What are You Doing New Year's Eve?

In the waning hours of 2010, I considered going out in response to a solid invitation to one party and the probability that any number of my friends would be ushering in 2011 in the ATown. In light of last year's epic fail, I had compelling reasons to attempt to start off the new year in finer form. I considered the old superstition that what you're doing as the calendar starts over sets the tone for the coming 12 months, and I certainly wanted to be on better terms with the impending '11 than I was on its decade-capping predecessor.

It ended up that, even though Reese came down with the flu earlier in the week, the family was able to make it to my parents' house for our belated Christmas celebration. This holiday confusion (otherwise known as the Christmess) does tend to make for a difficult time truly enjoying New Year's Eve. And as it turned out, with relocating my bed to the new house and the kitchen remodel, we were short sleeping arrangements at Mom and Dad's, so Anna and me made our trek across town to spend the night at my house.

And so it was that the final moments of 2010 ticked off the clock. Anna went to bed, and I lay in my own bed, listening to the pops and crackles of fireworks outside in the night sky. I lay in the darkness and let the sad lonely year ebb away. In the silence that followed, I could almost hear the freshness of 2011's arrival. Like a sudden rush of warm air distilled in a soft white puff again the winter night, it came. And with it, sweet hope. I lay listening to the way the air changed, to the way that the light shifted, to my own breathing. I felt suddenly empty; but emptied of the heavy burden of so much sadness and tragedy. Hollowed out as it were, like midnight spooned out the lead and left behind a smooth, dark place for good things to settle.

In the stillness, I prayed for this fragile new year. I prayed that its tender newness would be allowed to blossom into something wonderful. I prayed to God to keep my hands reaching out toward Him, toward hope, toward the belief that there is plan so much greater than what I've imagined I missed or lost or let pass me by. And so I closed my eyes against the clean night sky that was already making its way toward the first day of the new year. And I fell asleep with a prayer on my lips. At home. With hope.

With a Little Help from My Friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Job Security

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

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

And you had me at "raise."

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.

Beginnings and Endings

Tonight, I had an after-work drink with The Professor. I think it can best be categorized as a "Happy Thanksgiving, sorry we weren't a love match" drink. And the funny thing is, that was probably the best conversation we've had. We ended up talking about nothing special, but we walked down the sidewalk, arm in arm, and laughing against the bite of the November cold that neither one of us was dressed for. Perhaps this is just the end of the beginning and the beginning of something better.

***
I met up with a friend last night...beyond a friend, really. Someone who's been part of my life for many, many years in both person and spirit. It seemed as though we had found an ending some seven years ago when we fell incommunicado. But instead, I find that our story goes on, somehow the words still writing themselves despite the silence. It was just the end of an era. A new one has begun, seemingly right where we left off the last sentence.

****
The fall was unexpectedly beautiful this year. Everyone said that with the drought, it would be less vibrant. Instead, the landscape shimmered with deep ruby reds and luminescent yellows and fiery oranges. The air cooled and crisped; it all seemed so refreshing. The color somehow alive and hopeful. But the leaves have since dried and fallen to the ground, swirled across the browning lawns, and whispering in the wind. These scuttling voices are cold and sad and lonely. And so autumn dies, and winter begins.

***
The year is dying. And so much dies with it. For just a few more short weeks, I'll be able to say that Ronnie was alive this year...and then we'll begin another year. One that he never lived to see. Between now and then are the holidays, and I'm beginning to experience The Tiny Tim Syndrome...seeing that empty chair alongside The Ghost of Christmas Future. Only, we won't wake up. We won't get to beg the Ghost to take us back and fix it. It is broken. And it is over.

This is the beginning of the end of this year. This is the beginning of the holiday season and the end of the grace period where things seemed to be easier. This is the beginning of another wave of grief and the end of the calm before the storm. This is the beginning of the Advent and the advent of a sorrow we cannot hope to overcome.

May this be the beginning of the Peace that Passes All Understanding and an end to the despair that clings to everything.

Midnight Miscellany

* I am on Facebook, the seventh time-suckage wonder of the world. This has led to the good, the bad, and the ugly: reunited with a long-silent friend who lives in the ATown; found Chad D., love of my 15-year-old life; and a guy I went to high school with wearing a cowboy hat and a very curly blonde wig, making him just about the ugliest girl I've ever seen.

* Tomorrow is the Come-to-Jesus Part 2: Status Redux. I'll be heading to his house with pizza and indigestion following work tomorrow. Stay tuned.

* Yesterday, my client sent my boss a note about what a great writer I am. I mean, I know it's Writing for The Man, but still, it warms my heart.

* Dillon now says my whole name - although he finds the "l" a bit tricky. But I'll take "Ashey" anyday - even when it's followed by the demand, "Socks off!"

* I am getting the ball rolling with my own volunteer group. I'm both nervous and excited. It's thrilling to think that it could work and be great, and terrifying to think I will be a singles volunteer group with a single volunteer - me.

* The weekend will be partially devoted to a Thanksgiving party with friends - and partly to finishing Breaking Dawn.

* Good night.

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.

You've Got Mail

If y'all haven't been patrons at the Smartini Bar of late, maybe you've at least clicked on the sidebar links to my open letter to John Mayer. And maybe you subsequently clicked on the link that indicating that I had e-mailed said post to John Mayer. And if you haven't done steps one and two, please do so now. There you will find the kind comments from one Doogie Jacks/a.k.a. DJ imparting a message to me from JM. Whether or not John Mayer actually read my blog post...I don't know. But I like to think he did. I like to think he read it and it made him chuckle and he turned to somebody who answers his fanmail and the like and said, "DJ, put a comment up there. I like her style." Or something like that.

And by the way, John, if you're still reading, I'm not even sure I can come up with a haiku for the new 'do...but I'll work on it.

Best. Performance Review. Ever.

Even though my review was a few weeks ago, I just got the opportunity to read the feedback submitted by my peers and superiors, all anonymous, in no particular order. But this one comment, standing alone between two longer comments darn near made cry:

"My t-shirt is clearly branded Team Ashley."

Sliding Down Memory Lane

This morning, Dillon was quite insistent about being allowed to go into the neighbor's yard and make use of the playground equipment. Instead, we convinced him that far better playground equipment could be made available to him by trekking to the school where Mom works in the library. And while I confess that it was fun to watch Dillon laugh and play, I found myself hanging back and letting the others oversee his sliding and climbing. All while I did a little sliding and climbing of my own.

For whatever reason, it was easy to forget on that expanse of white sand and metal bars and plastic tubes that I am nearing 30 years old. Instead, I found myself in a swing, chuckling at the familiar heat of the flexible black plastic that had been baking in the morning sun. I squiged my toes into the sand and pushed off, pumping my knees out of sheer instinct. Then I laid back into the motion, pushing my feet up toward the sky, closing my eyes against the glare. The doppler of wind whistled past my ears, to and fro, and it felt so blissful, for a moment, I forgot everything except blue and sun and air.

Then I went over to the tallest snaking tube (wondering for a moment if I would get stuck inside). I climbed up the metal rungs and gripped the top of the opening and settled at the top of the incline. I pushed off, slinking through the twists and turns with surprising speed and popped back out into the daylight.

Dillon started to pinken, so we decided it was best to stroll him home. I cast a sidelong glance at the slide and said, "Just one more time." And, to my surprise, Justin and Eva lined up right behind me. We all slid through the tube, I imagine, holding our breaths, cloaked in our ten-year-old selves, before being dumped back out into the present.

Cutting Loose

This weekend held two anomalies: one, I cut my hair, and two, I went to the bar - twice.

The first had to do with nearing a year away from Wilmywood (next Monday) and feeling like my long hair was strangely tied to the hardships of the last twelve months: Booker dying, the panic attacks, the second thoughts, the loneliness, Ronnie's death. About two weeks ago, I decided it was time to cut it. Time to let those inches go - and let the things associated with my longer locks go as well. So yesterday, I went to Corey and told him to cut it - really cut it - and that I trusted him to do what he thought best. The result: a fabulous, fabulous new style. And a slightly refreshed outlook on life. It's amazing what exposing your neck will do for you. Photos soon...

The second - bar trips two nights in a row - had to do with Justin being in town for his MBA class reunion. He and Eva told me I'd spent too many Friday nights watching "What Not to Wear" and that it was time to find something to wear and hit the town. So I did. I spent Friday and Saturday evening in the international company of Justin's friends from grad school: a Portuguese, a German, two Indians, an Israeli, and a couple of Americans for good measure.

And last night, standing in the bar between the German and the Portuguese and trying to explain the phrase "junk in the trunk" while bouncing a little to the bar music, sipping a Cosmo and rocking my new haircut, a night out turned into a step forward - a refreshed look, physically and mentally. A few moments that seemed normal in a hopelessly abnormal time in life. A sense of confidence about where I am and where I'm going, when it was easy to laugh and easy to walk down the street on the way back to the car, and feel that good in my own skin.

O-love It!

Every once in awhile, I find a product that I feel is worthy of endorsement. So it is with St. Ives' new Olive Scrub. In general, I like St. Ives products - especially their lotions. I'd been looking for a facial cleanser (for the record, Biore's Warming Pore Cleanser is yuck-o), and I saw this advertised in a magazine. They say those in advertising are the most susceptible to it - I picked some up.

Here are the things I enjoy about this cleanser:
1) It smells lovely and fresh and sort of citrus-y.
2) It gently scrubs my face without removing the first layer of skin.
3) It takes off my eye makeup without me having to rub a lot.
4) It's actually helped my rosacea.
5) At a time when I expected my skin to be an absolute mess, it's quite clear.

And for roughly $5 or $6, that's pretty good stuff. Please cleanse responsibly.

Spinning Plates

Work is going really well. I am two weeks away from the six-month mark. I have officially taken over the leadership role on two major accounts and am in transition on a third. I'm a second on one of the firm's most volatile accounts (The Client Who Shall Not Be Named), and I've been tapped to work on the creative concept development for a new client. The Big Boss stopped me in the Atlanta office the other day to personally applaud my work. People hug me when I arrive in Atlanta; the office banter is getting easier. And so rises the "Hallelujah" chorus to a grand crescendo...and then...

And then I realize that I'm working late a lot. When I'm not working, I'm thinking about work. My email is woefully neglected. I forget to return phone calls or else can't muster the energy for a real conversation. Yesterday, STGD suggested I post a photo of a cobweb on the blog. I was excited about Swing State and yet, I haven't worked on making it what I wanted it to be. I just...ran out of gas. And writing beyond that? Forget about it.

The money I've been saving for the Elusive House Purchase in the Nonspecific Future is sitting in my checking account - my non-interest bearing checking account - because I cannot wrap my brain around putting a chunk of it into the savings account that I set up months ago.

And while I continue to raise my hand for all sorts of charitable causes (an extension of work in many ways) my social life hasn't seen considerable growth in the months since my job began.

But this isn't a post about how I need to work less. Or even, really, how work is getting in the way of life. I actually enjoy what I do. I like my job. So what gives?

The delicate balance between applying enough force to maintain momentum and enjoying the spin is escaping me. Instead, I've got one plate in my grip, spinning it for all I'm worth while the other plates crash to the ground in a heap of fragments: unanswered emails, stacks of correspondence, phone numbers long since dialed, friends unmade. And on that one sharp point, dancing in a wobbling elliptical, is the dish in which I've placed my hope. But if I don't slow down, it too will shatter.

The Tales of Beedle the Bard

J.K. Rowling's handwritten and personally illustrated leatherbound copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard sold at auction today for $4 million, which will go to benefit charity. Initial reports were that the volume was purchased by the London art agent Hazlitt, Gooden and Fox. Later today, it was revealed that the book was actually purchased on behalf of Amazon.com. It is the only one of seven created by Rowling that was made available to the public - the other six copies were gifts to close friends. And it's gorgeous.

I have to give it to Amazon...this purchase was a smart move. Four million dollars, yes, but an alliance with its top-selling product line of all time. In fact, I just read in Real Simple today that the top three products with a five star review are Harry Potter books.

Anyway, Amazon is doing two things I heartily approve of (which may make up for the Super Saver Free Shipping debacle I had with them the other night - but that's another story). First of all, they've shared the treasure with fans by creating a separate page for the book which includes numerous photographs, description and a message board for discussion. They plan to review the book and release some of the text. Secondly, they plan to tour with The Tales of Beedle the Bard at schools and libraries. I applaud Amazon for capitalizing on this (so far) only by drawing people to the site and for sharing it immediately, rather than withholding it like a corporate game of keepaway. It's nice to think that maybe, just maybe, the magic of Harry Potter prevails again. The gesture, the tone of the site, make me feel like somebody at Amazon is just like me - just an enchanted reader who wants to keep sharing the Potterverse with the rest of us. Well done, Amazon.

The Good Doctor

Yesterday, I had an appointment with The Doctor about The Panic. It was no small accomplishment to get this appointment. It required getting a list of referrals from The Other Doctor. Cross-referencing the referred doctors with those covered by The Insurance, which was a little tricky because I changed my plan two months in based on the recommendation of the HR consultant.

And when I called those who double qualified (referred and covered!), I found one doctor who wasn't accepting new patients, one whose first available appointment was in December, and one who required some personal information and a description of symptoms for a sort of MD audition before he would accept me as a patient. This is The Doctor with whom I had an appointment.

But, through some snafu with the entire health care system in America, when I arrived to see The Doctor, I found that The Insurance was not accepted. Because of two tiny words printed under the plan line. The Nice Receptionist offered to let me cancel without paying the cancellation fee, but I knew I needed to see The Doctor. So I opted to self-pay, closing my eyes briefly so as not to envision what the bill would be.

And there in the waiting room, I felt bitterly ironic that The Panic was rising the moment I was called to see The Doctor.

But fate took another little twist. The Doctor was actually a wonderful, wonderful person who listened to what I had to say and told me that I am not crazy. We made plans for Right Now and we talked about Next Steps. And then he told me there would be no charge. I went to The Doctor for free.

As I was leaving he said, "If you have any problems - any at all - call me. I mean it. And don't worry about the insurance thing. We'll work something out."

I walked out of The Doctor's office feeling a small bubble of hope rising against The Panic and the autumn afternoon light was so clear that I swear I could almost see The End in sight.

In Good Company

A violent storm arrived in the wee hours this morning, buffeting the windows and shaking the house until the bed rattled. But in its wake dawned a perfectly sunny day in the mid-seventies completely out of character for early January. Despite the desperate need for me to tend to my long-neglected apartment, I opted for a quick run to Dunkin Donuts for coffee and a healthy breakfast of chocolate frosted and jelly donuts. I took my morning fare out onto the porch for some reading and dozing in the rocker, amused that I could be wearing flip flops and a tank top in the winter.

Kudzu and this little green fellow joined me for a time. Kudzu was very earnestly watching a mocking bird in the tree at the opposite end of the porch. And the lizard seemed to be seeking a nice place on the stucco to sun himself. Photos courtesy of my new digital camera - which will be used especially to provide more delightful photos to the blog.

Today was one of those days where - with the exception of a couple of phone calls and the drive thru at Dunkin Donuts - I was in complete solitude. Alone in my little world on the porch, with my book. And for the day, it was nice to not have to hear my own voice so much and live instead with the sound of silence.

The Ghost of Christmas Past

When my sister, the eldest of the three of us, was just six weeks old, my mother's mother was killed in a tragic accident. As a child, I knew her only from the picture in my grandparents' house of her standing behind her father as he held my sister. Over the years, my mother and I have talked about her a lot - how she made excellent cakes and loved shoes and had the kind of hair everyone envied and was just five feet tall but full of spunk. And still I do not know her, but I think of her often and love her in my own way, as an equal an opposite reaction to my grief over her absence.

This summer my mother and sister helped clean out some things from my aunt's house and stumbled upon a bag of old eight millimeter film reels from their childhood. My sister took them to have them transferred to DVD. Emptying the bag at home, she also found a lone cassette tape marked as "Elsie's Voice" which she had transferred to CD.

Tonight she presented my mother and her sister with the CD transfers, still simply marked "Elsie's Voice." Both were overcome, and I was suddenly overcome, too, at the magnitude of the gift - the chance to hear their mother's voice again after it being lost for so many years. Sometimes, we have the strange opportunity to see our parents as ourselves. See them as the children of their parents as we are the children of them. In one heartbreaking moment, I saw her crying as I would cry myself, to get a gift so great as the sound of my mother's voice after the passing of time had made it a mere whisper.

Stacks & the City

Today I decided to walk down to the library to pick up a few books. I love being in a library, walking up and down the rows of books, checking their spines and admiring cover artwork. The smell of pages. The comforting silence. Today was no different, and I only wished I'd given myself more time instead of having to head to the desk 30 minutes before closing time.

On the way home, I was thinking about the city. I complain about it from time to time, but on days like today, I realize how much I like it. It was one of those days that's still summer but trying to be autumn. I can't wait for the cold breeze to start blowing up from the river. And just this morning, I was talking to Crazy J. about how many lovely porches there are in the city. Cobblestone streets. Church spires. An admirable skyline. I love seeing the columns on City Hall and the clock tower of the old courthouase as I cross Third Street.

Inspired by all that, I sat on my back porch this afternoon in one of the rockers and read a book from cover to cover. I left the door open so Kudzu could come out and chew on some of the vines that creep up the wrought iron. At particular moments, the huge air conditioner that cools the county building across the street would slow to a stop and the traffic noise would quiet and I could hear the breeze and the leaves rustling and, later in the evening, the crickets. And all in all, it was a fabulous Saturday.

Takin' It Easy Bein' Cheesy

I didn't go into the office today (despite having a ton of work that I need to do) and instead spent nearly the entire day in pajamas. I did get dressed for lunch with Tom at the Dixie Grill where I had a delicious sandwich called a Skinny Pete and sweet potato fries. Mmm. But after that I went back to the PJs and back to the couch. As a total indulgence, I broke out a VHS tape that's ten years old and labeled in my sister's handwriting "Sappy (Heart) Movies." On the tape are three back-to-back TV movies from 1995-96. The first movie is called "Wounded Heart" and stars Paula Devicq (of Party of Five fame) and Josh Hensley (who apparently is a soap opera star). The second is called "Hearts Adrift" and stars Sydney Penny (soap star) and Scott Reeves (soap star). They were both USA Network Morning Movies. The last is called "The Hired Heart" and stars Penelope Ann Miller, who sadly seems to be trying to resurge to her Kindergarten Cop fame in this made-for-TV flick. And they're SOOO deliciously cheesy - I heart the Heart Trilogy.