There is nothing like calamity to put everything in perfect perspective. For all of my woe over my role as the Temptress, and knowing that this is not my dream job, suddenly I am grateful to show up in the morning and find the office still operating. I start thinking thoughts like, “If I can just work through tomorrow at 5pm – if we can just stay open through then – I will have earned enough to pay my rent next week.” I am grateful for every hour of income I get – because all of a sudden, nothing is guaranteed.

I suppose that nothing is ever guaranteed – we just trick ourselves into thinking that it is, that we know where the road is leading.

Last night, I went running with the East Nasties. I’m faster than the slow group, but slower than the fast group, so I found myself in the no-man’s-land of running between the two packs on my own. It was dark, and eventually I realized that I didn’t know the route. “What if I get lost?” I worried. I was all alone.

But then I noticed one man a significant distance ahead, and I decided that I would lock my eyes on him. As long as I had him in my sight, I would know where to make the turns.

I don’t know where the road is leading. I cannot see the path. I am sure that I will need to turn soon – that the route is about to look very different – but I have no way of knowing when the shift in direction will occur. All that I can do is put one foot in front of the other, and fix my eyes on the One who has gone before me.

**UPDATE**

The sharp turn came at 1:30pm.  I am now unemployed.

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.

It is Monday morning, my weekly A-Z series is over, and I am left at a loss. What on EARTH am I supposed to do on Mondays now?

Well, I could always talk about money. Get excited.

I got my W-2 for 2008, and found out that I made a smaller amount of money than I thought possible to live on. I opened it up, and started laughing – but in a victorious way, because I LIVED!!! I totally survived on the most miniscule amount of money I’ve ever made – and I did it with style. I should publish my findings in a book: “How To Be Fabulous (While Utterly Destitute).” Actually, let me save you the reading, and save myself the writing, and just break it down into the basics:

1) To save on food: free sample dinners at the grocery store.
2) To save on toiletries: shower once every 3 days.
3) To save on car payments: drive a long-paid-off 19-year old car.
4) To save on entertainment: just go running instead.
5) To save on everything else: T.J. Maxx.

It’s tiring to be poor. But it’s kind of fun, right?

Right?

And now, I will spend the remainder of my day researching welfare.

The phone here at work just rang – a rare occurrence at this particular financial institution. I answered, and this is what I heard:

“Hi, I’m being detained at the Davidson County jail, and need bail money. I’ve been framed. This is my one phone call. Can you help me out?”

“Um, are you serious?”

“Yes. Very serious.” He told me his name, and what kind of a doctor he is.

“Are you a client here?”

“No.”

“Well. We’re not a bank, per se. We’re more along the lines of private wealth management.”

“Okay. But can you help me? This is my ONE phone call.” The panic in his voice was evident.

“Um… well… I’m just the [temp!] receptionist. Let me toss you over to Sandra.”

I transferred the call, and watched the light that indicated Sandra’s phone ringing blink… and blink… and blink… but she was away from her desk. She never answered.

I have failed him.

As the Temptress, I make an hourly wage, which equates to a not-very-big salary. Don’t get me wrong: for doing nothing, I make a fortune. And even if I don’t have a lot of extra cash, my bills always get paid. I am grateful for this temp job that is allowing me to have an experience here in Nashville.

But extra money is never a bad thing, right?

So I am currently doing a trial run with one of those Type From Home programs. Companies all over the world have scanned in old documents, and they need people to transcribe them. This seemed like a good fit for me because 1) I can do it at work, and 2) who is the valedictorian of typing? It sounded like easy cash.

But the program that I am using has some stipulations. There is a minimum requirement of pages to be typed each month, and if you don’t meet it – sorry, no money, not even for the pages that you DO type. There is also a maximum number of pages you can type – you may not exceed X number of pages, and therefore, X number of dollars, each month.

Doing the math, I figured out that I must type 15 pages a day to meet the minimum requirement. Not bad – especially when WHAT ELSE AM I GOING TO DO AT MY DESK? So yesterday was my first day, my grand experiment, and I was excited to get going.

Maniacally excited. I typed 75 pages.

When I walked out of work, my eyeballs fell out of my skull and rolled across the parking lot like marbles.

But you know me – I love money! I love cash! Being poor is balderdash!

So I went home, and typed some more – mostly Iranian medical documents about menstruation and chemical compounds. Adding up the pages as I went along, I started calculating the things I was going to buy: a new bottle of perfume, a ticket to Seattle, a new car… visions of Anthropologie dresses and massages and all of the things I’ve always wanted but never been able to buy… Type From Home is going to be my ticket to financial freedom!

But just before bed, I checked the website one more time… and my Blimp of a Thousand Dreams was slashed by the Grand Knife of Reality: there is a 50 page/day maximum. Anything above that is not only deleted, but then subtracted from your total. You type 51, your total is 49. You type 52, your total is 48. So because I typed close to 100 pages, I logged nearly zero.

I have a bad feeling about this.

I admit it: I can be a bit of a cheap skate… although actually, I prefer to think of myself simply as one who finds “creative solutions that involve no money.” This past week, I found myself at a restaurant ordering – no joke – “a water with no ice, and maybe could you just throw some extra fries on HER plate? Thanks.” I clip coupons. I buy used rather than new. Any leftover coffee in the coffee pot gets poured into a mug and put in the fridge, so every couple of days when I have a full cup, rather than making a fresh pot, I nuke the remains. I frequently take multiple laps around the grocery to eat 3 helpings of the free samples in place of lunch. Like today.

Afternoon Report from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

Okay, so that video started out being about free samples, but it wound up being a therapy session. Apologies. I’m really not as sad as I seem. Although I am every bit as weary as I look.

Back to business: I really, really love contests.

I enter as many contests as I can, always hoping that I’m going to win something for free. My thinking is that the more contests I enter, the better my chances will be at winning something – anything. My favorite kind of contest is when you don’t have to earn the prize – you just have to sign up online (because, another confession: I don’t really like to work?). In 2008, I have already won two contests – tickets to the opera back in January, and tickets to the Nashville Film Festival back in April. The restaurant from which I frequently pick up lunch for my co-workers offers a daily chance at a $1,000 prize, so long as I fill out the online survey.

So don’t think I haven’t entered this contest. And don’t pretend that if I win, you wouldn’t want to go.

The other day, I was walking to the bus, listening to my iPod. All of a sudden, I felt a shock. IN MY EAR. And then, another shock, IN MY OTHER EAR. All at once, I was experiencing pain, and when I ripped the earbuds out of my ears, THEY WERE SPARKING. As I am not willing to put flame initiators anywhere on my body, especially in my ear canal, I headed for the Apple store.

I walked in the door, and a very hip, very trendy, very hot-jeaned girl with an electronic clipboard enthusiastically said, “How can I help you?”

“My earbuds are sparking. I know, I know – bizarre. Can I get new ones?”

The girl looked at me and asked, “Like, Apple ones?”

Stop it, sister. You did not just ask that.

“Yes. Yes, Apple earbuds.” From the Apple store that we are standing in.

“Sure – they’re over there.” She pointed me in the direction of the (yes, Apple) earbuds.

I walked over and took a look: $29. But shouldn’t my earbuds be covered under AppleCare? Especially if they are shooting explosive volts into my very sensitive ears?

No. No, they are not.

Now, let’s review. I have not had income since September 10. I have not been shopping since I left Seattle; I have spent money on gas and experiences, but have basically given up the acquisition of “new things.” For a girl who loves expensive clothes and good wine and all sorts of pretty things, this has been a great challenge. But I am learning to be content, and realizing that I have plenty of clothes to choose from already, and trying to be creative and resourceful. I make coffee at home. I have created a window valance out of a shawl. I am cutting back on my washcloth usage so I don’t have to do laundry as often.

But when things that I already have are being taken away from me? That is not at all a part of the plan.

I no longer have earbuds.

I dropped my camera on Friday night, and now it’s a lost cause. The camera repairman said that I might as well just buy a new camera, as it would cost just as much to repair it as it would to start afresh. It doesn’t work. It doesn’t take pictures. I am suddenly camera-less.

I returned from Seattle to Nashville, and found my suitcase zipper broken (aaaand it sliced open my hand).

I’m almost out of my favorite perfume.

And of course, the Honda remains one breakdown away from ultimate extinction. The muffler is hanging pretty low these days.

Which is why I am desperately curious to know: is this rumor of an extra $600 on my tax return true? Can anyone tell me? Am I getting an extra $600 back? Are we ALL? I don’t speak financial words. Just tell me, yes or no: is God choosing to bail me out via George W. Bush?

I believe in miracles.

Some mornings, we are greeted with sunshine and daisies and sugar and love. Other days, it’s – ding dong – flaming bag of crap on your doorstep.

For me, the latter comes most frequently in the form of unexpected bills… or in some cases, bills that I was perfectly aware of, thank you very much – I have just chosen to ignore you. Word to the wise: never park in a handicapped parking place overnight. And when you are surprised with a $190 ticket the next morning, never disregard it, surmising that since it happened in a different state, they will never find you.

THEY ALWAYS FIND YOU. And they double the fine.

This week, I was reminded of an outstanding bill from a doctor’s office in Kansas City. The day after Christmas, I was treated for strep throat by a physician who I was told was “in the network”; it turns out he wasn’t. Since that time, the deluge of bills sent to me has been overwhelming – and each reminder has left me feeling more and more discouraged. They aren’t forgetting. And they have even figured out my NEW address.

But last night, I had a radical thought: what if I paid up all of my old debts? Oh, not all of them – the student loan is going to take a decade or three. But the smaller ones? I can handle those. And wouldn’t I feel so free, so unencumbered, so virtuous?

Today, I sent $15 to the doctor in Kansas City, along with a letter explaining that I will continue chipping away at the bill a little bit at a time. I mailed off a check to a friend, paying up for a concert ticket that I used back at the beginning of June. And I paid off my credit card. Totally.

[pause: VICTORY DANCE!]

When the fall hits and I find myself an unemployed vagrant, I will take great comfort in knowing that I am relatively debt-free. Until then, here’s hoping for no more stinky surprises.

Lately, I’ve been on a personal finance kick. As a part of my life-goal of becoming “Coolest Woman Ever,” I am learning a little bit about how to make my money work for me, and the different high-interest accounts that will earn me cash without requiring me to do anything.

In a similar vein, every day, I break my own record of “most consecutive days lived.” It’s awesome. Like an HSBC Direct account, I don’t have to do anything, and I’m reaching new heights every second! Money in the bank, just by being.

But for all of the living that I am racking up, how many of my days are filled with really “living”? Generally, I feel like my life is a series of unsurprising events: wake up, call my mom, go to work, consume calories, burn calories, do my dishes, go to bed. (Alright, okay, I know – this list should also include other predictable day-to-day activities, like lip-sync to Queen’s “Somebody to Love,” email with strangers on the internet, and compulsively color-code my closet… but who’s really counting?) I am a creature of habit, thriving on routine and predictability. What is written in my calendar is what I do, rarely with any deviance. I am steady, stable, and secure.

And a little bit restless.

These days, I am trying to open myself up to the possibilities that life has to offer. So far, this is proving to be a very extraordinary decision, and most of the time, I feel happy when I have allowed myself to get sidetracked from “the Plan.” I find myself saying “yes” to social engagements more often these days, even when my initial reaction is, “No thanks, I’d rather stay home and blog.” And I am usually pleasantly surprised at the interactions that I have as a result. Today, when I unexpectedly ran into my friend Zach at Caffe Ladro, I spent an unplanned hour and a half hearing about his life, and then sitting in his Volvo to listen to two songs that he’d written. It was a sweet time, and I feel like I know him better now as a result. I don’t really know what I’m doing tomorrow night, and I don’t feel frantic to figure it out. Because I’m pretty sure that when the time comes, I’ll find myself doing something.

In the fall, I will quit my job and hit the road for 4 unprogrammed months. For some odd reason, I am not freaking out about this. In fact, it sounds blissful and adventuresome – to be on the road with only what the Honda will carry, a vagabond in a red dress, funded in part by the money that is miraculously percolating in my savings account.

Seriously. HSBC Direct. Do yourself a favor and check. it. out.