Let me begin by saying that U is for a lot of hideous words.

Udder. Ulcer. Urethra. Uvula. Upchuck.

U might be turning into my least favorite letter.

However, U is also for Ubiquitous, which is what I was this weekend – seemingly present everywhere at once. Becca and I did a lot. And friends, let me take the opportunity to make this announcement: anything I said before about possibly turning into an extrovert is being utterly revoked.

I am an introvert, through and through.

Weekends like this – where I am presented with many very, very good options of how to spend my time, and thus feel the need to make them ALL happen – leave me feeling exhausted and peopled-out. So much so that at the Tacky Christmas Sweater Party on Saturday night, I found myself attempting solitude the only way I could figure: by sinking onto the kitchen floor in the corner. It was quieter down there.

Becca and I took part in two Christmas parties, a Josh & Meg show, running club, Whole Foods lunching, Anthropologie browsing, the Frist, a Dickens of a Christmas festival down in Franklin, Rosepepper Mexican food, and of course, plenty of photo ops.

Now she’s gone back to Kansas, where it was 4 degrees this morning.

Now I’m back at my desk, where my mind is elsewhere and everywhere*.

Ubiquity, indeed.

* = the fact that I’m living on my credit card, and I don’t know when/where I’m going to do laundry next, and I’m moving a week from tonight, and how am I going to buy Christmas presents for anyone, and holy cow I’m really training for this half-marathon and that scares the bajeebis out of me because oh man it’s going to be hard, and I need a haircut, and I wonder which of my friends will get engaged THIS Christmas, and is Nashville really going to be covered in ice tomorrow, and I’m still a temp receptionist, and I miss my Seattle friends, and I wish I could go hang out with my friend Christina in Boston, and I’m sorry but I just couldn’t get a video together today.

You know how kids are always told to never touch a power line?

How do the birds live?

This was my “maundering pondering” of the morning, as I drove to the airport to fetch Becca. Little Sister is visiting for the weekend; unfortunately, I am at work today, for temping takes no holiday – even on a Nashville-wide “snow day.”

Honestly, people. I saw nary a flake.

But I am happy for my friends of the matriculated variety, who have found themselves with a day void of responsibilities. I am rounding them up, along with my unemployed (okay, SELF-employed) pals, for a lunchtime rendezvous at the Panera near my office on West End.

That’s right, blog stalkers. You know where to find me come 12:20. I’ll be surrounded by my posse, though, so you might have a hard time breaking through the entourage.

In other news, I will be cross-posting on my friend Mark’s running blog with a featured “East Nasty of the Week” write-up. If you are not a Nashvillian or my mother, you’re probably not interested. But if you DO live here in Music City, and want to train for the half-marathon happening in April, the East Nasties are the coolest runners in the city.

But since I’m always last, I don’t know if I count as one of them yet…

Happy weekend to all. Becca and I are ready to show Nashville no mercy. Stay tuned for a full report… and maybe even a video blog?? I know: you expect nothing less.

Okay, not to be Miss Bossy Pants, but there are several things that you absolutely HAVE to do.

First of all, you have to look up my new pal Neal Carpenter on iTunes – he has one song, “Don’t Give Up On Me,” for sale. And you guys. Believe me when I say that this is such a good song. It is worth way more than the 99 cents you will pay for it – and wouldn’t it just make Neal’s day to sell a bunch of songs? But in all honesty, I recommend this to you more for YOUR sake than his. He’s like a male version of Patty Griffin – and if you know anything about my musical taste, you’ll know that that’s just about the biggest compliment I could give anyone. Seriously – for less than the price of a pack of gum, you will be rewarded with a song that you will never want to end. This might be Neal’s first song on iTunes, but it won’t be his last.

And while you’re there on iTunes, you should also grab the exquisite Catherine Hessler’s “How Many Angels,” written by one of my very dearest friends, Katie Freeze. This one little track will change your Christmas season, I promise. I don’t even like Christmas music, but this song makes me weep. Sometimes I listen to it in July, just because my heart needs to be woken up a little bit. “Telling me I am beloved, and telling me never to fear…” – words we all need to hear, words we all need to believe.

Next, you have to revisit the darling dog that the Handy Graham took in off the street. His official name is Wallingford Rufus Rutherford Parsons – but Graham doesn’t know that, and he just calls him Copper.  Take it from me: this is the sweetest, most adorable little pup you could ever find, and would be an amazing addition to your life. Now, adopt him – or find a friend who will.

And finally, be careful about sucking face, kids.

I’ve always been a super-fan of something. When I find something that I love, I tend to jump on the bandwagon and become infatuated. It happened with “Full House.” It happened with Pogs and snap bracelets. It happened with Elijah Wood (have you seen “The War”?). It happened with “Harry Potter” and “Lord of the Rings” and “Lost.” But before any of these things, I was obsessed – OBSESSED – with “The Baby-Sitters Club” books.

(Note: if you have no context for or history with these books, then just stop reading now. This is headed toward pre-pubescent girl territory. You have been warned.)

There was a new book every month. EVERY MONTH! None of this “waiting for years” crap like J.K. Rowling pulls – Ann M. Martin cranked out a paperback novel every 30 days. I would pick up my copy at a local bookstore, and devour it within a few hours. And then, I would write letters to my friend Sheryl in California about how much I loved the BSC*.

(*Yes, I abbreviated. I was that down with these books. Granted, I was also known to sign off by saying, “See you on the pilf” – which was “flip” backwards – so I couldn’t have been THAT cool.)

Each book was narrated by a different member of the club – Kristy, Mary Anne, Dawn, Stacey, Claudia, Mallory, or Jessi – and there were 131 books in the series. Occasionally, there would be a “Super Special” edition, which were typically longer and featured narration that traded off chapter-to-chapter.

Wikipedia has some fantastic one-line summaries of each book, such as:
- Dawn and the Impossible Three – Dawn sits for the wild charges of a recent divorcee.
- Mary Anne’s Bad-Luck Mystery – Mary Anne gets mysterious letters saying she will have bad luck.
- Stacey’s Ex-Best Friend – Stacey’s best friend Laine believes baby-sitting is for babies, which causes a rift between the two friends.
- Get Well Soon, Mallory – Mallory has not been feeling well and finds out she has mononucleosis.
- Kristy and the Copycat – Kristy’s stepsister Karen continually copies her.

Isn’t it obvious how absolutely riveting these stories were? And all these things happened when they were 11-13 years old!

The characters were diverse, and pigeonholed in their roles. Kristy was the bossy, tomboy leader. Mary Anne was her quiet and studious best friend – and the only one with a steady boyfriend (Logan Bruno, so dreeeeeamy). Dawn was Mary Anne’s other best friend – a health-nut from California who ate tofu and had long, gleaming blond hair. Claudia was Japanese-American, dyslexic, and wolfed down junk food (don’t worry – she was always skinny). Stacey was Claudia’s best friend – a native New Yorker, very “urban-chic,” and had diabetes. Mallory and Jessi, the “junior members,” were only 11-years old, and… well, let’s be honest, no one really cared about them.

I dreamed about being as cool as these girls. It’s amazing how a 9-year old girl can idolize fictional characters; in my mind, they were very real. I paid $15/year to be a member of “The Baby-Sitters Club Fan Club,” getting me a quarterly newsletter and free junk – like BSC buttons and postcards. I had The Baby-Sitters Club wall calendar. I owned every paperback available.

But eventually, the magic faded. I BECAME a baby-sitter – and not just any baby-sitter: Annie the Nanny. I didn’t need to live vicariously through these make-believe girls. When I was in high school, we sold all of these books at a yard sale – chunks of my childhood pawned off for a quarter a piece.

Thank goodness I can go listen to the theme song any time I want.

Saturday was St. Nicholas Day.

The Parsons celebrate St. Nicholas Day.

In recent years, our tradition has fallen by the wayside; with all of us scattered (well, okay, currently it’s just ME who is scattered – I’m the rogue), and Jeremy and Ashley having their own family and building their own traditions, and everyone just being generally busy, it’s been hard to celebrate together on December 6. But as a child, we opened our stockings on December 6.

First, Ma & Pa would gather us around and tell us the true story of Saint Nicholas, the Turkish bishop known for his secret gift-giving. According to lore (one of my favorite words, by the way), jolly old Saint Nick met a man who could not afford a dowry for his three daughters – which would assure a life of singleness (and thus, prostitution) for each of them. Late one night, Nicholas crept up to their open window, and tossed in three purses – enough gold to pay a dowry for each girl.

Other stories feature Nicholas anonymously providing children with food and money, typically deposited in their shoes which were left outside their front doors each night.

Our stockings always held the same things: (chocolate) gold coins, an orange, a pair of socks or tights, and usually a small treasure. Once, I got a tiny Pound Puppy, and I thought it was the greatest gift of all time. As I got older, I would find a yummy-smelling lotion or some lip gloss or nail polish.

At some point in history, Saint Nicholas and Santa Claus became synonymous – but my parents always distinguished between the two, making sure that we knew that Saint Nicholas was a real man – a generous man who helped people – and the Santa Claus we saw in the mall was “just a guy in a costume.” I never, ever believed in Santa Claus. But I always knew about Saint Nicholas.

If I get married and have kids someday, this is a tradition that I want to continue. And if I don’t – well.

I’m thankful that I won’t be forced into a life of prostitution.

Sick in bed, sick in bed,
Massive snot balls in my head.
What to do to pass the time?
Write a poem, try to rhyme.
Scratchy throat and itchy eyes,
Achy body my demise.
Haven’t seen a soul at all,
Save the Handy Graham (who’s tall):
Bringing TheraFlu at 5,
He made sure I was alive.
Now I’m zonked and bored to tears,
Out of Kleenex, out of cheers.
Coughing, coughing, cough cough cough,
Feel my windpipe closing off.
If I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take,
But if I make it through the night,
I pray that I’ll wake up alright.
For I get no vacation days,
If I don’t work, I don’t get paid.
So go, white blood cells! Andalé!
And chase this wretched bug away.

From my bed of lonely misery,
Annie the Sick

- – - – - – - -

Update! The amazing Andy Merrick is BRINGING ME SORBET!!!!!

“I’m tired.”
“Really tired.”
“I need coffee.”
“I didn’t get coffee this morning.”
“I also didn’t shower.”
“That’s beside the point.”
“I should go downstairs to the coffee shop.”
“Okay, I’ll go.”
“This elevator takes forever.”
“Oh no, someone else is getting on the elevator.”
“Awkward.”
“Pretend to count change in your wallet.”
“Watch the lights – floor 5… 4… 3… 2…”
“Finally – lobby!”
“Walk quickly.”
“Wait – there’s a piano in the lobby?”
“Why?”
“For the holiday spirit?”
“Is she playing ‘Piano Man’?”
“That’s weird.”
“If I could be supplied with caffeine intravenously, I would.”
”I’d strap on a CamelBak of espresso.”
”They should market those! I SHOULD MARKET THOSE!”
“I need a big cup of coffee.”
“Oh my goodness, is that Patrick Swayze?”
“No, but it looks like him.”
[sing along with “Every Breath You Take,” playing on the coffee shop speakers]
“Hey, that guy is singing, too!”
“So is the girl behind the counter!”
“This is fun.”
[I keep calling baby, baby, pleeeeeeeease…]
“Good song.”
“Wow, that guy really looks like Patrick Swayze.”
“Remember when you saw the Police in Seattle last year?”
“Sting is attractive.”
“Oddly.”
“But not as attractive as Kevin Costner.”
“I can’t believe I’m attracted to Kevin Costner.”
“Or Dennis Quaid.”
“But yes I can.”
“They’re ATTRACTIVE.”
“Is Patrick Swayze attractive?”
“Not really.”
“OH. MY. GOODNESS.”
“What’s this I hear?”
“Is this ‘The Time of My Life’?”
“Yes!”
“Where’s Patrick Swayze man?”
“Does he care that his song is playing?”
“Dude, it’s your song!”
“There he goes – out the door.”
“Nobody puts Baby in the corner.”
“Exact change for coffee – win.”
“Hurry back to elevator.”
“Yessss – elevator to myself… except… wait…”
“Mullet man is getting on.”
“Don’t stare.”
“Look at the ground.”
“But… that MULLET.”
“Annie, don’t stare.”
“Ewwwww.”
“Look at your coffee.”
“Back to your desk.”
“So many brochures to stuff.”
“But first.”
“Any emails?”
“Yes!”
“What does it say?”
“HAHA!!!!”
“It says, ‘Sometimes I wish I was like one of those rainforest frogs who could switch genders and have sex with itself and get pregnant independently. I mean I don’t ACTUALLY wish that. But sometimes I do.’”
“OH MAN.”
“I love that friend.”

Nope. Not telling you who the friend was. But let’s just say that when it comes to drama with the menfolk, sometimes I feel the exact same way.

Co-worker: Have you reached 1,000 yet?

Me: YES! A couple of days ago!

Co-worker: Only 2,500 to go.

Me: What…? Oh. I thought you were talking about Facebook friends.

He was not. He was talking about stuffing envelopes.

- – - – - – - -

I helped decorate the lobby for Christmas yesterday, which included the blasting of holiday music and the imbibing of some very strong Cape Cods – not that you hear me complaining. The afternoon flew by – I was an envelope-labeling MANIAC.

Also, don’t worry. With the addition of Christmas decorations, I am no longer alone all day.

As a very strong introvert – one who needs my alone time like I need oxygen, like I need chocolate – I must say that I am blown away by my life here in Nashville. The fact that on a Tuesday night, I would gladly choose to go to a show with a friend, and talk the whole time, and then swing by another friend’s house on the way home from the grocery store, just to say hi and hang out for a half an hour even when I could have been at home alone, is beyond me.

The fact that I will be living with not just one, but TWO other girls, come January, is astounding. The fact that I will be living in a bedroom that, as of right now, has no door (no door!), is flabbergasting.

The fact that every Wednesday night I choose to go running with a group of athletes far more capable than I, and then choose to hang out afterwards and talk to people, and choose to not hole myself up in my apartment, is bizarre.

The fact that I am signing a lease for another year in Nashville, rather than returning to my beloved Seattle after Christmas (like I had secretly been planning for months), is a huge surprise to me.

The fact that I have met amazing girlfriends is unexpected, but delightful. The fact that I have met amazing guy friends is utterly shocking, but oh-so-welcome.

The fact that I am feeling happy leaves me feeling flummoxed. (Now THERE’S a telling statement.)

I think it’s too early to say – and I’ll probably trip over my words. But here goes nothing: this INFJ might be becoming an ENFJ.