Babysitting: A Story in Photos (and Un-Photos)

Dillon gave me a hand with his dinner - effectively getting blueberries all over us both.
Not pictured is the total wreck that was the high chair after he was done.

After dinner, he shows me his new trick - pulling up all by himself. Not pictured is the meltdown after he bumped his head on the coffee table after an overzealous attempt to pull up on the couch.

I love, love, love this serious little face.

Post-bath (not pictured because I needed eight more hands just to bathe him, much less take photos of him...) he decides he does not want his diaper on and attempts a getaway with nary a stitch on his little bottom.

Between the last photo and this one, 30 minutes passed in which I repeatedly wrestled him to the ground to get his diaper on and these pajamas, which had approximately 714 snaps.
But he was so darn proud of himself for pulling up on the night stand.

Not pictured, the post-night bottle coma, pacifier plugged in, asleep in my arms while we rocked.

Jungle to Jungle

The kudzu jungle goes to the concrete jungle.

The view from 14th Street outside the office in ATL on Friday.

Threesdays: Musical Mortification

Three songs I'm a little (or a lot) embarrassed that I like...

"Let's See How Far We've Come" by Matchbox Twenty

"When Did Your Heart Go Missing" by Rooney

and...

total and complete humiliation...

"Rockstar" by Nickelback

How...

...is it that I can find a song called "Barfly" so beautiful and soothing right now?




If the player won't work, just click on the song title. Technical difficulties at the kudzu jungle...

Handle It

handle: (noun, slang) a name by which a thing is known, described or explained; nickname
Let's call it indigestion, ulcer, acid reflux, "nervous stomach", under the weather, PMS, too much ice cream. An episode. An inconvenience. (Try to laugh about it later.)

handle: (verb) to manage, direct, train or control
Take double-shots of Alka Seltzer, Pepcid AC, Zantac. Crunch Tums like candy. Turn to exercise -- copious amounts of exercise. Lose ten pounds. Go to bed early.

handle: (noun) that which may be grasped as to understand another thing; a key
Examine the symptoms closely. From under the rubble, you may hear a whisper, a single hieroglyph to unlock the Rosetta Stone.

handle: (noun) a part of a thing made specifically to be grasped
It is slippery smooth and shapeless, and just when you think you can grab hold, your fingers close around a wisp of smoke. In your determination to excavate it, you may find that it is not a thing to be found.

handle: (verb) to deal or trade in
I handle broken thoughts, waiting, overanalysis, fragility.

handle: (noun) the total amount wagered in an event
Absolutely everything. I gambled it all to be here.

handle: (verb) to behave or perform in a particular way when operated
Under the circumstances, in the grand leap from one place to the next, I find that I don't handle well at zero gravity. Sputtering and shaky, I'm unreliable at best.

handle: (verb) to touch, pick up or carry
I handle loneliness.

fly off the handle: (idiom) to become very agitated without adequate warning or reason
Cracked.

handle: (verb) to manage, deal with or be responsible for; cope
Begin the search for equilibrium - set out on the quest for an even keel. Map out a way to peace of mind, shepherding thoughts to greener pastures beside quiet waters. I ask kindly, "Restore my soul." And, yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, please, please comfort me.

Don't Panic

Thoughts pell-mell like so many colored kites jagging in storm winds...tugging to get free of their lines, giving slack and then straining, but all the time held tight by a single unyielding thread. Colored blurs flapping, the sound of a playing card on bicycle spokes. A loose thread unraveling, the reel coming free.

Lines tangle. Kites crash.

One singular sensation
It starts with...
...thrumming blood, right ear, so hard I press my finger in to make sure the drum won't burst
...sharp tightness, central chest, pinching beneath the bow of my sternum
...dull nausea, stomach pit, slick and threatening...

Pleasemakeitgoaway

Fight the pricking tears. Fight the gag reflex. Fight the breath coming so fast that is never enough. Fight the claustrophobia of mind.

AndIdon'tknowwhy

Wracking shivers but I am not cold. Or maybe I am. I am numb and feeling everything amplified - a sense of irrational imploding. Attempting sleep, but in the darkness, all I can think is

Pleasemakeitgoaway

If I fall asleep, it is to wrestle like David with an Angel, restless and overpowered. And when I wake, it is to purge.

Justtomakeitgoaway

AndIdon'tknowwhy

Today...

...was the kind of day that I wasn't afraid to climb up into the beer cooler at Publix to reach the last six-pack of Amberbock. I needed it that badly...

Heaven Help Us

My dad discovered forwards.

Dirty Film Boys

Almost from the first moment I started The New Job, I thought of the guys that work in the office across the common area from us as the Dirty Film Boys. Right in line with the oddness of ATown, I think they make short films and indie documentaries and maybe make commercials to pay the bills.

Their hours are irregular - sometimes they are there when I arrive in the morning at 8:30, but more often than not, they come in somewhere between 11 and 1. When they aren't there, I notice the place on the white door where they've pushed it open, a big brownish stain from dirty hands. And when they are there, I notice the stale sweaty smell that seems to linger in the common area. I attribute it to them, although, that might not be fair, since the common area isn't air conditioned and we have been experiencing a heat wave. Whatever the case, they take the fall for the pervasive locker room odor.

And then there's the interior of their office. Shelves line the right wall, spewing all sorts of cords and equipment. Weird props - like the mannequin head that looks out from the first desk along the wall, which is painted this ridiculously vibrant apple green. Sometimes I see the guys in there in their giant video-gaming chairs looking at the huge monitors and shouting incoherent commands to each other. And sometimes I meet one of them coming out of the men's as I go into the ladies' - I seem to be on the same pee schedule as the one who could easily be a stand-in for Vincent D'Onofrio. I think about introducing myself, but that's an awkward place to shout hello, so mostly I just smile benignly at him on my way to the WC.

So far, I kind of love the Dirty Film Boys and their mysterious sweaty office with its mannequin, whom I've name Elsa (even though it has no hair and is not clearly female). Perhaps they will become greater players in the drama of my life - or maybe they'll just continue to be the extras across the hall.

The Slug Club

Jim Broadbent (a.k.a. Bridget Jones' dad) has been cast as Horace Slughorn in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, which, incidentally, started filming today. He won't be on set immediately, as he's currently filming Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. (Discussion of the horror of that title for another post.)

I think I like the casting, although I sort of had my heart set on Bob Hoskins. But Broadbent's a fabulous actor, so I trust he'll do the part justice - you know, doubling as a giant squishy armchair.

What Dreams May Come: Part Three

Dream: Kudzu coming through the yard with a bird in his mouth. (Kudzu is a totally indoor cat with no access to birds of any kind.)

Next Day: A strange clutch of gray feathers nestled in the grass by the porch

Room for Improvement

* Posture

* Self-deprecation

* Writing habits

* Second guessing

* Envying

* Punctuality

* Belonging

* Dedication to house savings-fund

* Sharpness of mind

* Joke-telling

Quarterlife

Because I'm always the last one to get with the program, I'm not on MySpace. But I might get on it this fall. MySpace is launching its first TV show, Quarterlife. Brought to you by the producers of thirtysomething and - yes, excitement please - My So-Called Life, the show will meet the generation in between the two previous hits, tackling a crowd of twentysomethings who share a house and record their thoughts on blogs. The show will air in 8 minute segments on MySpaceTV and then be available on Quarterlife.com. As you might guess, the show will feature interactive components, with all of the cast maintaining MySpace profiles and actual blogs. The 36 episodes will be released twice a week starting November 11. I hesitate to say that I'm going to watch this - you know I tend to doom shows that way.

Say What?!

The New Company I work for has an annual retreat. And aside from all of the anxious feelings this conjures for me about traveling, get-to-know-you games, the possibility of having to do a trust fall into my coworkers' arms, and the idea that at some point, I may be forced to chant a motivational phrase, I'm pretty stoked about the all-expenses-paid trip to Savannah.

After the staff meeting the other day, a few of us were asking what to expect of an officemate who went last year. The discussion came round to the attendance of spouses and significant others. Spouses are invited; significant others are not. So far, I've been able to ascertain that two of my coworkers are married, three are in serious relationships and one is a mystery to me. But one of the girls who is in a serious relationship said that she felt disappointed that her BF wasn't invited. "I'm never away from him. I just don't think I can have a good time without him."

I debated about whether to post this, but days later, it's nagging me still. I was astonished at her very real distress about being away from her boyfriend for three days. And I understand that she's going to miss him, but to say that she couldn't have a good time without him? I didn't know what to say.

In general, I like to advocate for not judging. But I admit, in that moment, I full on judged her. I may be judging her still. It's shaded my whole outlook on her as a person - like somehow, this one earnest statement make her a certain kind of person. And judgment or no, wrong or right, I just know that I don't want to ever hear those words come out of my mouth.

Headline of the Day

4 Men Scale Midtown Crane "For Giggles"

Super Whoops

Fulton County (Atlanta, for y'all non-Georgians) District Attorney Paul Howard is under fire for alleged extraneous expenditures by the DA's office. Among them? $89 for a cape emblazoned with Super Lawyer. Discuss amongst yourselves. (And by the way, the cape was worn by one of the DA's employees at the Christmas party. Whose catering bill totalled $4,000. Bet those were super hors d'oeuvres.)

About Me

I know it's just one of those things about having moved to a new place and starting a new job. But I cannot be held responsible for what I say to the next person who prompts me to tell them "about myself." What is there to say to this prompt? Tell me a little bit about yourself. What little bit? What little bit is there that can really say anything about me? I have a cat. I read. I am left handed. The roster of factual information that passes back and forth during this conversation actually says very little about me.

And following is the realization that it's a choose-your-own-adventure. I am in the process of inventing who I am to these people. They don't know who I am, and so I could be anybody. Whoever I am, I am definitely running low on patience.

August & Everything After Goes Dee-Luxe

Believe it or not, it's been 15 years since the Counting Crows released their debut album, August & Everything After. It was one of the first CDs I ever owned, and I played it over and over again. "Time and Time Again" on repeat. I remember that being one of the first songs that I really connected with the lyrics, felt like it was a song about me. I still love the lines: "I wanted so badly somebody other than me staring back at me, but you were gone, gone, gone. I wanted to see you walking backwards and get the sensation of you coming home. I wanted to see you walking away from me without the sensation you're leaving me alone." Now the band is releasing a deluxe edition of the debut album, a double-disc set that includes demo tracks and a live concert from the A&EA tour.

I've been a huge fan of the Crows, through the brilliant sophomore effort Recovering the Satellites and the moments of clarity on This Desert Life to the shellacked popness of Hard Candy that at least gave us the fantastic "Holiday in Spain." Back in the day, I was pretty hardcore - I actually met Adam Duritz during the Recovering tour at Chastain Park Amphitheatre through sheer determination and acquired his signature. And in college, I almost made a guy get out of my car for dogging the band. (Seriously. I stopped the car.) And my friend Jenny Ray nearly got into a fight at The Tabernacle because this kid and his girlfriend were trying to shove me out of the way. (In her defense, she had a fever.)

Since '92, the band lost its drummer from A&EA, gained and lost a second, and lost original bassist Matt Malley so he could pursue his love of Eastern music. Ummm. Yeah. They've been quiet of late except for pulling the classic greatest-hits-with-two-new-tracks trick a couple of years ago with Films About Ghosts and now the rereleased A&EA. I don't know where the Crows are going, but I sure know where they've been, and I must say I'll plunk down the cash on September 18 to add the new version of the old classic to my collection. After all this time, they're still my band.

Disc 1
1. Round Here
2. Omaha
3. Mr. Jones
4. Perfect Blue Buildings
5. Anna Begins
6. Time and Time Again
7. Rain King
8. Sullivan Street
9. Ghost Train
10. Raining in Baltimore
11. Murder of One
12. Shallow Day s (Acoustic Demo)
13. Mean Jumper Blues (Acoustic Demo)
14. Love and Addiction (Demo)
15. Omaha (Demo)
16. Shallow Days (Demo)
17. This Land is Your Land (Demo)

Disc 2 (Live from Paris, the last show of the A&AE tour)
1. Anna Begins
2. Omaha
3. Jumping Jesus
4. Margery Dreams of Horses
5. Perfect Blue Buildings
6. Round Here
7. Rain King
8. Time and Time Again
9. Ghost Train
10. Children in Bloom
11. Murder of One
12. Sullivan Street
13. Ghost in You

A Letter to the Wretched Wanker Who Parked Next to Me

Dear Idiot Oversized Tank Driver:
I cannot believe that you parked next to me in the impossibly small space clearly marked for "compact cars only" in the Parking Deck of Death. I mean, I've only been in it three times now, and let's face it, there's hardly room in those spaces for a moped. So what were you thinking, you yuppie sleezeball, parking in that tiny, tiny space and effectively trapping me in the space next to the poor unsuspecting somewhat-used Camry? Because I had no way to get out. I mean, it was an Austin Powers moment times ten, but as careful as I was, I still scratched the Camry's bumper and mine. That's right, King Suburban. Your craptastic parking job forced me to hit a parked car in order to get out of my parking space - and I was there first. What was the problem? Couldn't put down your Starbucks long enough to figure out your behemoth car couldn't fit in the space? So then I stood there, wringing my hands and wondering what to do and left a hastily scrawled note for slightly-used Camry that said, "I hit your car. If you need to reach me, call me. My apologies."

And this is my note to you. I hate you, King Suburban. I was already having a vile, miserable day. Thanks for making it even better. Because of you, I cried on the way home. I hope you can live with that.

Have your insurance people call my insurance people.

Ash

For the Record

I hate the word "pamphlet."

It reminds me of the pamphlets found in the Berry College health center featuring a very swirly Age of Aquarius-esque design that read "Chlamydia is Not a Flower."

What Dreams May Come: Part 2

Yesterday morning, I dreamed that I was on the phone with my friend from college, Jenny Ray. I haven't talked to her in quite some time. As dreams do, this one faded away as the morning wore on and I went about the habits of everyday living.

I drove to Atlanta yesterday for Justin's birthday and because I had to be in the Atlanta office today. On the way there, I was thinking that I should use the time to catch up with someone, and I remembered the dream and thought I should call Jenny Ray. But someone else called, and then I arrived at Justin and Eva's and it was forgotten. Until after dinner when I noticed I had one missed called and a voicemail on my cell: from Jenny Ray.

Potter Pick-Me-Up

The other day, when Justin and Eva returned from their vacation, it was the first time I'd seen Justin since he'd finished Deathly Hallows. He was standing in the kitchen looking a bit forlorn.

"Ashley?" he said.

"Yeah?"

"Do you have Goblet of Fire on DVD?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Will you watch it with me?" He looked a little sheepish. "I just need to know that Harry's alive."

I smiled. "It's alright, buddy. I understand." So we watched.

And in case you need to know Harry's alive, too, principle filming for Half-Blood Prince starts in two weeks.

Dillon: A Snapshot

*Teeth: Four
*Crawling: Almost
*Meltdowns: 5 am, 10:40 am, 2:15 pm
* Exhausted parents: Two
*Insanely huge mosquito bites: Two
*Favorite book: Hello, Bee! (Thanks to Andi!)
*Favorite noise: Woof
*New skill: Hilarious attempts at fake crying
*Fingernails: Sharp enough to draw a Potteresque scar on Auntie Ashley's nose
*Worries about scar disappearing before scheduled website photo Thursday: Thousands

En Flambe

As I've mentioned before, my brother Justin is a stellar cook. He earned his associate culinary degree for fun, and now one of his favorite pastimes is cooking with an audience. One of his specialty desserts is flambe - anything that involves a healthy dose of liquor burned off some sort of fruit. When I was there a few weeks ago, it was a heavenly bananas foster. And then last night, it was figs in port and plum and pear in brandy. Cooked, flamed, reduced, and poured over vanilla ice cream.

Though I didn't attribute it in any way to the nearly fatal case of acid indigestion I experienced at their house last time I was there, it was in the lineup of things consumed prior to my belly swelling up like a balloon. This time around, I admit that a nagging bit of worry entered my mind as I shoveled in figs and plums, but I pushed it to the side as being overly cautious.

Two hours later (post-viewing of Disturbia) I regretted not having exercised more caution. Despite my best efforts to overcome the gag reflex, I ended up tossing my flambe. I can't figure out the problem. I've certainly had enough dark liquor to know I'm not allergic, nor am I allergic to any of the fruits nor have I had any inkling of lactose intolerance. But since flambe sends my stomach up in flames, I'll stick to the fire-free desserts from now on.