Audaciously Me - Should I Be?

I am loud.

It's true.

My voice is loud. My laugh is loud. And I'm coming to believe that my personality is just a little bit loud, too.

The first day that I worked at The New Job, I remember being able to hear the whir of the ceiling fans. But the other day, my boss mentioned something about my loudness. And then The Rockstar noted that I was the most likely to say something "wildly inappropriate." And the list goes on. (But, really, STGD, I used to be way worse - you really helped me with "that's a bite.")

Now, I hear my voice every time it breaks the quiet. My laugh sounds like a bark - and I find that I try to swallow it unless it's something really funny. (Am I just reflex laughing anyway?) And before I say something, I run it through a filter. I've stopped talking quite so much, requiring me to literally bite my tongue.

When I think about it, I realize that I talk - a lot. There's one girl in the office who's getting married in three months, and I had to ask what her last name is going to be the other day - because I don't know her fiance's name. But when it comes to me, I'm an open book. I guarantee you all of my coworkers could name my family members, several friends and likely my former coworkers (that's you, STGD).

And I wonder...is this a bad thing? This loud open way that I have? Should I be quieter, listen more, talk less? It's driving my insecurity up a notch or two - and it's rather like this pinup: like finding yourself with your undies around your ankles in the middle of the room. Vulnerable and uncertain, and measuring your steps carefully so you don't end up flat on your face and embarrassed even further.

I don't know if this is me - well, okay, I know it's me. But is it me, or is it a habit I've fallen into? Much like the question I posed in a previous post...should I be more mysterious? Is this an unattractive quality about me and thus something to be refined? Or at the very least, could I give people a reason to wonder what I'm going to say? Instead of just knowing they won't have to wait long for me to say something.

And can I do it? Can I curb this impulse to spit out witticisms and puns and laugh at my own jokes and everyone else's and say everything I'm thinking? I wonder...but I think, nature or nurture, I'm going to take it upon myself to work on shutting me up before someone else tells me to do it.

Partaking in Air-Fairy Navel Gazing

Pen & M have inspired me to contemplate my navel with the utmost airy-fairyness and get all mystical like - you know, use my inner eye.

So here's what we'll be contemplating. The sign we all claim in bars in response to bad pick up lines is our Sun Sign. For me, that's Cancer, and it's the essence of personality. But you also have other signs - your Moon Sign, which represents your emotional core and your Rising Sign, which is what you present to the world. When I took the *very* scientific test to which you are linked, here's what I got:

Moon Sign - Scorpio
The profound Scorpio - moon has a desire to question everything and get to the bottom of everything. They dispose of a strong will and character. They are hard working, reliable and ambitious; there have also been some notorious criminals, scientific investigators and detectives. There is nothing that remains secret for a scorpion - moon. The more mysterious a person, an area or a task appears the more dedicated the scorpio - moon works on the matter - if necessary half of a lifetime. Many people born under this moon sign can benefit of a "magical" charisma. In communication with others they are firm, almost stubborn, often even harsh and obstinate. In relationships they are passionate and honest as long as their pride isn't hurt, then they can be resentful. Although they like very much exploring the souls of others they give very little away of themselves. Nevertheless they work intensively on the solution of their own problems. Only in emergencies will a Scorpio - moon accepts help from outside.

Rising Sign - Capricorn
Old fashioned and conservative, you carry yourself with dignity. You have a tough exterior, and you can be intimidating when you want to be.

Hard working and ambitious, you can survive in the most cut throat work environments. Outside of work, you are a true friend to everyone in your small inner circle.

You may have had a difficult time earlier in life. Capricorns are late bloomers and you may be coming into your own right now.

****
So I'm a crab with the soul of a scorpion who looks like a goat to the rest of the world. Sounds about right. As for that bit about coming into my own right now, lud, let's hope so.

5-7-5: John Mayer Wants a Haiku About His Hair

My dear friend Jenny Ray sent me this People.com article about how John Mayer wants a haiku about his hair. Fresh from a new (no doubt) ultra-expensive cut, Mayer thinks his finger-touchable coif is poetically inspiring. To that, I say, I didn't get an MFA for nothing. I hope John finds one of these fetching enough to rep his new 'do.

Volume is amped up
In rock star guitar riff waves
Lookin' good, Johnny

As Jonathan says
It's all about great har, man
Put some Dirt in it

In a fine feather
Just like Farah Fawcett
In a red swimsuit

Tuesday's Littany

* My toenails are currently painted white. I'm trying it out. For Mom. Who bought the nail polish for herself but wanted to see if it looked too hip for her. I love that woman.

* Suspect that STGD may no longer be reading my blog for lack of posts containing reference to him. BUT, here he is, and as always, my heart beats for no one else. PLUS, will see him in a month which will surely spur posting.

* Which brings me to the fact that I will likely be wearing a swimsuit with former coworkers. Is that weird?

* Contacted on Friday by a Slightly Creepy Single (i.e. not the Creepy Single). Attempted GREAT diplomacy in saying that I'm not interested.

* Currently considering solitary travel - I know, I know. My mother will have a stroke. But surely I can handle three days in New England by myself?

* Had I remembered that Women's Murder Club is set in San Fran, I would've tried harder to set up a meeting with the girls.

* I love this post that I wrote about Kudzu at the Smartini Bar.

* Never EVER try to upload 385 photos to Shutterfly at one time.

* Currently on download list - Toad the Wet Sprocket, Better than Ezra, Soul Asylum. Yes, I'm totally having a "recover your 8th grade year" moment.

In Honor of Tomorrow's Wake Up Call

This Atlanta commute is killing me.

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.

Flirtation Flabbergastation

Flirtation Flabbergastation is a condition, often experienced by single women in a crowded room overly populated by Creepy Singles (homosapien desperatus). Onset includes an uneasy sensation when in the sights of a Creepy Single, clearly approaching to "chat you up." Further symptoms include a slight panic followed by furtive glances and agitation if there is no escape route.

You may encounter a slightly sweaty handshake coupled with overly aggressive eye contact. In turn you may begin to sweat. It may become difficult to smile. You may lose your train of thought in the very uncomfortable situation.

Attempt to alleviate the symptoms with forced laughter and comments on the weather. Focus on the affirmation of being flirted with rather than the alarming need to get away from a Creepy Single. Try not to be suffocated by the air of desperation emitted by his poor attempts to be witty and charming. Instead, use telepathic energy to direct the people near you - anyone? - to save you from the situation.

It is very important to remain calm as Flirtation Flabbergastation takes hold; after all, egos are fragile and treatment must be applied judiciously and with tact.

If symptoms do not subside and the situation becomes chronic, look at your empty glass and excuse yourself. If at all possible, escape without dispensing your business card to avoid a relapse. Try not to vomit when you are unable to do so and instead hand over a small white card with your cell phone number on it. Ugh.

If You're Going to San Francisco...

* Be ready to pay with cash (SF is a town without credit)

* Wear comfortable shoes

* Read the map scale carefully ("a few blocks that way" can be deceiving)

* Beware of THE FOG

* Good luck finding Hayes Valley

* Know that "hills" is an understatement (particularly the Russian ones)

* Do not eat at Lori's Diner (to be regretted the next morning by all parties)

* Wear your elastic pants to Ghirardelli Square

* Pack an extra memory card for the 385 photos you will take

* Get scared by The Bushman

* Check out the Get Offs at the Hemlock Tavern (only if you have industrial strength ear plugs)

* Try not to get killed by the rabid cyclists

* Skip Shakespeare's Gardn [sic] at Golden Gate Park. Jenn's description is far more satisfying than the actual garden.

* Contemplate that the Japanese Tea Garden is worth seeing but maybe not $4 worth seeing and how you would've been much less disappointed if you'd only had to pay $2.

* Avoid the cable car with the scary herky-jerky driver

* See the sea lions

* Prepare yourself for smells ranging from garbage to urine to beer to homeless people to dirty bay water to unidentifiable odors that you'd rather not even contemplate what they actually are.

* Buy art from Eduardo Gustav on Fisherman's Wharf

* Meet up with old friends

* Spend too much money

* Flirt with the European boys on the pier

* Get chills in isolation #13 at Alcatraz

* Giggle on the giggle hallway in the Powell Hotel

* Be prepared to be very, very, very sad when you have to leave

The End

Pack up stuff - check under the beds for lost shoes and misplaced books * Retrace steps...back to the BART, back to the airport * Take Dramamine again * Listen to music as appropriate (Counting Crows as a tribute to Berkeley/SF? David Gray for wistfulness?) * Worry over whether to sleep or stay awake to combat jet lag * Experience total place and time confusion over leaving at noon and arriving at nearly nine o'clock * Collect baggage * Find Mom * Head home

Last Day

First thing, tour Alcatraz, knowing full well it's the touristy thing to do but dying to do it anyway * Break out telephoto lens for good bridge shots on the way to the island * Consider hocking up $20 for the bay tour to boot - Eva and Justin said it's worth it. * Must do something happy following Alcatraz - Jenn's caveat for going * Consult list - what do we need to check off? * Ride the cable cars one more time * Take a bazillion more photos * Make Niki and Jenn pose in front of SF landmarks and smile for the 20th time * Fall in love with the city * Decide I don't want to leave * Have something spectacular for dessert

One

One year ago today, I moved.

One year ago today, something horrifying broke inside me and every pain I felt about leaving came rushing out.

One year ago today, I looked out the window on the big tree outside for the last time.

One year ago, I paced across those wide-board wooden floors and locked the door.

One year ago, the echo of my footsteps in the hallway was loud and hollow.

One year ago, I sat in my car at the stoplight at Fourth and Grace.

One year ago, I looked in my rearview at the yellow stucko and the red tin roof and the black curls of wrought iron.

One year ago, I drove away.

One year ago, I said goodbye.

One year ago, I crossed the bridge.

One year ago. And sometimes, I can't help myself from looking back.

Easy Like Sunday Morning

Happy Birthday to Jenn! Happy Birthday to Jenn! * Planning brunch with unlimited mimosas * Trip to Golden Gate Park * Possibly tour the deYoung Museum * See HAT! - first time in four years * Consult advice from Lauren, Daisy, and Mendacious on where to go and what to do - and most importantly, where to shop * Let Jenn choose dinner - something delicious and vegetarian, possibly something ethnic * Make it to Chinatown, Mission, Haight * See the painted ladies * Run into Adam Duritz?

The Beginning

Getting on the plane at 9:45 a.m. * Must take Dramamine * Please don't seat me next to a "talker" * Plan on Nick Drake and a semi-conscious state * Eva says I'll need a snack * Landing on the west coast at 12:45 * Taking the BART to the hotel - it's a snap, I'm sure * Overwhelmed with what I want to see first - everything * Must find See's Candies immediately upon arrival * Take a million pictures * Ask the locals where to go dancing - must shake junk in the trunk * Will wear new dress and new top despite any less-than-seasonable weather * See the Golden Gate * Hope it feels Golden

Leaving on a Jet Plane

At long last - or not so long? - I'm headed to San Francisco tomorrow! I am so excited about this trip for a number of reasons:

1) This is one of the first times I'm traveling for fun.
2) I'm going to see two of my dearest friends for more than 30 minutes and not under the circumstances of a funeral.
3) I have never been to San Francisco
4) The success of this trip may give me the little push I need to get my ever-loving passport (for Mendacious, obviously).

I will not be taking the computer. I've decided to go cold turkey on the Internets for the duration of our trip. However, do not despair! For behold, I give you photos of the darling child and the promise of posts magically appearing in my absence. See y'all Tuesday!

Thursday Thoughts

* I have been up before 6 a.m. the past two days, which is completely counter to my nature. It's 9:30, and I gotta tell ya, I'm dying here.

* I saw friends this evening - yes! finally! - and I got hugs. At least...let's see...one, two, three. Three solid hugs. Solid.

* Packing list for San Fran? Sadly short. Must get on it. Leaving Saturday.

* Was in Atlanta yesterday to meeting with One Who is Expecting about a campaign I'll be taking over parts of when she delivers. Big campaign. National exposure. So jazzed.

* Am in love with my new hair. I'm sorry, but there probably won't be pictures until after I come back from Cali.

* Dillon and Eva came to the office today for lunch at The Grit. Dillon told my boss what an elephant says. He also had a very nice conversation with the stand-up of Capt. Kirk in the corner of his office.

* Novel by favorite author set aside just for San Fran trip. Also new issue of Real Simple in the mail today.

* Please enjoy these photos, taken by Eva, that demonstrate just how far I'll go to amuse my nephew. I was blowing bubbles, by the way. And he liked it. Which made this ridiculous pose all worth it.

Solicitation

Dear Institute of Higher Learning in a Coastal Location in the Northernmost Carolina:

I would say that I appreciated your call this evening, but I really didn't. I could tell it was going to be that kind of call. The kind where you've propped up some poor freshman kid in a cube with a phone list, so he can pretend to care how I'm doing and then hit me up for money to support ye olde university because I know how important that money is to kids like him.

But the truth is, I don't know what it's like for kids like him, because if someone like me now gave funds for students like me then, it sure didn't make it down to me. If I recall correctly, you didn't see fit to provide the grad labs with printer paper back in the day. And our classrooms in the language arts buildings? I don't think you've allocated any funds to them since 1970.

And while we're talking about funds, let's get one thing out in the open: you never allocated funds for me. When I was there - when I was a student like him - you didn't have a dime to spare for me. Not one red cent. You didn't really want me there; you robbed me blind because I was out-of-state. And in general, you were sort of careless and didn't take much time to form any sort of bond with me. In other words, I don't really feel the teal.

Let me clarify that I'm not totally dismissing the years we shared. But let's face it - I was a giver and you were a taker. So don't come calling me and asking me for money. Just because I have a good job now, don't think I'm going to be flipping any funds your way - especially not the $150 contribution you were asking for right off the bat.

What if I had just called you up back in the day and asked for a hundred and fifty bucks? Yep. That's right. What goes around comes around.

C U by the Sea,
Resentful in Ga.

Dear Universe:

I don't know if you've noticed, but so far, my 2008 hasn't been that stellar. So one could understand why I am so very excited to be traveling to San Francisco this weekend with two very dear and wonderful friends. And one could also conceive why I am not amused about what just happened to me while talking on the phone to Kim Shable. I would be referring to the sudden appearance of gigantic itchy red welts on my chin and cheek. The ones that - upon closer examination - ran across my forehead and up to my hairline and then trailed down my neck to my chest and back.

I have taken a shower. Scrubbed twice. Downed two antihistamines and slathered myself in a Benadryl cream. And you know what? Now my lip is swelling.

I'm sure that if I dug down deep, I could find some dark humor in this. Some irony. Some glib line about Murphy's Law. But let me tell you something, Universe. I am tired. I am not interested in digging deep and ferreting out a comfortless cliche. I am going to San Francisco. And I will not stand for looking like a freak. And if I have to walk around with a giant epi pin sticking out of my leg, so be it. But, really, it would be easier if you would simply concede and return my face and body back to normal, reduce the size of my lower lip and not approach constricting my airways.

Thank you so much. You're charming. Really.

xoxo,
Spotty Ash

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.

Confession: I Am In Love, Part 2

Today, I am in love with Adam Duritz. That is all.

Hump Day Listmania

* I discovered today that our dear intern is an avid S&TC fan and she is willing to include me in her viewing party for the big screen debut if I can't see it with one of my long-time S&TC gals.

* I am working on a skit. Yes, a skit.

* Today was my boss' birthday, so we took his freshman year high school yearbook picture, blew it up to 11 x 17 and created a Warhol wall in the colors of the Mountain Dew label - his drink o' choice - on the outside of the cubes.

* I'm reading a book I don't particularly like but feel compelled to finish anyway.

* One of my clients was reported on by the university's student-run television news program. It wasn't a particularly favorable story, but the dramatic hard-nosed journalism attempt by these fluffy girls is hi-larious.

* Still eating Skittles.

* The Dillman cometh this weekend.

* Is Ashlee Simpson pregnant? Do I care? (Okay...maybe a little...idle curiosity...)

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.

This is a List

"This is a list of the things I should've been but I'm not. This is a list of the things I should've seen but I'm not seeing...So won't you please look at me?" --Adam Duritz, "Cowboys"

Should've Been
* More forgiving

* Willing to say the words that were on the tip of my tongue when I wondered if I should say them

* Able to cross a room, smile charmingly at a perfect stranger

* An author

* Comfortable with the unknown

* British

Should've Seen
* Hyde Park

* Last full moon

* Threads coming together, woven from the past forward to the present

* How different love is for different people

* David Gray live in concert

* Me for me

Confession: I Am In Love

I have discovered Romance Novel Heaven. Seriously. I stumbled upon this little bookstore that's been around for quite some time in my little hometown. It's lodged between a drycleaners and some other nondescript business. You'd never really take notice of it smack dab in the middle of a brick front strip center adjacent to the neighborhood that cropped up when I was in high school and was where we thought the nouveau riche were taking up residence.

But on the inside...I was blown away. Any bookstore in which the shelves are not only alpha, but alpha in sections with labels like "Paranormal Romance," "Mystery Romance," and the length of one shelf entirely devoted to the various Harlequin series in numerical serial order is my kind of place. I confess, like Augustus Gloop set loose in Willy Wonka's factory, I could've stayed in there all day browsing the titles under "Historical Romance" and the shelves whose labels noted space dedicated to some of my most guiltily favorite authors.

And it gets even better - it's a used bookstore. So, almost like a library, I can read, return and revolve. It's a never-ending supply of smutty romance novels being browsed simultaneously by other slightly smug looking women who are piling one Bachelor Chronicle on top of the other.

Just like most of the roguish heroes in these novels, this discovery is so bad, yet so good.

Belly Up to the Bar

Despite my abysmal showing on Swing State, I have been invited to the bar - the Smartini Bar, that is. Spearheaded by Megan (Head Smartini Wench), we've opened a new establishment in the blogosphere for those of you with a taste for sass. Bringing you thoughts on all manner of things, we'll also be serving up some weekly specials that will give you (sometimes bizarre) insight into the minds of your Smartenders. Please stop by - the drinks are on us.

You Don't Even Have to Give Me a Penny

* Another 4:45 wake up call tomorrow

* Kudzu, and how he seems to know right now that I need him, so he's hanging out with me on the couch

* That John Mayer's latest blog entry further convinces me that we would be really good friends

* Feeling really good about going paperless on my Chase credit card statements because they gave $5 to the World Wildlife Fund because I made the switch

* What's going to happen with Miranda and that devilish rake Jack in the book I'm reading

* My six-month review at work which was unbelievably good...maybe I can do my job

* Friends...far away and across the table tonight. It's good to have 'em.

* The Olympics protesting...I can't quite decide what I think is the best course of action. Read the article unearthed by HAT for an interesting perspective

* Whether to wear pantyhose or go bare-legged to the meeting with the law firm tomorrow. My legs look dreadful.

* Haircut plans. It is time. I am scheming.

Les Fleurs du Printemps

Tidy Blog

So, for whatever reason, it's really been annoying me that the Post-Potter Blog was just kind of hanging out there. Abandoned. Sad. It annoyed me to see it on my dashboard. And in the sidebar. So in an effort to keep things neat and tidy (and keep the OCD in check) I have added Post-Potter to the annals of Kudzu Jungle. You can find it (if you're so inclined) by searching the tag "Post-Potter Blog."

And the photo blog? That I was supposed to finish in December? Yeah, well, it went the way of the dodo, too. Let's face it. You're forced to look at my photos enough here - why would you go elsewhere.

But please don't forget Swing State. Yes, I've been remiss in posting, but Kim's friend Matt has been soldiering on, so there's still political wonderfulness to be had.

Thank You,
Housekeeping

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.

Threesdays: Music News that Makes Me Tingle

Coldplay - Viva la Vida or Death and All His Friends - the announced title of the new album due out this year

Keane - At work on their as-yet unnamed album due out September 2008. The band is posting pictures from the studio as their site's landing page. (Today's is very cool...)

Ray LaMontagne - Site says "Details about the new record coming soon."

Yeeeee!

I Have Seen You Lately

When I heard the news that the Counting Crows were dropping a new album this spring, I was hesitantly hopeful that I would find some classic Crows melodies on the new disc. With all that's been going on, I'd almost forgotten it. Then I heard Adam Duritz talking about the new album on VH1 one morning while I was getting ready for work. I dashed into the other room to see the new video for "You Can't Count on Me." And Duritz looked good - no longer sporting the bizarre long dreads in a topknot and having slimmed down from an alarmingly bloated version of himself. Then I read several interviews about the new album in which Duritz talked about his spiral into despair as he struggled with mental illness, finally getting diagnosed with dissociative disorder. Being that I so recently went through a bout with my own mental health, I decided that for old time's sake and to support the newly-recovered Duritz, I'd pick up the new album.

I'm delighted to report that the boys are back. Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings is their most cohesive, most well-concepted and richest album since This Desert Life - possibly even since their sophomore smash, Recovering the Satellites. Recorded in two different sessions, the first half, dubbed Saturday Nights, was recorded in New York and is filled with lyrics of gritty dissolution and sharp-edged sound. Sunday Mornings, the disc's latter half, was recorded in Berkley and explores the restorative nature of piecing life back together.

Throughout the album, the songs are like wonderful, poignant echoes of the Crows' previous work. In the lyrics and sometimes the melodies, threads of former themes slide through the new songs. It feels like they were very intentional about brining back their own work in thoughtful ways. "Insignificant" sounds like a sister song to "Have You Seen Me Lately?" - one of my all time favorite Crows' songs. The opening lines "Can you see me/up on the building/from down on the pavement/or out in the crowd?" hearken back to that idea of invisibility in a crowd. "Cowboys" has an intro reminiscent of "Rain King" and "When I Dream of Michaelangelo" clearly connects to "Angels of the Silences" with an acoustic call-back. Something about "Washington Square" is reminiscent of "Omaha" - maybe in its wandering lyrics.

And "On a Tuesday in Amsterdam Long Ago" is close to edging out "Colorblind" as the prettiest song the Crows have ever recorded. "Hanging Tree" is a really great song, too, with a 70s rock drive and great harmonies. "Come Around" appropriately closes the disc on a high note, apropos of "St. Robinson and His Cadillac Dream".

The disc is balanced between ballad and rock anthems, blending the alt-country and guitar-driven rock that marked August & Everything After and Recovering the Satellites. Duritz shows more control of his voice, keeping his trademark plaintive wailing (which I happen to love) to a few well-placed whines. And Charlie's piano and Dan's guitars sound better than ever. It feels like Counting Crows at their best - their voices mixing beautiful, their playing ripe with energy. And it's just complex and layered and yet effortless. The album feels good.

I'm a big fan - and somehow, this album makes me feel weirdly hopeful, like in recovering the Counting Crows, I'm recovering a little piece of myself.

Saturday Nights &...
1. 1492
2. Hanging Tree
3. Los Angeles
4. Sundays
5. Insignificant
6. Cowboys

Sunday Mornings
7. Washington Square
8. On Almost Any Sunday Morning
9. When I Dream of Michaelangelo
10. Anyone But You
11. You Can't Count on Me
12. Le Ballet d'Or
13. On a Tuesday in Amsterdam Long Ago
14. Come Around

The New Theory of Relativity

Motion is defined by a point of reference.
There are two directions in which you can move - backward from the date of death or forward from it. All things are defined by this point - a nondescript Monday evening in February when the wind was cold and dry. Perhaps it was the wind that defined the motion, sweeping away all that came before and bringing in the chilling days that followed.

***

There is the other point, the great leap of faith from the shores of North Carolina back to the red clay hills of Georgia. The movement from that to this. The movement of time from there to here. The shift in self from the person I was then - so uncertain, so broken, so full of questions - to the person I am now, forged in flame and still standing.

Space and time are relative.
Distance from the point of reference is widened as the days pass. But relatively speaking, the space isn't making the passage of time any easier. As the chasm between then and now broadens, the pain shifts from the sharp, knife-twisting pain to the persistent weight of a leaden heart. And though the weeks roll past, the space of it from everyday life isn't easing. It is there, in your face, on your mind, demanding your attention every second of every day.

***

It's 385 miles from here to there. It's almost been 365 days since I left. The distance sometimes seems other worldly, and the time, another life entirely.

There is no motion greater than the speed of light in a vacuum.
In an instant - the flicker of light hitting the back of your retina, reflected piercingly through the lens - in the vacuum of a sterile white room, life passed. One breath emitted quietly, one last heartbeat against the cavity of a failing body. No motion greater than this - the final falling of the chest and life extinguished, all the light fleeing the world for a moment.

***
This motion swung swiftly through my world like an unmerciful pendulum severing all the lines of second thoughts and uncertainty. On the heels of the light leaving the room, all my questions followed. I stood certainly on polished eggshell white tiles, my hands seeking those of my brother, my father, my mother, my sister, my sister-in-law, and I said, "I am here."

Mass increases as velocity increases.
The faster you try to outrun this tragedy, the greater the weight of the shackles that bind you to it. You can try to escape, pushing one foot in front of the other, call it "going forward" or "moving on", but the truth is, the speed at which you move only heaps the heaviness of heartache upon you, bringing you slowly but surely to a full stop. The sadness alone will determine speed - however achingly slow it wishes to pass, it will do so, without regard to how heavy the burden is to carry.

***
I am running a hundred miles an hour against the wind trying to make sense of this world in which I find myself. And everything I try to outrun is just clinging to my back. Flying unfettered behind me are all sorts of ghosts - sometimes, the ghost of my apartment in the golden spring light; sometimes the job where I felt so sure and accepted; sometimes the friends who knew me soul-deep. And I imagine myself with exacted light steps that fall to the earth with the heaviness of all the filmy white memories streaming behind me.

Mass and energy are equivalent.
This heaviness finds its way into your bones, making them leaden. This heaviness steeps in your veins and dilutes energy. Every time you stand, you are assaulted by lethargy. Every time you think about your heart, you are exhausted. Every time you think of all of the life that has left your sister, you realize that there is nothing left with which to fight.

***
For so long, I fretted over whether I'd done the right thing and gone the right way. I carried the burden of my decision around in my pocket, pulling it out from time to time to reflect upon it. With feverish energy, I reviewed it from every possible angle until there was absolutely no stone left unturned - until there was a rote memory of what lay beneath each stone.

Time is dependent on the relative motion of the observer measuring the time.
Others are simpling measuring days on the calendar. Today is Tuesday. Next week there's a holiday. When can we schedule this meeting? And I see the days marked by days forward from it and days since it happened. And as everyone moves through life, heedless of what happened, I seem to have come to an abrupt standstill.

I'm not sure how to go about redefining the time. I'm not sure how to be a different kind of observer. I'm not sure when the day that Ronnie died will stop feeling like a nightmarish Maypole around which I keep twisting and twisting...

***
The days have ticked off the calendar with astounding speed - at the time, those days seemed to go by with impudent slowness. And yet, here it is, that time when I almost can't say "this time last year" anymore without including a geographical shift. And with that point of reference diminished, I know that there will be nothing left to observe other than the days trickling away from the very worst day of my life. And even as we move forward, it will be a long time before we can say anything is "good" or "happy" or "joyful" without the suffix, "relatively speaking."

Wisdom, Stumbled Upon, Worth Sharing

One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now.

--Annie Dillard

Confessions of the Strange but True

* Tonight I attended a sheep shearing. I also correctly identified a tool used for castration.

* I have taken to wearing a velour track suit cast off to me by Anna who received it as a Christmas gift from her in-laws. I am so ashamed.

* I bought three pair of shoes this weekend. And two of them were comfortable. I know. I don't know what's wrong with me.

* I went to a groundbreaking today for the very first hotel in my home county. Scout's honor.

* In the office NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament pool, I am currently in 51st place out of 51. There goes my $5.

Threesdays: I'm Just Not That Into You

* Amy Winehouse: her whereabouts, her in-and-out relationship with rehab, her crazy husband who is currently incarcerated, her signature beehive, her insistence on wearing ballet slippers everywhere...and her music. Yeah, I don't get it. I didn't drink the Kool-Aid. It's just not that great to me.

* The Hills: Lauren and Heidi and Audrina and...I don't even know anymore. Everyone's all aflutter over whether or it's real or fake, and I just can't watch a show featuring a guy who's last name is "Pratt." I mean, I get that it's entertainment, and if you dig it, so be it. But me? So disinterested.

* Ashley Dupre: I really don't care about the high-class hooker that got Elliot Spitzer booted from the NY Gov's office. I don't care how much Larry Flynt offered her to pose for Penthouse. Or that she was spotted on Girls Gone Wild as an 18-year-old. I don't care where she lives or what her sad, sad story is. I don't want to be her friend on MySpace. And I'm not sorry.

Dillon: 14 1/2 months

Makes: Animal noises: chicken = bok, duck = ack, and monkey = ooh ooh (accompanied by shoulder motions); refusal to speak of what a kitty or doggy says

Says: please, outside, more, again, ball (pronounced "baaawllll")

Wears: Size 5 shoes, big boy pants, most of his meals

Walks: Leading with the belly, arms unpredictable

Watches: Baby Einstein's Animals in the Neighborhood (except for the part with the cat mobile), Mickey Mouse Club, Curious George, and The Wonder Pets Save the Unicorn (possibly the most bizarre children's show I have seen yet...)

Grows: Teeth - an even dozen - 12 teeth!!, a thatch of baby-fine white blonde hair

Eats: Nana Bread (otherwise known as Mom's homemade sourdough bread), dried apples, and yogurt

Firsts: Haircut, Easter basket

Dances: To the banjo music on the Leapfrog magnetic barn and the marching band version of "The B-I-B-L-E."

Learned: How to give Anna's dogs treats, blow kisses, open markers (uh-oh)

Continues: To be a delightful and hilarious little boy, to make us smile, to remind us of innocence, to steal my heart

Ronnie in Sketches

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Own Words Come Back to Haunt Me

"But somehow, it was a reminder that the innocent suffer for no apparent reason. That in an instant, something that brought great joy into this world was gone. That there is no rhyme or reason to it. That it's not anyone's fault. And perhaps worst of all, that something like this, some inexplicable terrible thing, will happen again. Sooner or later. And there's nothing I can do it stop it. Death creeps up; it lurks around the corner. Whether it comes for the pets or the people that you love, when death comes, you just have to live with it."

--July 1, 2007

Rock-a-bye Baby, in the Treetops

These photos were taken last month before...well, before. But I loved them and wanted to share.
Besides, life is just a little better with cute photos of the Dillman.

Multiple Choice

Today while walking to a meeting downtown, I spotted a license plate on a slightly older model pickup truck that read: IDOSKN. I do skin?

This person is
A) A dermatologist
B) A taxidermist
C) A tattoo artist
D) A porn star
E) All of the above

Ready for the Big Time?

Thank you, Tempe, for bringing this to light. I'm giddy. It just makes me giddy. And I watched it...twice.

On My Sleeve

Even though one of my New Year's resolutions was to "blog it out", I wonder sometimes if I say too much. I've never been known for my poker face or my bluffs. Like ol' Geo Washington, I cannot tell a lie.

But there's a difference between telling a lie and telling everything you know. And sometimes, I wonder if I err on the side of showing my hand when it really isn't necessary. I wish I was more mysterious, more of the kind of person that intrigues. But the truth is, I tend to blurt out whatever's on my mind whether or not I'm asked to share it. I often say that I'm a teller - I'll tell you anything you want to know about me. I'm a walking Freedom of Information Act.

I suppose in some ways that's how I interpreted blogging it out - using the blog as a forum to sort through things "out loud." Puzzle through whatever is on my mind and come to some conclusion.

But sometimes, I think I've got my thoughts too much on my sleeve. I feel like Slim Goodbody - all my insides on the outside, exposed. Which is my own fault. No one's forcing me to tell what I tell...but is it too much? It was all good and well for Slim to have his spleen on the outside, but I wonder...does everyone wish I'd stop venting mine?

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.

Running on Empty

I've been operating under the misconception that grief gets better day by day, inch by inch. The truth is, it's three steps forward and two steps back. Or maybe it's that everything is forward, it's just that some of the forward motion still hurts like it's fresh all over again.

With unexpected death comes unexpected emotions. I've been withdrawn. I don't know what to say or do. I've clung to solitude and the shelter of family. Because when I'm alone or when I'm with them, I'm with someone who feels what I feel.

I feel guilty that I'm being neglectful of friends. I know everyone's life is still going on and that good and bad things continue to happen. And besides that guilt, there is the guilt that I'm a little bit frustrated that my own life isn't going on. Everything is focused on getting through this time, which means we're supporting Anna, which I want to do. But this weekend was the first in over a month that I've been at home, and I resent a little bit (it's so hard to say aloud) that I was just starting to think about getting out there and getting a life and now life is different.

I'm fighting it all, too. I'm fighting the solitude. I'm fighting against myself to seek other people out and talk to them. I'm fighting the guilt. I'm fighting these feelings of frustration that seem so selfish and wrong. I'm fighting and fighting until there's no fight left.

And that's where I was when I got to Thursday - having tossed and turned through another restless night, having fought through the feelings all week. And I crashed. I just crashed. I almost didn't make it through work.

That's when I realized that I can't run like this for weeks at a time. Because day by day, inch by inch, it will get better. But the road is so long, that it's going to be many, many weeks before we get down it. I can't run on empty for all that time. So whether it's two steps back, whether it's selfish, I've got to take some time to focus on myself or else I'm just going to have a complete breakdown and be stranded along this long road, no good to anyone.

26 Grün Balloons

Ronnie coached baseball for many years, and he always wore the 26 jersey. No one knows why, but at every school, whatever the mascot, whatever the colors, he had 26 on his back. Last week, two of the high schools in the county faced off in a baseball game. All of the gate receipts and concessions went to the scholarship fund Anna established in Ronnie's memory.

But before the game, they had a moment of silence and released 26 green balloons. Those of you who know Anna will know the significance of the color. One of the students took this picture. I thought it was lovely and sad. Anna's in the lower left.

Dear VH1,

Sometimes in the morning, I turn on your channel to enjoy a little music while getting ready for the day. I'm a pretty regular viewer - five days a week on average. So please consider my request to stop playing the Alicia Keys video for "Like I'll Never See You Again" between 7:30 and 8. It's not anything against Alicia Keys - I think she's lovely. And I'm sure it's a very popular video that a lot of people enjoy, but the whole hospital scene in the beginning with the panicked voices and the heart monitor? I cannot handle that right now. And unfortunately, that's the very beginning of the video and I'm always in the other room so it's only when I hear that flat-lining noise that I know to change the channel and after that, it's a moot point. I've been through a lot the past few weeks, so I really feel like I'm entitled to this one small request.

Thanks so much,
Ash

March Madness

In the aftermath of Ronnie's death, I thought I would need to talk. I thought I would be going through my cell phone and calling everyone, finding someone to talk to every night. I don't know what I thought I would say. But I certainly didn't think I would say...nothing. The truth is, I think about calling my friends - all of the wonderful people who said, "Call me if you need me." And I want to call, if nothing else to just say thank you for the offer. But I can't. It's like I am rendered speechless at the very thought of trying to express anything to anyone. I have been struck dumb by this situation, unable to find words that have any meaning.

***
Last night, Mom wanted to know if I wanted anything to eat before bed. I said no, I would be fine. What I meant was, no my stomach is revolting. I'm taking my medicine dutifully every morning, but it's just...not enough. Under the circumstances, what could possibly be enough? And so, everyday, there is some point in the day that it fails me. There is some moment when I think about Anna being alone, I think about what she's going through (or try to imagine it) and it comes at me in a huge wave. My face burns, the acid pours into my stomach, and my mouth quivers. It's coming - The Panic is coming and I'm too tired to fight it. Most of the time, it just hovers there, threatening, as though it might be taking pity on me.

***
The last week, I've been having terrible nightmares. I don't know what they're about...they're not storied dreams. Rather they're like bright flashes and scenes, some real and some conjured from the darkest parts of my subconscious. Whatever they are, they are terrifying. I wake up sweating - not perspiring - sweating with rivulets running down my torso, my shirt wet, my sleep pants soaked. And the waking is always sudden, always as though I have just gotten to that moment where I can't take anymore and I have to tell myself, "This isn't real." And I lay in the darkness, eyes open, panting softly, miserable in my damp pajamas, and think that what is real isn't that much better.

Coupons

As some of you may know, Anna clips coupons. Like clockwork on Sunday afternoon, she would clip scads of coupons from the AJC. And from time to time, she would mail them to me. Fat envelopes stuffed with buy-one-get-one frees and $1 off Tidy Cat and Swiss Miss hot chocolate - all tucked inside some humorous card or a note that said, "Thinking of you." Sometimes I would use the coupons, and sometimes they expired in the mail pile because I am a thousand times less organized than she is. But she knows what kind of shampoo, contact solution and toothpaste I use - and she'd send me the coupons accordingly.

Last weekend, amid all the chaos of getting documents in order for the probate and this and that, she sat quietly on the couch for half an hour and carefully trimmed out the week's coupons. Justin and Eva were awarded all coupons pertaining to baby supplies. And Mom was given those for coffee and asundry items that we use and she doesn't. After awhile, she murmured, "This is like therapy." And when I needed the IcyHot Patches, she said, "I have a coupon for that!"

Tonight we pulled in the driveway around 9 o'clock. I feel like I haven't had a weekend. The kitchen table is covered with piles of opened mail, sorted and read and tossed into a great heap of condolences and bills. There's dirty laundry spilling out of the hampers; I need to change the sheets on my bed, long overdue for a fresh set. Dad walked through the house looking at the mess and mayhem in every corner and said, "Let's just burn the house down and start over."

He sat at the computer, reading the financial news, and Mom opened the weekend's newspapers. I looked at the stack of inserts she set aside from the middle of the Sunday paper. I went and got the scissors. I started clipping, neatly trimming the sides until I had a stack of coupons. "What are you doing?" Dad asked. "She rubbing off on you?"

"Sort of," I said. "I'm going to write her a card, send them to her." Because I can't do anything to make it better. Because I can't fix it. I'm just going to give her coupons for Advil PM and Nestles Treasures chocolate candy.

This Idea Has Merit

"My new goal in life is to come up with my new reality show called Project Britney where I transform her and I save her life and make her the most fabulous person ever! She needs a gay! She has no gays! Have you ever noticed that? She has no gay boys helping her! She only has straight people and, no offense, but straighties don’t know how to fix the divas! It’s so weird! I’ve never seen any gay stylists working her."

- Christian Siriano, Project Runway Season IV winner