What if I had ended yesterday’s post by saying, “I’m enlisting”?

That would have been hilarious*, huh?

But I didn’t, so…

Speaking of hindsight, here’s another installment of “Annie’s Most Embarrassing Moments.”

Yesterday, Brooks & Dunn called it quits.  (SO EMBARRASSING… oh wait… not yet… wait for it…)

On some website, I saw that the writer had referred to them as “Brooks & DONE,” and I thought, “Well, that’s clever.”  I love words.  I love plays-on-words.  I just liked it, okay?  And I resolved that I would use it as my own.

So last night, as I was leaving the Y, drenched in sweat delightfully and femininely glistening, I tossed my towel in the bin.  And the man behind the counter said, “Haha – just like Brooks & Dunn – throwing in the towel” (someone give that man a trophy, because THAT WAS SHARP).

It was my chance.

And here is what I said.

“More like Brooks & NO MORE!”

What.

I ruined it.  Completely.

I mean, what in the hell was that?  Brooks & No More?  Brooks & NO MORE?

And what’s worse – if I had gotten it right, it’s the sort of thing that would only translate in writing.  I could have said, “More like Brooks & DONE!” and started laughing hysterically, patted myself on the back for my brilliance, and winked at my latest adoring fan on the way out the door – and the poor YMCA worker would have just thought I was a dolt.

So, given the two scenarios, I suppose it’s Sophie’s Choice.

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*Hilarious not because the military is something to be laughed at, but more at the thought of me wearing a hat of any sort.

Just preempting the blog-hatred.  A girl gotsta look out for herself.

A notorious over-packer, I recently flew back from a 2-day trip to Seattle with a suitcase weighing in at 49.5 lbs. – one shoe away from the overweight charge.  And that’s not to mention anything of my second suitcase.

Travel this weekend, I was determined, would be different.

Flying to Kansas City on Friday night, I did something I have never done before – I ONLY CARRIED ON.  One small roller suitcase in the overhead bin – and no waiting at the baggage claim!  Brilliant!

But on the way back, things were a little different.

Remember how my mom is especially fond of sending me away with a suitcase of frozen food?  This time, it was a pork tenderloin – a large, cylindrical, vacuum-sealed piece of meat.  I am not entirely sure how to cook a pork tenderloin, but still: lucky me!

Until I got to security.

Wouldn’t you know, the guards saw something a little “suspicious” in the x-ray of my suitcase.

And there, in front of God and everyone, they unzipped my bag to find the culprit.

“Uh, Ron, we’re gonna need to run this through again.”

“What is it?”

“Looks like a piece of meat.”

I stood by, compliant and taciturn, as my precious hog was passed from hand to hand, back to the beginning of the machine.  Everyone in line behind me looked at me with a collective, “Seriously?”

Seriously.

Emma is a very cool place with very cool people.

But on Sunday, PZC asked me, “So, now that you work at Emma, are you going to be one of the effortlessly hip?”

“Um… no, probably not.”

“I know,” he replied.

The first call came at 12:45am.

“Hi, I’m wondering if you still have the cat mailbox?”

Um, what?

“The cat mailbox! I just saw the ad on Craigslist.”

Excuse me?

“Posted about a half hour ago – it’s darling.”

Lady, it’s the middle of the night, and I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Do you have any idea how many people in Middle Tennessee have been waiting their entire lives for a free mailbox in the shape of a yellow tabby cat? 27. TWENTY-SEVEN PEOPLE have called me in the past 15 hours, responding to an ad on Craigslist that I did not post – but that clearly stated my name and phone number.

This is worse than a “Call for a good time” scrawled in a bathroom stall.

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.

Ever since I moved to Nashville a year ago, I’ve been an active attendee of a fantastic little church called City Church of East Nashville. When people ask me why I go there, I always think of two reasons: we sing the Doxology at the end of every service, and the communion bread is the bomb. Of course, there are many other REAL reasons that I love City Church – community, compelling preaching, a mission with integrity, simple and authentic worship – but the Doxology and the communion bread are my joke answers. Although… sometimes, I think they actually might be legitimate motives.

Because guys, seriously, this communion bread is unlike any other bread I’ve ever had in my life. Someone from the church makes it every week, and I swear that somewhere in the recipe is listed “crack.” Dense and delicious, I kind of wish I could make my turkey sandwiches with it. Every week, I try to focus on the SACRAMENT of it all, but – sue me – there is a tiny (sacrilegious, sinful) part of me that is really excited for the taste.

Like this past Sunday.

At City Church, we take communion by intinction – that is, we walk up to the front, tear a piece of bread off of the loaf, and dip it into the wine before eating it. So there I was, my turn, tearing off a piece of Holy Freaking Delicious Bread that also happens to be the Body of Our Lord, and I realized that I had accidentally torn off a really big chunk. But – too late now, my fingers have already touched it. I HAVE to eat it.

I dipped it in the wine. I said a quick prayer. And then, I opened my mouth so wide that I practically dislocated my jaw, shoved in the bread, and walked back to my seat.

It wasn’t until I sat back down that I realized what a predicament I was in. This hunk of bread was so gigantic that I couldn’t chew it without OPENING MY MOUTH, open shut, open shut, chomp chomp chomp. I was crunching on the bread, making audible chewing noises, and when I leaned over to tell Cara what had happened, all that came out was a crumbly mumble, my words masked by the mass of bread bigger than my tongue.

I missed the closing song. I was still chewing.

Yesterday, I did a Google Image search for “shingles” – and trust me, Internet, that is not something that you want to do.

I am not a hypochondriac, I promise. But I think I might have shingles. Yes, shingles: a form of HERPES. Julie, the soon-to-be nurse, checked out the small patch of – I don’t know, what should I call them? blisters? scabs? rash bumps? – and consulted a physiology textbook for reference. No conclusive evidence was found…

But I am calling it shingles.

Maybe it’s eczema. Maybe it’s psoriasis. Maybe it’s just… random shaving nicks that landed far from anywhere I use a razor? But I think it’s shingles. It might be an allergic reaction to high heels and elevator Muzak. It could be stress related – or punishment for an unconfessed sin – or perhaps my body’s way of saying, “Stop eating brie for dinner every single night.” But I think it’s shingles.

(Oddly enough, this is not the first time that shingles have been mentioned on this blog.)

As one without health insurance, I am combating this ailment with an old cure-all: baking soda. Seriously, is there anything that baking soda doesn’t do? It takes the stench out of a fridge. It cleans teeth. It erupts 5th grade science project volcanoes. And yes, it mixes with water to form a healing paste.

I sound like such a hippy. Who needs Mary Kay when you have castor oil? Who needs shampoo when you have egg whites? Who needs antibiotics when you have Arm & Hammer?

But… (ready for the segue?)… I spend enough money on my jeans to make up for my thrifty health and beauty habits. And yesterday on my lunch break, having a gift card from Christmas and a big need for some new fancy pants, I went shopping.

So, there I was in the dressing room, pulling on what seemed to be the perfect pair: long enough, dark enough, fit in all the right places. From the front, they seemed to get the job done, if you know what I’m saying. But then I did that awkward twisty-turn in the mirror to see my backside, and y’all:

They were smooth butt jeans.

You know the type – no back pockets whatsoever.

I’m sorry, but I don’t do smooth butt jeans. I am not in a rodeo. I need back pockets. Where else would I put my Benjamins when I club-hop? Where else would I stash all of the numbers on cocktail napkins? Where else would a boyfriend put his hands as we slowly and awkwardly waddle through the mall?

That is, if I haven’t completely blown my dating life by mentioning the fact that I HAVE SHINGLES.*

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*It’s probably not shingles.

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.

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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.

Searching high and low
For one to keep me lifted
I’m brassiere shopping

White is so boring
But practical and useful
When it comes to bras

No black negligee
Or polka-dot straps for me
Just a simple one

Remember the time
When my underwire popped up
At the grocery store?

My only white bra
Is now in the garbage can
Bra-less is trashy

Sick of wearing black
I have nice white shirts to wear
But they are see-through

So I’m on the hunt
Like a stealthy lioness
One that needs a lift

But do not be fooled
By my cat-like behavior
Leopard print? No thanks

You can keep your lace
And your strapless push-up wares
Sensible will do

These are expensive
I do not have sixty bucks
I’ll go to Target

All of my money
Would be better spent on gas
But I need support

Thirty-four C cup
Or a thirty-six B cup?
Always a toss-up

I have recently acquired a new neighbor. What kind of neighbor, you ask? One of the homeless, street evangelist persuasion. How do I know? Because last week, he spent 15 minutes trying to convert me to Christianity. I played the devil’s advocate, thinking that he knew that I was just playfully testing his witnessing skills; however, he actually believed me to be a lost soul.

You can imagine how awkward it was when I had to come clean: “Um, I actually DO believe in Jesus. I’m even a pastor’s daughter. I’ve gone to church practically every Sunday for 25 years now. I own a copy of the NIV, the NLT, and the Message. I can recite the books of the New Testament in order. I know about “Psalty” and “McGee and Me” and “Superbook.” I am well-versed in Charles Wesley and Fanny Crosby and Oswald Chambers and Rick Warren and Rob Bell and the awful 700 Club. May the Lord bless you and keep you, may the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you, may the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace. Amen.”

It was a very uncomfortable moment.

This man has taken up residence on my neighbor’s couch – the nice boy across the courtyard offered him his couch until he finds a place of his own. He came to Nashville from a sinful city in the west in order to win souls to Christ. I have run into him several times, and each time I have felt more and more uneasy. He is pushy, and invades my personal space, and consistently requests that he be included in whatever I am on my way to do: go downtown (“Can I come with you?”), pick up friends at the airport (“Maybe I can ride along?”), or last night, go to the gym (“I’ve been wanting to work out – I’ll go change.”).

Typically, I have a clear head and a quick mind. But for some reason, this man totally rattles my brain, and I have had a hard time coming up with appropriate ways to decline his company. I’m freaked out. I don’t think that he’s dangerous, but I do think that he is abnormally assertive and socially inappropriate. Last night, when he wanted to come to the gym with me and presumptively went inside to change…

Y’all. I ran and got in my car and left without him.

I DITCHED him. With no explanation.

I am a terrible, awful person.

So I am wondering: what would Jesus do with awkward people? People that just bug the bajeebis out of you, and can’t take a hint, and stare you unwaveringly in the eye? People who invite themselves on your errands? People who encroach on your personal time, and push back when you say no?

Because I’m pretty sure that Jesus wouldn’t run in the other direction.

Then again, Jesus wasn’t a young, single girl living alone in a city full of potentially dangerous people.

Then again again, Jesus was willingly crucified.

Today, it is abundantly clear to me that although I know my “church stuff,” that doesn’t necessarily mean that I know anything.