A few nights ago, I dreamed that I had a bangin’ strapless red dress, and I was so excited to wear it.  I pulled it on, looked in the mirror, and… was reminded that I had recently been tattooed.  Emblazoned across my chest were the words, “Where the stars and stripes and the eagle fly.”

Fail.

- – - – - – - -

One of my favorite parts of my job is when I am called upon to check people’s emails for “references to porn.”  The emails are never actually pornographic, but certain words can flag them as such in our system.  All we have to do is start thinking like a 15-year old boy, and usually, the problematic words and phrases jump off the screen.

Like a dirty treasure hunt!

So on Friday, a bike shop created an email, and then asked me why their email was being flagged.

The very most awesomely awkward conversation is to break the what-should-be-obvious news to someone that their email contains the following words:
purring
rubber
damp
ride
mount
stretch

The kicker?  When making mention of cystic fibrosis, the writer said that the disease is “ravishing children and young adults”

I do believe they meant “ravaging.”

- – - – - – - -

Me: “Take the word folks.  Do you pronounce it FOLKS or FOKES?”
Her: “I say FOLKS.  It has an L in it, after all.”
Me: “But that makes no sense.  There are other words with Ls that no one pronounces.  Like on a bike – no one says SPOLKS.”
Her: “That’s because the word is spokes.”

And my inflated vocabul-ego was flattened like a pancake.

Blame it on genetics.  Blame it on allergies.  Blame it on my deplorable sleep habits.  In any case, it’s true: the skin under my eyes gets puffy.

Blame it on vanity.  Blame it on frugality.  Blame it on beauty magazines.  In any case, it’s true: I combat puffy eyes with hemorrhoid cream.

Recently, a friend came over.  She asked to use the bathroom, and while she was in there, I realized the mortifying truth: I had left the hemorrhoid cream box in the trash can.  Right on top.

She came out of the bathroom, and I couldn’t look her in the eye.  Was she judging me?  Deeming me repulsive?  Thinking of my hemorrhoids?  Despite her pleasant, innocuous demeanor, I was positive that she was silently evaluating me.  We were 10 minutes into conversation before I couldn’t take it anymore.

“I DON’T HAVE HEMORRHOIDS,” I announced.

Blink.  Blink.

Silence.

Her face was blank.

Apparently, not everyone who walks into my bathroom feels the compulsive need to check my trash can.

Even still, should the occasion ever arise again, I would like to take this opportunity to preempt any embarrassment and declare to all of you right now: I don’t have hemorrhoids.

Thank you.

All of last year, I lived in the apartment above the most silent man of all time.  The only time I ever saw him was when he would stand outside his front door smoking cigarettes with his headphones in, avoiding my eye contact as I would pass him on my way to the third floor.  The bearded mute would never speak – nay, make any noise at all.  For any awkwardness, he was quite possibly the best neighbor I’ve ever had.

I came back after New Years to find that the noiseless hermit had moved out, and been replaced by a frat house.

In the past month, I have occasionally woken up at 4am, wondering why I’m awake.  Oh.  Because there is BELLOWING beneath me.

On Saturday night around 7pm, the hollers had reached a crescendo worthy of an admittedly passive-aggressive stomping on my floor.  Everything fell silent for a moment – until they responded with a broomstick to the ceiling.

Oh hell no.

I left home for a bit, but later that night when I returned, I listened to the crowd of hooligans belt out “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off.”  I resolved that if the noise continued past 11pm, I would don brass knuckles and storm apartment #201.

I spent the next 20 minutes pumping myself up for an all-out brawl – but right as I was ready to rumble, I listened to the battalion of delinquents file out of the apartment and down the stairs, heading up the block to the bars on Colfax.  Little do they know that they just narrowly escaped the wrath of a girl with two cocktails in her – just loose enough to not be held responsible for any words or actions.

But last night at 2am – a weeknight, mind you – I was stirred from a dead sleep by yells and laughs and “wooooo!“s.  It was on.  I pulled on my parka over my pajamas, stood in the living room for a minute wishing I had someone to fight my battles for me, and then marched downstairs.

My firm knock on the door was answered by a girl who hid behind it.  She hid behind it.  I never saw her face, but I heard her whimpers of embarrassment to the three men on the couch.  Oh honey, yes, you should be embarrassed.  You should be mortified.  You are sharing a one-bedroom apartment with these goons (do you have bunk-beds? Family bed? I’m genuinely curious), and obviously none of you have jobs, or you wouldn’t be so lively in the middle of the night.

“Hey, y’all,” I crooned.  I often find my alter-ego has a Southern accent.  “My name is Annie, and I’m your neighbor, and I’m so sorry this is the first time that we’re meeting.  But it’s 2am, and -6° outside, and yet I’m standing at your door in my pajamas.  This is how loud you are.  Can you please keep it down?”

Never in my life have I felt so much like an annoying parent-chaperone on a high school band trip.  It was a dark moment for my “cool” factor.

But for my sanity?  VICTORY.

I am switching apartments in a few months, and will no longer have to deal with these ruffians.  Until then, God help them, because these days, my tolerance is wearing thinner than the walls.

On Saturday, I flew back to Colorado.  I’ll be with my family through Christmas, and then fly back to Nashville for another week – because apparently, I enjoy being a geographical ping-pong ball.

I flew Southwest (like I always do), fell asleep the minute I boarded (like I always do), and slept for the first 60 minutes of the flight (like I always do).  When I woke up in my aisle seat, I noticed the middle aged couple sitting to my right.

They were well-dressed, albeit in a gaudy sort of way – he in fancy cowboy boots, she in a leopard-print shirt and a lot of gold jewelry.  Her hair was meticulously highlighted, which I noticed because she tossed it a lot.  They were loud and spirited and obnoxiously physically affectionate, drinking airline cocktails from plastic cups as they canoodled.  It didn’t take long before I couldn’t take it any more, so I pulled out my laptop, put on my headphones, and started watching a movie with scenes that I secretly hoped would make them uncomfortable: “Alive.”

When all else fails, subject your neighbors to true stories of flesh-eating survival.

Suddenly, the woman made a grand sweeping motion with her hand, and her open bottle of Finlandia cartwheeled off the seat tray and into her lap.

What happened next was immediate.

Her feet remained firmly planted on the floor, and her shoulders pressed to the back of her seat, but her hips?  It was as if some invisible cosmic god reached down, grabbed her by the belt loops, and yanked: the woman’s pelvis thrust straight into the air.

“I am soaking!  It’s everywhere!  It’s all over my seat!” she shrieked.  And then some choice expletives.

And because compassion for the crazy can be a challenge, I stared straight ahead, willing the corners of my mouth to stay still, stifling laughter.

From the corner of my eye, I watched the man use the little Southwest napkins to clean up the vodka from her seat.  This was easy because her pelvis remained skyward – one of the more gauche things I’ve ever witnessed.

But just when I thought things could not get more awkward, the man began to use the napkins to dab up the front of her jeans.

And as soon as I thought up the phrase “crotch blotter,” I knew I had to write this one down.

I’ll just cut to the chase: Southwest Airlines lost my luggage this weekend.

[insert me telling you how this sent me for a minor emotional tailspin, and how I was sick as a dog, and almost broke down and gave up, but soldiered on – for the children, really, and for America]

Flying from Nashville to Austin on Friday night, I was exhausted.  I was getting sick – and I had no Kleenex.  So on the plane, to my horror and shame, I had no choice but to use my sleeve to wipe my insanely runny nose.  Multiple times.

Southwest offered to reimburse me for $50 worth of necessities until they found my bags – which, when you are in town for a wedding, and all you have is the mucus-crusted cardigan on your back, won’t get you very far.  But I appreciated the gesture, and went to Target to max out on the necessary toiletries, medications, and two pairs of underwear.

Why two pairs?  Because I wasn’t sure what kind of a dress I would wind up wearing, and any woman can tell you that different dresses call for different undergarments.  Just… I just needed both pairs, okay?  Always be prepared.

I found a dress and shoes at TJ Maxx, took a hot shower, my meds kicked in, and a great time was had by all at Joey and Sam’s fabulous wedding.  All’s well that ends well, right?

Not so fast, sparky.

Southwest decided to itemize my Target receipt, saying that they weren’t sure that all of these things were truly “necessary” to my survival without my luggage.  Things that made the cut, no questions asked?  Cosmetics.  Medicine.  Eyedrops.  Tampons.  Thanks, guys, for deeming tampons “necessary.”  You are too kind.

The complication?  The underwear.

Apparently, because the luggage was returned within 24 hours, only one of the pairs was considered “necessary.”  And so there at the Southwest counter, I was asked to indicate which pair I wore that day – bikini or thong.  Multiple times, I was asked out loud, “Which pair did you need today?  The bikini or the thong?”

You will never know.

But Southwest does.

My parents recently enrolled in a gym called Fitness 19 – named such because it’s open 19 hours a day.  Oh, Coloradans – you are so clever with your words!

Due to her recent surgeries, Mom hasn’t been to Fitness 19 in awhile – leaving her membership card available to yours truly.  My workouts on Saturday and Sunday were awesome – convincing me that I might actually acclimate to Mile High altitude, finally get the runner’s booty, and basically win the Nashville half-marathon that I’m registered for in April.  So last night, I went again.

I handed my (mom’s) card to the man behind the counter, and he scanned it.  “Thanks, Susan,” he said.  I smiled at him, and went to the magazine rack to choose some smut to read while on the treadmill.

“Wait – Susan?”

I froze.

“Susan, I think there’s a problem.”

I slowly turned around and faced him.

“Susan, when is your birthday?”

My mind raced.  “June 21.”

“What year?”

My mind raced even faster.  “Nineteen fifty-fii… SHOOT.”  I said it out loud.  “SHOOT.”

“You were not born in the fifties.”

And then, some bizarre calm overtook me.  Like a sociopath, I cooly stated, “You are right.”

He was serious.  “This is not your card.”

Again, conscienceless, “No.  It’s my mom’s.”

He was adamant.  “You cannot work out using another person’s membership.”

“Okay.”  Pregnant pause.  “But can I work out right now?”

He let me run for 40 very awkward minutes on the treadmill.  I ran like I have never run before.  It will be the last that Fitness 19 ever sees of me.

Was this week my personal pinnacle of pointless blogging, or what?

What happened to all of my gushing emotion, my wretched depression, my rants that get me labeled a “graceless man-basher”?  So far, December has been a tame and doltish month here on ye olde blog.

Today, I could make up for lost time, and try to redeem my reputation as an overly-emotive sap/jerk – but guys, it’s Friday.  It’s quitting time.  It’s 5 o’clock somewhere.  Let’s keep things light, let’s keep things loose.

I bring to you… THE BEST PICTURE EVER.

Why is this picture so awesome?  Is it my long, luxurious locks?  My effortless, casual smile?  My eyes pretending to stare at something that probably wasn’t there?

No.  What makes this picture awesome is my hand up in my hair, all nonchalant… and disturbingly, looking like a gremlin claw-arm growing out of my head.

I am SO SORRY for wasting your time.  It was either this, or a tirade about how Laughing Cow has started packaging their cheese in cubes rather than wedges.  In other words… you’re welcome.

For the past several years, Thanksgiving has been the occasion of the Parsons’ Family Christmas Picture.  We usually get some great outtakes – but never so amazing as this.

Does anyone know what’s happening here?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Because I have no recollection of this moment.

But clearly, Swayze was wrong: SOMEBODY puts Baby in a corner – and that somebody is Mom.

- – - – - – - -

Mom’s cancer treatment starts today – major surgery in Denver at 4pm.  Thanks for keeping her in your prayers.

I’ve got some big stuff going on – some changes afoot, some news to report.  All in good time, little ducklings.

Fake… and yet… so real…

Hi Annie.

Oh hey, you!

So nice to see you – you’re looking pretty awesome these days.

Stop it!

Okay.

I mean, you don’t have to.

Let’s move on.  How many miles did you run on the treadmill last night?

Just over 4.  I was watching “The Biggest Loser.”  That show is a triumph of the human spirit.  And could you believe Rebecca?  What a HOTTIE!

Totally.  Is your EP still for sale?

Yes it is.

Are you silently judging your friends who haven’t asked for a copy yet?

You bet your bottom dollar.

What if the aforementioned friends live in Seattle and never see you?

Well, they should know that I’m going to be in town over New Years!  And I can’t wait to snuggle with them – and then force my music on them.

Wow – New Years is coming up quick.  Can you believe the holidays are upon us?

Yahtzee.  NO.  I’ll be driving to Kansas City a week from today to be with my family.

Remember what happened last year on Thanksgiving?

How could I forget!  Trick or turkey, y’all.

After watching that video again, is there anything you would like to share with the class?

No.

Annie.

There’s nothing.

Yes there is.

Fine.

I now sometimes drink boxed wine.

My work here is done.

I grew up in a little town in western Colorado.  Montrose – at least when I lived there, pre-Starbucks and Target and multiple golf courses – was very typical of small town America.  We had a Dairy Queen, gossip at the beauty shop, agriculture, county fairs, rodeos, teenagers cruising Main, old trucks, and one high school.

My high school experience was like all of the stereotypical accounts shown on TV shows. The star of the football team dated the homecoming queen.   The scandalous teacher ran off with the wayward student.  There were fights, pregnancies, cliques.  There were the popular kids and the outcasts.  There were the jocks, the band nerds, the hicks, the brains.

Who was I?  I think that I fell through the cracks, never really fit into one “group,” and stayed peripherally involved with a lot of different social networks.  I played flute in the band, but was friends with the cheerleaders.  I never took calculus, but always got A’s and B’s.  I lived in a subdivision, but drove a pickup.  I wasn’t anywhere near popular, but was somehow voted the prom queen.  I had a lot of friends, but my best friend was homeschooled.  I was fairly straight-laced, but once broke into a factory with a crowbar.  I had a few dates to dances, but never a boyfriend.  I went to parties, but never drank.  I loved country songs and animals and baby-sitting and friends and ballet.

My parents moved away from Montrose in 2003, when I was in college in Seattle, and since then, my visits to my hometown have been few and far between.  The last time I was there was over a year ago, making this the longest stretch in 20 years I have gone without setting my feet on my hometown soil.

But it’s in my blood.

I mean, let’s not turn this into a Montgomery Gentry song or anything, but it’s true.  My upbringing in Montrose shaped me in ways that I cannot even pinpoint, and I feel the absence of it acutely.

After hearing through the grapevine about the class of 1999’s recent celebration, it occurred to me that my 10-year high school reunion is coming up next year.  And here were my next, immediate, successive thoughts:
1)    This is going to be so awkward.
2)    I’m totally going.
3)    I want to be in charge.
4)    I am still single.
5)    At least I’m still single.

Consider this my RSVP.