Before Sunday night, I didn’t know who Lady Gaga was.

I know.  I KNOW.  I am the least cool person in the universe.  You, reading my words right now?  I’M NOT WORTHY.

I had heard of her, but it was sort of like my knowledge of Google Wave.  OH!  I know that! What is it?  Um… I have no idea.

It turns out that Lady Gaga is sort of a big deal these days.  She opened the Grammys in a blaze of freaky glory.  This chick is WEIRD, y’all.  But wouldn’t you know, after one listen to her song “Poker Face,” IT IS ON REPEAT.

This song is from 2008, and somehow, I had never heard it.

Doesn’t matter though - I am GrooveSharking the fire out of this song.  It’s pretty ridiculous, actually - because since when have I liked dance music?  If only my iTunes was up and running, because if I had this song on my iPod, I am pretty sure I could run forever.

Which leads me to my question… what is your favorite guilty pleasure song?  This is a safe place - like a fire station or a hospital.  No shame here.  Maybe a tiny bit of shame.  But not enough to not say anything.

(And yes, I am purposefully not blogging about the final season premier of “Lost” tonight.  Anything that I could write or think or say would not come close to how I FEEL.  Suffice it to say that I am having trouble focusing on ANYTHING ELSE today.)

Last night I had a dream that Kenny Chesney and a completely bald Keith Urban wanted to hang out with me.  Actually, to be specific, Kenny asked if he could drive my car, and I was like, “CAN YOU EVER” - which is weird because I generally distrust men in necklaces.

So Kenny, Keith, and I loaded into the old Honda, and I insisted on sitting in between them, which was very awkward because that put me in between the bucket seats and on top of the emergency break.  But we were cruising along, and at one point, I said, “Guys, you know that we’re going to have to take a picture - because no one is ever going to believe me.”  They both laughed reluctantly, like, “Yeah, sure,” but I could tell that they didn’t really want anyone to know that they had spent any time with me.  They were just using me for my car.

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.

Before I begin, let’s all just take a minute to acknowledge the huge thing that happened yesterday.  The thing that made the world feel small – like everyone, no matter what culture, tribe, or tongue, agreed was a big event.  An incident that shook us out of our day-to-day reality, and made us think about what is really important in life.  A happening resulting in headlines, workplace chatter, and blog posts.

ERIN GOT A NEW HAIRCUT!!!!

And she looks fab.  Give her a cat-call, a high-five, and – my own personal favorite display of affection – a quick palm-circle-rub on the back.

In other news, there are a few things that I’ve decided that I “need”: a pair of black heels (how do I not own a pair of black heels?), a soft case for my guitar, and a new [insert the engine part that keeps my car quiet and not shaky] in my Honda.

Instead, you want to know what I’ve been doing with my hard-earned cash?  Donating it to This American Life.  Only twice, but still.  Shouldn’t I be allocating my limited funds some place other than to what could be a FREE podcast?  I feel like I am telling you my secret shame – confessing something I shouldn’t – like how I feign a healthy diet only to shovel cupcake icing into my mouth when no one is watching.

But I can’t help it.  Ira Glass is my geek crush.  He tells me the best stories out of anyone.  And then he asks me to give money (“One dollar – five dollars – whatever you can spare.  What kind of person do you want to be – someone who contributes, or someone who sits back and assumes someone else will take care of it?  Do your part, so we can do ours.”), and I’m like, IRA I WILL DO ANYTHING.

Seriously, though.  What a guy.

For the past couple of days, I’ve been starving for dinner by 3:45. Since my little temp job is from 7:30am-3pm, it’s very convenient – I can heat up some leftover curry that I cooked in the crock pot over the weekend, put on my sweats, get in bed, and watch “Oprah.”

I can’t believe I just admitted that.

Here, I’ll go a step further: yesterday, I also had a glass of boxed pinot grigio.  At 4pm.  In my bed.  With my curry, and “Oprah.”

But y’all.  Did you WATCH “Oprah” yesterday?  How much do we love Michael J. Fox?  A hundred million times.  I’m going to name my first-born after him.  Yes: JFox Parsons.

This man’s attitude and outlook on life is inspiring.  Parkinson’s is causing his body to turn on him, and he has lost control of so many basic physical abilities.  He talked about people staring, and the inability to keep his limbs still.  But he is continually thankful, continually hopeful, and continually positive.  He sees this disease as a gift – the thing that has caused him to appreciate his life, his family, his wife, and everything that he does have.

I have a lot to learn from him.

His quote of the show: “Happiness grows in direct proportion to your acceptance, and reverse proportion to your expectations.”

So there I was. I had run 4.3 miles, rounded up some moving boxes, taken a hot bath, eaten some summer sausage as a late dinner (I know – what on earth? WHY do I have two gigantic summer sausages in my fridge?), and was wearing my flannel duck pajamas (don’t judge), ready to turn in early for the night. When this Annie called me.

And before you could say “fat salami links,” I was in my skinny jeans and heels, slapping on some lip gloss, and oomphing my hair as I ran out the door. Because I’m sorry, but when certain girlfriends call, you have no choice but to put on your Go Get ‘Ems and hit the town.

The details are probably not bloggable, because some stories are not mine to share. But let’s just say that the evening took us places we could not have planned. And when you find yourself on a honky tonk dance floor with your pals the Hollywood actor and the country rock star, and there are air kisses being traded and tourist pictures being taken, and your friend gets up with the band to sing “Blue Suede Shoes,” and you dance even though you don’t dance, and you feel happy to be single, and you don’t make it home until 2am, and you only get a few hours of sleep before rolling into work looking like a complete and total train wreck just in time for the company Christmas picture…

Let’s just say that I may have found the reason for my boring job.

Because I don’t know that I could handle much more excitement than I experienced last night.

Plastic bags
I have a confession: I’ve forgotten my canvas bag TWICE. Both times, I slunk out of Harris Teeter (oh yeah, did I tell you that the grocery here is called Harris Teeter? Ironically, it was the site of this smudge on my dignity), stealthily surveying the parking lot for any blog readers who might catch me with the plastic bag contraband in my hands. Once safe in my car, I leaned my head against the steering wheel, counted my lucky stars, and then prayed that God would heal the earth of global warming.

Otherwise, it’s steady on with my mission to save the planet.

The weather
Oh my word. I am in heaven. I am Miss Congeniality. I am Maria Von Trapp. I am a Disney princess whose hair is braided every morning by cartoon birds. October has always been my favorite month, and I am happy to report that there is no geographic chauvinism involved when it comes to autumn: October comes through in Nashville just as it comes through in Seattle. Praise be.

Dan Evans
What can I say? The man is totally redeeming his name!

After contacting him via MySpace with a quick note saying, “Hey, I’m the girl whose TINY car was clobbered by your GIGANTIC bus,” I received the sweetest, most apologetic message in response. He graciously offered to cover any damage, and even had some very kind words about my songs. I wrote him back saying, “It ain’t no thang,” asked for a free CD, and said that when he’s back in Nashville we’ll go for a beer.

And so, in about two weeks, we will be real-life friends.

Thus ends any Dan Evans smack-talk. I won’t have it. He’s won me over!

This weekend
This afternoon, I am rushing off to fly to Kansas City for the weekend. I have 3 Southwest drink tickets, and will be sharing with two friends of mine who are booked on the same flight. I will probably not have the chance to blog tomorrow, since the three of us will be otherwise occupied doing something that is currently non-bloggable. But should a day come when it IS bloggable: oh sweet mercy, it’s going to be good.

But maybe… just maybe… tune in over the weekend. I’m hanging out with my nephews, which typically instigates some sort of hilarity.

I don’t really watch “The Biggest Loser,” although I have a couple of times – enough to remember Dan Evans. Dan Evans, of season 5. Dan Evans, who lost a heroic 136 lbs. Dan Evans, the aspiring country artist. Dan Evans, whose CD entitled “Goin’ All Out” is being released today.

Dan Evans, whose mega “Goin’ All Out” tour bus hit my little Honda yesterday.

It’s not unusual to see a tour bus on the streets of Nashville – this is Music City, after all. But most artists tend to keep a low profile – it’s hard to tell who might be inside the bus. Not Dan Evans. His face is plastered all over his bus, along with his name – although, due to poor typography and a serious lack of spacing, I read “DANEvans” and thought that his name was indeed “Dane Vans.”

It wasn’t until the bus hit my car and the DANEvans decal was 18 inches from my face that I realized, “Oh, I was wrong – this is DAN EVANS, not DANE VANS. Charming.”

Blame it on traffic. Blame it on narrow streets. Blame it on a bus driver who was dreaming some seriously big dreams, attempting to navigate his way around a corner. But my bumper was the casualty. Scrape. Scratch. I honked my horn, rolled down my window, and yelled up at the driver, “Did you just crunch me?” He said, “Yes. I’m sorry. If you pull straight forward, you should be fine.”

Surprisingly, he was right. I pulled straight forward, and after the intial RASP of two bumpers separating, I was free from the wreckage*. And DANEvans went chugging merrily on his way.

No autograph or anything. The nerve.

*The “wreckage” consisted of a couple scrapes, but nothing cracked. Bumper, here’s a lesson that my heart has learned time and time again: the bastards can beat you up, but they can’t keep you down. You are bruised but not broken. And you will live to see another day.

Has anyone ever said to you, “You remind me of someone – someone famous”? People have said this to me occasionally. I always desperately hope that they are referring to Liv Tyler, or Sara Evans, or some other buxom brunette beauty with a magnetism that the universe is drawn to.

But no. Too bad. It’s always Lilith from “Frasier.” Without fail. It must be the high forehead, pallid complexion, striking nose, perpetual eyebrow raise, and the pursed lips.

However, recently I’ve also been told that I am the spitting (albeit brunette) image of Jennifer Finnigan, an actress on a show called “Close to Home.” I’ve never watched it. I can see a resemblance, although I have sadder eyes. “Precious Moments” eyes. Maybe I should go blond – except that would be a DISASTER.

Which celebrities do YOU get compared to?

It’s finally here: 08.08.08. How cute. If I were the marrying kind, perhaps I would choose to have a wedding on this oh-so-memorable date. But you know, I’ve always loved October. Maybe I should shoot for a wedding on 10.10.10. It’s a Sunday. Consider this my save the date – groom to be interpolated later. Maybe I’ll be like the presidential candidates, saving the grand REVEALING of their running mates until the last possible second.

Surprise, Mom. It’s Mick Jagger.

Today marks the opening ceremony of the Olympics in Beijing. I’ll be honest: I have not been excited in the slightest about this summer’s Olympic games. There has been so much controversy, from political tensions to riots at the torch relays to steroids to the revoking of Joey Cheek’s visa… Why should I get excited? There’s not exactly a lot to celebrate in our world right now.

But this morning on the Today show, I heard that out of the 205 countries that are participating in this summer’s games, 87 have never won a medal. Not one. Ever. For the overwhelming majority of the athletes who will march into China’s National Stadium today, they have no chance at winning; rather, this is the achievement – simply to be there. We might not ever know their names or their stories, but they have worked and toiled and sacrificed for years to reach this point. And that is worth both my attention and my accolades.

I understand that Michael Phelps has the very good chance at winning 8 gold medals in the various swim-events. And wouldn’t that be amazing? Making him, an insanely ripped man in a Speedo, the most decorated Olympian EVER, in all of history? However, always one to root for the underdog, part of me wonders if anyone might have the chance of beating him. Because wouldn’t THAT be even MORE amazing?

It could happen, you know. Because for some absurd reason, Phelps is currently sporting some Fu Manchu action. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t swimmers go to great length to SHED all of their hair? Anyway.

I’ll be watching tonight, if for no other reason than the fact that my Word of the Day from Dictionary.com is:

vexillology \vek-sil-AHL-uh-jee\, noun:
The study of flags.

It’s a sign.

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And finally, as a follow-up:

Turns out I was wrong:
I am dark enough for beige.
I stand corrected.