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.

This morning, I am in a quagmire. I made a quick video on Saturday, but am questioning the decision to share it. The thought of broadcasting my quirks – my quaint qualities within a quadrangle – makes me queasy. I quiver, quaver, and quake at the quandary I am in. Perhaps I should have quelled my quips and remained quiet.

But I am on an alphabetic quest. And I can’t quit now.

Rather than quashing my efforts, I will set aside my qualms, avoid quibbling, and fulfill this week’s installment of the A-Z quota. So queue up, and behold the quixotic glory of a quintessential quotidian weekend in the life of this queen.

Thus quoth Annie Parsons.

Quotidian Saturday from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

There is a client who frequents the office. I know his name, and respectfully call him “Doctor _________.” Because he is a doctor.

Except no. No he isn’t. Today, my co-worker said, “Why do you call him ‘doctor’? He’s not a doctor.”

Why did I think he was? What did I mis-hear, or mis-interpret, or just make up? I HAVE NO IDEA. I am completely delusional. I stopped him today and said, red-faced, “I’m really sorry – it’s been brought to my attention that you are not, in fact, a doctor. And I don’t know why, but I’ve been calling you ‘doctor’ for so long… I feel silly.”

And so he told me the story of a woman he once met years ago, and how she insisted upon being called “doctor,” even though she just had an online education certifying her with a “Doctorate of Transcendental Meditation.”

If that works, then I declare myself to have a “Doctorate of Cheese.”

- – - – - – - -

What are your weekend plans? I want to know. From ALL of you.

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’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.

Yesterday was momentous, as I filled out my first-ever March Madness bracket.

The night before this happened, I was on the phone with Graham, asking, “So, this whole March Madness thing? Is it basketball? Why is it ‘madness’? Who plays? Everyone? And then each team that wins plays another team? Until one team wins the entire thing? What happens if you fill out your bracket with the right predictions? What do you win? Is this important at all?” Clueless.

For several years now, I have been invited to join the Clader family bracket, but have ignored the invitation. Because really, who cares, right? But not this year. This is the year of The Living Big, meaning that I need to do things that I normally might not do. March Madness bracketing is a perfect example of something I might not normally do.

Hannah sent me an invitation to join the bracketing mayhem, and I painstakingly filled out my prophecies. My process went like this:
a) Look at the two teams.
b) Read the names silently to myself.
c) Say the names out loud.
d) Choose based on phonetics, and whether or not I had ever heard of the school before.

There are a lot of colleges that I just didn’t know existed.

In the end, I wound up with Georgia winning the tournament. I don’t know if this is good or bad, but I like the sound of the word Georgia, and I definitely knew that it existed.

Bonus feature:
After finishing the bracket, I had the opportunity to enter something in a box labeled “Tiebreaker.” What were they asking for? A number? A yes/no? A person’s name? I went with my gut instinct and answered “2.” That sounded good. As it turns out, “Tiebreaker” is asking for the total score in the final game. So no, Annie, most likely, the answer will not be “2.” I think it’s safe to say that I will not win.

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.