I sometimes get the words “ravage” and “ravish” mixed up.  They kind of mean the same thing, don’t they?  (Also, “radish.”  But this is not the same at all.  This is a “swollen pungent-tasting edible root.”)

Mixing up words out loud in conversation is one of my great fears.  As most fears do, this stems from traumatic childhood experiences.

When I was 7-years old, New Kids on the Block released a Christmas album with a song called “Funky Funky Xmas.”  It was the coolest song ever, so naturally, while the Parsons family was doing our annual pajama-clad Christmas light drive, I was singing it at the top of my lungs.

When we got home, my dad confiscated the NKOTB tape, because how dare they teach children the F-word.

There was also that one time that I asked an old lady if she lived in a condom, I mean, a condo.

But now I’m a grown-up, and it’s time to confidently know the difference between broach/breach/brooch/breech.  I won’t breach the subject.  The baby wasn’t born brooch.  I mean, COME ON.

I never thought the day would come, but here it is: I have officially outlived Kurt Cobain.

Today is my 28th birthday.  I’ve waited ALL YEAR for August 4th, and it’s finally here.  Not to make a big deal out of it or anything, but… okay fine.  I am the birthday girl!  Yippee!

I’m so glad to be 28.  The only thing that makes me a little bit sad is that I can no longer refer to my birthday as being “one score and seven years ago” – because that was clever of me, wasn’t it?

Probably not as clever as it sounded in my head.

In all seriousness, sometimes I think that I’m the luckiest girl in the world.  I am surrounded by the world’s best humans – ones that draw out the good, and sit with me in the ugly, and love me regardless.  I have a job that I really like with people that I really love.  I have a body that works and does everything that I need it to do.  I have the sweet serenity of words and books and songs.  I have amazing, life-giving opportunities to pursue the things that bring me joy.  I have a home with hardwood floors and a dishwasher and tall trees outside the windows.  I have an abundance of quiet – which is never to be taken for granted.  I have a humidity-free summer.

A HUMIDITY-FREE SUMMER.

I have nephews who, last night, asked for the story of “Beauty and the Beast” in its entirety, and then wrapped their little arms around my neck and told me that they love me.  And then this morning, sang me “Happy Birthday” with their sweet voices.  And then asked if I was wearing a wig.  And then told me that the man emblazoned across the tush of their underwear was “General Obi-Wan Kenobi.”  And then yelled at each other to stop singing while going to the bathroom.

And for some unknown reason, I have you coming back to this space on a regular basis, reading along and offering more to me than I have ever offered to you through these cockamamie posts.

Most importantly, I have hope in my heart – and hope is just another word for “something wonderful is about to happen.”

So here I am.  28-years old, the luckiest girl in the world, with hope in my heart.  Something wonderful is about to happen.

I am never allowed to complain about anything, ever.

The kindest thing that anyone could ever do for me would be to do my taxes*.

As of this weekend, that makes my dad the nicest person on the planet.

But here’s a word to the wise, my friends: do not just assume that you are going to get a tax refund, and then go out and order a brand new, gigantic couch, assuming that the purchase will be partially reimbursed once April 15 rolls around.

Oh no.  Never assume.

For the first time in my life, I owe.

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And speaking of assumptions,

the root of “assumption” is “assume,”
the root of “consumption” is “consume,”
the root of “resumption” is “resume,”
the root of “presumption” is “presume.”

The root of “gumption” is… no, it’s not.

WHY DO I LOVE STUFF LIKE THIS SO MUCH?  pleasebemyfriend.

- – - – - – - -

*Also, washing my car, rubbing my shoulders, and curing cancer.

You know how some espoused people, when asked, “How did you know he/she was the right one?” answer, “I just knew”?

What does that MEAN?  What are they (you?) referring to?  And should single people be holding for it – whatever it is?

Or is it just a completely bogus statement, fabricated to assuage the general relationship-befuddlement that seems to expand and swell the further we get from college?

I’m curious.

Last week, while the EP listening party was happening here on the blog, and I was steadily posting a new track each day, there was a lot happening in my life.  Like, A LOT a lot.

My mom was diagnosed with cancer – soft tissue sarcoma.  The doctors removed a mass from her hip socket; when they cut her open, it “bulged out like a zit”… or something.

I hope you’re enjoying your breakfast, by the way.

I don’t really know how to write about the phone call that I got on Tuesday night – my mom telling me that she had cancer.  I know that there were instant, uncontrollable tears on my part.  I know that I was suddenly confronted with the overwhelming fear of losing a parent – something that I have never really had to deal with before.  I know that after I hung up the phone with her, I told Greta the news, and then cried some more, because I was completely terrified and couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

But then, I stood up and blew my nose and made a grilled cheese for Julie who was coming home from work.  It was all very surreal.

On Wednesday afternoon, I found myself in a daze, throwing clothes in a bag, getting in my car and driving out of Nashville.  Have I mentioned that I do not do well with spontaneous decisions or chaotic situations?  About 30 miles out of town, I realized that I didn’t even pack a coat; my stress and anxiety levels were through the Honda roof.  But after driving 18 hours and 1200 miles, I was with my parents and all three of my siblings in Colorado Springs.

We arrived to the amazing news that her scans were clear, that the cancer had not spread.  There are no words to describe the relief – that even though the situation is serious, and cancer is evil embodied, the news was good.  I saw Mom’s 8-inch incision, and her Buzz Lightyear contraption around her hip.  We spent the weekend together as a family, stepping over the 4 dogs and eating a ton of food and talking about everything from life to death to the latest episode of “The Office.”

It was so good to be there.

Today, I point the wheel back toward Tennessee, and after an eternity of driving, will be in my own bed tonight.  I don’t really know what happens next – my parents will meet with the orthopedic oncologist this week to figure out the next steps.  There is still so much that is unknown.

But I know that I love my mom more than I could ever say.  And I know that this changes things.

I grew up in a little town in western Colorado.  Montrose – at least when I lived there, pre-Starbucks and Target and multiple golf courses – was very typical of small town America.  We had a Dairy Queen, gossip at the beauty shop, agriculture, county fairs, rodeos, teenagers cruising Main, old trucks, and one high school.

My high school experience was like all of the stereotypical accounts shown on TV shows. The star of the football team dated the homecoming queen.   The scandalous teacher ran off with the wayward student.  There were fights, pregnancies, cliques.  There were the popular kids and the outcasts.  There were the jocks, the band nerds, the hicks, the brains.

Who was I?  I think that I fell through the cracks, never really fit into one “group,” and stayed peripherally involved with a lot of different social networks.  I played flute in the band, but was friends with the cheerleaders.  I never took calculus, but always got A’s and B’s.  I lived in a subdivision, but drove a pickup.  I wasn’t anywhere near popular, but was somehow voted the prom queen.  I had a lot of friends, but my best friend was homeschooled.  I was fairly straight-laced, but once broke into a factory with a crowbar.  I had a few dates to dances, but never a boyfriend.  I went to parties, but never drank.  I loved country songs and animals and baby-sitting and friends and ballet.

My parents moved away from Montrose in 2003, when I was in college in Seattle, and since then, my visits to my hometown have been few and far between.  The last time I was there was over a year ago, making this the longest stretch in 20 years I have gone without setting my feet on my hometown soil.

But it’s in my blood.

I mean, let’s not turn this into a Montgomery Gentry song or anything, but it’s true.  My upbringing in Montrose shaped me in ways that I cannot even pinpoint, and I feel the absence of it acutely.

After hearing through the grapevine about the class of 1999’s recent celebration, it occurred to me that my 10-year high school reunion is coming up next year.  And here were my next, immediate, successive thoughts:
1)    This is going to be so awkward.
2)    I’m totally going.
3)    I want to be in charge.
4)    I am still single.
5)    At least I’m still single.

Consider this my RSVP.

It’s amazing how quickly I, an alleged full-grown woman, can revert back to feeling like I did with other girls in elementary school: insecure, timid, and small.  Recently, a moment leapt out of nowhere and grabbed me by the throat, reducing me to those irrepressible tears that leave me shaky and sick to my stomach – because my feelings got hurt.

I am naturally a sensitive person, but I’m also fairly rational.  I don’t get my feelings hurt all that often – mainly because I am largely surrounded by pretty tremendous humans who rarely do or say mean-spirited things.

But when it does happen, it makes me feel so sad, and shocked, and ultimately, rejected.

How could I NOT cry?

But here is the difference between 9-year old Annie and today’s Annie: to forgive is to not let those feelings take root – even when they are justified.  To forgive is to deflect any feelings of insecurity catalyzed by those initial words.  To forgive is to let go of what is right, reasonable, and defensible – in favor of something entirely unsensible.

It’s hard work, forgiveness… but then again, isn’t it our very best option?  Isn’t it the easiest, most freeing thing we could possibly do – to simply let it go?

No one ever loses if no one is keeping score.

I had a thought.  It’s not much, and I don’t even know why I’m feeling it acutely these days, but here it is.

It bothers me when people use their singleness as an excuse for continued adolescence.

I don’t want to use my singleness as an excuse for continued adolescence.

That’s all.

You know how sometimes, a long-forgotten memory will make its way to the surface for no apparent reason?  All of a sudden, the scene is playing in your mind – like a film projector on an old bed sheet, nostalgic home video remembrances of life before you knew the things you know now.

The other day, that was happening for me.  I was seeing our Dalmatian, Princess, and games on what must have been the original Apple computer, and Otter Pops from the freezer in the garage, and the orange tree in our old backyard, and trips to the Dairy Queen on our bikes, and summer nights in the backyard, and getting beaten up by the deaf girl in 1st grade…

WAIT A SECOND.

It totally threw a wrench in my gears, a hitch in my giddy-up.  I was beaten up?  In 1st grade?  By the deaf girl?

(Let it be known that these days, I would absolutely, 100% use the term “hearing impaired.”  But remember, I am being transported back to 1989, when I didn’t know anything about being politically correct.  I also didn’t know that you shouldn’t swallow toothpaste – but I digress.)

The last time I checked, I do not have multiple personalities… yet… and so I’m not quite sure how this memory got repressed for all these years only to surface two decades later.  But just like that, in the middle of my work-day, I was transported back to recess in 1st grade, on the playground at Oster Elementary, scared every single day that the deaf girl from 2nd grade was going to beat me up again.

She had pigtails.  She had hearing aids.  And she had it out for me.

I never got up the nerve to tell anyone.  I just went on being afraid every day.  And I don’t know that I’ve ever been so relieved as the day when a playground aid caught the little shrew in the act, and made sure she never touched me again.

Hey, if I was forced to re-live this story, then you can be sure that I would subject you to it, too.  What else is a blog audience for?

And two more nubbins:
-    I fly to Seattle tonight.
-    My East Nasty of the Week column will be resurrected next week.

This is the day – the day that I re-establish myself as a contributing member of society.  I am uniting myself with the ranks of the fully employed.

After 19 months of instability, I start at Emma this morning.

I have no idea what to expect – except that it’s going to be good.  Whatever it is, it’s going to be really good.  No more Temptress… you can now address me as the Permanentress.

When I moved to Nashville over a year ago (remember this day?), I was a little bit crazy in the head.  I HAD to be – because in order to do something as bold as moving across the country alone with no plan, one must be a small fraction insane.  I was treating the move as an open-ended “study abroad” of sorts, and knew that I was free to leave at any time, should I decide that Nashville wasn’t for me.  Finding work through a temp agency only supported my non-committal relationship with this city.

But now?  Now I have a real job.  A legitimate job.  An awesome job.  A job that tells me, “Hey, Annie, you should probably stick around and see where this road takes you.”  I’m really staying here for awhile.

Life is never quite what we expect, is it?

In this case, I’m glad.