I had to warn my mother that I was entitling this "My Rash"

Yesterday, I did a Google Image search for “shingles” – and trust me, Internet, that is not something that you want to do.

I am not a hypochondriac, I promise. But I think I might have shingles. Yes, shingles: a form of HERPES. Julie, the soon-to-be nurse, checked out the small patch of – I don’t know, what should I call them? blisters? scabs? rash bumps? – and consulted a physiology textbook for reference. No conclusive evidence was found…

But I am calling it shingles.

Maybe it’s eczema. Maybe it’s psoriasis. Maybe it’s just… random shaving nicks that landed far from anywhere I use a razor? But I think it’s shingles. It might be an allergic reaction to high heels and elevator Muzak. It could be stress related – or punishment for an unconfessed sin – or perhaps my body’s way of saying, “Stop eating brie for dinner every single night.” But I think it’s shingles.

(Oddly enough, this is not the first time that shingles have been mentioned on this blog.)

As one without health insurance, I am combating this ailment with an old cure-all: baking soda. Seriously, is there anything that baking soda doesn’t do? It takes the stench out of a fridge. It cleans teeth. It erupts 5th grade science project volcanoes. And yes, it mixes with water to form a healing paste.

I sound like such a hippy. Who needs Mary Kay when you have castor oil? Who needs shampoo when you have egg whites? Who needs antibiotics when you have Arm & Hammer?

But... (ready for the segue?)... I spend enough money on my jeans to make up for my thrifty health and beauty habits. And yesterday on my lunch break, having a gift card from Christmas and a big need for some new fancy pants, I went shopping.

So, there I was in the dressing room, pulling on what seemed to be the perfect pair: long enough, dark enough, fit in all the right places. From the front, they seemed to get the job done, if you know what I’m saying. But then I did that awkward twisty-turn in the mirror to see my backside, and y’all:

They were smooth butt jeans.

You know the type – no back pockets whatsoever.

I’m sorry, but I don’t do smooth butt jeans. I am not in a rodeo. I need back pockets. Where else would I put my Benjamins when I club-hop? Where else would I stash all of the numbers on cocktail napkins? Where else would a boyfriend put his hands as we slowly and awkwardly waddle through the mall?

That is, if I haven’t completely blown my dating life by mentioning the fact that I HAVE SHINGLES.*

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*It’s probably not shingles.

Smattering splattering

All the single ladies
My pal Andy Merrick just posted the beginning of a 3-part series entitled “Why Guys Aren’t Asking You Out.” Andy is one of my favorite people to read, and this first installment had me laughing out loud. In fact, I was still in bed this morning, barely awake, reading until I giggled – at which point Julie yelled up the stairs (remember, I have no bedroom door), “Annie! Are you crying??”

Hey. A totally fair question.

I am excited to hear more of his thoughts in the coming days – and to read any comments you may have on the subject. Let Andy know what you think…

Lit at work
All of the lights in our gigantic, sprawling office space are operated by motion sensors – as long as there is movement in the room, the lights stay on. Because of this, when walking from room to room to set up for lunches or fetch cups of coffee for visitors, I feel as powerful as God: LET THERE BE LIGHT… and there was light.

However, this feature is significantly less cool when I have been sitting completely and utterly motionless at my desk for so long that the lobby lights just… go out. And then, even MORE significantly less cool when I, the Temptress, sitting in my T.J. Maxx version of “business professional” in the darkness of the silent room, frantically wave my arms above my head.

Let there be light, indeed.

And as a final FYI…
When I sneeze, the crystal vase on the desk rings. It is legit.

What do I have to say today?

Last night, Mel asked me, “How do you decide what to blog about?” And after thinking for a second, I said, “Well, I just sit quietly each morning and ask, ‘What do I have to say today?’ And then I write it down.”

Some mornings, this is easy – my life is full of funny anecdotes, witty words, cheerful hope. Other days, I have a heavier burden weighing on my chest, and writing about it can be both challenging and therapeutic. Sometimes, it’s just the letter X – and it is my self-declared duty to figure out some direction to take it.

But today, all is quiet. The phone isn’t ringing, and I haven’t received any urgent emails. It’s kind of cold in the lobby here at work, so I’m wrapped in my green coat and thinking about microwaving some water to make hot tea. The mechanical pencil that I keep in my planner has a rubber grip on it, and it’s “sweating” some sort of oil onto my calendar pages – this bothers me. My hair is freshly dyed, dark and silky, and yet it doesn’t cover up my desperate need for a haircut. In a few minutes, I will balance my checkbook, like I do every day. I have eaten approximately 12 Altoids, and now I am chewing a piece of gum. Men will never comprehend the injustice of pantyhose. I think of the nightmare that I had last night, and the nightmare that I had a few weeks ago. I think of when I was younger and we had rabbits in hutches in the backyard. I think of my friend who threw up her breakfast this morning, and my friend who is officially in love, and my friend who is becoming less and less of a friend. My heart aches for the Townes.

What do I have to say today?

So much. So little. If only I knew.

X is for Xanthous

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.

Broken

This morning in our new house, because of a miserable failure on my part, we awoke to no heat and no hot water. We have spent the past 2 weeks with no internet, and since I left my phone charger in Kansas City after Christmas, I’ve been limping through with no real phone access. My closet doors fell off the tracks. My Chi hair straightener has mysteriously stopped working. I had a flat tire on Sunday night, and when I called AAA for help, was informed that my service had expired. To top it all off, the first time that Mel used the mug I gave her as a housewarming “happy to be roommates!” gift, the coffee flooded out through a crack in the bottom.

A lot of things in my life are broken. But none more so than my heart.

Little Ben’s broken body was taken from this broken world on Tuesday. And there are simply no words to express the grief, the anguish, the suffering of his family and community. It’s the most devastating tragedy I have ever experienced.

God is good. But life’s a bitch.

At the end

We are counting down to New Years’ Eve, making our plans for cocktail attire and merriment, or for Dick Clark and take-out, or wondering where that rogue kiss might land – in any case, looking forward to a fresh beginning and a brand new start.

But today, my great-grandma is dying.
And today, Ben is in his last moments.

What do you do at the end? There are no more words, and no more scriptures to be claimed, and no more ideas. There are prayers – there are always prayers, seamlessly woven into our thoughts, silent pleadings, and that last desperate shred of hope – but in the end, the end just… comes.

We weren’t made for death – yet none of us will make it off this earth alive. Not one of us will survive life.

Still. Death should never come, especially for one so small.

Please join me today in praying for comfort for both my legendary great-grandma, and for sweet, spunky, miraculous little Ben. And then pray for courage for those left behind – those whose hearts are crumbling even as I type.

W is for Writing

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.

Carol of the Belles

Carol of the Belles from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.