The -ings of the Last Week

* Getting my hair cut - my favorite thing - which involved talking to my stylist about the line dancing craze of the early 90s

* Attending the farewell show of The Rockstar's band at the 40 Watt. He's moving to Barcelona to pursue his music. And I am sad.

* Putting together a photo book of San Francisco on Shutterfly. It's so awesome, I can't stop looking at it.

* Meeting up with my dear Jenny Ray and her husband Nick for drinks on Friday night. She got to see the aforementioned red shoes, and we caught up on all sorts of things - like hugs!

* Winning my first account for the firm on Thursday. Hooray!

* Enjoying lunches with my parents while Dad spent the rest of the week at home recovering.

* Missing Dillon. I didn't get to see him Father's Day weekend in all the hospital madness.

* Catching up on blogs.

* Sorting through old photos - Jenn, I found some oldies, but goodies. Like your college graduation party?

* Taking many, many photographs to complete the photo game. 20 photos down and six to go.

* Shopping too much - I am enacting a moratorium on new clothing purchases.

* Thinking. A lot. About life and love and the pursuit of happiness.

* Gaining perspective on the here and now.

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.

WANTED

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

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

Tips should be directed to the comments section.

Don't Look Before You Leap

Nice shot, T Shawn!

The Arsenal

Here's the arsenal to combat the very persistent itchy rash on my upper chest and back:


*Benadryl taken before bedtime to get some antihistamine and alleviate the itching
* Erythromycin (a.k.a. pills the size of horse tranquilizers) twice a day to fight infection
* New soap - Cetaphil Antibacterial, which is what dermatologists recommend for babies

Post-shower with the new soap and before bedtime, apply...
* Sulfur-based lotion to reduce the inflamation
* Prescription-strength hydrocortisone to keep the itching down to a minimum

Diagnosis? Dry itchy skin scratched a lot leads to inflamed hair follicles which get infected...all exacerbated by getting hot and sweaty.

The good news is I am not alone. My Cosmic Twin is using the same soap, taking the same antibiotic and applying sulfur-based lotion for his skin woes. Dermatologist nightmare, activate!

Good Gossip

Ray LaMontagne announced today that he will be releasing his third studio album, Gossip in the Grain on September 9th. The album is cast as LaMontagne's most "creative and emotionally expansive" album yet. More details...

'Whereas LaMontagne's two previous albums, 'Trouble' and 'Till The Sun Turns Black', were largely solo affairs, with Johns serving as multi-tasking instrumentalist, Gossip In The Grain sees him joined by members of his touring band, bassist Jennifer Condos and guitarist Eric Heywood (with Johns largely handling drum duties). Along with his band members, LaMontagne is also joined on two tracks - "A Falling Through" and "I Still Care For You" - by singer/songwriter Leona Naess.'

It sounds like it's certain to be another album I can't stop listening to - but I have to wait three months! Here's the track listing to dream about in the meantime. I'm very intrigued by "Meg White."

1. Let It Be Me
2. Hey Me, Hey Mama
3. Sarah
4. I Still Care For You
5. Winter Birds
6. Meg White
7. Achin' All The Time
8. Henry Nearly Killed Me (It's A Shame)
9. A Falling Through
10. Gossip In The Grain

Where Ya Been?

* Driving around town with a combination of saran wrap, masking tap and garbage bags covering my window

* Coordinating, with careful precision and much switch-a-roo of vehicles, the replacement of the window

* Taking pictures

* Worrying through Dillon's trip to the emergency room after a fall

* Being introduced by Anna to free, highly addictive, mindless online games

* Helping Mom take care of the Ranger cat's teeth

* Trying not to read/see/overhear Sex & the City spoilers

* Having two suspicious moles removed from my back and getting a 76th diagnosis on the persistent itchy rash

* Pondering the reality that Usher's new song (which features Young Jeezy) is really called "Love in This Club" and the lyrics do actually say, "I want to make love in this club" and "I'll be like your medicine, you'll take every dose of me." Plus there's the invitation to do it in the club bathroom. Romantical. I thought it was spoof the first time I heard it.

* Drinking beer with management Friday afternoon at 3 during BITF (Beer in the Fridge)

* "Graduating" from leadership class - a bit sad, actually

* Talking to STGD about seeing him this weekend at the lake

* Babysitting the Dilly Monster

* Keeping Anna company after a particularly trying week

* Forgetting to email people

* Getting stuck reading a book I can't seem to finish

* Eating Italian Cream Cake

* Making to-do lists

* Waiting for the Dems to pick a candidate already

* Not blogging. Oops.

Third Time's a Charm

The first time, I panic. And cry. Kim comes down from her apartment on 6th and keeps me company until the police come. I lament my lost Indigo Girls and the CD player that leaves a gaping hole in the dash front.

The second time, I am annoyed. The water meter cover through the window that destroys the console and causes like $1,500 worth of damage to the car is worse than some of the wrecks I've had. I am comforted only by the poetic justice of knowing that the perps made off with two bags of garbage from my trunk.

The third time, I wonder what the universe is trying to tell me. What is it, I wonder, that I've done to end up sitting in my car again amidst shattered glass waiting for the five-o.

On my way to the car today, I call Kim and I get her voicemail and I say, "Hey, man. I just left the office and I'm getting in the car and...oh...my car's been broken into. There's glass everywhere. I gotta call the cops. I'll call you back." This might surpass the strangeness of the time I told her I was having an allergic reaction and would have to call her back.

I stand out on the sidewalk after calling 911 to wait for the patrol unit headed my way. I call Mom. She's with Anna, who's giving out the scholarship in Ronnie's memory at the local high school. She wants to send Dad home immediately. I say no.

It's hot. My boss comes out and stands with me until the policeman arrives. He's stocky, military haircut, tattoo under his left sleeve. I run through the scenario - I've done this before - and tell him nothing's been taken. The perp didn't even get in the car; all doors were still locked.

The cop asks me, "Angry boyfriend?" I laugh, rather loudly. And then I realized he's serious. "Um, no."

"Anyone else?" I know he has to ask these questions; I mean, that's his job. But the laughableness of it.

"No," I say. "I can't think of anyone who..." Would hurt me? That sounds so Lifetime. Who would do this to me? Total victim. Very 90210. "...who would...be mad at me...like this." Okay, so that totally doesn't make sense, but it was the best I had.

I had a list of things I was going to do when I got home to help Mom around the house. Instead, I fashioned a window out of Saran Wrap and masking tape and cleaned roughly five pounds of glass shards out of my car.

If this was six months ago, I'd no doubt be rather hysterical over the attack on my car. But after a moment in which I said something really maudlin to my mom (thank God the phone cut out), I realized when I called her back that this is small. In the grand scheme of things, it's a few thousand shards of glass.

House Hits Home

Even though I was hopping mad that I missed the season finale of House last week, I somehow didn't find the time to watch the episode on the Internets (thank you, Sus) until yesterday. I wasn't prepared. If you're a fan of the show and haven't caught the season-ender, I warn you not to read further.

If you're not a fan of the show, what you may not know is that House has a knack for taking the bizarre and seemingly-unconnected symptoms of patients and turning it into a diagnosis, all within about 47 minutes. And, sure, patients sometimes die. But in most cases, House comes through.

This week, though, he didn't. Even though he identified the victim - best friend Wilson's girlfriend who also was a former intern under House - he wasn't able to save her. (Note this means that a main secondary character died.) Cause of death? A nasty case of the flu...which prompted her to take a medication that shut down her kidneys after a traumatic bus accident. It wasn't so much the flu part that got me. It was that they rendered her unconcious while they puzzled out the diagnosis and revived her to tell her she's dying.

There was this scene where she's just woken up and all the characters come visit her in a montage. At the end of it, Wilson's holding her and he asks why she's not angry. She says, "Because that's not the last thing I want to experience." And then Wilson tells her he loves her and shuts the life support off - and that was what got me. That is what's still haunting me. Because I couldn't help comparing it to our situation. And wondering, if that last moment, Ronnie had been awake to say goodbye, what would I have said? What would Anna have said? And is it something, the during the night, comes to her in a dream, wakes her up, and makes her grieve all over again for not getting that chance?

Feminist Fatale

Dear Ms. Gerdes,
I read, with great interest, your recent column lambasting the feminist doctrine of Sex & the City. And I must heartily disagree with you that the gals of S&TC are bad for young career women. I'm not sure how you can make that claim when you look at the four women on the show - Carrie, who decided not to give up the career she loved for The Russian; Miranda, who made being a high-powered attorney work with being a mom; Samantha, who's chosen to have neither children nor a husband in lieu of career and a life lived at her whim; and Charlotte, who did give up her career for family - but that's what she wanted to do. And maybe that doesn't qualify for your definition of career woman, but to me, that's the beauty of the show: it's a cross-section of women choosing different careers in ways that work for them.

So why all the bitterness and judgment? Isn't the message there that you can do what you want to do? And isn't that, in and of itself a "feminist" message for women? I think possibly, you should rewatch the episode where Carrie catches Samantha with the Fed-Ex delivery man for a PSA on judgment.

You uphold three people in your column. Gloria Steinham, Hillary Clinton, and Jenna Jamison (really???). While I find Steinham and Clinton inspiring in what they've done making inroads for women everywhere, I don't think they're like me. I don't identify with them. To me, it's taking feminism back to a level that made it hard for a lot of women to swallow by making it radical in its definition. In order to be feminist - and here's where you uphold yourself as "feminist" - you have to renounce marriage and family, devote yourself wholly to your career, and idolize political and social icons. It's taking feminism and limiting it to those who choose this all-or-nothing approach and those who are willing to make a statement with their lives.

That's not me. I don't want to make a statement. Other than that I am a woman and I feel empowered to do what I want to do and that I am still strong and still independent even if that vision of who I am and what I want to be includes marriage and a family. And right now? I am a career woman, but I don't think that's what makes me feminist as much as my belief that women can be whatever they want. I object to the idea that being a wife and mother - whether a SAHM or working mother - is anti-feminist.

Plus, I'd like to remind you that S&TC is entertainment. That's what made it fun. That it wasn't a documentary about Gloria Steinham. That it was about women who had all sorts of insecurities and frailties (not whiny as you suggest) and problems with men and career (I assume you've had these?) and that they looked fabulous while dealing with it.

And lastly, I should probably remind us both that we're talking about a television show. A ground-breaking one. A generation-defining one. A revolutionary one, even. But also one that was written to engage us, make us laugh, make us think. And that in and of itself, should grab it a place in the feminist hall of fame.

So you may be disillusioned by S&TC. But me? I still uphold my pink suede box set with pride.

Viva la Bradshaw!
Ash

Itinerary

While asleep, I go.

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

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

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

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

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

"Green"

Please enjoy this beautiful song I can't stop listening to...

Beer Goggles

Walking downtown for a lunch-time errand.

Pass three guys working a beer distribution route.

I keep walking, but I can feel the eyes. Instead of being outraged or annoyed, this thought pops into my head:

"Yeah, that's right. There's a swing on that back porch."

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.

The Good, The Bad & The Ugly

The Good
*David Gray is likely to have a new album out before the end of the year and he claims it is more like his early work. I am breathless with anticipation.

* Summer hours start at work next week. Hello, 9-to-4 on Fridays!

* Counting Crows are kicking off the Summer in the Park series on Good Morning America on Friday.

* Braves game on Thursday - my first trip to The Ted in almost a decade!

* Getting more and more certain that Dillon's going to be left-handed.

The Bad
* May be in love with a country musician.

* Missed House season finale last night because I am programmed for it to be on Tuesday but, as if the writers' strike wasn't enough, they moved House after it returned. Egads.

* Must work on Friday night. Blech.

* ABC canceled Women's Murder Club. Booooooo!

The Ugly
* My lower back just north of where the good Lord split me, sunburned to the nth degree after weekend yard work. Guess there was a gap between my tank and my shorts.

* My room, scattered with clothes worn over the past three weeks and littered with half-unpacked bags.

* My brain...not a great string of days here in the last 8 to 10

* Envy...the Rockstar heads to Ireland and Spain tomorrow.

* I'm grumpy as hell.

Underwood Underfed?

Dear Carrie,
I know that you won American Idol and let Jesus take the wheel, but I hope He just took the wheel and not your dinner, too. I don't know if it's because that guy is cheating on you that you feel the need to stop eating. But, you know, if he's cheating, he's probably not worth the starvation. Plus, you beat the crap out of his really nice car so that was probably enough. Maybe you were nervous before the Country Music Awards - I mean, like, nervous for six months before because you are looking very Twiggy-esque.

I applaud your lovely blonde hair. And I even dig your gold flapper dress. And those shoes? I'd shove you down for those shoes. Which I could clearly do, because you now weigh about 90 pounds.

Remember when you were on AI and you were all normal-sized? That was good. I mean, you look...hungry. Great, but hungry. So even though Jesus is driving, you should consider asking him to stop for a Happy Meal. Your knobby knees pain me.

xo,
Ash

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.

Berlin Babes

Now this is a little more like it:


The ladies looked even more fashionable at the big screen debut in Berlin. Kristin Davis rocks the shamrock frock, and I absolutely adore SJP's dress. It reminds me of the Big dress. (The first time?) And her hair looks really elegant, although this shot doesn't really do it. Plus I love her shoes. Cynthia Nixon is still showing that clavicle, but the V cut accentuates her features better and gives the illusion at least that the girls are a bit more perky. And though this shot makes it look like there might be some fit issues, Kim Cattrall's tangerine is a much more daring and interesting choice than the red. Overall, a step fashion forward.

Wednesday's Whatevers

* I snapped a photo of Dillon in the lion towel I bought him for Christmas and submitted it to the contest held by the company that sold me the towel - and I won! The prize is not even worth mentioning, but I did win.

* Tonight I didn't get home until 10:15 because I was hanging out with friends. Who would've thought?

* I have been having serious night sweats for the past few weeks, and I can't figure out why.

* Today I was trapped in the bathroom stall while the maintenance man changed the trashcan liner. I decided that silence was the best course of action for the least humiliation of all parties involved.

* We started talking about registering for classes today with our interns; and we gave them the beat down for complaining about online registration.

* I love the smell of citronella candles.

* One of today's headlines on Yahoo was about what a great Dr. Evil impression Pres. Bush does. Really?

* On a presidential note, I do have to give props to the first family for keeping Jenna's wedding private. I mean, I know there were pics out there, but it didn't seem to be a three-ring circus. Good for them.

* Angelina Jolie is officially having twins. So glad that's been cleared up.

* Have an important meeting tomorrow. Any thoughts on what I should wear?

* Cream cheese brownies are divine.

UPDATE:
The winning photo, per Andi's request.

Flower Power

So I'm at work, eating my lunch at my desk (lest you think I'm blogging on company time - I am a good girl) and checking out the latest posts on Perez. The Sex & the City movie premiere was last night in London town (sighs), and the ladies showed up dressed thusly:


Everyone is taking potshots at Sarah Jessica Parker for her over-the-top headgear. But, really? I kind of love it. Isn't that what we all thought was awesome about Carrie Bradshaw? That she wore hot pants, white heels and a gold lame belt pack and somehow made it cool? There are a lot of fashions throughout the six seasons that I personally couldn't pull off, but they dared, and that was what made it wonderful. And honestly? Kristin Davis' dress is a snoozefest, and Kim Cattrall looks like she's wearing a red slinky. I'll give Cynthia Nixon props for her clavicle-bearing black dress, but I'm not sure that it accentuates her best features.

All in all, even though I might not rock a giant green flower tower on my head, I give SJP credit where credit is due - she takes the risks and she works the carpet. You don't get to be a fashion icon by playing it safe in basic black.