“If you had no job, you could be so productive!”

This is basically the biggest lie since “There are no cats in America.”

I believed it. I fell for it. I spent my working days fantasizing about all that I could get done if I didn’t have a job: reading, writing, exercising, cooking, cleaning, organizing – in general, getting it DONE, and becoming the woman that I’ve always dreamed of being.

But there is a problem: when one has nothing on her schedule, no time constraints, no responsibilities – not to mention, no income – then it’s hard to do ANYTHING. Laziness begets laziness. In theory, I now have all the time in the world to do things – and so it’s no big loss if I don’t do it now. So I don’t really do anything at all. Except make cookies. And check our mailbox everyday at 2pm.

My mind, completely un-stimulated, has been a dry well. I have had nothing to write about – no creativity whatsoever. PZC says that his best writing is done when he’s supposed to be doing something else – and I agree with him. When I sit down with the grand expectation and intention of writing, and I have no time constraints, and no deadlines, and nothing to prod my brain, then I usually wind up with nothing but a blank page.

Last night, Julie and Mel came upstairs to find me in the child’s pose on my bedroom floor, silent and depressed. All of our friends had gone home after our St. Paddy’s Day barbeque, and I was feeling so sad I could hardly stand it. Why? Why does sadness sometimes hit me out of nowhere, like an Atlantic swell?

They got down on the floor with me, and scratched my back, and made me laugh, and then we all talked about our lives, our hopes, our disappointments. In the end, because I have the best roommates in the universe, we prayed together.

It’s a new day. I am grateful to wake up in it. And I am hopeful for what it might contain.

Last night, I dreamed that I was in a bridesmaid dress – a long, flowing, strapless sage gown.  My hair was lovely, my makeup perfect, and I felt pretty.

Except – oh no! – there was a war going on.  With bullets flying everywhere, I ran through a very chaotic Wal-Mart – only to take a shot to the abdomen.  My little sister (who was neither Becca nor Sarah) walked me to the bathroom, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror: terrified, disheveled, and blood-soaked.

Good morning!

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

“I don’t know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everybody.”
-Bill Cosby

“I have never seen a greater monster or miracle than myself.”
-Michel Eyquem de Montaigne (1533-1592)

“Truth is beautiful, without a doubt; but so are lies.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

“Help!  I’m being held prisoner by my heredity and environment!”
-Dennis Allen

“It’s hard to be funny when you have to be clean.”
-Mae West (1892-1980)

“Everything I want is either illegal, immoral, or fattening.”
-Alexander Woollcott (1887-1943)

“I myself am very glad that the divine child was born in a stable, because my soul is very much like a stable, filled with strange unsatisfied longings, with guilt and animal-like impulses, tormented by anxiety, inadequacy and pain. If the holy One could be born in such a place, the One can be born in me also. I am not excluded.”
-Morton Kelsey

Hearken back to Monday’s post.  What was meant to be a shoulder shrug, a lark, a lighthearted jab at my pal Andy, actually sparked quite the response.  While I got a lot of “You go, girl!” comments from women, I have been much more impacted by what I have heard from the men – whether in comment, email, or response via their own blog post.  And while there is no way that I will be able to say everything that there is to say today (yeah, or ever), here is what has been rattling around in my brain this week.

If there is anything that I want to be, it is humble – humble, and teachable.  So THANK YOU to the brave dudes (especially Joey – the catalyst for many of these thoughts today) who had the guts – spine – balls – to challenge my thinking.

Which brings me to my first point: it was wrong of me to emasculate men – denying them of the very thing that makes them male (um… balls… sheesh, I can’t wait to see what keywords bring people to this post) – for not being able to communicate in the way that most women would like them to.  I am not a man-hater – I LOVE men! – and in no way desire to make eunuchs out of a bunch of surely well-meaning guys.  I’m sorry for sounding – snip, snip – harsh and judgmental.

Here’s the deal: in an ideal world, men would communicate clearly.  In an ideal world, women would communicate clearly.  In an ideal world, both sexes would have eyes to see and ears to hear the other person loud and clear.

That is obviously not the world that we live in – due to culture and socialization and upbringing and experiences.  So things get a little bit muddy, a little bit complicated, and sometimes, a little bit… hostile.  Men aren’t up front with their feelings.  Women send mixed signals – a “come hither” straight into a stiff arm.  One person doesn’t know who he is, the other doesn’t know what she wants – or vice versa.  Television only adds to the confusion, portraying men as bumbling idiots, and women as capable-yet-snarky ice queens (think “Everybody Loves Raymond,” or “Home Improvement”).

Who are we?  Who should we be?  Men and women alike are confuzzled.

I so wish that was a real word.

When it comes to love, we’ve all been hurt.  We’ve all been disappointed.  We’ve all got skeletons in the closet, and wounds that haven’t quite healed.  And for as much as we want them, it’s easy to make the opposite sex into the “enemy.”  I have my own stories – things that have happened that have made me a bit gun-shy when it comes to putting myself out there – and when I think of these disgraces, even years later, I still want to bury my head in the sand.

I think it’s safe to say that on a very fundamental level, women want to feel “worth it” to a guy – worth the risk, worth whatever it takes.  But hello – this is 2009.  A man can’t exactly prove his devotion by riding into battle with her hanky in his pocket.  So some of us feel like the least he could do is say, “Hey, you seem great.  I’d love to take you out sometime?”

Then again, the feminist movement sort of threw a wrench in that plan.  We women-folk sure asserted our independence, didn’t we?  Dang it.  We’ve stabbed ourselves in the back.  But that’s another post entirely…

Bottom line: I am backing off from the stance I took on Monday, however playfully I meant it when I first wrote it.  I don’t expect for a guy to take the reins, run the show, ask me out, sweep me off my feet, order me the lamb chop at some swanky restaurant while I sit mute and adoring.  Can you imagine?  Me?  Being conquered?  I do hope for a partnership, with honest and frank communication, equal parts respect and affection – and prior to a relationship, I think that means that both parties are going to need to communicate our interest in whatever way makes sense.

Sigh.  This just zapped every ounce of brain power I possess.

We all just want to matter to someone.

I wish it was easy.  And I hope that one day, it will be.

I’m always perusing Craigslist, and in my recent days of unemployment, I am particularly drawn to the “Free” section. The other day, I saw this:

Napkin rings. 8 gold, 8 silver/gold. Free to a good home.

I’m sorry, but inanimate objects do not qualify for a prerequisite “good home.” A puppy? Yes. A bunny? Of course. Napkin rings? You need to be okay with it if a sociopath wants those bad boys. Learn to let go.

- – - – - – - -

Remember when Julie and I saw a coyote last year? Well, they’re back.

And they don’t take no prisoners.

- – - – - – - -

But perhaps my biggest laugh came from my dad. Both of my parents are on Facebook (and if you’re my friend, chances are my mom has asked me about you, knows what you look like, and could pick you out on the street), and I get a kick out of their status updates.

A recent one of my dad’s:

My siblings and I talked it over, and couldn’t figure out what this was about. So last night at dinner, we asked him. It turns out that he posted a status update in which he misspelled “Parsons.” So he deleted it, and then wrote this new one announcing that he wished that he could spell “Parsons.” However, his initial status update with the misspelled “Parsons” disappeared, so there was no context for this new one. So he tried to delete it. But he accidentally clicked “Like,” giving himself props. And then he just left it.

My dad is hilarious and adorable.

I come from a family of nomads, with someone always moving and roaming and starting over. For the past 5 ½ years, my parents have been planted in Kansas City, and eventually, all of my siblings followed. My older brother and his family are there. My two younger sisters are there. I’ve been the one rogue for quite some time, living on my own in Seattle, and now, in Nashville.

But my parents are shifting again – this time, to Colorado Springs in May. Sister Becca is moving to Ft. Collins in a few weeks. And once again, the Parsons will be scattered across the country like a constellation.

I’m back in Kansas City this week to help my family sift through the junk items in their house, thin out their possessions, rip off wallpaper, and throw away anything ugly or useless. All I will say about this process is that I’m glad that it’s happening now – because if we waited another 30 years until my parents are gone, I’m pretty sure that the pile of detritus would be so large, the only solution would be to strike a match and burn it down.

I am also here to become the sole bearer of my possessions, and take them back to Nashville with me. Ever since early childhood, I’ve put any important mementos in the sacred “Blue Bin” – basically the Ark of the Covenant, in Rubbermaid form. Last night, I opened up the bursting box to see what was inside… and this is what I found.

What I Found in the Blue Bin from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

I kept the good things – and there were definitely treasures – but needless to say, MUCH was trashed. I have no need for old high school band programs, or ticket stubs from Colorado Rockies games, or sketches of CareBears, or pink “participant” ribbons from art fairs, or homemade ceramic pots with dolphins painted on the side.

Or my old teeth or hair, as it were.

I would love to continue the conversation started yesterday, and unpack the question, “Why do some women have the expectation that men should be the initiators?” (I don’t use the word “pursue” – to me, it connotes primal images of a hunter, ear to the ground, tracking a herd of elk.) I would love to talk about any double-standards that brings up. I would love to tell you why I have made the decision to not ask guys out. I would love to explain that I am not a man-hater, man-basher, cynic, OR idealist.

But that post is for another day. Today, I bring to you another subject that I, um, don’t really expect men to resonate with, either…

Yesterday, I threw away my scale.

Just like that. Trashed. Into the dumpster.

I am a compulsive weight-checker, always keeping tabs on my poundage, and consequently tempted to feel either good or bad, happy or sad, proud or ashamed, jubilant or angry. It’s amazing how a great day can be ruined by a number – a NUMBER – like an ever-shifting scorecard for whatever level of healthful diligence I have demonstrated.

In the last few months, I’ve found myself increasingly frustrated at the number on the scale RISING – despite my ability to run further than I could ever run before, despite my capacity to carry on a conversation throughout a 60 minute jog, despite my clothes fitting the same, despite my energy and improved attitude. In the face of all of these accomplishments, the scale says that I weigh 10 lbs. more than I did before I started running last fall.

And for a girl who has been a dieter since age 11, this is traumatizing news.

Miranda has been telling me for years to just throw the damn thing out. She would get outwardly angry when she would see it in the corner of my bathroom, and, knowing the emotional stranglehold the scale has on me, would order me to get rid of it. But for me, to get rid of the scale would be to give up control – and then, maybe, to expand, expand, expand like bread dough.

At first, I thought that I would just take the scale and stash it beneath my bathroom sink – out of sight, out of mind, right? Wrong. For me, keeping my scale would be like staying friends with an ex-boyfriend on Facebook – an unhelpful temptation “just to check.” Sorry boys.

And sorry scale.

It’s time for a new chapter in my life – one in which I have no idea what I weigh.

Who knew that tossing out my scale would be one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever done?

The way I see it,

1) If a guy is interested in me, he should have the guts – spine – balls – to do something about it.

2) If he is interested in me and does NOT have the guts – spine – balls – to do something about it, then he’s not really someone I want to be with anyway.

3) If he is not interested in me, he is not asking me out.

In any case, I leave it up to him.  It’s as simple as that.

(Andy Merrick, you know I love you – you and your many, many words on the subject.  Are you ever going to finish your series, slacker?)

-    “When You Wish Upon a Star”
-    Geppetto’s wish that a puppet would become a real boy.  What?
-    Creepy Blue Fairy
-    Cricket as conscience
-    “Give a Little Whistle”
-    Honest John (wicked fox).  MISLEADING.
-    Figaro (pet cat, unclothed, walks on all-4’s), and Gideon (mute cat, clothed, walks like a human).  INCONSISTENCY.
-    Cleo (flirtatious goldfish with long eyelashes).  AWKWARD.
-    “Hi-Diddle-Dee-Dee”
-    Pavarotti… I mean, Stromboli
-    “I’ve Got No Strings”
-    Puppet locked in a bird cage
-    A nose that grows with every lie.  A NOSE THAT GROWS WITH EVERY LIE.
-    Pleasure Island
-    Boys turned into donkeys for “behaving like jackasses”
-    Subsequent braying
-    Puppet swallowed by gigantic whale
-    Puppet sneezed out by gigantic whale
-    Puppet dies
-    Puppet brought back to life by the Blue Fairy as a reward for bravery
-    “When You Wish Upon a Star” reprise… because we didn’t get enough the first time around.

First things first.
Did anyone else notice that they said “hootenanny” last night during “Lost”?  My name was said on national television!  I AM SO TOTALLY FAMOUS!!!

Next things next.
Last night as I was dying my hair, it hit me: I am a responsible and intelligent girl, not one to slack and make bad financial decisions… and maybe it was the ammonia, but… I don’t think I’m going to get a job for a while.

Since I ended my tenure as the Temptress, I have felt a burden lifted – a heavy weight that I didn’t recognize was there, since I was too busy convincing myself to be grateful for a job at all.  But once I walked out of those heavy glass doors, box of possessions in hand, I felt it: I could breathe.

For the last two weeks, I have felt so light, so buoyant, so UNLIKE 2008 ANNIE.  I am realizing that over the past year, I had been so entrenched in the daily grind that I had lost the part of me that I rather like – the part that says things like, “Tell me about your day,” and “How are you doing?” and “I’d love to get together!” and “Yes, 10am sounds perfect,” and “Sure, let’s drive to Pennsylvania.”  Instead, there were a lot of grunts and frowns and silences.

There were also a lot of Facebook video wall posts, which was always a little bit awkward the next day.

Anyhoodles.

Obviously, I cannot and will not stay jobless forever.  I’m too high-maintenance, and I know it.  One of these days, I’m going to snap, and scream, “Give me Aveda!  NO MORE SUAVE!”  But until then, I will be engaging in a season of Survivor: Nashville.  I am allowing my spirit to take a deep breath, living much more simply, and finding creative solutions to my financial problems (and yes indeed, of course, there are problems).

I’m going to take advantage of this time and drive to Kansas City next week to help my family during a period of major transition.  I’m going to spend some days working on my EP.  I’m going to stretch something called my IT band, which I didn’t even know I had – until it got terribly inflamed and rendered me semi-crippled.  I’m going to continue applying for jobs.  And I’m going to hope and pray that the right position will come along at the right time.

A foolish risk?  Perhaps.  Worth it?  I hope.

In the meantime, you should see my hair.  It is dyed.  It is fabulous.  It is foxy.  It is… exactly the color it was before.

But BETTER.