Dear Co-Workers:

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

Love,
Ash

Choke

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Me & the Boys: An Update

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

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

Ashley the Grouch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bah Humbug: I'm scrooged about...

...the Ferrero Roche holiday commercial. I want to deck them...

...the Secret Santa festivities at work. Like, I don't know what to get my family, much less my coworkers...

...my dad's sister who called last night and told Mom that they "could be here" on the 23rd and planned to spend 4 or 5 days. They have never spent Christmas with us - in fact, I'd wager I haven't seen them since my college graduation - and of all years to inflict themselves upon us...

...the return of The Panic, which is undoubtedly induced by the whole Christmas season (to quote my emotional counterpart, The Grinch), but whatever the reason, I've found myself fighting the gag reflex, hiding in the ladies' room, deep breathing, and holding my breath altogether...

...my inability to buy one single solitary Christmas present. Really. Not one...

...the fam's unwillingness to commit to a time frame on our family Christmas celebration, which is usually the weekend after Christmas but we're trying to consolidate and avoid prolonging the agony...

...me, being so grumpy, so overly sensitive, so reactive to every yuletide good wish with a mental, 'oh bugger off' and feeling like I'm wearing a sour grinchy frown and blaming everything on work and fatigue...

Face it, I'm totally scrooged.

Go Ahead and Laugh

* On Saturday evening, as we drove down the highway in the cold rain, discussing how hard the holidays were on Anna, my mother withdrew a "finger pistol" from her pocket and fired at each of the lighted angels hung on the streetlamps.

* The Professor is now my friend on Facebook, but his acceptance of my friend request was preceded by an e-mail explaining why his relationship status is set to "In a Relationship" with The Ex.

* I have developed a crush on the FreeCreditReport.com dude.

* The Dirty Film Boys continued their stare tactics until the ladies in our office revolted and created a sign to wear on our backs that said, "I can see you looking at me in the reflection, genius." But The Boss interceded and let the Dirty Film Boys know they were creeping us out - to which they apologized and noted, "They're the best things to look at up here."

* I am seriously disappointed that I missed the Britney documentary and even consulted MTV.com to find out when it will be online.

Facing the Negativo

The last couple of weeks, I seem to have fallen prey to The Negativo. Suddenly, my first reaction to everything is negative. Anger, irritation, impatience, anxiety, dread. It's seething just underneath my skin, and it's provoked at the least infraction. And then it's like the worst version of me just jumps down the nearest person's throat. For example,

* The Dirty Film Boys are back, smelling up the common area. Every time I walk to the bathroom, the one closest to the door turns and stares at me. I am SORRY if the click-clack of my heels on the concrete annoys you, but get over it.

* On the way back from J. Island last week, my Garmin lost its ever-loving mind and directed me into the least populated corridors of the state. And when I turned around for the second time that day using the interstate median out of frustration, I promptly found myself sidelined by the state patrol. I had never ever cried on a cop until that day. "Happy belated birthday," he said. "I'm just going to give you warning."

* The Fam is experiencing too much togetherness. Patience is fraying; tempers are flaring. We're all slightly sick of the sight of each other but are quite at a loss how to avoid the suffocating conditions. Anna, though doing remarkably well, just isn't quite ready for abandonment and so we go and we sit together and we try not to kill each other.

* Work has me tense and knotted. I love my job, but right now, it just feels like everything is on level ten. There are too many balls in the air and I'm distracted...by...what, I don't know. By the shift in the office environs because of the Rockstar's impending departure. And the potential replacement's frightening Type-A over-achieving ways.

* I'm totally annoyed by people who do things better than me. How ridiculous is that? But it's like, I want the universe to give me a break, to give me some arena where I'm a winner free and clear. But instead, I'm on the insecurity train and riding shotgun.

* Another wave of grief seems to have washed over us all, and at times, it makes me resent every spark of happiness in the world. I want to tell other people not to smile. Because every time I think we're seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, it fades into the distance, and all I can hear is the echo of our voices in a long dark cavern that never seems to end.

* I hate waiting. I'm so mad at waiting. Waiting for the next thing. Waiting for it to be the right time to buy a house. Waiting for the time when I'll feel like writing a book. Waiting for friends to blossom out of acquaintances. Waiting for a time when I don't stand in a room full of people and feel like the loneliest person in the world. Waiting for a time when my whole life isn't hijacked by mourning.

* I resent practicality. I want to throw caution to the wind and plan trips and be carefree. I have 80 percent of my vacation left. I have no idea when or how to take it. And sometimes, when I think about it, I just feel more tired trying to think of how to use it. I just sort of want it to go away.

* I worry about us all...all of us with our respective heart conditions. Anna's broken into a million tiny pieces. Dad's grown tired and stressed. Mom's heavy with her worry for us all. And mine empty and lonely and guilty and sad for feeling all that it feels.

Jumping the Gun

jump the gun (idiom) - to begin prematurely; act too hastily

@ Blockbuster - Selected Feast of Love based on the co-starring power of Greg Kinnear and Morgan Freeman and assumed from the description that it was a Love Actually-esque film with multiple story lines - or as the box suggested, "A romantic feast for anyone who loves love." We decided to watch this film while enjoying delectable birthday treats like ice cream cones and brownies. Within the first fifteen minutes, there was a naked-to-the-waist lesbian sex scene. Um. Did I mention I was watching with my parents?

@ Work - After lamenting the neglectful behavior of my co-workers last Thursday, I had to consume an enormous slice of humble pie today. They marched in at 4 p.m. to The Beatles "Birthday" with an ice cream cake and a gift of Notable Author Finger Puppets. We enjoyed said ice cream cake while the Rockstar's birthday mix played on in the background. (It included Lil' Wayne and Kansas.) I felt incredible remiss in having been so irrationally upset.

@ the Mental Level - Right now, I'm deep breathing through what I'm hoping is indigestion. I've been hoping that I've had indigestion a lot lately. I just chewed up a Pecid AC...and the taste took me back to the place my brain seems to be wanting to go. Like a little this-time-last-year party trick. With the shrink and the doctor and the medication - let's face it: I thought I was done with all this. Perhaps it's just an allergic reaction to getting old.

29 Candles

At the firm, emails go out notifying everyone of individual birthdays. As a general practice, if I remotely know the person having a birthday, I send a quick email with well wishes. I assume that in the Atlanta office, much of this well-wishing is done in person with greetings passed off cube-side or from the office door.

On Thursday, since we had yesterday off for the 4th, an email went out with an early announcement of mine and one other birthday. I secretly anticipated the onslaught of emails and quick calls of birthday wishes. Instead...I got nothing.

Of the 60-plus people firm-wide, I heard from five. Just five. The Exotic wished me well as she left; The Rockstar said, "So when is your birthday?" as he left. The Boss and The Goofball gave no acknowledgment whatsoever.

I sat at my desk, willing a few more phone calls or emails. Nothing came. On top of that, I got in an argument with The Goofball - one that gave me that shuddery I-could-almost-cry feeling because I was so irate.

I waited and waited. I was so irrationally frustrated and hurt by the neglect that I stayed at the office until almost six (when I could've gone home at 4:30) because I just couldn't get up and walk out of the office and keep it together. As I passed The Boss' office, he wished me a good 4th.

When I got to the car, I sat for a moment in the stifling heat and gave into the lump in my throat. And when I got home, no Jack Ryan in sight to make it all better.

Painful Reminders

Today I had a meeting with a client who happens to be from the local version of the place I spent last Monday in agony. A group of seven surrounded our conference room table and I was running the show. I was trying to make light chatter. I'd been prepping for this meeting in earnest before I left the office, and I felt the weight of it on me - the need to bring my A-game and push everything else to the side.

They began talking about having a full house because of the flu. One said, "We're starting to ask patients if they're lucid, and if they are, we send them home." It was a joke, of course. The kind of inappropriate joke that gets made about a serious subject to alleviate the tension.

These are not bad people; in fact, they're all quite kind people who believe in what they do. I've said the same sorts of things about my clients - without thinking, with utter flippancy. But I couldn't let it pass. I couldn't let the moment go by, couldn't think about people with the flu who get to walk out of the hospital. So I told them what happened, mostly to make it stop. But part of me, truth be told, wanted to zing them. Even though they weren't intending to be cruel or malicious, even though they were blindsided by my experience, I felt myself hurling out a little bit of my anger.

I felt contrite afterwards, wishing I'd have kept my mouth shut, not understanding my sudden need to share. Why couldn't I just keep it to myself and move on? My only excuse is that my befuddled emotions have me acting in befuddled ways. Untangling the tangled lines of anger, frustration, guilt that my life is going on, irritation at those for whom normal really means normal...inevitably, something is going to snag.

Calendar Girls: The Posts of 2007

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

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

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

January: A Very Happy Announcement



February: My Life the Democracy


March: Georgia on My Mind


April: Leaving: Part One



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



June: The Girl Who Lived


July: (Untitled)


August: Sister Mary Sunshine Gets Sucker Punched



September: Handle It


October: Shoreline
November: On Meeting People



December: Bones

TomCut

Tom Cruise's hair cut makes me irrationally angry with its dangerously close approach to an early '90s bowl cut and sweeping feathered bangs. I can't get over it - I mean, I posted a comment on Daisy's blog weeks ago, and anyone I've talked to in the last few days will attest that I'm still extraordinarily bothered by it. I will even lecture you on how it diminishes any ounce of hotness he still possessed after...well, he went crazy. It's just enraging. Seriously. Flames on the side of my face.

About Me

I know it's just one of those things about having moved to a new place and starting a new job. But I cannot be held responsible for what I say to the next person who prompts me to tell them "about myself." What is there to say to this prompt? Tell me a little bit about yourself. What little bit? What little bit is there that can really say anything about me? I have a cat. I read. I am left handed. The roster of factual information that passes back and forth during this conversation actually says very little about me.

And following is the realization that it's a choose-your-own-adventure. I am in the process of inventing who I am to these people. They don't know who I am, and so I could be anybody. Whoever I am, I am definitely running low on patience.

Sister Mary Sunshine Gets Sucker Punched

Sometimes you just can't anymore. Can't act brave. Can't give them the stiff upper lip. Chin up, smile on. When they ask if you're worried, sometimes you can't find that place inside yourself that makes, "No, no, not at all" sound natural. And when they ask you the questions you don't know the answer to, it gets hard to say, "I don't know" onemoretime.

Sometimes you just don't believe your friends when they tell you how great you are. Or if you can really hang your hat on how infinitely talented you are in your parents' eyes. Sometimes you really don't know if you're going to be fine. You don't want to get past this, because you know after this, there is something else and something else. (At the same time, you know that it could be worse, but, another voice says, "This ain't so great either.")

And all those things that everyone says are out there? Isn't it possible that they don't exist? Sometimes, you have to wonder if this or that is out there. And if they aren't, what then? If you live in anticipation of fulfillment by what's out there, and it never comes, how do you reconcile?

On top of that, there's what's behind you. All that you gave up to be here that sometimes gets ignored. At times, when people ask you about that place, those people and events, you are reminded that no one really knows you. And you feel the sudden disconnect between then and now and you wish (maybe) that you hadn't done this to yourself.

And sometimes, there's the quiet to contend with, the solitude, the oneness. Sometimes you can't believe one more person is asking you when you're going to buy a house, get married, have a baby, write a book...become something else other than what you are. And sometimes, you think that it's just going to take one more time to put you over the edge. Just one more time and you aren't going to be able to say with a sweet, sweet smile, "In good time...when the time comes"...when, if, then, etc. etc. The time is going to come when it all gets to be more than you can bear and then...then it's going to get ugly. Because you can't be take-it-as-it-comes every second of your life. For every day that you get up and get brave and get through it, there's a day or maybe just an hour that you think, "I'm going to punch somebody in the face."

Them's Fightin' Words

When I arrived at Eva & Justin's house last week, I interrupted play group. This means that I walked into the kitchen filled with four mothers and six children. Eva had warned me, knowing that there's no love lost between me and other people's children.

I was handling it pretty well, seeking refuge at one end of the kitchen table and trying to make polite conversation and keep up with talk of Exersaucers and Johnny Jump Ups. Eva had just finished feeding Dillon and handed him off to me to take one of the other mothers to see a project she'd been working on. He fussed, and I checked his diaper and confirmed that it was wet. I said as much aloud.

That's when one of the mommies totally overstepped bounds. In this voice one would use to speak to a child, she said, "Since Auntie Ashley is holding Dillon, will she change the diaper?"

In my head, I turned to her and said, "Don't patronize me or I will cut you." But in real life, I simply gathered Dillon up and headed off to change him. And she followed me. Standing over my shoulder, she cooed to her own infant, as though giving her approval, "Look at Auntie Ashley go!"

I held my temper in check, but I was so enraged that I couldn't quite get over it. What was it about this woman's ridiculous behavior that had me itching to lash out at her? Perhaps it was due in part to facing one of those moments when I felt more Bridget Jones-esque than ever, surrounded by the Mom Squad with their infants and toddlers, and me wondering if they were feeling sorry for me or thinking "tick tock, tick tock." But more than that - because I didn't feel this Hulkish rage toward anyone else - I think it was her condescension to insinuate that I would be too squeamish or too inept to change a diaper. And no disrespect to the moms out there, but rocket science it ain't.

I couldn't help thinking about the book I blogged about recently that called women on the carpet for being stay-at-home moms. In that moment, I found myself faced with the complete opposite opinion - someone who thought that they could talk down to me, treat me like a child, because I am unmarried and childless. I was angry at the woman, and I was angry at myself because, what does her judgment matter to me? She isn't someone I know, and certainly (after this) someone I respect. Why should I allow her to make me feel so inadequate about myself? It was dispicable, really.

But there, with her cooing her baby-talk commentary, I seriously considered punching her in the mouth. And I'm pretty sure I'd have been sent to timeout.

I Feel Irrationally Angry Because Of...

...Fergie's voice...and Muppet face...

...the Burger King commercial with the fat man who pretends to be Spongebob Nopants...

...the fact that a show called "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader" can be a phenomenon in this country...

...being almost 28 and getting breakouts...enough already...

...ridiculous media spin...

...running out of Skittles again...

Dial M for Murder

Dear 264-7440:
This is a cease and desist request. Stop calling me. We are not - nor have we ever been - friends. I don't know you. And you don't know me. I think we've established that from the awkward pause from you after I pick up the phone and the way you say "hello" with a definite question mark like you don't know who you called. I wouldn't think much of it except that you keep calling. How is it that you keep calling the same wrong number? How stupid are you?

I would think by now that you would be more careful when dialing your phone. But no! You called me twice when I was in Atlanta, once in the week that followed, twice on Tuesday, and even though I left my cell phone at home today on accident, I noticed that you called twice in a row this morning. Get a clue! I am not your boyfriend or the man you wish was your boyfriend or the man you're stalking. I don't know who you're trying to call, but it isn't me. Or if it is, I don't want to talk to you.

Hang it up,
Ash

Shut It!

Dear Neighbor Man:
Even though you smile at me sometimes in the morning and raise your hand in greeting, we are not friends. And our mutual love of our back porches is beginning to be problematic. I don't even know if you've noticed that I'm out here. Why? Because I'm sitting here quietly working on my laptop, a couple of candles burning, a cat - generally unobtrusive.

Could you take a tip from me and shut up?! Seriously, there's only three of you on the porch so you don't need to shout. Or if you do need to shout, it's only because you've got the classic rock turned up so loud you can't hear one another. Although from what I can tell, all three of you are absolute nitwits and not worth hearing anyway. And I don't mean to be unkind, but that woman you're with has a truly wretched laugh. I can't stand it. And she seems to think you and your other companion are exceedingly funny.

I really, really love my porch, so I can understand why you also love your porch - especially in this weather when it's so lovely to be outside and have the windows open. But I do not, I repeat DO NOT, need to hear Steve Miller Band's "Jet Airliner" at 2:30 this Sunday morning like I did last. Judging from the way you're just getting started over there with your shouting and your odious laughing and that ugly band of green lights you've got running around the railing, I'm not hopeful. But I just thought I'd ask. Maybe I should shout so you can hear me.

THANKS!
Ash

Fauxsure

I found this website called So There the other night while surfing. Here, letters are posted from people addressed to former boyfriends and girlfriends, secret crushes, and partners in adulterous affairs. It's along the lines of Post Secret, but with longer, more in-depth letters. I found this one that made me rather sad:

Dear Virginia Ray:
You have been my neighbor in San Francisco, since 1969. We have belonged to the same neighborhood association for the past 20 years. I have always looked forward to seeing your lively self, at our monthly meetings, in the Sunset Heights area.

You are three years shy of being 90, and, sadly, you have to go now, as the cancer has started getting really nasty. Still, at the hospital, you smile for the doctor, as you ask for a "morphine on the rocks, straight-up, ...to take the edge off:". You wouldn't whine, if your life depended on it..

I sure am gonna miss you, and I want to get down on paper, before "your next big adventure", a mini-version of your Life Story. I will look around, first, for how to do this, and what to ask...

See you later, today, and in "the Great Bye, and Bye".

Happy Trails.

Others are angry, maudlin letters full of "Why do I still love you?" and "Do you still think of me?" The webmasters of the site offer the space to give closure to people.

And I wondered, who would I send my "so there" letter to? I could think of a few situations on which I'd still like to throw out my unedited thoughts. But is it really closure? Is the just saying it enough? Or does it have to be heard - the old tree falling in the forest question.

Interestingly enough, this site, unlike Post Secret, isn't anonymous. People sign the letters and the signature is hotlinked to an email address. So in the end, it's not so much closure as fauxsure, a pretend way to say you're writing off your hurt or guilt or sadness signed with the hope that the addressee will respond.

I couldn't think of a letter that I would want to post to the whole world (that's what journals are for), but in the spirit of the site, I thought I would say, in brief: You know who you are. So there.