Number of times my car has been towed: 1

Here in America, we are taught that all men are created equal.

So no one should be “out of one’s league,” right?

We try to pretend that everyone deserves a fair shot – that there are no “leagues” – but when it comes to love, we employ our own silent caste system. We say that attraction is not the most important thing, but our relationships (and sometimes lack of relationships) tell a different story. We agree with John Lennon and sing, “All you need is love” – yeah, that… and a job, and a hot body, and chemistry, and a quick wit, and these days, a blood test.

I don’t know how anyone ever gets married.

Don’t get me wrong – these are not the rantings of a bitter and cynical woman. I WANT to fall in love – those of you who know me know that my heart is still soft. I hope that it happens for me someday. But I’m perplexed. I don’t understand how it ever happens – how the stars align, bringing the right people together at the right time. I don’t want to settle – but as Andy Merrick recently wrote:

“We’re acting like a contestant on Deal Or No Deal. We’re making this a game. We KNOW you’re interested in us. We have you. Maybe you’re the $500,000 case. But we’re greedy. We think there’s a $1,000,000 case out there. We don’t know for sure, but we’re hoping.”

Are we being ridiculous? Are we hoping for something that just does not exist? It’s like we’re designing our own paint-by-number mates, and unless everything fits just perfectly – the exact perfect color within the exact perfect lines – then we hold out for something (and someone) “better.”

Sheesh. I wish it was easy – easy like Sunday morning.

But never fear! Contrary to what many men assume about single women, I am not going to spend Valentine’s Day crying in my pajamas, eating peanut butter off of a spoon and cursing the boy who broke my heart in high school. Sometimes, I’ll admit, I get a little bit sad about being single, but it seems to me that I’m in good company. And this year, my holiday weekend is full of so many delightful things, it’s insane.

My favorite little wood sprite (and the closest thing I have to a soul-mate), Greta Girl, is flying in tonight.

Seriously, could I HAVE a cuter friend?

A group of us are spending Valentine’s Day at the Bluebird Café to hear Josh and Meg play – Lovebirds at the Bluebird (awwww!).

Aren’t they the best? I want them to adopt me. They kind of already have. I’m practically their love child.

We’re attending Charlie Hardin’s CD release at the Rutledge on Monday night.

Charlie is one of my favorite musical discoveries here in Nashville – amazing songs, and an astounding voice. If you live here, you should come to this show. His EP is called “Hollywood Be Thy Name” – how could it NOT be good?

Also, I plan on exercising my love languages several times this weekend.

Because after all, all you need is love… and in my case, some beautiful friends and a glass of Syrah.

When I was a little girl, there were a couple of movies that I watched over and over again. All of them were taped straight off TV – back when Sunday nights meant family movies on ABC, back when VCR’s had the pop-up compartment for the videotape, back when we lived in San Jose, CA.

I knew – and still know – every word (dialogue and lyric), every dance, and every nuance to “The Sound of Music.” I watched some portion of it every single day from age 4-6. I also obsessed over “Annie”; how could I not? I thought the idea of being an orphan was romantic (sorry, Mom and Dad), and the opening song, “Maybe,” remains one of my favorite melodies to this day.

And then there was a 1985 Disney film called “The Journey of Natty Gann.” I have not watched it since probably 1989, and had totally forgotten about it until about a month ago. As soon as I thought of it, I added it to my Netflix queue, and finally re-watched it last night.

I never realized how formative this movie was for me.

Here’s the plot summary, taken from IMDB:

Natty Gann is a twelve-year old Depression era girl whose single-parent father leaves her behind in Chicago while he goes to Washington State to look for work in the timber industry. Natty runs away from the guardian she was left with to follow Dad. She befriends and is befriended by a wolf that has been abused in dog fights, hops a freight train west, and is presumed dead when her wallet is found after the train crashes. Dad gets bitter and endangers himself in his new job. Meanwhile Natty has a series of adventures and mis-adventures in various farmhouses, police stations, hobo camps, reform schools, and boxcars.

Natty Gann’s sense of adventure, fear, courage, longing for home, and love for dogs convinces me that I absorbed so much from this movie. I only wish that John Cusack had been my first kiss.

A couple of things that struck me, this time around:

1. In 1985, a “PG” rating allowed the words “damn” and “shit.”
2. In 1985, a “PG” rating allowed kids being hit in the face.
3. In 1985, a “PG” rating allowed dog fights and blood.
4. In 1985, a “PG” rating allowed sexual predators and dangerous men.

See – now you HAVE to watch it. It’s so exciting!

Go back and watch a movie that you haven’t seen since early childhood. I’m convinced that you’ll be struck with something – something deep inside of you, something formative, something that you never realized had a source.

I mean, honestly. Why else would I have a secret-yet-unsquelchable desire to name my firstborn “Fievel”?

Welcome to my new little corner of the cyber-sky!

For those of you who are wondering, “How did Annie get her own website?” I must be honest and say I HAVE NO IDEA. When it comes to technology, I operate on a need-to-know basis – I surround myself with people who are only going to tell me what I need to know, and not another word.

Bless you, you geniuses.

To get this site up and running, I am indebted to:

- Lauren at WebExHosting, who spent hours creating this site, hauling over all of my blog archives, and making my dreams come true. She is my Web Fairy Godmother. Bibbity-bobbity-boo.
- Seth, my graphic designer friend with the best head of hair of any guy I know. He helped me with the masthead in exchange for a double batch of Monster Cookies.
- Ashley, my ultra-talented sister-in-law, for capturing my fabulous chair (and me!) in that sunny Kansas field.
- Emily, the closest thing I have to a little sister besides my little sisters, who designed the sweet paisley logo.
- God, for creating the internet.

So look around, and let me know what you think. Things might get tweaked here and there early on, but overall, I think it’s quite “Annie Parsons,” don’t you? Look at the top of the page – TABS! And come back all the time. You can find me here Monday through Friday, steady as the sun.

Celebrate good times, come on.

Yesterday, I experienced true grace.

To back it up: last week, I really slacked on my training schedule for the half-marathon – meaning, I ran one time. ONE time! If I am hoping to run 13.1 consecutive miles in a few short months, then I need to keep up with the program. After such a lousy week, I started to feel like this whole running “thing” was not for me: there’s no way that I can do it – I’m not a natural runner – I’m behind on the training – I can’t catch up – I’m unmotivated – there went my $85 registration fee.

But never fear: as is becoming a regular occurrence, PZC to the rescue.

Paul called me on Sunday morning after I missed the group run, and said, “This is unacceptable. You haven’t even done your time trial yet. What are you doing tomorrow night? You’re coming running – no excuses.”

So Paul and Josh and I met at Centennial Park to do my time trial – basically, run as fast as you can sustain for 3 miles, which becomes a benchmark pace for other training runs. I hate to run fast, because what if my thighs rub together so much that my underwear catches on fire? Running fast equals being severely uncomfortable, and I don’t have a high tolerance for uncomfortableness; this is why I hate the beach (sand in all the wrong places), the wind (totally blows), Nashville summers (sweaty misery), and hangnails (self-explanatory). But Paul and Josh gave me a pep talk as we jogged to warm up for a half a mile, and told me that they would run with me at whatever pace I set.

So we started. I ran fast – a lot faster than I am used to running. The first mile and a half were fine, but when we approached the 2 mile marker, it felt harder to breathe. All of my childhood memories of asthma and panic attacks came racing back, and in a terrifying instant, I found my windpipe closing off – a purely emotional reaction, since my legs were keeping up just fine. I felt the same alarm that I felt on Mt. Sneffels – I can’t breathe.

But Paul talked me down, and I finished the run, and Josh and Paul told me that I’m doing a great job. And although they could have abandoned me as soon as I started slacking with the training, they came back to get me and said, “We’re not letting you quit.” They stooped to my lesser level of fitness, and gave up what might have been a better workout for my sake. I don’t deserve friends like them.

But I’m so glad that I found them.

Thank you, Paul and Josh, for demonstrating grace in such a tangible way.

On Facebook, sometimes users are required to type in a word to verify that one is indeed a human and not a cyborg or a hacker. It’s called a “captcha” – get it, like, “capture,” but all loosey-goosey and free-style? Say it with attitude – move your shoulders with each syllable. “Captcha.”

(You totally whispered it out loud, didn’t you? You sassy little devil.)

But I only just now realized that it’s pronounced “captcha”; when you read something over and over, but are never required to say it out loud, your brain can play tricks on you. And this whole time, in my head, I’ve been calling it a “captchka.” “Captchka” makes absolutely no sense – PLUS, with 5 consonants in a row, it’s almost impossible to pronounce. What was I thinking?

I have a little electronic key on my key-ring that unlocks certain doors at the office. When I included it in Friday’s video, I realized that I did not, in fact, know what it was called; you see my slight hesitation at 1:33. In my head, I have been calling it a “pre-farb,” which is quite possibly the ugliest word in the made-up English language*. But today I was set straight: it’s a “key fob.”

There’s an old Patty Loveless song with the line, “It gets melancholy.” Until very recently, I thought she was singing about “a kid-smellin’ collie” – which could have been right…?

There are words that slide comfortably into my written lexicon that I’ve discovered that I have to pause before pronouncing out loud: archetype, posthumous, banal, wan.

I have a new goal of being able to spell, with no hesitation, the following:
- coup d’état
- hors d’oeuvres
- onomatopoeia

*The ugliest word in the ACTUAL English language is “crotch.”

Churning Brain from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

We are 12 days away from the dreaded transition to digital TV – although it’s not so much of a “transition” as it is a “bitch slap.” A belly-flop straight into the lavas of hell.

No, I did not purchase a converter box. It’s not that worth it to me. But I will miss my morning news shows – because what better way to wake up than with Diane and Robin, Chris and Sam? I could always go downstairs to our gigantic television of ungodly proportions, the one that’s hooked up to the cable signal. But in the morning, I prefer watching my tiny screen in the privacy of my Princess Tower Bedroom – in which there is no cable cord.

I have 12 more days of bliss.

This morning, I flipped from “Good Morning America” (my favorite) to “The Today Show” (my not-as-favorite, but more-favorite than “The Early Show”) just in time to see this story about Patrick Thibodeau. I bawled my eyes out. Involuntary crying. Not just hot eyes – HUGE crocodile tears spilling down my cheeks. Some things are just like that for me – I cannot, no matter how hard I try, keep it together.

Other things I cannot watch without crying:
- The last 10 minutes of “Homeward Bound”
- The final scene in any inspirational Disney sports movie (“Remember the Titans,” “Miracle,” “The Rookie”)
- Any movie that ends in the wild-animal-become-pet being returned to the wild
- The Oprah episode in which she reunites the long-separated Rwandan family
- Kerri Strug sticking the landing
- And as much as it pains me to admit it… “MOVE! THAT! BUS!!”

- – - – - – -

And now – the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Drumroll, please…

And the winner is:

My 8th comment was left by hollyandmeagan, but who’s to say whether it was Holly or Meagan? Whichever one of you borrows her roommate/bestfriend/co-blogger’s underwear, get ready for a beautiful Valentine made by Anna Marie. You should probably give it to your roommate/bestfriend/co-blogger.

In a grand twist of events, I found myself dining last night at the Eastland Café with my two roommates, one of their mothers, and two strangers. I had the duck. I love duck.

The strangers quickly became friends. I fell in love with these women.

I heard their stories – what brought them to Nashville, what gives them joy, what they are learning at this stage in their lives. And in turn, they asked me insightful questions – ones that, when I answered, gave me a certain familiarity with myself that I didn’t have before.

Among other things, they asked me about my musical ambitions. I sighed, and told them what I have been thinking lately: I have been so tempted to just quit doing music. To “retire.” To stop frantically scrambling for ideas, and no longer have to answer the question, “So, do you have any shows coming up?” I’ve been discouraged, and creatively dry, and lacking inspiration. Nashville is a great place to enjoy music, but a daunting place to make it. Everyone is good. The mailman is good.

But, I know, I know. The comparison game is completely feckless and futile. I’m learning this. I may be slow, but I AM learning this.

And so I opened up with these women, and told them that I’ve quietly started work on an album – what will wind up being a 6-7 song EP. It’s my first “official” recording project beyond simple demos, and will take awhile to complete since it is self-funded. But the timing is right, and the cost is worth it to me.

I’ve been looking for “a reason” to make a record – a logical justification for it, like, “Oh, I’ll make some money,” or “Oh, this will help me get a publishing deal,” or “Oh, a CD will make me a legitimate songwriter.” But when it comes down to it, my main motivation is this:

I wrote some songs, and I think it’s time for them to be heard.

That’s all.

And in that moment, one of these women reiterated what my mom had said to me earlier in the day: “That makes you an artist.”

After all of my soul-searching and wheel-spinning and worrying that I don’t know what I am doing with my life. After months of despondency and sleepless nights. After a lack of direction, and a desire for definition. After a lot of prayers. I still don’t have all the answers, but…

Finally. A title that fits.

Stay tuned.

When I was in third grade, I had a pseudo, almost, totally-not-but-kind-of-but-no-not-really full-blown crush on Dylan Schoo. He was so cute. He was so nice to me. He lived around the corner, and took piano lessons from my mom. And we were in the same class, consistently, all the way through elementary school – so when Valentine’s Day 1991 rolled around, deep down, I wanted to give him a special note.

I bought the box of “Beauty and the Beast” cards, and carefully sorted through, choosing the harmless gender-neutral ones for the boys that I didn’t care about, the cute lovey ones for my best friends, and finally, the perfect one for Dylan.

It featured Lumiere:

And it said “You make me want to sing!”

I wrote his name, and then signed my own.

But right before class, I chickened out. I couldn’t tell DYLAN that he made me want to SING. That is so EMBARRASSING! So I quickly scratched out “sing,” and replaced it with “puke.”

But wait! It gets better! Right before we were supposed to hand out our valentines, I felt bad. Because Dylan didn’t make me want to puke – I liked him! – and that was rude. So I scratched out “puke” and wrote “laugh.”

Nice and non-committal. Could be interpreted in a variety of ways, whichever would be most convenient for me at the time. “You make me want to laugh!” because I think you’re funny. “You make me want to laugh!” because you’re such an idiot. “You make me want to laugh!” because… will you marry me?

If you are looking for beautiful valentines to give to your loved ones in 11 days, my ultra-talented friend Anna Marie of Love+Luck Design has created some whimsical, handmade cards. And she, being such a wonderful giver, is offering a complimentary card to whoever wins MY CONTEST!

What is this contest, you ask?

Well, here it is. Leave a comment telling me about someone that you love or appreciate. Your husband. Your wife. Your nephew or niece. Your roommate. Your co-worker. Your crush-who-will-not-be-named. Your best friend. Your dog. The boy who scans your groceries at Whole Foods. Tell me a little something about them. And when the comments close tomorrow night, I will use the Random Integer Generator to choose which commenter wins the card.

Then I’ll put you in touch with cute Anna Marie, who will send you the card of your choosing!

And by the way, Dylan and I are still friends.