Vintage = old and expensive
Antique = rickety
Shabby chic = scuffed edges
Contemporary = microfiber
Charming = country plaid
Romantic = wicker
Cute = tacky
Wrought iron = purchased at Hobby Lobby
Retro = bizarre
Art deco = belongs in a Miami hotel room
Spectacular = always an overstatement
Comfy = ugly… but has such a great personality

When I was in junior high, I was asked to pet-sit for some family friends while they went away for the week. It was an animal lover’s dream come true – horses, cows, dogs, cats, and ducks, all to myself – and I got PAID. I showed up once in the morning and once at night to feed the beasts, and would run from pen to pen while my mom waited in the car.

Early one misty Colorado morning, I walked into the coop where the ducks were housed to find every last one of them beheaded.

Decapitated.

Guillotined.

Their lifeless bodies lay in the sawdust and dirt, blood soaked into the ground around them, their heads nowhere to be found. I screamed a scream that screamed “TRAUMA”, and then ran to get my mom. It turns out that both skunks and raccoons kill ducks and eat their brains, and this was our best guess as to what happened. Needless to say, that pet-sitting job was a bust.

I once pet-sat for a family in Seattle who had a golden retriever and a rat. At the time, the rat had a large tumor on its chest, and before the family left on vacation, the mother pulled me aside and told me that they would pay me extra if I killed the rat while they were gone, thus sparing their children the anguish. “How?” I asked, and she replied, “Any way you want.”

At first, I thought, “No way” – how sick and wrong is it to put a 20-year old girl up to murdering an animal for cash? But as the week wore on, I thought of the money. And as a result, I found myself imagining sealing the rat in a Ziploc bag, or putting it in a box in the freezer, or employing the ever-handy RAT POISON. I mean, if there’s payment involved… but alas, I chickened out, and wound up letting it live.

There was only one woman in Seattle who I would consistently pet-sit for, and she had a black hell-cat named Tika. Tika was aloof and sleek and sexy and absolutely unperturbed by life. She wore a leopard print collar, and casually batted around orange balls and feathered cat toys. I would call her in at night, and then wait about 20 minutes for her to show up, as if to communicate, “I’m here, but not because you called me – I’m here because I DECIDED to come.” She could be a bit eccentric, which is why she was on Kitty Prozac that I had to mix into her Fancy Feast every morning.

Once, Tika pranced inside with a still-alive sparrow in her mouth. When she let it go, it started flying around, dripping blood and shedding feathers. I SCREAMED, grabbed a broom, and Mark McGwired it, mid-air, straight out the front door. I thought that was the worst thing that could possibly happen. But.

The next time, Tika dragged… dragged… in a pigeon the size of football. She lugged it to the middle of the kitchen floor, and then let it go, revealing its OPEN CHEST, its STILL-BEATING HEART, its arteries pumping blood out all over the tiled floor. Its wings would occasionally ruffle up, and its mouth was opening-shutting, opening-shutting, in final desperate, heroic efforts toward life. The blood was everywhere. It was dying. Tika was watching it die. I was watching it die.

I did not know what to do. I almost vomited my guts out, because WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH A BLOODY STILL-ALIVE ALMOST-DEAD NEARLY-ALBATROSS-SIZED BIRD? On the kitchen floor?

I curled up in a ball on the couch, gasping for air, and felt silent tears squeeze out of the corners of my scrunched-shut eyes. Then I called my mom, because what else was I going to do? She told me to think of it as a giant spider that I needed to catch in a jar, and then release outside.

Gee, thanks.

But her words inspired me to find a dust pan and scoop the (STILL-ALIVE, and BLEEDING, and MUTILATED) pigeon into a bucket, and finally deposit it behind a bush outside. Needless to say, I am still suffering the aftermath of this agonizing event.

I have not had the best luck with pet-sitting, as the animals in my care have either wound up killed, almost killed, or killers. And I have no larger moral or point to this report.

What I mean is “Welcome home,” but I’m pretty sure that means “Welcome house.” Dang it.

It’s been a long haul, but the day is finally here. After 5 weeks of gallivanting through Europe (France, Switzerland, Italy, Ireland), GRETA IS COMING HOME TODAY!

I say “home” like she and I live in the same place, but the truth is that I don’t know the next time that I will see her. Separated by 2,500 miles and the Continental Divide, it’s not like her return to the US will be met with me at the airport and an immediate outing for wine & cheese (she’s probably wine & cheesed out, anyway – AS IF THAT’S POSSIBLE). But simply knowing that she is within Verizon reach is a huge relief; apart from my mom, she has been my main long-distance support person for the past year.

In fact, when she returns, she will find several voicemails from me – things that I just had to tell someone in the moment, and it just made sense to call her. For example, there was the time about a month ago that I was down to $24, and happened to need both gas and groceries. What to choose? I opted for $20 of gas and $4 worth of airplane-sized vodkas. Greta simply HAD to know that.

Her blog and her long emails have done a good job of keeping me abreast of her adventures, her rendezvous, and most importantly, her meals. I have been living vicariously through her pastry consumption. She and her darling sister Heidi have had some amazing experiences, and I can’t wait to hear more about them.

Upon her return, she will be walking back into “real life,” which, for her, currently holds more than its fair share of hardship, stress, and pain. But I know that if anyone can deal with some enormously tough circumstances with grace and aplomb, it is Greta Freaking Weisman. Welcome home, Greta girl.

The deed is done – I made it through my first writer’s round without a) train-wrecking, or b) crying. I had about 10 friends who made it out, which meant so much, especially since I still call myself “new to Nashville” – thanks to those of you who came. I was lucky enough to share the stage with Matt Dorrien and Chris Moynihan, who are both great writers and actually know how to play the guitar. True to my word, I was not perfect – but it was fun, I played my 3 songs, and when I smiled, I meant it.

And I NEVER HAVE TO PLAY MY FIRST SHOW IN NASHVILLE AGAIN!

A potentially-embarrassing-yet-ultimately-hysterical moment:

My parents sent me flowers. Yes, to the bar. Like, “Oh, you’re Annie Parsons? We have a special delivery for you! Let me bring it over to your table! In front of all of these people!”

At first, I felt my face burning up – but then I ripped open the card:

From the reverend and his lovely wife. Are they hilarious or what? (Note: for full context, read this.) Thanks to Erin, Casey, and my mother for unwittingly collaborating to coin the new “Go get ‘em.” The best part of this story is the thought of my mom on the phone with some Nashville florist, saying, “Yes, I’d like the card to read… ‘You’re the shit.’ Yes. Yes, ‘the shit.’ S-H-I-T.”

Tonight is the night. My first time playing out in Nashville.

Good thing that I will only have to say that once in my entire life.

Eleanor Roosevelt said to “do something everyday that scares you.” Apparently I haven’t done anything scary for about 9 years, and it is all converging in this one little 3-song event. Then again, for as terrifying as it all seems, it’s also exciting to finally, FINALLY be doing something.

The past 6 months or so have held the consistent theme of letting go of perfectionism. It’s a hard lesson to learn, but also… freeing. It doesn’t have to be perfect. I don’t have to be perfect. The important thing is to try. And to wear something cute while doing it.

I’ll just say it: I don’t think that women should wait until they get married to get good kitchen gadgets. That would be a drag. And so a couple of years ago for my birthday, all that I asked for was a set of sharp knives in a cutting block, and a really awesome blender.

Note: this was the same birthday that my then-boyfriend gave me an iron and a tube of wood glue. And no, I am not joking.

However, my parents came through, big time. My knives are truly sharp. My blender is truly awesome. And copper! Not your average Wal-Mart appliance – this is a serious grown-up-lady contraption.

Which is why I was upset when I discovered a crack in the base a few weeks back. Sarah and Grant “the man that I [used to] live with” came over for dinner, and our margaritas turned into a tequila-doused countertop and a sticky floor. In fact, I continue to find sticky spots that I missed in the mop up.

A lazy person might toss the blender and get a new one. But not me. It is a sexy piece of machinery, worth more than I am currently willing to spend on a blender, and I should be able to get a new plastic base, right? Just go to the website, click Customer Service, send them an email and…

They only serve the UK.

[exasperated groan]

They don’t even recognize my model number. To the Brits, I do not exist, and neither does my blender. I emailed them back to ask if they have an American counterpart, and they said no. The Russell Hobbs RHCBL3 is an anomaly. It’s a mystery.

And a crying shame.

“Rule #1: when all else fails, follow instructions. And Rule #2: don’t be an asshole.” (Anne Lamott, Plan B)
“It’s not a crime to be an asshole, but it’s very counter-productive.” (Hancock)

- – - – - – - -

I thrive on words. I read novels slowly and carefully, savoring the phrases, and underlining sentences that resonate with me. Usually, these lines are not flashy or life-altering – but something small will stand out to me, or tug at a long-buried emotion.

A sampling of such lines from the book I am currently reading, Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale:
“He has a French face, lean, whimsical, all planes and angles, with creases around the mouth where he smiles.”
“We have learned to see the world in gasps.”
“Without a word she swivels, as if she’s voice-activated, as if she’s on little oiled wheels, as if she’s on top of a music box.”

See? There is nothing universe-tilting about these lines. But something about each of them meant something to me, and called my name like an unfamiliar but comforting friend.

I am becoming more and more confident attributing the title of “writer” to myself. No, I am not an author. I have never been published. I didn’t study journalism, and Lord knows that I don’t write poetry. I’m just Annie: I blog, and write songs when I feel like it. But between those two things, I am stepping more and more into the role of “writer.” I am using words in new ways, and paying attention more, and feeling the need to spend time every single day articulating something, anything, through words.

But as a result – as an outcome of my posting my words “out there” for people to see – I am inevitably opening myself up to feedback. As my sphere of readership is expanded, so grows the chance that someone might take issue with my words. In the past two weeks, I have had numerous negative responses to things that I have written – not necessarily harsh words, but definitely challenging.

While my initial reaction to opposing reactions is to feel gutted like a trout, I am learning that if I am going to be bold and intrepid with my words, I need to also have a steely resilience in place. Or, if I must be sensitive, I need to use much more discretion and rein in my words. And in the end, I suppose a giant dose of humility is never a bad thing.

When I look back on my life, I can see the weight of words. I can tell you the words that have built me up, and the words that have left me feeling like trampled trash. I can see the ways that words have shaped my outlook, my confidence, my faith, and my subsequent actions. Words, like music, are invisible and intangible – one might think that they exist only in time, and disappear as soon as they are spoken. However, fleeting as they are, words are heavy, and lasting, and of real consequence.

I want to use words to feed and grow the good in the people around me. And when I fail, as I’m sure I will continue to do, I want to have the grace and humility to admit that I’ve been an asshole.

Hi, remember me? The girl who used to blog… before she went on vacation and slopped off? Do I even remember how to spell ennymohr? Well, don’t you worry, my pretties. For your entertainment (and my narcissism), I am back in internet action.

My Colorado adventure was much needed, and so, so fun. Old friends, good food, and great scenery – I mean, really – what else could I need? When I arrived back in Nashville on Friday, I had a deep sense of sadness as I once again realized that I don’t know where my home is. Montrose? Seattle? Kansas City? Nashville? I just wish that everyone that I love could live in the same place. But I don’t think that’s in the cards for me – and I imagine that many of you feel the same. Gone are the days when people would spend their entire lives in one location – and I am grateful, really, since I feel like there is a lot of world to see and experience. But it comes at a cost, and every time that I choose to return to see loved ones, I am also choosing to eventually have to say goodbye.

But as my sister Becca says, “I am not homeless – I am homefull.” Many homes. Many places to belong. Many people to love, and to be loved by. And that is a good feeling.

So, let’s focus on the good.

Nashville feels like a bright and sunny place today, 1) because it is bright and sunny (and sickeningly hot, but who’s pointing out the negatives?), and 2) because I had a great re-entry weekend, full of friends and food and getting my apartment back in order. I love that. Organization. I walk into Storables or the Container Store, and, completely over-stimulated with ideas and a fiery passion for arranging my “stuff,” I practically have a seizure. I thrive on structure. Some day, I am going to start the Annie Parsons Center for Home Organization, Life Management, and Badassery (APCHOLMB). It’s going to sweep the nation. Watch out, California Closets.

I am wearing a cute dress today. I wore it last night, too – but you just can’t get too much of a good thing.

I met a new kindred spirit friend, and she is lovely and amazing and hilarious.

I decided to become a real Nashville musician, so I have a show lined up. SCREAM.

It’s good to be back online. :)

One of the biggest draws to spend the summertime in Montrose revolves around some of our favorite friends, who we refer to simply as “the Hong Kong boys.” Several Indian families who live in Hong Kong also own vacation homes in my humble little cowpoke hometown, and for years, the summertime has meant reunions.

These guys are generous, thoughtful, intelligent, funny, and most of all, they know how to play. They even get ME, typically straight-laced and pulled together, to play along. I’m not a “game person,” but they can somehow convince me to play anything: soccer, pool, Mafia, ping-pong, etc. I am grateful for their silly, fun-loving spirits, and the playful side that they bring out in me.

Last night, we talked about the concept of arranged marriages. All I’m saying is that currently, these guys are my future children’s only chance at pigmentation.

… could I go from this, to this, to this:

I attended the Wedding of the Century on Saturday night, complete with butterflies in the mountain air and champagne toasting.

Since then, we have been hiking, eating, sleeping, seeing friends, reading, and drinking lots of coffee. It’s been the best vacation ever.

When I was in high school, I couldn’t wait to get out of Montrose. I was ready for the city life, and Seattle didn’t disappoint. But this visit, for the first time in the 8 years since I left, I am starting to think that maybe I’ll live in Montrose again at some point. Now that they finally have a Target, I wouldn’t want for anything.

Stay tuned for my next post, probably entitled something like “Cowgirls and Indians.” See? Now you can’t wait to read it.