What It Means

Instead of taking the most direct route home from our western Carolina travels a couple of weeks ago, we opted for the Blueridge Parkway. Dad drove to the nearest access point and then wound us high into the mountains, over the viaduct, which juts away from the mountain in a free-floating road between the leaves. The Parkway was, of course, jammed with leaf-lookers just like us. Motorcyclists admiring the views in their leather clad legs and military-style half-helmets. Families gathering on overlooks and pleading with nearby strangers to take their pictures.

I only took a few snaps from one of the overlooks. Dad held my beltloops to keep me steady on the low rock wall overlooking firs and oaks and maples against a cerulean fall sky. Mama didn't even get out of the car for these expeditions; her fear of heights kept her strapped tightly in the car likely reading to take her mind of what she assumed would be the tumble I'd take to my death.

Instead of trying to overphotograph the moment, I bade myself enjoy it. The drive took hours at a languid pace along the scene highway. We volleyed between being deep in conversation, laughing maniacally, munching kettle corn and contemplative silence. We wound through Asheville down to Highlands and Cashiers. At the highest points, low-growing trees scrubbed against the peaks, already stripped of their leaves. But somewhere along our descent, we hit the altitude where it was peak fall colors. As we followed the curves of the mountain in a slow, dreamy caress, we entered a section where the tree canopy reached all the way across the road, a tunnel of fire and honey. The sun broke through the trees in a gilded dance with intermittent shadows.

In a moment of forgetting where I was, I said out loud, without thinking, "This is what they mean by 'dappled in sunlight.'" Dad looked at me from the driver's seat, at his daughter who is always the one that says these odd things, these pronouncements from her inner-monologue that don't match the thought patterns of anyone else in the family. And then he laughed, because I'd said it, and it was true.

Miles later, we bent around the mountain into an even longer, more glorious tunnel of autumn color. After a few general declarations of its beauty, Dad said, "Now this is dappled in sunlight." And I laughed. Because in that moment, I knew there way understanding beyond definitions.

Fatty Fatty Two-by-Four

At first, I blamed it on the road. As in, being on the road. Not in an uber cool Kerouac kind of way. More of a semi-depressing Death of a Salesman way. Maybe something in between. I never thought I would need a Skymiles number, much less be applying enough flights to it to qualify for, like, discounts. But since April, I've found myself in Tennessee, Nevada, Utah, Alabama, D.C., Texas, Colorado and next month, Florida. Not to mention road trips - hello, live from Savannah.

The point is that it's easy to discount the calories consumed on the road - in airport terminals and from little snack bags on planes and from drive thrus and gas stations and in hotel rooms and at client dinners where you feel justified in ordering three drinks, half a cow and a piece of chocolate cake. Honestly, there's no such thing as real food when you're traveling. There is only the packaged, preserved and mass-produced or the food-coma-inducing indulgently rich fare.

After criss-crossing the country, it's little wonder that I started putting on pounds on pace with my frequent flyer miles. I'm working on the Mile High and Mile Wide Club.

But travel isn't totally to blame. Back at home, I've shunned my kitchen in favor of the Chick-fil-A not a mile from my house. I lunch, I brunch, I dine with friends - and every two or three meals, I make a restrained choice. The hummus plate. And then I counter that with how I deserve dessert in light of my reduced calorie meal. Brilliant. On top of that, I've made no attempts to prevent my egregious snacking habits, keeping cookies and chips and the like in the pantry. Nicking Gummi Bears from the dollar bin at Kroger and selecting movie-watching snacks to reward myself for choosing the Red Box over the actual pricey theater.

A few recent pictures, taken from the most unflattering side view, revealed my alarmingly inflated form. The unbecomingly rounding belly. The fleshy arms. The fat that's starting to gather around my face. I've assumed an overall doughy appearance - paunchy, soft, decadent. Pokable.

I probably weigh as much now as I ever have - I'm rather afraid of the scales, too horrified to know what I've done to myself. And as much as there's vanity, and believe me, there is, because, I'm being honest here. But there's also a great deal of shame in having let it go this far. The shame of failing to possess the willpower to shut my mouth. The shame of letting the depression about life to creep up on me and fuel this sorry sad appetite for destruction. Food won't make me happy - and whatever joy I normally take in eating good food is just perverted by this abuse. Even as I finished off the Double Stuf Oreos the other night, I wanted to cry. Because all that creamy goodness was headed straight for my already dimpled thighs. And because, well, I know better. I know I don't want to be on this one-way street to The Biggest Loser.

It's so much easier to remain prostrate under mounds of calories. To consume my feelings rather than deal with them. To viciously hate every new bulge while masochistically stuffing my face. But underneath all those calories and all that dissatisfaction, there's a part of me that is starting to claw against that soft fatty self and demand that we put an end to this.

So I finished the bag of Gummi Bears. And the Double Stuf Oreos. I bought some carrots. I bought some hummus. I'm keeping apples in the fridge. I'm on the road right now...I had McDonald's, and I know tomorrow is going to be some sort of artery-blowing dinner affair. I'm not going to make any ultimatums - no promises to myself that I can't keep. I'm not going to start some crash diet where I deny myself sugar and carbs and joy. But I am going to try to unshackle myself from helplessness...from cutting myself so much slack that I don't even participate in the choice. I'm going to reconnect that line between my mouth and my brain that The Sadsies unplugged.

And let's be honest: I want to be slimmer. I want my clothes to fit. I want to be more attractive for all the superficial reasons, to be one of the beautiful people. But as much as that, I want to respect myself enough not to let the heaviness in my heart be the heaviness on my hips.

Image via Christopher Boffoli's Disparity series

Another Horsedreamer's Blues

With the windows down and the music up loud, I drove south out of the N.C. mountains today on Highway 441. On a whim, I brought along Recovering the Satellites, the Counting Crows album that came out my senior year of high school and turned me into a die-hard fan. I can't remember the last time I listened to it in its entirety. But today, I did.

I had forgotten about the song "Another Horsedreamer's Blues" even though it was one of my favorites on the album. I was reminded of the passage I used to listen to, rewind and listen to again and again...

"Margery's wingspan's all feathers and Coke cans and TV dinners and letters she won't send. And every race night is shot through with sunlight. Trying to hit the big one one last time tonight for drunken fathers and stupid mothers and boys who can't tell one girl from another. So she takes her pills - careful and round - one of these days she's gonna throw the whole bottle down but she's trying to be a good girl and give them what they want."

Granted, I didn't have a drunken father or a stupid mother, but I did mostly think the boys in high school couldn't tell one girl from another. It was the part about trying to be a good girl and give them what they want - there was something about the way it was sung, so angry and defiant. Searching for what it was they wanted.

And at times - even at 31 - I still feel like that 17-year-old girl with clipped wings trying so hard to fly right. Trying so hard to live up to expectations. And sometimes, in a moment, rolling down the asphalt at 65 mph with my red hair whipping in the wind, I realize that I'm a stranger to myself in the mold and so familiar to myself instead with the early spring sun turning my hair to fire.

Over the Bridge & Under the Moon

This weekend, my friend C. came to visit from the Lonestar State and charged me with taking him somewhere in Georgia he'd never been. And though a well-traveled fellow, this charge really only eliminated spending the day in Atlanta. Instead, we drove up 441, winding up into north Georgia between hills burnished deep orange and coppery brown by the late-arriving fall. The sun was glorious in the sky overhead - a crisp blue that would be cold to the touch, scattered with breaths of cloud.

We wandered through the woods along a narrow path, following the blue smudged arrows on the sides of pines, oaks and birches that marked the High Bluff Trail. There was only the crunch of thousands of leaves under our feet, the slow rustle of a slight breeze in the trees, and the calls of whatever birds were out to enjoy the fall day to punctuate our sentences. It was easy to be in the forest, in the low sloping hills, among clumps of green moss and clusters of mustard-yellow mushrooms.

But later, we hiked down into the gorge, down hundreds of stairs that wound down between rock walls. Down to where the water poured from the gullet of the walls into a river that ran over smooth flats stones in swirling eddies and quick whorls. As we descended we could hear the water churning against gravity, and we were pulled down, too, to where a suspension bridge crossed the river - the only way to get to the observation deck for the falls.

I said I couldn't, but C. didn't understand that bridges are not an inconvenience but a terror. Not a dislike but a panic. He never gave me the option to not go. So I closed my eyes and held his hand and took a step out onto the wooden slats held in the air by thick wire cables. I could feel the vibrations of the bridge under my weight; I could feel the blood in my ears. I could feel my fingertips pressing hard against my eyelids; I could feel a hand in my sweaty hand and I squeezed it tightly, focused on that hand to lead me to the other side.

***

Later, back at my house, I put on my pajamas and pulled back the covers on my bed. It's only the third time I've slept there, and I crawled between the sheet in a familiar bed set in a still strange landscape. I clicked off the bedside lamp and lay there in the darkness for a moment, keenly attuned to the sounds of the hardwood floors settling. To the heat hissing through the vents. To the weird way that the grate on the carport door sometimes twangs. Straining to categorize every sound, it took me a moment to realize that cool, silvery light had slipped across my face and fanned out across the blankets. I turned onto my stomach and peeked through the blinds. There, high above my house, gazing down into my bedroom window was my beloved moon. After all this time...so many months...it was only then that I discovered my old friend looked in my window, just as he has all my life.

A Few Words on These Days

Dear M, Regarding My Totally You Moment:

I discovered that the illustrious Joel McHale has finally deigned to bring his stand-up tour past the noxiousness of Las Vegas. Even my love of Joel cannot take me there. He's actually making his way as far as the eastern seaboard including that nearby bastion of The South, Hotlanta. However, instead of taking the easy way, instead of just going an hour up the road to a venue I've been to before near where my brother lives making it easy for me to stay the night with him post-performance, I bought a plane ticket.

On a whim, I bought a plane ticket! To the Lonestar State where I will be taking in the McHale McMagnificence with my Texas Twin. I'm flying in early and staying late and have been promised a photogging excursion somewhere in there. And I just did it. Like a true adventurer.

Not uncoincidentally, I dreamed last night of going to Vienna. And the buildings were amazing, and I remember that we were going through Germany on our way home? So the passport is next, Oh, Wayfaring Soul. But know...you're rubbing off on me.

xo,
Intrepid Traveler

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

Sorrow & Hope

To be remembered is our greatest hope when we die, whether that remembrance is due to our achievements or just because we are loved. The need to be remembered is never clearer than when strolling among the dead. Weaving in and out of cemetery stones, feet falling softly among the dearly departed, it is impossible not to remember them and wonder who they were. I love the idle peace of tracing script with fingertips and wondering how the dash between two numbers was spent.
I recently found myself among the dead in a number of cemeteries, photographing epitaphs and statuary, details of shells and flowers and leaves curving against monuments. When I looked at the pictures later, two faces emerged.

Sorrow

Head in hands, sorrow holds vigil over the graves of those gone too soon. Those who weren't ready to go, or placed there by those who weren't ready to let them leave. Over time, weather either shadows them, making them more stark and desperate. Or it erodes the tension and leaves a smoother, reluctantly accepting visage in its wake. Who could blame these anguished faces for their permanent mourning of what was lost? I looked into their faces and saw myself, the lines wearily etched into stone, marble - cold and unyielding. I saw their downcast eyes, knowing they had cried from heartbreak, from loneliness, from desperately wanting to change the unchangeable. I wanted to lean against them and give them my mourning, to let my agony over losing Kudzu fall into smooth white arms.

Hope

Serenely, they stand or kneel over the bodies of those gone before us, hands clasped in devoted prayer. Some of them bow reverently; others tip faces upward toward the light. Their faces are bathed in an ethereal glow, their eyes are knowing. These stone creatures have foregone their mourning and looked to the light, relinquished their woe and wreathed themselves in hope. Weather-smoothed faces look ever more placid or seem to be disappearing as though the predetermined time of protection is up and they, too, are melting into a vague half-state. Hope sometimes comes with angel wings, folded quietly behind or poised, ready to fly upward.

Mendelopacious

mendelopacious (adj.) - indicative of great joy because of or relating to Mendacious and Penelope; to experience mendelopation (n.) or excessive happiness due to the presence of Mendacious and Penelope; of or relating to the act of mendelopating (v.) or spending quality time with Mendacious and Penelope. ex. A mendalopacious week was experienced recently, filled with mendelopation over mendelopating with both Mendacious and Penelope.

Mendelopacious outing with Mendacious
Huntington Beach, California

Mendacious and I met once before when Penelope married, but it was well before blogdom blossomed and we were fully aware of the nature of our soul connection. This time, however, I knew when I spied her through the glass - "This is Mendacious!"

We hugged the lovely sort of hug one shares with one's wayfaring soul upon meeting for the first time - a sort of strong, instant embrace filled with warmth and knowing and connection. And I climbed into her car and agreed to adventure and the promise of margaritas. We talked in this way that felt like we were picking up with a conversation begun many lifetimes ago, as though we both remembered the precise moment we left off, paused and began again.

There were in fact margaritas and a trip to the beach where we plopped down in the sand and made strange shapes from shell bits. We talked of the sand and how it is different from the East Coast. This Pacific sand is worn and natural and raw. It is integral sand. East Coast sand is admired and visited and enjoyed, but West Coast sand is habitual and used and incorporated. Mendacious, in all her tall vivacious glory, belonged here with this earthy, essential sand, and I heard the waves in the way that I hear all water - like a soothing lullaby. I spoke to a seagull and Mendacious understood and we talked of art and love and family and place and my still unattained passport and, of course, Penelope.

And we were mendelopated.

Mendelopacious outing with Penelope
Lake SinclairPenelope Pices met with a soon-to-be-31 Cancer at a lake in middle Georgia. Whereas Mendacious and me were known strangers among unknown strangers, Penelope and I were old friends among older friends. We sat in rocking chairs and watched the water sparkle hotly in the distance while the flush-cheeked Lo. Co. children climbed and gamboled around the porch. Back and forth, the chairs. Back and forth, the words. Back and forth, the stories. Back and forth, the snark.

And we picked up the thread just where we left off, knitting our tales, sewing our lives together; two vastly different patterns that most would never consider complimentary but somehow, upon closer inspection, matched in a lovely sort of mismatched way.

At dusk there were sparklers, and we drew our names in the air with fire - we two water signs - and laughed at the smoke and the crack and hiss and the familiar burning smell until the sticks went dark. And we laughed at the otherworldly fire-blurred pictures of ourselves.

And a mendelopacious time was had by all.

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.

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.

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

Another Perfect Weekend on a Mountaintop

Gettin' Down to Biz-ness

* With the fancy schmancy cocktail party at the Atlanta office tomorrow. Rah.

* With the college homecoming festivities - I can hardly wait for fried chicken on the hill. And I've charged my camera battery so that I can take approximately 800 photos.

* With yet another business trip to J. Island that promises to be...interesting. Leaving Sunday and gone on Monday and Tuesday. And packing my flack jacket for the angry mobs that are likely to be staking out our meeting.

* With yet another big opportunity at work in Atlanta on Wednesday - again, hand-picked by the creative director. And he reviewed my work from last week's meeting today and said he was so proud that he nearly teared up. And then I nearly did in turn.

* With a less fancy schmancy cocktail party next Thursday hosted by a friend of mine at a downtown hotel. And despite its lesser level of schmancy, I'm looking forward to time with friends.

* With pondering items about The Professor...the significance of the fine line between "when" and "if"...i.e. remarks like "When you meet my parents who live in a far distant state on the other side of the country" as oppose to if. Like it's a done deal. Like yesterday, he said "when" in reference to a family reunion. And then there's the EX Factor. As in his ex is coming for a visit - a closure visit, I guess? So. Yeah. She's here all next week, and I'll just be...waiting??

* With subsequently considering when or if to pursue dating someone else (no one in particular - unless Christian Bale is available)...but just...someone to keep if from turning into when so fast. Plus, I'm a hot ticket - wildly successful in my career, fantastic taste in shoes, and I'm smokin'. So maybe I should share the wealth.

* And then with thinking, Who am I kidding? It's 10 o'clock and I just want to go to bed and finish Twilight.

I'm Going to Disney World!

Okay, so not really. I am, however, going to the mouse city - if not the mouse house.

The occasion is that we got called in to do a branding session. I've played a supporting role in four or five of these for the creative director. But he can't go to this one, because it's such short notice. He tells the account lead, "Call Ashley."

I'm going to Orlando because the creative director, the man I aspire to be, says I can handle running the show. He even called me this morning, Jedi Master-style, and said, "I'm really excited for you to have this opportunity."

I fly out Sunday night with one of the management team who's going with me. Today I was on a conference call with Atlanta and San Diego. And there was this moment when it was all coming together, when I felt the adrenaline pumping as I made my check list and started the project research and recruited two juniors to help me, that I thought about how awesome it felt.

I love my job in the most nerdy, geeked-out, I-will-talk-about-marketing-on-a-date way, and I'm getting this opportunity to travel to and lead a big client meeting, and for a day, all modesty aside, I thought, I'm kicking ass and taking names - and I'm going to Disney World.

Silence

After yesterday's blissful nothingness, I'm going to embrace it for a few days. I'm going to dive into it like cool, blue undulating water and let it wash over me. In the ongoing dog days of summer, I'm going to live in deep water. I'm going to turn down the volume on life, let the waves mute the outside world and slice through the crystal-clean silence. I'm going to live in my head for a few days and make that a nice place to be. I'm going to see a friend and let that nourish my soul. I'll be back soon...until then, enjoy the silence.

The Graveyard of June Posts

During the month of June, my dashboard was the place that posts went to die. I either drafted or conceived more posts that never happened than ever before. As we move into the new month, I think that it's only fair that we lay these posts to rest.

Tossing My Cookie
A visit to Deb's lakehouse included a visit to Ike's Sports Bar, a happening little joint in the middle of South Carolina that hosts karaoke on Friday nights. Before my name was called for "Devil Went Down to Georgia," Deb's husband John treated us to a little liquid courage in the form of an oatmeal cookie shot. For the record, it tasted like the candles your grandma burns at Christmas. I performed my little Georgian heart out and spurred a couple of South Carolinian gentlemen to clog through the final verse. And then, as we left, I threw up. On the sidewalk. And then in the bushes - where I remained until STGD came to collect me and noted that I looked like a rape victim who crawled out of the shrubs.

South Georgia
I traveled to south Georgia last week to visit with a new client. A drug and alcohol addiction residential recovery program. It was a profoundly moving day. In the house, these young women gathered around the dining room table to tell us their stories. Incarceration. A lifetime with addicted parents. Broken homes and families. And their amazing comebacks from the brink of disaster. I was humbled. I was moved to tears. I rode back to Atlanta, gazing out the window and thinking of my blessings - both the kind I already had and the ones I acquired that day.

Brangelina
I missed my opportunity to express my thoughts on Brangelina at the Smartini Bar. I'd just like to say for the record that I am equal parts fascinated and repulsed by the Brange. I admire their contributions to making the world a better place - I really do. I mean, they just gave kids in Iraq $1 million. But I also resent the fact that - even when I don't read Perez - I have to know every move they make. I confess, too, that I always feel slightly sorry for Jennifer Anniston - what must she be thinking, with no hit movies in quite awhile and just that endorsement deal for Smart Water? I'm also kind of creeped out by the feeling the Brangelina is trying to start their own eco-friendly, multi-cultural, uber-beautiful super race. In which case, I'm totally screwed.

What's in a Name?
Last Wednesday, I was talking to Justin on the phone, and he had Dillon. "Say hi to Auntie Ashley," he prompted.

"Hi," says Dillon.

"Hey, buddy," I say. "What're you and Daddy doing?"

"Can you say 'Ashley'?" Justin asks.

"Ashhhh-eeee," Dillon says, very clearly.

I get euphoric over the fact that he says my name. He knows me! Except that over the weekend, I test him. "Who am I?" I question.

He looks at me and says, "Sha." Definitively. Clear as a bell. He might've said "Ashley" but my name is "Sha."

Simple Pleasures
Things that make me happy that cost nothing...
* Taking pictures
* Riding in the bed of a pickup truck
* The return of my Southern accent
* Blackberry picking
* Crossword puzzles
* The smell of ozone and wet asphalt during a summer shower

Sex & the Panda
So Eva and I make plans to go to Sex & the City while I'm in town and working at the Atlanta office. She searches out a time that fits with my arrival from the office and her babysitter's 10 p.m. limit. We rush to the theater - sans dinner - and stock up on soft pretzels, popcorn, and chocolate. We find a good seat and watch the previews. Which seem a bit odd - a football movie starring Dennis Quaid. Wall-E. Another sports-themed movie. And fifteen minutes later, the opening credits for Kung-Fu Panda roll onto the screen. For about thirty second, there's total silence and then the theater full of women of all ages erupts like a bunch of magpies. Long story short, the theater goofed. And the new run time? Past the babysitter's curfew. We left, unsexed, uncitied and unhappy.

You were good posts. May you rest in peace.

WANTED

One blogger, missing since Sunday. May be engaged in other life activities. Last seen jumping off a dock in South Carolina. May be traveling with family along interstate highways. Possibly in Northwest Ga. Subject is average height with blonde hair (or so her driver's license says) which is badly in need of a haircut and *ahem* color refresh. Accomplices may include a tiny blond boy with bright blue eyes who insists on eating "bok bok" who may refer to the blogger as "Sha sha." Do not be fooled by the accomplice's stature. If pursued, the little man can make tracks. Also along for the ride is a very short hip-looking older woman who resembles the blogger, a tall man (also resembling the blogger), and a very thin thirtyish woman who also looks sorta like the blogger except for her long, long, long slim legs. (Versus the blogger's slightly plump thighs.)

Subject could be wearing new red shoes with patent leather buckles and peep toes and drinking copious amounts of coffee. Expect subject to display extreme guilt when confronted with her crime of blog neglect. Blogger is aware of her failure to post to any of her blogs in the most recent 7-day period. If captured, blogger faces commitment to post every day next week.

Tips should be directed to the comments section.

Don't Look Before You Leap

Nice shot, T Shawn!

Itinerary

While asleep, I go.

* To L.A. to find Mendacious. And I am in her garden. They tell me she isn't there, but I know she can hear me, and we're supposed to go to Ireland. I see her face through a window.

* To London on a grey day. I stand in a square with a fountain in the center and there are blackbirds everywhere. I hear the aristocratic tones of the British around me, water splashing. I want to take a picture, but I've forgotten my camera.

* Back to San Francisco. At first I am lost and feel panicked, but gradually, I decide that I don't care if I don't know where we're going. Slowly, the city comes to life in my dream and I feel alive.

* To New York, with my parents. I am leading the way. I don't know the destination, but I know where I'm going. I navigate through the crowds. The sidewalk is wet; it is cold and the exhaust billows out in white fog from passing cabs. The signs are red, and we eat street food.

* A city. Alone but content. I am wandering. I don't know whether I'm hungry or looking for something. I can never read the map in my dream. But it doesn't matter where I'm going. Just that I made it there.