Happy Halloween!

For all of you who love the ghosts and gouls and things that go bump in the night, here's a link to last October's post about all my supernatural encounters. And for those of you who are 'fraidy cats, here's Dillon's first Halloween. Definitely a treat.

Side Effects: Mercy

When I was little, Justin and I used to play a game we called "Mercy." Mercy involved bending the other player's hand back at the wrist in an effort to touch the fingers to the forearm - until the pain became too much and the player called, "Mercy!"

Mercy meant "Stop, it's hurting too much." Mercy meant, "You with the upper hand, please take pity on me." Mercy meant, "I can't take anymore." Mercy meant, "I give up - you win." Mercy was about finding a threshold, the fine line between tolerance and intolerance. Mercy was a plea.

And now, I find myself emotionally bent backwards. Just when I thought the worst was over, I feel my fingers touching my forearm, everything in my wrist tight to the point of breaking.

Mercy. Please, please, mercy.

Cheap Therapy

Dear Ray:
I hope you don't mind that I call you Ray, seeing as how you seem to be inside my head these days. And I can attest that's a scary, weird place to be, so I think we can start out on a first-name basis.

I just wanted to say thanks, Ray. Thanks for writing every word, every chord, every note of Til the Sun Turns Black. It's aural therapy. Honestly, I can't stop listening to it - and I don't want to stop listening to it because it's soothing. And so few things fall in that category right now.

I know I'm a barfly...I know it and feel it. I know I've I looked my demons in the eyes, lay bare my chest said do your best to destroy me. And there have been moments where for a while I sat there staring at the photograph. For a while, I cried and tried not to make a scene.

And then I hear you sing, "Don't let your heart get heavy, child. Inside you there's a strength that lies. Don't let your soul get lonely, child. It's only time, it will go by." I want to believe you, Ray, so I just keep listening. Keep hoping it will come true.

Thanks for being inside my head. It was getting lonely in there.

Love,
Ash

Things I Haven't Seen But Don't Like

* Highschool Musical Two - So so so (so so so) tired of seeing over-makeupped Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens (clothes on or off)

* Hannah Montana - Just the name Miley Cyrus makes me shudder

* Dancing with the Stars - I can't believe that Marie Osmond's collapse was the top news of the day - since the west coast is on fire and the east coast has no water...

* Saw 4 - Creepy mask. Creepy voice. For the fourth time.

* Paris Hilton's new movie - These four words together say it all.

Photog Ash

Please note the new blog linked to the right, Photog Ash. A client of mine asked me if I'd like to participate in a photography game called 26 Things. I have been given a list of 26 words, phrases or ideas to photograph however I wish to interpret them. I will be posting the photographs over the course of the rest of October and November.

I created a separate blog as a new user since I am playing among a group that includes another coworker and a client - and I would like to protect the jungle from both in order to preserve my Freedom of Speech here. You are welcome to look (and comment) but please do so as an unregistered user so that those folks won't link through your profiles and blogs to Kudzu Jungle.

I know, I know. This is the height of paranoia. But there is a beauty in remaining anonymous on the interweb, and I'd like to stay under the radar (and employed). Thanks much.

The Good Doctor

Yesterday, I had an appointment with The Doctor about The Panic. It was no small accomplishment to get this appointment. It required getting a list of referrals from The Other Doctor. Cross-referencing the referred doctors with those covered by The Insurance, which was a little tricky because I changed my plan two months in based on the recommendation of the HR consultant.

And when I called those who double qualified (referred and covered!), I found one doctor who wasn't accepting new patients, one whose first available appointment was in December, and one who required some personal information and a description of symptoms for a sort of MD audition before he would accept me as a patient. This is The Doctor with whom I had an appointment.

But, through some snafu with the entire health care system in America, when I arrived to see The Doctor, I found that The Insurance was not accepted. Because of two tiny words printed under the plan line. The Nice Receptionist offered to let me cancel without paying the cancellation fee, but I knew I needed to see The Doctor. So I opted to self-pay, closing my eyes briefly so as not to envision what the bill would be.

And there in the waiting room, I felt bitterly ironic that The Panic was rising the moment I was called to see The Doctor.

But fate took another little twist. The Doctor was actually a wonderful, wonderful person who listened to what I had to say and told me that I am not crazy. We made plans for Right Now and we talked about Next Steps. And then he told me there would be no charge. I went to The Doctor for free.

As I was leaving he said, "If you have any problems - any at all - call me. I mean it. And don't worry about the insurance thing. We'll work something out."

I walked out of The Doctor's office feeling a small bubble of hope rising against The Panic and the autumn afternoon light was so clear that I swear I could almost see The End in sight.

Bumper Sticker of the Day

Spotted on a car in the parking lot behind the office:

We Must Stop the War on Error

Remember Sam?

You may recall my request for thoughts and prayers for my friend Laura's son Sam, who was in neonatal ICU back in August just after he was born. I was catching up on Laura's news from her blog, and thought you might like to see how well he's doing.

All these happy little baby boys - Sam and now Pen's Nicholas and Andi's Wyatt. The next generation of heartbreakers.

Post-a-Rama

I did it. I signed up for NaBloPoMo. I have officially committed myself to one post per day for the month of November. I will be bringing the jungle goodness every single day. Prepare yourselves.

(And join in if you're a blogger. I was inspired by Meg. And you get a neat little widget, too!)

Local Color

On Saturday, after the festivals, Justin, Eva and Eva's brother Gregory took me up on the Blueridge Parkway so that I could get some photos and really see the leaves. Gregory disdained me as a "leaf-looker", the term the locals reserve for stupid below-the-speed-limit drivers who come to the mountains in droves during the fall. And I knew I was old when I was trying to convince this 13-year-old boy to appreciate the beauty of his hometown. We pulled over at one point and climbed through the woods along a rather rocky path until we broke through the trees onto a flat overlook. And it was breathtaking. Totally worth the 19 times I almost twisted my ankle.

Possibly the best part of the whole weekend was Sunday morning. Eva's parents have a landscaping business and so own a Gator. Justin took me out for a ride through their property and the adjacent drive across Old Spanish Oak. It was freezing cold in the open air at 40 mph, Justin and I were laughing at Gregory's dog who insisted on racing us, and it was gorgeous and peaceful. Justin asked me why I wasn't taking more pictures. "I can't," I said. "It's too beautiful and I can't do it justice. I'm just going to breathe and enjoy it." And I did.

Fall, Festivals and Funnel Cake

This past weekend, I traveled to the western North Carolina mountains to take in a couple of festivals synonymous with the onset of autumn. Eva grew up in that part of the state, and we had the pleasure of starting the day with breakfast at her parents' house on Old Spanish Oak Mountain with this spectacular view of Grandfather Mountain from the back porch. (Grandfather is partly obscured by the clouds here, but it truly does look like the profile of an old man, as though he lay down and went to sleep among the ridges.)

We started our festival trek at Valle Crucis, an arts and crafts fair replete with mountain music (bluegrass!), homemade goodies (apple butter!) and a petting zoo (alpacas!). I couldn't get photos that did it justice, but Valle Crucis is a beautiful valley nestled among ranges of gently rolling hills. It's surrounded on all four sides, and this weekend, it was cloaked in the colors of peak fall weekend in the mountains: gilded in yellow, vibrant orange, russet and blood red. Perhaps my film camera captured it better, but I know my digital just couldn't absorb the colors.

The fair itself was charming with all its folksy art - a genre I'm pretty familiar with, as it's very popular in my hometown, but this art was from the mountains and so had a different flavor to it. A lot of interesting metal work, found object art and wood carving. Some of it wonderful and well-crafted - and some of it was a little scary. I chose an unusual biscuit jar from a Boone potter that was glazed in black and white and bore a hand carved mural and poetry on it. I wanted one of these beautiful natural wood bowls, but they are ridiculously expensive. So I took a photo instead.

We couldn't have asked for more beautiful weather - sunny and crisp with just enough chill to make you grateful for your coat and smile that autumn had chased away the oppressive summer heat. And the smell was marvelous - damp dew, grass, woodsmoke and mountain air. It was invigorating.

We drove out of Valle Crucis and through the mountains, past what Eva's dad claims is the most photographed farm in the state of North Carolina perched on a wide expanse of green between two towering peaks. I, unfortunately, was concentrating on not letting the winding mountain road get to me and did not join the legions of photographers who have captured its likeness. We made our way to Banner Elk, closer to Eva's hometown, for the Woolly Worm Festival. What, you ask, is a woolly worm? I don't believe we have them in Georgia, but they look like crawling pipe cleaners. They have 13 segments of brown and black. And at the Woolly Worm Festival, these creatures are raced (yes, raced) up a 3-foot length of string. After 1,400 worms raced, the winning worm, Armstrong, was used to predict the winter weather. His segmented body bore 4 black segments, 4 brown segments and 5 black segments - so look for a severe onset to winter followed by a mild period and then out with an arctic blast. Oh, and by the way, the whole concept of the Woolly Worm Festival was dreamed up by two guys who were high.

The Woolly Worm Festival offered all sorts of culture, from the folk music to the colorful array of people in attendance. I was lucky enough to procure a hot-out-of-the-fryer funnel cake and Mom selected some delicious apple beignets - deelish. Justin and Eva let Dillon have some funnel cake, and, well, folks, he's from the South - he liked it. But not quite as much as he liked the little maracas Eva purchased from the Cherokee Indian pan flutist.

And so we ended our day of festivals - with sunburn, indigestion and a very happy little boy.

Yes!

Potter fans, you must read this article from salon.com by Rebecca Traister. It's a brilliant (and right on point) discussion about the Dumbledore revelation and Rowling's other post-Potter pronouncements.

Dumbledore? Gay. J.K. Rowling? Chatty.

What happens when authors like J.K. Rowling can't stop telling their own stories?

By Rebecca Traister

You've probably heard the news by now, since it's been splattered everywhere from the New York Times to Entertainment Weekly to the Associated Press: Albus Dumbledore, the late, great headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was gay.

If you find it curious that this news would make the headline ticker on CNN, you're not crazy, given that Dumbledore is a 150-something wizard who is not, in fact, real. It is also true that the Harry Potter series, in which Dumbledore is a hero, ended with the publication of its final book more than three months ago. How could there be an October surprise about a character whose tale concluded -– supposedly definitively -– in late July? more...

Queer Eye for the Wizarding Guy

If you had told me that the guy wearing a purple dress with high heeled buckled shoes was gay, in most cases, I wouldn't be surprised. Or if you told me the guy who's really smart, has a great job and seems to understand everyone perfectly with his amazingly sensitive intuition was gay, in most cases, I wouldn't be surprised. But when you tell me that Dumbledore is gay, I am surprised.

Hogwarts' beloved headmaster (ewwww) is gay. And I don't care. It doesn't bother me that Dumbledore is gay. It bothers me that JKR is making this pronouncement after the fact. Some may argue with me, but I've studied the Potter cannon pretty closely, and it's just not there. Sure, Dumbledore is isolated and without any visible romantic attachment to a woman. He has a troubled - and somewhat secretive - past. But these things do not make a man gay. And if it was so formative, why wasn't it in the books?

Perhaps I simply feel about this character trait as I did about numerous things revealed in Deathly Hallows. It's an ace in the sleeve - a trump card. I don't think in any way that JKR is doing this for publicity, and I feel confident that she really did create and envision the character as gay. She's far too dedicated to the story as she imagined it to out Dumbledore for sensationalist reasons. But the course of Deathly Hallows reveals a Dumbledore far different than the wise and knowing gentle-mannered Dumbledore that we all wept to see Avada Kedavra'ed by Snape. And to take that one twist further to reveal that he's gay - and in love with Gellert Grindelwald to boot - almost made me laugh. It seemed as out of context as finding out that Professor Flitwick has a foot fetish and Professor McGonagall is a KISS fan.

For some reason, it seems outside of the realm of Potterdom, and even though I've read a couple of articles in which she explains how Dumbledore's love was his great tragedy, I didn't feel that in the book. I read it, thinking he lost a friend and a sister. And now I feel like she's imposing a different context on it. One I would've accepted had it been there to begin with, but one I resist in getting in the aftermath. Was it necessary? And does it enhance the story? Or change it? Should it have been there earlier? I think she didn't want to commit to it fully, didn't want to make the Dumbledore/Grindelwald relationship too controversial. But now - the truth is out.

You may now commence with jokes about how Dumbledore stole Grindelwald's wand.

Good Old Fashioned Family Fun

On the way back from the North Carolina mountains, Justin was telling us about the gym where he works out in Atlanta.

"Some guys just let it all hang out - I don't understand it. And just for the record, there's one thing that I feel I should never see a naked man do in public."

Almost afraid to ask but too curious not to, I said, "What's that?"

"Brush his teeth."

I contemplated for just a moment before Mom chimed in. "Yeah," she said. "Tick tock, tick tock."

Stop the Presses

In the last couple of weeks, I've had two clients get caught up a the snares of the media. On both occasions there was an incident. And on both occasions, the story was printed or aired with gross inaccuracies, misrepresentations, factual errors, and downright misinformation. In one case, the story spun among the anchors and pundits until the actual events were strung so far from what happened that you almost wanted to laugh - except your client's rep was on the line because Fox put some ditzy blonde at the news desk who only knows how to posture and editorialize and not ask intelligent questions. The other client ended up on the front page speared on the pen of an entry-level reporter who based her entire story on first-person claims in what was undoubtedly a reach for investigative journalism that came off reading like Nancy Drew taking on the establishment.

Don't take this post to mean I'm all big business and protecting The Man. But it's made me wonder how the 24-hour news cycle - no, more like the mili-second news cycle - has changed the concept of accuracy in reporting. With the pressure to break news online, to be the first to the world with a piece of news, more and more reporters are doing "incremental reporting" - publishing a story immediately online and building it as more information becomes available. And some do it well - the wires like AP and Reuters.

But there's also this race to expose and criticize at any cost - to be seen as the voice of the little person against the big bad corporations. I confess I usually believe those stories where your average joe is the victim of the faceless machine. But, to my astonishment, I'm finding that in some cases, the facts are being wrenched. It's emotive journalism. And, while I'm peeved about my clients, I admit that it's much more than that worrying me. How much of other news stories is spin and conjecture? And how do we know? And who do we believe? When these stories shaded with the reporter's feelings, with the subject's feelings, are presented as news, we become numb to the fact that there are no facts. Everything is so fast, so soundbyted that we just assume that if its "news" from a "news source", it's news. And we don't have time to dissect it and evaluate before it sinks and becomes something we heard from somewhere.

We need news. We need news to inform us about the world - and at times to expose corruption and scandal. But we need to be able to believe, too, and I'm not sure there's a clear-cut rule for how to do that anymore.

All this to say, just like your mama told you: don't believe everything you hear - you hear now?

A Plague Upon Both Your Houses

Friday at midnight, Dillon started throwing up. He went through all the sets of crib sheets they own, six pairs of pajamas, eight towels and two outfits by the time we arrived at 2 p.m. on Saturday to provide back up to the bedraggled parents.

Sunday at midnight, I started throwing up. Mom followed behind me two hours later. By the time the two of us had called into work on Monday, Eva joined our happy number. And then Justin, too. I was upright for approximately 10 minutes yesterday. Mom and I alternately moaned, threw up, shared the heating pad for all our aching joints, made blackly comedic remarks, and grew increasingly more dehydrated. Must be my annual weekend for dehydration.

In the past forty-eight hours, I have eaten one cracker, one single-serve Mott's applesauce, a piece of toast and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (which I ate too fast because I was starving and had to take a nap to keep down). I have missed two days of work - a feat unsurpassed since I was in college - and therein have missed both a company outing and a big awards presentation for my boss at The Fox Theater in Atlanta.

The doctor thought Dillon had rotavirus. I think it's the plague. Please observe the biohazard sign we've hung over the house and keep at a safe distance.

How to Feel Every Day

Mendacious requested a blog on blogging about feelings that seem to never change from day to day. I've given some thought to how one should address this matter, and I think a to-do list is in order. Perhaps it's best to catalog and check off the feelings for each day:

StopStopStop
Stop trying so hard to fit in, make a place, put down roots, shake the dust off your feet. Stop worrying about whether or not you think you can do your job, whether or not they think you can do your job, whether or not you really can do your job, whether or not you're going to get fired any moment from your job. Stop looking back and looking forward and looking back and looking forward - it won't help you make sense of what you're looking at now. StopStopStop or else you'll panic.

ThisTimeLastYear
This time last year I was sitting on my back porch reading a book from the library. This time last year I had a job I understood where I sat across the desk from STGD and laughed. This time last year I lived on Grace Street and walked the wide-board wooden floors and sat on the windowsill and dreamed. This time last year I stood on the Cape Fear River. This time last year people knew me. This time last year was another lifetime.

PeoplePeopleEverywhereAndNotaDroptoDrink
People from dawn til dusk, from waking to sleeping. Always someone else occupying the same space as me. Next to me in the office, in the same house. Crowded for breathing room and the thoughts cartwheeling in my head. The people are familiar and unfamiliar, and they are omnipresent, and they do not comfort. People everywhere and yet so lonesome am I.

OneIsTheLoneliestNumber
Try not to think about being alone. Just one. Just me, just me, just me. And I don't know anyone. And I don't know how to meet anyone. And I look jealously upon groups of peolple who appear to be friends. Who laugh with each other. Who talk and know each other's language. And I am just one. Just me.

WhereIsTheEnd?
To round out these feelings, to sort of end where you started and as a nice second to StopStopStop, there is the question of when this ends. How far ahead is the light at the end of the tunnel that you can't see? How long does it take to get to the destination that isn't in sight? How do you find the place on the map if you don't know where you're looking for? How do you tell yourself there will be an end when you really don't know?

Shoreline

Last Friday, I found Kim waiting for me in the baggage claim area at the Cleveland-Hopkins airport just after 9 a.m. with five waking hours already behind me. With relative ease we collected my bag, headed into the glaring clarity of an overcast white morning. The drive back to Euclid was made surreal by the (unfortunately) anomalous fact that we were together in a car, like so many moments from our early friendship, and the startling fact that I was there because Kim was getting married. It could've gone like that - a series of adrenalized moments like a whole weekend of head rushes.

But instead, we stopped at Dunkin' Donuts, grabbed coffee and breakfast, and went to nearby Sims Park behind Henn Mansion and bordering the shores of Lake Eerie. We sat at a picnic table, facing the endless stretch of slate grey lake gently lapping the stone break-walls at its edge. The clouds were thin - the kind you could tell would burn off with the early afternoon sun. We talked quietly - about the wedding, about life in general, about the man who was walking a cat sans leash just by calling it behind him.

After we finished our breakfast, we went down to the shore, and Kim started skipping stones - one of those skills I'd never quiet learned. She patiently showed me how to flick the flat abnormally-shaped stones across the water, the way Ben had taught her to do it. And we rejoiced when one of hers went five or six skips before sinking below the surface. We picked up a few bigger rocks and lobbed them in just to see how far we could throw them, relished the kerplunking splash.

The sand was wet and cool, the air blanketing us in dampness. And then it was time to go. We selected the best stones we could find and counted to three before skimming them across the lake. Mine skipped twice and hers three times before they disappeared. And we laughed for no apparent reason, and the sun started to break apart the clouds, and we walked away from the shoreline with one more reason to remember why we're friends.

Getting a Sense After Eight Weeks

Mouthing off: jargon deciphered - noodle, offline, sidebar, inoculate, POD, pman; the correct company name when I answer the phone (even though I want to say the old one)

Noise, noise, noise: high hat notification on The Exotic's email (that drives me mad), dumpster emptying on Fridays, click-clack of the overhead fans, sonar beep of The Goofball's phone, music on The Rockstar's computer that I can barely hear but often sounds like electronica chanting at the end of the day

Taste buds: Peaches for fried chicken, green beans and mac & cheese (listed as a vegetable), chi-chi new dive by the art house theatre serving up overpriced prosciutto and grass clippings doused in olive oil, pastries from Black Forest Bakery, free(!) Maggiano's one day in ATL, only French vanilla creamer for coffee, Grape Laffy Taffy and Aztec Punch Starburst from the candy dish

Sniff: occasional chicken odor drifting from nearby poultry operation, stale sweat from the Dirty Film boys despite cooling weather, odd smell of cabbage in the ladies' which The Violinist and I determined was highly abnormal in the bathroom, old wood and machine oil from the freight elevator, Italian bistro cranking up for dinner every night when I leave

I Spy: my picture on the website (ick), other people reading Perez Hilton during the day, very drab blue background on the laptop I warily use each day, a growing number of folders on my desk containing information that I'm supposed to understand, three stalls in the ladies' but I will only use two of them - the third to me...well, it's just off limits for no apparent reason, red brick out the window, hope for me yet(??)

"I Do" Review

"I Do" Good
* The weather was perfectly beautiful with bright blue skies and golden autumn light.

* Kim looked magnificent. I've never seen her quite so radiant - and when we first got her dress on, and I took it all in, I couldn't help but cry to see her looking that regal.

* I did not lose Kim's engagement ring while wearing it for the duration of the ceremony, nor drop Ben's wedding band into the nearby lake on accident.

* The dinner music included selections from William Shatner, Ethel Merman and The Beatles - only Kim Shable (Oja!).

* Kim's mom put us all to shame on the dance floor during "Gold Digger." And that, my friends, is to be applauded.

* Kim handled snafus - like the accidental dumping of a cup of a coffee on her veil at the salon - with unbelievable aplomb.

* Managed to arrange an all Wilmywood photo - sans Penelope, HAT, and Daren. We missed you!

* I had the best up-do ever - Samantha, you rock.

"I Do" Not-So-Good
* I discovered at the rehearsal dinner that my best friend is also left-handed. How in the name of heaven did I miss this fact all these years? I am admittedly obsessed with other left handers, and I didn't know Kim is one? I cannot believe this. I demand a recount.

* After the rehearsal dinner, we all went back to the Shables for a campfire. I, after my 4 a.m. wake up call, fell asleep by the fire in a lawn chair. Like a bum.

* I was attacked by a bee during the ceremony. No, really. It approached, and I tried gently to wave it away. But it pursued me relentlessly until I was flailing arms and doing a little hop from foot to foot to get away from it. I imagine, for the crowd, it was mildly entertaining.

* I did not have time for even one "nerve-softening" drink before offering my toast - behind a very poignant and touching tribute from the best man. Out-toasted, I was.

* The woman in charge at the event site scared the bejeezes out of all of us - both with her demeanor and her aggressive blush.

* I was forced to do the Chicken Dance against my better judgment and the preservation of my dignity. Many, many thanks to Jenn, who was friend enough to not allow me to suffer alone.

"I Do" Tears
* First moment in wedding dress

* Exchange of vows

* First dance

* Goodbye

My Best Friend's Wedding

Perhaps later in the week, I can say more about my best friend's wedding. Right now, I feel sort of a lump in my throat that she's married - married! - and that I was there to share the experience as maid of honor. At this time, I'm happy to report that the whole celebration went off without a hitch (of any significance).

I stood with the best man late in the evening last night and watched as Kim bid farewell to the last few straggling guests. "This is the saddest part," I said.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, it's like the last 10 or 15 people, and it's just...over," I said, feeling suddenly like crying, watching Kim looking so elegant and married. (Did I mention she got married?)

"Yeah," he said. "But look at them. They're so happy. And it was perfect."

And just like he trumped me on the toasts (thanks, Partak) in this moment, he trumped me, too.

Here's a taste of the perfect happiness.

Post hair & makeup, the bride-to-be takes us all to McDonald's. And we were lovin' it.

The happy couple was "The Luckiest" during the first dance.

I really think this picture speaks for itself.

Congratulations to Kim and Ben. I wish you happily ever after.

In Plane English

I am not a frequent flyer, by any stretch of the imagination. I didn't even fly until I was 24 years old. But I've flown a fair bit since then - enough to know the drill. And considering that I was pretty anomalous in this day and age for having flown so seldom, I'm surprised at the number of people who have probably flown a great deal more than I have who act like they don't know the drill.

Please, sir, don't try to use your cell phone while we are taxiing toward the runway. The flight attendant can see you, and her name is Joan and she looks like Elvira, and she means business. It is not an approved electronic device for in-flight use - use of a cell phone is strictly prohibited once the exterior cabin door is closed. And I know you're probably very busy and important and you're trying to get in one more very important call, but just don't. Aside from the fact that you're holding us all up, I'm afraid to see what Joan will do to you.

And I know that the upright position isn't like your Lazy Boy recliner, but please, just click it forward. We can see that your head is resting in the lap of the passenger behind you. Sit up straight and get ready to go. And your tray table? Don't use it to prop your latest issue of Country Living on. It must be in the stowed and locked position. Open your shade, too. I know you're ready for your long winter's nap, but the shades must be open during take-off and landing. Oh, and your giant oversized carry-on bag that you refuse to stow in the overhead bin? It must be completely under the seat in front of you - seriously. Joan will get out her ruler to check it.

I know the flight attendants don't always speak clearly over the intercom - and some times they say their spiel so fast you wonder what if I actually need to know that? But get with the program, people. Flight delays are bad enough without having to endure them because you can't wait to take that call until we land. And, p.s., in the unlikely event that we have a water landing, I'm not going to instruct you on how to use your cushion as a flotation device. I'm just going to let you drown.

Dear Blog,

Please excuse the neglect. I know, I know - one post this week. It's pathetic. We can blame the panic attacks or the pervasive nausea or the fatigue, but that would be whiny. No one likes a whiner. And while I had a couple of ideas for a post, I haven't had time, and now, I've got to dash - 4 a.m. wake up call for the 7:23 flight to Cleveland. (Kim, you know I love you when I'm willing to get up at 4 to catch a plane for your wedding.)

I'm sorry, blog, I really am. I'll try to do better next week. I promise.

Love,
Ashley

Fear of Failure: The Baseball Analogy

“Hank Aaron,” Dad says. “Hit a lot of homeruns. But think about how many times he struck out.”

“I know,” I mumble, tears hanging on the apples of my cheeks.

“You gotta learn to strike out, baby.”

“I know.”

“I ain’t saying you’ve got to be satisfied with it.” He pauses. “But you’ve got to get comfortable with it. And I’m not saying don’t try to hit the ball. Swing hard. But know that sometimes, you’re going to miss.”