I am resurrecting from the blog-dead.

Maybe if I say it out loud, it will stick.

Where have I been?  Oh, you know.  Working.  Working out.  Thinking.  Reading.  Watching some more “Friday Night Lights.”  Breathing.

I spent the long weekend in Colorado Springs at my parent’s new house – they moved in June, and I hadn’t made it out until now.  Their new house is a charmer, and the Springs is a beautiful city.  On Saturday morning, we hiked the Incline, a stretch of old railroad tracks that go straight (no, seriously: STRAIGHT) up a mountain side – 2,000 feet of elevation gain in less than a mile, and then a 4-mile hike down.

To give you an idea:

I was pleasantly surprised to wake up the following morning to find that I wasn’t even sore.  Who’s been working out?  [Thumbs] This girl.

Another great thing about the weekend was hanging out with our 3 dogs, Rowdy, Maci, and Kodi.  There is something great about having dogs around.  They don’t need you to say anything, and they don’t need to talk.  They just provide pleasant company – sometimes some vomit on the floor, but mostly, just pleasant company.

On the flight out to Denver, I saw a gorgeous man.  He was so attractive: tall and bearded and broad-shouldered and manly – rugged, like Aragorn.  I didn’t talk to him, though – so the next best thing would be to mention him here.  I’m just reminding myself that I do, in fact, have a heart that beats.

On the flight back to Nashville, I recognized two outrageously successful songwriters who happen to be married, and introduced myself to them.  When I did, the woman fell all over herself: “You’re… Annie PARsons?  THE Annie Parsons?”  My heart stopped – this woman KNEW WHO I WAS?  I mean, word travels fast – especially in Nashville – and I know that I’m AMAZING (there is such a need for a Sarcasm font), but could it be that someone who wrote a CMA and ACM Song of the Year had stumbled across my name?

But then.  I had to correct her.  No, she did not used to babysit for me when she was in high school.

Sigh.  Steady on.

I cannot look at the Nashville Humane Society website.

It breaks my heart into a million little pieces.

I want to save every dog without a home.

Or at least this one.

Her name is Annie, too.

Anyone who beats or abandons a pet should be put in jail.

But instead, it’s the dogs that wind up in cages.

I want to save them all.

As I mentioned yesterday, I am house-sitting / dog-sitting this weekend.  Sleeping in a king size bed is weird.  I like my little double mattress.  The king bed just feels so… huge, and excessive, and unnecessary, and lonely.

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:

When I was a little girl, there were a couple of movies that I watched over and over again. All of them were taped straight off TV – back when Sunday nights meant family movies on ABC, back when VCR’s had the pop-up compartment for the videotape, back when we lived in San Jose, CA.

I knew – and still know – every word (dialogue and lyric), every dance, and every nuance to “The Sound of Music.” I watched some portion of it every single day from age 4-6. I also obsessed over “Annie”; how could I not? I thought the idea of being an orphan was romantic (sorry, Mom and Dad), and the opening song, “Maybe,” remains one of my favorite melodies to this day.

And then there was a 1985 Disney film called “The Journey of Natty Gann.” I have not watched it since probably 1989, and had totally forgotten about it until about a month ago. As soon as I thought of it, I added it to my Netflix queue, and finally re-watched it last night.

I never realized how formative this movie was for me.

Here’s the plot summary, taken from IMDB:

Natty Gann is a twelve-year old Depression era girl whose single-parent father leaves her behind in Chicago while he goes to Washington State to look for work in the timber industry. Natty runs away from the guardian she was left with to follow Dad. She befriends and is befriended by a wolf that has been abused in dog fights, hops a freight train west, and is presumed dead when her wallet is found after the train crashes. Dad gets bitter and endangers himself in his new job. Meanwhile Natty has a series of adventures and mis-adventures in various farmhouses, police stations, hobo camps, reform schools, and boxcars.

Natty Gann’s sense of adventure, fear, courage, longing for home, and love for dogs convinces me that I absorbed so much from this movie. I only wish that John Cusack had been my first kiss.

A couple of things that struck me, this time around:

1. In 1985, a “PG” rating allowed the words “damn” and “shit.”
2. In 1985, a “PG” rating allowed kids being hit in the face.
3. In 1985, a “PG” rating allowed dog fights and blood.
4. In 1985, a “PG” rating allowed sexual predators and dangerous men.

See – now you HAVE to watch it. It’s so exciting!

Go back and watch a movie that you haven’t seen since early childhood. I’m convinced that you’ll be struck with something – something deep inside of you, something formative, something that you never realized had a source.

I mean, honestly. Why else would I have a secret-yet-unsquelchable desire to name my firstborn “Fievel”?

I did. Or at least one. I let the dog out.

While the Handy Graham is in Pennsylvania with his family for Thanksgiving, some of us Nashville stragglers are splitting dog-duty. It seems that this boy cannot turn away a stray, and last week, he found a delightful little red mutt that we are all still trying to name. Any ideas?

This morning, after I dropped off Julie at the airport at 5:30am, I headed to take care of the Dog That I Call Jasper For Now. And after he scarfed down his food, I sat on the kitchen floor and he crawled into my lap and we snuggled for an hour. I was saying things like “Who’s a good boy? Who? Yes you are. YES YOU ARE!” It was great, and terribly animal-nerdy (which is a Parsons’ trait). Then I put him in the backyard, and headed home to get ready for work.

Tonight, my friend Josh is dropping me at the airport, and I’ll fly to Kansas City to be with my family for the holiday weekend. Apparently, Micah (5) is learning to set the table, and Tyler (3) cannot stop talking about pie. It’s going to be a good Thanksgiving.

This year, I’m thankful for my Nash-life. I’m thankful for the friends who have surrounded me here – for being my airport rides and my running buddies and my emotional contacts, making the fuzzy things clear. I’m thankful for the friends who live far away, and yet still find ways to love me and encourage me across the miles. I’m thankful for a job that pays my bills. I’m thankful for a church that feeds my soul. I’m thankful for my trusty steed of a Honda that hasn’t broken down in over a year. I’m thankful for Whole Foods Market, and the fact that they’re serving free samples of stuffing and mashed potatoes all week. I’m thankful that despite that fact, I still fit into my black pants (booyah!). I’m thankful for musicians so much better than me. I’m thankful for magical blog moments, like happened yesterday. I’m thankful for the opportunity to pursue the things that I want to pursue. I’m thankful for a coffee pot with brew-pause, so I can pour myself a cup before the pot is full. I’m thankful for the cooler weather (sweet Mother of Pearl, am I ever thankful). I’m thankful for the chance to spend the morning snuggling with a sweet dog. I’m thankful for family members who, despite our idiosyncrasies and freakish moments, totally love each other. I’m thankful that the idea of spending the holiday with my family is a welcome, warm-fuzzy thought. I’m thankful for grace, because Lord knows that I need it.

And I’m thankful that this list could go on and on. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Vicious? from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

And this is AFTER we’ve become “friends.”

I won’t lie: this is a little bit frightening. But I’m a PARSONS, damn it. I’m from a long line of dog wranglers, and I’m going to make good Christians out of these German Shepherds if it’s the last thing I do.

But it very well might be the last thing I do.

Anyone who knows me can tell you that I am a responsible soul. I show up when I say I will. I get things done. I check things off a to-do list like no one else. I do more than my fair-share of the class project. I help with the dishes, I pay my bills, I always restock the toilet paper.

But nobody’s perfect.

There are a few instances in which my diligence and responsibility are lacking. When my coffee cup is empty, I’ll sometimes leave it on the grocery store shelf, as I am too lazy to find a trashcan (and hello – I have shopping to do). I have been known to throw my gum out of the car window – which is risky if you believe in “gum karma,” as I do. I am a firm believer that if one disposes of their gum in an irresponsible way, they will step in something sticky within 6 months. Don’t believe me? I dare you to try it.

However, the most audacious and careless thing that I do involves taking dogs on walks. Friends, I cannot bring myself to clean up dog poop. The conscientious dog-walker comes prepared with grocery sacks, ready to swoop down and scoop up whatever mess has been left in the neighbor’s flower garden. But I? Stand there, feigning ignorance, looking around casually until the dog is done doing his business. And then we swiftly walk away.

This is awful – I know it. It is disrespectful and rash. But the thought of cleaning it up is just so gross. I cannot handle the act of handling crap. Short of lugging an actual shovel with me, cleaning up after the dog would require me to actually feel the still-warm poop through the plastic bag. And that, my friends, is something that I am just unwilling to do.

However, I am beginning to believe that the same principle that comes into play with “gum karma” is true in this case, as well. Let’s call it “crap karma.”

This morning, I took Rowdy, the largest of my parent’s dogs, on a long walk. As usual, he did his business – in several carefully manicured lawns – and we quickly moved on. As we continued along the bike path, we came to a stretch of asphalt that falls underneath some power lines. And this is what I saw:

I should have known. But similar to Daniel in the Lion’s Den, or Natalie Maines at a concert in Dallas, I marched boldly into the line of fire. And you guys, quite literally, a shit storm ensued.

It was a Hiroshima of excrement. Droppings dropping all around me, I squealed and ran, Rowdy oblivious to the absolute HORROR that we were experiencing. It was as if the sky opened up and God boomed, “REPENT, ye woman of unclean morals… and unclean shirt, haha!”

(I am envisioning my sibling’s faces as they read this… shut up, you guys, STOP LAUGHING.)

Luckily, my hair remained untouched. But my shirt is most definitely splattered. And sadly, I STILL don’t know if this experience will be enough for me to start cleaning up after the dogs. I mean, I have my standards.

Here I sit, in a Red Roof Inn in Austin, Texas. I am here with my sister Becca and her adorable puppy dog Gabe after an 11 hour drive south from Kansas City.

On Monday, Becca will have her first day of dog training school at Triple Crown Dog Academy. If thoughts of “dog training school” leave you at a loss, then don’t worry – you’re not the only one. Becca herself wrote a great blog about her dubious thoughts about what this experience might be like. I? Think that it’s rad that she’s following her passion.

To be honest, I felt a bit hesitant to take this trip with Becca and Gabe today. Last week, Gabe barfed all over the back seat of my Honda – rivers and fountains of chunky brown liquid that soaked into my upholstery and pooled in the space between the seat and the door – and the scent isn’t giving any indication that it will fade in the future… ever. The last thing in the world that I wanted was a repeat scenario. But today, the three of us lived out my wildest road tripping dreams: in Becca’s black Toyota Tacoma, driving south, with a dog, listening to music, seeing places I had never seen before. The only thing that would have made it more fun is if our other siblings could have been along – but we settled for a phone call to Sarah, urgently asking for directions to a coffee establishment in Edmond, Oklahoma. Gabe was a perfect angel, except when he decided that he NEEDED to hang out on my lap, which meant that his furry butt was in my face.

Now, since you have probably been craving a list from me, I give you:

“Things I saw on the way to Austin”:

* swarms of birds, “Planet Earth” style, between Kansas City and Wichita
* a billboard: “Just say yes to Jesus… or REGRET IT FOREVER,” in northern Oklahoma
* Oklahoma City, which is the site of the fabled Oklahoma City Bombing… and this nightmare
* so many Subway franchises, I couldn’t count
* “The Auto Ranch” north of Dallas, which, as far as I could tell, is just a sprawling field where cars go to die
* a billboard: “Call us for your Vasectomy Reversal: 1-713-REVERSE,” south of Ft. Worth
* a bumper sticker: “Cowboys for Jesus” (I should get the female counterpart for my Honda)
* a rest-stop painted as the flag of Texas, complete with matching trash cans
* Waco, Texas – two words: David Koresh
* a shirt in a truck stop: “Silly boys – trucks are for GIRLS!” (I almost bought it for Becca)

Tomorrow, we’ll drop Gabe at a doggie daycare at a local Petsmart, and head out to see the city. Imagine me all Sandra Bullock-esque, in a long flowing skirt and a tank top with cool, funky jewelry.

That’s how I’ve always imagined Austin.