27. why this will be the best year yet

1. 9 times 3 equals 27. I am obsessed with the number 9 and i really like the number 3. my whole OCD life has revolved around the number 9, which sounds completely irrational to you but to me, this is an AMAZING thing.

2. i feel really sexy. not dirty sexy, this is a better definition: really comfortable in my own skin. i am laughing SO much these days.

3. i'm (maybe) going to go organic (sadly, my first meal as a 27 year old was a quarter pounder with cheese, large fries and a medium coke from micky d's. i've also eaten obscenely large quantities of ice cream in the past four nights, and most of my meals have been completely processed... so we'll see.)

4. i have started to make a goal list: one of them is to make a CD. by golly, this is the year (do i say this every year?)

5. i am going to start making my clothes, stop washing my hair as much, and try to emulate the good people of the world like Mother Teresa and Rich Mullins (driven not by my own guilt but by the love of Jesus, which I'm understanding more, believing in more, and not feeling trite talking about it. this is happening by reading the Bible (transforming my mind) and this great book named "The Cross Centered Life.")

6. i could care less if i have a boyfriend. and i think i've forgiven both myself for not getting married and Lifeway for hurting my feelings.

7. i'm going to start shaving my legs more

8. i'm going to travel to the northwest.

9. i just don't have fear like i used to. i went skiing the other day for the first time in like 4 years, and I GOT UP ON THE FIRST TRY!!!!! i'm just livin.

Almond Syrup

Anyone who knows me knows that I am somewhat addicted to coffee. I think it's interesting because coffee truly is addictive (the INTERESTING thing about this is that coffee is an upper stimulant and it's legal. Marijuana is a downer stimulant and it's illegal. We humans allow with open widely open arms (and wallets) upper stimulants but not downers? hmm). I can be depressed and then go get a coffee, and I am happy. My friend Hailey and I do this often, we get coffee-hyper and happy after a morning of low-energy somewhat boring conversations. My sister texted me and said "I'm starting to feel excited and happy. It's the coffee slowly poisoning my sadness." after a morning of an overwhelming sense of purposelessness and frustration about life. I wonder sometimes if it is a sin, I don't think I'm being gluttonous (when I used to work at Starbucks, I would have 5 to 6 shots of espresso a day, which IS gluttonous and now I only do about 2, or the equivalent of that). I DO think I could be wiser with my money at times, when I'm feeling especially green.

There is a funny story I'd like to insert right here that may sound random, but I'm going stream of consciousness here. I was working in New Orleans at the Starbucks by my parents' home. There are a lot of VERY rich people in the area, and one particularly rich woman came in. She didn't take off her goggle sunglasses that consumed much of her emaciated face, and she ordered some huge very particular coffee drink. The order contained 7 or 8 titles. "Quad Venti half-nonfat, half-soy sugar free vanilla blah blah blah blah." No smile, no thank you, no hi, she simply needed her own coffee high. Well, a band named Bright Eyes, which is still kind of underground but kind of getting bigger, was playing through the speakers. The woman looked at me through her sunglasses, holding her huge coffee drink and demanded "Why are they on the speakers here? WHY ARE THEY SELLING OUT?!?! I can't believe this, WHY are they playing at STARBUCKS??" I was speechless, I literally could not believe the irony of it all as she stormed out. Talk about sellout.

Anyway, so the real point of this story is that Starbucks is dis-continuing the Almond Syrup. This is the only flavor I get in my coffee... It is my little treat, a moment of happiness in the midst of my day. It is delicious and scrumptious and I am going to try to buy as many bottles of almond syrup as I can before they're all gone. That's all, nothing deep. Well, nothing deeper than 12 ounces of espresso, milk, ice, and almond syrup.

plastic surgeons make mountains out of molehills all the time.

The above is a quote by Dolly Parton. This is one of the most amazing quotes I have ever read.

On the Road, but I'm not Jack Keroack.

I love hotels. Morgan, a good friend of mine is so disgusted by hotels that she won’t even take her shoes off, and she brings her own sheets!! But I can’t get ENOUGH of them!!! I just walked into a hotel (after watching 2 hours of Lost in the car); we’re in Tupelo, MS getting ready to do a show tonight, and we stopped in at the hotel first. And my heart just exploded because I had an overwhelming moment of gratitude. Well, it’s always good to write those down, right? So, here are the things, in no particular order, that I love about hotels:

The blackout shades: you could sleep until 2 p.m. and not even know it.
There are more than five channels and they’re all CLEAR. And the remote works.
The beds are made.
The feeling of vacation, because when you were young, hotels always meant vacation, which, for me, meant Disneyworld or Branson.
You can crank the a.c. or heater and you don’t have to worry about an electric bill.
My friend Whit once pointed out the brilliance of hotel showers, the curved rod at the top and the high water pressure.
The mirror next to the TV is ALWAYS a slimming mirror. Ladies, do your makeup there!
The window: which means a fresh perspective, even if that’s only a fresh perspective of the highway…it’s different from what you normally see, right? That’s song material.
Usually you get to a hotel after a long drive so a good stretch on the bed is wonderful.
My mom used to “christen” the hotel beds by laying on her back with her feet and arms in the air and making herself bounce, which was hilarious, but we always do it.

Of course there are the negatives:
I know I know, the bedspread never gets washed, who knows who was here before me, there’s always the temptation of porn late at night (which I will admit is not a struggle of mine, though you always hear in youth group how tempting it is), the drinking glasses only get wiped down and not soaked or scrubbed, and I always wonder if, while I’m changing or something, there’s a peephole that some pervert is watching me through. But why focus on the negative (and scary) when, as an adult, SOMEONE MAKES YOUR BED!!! AND RESTOCKS YOUR SHAMPOOS!!!

Life is incredibly mundane, people. I can only be thankful for what I have, and be a good steward of my thankfulness. So as I sit here for a few moments in the Wingate in cute little Tupelo, I will deny the possibility of nasty little scabies (which my hypochondriac mother taught me about) and filthy bedspreads, peeping toms and e-coli-infested drinking glasses. Maybe the maids don’t even LIKE my cheap jewelry. Instead of freaking, I will go christen the beds, make some coffee, and kick my shoes off for a little afternoon of cable. Little pleasures. Like Deb Talan of The Weepies says,

Can I get up in the morning, put the kettle on
Make us some coffee, say hey to the sun
Is it enough to write a song and sing it to the birds
When they hear just a tone and not understand my love for words

But you will hear me and know
I want to live this
I want to live a
I want to live a simple life.

Zitstache

I decided I'm going to write a book. The first chapter will say something like this:

I had just broken off my engagement and moved from Minnesota to New Orleans to be with my family and re-evaluate whether I really wanted to get married or not. My brothers love to point out my flaws, like how I sometimes have darker hair on my upper lip, or on my chin (which is gross, yes, but guess what? it happens sometimes). I was a complete wreck and sitting on the front porch with my mom, trying to get in touch with this obsessive compulsive psychiatrist because, well, some of us just go crazy when we go through bad break ups. My mom was sitting there for moral support and I could feel her looking over my face. The psychiatrist put me on hold and my supportive mother whispered, "Sair, you really DO need a lip wax." Inappropriate? Totally. My mother? Completely. She went inside and got the number to her lip waxer at Belladonna, a wonderland of smells, make-up, and all things rich trendy New Orleans. I called and made an appointment for the next day.

The women of the world who wax don't tell you how painful the first one is. I thought I was going to die as she ripped away at my skin, just chit-chatting like she wasn't physically abusing me. Why do people pay for this. And even worse, my mother had told her ALL about my break-up so she was offering her advice and how happy she was as a single woman. And how strong I was to have left Minnesota (this is not consolation, by the way, I can't tell you how many times I heard it though. I wonder if there are TONS of women who were so scared about the outcome that they just stayed in mediocre relationships... that seems devastating to me). So she yanked the hell out of the papers stuck to my eyebrows and upper lip and chin until she seemed satisfied. I swore to my body that I would never do that again. I immediately went to Audubon Park to exercise... all the websites and books about depression tell you to exercise! Well I guess the now-empty glands (since there were no more hair follicles) were too tender to have sweat drip into them. I walked around the park, not realizing that a microscopic volcanic eruption of sweat was pouring into the valleys of non-hair glands, slowly creating mountain after mountain of disgusting, painful pimples. But of course, they didn't fully develop until the next morning. So when I woke up, already wishing I was dead because of the breakup, I looked in the mirror to see a horrid, disgusting, nasty zitstache. It was like my face was giving me the finger. Or like on Arrested Development, when Tobias gets hair implants and as it grows, it's BEAUTIFUL but his body is rejecting it, so he just gets sicker and sicker but his hair grows gloriously. I try not to be shallow. But come on, a zit mustache? That's a hard one to just brush off. Especially given the circumstances. So the zits eventually faded (after like 3 weeks!!!), I got a job at a coffee shop, started going to a Presbyterian church and making friends, and life got better. Nothing gets good overnight though. It takes so much time. But it's good to look back on the suck moments and laugh. Which I do quite often.

Brangelina.

There are many people who roll their eyes when I start talking about my excessive useless information about famous people. And many people join in on the conversation, contributing their facts from Perez Hilton.com, US Weekly, People, etc. One time in a Bible study, someone pointed out that those magazines were gossip magazines and that it was sinful. For some reason, I SINCERELY did not know that they were slandering gossip magazines, and I was astonished that I was sinning whilst reading my mags, or rags if you will. I just read them while I work out at the Y, because it passes the time. Fluff is much easier to read than depth when your forcing yourself to practically have a heart attack on some ridiculous machine called "the wave" or "eliptical" (I'm not insulting these machines, I use them, but just think about it: when were "exercise machines" invented? maybe around the same time as McDonalds, perhaps. I am also not insulting because I am a HUGE fan of McDonalds and yes i have seen Supersize Me. There's nothing like a double cheeseburger sans onions add mayo, fries and a coke.) So anyway, I had a life-changing day in New Orleans over Christmas that has changed my reading patterns of Trashy Mags. In fact, just yesterday I was tempted with 4 different People Magazines, none that I had read, and I wasn't really that interested. So here it is.

I went to a Presbyterian Church in New Orleans when I moved from Minnesota to New Orleans for three months in the summer. The minister, Ray, had a daughter named Rachel. My sister told her I was a mermaid and she believed her so she thought I was really cool. So I've started to just take her out for the morning whenever I am in town. Over Christmas, I picked her up and we stopped by CC's, a delish coffee house in nola. She was assembling an advent gingerbread house that my mom gave her and I was sipping on my coffee while helping her. All the sudden, people started buzzing. I overheard the words Brad and Angelina. They have a house in the french quarter so there's always spottings. I overheard the baristas "Brad and Angelina are down at Pippen Lane. They've locked the doors and the paparazzi are outside." Pippen Lane is a children's store for rich children that is two doors down from CCs. So I immediately grabbed Rachel's hand and my fake Coach purse (thanks Aunt Libby) and we went to see Brangelina. I've never seen paparazzi before, but there they were, just standing outside waiting. I peeked in the front window and some guard said "they don't want you peeking in." Rachel peeked in too, and I guess the store owner saw us peeking in so, from inside, she motioned for us to come in. I went to the side door and the guard unlocked the door for us. The woman inside said, "are you shopping today?" I said "Yes. Yes we are." I guess she noticed the Coach purse, and the 4 year old in my hand. So we walked in and I whispered "Rachel, what size are you?" She whispered back her size and I just looked for them. My heart was pounding so hard, I don't know why now but I was THRILLED. And then I saw them. Brad and Angelina. No kids, just shopping. And they were short. I expected them to be tall. And they wore sunglasses. I thought that was kind of rock-star ish. So Rachel and I walked past them and Brad said something about bunny ears and she muttered something and they both sounded show-off-y to me. We walked in the back room and there was a huge dollhouse, tigers, and train tables. I sat down in the dollhouse with Rachel and whispered, "Rachel, these are two of the most famous people in all of the entire world!!" She looked outside of the playhouse and whispered back, without missing a beat "We have the same train table at our church." We both started laughing, for different reasons of course. And then we walked out. And the paparazzi said, "did you see them?" and they seemed to be excited for me. As I write this, I just sort of feel like it's all really disgusting now. I mean it was fun and a good story, but what kind of life is that? How can someone that famous even know what humility means? I struggle with pride, for crying out loud! How hard is it for a famous person to know humility? And even harder to know Jesus? That verse "it's harder for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven than a camel to enter through the eye of a needle." makes a lot more sense.

And now I'm sitting on a couch with a 2 year old raking my hair (she thinks she's brushing it) and she's just laughing like crazy. I read this quote on a starbucks card yesterday that talked about childhood as spinning for a living and smelling like cake-breath. Adulthood= coffe breath and meaningless jobs for a living. I don't know who's better off: Brangelina, or Pax, Maddox, Shiloh and Zaharah? Hmm.

Toby pees on every shrub, mailbox, electrical box, and anywhere else he wants to mark his territory and how I am like him

The family that I live with has a boxer named Toby. He has these ridiculously adorable and sad droopy eyes and jowls that hang down to the ground. I've been watching him since the fam is out of town and I've started taking him on very long walks in the morning (it's mostly selfish because I need to work out but I think Toby needs to get out, seeing as my arms are sore from him yanking me as hard as he possibly can because he's so thrilled to be out of the house). It's interesting how he doesn't recognize the word "crate" when he has to go into his crate in the morning, but when I say the word "walk," (or anything that rhymes with that, really) he looks at me, his ears perk up, his eyes look a little bit less sad, and his movements are stiff and excited and freak-out-ish. So, yesterday morning on our long walk, I started to try to feel a little poetic (because I love drama...speaking of, have you heard Brittney's pregnant again?) and so I focused on Toby and what similarities me, grown Christian woman actively pursuing God and learning about myself in this world and the world to come, and him, 3 year old skinny boxer (I'm telling you, my mind is a big broadway show). Well, he peed everywhere. On a shrub, on a spot of grass, on every mailbox, on huge electrical boxes, and when he heard other dogs, his ears perked up and he got stiff again. He was marking his territory. It was actually really funny because how in the WORLD does a dog have that much pee stored up? Granted, he was doing little squirts, but it was impressive, nonetheless. So, how in the world, in my 24 hours a day broadway play brain, did I relate to little Toby.

Well, a few weeks ago, I was talking to a friend at Fido (this very hip, waifish, dark, loud-music, tattoo, dirty hair, trendy glasses, weird artsy people hang out coffee shop...if Clare Danes and Jared Leto came to a coffee shop in My So Called Life, they'd definitely be here). We actually couldn't handle the music level so we went outside (Let me interject and say that although I'm coming down on Fido, it's because of my own insecurity. They do, however, serve the most AMAZING muffins...my personal fave is the not-so-short-almond-shortbread muffin, which is basically cake and i mouthgasm every time i eat the first bite, and they also have great coffee). So my friend: I was talking about how frustrated I was with this somewhat stagnant place of life because I was very successful in middle school, high school and college in terms of music. I was known as a great musician. I mean, I was a REALLY big deal (that's a joke, because the previous statement sounded cocky, but that was sort of my identity, which was often quite harmful). So my friend said, "Yeah, I remember you had a lot of accolades." And that conversation came back up into my head on my walk with Toby. Then I thought, "We all love to pee on our territory. Maybe not pee but at least "mark" it." And then I had this picture of me being a singer dog and peeing all over my middle school, all over my high school, all over the arts school that I went to, and all over my college. And then I graduated from college. And I got scared. I just held it in and my bladder started to really hurt but I held it in because I just didn't believe that my urine was good enough, I just kind of stopped believing in it slowly but surely, something creative inside of me was shriveling up and giving up. But I felt the reprocussions of it and got sick. So, I sold out to a few organizations, lost my voice, and moved to Minnesota to start over anew. But it got worse and I wasn't happy and I was making those who loved me miserable. So I had to be alone where it all started, in New Orleans. In the chaos of that crazy and art-saturated city, underneath the care of my practical successful father and my wildly expressive and overly dramatic mother, I learned to pee again. Out of the Bible belt, I remembered and learned who God was. And He taught me that not everyone would like that I was marking my territory because they wouldn't believe in my urine, and that was OK. And that is why I'm in Nashville writing like a crazy mad-woman, and I'm getting ready to URINATE all over this town come spring!!! So that is how I'm like Toby. And I know I am weird and I love it and if you don't love it, then why have you read this far? I mean really. I would like to dedicate this blog to the confident and full-bladdered dogs of the world.