2010 in Words

And if you need the *rest* of the story...read the letter.

The Best Lesson in the Christian Faith I Ever Learned from a Buddhist

The Linguista and I recently found ourselves in one of our famous marathon parking lot discussions that occur when one of us drives the other to a mutual destination and then the return trip to pick up the car turns into a two-hour gab session that inevitably becomes deeply philosophical.

As we talked about relationships, I told her that I had to focus on being a better person and a better Christian before I troubled myself further to find the love of my life.

"Why are you so hard on yourself?" she asked. "I marvel at you every day."

I mumbled some sort of abashed thanks for the compliment but quickly turned back to my failings. All the ways I fall short of the glory of God that I should be focused on improving.

The Linguista, a Buddhist, asked if Christians were the ones who believe that we are made in the image of God, and I confirmed. "I read this part of your book," she said. "And I don't think it means that you have the face of God. Maybe you do. But I think it's that your soul is in the image of God. You have a God-shaped soul. And you have to find the beauty of God that's already in you."

I had never thought of being created in the image of God as more than a literal interpretation that we resembled God in some way. And as a Baptist, I've always been far more educated in the ways that I am not like God than in the ways that I am. But to think that, as she put it, I have a piece of God's soul, cleaved from the whole, makes me feel less like I am a broken thing in a constant state of repair and more like I have something amazing inside. And it makes sense to think of God desiring a relationship with a soul that is like Him, but this idea that God's soul was there all the time, is, well, to put it Buddhistly, enlightening.

Dear a-Men:

I read your latest letter to Penelope with, per usual, an absolute sense of likewiseness. Of the sense that tradition clearly stems from the past, is carried into the present and seems rather moot in the face of a faceless future. How (and who - which I must point out is an anagram of "how" -) will it be toted forward if there are no small hands to reach for it? And not even one hand to reach for yours to make new tradition?

Christmas Eve started well enough with coffee with an old friend. But then, it was on to some rather joyless cooking. The chopping and stirring and measuring all seemed rather like a chore than a shared experience. Though we tried to laugh and infuse the egg peeling and pretzel smashing and vegetable boiling with yuletide brightness, it simply felt tired and dim.

We watched the Christmas Eve service on the internet rather than going because I just couldn't muster the energy to push everyone to go. And then we watched Prep & Landing, and it was lovely, but the theme of dissatisfaction and finding fulfillment just made me cry.

And then my brother called and wanted us to come down to his house before Santa's arrival on Christmas morning. But his in-laws were there, and the house doesn't really offer the room for four more adults to be added to the festivities and plus we don't open presents on Christmas day anymore because the in-laws are there and so we postpone until the New Year's weekend. This all led to serious Nana-guilt for my mother and envy-guilt for my sister and me who were having a hard enough time with this holiday season.

The call was a reminder of all the tradition lost and the way our Christmas has become this slippery ephemeral thing to be moved around on the calendar to accommodate everyone's schedule. It all leads to a half-hearted Christmas on both ends of the week - a Christmess if you will. And not only that but there was the reminder of children, of in-laws, of new celebrations and bright eyes and innocence and the kind of love that creates all those things that's decidedly missing from my life right now.

Even though it was snowing - my first white Christmas! - and the Christmas music played in the kitchen and there was a blue velvet birthday cake for Baby Jesus (because Dillon's favorite color is blue) and Reese woke up from her nap demanding "Ash'ey" and curled up in my lap all warm and cherubic for some TV time, there was still on the inside a void. A cold hollow that echoed with all the doubts about whether it will ever be different. Whether I will ever have my own warm cherub and strange desserts by request.

We ended the night by watching two horrible made-for-TV movies that somehow took the edge of bitterness off the day. If even the Hallmark movie could fail in holiday perfection, perhaps I should cut myself some slack.

Ah, M. Let us continue the advent celebration with the same sense of hope that Immanuel delivered to us. God is with us. And for now, that will have to be enough.

Love,
A

Dear 2010:

Let me begin by saying I had high hopes for you. I wanted to give you a chance to be the Year of Great Things. But you made your choices and became the Year of Disaster instead. Even though you're in the death throes of your last week, I'm going to lay my litany of complaints at your door. Because I deserve to have my say.

Kudzu's illness and subsequent passing shaded the whole year. From February when I first noticed his weight loss to March when he first went to the doctor to June when he finally lost the fight. Pretty much the whole of you, 2010, was spent enduring the decline of my sweet furry friend or mourning his death. That's a lot of kleenex.

There was the house I bought in February that I still don't quite absolutely live in full time, a fact I lay entirely upon your doorstep, 2010. And just to add insult to injury, I remind you of the delightful $800 water bill that resulted from the running toilet in the guest bathroom and found its way to my mailbox the week after Kudzu died.

And speaking of that week, heartbreak just heaped on heartbreak when I once again found myself in the general vicinity of Singledom. My poor heart, already in shreds, took another hit when The Barrister and me parted ways. At that point, I pretty much emotionally flat-lined.

Just when I thought I might stop living every second on the Verge of Tears, I found out that a dear friend from high school had taken his own life. I felt guilty for failing to be in touch with him more recently than I had. And I felt his absence profoundly. Even as I worked to verify that the rumors were true, I knew their truth in my heart. He was gone. I struggled through the service and the drive home, filled with questions that had no answers.

Your July also brought my 31st birthday, a rather pitiful affair. A mere two weeks after Kudzu died, after D.'s death and The Barrister and me disintegrated, and I was not only getting older, I was alone. Until the end of the month when I was briefly kind-of-sort-of stalked by a loose-cannon photographer.

The next month, there was the news of the final demise of The Old Job and STGD suddenly finding himself unemployed after more than a decade of faithful employ. Even though I'd heard rumblings of its approach, the actual arrival of The End made me more sad than I anticipated. Somehow, it was like the last crumbling of the life I once lived.

In September, I was mistaken for a pregnant woman. Kill me now. And my pregnant friend Hilary gave birth far too early and had me in a vigil of prayer and concern. On a bright note - though don't think you're off the hook, 2010 - little Aubri is doing just fine.

By October, I was over you. Not over all the havoc you'd wreaked on my life, but totally. over. you. Dunzo.

Unfortunately, you were not through with me. Why else would I have suffered through not one but two embarrassing setbacks on the road to romantic recovery? I mean, really, 2010. Was the humiliation and EPIC FAIL really necessary at this point in the year? I guess you figured a time when I had no dignity left was as good a time as any to send me down into the dumps.

And finally, December arrived. The light at the end of this 12-month tunnel of darkness. But just to get in your last one-two punch, you decided to claim another friend of the family, sending me to the funeral home mid-month. And you managed to even taint my beloved job to the point that I was desperate for a vacation by the time the holidays rolled around.

In closing, I would like to bid you not adieu. Or farewell. Or even good riddance. I prefer instead to bid you get the hell gone and don't ever show your face around here again.

Love (yeah, right),
Ashley

Syllogism

Interoffice instant messaging

Texas Twin: I hate math.

Me: Math is evil

Me: Just like boys.

Me: So...boys are math?

Texas Twin: And girls are...calculators?

Texas Twin: But that would mean we could figure out boys.

Me: Which we cannot.

Me: I'm going to start a band called Boys are Math

Over the Bridge & Under the Moon

This weekend, my friend C. came to visit from the Lonestar State and charged me with taking him somewhere in Georgia he'd never been. And though a well-traveled fellow, this charge really only eliminated spending the day in Atlanta. Instead, we drove up 441, winding up into north Georgia between hills burnished deep orange and coppery brown by the late-arriving fall. The sun was glorious in the sky overhead - a crisp blue that would be cold to the touch, scattered with breaths of cloud.

We wandered through the woods along a narrow path, following the blue smudged arrows on the sides of pines, oaks and birches that marked the High Bluff Trail. There was only the crunch of thousands of leaves under our feet, the slow rustle of a slight breeze in the trees, and the calls of whatever birds were out to enjoy the fall day to punctuate our sentences. It was easy to be in the forest, in the low sloping hills, among clumps of green moss and clusters of mustard-yellow mushrooms.

But later, we hiked down into the gorge, down hundreds of stairs that wound down between rock walls. Down to where the water poured from the gullet of the walls into a river that ran over smooth flats stones in swirling eddies and quick whorls. As we descended we could hear the water churning against gravity, and we were pulled down, too, to where a suspension bridge crossed the river - the only way to get to the observation deck for the falls.

I said I couldn't, but C. didn't understand that bridges are not an inconvenience but a terror. Not a dislike but a panic. He never gave me the option to not go. So I closed my eyes and held his hand and took a step out onto the wooden slats held in the air by thick wire cables. I could feel the vibrations of the bridge under my weight; I could feel the blood in my ears. I could feel my fingertips pressing hard against my eyelids; I could feel a hand in my sweaty hand and I squeezed it tightly, focused on that hand to lead me to the other side.

***

Later, back at my house, I put on my pajamas and pulled back the covers on my bed. It's only the third time I've slept there, and I crawled between the sheet in a familiar bed set in a still strange landscape. I clicked off the bedside lamp and lay there in the darkness for a moment, keenly attuned to the sounds of the hardwood floors settling. To the heat hissing through the vents. To the weird way that the grate on the carport door sometimes twangs. Straining to categorize every sound, it took me a moment to realize that cool, silvery light had slipped across my face and fanned out across the blankets. I turned onto my stomach and peeked through the blinds. There, high above my house, gazing down into my bedroom window was my beloved moon. After all this time...so many months...it was only then that I discovered my old friend looked in my window, just as he has all my life.

Partly Cloudy with a Chance of Sunshine

Oil Spill (Kids' Edition)

Tonight, while serving dinner at the homeless shelter, one of the kids came up to me and asked me my name. "I'm Ashley," I said. "What's your name?" He told me he was Caleb, that he was 7 and that his birthday is August 8, 2003. Charming, right?

Five minutes later he ran up to me, his hands cupped around an imaginary substance. "Do you know what this is?" he asked.

"No," I said. "What is it?"

"It's oil," he shouted. And then he proceeded to throw it on me, pull his invisible flame-thrower off his back and shower me with fire. "I just set you on fire!" he declared gleefully. "You're burning!"

Um, are you seven? Yes. Yes, you are. Am I disturbed? Yes. Yes, I am.

With a Little Help from My Friends

More than eight months ago, I bought a house. What started out as a euphoric step forward, an amazing accomplishment, metamorphosed into a disastrous albatross around my neck just weeks later. Kudzu fell ill, and suddenly, life was on hold until he recovered. But he never did. The weeks ticked past, marked by visits to the vet hospital and a winding road of tests and treatments that all failed to be the bright feathered hope we sought. Instead, he went to rest in peace, and I found myself residing in a world of shambles.

A ghost of myself after his passing, the thought of moving seemed a cruel and inhumane expectation. To take a leap of faith without my boon companion hardly seemed possible. Not then. Not for the foreseeable future.

The heat of the summer descended, oppressive and stagnant. I muddled through the days of heavy air and stifling temperatures. I checked the mail. I made lists of things to do that I never checked off. I made excuses. I dodged people I knew would ask too many questions. I proposed move-in dates that came and went as the summer waxed on toward the fall.

But the air cooled, and something inside me felt less dead. Something inside me felt less like the world had ended forever, and that bright feathered hope that never came for Kudzu came for me. And I started moving things. Slowly. One thing at a time. Boxes. Pictures. Books. I unpacked and found places for things. I stocked the shelves of the stubrary. I bought a comforter set for the guest room. And suddenly, it started looking less like a disastrous albatross and more like somewhere to land when the dust settled.

This weekend, I spent the first night in my house. But I didn't do it alone. There were the email chains between girlfriends in which they cheered me onward. There were the tasks my parents stepped in to help me with - finishing touches on Thursday. And there were the dear sweet people who came to visit, who gave me a reason to be in my house for the first time.

I will treasure this picture forever. For the support they gave me. For the affirmation they delivered that the house was, in fact, coming along swimmingly. For the laughter that filled its walls while they were there. For the hugs that comforted my faltering moments. For the sheer force of love that gave me the courage to take a step toward tomorrow when it seems like yesterday will never let me go.

There is so much to be mourned still. For what I lost. For the beloved friend who is gone. But there is much to be celebrated. The goodness of those in my life who believe in me, who champion me, who were willing to shack up on my couch and give me a reason to stay.

A Few Words on These Days

So We Meet Again

Last night I dreamed of being in a house that wasn't mine. Someone with me - a friend, someone I knew - said to me, "There's Kudzu." And I said, "That can't be. He's gone." But when I looked, he was there on a quilted white oval bed. I walked over to him and picked him up. He was still light, like he was when he was sick. But he seemed whole. I draped him over my right shoulder, cradling him against my body like I always did. I rubbed my cheek against his head and stroked his soft, sleek back. I felt his weight - light, but meaningful. Significant. He was warm. And he purred gently, vibrations I could still feel echoing in my chest when I woke up this morning.

Penpathy

Dear Pen:
Today I feel like maybe I'm having some sort of distant HSP sympathy experience for you. Nothing seems right. Everything is in transition. There's this looming uncertainty that could be just in front of something wonderful or complete and total disaster. Like a spinning plate wobbling on the stick, the need for balance is essential but the wobbling seems so unbalanced and out of control and when will it stop spinning? It's so uncomfortable to be so precariously placed.

I have this weekend and next before a long string of out-of-town weekends, so if I'm truly going to get in the house before Nov. 5 (and let's face it - I must), I have to get moving. But how? How to get past this stuck place into the next place I'm supposed to be...I could make a list but then there's the actual doing. And at this point, there's a sort of weird unclarity about what to put in the box and what to take out of the box and what is actually required to consider myself moved.

Oh, Lord. Help.

Please know as you are packing and wrapping and boxing and making those painful piles of keep/give/trash, that in another state (i.e. the State of Panic), I am doing the same thing for a move just miles from where I am but seems like a great distance.

xo,
Ash

Jumble Thought Cloud

Stolen from the lovely Penelope.

Dear M, Regarding My Totally You Moment:

I discovered that the illustrious Joel McHale has finally deigned to bring his stand-up tour past the noxiousness of Las Vegas. Even my love of Joel cannot take me there. He's actually making his way as far as the eastern seaboard including that nearby bastion of The South, Hotlanta. However, instead of taking the easy way, instead of just going an hour up the road to a venue I've been to before near where my brother lives making it easy for me to stay the night with him post-performance, I bought a plane ticket.

On a whim, I bought a plane ticket! To the Lonestar State where I will be taking in the McHale McMagnificence with my Texas Twin. I'm flying in early and staying late and have been promised a photogging excursion somewhere in there. And I just did it. Like a true adventurer.

Not uncoincidentally, I dreamed last night of going to Vienna. And the buildings were amazing, and I remember that we were going through Germany on our way home? So the passport is next, Oh, Wayfaring Soul. But know...you're rubbing off on me.

xo,
Intrepid Traveler

Job Security

As we all know, my life has taken a deep nosedive straight down to the gutter. No matter how optimistic one tries to be about the series of unfortunate events the last six months have wrought, there's really no two ways about it: it's been hell.

And that is why I would like to express my deepest and truest gratitude to the person who wrote to my boss in response to his solicitation for feedback for my annual performance review..."She completes me." I know not who you are, oh anonymous soulmate colleague, but I thank you for saying in three words that, despite it all, I can still do my job well.

And you had me at "raise."

Dear Kudzu:

Today didn't go very well, and I should like to tell you about it. A lot of folks have been asking questions about why I haven't moved into my house yet. After all, it has been six months. And very few of them seem to understand that it's more complicated than just the accumulation of days.

They don't seem to understand what it will be like to live there and know that you will never be looking out the dining room window when I get home. You will never look out the french doors onto the backporch and chitter at the squirrels leaping through the trees. You will never be curled up on the other end of the newly covered couch (yes, Mommy finally got rid of the brown strips) while I watch TV and you stretch and roll and make little sleepy kitty noises. And even though I know all these nevers, there is still the ghost of you haunting my mind and casting a shadowy ephemeral version of you in all those places and making my heart hurt so bad it feels like it will never stop.

So you can imagine how I felt today when some well-meaning people were giving me grief over not relocating yet. And you can imagine that fine line, that sharpest point that pierced me and caused me to start crying -right there! - and make everyone uncomfortable with my tears. You can imagine how mortifying it was to struggle for composure and for it to continually slip through my tear-soddened fingers. And then to have to excuse myself and lock myself in the bathroom for a few moments and not only feel the pain but the embarrassing conjecture of what was being said in my absence. Returning to my place, I valiantly put on the face of normalcy but as soon as I was able, I was the first one to escape. And even when one of the guilty parties tracked me down and apologized, I could feel the tears rising again and sought shelter after a mumbled, "It'sfineI'mjusthavingahardtime."

And you're not here to make it better. There is no silky black fur or soft gray underbelly to comfort me. There are no intense green eyes. No small fuzzy paws. You are gone. And I know it. I know, but some days, the knowing just breaks me.

Today was one of those days. And I know you can't be here to make it better. But I just wanted you to know. I wanted you to know that I miss you and I still love you with all of my heart. And I hope that right now, you're curled up in the shape of a "C", breathing softly and dreaming of me.

Love,
Your Mom

Dear PenMen: Contemplations on Everyonceinawhile and Other Moments in Time

Seeing as how we might, at this point, be the only ones reading each other's blogs, I figured it was okay to directly address the two of you. Plus, I had this feeling of wanting to write, but what? And then I thought I could just write what I would tell Pen and M.

It's raining here right now, and while soothing, I find this greatly disappointing because I need to mow my lawn. I was all geared up for it, too: The First Mowing. But I know if I actually do that after the torrential rain (accompanied by copious thunder and lightning) that I will have wet grass stuck to my ankles and big clumps of grass clippings to dig out of the bag. That seems like not the experience to have for The First Mowing, and so I will think of my ever-growing lawn as a verdant carpet instead of an overgrown grass pouf to ease my conscience.

I finished reading this book last night that was so good - one of my indulgently trashy romance novels. And sometimes, they're just like reading candy - totally empty calories that go in and pass through with no real nutritional value. But everyonceinawhile, I find one that's more like...designer candy. Still no real nutritional value, but something extra luxurious about the indulgent experience. I think it could have to do with the fact that Mom and Dad went to see Anna, and I was blissfully alone and slept on the couch when I got home and then woke up and read and read and read - skipping dinner - until I finished. That's the kind of reading one needs to do everyonceinawhile to really fortify the soul.

Yesterday was a fantastical, magical day at work. Everyonceinawhile, a very great while in fact, the stars align in this way that you get exactly what you work so hard for the other 3oo-some-odd days of the year. To get a story in the ACRONYM Today is something of a Holy Grail of PR. And then, to find out later that the pitch you made to a certain other nationally renowned publication like FOUR-BES, actually got picked up, too? Well, it just doesn't get any better than that. Except that it happened to be my three-year anniversary with the company, and The Linguista and I went to my favorite Mexican restaurant and drank frozen margaritas at lunch.

The Exotic is getting so close to her due date, and it's starting to make me a bit sad. What will I do without her calming presence in the office? She does yoga so I don't have to, and she offers me zen-by-proxy when I need it. I think I will feel spectacularly off when she's on maternity leave.

I am, however, excited about the next couple of months, which are rife with the kind of adventures I never have. On Monday is David Gray/Ray LaMontagne, the dreamiest of dream concerts. I'm taking one of the Big City interns with me, and it will be delight. And then we will enter the string of weeks from September to October when I have something all the time rather than everyonceinawhile to keep me occupied. Like a trip to D.C.! Mountain Day! Dallas to see Joel McHale with my Texas Twin in our Texas office! Valle Crucis! Company retreat! Oh my! Plus there are two volunteer events on my calendar in September and one in October, plus dinners and drinks with friends (yes! friends!). At times like these, I feel like...maybe I'm doing a better job than I think of carpe diem and not letting the fact that I'm not exactly where I want to be on The Great Life Continuum keep me from doing things that make this place on it so much better.

Despite the rain, I think it's time to pack the Rav and take a load over to My House where I will clean the bathrooms and dress them nicely with the bathmats and matching towel sets I purchased last week. And then I will stand back and contemplate that I could actually be moving soon in a way that is good and comfortable. And then I might be able to think about new companions for my sad heart - still so hard to let go of Kudzu, but so clear to me that I need that comfort from the four-legged varietal.

Wishing you both everyonceinawhile days.

xo,
Ash

Happiness

Sorrow & Hope

To be remembered is our greatest hope when we die, whether that remembrance is due to our achievements or just because we are loved. The need to be remembered is never clearer than when strolling among the dead. Weaving in and out of cemetery stones, feet falling softly among the dearly departed, it is impossible not to remember them and wonder who they were. I love the idle peace of tracing script with fingertips and wondering how the dash between two numbers was spent.
I recently found myself among the dead in a number of cemeteries, photographing epitaphs and statuary, details of shells and flowers and leaves curving against monuments. When I looked at the pictures later, two faces emerged.

Sorrow

Head in hands, sorrow holds vigil over the graves of those gone too soon. Those who weren't ready to go, or placed there by those who weren't ready to let them leave. Over time, weather either shadows them, making them more stark and desperate. Or it erodes the tension and leaves a smoother, reluctantly accepting visage in its wake. Who could blame these anguished faces for their permanent mourning of what was lost? I looked into their faces and saw myself, the lines wearily etched into stone, marble - cold and unyielding. I saw their downcast eyes, knowing they had cried from heartbreak, from loneliness, from desperately wanting to change the unchangeable. I wanted to lean against them and give them my mourning, to let my agony over losing Kudzu fall into smooth white arms.

Hope

Serenely, they stand or kneel over the bodies of those gone before us, hands clasped in devoted prayer. Some of them bow reverently; others tip faces upward toward the light. Their faces are bathed in an ethereal glow, their eyes are knowing. These stone creatures have foregone their mourning and looked to the light, relinquished their woe and wreathed themselves in hope. Weather-smoothed faces look ever more placid or seem to be disappearing as though the predetermined time of protection is up and they, too, are melting into a vague half-state. Hope sometimes comes with angel wings, folded quietly behind or poised, ready to fly upward.

Quote of the Day

Tonight, I went to happy hour and dinner with a couple of people from the office. The Violinist recently entered into a contract on a house.

Me: Did you get the paint colors figured out for your house?

The Violinist: Yes, we decided on them. And now I've decided on the exact style mix I'm going to furnish it in.

Me: Oh yeah?

The Violinist: I call it "Bordello Spaceship."

I love her.

Quote of the Day

Me: I feel like I look old.

My friend, Nikki: No, no. When I look at you I see funny. And boobs.

Mendelopacious

mendelopacious (adj.) - indicative of great joy because of or relating to Mendacious and Penelope; to experience mendelopation (n.) or excessive happiness due to the presence of Mendacious and Penelope; of or relating to the act of mendelopating (v.) or spending quality time with Mendacious and Penelope. ex. A mendalopacious week was experienced recently, filled with mendelopation over mendelopating with both Mendacious and Penelope.

Mendelopacious outing with Mendacious
Huntington Beach, California

Mendacious and I met once before when Penelope married, but it was well before blogdom blossomed and we were fully aware of the nature of our soul connection. This time, however, I knew when I spied her through the glass - "This is Mendacious!"

We hugged the lovely sort of hug one shares with one's wayfaring soul upon meeting for the first time - a sort of strong, instant embrace filled with warmth and knowing and connection. And I climbed into her car and agreed to adventure and the promise of margaritas. We talked in this way that felt like we were picking up with a conversation begun many lifetimes ago, as though we both remembered the precise moment we left off, paused and began again.

There were in fact margaritas and a trip to the beach where we plopped down in the sand and made strange shapes from shell bits. We talked of the sand and how it is different from the East Coast. This Pacific sand is worn and natural and raw. It is integral sand. East Coast sand is admired and visited and enjoyed, but West Coast sand is habitual and used and incorporated. Mendacious, in all her tall vivacious glory, belonged here with this earthy, essential sand, and I heard the waves in the way that I hear all water - like a soothing lullaby. I spoke to a seagull and Mendacious understood and we talked of art and love and family and place and my still unattained passport and, of course, Penelope.

And we were mendelopated.

Mendelopacious outing with Penelope
Lake SinclairPenelope Pices met with a soon-to-be-31 Cancer at a lake in middle Georgia. Whereas Mendacious and me were known strangers among unknown strangers, Penelope and I were old friends among older friends. We sat in rocking chairs and watched the water sparkle hotly in the distance while the flush-cheeked Lo. Co. children climbed and gamboled around the porch. Back and forth, the chairs. Back and forth, the words. Back and forth, the stories. Back and forth, the snark.

And we picked up the thread just where we left off, knitting our tales, sewing our lives together; two vastly different patterns that most would never consider complimentary but somehow, upon closer inspection, matched in a lovely sort of mismatched way.

At dusk there were sparklers, and we drew our names in the air with fire - we two water signs - and laughed at the smoke and the crack and hiss and the familiar burning smell until the sticks went dark. And we laughed at the otherworldly fire-blurred pictures of ourselves.

And a mendelopacious time was had by all.

Promises, Promises (31)

- To post soon (about something besides Kudzu)

- To move

- To reflect upon meeting the one and only Mendacious

- To be older

- To get my passport (for Mendacious)

- To write more poems, essays, letters

- To think about tomorrow

- To take a break

- To call

- To wear a dress

- To go to bed

The Truth

Right now, I miss Kudzu so much I can hardly breathe.

Requiescat in pace, Kudzu

My dearest, my most beloved Kudzu, may you rest in peace.

May you rest knowing that you were loved to the greatest depths of the human heart. May you rest knowing that you were and are cherished.

May you rest knowing that your constant companionship warmed even the loneliest, the most sorrowful of hours. May you rest knowing that you were light in a dark and sometimes unkind world.

May you rest knowing that your presence brought joy, comfort, happiness, peace. May you rest knowing that you were all things good (even when you were bad).

May you rest knowing that beyond pet, you were family, as much my lifeblood as anything. That you were my very heart.

May you rest, fully restored to your gray fuzzy bellied glory, with no scars or marks or patches to evidence of your illness.

May you rest knowing that you will never have to endure my picture-taking ever again.

May you rest after your long and hard-fought battle. Having been so brave and true, holding on for so long for me, so that I could accept that it was your time.

May you rest knowing that I never wanted you to die, except that one time you ate my blue merino wool J. Crew sweater (and even then, not really).

May you rest, weary traveler, from all those thousands of miles on the highway between here and North Carolina that would have been so much longer without you.

May you rest, knowing that you will never have to be stuck in the car with me in the McDonald's drive-in in Leland, North Carolina while I have a panic attack over the holiday weekend traffic.

May you rest knowing that you will be remembered in repose on the windowsill, on the kitchen towel, under a blanket nestled against my stomach.

May you rest gently purring or making sleepy kitty noises as you slumber. With your snaggletooth hanging out.

May you rest with my gratitude for having never eaten my eyeball as I feared you would.

May you rest having served me well with the greatest devotion and loyalty - no matter what mistakes I made in life.

May you rest from leaping onto the cabinets, the countertops, the bookshelves, the bed with sprightly grace.

May you rest with an endless supply of spider plants whose leaves you may nip to your heart's content.

May you rest from strewing toilet paper from the downstairs bathroom into the kitchen.

May you rest, never to be forgotten.

May you rest, my darling. May you rest from exhaustion, from pain and from this namelessness that has consumed you.

May you rest in the hands of the Heavenly Father who made you.

My dearest, my most beloved Kudzu, may you rest in peace.

The Word's Goodbye, But I Can't Say It

I've been a (raving) David Gray fan for over 10 years now. It all started for me like it did for most of us on this side of the pond when White Ladder exploded on the American scene with "Babylon." But over the years, I discovered the treasure-trove of pre-Ladder work, from Flesh and A Century Ends to Sell, Sell, Sell and my beloved Lost Songs. Plus, Gray put out three studio albums after Ladder.

Even more than Coldplay, David Gray has been the soundtrack of my life over the last decade. Albums and songs surged to the forefront at varying times with the words and music crafted for highs and lows. For love and lack thereof. For times when in the place "where we can shine" to the place "where the eye don't see no color." Like a cheap therapist, David Gray has soothed my soul on many occasions - long, desolate, never-ending car rides, stricken with grief, heartbroken.

And just like at the Coldplay concert, I heard one of his songs for the first time - from just four rows away from the one and only David Gray. I had thought it would be "This Year's Love" that would bring tears to my eyes or when he sang "As I'm Leaving." But instead, I was surprised when the song "Freedom" went right through my soul. And as I listened to it over and over (and over) again since then, what wasn't surprising was that it was a song for right now. For this state I'm in. For this place I live.

Take your eyes off me
There's nothing here to see
Just trying to keep my head together
And as we make our vow
Let us remember how
There's nothing good that lasts forever

Time out on the running boards
We're running
Through a world that lost its meaning
Trying to find a way to love
This running
Ain't no kind of freedom

Feel the touch of grief
You stand in disbelief
Can steal the earth from right beneath you
And falling in so far
They know just where you are
Yeah, but there ain't no way to reach you

***
It's time to clean these boots
Fold up these parachutes
The word's goodbye, but I can't say it
The end is close at hand
I think we understand
There ain't no use trying to delay it

***
Fasten on my mask
I'm bending to the task
I know this work is never finished
But if I close my eyes
I can still see you dancing
Laughing loud and undiminished

I love the last line of the song, the bittersweet hope of knowing that I will be able to close my eyes and see Kudzu undiminished - dancing across the floor on small, sure feet, eyes alight with love and mischief.

Thank you, David Gray, for the 497th reason that a world without your music would be less bearable.

How Would Carrie Bradshaw Do Yardwork?

When I left to get my hair cut on Saturday, I thought I looked rather fetching in a navy peasant skirt and pale blue top. And I decided to add cute shoes instead of flip-flops, opting for Sam Edelman faux snakeskin t-strap ballet flats.

After my hair cut (and color, where I got re-redded), I went to pick up the giant roll of fabric for recovering my couch. When I arrived at my house to drop it off, I found my parents in the throes of yardwork. Dad's pickup was loaded with bales of pinestraw and bags of mulch for the plant beds scattered around my front yard.

I couldn't let them toil alone. So I found myself spreading mulch in my Sam Edelmans. I imagine that was the most fashionable raking that yard had ever seen. All was well until the threat of mud arrived. And then I just had to go barefoot. Even Carrie would sacrifice a few splinters to save the shoes.

Name Game

Dillon's friend Luke has a new baby brother.

Dillon: What's Luke's brother's name?

Eva: His name is Zane.

Dillon: But why?

Eva: Well, because Luke's mom and dad liked that name.

Dillon: Well, if I have another baby, I'm going to name it Fred the Kong.

House Cat (Reposted)

This post initially appeared on Smartini as a response to a prompt to personify our pets I remembered it when I was paging through entries on kudzu jungle about Kudzu. And, aside from being a spot-on characterization of Kudzu, I thought it terribly ironic that the Zu has become his own diagnostic mystery.

***

He's sardonic. Dismissive. He's going to tell you like it is - even though you might not like it. He's smarter than you, and there's nothing you can do about it, and he's going to be in your face about it every chance he gets. It's not unusual for him to turn tail and walk away while you're in mid-sentence, as though he has neither the time nor the inclination to hear what you have to say. And if he stays, and you say the wrong thing, he just might cut you off in the middle and tell you what he thinks - and he's probably right. There are a thousand reasons why you should categorically really not like this guy, except - except he's irresistible.

Dearest Kudzu, so like Gregory House, MD. Cantankerous and beloved. Soulful eyes with a pinch of cutting intellect. Plus, Hugh Laurie is Australian and does a technically perfect British accent that reflects the aristocratic tone in which I imagine Kudzu might say something like, "That's not your color, but I wager you're going to wear it anyway."

He's always thinking, and he's always one step ahead of you. It's exasperating. But you're so glad he's around because - despite all his sometimes-prickly ways - he's really quite lovable. You must accept that on the outside, he's going to sass you. He will do as he pleases and the consequences be damned (because he knows that in most cases, he can escape the consequences). He's going to be independent and pretend he doesn't need you. But deep down, you know he does.

At the end of the day, no matter how many times he's scrambled out of your arms or away from your cuddles, he's going to come up to bed and settled down at your feet. He's predictable like that. He may pretend he wants to go, may act like he doesn't care. But he does. You just have to accept the facade and look for what's beneath the fur - the beast has less bite than he lets on.

Selsun Bloobs

In a recent conversation with STGD, I lamented that the situation with Kudzu had led to a flare-up of the uncontainable folliculitis. And while I expected a misery-loves-company agreement from my fellow folliculitian, I was surprised to hear him say that he no longer suffered from the skin affliction. Do tell!

Apparently, after realizing that the Selsun Blue he was using on his hair was sudsing down over his face and clearing up irritation there, he made a point of washing his face with Selsun Blue. And his face is an unmarred canvas of flesh-toned flesh. "I'm off meds," he said. "And creams. I just use the Selsun Blue." The conversation continued in an exchange horrifyingly reminiscent of every cringe-worthy feminine hygiene product commercial known to womankind.

Could this be the answer? After I'd been told it was heat rash and nearly pickled myself with vinegar compresses. After it was diagnosed as acne and I went through rounds of one of the -cyclines only to end up with a torn up stomach and sunburn. After tubes of Benadryl cream. And rounds of antibiotics to clear up infection. And the multi-step process I currently use - two creams and cornstarch powder - to keep the red, itching mass at bay. And all I need is some dandruff shampoo???

I didn't want to hope, but I found myself in Wal-Mart the following weekend, picking up some Selsun Blue. And the next morning...I shampooed my boobs.

The improvement was remarkable. Suddenly, a whole new world opened to me. V-necks! And scoop-necks! And baring the flesh below my chin! Now that it's getting into the summertime, I really appreciate not having to wear a turtleneck to disguise my leprosy.

So, now I guess S., The Graphic Designer is also S., The Genius Dermatologist. Where do I send my copay?

Hover:

An intransitive verb

to waver
As between life and death. Between numbers that show increased and then diminished red blood cells. The equation never balancing out. Always faltering between where it should be and far worse.

to linger uncertainly in a nervous or solicitous way
I lay in the floor next to him, observing the rise and fall of his breath. I touch his fur lightly and feel his warmth. I watch how he moves, looking always for his untroubled agility, light steps, inherent feline grace. I study his eyes. I note the color of his tongue, how much he eats, his insatiable thirst because of the steroids. The near constant scrutiny exhausts me and makes me restless.

to remain suspended over a place or object
Holding in the heartbreak most of the time until it ekes out, slides down my face, trembles on the edge of my chin, holding until the salted weight is too much.

to move to and fro near a place
We shuttle back and forth between home and the hospital. Work and the hospital. The waiting room and the exam room. The ICU and the outpatient services. The ongoing rotation of doctors and residents and students who carry the thickening file from the front desk to the discharge desk.

We drive back and forth between my parents' house and my house. We move furniture, small boxes and mow the lawn. We flutter through the rooms briefly and then depart, leaving a hollow echoing shell.

to hang, fluttering in the air or on the wing without moving in any direction
At times in this endless free-fall, I force myself to stop thinking about any of it - the lack of answers, the mounting expenses, the mortgage I'm paying on a house I don't inhabit - and I coast. I gather him in my arms and hold him so that I can absorb his breath, his heartbeat, his purr, his sleek black fur. I hold him and we stay there in that moment with no yesterday and no thought of tomorrow. Only warm, weightless safety.

to fluctuate around a given point
Life is driven by Kudzu. The times we must administer his medication. Leaving work every evening and coming directly home-do-not-pass-go to spend time with him. Fitting myself in the spaces where he lays - by the water bowl, snugged up to the vacuum cleaner, on the old coffee table in the spare room. Bending myself into the small spaces just to be close to where he is.

to be in a state of uncertainty, irresolution or suspense
No one knows why but suggests the answer may lie in the bone marrow, that deepest place where we have looked before and found nothing. The doctors want to invade again and look for those terrifying diseases that will give a name to what is sapping his strength. But I'm not sure that I can. I'm not sure that I can put him or me through that.

We go to the doctor again on Tuesday to check his red blood cell counts. And they will give me too little information and want me to make something of it. To decide what to do next. Which gamble should I take? And does it matter, when I feel like, in the end, that death holds all the cards? My next play is a faceless card, gripped tightly, being pushed toward the table with fear, hovering there, unable to let it fall and finish the game.

Best Textversation Ever

STGD: I just had a fantasy that we recreated the final scene from dirty dancing together!

Me: That is the best thing I've heard today. Let's set this up in my basement.

STGD: I didn't do the lift. :(

Me: God, I love you.

STGD: U taught me how to love.

Hot Guys Reading Books

Best. Tumblr. Ever.

http://hotguysreadingbooks.tumblr.com/

Oh, and I'm sorry for snatching the productivity out of the rest of your work day.

In Other Office Hilarity

The Boss was given a banjo by an electrician and is now plucking it tunelessly while he talks to The Goofball. From the sounds of it, he's an "ameter."

I Say "Am-a-tcher"

You say...ama-ter? Amater? That's what The Goofball is saying over and over again. Like "diamater" without the "di."

That's so amateur.

Dear Addie:

While you haven't quite made it here yet, you're so close to joining us that I'd like to go ahead and celebrate this Mother's Day with you. I would like to start by thanking you for turning of your own volition into proper arrival position so that your mom didn't have to undergo this sort of terrifying sounding process to get you that way.

Soon you will be with us, with your cherubic newborn cuteness overwhelming us all. And your arrival will mark the point where your mom becomes, well, a mom officially. You won't ever think about it for a long, long time, but there was life before you for your mom. While you're growing up, she will always just be "Mom" and you'll never think about who she was before that. That's where I come in, because I knew your mom before she was Mom. When she was just Kim. Okay, that's not true. She was never *just* Kim because she was always in possession of a larger than life personality. And a wildly hilarious sense of humor. And a stellar rendition of "It's So Unusual" that she sang in a smoky, smoky karaoke bar in this little seaside town that will be so far from where you grow up that you'll keep forgetting where it was that your mom went to school.

But know this, dear Addie. That you are going to have the coolest mom who is going to love you so much more than she can say. And she's going to make you laugh and tell you crazy stories that are the figments of her imagination. She's going to teach you how to read and how to play the trombone and how to make sock monkeys. She's going to sing you "Me & Bobby McGee" like it's a lullaby, and you won't know until you're at least 15 that Janis Joplin lullabies are rad. She's never going to make you eat things you don't like - especially baked beans. And mayonnaise. She's going to drive you around in her car with the fuzzy steering wheel while the two of you sing "Got to be Startin' Something" and she's going to take you to Krispy Kreme where you'll buy donuts with the spare change in the car.

On this Mother's Day - your first - I wish you safe passage into this world. I wish you to know how loved you are already, and how much more loved you'll be in the coming days, weeks, and years. I wish you a good beginning to a life that will be filled with happiness and imagination and love. And I wish you good friends - the kind of friends your mom and me are. The kind of friendship that happens almost by magic, that is some unseen powerful force, that will carry you through the best and the worst. That will have you saying for years, "Remember that time we..." and loving that you have the past, the present and the future to be friends.

Happy Mother's Day, Addie. And Happy Mother's Day to my beloved friend Kim.

Love,
Ashley

Gasp!

I just saw my boss in bike shorts.

Ethereal

Dear Co-Workers:

For the sake of my sanity on this torrentially rainy Monday morning, please end your hour-long conversation about your respective weddings. My understanding that one of you is getting married this week only extends so far. And my patience with the other, whose nuptials aren't even this calendar year, was extinguished nearly 45 minutes ago (either by the deluge of rain or the gust of my exasperated sighs). Not to mention that the conversation from this week's wedding perspective is that you simply do not have time to do all that you need to accomplish, and that from the other's perspective, you've already been called out this morning for being late and not getting it done, perhaps you should shut your yap. That is all.

Love,
Ash

Miscellany & All That Jazz

* Today I bought a pair of sunglasses at the same time I bought underpants featuring characters from Cars for Dillon. I felt compelled to explain to the cashier that they were for my nephew because I don't have a kid so these aren't for my kid that I don't have, but instead, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that no one cares but me.

* I bought a house two month's ago that I'm still not living in because I can't move Kudzu at the moment. It's now serving as the world's most expensive storage unit.

* Dillon asked me yesterday why I wear glasses. He found it delightful that "my peepers don't work right." I'm pretty sure I set him up to say that to a stranger in an embarrassing manner before long.

* As I've unpacked items at the *new* storage unit, I've found pictures from 3, 5, 10 years ago. And no matter how recent or distant from present, they all seem like lifetimes ago.

* I'm wondering if it would be taking advantage of the intern to allow him to mow my lawn. He says he likes yard work, and I'm pretty sure that I'm not gonna.

* I've had a spate of Facebook invitations from people I obviously went to high school with but of whom I have absolutely no recollection. And I'm pretty sure I'd remember someone who went by "Jeff Bo."

* Lately, I've dreamed a lot about travel. It reminds me how reluctant I am to take the time, spend the money, make the leap. And so I just stay put and dream.

* How long does it take for water to go under the bridge? I mean, are there just people/relationships/occurrences that you have to let go? But let go in a float downstream unresolved kind of way? And not in the we can be friends kind of way?

* Is it worth it to keep the big fat box of skinny pants? Or should I just accept my fatness.

* In my office of eight, five are women. In the last six months, one got married, and three are engaged. One is pregnant.

* I want some banana pudding.

* Kudzu is in my lap and purring, and I don't want to move him so I may just sleep crooked on the couch.

* I am stupidly excited that the AP Stylebook finally relented and made "website" the correct spelling over the historic "Web site."

* One of my favorite clients took another job in another state. I won't miss the mild sexual harassment, but I will miss a client that curses like a sailor and laughs at my jokes.

* I named a microbrew by a local brewery in town. It's one of my greatest professional accomplishments.

* Lately I've encountered people who remind me of my hopeless quest to be a cool kid and the hopelessness of it. Because, let's face it, there will always be cool kids. And I will never be one of them.

* Friday I ate a blood orange "handcrafted popsicle." I'd like another, please.

* One of the signs that Kudzu's anemia might be worsening is if his tongue gets pale. I never thought I would have such a high per diem of saying "His tongue looks pretty good."

* Right now, my mother's cat is asleep on my right toes - just the little one and the one next to it. His breath is tickling my foot.

* Reese says "hi" in the most charming manner - just a sing-song "hiiiiii."

* I have to go to bed now and pretend that I'm going to get up early and make it to work even before I'm supposed to be there to catch up on work. I have such a good imagination.

David Gray, On Pretention

"I think people are often surprised I don't take myself incredibly seriously. I hate people that are too precious. It's the thing I like least about an artist. I'd rather they be cheap than precious. Art has to exist but I don't think we should bow down and tip toe around it. The splendor of music... f*ck, any fool can do it, for God's sake." ~ David Gray

The Mystery Cat in the Magic Hat

When I took Kudzu to the vet more than a month ago because he seemed a bit lighter, I expected a little chat with Dr. G about how he might be slowing down a little. Maybe sleeping more. Eating less. Followed by a suggestion for some sort of vitamin supplement.

I did not expect to hear heart murmur, severely anemic, blood transfusion, emergency room.

I did not expect to find myself shuttling across town to the university hospital anxiously murmuring, "It's going to be all right" - more to myself than to him.

I did not expect to have to surrender him overnight for all sorts of acronymic tests - PCV, CBC, CT, X-ray.

I did not expect the next morning to bring vague possibilities of ehrlichia, multiple myeloma, feline leukemia and their associated grim prognoses.

But I did. I did hear those things and feel them and then stand on the sidewalk outside, draped helplessly over The Barrister wailing like a heartbroken child until my mother very quietly pulled me away and strapped me in the car.

I did not expect for the anemia to worsen, to have to give permission for a blood transfusion, for a bone marrow test, for sedation.

I did not expect to see Kudzu's coat reduced to a patchwork of smooth gray skin - on his forepaws, both tapped for IVs; both shoulders (the first bone marrow test was insufficient); his belly for the ultrasound; his back leg and the pad of his foot.

I did not expect his beautiful clear green eye to cloud with a corneal ulcer. Or for the inside of his leg to be shredded by an allergic reaction to the antibiotics.

I did not expect for the trips to the vet hospital become routine. I know how to get the parking pass during school hours to show that I actually have a patient and not a student trying to score a good space. And how you have to walk down to the end of the hall and get a token to put in the mechanical arm at the exit.

I did not expect the sight of Kudzu wandering a little clumsily down the hall wearing the plastic cone - his magic hat - to become commonplace. To become so acutely aware of every time he licks (don't touch the wound!).

I did not expect to still be hearing "inconclusive" in regards to his diagnosis. Not after the multiple CBCs, ultrasound, X-ray, infectious disease panel, bone marrow aspirate, antibody pheresis. Not after two weeks of antibiotics and three of prednisone. At least we've bid adieu to the cancer diagnosis.

I did not expect to pray so hard for a number closer to 30 - the number that says he has adequate red blood cells.

But I am. We go back to the vet hospital on Friday. And they will sedate and take a blood sample and apply some acronyms. They will test and search and score. And I will pick him up and they will tell me what clues they've gathered about the Mystery Cat.

And I will take him home, talk calmly to him in the car as though nothing bad is happening. And he will wear his magic hat. And I will pray that it helps him grow little red blood cells.

Which Aisle Is That On?

Spied on the grocery list this morning:

* Milk
* Creamer
* Starch
* Money

Things That Are Not Helpful

Dear Seemingly Well-Meaning Acquaintance:
It really wasn't necessary for you to comment on the photo of my chronically ill Kudzu with tidings of your cat who had the SAME symptoms. Who also had a blood transfusion. Who also DIED. I'm not sure if Emily Post wrote on the acceptable things to say to someone who's dearest, most darling, most wonderfullest love is ill, but, lemme tell you, this ain't it. You are not the cat's meow.

Signed,
MyCatIsNotGonnaDie & Hisssss (from Kudzu)

Overheard in the Office Today

Intern: Hey, Linguista?

The Linguista: Yeah?

Intern: What do you think of this subject for an e-mail I'm sending a reporter? "A Woman's Touch Ensures [Client's Service] Doesn't Suck."

The Linguista: I think you just sexually harassed the reporter.

Are You There, Blog? It's Me, Ashley.

Six months ago, the words stopped.

I couldn't say precisely why. Perhaps it was my unwillingness to let the laptop go and embrace a new computer. Perhaps it was the myriad of out-of-town trips that kept me busy through October. Perhaps it was the onset of the second holiday season without Ronnie. Perhaps it was the relentless pursuit of the perfect house. And perhaps it was a combination of those things or none of those things. But whatever the reason, the inner-narrative that became the outer-blog was suddenly silenced.

I feel like I ought to be able to find the words now to describe those months, to fill in the great void I've left here. When I try to pin them down and sort them out into some chronological experience, it all falls apart. Instead it's a rush and blur of images and scenes. Mountains in October in North Georgia and Boone, NC. Dahlonega in November. Pictures of leaves. A second Thanksgiving without Ronnie. And Christmas without him, too. Cold, gray days, long and dark.

There were sounds: A Death Cab for Cutie concert at the Fox. And Ray LaMontagne's voice crying out "Jolene" against those beautiful theater walls. A new David Gray album - fourth row tickets purchased for his upcoming concert in Atlanta. John Mayer at Phillips Arena again, covering "Ain't No Sunshine."

The milestones: Dillon is three now. And Reese is one. And I bought a house. The Barrister, for whatever reason, still sees fit to hang around me.

I still work in the office between The Goofball and The Linguista.

Nothingandsomuch has changed. And nothingandsomuch has stayed the same.

And even though I want to say everything, I settled for saying something. Something like...hello.