Do you know what Sylvanian Families are?

Remember that time in 4th grade when my class had a contest to see who could best sing Bryan Adams’ “(Everything I Do) I Do It For You”?

I suppose I haven’t mentioned it yet.

Any willing participant had a chance to stand in front of the class with the Walkman headphones on and sing along with Bryan, to the cheers or jeers of her peers.

This was obviously very awkward.  First of all, whoever was singing was the only one who could hear the track; to the 30 other people in the room, all they were hearing was an unaccompanied, nervous, pre-adolescent warble.  Secondly, we were 10-years old.  The most passionate thing I could think of was footsy.  However, as I remember vividly, this didn’t stop one girl from closing her eyes and feigning Whitney Houston.

Yeaaaah, I’d fight for you… [fist pump]

To me, Bryan Adams remained frozen in memory, frozen in time, in that Pomona Elementary classroom - that is, until last year when my friend Duane reintroduced me.

Oh, friends.  What I had been MISSING OUT ON all those years.

Duane knows me well enough to know that he would need to be sneaky, so he started by sending me a few songs that our guy Bry had written with Gretchen Peters - one of my favorite writers in the history of the universe (remember, I wrote about her here).  From the first tentative listen to those tracks, all doubt was blown away:

Bryan Adams is where it’s at.  His songs are fantastic.

I have a short list of people that I have to see in concert someday - and in addition to Patty Griffin (which will FINALLY happen at the end of this month), Shania Twain, and Phil Collins, Bryan Adams has earned his place.

And I just felt like declaring it to the world.

You thought that I was your favorite Annie.

Well, my little sweeties, prepare to forsake me for another.

I have this friend Annie Downs.  You probably already read her blog - but if you don’t, you should start.  Because people, this girl has got it going on.

Annie and I decided to swap videos, giving each other tours of our new homes.  After I moved to Denver, she moved across town in Nashville - and not knowing where she is?  Has been killing me a little bit.

But it doesn’t have to kill you!  Here she is, giving you a tour of her new place.

If you’re curious to see where I’ve been hanging my hat (proverbial hat, that is - I don’t actually own a hat), head over to AnnieBlogs.com to see my happy little home.

And… what’s that?  You can’t get enough of the Annies?  Don’t worry - we’re archived.

The weirdest thing has been happening lately.

I have been overcome with this gigantic, humongous desire to go to California.

Since when have I craved California?  And not just California - but SOUTHERN California?  This is so unlike me.  I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Other things have been changing, too.  There is the obvious (I run stupid distances by myself on the weekends) - but there are also some new transformations that I feel like mentioning.

Peas ruin everything.  I suppose that I have never been a huge proponent of peas, anyway, but last week, I made the decision that I never want to taste another pea again.

I feel kind of shy.  My introversion has never equated shyness before, but here we are.  I come into contact with a room full of people that I don’t know, and it feels so scary to say hello to anyone.

And… well, that’s all.  I wish that I had three bolded points, because 3 is the best number (um, hello, three notes create a chord, Reduce Reuse Recycle, Three Blind Mice, the Three Little Pigs, and remember a little something called the HOLY TRINITY?) - but alas, I only have two.

But then again, in Vietnam, it is bad luck to take a picture with three people in it - because the person in the middle will soon die.  Three strikes and you’re out.  You have until the count of 3 before I sock you in the jaw.

I think that this blog just became my third point.

Kathryn Bigelow is 58-years old?  I seriously thought she was 32.  What a beautiful woman.

Watching the Oscars makes me want to be in show business.  I just want to tell stories for the rest of my life.

I guess that this blog will have to do.

In the midst of this move (because a move doesn’t just happen, you know… it is a process that takes place over a period of time - however long it takes, really), I have had hours upon hours to myself.  I think that I am predisposed to handling solitude a lot better than most - I don’t mind being alone, and in a lot of ways, I thrive on it.

But what I’m finding is that while quiet is good, silence can be hard.  A girl can drive herself crazy with the thoughts that she thinks in silence.  The vacuum of nothingness attracts all manner of mental material - because, as a wise man recently told me, “nature abhors a vacuum.”

Granted, he was trying to encourage me that my singleness will not be forever (dear sweet Jesus, please and amen), but still.  Same idea.

To fill up the hours and keep the silence at bay, thankfully, I have running.

In a small way, I think that running may be saving me during this move.  I am running 5-6 days a week, and at least one of those days is 10+ miles.  I’ve mentioned it before on this blog: what has come over me?  I didn’t become a runner until last year, when I trained for my first major race - and that was with my beloved East Nasties, who I do not have here in Denver.  I am stunned at my own commitment in their absence.

While running with the Nasties last year was just as much a social opportunity as it was a training regime, running alone is proving to be a discipline.  I have to corral my thoughts - because while my body is incredibly strong these days, it’s my mind that needs a crack of the whip.

In 2009, running was theirs - something that I participated in, but I didn’t own.  It didn’t belong to me.  But this year, running is mine.

Then again, perhaps I’m just avoiding the silence.

Sometimes, it’s like this:

It’s funny how getting your hopes up can make the disappointment even bigger.

Lame.

My parents have three dogs, Rowdy, Maci, and Kodi.

Kodi is the cutest.  That’s not favoritism – it’s just fact.  I mean, look at her happy dog perma-grin:

Her name is Kodi, but mostly we call her Toad.  She’s this ridiculous, squatty little Chow mix, with short legs and a barrel chest.  She has so much fur, she looks like a tank – but in the summers, my parents have her shaved to keep her cool.  And then, she looks like a little pig.

The best thing about Toad is that her tail is always wagging, no matter what.  She wags when she sees you, she wags when she’s looking out the window, she wags when she’s all alone in the backyard, she wags when she gets fed, she wags when she’s lying on the living room floor, she wags when she hears voices – even if they’re not talking to her.  The only time that she didn’t wag was when she was entered in a tail-wagging contest at the Puppy Parade – then she stood stone still.

The remarkable thing is that Toad has bone spurs on her spine that keep her in a constant state of discomfort.  She has trouble sitting from a standing position, or standing from a sitting position.  She is stiff and awkward.  She is in pain.

But she wags anyway.

I want to be like Toad.

I want to wag anyway – even when nobody’s looking and I’m all alone.

Yesterday, I had a hankering for something that, to my knowledge, did not exist.  So I took matters into my own hands and invented it.

The result is probably worthy of a Nobel Prize - that is, if there were a Nobel Prize for HOLLA.

See, if there are two things that I love in this world, they are coconut curry soup, and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.  Why not combine them, and create the most delicious thing imaginable:

Coconut Curry Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies.

As my former roommates Julie and Mel can attest to, I do not use recipes when baking cookies.  I just throw a dash of this, a scoop of that, a dollop of thus-and-such into a bowl, mix it up, say a prayer, and bake at 375 for 8 minutes.  So that’s what I did - but this time, I incorporated about a cup of coconut flakes and two tablespoons of curry powder - and some glugs of half-and-half, for good measure, and for posterity’s sake.

(I just really wanted to say “for posterity’s sake.”)

Not to hail my own self or anything, but… okay, fine.  The outcome was nothing short of genius.  I’m only worried that I will never be able to recreate it, what with my lack-of-recipe and all.

On the heels of a Saturday night achievement of Balsamic-Glazed Chicken with Sun-Dried Tomato Rice and Steamed Broccoli (all perfectly timed, I might add, and served to my parents and sister on beautiful dishes in my very cute apartment - video tour to come), I am starting to think that Domestic Goddess is a title I am straight up owning.

Next up: the sewing of my own throw pillows - piping and all.  Stay tuned!

I feel like I’ve given up blogging for Lent.

I HAVEN’T.  I promise.

Still, though - it’s like a ghost town around these parts.

What happened to those months in 2008 when I was posting every single day?  I was an ever-flowing fountain of entertainment!  Bra shopping?  Check.  Sprite sprayed you-know-where?  You got it.  Annie Queen of Doom?  Duh.

These days, life is just sort of daily.  Here, let me write a little poem about it:

Thinking, thinking, all day long,
Wish my thoughts could be a song.
But instead they’re dull and flat,
No one wants to sing to that.

Boring errands, vapid chores,
Sweeping up my hardwood floors,
Dining in and working out,
Health within and health without.

Honda running like a champ,
Got a new shade for my lamp,
Finally the couch arrived,
In my home I now can thrive!

Hair is growing, but the same
Please don’t say about my frame:
Running 30 mile weeks,
Hope my knees don’t start to creak.

Had to switch my bank account,
Wish I had more cash to count,
But each month have just enough,
Being frugal makes you tough.

Finally got some license plates
So I won’t get arrested.

It may be a ghost town, but at least it’s a happy little ghost town.