Sometimes, I need help.  But I don’t like to admit it.  And if there is anything that I hate, it is feeling indebted to those around me – or, worst of all, a burden.  I value independence and cleverness and resourcefulness.  I like being in everyone’s good graces, and will do anything to make sure that I’m not asking anyone to go out of their way for me.

I am extra sensitive in this area because one time, several years ago, I took some friends up on something that they originally offered.  But something went wrong in the process, and I wound up being an inconvenience.  And rather than responding from a place of grace, they took a rather shame-based approach – pointing out each mistake on my part, blaming me for the disturbance, and even requesting me to write an essay about what I had learned from the experience.  They called it an “exercise.”

I still have those email exchanges, saved in a folder called “Hard Words,” to remind me to try to be gracious with those around me.  Words like that last for a long, long time.  (Incidentally, I also have a substantially larger folder called “Good Words,” so don’t cry for me, Argentina.)

Tomorrow night, I am heading to Seattle for a very, very quick trip.  Trips like this, where I want to pack in as much as I can without skimping on the people who are important to me, can be really stressful.  I want everyone to be happy.  I don’t want to spend 48-hours inconveniencing the people that I love.  I don’t want to leave, and arrive back in Nashville to an email that says, “Thanks for coming – YOU SUCK.”

But I should know this by now: my Seattle family welcomes me with open arms.  While many of my relationships have changed due to distance, it is silly for me to assume that my closest friends wouldn’t go out of their way to give me rides and host me and help me out; they would give me a kidney if I needed it.  Why is my natural assumption that I’m all alone in this world?

I’m not.  And I am grateful.

Seattle, I can’t wait to see you for a second.

Me: “Don’t you want to roll your eyes at people who don’t know the difference between stationary and stationery?”

Him: “It’s an easy mistake – the only way I remember it is that e goes with envelope.”

Me: “I remember it because e goes with letter… which, now that I think about it, is a completely useless mnemonic device.”

“I don’t know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everybody.”
-Bill Cosby

“I have never seen a greater monster or miracle than myself.”
-Michel Eyquem de Montaigne (1533-1592)

“Truth is beautiful, without a doubt; but so are lies.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

“Help!  I’m being held prisoner by my heredity and environment!”
-Dennis Allen

“It’s hard to be funny when you have to be clean.”
-Mae West (1892-1980)

“Everything I want is either illegal, immoral, or fattening.”
-Alexander Woollcott (1887-1943)

“I myself am very glad that the divine child was born in a stable, because my soul is very much like a stable, filled with strange unsatisfied longings, with guilt and animal-like impulses, tormented by anxiety, inadequacy and pain. If the holy One could be born in such a place, the One can be born in me also. I am not excluded.”
-Morton Kelsey

On Facebook, sometimes users are required to type in a word to verify that one is indeed a human and not a cyborg or a hacker. It’s called a “captcha” – get it, like, “capture,” but all loosey-goosey and free-style? Say it with attitude – move your shoulders with each syllable. “Captcha.”

(You totally whispered it out loud, didn’t you? You sassy little devil.)

But I only just now realized that it’s pronounced “captcha”; when you read something over and over, but are never required to say it out loud, your brain can play tricks on you. And this whole time, in my head, I’ve been calling it a “captchka.” “Captchka” makes absolutely no sense – PLUS, with 5 consonants in a row, it’s almost impossible to pronounce. What was I thinking?

I have a little electronic key on my key-ring that unlocks certain doors at the office. When I included it in Friday’s video, I realized that I did not, in fact, know what it was called; you see my slight hesitation at 1:33. In my head, I have been calling it a “pre-farb,” which is quite possibly the ugliest word in the made-up English language*. But today I was set straight: it’s a “key fob.”

There’s an old Patty Loveless song with the line, “It gets melancholy.” Until very recently, I thought she was singing about “a kid-smellin’ collie” – which could have been right…?

There are words that slide comfortably into my written lexicon that I’ve discovered that I have to pause before pronouncing out loud: archetype, posthumous, banal, wan.

I have a new goal of being able to spell, with no hesitation, the following:
- coup d’état
- hors d’oeuvres
- onomatopoeia

*The ugliest word in the ACTUAL English language is “crotch.”

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.

Yesterday, my roommate got an email from a friend that said, “I just rented a movie. It turns out that ‘XXXmas’ does not stand for ‘Merry Merry Christmas.’” I laughed until I snorted.

X does present a problem, doesn’t it? I mean, I refuse to tell you about the time in 5th grade when I was chosen by my music teacher to play the xylophone at the school assembly for a performance of “Sakura,” a Japanese folk song. In my opinion, “xylophone” is a meaningless word invented simply to balance out alphabetized file cabinets and dictionaries.

But fortunately, my “Word of the Day” emails are paying off. Last week, I learned a timely new term:

xanthous \ZAN-thuhs\, adjective:
yellow; yellowish

Baby chicks and daffodils. Sunshine and canaries. As the dreary, despondent soul that I am, yellow is not really my thing. I have never been a big fan of the color, mostly because when I wear it, I look like a corpse – which is odd, because when my sister Becca wears it, the angels sing and bluebirds and butterflies land on her shoulders.

We have the exact same coloring. It bucks the laws of science.

In a moment of recent self-pity, I told my mother and sister-in-law that when it comes to love, I feel like a yellow Starburst: if it’s the only option, someone will choose it – but in a bowl of pink and red, the yellow doesn’t stand a chance. Ashley said, “Some people prefer the yellow Starburst.” Mom said, “You’re more like a chocolate truffle in a sea of pink and red… decadent and intense, and no one quite knows what to do with you.” It was all very sweet. And then my moment of wallowing passed, and I ate a cookie.

One of the worst Family Feud answers ever:
Question: Name something packrats have a hard time throwing out.
#1 Answer: Photos.
Worst Answer: Corn

Corn is yellow.

Yellow flag = penalty.
Yellow light = warning.
Yellow skin = jaundice.
Yellowbellied = cowardice.

The only color worse than yellow is baby blue.

And that’s all I have to say on the subject of xanthous.

Last night, I returned from Kansas City to Nashville and, upon depositing my suitcases at home, put a beer in my purse and drove to my old apartment to clean before my lease is up. And as I sipped on Red Hook and Swiffered the floors, I thought of what I’ve been learning about writing.

I thought about how writing songs is like working on a jigsaw puzzle, turning a piece this way and that, trying to figure out how it might fit – and when it doesn’t, trying it in a different place. Sometimes I start with the edge pieces and work my way in; other times, I begin with the lower left-hand corner and have absolutely no idea what might be forming… until suddenly, with a single certain piece falling into place, the big picture is made clear. That is an exciting thing – the brief moment of warmth in an otherwise desolate landscape.

I thought about how there is an art to attempting to live buoyantly and passionately, yet still having eyes to see and words to tell of darkness and hurt – for that is so much of the world that we live in, and it’s important that writers tell the truth. My favorite songs are sad ones; how can I write sad songs and still be a healthy and contented person? I want to figure that out.

I thought about how miraculous a privilege it is to birth something into the world, to bring forth a scene, a song, an emotion, and then step back and view it – something where there once was nothing.

And I thought about how sometimes, there are no words.

I thought about how the practice of writing has made me more aware, more observant, with quivering ears attuned to any truth worth telling. And I thought about how the biggest gift that writing has given me is a greater appreciation for other people’s astounding words. I’m a better reader. I’m a better listener. And I love good songs even more than I did before.

I thought about the times that I have wished to write like Greta, or Allie, or Cameron. I thought about my deficit of poetical bones. (See? Super dumb sentence.)

But then I thought about how Stephanie called me out of the blue one day, and told me that something I had written brightened her otherwise dreary afternoon. And I had the distinct feeling that if my words could make a small-town Colorado housewife smile, then I was on the right path.

And I thought about the time that Duane encouraged me to change one of my songs – to revisit it, to perhaps rewrite part of it. And when I listened to his advice and did it, it WAS better. I became a better writer.

I thought of the card waiting in my mailbox last night from the friends saying, “We believe in you,” and how those words are worth more than any amount of money.

And I thought about all of you, continuing to land on this blog day after day, even when you know it’s a weekend and I won’t be writing, even when all I talk about is hair dye and shower curtains and bra shopping, even when I feel sorry for myself and am convinced that the sky is falling… you listen: strangers, many of you, giving me a moment of your attention each day. I am so grateful – because your permission that I be a person in process has given me the freedom to grow.

Writing is the only thing that I know I want to do for the rest of my life (that, and get as many shoulder rubs as I can). And I suspect that the more that I write, the more I will figure out that the real value lies in the doing of it. Even if nothing ever “happens.” Even if there is never a song published, or a book released, or a memoir read aloud on “Oprah.” I’ll be glad for the moments spent writing, stringing words together like beads on a thread – for it is in these moments that I feel like I might actually be living up to something.

Let me begin by saying that U is for a lot of hideous words.

Udder. Ulcer. Urethra. Uvula. Upchuck.

U might be turning into my least favorite letter.

However, U is also for Ubiquitous, which is what I was this weekend – seemingly present everywhere at once. Becca and I did a lot. And friends, let me take the opportunity to make this announcement: anything I said before about possibly turning into an extrovert is being utterly revoked.

I am an introvert, through and through.

Weekends like this – where I am presented with many very, very good options of how to spend my time, and thus feel the need to make them ALL happen – leave me feeling exhausted and peopled-out. So much so that at the Tacky Christmas Sweater Party on Saturday night, I found myself attempting solitude the only way I could figure: by sinking onto the kitchen floor in the corner. It was quieter down there.

Becca and I took part in two Christmas parties, a Josh & Meg show, running club, Whole Foods lunching, Anthropologie browsing, the Frist, a Dickens of a Christmas festival down in Franklin, Rosepepper Mexican food, and of course, plenty of photo ops.

Now she’s gone back to Kansas, where it was 4 degrees this morning.

Now I’m back at my desk, where my mind is elsewhere and everywhere*.

Ubiquity, indeed.

* = the fact that I’m living on my credit card, and I don’t know when/where I’m going to do laundry next, and I’m moving a week from tonight, and how am I going to buy Christmas presents for anyone, and holy cow I’m really training for this half-marathon and that scares the bajeebis out of me because oh man it’s going to be hard, and I need a haircut, and I wonder which of my friends will get engaged THIS Christmas, and is Nashville really going to be covered in ice tomorrow, and I’m still a temp receptionist, and I miss my Seattle friends, and I wish I could go hang out with my friend Christina in Boston, and I’m sorry but I just couldn’t get a video together today.

This morning, I am in a quagmire. I made a quick video on Saturday, but am questioning the decision to share it. The thought of broadcasting my quirks – my quaint qualities within a quadrangle – makes me queasy. I quiver, quaver, and quake at the quandary I am in. Perhaps I should have quelled my quips and remained quiet.

But I am on an alphabetic quest. And I can’t quit now.

Rather than quashing my efforts, I will set aside my qualms, avoid quibbling, and fulfill this week’s installment of the A-Z quota. So queue up, and behold the quixotic glory of a quintessential quotidian weekend in the life of this queen.

Thus quoth Annie Parsons.

Quotidian Saturday from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

Last week, the stars aligned.

First, my friend Debbie dropped me an email, seemingly out of the blue, asking me if I read any Annie Dillard. My reaction: does Rick Astley shake his groove thang? Annie Dillard is breathtaking – one of my favorite writers. Her “Living Like Weasels” makes me want to throw a chair across the room, it’s so good. Debbie’s email reminded me to pick up my copy of “Teaching a Stone to Talk,” and ingest some meaty essays. I could feast on her words for days.

Then, my friend Handy Graham recommended the eastmountainsouth record. I already had one track from their 2003 (and only) album, but after Graham’s endorsement, was inspired to purchase the whole thing. It has not disappointed – this album has become the soundtrack to my world for the past couple of days.

A few days ago, the eastmountainsouth track “Still Running” popped up on my iPod, and I listened attentively to the words. The lyrics seemed familiar – balmy, true, trustworthy – and in a moment of synergy, I realized that it is based on an Annie Dillard essay, “God in the Doorway.”

This is as glowing a recommendation that I can give: get your hands on a copy of Dillard’s “God in the Doorway” and eastmountainsouth’s “Still Running.” Read the 3-page essay, and follow it immediately with the song. When I did, it was like chasing a cupcake with a glass of milk: good on their own, but together, divine.