This morning, rather than reading about politics (so long, Santorum) or George Zimmerman (so long, lawyers), I opted to click on this link:
“Texter looks up, sees 400-pound bear”

I am so glad that this moment was captured on film.

Speaking of bears, I mentioned that Toad got her summer haircut.  She went from looking like this:

to this:

So long, bear.  Hello, 3-legged baby cow with a feather extension behind her ear.

(I promise, she is cuter and less pathetic than this picture makes her out to be.)

(But only a little.)

And with that, I’ll take my leave. I’m pretty sure I’m going to spend the entire day thinking about:
1) paying my estimated quarterly taxes,
2) how we still haven’t found a house to move into, and
3) the fact that in just 8 days, HUNTER IS COMING TO VISIT – which means that once again, this moment will be made possible:

I cannot wait.

Please tell me you know about this site.

Moose are some mean mother truckers.

Ever since I read “Hatchet,” and the kid was stranded alone in the Canadian wilderness, and the moose swam up in the lake UNDERNEATH HIM and gored him with his horns, I have been terrified.  This is unfortunate, because tomorrow, I will board a boat bound for the Last Frontier, where people see moose outside of the local Applebees.

But who knows – maybe moose will win me over.

Perhaps if Alison Krauss serenaded the encounter?

(Why does that make me want to laugh so hard?)

Speaking of savage behemoths, I just learned that the state marine animal of Alaska (every state should have one) is the bowhead whale.  This is by far the ugliest beast I have ever seen.

If I don’t return, you can either blame the state of Alaska for death-by-wildlife, or Christopher McCandless for the inspiration to just never come back.  At this point, it’s a toss up.

Oh!  But it’s not lonely when you have two gigantic Labradors to share the space!

Gah.  I will never understand people who let their dogs sleep on the bed (sorry, Becca, and all you other crazy dog people).

Don’t get me wrong – I love dogs.  I LOVE them.  But there is a reason that L.L. Bean is still in business, and I’m pretty sure that it has nothing to do with their multi-colored fleeces.  Although the Christmas 2006 Parsons family might beg to differ:

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I was invited to spend this coming Saturday on a pontoon boat with 30 other people.

I would rather streak across a golf course.

Many of the people who are going to be on the boat read this blog, and I want you to know that truly, it’s not you – it’s me.  Nowhere on my list of favorite things does it read “sun,” “heat,” “burn,” “sweat,” or “stranded with no escape.”

Incidentally, these are all of the same reasons I hated summer camp – although I can emphatically say that the number one reason I hated summer camp was the fear of getting my first period away from home.  (Sorry for saying “period.”  Oh, and sorry for saying it again.)

Instead of doing something summery and boatish and what some might call “dreamy,” my Memorial Day weekend plans include the following:
-    Pet-sitting for a former co-worker (uh oh)
-    Cleaning out the 12-year old black lab’s eyes on a daily basis (the owner showed me how – and I’m serious, I might vomit every day)
-    Seeing Lori McKenna at 12th & Porter on Friday night – oh, sweet bliss!
-    Babysitting for very cute twins on Saturday night
-    Holding babies in the church nursery on Sunday night
-    Welcoming Julie back from the Caribbean
-    Welcoming Nashville Miranda back from Argentina
-    Hanging with Erin Castioni – which could quite possibly lead to all manner of spontaneity.  I mean, remember last time?

What are YOU doing for Memorial Day weekend?

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.

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

And they don’t take no prisoners.

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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.

We went grocery shopping at BB’s, an Amish paradise in which you find bargains like 50 cent jars of chutney, or 9 full-size Butterfingers for $1.50, or a slightly smashed box of Cheez-Its for 75 cents, or apples for 39 cents/pound. It was like God raining down manna from heaven, and packing it in the trunk of my car for the return trip.

Rebecca was a GORGEOUS bride. But of course, I never got a picture of her handsome groom. Way to go, Annie. How can you even be related to the Parsons Photographers?

Other gems: I met both Paul’s parents and Graham’s parents (I love meeting my friend’s parents). We ate amazing home-cooked meals at the Zimmerman-Clayton household. I wore a sweatshirt that said “Penn State Mom” most of the time. There were chocolate chip cream cheese cupcakes at Central Market. I learned a lot about the Amish.  We watched an hilariously awful movie called “The Happening.” Paul and I ran for 7 miles through the farmland – but wait, that was terrible.

We documented our car ride to Pennsylvania. In the beginning we are full of enthusiasm, but soon spiral to misery, and then to sleepy insanity. We had absolutely no desire to film our return trip – we were too busy driving through a blizzard and discussing the world’s problems, using words unfit for camera – so unfortunately (but trust me – fortunately), this is all I have for you.

Pennsylvania Road Trip from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

Me: “What is that?”

Her: “This is a cage for my flying squirrel.”

Ladies and gentlemen, without even trying, I have found the first candidate for my squirrel club.

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.