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.

Haters Say the Darndest Things

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Syllogism

Interoffice instant messaging

Texas Twin: I hate math.

Me: Math is evil

Me: Just like boys.

Me: So...boys are math?

Texas Twin: And girls are...calculators?

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

Me: Which we cannot.

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

With a Little Help from My Friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Job Security

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

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

And you had me at "raise."

Dear PenMen: Contemplations on Everyonceinawhile and Other Moments in Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wishing you both everyonceinawhile days.

xo,
Ash

Quote of the Day

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

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

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

Me: Oh yeah?

The Violinist: I call it "Bordello Spaceship."

I love her.

In Other Office Hilarity

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

I Say "Am-a-tcher"

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

That's so amateur.

Gasp!

I just saw my boss in bike shorts.

Dear Co-Workers:

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

Love,
Ash

Miscellany & All That Jazz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* I want some banana pudding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Overheard in the Office Today

Intern: Hey, Linguista?

The Linguista: Yeah?

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

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

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

Six months ago, the words stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

Nothingandsomuch has changed. And nothingandsomuch has stayed the same.

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

One Two Five-O Let It Go

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of Dillon?"

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

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

"Oh yeah?"

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

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

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

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

Stinky Feet Pizza

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

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

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

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

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

Rusty

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

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

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

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

Morning @ The Office

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

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

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

*****

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

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."