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One night last fall, I came home to find a package from my friend Dani. I opened it up, and – SCORE! – homemade granola! Belying my civilized charade, I promptly ripped open the bag and poured it directly into my mouth. Yes, like a savage.
Except it was not granola. It was oatmeal.
But you know what? I didn’t even mind that it was dry oatmeal coating my mouth – because it was THAT GOOD. Or, at least, it was better than pouring dry Quaker Oats directly into my mouth – one hundred times better than pouring Target’s Market Pantry oatmeal into my mouth! In fact, if I were ever to pour dry oatmeal into my mouth again, I would hope for oatmeal like Dani’s.
This is all to say that Dani and her family make some DELICIOUS cereal – whole grain and hearty and healthy. And this is your lucky day – because Burning Daylight Foods is putting together an Easter basket full of scrumptious breakfast goodies, and YOU could win it!
All you need to do is leave a comment saying something – anything – about breakfast. It could be something like, “I love Corn Flakes,” or “i can haz eggz?” or “I stole the Nun Bun.”
Comments will close tomorrow at 5pm Denver time – or, you know, whenever I remember to close them. And then, using high-tech means, a winner will be chosen.
It could be you! Seriously, this is the easiest contest ever. It’s like taking candy from a baby – except the candy is cereal, and the baby is a cowgirl in southern California.
I have negative triceps. There’s, like, nothing there. If my arms were outerspace, there would be a black hole where my triceps are supposed to be.
Haha, PHYSICS JOKE!!! Science is sooooo funny.
I am 3 1/2 years older than my sister Becca, so when I was 15 and basically the same size I am now (massive), she was 11 and scrawny. She is still incredibly skinny – she turns sideways and disappears, just like Olive Oyl – and can wear clothes that the cool kids wear (skinny jeans, tiny dresses with leggings underneath, various Forever 21 garb), while I and my thighs are banished to more frumpy sensible attire.
I am not bitter. Then again, here is a picture of me as a child:
I have always had those thighs and a scowl.
Anyway, the point of all of this is that when I was a full-grown 15-year old and Becca was her scraggly 11-year old self, she could beat me in arm wresting.
I have never had any upper-body strength. But I want that to change, because what if one day, I find myself dangling off a canyon edge? A single pull-up could save my life. And if that’s the case, it’s time to take action.
Take action to get action. That’s always been my motto.
Several times each week, I see the King of the Weight Room at the gym. You know exactly who I’m talking about: Stallone in “Cliffhanger.” The man who is bursting out of his muscle shirt. The guy whose neck is just a direct path from his ear to his collarbone.
This man is to triceps as Hunter Lane is to quads.
In other words, I have found my new trainer.
He just doesn’t know it.
I’m sorry that I don’t write about health care or anything important at all.
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I have an announcement to make:
I MADE A FRIEND! I know, high-five.
His name is Chris – some of you out in blog land even know him – and he is a darling. He came over for DiGiorno Pizza last night, and then I sent him home with cookies.
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Also, there’s this:
That’s my mom and her neighbor boys on the first day of school in 1961. So cute, huh? I hope my kids have red hair.
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At the gym last night, I saw a very skinny girl walking through the weight machines toward the locker room with a gigantic pair of hedge shears. Just needed to tell someone.
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My current favorite word is “bunk.” You know, as in, “That’s a load of bunk!” Also: bunk-beds. Also: bunko.
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On Monday night, I will be seeing Patty Griffin play at the Paramount Theater here in Denver. And if you never hear from me again, it’s because she played “Goodbye” and I melted into a puddle and was soaked up by the sidewalk.
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I cannot believe that Miley Cyrus was the “mentor” on American Idol this week.
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I cannot believe that Miley Cyrus is famous, period.
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Do you have any idea how much I want a milkshake?
Man. Yesterday’s post really took it out of me. It’s not easy talking about my skivvies to the entire Internet. I could hardly sleep last night, knowing that the words “bikini” and “thong” were just… OUT THERE. Attached to MY HONORABLE NAME.
When it comes to entertainment value, anything that I say after yesterday’s post is only going to be a let down. Nothing humiliating, bawdy, or awkward has happened in the last 24 hours – and even though I never set out with this as a goal, it seems as though “humor trumps dignity” is becoming my new creed.
Here’s a question: is this a plus-size model?
I DIDN’T THINK SO EITHER. Sheesh, Macy’s. For crying out loud.
Here’s another question: do you call them clementines, cuties, or satsumas?
Speaking of clementines, in another life, I am going to name my children Clementine, Sparrow, and Bluebell. I can’t do it in THIS life, because what would people think? But deep down, I love these names. Maybe I should get some livestock – I could name a cow Bluebell, no questions asked. When it comes to bovines, you can get away with anything.
Just watch “Food, Inc.”
And… that’s all I’ve got today.
I’ll just cut to the chase: Southwest Airlines lost my luggage this weekend.
[insert me telling you how this sent me for a minor emotional tailspin, and how I was sick as a dog, and almost broke down and gave up, but soldiered on – for the children, really, and for America]
Flying from Nashville to Austin on Friday night, I was exhausted. I was getting sick – and I had no Kleenex. So on the plane, to my horror and shame, I had no choice but to use my sleeve to wipe my insanely runny nose. Multiple times.
Southwest offered to reimburse me for $50 worth of necessities until they found my bags – which, when you are in town for a wedding, and all you have is the mucus-crusted cardigan on your back, won’t get you very far. But I appreciated the gesture, and went to Target to max out on the necessary toiletries, medications, and two pairs of underwear.
Why two pairs? Because I wasn’t sure what kind of a dress I would wind up wearing, and any woman can tell you that different dresses call for different undergarments. Just… I just needed both pairs, okay? Always be prepared.
I found a dress and shoes at TJ Maxx, took a hot shower, my meds kicked in, and a great time was had by all at Joey and Sam’s fabulous wedding. All’s well that ends well, right?
Not so fast, sparky.
Southwest decided to itemize my Target receipt, saying that they weren’t sure that all of these things were truly “necessary” to my survival without my luggage. Things that made the cut, no questions asked? Cosmetics. Medicine. Eyedrops. Tampons. Thanks, guys, for deeming tampons “necessary.” You are too kind.
The complication? The underwear.
Apparently, because the luggage was returned within 24 hours, only one of the pairs was considered “necessary.” And so there at the Southwest counter, I was asked to indicate which pair I wore that day – bikini or thong. Multiple times, I was asked out loud, “Which pair did you need today? The bikini or the thong?”
You will never know.
But Southwest does.
If I were to write a (very late) blog today, this is what it would say:
3 months of silence.
Followed by 1 week of crazy.
Beat. Sapped. Tired.
Ate so much.
Ran so fast.
Didn’t really sleep.
Got something I was hoping for.
Love my friends gobs.
And gobs and gobs.
Like, hug-you-in-the-sunny-parking-lot gobs.
Gorgeous in Nashville today.
Flying to Austin tonight.
Val’s picking me up.
Joey and Sam are getting married tomorrow.
But it’s snowing back in Colorado.
And Mom’s in the hospital.
I can’t really focus. Social whiplash and emotional incongruity. Reasons to cry while the sun shines down. And I think that’s just like life.
It’s all going to be okay. Right? It’s all going to be okay.
Brought to you by my brother’s Twitter stream, since we haven’t talked on the phone in ages (probably because his 30th birthday was February 22 and I STILL haven’t sent him a gift, because I am a terrible sister, and if he wants to disown me, he has due cause, even though JEREMY I PROMISE I’M SENDING YOU SOMETHING):
Tyler (4-years old) wants to change his name to “Laser.”
Micah (6-years old) prayed, “Dear Jesus, please help us find Waldo.”
“Show me a man with a tattoo,
and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.”
Have I mentioned that I’m in Nashville this week? I am.
I flew in for a wedding this past weekend (Mark and Erin MILLER – holla!), and am sticking around to work from the home office for a week before flying on to Austin for another wedding. What can I say – three one-way tickets were cheaper than two round-trips.
I am staying in a posh condo right across the street from work, running with East Nasty a couple of times, having fantastic hair days, and getting some good, quality time with my amazing friends. Call me dense, but I didn’t realize how much I missed Nashville until I got back.
Yesterday, I accompanied the Handy Graham to get his latest tattoo – which was my first time witnessing any such thing. At one point, I knelt down close to ask him how much it hurt. “Would it be like me digging my fingernails into your face?” I asked, and thought about trying it just so he could give an educated answer. But he is tough and manly, and didn’t let on how much pain is inflicted by applying the 11-needle buzzing PEN OF FIRE to one’s achilles tendon.
Today just happens to be his birthday. Happy birthday, Grahamer! I hope you aren’t scabby!
And that is a birthday wish I can always stand behind.
The other day, this was my Facebook status:
As futile as Facebook can be, I took a shot of it because I wanted to remember that moment – that realization that the darkness that I’ve been sitting in for going on a year now just isn’t really there anymore. Perhaps this is tempting a jinx, but I will say it anyway: life feels pretty good right now.
I know that in the middle of the depression, the disappointment, the pain, no one really wants to hear, “Don’t worry, it will get better!” Those honeyed words can feel hollow and nugatory – because when all you can see is darkness, it’s hard to imagine the light. In my experience, when well-meaning people try to band-aid despondency, it highlights a disconnect, and makes the depressed person feel even more alone.
But now, on the other side of this most recent bout with a powerful hopelessness, I am just so grateful that it’s over – and I want to remind those who are in it that it’s not always going to feel this bad.
It might feel bad for a long time, and before it gets better, it might even get worse. I know that some of you out there have experienced mammoth losses, ones that I cannot comprehend. Some of you have broken hearts that feel beyond mending. Some of you have faced disappointment after disappointment, or suffered a family life that you didn’t ask for, or simply fallen into this same old rut over and over again, with no idea how to change your stars.
I do not pretend to have the answers “why.”
But it’s not forever. You have not been abandoned. You are loved beyond all measure – and even if you know it in your head, someday, you are going to feel it again, too.
So don’t lose hope.