There is a client who frequents the office. I know his name, and respectfully call him “Doctor _________.” Because he is a doctor.

Except no. No he isn’t. Today, my co-worker said, “Why do you call him ‘doctor’? He’s not a doctor.”

Why did I think he was? What did I mis-hear, or mis-interpret, or just make up? I HAVE NO IDEA. I am completely delusional. I stopped him today and said, red-faced, “I’m really sorry – it’s been brought to my attention that you are not, in fact, a doctor. And I don’t know why, but I’ve been calling you ‘doctor’ for so long… I feel silly.”

And so he told me the story of a woman he once met years ago, and how she insisted upon being called “doctor,” even though she just had an online education certifying her with a “Doctorate of Transcendental Meditation.”

If that works, then I declare myself to have a “Doctorate of Cheese.”

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What are your weekend plans? I want to know. From ALL of you.

The phone here at work just rang – a rare occurrence at this particular financial institution. I answered, and this is what I heard:

“Hi, I’m being detained at the Davidson County jail, and need bail money. I’ve been framed. This is my one phone call. Can you help me out?”

“Um, are you serious?”

“Yes. Very serious.” He told me his name, and what kind of a doctor he is.

“Are you a client here?”

“No.”

“Well. We’re not a bank, per se. We’re more along the lines of private wealth management.”

“Okay. But can you help me? This is my ONE phone call.” The panic in his voice was evident.

“Um… well… I’m just the [temp!] receptionist. Let me toss you over to Sandra.”

I transferred the call, and watched the light that indicated Sandra’s phone ringing blink… and blink… and blink… but she was away from her desk. She never answered.

I have failed him.

This morning here at work, there are four repairmen walking in and out of the lobby – in and out, in and out – carrying ladders, tool kits, wire, and generally, looking confused. I have no idea what they’re doing – but they keep climbing ladders and removing the ceiling tiles and disappearing from the waist up into the space above, yelling back down to their comrades on the ground. They were here yesterday, too.

The glass doors in the lobby swing one way. Since they have probably used these doors 80 times in the last hour, one would think that they would know which side to push on, and which side to pull. But they don’t. Every single time that they walk up to the door, they do the wrong thing: push when they should pull, or pull when they should push. And a few minutes ago, one of the men ran straight into the door.

Who could blame him? Glass doors: now you don’t see them, now you don’t.

I feel agitated. These men have invaded my domain, my private sanctuary, and are disrupting my peace and quiet (and, let’s be honest: nail painting) with their… clanking. Hammering. Shuffling. And whenever they pull when they should push, or push when they should pull, I fight the urge to roll my eyes and yell, “IT’S NOT THAT HARD.”

Why do we make the same mistakes over and over again? We know better. We’ve been there before. We’ve experienced the consequences. And yet, we still mess up. We struggle with the same thing we struggled with yesterday, and the day before, and the day before. We fail to choose the right path – we forget the fallout.

Sometimes, I start to think that my struggles are hopeless – that I will never rise above, that things will never change. I push when I should pull, and pull when I should push. I know the right answer – I know the TRUTH – but I allow myself to be distracted just enough to trip. To throw my weight in the wrong direction. To run smack into the wall.

To change our behavior and our way of thinking, it takes awareness. Vigilance. Dedication. Attention.

There are many areas of my life that I could apply this to. But this morning, I am coming back to the same issue that I have struggled with year-in and year-out: the relentless issue of “beauty.” I believe lies. I buy into the world. I trust the media, and the voices in my head. And since such a large percentage of the female population feels the same way, there is no escaping it. Will it ever change?

Yesterday, my beautiful friend Emily posed the questions:

Am I willing to be the odd-woman-out and love the shell that God has given me to inhabit while on this earth? Am I willing to talk nicely to myself, in private and in public? Am I willing to ruthlessly edit the messages that I receive through media – cancel magazine subscriptions and delete shows from my DVR, if that is what it takes? Am I willing to let others compliment me and receive those kind words as truth? Am I willing to train my thoughts to dwell on the positive and stop comparing, stop chastising, stop chasing?

THIS is what it looks like. This is awareness. Vigilance. Dedication. Attention. And I want to be willing.

Push and pull, push and pull. Maybe one day I’ll get it right.

I am an introvert through and through. I love silence and solitude and being totally reclusive, blocking out the world and screening my phone calls and reading and writing and thinking, nesting and organizing and never saying a word. If I’ve had a week in which I’ve had too much going on or too many people to interact with, I start to wither and fold inward and shut down.

I love being alone. To an almost alarming degree.

But – and this is a big but – I love my friends. I mean, I really, really love my friends. For someone who, as a general rule, doesn’t like people, I sure LOVE a lot of people. I sure do.

Last night, after seeing one of my new favorites play a show (along with these two, who are also completely darling), I stood outside Café Coco in a circle of friends. It was cold, and I didn’t have a coat on (because I am a dimwit), and it was late. But we all stood there and talked, girls and guys, a small slice of the wonderful people I have met here, laughing and looking each other in the eye – and I felt happy in my heart, and I didn’t let a single one get away without a hug.

And that moment – those goodbyes, those hugs with friends that I’ll surely see within the next 48 hours, those smiles and waves – is burned into my brain. When I moved to Nashville, I wondered who I would love. Now I know.

As a bridesmaid in San Diego this weekend, I was treated to a pre-wedding hair/makeup extravaganza. When first presented with the opportunity to have my hair and makeup done for me, I was hesitant – to say that Annie Parsons is a control freak is like saying that Courtney Love is a train wreck. I understand my hair and my face, thankyouverymuch – no need for any help.

Until I sat in the chair, and the stylist said, “Your hair teases like a champ.”

And I was like, “All of my dreams are coming true.”

Have I ever told you about my since-junior-high dream? My dream of looking like Faye in “That Thing You Do!”? I want to be alive in 1964. I love Liv Tyler so much. Someday, I hope to once again have a ponytail of her glory. And a boyfriend like Guy Patterson.

After my stint in the makeover chair, I was completely ritzy glitzy. My hair was big and bouffant. I had fake eyelashes – which, can I just say, are AMAZING. I was wearing a floor-length gown. Bibbity-bobbity-boo. For a girl who rarely feels pretty, it did my heart a world of good. Never again will I turn down a chance to be glamorous.

P is also for PS, which is for “Pretty in pink…” … which is the first line of my newest song! If you’re in need of some Monday morning sass, go check it out.

Yesterday was a day when my panties were in a twist. Figuratively. And, come to think of it, literally.

I am once again AT THAT POINT. The point where the house is a disaster, the dishes have piled up for days, I sleep curled in the only corner of my bed that isn’t strewn with clothes and water bottles and books, and wake up after a 5-hour tooth-grinding slumber only to hear my neighbors engaging in… an “extracurricular activity”… and to find that I am out of clean underwear. But not completely out – just down to the ones I don’t like. The ones I keep around just in case I find myself AT THAT POINT. The ones that are uncomfortable, and leave me going about the tasks of the day with the screaming knowledge that I HATE MY UNDERWEAR RIGHT NOW.

Also, I went to work without realizing how low-cut my shirt was, and so I spent the entire day tugging it up, and feeling self-conscious, and altogether embarrassed.

The phone rang incessantly, and while in the past I have complained about the mind-numbingly quiet hours at work, I found myself feeling insulted and indignant that people are calling? SHEESH. This isn’t my JOB. (Yes, I do realize that it is, in fact, my job.) It gave me a newfound gratitude for the silence I typically spend my days cocooned in – even when the cocoon is more like a sealed Ziploc bag in which I am slowly suffocating.

My jaw hurt. My back hurt. My brain felt spiky and hung-over for no reason. My eyes were tired of the computer screen glare, my mind was tired of post-election Twittering, my feet were tired of high heels. And most of all, my heart was, and still is, devastated about Ben.*

The weight of it all came crashing in at lunchtime when I mindlessly wandered through Target only to spend $17.99 that I don’t have on a tiny tube of eye cream that I know won’t work. But at 26, I am looking in the mirror and seeing wrinkles and an age spot. AGE + SPOT. Now, there are two words you never want to see together. Like shoulder + pad, or skin + flap.

And, speaking of eye cream, I interrupt this blog to bring you the three biggest lies I have ever fallen for:
1) Hemorrhoid cream gets rid of puffy eyes,
2) Stop signs rimmed in white are optional, and
3) Vodka has no calories

Anyway, back to Target. I forked over the cash for the “anti-aging,” “wonder-working” concoction, and went on my merry way. Congratulations, Annie. You’ve just been had.

Today is a classic case of “second verse, same as the first,” with the exception that I am not taking a lunch break, peacing out at 4pm, and flying to San Diego for a wedding – in which I am both a bridesmaid AND the musical act. Except: I’m not packed, I have no idea how to fit this floor-length bridesmaid dress into my suitcase, I haven’t practiced the song, I know that I’m going to forget something imperative like my phone charger or my guitar capo or my underwear…

Oh wait. None left.

LOOK OUT, CALIFORNIA.

* Last night, my old church in Seattle held a prayer vigil for Ben Towne. And Greta wrote some (not surprisingly) beautiful and meaningful words about the service. Please continue to cradle the Townes in your prayers.

Apologies for emotional whiplash, but since everyone else is blogging about the election today, I couldn’t let the moment pass by. This is my favorite election-themed blog of the day. I think it will be hard to top it.

Thank you, Tom, for a much needed giggle today.

Keeping vigil with the Townes today. There are no words.

I am clinging to the truth that no matter how deep our sorrow, God’s love is deeper still. And I’ve heard it said that grace always flows downhill: pooling in the deepest, darkest places of our pain. May the Townes feel that inexpressible peace that passes all understanding.

And may Ben smile his pure-sunshine smile, the one that is so much like his mom’s.

When your spirit feels stripped, when your foundation is rocked, when you watch your friend’s lives being torn in half like a giant bed sheet, you begin to wonder about this God – the one that you have never not known, the one that you have sung about since you can remember, the one that you have prayed to as naturally as breathing. And when the doubts and questions and anger start creeping in, it’s hard to think straight. It’s hard to remember what you know to be true. It’s hard to believe.

Over the past few days, I have seen everything – everything – through the lens of Ben Towne. Every conversation, every observation, every thought and attempt at prayer – everything has been colored by this bulldozer called cancer. How are we supposed to pray? What are we supposed to ask for? What is really true? What do I believe?

And in this dark and rocky time, I have fallen back on one prayer – the only prayer that I currently know to pray, the one that I’ve never had to memorize because I’ve always known it.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,
For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever. Amen.

Over and over, like a mantra, this prayer has been pumping through my veins. This is a prayer straight from Jesus’ lips – the way that he taught us to pray – and at this point, it’s the only thing I know. As my friends are living their absolute worst nightmare, I am offering this prayer with every breath.

Thy will be done. But also, deliver us from evil.

I am praying for both. And I don’t know what else to pray for – except for time. As much time as God will give them.

I believe that God is love. I believe that this world is broken. I believe that we were not made for pain and death – and that’s why it hurts so badly. I believe that there will come a day when creation is restored and renewed and redeemed. I believe that, in the grand scheme of eternity, our lives are a flash in the pan. I believe that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. And I believe that God loves Ben, and God loves the Towne family, and that he sees them and has not abandoned them, and that none of this is a mystery to him. I have to believe that.

I cannot remember the last time I went trick-or-treating. When I was in 8th grade, I stopped celebrating Halloween in favor of the all-church Harvest Festival – since that was around the time that I entered my semi-fundamentalist, evangelical apologetics phase (Colorado West Christian School will do that to a child). Not only was Halloween believed to be the Devil’s Day, but I was convinced that evolutionism was Public Enemy #1, that anyone with a Darwin fish on their car was headed straight for the fiery furnace, and that if we could just find Noah’s Ark, Christianity would be proven once and for all.

I also had a lot of thoughts swirling around the “behemoth” described in Job 40, and decided that mention of it was proof that man and dinosaurs existed at the same time. I would debate anyone on the subject; for some odd reason, it seemed an important pillar of my Christian faith. Huh.

But wait. Is it 1995? Am I wearing over-sized flannel shirts? Is O.J. on trial? No. It is 2008 – a new age, a new era. And years ago, I let go of my über-conservative ways, and became the hellion that you now know and love. Go pastor’s kids!

All that is a preamble to say: this year, I was all about Halloween. As the Devil With the Blue Dress On for a party last weekend, and some sort of a cat last night (leopard? LOLCat? Stuff On My Cat? who knows…), I got into the costume thing. But the most fun was trick-or-treating with Josh, Meg, and Josh’s two boys. Blaine and Drake were spiders, and Meg handmade some boss webs out of pipe cleaners. I had fun trailing them and taking pictures.

October was my favorite month in Nashville so far – I feel like I’m starting to hit my stride. I am grateful for my friendships, the opportunity for adventures, and duh – the cooler weather. Welcome, November. I’m excited for what you hold.