What did I [climb]: Pike’s Peak – all by myself, and SO FAST.  Seriously, I hope this doesn’t come off as all braggy-face of me, but I scampered up the entire mountain, and barely broke a sweat.

Sir Edmund Hillary?  How about Sir ANNIE PARSONS.

What did I [burn]: the backs of my calves.  Why does this always happen?  Why doesn’t the sun wrap around to my shins, too, bathing all 360 degrees of my legs in that horrible blazing Vitamin D?  It’s a mystery, and that’s why so is mankind.  [If you get that joke, you win.]

What did I [buy]: two new pairs of Toms.  I couldn’t decide, so I bought both.  Let’s hear it for happy feet – and shoes for kids!

What did I [hear]: the golden, dulcet voice of Jonatha Brooke – live.  Oh sweet Moses, y’all.  Do you know about this woman?  KNOW ABOUT HER.  Her “Ten Cent Wings” album is something special – trust me (and really, trust Duane, who originally spread the good news).

What did I [make]: jalapeño hummus.  My new food processor is changing my life.

What did I [feel]: so sad, and so happy.  These days, I’m feeling both, and more than ever – like the spectrum is growing, like my capacity for the extremes keeps increasing.  I wonder if this will continue as I get older – until one day, the sad and the happy will stretch out from my heart in opposite directions, hugging the globe and meeting in Madagascar.

I have a million little pieces glued together for my heart.

I don’t know that that’s a bad thing.

Last night, I was working it at the gym with my iPod on shuffle, when this song came on.

Lazy Summer Love by annieparsons

Honest to goodness, I had all but forgotten that I ever wrote it.

This old demo made me remember what it felt like to write songs before anyone ever told me I was doing it wrong.  When I had an idea, I just wrote.  Unreserved.  I didn’t “know” enough to “know” what was wrong with my writing – which is what made it ME.

I miss that me.

It’s been a long, long time since I’ve written anything, music-wise.  I don’t even want to say how long, for fear of no longer being able to call myself a songwriter.

But I’ve been getting inspired again (why does it take senseless, underwhelming man-drama to stir it up?  And yes, that is all I’m saying).  I have ideas. I even think they’re good ideas.

And I want to write them.

These ideas have been bothering me for awhile now – like a stray hair that gets stuck to your shirt somewhere between the armpit and the elbow, brushing against the back of your arm, out of sight and out of reach.  Phantom pains.  Rogue apparitions.

It’s time for them to materialize.

So I’m telling you.  I’m going to write them.  I’m going to finish them.

Hold me to it.

Just don’t tell me how to do it.  This is going to happen my way.

Guess who’s here?

GRETA!

Last night, we were walking around Wash Park, and looked to our right to see… a roof-top band!

They noticed us taking their picture, and yelled for us to come up.

Yes.  They yelled for us to let ourselves in through the front door, go down the hall to the staircase, climb to the attic, and then clamber out the window and up to the roof.

And thanks to my new-found Spiderman climbing skills discovered on Mt. Evans this weekend…

… well.  Needless to say, we bonded.

Yes, I played the trumpet.  No, I don’t know whose lips have been on that thing.  But how could I resist?  It was a real live HOOTENANNY.

When I first saw a copy of Jakob Dylan’s new album, “Women and Country,” I was immediately intrigued. I mean, come on – look at the cover.

Even better, check out the cover of his EP, the precursor to the full record.

Based on these two pictures, this is the coolest man alive. And this album confirms it… because holy mother of pearl, it is phenomenal. I’ve had it on repeat – it’s the soundtrack to my existence these days.

So on Friday afternoon, just before I left work, I checked his website to see if he was coming to Denver anytime soon. I pulled up the tour dates, and right there at the top of the list was my city. I couldn’t believe it – I checked the date, and… HE WAS PLAYING THAT VERY NIGHT, one mile from my house.

Serendipity? Me thinks YES.

I kicked it into gear, and ran down to the theater to buy a lone ticket. I couldn’t believe that there were still seats available with just an hour to spare, but $28 later, I was hurrying home to change and scoot back in time for the show.

Except.

Somewhere in the mile between my house and the theater, I lost the ticket. It was in my back pocket when I set off for the venue, but when I arrived at the door, it was gone. I panicked, telling the girl at the box office my situation, showing her my receipt – but no dice. No ticket, no admission.

The show was about to start, but I turned around and started to retrace my steps home. I bent down to check every scrap of paper I saw, but it was always a bus ticket, a receipt, a matchbook. My shoes started to give me blisters, so I took them off and walked barefoot in the dark. By the time I got halfway home, picking up every piece of trash I found, no sign of the ticket, shoes in hand, totally devastated – I just started to cry.

And I couldn’t stop.

In my own defense, I wasn’t just being dramatic.  The tears were the culmination of several incredibly difficult things happening in my life right now – things that are weighing around my neck heavier than a millstone. Losing my ticket put me over the edge; I was a hot mess.

So I did the only thing that I knew to do in times of distress, which was… you know, call my mom.

She encouraged me to go back and get another ticket, so I did. Except when I showed up at the box office (again – third time in two hours), I was STILL CRYING. It wasn’t that I was trying to make them feel sorry for me – I simply could not pull it together. I was sniffling and wiping black rivers of mascara from my cheeks – it was not pretty.

The manager took one look at me, and ushered me in without question.

And it was the greatest show.

Now, I’m not endorsing stuffing your emotions in until they erupt on a Denver street corner.  All I’m saying is… it might come in handy.

One of my nearest and dearest, Christina, sent this to me yesterday.  She remembers well my deep and abiding love for “Newsies” (to this day, Jack Kelly might remain my biggest crush), and combined with my newfound fascination with one Lady Gaga, this is pure magic.

Who was your favorite newsie?

Tomorrow night, Josh and Meredith are flying in for the weekend.  We will recreate this moment.

I had an extra set of keys made for my apartment so they can come and go as they please; however, I didn’t have an extra keychain.

I KNOW.  How could I not have an extra keychain?  Doesn’t everyone have an abundance of useless keychains from every networking event, tourist trap, and occasion involving girls in bikini tops and chaps slinging José Cuervo and glow sticks at the bars downtown?

I didn’t even have one of THOSE keychains?

Last week, I went to Target with the following shopping list:
-Butter
-Keychain

But then, I realized that spending money on a keychain would be a waste – especially when I live so close to my parents, who have kitchen drawers full of every useless item you think is useless until you actually need a keychain.

Mom found a spare for me, and sent it with Sarah to my house earlier this week.  And folks, I cannot wait for the moment when I make Josh Gruner strap my keys to his using a keychain featuring this:

Josh and Meredith, I’ll keep the light on for you.  And you keep the candle burning.

You can take the girl out of Nashville, but you can’t take the stage-side-at-the-Taylor-Swift-show-and-THIS-IS-SO-AWESOME out of the girl.

Jenn and I had tickets for the uppermost balcony last night, literally behind the stage.  But my most excellent friend Kelli (SHOUT OUT) back in Nashville pulled some strings, and all of a sudden, a man was tapping us on the shoulder and giving us wrist bands and we were… well, we were this close:

She was bedazzled, to say the least.

This week has been full of some very fun surprises – things I haven’t tried for or asked for or even imagined might happen.  It’s kind of comical, actually.  But surprise is an important element of a good story – and these days, I’m liking mine.

I mean, I wish I knew where this story was headed… but that would ruin the surprise, now, wouldn’t it?

Seth just texted me.

“Annie!  Did you already know about the Disc Makers catalog and were just waiting to surprise me?”

I stared at the phone.  What catalog?  Disc Makers?  Wait – am I in Disc Makers?  AM I IN DISC MAKERS???!?

“On the COVER!”

I am on the cover of… well, not quite a magazine, but IT MIGHT AS WELL BE A MAGAZINE.  I am arriving in thousands of mailboxes, worldwide, as I type.

FREAKING!  OUT!

Thank you, Seth Kiehl, for creating such a gorgeous design… one that Disc Makers rightfully found worthy of their catalog.

Oh, and the front page of their website, too.

Pretty much the happiest thing that could happen to me on a Monday.  I seriously can’t stop smiling.  Thanks, Disc Makers!

Monday
I saw Patty Griffin on Monday night with Rachel, the cutest date ever.  We walked the mile and a half downtown to the theater, which made us feel very city-like.

But I’ll be honest: after all of my anticipation and excitement, I was kind of disappointed in the show.  The set list consisted almost entirely of her new album, “Downtown Church,” which is not my favorite, and the only “extra” songs she did were “Heavenly Day” and “Up to the Mountain.”

Patty.  Where was “Moses”?  Where was “Trapeze”?  Where was “Goodbye,” the song that I wanted to hear more than anything?  Where were “Long Ride Home,” and “Icicles,” and “Top of the World,” and “Burgundy Shoes,” and “Peter Pan”?  I wanted to WEEP, Patty!  I was ready to cry – fully prepared – anxiously anticipating some emotional catharsis… but I wound up relatively unmoved.

Sigh.  There’s always next time.  And, as Patty sings, “Everybody needs a little forgiveness.”

Tuesday
Have you ever done MeetUp.com?  Sketchy, right?  Well, “sketchy” has never stopped me.  I read about a running group on MeetUp.com, and ran with them for the first time on Tuesday night.

You know that scary moment where you walk up to a group of people, and you’re all alone, and no one really says hi, but that’s probably because none of THEM know each other either, and everyone feels equally awkward, so you all try to mask it by stretching and fidgeting with your iPods and looking at the sky?  It was… uncomfortable.  But then we ran 5.2 miles, and went for beers afterward.  I brought my A-game, and talked to every stranger within earshot.

Maybe I’ll go again.

Wednesday
On Wednesday night, I cooked a gourmet meal.  No, seriously.  This could have gone for $27 a plate at a restaurant.  Mediterranean salmon on a bed of wilted spinach featuring kalamata olives and golden raisins, topped with a balsamic and honey glaze.

I KNOW.

My friend Jenn from high school came over, and we drank a bottle of wine and dined like Greek goddesses.

Thursday
I went to the most ghetto Wal-Mart in the history of mankind.  I wasn’t entirely sure I was going to make it out without being shot in the face – or at least contracting a staph infection.

Friday
Ah, yes.  Friday.  This is today.  Good Friday.

Mom is finishing her fifth and final round of chemo with the Ifex and Adria drugs – something that no one has completed at this cancer center before, because she is the Valedictorian of Cancer Ass-Kicking, really – and will be unhooked from the pumps tomorrow.

I’m so proud of her.

Remember that time in 4th grade when my class had a contest to see who could best sing Bryan Adams’ “(Everything I Do) I Do It For You”?

I suppose I haven’t mentioned it yet.

Any willing participant had a chance to stand in front of the class with the Walkman headphones on and sing along with Bryan, to the cheers or jeers of her peers.

This was obviously very awkward.  First of all, whoever was singing was the only one who could hear the track; to the 30 other people in the room, all they were hearing was an unaccompanied, nervous, pre-adolescent warble.  Secondly, we were 10-years old.  The most passionate thing I could think of was footsy.  However, as I remember vividly, this didn’t stop one girl from closing her eyes and feigning Whitney Houston.

Yeaaaah, I’d fight for you… [fist pump]

To me, Bryan Adams remained frozen in memory, frozen in time, in that Pomona Elementary classroom – that is, until last year when my friend Duane reintroduced me.

Oh, friends.  What I had been MISSING OUT ON all those years.

Duane knows me well enough to know that he would need to be sneaky, so he started by sending me a few songs that our guy Bry had written with Gretchen Peters – one of my favorite writers in the history of the universe (remember, I wrote about her here).  From the first tentative listen to those tracks, all doubt was blown away:

Bryan Adams is where it’s at.  His songs are fantastic.

I have a short list of people that I have to see in concert someday – and in addition to Patty Griffin (which will FINALLY happen at the end of this month), Shania Twain, and Phil Collins, Bryan Adams has earned his place.

And I just felt like declaring it to the world.