Last Thursday morning, I was in a car accident.  Don’t worry – the Honda’s fine – or, at least she will be after the other guy’s insurance pays for a new $750 bumper.  Do you know what this means?  I am losing my bumper stickers.  All of them.  No more “FRESH BEER.”  No more “VIVA NASHVEGAS: EAT MORE RHINESTONES.”

This is probably for the best.

While my car will be spiffed up in no time, I am suffering the effects of whiplash.  My lash was whipped.  I am stiff and sore, and can barely turn to the left to check my blind spot when I drive.  I don’t even want to think about what further calamity this could lead to for the Honda.

But you can’t keep a badass down, and on Sunday, I walked a grand total of 17 miles – a 9 mile hike south of the city, and then an 8 mile walk back in Denver.  When I finally got home, with the force attainable only by a girl who had just walked 17 miles, I stubbed my toe on the couch.  I stubbed it so hard, so mightily, that I thought I was going to pass out from the pain.

It didn’t take long to figure out that my toe – the same one that I broke back in January – is blasted to smithereens.  I won’t go into the dirty details, but let’s just say that it’s swollen beyond recognition (I’m sorry, are you a toe?), and black, and the bruising wraps around to the bottom of my foot, spidering its way up the ball.

Sorry.  Maybe those were the dirty details.

So that brings us up to the present moment: ice on my foot, heat on my neck, wishing for whiskey.

Good morning.

In other news, look what happened to my sister.  She’s always getting picked up by guys.

I am flying to Nashville tonight, and am the world’s worst packer.  No, really.  War is to mankind as Annie is to packing.  I ruin everything.  I pack too little, or too much, or all the wrong shoes.

Speaking of shoes, I bought a yellow dress to wear to Brook & Cara’s wedding this weekend, and I don’t have the right shoes for it.  I’m panicking.  I don’t have time to go buy new shoes – and even if I did, what WOULD be the right shoes to wear with this yellow dress?

Also, I know: I bought a YELLOW dress, something I really thought should never happen.  But I was feeling ballsy, so I bought it.  When I told my mom, she said, “Yellow?  YELLOW?  Are you sure?”  So now my confidence is shaken.  I’m worried that I will look ugly in yellow.  It really isn’t my color, I know.  I should have known better.

Last night, I dreamed that the Honda was broken into, and my big red leather bag was stolen, along with my laptop, my wallet, and my calendar.  I was most upset about my calendar.

It’s 55 degrees in Denver, and my fingers and toes are frozen.  But I’m heading to Nashville where I am going to melt like jelly in a frying pan – and not in the good, fluttery, crush-worthy way.  In the “this must be what it feels like to die” kind of way.

All I want to do is tell you how I made homemade cantaloupe bruschetta yesterday, and how amazing it was.  But I can’t.  I can’t, because EVERYTHING FEELS WRONG RIGHT NOW.

!!!!!!! !! !! !! !! ! ! !!!!!!!! ! !!!!

If you can’t bear your ugly heart on the internet, well then.  I just don’t want to live in that kind of world.

I’ll just cut to the chase: Southwest Airlines lost my luggage this weekend.

[insert me telling you how this sent me for a minor emotional tailspin, and how I was sick as a dog, and almost broke down and gave up, but soldiered on – for the children, really, and for America]

Flying from Nashville to Austin on Friday night, I was exhausted.  I was getting sick – and I had no Kleenex.  So on the plane, to my horror and shame, I had no choice but to use my sleeve to wipe my insanely runny nose.  Multiple times.

Southwest offered to reimburse me for $50 worth of necessities until they found my bags – which, when you are in town for a wedding, and all you have is the mucus-crusted cardigan on your back, won’t get you very far.  But I appreciated the gesture, and went to Target to max out on the necessary toiletries, medications, and two pairs of underwear.

Why two pairs?  Because I wasn’t sure what kind of a dress I would wind up wearing, and any woman can tell you that different dresses call for different undergarments.  Just… I just needed both pairs, okay?  Always be prepared.

I found a dress and shoes at TJ Maxx, took a hot shower, my meds kicked in, and a great time was had by all at Joey and Sam’s fabulous wedding.  All’s well that ends well, right?

Not so fast, sparky.

Southwest decided to itemize my Target receipt, saying that they weren’t sure that all of these things were truly “necessary” to my survival without my luggage.  Things that made the cut, no questions asked?  Cosmetics.  Medicine.  Eyedrops.  Tampons.  Thanks, guys, for deeming tampons “necessary.”  You are too kind.

The complication?  The underwear.

Apparently, because the luggage was returned within 24 hours, only one of the pairs was considered “necessary.”  And so there at the Southwest counter, I was asked to indicate which pair I wore that day – bikini or thong.  Multiple times, I was asked out loud, “Which pair did you need today?  The bikini or the thong?”

You will never know.

But Southwest does.

You’re dying to know about the Great Sofa Hunt.

Here’s the thing: I wish that I could be content with just any couch.  But if there is one word to describe Annie Parsons, it is “particular” – just ask my poor parents who have watched me for 1 score and 7 years (often with much chagrin – sorry, Mom and Dad).  I am so persnickety, it’s appalling.

Because I don’t have a lot of money, one would think that I would be happy with whatever might get tossed my way – but nay, I say to thee.

NAY.

Because I don’t have a lot of money, that is ALL THE MORE REASON to invest my dollars wisely.  It might not make a lot of sense, I know, but here is my line of thinking: why spend $200 dollars on something heinous that will make me miserable and ashamed every time I lay my poor, unfortunate eyes on it when I could spend $1,000 on something that will make my heart burst with sprinkles?  I would rather pay more money once than less money what would wind up being multiple times.

The obvious trouble is that I usually do not have confetti-inducing funds just lying in a manila envelope under my mattress.  If I did, I sure wouldn’t be driving a 20-year old Honda Accord – but then again, that’s EXACTLY why I’m driving a 20-year old Honda Accord.  I could go out right now and buy a 1993 Saturn (no offense, if that’s you), but why would I do that when what I really want is keyless entry and seat warmers?  It’s worth waiting for.

Does this make sense to anyone but me?

In other words, I am still couchless.

And single, as it were.

There are probably some parallels there.

I am spoiled, and I am the first to admit it.  Why, you ask?  Well, among many other reasons, I have two identical black Macbooks – one personal, and one for work.  Let’s be real: that is just ridiculous.  More than anyone could ever ask for.

But last week, my personal Macbook went kaput.  It’s broken – broken like… searching for a simile… broken like… my toe?  Except my toe has a fighting chance at mending – and I really don’t think that the computer will be resurrected.  I turn it on, and it pulls up a white screen.  That’s all.  It’s like the moment after Juliette hits the bomb with the rock, except it never skips to the credits.  Eternal nuclear uncertainty.

Get over it, Annie – right?  I mean, I have a WHOLE OTHER COMPUTER.  But my personal laptop held all of my iTunes, all of my pictures, all of my super secret documents that no one is ever allowed to see.  Most of it is backed up on an external hard drive, but I don’t want to put it on my work computer.  So there it will remain – locked up forever.

Mostly this is bad because I want to sync my iPod to my iTunes to get my new music and podcasts.  And not only can I not put them on my iPod, I can’t even access my iTunes at all.  I am SOOOOOOO BORED with my current selection of songs (I only have ninety million or something).  And Ira Glass is saying things that I might never get to hear – which makes me panic.

IRA!!!!  I NEED YOU!!!!!!!!

I had recently downloaded Sara Groves’ latest, “Fireflies and Songs,” but have no way of hearing it again.  Lady Antebellum has a new album released today.  The Handy Graham recommended Sarah Jarosz – and since he was the first one to tell me about eastmountainsouth, I trust him – not that it matters, since I can’t get my grubby paws on these songs.

Today, I have India Arie and Phil Collins on YouTube.  It’s all I have left.

No drugs required.

I have 5 different possible directions to take this post, all of which are saved as fragments of Word documents on my desktop.  I have been trying to write for days, but quite frankly, everything that is coming out is baloney.  All I can do is stare at the wall.

Y’all, I am exhausted.  And when I am exhausted, I get super pessimistic and woebegone.  Another car honks at me, and I burst into tears.  I find myself presented with chocolate peanut butter brownies, and immediately eat 4.  And then I eat half a frozen pizza.  And tortilla chips.  And maybe some cream cheese on a spoon.  My mind wanders when it should be focused, and I am serious when I should be playful. When I feel overwhelmed, human interaction is the first thing I cut out.  I criticize my body, my abilities, my decisions.

I do not like who I become when I am exhausted.  And I do not like how other people experience me when I am exhausted.

So I’ve been staying quiet.

I’ve been writing in this open venue long enough to know that there are certain things that I should not share.  There are certain times that I should not write publicly.  There are certain emotions that should not be accessible to just anyone.

I make my insides far too available.

But I’m learning to protect my heart, trusting it only to those who have earned it.

So forgive my silence as a simple act of self-preservation.

I write every day.  For me, it’s like drinking water, or breathing air – I have to do it, or I feel like I’m going to fade away.  Sometimes the things that I write get posted here, sometimes they turn into songs – or scraps of songs, sometimes they exist for my eyes only.  And for the past 10 days, I have the beginnings of Word documents that I cannot take past the first 3 lines.

I’m pretty sure that this is writer’s block.

Why did I say “pretty sure”?  I am POSITIVE that this is writer’s block.

And I’m not even TRYING to write anything!  I mean, this is just me, sitting down, ready to express something – anything – not working on a book, not working on an article, not having a deadline… just wanting to have something to say.

I could write a list of what I did this weekend.

I could write a list of what I would have tweeted HAD I been a Twitterer (which I am not, and will not ever be).

I could write a list of my motivations to keep running (except at this point, totally discouraged and tired and OVER IT, there is only one: calories burned).

I could write a list of the various havocs wrought on my body from running (sore muscles, difficulty bending knees, callouses, both pinky toenails working their way off, and as of yesterday, sports bra chafing on the rib cage)

I could write a list of why I want a miniature pig.

But instead, I’m going to take my post-running-10-miles, broken-down body outside on a slow walk.  I’m going to see what I see, and pray, and trust that inspiration is going to hit me again one day.  In the meantime, just read this.  Because ladies, we’ve all been there, right?

After being sent home at 1:30 yesterday afternoon, I put on my sweats and made a cheesecake. Then I fell asleep around 5:30, not waking up until 9pm. I felt like hell and looked like death, all sweaty and splotchy-faced. Then I took 3 doses of nighttime cold medicine and slept from 11pm until 10am.

When I woke up this morning, I made some coffee and walked around the house, looking at things. “Oh, look. There are my books. And there is the coffee table. I will start the dishwasher. It is sunny outside. The floor is dirty.” Then I went to Wal-Mart and bought some paper plates and plastic forks, and came home and made this sign:

Yes, I free-handed those fancy recycle arrows. I clearly have time on my hands.

We are having our long-awaited housewarming party tonight, and so I’ve been busy preparing for 100 people to descend. Mostly, that means walking around and looking at things and thinking thoughts.

It’s been sort of a pathetic day.

And so, I, Annie, hereby swear that, until I find a job again, I will:
- Wake up at a decent hour every day.
- Take showers, even though I might not need to.
- Diligently search for work.
- Keep on blogging. A girl needs SOME kind of purpose to her days.
- Do whatever it takes to pay my rent, even if it means taking a job at an extermination company. I probably won’t work for a sewage company, though. I have to draw the line somewhere.
- Hope and hope and hope, and not get mad at everyone who has income, and smile every day, even when I feel like kicking The Man in the balls.

Um. Happy weekend, jolly readers.

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.