In my opinion, the world’s scariest creature is not a shark, or a bear, or even a naked mole rat.  The one beast that I never hope to meet in a dark alley is a moose.

Moose are some mean mother truckers.

Ever since I read “Hatchet,” and the kid was stranded alone in the Canadian wilderness, and the moose swam up in the lake UNDERNEATH HIM and gored him with his horns, I have been terrified.  This is unfortunate, because tomorrow, I will board a boat bound for the Last Frontier, where people see moose outside of the local Applebees.

But who knows – maybe moose will win me over.

Perhaps if Alison Krauss serenaded the encounter?

(Why does that make me want to laugh so hard?)

Speaking of savage behemoths, I just learned that the state marine animal of Alaska (every state should have one) is the bowhead whale.  This is by far the ugliest beast I have ever seen.

If I don’t return, you can either blame the state of Alaska for death-by-wildlife, or Christopher McCandless for the inspiration to just never come back.  At this point, it’s a toss up.

Before getting roommates this past December, I lived alone for 5 years.  I cannot remember a time that I was ever scared to live by myself.  But last night, I started to wonder… why?

I’m still house-sitting, and when it was close to midnight and I was in bed working on the computer, one of the dogs sat straight up and started growling.  He made his way to the doorway to the hall, and then started barking ferociously.

I knew that someone was in the house.

I knew that he was coming down the hall.

I knew that I should have made Charlton Heston my president.

I sat there frozen as Lucky the dog ran down the hall and out to the living room.  Then everything fell silent.

That’s when I got TERRIFIED.

Because I started hearing whispers – like the smoke monster from “Lost.”  So not only is there someone in the house, but he is a Jedi of canines, and is putting Lucky into a trance, and if he can do that to a yellow Lab, then what can he do to me?  I’m going to wind up with a tracking device injected into my neck, brainwashed, telling people that my name is Kiki Van Alsteen and assassinating foreign officials.

But instead of finding myself a weapon and going on a man-hunt, I told myself that I was crazy, and turned out the light.  And fell asleep completely petrified - like, blankets-pulled-up-to-my-chin, eyes-squeezed-shut, peeing-my-pants scared.

Can you say “avoidance”?

This morning, I forgot that I had to go to work.  I was in the middle of a dream that Taylor Swift was holding her CD release party at my old Music Row apartment, and thousands of people were lined up on the sidewalk outside my home (I was going to make them take off their shoes at the door).  My alarm kept going off, but I guess that I kept snoozing, because when the dream reached a crescendo and the other Annie had won a lunch at P.F. Changs with Taylor Swift herself, I was already a half an hour late for work.

But none of that is important.  Behold!  Today, I have a video.

Warning: I may have discovered sound effects.

I know.  Get excited.

Productivity and Boredom from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

I would love to continue the conversation started yesterday, and unpack the question, “Why do some women have the expectation that men should be the initiators?” (I don’t use the word “pursue” – to me, it connotes primal images of a hunter, ear to the ground, tracking a herd of elk.) I would love to talk about any double-standards that brings up. I would love to tell you why I have made the decision to not ask guys out. I would love to explain that I am not a man-hater, man-basher, cynic, OR idealist.

But that post is for another day. Today, I bring to you another subject that I, um, don’t really expect men to resonate with, either…

Yesterday, I threw away my scale.

Just like that. Trashed. Into the dumpster.

I am a compulsive weight-checker, always keeping tabs on my poundage, and consequently tempted to feel either good or bad, happy or sad, proud or ashamed, jubilant or angry. It’s amazing how a great day can be ruined by a number – a NUMBER – like an ever-shifting scorecard for whatever level of healthful diligence I have demonstrated.

In the last few months, I’ve found myself increasingly frustrated at the number on the scale RISING – despite my ability to run further than I could ever run before, despite my capacity to carry on a conversation throughout a 60 minute jog, despite my clothes fitting the same, despite my energy and improved attitude. In the face of all of these accomplishments, the scale says that I weigh 10 lbs. more than I did before I started running last fall.

And for a girl who has been a dieter since age 11, this is traumatizing news.

Miranda has been telling me for years to just throw the damn thing out. She would get outwardly angry when she would see it in the corner of my bathroom, and, knowing the emotional stranglehold the scale has on me, would order me to get rid of it. But for me, to get rid of the scale would be to give up control – and then, maybe, to expand, expand, expand like bread dough.

At first, I thought that I would just take the scale and stash it beneath my bathroom sink – out of sight, out of mind, right? Wrong. For me, keeping my scale would be like staying friends with an ex-boyfriend on Facebook – an unhelpful temptation “just to check.” Sorry boys.

And sorry scale.

It’s time for a new chapter in my life – one in which I have no idea what I weigh.

Who knew that tossing out my scale would be one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever done?

This is what happens when an international financial firm goes down in flames:

The CPA with two small children and a blue-collar husband rushes out of the office, not returning for a half an hour. She wears sunglasses to hide the red eyes and the fear.

The executive assistants commiserate as the systems get shut down one by one. “We have no access to our accounts.” “I can’t get into my email.” “Why won’t this program open up?”

The unflappable, jovial advisor with the infectious laugh and generous spirit has a vacant look behind his eyes. He smiles, but only out of defeat.

When the temp-receptionist asks what she can do to help, she is met with a silent motion from her co-worker: pray.

All employees suddenly become equals. There are no titles – only the shared experience of crumbling stability.

The boss nervously jokes that he has dibs on the artwork on the walls. No one laughs.

All workers are warned to not answer the phones, and, under no circumstances, speak to the press. This is difficult when reporters plant themselves outside the office doors.

The partner from Memphis who frequents the office gives the temp-receptionist his business card, telling her that if they don’t see each other again, to please keep in touch.

No one is given any information. No one knows what is going on. No one has any idea what to expect, and wonders when the SEC will show up.

It feels like the Titanic sinking, and the members of the string quartet shaking hands and exchanging their final words before getting back to business, playing their songs until they are swallowed by the ocean and silenced.

I am blogging to say that I cannot blog today. I am too busy dead-bolting the office doors to keep the press away, abandoning my front-lines lobby perch, and hunkering down in the back at a desk with a spectacular view.

Yes, seriously. It’s been very exciting - in an “I might vomit” kind of way.

That is all I can say at the moment.

I do not have the vocabulary to understand what is going on, but all I can say is that the mood in my financial office today is “terrified” and “frantic.” It is times like this that make me glad that I have no money to speak of, because money makes certain people greedy and fearful.

And when those people screw up, it leaves a lot of honest, hard-working, generous individuals screwed over. My heart hurts for my co-workers.

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.

Have you ever been really afraid of something? Totally terrified that this thing, this event, would be awful and painful and you just didn’t want to experience it… only to find that, when it happened, it wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought it would be?

When I was a nanny, I took the boys to the doctor for their yearly check-up. This particular year, the older boy was due for shots. At 6-years old, the prospect of having a needle shoved into your arm is about as appealing as driving a nail straight into your forehead – and so, understandably, this boy was upset.

Understatement.

This boy was inconsolable. Thrashing with terror. Not screaming, not wailing – but shrieking out of absolute anxiety and alarm. No amount of words, wit, or bribery could calm him.

But he needed the shot. And the doctor was busy. So I had no choice but to wrap my entire body around this flailing little boy, and, gripping hard, to restrain him. Despite his maniacal shriek straight into my ear, the needle was in and out of his arm before he even knew it had happened.

And when we told him that it was over, his face relaxed, he stood up, and nonchalantly said, “That didn’t even hurt. Can we go get ice cream?”

A few months ago, I was really, really afraid of something. It stole my sleep, and caused a lot of tears, and kept me constantly on edge. I remember telling my mom, “I wish that it would just happen – that way, I wouldn’t need to be afraid of it anymore.”

Finally, it happened. And it was hard – for about a second. But then, the strangest thing occurred in my heart: I felt so much better, and moved forward. The thing that I was so afraid of was an obstacle, a hurdle, a hiccup in my journey. But once I was over it, the road became open and wide. And little by little, in the strangest ways, my prayer gets answered.

I think this calls for ice cream.

I worry. I worry about my bank account and my weight and my future. I worry that I am on the wrong track. I worry about gas prices and war and skin cancer. I worry about my lack of health insurance. I worry that I am never going to have the opportunities that I hope for. I worry about the fact that I am building nary a family nor a resume nor a nest egg.

But then I remember that everyone in my family is safe and healthy. I have been given the opportunity to chase a dream – something that not everyone has. I spend my free time going on walks with two working legs, and cooking delicious food, and thinking big, luxurious thoughts. Somehow, every month, I am able to pay my bills (almost) on time. I have a lot of shoes and a lot of clothes and a whole lot of washcloths. And I have a hope and a future.

So guess what, Tuesday? You can’t get me down.

I am back from illustrious Overland Park, KS, where I spent Memorial Day weekend. Currently, there is a lot to worry about. And there is a lot to be thankful for.

I checked in with my “agent” today – you know, the guy who is supposedly in charge of getting me jobs. I could call him a pimp, but I’m already calling myself the Temptress, and I’m pretty sure that all of that could add up to one hot mess. You can now probably Google “Annie Parsons hot temptress pimp mess,” and I’m sure that this will pop up.

I thanked this man for lining up this fabulous temp job for this week, and that I’m grateful for the opportunity and the income, and yes, I am dressing in “business professional” rather than “business casual” so don’t worry your pretty little head about a thing. Then, I got to my real questions: What about next week? Do you have a job for me for next week? I mean, I know I’m working here through Friday, but what about Monday? Am I going to be taken care of? Are you going to forget about me and give the job to someone else? Pay attention to me! What am I doing next week?

Have I mentioned that I am the kind of girl who likes things to be lined up, for sure, scheduled, signed sealed delivered? My life isn’t looking that way right now. And it’s hard. There is no way of knowing where – or if – I will be working next week.

But then, I remember the Israelites wandering in the desert. God always provided manna, but only enough for one day. When the people tried to stockpile and gather so much that they would have the assurance of having enough for tomorrow, it rotted before they were able to eat it.

So I am choosing to be grateful for today’s income, and for today’s needs being met. And I am trusting that the same will be true of tomorrow, the next day, and the next.

I think that God gives us a lot of freedom to choose our own path in life. When it comes to the everyday decisions, I don’t believe that there are too many hard-and-fast absolute “rights” and “wrongs.” Should I ask that person out? Which car should I buy? Paper or plastic? God is big enough to handle whatever it is that we may decide, and use it for his good. After all, we have a God who is in the business of bringing life out of death.

However, I do believe that there are certain times where we are given a choice, and the outcome is of serious importance. There’s a fork in the road, and which path one chooses will direly affect that which is important in one’s life.

Today, I faced that decision.

I got hired. I worked 4 days. And today, for some serious reasons, I quit.

Then, I signed the lease on an apartment.

Backwards, huh? AM I INSANE? Cutting off my already-meager source of income, and then throwing every penny that I have at an apartment, simply because I feel deep down in my spirit that this is somehow going to work out? That this is the right path? That this is good?

I have always been one who makes decisions intuitively. Last night was spent in a relative panic about my situation: knowing that this job was not the job that I needed to be in, knowing that this apartment was where I wanted to live, knowing that Nashville is a place that I makes me come alive, despite the brick walls I have faced at every turn. It was a real soul-searching time of asking the question, “Should I even be here? Should I move back in with my parents in Kansas City? Am I crazy to have given up my amazing life in Seattle?” I prayed that God would give me the right answer, that he would appear in a pillar of fire or a cloud in the sky. I prayed. I asked. I waited.

No answer.

I cried myself to sleep, feeling alone and afraid.

And when I woke up this morning, before I could rationalize or be tugged back and forth by my emotions, I had the strong assurance of what I needed to do. “Quit your job. Sign the lease.” So I did. With great terror, but strong conviction, I did.

I am holding fast to the assurance that I will always have what I need when I need it. I am actively searching for employment. I am watching for the ways that God will provide, and listening for his whisper. And I am praising God that after 6 months in boxes, I AM NO LONGER HOMELESS!!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!

People! I am now accepting visitors!