Just like my stack of washcloths:
Slowly but surely.

I overslept. Again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but for as long as I have been setting an alarm clock, come morning, I do not hear it. I mean, I must hear it at some level of consciousness, because I hit the snooze button. Excuse me, the “SNOOZ” button. Why do alarm clocks leave off the “e”? Or is that just mine?

Wait, is that true? Does my alarm clock really say “SNOOZ”? I think so. I can’t remember. I can’t say that I’ve ever “officially” checked; it just seems like that is what is embedded in the deepest subconscious part of my brain – the part that gives me REM cycles. I’ll have to do some reconnaissance and report back.

You know what’s funny? The phrase “snooz button.” Say it ten times fast, and try to keep from laughing.

You know what’s annoying? The phrase “alarm clock.” I bet that if, instead of a beeping, my alarm clock just said, “ALARM CLOCK. ALARM CLOCK. ALARM CLOCK,” over and over and over, I would get up and get on with my day.

So, late again, I jumped out of bed and threw on a t-shirt and a skirt and my red heels, and ran out the door. Things I neglected to think of:
• My skirt is covered in slop of some sort.
• My white t-shirt has a ketchup stain on it from the spicy fries I ate last night at the French Quarter, where I played a show with the fantastic Meg Allison and Josh Stevens.
• I’m not allowed to wear t-shirts to my BUSINESS PROFESSIONAL workplace.
• Having no time to do any quality control, the hair on the back of my head strangely resembles a mangy badger’s rump. I am so not as cute as this girl today.

I desperately want to be a morning person. They’re so chipper and spry and productive and put together. But I’m not really a night person either – I used to be, but now I am an old lady, in my late-mid-20’s, and go to bed by 10pm most nights.

So if I’m not a morning person, and I’m not a night person, I guess that just leaves me mid-day. And isn’t that the best time to be alive anyway? That’s when things happen. And today, the lunch hour part of my mid-day is going to include a free sample meal at my happy place: Whole Foods Market.

It’s finally here: 08.08.08. How cute. If I were the marrying kind, perhaps I would choose to have a wedding on this oh-so-memorable date. But you know, I’ve always loved October. Maybe I should shoot for a wedding on 10.10.10. It’s a Sunday. Consider this my save the date – groom to be interpolated later. Maybe I’ll be like the presidential candidates, saving the grand REVEALING of their running mates until the last possible second.

Surprise, Mom. It’s Mick Jagger.

Today marks the opening ceremony of the Olympics in Beijing. I’ll be honest: I have not been excited in the slightest about this summer’s Olympic games. There has been so much controversy, from political tensions to riots at the torch relays to steroids to the revoking of Joey Cheek’s visa… Why should I get excited? There’s not exactly a lot to celebrate in our world right now.

But this morning on the Today show, I heard that out of the 205 countries that are participating in this summer’s games, 87 have never won a medal. Not one. Ever. For the overwhelming majority of the athletes who will march into China’s National Stadium today, they have no chance at winning; rather, this is the achievement – simply to be there. We might not ever know their names or their stories, but they have worked and toiled and sacrificed for years to reach this point. And that is worth both my attention and my accolades.

I understand that Michael Phelps has the very good chance at winning 8 gold medals in the various swim-events. And wouldn’t that be amazing? Making him, an insanely ripped man in a Speedo, the most decorated Olympian EVER, in all of history? However, always one to root for the underdog, part of me wonders if anyone might have the chance of beating him. Because wouldn’t THAT be even MORE amazing?

It could happen, you know. Because for some absurd reason, Phelps is currently sporting some Fu Manchu action. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t swimmers go to great length to SHED all of their hair? Anyway.

I’ll be watching tonight, if for no other reason than the fact that my Word of the Day from Dictionary.com is:

vexillology \vek-sil-AHL-uh-jee\, noun:
The study of flags.

It’s a sign.

- – - – - – - -

And finally, as a follow-up:

Turns out I was wrong:
I am dark enough for beige.
I stand corrected.

Hair grows.

It does. I know it does.

And mine grows quickly, like a weed – about an inch a month.

Still. These days, I am regretting the decision to cut my hair.

Sure, it was spontaneous and cute and spunky for awhile – an “I am Annie Freaking Parsons” moment. But now, it’s shaggy and a little bit shapeless, and not short enough to be cute, but not long enough to be hot.

I am a PTA mother.

I miss the days of showering at night, sleeping with wet hair, and waking up with a picture-perfect mane. It was so easy, with the ever-advantageous feature of being long enough for a Liv Tyler ponytail. These days, my ponytail is an inch and a half long, with the underside being too short to reach the rubber band, and thus, sticking out wildly, like prickles on a cactus.

I could trim it up and give it some oomph, but I so desperately want it to Be Long again. I cut it on February 23, and 10” were hacked off. So if I want to get it back to a state of glamour, this means that I will be in the process of growing until Christmas.

Christmas 1987 – a hand-made dollhouse, crafted by my Grandpop
Christmas 1993 – a kitten named Cassie
Christmas 2000 – keys to the Honda, which my parents helped me get into
Christmas 2005 – Dolce & Gabana Light Blue perfume
Christmas 2008 – my femininity

I wore a dress to work today, and that always makes for a good day.

No, I’m not going to go all “the hills are alive” twirling or anything, but there is definitely something about wearing a dress that makes me feel a little more put together, a little more credible, a little more capable.

However.

The dress cannot make up for the hair. I showered last night, and crashed into bed with a wet mop. Since I own a $12 flat iron from Bartell’s Drug Store, I have decided that I would rather not even use it than spend a long time trying, only to have it wig out (har har) like a sea anemone.

And so today, my coif is unruly – smashed on one side, wild on the other. I’m currently utilizing both a barrette AND a rubber band to wrangle it into submission – but now I just have a 1” ponytail, which is super attractive. The ponystub is so hot these days.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

I ordered a Chi today. God as my witness, it was on major discount. But still. I’ve turned into THAT GIRL who drops a significant percentage of her paycheck on a hair tool.

Yikes.

I hope it’s worth it. Ladies, do you affirm my decision?

Actually, I would only like to hear from those of you who are going to say “yes.”

My love,

You know the old saying, “It’s not you, it’s me”?

Well, sorry. This time, it is definitely you.

We’ve been together for a long time. So long, in fact, that I can scarcely remember a time when we were apart. There was that one time during my freshman year of college when I needed some space, and space we took. But in your absence, I gained a ton of weight and my face ballooned up like a chipmunk. I missed you. I begged God that you would return to me.

And you did. Slowly but surely, you came back. Ever since that traumatic experience, I have clung tightly to you. You have been safe. You have been secure. You have made me look good.

At least, you used to.

Lately, I’ve been realizing what a hassle you are. You promise to be low-maintenance, but you actually take up too much time. You assure me that you’ll behave, but then you wig out and go nuts. Certain people have told me that you make me beautiful, so I’ve kept you around. But the truth is, I’ve wanted you gone for a long time.

I’ve waited. For many reasons, I’ve waited. I’ve waited until “after I’m skinnier,” I’ve waited until “after I get married,” I’ve waited until “after I’ve convinced Nashville that I am glamorous.” But when I woke up this morning, I could wait no more.

I’m sorry. I know that I will probably eventually shed tears, but not today. You’ve done nothing but take, and it’s time that you be cut off – literally. I’m leaving you for my new lover, Bob.

Cutting and running,
Annie

I have no way of explaining how it happens, but it does. That strange phenomenon of “timing.” I am not speaking of relationships… although I currently could… but no. Today, I am referring to, literally, the precision and accuracy of timing.

When walking toward a curb, one begins calculating and adjusting her steps at least 10 feet in advance, assuring a seamless arrival at the sidewalk, and allowing an easy, natural gait when confronted with the last step up onto the concrete. She might have to adjust her timing earlier – to skip and chassé in the middle of the crosswalk, perhaps – but in the end, her final step is confident and graceful. Whatever she has to do early on to make her final step successful, she will do.

I apply this principle in my own life, especially when it comes to showering.

I do not enjoy showering. In fact, I get depressed and overwhelmed when I consider the fact that it’s an activity that has to be a part of my life FOR-EV-ER. The endless cycle of wash, shave, scrub, dry, curl, lotion, makeup, spray… perhaps I’m a little high-maintenance, but I, for one, want to minimize the amount of times I have to repeat this sequence of events. And so, to ease my pain, I look at my calendar, and depending on the activities of the week, plot out when I will take my showers. I even pencil them into my red leather planner. Things to consider: workout schedule, whether or not I will have worn sunscreen, dates, weddings, meetings at work, the possibility and likelihood of a ponytail, etc.

Call me crazy – see if I care… or if I change my ways.

Depending on my week of events, sometimes I need to take two showers two days in a row – quick steps on the crosswalk, if you will. Other times, I will stretch it out as far as I can go – long, extended steps. Ultimately, it does not matter the manner of pace that I take – all that I am concerned about is the final step, the ending mark, which is usually a “look cute” event of some sort.

I am operating with 4th-day hair today – as in, I have not showered since Saturday night. Please don’t be grossed out – if you saw me today, there would be no denying the fact that my coif has reached a crescendo of glamour unknown to every-day-showerers. I cannot explain why – it just is. After the initial shower and styling, my hair looks better and better and better with each day that passes.

To a point.

Tonight, I will gather all of my strength and sheer force of will, and reluctantly heave myself under the shower-head. The motivation? My beautiful friend Christina’s arrival from Boston tomorrow. (Know her, read her, love her.)

There is an art to timing. And I am learning to perfect it, even when the in-between times are full of stumbles and grease.

The best thing about living alone is that there’s no one around. The worst thing about living alone is that there’s no one around. This point is especially imperative on nights like tonight; allow me to explain.

I left the gym at about 9:45, and was overwhelmed with the need – the NEED – to dye my hair. Not tomorrow, not next week – right this very second. I dye my hair from a box, which inevitably leads to deflating moments at the salon. I am due for a haircut, and without a doubt my precious stylist will pick at my hair, comment on how dry it is (yeah right, lady), and say, “So, do you, like, dye it yourself?” Yes, cupcake, I sure do, because in order to afford your foiling services, I would have to do this.

So I ran across the street to Walgreen’s, picked out a box, and came home. This is the part where a roommate or a sister or a mom would be helpful – because I have a major head of hair. I can’t see the back. I can’t keep the dye from running in black ribbons down my face. I can’t tell if every strand of hair has been fully saturated with dye. These obstacles did not stop me, though – ooooh, no. Before I knew it, I had dye everywhere. E-VERY-WHERE. The bathroom looked like a crime scene. Black blood-like pigment all over the bathroom floor, my shower curtain, in my eyes, my face, ears, collarbone, shoulders, legs, back… and what didn’t rot my flesh away with its savage chemicals simply left my body looking as if I had been bludgeoned with a Sally rod.

As I combed the color through my hair, I removed what only can be described as a large hamster of a hairball from my scalp. Not my plain brown hair, but Medium Amber Copper Brown hair. This brings me to a tangent – stick with me, I promise I’ll bring it full circle.

Tangent #1
Medium Amber Copper Brown is an incredibly overt, obvious name for hair dye. It reminds me of one of my biggest pet peeves: Menu-Dishes-that-List-Every-Ingredient-in-their-Title. Escargot-under-puff-pastry-with-whole-roasted-garlic-and-lemon-butter. Mango-salad-with-pomengranate-glaze-and-chive-oil. You know what I’m saying? Don’t get me wrong – I’m really happy to know what’s in it – but that still doesn’t convince me that it’s worth $16. Menus should come up with snappy, merrymaking names, as should hair dye companies. Instead of Medium Amber Copper Brown, how about Papaya of the Sea? Or Tahitian Dawn? Which brings me to…

Tangent #2
When I was in 4th grade, I believed “Dawn” to be the most beautiful name of all time, largely due to Ann M. Martin. But what could a 10-year old name “Dawn” that wouldn’t be altogether ridiculous?

I submit to you: a hermit crab.

Yes. When I was in 4th grade, I was given the honor of naming our class pet, an ugly little hermit crab. I named her Dawn. She lived for 4 days before she died. Not dyed.

AND THAT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IS HOW YOU BRING THE TANGENTS FULL CIRCLE!

I am now out of the shower, having scrubbed the top 2 layers of skin off with a loofah, in order to remove the bruise-like stains. The bathroom floor and counter have been scrubbed, and I’ve disposed of the chemicals in a way that I can only hope does not lead to spontaneous combustion. My hair is now dyed Tahitian Dawn, which is code for “basically the exact same color it was before.”