What did I [climb]: Pike’s Peak – all by myself, and SO FAST.  Seriously, I hope this doesn’t come off as all braggy-face of me, but I scampered up the entire mountain, and barely broke a sweat.

Sir Edmund Hillary?  How about Sir ANNIE PARSONS.

What did I [burn]: the backs of my calves.  Why does this always happen?  Why doesn’t the sun wrap around to my shins, too, bathing all 360 degrees of my legs in that horrible blazing Vitamin D?  It’s a mystery, and that’s why so is mankind.  [If you get that joke, you win.]

What did I [buy]: two new pairs of Toms.  I couldn’t decide, so I bought both.  Let’s hear it for happy feet – and shoes for kids!

What did I [hear]: the golden, dulcet voice of Jonatha Brooke – live.  Oh sweet Moses, y’all.  Do you know about this woman?  KNOW ABOUT HER.  Her “Ten Cent Wings” album is something special – trust me (and really, trust Duane, who originally spread the good news).

What did I [make]: jalapeño hummus.  My new food processor is changing my life.

What did I [feel]: so sad, and so happy.  These days, I’m feeling both, and more than ever – like the spectrum is growing, like my capacity for the extremes keeps increasing.  I wonder if this will continue as I get older – until one day, the sad and the happy will stretch out from my heart in opposite directions, hugging the globe and meeting in Madagascar.

I have a million little pieces glued together for my heart.

I don’t know that that’s a bad thing.

Friendships forged in fire can never be broken.  When you experience horrors side-by-side, the bond is forever.  When you see things that no human should ever have to see, experience atrocities that will never be spoken of again, and somehow live to tell the tale – that is what authentic, everlasting camaraderie is made of.

Sam and Frodo had Mordor.

The Band of Brothers had Germany.

Christina B. Ward and I had junior high.

[Right there might have be an ideal opportunity to share a picture of us at 13.  You're clamoring for it, I KNOW.  But please.  Allow us to maintain a small amount of dignity.]

Long before “Ward” was a part of her name, Christina and I were girlhood pals in Montrose, Colorado.  We bonded over our love of boys, and our complete inability to do anything about it because – and I know this is hard to believe – we weren’t exactly “cool.”  “Cool” came later.  Obviously.

Her family moved away in 9th grade, and by the end of high school, we had almost completely lost touch.  It wasn’t until several years out of college that we reconnected, and she boldly flew out to visit me in Seattle.  A risky move, perhaps – because who’s to say I hadn’t turned into a sociopath?

Luckily, we picked up right where we had left off – only this time, with bigger boobs, clearer skin, straighter teeth, and better style.  Christina had just finished law school, taken the bar in Boston, and was getting ready for her wedding.  I was selling my furniture and preparing to head out on a 3 month road trip, followed by a move to Nashville.  I remember commenting during that visit that our junior high selves would be in awe of our current selves.  I hold to that.

We get along because we both like wine & cheese, and we both like karaoke.  Those things don’t necessarily go together, but then again, YOU’D BE SURPRISED.

Christina is an amazingly loyal friend, and writes some of the best emails I’ve ever received.  She and her very awesome husband are both lawyers in Boston, and as an homage to their education at Boston College, named their puggle “Dog Flutie.”  She has been known to do the splits on the dance floor at weddings.  She lives a very New England existence, which is foreign to me, but I take advantage of experiencing it as often as possible with visits to Beantown.  I have half a mind to just take up permanent residence in her guest room.

And no matter how bad life gets, we both take great comfort in the fact that we will never, ever have to go back to junior high.

- your hair just needs to be cut?  Immediately?  Because all of a sudden, and without warning, you are Morticia?

- you wear the black racerback tank with the rainbow graphic eagle on the front?  Because it’s so awesome?

- you eat breakfast at an oatmeal cart?  Because this is Portland?

- you hear a song that changes your life?  Because it gives you the words and the framework to deal with what you couldn’t deal with before?  And it’s called “Closer to the Moon” by Alli Rogers?

- you write a blog in a format that gives the illusion that we’re all on the same page, when really, we’re probably not?  Because not everyone can own a black racerback tank with a rainbow graphic eagle on the front?

Check out what I made!

She’s a beaut – which is Australian for 彼女の美しさだ.

I’ve always wanted to learn how to roll my own sushi, and being in Portland – a city of the aquatic variety – last night was my chance.  My friend and co-worker Molly took me to a place called Hipcooks, where we spent three hours learning the basics of sushi-making.  In the process, I snuck more scraps of raw fish than humanly possible.

No, truly – I defied the laws of science.  Someone give me a badge.

Will I ever make sushi in the privacy of my own home?  I don’t know – can sushi be made in a food processor?  Then probably not.

But I can now check #25 off my list!

What a place, huh?

Last night, I zig-zagged the downtown streets on foot, taking in the sights and sounds of Stumptown.  Seattle may be my first love – but I have a warm, fuzzy fondness for her hippie kid sister.

Eventually, I wandered into Powell’s Books (how could I not?), and spent way, way too much time browsing the endless aisles.  When I’m in a bookstore, I feel a mixture of buoyant possibility (all of these stories are just waiting to be read), and frantic panic (but there’s not enough tiiiiime!).  If I could, I would hold each story in my hands like a cloud, and wring it out like the rain.

When I returned to the hotel from my walk, the doorman greeted me, “Welcome back, Ms. Parsons.”  And when the elevator doors slid shut, enclosing me in privacy for my ride up to a room with floor-to-ceiling drapes and a king-sized bed, I grinned out loud.

My cavities are spreading like kudzu in Alabama – this we’ve discussed.

Last week, I went back for round 2 with the dentist – a dentist, I might mention, whose last name rhymes with “feral.”  Actually, that’s how you pronounce it, too – “feral.”  Spelled a bit differently, but enough to put me on edge, right?

To her credit, this woman is wonderful, and lauded by D.D.S. folk nationwide.  Highly acclaimed.  Passionate about what she does, eager to always be learning more about her field, pushing back the horizons of dentistry one mouth at a time.  I trust her – maybe not with my life (after all, we just met), but definitely with my teeth.

Still though.  Feral.  Give this woman a drill, and BAM.  Terror, struck in my heart like a rattlesnake bite.

So when I climbed into The Chair last Thursday, I was already quaking in my cowgirl boots.  I hate hate hate a million times hate going to the dentist – especially when it involves cavities.

Be cool, I told myself.  It’s just the dentist.  People go every day.  You will live.

YOU WILL LIVE.  [James Earl Jones said that one.]

But as this woman drilled nothing short of a network of prairie dog tunnels in my molars, I was so stressed out that I couldn’t stop shaking.  My hands, my legs – everything was shaking.  When my teeth started chattering, she had to stop – and as soon as I realized that I was so out of control that the dentist could no longer do her job, I started to cry.

Tears.

Sneaking from the corners of my eyes, rolling out from behind the awesome dentist sunglasses and into my ears.

The assistant patted my shoulder, and then patted my head, and then began full on stroking my hair.  GAH!  How horrifying is it that I needed PHYSICAL REASSURANCE that I was okay – and it was pathetically obvious??

“Are you okay?” she gently asked.

“Yeah,” I sniffled.  “I’m a grown-ass lady.”

I told the dental assistant that I’m a grown-ass lady.  With tears running down my cheeks.

Then the dentist herself stepped in.  She spoke comforting, reassuring words, and then asked if I thought I could trust them.

It’s hard to trust someone who has the potential to hurt you.

But I think that’s the point, right?  Trust doesn’t mean a thing if the other person is completely safe.

It’s scary.  But it doesn’t mean that it’s not worth doing.

In junior high youth group, we would occasionally sit in an awkward circle where each person was supposed to take a turn praying out loud.  When it was your turn, if you didn’t want to pray, you would squeeze the hand of the person sitting next to you.

Skip, please.

Well, that’s what Friday just did to me.  Skip, please.

No (Bosom) Friend Friday today.  Instead, I’m getting out to enjoy my weekend.  Christina is flying in from Boston, and my nephews are in town, and I’m taking the day off of work to take full advantage of both of these things.

Check in next week for an update on my dental status, a report from a sushi-making class in Portland (where I’ll be for work), and most definitely, the highlighting of a (bosom) friend.  Until then, I hope that you can step away from your computer, and really live.

Micah: Auntie Oonis, I know that you want to get married and have kids someday.

Annie: Who told you that?

Micah: Grandma.

Annie: Oh.  Well, she’s right.

Micah: Why aren’t you married yet?

[Because God is just busy building some lucky man's character, bank account, and biceps.]

Annie: I don’t know, buddy.

Micah: Well, if you ever do find a husband, he’d better buy your ring RIGHT THERE.  [points at the Wal-Mart jewelry counter]  … whoa, did you see that girl in Spiderman pajamas?

- – - – - – - -

Don’t worry, Micah – I am living proof that a girl needn’t be married in order to own this sexy piece of machinery:

!!!!!!!!!

Best birthday present ever!  Thanks, Mom and Dad!  I’ve waited my whole life for this moment!

And the very first thing I’m going to make?  Debbie’s curry hummus.

Look out, Denver.

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.

Without first being angry, you cannot forgive.
Without first being unsure, you cannot trust.
Without first being afraid, you cannot be brave.

If you find yourself in any of these less-than-desirable places today, you are really just on the verge of a beautiful opportunity.

A chance to forgive.  A chance to trust.  A chance to be brave.

A chance to trade up for something better.

Because after all, what’s so great about bitterness and fear?

Let’s be more interesting than that.