If you were to ask me what my idea of hell is, I would mention many things: citrus toothpaste. Windchimes and windsocks. Patent leather. Blisters. Large herds of cats.

But oddly enough, the two biggest components that make up my idea of hell probably aren’t too far off: huge crowds, and hot hot heat.

I experienced both this past weekend.

The CMA Music Festival, otherwise known as Fan Fair, hit the city of Nashville last Thursday, and plowed straight through until Sunday night. Four days of non-stop concerts, autograph lines, photo-ops, $7 Bud Lights, and me. With a 4-day pass. I somehow lived to tell the tale.

Put me in a stadium with 50,000 people, sweat beading on my forehead, and Bucky Covington taking the stage, and invariably, I’m going to be looking for something to distract me. I took to wandering, and created a little masterpiece to share with you the joys of Fan Fair.

Watching white people dance from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

Don’t you feel like you were there? There were banana clips and bandanas, fanny packs and farmer tans. I two-stepped with cowboys, and made friends with Australians, and sweat (sweated? swat? swote?) at least 5 pounds off in my quest to find water. It truly could have been a miserable experience if I didn’t have such wonderful company along the way.

And if there was any doubt as to how hot it was, just check out my forehead.

By the end, I was done. No more Fan Fair. Give me AC. Give me water. Give me a shower. And give me a long, long time to sleep.

I have recently acquired a new neighbor. What kind of neighbor, you ask? One of the homeless, street evangelist persuasion. How do I know? Because last week, he spent 15 minutes trying to convert me to Christianity. I played the devil’s advocate, thinking that he knew that I was just playfully testing his witnessing skills; however, he actually believed me to be a lost soul.

You can imagine how awkward it was when I had to come clean: “Um, I actually DO believe in Jesus. I’m even a pastor’s daughter. I’ve gone to church practically every Sunday for 25 years now. I own a copy of the NIV, the NLT, and the Message. I can recite the books of the New Testament in order. I know about “Psalty” and “McGee and Me” and “Superbook.” I am well-versed in Charles Wesley and Fanny Crosby and Oswald Chambers and Rick Warren and Rob Bell and the awful 700 Club. May the Lord bless you and keep you, may the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you, may the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace. Amen.”

It was a very uncomfortable moment.

This man has taken up residence on my neighbor’s couch – the nice boy across the courtyard offered him his couch until he finds a place of his own. He came to Nashville from a sinful city in the west in order to win souls to Christ. I have run into him several times, and each time I have felt more and more uneasy. He is pushy, and invades my personal space, and consistently requests that he be included in whatever I am on my way to do: go downtown (“Can I come with you?”), pick up friends at the airport (“Maybe I can ride along?”), or last night, go to the gym (“I’ve been wanting to work out – I’ll go change.”).

Typically, I have a clear head and a quick mind. But for some reason, this man totally rattles my brain, and I have had a hard time coming up with appropriate ways to decline his company. I’m freaked out. I don’t think that he’s dangerous, but I do think that he is abnormally assertive and socially inappropriate. Last night, when he wanted to come to the gym with me and presumptively went inside to change…

Y’all. I ran and got in my car and left without him.

I DITCHED him. With no explanation.

I am a terrible, awful person.

So I am wondering: what would Jesus do with awkward people? People that just bug the bajeebis out of you, and can’t take a hint, and stare you unwaveringly in the eye? People who invite themselves on your errands? People who encroach on your personal time, and push back when you say no?

Because I’m pretty sure that Jesus wouldn’t run in the other direction.

Then again, Jesus wasn’t a young, single girl living alone in a city full of potentially dangerous people.

Then again again, Jesus was willingly crucified.

Today, it is abundantly clear to me that although I know my “church stuff,” that doesn’t necessarily mean that I know anything.

This summer, I am reaching a milestone: I have maintained a healthy weight for 5 years.

Most people in my current everyday life did not know me between the years of 2000-2002, when I gained not the freshman 15, but literally, close to the freshman 50. I moved away from home, had access to a surprisingly palatable college cafeteria, went to Taco Bell almost every night, and hated to exercise. Period. It was that simple – and before I knew it, my face and my fingers and my waistline had ballooned up to form a person I couldn’t recognize. I was completely uneducated about health, and calories-in versus calories-out. I quickly spiraled into a depression, and hated myself for being fat. And until I finally got my act together and was empowered to do something about it, I lived a reclusive and self-loathing existence.

Through the difficult, old-fashioned method of decreasing my calories and increasing my exercise, my body is now very, very different than what it once was. But my mind is the same. I look in the mirror and criticize my form. I live in fear of the number on the scale creeping up. I feel guilty every single time I eat a cookie. I exercise as punishment for over-consuming. I beat myself up for what I am, and what I am not.

And I know that I am not the only one.

Due to the media or the culture or the devil, our minds have a skewed expectation of what we should be, and what we should look like. While I know that it affects certain men, I am confident in saying that women have taken on the lion’s share of this curse.

I have heard some of my most beautiful friends refer to their bodies as “disgusting,” “heinous,” and “foul.” I have used similar words in reference to myself, too. This both angers me and breaks my heart. Everywhere we look, there are cruel reminders to hate our legs, to hate our hips, to hate our _____. You name it. It feels like a hopeless situation and a vicious cycle – will it ever end? What’s it going to take?

I honestly believe that it’s going to take an entire generation of women saying, “Enough is enough.” Changing our way of thinking. Doing the hard work of taking each negative thought captive, and transforming our self-talk. Vowing to never use harsh and hateful words to describe our bodies. Step by step, learning to love and care for what we have been given. Refusing to teach our daughters to hate their fleshy arms or stomachs or thighs.

But before an entire generation can do this, it has to start with individuals.

This is my hope and my prayer for myself. I do not want to spend the next 50 years condemning the body that is so faithfully getting me through this life. I want to be grateful to it, and take good care of it, and find contentment in less than perfection. Wouldn’t life be easier if I could be kind to myself? If you could be kind to yourself?

I’ve always known that thinking highly of oneself is vanity. But recently, I have been realizing that thinking lowly of oneself is another form of vanity. Because in either case, we are giving ourselves too much credit.

Chocolate: “I love you.”

Peanut Butter: “I love you back.”

You know that moment in “The Sound of Music” when Maria is twirling on the streets, swinging her guitar case around her, and singing about having confidence in sunshine and in rain and in springtime? But then she catches a glimpse of the Von Trapp mansion, and her jaw drops, and all of a sudden she is speechless?

Subtract Maria. Insert Annie. Subtract Von Trapp. Insert COUNTRY MUSIC STAR.

Last night, through a series of events too complicated to relay, I was invited to a party at a celebrity’s house. What level of celebrity are we talking here? Well, a notch below a Kenny Chesney. A notch above a Dierks Bentley, or a Joe Nichols, or a Blake Shelton. A firmly established, very successful singer/songwriter who has written major hit songs for both men and women, as well as himself. A man I’ve seen on CMT and at the Opry. An artist who, if I said his name, any country music listener would know.

I was determined to play it cool. As Us Magazine reminds us with their oft-incriminating photo spreads, stars are just like us, right? Nobody wants to talk to the star-struck girl. I was going to walk in and be all, oh what, fame? money? #1 hits? Yeah, whatever. Who wants to play pool?

Let’s be honest. I was not that girl.

I spent the evening sneaking around with my camera, covertly snapping pictures of things that needed to be documented. While various musicians and radio personalities were in the kitchen taking shots and name-dropping and grabbing each other’s asses (literally), I was on the back veranda with Katie and Erin having a dance party under the stars, singing “Sweet Caroline” at the top of our lungs, and informing the others which one of us had just taken a poo in a country singer’s bathroom.

I AM NOT TELLING YOU WHO.

I was hanging around the grand piano until I finally got up the nerve to sit down and play along (read: tinker along) with Tom Petty blasting out of the speakers – at which point, the charismatic host came over and engaged in a short but peppy conversation about the music business. It took all that I had to refrain from breaking out into one of his songs mid-sentence, but I succeeded. Annie – 1. Humiliation – 0. Way to go, self.

This morning I am at work, after 4-hours of sleep and maybe one too many shots of whiskey. But after last night, does my life feel just a little bit more complete? Perhaps.

In closing, I’m sorry. I know that you are dying to know who I am talking about. I will tell you this: it was not Tim McGraw. Because trust me, if it had been, I would have no qualms about saying INTERNET, I TOOK A POO IN FAITH HILL’S TOILET.

When I moved into my apartment back in February, my dear friend Sarah offered me her bed on a long-term loan. It’s a great 4-poster, and has served me well. However, since Sarah is moving to Texas next month, she recently informed me that she’s going to need the bed back.

Never fear, Mary says. Just get this.

(My favorite line: “This piece of toast is made of plastic, not bread, so if you wake up and smell burning toast, you are probably just having a stroke.”)

Recently, I strongly considered moving back to Seattle. I was presented with a really great opportunity – one that was incredibly tempting. A job, a chance to be with my old friends, a wide open road straight back to my Emerald City.

But I said no. I’m going to stick around Nashville, at least through the end of 2008. I just have to see. I don’t know what I’m hoping for or looking for or waiting for, but I just have to see what might present itself during this time. I’ve been loving the city more and more, and making friends, and settling into a routine – I can’t pack it all up and leave now.

Still, it was a really big deal for me to say no to Seattle. It was so enticing – I could almost smell the ocean. It would have been so easy to say yes – to pick up right where I left off, and re-enter my beautiful life of comfort and, in many ways, what I now see as luxury. But I chose Nashville.

And so as a result, you want to know what I chose?

Humidity so ubiquitous that the toilet paper separates on the roll. Heat so oppressively constant that I lie in bed at night thinking, “This must be what it feels like to die.” A steady coat of sweat, making makeup senseless. More cockroaches in the kitchen. A waning opportunity to spend any time outside, for fear of a heat stroke. An astronomical utility bill from running my mediocre AC window unit. Towels that never fully dry. Relentless sticky discomfort.

And I hear that this is just the beginning. So far, June has made me think, “I am so hot and cranky, I cannot go on.” But the locals tell me that July turns Nashville into an absolute sauna, and just when you think it cannot get any worse, August descends downright demonically.

Lord help me. Literally. GOD, SAVE ME FROM THIS HEAT.

But I chose this. Over salt water and bright blue sky and clear, glorious Seattle days, I chose to walk outside every morning straight into the hot, smelly breath of Satan. So I should stop complaining. I should.

But you know I won’t. It’s just not my style.

Lately, I have been made acutely aware of a certain discord in romantic relationships between people of my generation. Now, I am not currently dating anyone. However, these observations have come from my own experiences as well as those around me – I’m not pointing the finger at any one person, or any one gender, for that matter. I’m just going to share my thoughts, simple as they may be.

If you’re feeling particularly sensitive today, maybe you should take some deep breaths before reading this. Are you ready? Consider yourself warned.

I have noticed that most humans are looking for fulfillment. In my experience, women generally look for that fulfillment in the context of relationship, while men generally look for that fulfillment in the context of autonomy.

I said generally. Stop bristling.

So when men and women interact, and coexist, and begin to let their guard down with each other, generally a conflict rises out of the tension between what they are each looking toward for fulfillment: the woman tends to look to the man, while the man tends to look away. The woman asks, “Do you love me? Do you think I’m beautiful? Am I worth it to you?” And the man says, “I can’t be responsible for you. I’m not ready to commit. I need to be free.”

The man sees the woman as needy. The woman sees the man as an asshole.

I propose that we need to stop looking toward the wrong things for fulfillment in the context of romantic relationships. Women need to stop expecting the man to fulfill her. Men need to stop looking toward independence to fulfill him.

Again. GENERALLY.

Women, we need to stop asking the hubba-hubba man to dictate our worth. If the God of the universe created us, and knows us inside and out, and calls us worthy and beautiful and captivating, then honestly, what else do we need? A man is just a man. He’s never going to be enough to fulfill us – it’s unfair to expect that of him. And a man’s opinion of us – favorable or otherwise – happens to have absolutely no bearing on our worth. So maybe we should just start trusting that our worth is already determined, and nothing can ever change that. Let’s rest in the fact that we are LOVED, and move forward into our relationships with confidence. We’ve been watching too much of “The Notebook.”

And men, maybe it’s time that you stop looking toward experiences and autonomy and wild adventures to fulfill that hole inside. Being in a healthy relationship with a good woman will not be an emasculating thing – in fact, some of the most honorable men I know have told me that their marriages have been the biggest and best adventure that one could possibly embark on. That restless ache inside of you is not going to be fulfilled by freedom or the mountains or the ability to sow your oats or a lack of responsibility. That hole is only filled when we ask God, “Who do you say I am?” I have watched too many men turn their back on good, substantial women, for fear of being “tied down.”

What do I know? Am I hypocritical? I’m just a 25-year old single girl who, trust me, does NOT believe these things easily. I want a man to come and sweep me off my feet and tell me that I am beautiful and that he will never, ever leave me. I really want that – and I have asked for it and expected it. But as a result, I have been severely disappointed and deeply hurt by numerous guys. It has felt unfair. It has left me tempted to launch into bitter diatribes at weddings, and bridal showers, and every time I get another freaking Save-the-Date card in the mail. I am definitely a person in process.

But I invite you to be a person in process alongside me. Because the way that it’s going isn’t working.

Here it is – the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Or… at least the moment I’ve been TALKING UP. I have 4 brand spankin’ new songs up on MySpace – you can listen here.

Initially, I had thought that a simple guitar/vocal demo would be sufficient – just me and my Martin. But having the great fortune of working with the über-talented Jim Reilley and Eric Fritsch (and their bionic ears), I got so much more than I bargained for. Guitars, mandolin, bass, banjo, Wurlitzer, Hammond B3, even a rain stick shaker… Get ready for some sonic stimulation. Jim and Eric did an impressive job of making things sound good, despite my very green guitar playing and out-of-shape vocals – I prefer to think of my performance as “unpolished” and “folksy.”

At one point in the day, my friend Julie stopped by the studio to say hello. She casually mentioned that she had played French horn in high school, oh, 7 years ago. That was all that we needed to hear – you can hear her majestic 2 notes repeated several times in the background during the chorus of “My Own Hand.” Words cannot describe how much this delights me!

As a writer, it’s exciting to watch what was once only an idea – a fleeting thought or a word or a previously unarticulated emotion – actually take shape. Piece by piece and bit by bit, to watch it become. It’s among the most wondrous things I have experienced, and I have found a deep satisfaction in following through with the creative process. I expect that the more that I do this, the more comfortable and cohesive it will feel.

And so, without further ado… I HOPE YOU LIKE ACCORDION!