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? ;)

The Caged Bird Still Sings

Last night I sang. My Youth Group Type Thingy (it's called Lifeteen, for the record, but I prefer my title) is doing the music for a Mass at our Church. So we practiced tonight and I sang.

Yeah, you're thinking "Big deal. You have something interesting to day about now?" Meh. It is a moderately small deal and unless this is your first time reading this blog, you should know that I think interesting is a relative term.

I sing at this Church a lot... try like, every Sunday. Most often with a mic in front of my face. To be honest, I sing a lot, period. I love music (though I don't understand it as much as I'd like to). Any way, a few years back the organist/pianist at this Church invited me to sing in the choir and gave me voice lessons. Before that, singing was something you did in the shower and an important part of pretending to be a Disney princess. After that, it's become more and more important to me. And more and more fun.

I'm a mockingbird. Most of what I learned about singing, I learned from listening to other people. In all kinds of music, both at Church, on the radio, where ever. I've worked at it and sang for weddings, funerals, Masses, talent shows... not in that order. The weddings were way after the talent shows... way after. I suppose the point of that was to show a progression, which it actually failed at doing since I failed to list them in the right order, thus making the whole thing pretty much a failure. But I am losing myself here... and most likely you too.

So I sang last night! (Get ready, here's the pointish type thing! ((I think "type thing" is my phrase of the week...)) ) And I got to sing loud. Little secret? I can be pretty loud. Particularly when I emulate opera singers. Not like I was doing that last night, but still, I was loud. They were yelling at us to sing louder. (That's actually a pet peeve of mine. When you're at a church thing and they tell you to sing louder? I can't take that kind of pressure. Plus, I'm ornery so telling me to sing louder actually kind of makes me want to shut up.)

Any way, when you sing loud, or at least when I sing loud, I get this lovely feeling. It's like a burning in my chest. It's a very good feeling... warm and vibrant and alive.

On that note, (ha ha! No music pun intended... just accidentally enjoyed.) I have often felt as though my voice was not so much me as it was in me. Like it was something apart that just so happened to get stuck inside me. (Poor thing...) But the caged bird still sings... it strikes me as somewhat incredible the way I just open my mouth and somehow, almost effortlessly, this clear sound emerges. Like "Huh... that was kind of cool. Wish I knew how I did it."

Granted, I've definitely gotten more control over time. But I still can't grasp it... maybe someday, I'll get the bird out of the cage a little bit more. Let it fly.

* I apologize for the scatteredness of this post. Usually I try to focus and use better writing habits. That wasn't really working out so great today and my quirky sense of humor got the best of me. My sincerest thanks for bearing with me.

Do You See What I See?

I smile so sweetly at you

I seem so pretty, so kind

Little do you know

I'm counting down the seconds

Until I disappoint you

And I don’t even know

Your name

~~~~~

"You are beautiful."

You called me beautiful? What were you looking at?

~~~~~

"You're so nice, Anna!"

Is she really?

I don't know. This is you we're talking about. Are you?

I don't know.

~~~~~

"Elegant."

Me? The girl who trips over things in plain sight and claims they moved?

"Poised."

Me? The one who doesn't know how to smile correctly?

"Wise."

Now I know we must be talking about someone else.

But who?

I still don't know.

~~~~~

What do you believe? Your reflection in the mirror or the reflection in their eyes?



I don't know.

 

You know, you don't know a lot of things.

 

Yes, I know. I'm you, remember?

 

Of course I remember. I'm you.

 

 

~~~~~

 

Some days, World, I am your girl. Some days, I am no one's. I do not know exactly who that girl is, because she is unfinished. She's a work in progress. I see glimpses of who she is and who she will be, in the eyes of others and in my own. But there is more to her.

 

There will always be more.

 

I suppose that is her beauty. It lives in the eye of the beholder. In some eyes, it lives. In others, it has no place. Let there be at least two eyes that remember to see her. That keep a place for her...

 

And let those same two eyes make room for beauty found in others, everywhere.

 

So that wherever they look... it will be beautiful.

My Suitcase and Me... Not To Mention You

Are you any good at packing? I am not.

Whenever I am forced to leave my happy haven (and yes, it is usually by force) I make a nice little list, plan the trip out outfit by outfit, complete with jewelry, shoes and color coordinating eye liner. Then, I carefully collect each item and painstakingly pack it into a ridiculously large suit case. I leave for three days and I need a small whale-like vessel to hold the earthly possessions I just have to have with me at all times. It takes me several hours. I wander here and there, getting things in order in between painting my nails, writing a journal entry and having a snack.

It should be confessed that I am actually not a very organized person. I do plot, plan and list things but I definitely do it to the beat of my own drum. My closet/room is a disaster area. My desk is coated in papers, clothing, empty glasses, pens that may or may not work, the last three books I read, a pair or two of earrings, an assortment of Cd's, a few bottles containing anything from water to nail polish, hundreds of lists, receipts, gum wrappers and other bits and pieces I could have just thrown in the trash can that lives inches away with the same amount of effort.

When it comes to packing, there is no exception to my usual tidiness and precise organization. I make a list that I write sloppily, resting the paper against my leg or the textured wall, embellishing it with doodles and notes as I see fit. I wade through my closet and compare outfits and try to select something based on where I am going, who is going to be there, what I'll be doing, what is actually clean in my closet, the weather, my mood and a host of other variables that may or may not actually be in that order of importance. Then I shift everything around in a suitcase and find I've forgotten something vital, like pajamas or my toothbrush. So I find a pair of PJ's, but I'll need to brush my teeth tomorrow morning, so I throw a note to remember it on my list. And suddenly, I remember that song I've been wanting to look up online, so I run and do that. When I come back I reprimand myself to focus and throw some body splash in the case... but what scent? The Bath and Body Works would be good for Sunday, but they'll never work for Monday. And I'm still not packed, but it's 11:30 PM and I'm tired and we have to leave early in the morning... so maybe I'll just... Zzz.....

When it actually comes down to it (aka, we're leaving in fifteen minutes) I suddenly become an efficient packing machine. My decision time is cut down to one minute instead of seven. Everything can go in at once, because there is no chance I will need it again before we go. I throw in an extra shirt "just in case" (I live in fear that I will somehow ruin an article of clothing and have absolutely nothing else and be forced to borrow something from my Grandma.) I zip up the case while I sit on it to press down my sweater, hair straightener and everything in between. Lugging it down the steps, I frantically try to call to mind anything I may have forgotten. Belt? Check. Book? Check. Mp3 player? Shoot, forgot to charge that...

I shove it into the last available space in the vehicle (cute thing about having the biggest suitcase of anyone? I  also am the last person to have it ready. Meaning everything else has to move just for mine to fit.) and relish in a vague sense of relief and a not so vague sense of anxiety. I survived! I remembered my toothbrush! I can't put anything else in there now! What if I forgot something!?

Finally, as we are pulling out and the doors are locked and there is absolutely no way for me to pack/do/worry about anything else for the moment, I breathe again. Once begun is half done, right? We will be home... soon...

I wrote some of this on the eve of my leaving. So, in other words, I sat down and typed half of a blog post with my list at my side and a partially packed suitcase in my room. Shameful, I know. But I didn't want to leave without posting anything, which I ended up doing anyway, because I got on a roll and I couldn't bare to just tie this up prematurely! My deep failure, I confess.

I missed blogging very much. I would see things or think things or do things that just begged for a blog post and my fingers ached for a key board.

Well, no matter. We are reunited again. And now all I have to worry about is everything I left behind undone... not to mention my unpacked suitcase sitting taking up space on my floor.

Ah, it's good to be home.

Post-Rain

I love rain.

I love being in bed, or sitting at my desk when it rains. I love the sound of the rain drops on my window.

I listen to the pitter patter of the fat raindrops smacking the glass. To the blow of the cool autumn wind that sneaks in my old and leaky window.

I love how they look, slip sliding down the cold glass. I love how they blend into a wet screen that blurs the world behind it.

Rain strikes me as deliciously romantic. There is something refreshing, pure and magical about it. It smells, looks and feels enchanted to me. I wonder why? Thinking about this scientifically would only depress me as it would concretely disillusion me of my happy idea that rain is magical. Same goes for fairies, the Internet and wishes on stars. Don't tell me how it works. It doesn't work, it happens. Let me have my happy pretend and you can have your sad reality.

Rain also strikes me as thoroughly comforting. It's as if all the sadness and brokenness in the world below has been recognized and even the sky mourns it. It is contemplative. It puts us all in a bit of a quieter mood. We stay inside and become observers of the world instead of active forces and participants. Do you know how much we learn just by watching? Never stop watching, no matter what you are doing.

You know there isn't really anything magical about the way my hair looks after a quick run to and from the car in the rain, nor is there anything refreshing about having wet socks after accidentally stepping into a puddle. But this is still life, after all. My happy magical ideas only last so long. I may be an idealist, but I do have some touch with reality.

Right now, the world is in that "post-rain" state. Everything is wet, water sliding off roofs and leaves, the whole world is damp. Not nearly as nice as when it's actually raining. But it's not so bad... good conditions for a rainbow. Which, by the way, is also on the list of things that is magical, no matter what anyone says.

Blood, Sweat and Tears- Part III

Alright, I think by now you know the drill. Let's begin, shall we?

Wiki (I love Wiki, in case that has not been noticed) says that tears are the liquid product of a process of crying to clean and lubricate the eyes. Best definition yet! I actually understand all those words! I don't know if I should be excited, embarrassed or deeply saddened by that fact. I would like to use the word 'tears' in a literary, but less than literal sense, meaning to cry. You might produce tears when you yawn or there is something in your eye, but this isn't crying.

(In the cases of blood and sweat, we had fun watching Anna stumble through her minimal knowledge of biology trying to explain the physical causes and ramifications of these things. In the case of tears, I'll spare you the entertainment. Because this one is different. While the other two were very physical, this one is primarily emotional. If you really want to go deeper with tear ducts and what tears are actually made of, knock yourself out. That's what the Wiki link is for.)

We cry for countless reasons. Reasons as vast and varied as people themselves. Most commonly, we cry when we are sad, hurt or upset. For some of us, beauty moves us to tears. Sometimes elation can cause us to cry. Any strong emotion, positive or negative that overwhelms or deeply touches us can make us cry. Experts say it really depends on the person and in this case, I just so happen to agree with these experts, though I am certainly not one myself.

We all have the capacity to cry, but some of us don't cry very often. Others cry at the drop of a hat. Women tend to cry more than men, which you've probably noticed, regardless of you own sex. This is probably partially do to the stigma that crying is a weak and feminine thing to do, rather than a human one.

~~~~~

You know the feeling. That horrible tightening in your chest, the lump in your throat and the warm sensation behind you eyes.

Swallowing hard, you try to push down the grief that bubbles over you, enveloping you in sorrow.

A part of you is determined to keep the tears pushed back, safely inside, safely hidden, but they are equally determined to pour out, regardless of where you are and what you're doing.

The first tear slides from the flooded well of your eye. There is no more point in trying to subdue them, they are here. Like it or not, ready or not, you are crying. Drawing a shaking breath, you surrender.

You cry. Tears in you eyes, an ache in your heart, your nose is running and these odd sounds are coming from you throat, unbidden as you breathe.

They hurt, they represent a pain that is hidden and invisible. Yet through that expression, they are made tangible. They soothe you by materializing your pain and pouring it out... drop...by drop... by drop.

~~~~~

Tears and crying are inextricably connected to emotions. Emotions are about the most human thing I can think of. While they do have some, we do not see the same range and response to emotions in animals or in plants. While they have life, they do not seem to feel as we do.

Why do we feel? What is the point of an experience so real, yet often outside of reality? How do we feel these things?

Our minds are amazing and powerful things. Linked with our hearts and our souls... they can do crazy and unbelievable things.

I do not understand. I cannot comprehend the way these things work.

And yet... I am one of those things.

I do not even understand the strange and complicated being that is me.

~~~~~

Do you cry very often? Do you sometimes enjoy crying? You know how sometimes we'll say we "had a good cry"? Crying alleviates something. It loosens and lessens the tight knots of feeling we wind ourselves into. We cry to express emotion and often, we find some consolation or closure in that expression.

Or are you like me? Do you not cry very often? Do you try not to cry? Does crying just embarrass you more than anything else? I think crying, while hard for those of us who hate it, is also good for us in a way. They say bottling things up is never good. When those of us who try to keep it all in cry, there is something uniquely vulnerable there. We let our guard down just a little, which is humiliating, but sometimes necessary. You can't carry the whole world on your shoulders. You can't always be strong.

Kids assume that adults never cry. It scares them to see their parents cry. I'll bet you remember the first time you saw your Dad cry. I do. I can't imagine lots of people I know crying. It's not the face, the side of them you normally see.

Our grief is often kept private. It's often connected to the things we are closest to. Only those things have the power to move us in extreme ways. As such, we can't and don't expect just anyone to understand our pain. Nor do we want them to see it. Who wants to be known as the lady who cries in the grocery store? Awkward. It'll get you some concerned looks and maybe a referral to a good psychologist.

~~~~~

Both sweat and tears are salty. Salt and humanity... oh the connections we could make here. I will make one. You can make one two and then we will have a pair. Salt flavors. Humanity 'flavors', if you will, the world. We make it. We get to choose, to an extent, the way things go down here.
Do you like the flavor?

~~~~~

A tear. A single tear. What is the weight of a tear? What is the worth of some one's pain?

The tear of someone I love?

The tear of the stranger?

The tear of someone whose pain I do not know?

The tear of someone whose pain I caused?

The tear of the one who cries for himself?

The tear of the one who cries for another?

The tear for the dead?

The tear for the living?

The tear for pain?

The tear of the one moved by beauty?

The tear of the hopeless?

The tear for sorrow?

The tear for joy?

What is the weight of a tear?

Dreary Day Impairs Brain Function

Nice headline, don't you think?

It's an incredibly dreary day and I am sorry to report that my brain is not functioning well. At all.

Does that happen to you to? Does the fog and the gray somehow penetrate your skull and coat your mind, making rational, creative and normal thought difficult to impossible? Ouch... not to mention painful.

It's cold and my bones, used to the warmth of the summertime, are protesting. Have you ever felt like you can feel every bone inside your body as it moves? It doesn't quite hurt, but it's not the most pleasant of experiences.

I'm wearing a sweater and wishing I had been smart enough to scout for a pair of socks. At this point, the search would take more effort than I feel like exerting.

My greatest wish is that it was bedtime rather than dinnertime. That would solve several problems.

Ack. Painful laziness. Laziness caused by pain? That makes it sound better, to be sure.

Tomorrow, they tell me, there will be sunshine. I think that will probably help me out. Maybe then I will present you with my finished Tears piece?

I hope it is warm where you are. But if not, I hope you have a sweater and socks and apple cider.

Fog, begone.