“Headquarters” sounds so official.  I should mention that said “headquarters” houses multiple hula-hoops and a keg.

I just read that Sandra Bullock is 46 years old.  Excuse me?  Not that that’s old – but some people are hot forever.

Sometimes, CNN.com is the most depressing website ever.  Is there ever any good news?  If you know any, can you tell me about it?

Have you seen “The Cove“?  Did you cry like I did?  It reminded me of how broken this world is, and how “salvation isn’t just about ‘going to heaven.’“

Years.

Anyway.

I finally finished a new song!  It’s super sassafras, and I think I really like it.  Maybe one day you’ll get to hear it.

As for the kissing of boys, WOULDN’T YOU LIKE TO KNOW.

This is what I look like every time I hike: high ponytail, crooked smile, and the Buff.

It’s ridiculous.  And I love it.  People ask about it on every hike I find myself on – which means that I am officially a backcountry trendsetter.

I got my fill of the outdoors this weekend.  I climbed a 14er one day (thus reaching my goal of 6 14ers this summer, hey-ooooo!), and a 13er the next.  Yesterday, August 29, I watched people in shorts and tank tops ski down a glacier.

Colorado is bizarre and beautiful.  I’m lucky to live here.  And I’m so thankful for all of the time I’ve been able to spend outside this summer.

We initially bonded over our mutual love of (obsession with?) country music – which, living in Seattle, was a connection we couldn’t exactly afford to lose.  We started going to concerts together, and watching the various country music award shows in her living room, drinking wine and analyzing dresses and performances and bad face lifts.  Carin is witty and sassy and hilarious – my soulmate for discussing all things pop culture and entertainment.  She is an insanely talented musician, actor, and writer.  She makes me laugh until I cry.

And sometimes, she makes me do both at the same time.

Many of you remember Jeff and Carin’s spunky, determined, beautiful boy Ben – I’ve written about him before.  Throughout Ben’s fight with cancer, Carin kept a powerful online journal that was read by thousands all over the globe.  She wrote honest and compelling words about their journey.

In the year and a half after Ben’s death, Carin understandably stepped back from writing in such a public arena, as their family has been living in the reality of round-the-clock grief.  But with the launch of the Ben Towne Foundation, Carin has been posting again.

I’m not just saying this because she’s one of my dearest friends: you need to read her words.  You NEED to.  This woman knows what it means to fight, to weep, to love fiercely.  You can subscribe to her posts through your favorite reader, or sign up to have them emailed directly to you.

To say that I’m excited about the launch of the Ben Towne Foundation is an understatement.  It’s going to be huge.  It’s going to save lives.  And with Jeff and Carin at the helm, it’s a formidable force.  When you hear Carin speak, you can’t help but want to join their fight.

Last Saturday, I spent the day with Jeff and Carin and precious Ryan in Poulsbo, WA.  It was the most wonderful time.  They are the best kind of people – the kind that disarm you with their honesty, and allow you to be exactly where you’re at – even in the worst of circumstances.  They “get it” – mostly because they’re honest about the fact that they don’t “get it.”

They’re moving forward, even when it feels impossible.

Life is sadder than a country song.  But the fact that Carin is a part of mine makes me want to keep singing.

But all of that lovely, aching wistfulness has been hijacked by something I was reminded of last night.

I’ve been a member for 8 months, but I don’t know where the bathroom is at 24 Hour Fitness.

I know where the women’s locker room is, and I’ve gone in there looking for a restroom.  But I can’t find it.  I’ve looked everywhere, around every corner.  I’ve found the showers, the sinks, the lockers, the scales, the mirrors.

But I cannot find the toilets.

How?

At this point, I’m too embarrassed to ask.  I mean, it’s too late.  They KNOW me there.  My window of opportunity has passed, and now I’m on my own to to figure this one out.  Godspeed, little gym rat.

But I really do love Seattle.

Oh please.

I should begin by saying that the sickness has left my system – literally, and glory hallelujah.  The only person that knows the specifics of my Monday is my mom, and I’m uncomfortable with even her knowing.  It was… I can’t even go there.  Let’s change the subject.

So here I am, back in Denver.

Time, catapult me out of August already.  August has spread me thinner than a hipster – and it isn’t even over yet.  I hate running on no reserves.

I’ve said before that I believe that our number one act of spiritual worship should be getting enough sleep.  Last weekend, Greta told me that she recently read that the most important factor in a woman’s happiness is whether or not she is well-rested.  How do parents of babies function?  This is an absolute mystery to me.  I don’t even own a house plant, and yet I am crashing – crashing like… why is the only metaphor I can think of “like Kanye at a Taylor Swift speech”?

See.  Crashing.

When I’m crashing, I lose creativity, and get all inconsolable about things like the cardboard box in the corner of my living room.  It’s just sitting there – but it’s just been sitting there since I moved in in January.  I don’t know where to put it.  I don’t know what to do with it.  It’s just THERE, taunting me with its displacement.

Twenty-eight years old is too old to get zits – but then again, Annie Parsons has never been a quitter.

I get irrationally annoyed at bad writing (in the interest of spying on people, I subscribe to some truly horrible blogs), and text messages in which every sentence ends in exclamation points!!!!  This is not the way you talk!!!!!  Calm the hell down!!!  You’re wasting your 160 characters!!!!!

Give my hackles a chance to settle down, and then I’ll tell you about my trip to Seattle last weekend.  Crashing or not, I can tell you right now that it was blissful.

For the first time ever, I was going to incite an overweight charge.

But wait!  Could this be my lucky day?  The ticket man hasn’t seen the number yet.  He’s asking for my ID.  He’s handing me my boarding pass.  He turns his back for one moment, and…

I made a run for it.*

I was around the corner before he turned back around to discover my beast of burden.

I triumphantly called my mom from the security line, jubilant at my own stealth.  Ha-HAA, I outsmarted The Man!  Take THAT.

*moments like this make me wish I had my own personal cameraman to document my life.

- – - – - – - -

So here I am, sitting across from my little nymph Greta in a coffee shop, working away.  Seattle still has a way of wrapping me like a hug, and making me feel more at home than anywhere else.

But at least I had my baby carrots!

Last night at 11pm, I started packing for tonight’s trip to Seattle.  I walked into my bedroom and stared at my suitcase, and suddenly felt my brains sucking out of my ears until my skull was completely devoid of any logic.

“What am I going to wear?” I despaired.  “I HAVE NO CLOTHES.”

Hopeless Annie was about to win.  She was about to slide open a dresser drawer and just dump whatever contents therein into her Samsonite, and call it a night.  She was going to show up in Seattle and realize, “I have no shoes.”  She was going to be content looking like a vagrant in front of some of her dearest friends.

All was nearly lost.

But then.

Hopeless Annie was bound and gagged, and had a pillowcase thrown over her head.  By whom, you ask?  Assertive Annie.  Assertive Annie came out of nowhere, took the reins (as she is wont to do), and formulated a plan.

I do so love a plan.

I spent the next hour – yes, 60 entire minutes – trying on clothes.  Outfit after outfit, drawn from my closet – and when something “worked,” it was put in a pile on the bed.  I concocted combinations of clothing for each day in Seattle, from the shoes to the belts to the earrings.  I even made sure I had the right underwear for each pair of pants (bikini or thong? bikini or thong?).  And in my “extra” pile, I put a few pieces of insurance – the t-shirt that never goes wrong, the flip-flops I can wear if all else fails, etc.

I am ready for this trip.

I am prepared.

I think.

If this plan works – if I am able to successfully marry style and practicality from the articles that show up with me in Seattle tonight – then mark my words, I will post pictures.  Because when it comes to clothing, I generally have about as much panache as Pat Robertson has tact.

This could be a turning point.