Lip Smackers

I love Lip Smackers.

That could be strangly related to the fact that I am a girl and love lip balm/stick/gloss in generally, but really, what's not to love?

Lip Smackers. They're cute, colorful, fit in your pocket, feel fabulous, smell amazing and taste delicous.

What more could a girl (or her lips) ever ask for?

LOTS of lipsmackers, that's what.

Cotton Candy! Watermelon! Mango, Wild Rasberry! Oh the wonderful lips you can smack! (Or would it be smacks you can lip?)

And with a couple hundred flavors... there's quite a few to smack your lips to.

Obsession worthy? Yes.

Gold Stars

Why do I always seek your approval? As if I needed your words to make or break my efforts.

I already doubt myself enough. Do I really need to add your doubts on top of all that? Need... is that what it all comes down to? That needy desire to hear that you think I'm not just a pathetic waste of space, time and energy?

As if I will really believe whatever it is you say.

It's not really your words I want. No. How often are they an accurate representation of what you're really thinking? Not like I want to hear that either... that might be too honest, you know.

I can't stand the lies, but it's the truth I'm really afriad of.

So. That places you in the delicate position of being unable to say anything I want to hear. The lie will frustrate me and the truth I won't believe because I am already convinced it is a lie.

So why do I bother asking? Why do I study your face like a textbook, hunting for clues as to the thoughts that you held back from your words, turning this into some stupid game of Truth or Dare with my self-confidence hanging in the balance?

This isn't kindergarten. There are no more gold star stickers.

Blood, Sweat and Tears - Part I

"I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat." - Winston Churchill

Blood. Sweat. Tears. Three fundamental human elements. Three things that we make, that we create. Three things that make us what we are- human.

For some reason, this old phrase came to my mind today. There really is no reason for the way my mind works. If I tried to explain it, I would just end up confusing us both and it would be pretty much useless to my current purpose. I decided, in my usual instantaneous and haphazard fashion, that I would split up the three things in this phrase- blood, sweat and tears. (Be warned, I will repeat those words again... and again... and probably again. So get used to them.) I would take each one and give it a little thought. Roll it around in my mind and see what I could come up with. Feel free to add your own thoughts in a comment. We have been trained to think in narrow boxes and I, for one, am pretty sure that there is more in this world than my own box and I should get out a little more, at least in my mind.

~~~~~

Wiki says that "Blood is a specialized bodily fluid that delivers necessary substances to the body's cells – such as nutrients and oxygen – and transports waste products away from those same cells."

Well isn't that a nice, boring definition. But if you are as bad at remembering biology as I am, it was for your benefit. Blood... what is blood? In a deeper sense, blood is life. Without blood, you and I would not, could not work. Our bodies need blood to do all the amazing, confusing and thoroughly mysterious things they do.

Have you ever looked at you hand in absolute astonishment? I have. "What the heck... how does this thing even work...?" We could talk about the wonders of human construction for hours... but I am obviously not an expert and I have a topic at hand and I will not be swayed. Look at the strange thing connected to the end of your own arm. Yes, really. Don't pretend you did and just keep reading. Got it? Alright. See those bluish purple lines underneath the knuckles on your palm and on your wrist? Of course you do. They're called veins. Yes, I know you know that, bare with me. Underneath several layers of skin are tons of tiny little veins, a maze of rivers carrying blood, carrying life through your body. You knew that too. But how often do you think about it? How often do you remember that "specialized body fluid" that "delivers the necessary substances to your cells"?

If you answered "Um... not often, if ever." don't feel bad. I did too. We take it for granted.

But when do we remember blood? Not when it's doing it's job perfectly and normally, of course. No, we remember it when it isn't working right. When you get a cut, you remember your blood. Because suddenly, what works in secret, hidden and behind the scenes, is made visible. Heck yes, you'd better believe it's visible. The second it leaves those little rivers, it turns that beautiful, scarlet red. (I love that blood is red. Because if blood is life, I would like to think life is a vibrant color.) We're automatically alarmed by blood leaving our bodies... and since blood is a big part of what gives you life, it makes sense to try not to lose it.

If you have a disease like cancer or some other illness, you remember your blood. Do you know how many tests are done with blood samples? Me neither. But it's a big number. Your blood is full of information, if something is not right in your body, you can bet there are probably some clues in your blood. When something is wrong with your blood... it's like the very thing that keeps you alive has turned against you. The one thing you need more than anything is endangering you. Can you imagine that? I cannot.

~~~~~

You know how when you curl up and lay still, you can feel your heartbeat?

I love that.

Beat...beat...beat...beat...beat...beat...beat...beat...beat...

I...am...alive...I...am...alive...I...am...alive...I...am...alive...

BEAUTIFUL


You know what is beating? Yes, it is your heart. But what is beating in your heart? But what is your heart beating?

Blood.

~~~~~

Blood is not only what we are, it is who we are. We are human. (Humanity is a what, a who, a when and a why in and of itself if you ask me.)

"It's in my blood."

We identify ourselves by what is in our blood, where we came from and who we are. It not only gives us life, it defines our lives.

"All I have to offer is my blood..."

If you are made of blood, if you are blood, then what is a gift of self? When we love someone or something, we say we would give our lives for it. We would offer everything- we would bleed and die for it's sake.

War is war because we settle things with blood. Brothers are brothers because the same blood runs in their veins. Blood is what makes the difference between life and death. It is the tie that binds and it's loss is what severs.

We do not take blood lightly. Nor should we. How can we, really? It is what are, how we are, why we are and who we are.

~~~~~

Blood in my veins, pulsing through me at every moment of the day. Beating in my heart, circulating through my body. Keeping me alive.

Beat...beat...beat...

I...am...alive...

The Ball Point

The pen is a faithful friend. Solid... Steady... Smooth...

Be it's blood true blue, black as night or rose red, the pen gives it all away for your sake. Tip his head to the task and drain himself of every last drop at you command.

Be it an essay, a poem, a paper, a page of scribbles, a letter, a shopping list, a drawing, a graph, a math problem or a journal entry, your pen will see you through.

In truth, the pen used to intimidate me. He was more permanent than my buddy the pencil. He did not have a convenient eraser attached to his back. He didn't easily take things back the way the pencil did. No, if you wanted to erase words you let him inscribe, you needed that nasty white-out stuff. He could be concealed, but he could not be taken away.

He was serious. Instead of the often times gentle gray shade of the pencil, he was a severe black, looking standard and politically correct; a deep blue, like the handwritten recipe your Grandma copied in her precise cursive; or even a cutting red, the kind that littered my math papers past. While a pen can be several colors and still be called just a 'pen', a pencil of any other color is called a 'colored' pencil. I wonder why... is gray not a color anymore? And why did the pen get away with being shades the pencil could not afford?

The pen seemed adult, in a way. A pencil was for a child, someone being formed, someone unsure, someone ignorant. A pen, however was for the brave, confidant and mature. Presidents and geniuses used pens, to be sure. They had no need to erase anything. In setting pen to paper, they knew what to say and how to say it. So they did. And the pen obeyed. A pencil, on the other hand, was for a dreamer. The doodler. The one who had no particular intent in mind. Expecting, allowing and even inviting mistakes.

Back than, nothing thrilled me more than a crisp, sharp pencil point. Ah, how perfect and smooth it was on the paper! And the sound... a pen could not make that sound. To unite a paper and pencil... how right it seemed. Both having the same Mother, both being formed out of wood. Natural. Unified. Right. I drove everyone crazy having to sharpen my pencil twenty times a math lesson. I could easily whittle though a pencil a day... just to have that perfectly sharp point for every word, though every stroke.

The pen, on the other hand was completely foreign to paper. Instead of the sweet unity of elements, it seemed as though the pen was imposed upon the sheet. The pen claimed to have a 'ball' point. Only what a worthless 'ball' it was. The pen couldn't bounce on it's nose. No, it bounced as badly as a pencil, only the tip of it didn't break. That pathetically dull 'ball' point was always the same. Indestructible. Perpetually the same. Loathsome.

Since those days, I have become a more confidant pen user. It was slow going, but now, I too use a pen with relative ease. Make no mistake, I make plenty of mistakes and often have to use that nasty white out stuff.  (I still use a pencil to, of course. I discovered, several years to late, that mechanical pencils are always pointy and sharp! While they lack the natural feel of a wooden pencil, it lasts a lot longer when I don't sharpen it every other word.) But I have discovered that even presidents and geniuses make mistakes and erase things, no matter what writing utensil they happen to wield. Because we are all human. Those kinds of things happen... in fact they are supposed to happen. It's all a part of the process.

I looked too much at the finished product and I saw that as the goal. I missed the means to the end, the process, the road that led to it. No one sits down and writes a literary masterpeice with a black pen and hands it in to be published a few hours later. This is a labor...the labor of life and done right, it is a labor of love. It is a project. A work. There is struggle, but that is alright. That is right. You can't get from point A to point B without the space inbetween... not even with a ball point.

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.