I will always have existed. It happened, it is and it cannot be taken back.
You and I, we will always be someone.
Everyone is a someone to someone. And no one is a no one to everyone.
If every man hates you, you are still someone.
If every man loves you, you are still someone.
Yet each is equal.
Tell me, why is it so difficult to accept each other?
Why do we get caught up in the things that don't matter and forget the things that do?
You and I, we are one of a kind.
Why do I forget that your heart is like mine?
Why do I feel I am so alone, when you are right next to me? Why do you feel the same way?
If I find a fault in you, I can often find it in myself. Why is it so much worse to me in you?
Tell me, why do I hurt you? Both intentionally and thoughtlessly? Have I so soon forgotten what is right before my eyes?
The face, the heart, the being of a someone.
Someone important, valuable, beautiful and worthy.
Useful to me or not, good to me or not. That does not matter.
Whether or not I can perceive it, every someone - everyone is valuable. Priceless.
You and I, we are someones.
Don't let me forget how important you are.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Notice About Plots and Motives
NOTICE
Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR,
Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance.
I found these inspiring words at the beginning of a book entitled The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, written by a fellow named Samuel Clements, more commonly known as Mark Twain. I found it to be quite inspiring and also highly applicable, not only to Mr. Twian's words, or even my own, but to many. To all.
I think that sometimes the greatest motives, morals and plots are found in the stories that don't boast of them. That hide them, carefully and cleverly so that only the people who care and dare to look will find them. The greatest works of Literature are real and simple, yet masterful. They are relatable to us, narrowing in on purely human insights that become apparent to us through the simple act of living, yet they also teach us. They allow us to see through another's eyes with our own.
Don't go looking for a motive in this narrative. It will find you. Looking for a moral? Than you are going about this all wrong. Stop attempting to find a plot. Follow the Mississipi on a river raft.
You might be shot at anyway, but then you will have found everything you were looking for and more.
Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR,
Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance.
I found these inspiring words at the beginning of a book entitled The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, written by a fellow named Samuel Clements, more commonly known as Mark Twain. I found it to be quite inspiring and also highly applicable, not only to Mr. Twian's words, or even my own, but to many. To all.
I think that sometimes the greatest motives, morals and plots are found in the stories that don't boast of them. That hide them, carefully and cleverly so that only the people who care and dare to look will find them. The greatest works of Literature are real and simple, yet masterful. They are relatable to us, narrowing in on purely human insights that become apparent to us through the simple act of living, yet they also teach us. They allow us to see through another's eyes with our own.
Don't go looking for a motive in this narrative. It will find you. Looking for a moral? Than you are going about this all wrong. Stop attempting to find a plot. Follow the Mississipi on a river raft.
You might be shot at anyway, but then you will have found everything you were looking for and more.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
I'm A Back Seat Driver
Why is this as funny as it is annoying?
Because I don't drive.
Seventeen years old and I don't drive. I don't even have a permit.
I am the bane of many people's existences.
Anyway, my younger sister, Clare, is learning to drive. She was practicing with our Mother today and I was along for the ride. Funny, when my older sister learned to drive, I was worried the whole time I was in the car with her. (She was a bit jerky on the whole stopping-starting thing and she was nervous a lot. Bad vibes, man.) With Clare, I was so relaxed I almost feel asleep. (She's a smoother on the accelerator.) And I almost did... except for the part when she drove up on the curb and jolted me awake.
In all seriousness, she was doing very well. It was only a minor disagreement with the curb and she trampled it into submission with minimal damage to our respective spinal cords. And I wasn't sleeping. I was coaching her along. Wise and encouraging words flowed forth from my lips like a fountain. A very talkative fountain.
"Slower on the turns. One hand over the other on the wheel. Like how sailors pull in their sails? That's a girl. Very good."
"Splendid, Clare! You only took out four imaginary cars!!"
"You have your own lane, sweetheart. You can get out of theirs."
"Give the poor thing some gas, please. I don't think you'll make this turn at four miles an hour."
At one point my Mother asked at when I had read the drivers manual. (Um... never? I had no desire to.) Then she said she wanted to see my oh-so-advanced knowledge of driving in practice.
No, thanks, Mom. Really, I'm fine.
Why don't I drive? I can't remember wanting to as a kid. Mostly it just scared me and I wondered how adults managed to keep their eyes on the road and stay awake. Looked terribly dull. Still does.
It still scares me to some degree. The few times I have driven, it's felt weird. Wrong somehow. Probably it would go away with practice, but I am adverse to the idea. I'm a hazard. I'm doing the world a favor staying off the roads.
Besides, I love shot gun. You have the view, control of the radio, but none of the responsibility. Well, I suppose I am still responsible for distracting the driver, but that's easy. Not to mention fun.
I suppose I will eventually learn to drive. But I'm in no hurry. Being a back seat driver is so much more fun.
Because I don't drive.
Seventeen years old and I don't drive. I don't even have a permit.
I am the bane of many people's existences.
Anyway, my younger sister, Clare, is learning to drive. She was practicing with our Mother today and I was along for the ride. Funny, when my older sister learned to drive, I was worried the whole time I was in the car with her. (She was a bit jerky on the whole stopping-starting thing and she was nervous a lot. Bad vibes, man.) With Clare, I was so relaxed I almost feel asleep. (She's a smoother on the accelerator.) And I almost did... except for the part when she drove up on the curb and jolted me awake.
In all seriousness, she was doing very well. It was only a minor disagreement with the curb and she trampled it into submission with minimal damage to our respective spinal cords. And I wasn't sleeping. I was coaching her along. Wise and encouraging words flowed forth from my lips like a fountain. A very talkative fountain.
"Slower on the turns. One hand over the other on the wheel. Like how sailors pull in their sails? That's a girl. Very good."
"Splendid, Clare! You only took out four imaginary cars!!"
"You have your own lane, sweetheart. You can get out of theirs."
"Give the poor thing some gas, please. I don't think you'll make this turn at four miles an hour."
At one point my Mother asked at when I had read the drivers manual. (Um... never? I had no desire to.) Then she said she wanted to see my oh-so-advanced knowledge of driving in practice.
No, thanks, Mom. Really, I'm fine.
Why don't I drive? I can't remember wanting to as a kid. Mostly it just scared me and I wondered how adults managed to keep their eyes on the road and stay awake. Looked terribly dull. Still does.
It still scares me to some degree. The few times I have driven, it's felt weird. Wrong somehow. Probably it would go away with practice, but I am adverse to the idea. I'm a hazard. I'm doing the world a favor staying off the roads.
Besides, I love shot gun. You have the view, control of the radio, but none of the responsibility. Well, I suppose I am still responsible for distracting the driver, but that's easy. Not to mention fun.
I suppose I will eventually learn to drive. But I'm in no hurry. Being a back seat driver is so much more fun.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Purple, Smelly, Evil, Vile
Today, for the first time in a long time, I had heartburn.
I object. I am way too young for this. Young people are supposedly to be ridiculously healthy all the time. I'm supposed to feel and look fabulous 24/7 until I turn like thirty or something, right? My body obviously needs to get with the program.
It's been so long, I'd almost forgotten what it felt like. Ack. Almost... too bad I didn't get to totally forget. I could have gone for that.
When my head ache makes the floor look like it's moving, I know this could well be a baby migraine. (Oh. Migraines. I'll take heartburn any day.) So, in haste, I find some pain reliever to nip it at the bud. Fast. When I have heartburn, it can mean one of two things. One, it's going to be a mildly unpleasant day or two, Anna is going to be violently ill. (Thankfully, I think this one was the former.) In the case of heartburn... I must choke down a anti-acid.
I loathe anti-acids. The powdery texture is so thoroughly nauseating. Why would they make a medicine that is supposed to help you with your stomach ache so truly vile? If I can get it down without gagging, we're home free, baby! If not... well... it's not a good thing.
So. I had heartburn. It was mild. There was hope. But I had to act quickly. I meandered to the medicine cabinet. Stalling sort of, kind of totally on purpose. I found the bottle of anti-acids and peered in. They looked so evil. They smelled even worse. I grimaced.
Ewww... do I have too?
Shall we consider the options? A few seconds of agony, or the possiblity of a few days in agony?
Well. When you put it that way...but they are so disgusting.
Shush. Just eat them.
Yuck.
I'm not disagreeing, but it's got to be done.
Fiiine...
I selected two. Purple. Smelly. Evil. Vile. I looked at them, lying in wait. Sitting innocently on my palm, waiting to torture my taste buds.
I got a glass of water. If I was going to have to taste them, I was going to have something to wash it down with.
One... two... three...
First bite.
Oh yeah. They are so disgusting.
Yep.
Ack! Bluck! Ick! Eww! Chew faster! It's getting stuck in my teeth!
Swallow...swallow... YES! Done!!
Yuck.
Obviously, I survived. And I live to fight heartburn and anti-acids another day.
Although I sincerely hope I don't have too.
I object. I am way too young for this. Young people are supposedly to be ridiculously healthy all the time. I'm supposed to feel and look fabulous 24/7 until I turn like thirty or something, right? My body obviously needs to get with the program.
It's been so long, I'd almost forgotten what it felt like. Ack. Almost... too bad I didn't get to totally forget. I could have gone for that.
When my head ache makes the floor look like it's moving, I know this could well be a baby migraine. (Oh. Migraines. I'll take heartburn any day.) So, in haste, I find some pain reliever to nip it at the bud. Fast. When I have heartburn, it can mean one of two things. One, it's going to be a mildly unpleasant day or two, Anna is going to be violently ill. (Thankfully, I think this one was the former.) In the case of heartburn... I must choke down a anti-acid.
I loathe anti-acids. The powdery texture is so thoroughly nauseating. Why would they make a medicine that is supposed to help you with your stomach ache so truly vile? If I can get it down without gagging, we're home free, baby! If not... well... it's not a good thing.
So. I had heartburn. It was mild. There was hope. But I had to act quickly. I meandered to the medicine cabinet. Stalling sort of, kind of totally on purpose. I found the bottle of anti-acids and peered in. They looked so evil. They smelled even worse. I grimaced.
Ewww... do I have too?
Shall we consider the options? A few seconds of agony, or the possiblity of a few days in agony?
Well. When you put it that way...but they are so disgusting.
Shush. Just eat them.
Yuck.
I'm not disagreeing, but it's got to be done.
Fiiine...
I selected two. Purple. Smelly. Evil. Vile. I looked at them, lying in wait. Sitting innocently on my palm, waiting to torture my taste buds.
I got a glass of water. If I was going to have to taste them, I was going to have something to wash it down with.
One... two... three...
First bite.
Oh yeah. They are so disgusting.
Yep.
Ack! Bluck! Ick! Eww! Chew faster! It's getting stuck in my teeth!
Swallow...swallow... YES! Done!!
Yuck.
Obviously, I survived. And I live to fight heartburn and anti-acids another day.
Although I sincerely hope I don't have too.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Poem: Though No One Loves Me Yet
In my loneliness, I will love
Though no one loves me yet
So I have no need for tears
No cause for me to fret
If I have no lover’s hand to hold
I’ll hold a wrinkled shaking one
And hear them tell their stories of
Their own life, nearly done.
If I have no lips to kiss
I’ll kiss a crying child’s knee
And soothe her hurt a little bit
As someone else once did for me
If I have no one to share
With thoughts and hopes and dreams
I’ll keep on wishing, keep on thinking
And hope someone dreams of me
Though no one loves me yet
So I have no need for tears
No cause for me to fret
If I have no lover’s hand to hold
I’ll hold a wrinkled shaking one
And hear them tell their stories of
Their own life, nearly done.
If I have no lips to kiss
I’ll kiss a crying child’s knee
And soothe her hurt a little bit
As someone else once did for me
If I have no one to share
With thoughts and hopes and dreams
I’ll keep on wishing, keep on thinking
And hope someone dreams of me
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
A Flippant and British Mood
I get in this certain mood. (Maybe you have it too.) When this mood strikes, certain words are way too appealing. Like, I want to use them, not because they are particularly useful in the context, but because they strike me as superior to others. They are quirky. They are strange. They aren't run of the mill. They just sound darn pretty.
Shan't. Perhaps. Since. Quaint. Forgetful. Pensive. Fashionable. Simplistic. Hop-scotch. Figurative. Majestic. Practically. Mooch.
Most of these words sound excellent with a British accent. Go on. Try it. No one's watching, and if they are, you will totally make their day.
Maybe that's all there is to the mood. Maybe it's just me feeling British.
I have a bit of a thing for accents. That's what I get for being boring and from the Midwest. I know there is supposedly a Midwestern accent. We say things like warsh or wursh rather than wash. A creek is a crick. It's actually a joke in my family because we don't. Ever. The only Midwestern quirk I can detect in my own speech is saying fur instead of for. I fail to stress the O sound. It sounds funny to say for like the number when I try to stress it.
Any way, I like to pretend to have different accents to annoy people. My British accent is fairly decent. My Southern accent is way overdone (but one of my favorites), my Irish accent makes me sound like an old man who has had a few too many shots. My Australian accent turns British after a few sentences. I took three years of French, so I have a less than horrible French accent. Spanish? Nope. I can't do it. Which is just hilarious and annoying.
Ya'll have probably figured out by now that I am an annoying person. Yeah. It's an art.
In this same mood, I love to read poetry even more than usual. This mood is dramatic. It is vibrant. It loves sharp, strong, concise emotion. I could go on and on about poetry all day. It wouldn't be very good, but I do love it, though meager my grasp upon it.
This is an atricious blog post. I rather loathe it. But I don't care. I'll post it anyway.
The mood doesn't care. It just does whatever. Thinks later.
For the cronic over-thinker, this is delicious.
Shan't. Perhaps. Since. Quaint. Forgetful. Pensive. Fashionable. Simplistic. Hop-scotch. Figurative. Majestic. Practically. Mooch.
Most of these words sound excellent with a British accent. Go on. Try it. No one's watching, and if they are, you will totally make their day.
Maybe that's all there is to the mood. Maybe it's just me feeling British.
I have a bit of a thing for accents. That's what I get for being boring and from the Midwest. I know there is supposedly a Midwestern accent. We say things like warsh or wursh rather than wash. A creek is a crick. It's actually a joke in my family because we don't. Ever. The only Midwestern quirk I can detect in my own speech is saying fur instead of for. I fail to stress the O sound. It sounds funny to say for like the number when I try to stress it.
Any way, I like to pretend to have different accents to annoy people. My British accent is fairly decent. My Southern accent is way overdone (but one of my favorites), my Irish accent makes me sound like an old man who has had a few too many shots. My Australian accent turns British after a few sentences. I took three years of French, so I have a less than horrible French accent. Spanish? Nope. I can't do it. Which is just hilarious and annoying.
Ya'll have probably figured out by now that I am an annoying person. Yeah. It's an art.
In this same mood, I love to read poetry even more than usual. This mood is dramatic. It is vibrant. It loves sharp, strong, concise emotion. I could go on and on about poetry all day. It wouldn't be very good, but I do love it, though meager my grasp upon it.
This is an atricious blog post. I rather loathe it. But I don't care. I'll post it anyway.
The mood doesn't care. It just does whatever. Thinks later.
For the cronic over-thinker, this is delicious.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Sickly Sweet Childhood Memories
The following is one of, if not my all time, favorite childhood memories.
My younger sister, Clare and I, were outside playing on one of those winter days where it is warm and sunny, even though there is a good several inch layer of snow on the ground. On this particular day, we were getting along pretty well. Which, for us, meant only trying to assassinate the other once or twice.
We squabbled famously until this year. I finally broke down and matured, I guess. She's my closest sibling, as we are a little over a year apart. When this story takes place, I believe we are about ten and nine, respectively, perhaps a little younger.
Any way, on this lovely winter day, we happened to venture out by the gravel road of our rural home and lo and behold! A half emptied bottle of Pepsi- all alone and unguarded, just waiting for two lucky kids like us! We were thrilled to find that this bottle of the ever coveted carbonated treat was still two thirds full, and after some deliberation, we decided the benefits of free soda far outweighed the risks of someone elses backwash.
On a normal day, we would have fought like cats and dogs over the soda, causing such a stir that my Mother would have come outside to see what all the fuss was about and confiscated our prize. However, the stars were in harmonious alignment that day, and we agreed to share it equally.
We were going over the nitty gritty details of how to split the soda properly when suddenly, inspiration struck. I don't recall whose idea this was, or if this was our intent from the very beginning, but we decided that the same good and kid-loving gods who had sent us this soda had also bestowed upon us a surplus of snow with which to mix it. (Slushies!!)
This presented the problem of how to blend the slushies. We weren't stupid, and we knew revealing our secret would result in either less slushie per person, or no slushie at all depending on who found us first, a sibling or a parent. Thus, we acted with great resourcefulness and efficiency in our covert operation, procuring an old dog dish (yes, it gets grosser) to hold the goods (which I declared, with older sisterly superiority, to be quite sanitary after sitting in a freezing snow bank. Germs freeze to death. Duh.)
Then we found some clean(ish) snow to put into the dog dish and then we poured our precious Pepsi on top. Finding a stick (which was also the very picture of sanitation after we picked most of the bark off of it), we stirred the slushie in song. Seriously. We made up a slushie song. Heck if I know how it went, but I distinctly remember singing. And stirring.
We used sticks to scoop the first spoo...I mean stickfuls into our mouths. We agreed that it was excellent and congratulated each other on our genius. It was then decided that such genius should be applied further and that the fruits of it's labor should be named.
We decided to call it, with the sweet, senseless logic of children, A C Cola, short for 'Anna and Clare's Cola' This was obviously the thing to call a snow saturated Pepsi product. It was perfect.
And so, we ate and made merry and declared it one of the best things we had ever eaten. (I'm not gonna lie, it was pretty darn good.) And dispite our twisted sanitation efforts, we both survived.
I love that memory... I know ya'll think I'm revolting, that's okay, it's true. But that memory so captures what I remember of being a kid. Freedom. Creativity. Simplicity. Innocence. Sure, in theory we knew it was gross to drink someone elses soda, that dog mouths are not clean and neither is what birds put on snow. So what? We did it anyway. And we loved it. We thought it was perfect.
And so, it was.
My younger sister, Clare and I, were outside playing on one of those winter days where it is warm and sunny, even though there is a good several inch layer of snow on the ground. On this particular day, we were getting along pretty well. Which, for us, meant only trying to assassinate the other once or twice.
We squabbled famously until this year. I finally broke down and matured, I guess. She's my closest sibling, as we are a little over a year apart. When this story takes place, I believe we are about ten and nine, respectively, perhaps a little younger.
Any way, on this lovely winter day, we happened to venture out by the gravel road of our rural home and lo and behold! A half emptied bottle of Pepsi- all alone and unguarded, just waiting for two lucky kids like us! We were thrilled to find that this bottle of the ever coveted carbonated treat was still two thirds full, and after some deliberation, we decided the benefits of free soda far outweighed the risks of someone elses backwash.
On a normal day, we would have fought like cats and dogs over the soda, causing such a stir that my Mother would have come outside to see what all the fuss was about and confiscated our prize. However, the stars were in harmonious alignment that day, and we agreed to share it equally.
We were going over the nitty gritty details of how to split the soda properly when suddenly, inspiration struck. I don't recall whose idea this was, or if this was our intent from the very beginning, but we decided that the same good and kid-loving gods who had sent us this soda had also bestowed upon us a surplus of snow with which to mix it. (Slushies!!)
This presented the problem of how to blend the slushies. We weren't stupid, and we knew revealing our secret would result in either less slushie per person, or no slushie at all depending on who found us first, a sibling or a parent. Thus, we acted with great resourcefulness and efficiency in our covert operation, procuring an old dog dish (yes, it gets grosser) to hold the goods (which I declared, with older sisterly superiority, to be quite sanitary after sitting in a freezing snow bank. Germs freeze to death. Duh.)
Then we found some clean(ish) snow to put into the dog dish and then we poured our precious Pepsi on top. Finding a stick (which was also the very picture of sanitation after we picked most of the bark off of it), we stirred the slushie in song. Seriously. We made up a slushie song. Heck if I know how it went, but I distinctly remember singing. And stirring.
We used sticks to scoop the first spoo...I mean stickfuls into our mouths. We agreed that it was excellent and congratulated each other on our genius. It was then decided that such genius should be applied further and that the fruits of it's labor should be named.
We decided to call it, with the sweet, senseless logic of children, A C Cola, short for 'Anna and Clare's Cola' This was obviously the thing to call a snow saturated Pepsi product. It was perfect.
And so, we ate and made merry and declared it one of the best things we had ever eaten. (I'm not gonna lie, it was pretty darn good.) And dispite our twisted sanitation efforts, we both survived.
I love that memory... I know ya'll think I'm revolting, that's okay, it's true. But that memory so captures what I remember of being a kid. Freedom. Creativity. Simplicity. Innocence. Sure, in theory we knew it was gross to drink someone elses soda, that dog mouths are not clean and neither is what birds put on snow. So what? We did it anyway. And we loved it. We thought it was perfect.
And so, it was.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Hibernation: Phase One
After the temperature drops below sixty degrees, it starts. My semi-hibernation.
I am a pretty cold person, actually. This is actually recent, but as I've gotten older, I am cold a lot of the time. Not like disproportionally with the weather, I'm not wearing a sweater in July, but come October? Yeah. I'm wearing a sweater. And shoes with socks. Which is just wonderful living in the Midwest. And to add to the fun, I live in an old farmhouse. With leaky windows. Yeah. It gets cold. Once January hits, I'm pretty much in full blown hibernation. My adaption of hibernation is not nearly as good as the real thing, but human beings don't seem to get away with naps that last more than a day, much less ones that stretch over a whole season. So I do what I can (besides wishing I was a bear) to keep somewhat warm and sane during the colder months of the year.
Phase one of the hibernation: I drink like seven cups of something hot every day.
It begins with a nice cup of coffee. Oh, glorious coffee! I don't have a set way I 'take' my coffee, as it were. Sometimes I like it black. Sometimes with just a little milk. And sometimes I go cream and sugar. It depends on the mood.
Then, I have a mid morning cup of green tea. I love green tea. So, so good. It's got spunk. Don't tell me it doesn't taste like anything, because it does and I like it. You can enhance this with honey if you're feeling healthy or sugar if you just can't live without it. Most often, I go for the latter.
Then comes my three o'clock(ish) cup of oolong. Another splendid tea. It's a bit like black and green tea blended as far as flavor in my opinion. This needs sugar. Period. This is the one tea I interchange. I must have green in the morning! I must!! But this afternoon cup of tea sometimes becomes afternoon cups of tea and so I'll start with oolong, move on to apple cinnamon and finish off with a nice cup of gingerbread, depending on how adequately stocked the tea cupboard is and what I'm in the mood for.
Last but not least is the bed time cup. In the dead of winter, this is very important. This is the cup that needs to get you through that awful moment where you jump into you bed and shiver as you try desperately to circulate body heat... brrrrr.... It's almost (and I said almost) as bad as that moment getting out of bed. No. Forget it. I lied. It's not even close. It's only getting into the fifties at night here and I have two blankets and a comforter (folded in half) on my bed. My sister asks what I'm going to do when it's really cold.
Drink more tea. And find more blankets. And wear more clothes. It's all part of the grand hibernation that keeps me alive during these cold and cruel winters.
We're only in phase one right now. And goodness, you have to love tea. I hope you love coffee as well, because it is quite fabulous also.
I've just finished my cup of coffee. They say it will be in the seventies today, but if not, you can bet I'll be drinking a nice cup of green tea in a few hours.
Maybe I'll drink it anyway... it's good stuff, you know.
I am a pretty cold person, actually. This is actually recent, but as I've gotten older, I am cold a lot of the time. Not like disproportionally with the weather, I'm not wearing a sweater in July, but come October? Yeah. I'm wearing a sweater. And shoes with socks. Which is just wonderful living in the Midwest. And to add to the fun, I live in an old farmhouse. With leaky windows. Yeah. It gets cold. Once January hits, I'm pretty much in full blown hibernation. My adaption of hibernation is not nearly as good as the real thing, but human beings don't seem to get away with naps that last more than a day, much less ones that stretch over a whole season. So I do what I can (besides wishing I was a bear) to keep somewhat warm and sane during the colder months of the year.
Phase one of the hibernation: I drink like seven cups of something hot every day.
It begins with a nice cup of coffee. Oh, glorious coffee! I don't have a set way I 'take' my coffee, as it were. Sometimes I like it black. Sometimes with just a little milk. And sometimes I go cream and sugar. It depends on the mood.
Then, I have a mid morning cup of green tea. I love green tea. So, so good. It's got spunk. Don't tell me it doesn't taste like anything, because it does and I like it. You can enhance this with honey if you're feeling healthy or sugar if you just can't live without it. Most often, I go for the latter.
Then comes my three o'clock(ish) cup of oolong. Another splendid tea. It's a bit like black and green tea blended as far as flavor in my opinion. This needs sugar. Period. This is the one tea I interchange. I must have green in the morning! I must!! But this afternoon cup of tea sometimes becomes afternoon cups of tea and so I'll start with oolong, move on to apple cinnamon and finish off with a nice cup of gingerbread, depending on how adequately stocked the tea cupboard is and what I'm in the mood for.
Last but not least is the bed time cup. In the dead of winter, this is very important. This is the cup that needs to get you through that awful moment where you jump into you bed and shiver as you try desperately to circulate body heat... brrrrr.... It's almost (and I said almost) as bad as that moment getting out of bed. No. Forget it. I lied. It's not even close. It's only getting into the fifties at night here and I have two blankets and a comforter (folded in half) on my bed. My sister asks what I'm going to do when it's really cold.
Drink more tea. And find more blankets. And wear more clothes. It's all part of the grand hibernation that keeps me alive during these cold and cruel winters.
We're only in phase one right now. And goodness, you have to love tea. I hope you love coffee as well, because it is quite fabulous also.
I've just finished my cup of coffee. They say it will be in the seventies today, but if not, you can bet I'll be drinking a nice cup of green tea in a few hours.
Maybe I'll drink it anyway... it's good stuff, you know.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Anna's Top Ten Ultimate Weaknesses
Reveling one's weaknesses is a practice to be generally discouraged for several reasons...
A) You are a superhero and reveling your weakness could result in your crushing defeat and demise, or
B) Your family reads your blog and can and will use this against you.
I, however, have decided to flaunt my humanity, risk my superhero identity and offer my family and excellent reference for all kinds of pay back and share with you my top 10 weaknesses.
1. Cake / Cookies / Chocolate
The jury is still out on which one weakens me most. All have a ridiculous amount of calories , start with the letter C, and I can't stop eating them.
2. Shiny objects.
If I were an animal, I would have to be a deer. Headlights are so shiny. I also stop and stare at jewelry displays and tilt spoons to that they catch the light.
3. Pretty things.
I'm a girl. I can't help that I like pretty. Shiny, pretty? They go together. But if it's pretty and shiny, it's just even better and cannot be denied.
4. Clothing Sales.
A perfect excuse to go shopping AND expand my wardrobe!! What more can one ask for?! (Again, I'm playing the girl card. It excuses me for all sorts of insanity.) Irresistible.
5. Puppies.
A little black nose... a pair of moist little eyes... too big paws... floppy ears... heaven help me, I melt. All baby animals do it to me, really. Colts and kittens in particular. They're so dang cute. They're defenseless against me and I against them.
6. Blue Eyes
Deadly. Just deadly. Why are they so much prettier and sexier than brown eyes? Why are they so much deeper and more beautiful? Not fair.
7. Being Tickled
Yes, I'm wildly ticklish. It's really an ultimate, ultimate weakness. The only reason it doesn't go higher up on the list is because I am not completely powerless in it's throes. I often get violent when tickled and will probably kick you in the face, gut or where ever I think will get you to quit tickling me.
8. Diet Coke
It can talk me into anything.
9. That Which Is Forbidden
Come on. That just makes it a thousand times more appealing, right?
10. Pride
Okay. It's more like number one. It's also the most serious, though and it was going to kill the mood there at that top. So I just kept pushing it back... and back... and I almost didn't put it on the list at all. (Bad Anna! You lie!) But believe me, it is a weakness and a vice. A big one.
There you have it. My weaknesses. If you are reading this for insight in how to defeat me, I would ask you pick one of the more pleasant ones. Death by chocolate sounds very pleasant indeed. Funny how many of these things would make it on my favorite things list. Funny how much I love to loathe many of them.
Aren't people odd?
A) You are a superhero and reveling your weakness could result in your crushing defeat and demise, or
B) Your family reads your blog and can and will use this against you.
I, however, have decided to flaunt my humanity, risk my superhero identity and offer my family and excellent reference for all kinds of pay back and share with you my top 10 weaknesses.
1. Cake / Cookies / Chocolate
The jury is still out on which one weakens me most. All have a ridiculous amount of calories , start with the letter C, and I can't stop eating them.
2. Shiny objects.
If I were an animal, I would have to be a deer. Headlights are so shiny. I also stop and stare at jewelry displays and tilt spoons to that they catch the light.
3. Pretty things.
I'm a girl. I can't help that I like pretty. Shiny, pretty? They go together. But if it's pretty and shiny, it's just even better and cannot be denied.
4. Clothing Sales.
A perfect excuse to go shopping AND expand my wardrobe!! What more can one ask for?! (Again, I'm playing the girl card. It excuses me for all sorts of insanity.) Irresistible.
5. Puppies.
A little black nose... a pair of moist little eyes... too big paws... floppy ears... heaven help me, I melt. All baby animals do it to me, really. Colts and kittens in particular. They're so dang cute. They're defenseless against me and I against them.
6. Blue Eyes
Deadly. Just deadly. Why are they so much prettier and sexier than brown eyes? Why are they so much deeper and more beautiful? Not fair.
7. Being Tickled
Yes, I'm wildly ticklish. It's really an ultimate, ultimate weakness. The only reason it doesn't go higher up on the list is because I am not completely powerless in it's throes. I often get violent when tickled and will probably kick you in the face, gut or where ever I think will get you to quit tickling me.
8. Diet Coke
It can talk me into anything.
9. That Which Is Forbidden
Come on. That just makes it a thousand times more appealing, right?
10. Pride
Okay. It's more like number one. It's also the most serious, though and it was going to kill the mood there at that top. So I just kept pushing it back... and back... and I almost didn't put it on the list at all. (Bad Anna! You lie!) But believe me, it is a weakness and a vice. A big one.
There you have it. My weaknesses. If you are reading this for insight in how to defeat me, I would ask you pick one of the more pleasant ones. Death by chocolate sounds very pleasant indeed. Funny how many of these things would make it on my favorite things list. Funny how much I love to loathe many of them.
Aren't people odd?
Monday, October 4, 2010
Ships, Planes and Paper Possiblities
While assembling (okay, more pretending to help while someone else assembled) a bookcase for the Library I work at today, an interesting thought struck me (yes, I actually had one and I lived to tell the tale.)
Bookcases are like treasure chests.
Solid walls of wood encase the diamonds, emeralds and rubies of the literate and cultured world. (Some of us are capable of reading, but do not enjoy it. There are those who love reading for reading's sake and those who like reading for the subject's sake. I am the former and I will tolerate the latter. But those strange people who loathe reading in general, I pity.)
The best bookcases are the ones that are filled, top to bottom (what is an empty bookcase, after all? A crime, that's what. A sad and sorry lack of that which is good. A dull emptiness, begging to be filled.) stuffed, squeezed, glutted, bursting, full up with books, books and more books. The fuller the chest, the greater the treasure, no?
Glorious books. Ships that always have an extra spot for an eager stowaway. Planes that beg you to climb aboard and lift you into the sky of imagination. Dreams that envelope you and offer you endless possibilities. They are escapes, and yet they are grounded in humanity; men cannot write things that do not speak of men.
This makes books both windows and mirrors. They open up the horizons of other worlds and offer more insight into your own. The offer both insight and introspection.
So what else could a bookcase, loaded down with these marvelous thing, be but a treasure chest?
And so, being the good little library employee that I am, I would encourage you to go forth and find a bookcase. Library, bookstore, your neighbors house, I don't care. Find one and take a look. I guarantee it's a worthwhile investment. And speaking of investments, it is also a worthy and wonderful endeavor to build your own bookcase. Collect the jewels that mean the most to you and allow them to occupy a chest in your own home. (That way, when you're neighbor reads this, he can just come on over to your house to find a bookcase.)
And the more chests there are out there... the more likely someone else is to find one.
Bookcases are like treasure chests.
Solid walls of wood encase the diamonds, emeralds and rubies of the literate and cultured world. (Some of us are capable of reading, but do not enjoy it. There are those who love reading for reading's sake and those who like reading for the subject's sake. I am the former and I will tolerate the latter. But those strange people who loathe reading in general, I pity.)
The best bookcases are the ones that are filled, top to bottom (what is an empty bookcase, after all? A crime, that's what. A sad and sorry lack of that which is good. A dull emptiness, begging to be filled.) stuffed, squeezed, glutted, bursting, full up with books, books and more books. The fuller the chest, the greater the treasure, no?
Glorious books. Ships that always have an extra spot for an eager stowaway. Planes that beg you to climb aboard and lift you into the sky of imagination. Dreams that envelope you and offer you endless possibilities. They are escapes, and yet they are grounded in humanity; men cannot write things that do not speak of men.
This makes books both windows and mirrors. They open up the horizons of other worlds and offer more insight into your own. The offer both insight and introspection.
So what else could a bookcase, loaded down with these marvelous thing, be but a treasure chest?
And so, being the good little library employee that I am, I would encourage you to go forth and find a bookcase. Library, bookstore, your neighbors house, I don't care. Find one and take a look. I guarantee it's a worthwhile investment. And speaking of investments, it is also a worthy and wonderful endeavor to build your own bookcase. Collect the jewels that mean the most to you and allow them to occupy a chest in your own home. (That way, when you're neighbor reads this, he can just come on over to your house to find a bookcase.)
And the more chests there are out there... the more likely someone else is to find one.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
On A Technical Note...
Like my tweaking? Yes, I did change a few things. Look around, pretend you noticed them right away.
Someone had too much fun with the buttons on Blogger today.
Someone had too much fun with the buttons on Blogger today.
Prose I
How do you forget
The things you once held
Close to your heart and mind
On purpose
So that you wouldn't forget them?
How do you let go
Of the things you once loved
And clung to in a sick desperation
Just to feel your own heart beating?
How do you recover
From a collapse so complete
Like a star falling
From a self imposed sky
Shattering on the ground
Where it never belonged?
How do you love
When there is so much hate
Swirling inside you
Surprising you by it's presence and strength
That you selfishly directed
Safely and soundly
Yet deadly?
And how do you read
The words, the tears, the pictures and the faces
That color, create, make and break
That surround, yet isolate you
Into the hallow drum
Of questions, loneliness and heart beats
In a rhythm, a song
Of hopeful despair?
The things you once held
Close to your heart and mind
On purpose
So that you wouldn't forget them?
How do you let go
Of the things you once loved
And clung to in a sick desperation
Just to feel your own heart beating?
How do you recover
From a collapse so complete
Like a star falling
From a self imposed sky
Shattering on the ground
Where it never belonged?
How do you love
When there is so much hate
Swirling inside you
Surprising you by it's presence and strength
That you selfishly directed
Safely and soundly
Yet deadly?
And how do you read
The words, the tears, the pictures and the faces
That color, create, make and break
That surround, yet isolate you
Into the hallow drum
Of questions, loneliness and heart beats
In a rhythm, a song
Of hopeful despair?
Friday, October 1, 2010
Cookies
Today is apparently National Homemade Cookie Day. My kind of holiday, people. It's also the kind of holiday that gets ample celebration at my house. My sister makes amazing cookies. Just ask me. Or the mailman. Or me. It's the truth.
Cookies are on my list of ultimate weaknesses. Whenever I gain weight, you can bet your bottom dollar that cookies were involved. Then, seeing the disastrous effect they have on the fit of my jeans, I swear them off (or at least swear to moderate my intake. I mean, what is life without a cookies? A cold, dark, thin place I tell you.) and for a while, I do alright. I am bigger than the cookie... I can resist... Of course, this whole "cookie diet" thing works better when there are no cookies to be had. When the house starts smelling like sweet, doughy goodness, my resolve is weakened. When the first hot, perfect rounds come out of the oven, it's over.. Resolve? What resolve? How bad can a few cookies really be... I wave the white flag and indulge, only it's a pretty sweet loss. For the moment anyhow.
Some cookies are, obviously, much better than others. My personal favorites are chocolate chip cookies, sugar cookies, gingersnaps, chocolate sandwich cookies and white chocolate chip macadamia nut.
Chocolate chip cookies are classic... if you don't like them, something is most likely wrong with you. You need to have enough chocolate chips and the cookies need to be very soft. A cookie without enough chocolate chips is a crime.
Sugar cookies also need to be very soft and they must be frosted. Don't just sprinkle some colored sugar on top, you can do so much better. Don't cheat this cookie out of fullness of life.
Gingersnaps, I like both soft and hard. I know they are supposed to 'snap', but they taste so good soft also. They are just good. End of story.
Chocolate sandwich cookies... don't lick the cream out. Please, I'm begging you. Just don't. The whole thing is meant to go together and ripping them apart is like separating Siamese twins joined at the heart.
And last but not least, white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies. Glorious. It's the white chocolate. I've always loved it. It's the the lighter side of the chocolate chip cookie. You have that same excellent base cookie, but the chocolate is sweeter and there are nuts.
Yeah. I am pretty crazy about cookies. What can I say, I am a foodie with a serious sweet tooth. There are worse weaknesses, right? ;)
Cookies are on my list of ultimate weaknesses. Whenever I gain weight, you can bet your bottom dollar that cookies were involved. Then, seeing the disastrous effect they have on the fit of my jeans, I swear them off (or at least swear to moderate my intake. I mean, what is life without a cookies? A cold, dark, thin place I tell you.) and for a while, I do alright. I am bigger than the cookie... I can resist... Of course, this whole "cookie diet" thing works better when there are no cookies to be had. When the house starts smelling like sweet, doughy goodness, my resolve is weakened. When the first hot, perfect rounds come out of the oven, it's over.. Resolve? What resolve? How bad can a few cookies really be... I wave the white flag and indulge, only it's a pretty sweet loss. For the moment anyhow.
Some cookies are, obviously, much better than others. My personal favorites are chocolate chip cookies, sugar cookies, gingersnaps, chocolate sandwich cookies and white chocolate chip macadamia nut.
Chocolate chip cookies are classic... if you don't like them, something is most likely wrong with you. You need to have enough chocolate chips and the cookies need to be very soft. A cookie without enough chocolate chips is a crime.
Sugar cookies also need to be very soft and they must be frosted. Don't just sprinkle some colored sugar on top, you can do so much better. Don't cheat this cookie out of fullness of life.
Gingersnaps, I like both soft and hard. I know they are supposed to 'snap', but they taste so good soft also. They are just good. End of story.
Chocolate sandwich cookies... don't lick the cream out. Please, I'm begging you. Just don't. The whole thing is meant to go together and ripping them apart is like separating Siamese twins joined at the heart.
And last but not least, white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies. Glorious. It's the white chocolate. I've always loved it. It's the the lighter side of the chocolate chip cookie. You have that same excellent base cookie, but the chocolate is sweeter and there are nuts.
Yeah. I am pretty crazy about cookies. What can I say, I am a foodie with a serious sweet tooth. There are worse weaknesses, right? ;)
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