On Saturday, Julie and I felt due for an adventure – one that would get us out of the concrete and steel of our harsh city living – so I picked her up at 7:30am and we drove an hour east of Nashville. We located the completely unpeopled trailhead for Bearwaller Gap, and just walked into the wilderness. I know – how Christopher McCandless of us.

Five hours, one lizard, one turtle, two snails, and a deer later, we re-emerged, victorious and disgustingly sweaty. It was great. We hiked about 12 miles – on a largely unmaintained trail, with lots of ups and downs, and peanut butter and jelly for lunch.


Apparently I didn’t want to get too close to this vicious little guy?

The Tennessee wilderness is lush and green, with plenty of bugs. Julie and I frequently experienced “spider web to the face,” which is horrifying. I took the most thorough and meticulous shower of my life that afternoon, scratching my scalp to make sure that no ticks had taken up residence in my hair.

In closing, this is what my legs should feel like:


After Saturday, this is what they actually feel like:

Y’all, the “y’all” is slipping out. I don’t know what is happening to me.

Maybe it was inevitable – I’m surrounded by “y’all”-ers everywhere I go. But still, it’s a big pet peeve of mine when people go off to some foreign land for a short amount of time and return with an accent. Because I’m sorry, but three weeks in Ireland does not earn you a brogue. All of y’all just need to stop being ridiculous.

See. It just sounds alien coming from my lips. I am the first one to admit that this is the most unnatural phenomenon, and if I had any way to stop it, I would – because it makes me feel all conspicuous. Like when I wear hats. I’m just not sure that it suits me in an effortlessly hip kind of way.

Most of the time, “y’all” is used simply as a contraction of the words “you” and “all.” Examples: “Are y’all coming over?” “Can I ride with y’all?” “Y’all should read this.”

Y’all really should.

However, I haven’t found myself “y’all”-ing this way. Instead, the term has weaseled its way into my vocabulary as a replacement for “seriously, dudes.”

“I went to bed with wet hair last night, and y’all, it is mangy today.”
“I mean, I’ve been around – and y’all, Jim Halpert is the only man for me.”
“I shouldn’t have eaten heavily salted edamame and popcorn for dinner because I knew that this morning it would result in having a tongue the size of Arkansas – but y’all, that’s all that I wanted to eat.”

A word of emphasis, used for only the most truthful of statements.

Here in Nashville, a heavy emphasis is placed on “who you know.” A lot of name-dropping happens, and networking is important within the music industry. And so obviously, it’s easy for me to feel very unseen here; I don’t have too many connections to the big, “important” people.

But that’s okay.

At work, the FedEx man and the UPS man vie for my affection. I feel like I can’t be loyal to them both, as they are rivals in the mailing industry. But if I had to choose, I would go with the FedEx man. For starters, the signature pad that FedEx uses is far superior to UPS’, and secondly, he has teeth like Bugs Bunny. How can you NOT like someone with teeth like Bugs Bunny? Every day, he has a cute little comment about the weather, and then smiles his Chicklet-toothed grin. He is, oddly, very charming.

Every night after work, I walk the same 5-mile loop. And every night, I walk past Jay. He stands outside of his family-owned convenience store – just stands, I haven’t quite figured out what he is doing – and we’ve started making small talk each time we see each other. So far, I know this: he plays basketball, and works “over there” [thumb over shoulder]. He has an amazingly genuine smile, and diamond stud earrings, and every time as I walk away, without fail, he calls after me, “Have a nice walk!” Except “walk” sounds like “wah-ohk.”

I live across the street from a residence that houses and aids former prisoners as they transition back into society. At first, I was sketched out by the idea: ex-convicts across the street? What is this – “The ‘Burbs”? But my landlord assured me that they act as the watchdogs of the neighborhood, scaring off car prowlers and keeping an eye on things, since they know that if anything happens in the surrounding area, they will be the first ones to get blamed. It turns out that this house is enormously successful in helping these people make the switch from prison back into the real world, and that the men who live there are slowly putting their lives back together.

After my cookie baking binge a few weeks back, I brought the leftover cookies to their house and offered them to the men sitting on the porch. They now wave at me every time I walk out to my car, and yell “hello” from across the street.

Okay, and sometimes there are cat calls and whistles.

These are all odd characters to have in my everyday life. But I am thankful for them. It is easy for me to feel very anonymous here, since I live alone and typically don’t have a lot going on socially. But these people make me feel a little less invisible. I value their presence in my life more than I would value someone who is disingenuous.

But if we’re going to name-drop, I had lunch with Meg Allison today, and she is fabulous.

From 2002 until 2005, I was Annie the Nanny for two little boys in Seattle. The first year was a full-time job, and the next two were part-time as I finished school. These little guys were my funny companions, my paper airplane playmates, the reason that I wanted to pull my hair out and the reason that my heart spilled over with love. Even after I finished my stint as their nanny, I continued to see them about once each week. Now that I’m in Nashville, I miss them a lot.

One of their favorite treats was to be told stories – stories made up on the fly, extemporaneously, in real time, with virtually no prep.

Ready, go.

In fact, my very first day on the job, it was requested of me to tell a story that integrated the lives of a Red-Tailed Hawk, a Black Widow Spider, and a Hyena. Welcome.

I found that, when telling stories about fictional characters in fantastical scenarios, my mind would tend to go blank, and then I would scramble. Put on the spot, my best character names were drawn directly from prescription drugs: “Captain… Zoloft, and his flunky… Prednisone!” In order to avoid the inevitable panic that would set in on the days when I had absolutely no creative spark, I began to build upon two series of stories; it was easier to make up something on the fly when I had already developed some characters to draw from.

My first series: “Crabs on the Loose.”

It was not about an STD.

My second series: “Annie Queen of Doom.”

“Annie Queen of Doom” starred myself, naturally – cloaked in a black cape and wearing excessive amounts of eyeliner – and two Komodo dragons, named after the boys. These illustrious characters lived on Mt. Distromotry (a fictional term which, very technically, translates to “acid mixed with lava”), next to the Bog of Eternal Stench, where they often battled Emperor Badbum. Emperor Badbum was constantly after the Rainbow Sapphire, buried deep within the bowels of Mt. Distromotry, and so our heroes were always on guard. He was a terrible enemy, but he had one weakness: crying babies. And so when Annie Queen of Doom and her Komodo dragons would march into battle, they would push trams full of wailing infants.

Sometimes I wonder what happened to my creativity.

Pulchritude.

Is it just me, or does the sound of this word NOT sound like the meaning?

I especially love that there are two pronounciations:

\PUL-kruh-tood\
- OR -
\PUL-kruh-tyood\

I prefer the second. Tyood… it’s just a little bit snootier. And only snooty people would use this word.

In that case, I’m totally on it.

You are dying to know what I did this weekend. Trust me: you are.

Well, between meeting up with a fellow Annie who is moving to Nashville in the summer (and who is AWESOME and HYSTERICAL and TOTALLY friend-material), dumpster diving for Vanderbilt dorm left-overs, and crying my way through church (it happens), I attended the Iroquois Steeplechase.

Late on Friday afternoon, co-worker offered me two free passes to Steeplechase – and not just any passes: wristbands that would get me into the CORPORATE VILLAGE, full of free food and booze.

Dude. I am so in.

However, sadly, since it was such late notice, I didn’t know anyone who could attend with me. Did that stop me? Oh, I think not. On Saturday morning, I thought to myself, “I could stay home by myself, or I could go to a free event by myself.” And honestly, why else did I have a plaid, belted sundress just hanging in my closet?

Exactly.

So I curled my hair, and put on my makeup and my cute dress, and drove down to Percy Warner Park for a classy, high-society event of a Steeplechase.

If you’re anything like me, you would be freaking out about what people might wear to a horse race. I had no idea. Luckily, I had watched the Kentucky Derby enough times on TV to know that I at least needed to wear a dress.

And now, let me take it upon myself to be the solver of your future quagmires. If you ever find yourself in the position that I found myself in – free tickets, and no idea of what might be wardrobe-appropriate for an equestrian event – then take it from me. Because, as I discovered, an event like this is not really about the horses – it’s all about the attire.

If you’re a woman, you wear this.

And if you’re a man, you wear this.

Seriously, if I was to give an award for the best hat of the day, it would be to this woman. A fabulous hat, without being gaudy. Congratulations, Winner of Annie’s Hat Contest! You set a classy example for us all.

You probably have some questions for me. And I am here to answer them. Preemptively. That’s right: I am going to answer questions that you have yet to vocalize.

We’ll start with some obvious ones.

Annie, can we see your new earrings?
Of course!

I got these from Mud & Mint’s Etsy shop, where there are all sorts of lovely things available.

What else are you coveting from Etsy these days?
If by “covet” you mean, “think about as I fall asleep at night, and fantasize about all of the different possible uses for, and stand flabbergasted that something so amazingly perfect exists,” then it would have to be this:

I’m swooning. Literally. This is the world’s most amazingly ideal, best-case-scenario bag. I’m saving my pennies, and thinking about harvesting pop cans from the side of the freeway for nickels. And busking for quarters.

What else do you want, besides that bag?
A massage. That is always the answer.

How long are you going to live in Nashville?
Longer than you think.

Or.

Shorter than you think.

Depending on how long you think.

(I really have no earthly idea. What should I do with my life? If you have any ideas, my comment board is an open forum.)

When can we hear some of the songs that you are allegedly writing? You ARE writing, right? Not that we would know. Since there’s nothing to prove that you are actually writing any new material.
I’m glad you asked! I have some studio time scheduled for next week, and will hopefully get 2 new demos out of the deal.

I’ve actually been writing quite a bit lately. Are the songs “good”? Well, “good” is a relative term. I think that they stand on their own. I think that they’re better than my early material. I think that I like them, and that’s a fairly new feeling for me.

Don’t worry: you will be alerted just as soon as these songs are available to be listened to. I’ll throw them on MySpace, and we’ll have a song-unveiling party right here on the blog. Bring beer.

Do you miss Seattle?
Desperately. Every day.

I know that I tend to be a revisionist, and idealize certain times in my life which, in actuality, were far from perfect.

But I kind of think that my life in Seattle was close to perfect.

Maybe someday I’ll look back on this time in Nashville and think the same thing. Like, “Remember when I used to walk around the grocery store for free-sample dinners? Remember when I sat in silence at a desk for 8-hours each day? Remember the feeling of being completely anonymous, but not exactly in a good way? Remember the roaches? Yeah. That was awesome.”

So. Maybe not “awesome.” But “living.” And really – aren’t those two words kind of the same thing?

Even in the doldrums of everyday life, me thinks yes.

Can we ask you more questions?
Sure! Post any that you have for me, and I’ll try my best to answer them.

It is a rare occurrence to find a perfectly written song. But the other day, I found one – a complete gem. Start-to-finish, this song is flawless.

“I Gotta Start Somewhere,” written by Jerry Salley and Lisa Shaffer, and recorded by Rhonda Vincent, could not be a better song. In any way. There is not a single thing anyone could do to improve on the writing, the arrangement, the rendering, the recording. Every word, every chord, every harmony, every sound is as good as it could possibly be.

In fact, if I happened to have the gift of writing perfect songs, I would have written this one. The first time I heard it, I couldn’t help but cry. It slays me. It currently kicks off my Heartbreak Breakdown playlist on my iTunes – an ever-evolving, ever-shifting collection that I have ready to play at any point. Because who wants to scramble for an appropriate soundtrack in the fog of walking the Via Negativa?

I would post the video here for you to see, except for the fact that I think the song is more perfect without a visual provided. I listened to it probably 16 times in a row before pulling up the video on YouTube, and while there is nothing wrong with it per se, I liked my own pictures better.

So this is my ringing endorsement. Go to iTunes and get Rhonda Vincent’s “I Gotta Start Somewhere.”

I know. You’re welcome.

Yesterday, I spent upwards of 5 hours shredding documents at my work. I filled 6 Hefty bags full of confetti, and succeeded without getting a single paper cut. I only jammed the shredder once, and wound up completely sweaty from the heat of the hulking machine. At financial companies, they don’t mess around with their shredders – they invest in high-powered, serious beasts.

And so, feeling incredibly satisfied from my completion of the monumental shredding task, I was reminded that I had a stack of papers at home that I have been meaning to shred. I brought them in today, ready to feed them to the grating teeth of the destroyer. Some old bank statements, credit card applications, and…

Some letters. Letters from ex-boyfriends.

I’ve had this stack of letters for a while. While dating each of these guys, I saved cards and notes, and printed out certain emails, positive that these words were going to be important memories to share with our hypothetical-someday-grandchildren.

I don’t know a girl who doesn’t, on some level, think this way.

When I moved out of my apartment in Seattle last summer, I purged myself of so many unnecessary things. But for some reason, I bundled up these letters. I couldn’t get rid of them. They reminded me of the existence of love – and that maybe it could happen for me again.

Recently, I started feeling like maybe these letters – filled with once-meaningful, but what I now see as cheap words and empty promises – were weighing me down. Why was I holding on to them?

I mean, really: these are the same guys that propelled me to write a song that ends, “I don’t have much heart left to break.” Why keep any – any – remembrance of them? Good riddance, right?

So I brought them to work today. To shred the hell out of them.

But before I did, I took one last read-through.

And call me crazy, but I cannot destroy these letters.

Some of the kindest words ever bestowed on me are in these letters. I had to re-read certain paragraphs, baffled by the pure goodness and generosity and love that had, at one point, been poured out onto me. I had forgotten how these words felt. These words bring life. And though I am not expecting a resurrection of romance with any of these guys, these letters make my heart believe in the connection between two humans. They remind me that I actually do have a lot of heart left to break.

And that’s a good thing.

Maybe someday, I will shred, burn, bury these letters. But not today. I can’t do it today.

Hair grows.

It does. I know it does.

And mine grows quickly, like a weed – about an inch a month.

Still. These days, I am regretting the decision to cut my hair.

Sure, it was spontaneous and cute and spunky for awhile – an “I am Annie Freaking Parsons” moment. But now, it’s shaggy and a little bit shapeless, and not short enough to be cute, but not long enough to be hot.

I am a PTA mother.

I miss the days of showering at night, sleeping with wet hair, and waking up with a picture-perfect mane. It was so easy, with the ever-advantageous feature of being long enough for a Liv Tyler ponytail. These days, my ponytail is an inch and a half long, with the underside being too short to reach the rubber band, and thus, sticking out wildly, like prickles on a cactus.

I could trim it up and give it some oomph, but I so desperately want it to Be Long again. I cut it on February 23, and 10” were hacked off. So if I want to get it back to a state of glamour, this means that I will be in the process of growing until Christmas.

Christmas 1987 – a hand-made dollhouse, crafted by my Grandpop
Christmas 1993 – a kitten named Cassie
Christmas 2000 – keys to the Honda, which my parents helped me get into
Christmas 2005 – Dolce & Gabana Light Blue perfume
Christmas 2008 – my femininity