In general, I am not a forgetful person. I remember important dates, items on my grocery list, and words both tender and toxic. It’s a rare occurrence for me to miss an appointment due to negligence. I can hear a song one time, and be able to sing back the chorus word-for-word. I don’t need a recipe for chocolate chip cookies. No, when it comes to the important things, I do not easily forget.

Which makes it very odd that I left my keys IN MY FRONT DOORKNOB overnight. I slept soundly, thinking that I was safely locked inside my apartment, when I truly could have been murdered, had my house ransacked, and my car stolen. I suppose they would have been justified, though, because have you seen my hot ride?

Nightmarish scenarios aside, there’s another realm in which I can be forgetful. When it comes to the past, I tend to be a revisionist. I look back at certain times in my life with great nostalgia, under the illusion that everything was perfect when it wasn’t. I forget the hard times – I forget the reality. I convince myself that my life in Seattle was flawless, when in all actuality, I know that I struggled with the same things that I struggle with now: insecurity, loneliness, lack of purpose, lack of discipline. Instead, I remember the friendships. I remember feeling needed. I remember feeling seen. I remember the cozy weather. I remember medical insurance. I remember the water and the mountains and the drive-up coffee stands. And as shallow as it is, I remember my hair being long.

Ah, yes, times were good.

It’s easy to forget the bad, in the same way that it’s easy to forget that your ex-boyfriend wore sweatpants with elastic around the ankles.

I want to remember my past for what it was – being both grateful for the gifts, and mindful of the pain. But more than that, I want to accept the present – with everything that it brings, good and bad, ugly and awesome. I want to be here now. I want to live.

Which will probably require never forgetting my keys in the door again.

My friend Carly has a fabulous food blog aptly titled Fabulously Classic. She is my dream wife, coming up with all sorts of delicious concoctions to feed her husband Ben. Recently, she posted a recipe for pumpkin bars, and since it’s fall and I have A NEW MIXER, I thought I would bake a batch for my friendliest neighbors: the ex-cons across the street.

Except I didn’t follow the instructions. Carly said “jelly roll pan.” I took that to mean “any pan that I want.” Bad decision.

The pumpkin batter in my pan wound up being FAR too deep to bake all the way through, so in the end, I was presented with a “crispy around the edges” and yet “completely unbaked wad of dough in the middle” cake. I pulled it out and looked at it, flabbergasted, trying to scientifically deduce what I had done wrong. I’ve decided that a good law to live by should be, “Never do what your brain thinks will be okay.” That rule of thumb would have saved me from several speeding tickets, an ill-fated decision to pass up Dramamine, and $400 at a date auction in 2001.

However, never one to waste anything – especially sugar and lard – I waited for the cake to cool and then revisited it. I decided that there were salvageable pieces around the edges, so I took a knife to the whole, and wound up with 3 platefuls of mini-squares of perfectly good cake. Today, I will frost them individually, and bring them to my favorite former prisoners.

But I still have the mush from the middle – a doughy lump of ugly-yet-probably-delicious cake. And call me crazy, but I’m thinking… breakfast for 2 weeks.

Sometimes, life feels really hard. Whether it’s tedious or tumultuous, uneventful or unrelenting, it’s difficult to keep focused on what I know to be true. I become distracted by my circumstances, and let whatever way I currently feel dictate my beliefs.

I give up.
I give in.
I lose hope.
I lay down.
I stop trying.

I once heard someone say that if the devil can’t have our salvation, he’ll settle for our lives. Ain’t that the truth.

But so often, I believe the flip-side to be true, as well: that if God can’t have our lives, he’ll simply settle for our salvation. This is a lie. God does not “settle” when it comes to his children – he doesn’t give up on us, he doesn’t lose hope, and he never, ever stops pursuing us.

Dear Summer,
We regret to inform you that you are being fired, effective immediately. Technically, you should have been gone weeks ago – on the Autumnal Equinox, as universally agreed – but obviously, you had your Nashville constituents fooled. You hid your face for a week or so, only to reappear on the scene with a foul air and a hot head.

You have been most rude to your replacement, Lady Fall, pushing her aside and preventing her from carrying out her duties. She is a beautiful soul, ready and willing to perform her magical deeds, but it’s impossible to get anything done when you have commandeered her workstation. And let’s not forget the incident involving you using her scarf to attempt to strangle her. I know, you say that it was all in good fun – calling it “one last tryst with Mr. Sun-Kissed” – but she is threatening a lawsuit. You have overstayed your welcome. This leaves me no choice but to ax you.

Summer, this may come across as discourteous, but it must be said: everyone is sick of you and your obnoxious ways. For 4 ½ months, you have greeted us each morning with the unsightly image of your butt crack of dawn. You huff and puff your way through your days, bag of Doritos in hand, sweating on everyone you encounter. You have fostered skin cancer, body odor, and bad hair days. You have inspired bikini-clad women to dance to Kid Rock on boats and in the backs of pickup trucks. And as your latest egregious act, you have threatened that tomorrow you will crank up the thermostat to 86.

Well, guess what, Summer: you 86 us, we 86 you.

Signed,
Annie

“How are you doing, Annie?”

A simple question – it could be passed off as small talk if it hadn’t been so intentional, so perceptive. And immediately, a few of the tears that had been hanging in the corners of my eyes for weeks just… let go.

She knew – she had sensed it. And the fact that she was able to read between the lines, and dig a little deeper, and ask the real questions, caused me to drop my suit of armor. She didn’t settle for the stories (Twin old ladies! Tour buses! Type from home scams!), the humorous and perky front that I so often put up, because she knew that she had permission to ask for the truth.

As some silent tears spilled, so did reality: deep wounds, and true fears, and the loss of hope, and the abandonment of some important dreams. The quiet death – the death that happens behind a smile. She was sensitive and responsive, intuitive and caring. I talked for a long time, and she listened. At the end, I apologized: “I’m sorry, I just spilled a TON.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “I wanted the long answer.”

To have a friend who wants the long answer is sometimes the most meaningful, humbling thing in the world. Thank you, Greta, for being the very best friend I could ever hope for.

- – - – - – - -

By the way, L is also for LABOR: between stripping/painting/refinishing my bedroom furniture, multiple runs to the hardware store, spray-painting some bulletin boards, rearranging my bedroom, baking cookies, hanging out at a bonfire, hiking 7 miles, grocery shopping, discovering Leiper’s Fork, showering and doing my hair (trust me: NOT an every day occurrence), going to church, attending a wine & cheese party, and catching up with Julie, I would say that I accomplished much this weekend. I even ran a 5K with this Annie – but that is the short answer.

Here is the long answer.

- To go to bed every night by 10pm?
- To attempt to eat from the food pyramid?
- To create a budget?
- To have kids I used to babysit for getting engaged?
- To have friends getting married?
- To have friends getting divorced?
- To have friends getting boob jobs?
- To have a retirement account?
- To buy age-defying makeup?
- To experience an existential crisis?
- To worry – really worry – about the world, the environment, and the government?
- To refer to myself as a “woman,” and not as a “girl”?
- To plan my upcoming weekend around home improvement projects?

That’s right, folks. My weekend will be consumed with stripping and refinishing some bedroom furniture. And when I say “stripping,” I am referring to paint, and not to my clothing. Although that would most certainly give the neighbors something to talk about.

I have absolutely no idea how to go about this task – but that’s what the internet is for. I am researching the appropriate methods online, and then crossing my fingers as I begin the job this evening. Here’s hoping that Monday brings a glorious victory post, and not an “L is for LAME.”

I don’t watch much television – and unless it’s “Lost” or “The Office” or my daily dose of “Good Morning America,” I am content to leave the TV off. I don’t have cable – just bunny ears – and from what I hear, I will be forced to buy some sort of converter box come February when the entire nation switches to digital.

[We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Just know that, what with my current financial state and strong aversion to change, it’s probably going to be ugly. Prepare yourself.]

But the bunny ear antenna isn’t so bad – I get all of the basics (ABC, NBC, CBS, PBS, Fox), plus whatever that channel is that plays dinnertime reruns of “Everybody Loves Raymond.” Also, blame it on living in the Bible Belt, but I get at least 5 Christian channels.

For free. Just like salvation.

In flipping through stations, I rarely, RARELY, stop on one of these channels – which typically feature a sweaty televangelist, or an alarmingly plastic preacher, or smiley children in overalls singing “He Has Made Me Glad.” But the other night, in the midst of flipping, I stopped on 3ABN (that would be the Three Angels Broadcasting Network) while I walked into the other room to get the popcorn out of the microwave. When I walked back out, this was playing:

And there, in the face of a cheesy living room set and unglamorous musicians, I was spellbound. This woman’s voice is GORGEOUS. And what are they singing? William Cowper’s “There Is a Fountain” – the hymn that killed the spicket.

If you had the chance to register for a free 1ml sample of a “unique unisex cologne,” which fragrance would you choose?

• Grease Monkey
• The Love of Money
• Pumpkin Spice
• Cajun Delight
• Burning Rubber
• Fourth of July
• Ash Tray
• Magazine Pages
• Fresh Bread
• Hot Cookies

Again. Just… hypothetically.

I’m going with Cajun Delight. Because nothing says “sexy” like boiled crawfish.

- – - – - – - -

It is a deliciously rainy day in Nashville, and I am wearing a green, orange, and black dress with my black leather boots. In this weather and this kind of outfit, I feel more at home than I have in almost a year. It’s a good feeling, even in the face of a worsening sickness.

The Presidential Debate was held last night at Belmont University, a block from my apartment. The city was in a tizzy all day, what with picketers and ralliers and those hoping for a glimpse of a motorcade. I had been wondering where the attractive men in Nashville were hiding; a brief walk-through at the Belmont Block Party beforehand afforded me the answer. I watched the debate, and didn’t feel like there was anything said that was surprising or game-changing or “OMG”-worthy.

But I do know this: Obama is not the Antichrist, and McCain is not the Sith Lord, both of which I’ve heard them called. I’m ready for the election to be over. I know who has my vote. Until then, may God save me from the sound bite.

Last night, I was flipping through a hymnal (trust me: if you had no cable or internet, you’d be doing it, too) and paused at “There Is a Fountain.” Twenty-six years in the church, and I had never heard this song? Outrageous! So I started singing it, all quiet and peaceful and lovely (belying my actual persona), sitting there on the red couch.

When. From out of nowhere.

A hybrid spider-cricket (spicket?), unlike anything I have ever seen, crawled into plain sight, right in the middle of the living room floor. I screeeeeeeeeeamed, and threw the book at it. The hymnal book. It turns out that the words of life are also capable of bringing about death, and for this, I am grateful.

In other news, I am sick. My windpipe is a straw. My sinuses are packed like sausages, like thighs into pantyhose. I am doped up on cold medicine, which gave me a satisfying night’s sleep last night, but is resulting in a vacant stare and a gaping mouth sitting at the ol’ desk job today. I called a health clinic for the uninsured, but they are not accepting new patients until November. Looks like I’ll be riding this one out on a wave of Contac and tomato soup (Progresso makes a fantastic tomato soup – so much cheaper and healthier than Whole Foods cream-based option, but a million times more delicious than Campbell’s – it even has real tomato chunkage!).

And should this buggy blog leave you unfulfilled (which I suspect it might), be sure to read this fantastic example of poor redneck judgment. But who could blame him, really? I mean, his last name was Fox.

We come into this world vessels of beauty, pre-packed with purpose and potential. We are full of hope, full of possibility. But eventually, the various shapes and colors inside of us begin to shake around like a jigsaw puzzle, rattling our brains, and we long to make sense of the chaos. So we begin to unpack the contents of our hearts.

A green triangle. A red square. A yellow diamond.

We spread them out on the kitchen table, and attempt to arrange a mosaic that makes sense – pairing pieces together, turning them this way and that, feeling frustration at the bits that just don’t seem to fit. We focus on individual colors, scrutinizing and criticizing them for being purple, for being orange – for being exactly what they were meant to be. We want the shapes to combine and form a flower, a mountain, a rainbow – but no matter how hard we try, we cannot arrange them into something lovely. Our attempts yield us with nothing but a dull and flat sprawl of plastic chips and pebbles. And so we hang our heads.

We are disappointed and disheartened. Our high hopes have crashed. We believe that we will never achieve anything worth noticing. We have tried, but cannot come up with a lovely or worthwhile picture.

So we scoop up the pieces, and pour them back into the can.

But sometimes, our resignation is the opportunity for someone else to get a hold of us. Someone who made all of the colors, and the vessel that holds them. Someone who knows that the value is not in the doing, but in the simplicity of being. Someone who understood that life would be ever-shifting, but, wonder of wonders, designed us for beauty even when turned upside down – tumbling masterpieces.

All I must do is hold my face to the light, and turn.