Third Time's a Charm

The first time, I panic. And cry. Kim comes down from her apartment on 6th and keeps me company until the police come. I lament my lost Indigo Girls and the CD player that leaves a gaping hole in the dash front.

The second time, I am annoyed. The water meter cover through the window that destroys the console and causes like $1,500 worth of damage to the car is worse than some of the wrecks I've had. I am comforted only by the poetic justice of knowing that the perps made off with two bags of garbage from my trunk.

The third time, I wonder what the universe is trying to tell me. What is it, I wonder, that I've done to end up sitting in my car again amidst shattered glass waiting for the five-o.

On my way to the car today, I call Kim and I get her voicemail and I say, "Hey, man. I just left the office and I'm getting in the car and...oh...my car's been broken into. There's glass everywhere. I gotta call the cops. I'll call you back." This might surpass the strangeness of the time I told her I was having an allergic reaction and would have to call her back.

I stand out on the sidewalk after calling 911 to wait for the patrol unit headed my way. I call Mom. She's with Anna, who's giving out the scholarship in Ronnie's memory at the local high school. She wants to send Dad home immediately. I say no.

It's hot. My boss comes out and stands with me until the policeman arrives. He's stocky, military haircut, tattoo under his left sleeve. I run through the scenario - I've done this before - and tell him nothing's been taken. The perp didn't even get in the car; all doors were still locked.

The cop asks me, "Angry boyfriend?" I laugh, rather loudly. And then I realized he's serious. "Um, no."

"Anyone else?" I know he has to ask these questions; I mean, that's his job. But the laughableness of it.

"No," I say. "I can't think of anyone who..." Would hurt me? That sounds so Lifetime. Who would do this to me? Total victim. Very 90210. "...who would...be mad at me...like this." Okay, so that totally doesn't make sense, but it was the best I had.

I had a list of things I was going to do when I got home to help Mom around the house. Instead, I fashioned a window out of Saran Wrap and masking tape and cleaned roughly five pounds of glass shards out of my car.

If this was six months ago, I'd no doubt be rather hysterical over the attack on my car. But after a moment in which I said something really maudlin to my mom (thank God the phone cut out), I realized when I called her back that this is small. In the grand scheme of things, it's a few thousand shards of glass.

House Hits Home

Even though I was hopping mad that I missed the season finale of House last week, I somehow didn't find the time to watch the episode on the Internets (thank you, Sus) until yesterday. I wasn't prepared. If you're a fan of the show and haven't caught the season-ender, I warn you not to read further.

If you're not a fan of the show, what you may not know is that House has a knack for taking the bizarre and seemingly-unconnected symptoms of patients and turning it into a diagnosis, all within about 47 minutes. And, sure, patients sometimes die. But in most cases, House comes through.

This week, though, he didn't. Even though he identified the victim - best friend Wilson's girlfriend who also was a former intern under House - he wasn't able to save her. (Note this means that a main secondary character died.) Cause of death? A nasty case of the flu...which prompted her to take a medication that shut down her kidneys after a traumatic bus accident. It wasn't so much the flu part that got me. It was that they rendered her unconcious while they puzzled out the diagnosis and revived her to tell her she's dying.

There was this scene where she's just woken up and all the characters come visit her in a montage. At the end of it, Wilson's holding her and he asks why she's not angry. She says, "Because that's not the last thing I want to experience." And then Wilson tells her he loves her and shuts the life support off - and that was what got me. That is what's still haunting me. Because I couldn't help comparing it to our situation. And wondering, if that last moment, Ronnie had been awake to say goodbye, what would I have said? What would Anna have said? And is it something, the during the night, comes to her in a dream, wakes her up, and makes her grieve all over again for not getting that chance?

Feminist Fatale

Dear Ms. Gerdes,
I read, with great interest, your recent column lambasting the feminist doctrine of Sex & the City. And I must heartily disagree with you that the gals of S&TC are bad for young career women. I'm not sure how you can make that claim when you look at the four women on the show - Carrie, who decided not to give up the career she loved for The Russian; Miranda, who made being a high-powered attorney work with being a mom; Samantha, who's chosen to have neither children nor a husband in lieu of career and a life lived at her whim; and Charlotte, who did give up her career for family - but that's what she wanted to do. And maybe that doesn't qualify for your definition of career woman, but to me, that's the beauty of the show: it's a cross-section of women choosing different careers in ways that work for them.

So why all the bitterness and judgment? Isn't the message there that you can do what you want to do? And isn't that, in and of itself a "feminist" message for women? I think possibly, you should rewatch the episode where Carrie catches Samantha with the Fed-Ex delivery man for a PSA on judgment.

You uphold three people in your column. Gloria Steinham, Hillary Clinton, and Jenna Jamison (really???). While I find Steinham and Clinton inspiring in what they've done making inroads for women everywhere, I don't think they're like me. I don't identify with them. To me, it's taking feminism back to a level that made it hard for a lot of women to swallow by making it radical in its definition. In order to be feminist - and here's where you uphold yourself as "feminist" - you have to renounce marriage and family, devote yourself wholly to your career, and idolize political and social icons. It's taking feminism and limiting it to those who choose this all-or-nothing approach and those who are willing to make a statement with their lives.

That's not me. I don't want to make a statement. Other than that I am a woman and I feel empowered to do what I want to do and that I am still strong and still independent even if that vision of who I am and what I want to be includes marriage and a family. And right now? I am a career woman, but I don't think that's what makes me feminist as much as my belief that women can be whatever they want. I object to the idea that being a wife and mother - whether a SAHM or working mother - is anti-feminist.

Plus, I'd like to remind you that S&TC is entertainment. That's what made it fun. That it wasn't a documentary about Gloria Steinham. That it was about women who had all sorts of insecurities and frailties (not whiny as you suggest) and problems with men and career (I assume you've had these?) and that they looked fabulous while dealing with it.

And lastly, I should probably remind us both that we're talking about a television show. A ground-breaking one. A generation-defining one. A revolutionary one, even. But also one that was written to engage us, make us laugh, make us think. And that in and of itself, should grab it a place in the feminist hall of fame.

So you may be disillusioned by S&TC. But me? I still uphold my pink suede box set with pride.

Viva la Bradshaw!
Ash

Itinerary

While asleep, I go.

* To L.A. to find Mendacious. And I am in her garden. They tell me she isn't there, but I know she can hear me, and we're supposed to go to Ireland. I see her face through a window.

* To London on a grey day. I stand in a square with a fountain in the center and there are blackbirds everywhere. I hear the aristocratic tones of the British around me, water splashing. I want to take a picture, but I've forgotten my camera.

* Back to San Francisco. At first I am lost and feel panicked, but gradually, I decide that I don't care if I don't know where we're going. Slowly, the city comes to life in my dream and I feel alive.

* To New York, with my parents. I am leading the way. I don't know the destination, but I know where I'm going. I navigate through the crowds. The sidewalk is wet; it is cold and the exhaust billows out in white fog from passing cabs. The signs are red, and we eat street food.

* A city. Alone but content. I am wandering. I don't know whether I'm hungry or looking for something. I can never read the map in my dream. But it doesn't matter where I'm going. Just that I made it there.

"Green"

Please enjoy this beautiful song I can't stop listening to...

Beer Goggles

Walking downtown for a lunch-time errand.

Pass three guys working a beer distribution route.

I keep walking, but I can feel the eyes. Instead of being outraged or annoyed, this thought pops into my head:

"Yeah, that's right. There's a swing on that back porch."

Weeds

For Ronnie, lawn maintenance was nearly a religion. He mowed, edged, watered, fertilized and weeded. I can remember him talking about needing to tend the yard like one would speak of nurturing a child. He labored over it in the warm months and planned for it in the cold ones.

So when the weeds began encroaching on the front lawn after he died, it became almost an assault on his memory. Anna's mentioned the weeds frequently to me; they seemed to be feeding on her grief, popping up across the lawn and in the straw beds stretching around the yard's perimeter.

On Saturday morning, she and I decided to tackle the front yard. She sat near the sidewalk and I sat near the road, and we each methodically plucked weeds from between the blades of sod. The sun moved higher; we scooted a path back and forth across the lawn, leaving a trail of weeds atop the grass behind us.

And as we broke apart the fragile roots of those tiny but persistent weeds, we uprooted the thin barrier between casual words and those that reached deeper down.

"Does it seem like a long time," I asked. "Or like it was just yesterday?"

She sighed. "It depends. But most days, I just think about how long it's been and I wonder how I made it this far."

"I really missed him this week," I said. I hesitated to say this...did she want to hear how I missed him? A feeling that undoubtedly paled in comparison to her own sense of loss. She was silent.

"And...and when I think of him-" I pushed on - "I think of him chuckling. I can still hear him chuckling." My voice was quavering at this point and tears were sliding down my flushed cheeks.

"Me, too." I could tell she was crying, too. "You would never expect his laugh to sound like that."

"No," I laughed - a watery, thick kind of sound.

And it went on like that. She would tell me something she missed, and I would respond, and vice versa. Sometimes we laughed; sometimes we cried more. Our muscles were aching. The sun grew hotter, burning my shoulders and her forearms. And we kept on pulling, weed by weed, discarding those unwanted plants in heaps of green tops and spindly brown roots systems.

They seemed to cover everything when we started. But by the end of the afternoon, the lawn was a clean stretch of green sod, pristine and trimmed. Just like Ronnie would've wanted it.

The Good, The Bad & The Ugly

The Good
*David Gray is likely to have a new album out before the end of the year and he claims it is more like his early work. I am breathless with anticipation.

* Summer hours start at work next week. Hello, 9-to-4 on Fridays!

* Counting Crows are kicking off the Summer in the Park series on Good Morning America on Friday.

* Braves game on Thursday - my first trip to The Ted in almost a decade!

* Getting more and more certain that Dillon's going to be left-handed.

The Bad
* May be in love with a country musician.

* Missed House season finale last night because I am programmed for it to be on Tuesday but, as if the writers' strike wasn't enough, they moved House after it returned. Egads.

* Must work on Friday night. Blech.

* ABC canceled Women's Murder Club. Booooooo!

The Ugly
* My lower back just north of where the good Lord split me, sunburned to the nth degree after weekend yard work. Guess there was a gap between my tank and my shorts.

* My room, scattered with clothes worn over the past three weeks and littered with half-unpacked bags.

* My brain...not a great string of days here in the last 8 to 10

* Envy...the Rockstar heads to Ireland and Spain tomorrow.

* I'm grumpy as hell.

Underwood Underfed?

Dear Carrie,
I know that you won American Idol and let Jesus take the wheel, but I hope He just took the wheel and not your dinner, too. I don't know if it's because that guy is cheating on you that you feel the need to stop eating. But, you know, if he's cheating, he's probably not worth the starvation. Plus, you beat the crap out of his really nice car so that was probably enough. Maybe you were nervous before the Country Music Awards - I mean, like, nervous for six months before because you are looking very Twiggy-esque.

I applaud your lovely blonde hair. And I even dig your gold flapper dress. And those shoes? I'd shove you down for those shoes. Which I could clearly do, because you now weigh about 90 pounds.

Remember when you were on AI and you were all normal-sized? That was good. I mean, you look...hungry. Great, but hungry. So even though Jesus is driving, you should consider asking him to stop for a Happy Meal. Your knobby knees pain me.

xo,
Ash

Failing

Tomorrow's Friday. I have to go to a meeting in Atlanta tomorrow at 3 - the world's worst possible time to try to get into the city (and subsequently out of it afterward). It's a meeting I'm not so jazzed about - one where I think I'll be slightly out of my depth and with an Atlanta associate I don't know so well to boot. I'm not looking forward to it.

Tomorrow's Friday, so the question comes up, what are we going to do this weekend? Anna says she can be flexible, about whether we come there or not. Dad has to get a haircut, mow the lawn. Mama tries to determine from all sorts of context clues and tone of voice what Anna really wants us to do. We all try to pass the buck to each other saying, "Whatever you want to do."

I finally spoke up and said that I'd leave from the Atlanta office and travel on north to Anna's. Dad and Mama will join us Saturday after the lawn and Dad's hair get a trim.

When I called Anna to tell her, it came out in a rush. In trying to be funny, I told her that it took a flow chart to figure out this weekend's plans. And I immediately wished I could take it back. Because I know it made her feel like a burden. And she's not. But I'm tired, and tired plus frustrated sometimes leaks into your voice if you're not careful.

I want to do whatever I can to help her right now, but sometimes, it's hard. It's hard knowing that "tomorrow's Friday" always means that arrangements must be made. I feel so selfish and guilty to resent that even the tiniest bit after what Anna's gone through - with what she's still going through. And so there's this cataclysmic struggle between the rising resentment and the guilt that pushes it back down and the sadness that engulfs them both and culminates in a shuddering, "When will this end?"

When will it? I don't know. For Anna...maybe never? And for me, even the slightest moments of moving on feel wrong. When I talk to her and know she doesn't want to get off the phone because the silence will be deafening after we hang up, I feel so guilty for every second I had that day that Ronnie's death wasn't weighing on me like a ton of bricks. I know that's not realistic; in a way, I know I'm not even being fair to myself. I'm only human after all.

But there's no guidebook. There's no instruction manual for dealing with death. Each of us deals with it in our own way. Meaning that, as if the circumstances weren't bad enough, you find yourself trapped in an emotional mine field worrying that your next step might be in the wrong direction. There's a sense, however off-base, that you could be missing the right way to handle it. And when you don't handle it with the appropriate sensitivity, when being tired overcomes your sense of compassion, when your frustration with having to pack one more bag, when you can't help the little selfish corner of your heart that just wants to stay at home and do nothing, when all that bleeds through into your voice, you know you've detonated one of those things. And it splinters into a million shards of guilt.

The truth is, it's messy and painful and ugly. I don't get to walk away gracefully. I just have to blindly free-fall my way through it...trust that gravity and faith will pull me in the right direction...and that eventually I will make a landing that will be less than disastrous. And for all those times along the way that I fail, I hope that Anna knows that I'm doing the very best I can in a situation she knows better than any of us has no "best" - and that's she'll forgive me of my shortcomings.

Berlin Babes

Now this is a little more like it:


The ladies looked even more fashionable at the big screen debut in Berlin. Kristin Davis rocks the shamrock frock, and I absolutely adore SJP's dress. It reminds me of the Big dress. (The first time?) And her hair looks really elegant, although this shot doesn't really do it. Plus I love her shoes. Cynthia Nixon is still showing that clavicle, but the V cut accentuates her features better and gives the illusion at least that the girls are a bit more perky. And though this shot makes it look like there might be some fit issues, Kim Cattrall's tangerine is a much more daring and interesting choice than the red. Overall, a step fashion forward.

Wednesday's Whatevers

* I snapped a photo of Dillon in the lion towel I bought him for Christmas and submitted it to the contest held by the company that sold me the towel - and I won! The prize is not even worth mentioning, but I did win.

* Tonight I didn't get home until 10:15 because I was hanging out with friends. Who would've thought?

* I have been having serious night sweats for the past few weeks, and I can't figure out why.

* Today I was trapped in the bathroom stall while the maintenance man changed the trashcan liner. I decided that silence was the best course of action for the least humiliation of all parties involved.

* We started talking about registering for classes today with our interns; and we gave them the beat down for complaining about online registration.

* I love the smell of citronella candles.

* One of today's headlines on Yahoo was about what a great Dr. Evil impression Pres. Bush does. Really?

* On a presidential note, I do have to give props to the first family for keeping Jenna's wedding private. I mean, I know there were pics out there, but it didn't seem to be a three-ring circus. Good for them.

* Angelina Jolie is officially having twins. So glad that's been cleared up.

* Have an important meeting tomorrow. Any thoughts on what I should wear?

* Cream cheese brownies are divine.

UPDATE:
The winning photo, per Andi's request.

Flower Power

So I'm at work, eating my lunch at my desk (lest you think I'm blogging on company time - I am a good girl) and checking out the latest posts on Perez. The Sex & the City movie premiere was last night in London town (sighs), and the ladies showed up dressed thusly:


Everyone is taking potshots at Sarah Jessica Parker for her over-the-top headgear. But, really? I kind of love it. Isn't that what we all thought was awesome about Carrie Bradshaw? That she wore hot pants, white heels and a gold lame belt pack and somehow made it cool? There are a lot of fashions throughout the six seasons that I personally couldn't pull off, but they dared, and that was what made it wonderful. And honestly? Kristin Davis' dress is a snoozefest, and Kim Cattrall looks like she's wearing a red slinky. I'll give Cynthia Nixon props for her clavicle-bearing black dress, but I'm not sure that it accentuates her best features.

All in all, even though I might not rock a giant green flower tower on my head, I give SJP credit where credit is due - she takes the risks and she works the carpet. You don't get to be a fashion icon by playing it safe in basic black.

"Where the Light Is" - John Mayer Live!

In stores July 1 - just in time for my birthday. It can go on the list with Coldplay's Viva La Vida out June 17. Plus, Coldplay is headed here 11/11. I know where I'll be!!!

The Dillon Report

* Almost 16 months
* Gives bear hugs which involve him launching
into your arms and growling
* Eats broccoli dipped in cocktail sauce
* Had his first ice cream cone last week
* Auntie Ashley taught him to say "puh-ple" for the purple crayon
* Adores bubbles
* Currently enjoys the Strawberry Shortcake kitchen set
that was mine. He and I had tea when he was last here.
* Thinks it's nothing short of magical when I
"crack an egg" on his head

* Likes "bay-bawl" just like Daddy, as evidenced by this photo.
He put the hat on himself, by the way.
* Flips up the ring on his pacifiers and tucks it under his nose.
* Is immediately placated by singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider"
* Perpetually wants to go "outsigh"
* Managed to get Mama, Justin, Eva and me to sing"Ring
Around the Rosies" with him.His favorite part is "we all fall down."

* Calls Eva "Bah" for no apparent reason
* Finds it insanely funny when I run and say
"Chugga-chugga! Chugga-chugga! Whoo whoo!"
* Squeals with delight when Justin gets after him
with "the cheepers", aka tickles him.
* Enjoys gardening, especially digging and watering
* Hates it when his feet are dirty
* Very earnestly requests "juice"
(which sounds like "Jew" when he says it)
* Is very quickly becoming a little person - amazing

U-nope-ia

This is not a post about a revolutionary idea. This is a post about a revelationary moment.

Everywhere you turn, no matter what stage of life you are in, there is the pressure to be perfect in it.

Okay. So you're thinking, yeah, so?

So I was watching TV the other day and a Target commercial came on - the one that has the Beatles' "Hello Goodbye" in it. It's one of those stark red and white commercials they've rolled out, commercials I've admired for their simplicity, ingenuity and strong branding. But on this day, I took off my marketing hat and put on my consumer hat and really looked at that which I consumed.

And I realized that the 30 seconds were jam-packed with anesthetized utopian presentations of various stages of life. Love and marriage, birth and family. Everyone smiling. Everyone neat and clean and antiseptic. And in that moment, I found it almost scary.

Now I see it everywhere I turn - this utopia, this smiling, khaki-and-white clad, gadding-about-town family. The attractive husband and the lovely wife. The well-dressed children. The picture-perfect family gathering.

I've been in the industry for over seven years, and I know how it works. It's all about presenting the iconic image of what we want. It's all about defining an absence and proposing a solution. And for a sparkling clean floor, that's okay. But for life, well, it's just...sad. It's just sad to be surrounded by images and messages about all that we lack. Not just the things we lack - but the people and circumstances we lack. And not only do we lack them, they don't even exist.

Life isn't perfect when you're in love; I can only assume that holds true even after you marry. Children are a blessing - and a burden. Families are wonderful and maddening. And for every happy gathering, every family member you love and treasure, there's got to be at least one who's totally dysfunctional and certifiably crazy.

There are perfect moments in life, for sure. There are moments when it all comes together. When you breathe it in. When you are alive. But they are fragile, spun-glass moments, just filaments barely holding together. And this place, this magical utopian place where the table is fashionably set for 18 of your closest friends and relatives in their designer best and their Crest white smiles? I'll check my Garmin, but I don't think it's out there.

But we look for it. By God, we wear ourselves out searching for it. We castigate ourselves for all the things we're not, and we worry over what we don't have. We worry about the places we're not and the people we're not. We strive and strive for something else...to say hello to the perfect and goodbye to the imperfect...and really, we're just stuck with something in between.

So the point is...the point is I'm going to try to stop buying in to all this. I'm going to try to shut out the messages - the ones I sometimes help create - and just figure out me and whether or not that's a good thing or a bad thing based on an entirely different set of standards.

Audaciously Me - Should I Be?

I am loud.

It's true.

My voice is loud. My laugh is loud. And I'm coming to believe that my personality is just a little bit loud, too.

The first day that I worked at The New Job, I remember being able to hear the whir of the ceiling fans. But the other day, my boss mentioned something about my loudness. And then The Rockstar noted that I was the most likely to say something "wildly inappropriate." And the list goes on. (But, really, STGD, I used to be way worse - you really helped me with "that's a bite.")

Now, I hear my voice every time it breaks the quiet. My laugh sounds like a bark - and I find that I try to swallow it unless it's something really funny. (Am I just reflex laughing anyway?) And before I say something, I run it through a filter. I've stopped talking quite so much, requiring me to literally bite my tongue.

When I think about it, I realize that I talk - a lot. There's one girl in the office who's getting married in three months, and I had to ask what her last name is going to be the other day - because I don't know her fiance's name. But when it comes to me, I'm an open book. I guarantee you all of my coworkers could name my family members, several friends and likely my former coworkers (that's you, STGD).

And I wonder...is this a bad thing? This loud open way that I have? Should I be quieter, listen more, talk less? It's driving my insecurity up a notch or two - and it's rather like this pinup: like finding yourself with your undies around your ankles in the middle of the room. Vulnerable and uncertain, and measuring your steps carefully so you don't end up flat on your face and embarrassed even further.

I don't know if this is me - well, okay, I know it's me. But is it me, or is it a habit I've fallen into? Much like the question I posed in a previous post...should I be more mysterious? Is this an unattractive quality about me and thus something to be refined? Or at the very least, could I give people a reason to wonder what I'm going to say? Instead of just knowing they won't have to wait long for me to say something.

And can I do it? Can I curb this impulse to spit out witticisms and puns and laugh at my own jokes and everyone else's and say everything I'm thinking? I wonder...but I think, nature or nurture, I'm going to take it upon myself to work on shutting me up before someone else tells me to do it.

Partaking in Air-Fairy Navel Gazing

Pen & M have inspired me to contemplate my navel with the utmost airy-fairyness and get all mystical like - you know, use my inner eye.

So here's what we'll be contemplating. The sign we all claim in bars in response to bad pick up lines is our Sun Sign. For me, that's Cancer, and it's the essence of personality. But you also have other signs - your Moon Sign, which represents your emotional core and your Rising Sign, which is what you present to the world. When I took the *very* scientific test to which you are linked, here's what I got:

Moon Sign - Scorpio
The profound Scorpio - moon has a desire to question everything and get to the bottom of everything. They dispose of a strong will and character. They are hard working, reliable and ambitious; there have also been some notorious criminals, scientific investigators and detectives. There is nothing that remains secret for a scorpion - moon. The more mysterious a person, an area or a task appears the more dedicated the scorpio - moon works on the matter - if necessary half of a lifetime. Many people born under this moon sign can benefit of a "magical" charisma. In communication with others they are firm, almost stubborn, often even harsh and obstinate. In relationships they are passionate and honest as long as their pride isn't hurt, then they can be resentful. Although they like very much exploring the souls of others they give very little away of themselves. Nevertheless they work intensively on the solution of their own problems. Only in emergencies will a Scorpio - moon accepts help from outside.

Rising Sign - Capricorn
Old fashioned and conservative, you carry yourself with dignity. You have a tough exterior, and you can be intimidating when you want to be.

Hard working and ambitious, you can survive in the most cut throat work environments. Outside of work, you are a true friend to everyone in your small inner circle.

You may have had a difficult time earlier in life. Capricorns are late bloomers and you may be coming into your own right now.

****
So I'm a crab with the soul of a scorpion who looks like a goat to the rest of the world. Sounds about right. As for that bit about coming into my own right now, lud, let's hope so.

5-7-5: John Mayer Wants a Haiku About His Hair

My dear friend Jenny Ray sent me this People.com article about how John Mayer wants a haiku about his hair. Fresh from a new (no doubt) ultra-expensive cut, Mayer thinks his finger-touchable coif is poetically inspiring. To that, I say, I didn't get an MFA for nothing. I hope John finds one of these fetching enough to rep his new 'do.

Volume is amped up
In rock star guitar riff waves
Lookin' good, Johnny

As Jonathan says
It's all about great har, man
Put some Dirt in it

In a fine feather
Just like Farah Fawcett
In a red swimsuit

Tuesday's Littany

* My toenails are currently painted white. I'm trying it out. For Mom. Who bought the nail polish for herself but wanted to see if it looked too hip for her. I love that woman.

* Suspect that STGD may no longer be reading my blog for lack of posts containing reference to him. BUT, here he is, and as always, my heart beats for no one else. PLUS, will see him in a month which will surely spur posting.

* Which brings me to the fact that I will likely be wearing a swimsuit with former coworkers. Is that weird?

* Contacted on Friday by a Slightly Creepy Single (i.e. not the Creepy Single). Attempted GREAT diplomacy in saying that I'm not interested.

* Currently considering solitary travel - I know, I know. My mother will have a stroke. But surely I can handle three days in New England by myself?

* Had I remembered that Women's Murder Club is set in San Fran, I would've tried harder to set up a meeting with the girls.

* I love this post that I wrote about Kudzu at the Smartini Bar.

* Never EVER try to upload 385 photos to Shutterfly at one time.

* Currently on download list - Toad the Wet Sprocket, Better than Ezra, Soul Asylum. Yes, I'm totally having a "recover your 8th grade year" moment.

In Honor of Tomorrow's Wake Up Call

This Atlanta commute is killing me.

Best. Performance Review. Ever.

Even though my review was a few weeks ago, I just got the opportunity to read the feedback submitted by my peers and superiors, all anonymous, in no particular order. But this one comment, standing alone between two longer comments darn near made cry:

"My t-shirt is clearly branded Team Ashley."

Sliding Down Memory Lane

This morning, Dillon was quite insistent about being allowed to go into the neighbor's yard and make use of the playground equipment. Instead, we convinced him that far better playground equipment could be made available to him by trekking to the school where Mom works in the library. And while I confess that it was fun to watch Dillon laugh and play, I found myself hanging back and letting the others oversee his sliding and climbing. All while I did a little sliding and climbing of my own.

For whatever reason, it was easy to forget on that expanse of white sand and metal bars and plastic tubes that I am nearing 30 years old. Instead, I found myself in a swing, chuckling at the familiar heat of the flexible black plastic that had been baking in the morning sun. I squiged my toes into the sand and pushed off, pumping my knees out of sheer instinct. Then I laid back into the motion, pushing my feet up toward the sky, closing my eyes against the glare. The doppler of wind whistled past my ears, to and fro, and it felt so blissful, for a moment, I forgot everything except blue and sun and air.

Then I went over to the tallest snaking tube (wondering for a moment if I would get stuck inside). I climbed up the metal rungs and gripped the top of the opening and settled at the top of the incline. I pushed off, slinking through the twists and turns with surprising speed and popped back out into the daylight.

Dillon started to pinken, so we decided it was best to stroll him home. I cast a sidelong glance at the slide and said, "Just one more time." And, to my surprise, Justin and Eva lined up right behind me. We all slid through the tube, I imagine, holding our breaths, cloaked in our ten-year-old selves, before being dumped back out into the present.

Flirtation Flabbergastation

Flirtation Flabbergastation is a condition, often experienced by single women in a crowded room overly populated by Creepy Singles (homosapien desperatus). Onset includes an uneasy sensation when in the sights of a Creepy Single, clearly approaching to "chat you up." Further symptoms include a slight panic followed by furtive glances and agitation if there is no escape route.

You may encounter a slightly sweaty handshake coupled with overly aggressive eye contact. In turn you may begin to sweat. It may become difficult to smile. You may lose your train of thought in the very uncomfortable situation.

Attempt to alleviate the symptoms with forced laughter and comments on the weather. Focus on the affirmation of being flirted with rather than the alarming need to get away from a Creepy Single. Try not to be suffocated by the air of desperation emitted by his poor attempts to be witty and charming. Instead, use telepathic energy to direct the people near you - anyone? - to save you from the situation.

It is very important to remain calm as Flirtation Flabbergastation takes hold; after all, egos are fragile and treatment must be applied judiciously and with tact.

If symptoms do not subside and the situation becomes chronic, look at your empty glass and excuse yourself. If at all possible, escape without dispensing your business card to avoid a relapse. Try not to vomit when you are unable to do so and instead hand over a small white card with your cell phone number on it. Ugh.

If You're Going to San Francisco...

* Be ready to pay with cash (SF is a town without credit)

* Wear comfortable shoes

* Read the map scale carefully ("a few blocks that way" can be deceiving)

* Beware of THE FOG

* Good luck finding Hayes Valley

* Know that "hills" is an understatement (particularly the Russian ones)

* Do not eat at Lori's Diner (to be regretted the next morning by all parties)

* Wear your elastic pants to Ghirardelli Square

* Pack an extra memory card for the 385 photos you will take

* Get scared by The Bushman

* Check out the Get Offs at the Hemlock Tavern (only if you have industrial strength ear plugs)

* Try not to get killed by the rabid cyclists

* Skip Shakespeare's Gardn [sic] at Golden Gate Park. Jenn's description is far more satisfying than the actual garden.

* Contemplate that the Japanese Tea Garden is worth seeing but maybe not $4 worth seeing and how you would've been much less disappointed if you'd only had to pay $2.

* Avoid the cable car with the scary herky-jerky driver

* See the sea lions

* Prepare yourself for smells ranging from garbage to urine to beer to homeless people to dirty bay water to unidentifiable odors that you'd rather not even contemplate what they actually are.

* Buy art from Eduardo Gustav on Fisherman's Wharf

* Meet up with old friends

* Spend too much money

* Flirt with the European boys on the pier

* Get chills in isolation #13 at Alcatraz

* Giggle on the giggle hallway in the Powell Hotel

* Be prepared to be very, very, very sad when you have to leave