A notorious over-packer, I recently flew back from a 2-day trip to Seattle with a suitcase weighing in at 49.5 lbs. – one shoe away from the overweight charge.  And that’s not to mention anything of my second suitcase.

Travel this weekend, I was determined, would be different.

Flying to Kansas City on Friday night, I did something I have never done before – I ONLY CARRIED ON.  One small roller suitcase in the overhead bin – and no waiting at the baggage claim!  Brilliant!

But on the way back, things were a little different.

Remember how my mom is especially fond of sending me away with a suitcase of frozen food?  This time, it was a pork tenderloin – a large, cylindrical, vacuum-sealed piece of meat.  I am not entirely sure how to cook a pork tenderloin, but still: lucky me!

Until I got to security.

Wouldn’t you know, the guards saw something a little “suspicious” in the x-ray of my suitcase.

And there, in front of God and everyone, they unzipped my bag to find the culprit.

“Uh, Ron, we’re gonna need to run this through again.”

“What is it?”

“Looks like a piece of meat.”

I stood by, compliant and taciturn, as my precious hog was passed from hand to hand, back to the beginning of the machine.  Everyone in line behind me looked at me with a collective, “Seriously?”

Seriously.

As I mentioned yesterday, I am house-sitting / dog-sitting this weekend.  Sleeping in a king size bed is weird.  I like my little double mattress.  The king bed just feels so… huge, and excessive, and unnecessary, and lonely.

Oh!  But it’s not lonely when you have two gigantic Labradors to share the space!

Gah.  I will never understand people who let their dogs sleep on the bed (sorry, Becca, and all you other crazy dog people).

Don’t get me wrong – I love dogs.  I LOVE them.  But there is a reason that L.L. Bean is still in business, and I’m pretty sure that it has nothing to do with their multi-colored fleeces.  Although the Christmas 2006 Parsons family might beg to differ:

Julie [about our 61-year old next-door neighbor]
“I want Neal to fall in love.  I wonder if he has a beau?”

Annie
“A beau is a man.”

Julie
“What – really?  I always thought it was gender-neutral.”

- – - – - – - -

Mel
“Do we have koozies?”

Annie
“No… but… we have couscous?”

- – - – - – - -

Mel [singing at the top of her lungs]
“Listen to the battering ram…”

Annie
“Mel, it’s ‘Mandolin Rain.’”

- – - – - – - -

[at the end of “Marley and Me”]
JAM
SOB.

Over the weekend, I dreamed that I was on an “American Idol” style reality show.  I was one of the final two contestants, and I was sweating bullets – which is awkward when one is wearing an evening gown.

The moment of truth came.  The host made the announcement:

“And the winner is… ANNIE PARSONS!”

The crowd went wild.  I crumpled into a heap on the stage.  I was out of control.  I was crying and screaming and so ecstatic, I couldn’t contain myself.

Because I had just won a 4-year residency at Vanderbilt Medical School.

**UPDATE**

Straight from my fortune cookie today at lunch:

In dreams and in life, nothing is impossible.

Oh, really?

On Saturday, I had an idea: “I should go to Forever 21!”  This always sounds like a good idea – cheap clothes, cute ruffles, trends that will go out of style tomorrow but you must have them today, etc.  However, upon my arrival at the front doors, I was reminded of the cold, hard truth – a truth that I already knew, since I have learned it many times before, but I always forget when I get swept up in the moment.

I HATE Forever 21.

It is my own personal hell.

First of all, is there any rhyme or reason to the way that the clothes are arranged?  It is impossible to find anything in that store.  Racks of magenta clubbing attire next to bins of mesh t-shirts beside half-clothed mannequins on top of tables piled high with plastic belted cardigans…  It’s like the cast of “High School Musical” set off a dirty bomb.

Secondly, the music is unbelievably obnoxious.  I can’t decide if it makes me want to curl into the fetal position or open fire.  Must shoppers be subjected to songs that include panting?  Panting?

And finally, do any of the clothes even fit me?   I mean, I know that technically, these items are made for pre-pubescent, hipless anorexics, but I have plenty of curvy lady friends who find treasures there.  I don’t expect that a Forever 21 medium will fit me like an Actual Normal Sized Woman medium might, so I have no problem looking at the larges, and even extra-larges.  But honestly?  Extra-extra-large?

That’s just rude.

I bought nothing.

It occurs to me that I haven’t mentioned what’s happening tonight, have I?

Tonight, I am leaving on a road trip, traversing with PZC and the Handy Graham to their motherland – a distant, foreign place called PENNSYLVANIA.  I have never been there.  I’ve never really had any huge desire to go.  But now that the time is upon me, I have to say that I am looking forward to exploring “the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country,” otherwise known as Lancaster County.  I hope that I see all sorts of Dutch things, like windmills, tulips, wooden clogs, and drugs.

Looking at the map, there’s a town called Intercourse, and another called Paradise, and even one called Fertility.  Those Amish must be onto something.

It is a 760-mile journey, and we’re leaving tonight at 7:30pm, driving through the dark in my trusty Honda.  Is this insane?  Am I too old ladyish for such shenanigans?  Yes.  But it’s something that we’ve been planning for a long time, and there’s no way that I would miss my friend Rebecca’s wedding in Lancaster on Saturday.  So we’ll drive tonight, and come back on Sunday.

Paul tells me that I should get excited about a miraculous gas station called Wawa.  I can’t even type that without laughing.  I looked them up online, and their current slogan is “Gottahava Wawa.”  Trust me – I’ve already said it at least 15 times, and I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon.

The next time you hear from me, I will have experienced Tennessee, Virginia, West Virginia, and Maryland, before arriving in the heart of Pennsylvania.  This is ridiculous.  I KNOW.

If everything were up to me, I tell you what I’d do:
I’d always have a good hair day and never have the flu.
I’d sleep in ’til whenever and I’d stay up ’til it’s late,
My bank account would overflow and then I’d celebrate.
I’d eat whate’er I wanted and I’d never gain a pound,
And since red wine would not stain teeth I’d never have to frown.
My temp job of a year would not turn out to be a tease,
The boss man would not tell me that they’re in a hiring freeze.
My family and my friends alike would live in the same place,
We’d see each other often but we’d still maintain our space.
I’d find a boy who loves me who would lift my heavy bags,
But I don’t want a man that I can tranquilize and tag;
For I am strong and I am not afraid to take a chance,
But I don’t want to be the one who has to wear the pants.
Some coffee in the morning, conversation late at night,
And in between, I’d write and write and write and write and write.
I’d grow in truth and knowledge as I walked from year to year,
The love of God would feed my faith and starve away my fear.
The sun would shine when I was glad and hide when I was glum,
And everyone would know that without ME it’s just AWESO.

Every morning at work, I park the old Honda in a garage, and then walk down 3 flights of stairs, across a little driveway, between some dumpsters, and then let myself in the back door by the loading dock using my key card. It’s not glamorous – especially when someone consistently leaves his or her fast-food trash in the stairwell.

This happens frequently – I will find a Wendy’s bag and a jumbo cup sitting in the middle of a stair. Just sitting. It almost looks like someone left it there for later, except… ewww. Apparently there is no janitorial service in the stairwells of the parking garage, because the same Wendy’s bag will sit there for days, and days, and days – hundreds of business people stepping over it every hour.

Last night after work, I saw the same trash I had seen in the morning. Except now, there was a Post-It note on the cup that said, “Whoever the slob is that left this, pick it up and throw it away.”

This morning, it’s still there.

I don’t know whether to be annoyed at the slob, or at the passive-aggressive note-leaver. Currently, I am equal parts both.

- – - – - – - -

This morning, I received an email from a friend. My inbox view gives me a little preview line of the message, and this is what the preview read:

“Oh yeah, I decided you should be a columnist for a music magazine. You already have a killer body”

I did a triple-take.

And then I opened up the actual message, and finished the sentence: “… of work.” Dang it.

- – - – - – - -

I ran 7 miles on Sunday. I’m having lunch with this Annie today. Jeremy and Ashley come tomorrow. Sarah gets married on Saturday. Megan’s playing the Bluebird on Sunday. I’m recording with Josh next week. Greta just bought a ticket to come in 2 ½ weeks (squeeeeeeeee!!). I have my favorite plan ever for Valentine’s Day. I love my friends. I love my roommates. My car keeps starting. My coffee pot percolates every morning. I had delicious soup last night. I bought new fuchsia sheets for $12 at Target. In the midst of a lot of uncertainty, I am choosing to be grateful for all the good things – and there are many.

I just looked back on the entry I wrote one year ago today, when I had finished my 4 month road-trip, was less than a month into my life in Nashville, didn’t really know anyone here, and had just returned from a weekend visit to Seattle. And I am happy to say that, even through the hard times and anxiety and fear, yes, it’s good.

This is the moment you’ve all been waiting for. The triumphant, final alphabetic entry of Z – “zed” if you’re Canadian, or “izzard” if you’re Old English. And I know what you’ve been thinking: “Annie will probably talk about zebras. Or zest. Or zero.” But those are all too easy.

So then I started looking at unusual words that start with Z, and found some fantastic new terms:
zizz – a brief nap (only the Brits would call a nap a “zizz”)
zaftig – pleasantly plump (I’m looking forward to the day when “zaftig” is en vogue)
zonelet – a little zone (of course! how cute!)
zyzzyva – a South American weevil (this one will make me the Scrabble champion of all time)

But then it dawned on me: I have this friend. His name is Paul Zimmerman-Clayton. And he is worth blogging about.

Because there was this one time when our internet freakishly disappeared, and I, not knowing the difference between a modem and a router and a toaster, crumpled into a heap on the floor. “It’s hopeless!” I wailed. “We will never have internet again!”

Paul told me to pull myself together, and led me into the den where the modem and router reside. He told me the science behind them – or at least which lights should be flashing – and then quickly figured out that we had simply plugged them into an outlet that was wired to a light switch. Someone had turned off the light; our internet had no power source. He flipped the switch, and once again, peace, order, harmony, and blogging were restored to our household.

I was Clark Griswold, Paul was Ellen.

On Saturday, he found out that I had never really listened to the Counting Crows – because when they became famous, I was 12 years old and still obsessed with Amy Grant. And I’m still obsessed with Amy Grant. But yesterday, he presented me with my very own copy of “August and Everything After” to love and cherish – and I’m already well on my way. How have I missed out on them all these years?

When I recently found myself in a situation I didn’t want to be in, I asked Paul if he thought I could tell an outright lie to get out of it. He said that he could not endorse lying. I don’t know why. But he was right, and I listened to him.

He plays a lot of Tetris, which is weird. And he likes Robert Frost, which I don’t understand. But he’s studying for the GRE, and tells me about new words that he learns, which makes me want to take the GRE just as a (very expensive) vocab quiz. And he shares my incredibly nerdy love of solfege. And he’s a part of Running Club. And he’s one of my favorite people.

And it’s a good thing that his last name is Zimmerman-Clayton, because if it wasn’t, today you would have learned a lot about zalambdodonts.

Ever since I moved to Nashville a year ago, I’ve been an active attendee of a fantastic little church called City Church of East Nashville. When people ask me why I go there, I always think of two reasons: we sing the Doxology at the end of every service, and the communion bread is the bomb. Of course, there are many other REAL reasons that I love City Church – community, compelling preaching, a mission with integrity, simple and authentic worship – but the Doxology and the communion bread are my joke answers. Although… sometimes, I think they actually might be legitimate motives.

Because guys, seriously, this communion bread is unlike any other bread I’ve ever had in my life. Someone from the church makes it every week, and I swear that somewhere in the recipe is listed “crack.” Dense and delicious, I kind of wish I could make my turkey sandwiches with it. Every week, I try to focus on the SACRAMENT of it all, but – sue me – there is a tiny (sacrilegious, sinful) part of me that is really excited for the taste.

Like this past Sunday.

At City Church, we take communion by intinction – that is, we walk up to the front, tear a piece of bread off of the loaf, and dip it into the wine before eating it. So there I was, my turn, tearing off a piece of Holy Freaking Delicious Bread that also happens to be the Body of Our Lord, and I realized that I had accidentally torn off a really big chunk. But – too late now, my fingers have already touched it. I HAVE to eat it.

I dipped it in the wine. I said a quick prayer. And then, I opened my mouth so wide that I practically dislocated my jaw, shoved in the bread, and walked back to my seat.

It wasn’t until I sat back down that I realized what a predicament I was in. This hunk of bread was so gigantic that I couldn’t chew it without OPENING MY MOUTH, open shut, open shut, chomp chomp chomp. I was crunching on the bread, making audible chewing noises, and when I leaned over to tell Cara what had happened, all that came out was a crumbly mumble, my words masked by the mass of bread bigger than my tongue.

I missed the closing song. I was still chewing.