A few days ago, I took Toad on a walk around the block (as far as she can go). It’s good for her to have the illusion of adventure.

On this particular stroll, she stopped to do her business; Becca calls these walks her “business trips.”  And because I am a responsible pet-owner, I had a plastic bag on hand. I scooped up the mess, tied the bag, and carried it home.

As we rounded the final corner, we came upon three stray cats – a dime a dozen in our neighborhood, unfortunately. Two of them scattered, but the biggest one, a giant black Tom, arched its back and hissed at Toad. Toad was like, oh no you di-in’t, and lunged.

The cat didn’t flinch. In fact, it got even angrier, growled that feral cat-growl, and shot out its claws like Wolverine. I stomped and yelled, hoping the cat would run – but it came even closer, fangs bared and hair on edge. Toad was about to get destroyed.

So I did the only thing I could think of. I swung the only weapon that I had.

And pardon the expression, but that cat learned a whole new meaning of the term “shit-faced.”

Last night at dusk, I went on an easy run – just 3.5 miles around Sloan’s Lake. The weather was cool and I was feeling good – the perfect combination for a great run.

One would think.

However, that proverbial one doing the thinking obviously wasn’t thinking about the swarms of bugs that would be out in force.

First, a gnat got caught in the web that is my eyelashes. I blinked so hard, passerbys surely thought I was attempting morse code with my eyes. I swatted at my face, squishing the bug and pinching it from my eyelashes – at least I think I did. My eyelashes are very black – the perfect camouflage for an insect. Is that an eyelash or a bug leg? It’s hard to say.

Are you still reading? Because don’t worry, there’s more.

So, while I was attempting to rid my eye of the bug by doing my blinky-wide-eyed-blinky thing, my mouth may have fallen open (ugh, I KNOW there’s a “That’s What She Said” joke in this). Ask any mascara-applying girl (or guy? I don’t discriminate) – the mouth-falling-open thing is a natural reflex when doing the blinky-wide-eyed-blinky thing. THE POINT IS: when dealing with the gnat in my eye, my mouth opened up, creating a gaping void perfect for another gnat to fill. It flew straight to the back of my throat – yes, to my UVULA (totally just Googled “uvula” to make sure it isn’t sexual). I hacked like a dog until the dead bug exited on a rip-roaring wave of spit.

And then, as the grand finale, a gnat flew straight up my nostril. I farmer-blew as hard as I could, but I could still feel it. I could FEEL THE BUG IN MY NOSE. So I did what any “rational human in a moment of panic” would do, and used my thumb and my forefinger to squeeze my nostrils together. What I wasn’t counting on was that this would squish the bug. I quickly realized that I now had a DEAD BUG. I had a DEAD BUG IN MY NOSE. I quickly blew into my tank top, leaving my shirt snot-covered and my heart, mind, and soul utterly traumatized.

But I never stopped running.

*Worst title ever. Acknowledged.

This time last year, I was seeing ants in my kitchen.  I eventually discovered that they had raided my sugar bag, so I threw it out, and from that point on, I’ve kept my sugar in the freezer – and thus, an ant-free kitchen.

But a few weeks ago, I saw an ant.

And you know what they say: where there’s one ant, there are lots of more ants.*

For weeks, I have seen ants in my kitchen – but I was never able to figure out their point of genesis.  I cleaned the kitchen cabinets, Cloroxed the counters, sealed every food item, and cleared every crumb after every meal.

Still, the ants came marching one by one.

The other night, I was setting my coffee for the next morning.  I poured the water into the machine, and as I did, I caught sight of an ant camouflaged on the side of the black coffee maker.

I killed it.

And then, I saw another ant come crawling out of the machine.

So I killed it, too.

And all of a sudden, there was a flood, a deluge, a gushing of ants coming out of my coffee maker.

My coffee maker.

The hotbed was IN MY COFFEE MAKER.

Shockingly, I didn’t scream, but I made a pathetic, drawn out, traumatized noise of some sort – somewhere between a moan and a cry and a “Die, scum” sob.  I aimed the bottle of Clorox at the teeming swarm, and just started spraying – spraying like a stream of Charlie Sheen nonsense.  Finally, I slammed the lid shut, took the entire coffee machine, dumped it in a Hefty bag, and marched it to the dumpster.

You do realize what this means, right?

For weeks, I have been drinking coffee that has been STRAINED THROUGH ANTS.

I will never, ever recover from this.

*Not an actual phrase, but true all the same.  Obviously.

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.