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?

Dear 2010:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love (yeah, right),
Ashley

The Mystery Cat in the Magic Hat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

The Crap in the Hall

The Barrister lives in an apartment that's tucked on an avenue right off downtown in one of the A-Town's hippest neighborhoods. Entering the breezeway, you pass four apartments on the way to the stairs that lead to his apartment (cleverly marked "Bee"). Over the months that I've been darkening The Barrister's door, a strange collection of objects has appeared in said breezeway.

* An empty pizza box from Fox's Pizza Den
* Two bicycles, one often chained to the stairs so that its handlebar rests on the fourth step up
* A pair of Vans with a dinosaur drawn on the right toe
* Leopard-printed bikini bottoms (unfortunately, turned inside out)
* The beer pong table to end all beer pong tables whose top was covered in a complex pattern of colored beer caps
* A gas can, always empty
* A very, very large, almost mutant bug
* Two window screens left out in the rain
* A box marked Romaine Hearts containing heaps of semi-rotting fruit (crabapples?)
* Kitty Friend, a very friendly black and white cat wearing a tinkly-belled collar
* A large black funnel that The Barrister contends is still around somewhere
* A frisbee
* A note reading "Hi, B1. I'm A2. Do you have my FedEx package?"

That 70s House

When it comes to house hunting, I have mastered internet research. I know how to control-click the multiple areas in which I'm searching, select the interior and exterior features crucial to my abode and sort the views by price. I know what sites will show the tax assessment on all the surrounding properties and which sites have pictures. Unfortunately, there's only so far you can surf in the pursuit of a domicile.

Nonetheless, I probably would've continued my e-hunt from here to eternity if The Barrister hadn't badgered me (just a little bit) to make an appointment to see the house. When I say "the house," it's the one I look at every time I search. Just to scroll through the 10 available photos again and see if any updates have been added to the listing criteria or (fingers crossed) the price has been dropped. I know when it was built (75) and its exact square footage (1798). But finally, on Sunday, I e-mailed the listing realtor and asked to see the inside.

On Monday at 6, The Barrister and I drove over to The House for my first showing appointment as a potential homebuyer. Here's a recap of the good, the bad and the ugly:

The Good
- A quiet, centrally located neighborhood where I think I would feel safe
- New bamboo hardwoods in the living room and kitchen
- All new cabinets in the kitchen and granite countertops
- Appliances -including the refrigerator, washer and dryer - are included in the purchase price
- The living room is a glorious sunny oasis bordered on two sides by windows
- Hilarious "Wild and Crazy Guy"-esque wet bar behind louvered doors in the living room
- A cavernous garage
- Not one but two (two!) walk-in closets in the master bedroom

The Bad
- In the backyard, it's a bit hard to distinguish between maintained and unmaintained landscaping
- The roof is 20 years old
- Windows in the bedrooms are crank-handled windows which my dad swears could be the bane of my existence
- A friend of mine at work warned me that squirrels will eat the cedar exterior
- As The Barrister noted, there's not a good location for the television or the litter box (both essentials)

The Ugly
- Beige carpet in the hallway, master bedroom and first guest room, which The Barrister found revolting
- Atrocious burnt orange-brown carpet in the second guest room that reminded me of a few unfortunate diaper changes
- The unspeakably hideous guest bathroom - a combination of pale lime green tiles, terra cotta paint and a (gasp!) palm tree wallpaper border. It was a Boca-gyptian look of sorts.

I definitely could see myself in this house. I was mentally plotting paint colors and furniture placement as we walked through the rooms. But I don't want to get overly excited and make an offer before I've seen something else. Which means - unfortunately for The Barrister - a return to the dubbya-dubbya-dubbya search for another house worthy of the hunt.

Reverse Psychology

The Barrister and I watched the season finale of So You Think You Can Dance while we put on our own production of So You Think You Can Decorate, which resulted in, I'm sorry to say, a series of rather large misplaced nail holes before we finally got the quadrant of photos hung reasonably straight. Due to the starring role landed by a former contestant, every commercial break featured the trailer for the remake of Fame.

By the end of the show, The Barrister and I were standing in the middle of his living room, admiring our acceptable handiwork when the trailer ran for the 47th time. The Barrister paused, watched a few moments of the trailer and then said, "You know, if you wanted to go see that, I wouldn't say no."

If I wanted to go, huh?

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

Field of Grief

It was a brutal day. Up at 4:15 a.m. to be in Atlanta for a meeting - followed by a meeting and another meeting and another meeting. By the time The Barrister picks me up in an abandoned restaurant parking lot after my last one, I am ragged and weary.

Two hours later, our westward journey ends on old turf...the school where Anna and Ronnie met. The baseball field is being dedicated in his memory. And though the gesture is honorable and kind, it punctures my heart, that place so carefully and newly healed over. It deflates all that I've been steeling myself against, and I wither under the curious stares of those who have gathered for the ceremony.

The air pressure drops, like the atmosphere reenacting my emotional state. A storm gathers to the west, moving toward us with the swift cooling winds.

Around me, there is the murmur of voices, occasional bursts of laughter. Aluminum bats connect with baseballs with a tinny ping that sounds hollow in the emptying air.

And the pressure drops and the tensions rise and the storm moves in on us.

We huddle in an aluminum building and listen to the rain slosh on the roof in a deluge so strong it sounds like a firehose is being sprayed wide open above us. And slowly, the heavy splatter of the rain begins to tinkle. Liquid turns to ice. Marble-sized hail pelts the roof in an eerie staccato so loud, we can't hear each other over the sound. It fills my ears; I can feel the vibrations inside my chest. I squeeze The Barrister's hand.

When it stops, the ground is covered in a layer of round white ice gumballs. The storm passes away, warm spring air behind it. And where warm meets cool, a fine mist begins to rise. It shrouds the field from our view as the makeshift ceremony goes on as planned inside the metal building.

As the master of ceremonies starts talking about Ronnie, goosebumps raise on my arms. And the punctured hole gives way to a torrent of tears. I don't know why I am crying. Why am I crying so hard, standing on astroturf and staring into the white air? I am trembling and hollow.

After it is over, someone calls out that the fog is receding and that a rainbow is arcing over centerfield. The crowds shuffles out to see. But I can't. I don't want to see it. It's too poetic. Too trite. This hope stretched out above us when there is none around me. I can't look, and so I stand in the doorway and watch the ice evaporate. Watch the cool solidity slide away into nothingness.

FAIL

* Blogging

* Reading the novels sent to me by Kim Shable and Susan

* Leaving the bar at Smartini

* Seeing Reese and Dillon

* Contact with the outside world

* House-hunting

* Being productive at work

* Writing (in a way that uses that MFA thing I've got)

* Finances - surprise - $270 for car servicing! Taxes not back yet. Yelch.

* Sending back the merchandise that Amazon sent me incorrectly

* March project for volunteer group (although, I will have to partially blame it on the rain that is falling, falling.)

* Putting a picture of The Barrister on my desk at work

* Life, generally speaking

Conversation Starter

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

In Deliberations

The Barrister asks me today, "Which is more disappointing to you? That I'm not left-handed or that I'm not British?"

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.

Labor & Delivery

At the moment, The Barrister and I are sitting in the waiting room watching snippets of Dr. Phil addressing the Octo-Mom in his typical incongruous metaphors. I can't really pay attention. Part of me want to go back to sleep...seeing as how we fled the storm of the decade that unceremoniously dropped six-plus inches of snow at home and arrived at Anna's just before 9 last night. And then got up at 6:30 this morning to get ready for the baby's arrival. Not that this chair is all that comfortable, but I am rather tired.

I walked back to the delivery room to say hello to Eva...she's having contractions about ten minutes apart. It was cool to hear the baby's heartbeat. But the machines, the tubes, the hospitalness of it all. I'm content to be stuck with Dr. Phil and now experts on rosacea. Mom had suggested that I might want to stay in the delivery room...but. No. I think I'll wait until Reese is here and wearing a cute little hat before I get involved. Stay tuned...

Perfection

* Rainfall

* Lamplight

* Train whistle

* Whisper

A Half-Hearted Note of Apology

I'm sorry to be such a lazy blogger lately. I really am. I think about blogging. I even sometimes make little notes to myself on post-its. But...the blogging just seems to have gone to the wayside. As a peace offering, I give you this totally adorable picture of me and The Barrister. Can you be mad at that face? Really? Can you?

Wedding Announcement

Last night, while watching She's the Man, The Barrister pronounced the Amanda Bynes flick "totally awesome." We will be getting married this weekend.

The Thing Is...

I find myself saying this phrase a lot when telling friends and acquaintances about the new (dare I say it?) relationship with The Barrister to preface every item in the litany of unexpected good things about our new "us." And while there isn't really just one thing, the thing is...

...I have a dedicated pair of PJ pants at his apartment for whenever I just need an elastic waistband...

...he's up for whatever I want to do - like feed my new Death Cab for Cutie obsession with tickets to their May show at The Fox...

...he played dominoes with Justin and Eva even though he doesn't like games...

...I have a key...

...we talk about...everything. And whether it's good or it's bad, we just manage to sift through every issue without yelling or getting angry or playing the blame game...

...flowers! I mean, flowers!...

...we go out for sushi, debate about whether to order another roll and decide to get Chick-fil-A milkshakes instead...

...he likes to drive and so he picks me up and chauffeurs me around, and I love it...

...even when I'm wearing my glasses, he pronounces me 'adorable'...

...he read my thesis, and he thought it was good. And he's not the type to blow sunshine...

...he loves House...

...I'm happy...maybe that's it. Maybe that is the thing.

Ash & the Case of the Brilliant Barrister

The Crimes:
* A felony charge of blog neglect
* Numerous misdemeanor counts of phone calls unreturned, emails unanswered and skipping out on family togetherness
* A couple of petty charges of lack of productivity at work and overtexting

Opening Argument:
Ladies and gentlereaders of the jury, in my own defense, I plan to acquit myself of the above charges by demonstrating an alibi of happiness directly related to The Brilliant Barrister. Knowing the history of my state of happiness from the annals of this blog, you may bring a preconceived notion that this state of being is impossible for the defendant. On the contrary, it is, in fact, possible. Please observe.

Evidence:
Exhibit A - Flowers for no good reason on three separate occasions in the last month, including roses, lilies and tulips. I ask you, ladies and gentlereaders, - particularly ladies - whom among you could hold this against me?

Exhibit B - Spontaneous visits to my place of employment. While these may have contributed to my petty lack of productivity at work, these visits were not with malicious intent. Instead, these visits were meant to contribute to the greater happiness of the defendant by infusing her life with the element of pleasant surprise.

Exhibit C - Please see the generally goofy, moony smile plastered on the defendant's face.

Exhibit D - The Barrister demonstrates a willingness to journey more than 20 minutes to my place of residence and fetch me for outings. On said occasions, he charms the parental units with witty banter and tales of his barristerish activities.

Exhibit E - The Dilly Monster allowed him to play in The Artichoke Band last night. It is important to understand that these privileges, on past occasions, have actually been revoked by The Monster from the likes of his own Nana. We ask that the jury not underestimate the significance of these actions.

Witnesses:
The fam, the office crew, Mr. Kudzu, T., Sus, Jenn and Niki. In addition, The Barrister is now friends with STGD and Kim on Facebook in a gesture of full disclosure with those with whom he must curry favor.

Closing Argument:
In closing, I would like to note that general control of The Panic has improved and umprompted commentary on my state of well-being have seen an increase in the last six weeks. And while I have noted the external evidences of The Barrister, I have not cataloged the less tangible evidences of The Barrister's influence: calm, laughter, contentment. But I ask you, in light of the circumstances of the last two years, the long and winding road through struggles that you...well, cut me some slack on the charges listed.

Verdict:
It is up to you, ladies and gentlereaders. Am I guilty of these punishable offenses? Or am I just guilty of indulging in a little *gasp* normality that seems to be leading to the Land of the Happy?