kudzu jungle

When the Chips are Down, Wager Boldly

2011-12-11T15:24:00.005-05:00

At an outing with coworkers on Friday afternoon, I revealed that I would not be attending the company Christmas party because I was attending the holiday festivities of The Engineer's workplace. It was a fine trade-off with me in most respects; I'd planned to attend the ATown office Christmas party on Friday, so missing the big shindig in Hotlanta didn't sadden me too much.

The revelation was followed by a million questions about The Engineer, and I was honest with them in saying that I was undecided as to his fate in my love life. And that in general, I was exhausted with dating and ready to wash my hands of the whole evil business. That's when things got interesting.

RK, who is part-owner of the firm, threw a $20 bill to the bar floor. "That's $200," he yelled. "It's $200 on you."

I looked at him open-mouthed, wondering what he was all fired up about and finding it hard to take the $20 seriously where it lay beside his pedicured feet with their alternating red and green toenails. That's his lot in life for offering an outing of our choice to a bunch of ladies.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm putting $200 on you. And I may up the ante, but - let's record this," he barked.

One of my coworker dutifully dug out her iPhone and urged him to continue. "Today is December 9, 2011. And I'm wagering that in two years - TWO YEARS FROM RIGHT NOW - Ashley will be engaged. Or I owe her $200."

And that was that. I picked it up the $20 bill, looked into the iPhone and yelled, "I'll take that bet."

It's on, people.

A Disasterous Run at Having a Love Life

2011-12-05T22:23:00.003-05:00

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an Ash in want of a boyfriend is an unmitigated disaster. As proof, I give you the shambles of what one might call a love life if the string of sordid events from the past year outlined below could even pretend to assume such a likeness.

The CPA - Delivered to me on 29 points of compatibility - two of which I've come to believe are "human" and "alive" - The CPA and I made it through the four stages of online communication like two cadets on the obstacle course of dating. And in real life, when we met, it was...boring. Our chemistry was like all the lab experiments I was forced to perform during a summer chem course - unresponsive and a complete failure in producing the expected reaction. We hugged gamely at the end of the evening and never spoke again. Truth be told, I can't remember his name.

The Zealot - With the trappings of all normal people, The Zealot was also funneled into the pipeline by Dr. Neil Clarke Warren's evil machinations. He was affable if a bit overly nervous, polite if somewhat solicitous, and attentive if only slightly creepy. He "we'ed" a lot and there was a strange preoccupation with his married friend whom he wanted to emulate down to the point of buying a house in the same neighborhood. It wasn't until he insisted that our third date take place on Valentine's Day that I truly began to notice the red flags. And when he showed up at said third date which I insisted be on another day (any day for the love of God) other than Valentine's Day with a pink bag frothing with tissue paper and containing a mixed CD complete with meticulously compiled liner notes, I drew the line. As in the line of communication. And I cut it.

The Old Friend - In the midst of my fruitless online search for someone new, someone old emerged from past. An old friend, a college friend. We never dated, but I harbored a latent crush while we both dated other people. We lost touch and reconnected over the years, but after a profound and prolonged silence, there was suddenly the magic of Facebook to bring us together again. And soon I was embroiled in an intense texting affair and then a roadtrip, all of it doomed. I knew before it began that it would be over. And then just like that...it was.

The Paper Boy - Doubly burnt by the eHarmony's dimensions of compatibility (which seemed to include the Twilight Zone), I quit paying to be sent out on bad dates and looked a little closer to home. The Paper Boy and I had been acquainted for going on a year, having found a mutual love of Counting Crows, barbecue and biting sarcasm. We were chums - dude friends, if you will. Until we weren't. Until one night when we were leaving a concert, and it was cold and he put his arm around me a pulled me into his coat to keep me warm. And then he asked me on a date. It took weeks to schedule because of our respective business travel, but the date was pleasant and fraught with anticipation until it ended abruptly when we arrived back at my house to find my visiting friend asnooze on my couch. Ouch. But a second date never really happened as we entered some strange game of cat-and-mouse until I finally called him out on his behavior (after a couple of strong gin drinks), and he confessed that despite his declarations to be moved to date me, he found the idea less palatable in practice. The office sent me flowers of mourning after that particular disaster.

Dr. Feelbad - We met on Halloween. I was dressed as Shirley Manson, clad in fishnets, a micro-dress and a can of hairspray. He was dressed as the devil. (Like that shouldn't have tipped me off...) I flirted outrageously - he was tall, dark and sexy. I was sort of dressed like a hooker. A Ph.D. candidate, clearly smart, he made quirky sophisticated jokes and looked impeccable in a three-piece suit. He got my number...showed up at my tailgate on Saturday and then met me out for drinks later (after which he took me home...and once again, I had a house guest. Note to self: STOP ENTERTAINING). The following week we took the texting route of flirtation. I met him with a group of his friends for drinks. And then...finally...he asked. "Let's do something tomorrow - movie, your place." After work the next day, I sped home, cleaned the house and was sitting calmly on the couch in a rather fetching outfit that said relaxed but tempting when I received his text message at nearly 8 o'clock letting me know he had friends in town and did I want to meet them out for drinks later. Dear Captain Blowoff: suck it. I haven't heard from him again.

The Engineer - Despite my failed attempts at online dating before, I decided to return to it. Only, if it was going to be rife with failure, I was going to do it for free. I joined OkCupid, which, along with its other free counterparts like Plenty of Fish, is a get-what-you-paid-for-endeavor. The searching is sketchy at best, and the matches presented on your home page may have absolutely no compatibility with you whatsoever. You're likely to be solicited by married people in open relationships and drunken college boys looking for a gameday hookup (ewww). I have literally been addressed as "Ms. Hot Rod" in an email from this site. So that's how I met The Engineer - the least creepy and even - dare I say it? - almost promising match! We met, and he was, in fact, not creepy. Bonus points: he was attractive! And now we've been on several dates, and I'm in that awkward phase of trying to determine my next move with this guy who has made no bones about not wanting marriage, children or to live in this country for that matter. Because, even now, even when I found someone I might like to date, it can't be easy. Where would the challenge be in that?

Lest you think this list is comprehensive, I'm leaving out the guy who I met online under an assumed name who turned out to be recently divorced and looking to flee the country. Or the guy who professed his affection for me after a date I didn't realize was a date and didn't want to be a date. Or the preacher's son who is a cop and a known profligate who has suddenly started texting me.

And please don't slap me with the admonitions that I will find someone because there is someone for me and I have to kiss a lot of frogs and I have to be patient and-

Seriously. Don't. I acknowledge all those things. But I direct your attention to the above...and you can't argue...that it pretty much sucks. Am I right? I thought so.

What It Means

2011-10-29T18:22:00.007-04:00

Instead of taking the most direct route home from our western Carolina travels a couple of weeks ago, we opted for the Blueridge Parkway. Dad drove to the nearest access point and then wound us high into the mountains, over the viaduct, which juts away from the mountain in a free-floating road between the leaves. The Parkway was, of course, jammed with leaf-lookers just like us. Motorcyclists admiring the views in their leather clad legs and military-style half-helmets. Families gathering on overlooks and pleading with nearby strangers to take their pictures.

I only took a few snaps from one of the overlooks. Dad held my beltloops to keep me steady on the low rock wall overlooking firs and oaks and maples against a cerulean fall sky. Mama didn't even get out of the car for these expeditions; her fear of heights kept her strapped tightly in the car likely reading to take her mind of what she assumed would be the tumble I'd take to my death.

Instead of trying to overphotograph the moment, I bade myself enjoy it. The drive took hours at a languid pace along the scene highway. We volleyed between being deep in conversation, laughing maniacally, munching kettle corn and contemplative silence. We wound through Asheville down to Highlands and Cashiers. At the highest points, low-growing trees scrubbed against the peaks, already stripped of their leaves. But somewhere along our descent, we hit the altitude where it was peak fall colors. As we followed the curves of the mountain in a slow, dreamy caress, we entered a section where the tree canopy reached all the way across the road, a tunnel of fire and honey. The sun broke through the trees in a gilded dance with intermittent shadows.

In a moment of forgetting where I was, I said out loud, without thinking, "This is what they mean by 'dappled in sunlight.'" Dad looked at me from the driver's seat, at his daughter who is always the one that says these odd things, these pronouncements from her inner-monologue that don't match the thought patterns of anyone else in the family. And then he laughed, because I'd said it, and it was true.

Miles later, we bent around the mountain into an even longer, more glorious tunnel of autumn color. After a few general declarations of its beauty, Dad said, "Now this is dappled in sunlight." And I laughed. Because in that moment, I knew there way understanding beyond definitions.

Drunk on Haterade

2011-09-09T22:48:00.000-04:00

Welcome to Fear and Loathing in Ashvegas. See how I did that? Prepared you to think how funny it will be when I deliver the subsequent self-deprecating remark? I should start with something simple and surface. I could comment rather cavalierly about the sad state of my waistline. But with more wit. Something like, "It's a good thing I have big boobs - they detract from how fat I'm getting." That one actually scores double points because I have called attention to my uncomfortably large chest in addition to to my chubbiness. You couldn't believe how many ways I've come up with to call myself fat - overweight, big-boned, rounding, tipping the scales, fleshy, hefty...you get the picture.

From the superficial, we could cross over into something slightly more personal. How about my unmarried status? There is some seriously fertile ground for Ash-bashing. We could have a few laughs - at my expense, of course - about the time lapsed since my last date. Like, "I haven't been on a date since Congress had a 50% approval rating." But after a few generalized chuckles, we have to dig deeper. To really pour on the haterade, you have to mock the heart of the matter.

You have to turn the guns on your current personal position and blow it to smithereens. Like a double agent, you have to expose yourself to the enemy and then take yoursellf out. Because, really, all you're doing is taking exactly what the enemy is thinking, dipping it twice in sarcasm, sprinkling it with a little clever wordplay and serving yourself a deceptively sticky sweet ball of venom.

And that's when you start to get drunk on the haterade. When the self-defense against what you think might be said and voicing all of the fears and doubts inside your head become a mantra that snakes through your brain until you really start to believe it. You really start to think that all those things you're saying to be funny are true. That you are fat. And that you will be alone forever. And, more than that, you will be alone because you're deficient. Because you're less than what anyone else would want. You start to see those fears and doubts and insecurities that existed in your mind become reality because you made them so...because you allowed your mockery to become who you are.

I presently have a haterade hangover. It makes my head ache sometimes, choosing between the easy, glib remark and responding in a more self-respecting manner. I mean, it's funny. The haterade makes people laugh. And despite my best efforts, I sometimes still take a shot. But other times, I'm trying give myself a fighting chance against the hair of the dog that bit me.

Retail Therapy: When the Bottom Shops Out

2011-09-07T22:02:00.002-04:00

Happy birthday to me. Who could deny herself a few confections for her 32nd birthday? There were the shoes - the delightful nude suede lace-up half-boots I bought with the DSW gift card they bestowed on me. That was followed by an Amazon order - some books and movies and CDs because those are the sorts of gift I would want for my birthday. And when I went to TJ Maxx and everything just seemed to fit, I took it as a sign to buy it all. The Borders by my house is going out of business, and before I knew it, three trips and a stack of books later, I'd swiped a fair amount on the old plastic telling myself it was a good deal.

It didn't end there. Because in addition to my spending on non-perishables like shoes and dresses and books, there was a generous uptick in my payout for perishable items. Like cocktails. And dinners. And lunches and brunches. So while I was growing fat, my wallet grew thin.

On one particular day, a box from DSW arrived at the same time as an Amazon shipment, and I arrived home to both directly from a shopping spree. My den was littered with boxes and bubble wrap and the smell of new shoes and a pile of new books and the wadded up cellophane that covered the DVDs strewn among the rubble. And I felt a twinge of something. But ignored it.

But looking back, I can see how sad it felt to sit among all those new things and still feel the void. I know it's cliche; but cliches are cliche because they so accurately portray the human condition in all its repetitive glory. I mean, it's nothing new to shop out of sadness or loneliness or desperation or all three. But cliche or no, it was still the case.

I know what I was thinking in some moments: that I deserved new things to compensate for the lack of whatever else I wanted. I was seizing those things I wanted that I could acquire with a credit card. Who wouldn't want to exact that sort of control when other things on the wishlist are so maddeningly unattainable no matter my credit limit? Why shouldn't I buy pretty clothes and beloved books and movies that provide the perfect escape from reality when faced with the immense dissatisfaction of what I couldn't purchase?

What a harrowing truth. I think I finally accepted it during a bridal shower - an affair at which we were the sole shoppers in a downtown boutique. And instead of selecting one item as a token purchase, I chose...well, more than one. Despite the discount the boutique offered, I still nearly choked when presented with the credit card slip. But with a swift flick of the pen, I signed my name under a ghastly total. That was the moment that the rationalizations and rationality collided in my head in a strange confusion of voices about what I deserved and what was okay and what had spun totally out of control.

The point is not how much I spent. It wasn't the money. It wasn't that for once in my life I burned through an entire paycheck like water. It was that I let myself. That I could be in a place where I found it permissible to soothe my wounded soul with so much stuff. The truth came close to the bone...that I could be reckless because I just didn't care anymore. Who needs to be reasonable when all hope is lost? Who needs to rein in when the rain never stops? Why not shop myself broke? What's to lose except money?

To be honest, I haven't taken anything back. Perhaps because I truly like the things I purchased. Perhaps because when I wear those jeans I simply had to have or the dress meant for the next special occasion, I'll remember. I'll remember that all hope is not lost. That there's something to hope for, even if it's just for that place where the aubergine Ralph Lauren dress will be the perfect attire.

Image via Rita H. Ireland

Fatty Fatty Two-by-Four

2011-08-30T13:01:00.001-04:00

At first, I blamed it on the road. As in, being on the road. Not in an uber cool Kerouac kind of way. More of a semi-depressing Death of a Salesman way. Maybe something in between. I never thought I would need a Skymiles number, much less be applying enough flights to it to qualify for, like, discounts. But since April, I've found myself in Tennessee, Nevada, Utah, Alabama, D.C., Texas, Colorado and next month, Florida. Not to mention road trips - hello, live from Savannah.

The point is that it's easy to discount the calories consumed on the road - in airport terminals and from little snack bags on planes and from drive thrus and gas stations and in hotel rooms and at client dinners where you feel justified in ordering three drinks, half a cow and a piece of chocolate cake. Honestly, there's no such thing as real food when you're traveling. There is only the packaged, preserved and mass-produced or the food-coma-inducing indulgently rich fare.

After criss-crossing the country, it's little wonder that I started putting on pounds on pace with my frequent flyer miles. I'm working on the Mile High and Mile Wide Club.

But travel isn't totally to blame. Back at home, I've shunned my kitchen in favor of the Chick-fil-A not a mile from my house. I lunch, I brunch, I dine with friends - and every two or three meals, I make a restrained choice. The hummus plate. And then I counter that with how I deserve dessert in light of my reduced calorie meal. Brilliant. On top of that, I've made no attempts to prevent my egregious snacking habits, keeping cookies and chips and the like in the pantry. Nicking Gummi Bears from the dollar bin at Kroger and selecting movie-watching snacks to reward myself for choosing the Red Box over the actual pricey theater.

A few recent pictures, taken from the most unflattering side view, revealed my alarmingly inflated form. The unbecomingly rounding belly. The fleshy arms. The fat that's starting to gather around my face. I've assumed an overall doughy appearance - paunchy, soft, decadent. Pokable.

I probably weigh as much now as I ever have - I'm rather afraid of the scales, too horrified to know what I've done to myself. And as much as there's vanity, and believe me, there is, because, I'm being honest here. But there's also a great deal of shame in having let it go this far. The shame of failing to possess the willpower to shut my mouth. The shame of letting the depression about life to creep up on me and fuel this sorry sad appetite for destruction. Food won't make me happy - and whatever joy I normally take in eating good food is just perverted by this abuse. Even as I finished off the Double Stuf Oreos the other night, I wanted to cry. Because all that creamy goodness was headed straight for my already dimpled thighs. And because, well, I know better. I know I don't want to be on this one-way street to The Biggest Loser.

It's so much easier to remain prostrate under mounds of calories. To consume my feelings rather than deal with them. To viciously hate every new bulge while masochistically stuffing my face. But underneath all those calories and all that dissatisfaction, there's a part of me that is starting to claw against that soft fatty self and demand that we put an end to this.

So I finished the bag of Gummi Bears. And the Double Stuf Oreos. I bought some carrots. I bought some hummus. I'm keeping apples in the fridge. I'm on the road right now...I had McDonald's, and I know tomorrow is going to be some sort of artery-blowing dinner affair. I'm not going to make any ultimatums - no promises to myself that I can't keep. I'm not going to start some crash diet where I deny myself sugar and carbs and joy. But I am going to try to unshackle myself from helplessness...from cutting myself so much slack that I don't even participate in the choice. I'm going to reconnect that line between my mouth and my brain that The Sadsies unplugged.

And let's be honest: I want to be slimmer. I want my clothes to fit. I want to be more attractive for all the superficial reasons, to be one of the beautiful people. But as much as that, I want to respect myself enough not to let the heaviness in my heart be the heaviness on my hips.

Image via Christopher Boffoli's Disparity series

Let's Be Honest

2011-08-28T19:21:00.008-04:00

The spiral started, well, how spirals start. At an infinitesimal point behind you that's hardly discernible once you recognize the endlessly loping curvature that looms above you. Round and round and round until the circular shape with its no-end-and-no-beginning ways keeps you from even trying to recall its origin.

That's me, now. Looking back at that spiral, not even trying to fathom how I got to this place at the bottom. And let's be honest - for awhile, I've been slipping and sliding down the spiral with reckless abandon. Acting like I was powerless against the sloping gravity of it all. Like an impertinent child sailing down the banister, I picked up terrible habits with an alacrity that was mind-blowing. The eating. The shopping. The sleeping. The self-deprecation. The self-loathing. The perpetual negativity.

That's me, now. Finally plopped rather decidedly on my arse at the bottom. My first impulse is to offer excuses. But I've been here before, and excuses get me nowhere. So I'm trying something new. In light of my present position, in light of the recognition of my free will to be somewhere besides here, I'm going to explore my choices with all honesty. I'm going to tell the whole truth - the whole ugly truth - and hopefully find my way away from the ugly something less hideous...something tolerable...something that resembles the fragile beauty of hope...

Image via Randall C. Page

Oddly Lovely

2011-08-25T09:10:00.001-04:00

David Gray, "Kathleen"

2011-08-15T23:01:00.001-04:00

This was an early birthday present - David Gray at The Fox in late June.

On Lost Love, a Year Later

2011-06-21T12:25:00.000-04:00

They threshed the field's long golden grass while I was gone this last week. Now all that's left is a wild turkey picking through the leavings and just below the fence, a tangled knot of Queen Anne's lace.

Everyone complains that the summer heat came too early this year without realizing that summer is here. The new green leaves of spring trees deepened and darkened into baked green - a hot, kiln-fired color. The final blooms on the magnolia turned a waxen buttery color, and the petals hang heavy and limp. Only after a rain does the melting Southern heat relent, turning briefly to a mist that rises from the road, the smell of ozone and wet burned things.

It's that sudden oppressive heat that descended when we weren't looking that reminded me of year ago: a surprisingly mild evening, late twilight, cool enough to go outside without losing your breath. How we walked slowly through the grass that felt fleshy and alive. And then the next day that came with merciless heat, even in the earliest hour of the day, when we pushed ourselves into the car with death at hand.

Who could breathe in such humidity and tears? The hot damp flush of despair rising up my throat, staining my neck, my cheeks. Who could avoid choking on thick air and salt water?

Who could forget the bright clear light that slanted through the windows, the dry, dead wheatness of the grass, the fervent green of the trees that he must've seen just before he closed his eyes?

Who could not wish, even a year later, for a gentle twilight and cricket song to soothe the sadness of missing him?

Haters Say the Darndest Things

2011-06-20T21:16:00.003-04:00

The Linguista: "Ashley, that shirt you're wearing...it looks like you're trying to hide a pregnancy."

Evil Woman with Whom I was Forced to Work Last week: "You look nice today. You did well. I've never seen any of the women at your firm dress that well." And, on another occasion, "I told my boss that you are pretty competent."

Even More Evil Man I Encountered Last Week: "That's a sad look. You know that look on your face is why you don't have a ring on your finger."

I don't have a ring on my finger, but I clearly have a "kick me" sign on my back.

Twinapalooza

2011-05-31T15:16:00.006-04:00

Yesterday was Memorial Day. On many fronts. Most of you are Zuckerberged to me through the magic of The Social Network and so were party to my minute-by-minute account of the twins' arrival. Unlike Dillon and Reese, there was an actual labor. And though with Reese, we rushed to the hospital to avoid the Snowpocalypse, we had plenty of time before she arrived.

But yesterday, Eva's water broke around 2 p.m., and we found ourselves once again racing for the hospital. And we made it just as they were putting in the epidural. We'd barely arrived before Baby A was crowning - and subsequently born with one gentle push. And four-and-a-half minutes later, Baby B emerged feet-first.

Elyssa Anne arrived calmly, delicately, small-ly. Under six pounds, her features are doll-like. Her hands tiny with miniature fingers. Her feet, however, are long and thin and capped with monkey toes. Ethan Carter worked himself around into breech position, requiring the doctor to pull him out feet first and squalling for all he was worth. And while his sister basked peacefully under the heat lamp, he wailed himself fully red as a beet.

When Reese was born, I felt awe at the miracle of life, delivered in an instant into the room and the world. With Elyssa and Ethan, I felt awe at the magnificence of Eva, a determined vessel that nourished 13 pounds of baby. She was in the hospital on Sunday after straining a ligament under her belly, and I started to worry that her dedication to keeping the twins until late in her term was going to tear her to pieces. Yesterday, with quiet strength and grit, she delivered two lives into this mad world. She lay spent on the bed, listening to the music of two cries, and I thought, "Wow, what a woman."

Dear Stupid Heart:

2011-05-18T20:14:00.000-04:00

Why, when you know it's not in the best interest of either us, must you always fall in love with men who do not love you back? You and your cursed unrequited pursuits, borne on a wave of saltwater. I would think you'd learned your lesson after repeated smashings, so many pieces to knit together again. And I know that we always do that - find the way with the needle of time and the thread patience to determinedly put you back together.

But this time - these latest times - I wonder why we must always go through this routine of reckless abandon. Of throwing caution to the wind and exposing you to devastation yet again. Of allowing - nay, being willing - to sacrifice you to the great unknown of What Could Be. Those naive hopes are piling up into an altar to What Never Will Be.

Oh, Stupid Heart, to be here again with you is excruciating. Gathering the pieces, wondering if I have them all, wondering if this is the time that maybe, just maybe, parts of you will go missing all together. Will the brokenness be such that it's too much for us to patch? And even if the pieces are found and the mending complete, we both know you'll never work quite the same. These bruises and tears never heal perfectly. Instead, you'll be tattooed with new scars of our failures.

I know, I said our. I blame you, but it's my fault, too. That's why I'm here, kneeling beside you, carefully sewing, trying not to cry when I catch my finger on the needle.

Love (Oh, Misbegotten Love),
Ash

the right words find me at the right time

2011-04-17T22:19:00.001-04:00

let it go – the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise – let it go it
was sworn to
go

let them go – the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers – you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go – the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things – let all go
dear

so comes love

Dear Men of the Online Dating Realm:

2011-03-29T21:52:00.000-04:00

As I conclude my three-month stint in the harmonious world of e-dating, I want to offer - by way of showing there are no hard feelings - a bit of advice to those men with whom I didn't find the advertised deepest level of compatibility...

Dear Hunter/Gathers:
Thank you for demonstrating your ability to provide dinner. However, it is not necessary to submit photographic proof that you can wrangle up a dead animal.

Dear Dignitary Protection Agent:
In that space for your occupation, "bodyguard" will do.

Dear Lovers of Kenny Chesney and Nickleback:
No.

Dear Self-Proclaimed Einstein (Literally):
When you state that you're "super selective" and have "super attractive" female friends - who, by the way, would marry you immediately if you gave the word - it's super annoying. Stop with the Einstein bit. And the tanning bed.

Dear Brothers with Sister Wives:
I have a brother. And we don't hug like that in pictures.

Dear I'm Bored Already:
Your passion for tennis is riveting.

Dear Divorcees:
For the love of all that is logic, do not post a picture of you wearing your wedding ring.

Dear Intrepid Adventurer:
I do not, in fact, want to go ice climbing with you in patagonia.

Dear Living in Your Mama's Basement:
Bill Cosby called and he wants his sweater back.

Dear Lovers of the Gym:
I'm fat. Get over it.

Dear Self-Employed:
What does that mean, exactly?

Dear Anyone Who Thought I Like to Perform Rap and Hip-Hop:
That was due to my misunderstanding of the difference between listen to and perform. Apologies.

The Trouble with One

2011-03-27T22:52:00.000-04:00

On a few recent occasions, when friends have inquired about my dating life, I expressed some exhaustion with it. As I near the end of my three-month stint on a harmonious online dating site, I haven't been matched with anyone on the 29 dimensions of compatibility that's resulted in that 30th dimension - actually being someone I wanted to date.

And since that 30th dimension seems to continually elude me, I've started contemplating the very real possibility that there's not someone out there for me. When I say this, it is not accompanied by a litany of my faults and insecurities. It is not backed up with a diatribe against my neuroses and cottage cheese thighs. In fact, the word "because" doesn't factor in...because I don't know why this is the case.

At a recent happy hour with coworkers, a good friend and coworker called bullsh*t on me repeatedly. Maybe because he assumed that my monologue of faults was just 'round the bend, but then, after I calmed him down and explained my position, he still angrily denied the possibility that I could be alone.

I think that this argument comes from a place of affection - those who care about me don't want me to be alone. There's the impulse to defend my honor to me and force me to acknowledge my finer attributes, even though I wasn't making an attack on myself in the first place.

But, let's face it: the world is not Noah's Ark. We don't all go about two by two.

And what is it to other people if I accept solitude? I'm not locked away in a convent somewhere. I'm not even exhibiting particularly spinster-like behavior. My social calendar is rather full, in fact.

I'm unclear on why accepting one's single status is so unacceptable. If I don't concede that it's a possibility, I live my life in a constant state of discontent waiting for what will be. And what of putting off things until that time? Should I constantly hit the hold button on living life until there's someone to share it with?

And for the record, it's hard enough to not feel sorry for oneself for not having someone. I don't need someone to tell me that I should be feeling sorry for myself.

So I'm not going to feel sorry for myself. I'm going to take a deep breath every day and remind myself that I am okay all alone. That by myself, I've bought a house and have a great job and am surrounded by truly amazing friends and have a wonderful family. I'm going to be open to what comes, embrace my freedom and remind myself that I am not incomplete. In fact, I'm extraordinary. And until something comes along that is equally extraordinary, I'm going to be happy being in a long-term relationship with one amazing person: me.

Camellia

2011-03-20T21:48:00.003-04:00

A Man

2011-03-14T21:20:00.003-04:00

The last couple of days, driving back and forth between my house and Mom and Dad's, I noticed a man. He's been standing on the less traveled side of an intersection - a little side road, really, that leads to an old road that used to be the main road. He has a very small cardboard sign that says, "HOMELESS HELP."

The first time, he was nearly a blur as I took the yielding curve on the slow side of 40 mph. I noted the cardboard, the flannel, an unkempt beard, a baseball cap. That was Saturday. And yesterday, I saw him there again, impressed by the same details, an additional sense of fatigue. Worn work boots.

I headed to Mom and Dad's after work today. An unsettling blue mood fell on me at the same time I was bathed by golden sunlight and perfumed by the early blooming cherry trees. So much beauty on the edge of melancholy. I flew across the county line at the bottom of a hill, crossed the river on the old main road and turned up the hill.

He stood where he'd been the past few days, all faded flannel and denim and weathered leather and a face burnished by sun and whatever hardship had fallen. The light was red. I dug in my purse. My windows were down. I held a folded bill out the window.

He approached the car assuring me that he was a harmless fellow. But I wasn't afraid of him. That sense of sadness in me just welled up. He took the money from my hand with callused fingers, thanking me. "God bless you," I said, feeling a terrible knot rising in my throat.

"God bless you," he repeated. And then he add, "Rock and roll til you die."

I smiled as the light turned green, held out a lifted hand as I made my turn. Maybe he's crazy. Maybe he's an addict. Maybe he's an angel. Maybe he's none of those things. But what I do know is, he's a man.

Gratitude

2011-03-13T23:23:00.006-04:00

...for beautiful weather

...for a Sunday afternoon nap with the door open

...for the promise of spring

...for dispensing - even if for the moment - of desperation

...for those who remind me, when I feel the void, how many dear ones there are to fill it

...for loving so much the sound of someone else's laughter

...for answered prayers

...for e.e. cummings

...for a house that is becoming a home

...for being one known as "Auntley Ashley"

...for being a "plus one" to someone

...for camellias

...for the smell of libraries

...for old friends made new

...for new friends who feel old

...for you, dear reader, gratitude for you...

Another Horsedreamer's Blues

2011-02-27T21:32:00.003-05:00

With the windows down and the music up loud, I drove south out of the N.C. mountains today on Highway 441. On a whim, I brought along Recovering the Satellites, the Counting Crows album that came out my senior year of high school and turned me into a die-hard fan. I can't remember the last time I listened to it in its entirety. But today, I did.

I had forgotten about the song "Another Horsedreamer's Blues" even though it was one of my favorites on the album. I was reminded of the passage I used to listen to, rewind and listen to again and again...

"Margery's wingspan's all feathers and Coke cans and TV dinners and letters she won't send. And every race night is shot through with sunlight. Trying to hit the big one one last time tonight for drunken fathers and stupid mothers and boys who can't tell one girl from another. So she takes her pills - careful and round - one of these days she's gonna throw the whole bottle down but she's trying to be a good girl and give them what they want."

Granted, I didn't have a drunken father or a stupid mother, but I did mostly think the boys in high school couldn't tell one girl from another. It was the part about trying to be a good girl and give them what they want - there was something about the way it was sung, so angry and defiant. Searching for what it was they wanted.

And at times - even at 31 - I still feel like that 17-year-old girl with clipped wings trying so hard to fly right. Trying so hard to live up to expectations. And sometimes, in a moment, rolling down the asphalt at 65 mph with my red hair whipping in the wind, I realize that I'm a stranger to myself in the mold and so familiar to myself instead with the early spring sun turning my hair to fire.

It Seems Like It's So Much More Complicated Than This...

2011-02-17T21:41:00.007-05:00

I saw this on Twitter, and I think it was meant to be sarcastic...but...is it also a little true?

"Falling in love is nothing more than readiness, lust and hope."

All this following an attempt to glean dating wisdom from my mother.

So that's where I am right now. I'm getting my love advice from Mom and Twitter.

Which might qualify me for the Twitter Fail Whale of the Day.

Dear Kudzu:

2011-02-15T22:50:00.004-05:00

I miss you today. I always miss you on bad days. And lonely days. And days like today that are just restless with some sort of frustrating energy that beats you all day long until you want to turn on it and demand what exactly it wants from you.

I saw your sister Mischief over the weekend, and I petted her with my eyes closed and pretended for just a moment that it was you. That was sort of a mistake because it made me twice as sad when I opened my eyes.

Big things seem to be on the horizon. I'm not sure what they are, but I can feel them looming ahead, shadowy and indistinct. Whether these specters of the future are friends or foes, I can't say. And right now, I think of them like The Knockers. Which reminds me - be glad you weren't here for Dillon's recent proclamation that "The Darkness lives in the birdhouse" in our bathroom. I'm guessing it moved in after you died.

Even though this is a letter, the kind you would expect to be filled with updates on every detail of life, I'm not going to update you on anything vexing because I know you wouldn't ask me to recount how I don't quite really totally completely live in my house yet. Or the state of my love life, which is questionable...like something you aren't sure whether or not it's gone bad. If you were here, I'd hold out my love life and say, "Smell this" and gauge your reaction. And if you made that face you used to make when you forgot that you hated the smell of toothpaste, I'd scrap it and declare my celibacy forever.

I can feel myself doing stupid things right now - things that don't make any logical sense. Things that I know I'm going to wish I had stopped - like when you know you shouldn't eat any more but you do and then you sit in miserable bloated pain for an hour. I'm going to be in miserable bloated emotional pain before all this is through, and it would be so much more manageable if you were here.

I hope you are well, growing fat on the green tips of spider plants and watching over your me.

Love,
Ashley

Words of Solace

2011-01-13T11:27:00.001-05:00

"So sudden loss causes us to look backward – but it also forces us to look forward, to reflect on the present and the future, on the manner in which we live our lives and nurture our relationships with those who are still with us. We may ask ourselves if we’ve shown enough kindness, generosity, compassion to the people in our lives. Perhaps we may question whether we are doing right by our children, our community, whether our priorities are in order. We recognize our own mortality; we are reminded that in our fleeting time on earth, what matters is not wealth, or status, or power, or fame -– but rather, how well we have loved, and what small part we have played in making the lives of other people better."

--President Barack Obama, January 12, 2011

What are You Doing New Year's Eve?

2011-01-02T21:38:00.003-05:00

In the waning hours of 2010, I considered going out in response to a solid invitation to one party and the probability that any number of my friends would be ushering in 2011 in the ATown. In light of last year's epic fail, I had compelling reasons to attempt to start off the new year in finer form. I considered the old superstition that what you're doing as the calendar starts over sets the tone for the coming 12 months, and I certainly wanted to be on better terms with the impending '11 than I was on its decade-capping predecessor.

It ended up that, even though Reese came down with the flu earlier in the week, the family was able to make it to my parents' house for our belated Christmas celebration. This holiday confusion (otherwise known as the Christmess) does tend to make for a difficult time truly enjoying New Year's Eve. And as it turned out, with relocating my bed to the new house and the kitchen remodel, we were short sleeping arrangements at Mom and Dad's, so Anna and me made our trek across town to spend the night at my house.

And so it was that the final moments of 2010 ticked off the clock. Anna went to bed, and I lay in my own bed, listening to the pops and crackles of fireworks outside in the night sky. I lay in the darkness and let the sad lonely year ebb away. In the silence that followed, I could almost hear the freshness of 2011's arrival. Like a sudden rush of warm air distilled in a soft white puff again the winter night, it came. And with it, sweet hope. I lay listening to the way the air changed, to the way that the light shifted, to my own breathing. I felt suddenly empty; but emptied of the heavy burden of so much sadness and tragedy. Hollowed out as it were, like midnight spooned out the lead and left behind a smooth, dark place for good things to settle.

In the stillness, I prayed for this fragile new year. I prayed that its tender newness would be allowed to blossom into something wonderful. I prayed to God to keep my hands reaching out toward Him, toward hope, toward the belief that there is plan so much greater than what I've imagined I missed or lost or let pass me by. And so I closed my eyes against the clean night sky that was already making its way toward the first day of the new year. And I fell asleep with a prayer on my lips. At home. With hope.

2010 in Words

2010-12-31T09:20:00.002-05:00

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

2010-12-28T11:50:00.000-05:00

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:

2010-12-27T10:12:00.000-05:00

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:

2010-12-26T21:06:00.000-05:00

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

2010-12-16T20:28:00.003-05:00

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

2010-11-22T21:30:00.005-05:00

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

2010-11-17T22:44:00.000-05:00

Oil Spill (Kids' Edition)

2010-11-10T19:55:00.003-05:00

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

2010-11-07T22:18:00.003-05:00

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

2010-10-06T22:45:00.000-04:00

So We Meet Again

2010-10-04T22:24:00.002-04:00

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

2010-09-18T12:01:00.004-04:00

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

2010-09-14T21:05:00.002-04:00

Stolen from the lovely Penelope.

Dear M, Regarding My Totally You Moment:

2010-09-07T22:29:00.005-04:00

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

2010-09-01T22:31:00.006-04:00

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:

2010-08-29T22:25:00.003-04:00

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

2010-08-21T11:02:00.007-04:00

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

2010-08-18T21:38:00.001-04:00

Sorrow & Hope

2010-08-10T21:55:00.007-04:00

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

2010-07-30T22:36:00.003-04:00

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

2010-07-29T22:53:00.001-04:00

Me: I feel like I look old.

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

Mendelopacious

2010-07-28T21:47:00.001-04:00

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)

2010-07-06T22:40:00.003-04:00

- 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

2010-06-22T23:30:00.002-04:00

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

Requiescat in pace, Kudzu

2010-06-19T08:00:00.000-04:00

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

2010-06-15T08:55:00.000-04:00

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?

2010-06-14T08:38:00.000-04:00

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

2010-06-12T17:27:00.001-04:00

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)

2010-06-08T10:22:00.000-04:00

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

2010-06-05T13:04:00.001-04:00

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:

2010-05-30T00:04:00.010-04:00

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

2010-05-27T14:34:00.002-04:00

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

2010-05-17T11:26:00.004-04:00

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

2010-05-12T16:43:00.002-04:00

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"

2010-05-12T11:33:00.003-04:00

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:

2010-05-09T17:33:00.004-04:00

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!

2010-05-05T17:39:00.001-04:00

I just saw my boss in bike shorts.

Ethereal

2010-05-03T22:34:00.003-04:00

Dear Co-Workers:

2010-05-03T11:22:00.004-04:00

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

2010-04-25T22:22:00.008-04:00

* 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

2010-04-15T22:27:00.000-04:00

"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

2010-04-14T21:40:00.003-04:00

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?

2010-04-14T15:26:00.002-04:00

Spied on the grocery list this morning:

* Milk
* Creamer
* Starch
* Money

Things That Are Not Helpful

2010-04-08T11:47:00.004-04:00

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

2010-04-08T00:03:00.001-04:00

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.

2010-03-23T22:19:00.006-04:00

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.

The Crap in the Hall

2009-09-28T21:46:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-18T15:59:00.002-04:00

Johnny Castle, in the Corner of My Mind

2009-09-17T23:19:00.004-04:00

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

2009-08-26T20:51:00.006-04:00

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!

2009-08-26T16:15:00.004-04:00

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

2009-08-24T14:42:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-23T22:29:00.001-04:00

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

2009-08-20T13:34:00.000-04:00

Someone found my blog by Googling "farty teens."

One Two Five-O Let It Go

2009-08-19T20:46:00.006-04:00

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

2009-08-15T11:52:00.000-04:00

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

2009-08-11T09:59:00.003-04:00

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

2009-08-10T13:55:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-05T20:41:00.008-04:00

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

2009-08-03T13:06:00.006-04:00

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

2009-08-01T23:24:00.009-04:00

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

2009-05-15T07:32:00.000-04:00

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

2009-05-14T18:50:00.008-04:00

A Voice from Afar

2009-05-05T23:08:00.002-04:00

Hello.

I'm still here.

Promise.

Posts are a-brewin'.

April showers will bring May flowers.

Miss y'all.

Morning @ The Office

2009-04-24T11:04:00.002-04:00

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

2009-04-09T20:17:00.004-04:00

FAIL

2009-03-27T13:29:00.004-04:00

* 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

2009-03-19T10:13:00.003-04:00

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

2009-03-17T06:06:00.000-04:00

* 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

2009-03-16T11:06:00.000-04:00

Shameless self-promotion

Crowded

2009-03-15T22:58:00.006-04:00

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

2009-03-06T14:21:00.001-05:00

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

In Deliberations

2009-03-04T11:00:00.001-05:00

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

2009-03-02T16:41:00.002-05:00

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

2009-03-02T13:14:00.003-05:00

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

2009-03-02T10:16:00.003-05:00

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...