I am a notoriously horrible suitcase packer.  If suitcase packing were a school, I would be the dunce.

I always pack too little or too much, and never the right quantities of anything.  I’ll pack running shoes, but no socks.  A light shirt, but a black bra.  No heels for dinners out, or no flats for walking the city.  Too many layers.  Too few layers.  Five dresses for two days.  No hair product.  Whatever.

It’s always bad.

And the fact that I know this about myself would make one think that I’d be extra prepared – make lists, plan out my outfits, check the weather, think ahead.  But it’s a major defect, a constipation of logic, an impediment that I cannot work or think or plan my way around.  If there is a suitcase to be packed, I will screw it up.

When I left the house on Wednesday, I drove for a block before I remembered.  OH.  UNDERWEAR.  So I pulled back in front of the house, ran inside, grabbed a handful of undergarments from my top drawer, and boldly carried them outside in my bare hands in broad daylight to stuff into my suitcases.  Hello, neighbors.  I climbed back behind the wheel of the car, and thought for a second: am I forgetting anything else?  Concluding that I indeed had everything I could possibly need, I took off for the airport.

Can you sense the impending doom?

When I opened my suitcase in New York, I found the following: all of the last-minute underwear, a ratty brown cardigan, and a white V-neck T-shirt.  Not the nice one.  The see-through, stretched out one that is good for absolutely nothing outside of a shopping trip to Wal-Mart.  To buy a new T-shirt.

So I spent yesterday in the same outfit I’d worn on the plane the day before, and by the evening, I smelled sour.  I took a quick shower, donned the gross white T-shirt, and looked at myself in the mirror.  “I can go to dinner in this,” I thought.  “I totally can.”

You know I totally couldn’t.

The clock told me I had 25 minutes until we were leaving for dinner, so I jumped on the elevator.  I’d spotted a Gap just down the block, and was on a mission to race to buy a new top.  Just as the elevator door opened, I pulled out my phone and called my mom, anxious to tell her about the ways of my idiotic packing.  She’s my mom – she has no choice but to indulge her daughter’s freak outs.

I was rushing through the lobby, talking fast, when all of a sudden I caught my toe on a rug and – phone catapulting through the air – dazzlingly, spectacularly tripped.

Like, people gasped.

There were probably 100 people in the lobby, and they all GASPED.

I didn’t waste any time.  I used my rug-burned hands to grab my phone off the floor – “Mom, are you there? Okay, so as I was saying” – and shoved through the revolving door.  The bellhops on the curb smirked as I walked past – because yes, they had seen me through the window.

I tornadoed through the Gap, grabbing all manner of pants and full-price sweaters.  I didn’t bother trying anything on; my bill came to $176.  I’ll return most of it tomorrow.

Moral of the story: learn to pack for a trip, lest you trip.

(Dumbest moral I’ve ever come up with.)

I have three favorite Mirandas.

One is Seattle Miranda (who is actually now New York Miranda): sassy and styling, mother to two of the sweetest little boys, knows how to drive a stick shift and run in high heels and out-talk just about anyone.  Her wit and wisdom are astounding, and her belief in me as a human being both pumps me up and humbles me.

I also have Nashville Miranda, who is one of the greatest gifts I’ve been given.  She is easy like Sunday morning, unflappable, gliding through life with grace, poise, and humor.  A natural teacher, I learn from her all the time – and she is never too busy to ask the Good Questions, and talk about the Real Things.

And then… oh sweet mercy.

Then, there is Miranda Sings.

I remember when I first saw “Free Voice Lesson” on YouTube.  I was horrified – because I believed her.  She reminded me of girls that I studied music with in college, girls who sang just to hear themselves sing.  I KNOW PEOPLE LIKE THIS.  So it wasn’t outside my realm of possibility that this girl might actually exist.

Just watch.

But as it turns out, Miranda Sings is a character, a farce created by Colleen Ballinger (who is actually quite talented).  This satire has brought me so much entertainment, especially in the past few months.  If you hear me laughing from my bedroom late at night, it’s probably because I’m watching Miranda Sings.

Some recent favorites:

TOUR OF LONDON – mostly because I love the fact that she walked around London all alone making this video.

CHICK-FIL-A BREAKING NEWS – because she should have the right to marry a gay man.

AMAZING HALLOWEEN COSTUMES – a shopping girl.

VOICE LESSON! (PENTATONIX) – “Do you speak English?”

When I was in high school, a traveling magician came to perform at my church.  I can’t remember if he had some evangelical message that tied in with his magic show, or if he was simply a man trying to make a living turning tricks in front of anyone who would watch – but regardless, there he was, right between the American flag and the Christian flag, onstage at First Presbyterian in Montrose, Colorado.

At one point, he requested a volunteer to come up onstage for one of his acts.  Thinking that I might have the chance to get sawed in half, I quickly shot up my hand.  And since I was the pastor’s daughter, yes, OF COURSE I was the chosen one.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t going to have the chance to pick a card any card, or be the recipient of the dove that he pulled out of a top hat.  The magician presented a mousetrap, locked and loaded, and then demonstrated how its spring-rigged action could snap a pencil in half.  And then he told me to stick my fingers in it.

What.

So there I was, in front of God’s holy people, being admonished to trust a crazy traveling magic man with my extremities.  But I couldn’t back out.  So I stuck my fingers in the trap.  And with a wave of his wand or his scarf or whatever it is that he did, with a resounding thwack, the mousetrap came snapping shut.

I still have no idea how – but it didn’t touch my fingers.  I was standing there, right beside him, terrified that I was going to wind up with nubbin digits – and I still cannot explain how that mousetrap was able to clack shut without catching me.  But in any case, I screamed a scream that if you listen closely, you can still hear echoing from the year 1998.

Suffice it to say that I have been terrified of mousetraps ever since.

Fast forward to last night.  I was at the gym when I got Becca’s text saying that there was a mouse in our laundry room, and would I pick up some traps on my way home?

Sure I would.  And I’d get some black widow spray, too – because you guys, it’s the END TIMES at our house.  We are being overrun by demons.

At home in the kitchen, I carefully read the instructions and baited a mousetrap with peanut butter.  Visions of severed fingers dancing through my mind, I nervously pulled back the spring-loaded wire.  It locked into place.  I smiled, proud that I didn’t need a man or a parent or a magician to do it for me.  Holding my crowning glory of a baited trap, I walked toward the laundry room.

And right there in my hand, it SNAPPED SHUT, just grazing the side of my finger and catapulting the blob of peanut butter onto the kitchen wall.  Once again, I screamed like the end was nigh.

Judging by the current state of pests at our house, it just might be.

A few weeks ago, I made an ill-advised decision: I was going to get bangs.

Never mind that my hair grows straight back, not forward, and naturally parts down the middle – very Alanis Morissette. I’ve spent years training it to part on the side, blow-drying the hell out of my cowlicks – but if I don’t deal with it immediately after taking a shower, my hair falls back into its natural “Jagged Little Pill” state. With this knowledge, I’m not sure why I thought that a high-maintenance cut was something I wanted –

Oh wait, yes I do. And it’s called CARLY RAE JEPSEN.

Come on.  That is the best hair I’ve ever seen. Oh, sure, as my co-workers reminded me – she is wearing PLENTY of extensions and volumizers in this picture, not to mention her hair was styled by a PROFESSIONAL. No matter – I was convinced that I, too, could be coifed like this every day.

I marched myself into the salon, and told the stylist that I wanted bangs. She hesitated – was I sure? Yes, I was sure. She inspected my hair – did I realize how much work it would take every morning to make it lay the way I wanted it to? Yes, I understood (but come on, it’s not going to take THAT much work).

The stylist told me that she wouldn’t give me bangs like Carly Rae Jepsen – but that she recommended a more “in between” style – TRAINING WHEEL BANGS, if you will. She would cut them short enough that I could start working them forward, but they’d still be long enough that I could pin them back if I wanted.

It wasn’t what I had in mind.  But then again, I hate conflict – and SHE was the one holding the shears. Half-heartedly, I agreed to it.

BAD. Bad, Annie. BAD BAD BAD.

Here is what I’ve learned about bangs: you’re either in or you’re out. Go big or go home. It’s all or nothing. Because when your bangs are too long to be bangs and too short to be tucked behind your ear, here is what happens:

Annie, meet your new strand.

This is three weeks after the initial cut, so we’ve obviously come a long way. But initially, my hair was in my eyes all of the live-long day, and resulted in me pinning them back for my 30th birthday party, which made me have UGLY HAIR for my 30th birthday party – one of the sadder things that has ever happened to me. Drama.

It still hangs in my eyes, and it’s still not long enough to tuck behind my ear completely – but a month from now, it will all be over. My “in between” bangs will be back to a reasonable, blessed length, and I’ll move on with my life, and never ask for bangs again.

Anyway, there you have it: the backstory for #14.

Fashion is such a strange thing to me.

Who determines the trends? Why do we follow suit? And how has it become such a powerful industry?

I’ve been watching episodes of Ken Burns’s “The West,” a documentary about the history of American western expansion. And at one point, a historian was talking about how back in the early 1800s, the rich people wore hats made of beaver pelts – and all of a sudden, there was a boom in beaver trapping because everyone wanted a beaver hat – that is, until silk hats took over.

I guess we’ve always been obsessed with looking “in.”

But these days, the trends are ridiculous. I browse through The Sartorialist, and find myself scratching my head, musing about what people choose to clothe themselves in. Call me boring when it comes to garb, but… for real?

Are you homeless?
Are you a man or a woman?
Are YOU a man or a woman?
And you. Are you serious?

Given today’s choices, I think I’d rather be wearing a beaver hat.

(And don’t even get me started on rompers.)

It’s clear from every wedding reception/bachelorette party/alcohol-fueled error of judgment that I am no dancer.  I’ve got rhythm, but I’m all kinds of awkward in my own skin – and this is never more obvious than when I am called upon to drop it like it’s hot.

But then there’s Zumba, the “Latin-based dance-fitness program” that has swept the nation.  I am, as usual, behind the times – tons of you have been on the Zumba train for years.  Case in point, here are my co-workers Emily and Kelli rocking their Zumba moves at Kelli’s wedding, because they are out-of-control awesome.

But I?  I’ve been too nervous to go.  Listen, I may be all lips and eyes, but I’m also all hips and thighs – two things that I don’t really feel like calling attention to.

But I’ve been hating the treadmill.  And last night, I was feeling brave, so I decided to try Zumba for the first time.

Our instructor was a Colombian man in a tight shirt who spoke broken English with a lisp, and said enthusiastic things like, “This class is crowd tonight!”  And it was – the room was packed from wall to wall.

And then the music started.

And then the dancing started.

And everyone was SO INTO IT.

Everything went so fast, and just when I would catch on to what was happening, the moves would change.  These people were like border collies, so attuned to their master’s instruction that at the flick of his wrist, boom – they were box-stepping.

I, on the other hand, was like a dog in socks, stiffly turning in circles.

Zumba is full of what some might call “uncivilized” moves – swivels and shimmies and gyrations (sorry for saying “gyrations”).  If it’s true that hips don’t lie, never has it been more obvious that I’m practically a Puritan.  I tried to be as “into it” as everyone else, and to just let my body do it’s thang – which worked for a little while, until I caught my reflection in the mirror and realized I was doing the Roger Rabbit.

But this burning up the dance floor apparently burns up the calories, and I have never had 60 minutes of cardio go so quickly.

So Zumba, you have not seen the last of me – or my hips.

First, set the scene: waterside.

Next, choose a random hobby – coin collecting, or stained glass windows, or composing music.  This hobby will help create a narrative arc that will act as a metaphor for deeper emotional storylines.

Now, take an unlikely couple.  At first, they don’t like each other, because they’re just too different.  In the beginning, she acts like she can’t stand him.  But his boyish persistence and charming wit eventually win her over.

Both individuals must be obscenely beautiful.  She has big eyes and long, flowing hair.  He has chiseled abs and a strong jaw.  They fall into a passionate chemistry, and yes, they have sex.  If it’s their first time, it’s usually on a wooden floor – and maybe during a rainstorm.

But wait!  There is trouble afoot – war, or someone is secretly dying, or their parents don’t approve.

They are torn apart – maybe during a rainstorm.

Time passes.

They get back together – maybe during a rainstorm.

The end.  Make millions of dollars.

I’m back in the office this morning.

And apparently, in the 7 weeks since I’ve sat at this desk, the sun has shifted.

On Saturday, I flew back to Colorado.  I’ll be with my family through Christmas, and then fly back to Nashville for another week – because apparently, I enjoy being a geographical ping-pong ball.

I flew Southwest (like I always do), fell asleep the minute I boarded (like I always do), and slept for the first 60 minutes of the flight (like I always do).  When I woke up in my aisle seat, I noticed the middle aged couple sitting to my right.

They were well-dressed, albeit in a gaudy sort of way – he in fancy cowboy boots, she in a leopard-print shirt and a lot of gold jewelry.  Her hair was meticulously highlighted, which I noticed because she tossed it a lot.  They were loud and spirited and obnoxiously physically affectionate, drinking airline cocktails from plastic cups as they canoodled.  It didn’t take long before I couldn’t take it any more, so I pulled out my laptop, put on my headphones, and started watching a movie with scenes that I secretly hoped would make them uncomfortable: “Alive.”

When all else fails, subject your neighbors to true stories of flesh-eating survival.

Suddenly, the woman made a grand sweeping motion with her hand, and her open bottle of Finlandia cartwheeled off the seat tray and into her lap.

What happened next was immediate.

Her feet remained firmly planted on the floor, and her shoulders pressed to the back of her seat, but her hips?  It was as if some invisible cosmic god reached down, grabbed her by the belt loops, and yanked: the woman’s pelvis thrust straight into the air.

“I am soaking!  It’s everywhere!  It’s all over my seat!” she shrieked.  And then some choice expletives.

And because compassion for the crazy can be a challenge, I stared straight ahead, willing the corners of my mouth to stay still, stifling laughter.

From the corner of my eye, I watched the man use the little Southwest napkins to clean up the vodka from her seat.  This was easy because her pelvis remained skyward – one of the more gauche things I’ve ever witnessed.

But just when I thought things could not get more awkward, the man began to use the napkins to dab up the front of her jeans.

And as soon as I thought up the phrase “crotch blotter,” I knew I had to write this one down.

Not-so-guilty pleasure
I’ve had my eye-rolling moments in the past, but I have to admit: Taylor Swift is getting better and better.  On her latest record, “Speak Now,” her songwriting has exploded, without forsaking the catchy hooks she’s so known for.  Judge if you want, but I can’t stop listening.

The only thing that I don’t understand is her dating life.  From the songs that she writes, roughly 50% of her time is spent kissing boys on the sidewalk in the rain.  The other 50% of her time is spent locking eyes with boys across the room at parties with twinkling lights.  Is this what my life should look like?

I AM A MISERABLE FAILURE.

Guilty non-pleasure
Last weekend, I finished the “Twilight” series.  It took me over a year, because the entire process was so painful.  I don’t know why I kept reading – mostly because I just decided to, and once I decide to do something, it’s hard to convince me otherwise.

There are so many things that bother me about these books, the least of which being the “heroine” (can we call her that?), Bella Swan.  A vapid shell of a girl, she offers nothing good on her own – and Stephenie Meyer allows the hot, capable, super-powered Edward to be her only saving grace, literally.

It’s totally pathetic.

Then again, I contributed $10 for each of the 4 paperbacks to advance the vampirific cause, so I guess I should just shut my mouth.