The Girl Who Lived

"You can't help but wish that maybe you aren't really all Muggle -- non-magic folk -- but have some bit of wizard blood in your veins that would allow you the chance to visit Hogwarts....and so I've had my nose pressed into the pages of the first four books--rather lengthy, they all are. I've been obsessed with Harry, because in Harry's world, there is no graduate school. A fire-breathing dragon or a life-ending curse, but nothing as bad as moving to the next state."
-- Journal dated August 8, 2001, three weeks before relocating to N.C.

I've just finished rereading Goblet of Fire for the I-don't-know-how-many-times, and I can't help but think of the first time I read Harry Potter. It was six years ago to the summer that Niki convinced me that I had to read Socerer's Stone. I remember reading that first chapter with Dumbledore and the Put-Outer and the flying motorcycle and thinking, "What is this?" I don't recall exactly the point at which I got hooked, but once I was hooked, I was all the way hooked.

It was a tough summer. I'd just graduated from college, and on my graduation day, I had no plans. No job. No apartment. I was waiting to hear from UNC Wilmywood to see if a spot had come open in its MFA program. And on top of that, I decided not to get a job that summer, owing to the fact that Mom needed my help since Anna and Justin decided to get married less than 30 days apart. Did I mention that my boyfriend at the time was in D.C. doing an internship?

Everything was changing, my whole world upended and the future totally uncertain. I was lonely and worried. And I was suffering the fate of the youngest child, which is that everyone else goes on to the next stage of life without you. I suddenly felt like the classic which-one-of-these-doesn't-belong?

But in the midst of it all, I found Harry Potter, who was suffering a bit himself in a world so far removed from my own that I could almost forget what was going on here. I was insatiable; I carried the books with me everywhere. Car trips, waiting rooms, dress fittings, hotel rooms. At 2 in the morning, I sat in the recliner in the den deep into the graveyard scene in Goblet of Fire, and was more than a little spooked by the dark yard outside the sliding glass door. Upon finishing, it took me a bit to calm down enough to brave walking past the big glass door and go to bed. I may have finished the book, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. But it was okay that the next book wasn't around yet - it was time for me to go to North Carolina.

It was two years after that when Order of the Phoenix hit the stands, and I made myself nearly sick and hysterical reading that giant tome for such a stretch. And the death in that one hit me particularly hard, and I was inconsolable for days. Two years after that came Half-Blood Prince, whose release caused an absolute temper-tantrum when it wasn't delivered as expected. But that was nothing compared to the quivering mass I was after the outcome of the book.

And now it's coming down to the wire. Less than 25 days before all will be revealed in Deathly Hallows, Potter's last stop. I'm on schedule to plow through OOTP and HBP before the big day gets here. Today, I read an article with a massive spoiler, a possibility that I hadn't considered, and it was the first time during all my conjecturing that it really hit me that, whatever the outcome, this is it. Whatever's on those final pages, whether it's Harry's death or happily-ever-after or a mysterious sentence ending in "scar," it's the end of the story and we'll all have to live with whatever ending Rowling penned.

I can't help but recognize that there are eerie parallels between reading those first pages of Sorcer's Stone and now anticipating Deathly Hallows: the waiting, the need to escape reality, this strange station between one chapter of life and the next (a Platform 9 3/4 time in life, if you will). There are similar trappings - temporarily living at home, my stuff scattered everywhere, and me not really belonging anywhere. And more than once in the last couple of weeks, I've thrown up my hands at the job search and buried myself in Potterdom just like I did way back when, only then I was trying to avoid registering for classes and folding wedding programs.

Me and Harry have been through a lot together. (Like the development of my slightly unhealthy obsession. ) The intervening years have been as much an adventure for me as him. And whether or not he lives or dies, his adventure is coming to an end. But me? I'll get to be the girl who lived. For me, there will be another chapter.

Sixth Question: Voldemort's Fate

Scholastic's sixth question is will Voldemort be defeated? Options are

* Yes and he will live
* Yes and he will die
* No way
* There will be a truce

Right now, 81% are voting that he will be defeated and die. How else could we all sleep at night?

Out There (or The Waiting Place)

As I've run into old friends and acquaintances (or their parents) and I relay the circumstances of this place in my life, I hear the following: "Don't you worry. (Fill in the blank) is out there for you. Just you wait and see."

And it's one of those things that people dash off, a ready-made phrase selected as easily as a cliche, a proverb, a line of Shakespeare. It's just what you say in these conversations. I'm not ungrateful for it. It is said in such a manner as to suggest that people aren't worried for me, that, in their minds, the future holds good things for me. It is a sort of glimmer of hope when they say these things and reminds me that this place isn't forever.

As for this place, I'm torn between two schools of thought about it. One stems from this kind of remark - this place is not forever and there is a next station on this train ride of life, and when I get there, I will laugh about my panic/insecurity/overt worrying. It is the thought that emphasizes that this is temporary, to be endured and to test patience. It is the place between here and there - a life layover. And like all layovers, I simply must make the best of it.

And the other school of thought comes from another place that tells me to be patient and enjoy. For me, it's swimming-upstream, beat against the current, a thought against the status quo to stop trying to "get past" this time and accept it. This voice is very, very quiet, because I'm not much given over to things like relaxing into a life without structure, without habits and plans and knowing.

Along with this school of thought comes the question, is there a reason I'm stuck here for longer than I anticipated? Maybe "out there" is just not out there yet, and so I'm here waiting for it to fall cosmically in line. And beyond that, maybe while I'm here, I'm not supposed to see the time as wasted on waiting. Instead of ticking off the time like so much sand through the hourglass, maybe I'm actually supposed to be doing something with this time - learning those things I need to know from Mom, like how to cook eggplant. Or maybe it's time to pick up with my writing. Or photography. Or something...something besides adding up the hours and days and weeks like a bean counter.

And so it's a fight to the death between these two schools of thought, hovering around me like the proverbial devil and angel. But in this case, it's more like a fight between Ferris Bueller and Cameron. And, like in most situations, I think the key is balance - pursuing the job search with a reasonable amount of intensity but not letting myself forget that I exist right now. Carpe diem.

I'm a Winner! (Deathly Hallows Spoiler Alert!)

David Heyman confirmed at an OOTP press conference yesterday that Kreacher is indeed the character producers decided to cut before Rowling intervened, as I, Harry Potter aficionado that I am, predicted on Friday. He won't be seen with a certain locket that is speculated to be in his possession, although Heyman hinted that this might be why he needed to return for the seventh film. All the same, he is in the movie, and, man, is he ugly! He is, without a doubt, my least favorite character in all of Potterdom. Ick.

If I Can't Laugh at Myself...

From Indexed:

Hallowed Clue?

Ain't It Cool News is reporting from a press junket surrounding the Order of the Phoenix release that producers wanted to cut a certain character from the movie. Upon hearing the news, J.K. Rowling suggested that they might not want to make a cut, saying that if they made a seventh movie, "they would have their hands tied."

I'm still muddling through Goblet of Fire at the moment, so I'm wooly on who might be cut from five that would be important in seven. AICN is conjecturing that it might be Bellatrix, which I think is a good guess. From interviews with Helen Bonham Carter, it would seem that her roll in the film has been reduced to less than 15 minutes on screen and roughly five lines. His other speculations included Luna and Grawp, but Luna's got far too much weight in five to be cut. Hmmm...I'll have to consider this when rereading.

Update: After further consideration, I'm betting on Kreacher. Bellatrix is too important, particularly to the end of the movie. And Kreacher, while most readers would argue is essential to the plot of the book, is expendable in the film world. They've dispensed with elements that create the logic of the story before (explaining the Maurauders, Winky, etc.) in favor of glossing over the whys onscreen.

Also, I haven't seen any production stills of Kreacher, whereas casting Luna involved thousands of girls in two different casting sessions, and Bellatrix was cast twice, as their first choice got pregnant and pulled out of the film. Even Grawp has been announced for some time. But Kreacher has been mysteriously absent, and while expendable from five and even six, it would be hard to sudddenly explain the house elf Harry owns in book seven. So there's my vote.

Birthday 'Zu

This post will not help combat my fear of becoming a crazy cat lady, but I can't go without wishing my darling little Kudzu a happy birthday. The exact date and time is a bit fuzzy, but since we found him on July 4th at approximately two weeks old...it's his birthday, give or take a day. For six years now, he's been my constant companion - and sometimes the bane of my existence. (Yes, I'm talking about the J. Crew sweater he ate.) Nonetheless, we all know I think he's the cat's meow, even if he does live up to being named after an infernal creeping fungus that bows to no one just a little bit much sometimes. But, he's my love - and kindly offered his moniker to the blog. So we at the Kudzu Jungle offer up a birthday tribute to our very fine mascot.

Eight-Legged Freakout

Last night, I had the most vivid dream that my scalp was covered with tiny little black spiders no bigger than the end of your finger. In the dream, I kept putting my hands in my hair and leaning forward to flick the spiders from my head. And then at some point, I realized the spiders were literally coming out of my head, from this bump above my forehead at my hairline. Spiders upon spiders. I started awake and lay very still as chills descended on me from head to toe. So real was the dream that I was afraid to touch my head, and so I tried to ignore the creepy crawling feeling on my skin and go back to sleep. I couldn't shake the sensation of tickling legs for the rest of the morning and even checked my pillowcases to rule out actual spiders.

When dreams are this vivid, I feel like they must mean something - something my brain can't quite work out when I'm awake and thinking and so must consider while I'm asleep. I looked up spiders in several dream dictionaries, and their appearance in dreams can be sinister or an omen of good luck (for, like, getting a job?). One source suggested that spiders represent irrational fears and anxieties, but ones that are more complex, hence their representation by eight-legged creatures. And that they also can signify a feeling of oppression or stagnation. Other sources indicated that spiders are symbolic of the creative spirit, and that they simple indicate that you have a creative itch you need to scratch.

But in truth, the dream felt more like a little arachnid army of anxieties marching around my head followed by the realization that I was the source of the madness. Perhaps it was a combination of things: a laundry list of insecurities and doubts surging to the surface, a niggling sense that I've let my writing lay dormant for too long, and all this heat that has everything slow-roasting in its tracks. Whatever the case, I may sleep with Raid under my pillow tonight.

Drought

Since I've been here, we haven't had a rainy day. Most of the state is suffering from extreme drought conditions. Still, humid afternoons that parch the grass, burning it away bit by bit to strew lawns with dirt patches (despite some people's attempts to surreptitiously water it against the enforced watering bans). The heat shimmers up from the pavement in such waves that it gives the illusion of water trickling down. The water is receding from the muddy banks of the river, the topmost levels now drying and cracking.

Without storm clouds rolling in along the line of a weather front, the sky seems eerily unchanging. A cruel almost metallic blue stretching from horizon to horizon with barely a wisp of white, reflecting sunlight with unbearable clarity. The air doesn't move but settles around you wherever you linger too long like a cloak. The ground is hot and arid, and everywhere you look, you can see the red clay Georgia is famous for pushing through the green or rising up in rusty clouds.

Tomorrow's the first day of summer, and with it will come heat so oppressive, it will steal your breath the moment you walk out the door. It's the kind of weather that brings on lethargy, a sting of heat so intense that it stifles energy. It presses you down, keeps you in. Smothers the euphoria that comes from ozone-rich air, dewy grass, cool darkness. It's the kind of weather made for waiting. It's weather for the unmoving and unchanging. For a time in life that seems to be standing still and timeless. For stretching out under the unforgiving sun in its blazing blue sky, feeling it burn red against your eyelids, feeling its heat fill your lungs, feeling it set fire to every pore on your body and wondering if it will ever rain.

Miscellany

* I don't know where I picked it up or why, but "clearly" is my new word of choice. I say it about 784 times a day. Clearly, this is a problem.

* I woke up this morning with two things in mind: popcorn and "Don't Take the Girl" by Tim McGraw. I don't know why I was thinking about either of them. (Side note: That song came the summer before 8th grade. And my friend Lizzy bought the tape single so we could listen to it out at her pool. That was the same summer Justin and I watched a lot of country music videos on the local channel WNGM 34. We really liked "Fancy.")

* I've started to use my cell phone as a sort of flashlight at night when I'm headed to bed so I don't have to turn on lights and potentially wake my parents. It makes me feel a little like MacGyver.

* I had a dream that one of the agencies whose site I had looked at called and offered me a job. I immediately sent them a resume this morning.

Vote for the Dark Lord

Bumper sticker seen today on a Jeep parked in a local shopping center:

Today's Cover Letter

To Whom It May Concern:
I am looking for a job, and, while you are a place that could hire me, you may or may not have a job opening. If you do, it probably requires some skill or level of experience that I do not possess. For example, I am unable to properly draw or illustrate anything. For confirmation, please consult my reference, STGD. If you don't have an opening, you are probably annoyed that you received an email from someone you don't know who's looking for a job you don't have when you have other more important things to do. It's okay. I understand. I used to be a very busy and important person. Now, my only job is to feed the cats each night. I am very handy with the pop-tops on Fancy Feast catfood. For confirmation, please consult my reference, Kudzu.

If you are at all considering me, despite my lack of skill and your lack of openings, you should know that my confidence in the skills I actually have is plummeting at an alarming rate. Perhaps this indicates why today, I gave up in the midst of writing a more traditional cover letter and left my dutiful post at the computer to deliver my sister-in-law's vaccum cleaner to the repair shop. (A task I completed most satisfactorily, by the way, so perhaps if you have an errand-girl type position, I could handle it. For confirmation, please consult my vaccum-breaking sister-in-law.)

Are you still reading? Well, let me just cut to the chase. At this point, I feel like we're on a bad date. I don't know if you want me to be funny or straightforward. Do you find me charming? Do you hate me before you've even met me? Just tell me what you want, because all this confusion? There are men for that. The silence following the delivery of this cover letter is likely to be almost deafening (if the others are any indication). All the same, for formality's sake, please find attached my resume listing out all my education (I can read) and my work experience (See? Someone else hired me).

If you would like to talk to me further, just call. Because I'll be here. I don't have anything else to do. Except take out the trash - you know, a girl's got to earn her keep.

Sincerely,
Ashley

Faces of the Dilly Monster

Fears Du Jour

* That Dillon, now getting to the point of being able to recognize and distinguish people, will not like me because he will know that I am not good with children.

* That I am a terrible conversationalist. It seems that every time I talk to someone and then reiterate my conversation to my mother, she will ask a very obvious question that I don't know the answer to and didn't think to ask myself.

* That there is truth in the look that some people give me when I confirm that I am childless, unmarried, unemployed and living at home that indicates there is something wrong with me.

* That something will happen to my mother before I learn all the things I need to know. Being here all the time, I see the questions she gets about everything - cooking, shopping, sewing, childcare, health, happiness...she's like Dumbledore. And they both really love socks.

* That nothing, not even Secret Clinical Strength, can stem the flow of my sweaty, sweaty armpit. STGD, are you with me?

* That I am boring

* That I will be forced to take a job that I don't love

Reading Lesson

In the library's new fiction section:

Me (pointing to a title on the shelf): Does that say My Friend Whore?

Mom (pulling the volume off the shelf): No, it says My French Whore. (Pause.) It's a love story.

Lift & Separate: A Tale of Two Boobs

Confession: For most of my adult life, I've been wearing the incorrect bra size.

It's true. And I am going public with this information for any of my readers who may also be suffering from IBS (Incorrect Bra Sizing).

I arrived at the bra size I've been wearing through trial and error - trying on bras and giving my best guess at which one fit right. But today, I said modesty be damned and allowed the lingerie assistant at Nordstrom's to help me find the right bra. Turns out that the La Mystere bra that Oprah loves, and which I had been wearing, isn't so right for me. And to add insult to injury, I've been wearing the wrong size bra by a long shot.

I know I'm not the only one out there confused about what bra size I should be wearing. In fact, my mom was wearing the wrong size, too. I was slightly befuddled at being 27 and finding myself asking the the assistant, "So how should the bra fit?" Here's a hint: you should not, as I was, be using the straps to hitch the girls up.

And once I had on the right size - and after I had recovered from the astounding cup size from further down the alphabet than I would've liked -I was amazed at the results of a little lift and separate. I discovered that the size of my bust does not mean I must endure a painful bra with digging shoulder straps and an underwire hellbent to break my ribcage. Forget the truth - the right bra size will set you free. For those of you who wish to follow in my footsteps, I support you. And your bra will, too.

The Crux of the Matter: Part 2

So Scholastic's site was being fritzy this morning, and it seems there are multiple choices to the horcrux question. They are

* Diagon Alley
* Hogsmeade
* Hogwarts
* Only with Death Eaters
* Godric's Hollow
* Azkaban
* St. Mungo's
* Among Muggles
* Elsewhere

This is very curious. I must ponder before predicting.

The Crux of the Matter

More Harry Potter goodness! The fifth question from Scholastic centers around the location of the horcruxes. I'm a little surprised the where question is preceding the what question - as in, what are the horcruxes? No multiple choice answers this time around, so the conjecture is all open ended.

We anticipate that Harry will be traveling to Godric's Hollow early in the book, and Rowling has pretty much confirmed that Godric's Hollow is somehow connected to Godric Gryffindor. We may not find a horcrux there, but I think we might find out what one is. And I expect Luna may be the source of information about the Ravenclaw artifact. Hufflepuff's cup is anyone's guess, although I've begun to wonder if the U.K. cover is a Gringott's vault. As to Slytherin's locket, most people have puzzled out that it may be mentioned in OOTP and therefore is likely to reside at Grimauld Place with everyone's favortie Kreacher. As for Nagini, well, she's withVoldemort, although, I question whether Dumbledore might be off on that guess, depending on whether or not we find a living thing can be a horcrux. (Which we will probably see Harry ferret more information out of Slughorn.) And as to whether or not Harry himself is a horcrux, that's a whole separate discussion entirely. We shall see...

Also, I just want to pose the question about the cover art - is Harry's scar gone? It's so prominently depicted on the other covers but is conspicuously either missing or very downplayed here.

Lastly, a post script on the fourth question - the Harry/Hermione choice is outpacing any of the other suggested relationship at a whopping 60% with more than 125,000 votes. Those are some dedicated (if a bit deluded) readers.

I'm Going to Harry Potter World!

Since Penelope asked what I thought of it, and I've been meaning to blog about it anyway, and because I consider it my civic duty to report on all things Harry Potter, here's a little post on Universal's new The Wizarding World of Harry Potter theme park announced last week. When I first heard rumors that a park was in the works, I was disappointed, thinking that it would just be a letdown. But knowing that Rowling was on board from the inception and that Stuart Craig, the movies' set designer was the concept artist made me feel a bit better. I admit, I was stoked when I saw the concept drawings.

Officials are being very tight-lipped about the actual attraction components of the park, with the reason for the hush-hush being attributed to everything from the fact that they don't know, that it's still under development or that some of the main attractions actually come from the pages of Deathly Hallows. Part of the reason they've waited so long to unveil is because they wanted to encompass all the books. Rumors are afoot that one of the rides will be a simulated experience in the flying Ford Anglia from Chamber of Secrets.

After overcoming my initial distrust of the whole thing, I'm actually ridiculously excited at the thought of getting to go to Hogsmeade and shop in Honeydukes for Fizzing Whizbees and Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans and, of course, Chocolate Frogs. And I hope there's a sweet old witch pushing a cart around so that we can scoop up some Cauldron Cakes and Pumpkins Pasties. With the attractions still under wraps, I reserve final judgement until I know more. There's so much potential for attractions based on the books that I'll be highly disappointed (and mildly irate) if the attractions wind up being reimagined elements of the Harry Potter universe. In other words, if we're going to the Forbidden Forest, it better be the Forbidden Forest. I'm not interested in the Troll Train. And besides, what would Bane think if there was a centaur carousel?

Gimme

I just sent out three cover letters and resumes. Somebody give me a cookie. Or a beer. I need a nap.

Frugal

I was assisting Mom with the finishing touches on the quilt she's been making for Dillon. By assisting, I mean offering opinions and not actually sewing. I watched her run something through the sewing machine - a fixture in our house for as long as I can remember. "So that was a pretty good purchase, huh?" I asked.

After saying she thought she had gotten her money's worth out of it, she confessed that she spent $900 on the top-of-the-line Elna in 1978. And so strong was her buyer's remorse every time she made the $50 monthly payment, that she kept a list of everything she made on the machine. She pulled out a little green memo pad and showed me where she had kept a meticulous list of the garment, how much she paid for materials and the estimated retail value of what she had made. The list started in 1978 - and continued through summer of 1991. Catalogued in its pages were dresses, skirts and pants she had made for Anna and me, a suit vest and coat she made for my dad, all the way down to a belt she made for herself. She had estimated somewhere along in the 80s that she had saved about $1,200.

I never thought much of the sewing machine growing up. I thought everyone had one and that everyone's mother was as handy as mine with needle and thread. All my life, I've thought of her at the machine, the gentle hum of its motor, the clickety-clack of the foot moving up and down, the thick sweet smell of the machine oil.I took for granted that she made our Easter dresses every year, outfitted us for Sundays year-round and even made ensembles for Cabbage Patch Kids and Barbies. I recall a very swanky strapless fitted kelly green dress with accompanying shrug jacket she constructed for my Barbie.

At that moment, I felt in awe of her talent and her foresight and her own way of saving money and providing for us all. And I felt terribly sad that I can barely sew a button on.

In the Still of the Night

Dillon and I didn't sleep well.

In the crib: Dillon has learned to turn himself over from stomach to back. Unfortunately for all parties, the reverse is proving a bit more complicated. Set to sleep on his stomach, he flips and wakes and cannot go back to sleep.

In the guest bed: I crawl into the bed in the guest room certain that sleep will come swiftly after an early morning and a long day. I read until I am quite sure my eyelids will droop closed before the next word and turn off the light. Immediately, my eyes open wide in the inky darkness.

In the crib: Dillon draws his knees up under him and then shoves his feet back, twists on his side and rolls against that left arm that is never quite in the right position to turn. He wobbles against it until he is on his back.

In the guest bed: I fight the sheets and blankets, alternating between hot and cold. This bed used to be my brother's bed. I used to seek refuge there when the dark of night and all the monsters lurking there struck fear in me. And now, all the anxieties are swirling around in my brain, a persistent hum against the black.

In the crib: Dillon can put the pacifier in his mouth, but he forgets to let go and jerks it out again. We call it the Paci-Monster.

In the guest bed: I see plastic stars stuck to the ceiling by the previous owner's kid. Without my glasses, I can only make out the faint smudge of flourescent above me. In a trick of poor eyesight and darkness, it looks a little like the night sky until all of the light in them recedes to nothingness.

In the crib: Sometimes, Dillon just wants to know someone is there.

In the guest bed: I try not to think about the hours passing. I breathe deeply. I try to imagine somewhere peaceful. But the serenity fades and I end up counting my anxieties, fluffy little insecurities herding through my mind.

In the crib: Dillon cries loudly and I am up and in the hallway before I'm really concious of moving. I hope to save Eva from a trip to the nursery. He's all twisted up in the blanket, and I'm working to untangle him when she arrives. In mere seconds, she scoops and flips him like a baby pancake and has the pacifier in his mouth before he hits the crib again.

After four and before seven, we drift in and out, finding the edge of dreams but always jerked back by the insecurity of being flat on our back, anxious that we are alone and unable to pacify ourselves long enough to fall back asleep.

Such a Tease

Today Scholastic released the cover for the Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows deluxe edition, and it reveals a tantalizing new scene. The publisher's creative director says, "Set during a highly dramatic sunset, Harry, Hermione, and Ron--clothes in tatters--cling atop a flying dragon in this astonishing artwork created by Mary GrandPré for the deluxe edition. As mist creeps down towering hillsides to a village below, questions arise about where the trio is headed and what has led them to this spellbinding moment."

Is this the return of Norbert, the Norweigan Ridgeback? And where are they going? Thoughts? Questions? Desperate longings to just know already?

The Price of Beauty

Biore Pore Refining Warming Cleanser to address the expansion of my pores to now being visible using Google Earth: $4

Secret Clinical Strength Antiperspirant to address the aformentioned sweaty, sweaty armpit problem: $8

Sarna Anti-Itch Lotion to preempt the spontaneous hives that I get on my chest and upper back particluarly during the warm months: $10

Benadryl Extra Strength Itch Relief to soothe the spontaneous hives post-erruption: $3

Disguising your freakish nature and appearing presentable in society: Priceless

Amalgamation (uh-mal-gah-MAY-shun)

amalgamation (noun) - a combination or blend of diverse things, sometimes companies or metals; an alchemist's word...the number of things running through my head that are in no way related in reality but somehow encompass The Brain at the moment



Road
So many hours in the car between here and Wilmywood, here and Atlanta, just me and the Rav and the pavement. And for the first time in a long time, the car is meaningful - mine, that I'm paying for, that feels like me the way my first car (92 baby blue Honda Accord with pop-up lights) felt. Time passes in the car with me in hazy, unfocused autopilot, driving the drive I know well. Or lost in some imagined scenario: job interview, apartment hunting, going to London, winning backstage passes to John Mayer. Or in the music. Whatever I'm listening to, so into every note and word and feeling it and singing it and knowing it. Most of my CDs went into storage for lack of a place to put them. I am thankful for Keane and The Fray and Jeff Buckley and the words that I sing, that run through my mind long after, that tell me someone else has been in this place before.

Moments
Teetering on the edge of the other side of the canyon, casting a caustic glance at where I came from, I crave moments that affirm that it's good that I made the jump. Sometimes they come in the everyday - deciding which facial scrub to buy at Wal-Mart with Mom, uncapping and sniffing, reading the backs and pretending we have any idea what makes one better than the other. Going to the quilt shop, touching the fabrics, admiring the patterns and color pallettes, planning to make a skirt or a shirt while I'm home. Listening to the rain drip off the edge of the house and splatter on the front porch while reading.

And then there are the moments I know I am needed or wanted. When Eva tells me that she is so glad that I'm home, how badly she's missed me. How they all held their breath this weekend fearing I would say I had made a mistake. (The unspoken reality that I held my breath, too.) The observations of other people become surprising. The Boss asking, "Are you happy? Because you seem to be really happy." And it seems too long since someone has made that comment.

Observations
This odd quality in me rising to the top again after hibernating for some time. I open my eyes to what's just there and enjoy it. I take it in, when others miss it, overlook it. A red-headed woodpecker in the front yard. The vibrant green color of the choleas we planted two weeks ago. Riding with the windows down. That a product called "Fluff" in a jar exists.

Future
Growing less distant and more real with each passing day. The realization that I've got to move forward is dawning, but less disturbing. This respite in the safety net of home has given me a sense of peace. The knowledge that family and friends are here to rally behind me, to help me make the next leap, make it less scary. The first time, I walked the wire alone. But this time, there will be hands to keep me steady, push me forward.

My Boyfriend's Back

I couldn't find the raw photos on this, so please note that I concur with Perez Hilton's assessment. Additional delicious photos can be viewed on the Blackberry Curve site. Oh, how I wish I had better seats for the August 5 concert. A girl can dream.

Summer Dinner

* Porch

* White, fucshia, lavendar wave petunias

* Tree frogs

* Peel-and-eat shrimp

* Soft breeze

* Avocado rolls

* Good-natured argument about discerning a live oak

* Salad - craisins, almond slices, ginger dressing

* Sweet heady gardenias

* Lightning bug - caught one, tickling my finger before taking off

* Gently rocking in the early night silence

Potent Potatobles for $200

On the way home today, Mom told me on the phone, "There's something dead in the house. It's this horrible smell," she said. "We can't find it. Your dad blames the cats." I hung up and promptly forgot about it.

I was reminded when passing by the wooden Taters and Onions bin in the dining room. Without thinking, I lifted the lid. I imagine this is what Jabba the Hut smells like. Truly one of the most repulsive, gag-inducing smells ever - like the most potent, sour, sweaty, rancid body odor magnified twelve times.

With rubber gloves, I braved the bin once more to retrieve the rotting potatoes. I ran them down the driveway in my pajamas (and rubber gloves) to dispose of them in the garbage, already by the street for Monday morning pick up.

Liberal amounts of Febreze have been sprayed. There is a candle burning in the dining room. The bin is in the garage. We may have to burn it tomorrow. Jabba the Hut must die.

Leaving: Part Four - Going Back

The Return Trip: Observations & Experiences

* It is an entirely different trip when driving east first and west second. Either way, it is still a long, long drive.

* Coldstone Creamery's cake batter ice cream is sinfully good.

* Downtown Wilmywood is still there - I saw it, walked its streets, smelled its river.

* There is nothing like the dark theater, Coke Icees, and a good friend on either side to pass a rainy Saturday.

* I do not wish to see the movie Joshua, as the preview nearly made me cry with fear.

* Waitress is so wonderful and funny and heartbreaking that I can't stop thinking about it.

* I did not look at my office, as I know it is no longer mine. I did help myself to a complimentary Diet Coke and Skittles from the conference room table.

* The emergence of K. Lo.'s personality is extraordinarily entertaining, between the use of the Red Robin crayon box as a cell phone and her constant parade of dance moves. Bonus moment was hearing her say "yum" when fed potato soup.

* STGD's porch is a good thing with its ferns and flower boxes and the creak of the porch swing and a beer in hand and Lenny looking for lizards and the breeze and the rain. And us laughing. Always laughing.

* Weirdly, it has not rained here or there since I left. Last night, it poured both places.

* Uninterrupted girl time to discuss hair (cuts, color, and styling tips), fashion, boys, and life in general is very important to the soul.

* Mel's cat Oliver has something urgent to say. I only wish I knew what it was.

* It is a bittersweet reminder how good it is to have friends to share a meal, a movie, a magazine, a moment.

* My Southern accent is baaaack.

* Grace Street is occupied now but mine in my heart.

* Still some ghosts lurking in Wilmywood.

* Thanks to Mel, Penelope, STGD, and The Boss for kind and insightful life advice. (And to Mel for letting me crash...)

* Nothing could stop the tears as the riverfront disappeared in the sideview mirror crossing the bridge out of town.