You know that moment in “The Sound of Music” when Maria is twirling on the streets, swinging her guitar case around her, and singing about having confidence in sunshine and in rain and in springtime? But then she catches a glimpse of the Von Trapp mansion, and her jaw drops, and all of a sudden she is speechless?

Subtract Maria. Insert Annie. Subtract Von Trapp. Insert COUNTRY MUSIC STAR.

Last night, through a series of events too complicated to relay, I was invited to a party at a celebrity’s house. What level of celebrity are we talking here? Well, a notch below a Kenny Chesney. A notch above a Dierks Bentley, or a Joe Nichols, or a Blake Shelton. A firmly established, very successful singer/songwriter who has written major hit songs for both men and women, as well as himself. A man I’ve seen on CMT and at the Opry. An artist who, if I said his name, any country music listener would know.

I was determined to play it cool. As Us Magazine reminds us with their oft-incriminating photo spreads, stars are just like us, right? Nobody wants to talk to the star-struck girl. I was going to walk in and be all, oh what, fame? money? #1 hits? Yeah, whatever. Who wants to play pool?

Let’s be honest. I was not that girl.

I spent the evening sneaking around with my camera, covertly snapping pictures of things that needed to be documented. While various musicians and radio personalities were in the kitchen taking shots and name-dropping and grabbing each other’s asses (literally), I was on the back veranda with Katie and Erin having a dance party under the stars, singing “Sweet Caroline” at the top of our lungs, and informing the others which one of us had just taken a poo in a country singer’s bathroom.

I AM NOT TELLING YOU WHO.

I was hanging around the grand piano until I finally got up the nerve to sit down and play along (read: tinker along) with Tom Petty blasting out of the speakers – at which point, the charismatic host came over and engaged in a short but peppy conversation about the music business. It took all that I had to refrain from breaking out into one of his songs mid-sentence, but I succeeded. Annie – 1. Humiliation – 0. Way to go, self.

This morning I am at work, after 4-hours of sleep and maybe one too many shots of whiskey. But after last night, does my life feel just a little bit more complete? Perhaps.

In closing, I’m sorry. I know that you are dying to know who I am talking about. I will tell you this: it was not Tim McGraw. Because trust me, if it had been, I would have no qualms about saying INTERNET, I TOOK A POO IN FAITH HILL’S TOILET.

It couldn’t possibly have happened again. Twice in a matter of months? Well, my friends, what can I say: I defy the laws of fate and probability. Once again, I have an embarrassing moment featuring the check-out line and my bosom.

I went to Target, and used one of the hand-held baskets to shop. I think it’s a good rule of thumb: buy only what you can carry. I took my place in the check-out line, and eventually made it to the point where I could actually put my basket on the conveyor belt.

You know how these days, you walk through the clothing racks at Ross and every article of women’s clothing has strings hanging off of it? Shirts have cinching strings around the waist. Pants have cinching strings up the sides. Dresses have cinching strings around the bust. What is it with the cinching strings?

That said, I was wearing a dress with cinching strings around the neckline, which were tied into a bow at the center of my chest. Even tied, the strings are long, and have little wooden gewgaw beads at the ends. And apparently, one of the strings was stuck between the basket and its handle, because when the conveyor belt moved, the elastic-infused string was pulled forward.

But not me. I stood sturdy as an oak.

And so.

Inevitably.

The string whiplashed back at me, hitting me in the eye and scattering tiny wooden beads all over the floor. Oh – and down into my bra.

And now, in what is becoming a refrain for my life:

You know that foggy moment of realization, where you think, “I have no idea how to get myself out of this one”? That moment is all the more awkward when the only solution involves publicly reaching your hand down your cleavage.

Only this time, my eye was watering. Or were those tears?

It is truly embarrassing to hear the words, “Annie, please don’t blow your nose on our embossed napkins.” But today, this was my reality. A co-worker caught me with my face buried in a company napkin, and then politely requested that I use something other than their expensive serviette as a depository for my snot.

Allergies are alive and well here in Nashville, and I am fighting the good fight. I partake of imitation Zyrtec or Claritin, and occasionally the miracle drug Singulair. However, since Singulair has been linked to suicide, and I can be depressed enough on my own thankyouverymuch, I try to keep my usage down only to when I wheeze.

Yes. I do wheeze. It’s incredibly sexy.

I am allergic to the down comforter on my bed, but I desperately need its warmth at night. As the girl with the self-diagnosed and self-named CHAT (Cold Hands All the Time), my extremities would freeze and fall off if I didn’t sleep under the insulation of goose-down. The trade-off: I wake up with puffy eyes and a scratchy throat.

My apartment is freakishly cold, though. I’m sure that I will be grateful for this come the sweltering southern summer – a seasonal experience that I am dreading with every cell in my body – but for now, I wake up and it’s 50 degrees in my bedroom. I refuse to turn on the heat, since a) it’s getting up to the high 70’s in the afternoons these days and therefore, the use of heat seems so wrong, and b) I’m a cheapskate.

Maybe I’m having an allergic reaction to the humidity in the air. I could solve this by turning on the AC, but again, see letter b above. I have told you of my obsession with washcloths; in my apartment, it takes 5 days for a washcloth to dry. I suppose that the possibility exists that there is mildew flying around in my air, and slowly rotting my lungs.

And attracting COCKROACHES.

This morning, I saw the second cockroach of my life. The first was about 2 months ago, crawling across my kitchen floor. I had never seen anything like it, and reacted in the only way I knew how: with a piercing shriek that rattled the windows and surely woke the neighbors. This time, I was more prepared. I karate-chopped that roach with a sturdy flip-flop, and killed it until it was extremely dead. Take that, HAB.

All of this is to say that I cannot find balance for my body, for my home, for my health. And my reality now includes cockroaches. And I just wanted you all to know.

It’s time to talk about the hazards of the workplace.

When I began my career as The Temptress, I was given an exhaustive Workplace Safety Training session, which included watching a VHS made in 1987 about proper lifting techniques and the operation of heavy machinery. As I was not planning on a job in a warehouse, and thus felt I could disregard the section on safety goggles and hard-hats, I admittedly zoned out. But perhaps in doing so I missed any instruction they might have included about the risks of the administrative occupation?

One of my very few responsibilities in my very receptionisty job is to offer our very infrequent visitors beverages. I am the Czarina of the Single-Brew Coffee Machine, as well as Princess Pop Can. But a few weeks ago, when I dropped a Diet Sprite on the marble floor right between my feet, and it sprayed STRAIGHT UP MY SKIRT to YOU KNOW WHERE, I lost all confidence in my drink-serving abilities.

High heels are not conducive to flushing the toilet with your foot. My right red pump has since been significantly Lysol-ed.

But for all of the minor incidents that happen within the 4 sound-deadening walls of the office, the most dangerous place of all is the elevator.

The elevator is an environment not for the faint of heart, especially for us top-floor workers. When I get on the elevator, I am ON THE ELEVATOR; most likely, I will be the last one OFF the elevator. And so, before every boarding, I take a deep breath, and then rapidly find a spot as close to the wall as possible. Unfortunately, the elevators in my building are mirrored on every surface, and so no matter where I plant my eyes in hopes of avoiding eye contact with another, inevitably I will meet someone’s eyes in a reflection. And then all 4 eyeballs quickly and nervously re-orient to watch the numbers take us up up up.

Office workers are weird. Objectively, I know that they must be smart and driven people, meeting their monthly sales’ goals, signing deals, and driving out at night in their Mercedes convertibles. They are successful and put-together and motivated. But crowd 12 business suits into an elevator together, and you can smell the tension. Everyone is uncomfortable, from the CEO to the lowly receptionist. Intelligent humans in stale silence.

Of course, every now and then, some hopeful soul cracks a joke into the social abyss. But when that hopeful soul is my co-worker, and the joke is about the latest in airline security…

And then I sat down at my oversized mahogany desk and, eyebrows lifted to high heaven, drank a steaming cup of AWKWARD.

At the risk of sounding internet-nerderly, I have a very sweet blog community. Thank you all, because for reasons beyond my understanding, you continue to return to this little blog every day and sprinkle me with your thoughts and support and prayers and humor.

Today my spirit feels a little bit plugged in. Is it possible to be “a little bit plugged in”? Is that like “kind of pregnant”? Well, regardless, thank you for existing out there in cyberspace.

Him: “I’m studying geology.”

Me: “Geology rocks!”

Him:

All day, the clock has ticked on. And all day, I have frantically thought, “What can I blog about?” Some days are just like that – nothing in particular that strikes my mind. Other days, I write 4 or 5 entries, and store them up for days like today.

But I’m out of those entries.

And so, as the clock is approaching midnight, and I want to have a blog posted before Monday is over, I reach back in the far recesses of my mind to bring you this gem. It has nothing to do with today. It has nothing to do with anything I have experienced recently. It is simply a story that I should share, if for no other reason than it is horrifying.

When I was a junior in high school, I went to prom with sweet Dylan Schoo. (That is not the horrifying part.) We stayed up all night with our friends, watching movies and talking and laughing, and the next morning, his mom made breakfast for all of us. Then, I went to church, and stayed up all Sunday long. When I finally crashed into bed on Sunday night, I was exhausted. So naturally, I overslept on Monday morning.

The alarm went off; I was late for school. I jumped out of bed, and frantically threw on clothes. I sat at my mirror, quickly applying makeup, making sure that my eyeliner was extra dark to hide my tired eyes. Though it didn’t make sense, as I was already running behind, I decided to take the extra second to use that pesky contraption called the “eyelash curler.”

I am not a frequent user of the eyelash curler. In fact, I think it’s quite silly. It’s the kind of apparatus that men will sit around a campfire debating its actual existence – as in, the men who live with women against the men who do not. A small metal clamp that women place against their eyelid, thus curling their eyelashes? Who knew?

But on that fateful morning, I clamped.

I clamped hard.

I clamped so hard that when my elbow slipped off of the desk, I ripped every last eyelash from my right eyelid.

If you are wincing as you are reading this, YES, IT HURT THAT BAD. The pain was intense, but it did not hold a candle to the alarm I felt when I opened my eyes and saw the eyelash curler still clenching every single one of my eyelashes. In my hand. Detached from my face.

There were tears. There was panic. There was absolute frenzied hysteria. In fact, I got in my truck and drove straight to the church where my mom was in a prayer meeting. I marched in and interrupted these ladies’ communion with the Lord because I’M SORRY BUT THIS IS MORE IMPORTANT.

I wore fake eyelashes for 3 months, until the real ones grew back.

The end.

Everyone has a most embarrassing moment. Right?

I didn’t. Every time that the question, “What’s your most embarrassing moment?” would come up, I would shrug and say, “I don’t really do anything embarrassing.” I realize that the very act of me typing these words opens me up to my siblings recollecting every mortifying event in my dark and awkward past, and then posting them for the world to read about. But that is a risk that I’m willing to take, because I don’t think that any of them will outweigh THIS most embarrassing moment that I’m about to post on the internet for everyone, including pastors and strangers and future employers, to read.

I now have a most embarrassing moment.

It has to do with bras.

I don’t like to spend a lot of money on bras. They can be ridiculously expensive, but I’m a Target girl, myself. $12 should do the trick. I should probably invest $60 in one that gets the job done right, but that just doesn’t make sense in my life right now. My cheap bras make sense.

Except for when the underwire somehow makes it way through the lining, and gets pushed up out of the bra, and, unbeknownst to me, winds up encircling the TOP of the boob, in plain sight of the checker at the grocery store, who, for some reason, couldn’t stop staring at my chest.

You know that foggy moment of realization, where you think, “I have no idea how to get myself out of this one”? That moment is all the more awkward when the only solution involves publicly reaching your hand down your cleavage.

Last night, I left Christina and Dan’s apartment to meet them at their downtown law firm. In addition to running a bit behind, the sidewalks were slushy from the previous day’s snow, so rather than walking, I decided to take a cab.

I don’t know how, but I somehow made it to last night without ever hailing a taxi. IN MY LIFE.

As I walked out to Cambridge Street, I tried to psych myself up. “You can do this – you’ve seen people do this a million times. You just raise your arm, and one stops. It will work. It will work.”

But I don’t know what came over me. I couldn’t help myself. The first cab that I saw, I raised my arm, and screamed, “Tak-SAAAAAAY!” just like I’ve seen in the movies, except far more obnoxious. Of course, one immediately stopped. And as I climbed inside, I started laughing – mostly out of embarrassment, but also because THAT WAS SO AWESOME.

Holy gigantic city.

I suddenly feel the need to type like a 13-year old girl. OMG – NYC is like, sooooooo khool!!!

This morning, Heidi left early for work, leaving me on my own to navigate my way from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Armed with nothing but a little map and a few notes she had left me with important intersections and subway transfers, I set out to conquer the City.

On the elevator ride down from Heidi’s apartment, a small, balding, greasy character stepped in. I could feel him staring at me, so I stared at the floor. But curiosity got the better of me, so I lowered my eyelids in a slow blink, and when I opened them again, I was looking straight at him.

“Hi Jen,” he said.

“I’m not Jen,” I replied.

“You’re not? But I wrote you a letter and slipped it under your door last night.”

“Oh. I’m not Jen.”

Long, long silence. Long, long elevator ride. I decided to ease the tension with a question.

“How long have you lived in the building?”

He got very excited. “Since 1995. That’s 12 years.” That’s right, Trigger. “And if you put 12 over 100, that reduces to 3 over 25.”

I calculated in my head, and determined, “Yeah, that’s right. Wow – you’re fast.”

“I know. It’s what I do – I reduce fractions. I can do it more quickly than anyone else I know.”

Once again, I attract these people. I’m kind of glad that I do – my life might be boring, otherwise. I would have to pick up some weird hobby, like squash or, God forbid, rubber stamping.

Today was so great. I grinned for the first two hours or so, shielded from the cold by my puffy jacket and boots, walking and walking and walking. My knee held up just fine – save the trips up and down the stairs to the subway. I’m out of Band-Aids, so… we’ll see how it looks tomorrow. Right now, it just feels hot. If I get gangrene and die, please donate my organs.

To be honest – and honestly vain – I was nervous about the whole “fashion” issue of New York. I don’t own anything “in” enough to wear here – or so I thought. It turns out that I had a false image of New York – one fueled by images of Paris and Nicole and LiLo. The actuality is that people where whatever the hell they want, from a coat with jeans to a sari with a hoodie. And after experiencing today’s frigid air, I didn’t care what I was wearing, so long as it included gloves.

Times Square is like Disneyland on steroids. An absolute assault on the senses, I am happy that I saw it… once. I don’t really feel the need to see it again, unless, of course, it included another trip to “The Lion King.”

I had the most awesome seat for the matinee show, probably because my request was, “Just one. Yes, I’m here alone. Because I’m single – probably forever. It’s okay though – cheaper Broadway tickets, this way.” And from the opening lines of “The Circle of Life,” I was this emotional puddle. I cried and cried – the entire production was SO BEAUTIFUL. I do not have words for it, so I will not even try. The only thing I can say is that there is something so incredible about seeing people doing what they were meant to do – and this entire production was done so well. If you ever get a chance, please go see this show.

Heidi and I met up with my buddy from high school, Reid, and his friend Zachary, for dinner. We ate delicious Thai food in Greenwich Village, and then went to the Dessert Truck for $5 desserts. Reid got a hot chocolate that was basically liquid hot fudge, and after one sip, I think I could be satisfied for the rest of my life.

After hours of travel yesterday, and even more hours of travel today, I disembarked the plane, gathered my luggage, walked through the sliding glass doors, victoriously breathed in the air… and promptly tripped. Fell on my face, deeply skinning both knees and tearing my new jeans.

Welcome to New York.

My left knee is especially bad – a huge goose egg of a welt threatening to burst through my pants, and a deep cut that almost caused me to bleed to death on the hour-long subway ride from the airport. Maybe I’m a sissy, but it hurts. It hurts to walk, it hurts to bend, it hurts to lower my body down into a chair. Luckily, my sweet friend Heidi provided me with Neosporin, a huge bandage, and an icepack, and I have been able to pick the cotton scraps and gravel from the wound. We’ll see if I’m recovered enough to take the City by foot tomorrow.

First stop: “The Lion King.” Naaaaaa – sa – bwen – yaaaaahhh!!!