I talk to people on the phone all day at work, walking them through various Computer Things.  Yesterday, while the customer’s internet connection was moving slowly and we were waiting for the page to pull up, she decided to make small talk.  She asked me if I’d seen the pictures of the coyote that got hit by the racecar and stuck in the grill – apparently, it’s some amazing “It” email forward out in circulation.

I told her that no, I am out of touch these days.  I don’t even know important things – like if the Taylors are dating – let alone the fate of would-be road-kill.  I am the least “in the know” person around.

So she told me to Google it – to Google “coyote hit by car” – because the pictures are incredible.

Perhaps this goes without saying, and should have been obvious from the start, but THAT WAS THE WORST IDEA EVER AND DON’T SAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU.

Last night, I had a horrific nightmare that I walked into the bathroom and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror – and my lips had a hard extra layer on them, almost black, like an avocado rind.  I had to peel them off – two big lip-shaped pieces – to get back to my normal pink smackers.

It wasn’t as bad as the time I dreamed that I…

You know what, I can’t even say it.  If I wrote what happened in this dream, I can guarantee that no one would ever come back to this blog again.  Some images get burned into the brain forever – and as much as I wish for someone to bear this burden with me, I won’t do it to you.  I will martyr myself on the altar of nightmares for your sake.

Don’t say I never did anything for you.

But seriously – what is going on here?  WHY am I having these horrible dreams?  I don’t watch horror movies.  I’ve never witnessed true atrocities.  And yet, I go to sleep, and am transported to being the central figure in an episode of “Rescue 911.”  The freakshow edition.

Maybe I’m spending too much time alone.

If left to my own devices, I would hang out by myself all the time.

No, really.  All the time.

For the past 6 months or so, I have spent most of my free time alone.  As an introvert, time to recharge is important – but when does it become too much?  When does the self-care become selfish? When does the coddling result in an inadvertent snapped neck?

See.  NIGHTMARE.

Otherwise, this is what you would have been subjected to yesterday.

Annie Parsons… found 7 bug bites.
Annie Parsons… discovered 2 more bites.
Annie Parsons… that makes 9.
Annie Parsons… is going to scratch her skin off.
Annie Parsons… is watching the poison curlicue beneath her skin.
Annie Parsons… is researching bug bites online.
Annie Parsons… thank you, Google images.
Annie Parsons… made a table and is tallying points for the culprit.
Annie Parsons… has narrowed it down to a spider.
Annie Parsons… or a chigger.
Annie Parsons… actually, 5 points for ants.
Annie Parsons… these are really, really red.
Annie Parsons… is itching like a coke whore.
Annie Parsons… is changing her bed sheets.
Annie Parsons… is shaking out her quilt.
Annie Parsons… cannot fall asleep.
Annie Parsons… cannot fall asleep.
Annie Parsons… cannot fall asleep.
Annie Parsons… IS THAT A BUG?
Annie Parsons… is paranoid.
Annie Parsons… cannot fall asleep.

The thought of insects feasting on my flesh makes me want to burn my bed.

I come from a family of nomads, with someone always moving and roaming and starting over. For the past 5 ½ years, my parents have been planted in Kansas City, and eventually, all of my siblings followed. My older brother and his family are there. My two younger sisters are there. I’ve been the one rogue for quite some time, living on my own in Seattle, and now, in Nashville.

But my parents are shifting again – this time, to Colorado Springs in May. Sister Becca is moving to Ft. Collins in a few weeks. And once again, the Parsons will be scattered across the country like a constellation.

I’m back in Kansas City this week to help my family sift through the junk items in their house, thin out their possessions, rip off wallpaper, and throw away anything ugly or useless. All I will say about this process is that I’m glad that it’s happening now – because if we waited another 30 years until my parents are gone, I’m pretty sure that the pile of detritus would be so large, the only solution would be to strike a match and burn it down.

I am also here to become the sole bearer of my possessions, and take them back to Nashville with me. Ever since early childhood, I’ve put any important mementos in the sacred “Blue Bin” – basically the Ark of the Covenant, in Rubbermaid form. Last night, I opened up the bursting box to see what was inside… and this is what I found.

What I Found in the Blue Bin from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

I kept the good things – and there were definitely treasures – but needless to say, MUCH was trashed. I have no need for old high school band programs, or ticket stubs from Colorado Rockies games, or sketches of CareBears, or pink “participant” ribbons from art fairs, or homemade ceramic pots with dolphins painted on the side.

Or my old teeth or hair, as it were.

Yesterday, I did a Google Image search for “shingles” – and trust me, Internet, that is not something that you want to do.

I am not a hypochondriac, I promise. But I think I might have shingles. Yes, shingles: a form of HERPES. Julie, the soon-to-be nurse, checked out the small patch of – I don’t know, what should I call them? blisters? scabs? rash bumps? – and consulted a physiology textbook for reference. No conclusive evidence was found…

But I am calling it shingles.

Maybe it’s eczema. Maybe it’s psoriasis. Maybe it’s just… random shaving nicks that landed far from anywhere I use a razor? But I think it’s shingles. It might be an allergic reaction to high heels and elevator Muzak. It could be stress related – or punishment for an unconfessed sin – or perhaps my body’s way of saying, “Stop eating brie for dinner every single night.” But I think it’s shingles.

(Oddly enough, this is not the first time that shingles have been mentioned on this blog.)

As one without health insurance, I am combating this ailment with an old cure-all: baking soda. Seriously, is there anything that baking soda doesn’t do? It takes the stench out of a fridge. It cleans teeth. It erupts 5th grade science project volcanoes. And yes, it mixes with water to form a healing paste.

I sound like such a hippy. Who needs Mary Kay when you have castor oil? Who needs shampoo when you have egg whites? Who needs antibiotics when you have Arm & Hammer?

But… (ready for the segue?)… I spend enough money on my jeans to make up for my thrifty health and beauty habits. And yesterday on my lunch break, having a gift card from Christmas and a big need for some new fancy pants, I went shopping.

So, there I was in the dressing room, pulling on what seemed to be the perfect pair: long enough, dark enough, fit in all the right places. From the front, they seemed to get the job done, if you know what I’m saying. But then I did that awkward twisty-turn in the mirror to see my backside, and y’all:

They were smooth butt jeans.

You know the type – no back pockets whatsoever.

I’m sorry, but I don’t do smooth butt jeans. I am not in a rodeo. I need back pockets. Where else would I put my Benjamins when I club-hop? Where else would I stash all of the numbers on cocktail napkins? Where else would a boyfriend put his hands as we slowly and awkwardly waddle through the mall?

That is, if I haven’t completely blown my dating life by mentioning the fact that I HAVE SHINGLES.*

- – - – - – - -

*It’s probably not shingles.

Last night, I was flipping through a hymnal (trust me: if you had no cable or internet, you’d be doing it, too) and paused at “There Is a Fountain.” Twenty-six years in the church, and I had never heard this song? Outrageous! So I started singing it, all quiet and peaceful and lovely (belying my actual persona), sitting there on the red couch.

When. From out of nowhere.

A hybrid spider-cricket (spicket?), unlike anything I have ever seen, crawled into plain sight, right in the middle of the living room floor. I screeeeeeeeeeamed, and threw the book at it. The hymnal book. It turns out that the words of life are also capable of bringing about death, and for this, I am grateful.

In other news, I am sick. My windpipe is a straw. My sinuses are packed like sausages, like thighs into pantyhose. I am doped up on cold medicine, which gave me a satisfying night’s sleep last night, but is resulting in a vacant stare and a gaping mouth sitting at the ol’ desk job today. I called a health clinic for the uninsured, but they are not accepting new patients until November. Looks like I’ll be riding this one out on a wave of Contac and tomato soup (Progresso makes a fantastic tomato soup – so much cheaper and healthier than Whole Foods cream-based option, but a million times more delicious than Campbell’s – it even has real tomato chunkage!).

And should this buggy blog leave you unfulfilled (which I suspect it might), be sure to read this fantastic example of poor redneck judgment. But who could blame him, really? I mean, his last name was Fox.

Things I have seen on my porch in the past week:
A spider
A cicada
A cockroach
A lizard
A possum

A possum. A POSSUM. On my front step, I kid you not. I was approaching my door after dark, and there it was, in the glow of the porch light, just sitting there waiting for me – at which point I said, “Oh, hellz no,” and performed an about-face back out to the street. I thought that cockroaches were bad, but they do not hold a candle to the extreme revulsion I hold for possums. God should have destroyed those demons in the flood.

Are you shuddering? I am. Still. Anything with RED EYES gets the middle finger from AP.

Since when did my front porch become a scene from “Deliverance”? Next thing you know, I’ll be blogging about moonshine and inbred albinos.

This Annie’s getting a gun.

I don’t want to grow up.

I don’t want to think about insurance, and a 401k, and heart disease, and my future. I don’t want to get creaky knees. I don’t want to learn how to cook a turkey. I don’t want to make hard decisions, and be the responsible one, and do my own taxes.

I really don’t want to buy a fly-swatter.

For some reason, buying a fly-swatter feels like this very adult thing to do. I’ve never bought a fly-swatter before, because my parents (the GROWN UPS) always had one. True, I have not lived with my parents for almost 8 years now, but somehow I have escaped ever needing one while not having access to one.

I currently have three monstrous, enormous flies in my apartment. They’re huge, and they’re like needy little kids, or puppies, in that when I’m home, they ALWAYS WANT TO HANG OUT WITH ME. They buzz and fly and land on my lotioned legs. My lotion must smell good – either that, or I smell like a pile of crap. I suppose that flies aren’t too picky.

Last night, while reading in bed, the flies hummed around my head. I took my Paulo Coelho paperback and swatted at them a few times, but they couldn’t take the hint. Flies can be so rude.

I have waited a few days, thinking that they might just die in my apartment. But there are enough coffee grounds and banana peels in my trash can for them to live a long and satisfying life. It’s time that I take action.

It’s time to be a big girl. It’s time to buy a fly-swatter, and go on an insect-killing spree. It’s time to defend my house and home.

Sigh. Everyone has to grow up some time. Unfortunately for the flies, the embracing of my adulthood is going to result in their rather violent demise. They will see my murderous form duplicated over and over in their multi-faceted eyes, and that will be the last thing that they see… and see… and see… before being flattened.

I’m pretty sure that I’ll let out a “HA-CHAH!” too. Because I am a grown up.

Recently, I strongly considered moving back to Seattle. I was presented with a really great opportunity – one that was incredibly tempting. A job, a chance to be with my old friends, a wide open road straight back to my Emerald City.

But I said no. I’m going to stick around Nashville, at least through the end of 2008. I just have to see. I don’t know what I’m hoping for or looking for or waiting for, but I just have to see what might present itself during this time. I’ve been loving the city more and more, and making friends, and settling into a routine – I can’t pack it all up and leave now.

Still, it was a really big deal for me to say no to Seattle. It was so enticing – I could almost smell the ocean. It would have been so easy to say yes – to pick up right where I left off, and re-enter my beautiful life of comfort and, in many ways, what I now see as luxury. But I chose Nashville.

And so as a result, you want to know what I chose?

Humidity so ubiquitous that the toilet paper separates on the roll. Heat so oppressively constant that I lie in bed at night thinking, “This must be what it feels like to die.” A steady coat of sweat, making makeup senseless. More cockroaches in the kitchen. A waning opportunity to spend any time outside, for fear of a heat stroke. An astronomical utility bill from running my mediocre AC window unit. Towels that never fully dry. Relentless sticky discomfort.

And I hear that this is just the beginning. So far, June has made me think, “I am so hot and cranky, I cannot go on.” But the locals tell me that July turns Nashville into an absolute sauna, and just when you think it cannot get any worse, August descends downright demonically.

Lord help me. Literally. GOD, SAVE ME FROM THIS HEAT.

But I chose this. Over salt water and bright blue sky and clear, glorious Seattle days, I chose to walk outside every morning straight into the hot, smelly breath of Satan. So I should stop complaining. I should.

But you know I won’t. It’s just not my style.

It is truly embarrassing to hear the words, “Annie, please don’t blow your nose on our embossed napkins.” But today, this was my reality. A co-worker caught me with my face buried in a company napkin, and then politely requested that I use something other than their expensive serviette as a depository for my snot.

Allergies are alive and well here in Nashville, and I am fighting the good fight. I partake of imitation Zyrtec or Claritin, and occasionally the miracle drug Singulair. However, since Singulair has been linked to suicide, and I can be depressed enough on my own thankyouverymuch, I try to keep my usage down only to when I wheeze.

Yes. I do wheeze. It’s incredibly sexy.

I am allergic to the down comforter on my bed, but I desperately need its warmth at night. As the girl with the self-diagnosed and self-named CHAT (Cold Hands All the Time), my extremities would freeze and fall off if I didn’t sleep under the insulation of goose-down. The trade-off: I wake up with puffy eyes and a scratchy throat.

My apartment is freakishly cold, though. I’m sure that I will be grateful for this come the sweltering southern summer – a seasonal experience that I am dreading with every cell in my body – but for now, I wake up and it’s 50 degrees in my bedroom. I refuse to turn on the heat, since a) it’s getting up to the high 70’s in the afternoons these days and therefore, the use of heat seems so wrong, and b) I’m a cheapskate.

Maybe I’m having an allergic reaction to the humidity in the air. I could solve this by turning on the AC, but again, see letter b above. I have told you of my obsession with washcloths; in my apartment, it takes 5 days for a washcloth to dry. I suppose that the possibility exists that there is mildew flying around in my air, and slowly rotting my lungs.

And attracting COCKROACHES.

This morning, I saw the second cockroach of my life. The first was about 2 months ago, crawling across my kitchen floor. I had never seen anything like it, and reacted in the only way I knew how: with a piercing shriek that rattled the windows and surely woke the neighbors. This time, I was more prepared. I karate-chopped that roach with a sturdy flip-flop, and killed it until it was extremely dead. Take that, HAB.

All of this is to say that I cannot find balance for my body, for my home, for my health. And my reality now includes cockroaches. And I just wanted you all to know.