Because I spent 2.5 hours in the kitchen yesterday baking and icing cakes.

And my intention was to make it into a few blog posts for your viewing, reading, and baking pleasure.

And I photographed every step because I used my Big Top Cupcake Bake Set and took lots of pictures and created funny captions in my mind as I went and I laughed out loud more than once.

[Because I tend to think I'm far more hilarious than anyone else thinks I am.]

Then.

My camera, sitting quietly on the window sill above the sink, decided to do a double back tuck with a full twist dive into a bowl full of water.

The camera got a great score from the Russian judge, but the splash was too much for the Korean judge.

[Personification is all the rage this season.]

As for me, it was full on panic.

I dropped a cupcake mid-icing swirl and scooped out my camera. I shook it [like a Polaroid picture] and ejected my memory card and battery. Then I shook it some more. Then I blew into it like we used to do to Nintendo cartridges.

Then, in my typical out-of-sight-out-of-mind fashion, I threw them on the back porch in the sunshine and got back to icing the cupcakes.

Now he sits, that Greg Louganis of a camera, in a cup full of brown rice. I’m hoping brown rice does the trick from diving cameras like white rice does for cell phones that take a dip in Diet Coke.

So hopefully later this week I can show you pictures from my dry and working camera- pictures of the huge blue Kansas University cupcake and all the hilarity that went into making it.

Or I’ve just wasted a perfectly good box of Uncle Ben’s whole grain brown rice.

And that would be a real shame.

After I blogged about running/walking/crawling the Seaside Half Marathon last week, a whole bunch of you left comments or emailed me saying that you too would be running this race.

That’s crazy cool.

Except.

You’re probably going to beat me. Which I’m actually fine with. I’m going to finish. I’ll be the blogger behind you.

This is more of just a public service announcement that if you are here, and you plan on heading to pick up your packet on Saturday, let’s meet up and take a picture! How cutey-patootie would THAT be?

So we don’t know exactly what time we’ll head to pick up our packets – it depends on the weather. But we’ll be there way before dinner- more towards the noonish side of the event. Probably before 3? Look for any of these six girls and come up and say hi! [I've prepped them- they are excited to meet you!]

Seriously! Let’s have a meet up! Let’s meet! And chat! About racing! And take a picture! And I’m excited! Apparently!

Check on twitter @annieblogs because I’ll say when we go to pick up our packets. Also, @reply me when you head in and we’ll all find each other.

It’ll be like friends meeting up…. except we’ll be meeting for the first time. So, that’ll be kinda awkward, but we’ll be so excited about the 13 miles in our future that the awkward will just evaporate.

Yay for Seaside!

A few years ago, I wanted to paint my fingernails yellow.

Caroline told me no. I don’t remember why. Probably because it wasn’t cool in 2007 or because she knew that I wasn’t cool enough to pull it off in 2007.

But I’m cool enough now.

Our hilariously belated Christmas gift from Barrett at Mocha Club was a manicure for the three girls on staff. Knowing we were all headed to the beach for the RACE OF A LIFETIME I CAN’T WAIT THIS IS GONNA BE AN AWESOME 13 MILES!, we decided to get fresh manicures for the torture race.

And this color called to me, just like it did back in 2007.

There she is, in all of her “OPI Shrek Forever After Brights Collection” glory. Fiercely Fiona. Yellow. Bright. Me likey.

With the full confidence in Caroline’s approval at this state of life, I went for it.

I was fierce. I was Fiona.

And I love it. I mean, so much. The beauty, dare I say the fierceness, distracts me multiple times a day and I just stare down at my own nails.

Look how cute our hands are!

The other two. They are so lovely and normal.

I, on the other hand [punny!], I am not normal.

I am fierce.

And Fiercely Fionas are the kind of girls who finish half-marathons.

Booyah.

. . . . . . . . . .

OPI has some of the greatest nail polish names. Do you have a favorite?

Yesterday at the Mocha Club office, a co-worker asked Emily and I if we were ready for the half-marathon on Sunday.

Emily said, “Uh, nope.”

I said, “Uh, yes.”

Emily has been training. Faithfully. Like, following some sort of program that she got from some running expert.

I? Not so much.

Our boss Barrett knows this. So Barrett looks at Emily, looks at me, and says, “I think when Emily says no, she means that she isn’t quite done with her training program. When Annie says yes, she means that she has legs that move so that makes her think she is ready.”

Touche, Barrett. You know me well.

I’m at my parents’ house tonight and we are watching American Idol and talking about how much we love Annie Parsons.

Annie was one of my very very first friends in Nashville and for the rest of my life when I list the people that I insist of keeping in my life no matter what geography says, Annie is on that list.

Towards the top.

She is loving and kind and a joy to be around. She gives past what you would think she is capable of giving. She’s funny. She’s the best. She will win your heart in an absolute second.

And tomorrow, she leaves for Haiti.

I would love.love.love. if AnnieBlogs-ies would go over to THIS POST ON HOOTENANNIE and leave her a comment of well wishes, prayers, verses, whatever God lays on your heart.

It would mean a lot to me if you would take two minutes and do this.

Remember Proverbs 16:24–

“Pleasant words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.”

Let’s flood that girl with love. In the words of Jason from two seasons ago of The Bachelor, let’s send her “on the wings of love.”

[you're welcome for that little Bach moment.]

You may or may not recall this, but I have made a really bad decision.

I’ve paid real American money to compete in a half-marathon.

Thirteen miles.

Next Sunday.

Only nine days from today.

And seriously. What a dumb decision. I don’t like running. I never have. I loved playing soccer, but not because of the running part- because of the kicking the ball part.

In Scotland, I joined a gym and ran a bit and tried to keep up with training. But, I’ll just remind you again, I didn’t enjoy it.

I still don’t.

And I’m way behind on training.

This week, I did a four mile run. [FOUR out of THIRTEEN, mind you.] And I came close to expiring.

Not perspiring. [I was doing that. By the bucket-full.]

EXPIRING.

It was ugly.

And now I have nine days until I have to actually go for thirteen straight miles. I won’t run the whole thing. I won’t. [And you can't make me.] But I will finish. I mean, it may take me 4-5 hours and feel like a total waste of my Sunday morning at the beach, but I’m finishing.

AND.

I just read on the website that I can actually get the new Vera Bradley bag the DAY BEFORE THE RACE. Not good- that was a major push to make me finish. Yikes. I should not have read that.

[I love Vera. I run for Vera. Sorry- I was born in Georgia. It's in our blood.]

The only major highlight is that a handful of Nash-ladies are taking Southwest Airlines to the beach and staying in Seaside for the weekend.

I mean, I’ll enjoy Friday, Saturday, and Monday.

Sunday is still up in the air.

And if I don’t survive the race, you can have my car. And by “you”, I mean “my college friend Caren” because I’ve always promised to leave her the Camry in my will.

If I survive [I *probably* will], please don’t let me do this again.

I’m building a IT’S ONLY A HALF-MARATHON SUCK IT UP SISTER PLAYLIST to listen to while I run. I need at least 3 hours of jams. [That's a conservative estimate.... let's go for 4 hours.]

Help me out– what’s your favorite upbeat song?

Also– any advice for a first time [last time] half-marathoner?

I love The Bachelor.

I hope you do too. [Otherwise, this post is going to be daunting for you.]

For starters, I like all the girls that are left. Emily is the cutest and she used to live here in Nashville apparently and the whole of her Nash-life adores her. [I love rumors.] Ashley is cute, but she’s a goner. Let’s be honest. Chantal is my personal favorite because I think she is treating this like she would any relationship- I think what you see is what you get and I like that in a girl.

[That sounds creepy. I mean, I like that in a girl when she is on The Bachelor. For me personally, I like that in a boy. I like boys.]

Speaking of boys, I almost passed out when @BradWomack started following me on twitter. And I forwarded the email to my Bachelor-watching pals and said, “Um. YOU ARE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS!”

I took some screen shots. Because it is not every day that THE BACHELOR! follows you on twitter.

[And oh sheesh. I'm just realizing that I cleaned off my desktop yesterday and threw away those screen shots. That is annoying.]

Now you are never going to believe me. But I promise- I was one of the first 50 people that he followed.

My Bach-friend said, “Oh, he must have become a Christian so he wants to follow other Christians.”

To which I said, “You are a sweet sweet lamb and that is not at all how it goes.”

Here’s my thoughts: I tweeted about watching four episodes of The Bachelor on Saturday. [Because I am dedicated and focused and I was out of the country for four weeks and knew that there were some pressing matters I needed to take care of when I came home. Like watching The Bach.] And @BradWomack started his twitter account on the same day. So he probably just searched “The Bachelor” and found me, followed me, hoping that I would follow back.

Or.

He found me and thinks we would be great friends.

Or.

He searched for single girls in their 30s [barely] in case he doesn’t pick anyone and needs another round of ladies.

Or.

We are actually real life friends so it makes total sense for him to follow me and read my tweets. [I wish.]

Or.

@BradWomack isn’t the REAL Brad Womack. [That's what Chris Harrison says- that none of the girls or Brad are on twitter.]

No matter.

The thrill is still there, even if the screen shots aren’t.

But if you look through who @BradWomack is following, you’ll totally see me on this list. And I have kept my fingers crossed constantly that this is really him and that at some point, we might actually be friends.

[Sue me. I think he would be fun to hang out with. In a totally non-dating way. Seriously. I don't want him to give me a rose. Ever.]

Let’s chat.

Do you watch The Bachelor?

Who do you hope he picks? [Don't reveal spoilers!!! Just reveal your strongest opinions.]

Who do you think will be the next Bachelorette?

I cleaned my car on Saturday.

First I’ll tell you about a discovery while cleaning. Then I will tell you the reason for the cleaning.

Story #1: A Discovery While Cleaning

My bestie Betsy was in town and we drove through the car wash. Deep conversation. A small bag of M&Ms. Paying a dollar extra for the undercarriage spray. You know, typical stuff.

And then we vacuumed.

[Let me tell you this nugget of history- I have driven my Toyota Camry for 8 years and 160,000 miles. That's relevant here.]

[But you know I've never felt the need to only tell you "relevant" things.]

[Like it is not relevant that my steering wheel squeaks constantly in the winter and the air conditioner squeals loudly in the summer. But that's funny, right? I think so.]

Anyways, back to the vacuum story.

When I pulled out the driver floor mat [aka- my floor mat, where my feet have pushed pedals for the majority of those 160,000 miles], there was a hole in it.

My right heel has worn a hole straight through it.

In the shape of India.

About the size of a half dollar.

I laughed, held it up to Betsy, and said, “Bets, check it out!” while looking at her through the little India half dollar hole.

And do you know what she called me?

Fred Flintstone.

Rude.

Story #2: Here’s Why We Had To Clean The Car.

On December 16, a bunch of ladies went out to dinner for Marisa‘s birthday. I drove four of my friends. It was a rainy night so our friend Melissa brought her rain boots. We went out to dinner, then to see Andrew Ripp in concert [He killed. He's one of the best.], then home. Melissa rode home with her roomies and left her boots in my car.

A few days later, my roomie Laura and I are riding around discussing the fact that my car smelled to HIGH HEAVEN. The rain boots. Lordy. They smelled.

But I kept meaning to give them back to Melissa, so I left them in my car.

The smell had an ebb and flow to it- some days, specifically the warmer ones, the car stunk like whoa. On the cold days, it was practically gone. [That's relevant.]

Friday afternoon, almost one month after the boots moved into the Camry, I finally took them out to give to Melissa.

Wanna know why I had to clean my car?

BECAUSE A CHINESE TAKE OUT CONTAINER FULL OF FOOD WAS INSIDE ONE OF THE BOOTS.

Full. Of. Chinese. Food.

For. One. Month.

I am practically gagging just telling you about it.

And why the ebb and flow of nostril abuse? Because the food kept freezing and thawing.

[Okay, seriously. I did just gag there.]

So. You can obviously see now why I had to get my car washed. And vacuumed. And why there are now two dryer sheets in my car- one in the front and one in the back. Because if some smell is going to be allowed to mature in my backseat, I’d like it to be “fresh breeze” please. Not kung-pao chicken.

I’ve also posted a note for my backseat passengers in hopes of preventing this from ever happening again.

Dear friend,

Please do not leave food in my back seat. Apparently I am slow to identify and clean it out. And leftovers stuffed in rubber boots makes me gag.

Sincerely,

Fred Flintstone

. . . . .

Sidenote: I’m headed to Scotland today. Whoa.

I got two gifts this Christmas that I just must tell you about. I love them and you have the chance to love them as well.

[These gifts were not given as a "will you blog about me?" gift. These were real gifts. From the Magi. I'm kidding. I'm not Jesus. But I thought that was funny. Maybe not...]

VARSITY LETTERS

Santa provided this first gift in my stocking. And after having to spend last evening cheering for Auburn because they are the SEC team, it was nice to snuggle into my bed and see this pretty letters….

straight from UGA’s campus! How cool is that? They have photographed letters on multiple campuses around the southeast, and will continue to expand. I think these are awesome and I love my Dawgs.

Hop over there and check it out- especially if you know someone graduating this spring or an Auburn fan [barf] or if you just like pretty photographs of abstract letters.

Interesting sidenote: I knew a guy in college who always used “godawgssicem” as his password. That is too long and doesn’t have numbers or characters, so it wouldn’t be effective now. But isn’t that weird? Easy to remember if you go to Georgia though. GO DAWGS SIC EM!

I hope he doesn’t mind me telling you that.

. . . . . . . . . .

HOPE SEWN JOURNALS

I got home one night in December from a very romantic dinner date [complete lie] and sitting on my porch was a sweet little Christmas gift.

I opened it and immediately recognized that bird!

MR. DARCY!!

Sweet Hollie had made me one of her Hope Sewn Journals with my own personal bird! I was thrilled. I think her journals are absolutely beautiful and I thought you may want to know that she has her own Etsy Store and you can get a journal too.

I’m a maj picky journal person. Just ask my sister Sally who still is a bit scarred by the Journal Gifting Incident of 2003 involving she and I and Christmas and a unlined journal. But with this trip to Scotland next week, and having officially stalled out on my current journal [know what I mean?], I will start writing in my Hope Sewn journal this week.

You know, writing things like:

“This is gonna be so fun!”

“I DON’T WANNA GO! I’M SCARED!”

“Scotland is going to be the coolest experience ever.”

“Scotland is a terrible idea. Why don’t you just stay HOME?!?”

You know, the typical ‘under-this-awesome-is-a-massive-pile-of-scary’ journal entries.

Ooookkkaayy…. this fun and cool gift blog post just took a sudden left turn into my scary place. So we’ll stop here for today.  [I'm gonna talk about my minor Scotland freak outs later this week, don't you worry about that. Just not right now.]

See y’all tomorrow.

I have always wanted to have a really cool hobby. I don’t know… it just seems like stamp collectors and quilters [props to the other Annie Downs!] and antiquers all have super cool hobbies and can go to conferences and speak their own language and such.

I’m jealous.

Since writing is my full-time gig, I’ve been looking for a hobby not involving words. I love.love.love. to read, but when I sit at a computer and write all the livelong day, those 26 letters camp on my last nerve. So I need a break from the letters ALL THE LETTERS IN MY HEAD. So reading quickly loses it’s relaxation points during a season of intense writing.

I tried to learn piano, but my fingers are just a smidge too chubby to really enjoy the experience. Like little sausages, they are. I dare not display my guitar skillz here in Nashville [pitiful stuff], and I tried to be a painter once but even my unconditionally supportive sister Sally recognized my lack in that department.

So. All that rambling to say I felt hobby-less. Which is like homeless, except totally different. As my friend Jeremy says, I have what we like to call a “first-world problem,” this whole lacking a hobby thing. [People in third-world countries aren't really pouting about what to do with all their free time. I am, without doubt, a spoiled brat. But, a brat with no hobby. And now we're back full circle and you feel sorry for me again. See how I did that? Hobby-less. That was me.]

photo courtesy of Real Simple

Until…

I realized I have a hobby.

ORGANIZING.

I love to organize. To stack and file and straighten. To put away and throw away and collect together. I love it all.

I have been helping a few of my freelance friends here in Nashville set up their offices, organize their calendars, and categorize their email inboxes.

For some, this would be torture.

But for me? There is no more lovely a sight then that of an empty inbox and a color-coded calendar hanging on the wall. Throw in a clean file cabinet, and I.AM.DONE.FOR.

I guess you know it is a for real hobby when you won’t let people pay you to do it. Or when you think, “if there was an organizing conference, I would TOTES go.” [that's weird, but true.] I was talking on the phone last night with the family I will be staying with in Scotland and the father said, “well, I could use some help organizing a bit in my office.”

I said, “Dear sir, you have gone and made what was going to be an absolutely perfect trip even more perfect-er. How dare you.”

[No I didn't. But I thought it.]

So now, not only do I get to live in Scotland and have tea with the Queen and the Lochness monster every day, I also get to organize an office.

My creative brain pays the billz. My organizer brain gives me rest and rejuvenation. I spend all day trying to CREATE new things- organizing allows me just to put already created things into their right place. Chaos to clean. That’ll be the title of my next book.

[No it won't.]

I am, without doubt, an absolute freak.

But at least I have a hobby.

Amen.

. . . . .

What I really want to know is what is your favorite hobby? I bet you do something really cool with your free time. Tell me about it!