I still cannot believe it.

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Yesterday, my dad called the Honda “the Grey Goose.”  Then, Becca called it “Hans.”  Both of these things strike me as hilarious since the Honda never really had a name.

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Remember when the Honda was hit by the Biggest Loser tour bus?

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Remember when it was stolen three times, and recovered each time on the side of the road in some Seattle neighborhood?

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I told Joey that trading my car to the salvage yard for $300 makes me feel like Judas Iscariot.

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Overheard at my brother’s house:

“Dad, what is this called?”

“It’s called ‘clenching your butt cheeks.’”

Not related to the Honda at all, but come on.  That’s so good.

I am always making lists.  I cannot operate with out lists.  They make me feel productive and safe.

Why “safe”?  Don’t ask me these questions.  It’s how I FEEL.  I don’t need to have a REASON.  GAWL.

[When I was a teenager, "gawl" was my biggest expression of disgust.  I said it ALL THE TIME.  My siblings will still occasionally bring it up, throwing the word at me, faces all repulsed and contorted and dramatic.  Apparently, that is how they remember me at age 14.

I couldn't help it, though - it wasn't easy being SUPERIOR to EVERYONE.  In the UNIVERSE.  FOREVER.  INFINITY.  GAWL.]

Anyway, I just made a list of “actors I do not trust.”  I wrote it on a Post-It note.  It says:
Tom Cruise
Nicolas Cage
Charlie Sheen

And I felt like telling you.

Now, I feel it necessary to acknowledge that I might be wasting your time these days… but then again, you’re HERE, aren’t you?  Lurking in the shadows?  Creepily reading my thoughts?  Distractedly entertained for roughly 45 seconds every day this week?

Heeeyyy-ooooooh, it’s been awhile since I’ve gotten 5 in a row!  I should take myself out for a nice steak dinner.  Congrats, self.

I’m taking my ping-ponging thoughts elsewhere before someone loses an eye.  I’ll see you on Monday.

Don’t pretend like you won’t be back.  I love you.

One time, when I was 5, we lived next door to a girl my age.  Her grandparents gave her a Popple.  I wanted it so badly that I asserted my Alpha Girl status, and she gave it to me.

A few days later when her grandparents found out she gave it away, they sent her to our house to reclaim it.  As she was carrying it home, I ran down the hallway and, with a flying leap, tackled her to the ground.

My family brings up this story frequently.

When I was a little girl riding my bike over the adobe hills on the outskirts of Montrose, Colorado, and throwing dry ice bombs into the canal behind the house across the street, and trespassing into various fields in the name of bedlam, my Uncle Chester was busy being a ROCKET SCIENTIST at NASA.  No matter what stupidity you read here, let it be known that there is actual intelligence in the Parsons genes.

We lived thousands of miles apart, and saw each other every couple of years before he died in 1991.  I only have a few memories of him from real life, from real interaction – but one thing is for sure: Uncle Chester wore The Glasses.

You know the ones.

The ones that the scientists wore in “Apollo 13.”

The ones that Squints wore in “The Sandlot.”

And… the ones that the cool kids are apparently wearing now?

Every time I see some hipster in The Glasses, I have to chuckle, and then kind of cringe.  Because if by being related to Uncle Chester I claim that I have a fighting chance at brilliance, then I have to admit that one day, I, too, might look like Buddy Holly.

Never rule anything out.

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Mom’s surgery went really well last night – thank you for all of your well wishes and prayers.

I’ve mentioned Zach before – my crazy friend who recently moved from Seattle to Nashville, who lived on the JAM House floor for awhile, who now has his own place in East Nashville but we still like to see him, etc.  Zach is one of a kind – like a snowflake.  Or a fingerprint.  Or a tracking device in a stray dog’s neck.

Last night at church, he caught my eye across the room.  In a sea of people, his face was a little bit higher than the rest, stretching his neck to catch my attention.  It reminded me of Goldbug.

The thought of Zach as Goldbug gave me the giggles.

I couldn’t wait to tell him.  But after church when I got the chance, it turned out that Zach had never heard of Goldbug.  I went on to explain anthropomorphic animals and “Cars and Trucks and Things That Go” and the worm that drove the apple car – and Zach got excited and we high-fived.

You know that old spiritual, “Ain’t Got Time to Die”?  Right now, I’m hearing it in my head – but changing it to “Ain’t Got Time to Blog.”  Also, a choir of white people is singing it, which adds to the weirdness.

In a way – a way I cannot pinpoint aside from the subject of “counterfeit” – this reminds me of a horribly unauthentic Irish pub in Overland Park, Kansas, called Paddy O’Quigley’s.

One time, just out of curiosity, Jeremy and Ashley and I went.  It was pretty much as bad as we thought it would be – in a strip mall, fake brick walls, neon signs for Michelob Ultra.

But it was all worth it when we found out that Becca thought it was called Patio Quigley’s.

That just makes me happy to remember.

Lately, I’ve been missing this girl:

The one who smiled genuine smiles, no matter how crooked.

The one who went adventuring, even when it was scary.

The one who believed good things.

The girl who walked 10 miles at a time in the name of exploration.  The girl whose heartbreak inspired action.  The girl who wrote letters and songs and silly poems and messages in the dirt on car back-windshields.  The girl who aimed for “story” instead of “security.”

But last weekend, I found her again for a little while in Boston.

It was nice to see her again.

I left Seattle two years ago today.

Last year, I wrote a big dramatic soliloquy about my feelings.

This year, I honestly don’t know what to say.

I feel flummoxed.

But wherever you go, there you are.

Whatever that means.

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.

I have this friend named Juliette.

We met through the internet.

I’ve met some of my favorite friends through the internet.  Here is a sampling.

Whoa.  If it’s possible to meet such attractive women through the internet, could I meet attractive guys?  Why have I not signed up for eHarmony?

Anyway, this story is not about them.

It’s about her.

Juliette lives here in Nashville – well, Franklin, to be exact.

Franklin is where I did this.

(I know, it always has to be about me.)

BACK to her.

She’s wonderful.  In my year and a half in Nashville, we’ve only hung out a handful of times, but she’s one of those people that you kind of wish you could hate but you can’t help but love – because she’s all these fabulous things like beautiful and creative and hilarious and talented and kind and really smart.

She makes this look cool.

The week that I lost my job, she treated me to wine & cheese at Rumours.

IN CASE YOU DIDN’T KNOW, that is the way to my heart.  That, and foot rubs.  And men with good scruff.  (Clarification: Juliette did not give me a foot rub, nor does she have scruff.)

But guess who does?

HER NEW FIANCE, TODD!!!!!!!

The girl is engaged.

And I am so, so excited for her.  She deserves the best guy ever.  And it sounds like Todd is.

I hope that through the various activities that surround weddings, I will be meeting Val and Dani and Joey soon.

(If you’re wondering what Joey looks like, well.  He no longer believes in Facebook.  Probably because internet strangers like me would go in and steal his pictures and post them on their blog.

But I have it on good authority that he looks exactly like this guy.)

I know Val, Dani, and Joey through the internet, too – although I’ve never met them.  They’re some of Juliette’s best friends.  I hope they will adopt me.

Sometimes, against all odds, people find each other.  WE find each other.  Congratulations, Julie-girl and Todd – and thanks to all of you internet people who have turned out to be awesome in real life, too.