NaBloPoMo

Fin

Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I Love You, Tomorrow

Truth be told, I've had this photo sitting in my blog pics folder for over a year. I found it when searching for a Wilmywood photo, but at the time, the season was all wrong. I've held on to it, thinking I'd have an opportunity to use it. And now I do it.

This is how I remember Wilmywood. This stretch of the riverfront park where they put lights in the trees. And in the fall, when the leaves changes, those lights make the park look almost surreal. I love the hexagonal pavers there, and the thick black chains strung between the pylons. And I love the Cape Fear with its fierce murky current moving swiftly along the edge. That's where I'm going tomorrow.

I've been calling it my Cheers Weekend - saying that I need to go where everybody knows my name. I need to fall softly back into that place where I have my bearings. I need to see STGD, Sus, and Miranda and the rest of the folks at the Old Job and Pen and Baby N.Lo. And the river and the city and, yes, Grace Street, too. You're only a day away.

The Two Faces of Wednesday

Right now, I kind of see my new job like a surveyor. I'm taking measurements and sizing up the landscape. Getting a feel for the terrain and compiling a list of areas that are pleasant, dangerous, under construction.

Today, the ATown office gang had our own little retreat at a rustic and charming farmhouse in a neighboring town. We talked about the past, present and future of our motley little crew. And I was operating in my space: comfortable in thinking and talking and envisioning. This kind of conversation is what I'm good at...what I suspect they might have hired me for, this ability to do this for other companies: assess, strategize, imagine. I felt a surge of belonging - not because I suddenly feel like my life is falling into place - but because in the moment, I felt like I belonged in that arena. And after so many months and so many moments spent on treacherous footing, it was a relief to find a ledge to stand on for a few moments and breathe.

And then I got home...only to go back to the office virtually. I spent a couple of hours reinputting my time from the past month in the wake of a massive data loss by the accounting program. And then I spent another hour or hour and a half working on documents and strategy for the Client Who Cannot Escape Crisis Mode. And at 9:30 when my mother went to bed, I was still working on these things. All the warm fuzzy feelings I felt earlier started to recede, and I wondered...can I keep doing this? Can this become my work schedule? And in this odd period of my life where I have no life, how frighteningly easy would it be to fall into this pattern and never have any sort of life?

I'm taking a vacation day on Friday to go to Wilmywood, and for a second, I thought about what an inopportune time it is...how clients have expectations, how things need to get done, and I thought--. But no. I'm not going to start that. I'm going to take my day. I'm going to have a life. Warm fuzzies be damned.

Ash's Must-See TV

While I'm not usually one for regularly scheduled programs, particularly the network fare, I find myself parking it in front of the boob tube on a regular basis these days. It's a commentary on the gripping life I lead...but you know, if you're looking for something to watch, and Pen's regularly scheduled programming hasn't let you to what you seek, check out these prime-time gems.

Monday - 8 p.m., GPTV, Antiques Roadshow
Okay, so I know it's kind of lame that I watch Antiques Roadshow with my parents every Monday. But it makes them happy and it appeals to my nerdy love of odd history and such. Plus, it's always a bonus when someone from the bowels of south Georgia comes up with a piece of pottery they bought for a quarter at a garage sale that's worth $20k. I'm getting really good at spotting which ones are going to be big-tickets.

Tuesday - 9 p.m., Fox, House
I love this show. I love this man - this odious, cynical, unjust, brilliant man. I want to be verbally and emotionally abused by Gregory House. I can't get enough of the wicked humor and quirky relationships on this show. (And I missed it tonight because I erroneously thought it was a rerun - egads!)

Wednesday, 10 p.m., Bravo, Project Runway
Tim Gunn alongside a cardboard box would entertain me. The fact that he's surrounded by 15 catty designing divas and the caricature-ish Michael Kors and Nina Garcia really ups the ante for me. Carry on!

Friday, 8 p.m., Men in Trees
Think of this show, now in its second season, as Northern Exposure meets Sex and the City. Other than the fact that I sometimes space out for a second or two thinking about how odd Anne Heche is in real life, I love her character Marin, a relationship coach jilted by her high-profile fiance who then retreats to Alaska. She hosts a radio show, and her monologue is often very Carrie Bradshaw-esque. The scenery is gorgeous and the supporting cast is equally charming - including Orlando Jones as a very persnickety gay man partnered by Mario Cantone of S&TC fame.

Friday, 9 p.m., Women's Murder Club
I know, I know. I virtually just assured myself a spot in the Single Cat Lady Hall of Fame with this admission. And Kim may no longer be my friend because the lead, Angie Harmon, just happens to be the sister of the sinister and much-hated Mark Harmon. (Ask her, she'll tell you the story.) But it's a good show. And it also features Rob Estes, who starred in the USA Network Original Series Silk Stalkings, of which I was a big fan. I never quite got over the death of his character Sgt. Chris Lorenzo, so I'm really just happy to see him alive.

Addendum: After consulting IMDB, I have discovered that Angie Harmon is actually no relation to Mark Harmon. Kim, consider yourself cleared to join the Women's Murder Club.

Prom Night

I didn't go to my senior prom. It wasn't that I didn't want to go, but no one asked me. Don't feel too sorry for me though - Anna took pity on me and took me and Niki and Heather to Six Flags instead. All the same, I must admit that I was rather excited when I heard the work retreat would include an 80s prom. I mean...the opportunity to recapture a missing piece of my youth plus the greatness of the 80s? And it did not disappoint.

And so I do not disappoint you, dear readers, I give you this photo of me in action. The PROOF stamp obscures some of the greatness of my outfit from your view, but I believe you get the idea. I would like you to know the following: my mother made this dress; Anna wore it to her senior prom; no items were purchased; these are Anna's earrings and mine and Anna's jewelry salvaged from around the house; I am wearing a banana clip and false eyelashes; there is a bow WITH a rosette on my dress; the shoulder pads extended roughly two inches beyond my shoulders. Other highlights of the evening included:

* My immediate boss sporting a Top Gun flight suit

* A coworker's husband dressed as John Cusak from Say Anything, complete with a boombox that played "In Your Eyes" which he climbed on stage at one point to play - yes, aloft, over his head, Cusak-style

* My Big Boss sporting a mullet wig, black suit and gold bow tie

* An A-Town 80s cover band that rocked it

* An ATL coworker's spot-on dance performance to "Billie Jean" in his killer white Member's Only jacket

* A half-drunken group sing-along to "Total Eclipse of the Heart"

* The Violinist's unbelievably mad skills on the dance floor

* The Rock Star relenting after many drinks to hit the floor for a couple of songs

* The prom king graphic designer who was the spitting image of The Cure's Robert Smith

* Me, not having The Panic at the disco

The Pressure of a Post

NaBloPoMo is drawing to a close - today marks the beginning of the end - the final week of my commitment to a post a day. If I stopped right now, I'd have blogged 83 percent of the month. That would earn me a B - a respectable passing grade. And while I'm not going to stop posting (unless there are unforeseen dire circumstances), I have to say that I am utterly without inspiration. I considered, and discarded, a number of post ideas:

* Another photo of Dillon, this time pushing one of his walker toys through the kitchen (I can almost hear your relief...)

* Feeling the creeping tendrils of The Panic after overdosing on people time and underdosing on Ashley time

* Reluctant sadness trimming the tree this afternoon, even though Dillon was fascinated by the lights...and inevitable feeling that I'm not a kid anymore

* Finding a dead cat under my car Friday afternoon. The neighbor's cat, who apparently died of old age. But it brought back very bad memories and made me stand in the driveway repeating, "I did not run over this cat" Rainman-style.

* A diatribe about how I'm failing miserably at the photo game and likely to only get a third of the pictures posted, by which I would segue into how I'm very good at signing up for things and very lousy at finishing them.

* A list of things I got done this evening, some of which included paying bills, addressing cards, sent a few emails.

* A list of things I did not get done this evening, some of which included putting the address on Kim's wedding gift (sorry, Kim!!), getting my finances in order (house downpayment not materializing on its own), Christmas shopping online

* An outline of my weekly TV-viewing schedule, which is quite packed at this point. Pen, you'd be so proud - I have must-see TV on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday! Three days a week! I learned it from watching you, all right?

But none of these things seemed totally post-worthy...or perhaps it was just that I'm am not post-worthy this evening. Regardless, this post is what you're getting. Five more days of this, and you'll be off the hook with reading my daily drivel, and we'll be back to our irregularly scheduled programming.

We've Created a Monster

Tonight Dad met YouTube.

He literally just watched a kid play Pachelbel's canon on an electric guitar.

Yipe.

Thank You: Part Two

I have possibly been usurped in greatness by Aunt Anna who allowed
Dillon to clean up the Cool Whip spatula when she was done with it.
And yes, his shirt does say, "Baby's First Thanksgiving." And the sleeve says, "Gobble."

Thanksgiving included quality time with all my nephews - four-legged variety included.
Eli and I caught a break on the kitchen rug.

Laura asked me the other night how old Dillon is. I said ten months. She said, "Oh, so he's not very fast yet." Enter the Elmo walker. He can make tracks. And get very agitated when he runs into the fireplace.

Three generations of the family - something to be thankful for.

Thank You

* Family, for letting me live at home, for understanding the place I'm in, for trying hard to recognize that I am different than I was, for loving me even when they don't understand me, for supporting me and being there.

* Friends, for knowing when to ask how things are and when not to, for calling and emailing to check in, for reminding me that -whether here or elsewhere - they are there for me, for encouraging me to do what I need to do, for telling me I'm not crazy, for making me laugh

* Rain, which fell fast and hard this morning making puddles, which I hadn't seen in months

* Good books, which take me anywhere I want to go, and writing, in which I can take myself anywhere I want to go

* Health, both the kind The Medicine seems to be giving me and the general kind - I really do forget just how lucky I am

* Kudzu, dear sweet furry toilet-paper-strewing creature who warms my heart

* Dreams, the kind that entertain me - sometimes inform me, scare me, thrill me - while I sleep and the kind that give me hope for the future, anticipation of what Could Be.

* Today, it's all we get. All we're promised. I recently heard someone say that worry is using today's energy to carry tomorrow's burdens. I should pay heed to that advice. Say thanks today. Say I love you today. Laugh today. Eat well today - make sure you have dessert.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.

The Tipping Point

Several people asked me over the weekend how long I had been back in Georgia. The first time, I looked to the left, calculating in some empty space above my head. "Almost seven months," I said. And then I said it again and again. Oh, wow, I thought, almost seven months.

After a few times, it occurred to me that this is a tipping point. No matter what, this year will be one in which I spent the majority of the year in Georgia. It can no longer be a North Carolina year. As though some proverbial scoring has been tallied, I realized that I'm mostly Georgian now and less of a Carolinian. And I'm not sure how I feel about this shift in the balance of things...this dive toward more of one and less of the other. It's an odd feeling, particularly because this time last year, I was announcing The Big Move to my family. And that alternately feels like yesterday and years ago. It was a tipping point then, to move forward with something I had been thinking about, and, now, it is that uncertain feeling of the slightest movement working in concert with gravity to pull me in another direction.

Giving Thanks

I've been somewhat overcome by the "woe is mes" over the past few months. And it's true that I haven't been feeling up to snuff for a greater part of that time. But lately, through six degrees of separation or less, I've been touched by some tragedies that remind me what a delicate balance life is. A friend lost a baby at eight months - a baby boy he was excitedly expecting. And Vesta lost a very dear friend, who was also a person for whom I held great affection. And then today, I found out one of my new friends from the Atlanta office lost her father last night.

The office visited the hospital today as a service project to celebrate the Thanksgiving season. We were providing lunch to the nurses and staff on the oncology unit. The Boss and I went to visit one of the patients: an 86-year-old blind woman whose breast cancer surgery site had become infected. And she was hoping to go back to the nursing home for Thanksgiving. She had no real family to speak of, but she told us that she was doing alright for 86. She said she still had her mind and her independence and she was doing real good and she was blessed.

Later in the day, one of the patients called the office to thank us for the leave-behind goodie bags which included a hand-crafted paper-and-yarn turkey made by The Violinist.

A few words and a paper turkey are blessings to some. And I should remember that - when I focus too much on the challenges and forget to be gracious about the opportunities, the good things...the moments I slip away from disaster or illness or even death without even know it. All those moments when all I see is cloud and just behind is a beautiful silver lining.

Monday Math

2 days until Thanksgiving

+

6 days' worth of work

=

11 o'clock, clocked in

He Said/She Said/They Said: Company Retreat Version

At dinner Friday night

Me: "It reminds me of Max Headroom."

The rest of the dinner table: "Who?"

Me: "Max Headroom? He was...wait. How old are you guys?"

A chorus of 22s and 23s.

____________
Standing outside of a very chic shoe store in Savannah.

Possible Connection Person: I wish...I wish I could stomach spending that much for shoes. They were really cute.

Me: Yeah, me, too.

Possible Connection Person: Sometimes I hate being so responsible.
____________
On the elevator

ATown Coworker (to The Rockstar): "Hey did you know you're the only single guy at the firm?"

The Rockstar: I guess I'd never thought about it...

Me: What about (ATL coworker)?

The Rockstar: Well, um...yeah. I mean. He's...he's single. But he doesn't like girls."

(How did I miss this??)
_____________

At lunch at Lady & Sons, Paula Deen's restaurant

ATL Coworker: I'm disappointed. I can't believe the menu. This food is so bad for you.

Me: Do you know who Paula Deen is?
____________
In the lobby, preparing to depart and a female coworker from ATL who sat with me at breakfast approaches. She holds out one arm.

Her: Hey, Ashley!

Me (leaning in slightly awkwardly to hug her): It was great to meet you this weekend.

Her: Um, yeah. I was hoping you could take me and my husband to the airport.

Oops, I hugged a coworker.
___________
Yesterday out shopping, we run into one of the two owners of the company. The rest of the crowd with me goes into the Marc Jacobs store. I stand on the sidewalk talking to The Boss.

The Boss: We sure are glad you joined the company.

Me: Thank you. I'm excited to be here.

(I know for certain this is at least the sixth time I've had this conversation with him.)
____________
Friday night at the 80s prom

ATown Coworker: You say you're an introvert, but I'll never believe you after tonight.

Me: Liking to dance and liking people are two very different things.

tidbits

late for happy hour * another spectacular sunset * lunch @ lady & sons * boutique shopping * my genius face * encounters with possible connection people * new shirt * $400 shoes (i didn't buy) * lots of coffee * up til 1:30 a.m. * dancing machine (watch me get down) * old buildings * cobblestone streets * laughing * group sing-along to "total eclipse of the heart" * fabulous 80s prom * gotta dash

Moment of Acceptance

Right now, I am sitting alone in a hotel room with a king-sized bed on the sixth floor that overlooks the Savannah River. Right now, darkness is squeezing the last of the color down to the horizon so that the skyline is black as charcoal against the blush of pink. Right now, I am looking down at a river, flowing fast past old buildings, new buildings, boats docked at its edge. Right now, there is a bridge in the distance. Right now is a very odd reflection of my old life looking back at me. And fittingly enough, I am on the other side of the Savannah from the city...so it really is like looking at my old life across the Cape Fear from a different vantage point.

Earlier, I sat in a meeting where people said "we" a lot. And about halfway through, I realized that I'm included in that we. I am part of the we. I am a cog in this machine. I stand under their umbrella. And when they talk about the company as a family, they consider me part of that tree. At first, it was odd. And then someone said something funny, and I got it because, after three months, I finally sort of understand how we work. And I laughed and looked around me, and thought, Okay.

That's all...just...right now...okay.

Project Runway: My Two Fashion Cents

It's back. It's time to gather round, people, and make it work. And last night's premier of Project Runway promised all the drama, cattiness and fashion that make it so magically delicious. So here's how the competition stacks up.

Carmen - I like her, but she also has that sort of aggressive Laura-vibe about her. I thought her design last night was interesting even if I didn't love it. Prediction: A strong contender to make it through to the late stages unless overconfidence or bizarre design get in her way.

Chris - A wild card. I liked his dress last night - I thought the purple fabric was gorgeous. He could also teeter toward one of those whose designs never have the wow factor. Prediction: Must wait and see.

Christian - The New Austin Scarlett. Love him. Love his wacky haircut. Love his sass. Love all of his interviews. And liked his design - didn't love the fabric, but I thought the design was interesting. Prediction: Strong contender for the final three.

Elisa - Totally bizarre and over the top. I think she's the new Vincent. And not in a good way. Prediction: Auffed over extreme creative differences with the judges (but great television while she's still around).

Jack - Beautiful dress. I thought was lovely and wearable. Which may get him into trouble for not establishing a stronger point of view. Prediction: A strong contender, although from the previews, it looks like something horrible will be revealed by him at some point.

Jillian - I think Jillian has potential, but for some reason, I can see her being one that has a challenge where she totally flips out and doesn't get it done. Prediction: Auffed in the later part

Kevin - He's trying to be the new Jeffrey/Santino with his elegance-with-an-edge. Didn't love his work last night, but I reserve judgment here. Prediction: Another wait and see.

Kit Pistol - I like Kit Pistol (just because I think that's an awesome name) and I think she has a strong and different POV. I could see her hanging in there into the late game. Prediction: Contender.

Marion - I noticed last night that Marion was largely ignored in the storyline, which made me wonder how important he'll be. I felt totally blase about his garment a la Robert last season. Prediction: (Yawn) Auffed early

Rami - Fabulous. Beautiful garment. I hope he doesn't get drape-obsessed like Uli did with the billowy dresses. Could be my one sticking point with him. Prediction: Definite contender for top three.

Ricky - Three words: What happened to Andre? Prediction: Auffed, but not before a spectacular meltdown

Simone - Boring. Auffed. Reminded me of the first one to go in Season 2, who, sadly, was from Georgia.

Steven - Steven, Steven, Steven. Could be fabulous. Or take a total turn for the worst. I think, if Steven keeps his head together, that he could be a contender. Prediction: Possible maniac, possible fashionista.

Sweet P - Hmmm. I get a bad feeling about Sweet P - like she's going to annoy me to no end and produce clothes that she really likes and believes in and will justify til she's blue in the face even though we can all tell they're ugly. Like Angela last season? Prediction: Auffed at the halfway.

Victorya - She definitely got the Kara Saun/Chloe Dao vibe about her. She's very together, less eccentric than the other designers. I'm expecting elegant, chic work from her that I totally love. Prediction: Judges will coo over her consistency. Final three contender.

Thoughts, fellow ProRun aficionados?

Ever Felt This Way?

I know this is kind of a cop-out post. But, hey, I'm bringing a blog a day and Project Runway was on tonight (I heart Christian!) - I get a Get Out of Blog free card every now and then. Make it work, people. And please, try to see the humor.

Note to Self

Throughout the day, I tend to write down an ongoing list of things to remember on a post-it note stuck to my desk - some are things to do, some the beginnings of blog posts and others are mysteriously vague. Inevitably, these notes end up stuck in the bottom of my purse or in pockets. Here's a sampling of those sorted through this evening:

* Jeans
* Prom jewelry
* War with the rock star
* Olives
* Knitters
* Shred credit card bills
* Check out Heatmiser
* The Gates of Hell
* Jenny Ray's birthday (see? I didn't forget altogether...)
* Bathroom stall
* Call STGD
* International Delights
* "Wide Unbroken Skies"
* Don't forget Mel
* 8:30 sharp, out by 9:30
* House is on tonight
* Mom - side dish, insurance
* B Spears new album?

On Mrs. Cleaver (or Why I Need a Wife)

Today at work, I was ridiculously busy. Which is not surprising, considering I put time in on both Saturday and Sunday to keep a project moving forward. I left the office at six, returned to the office "virtually" at 6:45 and left again at 8:30. But I still had a square meal - crab-stuffed tillapia, stir-fried vegetables, cous-cous. And when I go to bed, my sheets will be clean. Tomorrow, I'll put on freshly-laundered clothes.

These perks come with living at home. Mama kindly fixes dinner every night - and it's usually balanced and nutritious. And I confess - and here, I admit how very spoiled I've become - she packs my lunch. She does the laundry - and she's a fanatic about it. Even though she showed me how to use the new washing machine, she doesn't want me to use it. Because she likes the laundry done a certain way. If she goes to Wal-Mart, she calls to see if I need anything: shampoo, mascara, granola bars.

And so, since I've moved home, I'm eating better - not that it was hard to surpass Cheerio's and Alfredo Broccoli Lipton Noodles most days. I'm clean and pressed - an improvement over not having a washer and dryer and trying to get by with wearing that shirt onemoretime. I'm stocked up and haven't been to Wal-Mart in weeks. And I figure, this is how men have it all. It's not because they're men. It's because they have wives.

Don't Call It A Comeback

Quietly, cautiously, I mark off the fifteenth day. The incessant hum in my brain seems to be lessening...a distant buzz. My heart is calm, its regular steady pulse instead of an erratic skid. Slumber goes on uninterrupted, and my biorhythms seem to have time to sink into the dark quiet instead of dancing around while I have my eyes closed.

And aside from that, life is getting, perhaps, easier? It is easier to breathe. And to laugh. And to make it through the day without thinking about purposefully stepping out into oncoming traffic.

At the same time, I'm afraid to consider this thing knocked out. Is it just wishful thinking? Is it just a blissful placebo effect? Or is it truly down for the count? One thing is for sure - if it comes back at me, the gloves are coming off.

Father Spice

Dad: "Ashley, are the Spice Girls still together?"

Me: "Well...actually, yes. They just reunited...why?"

Dad: "I just wondered."

Me: "Wow...questions I never thought my dad would ask me."

Dad: "Why not? That's who we're listening to."

Me: "No, Dad. This is the Dixie Chicks."

Unsolved Mysteries

Yesterday morning I read this article in the Wall Street Journal about the "7 Missing Wonders." It outlines seven missing treasures - some from the ancient world like Nefertiti's tomb and some from history as recent as World War II with the disappearance of The Amber Room. It could be my recent ruminations on Choose Your Own Adventure books that piqued my fascination or it could be the fantastic interactive treasure map that accompanies the story.

For the rest of the day, I thought about those missing artifacts, possibly somewhere in the world, possibly hidden by someone and shuttled from place to place to keep it so. Or resting quietly fathoms below the oceans, moldering on the ocean floor. Or simply nonexistent figments of a fictioneer's imagination. In some cases, the answer would probably be disappointing; in others, the answer could be even more sensational than we think. Whatever the case, I found it sort of thrilling that there is still real mystery in the world - delicious, treasure-hunting mystery that seems the stuff of good novels but is out there, a question mark followed by an ellipsis, keeping us all hanging wonderfully unsatisfied.

Nostalgiaism

Today I went to a meeting with a local organization that advocates for and preserves historic buildings in ATown. The office is located in a renovated fire station, a corner block brick building with the firepole still in the far corner, massive glass-globe chandeliers, and the pale green fireman's lockers lining one wall. As soon as I entered the building, I was accosted by nostalgia. The smell of an old building - aged wood, old paint, and history (it smells, I swear). And when I reached the top of the stairs, I was almost speechless at the tall arched windows whose frames were painted almost the very same pale blue-grey shade as the ones at Grace Street.

The whole time I was there, I couldn't help noticing how suddenly I felt at home. Like I wanted to spend the whole afternoon there. I belong in an old, rickety building. I need the splintering wood and the creaking boards and the drafts and the echoes and the ghosts. I left feeling a little bit renewed, like I'd had some sort of spiritual transfusion.

And then I had a fairly good day at work, which included a brief meeting with my boss about several projects I have been working on that needed his input, one being an interview with an intern candidate. "She's got enthusiasm," I said. Like you, he responded. "Me? Are you serious?" Yeah, he said. I hear that banter going on down the hall. And I laugh and say yes.

But later, I'm thinking about banter, and I'm thinking about sitting at my old desk at my old job with my old coworkers. I'm thinking about shouting ideas to my boss next door. I'm thinking about eavesdropping and answering everyone's questions. I'm thinking about fake arguments with STGD about when he's going to get a job done. I'm thinking about raucous lunchtime chats and late afternoon staff meetings and brainstorms where everything goes downhill quick but you can't stop laughing. And I think, That's banter.

Right now -just right now - all the good is rushing into the sad and the past is haunting the present and my heart is creaking against the memories. And I am lonely and struck down with nostalgiaism.

TomCut

Tom Cruise's hair cut makes me irrationally angry with its dangerously close approach to an early '90s bowl cut and sweeping feathered bangs. I can't get over it - I mean, I posted a comment on Daisy's blog weeks ago, and anyone I've talked to in the last few days will attest that I'm still extraordinarily bothered by it. I will even lecture you on how it diminishes any ounce of hotness he still possessed after...well, he went crazy. It's just enraging. Seriously. Flames on the side of my face.

Leftovers

Too tired for a full post, and so you get the leftovers, a potpourri of mental miscellany that will have to satisfy for NaBloPoMo:

* a small red book

* repetitive piano music

* not one, not two, but three cups of coffee

* mistaken for 30

* grape salad for lunch

* sharp reminder regarding health that it could be worse

* demanding client, sudden deluge of deadlines

* haircut and the smell of hair product in the evening

* dark drive home

* slim white envelope, unexpected sad news

* tears and laughter because you must

* missed calls (sorry, mel!)

* kudzu, wedged between my ribcage and my spleen, warm and fuzzy

* promise of sleep (uninterrupted?) between soft dark green sheets

Choose Your Own Adventure: The Blessing and The Curse

My favorite choose your own adventure book was about searching the pyramids for treasure. At best, you ended up with the Pharaoh's riches; at worst, you ended up trapped in a dead-end tomb with no escape. But the best thing about ending up in that tomb with no escape was that you could simply go back to the beginning of the book, try harder not to lose your map and your flashlight, take the right tunnel instead of the left, and at least walk out unscathed. Over and over, you could choose until you found the right permutation of choices to achieve the best possible ending.

Perhaps it's this early love of revisionist choices that cripples me now. It's not so easy to go back to the beginning of the story and retool the choices to configure a better ending. There are professional, financial and personal implications for every "do-over." The threads of life get all tangled up during the criss crossing.

And yet, today, I was reminded on more than one occasion that choose your own adventure is still possible. The implications are there, yes. But if I shift my focus away from the details of what will happen, I realize that I can go back - or go forward - and find the right ending. I realized that I'm in the incredibly lucky position to have a supporting cast of characters at the ready, whichever way I choose. So that even if I end up in the dead-end tomb, there will be people who love me, who support me, who will have a flashlight handy to lead us out of the dark. And now that I know the ending, the curse of trying to determine how we'll get there.

On Meeting People

I am starting to recognize a basic difference in the people I encounter as I go about creating some semblance of a life here. First, there are the Nice People. Nice People make up a great deal of the population surrounding you. Sort of like that old Seasame Street song - "These are the people in your neighborhood." You may encounter them daily - or just once. You can have a polite conversation with them. They may ask what you do, and you may feign interest in what they do. You may give them the basic vital statistics of your life (age, education, family, interests) and they will return the favor (marital status, children, pets, coffee drinker or not). Among these vital statistics, you may find commonalities. But they don't matter, because the Nice People will always be merely Nice People.

I went to lunch last week with one of the Nice People, which reminded me of the other part of the population. The small, rarefied part of the population that must be searched out, mined and cultivated. These are the Connection People. These are the people with whom the cross reference of vital statistics has no bearing. The commonalities are inconsequential. These people, the Connection People, are the people who make you feel alive when they talk about walking their dog. The Connection People create sparks and energy. They surge forward from the neutral beige of the Nice People with vivid, audacious color. Like magnets, you attract. You connect, lock together. Human Legos. (And no, I don't know those people, but I loved the photo so much I had to share - especially since it says "Cheetah '98" in the lower right corner - but I digress...).

Awash in a sea of Nice People, I am trying to sift through the sand and find those precious Connection People. In fits and starts, there are glimmers of Connection. But I need more. Not to mention that it makes me a bit sad to know that to most of the people I've met, I'm just another one of the Nice People, too.

Queasy Like Sunday Morning

I kind of hate Sundays. For as long as I can remember, I've experienced the Sunday Dread. Even when school or work wasn't particularly bad or daunting. It starts the moment I wake up on Sunday - the instant realization that the weekend is over. Which is silly, right, because there's still a whole day? But it doesn't matter. The Sunday Dread is setting in - the agonizing anticipation that tomorrow is Monday.

In college, and sometimes in Wilmywood, it was about loneliness. Growing up, Sundays were always a big family day at our house - lots of togetherness and eating. And it inevitably seemed like Sunday night in college and grad school was the time I ended up by myself and trying to wrap up all the studying I'd neglected or trying to get laundry done and dishes washed (or finish a story for workshop the next day...).

And I always eat really depressing things like cereal and cold pizza or stale crackers because that's all I can find. I never seem to have fun things to do on Sunday night - no parties or trips to the movies or shopping extravaganzas. Instead, the whole day progresses with an attitude of "I'm only doing this because I have to." Like being lead to the guillotine.

And while today, I had a visit from Justin, Eva and the Dilly Monster to spice up the afternoon, I still felt the malaise hanging over me. Thoughts about work left undone on Friday and meetings to come and just facing life again (which seems to be on hold on the weekends sometimes) made me enjoy the day just a little less. And I hate that - there's a part of me that says, "Carpe diem! You only have today! Live in the moment." But it's never as loud as the part of me that says back, "Yes, but if I do have tomorrow, it's Monday."

and just as a tiny side note, this is the 500th post - wow.

Jellyfish

One Week Later, I am a jellyfish. A soft translucent membrane, weightless in cool indigo water. I ascend slowly and concentrate on the movement of air and water: in and out, in and out. Sound is a thick murmur. Light is a quick flicker.

Below me trail tentacles, streamers of sensation and feeling. They dangle quietly, waiting. I have finally gathered these moments of tranquility, but there is still the threat that, though hanging idle, those tentacles will tangle with some mysterious something, electrify and strike.

Dealbreaker

I heard about this plan of John Mayer's awhile ago. But since he's been known to pull gags on fans before, I hoped that was the case with this latest scheme. Unfortunately, it's true. It's true that John Mayer has chartered an entire Carnival cruise ship (a veritable "fun ship") to sail to the Bahamas in early February. It's true that John Mayer is shamelessly hawking said cruise on VH1. Wearing a smoking jacket. It's true that you can join roughly 3,000 of your not-so-closest friends on the pleasure cruise that is known as...the Mayercraft Carrier. Is this the part where I conclude that John has sold out? I think it is.

About Me: NaBloPoMo Style

I'm taking my cue from Meg, who's the NaBloPoMo expert, that I should introduce myself on this first day of NaBloPoMo madness. Which is funny because I so recently posted about the "about me" phenomenon. So here's what I know:

I'm 28 years old. Six months ago, I quit my job, my apartment and my life and moved back home to Georgia after almost six years in North Carolina.

I live with my parents. This is both wonderful and maddening. They're lovely, but I'm an adult. I watch a lot of Antiques Roadshow.

I have a new job. I'm moving into my third month there, but it's still new. I don't know what I do, so I can't tell you that about me.

I have a cat. His name is Kudzu, and he gets me through.

Right now, I'm listening to a Scottish artist named Roddy Woomble. Seriously.

I love shoes, House, Harry Potter, dandelions, sushi, teacups and the smell of Sharpies.

I long to go to London. And the Greek Isles. But I don't have a passport.

I'm experiencing some mental turbulence that I'm trying to get sorted out, but it's a rocky road.

I almost always do what I'm told, what's expected of me...and then I complain about it here. I wish I was more adventurous, more daring, more rebellious, but the truth is, other than being crazy, I'm totally normal.

Hotwired

On Monday, I sit through the staff meeting jonesing to get out of my skin. I can almost hear my thoughts accelerating, chipmunking like a record played at too-high RPM. The sunlight in the conference room is bright; I laugh too loud. And I feel like everyone can tell that I am different.

On Tuesday, I sit at my desk fighting sleep. Not just I didn't get enough sleep last night nodding. Drugged sandbag eyelid sleepy. I lean my face into my hand, shielding my eyes from the door, so that it looks to a casual passerby like I'm reading the screen intently. I fall asleep for five to ten minutes.

On Wednesday, I am in a meeting an I am talking and in the middle of the sentence, I falter...the thread I was following goes down a rabbit hole...but I keep talking and I have no idea if I am making sense. I stop talking and everyone looks like they understand, but I don't.

On Thursday, I get out of the bed and it starts: fingers trembling (it's hard to put in contacts) and pulse racing and the nausea. And I take breaks - sit down between the shower and drying my hair, taking deep breaths.

And somewhere in my brain, the wires are crossing, the sparks are flying, the motor is revving, and I'm going...whether I want to or not.