I love Hilton Head. I want to live and die here. Well, that’s not immediately true. I want to live some other places for awhile. But when I am an old lady, after my husband has passed away (as men typically die earlier than women), I will cut my hair as short as I want and return here to the beaches of South Carolina. I will drink wine and gain some happy pounds and live out my days in peace.

I’ve walked on the beach. I’ve seen alligators and turtles and heron. I’ve finished two new songs. I’ve purchased six new books. I’ve noticed how the Spanish moss that hangs from the trees reminds me of furry monkey tails.

And tomorrow morning, I will continue The Big Trip to Tuscaloosa, Alabama. It’s time to do the Dirty South.

I arrived last night in Hilton Head, SC, and it’s exactly as I pictured it. The Atlantic coast, sandy beaches, reeds emerging from the water, Spanish moss hanging from the huge trees, blue sky, and… me. In a stranger’s home.

My mom’s… friend’s… neighbor… is hosting me. I showed up on her doorstep around dinnertime, having no idea who she was or what I might find in her home. How ecstatic was I to find that she is awesome.

Lynn is in her 50’s, a divorcée as of Thursday, and dating Mike, a hysterical ex-cop/insurance broker. They immediately invited me in, and poured me a glass of wine. Both bitter, angry, charming liberals, they fed me shrimp cocktail as a fire burned in the fireplace and incense burned in the corner. We got to know each other, talked about politics and religion and love and heartbreak, and I can’t remember a time I laughed so hard.

Today, Lynn took me to her church’s rummage sale where the entertainment was provided by the Alligator Dixieland Jazz Band, six old men in matching vests that one of their wives probably sewed for them. The upright bassist sang while the trumpet and clarinet and banjo supplied that definitive boardwalk band sound – it was just so classic. Lynn bought a set of used golf clubs, and I bought a stack of books.

At the sale, I met Louise, an 80-year old spitfire who told me her life story over a plate of nachos. She told me that she will be in Kansas City for Christmas Eve 2008, and after hearing that my dad is a pastor, is planning on attending a service at his church. She even wrote down directions – ha! So Mom and Dad, get ready to welcome Louise… in a year.

This afternoon, I plan on finishing some songs that have been in the works for a few weeks now. I have to have SOMETHING to show for this extended time on the road – something besides a few extra pounds, a few new friends, and a lot of really, really good memories.

My dear, sweet blog readers… we’ve been friends for a while now, right? And there’s nothing I could do or say that would make you disown me – or my blog, which is the closest thing I have to a child? I feel like we are intimate enough that I can let you in on something a wee bit quirky.

I hoard washcloths. Seriously, I stockpile washcloths like a worldwide cotton plague is imminent. I have – I don’t know? – 40 or 50? And while I got rid of many things before the big move last summer, I cannot tell you that I got rid of any of my precious washcloths.

I wash my face every morning and every night, and usually once in the afternoon, each time with a fresh, clean rag. Many things are better “used,” but this principle does not apply to bathing suits, car tires, or washcloths. As I am traveling light (um, “light” being a relative term) on The Big Trip, I left many things behind. But not my washcloths. I brought them all.

The washcloth must be laundered, fluffy, and folded into quarters. It must have all loose strings cut from the edges. It must be stacked in a multi-colored pile, never next to the same shade. It must be drenched in significantly warm water, and used with Biore face scrub. It must.

I promise I am not a freak.

Actually, I just read what I wrote, and… never mind. I hereby raise my freak flag – fastidiously, and in the form of a washcloth.

As I drove south through West Virginia, I pulled into a Kroger parking lot to buy apples and cheese sticks. Walking toward the doors of the store, I was stopped by a man who was, I don’t know, SO WEST VIRGINIA.

“Warrrshington? Did I see Warrrshington plates?”

He had no teeth. Well, maybe two teeth. He had a long (as in: foot-long) white goatee, and was wearing a flannel shirt and a stocking cap. But his blue eyes sparkled, and so I laughed and told him about the adventure that I’m on.

“Whoa, Nelly. That there car’s made it all this way? Sheesh. I ain’t NEVER been to Warrrshington. A girl like you’s out alone on this here road? Well girly, you be safe, and getcher coat – it’s a cold ‘un today. And don’t be speedin’ through Summersville – they’ll getcha. They’ll getcha good.”

He was the cutest Appalachian hillbilly I’ve ever seen. And now I know where to turn when I need someone to teach me how to cook possum.

This afternoon, I drove from Washington, D.C., to Morgantown, West Virginia. And I made a present for you:

Keeping myself entertained from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

Wow. I bet that you wish you could write lyrics like me. And yes, I fully acknowledge the obnoxious Jay Leno chin view, and 3-days-since-a-shower hair.

If you want to hear my music for real, check out my latest internet venture: my music MySpace page here. I wrote a track (“By the Time”), and my dear friend Katie Freeze wrote two just for me (“Don’t Come After Me” and “While My Heart is Young”). If you are a guy, and a song sounds like it’s about you, then yes, it probably is.

Unless, of course, you listen to “My Shepherd.” Sorry. Not about you.

I hope to record and put up more of my own material soon, but I could not resist putting Katie’s songs up. She is incredible, and has this uncanny gift of writing for specific people’s voices and life situations. If you don’t know about her, just wait. You will.

How did I get such cool friends? Because it sure wasn’t by merit of my road tripping entertainment videos.

I spent my Sunday wandering around our nation’s capitol. I saw the museums and the monuments – nothing in depth, but everything briefly. The one place that I took my time was the National Gallery of Art.

I don’t claim to know anything about art. I know that I like it. I like to look at it. I like to have it on my walls. But sometimes I can’t remember where Van Gogh was from, or what genre Rembrandt falls into, or the difference between Monet and Manet. And they’re even the famous ones! But despite my lack of knowledge, I know when I like something.

Here’s the thing about art: discerning people are not going to like everything. And not everyone is going to like any one particular piece. As I meandered through the maze of galleries today, I was struck with how some pieces caught my eye and drew me in, and others repelled me. I don’t know many people who would want a mural-sized painting of a naked Daniel in the Lion’s Den hanging in their dining room. Or a bland landscape of a murky ocean and boring shore displayed in their entryway.

But what do I know? I only know when I, Annie, like something. And so I bought this Charles Rennie Mackintosh print today (he signed his name “Chas” in the corner – I feel like we are close and personal friends), and plan on hanging it somewhere in my future Nashville home. Because I love it.

I spent last night and this morning in Norfolk, VA, with my hometown friend Dylan Schoo. Dylan was the first boy I met when my family moved to Montrose, CO, in 1989; we went to prom together junior year, and have remained friends throughout the years and across the distance.

Dylan is pretty much the biggest badass I know, since he is a pilot for the Navy. He was exceedingly patient with me as I asked incessant naive, girly questions about the military: “How many outfits do you have?” “What does this knob do?” “Who is our biggest enemy?” “Can the government see through my walls?” “Who builds the submarines?” “Do they train you how to withstand torturing?” “Can you kill a rabbit with your bare hands?” “If a mission has been compromised, do you say, ‘Code up the GPS!’?”

Code up the GPS? Thank you, Dylan, for not abandoning me on the side of the highway.

He took me to see the E-2, which is the plane that he flies. People – he lands this thing on an aircraft carrier! On his own! It has an 80 foot wingspan, and a frisbee-like radar on top. There are few jobs in which one’s knowledge and skill and clarity of mind have life-or-death ramifications, but this is one of them. Mind-boggling.

And finally, I made it to the Atlantic Ocean. It only took me 2 months. We even made a video of the occasion – enjoy.

The Atlantic from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

Before I left Seattle, my friends were so sweet and generous and gave me tons of Starbucks gift cards for the journey. Although I do not prefer to support Starbucks, as 1) they are THE MAN, and 2) their coffee tastes like bitter sewer water strained through moldy cotton balls (sorry, Dad), I have gladly used these cards for over-priced veggie trays and large quantities of hot tea. It has become second nature for me to walk up to the cashier and order, “A venti, single-bag, Wild Sweet Orange tea.”

Yesterday, amidst the tawny, velvet Virginia fields, I ordered my usual from a Starbucks drive-thru. “We’ll have your total at the window,” the voice from the billboard said.

I pulled up to the window, and the cashier stated, “That will be $5.40, please,” while handing me an entire box of Wild Sweet Orange tea bags. I immediately corrected her: “Oh, no – I wanted a cup of tea.”

“In a cup?”

“Yes.”

“Like, these tea bags, in a cup?”

“Um… yes – just one.”

“We don’t do that.”

My eyes quickly darted to the green emblem of the mermaid, assuring myself that yes, I was indeed at Starbucks, home of my beverage. However, I could not collect my thoughts rapidly enough – because how could I possibly have comprehended the concept of no tea? – and so what came out of my mouth was a jerky, disconnected slew of syllables: “I – uh – meh – hmmgh – sigh.”

Apron-clad woman looked alarmed.

I finally pulled myself together enough to explain, “I would like one tea bag, in your largest cup – a cup of tea.”

“Oh, like, with hot water?”

It is moments like this that I wish I had a video camera to capture my facial reaction. Moments when my thoughts are all OF COURSE with hot water, how else do you make tea, and how can you possibly misunderstand the process of placing a tea bag in a cup of hot water, and don’t you know you work for Starbucks, the czar of uniformity?, and yet all that comes out of my mouth is, “Yes, ma’am.”

- – - – - – - -

Today, I drive from Blacksburg to Norfolk, and will finally arrive at the Atlantic Ocean. It’s about time.

Listen up, Pounds,
I knew you would show up – it was inevitable. Throughout my life, you have come and gone as you have pleased, but The Big Trip in particular has been made of conditions favorable to you: travel, friends, 4,000 miles of sitting, delicious food, celebratory drink, and a complete and utter lack of routine or discipline. A few of you were welcome for a little while, but now? Really, Pounds? There are too many of you.

You have taken up residence wherever you have seen fit: a little here in the thigh, a little there in the waist. You never asked if I welcomed your company; you simply arrived, and then invited your friends. You have been sneaky – never fully crowding me out of my clothes, but just making them fit differently. And I did not pay a ridiculously high price for jeans only to have them optimistically tugged and stretched.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with you. With one halting hand at the end of a stiff arm, and the other beckoning you to come hither, obviously you may have been confused. I have sent you mixed messages, and for this, I apologize.

But how could I have acted any other way? How could I ever resist you? You have come cloaked in chocolately-fried-goodness, and have been effortlessly washed down in a deluge of red wine. We have had a love affair every night for weeks, but I have been dumbfounded and irritated to find you still at my side (and on my side) the morning after. You are annoying. You cramp my style. I do not want to share my young, single, glamorous existence with your vexatious kind. Get out of my bed, and off of my body.

Sorry, Pounds. It was fun while it lasted, but your day is over. I will destroy you with an arsenal of aerobic activity. One or two of you can stay, but the rest of you: prepare to perish.

See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya,
Annie

Last night, I flew from Seattle back to Nashville. If there is one thing that I love about Southwest Airlines, it is the little travel snack box that they pass out to passengers. It is here, and only here, that I allow myself to indulge my secret shame.

Ritz. Cracker. Cheese. Sandwiches.

Oh yes, you know what I am talking about. The crispy, buttery, mouthwatering flavor of Ritz Crackers, coupled with cheese that has a texture akin to the dust from a moth’s wings. The packaging boldly claims, “MADE WITH REAL CHEESE!” but I know better. There is nothing legitimately “cheesish” about the filling, aside from the color – and even that is a bit too complex a shade of orange to be genuine.

I do the math, and I realize that each sandwich is worth 33 calories. I tell myself, “I will eat just one,” but it never turns out that way. I borderline inhale all 6 sandwiches, bringing me to a grand total of 200 calories of poison.

Crackers? Try crack.

And that is why I fly Southwest. Ding!