If you’ve read this blog for any amount of time, you know about Greta.  I mean, she has her own tag and everything.

Greta is the most delightful little pixie of a friend – she loves bubbles and snowflakes and fairy tales and red lipstick and goat cheese and sand dollars and road trips and songs and cowboy boots.  When I have an insignificant thought – such as, “I think ‘bureau’ is the most beautiful word” – I tell her, and she loves it, and she gets it.

It’s such a good thing to have someone who gets you.

Now, you all know that I’m a stodgy curmudgeon.  Greta is very, very different from me.

She cartwheels…

and frolics…

and twirls.

I don’t really do any of these things.  But still.  Somehow, she gets me.

Greta spent the last 3 weeks in South Africa, and just returned to the States on Wednesday.  Getting a text message from her when she landed was like getting a beer after a long hike, or a breath after a long submersion.  SHE IS BACK.  Finally.

I have several best friends, but Greta is the Best Friend.

If you know her, you love her.  Three cheers for Greta Weisman!

I ordered this print from a charming little Etsy shop.

Truer words there have never been.

Fashion is such a strange thing to me.

Who determines the trends? Why do we follow suit? And how has it become such a powerful industry?

I’ve been watching episodes of Ken Burns’s “The West,” a documentary about the history of American western expansion. And at one point, a historian was talking about how back in the early 1800s, the rich people wore hats made of beaver pelts – and all of a sudden, there was a boom in beaver trapping because everyone wanted a beaver hat – that is, until silk hats took over.

I guess we’ve always been obsessed with looking “in.”

But these days, the trends are ridiculous. I browse through The Sartorialist, and find myself scratching my head, musing about what people choose to clothe themselves in. Call me boring when it comes to garb, but… for real?

Are you homeless?
Are you a man or a woman?
Are YOU a man or a woman?
And you. Are you serious?

Given today’s choices, I think I’d rather be wearing a beaver hat.

(And don’t even get me started on rompers.)

Next week, I am taking the entire week off of work. The entire week.

For vacation.

I don’t think I have ever had an entire week of vacation, ever in my life. I’ve taken 7-day stretches off of work, but have used them for crazy travel plans (ping-pong flights, weddings, road-trips, holidays, family events). Never have I ever taken a solid Monday through Friday with weekends on both ends, and decided to stay put.

This is my only plan: do not leave Colorado.

Except, that’s not true. You all know that I’ve planned it a bit more than that. In fact, last week, someone who knows me better than I thought called me out on it: “I don’t believe you. You totally have the week planned out.”

I denied it, because technically, I don’t know what’s going to happen when.

But he was totally right.

Here are some of my hopes for the week:
-Climb 3 mountains
-Snuggle my visiting nephews
-Go to the Denver Zoo
-See the final installment of “Harry Potter”
-Get a massage
-Turn 29-years old
-Go for ice cream

Because as long as I can plan on it, the spontaneous will come easily.

Any other ideas of what I should do with my “unplanned” time off? What would you do?

Confession: I want to be awesome.

Fun.  Smart.  Witty.  Talented.  Cool.  Not necessarily “together,” but at least effortlessly disheveled.  Not necessarily “popular,” but at least able to be choosy.  Not necessarily “rich,” but…  Fine.  Sometimes I want to be rich.

But, you know, life can be boring.  Life can fly by without the luxury of those cute moments – the times where a surprise comment in the grocery makes you feel validated, or a silly joke makes you side-smile, or a flower growing out of a sidewalk crack makes you think about life and death and God and beauty.

Life doesn’t always afford us those cute moments.

And it’s not that it’s ugly and awful and torturous.  It’s just… daily.  And busy.  It doesn’t leave much room for the fabulous, as much as I would like for it to.  The busyness expands, and balloons, and bullies its way into every corner of our lives, and makes us feel ugly and tired and unfocused.

Sometimes, some days, the most excitement we have is killing a spider before it makes it under the couch.  Eyeliner is the only tool we have to feel any semblance of “pretty.”  We cling to the satisfaction of having paid our bills this month, because that’s just about the only accomplishment we can pinpoint.

Life can be so daily.  Life can leave us feeling un-awesome.

Even now, my temptation is to steer this post into some charming little twist, some cute phrase that will leave you all with a grin and a vision of me, “C’est la vie!” skipping off through a field to make daisy chains out of the weeds.

But the truth is that I’m sunburned and muscle-sore and fly-bitten, and a little bit cranky because I don’t think I got the recycling bin out to the curb on time this morning.  The Greebs tore apart my new box of Kleenex, and I returned a new purchase from Target because Dave Ramsey would have shame-shamed me.  I’m trying to figure out how to work in my workouts this week, and wishing for quick fixes and easy answers and smooth sailing.

In short, today, I’m not feeling that awesome.

But I’ve lived enough dramatic excitement to know that the quiet, daily, dare I say boring moments are to be blessed. I’ll live to see another fabulous day – but for now, it’s business as usual on a Monday.

I’m choosing to be thankful.

I think my nephew missed the point of the Sunday School lesson.

I’m like a can of Sprite – shake me up, and right away, you’ll get an abundant overflow of sparkly bubbles.  But pretty soon, I’ll go flat.

Conversation is like a game of tennis – best if equally matched, and only as good as the person serving back to you.

Dating should be treated like a woman treats a pregnancy: don’t announce it until you’re out of the first trimester.

Before you hear this little story, there are two things you should know.

1) My sister Becca is definitely a looker: funky and darling and adorable.  She has a heart-shaped face and a great figure and awesome hair.  It’s never a surprise when a dude finds her attractive.

2) Sloan’s Lake, our new neighborhood, is… colorful.  Interesting.  Slightly ghetto.

Got those two facts?  Okay.  Here’s what happened on Saturday.

Becca was walking around the lake, and when a certain man passed her, he looked her up and down and said, “Damn, girl – you look beautiful!”

And despite Becca’s aforementioned beauty, when she relayed this story to me, we both laughed until we cried.

Because this is what she was wearing:

Damn, girl, indeed.

(I’m still laughing.)

What do you do when it’s Friday, and you have no real brain space or time, but you still want to say things?

You just say them.  All in a row.

Like this…

I got a haircut.  No more mermaid hair – although, correspondingly, no more dead head.

If you have ever prayed, “Dear God, please can there be a movie that combines “The Sandlot” and “Signs” and “Independence Day”?” then guess what.  Your prayer has been answered, and it’s called “Super 8.”  I LOVED IT.

I’m taking the first week of August off of work.  No plans – except to climb as many mountains as I can, and do fun things, and turn 29 years old.

Tom Petty is proof that a man doesn’t have to be attractive to be sexy.  That is just the strangest phenomenon.

Tomorrow night, I’m going to a professional lacrosse game.  I’m never quite sure which sport is lacrosse, and which is rugby, and which is polo.  I feel like all involve grunting?  Time to do some research.

I don’t think I know anyone in Denver with a truck.  Does anyone in Denver have a truck?  (I know – that is the question that every truck-owner doesn’t want to answer.  Except I’m SO nice, and I make very good cookies.)

Lately, I’ve been missing Seattle so much I can barely breathe.  I haven’t been there in almost a year.  This is so wrong.

But it’s pay day.  This is so right.

I’ve been thinking.

And I think… I think that Lori McKenna’s “The Luxury of Knowing” is the best song I’ve ever heard.

I mean it.

Keith Urban’s version isn’t bad, either.  Holy smokes.

[Please forgive YouTube videos - just listen.  And let your heart break.  And then get on with your day.]