Ugh, don’t you love songs about regret? It’s the worst kind of feeling, and the best kind of song – the twist of the knife, the sailed ship, the too little too late.

Right now, I’m in a season in which I’m thinking about the big picture – the whole of a life – the decisions we make today that could change the course of everything else. It’s a lot of pressure and weight – and I don’t like it, because I don’t trust myself to not royally screw everything up.

Ultimately, it pushes me to realize that I’m not in control (and thank God).

But my subconscious is still ruminating on the truth that our decisions have consequences – for better or for worse. And my creative endeavors – the elements of my personal life woven into sometimes fictional stories – are somewhat reflecting this.

Back in September, I was driving from Seattle to Denver. Somewhere near Bozeman, driving 80mph, I just kind of ran over this song. A chorus tumbled out quickly, and the rest of the drive was spent singing words and phrases and piecing them together like a jigsaw puzzle.

When I arrived in Denver, “Loved Louisiana” was finished.

As always, it feels scary to share. But I hope you like it.

[I've taken the track down for now. Maybe you'll hear it again someday.]

Recorded with Calvin Locklear in Palmer Lake, Colorado.

Yesterday, we had a bit of a canine emergency when Greebs the dog ate an entire plate of peanut butter & chocolate brownies, and we had to take him to the animal ER to have them induce vomiting and coat his stomach in charcoal.

Did you know that I haven’t thrown up since I was 14 years old?  Over half a lifetime ago.  I am terrified that it’s going to happen again someday.

For someone who has always been a stickler about having a clean car, the backseat of the Subaru has been coated in dog fur since June.  I would attempt to do something about this, but it would be like pushing a boulder up a mountain only to watch it roll back down.  The long-haired, muddy, vomit-induced dogs are in my car every single day.

The most unexciting thing to spend money on (besides bras and paper towels) (and also Sonicare toothbrush heads) would be a dog barrier for my Forester.  But if it would afford me a clean backseat?  It might be worth it.

Anyway, here’s yesterday’s protagonist on the way back from the vet, full of morphine.

If yesterday’s dog emergency is any indication, this weekend did not go as planned, for all sorts of reasons.  I am someone who tends to measure my value by how much I accomplish (and yes, I know that this will get me nowhere – nowhere except SUCCESSFUL).  But I had a list of things that I wanted to get done, all of which remained unaccomplished.

That’s not entirely true.  I ran 11 miles on Saturday morning.

But that is ALL THAT I DID.

I didn’t take the pile of stuff to Goodwill.
I didn’t list the items on Craigslist.
I didn’t vacuum.
I didn’t respond to the emails and phone calls.
I didn’t return the sweater to Target.
I didn’t buy thumbtacks.
I didn’t do laundry.
I didn’t walk in the sunshine.

But the dogs aren’t dead.

So… woman of the year.

When I wrote this, I thought I was writing just for me.  But today, I kind of want to share it.

- – - – - – - -

For some time now, I have been in… a relationship?  Perhaps not the right word.

Something special.  Something that burned fast and bright, like a bottle rocket – but after a short time, burned right out.  Something that, like so many beautiful things, was fleeting.

While the ending of it was sad, our parting conversation was honest, warmhearted, and generous – to an eavesdropper with no context, we may have seemed enamored.  We expressed care and respect for one another, demanding nothing in return, gracefully letting each other go.

I have never experienced such a healthy goodbye with a man.

We successfully cared for, and received care from, each other.  We successfully opened our hearts and dropped our defenses.  We successfully took a risk.  And in the end, for legitimate reasons, we successfully walked away, shoulders back and selves intact.

For me, this is a victory.  Just because it hurt did not mean that I was losing – the hurt actually meant that I WON.  It meant that I had allowed someone in – something that I find difficult to do.

I experienced a relationship ending well – and it’s one of the most radical things I have ever done.

- – - – - – - -

There are few things in life as wonderful as a good man.

Take heart.  They do exist.

Well, well. It seems that yesterday’s post was the blog heard ’round the world – that was the most visits I’ve gotten since December 1, 2010.

In the event that you’re new here, welcome. I’m Annie, the curator of this here little web log, and I live in Denver, where the weather is currently 27 degrees and snowing. I’ve been told that for having a desk job, I lead a pretty exciting life – and a lot of the time, I have to agree, although it’s probably worth arguing that I just like to make a big deal out of the dull. I’m hungry all the time. I order the clothes in my closet according to ROY G. BIV. I’m working really hard toward becoming debt free. I don’t own a single pair of leggings.

Here’s a little glimpse into my present reality.

I’m less than a month away from the Seattle Half-Marathon, and my training has been going super well. I’m excited to run this course through my favorite city (if you’re familiar with Seattle, check it out – such a fun and scenic route). I know that there are a lot of hills, and I’ve been figuring out how to run hills more efficiently. My über-runner friend Mark Miller always says that when running uphill, one should keep the same effort level, but not necessarily the same pace – which is relevant to my life right now.

I’m heading uphill, and trying just as hard – but just going a little bit slower.

Several months back, I found myself at rock bottom in the ditch of all ditches – down with the muskrats and the snakes and the creepy crawlers – with no clear and easy way out. I’m slowly but surely working my way upward, but realizing that a lot of damage has been done. Movement doesn’t come as easily as it once did. I’m finding that it’s helpful to slow down, to not push myself too hard, to strip away distractions, and to focus on one step at a time.

It’s not flashy, and it’s not exciting, and it’s quiet and tough and sometimes painful work that can only be done on my own, under the strength of my own two legs. But it’s leading me higher.

Thanks for being here, friends.

Dear Kim,

This note must come as a surprise to you seeing as how you’ve never even heard of me – that is, unless you saw me on the cover of Disc Makers.  That’s right, Kim: I, like you, am a bona fide cover girl.  We are on the same level.  Recognize.

But even if you don’t pay attention to who I am, don’t worry, Kim.  The feeling is about to get very, very mutual.

Your rise to fame through sex tapes, reality television, and Playboy led you straight into a role as a genuine socialite – which basically means that you’re out and about being famous because you’re out and about being famous because you’re out and about being famous.  Oh sure, you have a perfume, and a fashion line, and a sunless tanner, and a really, really horrible song – your name is your brand, and you work it, Kim.  You work it like your “Fit In Your Jeans By Friday” workout series.

But none of this is why I’m writing to you today.  It’s not your fault that you are beautiful, ergo rich and famous.  People shouldn’t hate you because you have a hot ass, no matter how much you flaunt it – and it’s certainly not a crime to have money.

No, Kim. I’m here to talk about yesterday’s announcement that after 72 days of marriage, you are filing for divorce.

Your August 20th wedding to Kris Humphries was all the gossipy rage – the E! network even did a 4-hour special on the literally made-for-TV, $10 million affair.  That very price tag seems to be a slap in the face to your alleged support of movements such as the “Kiss Away Poverty” campaign, but I digress.  As if the dollar amount on the wedding wasn’t outrageous enough, you and Humphries reportedly earned – profited – an additional $18 million simply to engage in the white gown event.

And then, 72 days later, you ended it.  It’s despicable.

You make a mockery of marriage – something that I, for one, would very much like to experience, but for one reason or another has eluded me thus far.  You cheapen what I hope for, and frankly, it’s insulting.  Myself aside, I know so many people who are currently fighting tooth and nail to stay IN their marriages – because their promises meant something, and because they see their relationship as something more important, more essentially vital, than a mere opportunity for self-promotion.

I hope that I do get married someday, Kim.  I hope that I have the privilege of having a daughter.  And if I do, I can assure you that I will do absolutely everything in my power to teach her that people like you are not the ones to be admired and idolized, no matter how beautiful, no matter how powerful, no matter how wealthy you may be.

Instead, I will point her toward the true hero women:

- Lacey, who just returned from spending a month in Haiti, caring for people with so much less than what we have

- Greta, who on a teacher’s salary, devotes so much of her time – both work hours and personal hours – to planning, grading, and investing in her student’s lives

- Christy, who through her work with Dave Ramsey, passionately educates young people about the importance of making wise financial decisions and avoiding debt

- Emily, who has opened her heart and her home to an ever-shifting cast of foster children, devoting her time, energy, and finances to providing these kids with stability and love

- Carin, who is channeling her grief over losing her precious son by starting the Ben Towne Foundation, and raising over $1 million in the past year to fight pediatric cancer

- Ashley, who welcomed baby Zion as her own, and is raising the most amazing boys

I know women living with devastating medical diagnoses, and fertility concerns, and bone-crushing loneliness, and not enough money, and the death of big dreams – all with grace and aplomb.  These are the heroes.  These are the women that you and I should aspire to be.

You will carry on with your media circus, and probably continue to gain money, fame, and Twitter followers.  But you have a huge privilege, Kim – something that not everyone has – and that’s a platform.  Please use it for something more substantial than your own selfish gain.

Until then, I’m no longer paying attention.

Salutations,
Annie

Ira Glass on Storytelling from David Shiyang Liu on Vimeo.

I know.  I KNOW.  I haven’t blogged in hundreds of hours.

What’s been going on, you ask?  Well, this happened.

Whatever dramatic scene you’re envisioning, yes, it was all that and more – although probably more hilarious than you imagine.  Poor Toad.

Another thing is that I mentioned to someone something about Gadhafi being dead, except I pronounced it “Gandalfy.”  I like make believe more than reality, it seems.  I can’t help it.  The Real News is too heavy sometimes.  So when I go to CNN.com, the first thing I check is the Entertainment page – where, yesterday, I learned that the kid from “Jerry Maguire” just turned 21.  And then I promptly died of old age.

In other news, I’m at a crossroads of sorts.  It’s general and yet specific and encompasses a lot of defined areas of my life without being about any one thing in particular.

How do we ever know the right thing to do?  How do we ever know the best decision?  And if we make the wrong choice, is the rest of our life derailed?  (I know that the answer is no, but just humor a girl who often feels the need for hyperbole.)

There are certain words and phrases that I do not – and will never – allow in my vocabulary.

The first thing is using “boo” as a term of endearment.  I have plenty of sweet, intelligent, fabulous friends who call their friends and/or significant others “boo,” and while I still love them, every time they do, I die a little inside.  You might argue that this is because I don’t have a significant other (thank you for the reminder), but trust me – the minute I’m no longer between boyfriends, I will feel just as strongly as I do today.

The next thing is calling a girl friend “lady.”  I think that my least favorite way to be greeted is “Heeeyyyyy, lady!”  This happens all the time.  ALL THE TIME.  If you’re a girl (or, as a friend reminded me the other day, a gay man), start listening for it – and just try to not cringe.

When Americans fly to Europe – specifically the UK – and they say they’re going to “hop the pond,” I’m torn between a strong desire to roll my eyes or to punch them in the face.  It’s not a pond, it’s the Atlantic Ocean.  I can’t think of a really good reason for me to get so worked up about this one, but it just bugs me, okay?  It reminds me of that oft-used Australian phrase, “Let’s put another shrimp on the bar-b!” that probably no one in Australia has ever actually said.

I will never shorten “totally” to “totes.”
Or “adorable” to “adorbs.”
Therefore, “totes adorbs” shall never pass my lips.

I probably have a ton of other words and phrases that I could find something wrong with or annoying about, because as my family can well attest to, one of my most natural states is “opinionated irritation.”  And maybe I’m getting all hot and bothered for no good reason, since, hello – they’re just words.

But so far this morning, I’ve had to clean up dog poop from the carpet and then kill a spider that I found CRAWLING UP MY SWEATSHIRT, so I think I should be allowed to simply mention some words that annoy me.  I don’t know how one justifies the other, but it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.

Him: “Who was the lady who sewed the first American flag?”
Me: “Oh, you mean Betsey Johnson?”

That was a really pathetic moment.  And I can’t believe I’m coming clean on the internet.

So there I was, minding my own business, when I heard a ruckus.  I walked out of the office to find Gabe darting from the kitchen to the living room – never a good sign.

I walked into the kitchen and found… this:

Oh, how’s that? you ask?  Here, let me give you a better angle.

How this dog does it, I’ll never know.  But I am legitimately flabbergasted on a near-daily basis.