Burning Bridges

Once upon a time, I prided myself on an exceptional collection of good relationships with ex-boyfriends. I'm certain that it seems strange to curate good terms with the gone bad. But I've always been desperately dedicated to keeping the good opinion of the greater population - even those who break my heart. For a long time, it didn't occur to me that these peaceable relations were an oddity. It wasn't until the line of past relationships grew rather long that I realized what an anomaly those tender treaties were.

For the longest time, there was, at the head of the class, the High School Almost Boyfriend. We'll skip The Freshman Year Experiment - it ended badly - and move on to The First Real Boyfriend. That relationship truly went down in flames amidst a cheating scandal (gasp!), but somehow through my dogged determination to be at peace with all humanity, we found our way back to good terms, albeit some years after the infidelity incident. 

On I went to The Long-Term Boyfriend, who was incidentally my partner in crime in the cheating scandal. We held together through five cities, three colleges and universities, and one breakup and reconciliation.The second breakup was of the volatile varietal, and we spent three years in silence while I dated The Second Long-Term Boyfriend. After four years, that fell apart, too; I crossed state lines, and we managed a tentative truce. 

And then there was The Barrister. And if ever one of my relationships ended in a blazing pile of ruins, it was that one. Perhaps those embers, sparking and sputtering in the smokey aftermath, are what kindled those other bridges, which started to burn with ferocity.

The First Real Boyfriend got married and our waning conversations were finally burned away completely. The Second Long-Term Boyfriend assumed a stony silence, and even when I tried to rebuild the smoldering bridge, it crumbled like so much ash between my fingers. And then The Long-Term Boyfriend got engaged, and thirteen years of on-and-off conversation ended in spontaneous combustion that severed everything. The bridge I prided myself on so much went up in smoke.

Now I'm standing on the side of the bridge where fate has left me watching the flames eat away at all those carefully constructed pylons and planks. Every one of those former loves have found their way back to heartbreak - a second heartbreak where I learned that I can't have the elusive friends-after-lovers relationship. I have to mourn the loss again and suffer through the what-ifs and the what-went-wrongs. I have to accept that the place that they had in my life burned away, leaving that fresh, shiny, tender pink new skin. And maybe I have to face that, now that the bridges are burned, I'm going to have to go another direction. Forward, perhaps?

When the Chips are Down, Wager Boldly

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

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

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.

Retail Therapy: When the Bottom Shops Out

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

Twinapalooza

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."

the right words find me at the right time

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 Kudzu:

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

What are You Doing New Year's Eve?

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.

House Cat (Reposted)

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

***

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

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

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

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

David Gray, On Pretention

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

A Pretty Good Year: Resolutions

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

* Apologize less for being me.

* Accept my limitations.

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

* Get my stupid passport already.

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

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

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

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

Gratitude: Part V - Love

Today is the day that we come together and give thanks for what we have. And the thing that I have in abundance - the thing that political strife and economic turmoil and absolute tragedy can't take away - is love. Just that. Just love. And I am grateful beyond measure for love.

For the love of my family...whom I have grown closer to and come to appreciate more than I ever have in my life. I cherish them and see them, as with fresh eyes, for the immense blessing that they are. They are the cornerstones that keep me grounded, that support me, that I always, always come back to.

For the love of my friends...whom I have relied on for strength and comfort and peace in the past nine months. You have been the eyes reading my thoughts and the ears hearing my words and the arms that have gone around me when there was simply nothing to say. You have shown me the meaning of true friendship - in the worst of circumstances - you have risen to the occasion to humble me with your love.

For the love of my work...which has given me constancy during turbulence. I don't like to say too much about my job on the blog, but I will say that the company has embraced me and helped me hold it together when my whole life was flying apart. I get to do what I love, and I get to do it with people I love. On Tuesday, the Big Boss was in the ATown office, and he hugged me and said, "I'm so thankful for you." And I am thankful for a job where I am loved.

For the love of words...how they have sustained me through the darkest times. Even when I thought I was speechless, struck dumb by the wholly unexpected tragedy, I found words. And unleashed, those black marks against white inked out all that was seizing my heart and mind. Words, words, words. I thank God for the blessing of words, my friends when I am in need. How I love words...in some ways, I had almost forgotten.

For the love of God...no, really. For the Peace that Passes All Understanding, for a faith that has given me a Rock upon which to stand, for prayers that have been heard, for the comfort that has been given.

For the love of love...for the recognition that love is what is healing me. Love is what is keeping me from falling apart, what keeps me from being afraid of the dark. Love is what I can offer to my sister, to the rest of my family. Love is the only thing that I can give back to those friends who have been there for me. Love can be given in words, expressed to those who need it. Love is the embodiment of the God who loves me.

Thank you, Love.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.

Father's Day

"It feels like I swallowed a baseball," Dad says.

"A baseball? That's not good," I say.

"Now don't get all excited. I'm not having a heart attack."

***
Two hours later, we are in the van - Anna is driving, and I'm in the passenger seat. It's raining. Mom and Dad sit in the second row of seats. They are holding hands. Dad shifts again and again in the seat. At exit 12, he tells Anna to put the hazards on.

The windshield wipers slice through the tense silence. There is nothing to say. I lean forward in the seat, willing the van to go faster. The speedometer needle tickles against 90. The hazards tick on and off. Rain pelts the windows.

Five more exists pass. Dad asks how much longer. Mom asks, her voice trembling, "Can we call for a police escort?"

Anna's voice comes out flat and hollow. "No...they won't do that anymore."

***
When we get off one highway and onto another closer to the hospital, I call Justin. He is waiting in the ER dropoff with a wheelchair.

Dad is laboring to breathe, his face greying. He is scared. Concern and fear are etched in every line on Mom's face.

I want to scream. I want to throw up. I close my eyes, squeezing the threatening tears out to wet the fringe of my lashes. "Please, God," I pray silently. "Please, please don't take him. None of us can bear it."

***
The ER is chaos. The walking wounded limp and roll and cough and sputter through the aisle. Wheelchairs weave through the crowd, driven by harried orderlies. They do not have a room. Dad is taken back into a hallway to be settled on a gurney. Only Mom can go with him.

***
In the aftermath, those settling moments of quiet heavy realization, me, Anna and Justin sit on little square chairs. Crammed together in silence. Each of our minds are torn: between what is happening now and the fate of our father, and what was happening nearly four months before in the very same ER.

Anna sits quietly between us. I don't know whether to say it or say anything but his name - Ronnie.

***
It is not a heart attack. The EKG is clear; the blood gas is devoid of the telltale enzyme present during cardiac arrest. They order a chest x-ray and a CT scan. We wait.

***
Hours later, they have still not seen a doctor. I make a few phone calls. Justin opens his briefcase, pulls out the crossword puzzle books he keeps for airport waits. I begin filling in the tiny squares with letters. He and Anna work logic puzzles - as though making sense of a set of facts will make sense of what's happening.

***
The x-ray shows pneumonia in the lungs. Just barely. But it is there. When Justin delivers this news, Anna looks as though she will crumble into a million pieces.

***
Dad is admitted to the hospital for the night and finally transitioned into a room in the ER while waiting for a private room to open elsewhere. I go back to see him. He is weak and tired. But still in good humor. The phlebotomist is looking for veins in the crook of his elbow. She runs fingers to his wrist. "You've got some good ones down here," she says. "Well, honey," he replies. "You just pick you one out."

***
Outside his room, the shift change is taking place. I see a familiar face. The charge nurse is now the woman who told us that Ronnie died. Of all the nurses in the Atlanta hospital, it is her. My stomach burns and my heart aches. I want to run from the building.

***
Anna never goes back into the ER. I know she wants to, but she cannot. It is too soon. It is too much. And she has nothing with which to fight.

***
Sunday morning, Anna and I listen to her church service on the internet. The preacher talks about light in dark times. "Is anyone in dark times?" he asks. We pretend not to notice each other crying.

****
By the middle of Sunday, we have a guesstimated diagnosis of pericarditis: an inflammation of the heart's lining. The inflammation increases the amount of fluid around the heart and squeezes it - resulting in pain under the breastbone, intensified by drawing deep breaths.

We have a Father's Day lunch - Dad on hospital food. Anna and I order take out. We celebrate with mini-Snickers. We try to laugh. We know we are at least all together. We are hopeful that there is light in the darkness.

***
The cardiologist comes in and says, yes, he thinks that the problem is pericarditis. An echo cardiogram to be sure that there are no abnormalities. A stress test to make sure the heart is functioning properly. This name, the assurance that it is treatable, eases the tension in the room.

***
Late in the afternoon, Anna insists that Mom needs a break from the hospital. Dad is doing better but assured another night in the hospital. I tell them to go, that I'll stay with him. Shortly after dinner, Dad falls asleep. I lay on the rock-solid excuse for a couch reading the 2004 Fodor's guide to London.

The phlebotomist comes in to collect for another round of blood gases. "Dad," I say gently, touching his shoulder. "They need to take some more blood."

While the phlebotomist goes about donning the latex gloves and stretching the band that makes Dad's veins bulge, the new charge nurse comes in. "What has he been doing," she asks me.

"Sleeping. I just woke him up to have blood drawn."

She pulls out the monitor that he's been wearing around his neck and says that his heart rate is up over 160 bpm. "What should it be?" I ask.

"We'd like it to be 80."

My mouth goes dry.

I look at Dad. He turns to the nurse, "You're scaring me."

"Well," she says, "You're giving us a scare."

She leaves the room. I can see the fear in his frame, the way he tenses against the bed. "Please, God," I plead once more. "Please no."
***
Hours later, the red light is still flashing on the monitor. The number drops to 117 and flashes back up to 130, 140 and then 108. The erratic heartbeat is all over the board.

Anna, Mom and I sit on the couch together. I lean against Mom's arm. With her free hand, she pushes my bangs out of my eyes and tucks them behind one ear.

***
Anna and I head home. The nurse has just been in to tend to her "problem child." She calls the cardiologist on call who agrees to send his PA. This is not uncommon, she assures us; for us, the whole scenario is uncommon.

By the time we reach Anna's house, Mom calls and tells me that the medicine the PA ordered over the phone has taken effect. The monitor is now showing a steady green light. And an exhausted Dad has already fallen asleep.

***
Overnight, the pericarditis seems to lose its grip. Despite another 3 a.m. episode of "atrial flutter", his color returns. He is more himself. A nurse helps him take a pseudo bath and washes his hair. By 11 a.m., they have let him know he will be discharged.

I got up at 5 that morning to ride back to Athens with Chris, who is taking a class at UGA. This news of the discharge is like the letting out of a long-held painful breath. Everything inside me starts to collapse.

Chris comes and picks me up and takes me home. I fall asleep on the couch for an hour.

***
Around 4, I hear the door open. Dad comes in, looking tired and worn. He has a three-day beard salt-and-peppering his face. He's walking a bit slowly and looking for somewhere to sit down. "Hi, Daddy," I say. "Welcome home."

***
At 9 o'clock, we all head for bed. All of us are exhausted beyond comprehension. Before I go to my end of the hall, I take care to hug both Mom and Dad, tell them I love them. As if I needed another reminder how swiftly the tides can change...the sense of having narrowly escaped catastrophe burns inside me, spurring me to live for a few moments with the knowledge of how the story could've ended.

U-nope-ia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confession: I Am In Love, Part 2

Today, I am in love with Adam Duritz. That is all.

This is a List

"This is a list of the things I should've been but I'm not. This is a list of the things I should've seen but I'm not seeing...So won't you please look at me?" --Adam Duritz, "Cowboys"

Should've Been
* More forgiving

* Willing to say the words that were on the tip of my tongue when I wondered if I should say them

* Able to cross a room, smile charmingly at a perfect stranger

* An author

* Comfortable with the unknown

* British

Should've Seen
* Hyde Park

* Last full moon

* Threads coming together, woven from the past forward to the present

* How different love is for different people

* David Gray live in concert

* Me for me

Dillon: 14 1/2 months

Makes: Animal noises: chicken = bok, duck = ack, and monkey = ooh ooh (accompanied by shoulder motions); refusal to speak of what a kitty or doggy says

Says: please, outside, more, again, ball (pronounced "baaawllll")

Wears: Size 5 shoes, big boy pants, most of his meals

Walks: Leading with the belly, arms unpredictable

Watches: Baby Einstein's Animals in the Neighborhood (except for the part with the cat mobile), Mickey Mouse Club, Curious George, and The Wonder Pets Save the Unicorn (possibly the most bizarre children's show I have seen yet...)

Grows: Teeth - an even dozen - 12 teeth!!, a thatch of baby-fine white blonde hair

Eats: Nana Bread (otherwise known as Mom's homemade sourdough bread), dried apples, and yogurt

Firsts: Haircut, Easter basket

Dances: To the banjo music on the Leapfrog magnetic barn and the marching band version of "The B-I-B-L-E."

Learned: How to give Anna's dogs treats, blow kisses, open markers (uh-oh)

Continues: To be a delightful and hilarious little boy, to make us smile, to remind us of innocence, to steal my heart

Just the Five of Us: The Shape of a Family

On Friday night, from all different directions, we descended on Anna and Ronnie's house. I drove up from midtown after spending the day in the ATL office; Justin trekked from Buckhead. Dad made his way down from the northwestern part of the state. And around 9 o'clock on Friday evening, an anomaly occurred - as cosmically rare as the eclipse or comet tracks in the night sky. It was just the five of us.

Since Anna and Ronnie and Justin and Eva married in the same summer just a month apart six and a half years ago, I don't think we've had a single incident of pentagonal-ness.

Once upon a time, there were only five. Mom and Dad, of course. And then Anna, the oldest, Justin the middle, and me, the caboose. For the longest time, that was the way it was. With designated rooms and places at the table and roles in the family dynamic. We were inseparable -and I grant you, sometimes suffocatingly so - but even still, we were the Smash Family Five. And I treasured those times on family vacations, at the dinner table, in the backyard, when the laughter was riotous, the tears shared and the milestones celebrated together.

But when they married, the fold grew to seven, and the pentagon opened its sides, and we rearranged ourselves into a heptagon. Seven-sided. Shortly thereafter, I moved to Wilmywood, and the opportunities to regroup grew fewer. And the sides of our shape were scattered. And when we came back together, the shape had changed.

For the whole weekend, though, the pentagon reassembled. Eva spent the week in North Carolina keeping her brother while her parents vacationed. And while the circumstances of Ronnie's absence were omnipresent and permeating, the inevitable faltering of every conversation into melancholy silence or even tears, there were golden moments like threads of hope that reminded me how much I love these people. How strong the bonds of blood, so indestructible against the storms outside.

There's a reason that the most impenetrable fortress in this country is the Pentagon. With five sides, nothing can take us down.

All You Need is Love

Love is all you need.