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."

Dear a-Men:

I read your latest letter to Penelope with, per usual, an absolute sense of likewiseness. Of the sense that tradition clearly stems from the past, is carried into the present and seems rather moot in the face of a faceless future. How (and who - which I must point out is an anagram of "how" -) will it be toted forward if there are no small hands to reach for it? And not even one hand to reach for yours to make new tradition?

Christmas Eve started well enough with coffee with an old friend. But then, it was on to some rather joyless cooking. The chopping and stirring and measuring all seemed rather like a chore than a shared experience. Though we tried to laugh and infuse the egg peeling and pretzel smashing and vegetable boiling with yuletide brightness, it simply felt tired and dim.

We watched the Christmas Eve service on the internet rather than going because I just couldn't muster the energy to push everyone to go. And then we watched Prep & Landing, and it was lovely, but the theme of dissatisfaction and finding fulfillment just made me cry.

And then my brother called and wanted us to come down to his house before Santa's arrival on Christmas morning. But his in-laws were there, and the house doesn't really offer the room for four more adults to be added to the festivities and plus we don't open presents on Christmas day anymore because the in-laws are there and so we postpone until the New Year's weekend. This all led to serious Nana-guilt for my mother and envy-guilt for my sister and me who were having a hard enough time with this holiday season.

The call was a reminder of all the tradition lost and the way our Christmas has become this slippery ephemeral thing to be moved around on the calendar to accommodate everyone's schedule. It all leads to a half-hearted Christmas on both ends of the week - a Christmess if you will. And not only that but there was the reminder of children, of in-laws, of new celebrations and bright eyes and innocence and the kind of love that creates all those things that's decidedly missing from my life right now.

Even though it was snowing - my first white Christmas! - and the Christmas music played in the kitchen and there was a blue velvet birthday cake for Baby Jesus (because Dillon's favorite color is blue) and Reese woke up from her nap demanding "Ash'ey" and curled up in my lap all warm and cherubic for some TV time, there was still on the inside a void. A cold hollow that echoed with all the doubts about whether it will ever be different. Whether I will ever have my own warm cherub and strange desserts by request.

We ended the night by watching two horrible made-for-TV movies that somehow took the edge of bitterness off the day. If even the Hallmark movie could fail in holiday perfection, perhaps I should cut myself some slack.

Ah, M. Let us continue the advent celebration with the same sense of hope that Immanuel delivered to us. God is with us. And for now, that will have to be enough.

Love,
A

A Few Words on These Days

I Love My Dad

I e-mailed the family today to let them know I'm going to see the inside of "the" house. My dad replied, "Good luck!! This makes me sad."

What I've learned: you can go home again. And it's just as hard to leave the second time around.

Choke

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Me & the Boys: An Update

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

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

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...

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?

Happiness New Year

The seconds are ticking off until it's 2009. Without question, this year has been one of the most difficult of my life...and I thought 2007 was bad. The truth is, this was undoubtedly a terrible year in so many ways. But in other ways - friends made, acquaintances renewed, steps taken forward in this new life - it was a successful year.

And while it's impossible for me to forget Ronnie's death and how it changed everything about our family, my life, and my perspective, I must also remember that life goes on. The days continue to pass, and though I will continue to keep his memory, it would be an insult for me to let that keep me from living.

So...here's to a review of 2008, a year of losses and gains, of grief and gratitude, of seriousness and snark. I will be ringing in the new year with faith, hope and love...those things that I've learned are essential under any circumstances. Happy New Year, my dears.


January: Measuring Up: In Praise of Junk in the Trunk


February: Devastate, In All Its Forms


March: Just the Five of Us: The Shape of a Family and The New Theory of Relativity




April: This is a List


May: Weeds


June: Father's Day






July: Ghosts of Trees


August: Gratitude: A Letter to the Universe





September: Meet the Parents (or My Not-So-Great Evil Plan)





October: Tumbled Thoughts from the Shoreline


November: Gratitude: Part V - Love (and more gratitude)


December: Let It Snow

Let It Snow

It's Christmas Eve.

I am dreaming of a white Christmas. I am wishing for a dense white snow to blanket my heart in a winter wonderland where I can stay only just alive enough to get through the next two days. I am wishing for it to blizzard my mind with tidings of comfort and joy, erasing the flurry of thoughts and emotions about Christmas past and present scattered there. I am wishing for it to flutter down into my stomach and cool the slow burn of an open fire that's building there. I am wishing for it to muffle the sounds of Christmas wishes and carols and leave me in a quiet, silent night instead. I am wishing for it to surround me in clean white nothingness until I can stand to see upon a midnight clear, the world as it really is. Baby, it's cold outside.

I am wishing for you - wherever you are, dear readers - a holiday of peacefulness and love. Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Hold close to the ones who matter most to you. Cherish them. Amid the gales of laughter and the wonder and excitement, steal a moment to save forever the best of what's around you. Enjoy your gifts. Celebrate The Gift.

Peace on Earth, goodwill toward men...and let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...

Bah Humbug: I'm scrooged about...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Face it, I'm totally scrooged.

Confession

In my eagerness to have the house to myself, I just effectively "hustled" my parents out the door.

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.

Me, The Professor and The Come to Jesus

Some of you have been inquiring about the status of The Professor, considering my mention of a less-than-stellar date with Mississippi and his absence from the tags on posts about the Coldplay concert. The former can be attributed to my determination to keep my options open - I just got back in the saddle, so it seems awfully soon to be narrowing down the field of play. The second can be attributed to my need to keep Coldplay untainted by my flailing dating life.

It wasn't so easy in actuality to separate "The Scientist" and The Professor, since our journey to, enjoyment of, and return from the concert put us together for a solid eight-hour stint. We managed to avoid the heavy stuff until the return trip...but there was no denying it was time for a talk - for each of us to lay out our case for Defining the Status.

He kicked it off by lamenting my distant demeanor and his inability to crack through my shell.

I countered with the well-known fact that three out of the past five weekends, he's spent with his ex-girlfriend (if you count the weekends bookending the entire week she visited). And on that latest jaunt into the past relationship, he attended a Halloween party dressed as an angel - to counter her devil costume. Score one point for me.

But he persisted and explained (as best he could) the tangled and undefined nature of the broken-up-but-friends-not-dating-but-special-relationship situation. If you can deconstruct that one for me, I'll give you a dollar.

And then I explained that this crazy web he's weaving doesn't make me want to let my guard down. Score another point for me.

Then we moved into the P-phase of the discussion in which he used the word "priorities" a lot. I mean. A. Lot. As in, he would really like to be a higher one of mine. (Please, see counter argument numero uno in which I cite his involvement with The Ex.) We went tit for tat for a bit, with him shooting out needs like Han Solo's blaster gun and me deflecting them at every turn with my light sabre.

By that time, we had circled one another quite exhaustingly in a verbal endgame, and we were rolling into the driveway. This provoked a round of conversation in which there existed in his tone a subtle note of disdain for my current living situation that was tempered with (excessive) praise for the closeness of my family and punctuated with The Declaration of Independence: "I just want to make sure you know that I'm dating you and not your family."

In that moment, at 1:30 a.m., hoarse and overwrought from three hours of screaming and the hour of verbal sparring, I felt approximately one quart of acid dump into my stomach, a gallon of ice water pour through my veins, and experienced instantaneous paralysis.

At which, The Professor knew he'd stepped in It. He tried to retract, backtrack, strike the previous statement from the record. Especially after I said, "My family...is non-negotiable."

In the end, it was time to get out of the car, weary, bewildered and bleary-eyed...to bid him adieu on good terms for having bought such amazing seats, and to take his arguments to the jury room with me.

So far, the jury seems to be voting in my favor, pondering holding The Professor in contempt of court, and finding him guilty of being unsuitable for long-term dating. If said verdict is returned...what will the punishment be? Life...in the Friend Zone.

Perfect Happiness: In Pictures

Meet the Parents (or My Not-So-Great Evil Plan)

So. I'm dating this guy.

Let's call him The Professor.

We've been seeing each other for a few weeks - dinners, lunches, drinks after work. That sort of thing. And of course, if you've been reading this blog for any amount of time, you can guess that my family is all kinds of curious about this guy.

I've tried to maintain some boundaries, but you know, it gets exhausting.

So on Saturday night, when Mom, Dad and Anna decided to go out for Chinese, and Anna and Dad mocked me and suggested I call The Professor, one would think I would've brushed them off and readied myself for an endless supply of Mongolian beef.

But then...I had an idea. A brilliant, wonderful, awful idea. If I invited The Professor to dinner, I could get it out of the way - they could meet him, he could meet them, and like ripping off a band-aid, it would be quick and painless. They wouldn't have any opportunity to plan something horribly embarrassing - like an interrogation that would make the Spanish Inquisition look like a Q&A.

I didn't think about the fact that I might scare the poor professor out of his wits when I rang him up and asked him straight out if he wanted to join us. Nor did I think about how he might feel when I poo-pooed him when he said he hadn't shaved. Or scoffed at his insistence that he needed to jump in the shower. Or sent him a text telling him to keep it cas and throw on jeans and a t-shirt. Or gave him just about 20 minutes to be there.

What I did think about was the smug relief I felt when he arrived, well-groomed but not overly much. And when he offered everyone a nice handshake and a smile, I thought my evil plan had worked. And when Anna struck up a conversation with him about college football, and he made her laugh, I thought, I am a genius.

Ah, pride goeth before the fall.

In the parking lot, my mom invites The Professor back to our house. And that's where my plan - quickly but precisely executed thus far - began to show signs of failure.

I rode to the house with him and tried to brief him on what was most pertinent. Dad will tell you an embarrassing story about me. Oh, and he can't always hear, although he refuses to acknowledge it, so be prepared to repeat yourself. Anna's dogs are going to bark at you a lot - don't take it personally. Have I mentioned that we have a feral cat that no one can touch living in our house?

And then we arrived. And the dogs barked relentlessly, and The Professor seated himself stiffly on the edge of the recliner (whose sides have been torn to shreds by the feral cat). We realize that the other cat, Ranger, isn't at the door waiting for his dinner - probably because one of the dogs chased him into the woods earlier that day. Stay here, I tell The Professor. And I leave him in the den in the tattered recliner to watch the beginning of the football game with my dad, and I take a Maglite and go into the woods with Mom to search for Ranger.

A few minutes in, Mom suggests we get a can of food. I breeze through the door, and he half rises, "Can I help you?"

"Um, no. Thanks. But, um, Ranger is, like, an autistic cat? He's special. You know, and he's a little bit skittish around strangers." I dash out again with a can of Fancy Feast.

And we find the cat at long last - Anna and I climbing through the underbrush to get him and carry him in with his solemn little face peering at The Professor like, "Who's that guy?"

Anna heads home and there's the awkward moment where we're all hugging her and telling her we love her and he steps forward and I cringe, thinking, Don't do it! Don't hug her. And he extends a hand and says it's nice to meet her.

Back inside, I tour him through the house - which, of course, was in no shape to receive visitors. When I flipped on the light in my room, I saw two things: the bra hanging on the bedpost and the tampon on the nightstand.

At halftime of the football game, I ask if he wants to take a walk. I take a deep breath, "I'm sorry about...well, the craziness," I say. "Welcome to the looney bin!"

He kind of laughs and I wonder what he really wants to say.

"I wish I could tell you that it's not usually like this." I pause. "But...you know, it kind of is."

He left shortly after that, and I closed the door behind me, leaned against it, shut my eyes and fully admitted that, in light of the control I lost over a simple evening's circumstances, there's no career for me in world domination.

Emotional Pickpocketing

Yesterday was the Rockstar's last day. Last week, I went to his farewell outing - a bowling extravaganza filled with shouts and razzing and toasts and a definite sadness tinging the whole affair. A part of me absorbed it...felt sad because he is leaving, and after a year, I'd like to think I could call him a friend. But it was also the memory of all that I went through last year seeping from the corners of my mind. As the departure was unfolding, I could see little flashes of my own life layered over his. When he hugged me yesterday, and I wished him luck, I felt like I was talking to myself a little bit...a little bit letting go of that person I was then and wishing her luck as she tries to become the person she is now.

***
More and more lately, I've been feeling the quiet beginnings of the panic. The disrupted stomach. The irrational anxiety of anticipating "it." I went to the doctor last week who asked if I wanted to up my dosage. And I said no, I should try and do this. I should try and do this life thing without having to adjust my medication up and up and up. So I'm pushing through, pushing up the threshold of discomfort and willing myself to work through it, one deep breath at a time.

***
I turned 29 earlier this month. And while I flogged my coworkers for the lack of festivities surrounding my birthday, it was really me that caused the disappointment. It was really me who didn't celebrate myself. It was really me who let my birthday be a reminder of all the things I'm not, all the things I lack, instead of all the things I am and all the things I have. What an empty feeling to be consumed by absences on a day that should be spent building a totem of great memories and accomplishments.

***
My laptop has been a source of immense frustration of late. One of the hinges has cracked and the lid won't stay upright, falling instead into an almost horizontal position. On top of that, some part of Microsoft Office is malfunctioning, auto-launching, and utilizing 99% of my CPU capacity. And it's like, Really? Is everything in my life broken?

***
Yesterday, on the drive home, I felt restless. I shifted in the seat. I peered through the grubby windshield at the searing cerulean sky. I saw a few blue-black crows perched in the naked branches of a dying tree. It felt like someone might cue the classic Sergio Leone whistle in the background. It was a showdown between me and waiting. It's been so long on this precipice, me perched, angled forward, looking for what's next. And held back by the gravity of all that's happened. I'm waiting for something - something good and hopeful. Something that gives me an indication that there is a way out of this valley of the shadow of death and not just endless wandering.

***
We start looking at the weekends coming up through the end of the summer and the fall and planning out who has to do what when and where. I realize how scheduled we are with this and that family obligation - things I would normally look forward to, but now seem like just another outing that will perpetuate our togetherness. I could stay home, stay away, but even the thought of it starts the guilt to gnawing away at me. In my mind, coulds and shoulds and wants and needs get so tangled up that I don't know what to do. So I stay tied up in where I am right now, resenting all the hands on the other ends of the strings that are pulling me in every direction.

***
Despite my bravado, I realized the other day that there's almost no chance that I'll even be married before I'm 30. And that's okay. Really. It is. I know that. But sometimes - just sometimes - I want to let my guard down and say that's not how I imagined things.

***
Last week, I had a really, really super important client meeting with the client I landed awhile back. I thought everything went well. I was nervous leading up to it, felt pretty A-game in the midst of it, and relieved as soon as the meeting participants filed out the door. I headed from the office to have a beer with some friends. I missed a call from my boss while I was in the bar. I called him back to find that at least one of the participants was disappointed and felt like we didn't deliver. And that fragile euphoria came crashing down around me, and I felt 16 tons of disappointment fall upon my shoulders.

***
This weekend, I woke up early to go to the salon with Anna, and when I got back home, I said, "I have to take a nap." And it was true. I was bankrupt.

With every passing day, it seems there's emotional thievery going on. These unexpected strains slip in and steal little pieces of me. There are those things that I face everyday that I know I'm going to spend my time and energy and willpower on - some that I even choose to exert some emotional funds for. But these stealthy hands that swipe my reserves are tearing me down a piece at a time, leaving me penniless. I'm utterly broke, with nothing left to give and not even enough for myself.

Jumping the Gun

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

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

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

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

Ronnie in Sketches

I realize how very few of you knew Ronnie...and to my discredit, I haven't blogged a great deal about him. He was a hard person to get to know. And to be honest, I know that I didn't know as much of him as I would have liked. But here is what I know...

Ronnie was born and raised in the smallest of small towns in Mississippi. The kind of town that's outside the town that's outside the town that's closest to the bigger, somewhat recognizable town. Anna mentioned that he had something like 53 people in his graduating class.

He grew up pretty impoverished. His father was an alcoholic. His mother was his saving grace. I don't know that I've ever known a man who revered his mother quite like Ronnie. She died of cancer when he was in college. On their wedding day, Anna had one white rose placed on a little table alongside a candle in her memory. Ronnie cried when he saw it.

He went to a community college and then on to Ole Miss. And I must say, I've known some folks in my time who were college proud, being from the Bulldawg Nation, but I don't know that any of them surpassed Ronnie. I'm not sure you could name an item of clothing or a basic household item that they didn't have imprinted with Ole Miss: sweatshirts, t-shirts, ties, socks, pajamas, rugs, lamps, the trailer hitch on the truck and the Sequoia. Everything navy and red.

As a kid, he used to listen to the St. Louis Cardinals games on the radio. He was almost as die-hard about those guys as he was for the Rebels. He and Anna went to St. Louis to watch the Cardinals play for their honeymoon.

He loved sports - especially football and baseball. He started his career in south Atlanta coaching high school baseball and teaching adaptive P.E. county-wide - meaning he developed physical education programs for the special ed kids. To this day, he's still the winningest baseball coach at that south Atlanta high school.

He moved to the northwest Atlanta suburb to be an assistant coach for football and head baseball coach at the school where Anna taught. That's where they met.

Ronnie doesn't have a lot of family. With his mother and father gone, and a stepfather remaining that he didn't like so much, he's got a brother who still lives in Mississippi and a half-sister who's in Atlanta. His brother didn't come to the wedding. So the family pew on his side was filled with the freshly scrubbed faces and uncomfortably starched shirts and tightly cinched ties of the high school baseball team. Every year, Ronnie and Anna would have the team over for a steak dinner at Christmas.

And when you talk about Christmas, you have to know that Ronnie was Clark Griswald incarnate. In fact, Anna mentioned this similarity in her remarks at the memorial service. He loved Christmas. Over the years, Ronnie collected more than 300 nutcrackers. Small, medium, large and 5-foot tall. Wood, ceramic, glass, dancing, light-up, robotic. Sportsmen, presidents, Biblical characters, tradesmen, cowboys, and your classic Nutcracker prince. They started decorating their house for Christmas the week after Halloween in order to get it all done. Two trees - all decorated with nutcracker ornaments.

Ronnie shopped on Black Friday. He'd get the paper and mark out his purchases and make a plan. He would get up at 4 a.m. to get a deal on the day after Thanksgiving. He usually bought his wrapping paper that day, too. He didn't like it to get picked over.

But probably what everyone will remember most about Ronnie and Christmas was his candy. Every year, he made tins and buckets and boxes of candy to give away to friends and family. Chocolate peanut butter balls, white and milk chocolate dipped pretzels, date balls, white and milk chocolate dipped Ritz crackers with peanut butter sandwiched in between. Baby Ruth bars and Reese's Cup cookies. I would get a gallon bucket stuffed to the brim with all the handmade treats. And so did his coworkers. And the nurses at Emory that administered his chemo treatments.

A year and half into their marriage, Ronnie ran over a rock with the lawn mower and sustained a pretty serious injury when it hit his leg. But after stitches, he struggled with the wound, and weeks later an MRI revealed an enormous blood clot - from calf to groin. He was admitted to the hospital for intensive blood thinning and subsequent tests to ensure there were no more clots. And there weren't - but there were two curious spots behind his diaphragm, clouds that looked suspiciously like cancerous tumors in the lymph nodes. The day before Thanksgiving that year, we got word that he had non-Hodgkins lymphoma.

He underwent chemo, lost his hair, took steroids to bolster his strength. Three months into his treatments, I came home from NC, and on the way to meet Anna and Ronnie for lunch, Mom prepared me for his appearance. But nothing ever quite prepares you for the sick look of cancer - the pasty skin, the distorted body shape, the haggard tiredness. He never missed a day of work. Not one single day. And he only missed coaching one baseball game, because it fell during the time of his treatment.

All along the way, he helped kids in whom he saw himself. One of his former baseball players lived with Ronnie and Anna for a couple of years after his home life fell apart and he needed to get his bearings. At the visitation, he wore one of Ronnie's shirts and ties and stood with the family. Ronnie and Anna put together sheets and towels and all the dorm essentials for a wrestler who had earned a college scholarship but still was tight on money. He bought lunches for kids. He tried to get them to change their errant ways. One of the students who came to the funeral had been disciplined by Ronnie earlier this year; he came to pay his respects, saying that Ronnie inspired him to try to change himself.

But lest it sound like I'm sanctifying him, I'll tell you right up front that Ronnie was just human. He was obstinate and opinionated in the worst sort of way. Everything was black and white, right or wrong...which really translated into Ronnie's way or the wrong way. He didn't cook or clean, and when he married Anna, he was a bachelor to the "T". I remember cleaning out his apartment - oh, the horror. He could be gruff and aloof. But he had an infectious and unexpected laugh. He had real soul - from his hardships and his hard work - and I wish that I'd gotten to know that soul better. Ronnie was 15 years older than me, and I don't think he ever really knew whether to treat me like one of his students or an equal. I don't think he understood me - nor I him - but I like to think that in the end, we loved one another in our own ways.

There are those minute details that make up the forensic evidence of what you know about a person...tiny facts that you cling to and hope to somehow hold on to someone...like, he was extremely picky about dress shirts. Mama and I agonized over getting this shirt at Brooks Brothers for Christmas and I really pulled for it even though I figured he'd hate it; it was hanging in the laundry room, just washed from a wearing when he died. He loved sweet tea. He worried about eating ribs in public because they were messy. Anyone he didn't like was a punk, a turd or a POS. He obsessively cut the lawn every Saturday. He hated lateness. He was a morning person who never needed an alarm. He said Anna had "too much clutter." He bought everyone shoes for Christmas - I haven't bought myself running shoes in six years. He had naturally curly hair, which he kept cut painfully close. He was an avid newspaper reader. He usually stood with his feet spread apart and his arms crossed high over his chest. He mumbled. He always asked me about work - that was his standard question for me, "How's work?" That day in the hospital, when I came in, Anna said, "Smash is here." And that wrenched my heart because I felt that in that moment, if I was Smash to him, I was his sister as much as I was Anna's.

In December, Ronnie had his last CT scan - it marked 4 1/2 year cancer-free. They had moved into a new house in August. He was loving his new job as a high school athletic director - it was what he had always aspired to be. Anna loved her new high school position, too. They had been married for six years...bought their dream house...found themselves settling in to a new community they loved. We celebrated Thanksgiving at their house this year. At Christmas, they came bearing the familiar buckets of candy.

The last time I saw Ronnie before he died was Dillon's birthday. I can see him, sitting on the corner of Justin and Eva's fireplace, Dillon clinging to his knees and him saying, "Hey, buddy" in this voice he used to talk to the dogs. I could mimic it if you could hear me - the pitch, the intonation...the way his voice went up an octave and the "hey" was kind of long and the "buddy" fast. And he chuckled when Dillon had that fistful of cake and crammed it into his mouth.

After he died, I found out all sorts of other things about him. His favorite TV shows ever were Miami Vice, Magnum P.I. and Sanford and Son. He used to have a crush on China Phillips and went to the Wilson Phillips concert back in the day. He once attempted to have two dates in one night - and on another occasion dated a woman he referred to as Hellion 1. His best friend Darryl dated Hellion 2. One of his favorite movies was Grease. He loved disco music.

But I didn't know...and I know now that there are things I missed. And the outpouring of love and compassion and sorrow since he died has made me all the more sad about the parts of him that I never glimpsed. As F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote at the end of The Great Gatsby, "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

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.