Work today was an adventure, as always. It was day two of cleaning out the fixture room, and I was happily flinging unwanted cardboard boxes and plastic screws and heavy metal shelves into the large dumpsters left in the parking lot by the remodel construction crew. I had jumped at the chance to perform that specific task; not only was it a joy to be outdoors, to be soaked in sun and wind while working, but it was also fun to toss the various items into the dumpsters. Nobody was watching, so I could throw clothing racks like javelins, toss signs high enough that they floated and flipped in the air, and even whistle. There was nobody in that parking lot to hear me and to be annoyed.
As I was merrily going about my work, I looked up to see a huge flock of seagulls passing overhead. They were, I assumed, the kind of birds that inhabit parking lots across the country, finding comfort in a sea of black tar, and nourishment in empty slushie cups and shredded candy wrappers. Still staring up at them, I suddenly noticed that slimy white bullets were falling from their midst onto the pavement around me. I shrieked and ran for the store, dodging the hail of poop as if I were running across a battlefield through a torrent of bombs.
Once inside, I pawed at my hair and inspected my clothes until I was completely convinced that I had managed to escape the fecal attack unscathed. My coworkers laughed at me, of course. I didn't mind; I'm sure the sight of me bolting across the parking lot screaming was pretty funny. I had a good laugh myself afterwords. Not at my own antics, however, but at what I see as a deliberate practical joke carried out by that flock of seagulls.
And you know what? If I were a bird, I think I would get a kick out of doing the exact same thing.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
It's a Laugh
I had an interesting dream a few days ago, and I thought I'd share. The dream was so vivid that I actually still remember it, which doesn't happen very often. Here you go:
I was in a library with a bunch of other people (I think it was actually the old Forest Lake library), and there was an award ceremony of sorts going on. All of the people in the room were aspiring writers, and a list was being read aloud to them. The list had a bunch of book titles on it-books that had been written by the writers there, and were now being published (as the writers were just finding out through the reading of the list).
The deal was that if your book and name were on the list, you were supposed to go find the book on the shelves in the library and bring it back to the front. It was a kind of ritual, I guess.
Anyway, the title of a book was read from the list, and my name after it. In the dream I was confused, however, because I hadn't written the book; it was a well-established classic. For the life of me I can't remember the title, but I think it had something to do with a nightingale, or a bird of some sorts. Or maybe it was A Tale of Two Cities? I don't know.
So I went to grab the book, but when I flipped through it I saw that it was just the existing story, except in the form of a new edition. Apparently, a line that I had written made it into that new edition while it was being edited. I was the only one on the list who didn't write an entire book. Just one paragraph.
I wasn't embarrassed about that fact in the dream, however. I remember being honored and really proud of the line I had written.
Strange dream, huh? Especially strange because I never ever dream about writing or reading; my dreams are always (or usually) big, epic adventures. Nice change of pace, I guess.
Holly's Best Ever No. 2
Another thing I would like to touch on this fine evening is the power of laughter. We all know that it's been scientifically proven that laughing is good for you. Besides the science, even, laughing is simply fun. It feels good.
Despite these encouraging reasons to do it, it's not often that I laugh really, really hard. Tears rolling down my face, stomach hurting, lasts for about five minutes laugh. It's quite rare. Most of the time I guess I just do the little heh heh sort of laugh that is certainly genuine, but not as uplifting.
Tonight, however, I really laughed. It was while we were playing Mexican Train, and I won't explain the joke because if you don't know the game it won't make any sense at all to you. Needless to say, however, it was a funny moment. The laugh felt great as well, and seemed to fill me up and bring me down to earth at the same time. It also felt, as always, like something I should do more often. It felt like the best ever.
I was in a library with a bunch of other people (I think it was actually the old Forest Lake library), and there was an award ceremony of sorts going on. All of the people in the room were aspiring writers, and a list was being read aloud to them. The list had a bunch of book titles on it-books that had been written by the writers there, and were now being published (as the writers were just finding out through the reading of the list).
The deal was that if your book and name were on the list, you were supposed to go find the book on the shelves in the library and bring it back to the front. It was a kind of ritual, I guess.
Anyway, the title of a book was read from the list, and my name after it. In the dream I was confused, however, because I hadn't written the book; it was a well-established classic. For the life of me I can't remember the title, but I think it had something to do with a nightingale, or a bird of some sorts. Or maybe it was A Tale of Two Cities? I don't know.
So I went to grab the book, but when I flipped through it I saw that it was just the existing story, except in the form of a new edition. Apparently, a line that I had written made it into that new edition while it was being edited. I was the only one on the list who didn't write an entire book. Just one paragraph.
I wasn't embarrassed about that fact in the dream, however. I remember being honored and really proud of the line I had written.
Strange dream, huh? Especially strange because I never ever dream about writing or reading; my dreams are always (or usually) big, epic adventures. Nice change of pace, I guess.
Holly's Best Ever No. 2
Another thing I would like to touch on this fine evening is the power of laughter. We all know that it's been scientifically proven that laughing is good for you. Besides the science, even, laughing is simply fun. It feels good.
Despite these encouraging reasons to do it, it's not often that I laugh really, really hard. Tears rolling down my face, stomach hurting, lasts for about five minutes laugh. It's quite rare. Most of the time I guess I just do the little heh heh sort of laugh that is certainly genuine, but not as uplifting.
Tonight, however, I really laughed. It was while we were playing Mexican Train, and I won't explain the joke because if you don't know the game it won't make any sense at all to you. Needless to say, however, it was a funny moment. The laugh felt great as well, and seemed to fill me up and bring me down to earth at the same time. It also felt, as always, like something I should do more often. It felt like the best ever.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Our House
I've lived in this house for about 18 years now, which is the majority of my life. I've had my height marked numerous times on the wall behind the door in the laundry room. I've jammed golf balls in the mysterious pipe on the front lawn. I've sprayed a bottle of Coke all over the kitchen. I've had sleepovers on the floor of the living room. In short, I've lived in this house for about 18 years now (yes, the repetition was intentional- dramatic effect, you guys!).
Lived in it, but not really wondered about the history of it. Now, my house is certainly no historical marker. It was probably built sometime in the late '70's, early 80's. A boring period, I've always thought, and surely not a period to cause one to suspect one's house of being part of the underground railroad or haunted by a revolutionary war ghost or anything like that. My house is normal. Dated in some parts, but not antique-y. Not interesting.
That is, until about two days ago, when I overheard Mom chatting with some friends at a party we hosted. She was telling them that the people who owned the house before us sold it because they were in jail. Jail! Holy cow! Criminals slept in my bedroom?!
Well, I got the whole story from her later, and it's really not anything like that. Although my parents did buy the house through dealings with the son, because the parents were indeed in jail, they were not serial killers. They weren't even heroin addicts. They were protesters.
Apparently the couple was very, very pro-life, and was even part of a pro-life group called Lambs of Christ or something like that. They would go to abortion clinics quite frequently and protest, and I guess a few of their protests got out of hand because they were arrested and eventually sent to jail.
Funny, isn't it? My parents never even met them; like I said, they only ever met the son, although the parents had been the ones to decide to sell the house.
Overall it was an interesting story, and it's definitely nice to know a bit more about the people who walked the halls and cooked in the kitchen before us. And while I don't know them or even if they were nutso hippies or just two people with a cause they believed in, I'm glad they stood up for something. It's just unfortunate that they took it too far.
Our house is a very, very fine house
With two cats in the yard
Life used to be so hard
Now everything is easy
'Cause of you
Lived in it, but not really wondered about the history of it. Now, my house is certainly no historical marker. It was probably built sometime in the late '70's, early 80's. A boring period, I've always thought, and surely not a period to cause one to suspect one's house of being part of the underground railroad or haunted by a revolutionary war ghost or anything like that. My house is normal. Dated in some parts, but not antique-y. Not interesting.
That is, until about two days ago, when I overheard Mom chatting with some friends at a party we hosted. She was telling them that the people who owned the house before us sold it because they were in jail. Jail! Holy cow! Criminals slept in my bedroom?!
Well, I got the whole story from her later, and it's really not anything like that. Although my parents did buy the house through dealings with the son, because the parents were indeed in jail, they were not serial killers. They weren't even heroin addicts. They were protesters.
Apparently the couple was very, very pro-life, and was even part of a pro-life group called Lambs of Christ or something like that. They would go to abortion clinics quite frequently and protest, and I guess a few of their protests got out of hand because they were arrested and eventually sent to jail.
Funny, isn't it? My parents never even met them; like I said, they only ever met the son, although the parents had been the ones to decide to sell the house.
Overall it was an interesting story, and it's definitely nice to know a bit more about the people who walked the halls and cooked in the kitchen before us. And while I don't know them or even if they were nutso hippies or just two people with a cause they believed in, I'm glad they stood up for something. It's just unfortunate that they took it too far.
Our house is a very, very fine house
With two cats in the yard
Life used to be so hard
Now everything is easy
'Cause of you
Friday, July 9, 2010
High Noon
I'm especially fond of my picture/quote of the week this week. In case you're reading this later on, I put the picture above. Here's the quote:
"If it were possible to talk to the unborn, one could never explain to them how it feels to be alive, for life is washed in the speechless real."
-Jacques Barzun
I found that quote in the quote book I got from the library earlier this week. The last few words struck me the most: the speechless real. It's something I think about every so often. What does it even mean to be alive? How can we define it, and what can we even base the definition off of besides what we know? In fact, what is anything but what we perceive it to be?
I feel sometimes like nothing is real, and like we are mere puppets being bobbed from place to place by some great puppetmaster. I'm not talking about God, or even of my perception of God. Just someone or something. Like everything is out of our control and reality is only what the great someone makes it, and opportunities and challenges are placed in front of us while that great being laughs at our failings.
In this random imagining of mine, we're like Sims. We live our small lives and only brush other people when we're meant to. We do as we're told, except of course we think we're acting of our own accord. We eat when we're hungry, play the piano or read the newspaper when we're bored. Our children learn certain things like charisma and mechanical skills when they're only toddlers, although it doesn't stop them from growing up to be criminals if that's what the gamer wants them to be.
Gosh, this is sad to think about. I'm in kind of a sad mood, I guess. I just watched the movie High Noon with my dad. It's my very favorite Western; in fact, it's probably one of my favorite movies of all time in general. This was only my second time seeing it, but that's all it took. Anyway, it's not exactly the kind of movie you can watch often; it is sort of depressing when you really get to thinking about it.
A certain scene in High Noon struck me tonight, one that I don't remember noticing the first time through. It's the scene where Will Kane is trying to convince the judge to stay and fight with him, and the judge is packing his things, intending on leaving town. While they talk, the judge takes down the American flag he has tacked on the wall, folds it, and places it in his saddlebags.
Very symbolic, isn't it? With the removal of the flag, every semblance of the America we know, of the American way, of truth and justice, is gone from the town as well. Americans would never hide like cowards, watching from the windows of their comfortable homes while an innocent man stood alone against four malicious criminals. Well, they did in High Noon. They did in the Kitty Genovese case (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kitty_Genovese).
It makes me wonder (seems to be a theme tonight). Are all humans fundamentally cowards? When it comes down to it, are we really truly only willing to help others so long as we can walk away unscathed? I don't want to think so. I can't. There are good, brave people in this world. Lots of them. I hope to count myself among their ranks someday. And if we can't put our faith in them, in the belief that we can do as they do when called upon, then I don't think there is much to live for at all. Some people have faith in God, in nature, in themselves. I have faith in all of those things, but I think above all else I have faith in people. Maybe that's a fault of mine, but I'll stand by it nonetheless. We're amazing creatures, aren't we? Capable of so much, and constantly using our capabilities in as many ways as we can think of. It's intriguing and somewhat frightening, and it gives me hope.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Red Means Stop
Hello, my friends.
A few bits of my day that may interest you:
1. I ran my first (and hopefully only) red light. I didn't mean to, honestly! I'm ashamed to admit that I was making up a poem in my head and just blazed right through without noticing the intersection. Luckily, very luckily, I got through unscathed with only a blaring honk to ring in my head for the rest of the day. I felt so bad. I absolutely hate being honked at, but I definitely deserved it this time.
2. Went to the library to check out Eat, Pray, Love. All four copies were checked out (due, I'm sure, to the fact that the movie comes out soon), so I had to put myself on the list. I'm number 19. So it will be awhile, I think.
3. In lieu of E.P.L., I got two items: The Oxford Dictionary of Modern Quotations, and the movie High Noon.
4. Wrote a story last night. A three pager. It took me exactly an hour and seventeen minutes to write, and a sporadic day to edit. I'm planning on entering it in the Firstlinefiction contest at the end of the month, so I have plenty of time to make it wonderful.
5. My nose is blistering from the sunburn. It looks gross and is a cruel reminder that I was stupid and didn't use sunscreen.
6. I thoroughly cleaned my bathroom today. Partly because Dad said I had to, and partly because I was in the mood to kneel in the tub with a Magic Eraser and some great music and just go. This mood occurs only about once a year, of course.
A few bits of my day that may interest you:
1. I ran my first (and hopefully only) red light. I didn't mean to, honestly! I'm ashamed to admit that I was making up a poem in my head and just blazed right through without noticing the intersection. Luckily, very luckily, I got through unscathed with only a blaring honk to ring in my head for the rest of the day. I felt so bad. I absolutely hate being honked at, but I definitely deserved it this time.
2. Went to the library to check out Eat, Pray, Love. All four copies were checked out (due, I'm sure, to the fact that the movie comes out soon), so I had to put myself on the list. I'm number 19. So it will be awhile, I think.
3. In lieu of E.P.L., I got two items: The Oxford Dictionary of Modern Quotations, and the movie High Noon.
4. Wrote a story last night. A three pager. It took me exactly an hour and seventeen minutes to write, and a sporadic day to edit. I'm planning on entering it in the Firstlinefiction contest at the end of the month, so I have plenty of time to make it wonderful.
5. My nose is blistering from the sunburn. It looks gross and is a cruel reminder that I was stupid and didn't use sunscreen.
6. I thoroughly cleaned my bathroom today. Partly because Dad said I had to, and partly because I was in the mood to kneel in the tub with a Magic Eraser and some great music and just go. This mood occurs only about once a year, of course.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Something Russian
Okay so I'm just going to blog I think. It's about 1:39 a.m. here, and I've been trying to fall asleep for the past 4 hours. No joke. I've done just about everything to try to help myself fall asleep:
I started reading Crime and Punishment.
I put aloe on my sunburn.
I crept out of bed and turned on the air conditioning.
I imagined things.
But if there's one thing I've learned in my almost 20 years of life, it's that there's absolutely no point to tossing and turning in bed when you know you won't be able to sleep.
My Fourth of July (if you'll excuse the abrupt change of topic,) has actually been fairly uneventful (in fact, if you're having trouble sleeping as well, this post may help you). We spent part of the weekend anchored in Big Bay, Madeline Island, Lake Superior, Wisconsin (sorry but I felt clarification was necessary). While Mom and Dad chatted and waded on shore with a bunch of other, older boaters, Amy and I pretty much sat on the back deck with the dogs and read all day Saturday. Hence the sunburn.
We headed back to the harbor Saturday night, and I happily slept through the first few hours of the Fourth. This morning (or yesterday morning technically, but you know what I mean) I awoke to the boat rocking fairly violently. Apparently, there was some sort of storm coming, so we decided to just pack up and start the drive home early so as to avoid it. While everyone else carried stuff to the car, I sat by the dogs to make sure Ruby didn't do another nose dive into the water (she did one Saturday morning and one of our neighbors had to rescue her; she can swim and all, but since she was tied up the leash was sort of strangling her as she paddled).
Once we were home and unpacked, I promptly got into bed and slept for three hours (certainly a factor of my current insomnia). After dinner we played Mexican train, and then drifted off to do separate things. I showered and headed back to bed. And here I am, 4 hours later. Still here, still awake.
You know, I wouldn't mind this at all if I weren't so sure that work will be an absolute nightmare tomorrow if I'm exhausted from lack of sleep. I really do like this time of night (or day (again, if we're being technical)).
Crime and Punishment, eh (gosh, I fail at segues)? I guess I can elaborate on that a bit. I got the book for a graduation present from a neighbor who lives down the street from me. It was actually really sweet of him to give it to me; I don't know him especially well or anything like that. It's a beautiful edition, too. Heavy and green and embossed with gold on the side. Beautifully intimidating.
I've been meaning to read it for this past year, but just haven't got around to it. It is a rather large undertaking. It is Russian. But I'm hoping that if I make a goal of getting through a few chapters a day, and if I have another book going on the side, it won't be too bad. Oh no, I'm sorry if I'm making this out to be a punishment (no pun intended with the title) of sorts. I'm sure that I'll enjoy it once I get started (it's not a classic for nothing), it's simply that with books like this, getting started is usually the tough part.
What is really making me adamant about reading Crime and Punishment (you might as well know before you erect a statue in my honor), is that I had a dream about it the other night. I don't remember much of the dream, just that in it I read Crime and Punishment, and I was telling someone that I had read it, and they were quite impressed with me. That's it.
Above all else, though, I think I'm slightly being guilted by the fact that a 19-almost-20-year-old English major who has never read anything Russian is slightly disappointing, and slightly at a disadvantage to all the other 19-almost-20 English majors who have read heavy Russian novels.
Alright, I think I'll leave off on the rambling and try once again to get to sleep.
A final shout out to the neighbors: the Fourth of July has been over for two hours and twelve minutes now. Please cease the fireworks and the wild hollering so that your lovely neighbor's upcoming attempt to drift off will not be in vain. Thanks much.
I started reading Crime and Punishment.
I put aloe on my sunburn.
I crept out of bed and turned on the air conditioning.
I imagined things.
But if there's one thing I've learned in my almost 20 years of life, it's that there's absolutely no point to tossing and turning in bed when you know you won't be able to sleep.
My Fourth of July (if you'll excuse the abrupt change of topic,) has actually been fairly uneventful (in fact, if you're having trouble sleeping as well, this post may help you). We spent part of the weekend anchored in Big Bay, Madeline Island, Lake Superior, Wisconsin (sorry but I felt clarification was necessary). While Mom and Dad chatted and waded on shore with a bunch of other, older boaters, Amy and I pretty much sat on the back deck with the dogs and read all day Saturday. Hence the sunburn.
We headed back to the harbor Saturday night, and I happily slept through the first few hours of the Fourth. This morning (or yesterday morning technically, but you know what I mean) I awoke to the boat rocking fairly violently. Apparently, there was some sort of storm coming, so we decided to just pack up and start the drive home early so as to avoid it. While everyone else carried stuff to the car, I sat by the dogs to make sure Ruby didn't do another nose dive into the water (she did one Saturday morning and one of our neighbors had to rescue her; she can swim and all, but since she was tied up the leash was sort of strangling her as she paddled).
Once we were home and unpacked, I promptly got into bed and slept for three hours (certainly a factor of my current insomnia). After dinner we played Mexican train, and then drifted off to do separate things. I showered and headed back to bed. And here I am, 4 hours later. Still here, still awake.
You know, I wouldn't mind this at all if I weren't so sure that work will be an absolute nightmare tomorrow if I'm exhausted from lack of sleep. I really do like this time of night (or day (again, if we're being technical)).
Crime and Punishment, eh (gosh, I fail at segues)? I guess I can elaborate on that a bit. I got the book for a graduation present from a neighbor who lives down the street from me. It was actually really sweet of him to give it to me; I don't know him especially well or anything like that. It's a beautiful edition, too. Heavy and green and embossed with gold on the side. Beautifully intimidating.
I've been meaning to read it for this past year, but just haven't got around to it. It is a rather large undertaking. It is Russian. But I'm hoping that if I make a goal of getting through a few chapters a day, and if I have another book going on the side, it won't be too bad. Oh no, I'm sorry if I'm making this out to be a punishment (no pun intended with the title) of sorts. I'm sure that I'll enjoy it once I get started (it's not a classic for nothing), it's simply that with books like this, getting started is usually the tough part.
What is really making me adamant about reading Crime and Punishment (you might as well know before you erect a statue in my honor), is that I had a dream about it the other night. I don't remember much of the dream, just that in it I read Crime and Punishment, and I was telling someone that I had read it, and they were quite impressed with me. That's it.
Above all else, though, I think I'm slightly being guilted by the fact that a 19-almost-20-year-old English major who has never read anything Russian is slightly disappointing, and slightly at a disadvantage to all the other 19-almost-20 English majors who have read heavy Russian novels.
Alright, I think I'll leave off on the rambling and try once again to get to sleep.
A final shout out to the neighbors: the Fourth of July has been over for two hours and twelve minutes now. Please cease the fireworks and the wild hollering so that your lovely neighbor's upcoming attempt to drift off will not be in vain. Thanks much.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Smorgasbord
This is what happens when I'm stuck guarding the back door at Target while the real guard is taking her break. We need a guard because since we have construction going on in the store, there are lots of people coming and going. My job is to make sure no one unauthorized enters or exits the building. And that no one authorized or unauthorized leaves with a flatscreen.
It's a very boring job, actually, because all you can really do is sit there. I doodled a bit at first; I sketched a shopping cart that was parked a few feet away. I tried to make a crossword puzzle (harder than you would think). Then I finally wrote up two lists, which I thought I would share with you.
10 Things I Hate:
1. When people don't laugh at my jokes. Come on folks; surely you can spare a pity laugh at least!
2. Cardboard. It's heavier than it looks, it gives you awful paper cuts, and it is absolutely no fun to handle for hours on end while building gaudy yellow back-to-school shelf displays.
3. First Impressions.
4. Walmart.
5. Allergies. I've been waking up with Voldemort-red eyes for a good week now.
6. That awkward moment when you're walking towards someone who's also walking towards you, but you're still so far away that you don't know if you should start the eye contact right away, or just look to the side or at the ground until you're within 'hey' distance.
7. Fluorescent lighting.
8. Dirty hands.
9. School supply displays in stores on July 1st.
10. Leaving my car headlights on.
10 Things I Love:
1. Conversations like this:
Me: (looking at a pile of boxes of various sizes that we had to unpack and shelve) "I hate to use this word, but what we have here is a smorgasbord"
Matt: (coworker) "What, is that like a Harry Potter term?"
Me: "Uh, not exactly."
*Note-as I was writing up this list, Matt actually walked up and tried to see what I was writing. I covered the list with my arm and had to think of some dumb excuse, because I didn't want him to be insulted or anything. Not that I'm quite making fun of him; it was just a funny/awkward moment.
2. Nice people.
3. Driveway basketball.
4. Movie trailers.
5. Getting through a yellow light right before it turns red so that all the cars behind you have to stop.
6. Subaru Outbacks. Don't ask me why.
7. When men (or women, I guess) smell good.
8. The jar on my dresser that's halfway full of spare change. I can't wait to cash that baby in!
9. When people have smiles that crinkle up the corners of their eyes.
10. Chickadees.
That's all, folks. By the way, I think I love my new hair. For awhile back there I felt like Jo in Little Women after she sold her hair for money for her sick father. Well, my father is fine; he's sleeping on the couch currently. And I feel good and confidant and happy.
It's a very boring job, actually, because all you can really do is sit there. I doodled a bit at first; I sketched a shopping cart that was parked a few feet away. I tried to make a crossword puzzle (harder than you would think). Then I finally wrote up two lists, which I thought I would share with you.
10 Things I Hate:
1. When people don't laugh at my jokes. Come on folks; surely you can spare a pity laugh at least!
2. Cardboard. It's heavier than it looks, it gives you awful paper cuts, and it is absolutely no fun to handle for hours on end while building gaudy yellow back-to-school shelf displays.
3. First Impressions.
4. Walmart.
5. Allergies. I've been waking up with Voldemort-red eyes for a good week now.
6. That awkward moment when you're walking towards someone who's also walking towards you, but you're still so far away that you don't know if you should start the eye contact right away, or just look to the side or at the ground until you're within 'hey' distance.
7. Fluorescent lighting.
8. Dirty hands.
9. School supply displays in stores on July 1st.
10. Leaving my car headlights on.
10 Things I Love:
1. Conversations like this:
Me: (looking at a pile of boxes of various sizes that we had to unpack and shelve) "I hate to use this word, but what we have here is a smorgasbord"
Matt: (coworker) "What, is that like a Harry Potter term?"
Me: "Uh, not exactly."
*Note-as I was writing up this list, Matt actually walked up and tried to see what I was writing. I covered the list with my arm and had to think of some dumb excuse, because I didn't want him to be insulted or anything. Not that I'm quite making fun of him; it was just a funny/awkward moment.
2. Nice people.
3. Driveway basketball.
4. Movie trailers.
5. Getting through a yellow light right before it turns red so that all the cars behind you have to stop.
6. Subaru Outbacks. Don't ask me why.
7. When men (or women, I guess) smell good.
8. The jar on my dresser that's halfway full of spare change. I can't wait to cash that baby in!
9. When people have smiles that crinkle up the corners of their eyes.
10. Chickadees.
That's all, folks. By the way, I think I love my new hair. For awhile back there I felt like Jo in Little Women after she sold her hair for money for her sick father. Well, my father is fine; he's sleeping on the couch currently. And I feel good and confidant and happy.
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