One Little Blackbird

Stumbling through the past couple of weeks of work, travel and holiday, I've gotten to that place where life is simply too crowded. Too crowded with commitments, demands, appointments. Too crowded with people and places and working hard to keep up appearances. Too crowded with smiles I don't really feel and thoughts that bounce around my brain and never settle. Too crowded to sleep. So crowded that there hardly seems room for me anymore.

Dad's company is having its holiday party in Atlanta this weekend, and so he and Mom are heading up to Anna's on Saturday morning and will attend the party from there. This is the first time that I've had the feeling that I could not go. I could stay. I could give myself a break. I could experience complete and utter silence.

And inside, a war between could and should started raging. Anna's having a hard time, and I feel like I should go be with her. I should be there for her...not to fix it, but just to try my best to absorb some of her misery (as though it could ease her burden).

But instead, I'm going to let could defeat should this time around. Because I realized that my could was actually connected to a should -I should pay attention to what I need. In the interest of self-preservation and in light of what the next few weeks will bring, I must stop. I must take time to be just one. Just me. To take a deep breathe and reach around all of the thoughts, gather them up and push them into a corner of my mind and fill the empty space with sweet, sweet silence.

Another Perfect Weekend on a Mountaintop

Lazy Sunday

This morning, Mom made an executive decision: we'd all had enough.

Instead of getting up at the regular time for church on Sunday, she got up, let the Ranger cat out the door and went back to bed. I finally cracked an eyelid around 10 and ambled down the hall. Mom was still in her pajamas. Dad had just thrown on a shirt to go downstairs. I could hear the coffeepot downstairs was issuing the gurgles of its first round of percolation.

We all sat around drinking coffee in our PJs until almost noon, when we realized we were hungry. We had eggs, grits, toast and fresh sliced tomatoes. I indulged in a third cup of coffee.

I took a long, hot shower. I let my hair mostly air dry. I put on a cami-tank top and shorts. I read a book. About 2 o'clock, I fell asleep again on the couch in the living room.

Dad fell asleep watching today's NASCAR race. When I woke up, Mom was back in bed reading a book.

The phone didn't ring. We talked in snatches, but it was mostly quiet. Calm. Serene.

We had tomato sandwiches for dinner. And then retreated to our respective druthers - books and computer games. Catching up on emails.

And the sun fell below the horizon and night stole quietly across the lawn. And for the first time in weeks, I felt still inside. Instead of droning bees stinging every corner of my mind, it was whisper-quiet.

Even though the weekend is over, the Sunday Dread seems to be held at bay by - of all things - nothingness.

Truckin'

I would like to clarify - for the record - that we only rode around Anna's neighborhood with Dillon in the back, unsecured. We did not go on any main roads. Just so you know...that we're Southern but we're not crazy.

Father's Day

"It feels like I swallowed a baseball," Dad says.

"A baseball? That's not good," I say.

"Now don't get all excited. I'm not having a heart attack."

***
Two hours later, we are in the van - Anna is driving, and I'm in the passenger seat. It's raining. Mom and Dad sit in the second row of seats. They are holding hands. Dad shifts again and again in the seat. At exit 12, he tells Anna to put the hazards on.

The windshield wipers slice through the tense silence. There is nothing to say. I lean forward in the seat, willing the van to go faster. The speedometer needle tickles against 90. The hazards tick on and off. Rain pelts the windows.

Five more exists pass. Dad asks how much longer. Mom asks, her voice trembling, "Can we call for a police escort?"

Anna's voice comes out flat and hollow. "No...they won't do that anymore."

***
When we get off one highway and onto another closer to the hospital, I call Justin. He is waiting in the ER dropoff with a wheelchair.

Dad is laboring to breathe, his face greying. He is scared. Concern and fear are etched in every line on Mom's face.

I want to scream. I want to throw up. I close my eyes, squeezing the threatening tears out to wet the fringe of my lashes. "Please, God," I pray silently. "Please, please don't take him. None of us can bear it."

***
The ER is chaos. The walking wounded limp and roll and cough and sputter through the aisle. Wheelchairs weave through the crowd, driven by harried orderlies. They do not have a room. Dad is taken back into a hallway to be settled on a gurney. Only Mom can go with him.

***
In the aftermath, those settling moments of quiet heavy realization, me, Anna and Justin sit on little square chairs. Crammed together in silence. Each of our minds are torn: between what is happening now and the fate of our father, and what was happening nearly four months before in the very same ER.

Anna sits quietly between us. I don't know whether to say it or say anything but his name - Ronnie.

***
It is not a heart attack. The EKG is clear; the blood gas is devoid of the telltale enzyme present during cardiac arrest. They order a chest x-ray and a CT scan. We wait.

***
Hours later, they have still not seen a doctor. I make a few phone calls. Justin opens his briefcase, pulls out the crossword puzzle books he keeps for airport waits. I begin filling in the tiny squares with letters. He and Anna work logic puzzles - as though making sense of a set of facts will make sense of what's happening.

***
The x-ray shows pneumonia in the lungs. Just barely. But it is there. When Justin delivers this news, Anna looks as though she will crumble into a million pieces.

***
Dad is admitted to the hospital for the night and finally transitioned into a room in the ER while waiting for a private room to open elsewhere. I go back to see him. He is weak and tired. But still in good humor. The phlebotomist is looking for veins in the crook of his elbow. She runs fingers to his wrist. "You've got some good ones down here," she says. "Well, honey," he replies. "You just pick you one out."

***
Outside his room, the shift change is taking place. I see a familiar face. The charge nurse is now the woman who told us that Ronnie died. Of all the nurses in the Atlanta hospital, it is her. My stomach burns and my heart aches. I want to run from the building.

***
Anna never goes back into the ER. I know she wants to, but she cannot. It is too soon. It is too much. And she has nothing with which to fight.

***
Sunday morning, Anna and I listen to her church service on the internet. The preacher talks about light in dark times. "Is anyone in dark times?" he asks. We pretend not to notice each other crying.

****
By the middle of Sunday, we have a guesstimated diagnosis of pericarditis: an inflammation of the heart's lining. The inflammation increases the amount of fluid around the heart and squeezes it - resulting in pain under the breastbone, intensified by drawing deep breaths.

We have a Father's Day lunch - Dad on hospital food. Anna and I order take out. We celebrate with mini-Snickers. We try to laugh. We know we are at least all together. We are hopeful that there is light in the darkness.

***
The cardiologist comes in and says, yes, he thinks that the problem is pericarditis. An echo cardiogram to be sure that there are no abnormalities. A stress test to make sure the heart is functioning properly. This name, the assurance that it is treatable, eases the tension in the room.

***
Late in the afternoon, Anna insists that Mom needs a break from the hospital. Dad is doing better but assured another night in the hospital. I tell them to go, that I'll stay with him. Shortly after dinner, Dad falls asleep. I lay on the rock-solid excuse for a couch reading the 2004 Fodor's guide to London.

The phlebotomist comes in to collect for another round of blood gases. "Dad," I say gently, touching his shoulder. "They need to take some more blood."

While the phlebotomist goes about donning the latex gloves and stretching the band that makes Dad's veins bulge, the new charge nurse comes in. "What has he been doing," she asks me.

"Sleeping. I just woke him up to have blood drawn."

She pulls out the monitor that he's been wearing around his neck and says that his heart rate is up over 160 bpm. "What should it be?" I ask.

"We'd like it to be 80."

My mouth goes dry.

I look at Dad. He turns to the nurse, "You're scaring me."

"Well," she says, "You're giving us a scare."

She leaves the room. I can see the fear in his frame, the way he tenses against the bed. "Please, God," I plead once more. "Please no."
***
Hours later, the red light is still flashing on the monitor. The number drops to 117 and flashes back up to 130, 140 and then 108. The erratic heartbeat is all over the board.

Anna, Mom and I sit on the couch together. I lean against Mom's arm. With her free hand, she pushes my bangs out of my eyes and tucks them behind one ear.

***
Anna and I head home. The nurse has just been in to tend to her "problem child." She calls the cardiologist on call who agrees to send his PA. This is not uncommon, she assures us; for us, the whole scenario is uncommon.

By the time we reach Anna's house, Mom calls and tells me that the medicine the PA ordered over the phone has taken effect. The monitor is now showing a steady green light. And an exhausted Dad has already fallen asleep.

***
Overnight, the pericarditis seems to lose its grip. Despite another 3 a.m. episode of "atrial flutter", his color returns. He is more himself. A nurse helps him take a pseudo bath and washes his hair. By 11 a.m., they have let him know he will be discharged.

I got up at 5 that morning to ride back to Athens with Chris, who is taking a class at UGA. This news of the discharge is like the letting out of a long-held painful breath. Everything inside me starts to collapse.

Chris comes and picks me up and takes me home. I fall asleep on the couch for an hour.

***
Around 4, I hear the door open. Dad comes in, looking tired and worn. He has a three-day beard salt-and-peppering his face. He's walking a bit slowly and looking for somewhere to sit down. "Hi, Daddy," I say. "Welcome home."

***
At 9 o'clock, we all head for bed. All of us are exhausted beyond comprehension. Before I go to my end of the hall, I take care to hug both Mom and Dad, tell them I love them. As if I needed another reminder how swiftly the tides can change...the sense of having narrowly escaped catastrophe burns inside me, spurring me to live for a few moments with the knowledge of how the story could've ended.

Weeds

For Ronnie, lawn maintenance was nearly a religion. He mowed, edged, watered, fertilized and weeded. I can remember him talking about needing to tend the yard like one would speak of nurturing a child. He labored over it in the warm months and planned for it in the cold ones.

So when the weeds began encroaching on the front lawn after he died, it became almost an assault on his memory. Anna's mentioned the weeds frequently to me; they seemed to be feeding on her grief, popping up across the lawn and in the straw beds stretching around the yard's perimeter.

On Saturday morning, she and I decided to tackle the front yard. She sat near the sidewalk and I sat near the road, and we each methodically plucked weeds from between the blades of sod. The sun moved higher; we scooted a path back and forth across the lawn, leaving a trail of weeds atop the grass behind us.

And as we broke apart the fragile roots of those tiny but persistent weeds, we uprooted the thin barrier between casual words and those that reached deeper down.

"Does it seem like a long time," I asked. "Or like it was just yesterday?"

She sighed. "It depends. But most days, I just think about how long it's been and I wonder how I made it this far."

"I really missed him this week," I said. I hesitated to say this...did she want to hear how I missed him? A feeling that undoubtedly paled in comparison to her own sense of loss. She was silent.

"And...and when I think of him-" I pushed on - "I think of him chuckling. I can still hear him chuckling." My voice was quavering at this point and tears were sliding down my flushed cheeks.

"Me, too." I could tell she was crying, too. "You would never expect his laugh to sound like that."

"No," I laughed - a watery, thick kind of sound.

And it went on like that. She would tell me something she missed, and I would respond, and vice versa. Sometimes we laughed; sometimes we cried more. Our muscles were aching. The sun grew hotter, burning my shoulders and her forearms. And we kept on pulling, weed by weed, discarding those unwanted plants in heaps of green tops and spindly brown roots systems.

They seemed to cover everything when we started. But by the end of the afternoon, the lawn was a clean stretch of green sod, pristine and trimmed. Just like Ronnie would've wanted it.

Failing

Tomorrow's Friday. I have to go to a meeting in Atlanta tomorrow at 3 - the world's worst possible time to try to get into the city (and subsequently out of it afterward). It's a meeting I'm not so jazzed about - one where I think I'll be slightly out of my depth and with an Atlanta associate I don't know so well to boot. I'm not looking forward to it.

Tomorrow's Friday, so the question comes up, what are we going to do this weekend? Anna says she can be flexible, about whether we come there or not. Dad has to get a haircut, mow the lawn. Mama tries to determine from all sorts of context clues and tone of voice what Anna really wants us to do. We all try to pass the buck to each other saying, "Whatever you want to do."

I finally spoke up and said that I'd leave from the Atlanta office and travel on north to Anna's. Dad and Mama will join us Saturday after the lawn and Dad's hair get a trim.

When I called Anna to tell her, it came out in a rush. In trying to be funny, I told her that it took a flow chart to figure out this weekend's plans. And I immediately wished I could take it back. Because I know it made her feel like a burden. And she's not. But I'm tired, and tired plus frustrated sometimes leaks into your voice if you're not careful.

I want to do whatever I can to help her right now, but sometimes, it's hard. It's hard knowing that "tomorrow's Friday" always means that arrangements must be made. I feel so selfish and guilty to resent that even the tiniest bit after what Anna's gone through - with what she's still going through. And so there's this cataclysmic struggle between the rising resentment and the guilt that pushes it back down and the sadness that engulfs them both and culminates in a shuddering, "When will this end?"

When will it? I don't know. For Anna...maybe never? And for me, even the slightest moments of moving on feel wrong. When I talk to her and know she doesn't want to get off the phone because the silence will be deafening after we hang up, I feel so guilty for every second I had that day that Ronnie's death wasn't weighing on me like a ton of bricks. I know that's not realistic; in a way, I know I'm not even being fair to myself. I'm only human after all.

But there's no guidebook. There's no instruction manual for dealing with death. Each of us deals with it in our own way. Meaning that, as if the circumstances weren't bad enough, you find yourself trapped in an emotional mine field worrying that your next step might be in the wrong direction. There's a sense, however off-base, that you could be missing the right way to handle it. And when you don't handle it with the appropriate sensitivity, when being tired overcomes your sense of compassion, when your frustration with having to pack one more bag, when you can't help the little selfish corner of your heart that just wants to stay at home and do nothing, when all that bleeds through into your voice, you know you've detonated one of those things. And it splinters into a million shards of guilt.

The truth is, it's messy and painful and ugly. I don't get to walk away gracefully. I just have to blindly free-fall my way through it...trust that gravity and faith will pull me in the right direction...and that eventually I will make a landing that will be less than disastrous. And for all those times along the way that I fail, I hope that Anna knows that I'm doing the very best I can in a situation she knows better than any of us has no "best" - and that's she'll forgive me of my shortcomings.

West Coast, Y'all

I am going on vacation. Ten days and counting. I cannot remember the last time I went on a vacation - possibly the family Disney trip of '05 that was a valuable learning experience (i.e. the Disney Magical Express is neither magical nor express, discuss amongst yourselves).

But this time around, Niki, Jenn and I are heading to San Francisco from three different cities for a long girls' weekend. We already have a couple of things on our to do list, but for those of you San Fran experts (or natives!), please weigh in on those things we absolutely must see, do, eat or experience. We enjoy all thing edible, libations, art, dancing, green things, and abandoned prison fortresses. Please cast your vote now.

Things on My Mind Other Than That

* Am three days behind putting my time in at work.

* Volunteered to help with a non-profit fundraising event, and I am doing waaaay more than I planned. Daily I'm getting e-mails asking, "Can you handle this too?"

* A Client has asked to meet with my boss. Instead of me. Behind my back. Am now getting an ulcer because I know this is The Client Who Does Not Love Me So Much. (Am I fired?)

* Performance review: next Wednesday

* Having to pack for another weekend at Anna's. Subsequent guilt about complaining about having to pack.

* Another client in total crisis. Have been at work early, late and during lunch this week. Contributing to ulceration.

* My Skittles addiction is back.

* Have to get up at 4:45 tomorrow morning in order to drive to Atlanta, beat the traffic and be at the office in time for a v. important meeting. (see "Client in total crisis")

* The CD player in here keeps hanging up and spinning and spinning in silence and then abruptly restarting and startling the crap out of me.

* Alarming statistics on the volume left in Georgia's landfills - about twenty years, fyi.

* Man having baby.

* No blog til Sunday.

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.

Excuse Note

In lieu of a real post, you get the following excuse note:

* There was a tornado warning and we had to go to the basement for an hour.

* Justin and Eva's internet is broken.

* It was way more fun to take approximately 100 pictures of Dillon and the fam (see post below).

* My thumb hurts due to lacerations sustained during the administration of medicine to a cat (Poor Mr. Ranger).

* I was watching the episode of Scooby Doo guest starring Davey Jones.

* I'm three-quarters of the way through a book that I'm enjoying rather much.

* My back hurts from lifting the Chunk-a-Munk all weekend. (I know, Pen...lift with the legs. I simply must learn!)

* Tomorrow is Monday.

Weekend Update

Moment: Friday evening, driving home, black trees arterial against the pale peach sky, Sarah McLachlan singing "I'll Be Home for Christmas" and a beautiful sadness washed over me

Saturday: Out of bed and then back to bed. In pajamas until 3 p.m., watching A Christmas Caper starring Shannon Doherty on the ABC Family Channel.

Dosage: Up, working, chasing away the "I don't cares"

Office Christmas Party: Tasty food, warm welcomes, good conversation and another Awkward Moment with The Big Boss to add to my collection

Sunday morning: Cold dry wind whipping my hair up, my dad saying, "When it blows like that, you know you're alive."

Publix: Old home week running into parents of friends (Heather, that's you), old teachers, family friends

Lunch: Dad helped Mom make chili - the only thing he knows how to make; very charming

Nap: In the sun on the couch for two hours...ahhhhh.

Evening: Christmas music in the car on the way to meet Eva, Justin and Dillon. He was tired and sat in my lap with his head on my shoulder. That's happiness right there.

Baking: Cinnamon raisin sourdough bread...Mom's heavenly concoction. The house smells heavenly.

Carol of the Day: "Gentle Mary Laid Her Child"

Christmas spirit: Lifting?

Creativity: Low, hence another list post. More tomorrow...promise.

Queasy Like Sunday Morning

I kind of hate Sundays. For as long as I can remember, I've experienced the Sunday Dread. Even when school or work wasn't particularly bad or daunting. It starts the moment I wake up on Sunday - the instant realization that the weekend is over. Which is silly, right, because there's still a whole day? But it doesn't matter. The Sunday Dread is setting in - the agonizing anticipation that tomorrow is Monday.

In college, and sometimes in Wilmywood, it was about loneliness. Growing up, Sundays were always a big family day at our house - lots of togetherness and eating. And it inevitably seemed like Sunday night in college and grad school was the time I ended up by myself and trying to wrap up all the studying I'd neglected or trying to get laundry done and dishes washed (or finish a story for workshop the next day...).

And I always eat really depressing things like cereal and cold pizza or stale crackers because that's all I can find. I never seem to have fun things to do on Sunday night - no parties or trips to the movies or shopping extravaganzas. Instead, the whole day progresses with an attitude of "I'm only doing this because I have to." Like being lead to the guillotine.

And while today, I had a visit from Justin, Eva and the Dilly Monster to spice up the afternoon, I still felt the malaise hanging over me. Thoughts about work left undone on Friday and meetings to come and just facing life again (which seems to be on hold on the weekends sometimes) made me enjoy the day just a little less. And I hate that - there's a part of me that says, "Carpe diem! You only have today! Live in the moment." But it's never as loud as the part of me that says back, "Yes, but if I do have tomorrow, it's Monday."

and just as a tiny side note, this is the 500th post - wow.

Fall, Festivals and Funnel Cake

This past weekend, I traveled to the western North Carolina mountains to take in a couple of festivals synonymous with the onset of autumn. Eva grew up in that part of the state, and we had the pleasure of starting the day with breakfast at her parents' house on Old Spanish Oak Mountain with this spectacular view of Grandfather Mountain from the back porch. (Grandfather is partly obscured by the clouds here, but it truly does look like the profile of an old man, as though he lay down and went to sleep among the ridges.)

We started our festival trek at Valle Crucis, an arts and crafts fair replete with mountain music (bluegrass!), homemade goodies (apple butter!) and a petting zoo (alpacas!). I couldn't get photos that did it justice, but Valle Crucis is a beautiful valley nestled among ranges of gently rolling hills. It's surrounded on all four sides, and this weekend, it was cloaked in the colors of peak fall weekend in the mountains: gilded in yellow, vibrant orange, russet and blood red. Perhaps my film camera captured it better, but I know my digital just couldn't absorb the colors.

The fair itself was charming with all its folksy art - a genre I'm pretty familiar with, as it's very popular in my hometown, but this art was from the mountains and so had a different flavor to it. A lot of interesting metal work, found object art and wood carving. Some of it wonderful and well-crafted - and some of it was a little scary. I chose an unusual biscuit jar from a Boone potter that was glazed in black and white and bore a hand carved mural and poetry on it. I wanted one of these beautiful natural wood bowls, but they are ridiculously expensive. So I took a photo instead.

We couldn't have asked for more beautiful weather - sunny and crisp with just enough chill to make you grateful for your coat and smile that autumn had chased away the oppressive summer heat. And the smell was marvelous - damp dew, grass, woodsmoke and mountain air. It was invigorating.

We drove out of Valle Crucis and through the mountains, past what Eva's dad claims is the most photographed farm in the state of North Carolina perched on a wide expanse of green between two towering peaks. I, unfortunately, was concentrating on not letting the winding mountain road get to me and did not join the legions of photographers who have captured its likeness. We made our way to Banner Elk, closer to Eva's hometown, for the Woolly Worm Festival. What, you ask, is a woolly worm? I don't believe we have them in Georgia, but they look like crawling pipe cleaners. They have 13 segments of brown and black. And at the Woolly Worm Festival, these creatures are raced (yes, raced) up a 3-foot length of string. After 1,400 worms raced, the winning worm, Armstrong, was used to predict the winter weather. His segmented body bore 4 black segments, 4 brown segments and 5 black segments - so look for a severe onset to winter followed by a mild period and then out with an arctic blast. Oh, and by the way, the whole concept of the Woolly Worm Festival was dreamed up by two guys who were high.

The Woolly Worm Festival offered all sorts of culture, from the folk music to the colorful array of people in attendance. I was lucky enough to procure a hot-out-of-the-fryer funnel cake and Mom selected some delicious apple beignets - deelish. Justin and Eva let Dillon have some funnel cake, and, well, folks, he's from the South - he liked it. But not quite as much as he liked the little maracas Eva purchased from the Cherokee Indian pan flutist.

And so we ended our day of festivals - with sunburn, indigestion and a very happy little boy.

Leaving: Part Four - Going Back

The Return Trip: Observations & Experiences

* It is an entirely different trip when driving east first and west second. Either way, it is still a long, long drive.

* Coldstone Creamery's cake batter ice cream is sinfully good.

* Downtown Wilmywood is still there - I saw it, walked its streets, smelled its river.

* There is nothing like the dark theater, Coke Icees, and a good friend on either side to pass a rainy Saturday.

* I do not wish to see the movie Joshua, as the preview nearly made me cry with fear.

* Waitress is so wonderful and funny and heartbreaking that I can't stop thinking about it.

* I did not look at my office, as I know it is no longer mine. I did help myself to a complimentary Diet Coke and Skittles from the conference room table.

* The emergence of K. Lo.'s personality is extraordinarily entertaining, between the use of the Red Robin crayon box as a cell phone and her constant parade of dance moves. Bonus moment was hearing her say "yum" when fed potato soup.

* STGD's porch is a good thing with its ferns and flower boxes and the creak of the porch swing and a beer in hand and Lenny looking for lizards and the breeze and the rain. And us laughing. Always laughing.

* Weirdly, it has not rained here or there since I left. Last night, it poured both places.

* Uninterrupted girl time to discuss hair (cuts, color, and styling tips), fashion, boys, and life in general is very important to the soul.

* Mel's cat Oliver has something urgent to say. I only wish I knew what it was.

* It is a bittersweet reminder how good it is to have friends to share a meal, a movie, a magazine, a moment.

* My Southern accent is baaaack.

* Grace Street is occupied now but mine in my heart.

* Still some ghosts lurking in Wilmywood.

* Thanks to Mel, Penelope, STGD, and The Boss for kind and insightful life advice. (And to Mel for letting me crash...)

* Nothing could stop the tears as the riverfront disappeared in the sideview mirror crossing the bridge out of town.

An Extension

Some of you brave souls have already thrown your hat - or other body parts (Megan) - in the ring for the last Ashleypalooza t-shirt featuring *me* and designed by the infamous STGD. We said we'd announce the winner today, but I know the judge is not in the office and, well, it is a holiday weekend. So...I'm giving you the weekend to pluck up your courage and compete! Last chance - bid here or below. All entries will be counted. Winner on Tuesday - hey, it'll brighten up your return to work after the long weekend!

Done & Undone

Done:
* Stoned kitty sleeping by cat-nipped scratcher near the kitchen
* Filmed various important Wilmywood locations: first office, first apartment, Morton Hall, beach
* Sushi
* Long bath
* Palm Sunday service
* Watching She's the Man (twice)
* Identifying Amanda Bynes ' next teen movie project and duly notifying Penelope
* Almost entire bag of Skittles
* Afternoon nap
* Marathon procrastination
* Agreeing to tap dance at Kim Shable's wedding

Undone:
* Dishes
* Taking the trash out
* Sending out resumes
* Unfinishable proposal I'm writing for work
* Packing
* Bank deposit
* iPod loading
* General life planning
* Learning to tap dance

The Good Stuff

After a somewhat scary experience converting to Blogger Beta, I decided to embrace its new qualities. I'm not as daring as Kim, who gave The Unwilling Adult a blog-lift. But I did go through and tag all my posts so that if you likey one you can find the others like it. I realized going through that I had a lot of complaints on the blog. So in an effort to give you something uplifting in lieu of the traditional negative fare, I give you the following list of good things about the weekend:

* New haircut (that I still like today) * Two books read * Much quality time spent with Kudzu (who very much enjoyed having his belly rubbed) * Finished Season 5 of Sex & the City * Did not eat out once but cleaned out some leftovers and saved money * Had a delicious red apple after dinner * Watched less TV this weekend than I can remember in a long time * Had lovely walk to church and back this morning * Enjoyed back porch reading once again * Felt kindly toward neighbor who was also on his back porch and playing classic rock loudly * Wished Mom & Dad happy 39th wedding anniversary * Talked to the parents-to-be about baby books * Vowed to have better attitude about work than in recent days * Laughed out loud at least twice while reading * Took a nap

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.

One Saturday

I've been thinking about starting a blog for awhile now. The classic "everybody's doing it" reason. I kept thinking of all sorts of things that I needed to share with the world. And now I'm jumping on the bandwagon.

So here it is. My blog, the Kudzu Jungle, the result of a Saturday at home on the couch watching too much TBS.