This is the week, the one that happens every December, the one that I always tell myself that I’ll do differently next year but I never do.

It’s the week before Christmas, which always seems to be busier than the week of Christmas.  Parties, people, events, high heels, big hair, sugar, wine, beer, money that slips away like a hand full of water.  It’s the most fun, most crazy-making week.

I haven’t worked out since Sunday, which makes me feel completely deranged.  There is a pile of clothes, shoes, coats, and bras on my bed, and I just keep pushing it over to climb under the covers at night.  I haven’t been getting enough sleep.  I’ve eaten cookies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  My toenail polish is chipped.  I haven’t responded to emails and texts and phone calls (I probably owe you one – I’m so sorry).  My level of busyness is making me a gigantically cranky stress ball.

Tonight is our company holiday party, and last night, I pulled out the dress I was planning on wearing.  It’s wrinkled and dirty from last year.  Why do I never learn to have the dress dry-cleaned at the end of the season so it’s fresh the next year?  Now I’m going to look like a hobo.

So yes.  If you see a cranky, deranged woman in a stained satin dress wandering the streets of downtown Nashville tonight, hobbling in her high heels because of her broken toe and carrying her lipstick in a bindle instead of a purse, that’s me.

Or it’s Mindy McCready.

It’s either Mindy McCready or 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.

The first call came at 12:45am.

“Hi, I’m wondering if you still have the cat mailbox?”

Um, what?

“The cat mailbox! I just saw the ad on Craigslist.”

Excuse me?

“Posted about a half hour ago – it’s darling.”

Lady, it’s the middle of the night, and I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Do you have any idea how many people in Middle Tennessee have been waiting their entire lives for a free mailbox in the shape of a yellow tabby cat? 27. TWENTY-SEVEN PEOPLE have called me in the past 15 hours, responding to an ad on Craigslist that I did not post – but that clearly stated my name and phone number.

This is worse than a “Call for a good time” scrawled in a bathroom stall.

Last night at church, I sang with the band. I was wearing my Kenneth Cole wedge sandals – which, incidentally, are very cute but not very comfortable – and thus towered over the other girl I was singing with. She was wearing flip-flops.

I was so jealous.

I get a lot of comments on my shoes. I own three hanging shoe-bags full, and even still, I don’t have enough room for all of my pairs. I have hiking boots and cowboy boots and black leather riding boots. I have red heels and blue heels and strappy heels and heels that never should have been invented, they are so painful. If the government ever wants to really punish a terrorist, I have a horrendous pair of black peep-toe wedges that they can make him walk around in. I’d give him a few hours before he cracked and gave up all of his information, unable to take the raw rubbing and the blisters.

My point is this: I have shoes for every occasion, and a reason for every pair. Each pair serves a purpose. I like the practicality of it all: this pair for working out, this pair for making my legs look longer, that pair for the days when nothing but flats with a green ostrich print will do.

Flip-flops, on the other hand, serve no great purpose. No purpose, that is, except comfort.

I am convinced that we can draw direct parallels between our feet and our souls. So often, I want to cover up my feet, or encapsulate them in sometimes-painful casings for the sake of vanity. I don’t want anyone to see me with my guard down, and so I mask my anxiety with leather and rubber and color. In the same way, I like to keep the ugly parts of my personality carefully contained, out of sight of the general public. I cover up my flaws with a shimmering personality and a cute bow. Or if things are really bad, I will simply elevate myself to appear above it all.

When I wear flip-flops, I am forced to not be a control freak. I can’t hide my chipped toenail polish or my calluses or my cracked heels. I can’t ward off the wet dirt creeping onto my feet from the recently watered lawn. I can’t run fast and far. It’s just me and my dirty, unglamorous feet.

But it feels good. It feels good to let it all out there, bug bites and all. It feels good to be kind to my poor, aching feet. And it feels good to not care what they look like.

So thank God for flip-flops.

…okay, and thank God for these, too.

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Bonus feature:
Here’s a little weekend update video for you, recorded yesterday afternoon. Why a video? I don’t know – because I can.

Weekend Update from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

My dear, sweet blog readers… we’ve been friends for a while now, right? And there’s nothing I could do or say that would make you disown me – or my blog, which is the closest thing I have to a child? I feel like we are intimate enough that I can let you in on something a wee bit quirky.

I hoard washcloths. Seriously, I stockpile washcloths like a worldwide cotton plague is imminent. I have – I don’t know? – 40 or 50? And while I got rid of many things before the big move last summer, I cannot tell you that I got rid of any of my precious washcloths.

I wash my face every morning and every night, and usually once in the afternoon, each time with a fresh, clean rag. Many things are better “used,” but this principle does not apply to bathing suits, car tires, or washcloths. As I am traveling light (um, “light” being a relative term) on The Big Trip, I left many things behind. But not my washcloths. I brought them all.

The washcloth must be laundered, fluffy, and folded into quarters. It must have all loose strings cut from the edges. It must be stacked in a multi-colored pile, never next to the same shade. It must be drenched in significantly warm water, and used with Biore face scrub. It must.

I promise I am not a freak.

Actually, I just read what I wrote, and… never mind. I hereby raise my freak flag – fastidiously, and in the form of a washcloth.