Calendar Girls: The Posts of 2007

This year, 2007, was among the most turbulent, most emotional, most awful years of my life. Amidst the chaos and the despair, there were, of course, some bright shining moments of euphoria, like Dillon's grand entrance into the world - which changed everything about our lives. And on top of that, I decided to change virtually everything about my own life.

Looking back through the posts of '07, I realized just how much I've been through, and how much I've grown. And changed. And cried. And I figured the only way to review '07 was through the posts that said it best, brought to you by the calendar girls of the year.

Right now, I'm looking at 24 more hours in the year, and I'm not sorry to be closing the books on this one. I'll be holding my breath as the clock ticks toward midnight tomorrow that '08 will turn out to be a better year. Happy New Year, y'all.

January: A Very Happy Announcement



February: My Life the Democracy


March: Georgia on My Mind


April: Leaving: Part One



May: Taking the Long Way (or the Unplan Plan)



June: The Girl Who Lived


July: (Untitled)


August: Sister Mary Sunshine Gets Sucker Punched



September: Handle It


October: Shoreline
November: On Meeting People



December: Bones

Threesdays: Radio Here

* "This NPR program is brought to you by Widespread Panic..."


* "The Paul Young Fan Club will be meeting on Saturday at the Applebee's across from Gwinnett Place Mall..."


* DJ: "I can't believe you sat in the Wal-Mart parking lot in your boxers."

Caller: "I didn't know it was her. I thought I was texting my girlfriend."

DJ: "And what did her mother do when she pulled up next to you?"

Best. Picture. Ever.

Merry Christmas!

It's Christmas Eve, and I hope wherever each of you is gathered with friends or family, that the holidays are merry and bright. For your Yuletide enjoyment, here are some photos I snapped of Dillon 'round the Christmas tree. And even though it's just me and Mom and Dad here this evening, we continued our age-old tradition of opening one gift on Christmas Eve. Since I got a Canon Eos Rebel XTi 10 Megapixel digital camera, you can expect to see a whole lot more of this sort of thing.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

A Few of my Favorite Things

* Earlobes

* Hairstylists

* Worn-in jeans

* Simmering cinnamon and cloves

* Stray cats

* Email

* Eyelash curlers

* Dandelions

* 5 o'clock shadow

* Cream cheese

* Words

*Sneezing

She is 16 Going on 17

Yesterday, I debated about whether or not to post about the ongoing media maelstrom surrounding the Spears family and its latest announcement that its youngest (and most wholesome) member of the family is pregnant. At 16. But I just can't help myself.

As everyone knows by now, unless you live under a rock, Jamie Lynn Spears is pregnant with her 19-year-old boyfriend's baby. A fact she and Mama Spears decided to disclose to the world on the cover of OK!.

All day as the headlines rotated on Yahoo! and the news tidbits appeared on Perez Hilton, I couldn't muster any snark at all about the situation. In fact, it made me almost sick to my stomach. While I don't want to sit here and judge her, I felt weird about seeing her on the cover of a magazine making her teenage pregnancy announcement and somehow making it seem normal?

When I was looking for a photo to post with this, I found the pregnancy story with a comment thread. One girl had written that she was happy for Jamie Lynn and that she thought she seemed responsible and would make a good parent. And I wondered - and it's impossible to really know - if I would've thought anyone would've made a good parent when I was sixteen. And now that I'm older, I know how very silly and stupid you are when you're sixteen. Though STGD pointed out that JLS has lived in the spotlight and probably does have a slightly elevated maturity, it can't be discounted that she still is just 16.

Maybe this is going to be the new norm. Maybe we're going to get all Victorian and go back to settling down before turning into old maids at the ripe old age of 18. Man, I am a spin-ster.

Bones

Bones are the basics. Long after the rest of a body is gone, the bones remain; hard white fragments outline the person that once was. In forensics, even the least of these slivers of a past life can indicate how life was lived and how life was lost.

***
Having my nose broken marks the most intense pain I've ever felt in my life. Not the breaking, but the resetting. The doctor took the bridge of my nose between his first two knuckles and cracked it back into place without warning. I'll never forget the sound of bone grinding against bone or the shocking pain - so immense, I made no sound.

***
Bones make up the skeleton - the framework of the body. We never think of it, this complex matrix deep inside other layers. Each bone fits to the next and so on - the leg bone's connected to the foot bone - each one, no matter how tiny, has a purpose. We never consider how essential it is - how it holds us up, holds us together.

***
For ages, whalebone was used in corsets to shape the body. The unforgiving bones molded new curves, nipped the ribcage and waist, accentuated the hips. Bones, always giving shape from the inside, created an opposite reaction on the outside, a rescultped form the result of these forces.

***
To cut one to the bone is to say that one shears through the tender flesh and strikes the very core.

***
Bone is slang for domino and dice, likely because the earliest forms of these gamepieces were carved from said substance. These bones are a risk, a gamble - a smooth white game of chance.

***
Make no bones about it - let's get to the point.

***
At the heart of the bone is the marrow. And from the marrow comes new blood cells. Bone bears blood and feeds the veins circuiting around it.

***
And so digging deeply down to the bone to find the traces of who you were and who you are, of what holds you up and holds you together, cutting past the flesh and into the rigid hollows of bone, it's no surprise that there's blood there. That getting to the bone, so unyielding, lets out a little of the life that's in there.

Dear Blogger,

I do not like the little "B" icon by my name every time I post. I know I'm a blogger. I got it. I don't need a reminder. And those little blank people for non-bloggers? A bit creepy. That is all.

Love,
"B" Ashley

The Dark Knight

Let's hope the script for this one is better. They did get rid of Katie-Holmes-as-Joey-Potter, so it's at least go that going for it. Gary Oldman is always fabulous, and the trailer actually looks pretty intriguing. And Christian Bale? Holy hot deliciousness, Batman.

Weekend Update

Moment: Friday evening, driving home, black trees arterial against the pale peach sky, Sarah McLachlan singing "I'll Be Home for Christmas" and a beautiful sadness washed over me

Saturday: Out of bed and then back to bed. In pajamas until 3 p.m., watching A Christmas Caper starring Shannon Doherty on the ABC Family Channel.

Dosage: Up, working, chasing away the "I don't cares"

Office Christmas Party: Tasty food, warm welcomes, good conversation and another Awkward Moment with The Big Boss to add to my collection

Sunday morning: Cold dry wind whipping my hair up, my dad saying, "When it blows like that, you know you're alive."

Publix: Old home week running into parents of friends (Heather, that's you), old teachers, family friends

Lunch: Dad helped Mom make chili - the only thing he knows how to make; very charming

Nap: In the sun on the couch for two hours...ahhhhh.

Evening: Christmas music in the car on the way to meet Eva, Justin and Dillon. He was tired and sat in my lap with his head on my shoulder. That's happiness right there.

Baking: Cinnamon raisin sourdough bread...Mom's heavenly concoction. The house smells heavenly.

Carol of the Day: "Gentle Mary Laid Her Child"

Christmas spirit: Lifting?

Creativity: Low, hence another list post. More tomorrow...promise.

In the Spirit of Half Full

In light of my overly-cynical post from yesterday, I've decided to muster the spirit of the season and fill up my glass to at least half full by listing good things and good thoughts.

* I sang the theme song to Jem with support from The Violinist at the very subdued Christmas party this afternoon. It was truly, truly, truly outrageous. Also, we have a huge inflatable Santa with reindeer in the lobby because our boss felt it needed to look festive.

* Sydney White comes out on DVD on January 22 (I heart Amanda Bynes), followed closely by the breathtakingly wonderful Becoming Jane on February 12. And totally dorky confession: I'm pumped about National Treasure 2: The Book of Secrets on December 21.

* Every night, my mom's slightly stupid cat Ranger gets into the antique rocking chair and curls his body around just so he fits on the round cushion. And then he snores. And it's charming.

* Today, I called STGD and said, "I totally effed up at work! I need some emotional spooning!" And just hearing him laugh made me feel better.

* Eating peppermint bark until I wanted to barf...in a good way.

* My hair is getting long.

* If I make it through work tomorrow and the Week of the Colossal First Mishap, I'm going to treat myself by opening my Christmas gift from Pen.

* Project Runway. In general. Is delightful.

* Tomorrow is Friday.

The Tales of Beedle the Bard

J.K. Rowling's handwritten and personally illustrated leatherbound copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard sold at auction today for $4 million, which will go to benefit charity. Initial reports were that the volume was purchased by the London art agent Hazlitt, Gooden and Fox. Later today, it was revealed that the book was actually purchased on behalf of Amazon.com. It is the only one of seven created by Rowling that was made available to the public - the other six copies were gifts to close friends. And it's gorgeous.

I have to give it to Amazon...this purchase was a smart move. Four million dollars, yes, but an alliance with its top-selling product line of all time. In fact, I just read in Real Simple today that the top three products with a five star review are Harry Potter books.

Anyway, Amazon is doing two things I heartily approve of (which may make up for the Super Saver Free Shipping debacle I had with them the other night - but that's another story). First of all, they've shared the treasure with fans by creating a separate page for the book which includes numerous photographs, description and a message board for discussion. They plan to review the book and release some of the text. Secondly, they plan to tour with The Tales of Beedle the Bard at schools and libraries. I applaud Amazon for capitalizing on this (so far) only by drawing people to the site and for sharing it immediately, rather than withholding it like a corporate game of keepaway. It's nice to think that maybe, just maybe, the magic of Harry Potter prevails again. The gesture, the tone of the site, make me feel like somebody at Amazon is just like me - just an enchanted reader who wants to keep sharing the Potterverse with the rest of us. Well done, Amazon.

A Toss Up

I can't decide which was the better line from tonight's ep of Project Runway:

"When I got the wedding dress, I was like, 'Omigod.' It was like death. On a stick." - Steven

"I've made so many bad decisions at 3 a.m., I can't even name them all." - Tim Gunn

The Merry Malaise

Christmas time is here. Happiness and cheer. Or not so much. I don't mean to sound so Scroogish. It's just that the holiday season is turning into the holiday sadness, such as

* Total annoyance with the Secret Santa game at work - the complex logistics, the forced clue-dropping, having to make dip for the big "reveal" party. Yelch.

* Inability to shop. At all. I finally gave in last night and dropped a load at Amazon just to get some of it done.

* Counting down the days until Christmas...is over.

* Irritation at the onslaught of Christmas commercials with the Rockwell-esque and Courier & Ives Christmas scenes that don't exist but that I somehow feel like they should.

* Repulsion over the excess...the recent tour of a very big home with very expensive furniture, art, decor...millions invested in it all...for a family of three.

* The anticipation for the childlike wonder to flicker and flare inside me somewhere...and the simultaneous knowing that I'm waiting in vain

* Telling Mom every day that I'll help her finish decorating the Christmas tree...and not doing it

* Investigating the box of goodies from FudgeyNut that Dad brought home and thinking about devouring the whole lot in a fit of depressed binge-eating

* Having to call the doctor, ask for more of The Medicine, because, well, bah humbug

W00t: The Other Side of the Coin

So, the post following my rant against the literati will be this: the 2007 word of the year is "w00t". With two zeroes. Wha...?? According to Merriam-Webster, this term (double zeros and sometimes a 7 at the end) is used by gamers to indicate an in your face defeat. I'm sorry, but "woot"? I mean, it's more a sound than a word. And somehow, Merriam-Webster talking about the "whimsy" of woot is equivalent the New York Times waxing poetic about the deep emotional reality of Danielle Steele. Not that their runner-ups made me say woot either - conundrum, hypocrite, and quixotic. Oh, or facebook as a verb. Clearly, I'm a word snob.

I vote for fugly. Can I get a w00t?

Atop the Soapbox: Thoughts on the Literati

"But reading was never dead with the kids. Au contraire, right now it's probably healthier than the adult version, which has to cope with what seems like at least 400 boring and pretentious 'literary novels' each year." --Stephen King in an Entertainment Weekly article about Harry Potter.

The Growler posted a link to the New York Times Notable Book List. And while the Growler feels tremulous excitement reviewing the NYT's who's who, I feel, well, a bit annoyed. Aside from the obvious kudos to the seventh installment of the Potter series (how could they ignore the fastest selling book of all time?), most of the books sound like absolute snoozefests. And perhaps it's me and my narrow window on the world, but I'm not enticed at all to pick up most of these titles. The exception might be Rebecca Barry's Later, at the Bar, but for the most part, the descriptions sound positively...pretentious.

And I know, I know - it's the New York Times book review. What did I expect? But, I guess I wonder: what happened to good stories? Why is the notable list chock full of maudlin tales of Libya in 1979 and another Martin Amis book that recounts the painful tragedies of World War II that sound dry and boring? These could be good stories. But at first glance, it sounds like the authors are trying too hard. Trying to be smart. Trying to break into the literati. Trying to be the kind of book that people get told they should read.

Should read...the only time I want to hear that I should read a book is if it's an amazing story that I should read. That it's so hilarious that I should read it. That it's so unforgettable and I will fall in love with the characters so I should read it. But if you just think it's going to make me smart...just going to be something that will sound good if I say I've read it...well, I'm not interested. Most of the descriptions give little impression of great characters or page-turning, can't-put-it-down, stay-up-late-to-read-it excitement. And isn't that what we all want? To go back to that place when you were ten and trying to read Encyclopedia Brown under the covers with a flashlight?

A certain professor I had in grad school referred to himself as an "immortality queen". He also referred to my writing as a donut: all sweet and delicious on the outside and hollow on the inside - but that's a story for another day. And his point was that writing wasn't worth doing unless you would be remembered for generations.

I guess I'm a little more here-and-now than that. I read to enjoy...to be taken away and to escape. I hope that if I ever write a book that it will be enjoyed by people while I'm still alive. Because, generations from now, I'll be mouldering in the ground somewhere. Maybe that's why I have such mad respect for Stephen King. The literati sort of shun him - he's like the establishment's bastard son - but he knows good story. He knows how to tell a story that engages the reader, that gives them characters that last forever in their minds. And that, my friends, is far greater than any notable designation by the book snobs at the NYT.

I suppose I balk at the idea that books are being written and delineated in this way, gathered up into a tight circle and pushed toward that immortality level. Like those of us reading right now don't even matter.

All of these thoughts, of course, come from a woman with an MFA who hasn't read a "notable" book in about 3 years and devours pulp romance novels. So maybe this really is all about my own insecurity. Still...who is breaking their neck to pick up this one? Knots, by Nuruddin Farah. (Riverhead, $25.95.) After 20 years, a Somali woman returns home to Mogadishu from Canada, intent on reclaiming a family house from a warlord.

Yeah. That's what I thought.

You Don't Have to Watch This

But you should. On Friday, The Goofball, The Rockstar and me watched it until we wept. But maybe that was just us.

Such a tease...

I'm It

Pen tagged me because she doesn't know enough weird stuff about me, so she needs to know seven new things. Here goes:

1. I have a nearly photographic memory. In a recent meeting, I was able to recall (and name out loud to the group) the first and last names of 20 people I had just met. I used to be able to remember answers on tests by visualizing the location of the answer on the page in my notes.

2. I almost always pick a good wine from the wine list. I know almost nothing about wines, but I can usually look at the list and know which one will be good.

3. Sometimes, I find reading a book jacket as satisfying as reading the book. I love book jacket copy. I like to get on amazon.com and troll around, reading the book descriptions. It's like speed-reading.

4. For the longest time, I refused to eat olives. I swore did not like olives. Recently, I rediscovered olives. The other day, I was eating kalamatas out of a jar with a spoon.

5. When I was little, I had an imaginary friend. He looked like Johann from the Smurfs. And I'm afraid that his name was Gaddy. I have no idea why. Also, I had Holly Hobby wallpaper that I talked to - and grew so attached to, that I would not let my parents remove it, even when the glue failed and the paper would fall down on me in the night. I kept it held up with thumbtacks.

6. We have a feral cat that lives in our house. Inside our house. No one can touch her. We see her; we talk to her; we feed and water her; we love her. But, for all intents and purposes, she is like a wild animal. We never, ever pet her. (Except for occasions like the other day when we trapped her in the bathroom to cut matted hair off her back.) And her name, appropriately, is Shadow.

7. I abhor Pepsi. And Diet Pepsi. If I order Diet Coke in a restaurant and the server asks, "Is Diet Pepsi okay?", I will say no and order water. Diet Pepsi is like getting Patrick Duffy when you ordered Patrick Dempsey.

Passing on the weirdness...I'm not feelings so tag-a-licious about this. If you're jonesing to share seven oddities - you kids over there on the right, I'm talking to you - go for it.

Somebody Fed the Mogwai After Midnight

So maybe it wasn't after midnight. Maybe it was around 4 o'clock on Saturday afternoon, and the culprits were a giant Coke Icee and an entire bag of Reese's Pieces. But whatever the case, The Panic made a resurgence right in the middle of McDreamy's fairytale adventure in Enchanted. Right there in the Mayfaire Cinema, the acid poured into my stomach, the heat rose up into my face, and there was a vague ringing that was probably caused by the incessant beat of my pulse against my eardrum.

And I may have pushed it to the side, shoved it to the back, tried to forget about it as I chased K.Lo through the living room as she squealed to be tickled and listened to her charming performance of the ABCs (often sans T, U and V, but who needs those letters anyway?) and held the Sesame Street book while she reverently pointed out Elmo and Grover and The Count (who she will tell you says, "ah ah ah"). But all that time, they were loose in my brain - cutting the wires and crossing them, revving the engine and leaking the chemicals into my system. I persevered - held tiny baby N. Lo who is very darling -chatted, had dinner.

And then there was later...there was the gagging. But as promised, the gloves came off. I battled back for all I was worth. Through Saturday night and Sunday brunch - and I pushed through and had a great time. And I gave it the old one-two in the car...Sunday evening...I was winning. Until Monday morning. And then, I gave in and let it all go. I sat on the cold bathroom floor with my back against the tub, sweating slightly, and somewhere in the distance, I think I heard someone count me out.

Visualize

Today in the office:

The Rockstar: Hey, Ashley. I met a girl this weekend.

Me: Really?

The Rockstar: Yep. I met a girl, and I made it happen.

Me: How so?

The Rockstar: Well, we talked about it on the way down to the gig. And we visualized it - like that Oprah book The Secret. We wanted a big crowd that was into the show, and two cute dark-haired girls.

Me: Wow. You unlocked the secret.

The Rockstar: We saw it. And it happened.

Me: I'll work on visualizing my novel.