I was going to talk about Seattle today.  I was going to tell you how much I love that city, how much I miss it, how much it still feels like home, how much being on the water is necessary to my emotional health and survival, how much my friends mean to me, how much I would love to live there again someday.

But all of that lovely, aching wistfulness has been hijacked by something I was reminded of last night.

I’ve been a member for 8 months, but I don’t know where the bathroom is at 24 Hour Fitness.

I know where the women’s locker room is, and I’ve gone in there looking for a restroom.  But I can’t find it.  I’ve looked everywhere, around every corner.  I’ve found the showers, the sinks, the lockers, the scales, the mirrors.

But I cannot find the toilets.

How?

At this point, I’m too embarrassed to ask.  I mean, it’s too late.  They KNOW me there.  My window of opportunity has passed, and now I’m on my own to to figure this one out.  Godspeed, little gym rat.

But I really do love Seattle.

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.

Controversial foods that I happen to love:
Olives
Mushrooms
Beets

Controversial foods that I happen to hate:
Tuna
Pickles
Cauliflower

Cauliflower is the worst. It makes me think of cauliflower ear.

I have a serious addiction to chewing gum, but I ran out about 8 days ago, and have yet to buy a new pack. Every morning after my two cups of coffee, I reach for a piece of minty freshness, and realize that my purse is empty. I spend the rest of the day going through withdrawal. Why I don’t just go buy a new pack of gum is beyond me – maybe I’m trying to prove my ruggedness of spirit.

Speaking of spirit, last night, I mentioned my “melancholy spirit” to Zach, the friend from Seattle who now lives on the JAM house floor (JAMZ?). He told me to not to call it that – because there is a difference between “spirit” and “temperament,” and that my spirit is actually quite fiery. I think that’s true – and it was nice to hear from an outside source.

Also last night, I sang background vocals for one of PZC’s grad school projects – he set up a makeshift isolation booth in his closet, and I sang from there while he and Zach sat silently in chairs in the middle of the bedroom. Occasionally, one of Paul’s roommates would poke their head into the room and find us thusly. That thought is making me laugh today.

I go to Boston tomorrow. If Seattle is my true love, then Boston is my crush. Seattle is to Edward as Boston is to Jacob – although, no, I still have not finished “Eclipse,” so I don’t know how it’s all going to end, and who knows – maybe Bella will wind up with a werewolf after all. At this rate, I may never know. I don’t fully believe that she has “just friends” feelings for Jacob, no matter how many times her annoying narrative voice insists upon it. I kind of want to take the book with me on the plane, but what if I still don’t read it? It’s a huge, heavy, embarrassing novel to be toting around and flashing to strangers if I’m not actually going to read it.

But I want to know how it all ends.

Don’t tell me, though.

My friend Zach moved from Seattle to Nashville this week; it’s great to have him here.

We hadn’t seen each other in almost 3 years until he arrived on my doorstep on Monday night.  As I made dinner and we caught up, he told me that since the last time we saw each other, I’ve gotten sassier.

And here I was, thinking that I wasn’t accomplishing anything!

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Everyone knows that I pride myself on being an excellent speller.  As much as I would deny it, I actually feel slightly superior when I witness someone’s spelling mistake.

Working in the realm of email, I witness people’s spelling mistakes all the time.  The other day, I rolled my eyes when a woman wanted to “rescind” her email campaign – because hello, doesn’t she know how to spell “resend”??  I mean, duh.

I sent her back some very detailed instructions on how to resend her email.

And then, I was informed “rescind” is actually a word.  It means to revoke, to undo what was done – in this case, to pull back the emails after they’ve been sent out (which is impossible, FYI – once you hit send, the deed is done – BE SURE, people!).

In any case, consider me humbled.

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I went to the Bluebird last night with the lovely Haley Shaw.  Luke Laird sang a song called “People in Planes” – please go listen.  I loved it – I think it’s brilliant.   The second verse kills me.

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.

After racing my dad to the top of Mt. Roberts in Juneau on Sunday, I spent some time walking around the town.  Which, of course, led to an interesting encounter – because do I ever elude the interesting encounters?

I met a greasy man on a street corner who took one look at me, and immediately, very excitedly – in one breath – said, “How long are you in town? Do you live here?  I’M A ROCK STAR!”

He proceeded to walk me back to the ship, and claim that he is not only a rock star, but a genius, a friend of the governor, and insane.  I believed him on one account.

After hearing that I live in Nashville, he informed me that he is moving to Nashville, and has a goal of getting a record deal by November 1 (“and by the way, do you think you could set me up with Michael W. Smith?”).  He gave me his phone number and his MySpace address, saying that I could spend “several months” on his MySpace page, there is so much to see.  He talked and talked and talked, spewing out eccentricities and grand statements about life, and without skipping a beat, ended with, “You know what?  Meeting me might be the highlight of your trip.”

I high-fived him, because maybe, dude.

But I’m leaning toward the night when the Parsons walked out onto the front deck of the ship while in open seas, thinking we could get some fun pictures, but not being prepared for the amount of SHEER TERROR the wind would bring, and after all of our dresses had blown up revealing whatever we had underneath, and hitting the deck to avoid being blown over the edge entirely, and Sarah’s driver’s license flying into the Pacific Ocean, and everyone holding hands for stability, and screaming our lungs out, and tears streaking our faces… realizing that the entire navigational crew was watching from their windows above.

No rock star, genius, insane man from Juneau can compete with the involuntary flashing of Polynesian men.

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.

When I was in third grade, I had a pseudo, almost, totally-not-but-kind-of-but-no-not-really full-blown crush on Dylan Schoo. He was so cute. He was so nice to me. He lived around the corner, and took piano lessons from my mom. And we were in the same class, consistently, all the way through elementary school – so when Valentine’s Day 1991 rolled around, deep down, I wanted to give him a special note.

I bought the box of “Beauty and the Beast” cards, and carefully sorted through, choosing the harmless gender-neutral ones for the boys that I didn’t care about, the cute lovey ones for my best friends, and finally, the perfect one for Dylan.

It featured Lumiere:

And it said “You make me want to sing!”

I wrote his name, and then signed my own.

But right before class, I chickened out. I couldn’t tell DYLAN that he made me want to SING. That is so EMBARRASSING! So I quickly scratched out “sing,” and replaced it with “puke.”

But wait! It gets better! Right before we were supposed to hand out our valentines, I felt bad. Because Dylan didn’t make me want to puke – I liked him! – and that was rude. So I scratched out “puke” and wrote “laugh.”

Nice and non-committal. Could be interpreted in a variety of ways, whichever would be most convenient for me at the time. “You make me want to laugh!” because I think you’re funny. “You make me want to laugh!” because you’re such an idiot. “You make me want to laugh!” because… will you marry me?

If you are looking for beautiful valentines to give to your loved ones in 11 days, my ultra-talented friend Anna Marie of Love+Luck Design has created some whimsical, handmade cards. And she, being such a wonderful giver, is offering a complimentary card to whoever wins MY CONTEST!

What is this contest, you ask?

Well, here it is. Leave a comment telling me about someone that you love or appreciate. Your husband. Your wife. Your nephew or niece. Your roommate. Your co-worker. Your crush-who-will-not-be-named. Your best friend. Your dog. The boy who scans your groceries at Whole Foods. Tell me a little something about them. And when the comments close tomorrow night, I will use the Random Integer Generator to choose which commenter wins the card.

Then I’ll put you in touch with cute Anna Marie, who will send you the card of your choosing!

And by the way, Dylan and I are still friends.

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.