The Crap in the Hall

The Barrister lives in an apartment that's tucked on an avenue right off downtown in one of the A-Town's hippest neighborhoods. Entering the breezeway, you pass four apartments on the way to the stairs that lead to his apartment (cleverly marked "Bee"). Over the months that I've been darkening The Barrister's door, a strange collection of objects has appeared in said breezeway.

* An empty pizza box from Fox's Pizza Den
* Two bicycles, one often chained to the stairs so that its handlebar rests on the fourth step up
* A pair of Vans with a dinosaur drawn on the right toe
* Leopard-printed bikini bottoms (unfortunately, turned inside out)
* The beer pong table to end all beer pong tables whose top was covered in a complex pattern of colored beer caps
* A gas can, always empty
* A very, very large, almost mutant bug
* Two window screens left out in the rain
* A box marked Romaine Hearts containing heaps of semi-rotting fruit (crabapples?)
* Kitty Friend, a very friendly black and white cat wearing a tinkly-belled collar
* A large black funnel that The Barrister contends is still around somewhere
* A frisbee
* A note reading "Hi, B1. I'm A2. Do you have my FedEx package?"

My Dream Comes True

Johnny Castle, in the Corner of My Mind

July 3, 1988

Dear Diary,
July is a good month. I think Patrick Swayze is cute. I love the movie Dirty Dancing. Jennifer Gray is good for the part. I want to be in a movie with Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Gray. I want there to be a Dirty Dancing II. Adios.

Love,
Ashley

***

July 4, 1988

Dear Diary,
Today is July 4th! We had a big meal and firecrackers. I have a dream of being in a movie with Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Gray. I still have flash backs of the movie. It's 11:15. Gotta go!

Love,
Ashley

P.S. My birthday is in 2 days!

That 70s House

When it comes to house hunting, I have mastered internet research. I know how to control-click the multiple areas in which I'm searching, select the interior and exterior features crucial to my abode and sort the views by price. I know what sites will show the tax assessment on all the surrounding properties and which sites have pictures. Unfortunately, there's only so far you can surf in the pursuit of a domicile.

Nonetheless, I probably would've continued my e-hunt from here to eternity if The Barrister hadn't badgered me (just a little bit) to make an appointment to see the house. When I say "the house," it's the one I look at every time I search. Just to scroll through the 10 available photos again and see if any updates have been added to the listing criteria or (fingers crossed) the price has been dropped. I know when it was built (75) and its exact square footage (1798). But finally, on Sunday, I e-mailed the listing realtor and asked to see the inside.

On Monday at 6, The Barrister and I drove over to The House for my first showing appointment as a potential homebuyer. Here's a recap of the good, the bad and the ugly:

The Good
- A quiet, centrally located neighborhood where I think I would feel safe
- New bamboo hardwoods in the living room and kitchen
- All new cabinets in the kitchen and granite countertops
- Appliances -including the refrigerator, washer and dryer - are included in the purchase price
- The living room is a glorious sunny oasis bordered on two sides by windows
- Hilarious "Wild and Crazy Guy"-esque wet bar behind louvered doors in the living room
- A cavernous garage
- Not one but two (two!) walk-in closets in the master bedroom

The Bad
- In the backyard, it's a bit hard to distinguish between maintained and unmaintained landscaping
- The roof is 20 years old
- Windows in the bedrooms are crank-handled windows which my dad swears could be the bane of my existence
- A friend of mine at work warned me that squirrels will eat the cedar exterior
- As The Barrister noted, there's not a good location for the television or the litter box (both essentials)

The Ugly
- Beige carpet in the hallway, master bedroom and first guest room, which The Barrister found revolting
- Atrocious burnt orange-brown carpet in the second guest room that reminded me of a few unfortunate diaper changes
- The unspeakably hideous guest bathroom - a combination of pale lime green tiles, terra cotta paint and a (gasp!) palm tree wallpaper border. It was a Boca-gyptian look of sorts.

I definitely could see myself in this house. I was mentally plotting paint colors and furniture placement as we walked through the rooms. But I don't want to get overly excited and make an offer before I've seen something else. Which means - unfortunately for The Barrister - a return to the dubbya-dubbya-dubbya search for another house worthy of the hunt.

Happy Birthday, STGD!

Happy birthday to STGD, my super powerful cosmic twin, armpits sweating and rosacea in full bloom! With his discerning eye for aesthetics and the kind of mad skills that would never require a cover letter like this, he's the best graphic designer on the planet - even Perezzers thinks so! His rapier wit is always entertaining (by which, I mean, clutch your side and gasp for breath), and his tender heart makes for an ever present help in trouble - like when you're barfing in the bushes in rural South Carolina. May you have the best of birthday, my fierce gay husband!

Much Love & Cleavage,
Ash

P.S. For your birthday, I got you this tiny paper tuxedo and a weekend trip to the Inner Banks.

I Love My Dad

I e-mailed the family today to let them know I'm going to see the inside of "the" house. My dad replied, "Good luck!! This makes me sad."

What I've learned: you can go home again. And it's just as hard to leave the second time around.

Baby Steps

I have just e-mailed the realtor about seeing the first house. At this rate, I'll be a homeowner before 40.

Someone Open a Window

Someone found my blog by Googling "farty teens."

One Two Five-O Let It Go

After much ado, I finally took approximately ten minutes on Saturday afternoon to pack up my hard drive. On Monday, The Barrister delivered it to the post office and sent it on its two-day priority way.

Today, I received the estimate - $1,250. One thousand, two hundred, fifty dollars. One-point-two-five-K. Twelve fifty (no decimal).

Now I know why I didn't send it. Something told me that it wouldn't be recovered so easily. That there would be a catch to the free evaluation and no-data-no-fee policy. That the fatal click was, in fact, fatal.

I called Mom, and then The Barrister. I choked up a bit talking to The Barrister. Partly over what I'd lost. And partly because I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that I could've backed it up. That I knew it was dying. And yet, I didn't do anything.

I was talking to The Linguista about it later in the day.

"I'm sorry about your hard drive," she said. "Just think of it this way - you didn't lose your best writing because it's yet to come."

I half-smiled. "It's not the writing so much as the pictures."

"Of Dillon?"

"Yeah...of everything. Irreplaceable things. Wilmywood. But I've got no one to blame but myself."

"Well," she said. "I'm Buddhist, but you could always blame God."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah...or maybe just think of it this way. It's God's really cruel way of telling you to let it go."

I know she was kidding, but I still thought about the implications of it, were it true. The laptop was given to me as a graduation gift a summer early so that I could write my thesis on it. And I did. I wrote my thesis - the culmination of my need to "pursue the writing thing." I'm not saying that I'll never write, because I believe I will. I am saying there was a certain way of pursuing it that I exorcised myself of during grad school.

Then there was after grad school - a time of soul-searching. Of trying to find happiness that eluded me again and again. Of writing the same thing about myself and to myself over and over and over again in journal entries. I started the blog and stumbled my way through finding my way. I wound up back home, single, jobless, clueless. I found my job. I found The Barrister.

So perhaps The Linguista is onto something. Perhaps that this cataclysmic hard drive failure is more than motherboard deep. Perhaps it is time to let go of the memories I'm holding onto so tightly. Consign them to the cyber morgue - may they rest in peace - and let myself go in peace.

Hard Drive Goes the Hard Way

I heard the ominous whirring. The fan gunning and wheezing to a stop. But I ignored it and pressed onward. I could feel it dying every time I turned on the computer, its arduous start-up process. And it was made all the more pitiful by the broken hinges that meant I had to prop the lid on the couch arm to use it.

For Christmas, Mom gave me a ridiculously large external hard drive for backing up my photos. I left it in the packaging under the table by the bed until the night that the whirring turned to clicking.

Oh, the click of a withering hard drive.

I panicked, willing it to turn on just one more time. Just long enough for me to plug a USB in and drag all my precious files to safety. But instead, they drowned in a sea of rhythmic clicking. Like a life preserver tossed into a tempest, Mom (who's quite tech savvy) tried to reboot from the system disk. Alas, there was no hope. And so, I sat there on the couch, with my hand on the lid of the laptop and thought of all of the photos of Dillon and Reese and Wilmywood, all of the half-started stories and poems, all of the downloaded-only music, sinking down through the cyberspace abyss.

I carried it to the mall to a rather chaotic looking little shop where a harried Asian lady attempted to start the failed piece of crap. Instead of success, she shook her head sadly and repeated, "I don't know. It's the hard drive. I don't know." And I thought to myself, Don't say it again. And two weeks later, she declared it a lost cause.

I had flashbacks of the Sad Mac and poor Carrie Bradshaw's lost files. The Barrister guided me out of the mall while I alternately tried to console myself and contemplated quickly dispatching myself in front of a moving vehicle. I sat in the car, the hunk of plastic and circuits tucked inside the Belk bag that held my newly purchased "fat" shorts (adding insult to injury), and looked out the window. I felt stupid. Hard drive failure had happened to me at work. And I knew that the laptop was on its last leg. I remarked nearly every time I started it up that I needed to back it up. Instead, I let myself down.

Now, the hard drive is sitting on the dining room table, deftly removed from its casing by my mom. There's a box in one of the chairs. There's some packaging materials I've tossed on top for when I get ready to ship it to the ridiculously high-priced data recovery center. There's probably a thin film of dust on it - it's been weeks.

So why I haven't I sent it? I don't know. It's not that I don't want those memories back - I desperately want to be able to look again at the photos I took of Dillon at the playground the day before the hard drive died and the pictures I took at the work retreat and the autumn leaves at last year's trip to Valle Crucis and mine and The Barrister's Valentine's Day and, perhaps most desperately, the pictures I took of the Grace Street apartment that can never be replicated. I want the words I never finished, and the drafts of my thesis that lead me to what I published. And yet, if I don't send it, they are still alive, somewhere in cyberspace limbo. And if I do send it, I might have to hear that they're gone forever, little bytes of life vanished as though they never happened.

Reverse Psychology

The Barrister and I watched the season finale of So You Think You Can Dance while we put on our own production of So You Think You Can Decorate, which resulted in, I'm sorry to say, a series of rather large misplaced nail holes before we finally got the quadrant of photos hung reasonably straight. Due to the starring role landed by a former contestant, every commercial break featured the trailer for the remake of Fame.

By the end of the show, The Barrister and I were standing in the middle of his living room, admiring our acceptable handiwork when the trailer ran for the 47th time. The Barrister paused, watched a few moments of the trailer and then said, "You know, if you wanted to go see that, I wouldn't say no."

If I wanted to go, huh?

Principles

Last night, my friend Tommy treated me to a belated birthday dinner.

Waitress: Do you want to see the dessert menu?

(Tommy looks at me inquiringly.)

Me: Um, yes. I'm fat, not dead.

Stinky Feet Pizza

Tonight The Barrister and I decided to celebrate the completion of the first draft of a major project I've been working on - and Wednesdayness in general - by going out for dinner. For our celebratory outing, we selected an Italian restaurant in the same building complex as my office. The restaurant has been open on and off in the last two years under at least three different names and who-knows how many owners. Its most recent rise from the ashes supposedly brought delicious brick-oven pizza and other authentic Italian delicacies. So, The Barrister and I decided to give it a chance.

To start, we had wonderfully salty bread and the kind of olive oil that makes you realize what olive oil is supposed to taste like. As I contemplated my order, I watched the pizza oven flame and saw several steaming pies pulled out of its depths. Even though I was favoring the spinach ravioli, I made a last minute switch upon seeing a pizza with pineapple, balsalmic vinager and gorgonzola cheese.

In my trilogy of decades, I know that gorgonzola cheese has passed my lips. But I'm not sure that I've ever had gorgonzola melted and smothering the entirety of my meal. As soon as our waitress set the pizza down, I inhaled a lung-full of sweaty foot odor. Startled, I sniffed again and realized that - sweet fancy Moses - the smell was coming from my dinner.

As The Barrister dug into his pizza - dotted with cuts of spicy salami, black olives and pesto - I tentatively put the stinky feet pizza in my mouth. I chewed thoughtfully. I swallowed. I waited. And then the foot odor taste wound around my tongue. The Barrister exclaimed over his pizza while I bit and gnashed and swallowed dutifully, trying to make it taste better. Half the pizza, I told myself. But one slice shy of my personal pan, I took the last bite of the wedge in hand. And in my mouth, the full intensity of potent stinky feet pizza exploded, assaulting my tastebuds. I winced a little and gagged. The vile triangle of death, the stinky feet pizza crushed my resolve. I put down my knife and fork and surrendered.

But don't feel too sorry for me. I consoled myself in an Italian confection whose name translated to "Drowning in Chocolate."

Sorta Memory

Just listening to the Sarah McLachlan station on Pandora, and it's playing Tori Amos's "Sorta Fairytale." And for a flash, I'm standing in the kitchen of the Grace Street apartment in the middle of fall. The windows are open, twilight is settling, and the air begins to bite. Debating a glass of wine and smelling the cold. Filled with melancholy, but I don't remember why...and then, like a fairytale would, it dissolves into nothing more than an ephemeral shiver.

Rusty

Tonight, I logged in to the Jungle for the first time in ages. I suppose I've checked into the dashboard a couple of times over the last two-and-a-half months, but, to be honest, I haven't really had words. I haven't had words or time or both, or maybe the chemistry to grease the wheels between thoughts and expression. For whatever reason, I took an unintended hiatus.

At times, this accidental absence has felt like a release from responsibility. But at this point, the silence is deafening. The words are clogging my synapses; it's difficult to even know what to say.

My first impulse was to try and write everything...try to somehow recapture the lost time. Instead, I'm going to oil up the brainwaves and just let it all tumble out. And if there's something you want to know more about - if any of you are still out there - I'll be happy to expound upon it. So here's a little of what you've missed...and by the way, it's good to be back.

* Third blogiversary
* Winning lottery ticket - $35
* Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince
* The death of Michael Jackson
* 30
* New-found affinity for goat cheese
* Monet's water lilies * Birthday shoes
* Dillon's 2 1/2 birthday party
* House hunt with renewed vigor
* Big new account at work
* Trip to Ohio and reunion with the one and only Kim Shable
* Nearing 8 months with The Barrister
* Introduction to Beach Ball Rodeo
* Client placement in an in-flight magazine (the ungetable get)
* Reese sitting up
* A terrible tragedy
* The rise of tweeting
* Frequent travel to the Big City office
* New tripod
* A month of physical therapy for my continued back problems
* Blackberry cobbler
* Weight gain
* Death Cab for Cutie concert
* Death of the Hard Drive
* Tommy's 30th birthday party
* Growing volunteer group
* Seeing Penelope & Andi
* Meeting The Ice Cream Man
* Discovery of The Furminator
* Received a hand-painted lizard from the Dilly Monster
* Laughed, loudly, as always
* Made mistakes, as always
* Lived

Field of Grief

It was a brutal day. Up at 4:15 a.m. to be in Atlanta for a meeting - followed by a meeting and another meeting and another meeting. By the time The Barrister picks me up in an abandoned restaurant parking lot after my last one, I am ragged and weary.

Two hours later, our westward journey ends on old turf...the school where Anna and Ronnie met. The baseball field is being dedicated in his memory. And though the gesture is honorable and kind, it punctures my heart, that place so carefully and newly healed over. It deflates all that I've been steeling myself against, and I wither under the curious stares of those who have gathered for the ceremony.

The air pressure drops, like the atmosphere reenacting my emotional state. A storm gathers to the west, moving toward us with the swift cooling winds.

Around me, there is the murmur of voices, occasional bursts of laughter. Aluminum bats connect with baseballs with a tinny ping that sounds hollow in the emptying air.

And the pressure drops and the tensions rise and the storm moves in on us.

We huddle in an aluminum building and listen to the rain slosh on the roof in a deluge so strong it sounds like a firehose is being sprayed wide open above us. And slowly, the heavy splatter of the rain begins to tinkle. Liquid turns to ice. Marble-sized hail pelts the roof in an eerie staccato so loud, we can't hear each other over the sound. It fills my ears; I can feel the vibrations inside my chest. I squeeze The Barrister's hand.

When it stops, the ground is covered in a layer of round white ice gumballs. The storm passes away, warm spring air behind it. And where warm meets cool, a fine mist begins to rise. It shrouds the field from our view as the makeshift ceremony goes on as planned inside the metal building.

As the master of ceremonies starts talking about Ronnie, goosebumps raise on my arms. And the punctured hole gives way to a torrent of tears. I don't know why I am crying. Why am I crying so hard, standing on astroturf and staring into the white air? I am trembling and hollow.

After it is over, someone calls out that the fog is receding and that a rainbow is arcing over centerfield. The crowds shuffles out to see. But I can't. I don't want to see it. It's too poetic. Too trite. This hope stretched out above us when there is none around me. I can't look, and so I stand in the doorway and watch the ice evaporate. Watch the cool solidity slide away into nothingness.

Obligatory Cuteness

A Voice from Afar

Hello.

I'm still here.

Promise.

Posts are a-brewin'.

April showers will bring May flowers.

Miss y'all.

Morning @ The Office

Me (to The Linguista): Is this top to boob-y for work?

The Linguista: Ashley, you have large breasts. Everyone knows this. The jig is up.

*****
The Violinist (in response to e-mail suggesting lunch place where one can order delicious falafel pitas): I would like to join your group of pita eatas.

*****

The Violinist (to me): What is my job title? Hobag?

Reese's Pieces

FAIL

* Blogging

* Reading the novels sent to me by Kim Shable and Susan

* Leaving the bar at Smartini

* Seeing Reese and Dillon

* Contact with the outside world

* House-hunting

* Being productive at work

* Writing (in a way that uses that MFA thing I've got)

* Finances - surprise - $270 for car servicing! Taxes not back yet. Yelch.

* Sending back the merchandise that Amazon sent me incorrectly

* March project for volunteer group (although, I will have to partially blame it on the rain that is falling, falling.)

* Putting a picture of The Barrister on my desk at work

* Life, generally speaking

God is a Sniper

Ominous message on the letter board outside the Apostolic church half a mile from my house:

"When we take things for granted, those things we are granted get taken."

Choke

* to stop by strangling, stifling
Like Pavlov's dogs, I respond to their reactions. An endless cycle of act and react, the latter beginning to paralyze me.

* to stop the breath by squeezing or obstructing the windpipe
The more they squeeze, the faster I run. After all, I have to breathe.

* to suppress an emotion
I will not give in to the angerandfrustration. I will swallow it again and again and again. And though I am full on it, though it rises up in my throat, I will choke back the words and bite my tongue; shed blood in my mouth to keep the peace.

* to check or slow down the movement, growth, or progress of
Aging faster than I'd like to admit and surrendering my independence inch by inch. As the days grow closer to thirty years, I grow more and more emotionally crippled.

* to fill chock-full; jam
And it's like this over and over again in my life...memories flood back to me. Thirty years of redirection through tense silence and direct assault. In the classic words of parents everywhere, I've had it up to here.

* to enrich the fuel mixture by diminishing the air supply
It crushes my ribs, collapses my lungs and pushes every last bit of air out of me. I am gasping. But the independence that's been jammed down to the pile simmers, threatens to ignite.

* to seize with a chain, a cable or the like to facilitate removal
It's time to free my independence and move forward. To rise above and sail away. With the fire fueled quietly, kindling underneath the surface, I fan the spark.

* to shorten one's grip on
I'm firming up my grip on myself and my emotions, preparing my grasp for what promises to be a fight. I flex my fingers, try to be strong and dig in.

* to fail to perform effectively because of nervous agitation or tension
Again and again, I shy away from the confrontation. I choke under the onslaught of terse words, unpronounced judgments. I forget how to be me. I forget how I want to be. Because I'm trying so hard to be what they want me to be.

* to become speechless from the effects of stress or emotion
And I realize after all these years, I can no longer say I'm sorry. I know they want me to have words for why I am as I am. Why I am different. Why I break the mold. Why I go forth, marching to the beat of a drummer no one else hears. And truly, there are no words other than to say I am me. I am me.

* a slight narrowing of the barrel of a shotgun to concentrate the shot
Choking on the crowd of selves trying to prevail, I narrow my focus. I have to push the one I want to the front. I have to be to the world as I am. I have to be true. I have to make independence my target. I have to keep my inherent fragility in my sights. I have to be ready, aim, fire and shoot-to-kill the illusion of me that threatens to destroy the reality.

Oh, Baby

Shameless self-promotion

Crowded

When I was little, we used to sing a chant about bears in a bed. It was a counting game of sorts...and it went "Five bears in the bed and the little one said, 'I'm crowded! Roll over!' So they all rolled over and one fell out - four bears in the bed and the little one said..." You get the picture, right?

That's how life feels these days. Only no matter how many times things roll over, nothing falls out of the bed. It only grows more crowded. And I feel like the sheet, stretched as tight as possible to cover everything.

And yet, try as I might to stretch and reshape to get it all covered, I fail. Little bits and pieces start to slide out from under me, followed by bigger more substantial parts. Slowly, life drifts apart and I'm hustling to and fro trying to recover those things that have escaped my grasp.

It is this sense of lost control that pervades my mind. Even my dreams are fragmented, disjointed snatches of lost moments or anxious reenactments. I am starring in The Actor's Nightmare. Forgetting tests. Getting lost.

I am an overpromising underdelivering machine these days. I am late for work and lethargic and foggy when I get there. I forget to make calls. I can't find time for emails. The blog languishes. Family waits impatiently for me to join. Friends send out S.O.S. signals in the wake of my disappearance. I don't write. I don't read. Nothing is organized. Everything is frantic. I am everywhere and nowhere. I am responding but never enough.

It is like being lost in a crowd...taking up space, cognizant of yourself as existing. But so easily lost, discounted, nearly invisble. There but not. Taking up space but not really mattering.

Conversation Starter

"This girl in my class who we really don't like got kicked by a horse last night." --The Barrister

In Deliberations

The Barrister asks me today, "Which is more disappointing to you? That I'm not left-handed or that I'm not British?"

Reese Marie

Reese Marie
March 2, 2009
1:45 p.m.
7 lbs., 12 oz.
19 inches

And for the record, I went back there. I was present at the moment of birth and it was both transcendent and educational. It took awhile for the adrenaline to wear off...for the come down after it all. But, now that I'm back at home and have a moment to reflect, it was really quite beautiful. And I miss her already.

Just Me & the Boys: An Update

For some reason - is it because I' m a girl? - I keep getting asked if I want to go back to the labor and delivery room. Umm. No. I do not. Like, why is it okay for my dad and Eva's dad and brother and (although less surprisingly) The Barrister to park it in front of daytime TV? But me? They keep prodding. "You can go back if you want." Why would I want to go back there? I want to see the baby, sure. But after it's ungoopified and smelling nice and wrapped in swaddling clothes. I do not need to see the actual emergence into the world. That is all.

And for the record, an epidural is in place and I expect we'll be getting push reports from "back there" before long.

Labor & Delivery

At the moment, The Barrister and I are sitting in the waiting room watching snippets of Dr. Phil addressing the Octo-Mom in his typical incongruous metaphors. I can't really pay attention. Part of me want to go back to sleep...seeing as how we fled the storm of the decade that unceremoniously dropped six-plus inches of snow at home and arrived at Anna's just before 9 last night. And then got up at 6:30 this morning to get ready for the baby's arrival. Not that this chair is all that comfortable, but I am rather tired.

I walked back to the delivery room to say hello to Eva...she's having contractions about ten minutes apart. It was cool to hear the baby's heartbeat. But the machines, the tubes, the hospitalness of it all. I'm content to be stuck with Dr. Phil and now experts on rosacea. Mom had suggested that I might want to stay in the delivery room...but. No. I think I'll wait until Reese is here and wearing a cute little hat before I get involved. Stay tuned...

Perfection

* Rainfall

* Lamplight

* Train whistle

* Whisper

One Year and a Lifetime

One year ago tomorrow, fate tore a gaping hole in our world. It was a Monday. It was cold and brisk. It was a perfectly average winter day. The kind of day that no one expects death to come.

We have counted the months. We have passed the milestones: the anniversary, Anna's birthday, his birthday, the holidays. And tomorrow is the last first. This will be the last time that it's the first February 18th that he's not here. February 19th, we have endured. But tomorrow...tomorrow is the day that we cannot forget. It is the day that is burned into our memories forever. We will relive it for the rest of our lives. But tomorrow is the last first time that we have to memorialize it.

Tomorrow is the day that I will have no choice but to acknowledge what I was doing this time last year. That I had lunch at Last Resort. That I stood outside on the sidewalk and listened to Mom give me a harried report from her arrival at the ER while the wind blew cold and dry through my hair, around my legs. That I sat alone in the conference room at work just two hours later and heard in her voice - if not in her words - that he wasn't going to make it and I put my face in my hands and cried. That I packed and prepared for the worst. That, truth be told, I could feel in my bones that the worst would happen. That I wore the long-sleeved red shirt and a olive quilted vest and I drove to Atlanta knowing knowing knowing that when I got there, he would die. That I held his hand...that I told him I loved him...that he died.

Grief is not a straight line. It is a winding path. It is two steps forward and eight back. It is denial and anger and acceptance to the nth degree in no particular recurring order. It is forgetting for a second and remembering the next how everything has changed. It is juggling your own pain with everyone else's; it is meeting and failing to meet the odd expectations that spring up in the wake of death. It is feeling not yourself and feeling like only yourself exists. It is seeing your life in fragments, in eras, in before and after, in complete shambles. It is the ashes from which we rise again. Tomorrow is the last first. And then the next day will be...just another day that we get up and push through and move forward.

A Half-Hearted Note of Apology

I'm sorry to be such a lazy blogger lately. I really am. I think about blogging. I even sometimes make little notes to myself on post-its. But...the blogging just seems to have gone to the wayside. As a peace offering, I give you this totally adorable picture of me and The Barrister. Can you be mad at that face? Really? Can you?

Friday Wish List

It's Friday. And Bluefly.com is having a designer shoe sale. And while I'm not allowed under any circumstances on penalty of a horrible, painful, bloody death and dismemberment to dig into my growing house fund to take advantage of said sale, a girl can dream, right? Because, how can I celebrate walking across the threshold of my (still theoretical) new abode without some wicked fantastic heels? Shoes are my Achilles heel...but my heel would look so good in anyone of these.

Giuseppi Zanotti

Yves Saint Laurent

Christian Dior

Charles David

Gucci

Ashley the Grouch

* Since I spent most of the weekend actively puking my guts up or feeling like doing so, I'm tentative about eating. Which means I'm hungry. A lot.

* I really hate Taylor Swift. I hate her weird squinty eyes and stupid "Love Story" song, which invokes Romeo & Juliet in the world's most insipid way.

* I hate that Taylor Swift probably thinks Romeo & Juliet are from that movie with Leonardo DiCaprio.

* I have to drive to the outskirts of Atlanta today - for a 4 p.m. meeting. Hello, traffic.

* One of my clients is being unsatisfiable. And I have had it.

* I'm really annoyed when I can't tell whether I'm friends with someone anymore.

* I'm pretty sure that I look fugly today.

* If you have a question that starts with, "Can you...?" the answer is "no." And if you press me, it's gonna be "hell no."

Wedding Announcement

Last night, while watching She's the Man, The Barrister pronounced the Amanda Bynes flick "totally awesome." We will be getting married this weekend.

Happy Holidays

* February 9-13: Just Say No to PowerPoints Week

* February 13: Blame Someone Else Day

* March 11-17: National Turkey Vultures Return to the Living Sign Week

* March 31: National Bunsen Burner Day

* April 6: Teflon Day

* May 3: Lumpy Rug Day

* June 2: National Yell "Fudge" at the Cobras in North America Day

* August 8: Sneak Some Zucchini onto Your Neighbor's Porch Night

* October 12: International Moment of Frustration Scream Day

* November 19: World Toilet Day

* December 26: National Whiner's Day

Please mark your calendars and celebrate accordingly.

How to Be Late to Work (or Perfecting the Art of Piddling)

* Note that your cell phone memory card is full. Look through and delete 10-12 text messages from your phone.

* Overhear the new Kate Perry video on VH1. Stand slack-jawed in front of the TV and watch.

* Decide today is the day to experiment with accessories. One necklace or two? Long or short? Should I wrap it around twice like a choker first?

* Pet the cat.

* Get inspired to put all the shoes in your floor back in their boxes.

* Realize that you've been standing motionless under the hot shower for an undetermined amount of time, possibly in another dimension.

* Contemplate the outfits that you could wear but don't want to wear.

* Make a list of CDs you've been meaning to buy.

* Snooze.

* Try on sample lipstick from Clinique. Decide it doesn't work and wipe it off. Be reminded that you've been thinking about buying some fingernail polish. Ponder whether or not to just wait for spring.

* Lose your keys. And your cell phone. Where did you put it after deleting those text messages?

* Leave your lunch on the counter. When you go back inside to retrieve it, give in to the compulsion to also fix a travel mug of coffee.

* Be me.

The Knockers are Coming

Apparently it started when Dillon decided to potty train himself. One day, he simply refused to wet his diaper, and since then, he's been heading to the bathroom like a big boy. And one day, he knocked on the wall while doing his business and said to Eva, "The Knockers are coming, Mommy." And where are The Knockers coming from? "Right there," he said and knocked on the wall again and then pointed to a different spot on the wall for her to knock. "Right there."

The Knockers continued to make regular appearances at potty time for awhile. Then one night after he had gone to bed, Justin heard noises coming from Dillon's room. He opened the door to find him standing in his bed, knocking on the wall and pronouncing that The Knockers were coming.

Eva and Justin finally confessed to each other that The Knockers were giving them the heebie-jeebies. But Dillon seemed unafraid of The Knockers - excited even by their arrival. Eva asked the pediatrician if he was overly stressed; the doc told her that Dillon's just highly imaginative.

I had not seen - and hoped to never see - the strange phenomenon of The Knockers. Children plus the supernatural equal a very freaked out Ashley. But last weekend, I was introduced to The Knockers.

Dillon stood at the front door looking out into the yard through the storm door. And then he began to knock. "The Knockers are coming," he said. "Right here. Right here." He knocked again.

"Who are The Knockers, Dillon?" I asked.

He looked at me with his guileless eyes and said, "They're coming."

"Coming to what?"

He took the index finger of one hand and started to draw circles on the glass. "They go 'round and 'round and 'round." It was almost like he was mesmerized. And then his connection to The Knockers was broken and he turned back to play.

Thoroughly chilled, hair standing on end, I asked, "Dillon, what do The Knockers look like?"

"They're big shapes," he said, holding his little arms akimbo.

Now...I fully imagine that The Knockers who are big shapes and go round and round look like this:
But in all fairness, The Knockers, who are big shapes, and go round and round could look like this:
In all fairness, Dillon isn't afraid of The Knockers. I mean, the rest of us are utterly creeped out and live in fear that The Knockers are coming. But they seem to make him happy or at the very least be on friendly terms with him. All the same, I welcome any suggestions - garlic or crosses or a lucky rabbit foot - to keep The Knockers from coming to see me.

The Thing Is...

I find myself saying this phrase a lot when telling friends and acquaintances about the new (dare I say it?) relationship with The Barrister to preface every item in the litany of unexpected good things about our new "us." And while there isn't really just one thing, the thing is...

...I have a dedicated pair of PJ pants at his apartment for whenever I just need an elastic waistband...

...he's up for whatever I want to do - like feed my new Death Cab for Cutie obsession with tickets to their May show at The Fox...

...he played dominoes with Justin and Eva even though he doesn't like games...

...I have a key...

...we talk about...everything. And whether it's good or it's bad, we just manage to sift through every issue without yelling or getting angry or playing the blame game...

...flowers! I mean, flowers!...

...we go out for sushi, debate about whether to order another roll and decide to get Chick-fil-A milkshakes instead...

...he likes to drive and so he picks me up and chauffeurs me around, and I love it...

...even when I'm wearing my glasses, he pronounces me 'adorable'...

...he read my thesis, and he thought it was good. And he's not the type to blow sunshine...

...he loves House...

...I'm happy...maybe that's it. Maybe that is the thing.

I Have a Dream

Almost 50 years ago, Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered his famous "I Have a Dream" speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Almost six months ago, I started to dream about starting a volunteer group in the ATown for me and other singletons as a way to make friends and do something productive, make a difference. And today, my dream became a realization...so it was on a playground and not the Lincoln Memorial, but, all the same...

It's fairly lofty to compare my small town volunteer group to one of the greatest visionaries of the modern age, but I like to think that Dr. King would've been proud today. I hope he would've been proud of the group that spent the morning at an elementary school clearing a nature trail of debris so that the outdoor classroom teacher can use the space. I hope he would've been proud of the group that worked together for three hours on the service project in his honor. I hope he would've been proud of the group that included men and women, a myriad of ethnicities, and a hodge-podge of religions. I hope he would've been proud that we all labored in the cold, smiling and laughing, because the selflessness of it felt so good.

I hope he would've been proud that I had a dream that shared some of the same visions he had.

I hope he would've been proud. I like to think so.

Ash & the Case of the Brilliant Barrister

The Crimes:
* A felony charge of blog neglect
* Numerous misdemeanor counts of phone calls unreturned, emails unanswered and skipping out on family togetherness
* A couple of petty charges of lack of productivity at work and overtexting

Opening Argument:
Ladies and gentlereaders of the jury, in my own defense, I plan to acquit myself of the above charges by demonstrating an alibi of happiness directly related to The Brilliant Barrister. Knowing the history of my state of happiness from the annals of this blog, you may bring a preconceived notion that this state of being is impossible for the defendant. On the contrary, it is, in fact, possible. Please observe.

Evidence:
Exhibit A - Flowers for no good reason on three separate occasions in the last month, including roses, lilies and tulips. I ask you, ladies and gentlereaders, - particularly ladies - whom among you could hold this against me?

Exhibit B - Spontaneous visits to my place of employment. While these may have contributed to my petty lack of productivity at work, these visits were not with malicious intent. Instead, these visits were meant to contribute to the greater happiness of the defendant by infusing her life with the element of pleasant surprise.

Exhibit C - Please see the generally goofy, moony smile plastered on the defendant's face.

Exhibit D - The Barrister demonstrates a willingness to journey more than 20 minutes to my place of residence and fetch me for outings. On said occasions, he charms the parental units with witty banter and tales of his barristerish activities.

Exhibit E - The Dilly Monster allowed him to play in The Artichoke Band last night. It is important to understand that these privileges, on past occasions, have actually been revoked by The Monster from the likes of his own Nana. We ask that the jury not underestimate the significance of these actions.

Witnesses:
The fam, the office crew, Mr. Kudzu, T., Sus, Jenn and Niki. In addition, The Barrister is now friends with STGD and Kim on Facebook in a gesture of full disclosure with those with whom he must curry favor.

Closing Argument:
In closing, I would like to note that general control of The Panic has improved and umprompted commentary on my state of well-being have seen an increase in the last six weeks. And while I have noted the external evidences of The Barrister, I have not cataloged the less tangible evidences of The Barrister's influence: calm, laughter, contentment. But I ask you, in light of the circumstances of the last two years, the long and winding road through struggles that you...well, cut me some slack on the charges listed.

Verdict:
It is up to you, ladies and gentlereaders. Am I guilty of these punishable offenses? Or am I just guilty of indulging in a little *gasp* normality that seems to be leading to the Land of the Happy?

Question of the Day

Dad: What's "bling"? B-L-I-N-G? Bling.

Wisecracking & Wisdom from an Evening with T.

T.: "Yes. I have a man bag."

***

T.: "Nietzsche had it half right. What doesn't kill us doesn't make us stronger. What doesn't kill us makes us afraid."

***

T.: "I always feel like people with tattoos are judging me."

***

T.: "So the question is, what do you want?"
Me: "From life or for dessert?"

***

T: "We're Cancers. We have our shells and our claws, but all we really want is to get rid of them."

***

T.: Have you ever noticed that Adam Duritz's mouth looks like a vagina in the "Round Here" video?

***

Sent by T.: Post-outing photo sent of church sign reading "Now is the time."

Half-Birthday Wishes

Today is my half-birthday. Tomorrow, this moon child officially tips out of her twenties toward her thirties. Aside from generally wondering how I got here so fast, I'm trying to decide whether or not to panic about the 30 threshold. Not wanting to be 30 would indicate that I, in some way, would rather hang on to my twenties. Upon a little reflection, I see the past decade for what it is: a learning curve that was rather steep at some points. It's a curve I think I'm ready to see plateau to a new horizon. I look back on a lot of time spent puzzling out who and where I wanted to be, muddling through the initial throes of adult life and dallying with being different versions of me. And with just six months left, I'm feeling rather like maybe, just maybe, I have finally wrestled the demons. Like David, I have fought an exhausting battle through a long night only to come face to face with God in the morning. And now, I am at peace.

So on this half birthday, I have a few wishes. First, I want to spend a little time sending off my twenties...perhaps some reflective blog posts are in the near future. Secondly, I want to avoid dreading the 30 threshold. I'm not - in many ways - where I thought I would be by now. But I'm starting to accept that maybe things beyond my imagination will make my life so much more than my small-minded visions. And lastly, I want to celebrate. My birthday has been an overlooked and under-lauded event for some time now. I don't recall most of my birthdays, and the last time I had a party, there were roller skates involved. So please join me as I say goodbye and wave hello and dream up the proper fanfare for a lady at the ripe old age of 30 - we'll consider it an addendum to my resolutions. Suggestions welcome.

Happy Halvsies to Me.

A Pretty Good Year: Resolutions

* Take a deep breath during perfect moments and really live them.

* Apologize less for being me.

* Accept my limitations.

* Let go of the past - learn from it, but know that the present and the future are where I can exercise the most control.

* Get my stupid passport already.

* Be hopeful and believe that good things exist for me.

* Write more - and write earnestly. It's time to stop holding to insecurities and just do it.

* Welcome Reese into the world with all the love I have to give.

* Embrace happiness without reservation. Love without fear. And relentlessly seek to be at peace with myself.