The things I forgot to tell you about China . . .

I want to nuzzle somebody.

That's it. I want a lion for my birthday. August 14th.

Come on people. Work some B-day magic.

Flour fight. My place. 5 minutes.

Girls and boys . . .

Dreams do come true. Due to the generosity of my lovely lovely friend Patrick (a true Southern gentleman), I now am the proud owner of an Anthropology apron (photos to come). Not only have I successfully made those cupcakes (future site of next photo) that gave me all that trouble a week or so ago , but I didn't once (NOT ONCE) run into any door jams or walls whilest in this magical apron.


I AM A DOMESTIC GODDESS (if possible, enter photo here of me standing on top of a mountain, with a chocolaty (yes that's the correct spelling . . . I looked it up) spoon in the up-stretched fist, which is proudly thrust towards the heavens. Make there is an appropriate amount of blazing eyes and blowing Farrah Facet hair . . . and can I be a bit more busty? Just maybe. I think it would emphasize my Princess Leia Dress and hot new apron. The setting behind me is large sun burst, and a cornucopia of fireworks and dragons fighting with fiery spatulas and rock stars begging to father my babies.)

Ahem . . . GODDESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"She had a bullet-proof smile."

I'm 8:57 PM according to my iMac . . . although my phone says it's closer to 3 AM.  I want to sit the two next to each other and watch them duke it out.  Does anyone know where I can get really tiny boxing gloves?

#5. You asked me to dance when the credits were rolling, and I said "Are you kidding?"  But you did know how to tuck a girl in right.  I guess you had some redeeming qualities.

Have you burnt me up yet?  Have you boxed me up?  Have you licked the last bit of crumbs from your fingers and given up the ghost?

Today I received three very beautiful compliments. Not once was my level of attractiveness referred to as part of said compliments, which actually made each compliment more poignant. (note: has anyone else ever wanted a compli-mint? Not only would they make your soul feel bright, but you would end up with more kissable breath. I think I'm going to start handing out sprigs of spearmint whenever I say niceties to people.)

I was never very good at math.  3/4 of the boys I have crushes on have significant others.  Something is wrong with this equation.

My current obsession with taking my vitamins probably roots in my past life as an addict.  I think I also accidently used the term "tweaking out" today.

I miss when Kalvin used to say "geeking out" . . . probably my favorite term ever.

Every time I listen to Tom Waits I feel like I'm living like I would have if I would have been with you (you you, not YOU, but you).  OR that I'm living the opening scene to the movie "Wristcutters" (definitely in my top ten).  "She thought she had the moon in her pocket."

#11. Time stopped.  It still does.  Come back and haunt me.

I have lately indulged in my guilty pleasure of bad bad bad pop-punk music videos and wanting to dress utilizing fishnets.  I really should seek help if I do this more than once a month.  I'm eliciting YOUR help.

I need more scarves and more reasons to wear my galoshes.  Maybe I should stage another personal event.  Much like tie week.  I miss tie week.  It gave me a sense of stylistic purpose.

Tonight I finally ate a candy bar that was given to me more than a week ago.  In my bedside table I have a box of uneaten chocolate covered macadamia nuts from Summer 2007.  For some reason I have developed this pattern: boys give me candy, and if I like them enough, I leave the it uneaten . . . the end.  It's as if I'm saving it like a good luck charm (I'm really against cutting off rabbit appendages and picking 4-leaf clovers), to eat only when something good happens with said boy.  How this silly habit got started, no one knows.  Legends say once, when Claire Valene Bagley was a very young girl, Valentines Day was never a ver . . . let's just stop there . . .  Thus, I decree: Chocolate was made for instantaneous pleasure and sticky fingers and chin, and not to be consistently glared at and blamed when bad things happen (or when the good things don't).  Those chocolate cover macadamia nuts in my bedside table are/have been melted, smashed, and deformed with time . . . and they're quite the stale little bastards, to boot. I bit into one the other day, after I had the idea that it was the only way to rid myself (and my bedside table) of them.  I almost had to run my teeth under hot water in order to unstick my sickly-sweet lockjaw. 

I still wonder if she tastes bland after that fireball.  Not that you actually got a mouthful of that anyways.

#1 "What took you so long?"

I'm still patting my back about that smooth move.

Facebook Chat is ruining my social skills.

Quinston -

you!

Quinston -

oh, so you dont speak to me

Claire -

YOU!!!!

Hi Q. I was wondering what happened to you today.

Quinston -

oh

yea I know, thats why im writing you

I read minds, you know

Claire -

Hey . . . I ALSO had that thought today. No joke. I was walking into the gym, and the girl at the front desk had spiky hair, and I thought, "It's a good thing that she can't read minds, cause I'm thinking wayyyy to many mean things about that style choice right now."

And then she handed me back my card and said, "Thanks claire!" -in her chipper spiky haired way. I had to stop a second and just blink . . . how did she know my name . . . ?

And then it hit me . . . the computer she ran my card through has my info. Phew.

Quinston -

whew

close one

Claire -

wow. novel.

I might turn that into a blog.

Addicted

I need someone to laugh when I tell jokes referring to betting with Alexanders.

Will everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, please mosey on over to
"Married to the Sea" and check out the awesomeness that is
"the champagne of comics".

I've been addicted all by my lonesome for much much too long.

At Last

I made honey-wheat bread today.


Excuse me . . . I successfully made honey-wheat bread today.



I feel a bit golden.

I want to sparkle a little bit.

I am in lovelove with this.

(I should apologize straight up to Trent Mano for stealing it from him, in case he decides to stalk this blog like I did his . . . but I had to have it. HAD TO. Lovelove is a strange and beautiful thing.)

Cupcakes and Why I'm Hiding Under My Bed

 Today I decided to become a domestic goddess.

So . . .

I took out my mother's "Better Homes and Gardens - Special Breast Cancer Awareness Edition" cookbook (it's cover attracted me with it's vivid-stomach-medicine-esq pink hue).

I followed each and every step TO THE LETTER.

I was feeling rather smug as I waltzed around my kitchen with stars in my little girl eyes. I was dreaming of becoming a world-class chef, battling it out with gang in Hell's Kitchen, or maybe just trying new cupcake recipes every Sunday and giving the results to friends, who would cry tears of appreciative joy and applaud me as I slow motion sashayed up the front walk in a 1950's housewife apron on while carrying a tray or artfully eye-catching and artistically decorative cupcakes.

Needless to say . . . I decided to give up these dreams once my cupcakes exploded in the oven and I half-burnt down my kitchen.

I seriously don't know why the god's of domestication are urging me to eat out from now on.

I just really really want that apron.