Twenty-eleven.

In 2011, I: turned 33, sprinkled my grandparents ashes into a icy-blue river, got my first pair of Toms in bottle cap green, sold some small ticket items on Craigslist, sold some big ticket items on Craigslist, skied for the first time in 13 years (and almost perfected my pizza-pie turn), did not get my first tattoo, spent a few nights in a ghost-filled house on the coast, sang chants at my first Timber’s game, became obsessed with the Kanye Runaway video, bought a horse-shoe and believed it would bring me luck, learned how to accept fashion advice from my 5-year-old, did not strike gold in Alaska, saw my first psychic, combed dusty Idaho flea markets, re-discovered the Beatles, got cramps in my finger from taking too many pictures, collected rocks, collected shells, made 21 tissue pom-poms to hang from my dining room ceiling, slept in a tent, wore feather earrings, rode a questionable roller coaster, rode my sea-foam-green mixte, bought beets at the farmer’s market, sang a poor rendition of Addicted to Love at How Can Be Karaoke Lounge, made 277 fried eggs, walked onto a frozen lake, put a bird on it, put a reindeer on it, replaced one of our cars with a bike, had dreams where I was a ballerina star, had dreams that I was an astronaut stuck in space, gave up coffee, switched to black tea, became a fan of all things Russian, searched for Polaroid film, swam in a lake, swam in the pacific, swam in my bathtub, adhered a fake unicorn tattoo to my upper arm, did not win any scratch lottery tickets, realized that Whisky tastes good by itself, photographed people in alleyways and on bridges, did not get stung by a jellyfish, clapped as my child blew out 5 candles on a cake, cheered as my other child later blew out 3 candles, saw 2 movies in the theatre, and last but not least, took a road trip in Mexico and did not get shot or harassed by drug lords.

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