emdashery

the end of my fur-lough

2012-02-05T18:43:00.000-05:00

Lulabelle in front, Clementine behind.

More than a year and a half ago, I lost Kudzu. For a time, it seemed that I would never recover, that the hole in my heart would go on forever as a painful void. But gradually, oh so gradually, I started thinking that perhaps some new feline friends could ease the void. Taking steps toward getting new feline friends was another thing entirely.

It wasn't that I didn't know where to go; on the contrary, I know our vet Dr. Geren runs the Magi-Cat Adoption Network. For a long time, I lurked on their site, watching kittens and cats get posted and subsequently adopted. My friend Elizabeth is on the Athens Area Humane Society Board, and I surfed their available cats and kittens, too. But I could never work up the courage to make the call.

Clementine

And so, lucky for me, the cats called me. Dr. Geren lost my email address in a computer snafu over the summer and contacted me so that she could update her records. When I let her know that I was shopping for cats, she said she had the perfect pair - two tabby sisters named Thelma and Louise. Before I knew what was happening, I was picking the sisters up for a trial adoption period.

About three days into the trial, I knew I had new family members. Yesterday, I made it official, adopting Thelma - now Lullabelle - and Louise who is now Clementine. These two sweet sisters have quickly adapted to their new home, romping down the hall, "helping" me check email, and snuggling with my toes at bedtime. Born April 7, 2011, these kittens are 9 months old and 9-pounders already. I'm going to have to get used to sharing the bed.

Clementine

Lulabelle

I still miss Kudzu. I really do. New love is growing for the girls, but that does not entirely diminish the ache in my heart for my lost love. However, Lulabelle and Clementine have given me a reason to come home at night and anticipation for being enthusiastically greeted by two gray furballs. And they do love to be loved and pur accordingly. They make me smile with their love of empty toilet paper rolls and drive me mad in their obsession with the laptop. And I am convinced that we will, the three of us, be a happy little family for years to come.

Lulabelle

Clementine

MLK to 5K: A SingleServe Love Story

2012-01-13T00:40:00.000-05:00

Whenever I tell someone about SingleServe, one of the questions I inevitably get asked is whether or not the volunteering has led to matchmaking. Although it wasn't really my vision for SingleServe to be a do-gooder's Match.com, the query always comes up, and I always just smile and say no. But the truth is, maybe I should start saying yes.

See, about four years ago, when SingleServe started, I met Nikki Smith. She came to one of the first meetings when we were trying to figure out exactly what we were doing. Lucky for me, even though we didn't quite figure anything out, she kept showing up - to our first project at the MLK Day of Service and then to Bike Athens and the Classic City Roller Girls and ushering at the Morton Theater.

Photo by Buck Sharp

Before long, we were hanging out in between SingleServe events. Becoming part of each other's lives over dinners and happy hours and fro-yo. So much so that Nikki Smith came to my family's Thanksgiving this year. And she was my date to the company Christmas party. This picture is from my 32nd birthday party this summer. Now, the two of us are training for a 5K because exercise is really only tolerable with the best of friends by your side.

When I think about it, what I really hoped for when I started SingleServe - aside for doing great things for the community - was friendship. Finding people who were around my age, facing similar situations in life, who were just generally great people. Meeting while volunteering and becoming more than people who stood side by side pulling privet. I can honestly say, as I look toward our fourth MLK Day of Service on Monday, that whether or not SingleServe ever leads to a date for our volunteers, it's already led to true love.

Here's to friends who didn't know what each other looked like without work gloves and with makeup for almost a year. Here's to SingleServing.

Join us on Monday by registering here. You just might find a friend for life while you're planting a tree.

Frollick-tober and Go-vember

2011-11-30T22:03:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid and we had a super awesome Apple II GS, we used the big giant 8" floppy disk to play Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?. It came with a world almanac - like, a book made of paper. Paper! And you had to look up which countries used rupees to determine where that wily Carmen had gone to and nab her on behalf of Interpol. There was no currency exchanged (unless you count trading cookies for hugs) and no embassies had to be applied to, but I did make some tracks the last couple of months.

I was spotted at Mountain Day in early October way up in the hills of Georgia at my alma mater, Berry College. The local cuisine included fried chicken, Dillon-baked chocolate chip cookies and homemade barbecue. Accomplices included several below-three-foot individuals, included those pictured below. Clearly the hat is an attempt at a disguise - but you can't hide that cuteness.

I was then seen heading west into the mountains of North Carolina for the Valle Crucis Fair. It was the kind of crowd you could blend into. Unless, of course, your party included more than one 6-foot-plus man, two toddlers in matching orange coats and a set of twins dressed as pink and blue fuzzy bears. So much for incognito. Traces of the local flora might've been found in my wake since I romped through the hills taking photos.

And then I headed to the eastern part of North Carolina, back to Wilmington, a place I was known to frequent. Spotted at all my old haunts - Grace Street, Deluxe, Wrightsville Beach - I might've been easy to track down. Except, in this case, I actually did pull off a disguise - Shirley Manson for my friend Scott's 40th birthday party.

This old house used to be my house.

This Stupid Girl is Only Happy When it Rains

Still on my tail? You could've found it right where you might most - or least - expect it depending on how well you know me. You might expect that any good Athenian would be found cheering on the hairy dawgs on any given Saturday in October. But the truth is, it was only my second tailgate. With a morning mimosa and a blissfully sunny day in the company of some glamorous cohorts, I relaxed and could've been easily nabbed lolling in the quad beside Memorial Hall.

The incomparable Joneser and Schubert

I didn't stay put long. Back on the road and down (way, way down) I-16 to Savannah. I was on a mission. Transferring some goods at the behest of a client. And while I wasn't to be found on gadding about town, I did manage a clandestine meeting with a good friend who might've been willing to divulge my whereabouts in a little diner on Skidaway Island.

The goods

I was closing in on the end of the great Frollick-tober/Go-vember caper. And what better way to end it than where I started - in the mountains of northwest Georgia with my small accomplices? This time, we were at my sister's house for Thanksgiving. I spoke the language of the natives - giggles. You might've spied me stuffing with stuffing and turkey and sweet potato casserole and deviled eggs. And lest you think I was working alone, I was definitely working under the orders of a tiny dictator - he calls the shots.

Little Napolean

I think she knows the authorities are closing in.

Now I'm relegated back to the couch and my newly acquired Twilight DVD collection (thanks, Target Black Friday Doorbuster!). Me and my tiny henchman and array of colorful accomplices are resting up. But don't worry - this ringleader will be at it again before long, deck the halls and fa-la-la-la and ho ho ho. Christmas capers coming soon.

Overcoming My Slothly Ways

2011-09-18T01:57:00.003-04:00

Lest you think that on every weekend, I'm as industrious as I was on this one, let me update you on today's productivity.

* Finished Ready Player One, a book that, if you grew up in the '80s and have any affinity for the video games of yore, you must read.

* Updated my GoodReads accordingly and demanded that my best friend and at least three others finish and or read it poste haste.

* Browsed the library book sale and scored 30-plus books and a few movies for a mere $20.

* Successfully avoided gameday traffic.

* Added all new books - and there are quite a few from the recent carnage at Borders - to the shelves in the stubrary. Alphabetized and everything.

* In the process, identified at least four books that can be donated to next year's library sale. Including my copy of Sophie's Choice. The. worst. book. ever. (Okay, so maybe Heart of Darkness is the worst, but I've already gotten rid of that one.)

* Assembled my brand new vacuum cleaner, my very first non-hand-me-down model. And, yes, it's only been riding around in the back of the Rav for a week. Details, details.

* Used said vacuum cleaner to clear away the growing colony of dust bunnies in the corners of my room

* Also used vacuum with hose not properly attached, whirling aforementioned dust bunnies into the air.

* Cleaned both bathrooms, which I'm sorry to say, gave me great concern over the amount of hair I seem to shed.

* Emptied the dishwasher. Loaded the dishwasher. Emptied the dishwasher. I sense a theme here...

* Did four loads of laundry which equals no less than eight trips up and down the basement stairs

* Listened to newly procured Adele's 21 album. So late to the party on that one, but it's a masterpiece.

* Changed the sheets on both beds, meaning tonight's sleep will be Snuggle-rific.

* And speaking of sleep...

Labor (of Love) Day

2011-09-06T22:07:00.001-04:00

The passage of time is never clearer than when you have tiny lives to mark it. It's been three months since the twins' arrival and already they're plumping up, smiling, stretching out their legs and showing signs of personality.

Elyssa, the firstborn of the twins, is mostly serious. She furrows her brow a great deal as though she's worrying over us all. Or maybe she's just stressing over whether or not she'll ever have the "e" in her name pronounced instead of just "'Lyssa." Her eyes are bright blue and round and curious. She's a thumb-sucker, but when she can't locate her favorite digit, the other four fingers will do quite nicely. She talks, winding up her arms and legs and forming little o's with her mouth before cooing and grunting with tenacity. She has something to say. She's a bit bothered by my camera. I've assured her she'll get used to it. She looks sweet in the soft pastels that didn't suit her older sister. And even though she's almost a dozen pounds, she still feels petite and delicate when you hold her. And she's a divine little snuggler.

Elyssa, 3 months

Baby 'Lyssa

Ethan, four minutes her junior, is known as "the chunk." As light and elegant as his twin is, he's all muscle or bulk or...something. When you hold him, it's like a load of potatoes. Precious potatoes that you want to squeeze tightly and smooch on the bald, round head. His eyes, which we think are going to be hazel, positively twinkle. Because he's a smilebox. That's what we call him because he smiles a hilarious toothless, gummy smile whenever you talk to him. And he adores his nana - Justin refers to Mama as Ethan's girlfriend because he just gazes lovingly at her with those bright starry eyes. And smiles. He kicks a lot and frets his hands together in what we refer to as "frick-a-prickin," which is why Mama crocheted him a little blue blanket to worry his fingers against.

Our Smilebox

Ethan, 3 months

And it's not just the newborns who remind us of time passing. Dillon went to his first day of preschool on Friday. He's taken to puzzles and can do 100-piece puzzles with just a bit of assistance. He's continuing to amass facts and bits of trivia and stories so that every once in awhile he surprises you with something that you know a 4-year-old doesn't normally know. He's a little theologian with impressive biblical knowledge. He's developing his sense of humor, although it's taking a bit longer for him to grasp the nuance of humor. Justin told him he needed to ask God for a sense of humor, and, bless his heart, he couldn't even remember what it was when it came time to pray for it. For Justin's birthday, he and Reese painted a set of six porcelain monsters. His were named Dezi, Sir Angus and Two-Finger.

Dillon loves Nana bread

Reese isn't lagging behind her brothers and sister. She recently had her first haircut. She's following her brother's footsteps with knock-knock jokes. Hers don't even come close to making sense. She's a princess and a mean fairy and little lion and a ballerina and a mommy to countless dolls. She sings, sometimes songs we know, and sometimes songs only she knows. She scrunches her nose up - only on one side - when she's either a grumpy bear or something's "not her favorite." Things that are her favorite: My Little Ponies, tutus and chocolate milk. Her monsters' names were Effy, Deffy and My Mama's Sister. For the record, her mama doesn't have a sister.

Oh, my sweet, sweet, Reesie. A spunky little one, she is.

Was there ever such a delightful foursome as this?

"The Big Kids"

The Twins

A Joke, by Dillon

2011-09-04T23:04:00.000-04:00

Q: What did the goose say to the boose*?

A: Eyebrow**

*The origins of the word "boose" lie in the mind of Dillon. I have no idea what its part of speech or meaning might be.

**Though I couldn't possibly explain the meaning of this joke (see the above definition of the word "boose"), Dillon's delivery was so charming, I couldn't help but laugh.

Big Accomplishments Today

2011-08-27T22:55:00.000-04:00

* Sleep
* Watched The Proposal, which furthered my love of Betty White

* Watched Easy A, which furthered my love of Emma Stone, but not like in a Jim Carrey way.

* Changed the password to my email so that my friends, family and people long unspoken to in my e-mail contact list will not receive any more offers of Cialis. Or the Beer for Breakfast diet.

* Finished a bag of Gummi Bears purloined from the Kroger $1 bin.

* Sleep.

* Got a hankering for Sunday brunch and scheduled it thusly with the lovely Nikki Smith.

* Made a list of things needed from Walmart, which made it abundantly clear that I am very nearly not going to have sufficient materials to maintain an adequate personal hygiene routine.

* Finally roused up the energy to have a personal hygiene routine.

* Returned my Redbox movies prior to 9 p.m.

* Went to Wallmart where I was remarkably self-controlled until I arrived at the $5 DVD bin which contained Elvis's Viva Las Vegas.

* Procured toilet paper, much needed since I was down to one roll.

* Stripped the sheets from my bed, which I'm sorry to say, were dirty enough to walk themselves to the laundry

* Finished the Double Stuf Oreos so I will no longer be tempted by them.

* Cut my nails, an activity so simple and mundane that I've spent all week dreaming of having five minutes to do it.

* Made a list of things to do tomorrow that will undoubtedly will not get done because, let's face it - every day can't be this productive.

Strip It. Strip It Good.

2011-07-24T23:57:00.001-04:00

With the odds stacked against me after my first trip to Vegas, I had to go back to Sin City just a few weeks later. A nonstop flight delivered me safely to McCann International where a silent cabbie took me back to the strip and deposited me at The Venetian where I was greeted by an accordion player in front of a giant gold-leaf fountain underneath a Michelangelo-style painted dome. Welcome to Vegas.

The hotel hosts a performance of Phantom of the Opera every night, so as you're walking to your room under dainty cherubs and elaborate chandeliers, they're piping haunting organ music and Christine's high notes, which you have to believe make those little glass pendants on the chandeliers tremble. And wonder if some half-masked caped stranger will be on the elevator when the doors open.

Business ended on a Friday night at 6, but my nonstop return flight didn't depart until first thing Saturday morning. As such, I found myself wandering down the strip alone, a stranger in a very, very strange land. Determined to make the best of it, I took in the pirate show at Treasure Island - which, for the record, was preceded by Ini Kamoze's "Here Comes the Hot Stepper" on the loudspeaker. The show itself featured two sirens named Cinnamon and Sugar who lure poor Captain Mack and his decidedly hunky crew aboard their siren ship by singing and gyrating in scanty glittered hot pants. After that explosive show came to an end, I headed to The Mirage for a volcanic eruption and then back to the classics at The Forum abutting Caesar's Palace where all sorts of amazing replica statuary lives. From the heart of Italy, I jaunted to Paris and its Eiffel Tower. And no trip down the strip would be complete without a viewing of The Bellagio fountains, which, for the upcoming Fourth of July holiday, were choreographed to Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA."

After hours of being a quiet watcher among the noisy crowds wearing ginormous test tubes of multicolored alcohol and of studiously ignoring casino barkers and those peddling the seedier side of Vegas who made me walk like Mary Katherine Gallagher to keep them from putting things in my hands, I headed back to the Phantom's lair. I captured my journey entirely on my iPhone and assembled my bizarre evening on the strip into a little photo book. Me and Vegas aren't at odds anymore, but frankly, if I play my cards right, I won't be going back any time soon.

Click here to view this photo book larger

32

2011-07-06T00:35:00.001-04:00

Photo: Leo Reynolds

According to Wikipedia, 32 is a happy number. It's also the number of pages in a standard comic book. And the Fahrenheit temperature at which water freezes. Today, it's also my age - a way of marking the passage of time. The last few years, that particular pastime has been full of frustrations at those things that weren't part of the equation. Those things that, in my own mind and heart or in the eye's of others were subtractions. But this year, I choose to look at the math a little differently. This year, I'm going to look at what adds up to 32 reasons to celebrate myself.

Daughter - Perhaps my first role in life...one I arrived almost a full month late for, but when I showed up, it was with a total devotion to my parents that I carry still.
Little sister - It came fast on the heels of daughter, being a sister, and the fierce loyalty and love for my older sister and brother with it.
Friend - I'm still friends with some of my earliest friends - Sarah, who I've known since I was three; Niki, who's been one of my dearest friends since first grade. That loyalty thing again.
Loyalty - So let's talk about that thing loyalty. Once I'm won, I'm hard to lose.
Smile - From the earliest pictures, I can see my smile. Even if the baby face doesn't look like me anymore, that smile - big, open, happy - is there.
Laugh - Loud, cackling and anything but ladylike, it's frequent and heartfelt. And contagious.
Writer - I found one of the great loves of my life early in words and stuck with it.
Pictures - My eyes see, and I can show what I see.
Honesty - I cannot tell a lie. Never could.
Hugs - Hugs are little bits of love passed on through a squeeze. I believe in 'em. And I give them out with reckless abandon.
Compassion - No one ever cries alone.
Left-handed - My wronghandedness has always been a badge of honor - especially when I have the telltale smear of pen ink on the outside of my hand.
Humor - I can laugh at me. That's important.
Courage - When I got to a point in my life when I really needed help, I admitted my frailties and found the strength to ask for help.
Clumsiness - My bruises and scrapes (literal and figurative) have been the reason for many a side-splitting story.
Dandelions - I know they're weeds, but even weeds need love.
Hopeful - Despite the trials and tribulations, I never lose hope that better things await.
Creativity - The inner-workings of my brain are mysterious and magical.
Faith in mankind - While it gets me into trouble from time to time, I have an unfailing (some would say naive) faith in the goodness of man.
Aunt - A more recent addition to my list (four years and counting), I lavish love on my nieces and nephews. And promise to teach the left-handed one to tie his shoes.
Volunteer - The notion of giving of one's self and one's time entirely for the benefit of someone else carries the power of change.
Adventure - Some would question my inclusion of this...not an innate quality of mine...but a learned one that has led me to push my boundaries and discover the world outside of my comfort zone.
Openness - No mystery here, which I often lament. But you can trust that what you see is what you get.
Simplicity - While I can get caught up in an overstimulated need/want frenzy with the best of them, in the end, I can enjoy the simplest of things: clouds, a particularly lovely tree, a drop of water on the edge of a petal, that you can buy something called Fluff in a jar.
House - The bane of my existence for some time, it's still something I accomplished. Like a grown-up or something.
Nostalgia - All that came before, hazy with hindsight, is precious.
Shoes - What, you say? How can shoes be on this list? Because they've evolved into some extension of all the facets of my personality. A shoe for all seasons.
Grace in the profane - One of my grad school professors used this phrase all the time...and I like to think I've learned how to see the grace even in the dimmest of circumstances.
Curiosity - Mostly this leads to the accumulation of more useless trivia knowledge, but occasionally, I find a way to turn it into something meaningful.
Encourager - I will be your cheerleader and your champion. Your triumph is mine; your failure is a reason for me to swoop in with hugs (see #10).
Singing - It's a terrible racket. But I do it because it makes me happy - with the windows down and the radio up, and it's one thing that's taught me not to apologize for those things that bring me joy.
Love - In an ever-widening circle of people, from those who have known me for decades, to those who have come into my life in recent years and months, there is love. I never run out of that.

So that's my list. Happy birthday to me and all my 32 years.

Double Trouble: An Update

2011-06-21T22:18:00.001-04:00

Three weeks since our peas in the pod made their appearance. Since then, both are making early strides toward the competitive eating arena, with Elyssa at the forefront gaining a pound and a half. Once lagging behind her brother by almost that much, she's a solid 7-pounder behind her brother's 8. Ethan's breathing hasn't been a problem since he left the hospital - unless he's gasping in desperation to be fed. Elyssa's eye infection cleared up, although both twins still have mysterious eye colors that could go blue like Dillon or brown like Reese or something else all together. Both are also champions at destroying diapers, and it's like finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow if you're emptying a trashcan that isn't piled with Pampers. And while most of the time, you probably envision the twins looking sweet and serene cuddled together like this:


Elyssa & Ethan

The fact of the matter is that we see a lot of this:


Big yawn

And this:


Just loving having her picture made

And in case you were wondering about Dillon and Reese...well, they're still some of the cutest bugaboos around, although perhaps Daddy would disagree at this moment here:

Wake up, Daddy!

All in all, four kids are keeping everyone...on their toes.

Elyssa

Ethan

Big Brother Goes to the Hospital

2011-06-01T22:28:00.000-04:00

In the past 36 hours, Ethan has rotated between the regular nursery and NICU, his breathing regulating itself and then growing rapid again. So he'd take his transport - which I imagine to be very Star Wars-like - between the 7th and 5th floors. With his yo-yoing progress, Justin and Eva's discharge from the hospital has shifted, too. Plus the silver drops they put in Elyssa's eyes have resulted in a reaction and subsequent infection.

And while everyone wants what's best for the twins, there are two other little people who miss Mommy and Daddy so much - and I know Mommy and Daddy miss them, too. And though we felt Reese was too small, we thought Dillon might enjoy a visit to the see them. So while Reese napped, Nana, Aunt Sneaky Pete and me took Dillon out into the garden where he clipped four black-eyed susans: one for Mommy, one for Daddy and one for each of the twins. Sporting his big brother t-shirt and pin and wearing his ever-present firehat, we trekked down to Northside. He walked very calmly to the hospital, holding my hand and Nana's, but when he spotted Daddy in the lobby, he took off running and launched himself into Justin's arms like it'd been two months rather than two days since he'd seen him. Mommy got an equally enthusiastic reaction when she opened the door to the room. He didn't even care that his helmet was knocked off by her big hug for her big boy.

He took meeting the twins in stride, declaring them both "cutie patooties" and very carefully holding them in his lap. He wanted to pet their heads, and his zeal led to several reminders to touch gently. But he was sweet and kissed them and sang lullabies to them and asked them to please come watch cartoons with him tomorrow morning. And right about now, Justin and Eva should be departing from the hospital with both twins in tow, and so Big Brother just might get his wish.

Ethan

Dillon meets Ethan

So unbelievably sweet

Mommy gets Ethan to open his eyes

Dillon meets Elyssa

Dillon says, "Hi, Elyssa!"

Dillon plays peek-a-boo with Ethan so he'll smile.

Happiness Times Two

2011-05-31T16:13:00.001-04:00

For those of you who are not on The Facebook, and therefore not privy to the onslaught of Twinapalooza pictures yesterday, here are some for your viewing pleasure.

Sweet Ethan was having a bit of trouble breathing and was whisked off to the transitional nursery shortly after being born, so that's why most of my pictures are of Elyssa. He moved to NICU in the night, but it looks like he's getting his strength and will be joining his sister later this afternoon. As the bigger twin who was accused of "stealing the groceries" by one of the doctors, Ethan should be glad to know that his sister is making up for lost time by eating constantly.

Thank you to all of the many friends and family who prayed for us during this time. We all feel so blessed to have two precious new family members.

Elyssa Anne Harp

Ethan Carter Harp

Mimi with Elyssa and Nana with Ethan

A proud mama with the two little ones she brought into the world.

Parents of two, now parents of four.

Daddy loves double trouble.

Smitten (with Elyssa)

Grandpa with Elyssa

Uncle Greg, Mimi and Pops

Breaking News

2011-05-30T14:53:00.024-04:00

5:05 p.m.

Elyssa Anne, 5 lbs., 14 oz., 19.5"

Ethan Carter, 7 lbs., 3 oz. and 20"

4:49 p.m.
Elyssa Anne Harp and Ethan Carter Harp are here, born about four minutes apart. Both babies are healthy, Eva is somewhere between a saint and my hero!

4:43 p.m.
The doctor has pulled out a breeched boy! And everyone is good!

4:41 p.m.
Baby Girl is here safely!!!

4:39 p.m.
Eva just lamented that she has Hobbit feet, but that will all pass. AND WE HAVE A BABY GIRL HEAD!

4:30 p.m.
Baby Girl will be born first. She is turned and ready to go. Baby Boy is breeched, but we're hoping that everything will go well. We're about to start the pushing...

4:20 p.m.
Eva is 6 cm. She's having serious contractions, and we are getting ready to roll!

4:15 p.m.
Eva's epidural is going in now. She's had two bags of fluid. Ultrasound is next. And while all this is going on, we're sitting in the waiting room Watching Pawn Stars.

3:45 p.m.
We're here!!! The babies are still hanging out in Eva's belly.

3:20 p.m.
So truth be told, I'd been a lazy sot today and hadn't even showered yet when Justin called. If my makeup looks off in the pictures, it's because it was a highway job. Eva is safely in labor and delivery. Unfortunately, it won't be Eva's regular doctor doing the delivery, but they did meet the doc who will have the honors, and Justin liked him. At this point, Eva would let a trained monkey do the job so she's fine with this seemingly capable physician. They are doing an ultrasound to make sure the babies ate ready for delivery and then will start the epidural. Getting on 85 and Earnharp estimates our arrival at 20 minutes.

3:00 p.m.
We thought we'd have a nice, orderly induced delivery of the twins. But Eva's water broke about thirty minutes ago. And so I'm coming to you live from 316 from the passenger seat of the Harp family party van driven by Brad "Earnhardt" Harp. Eva and Justin have made it to the hospital, and contractions are three minutes apart. So these kids and yours truly are coming at a high rate of speed. Stay tuned...

Stairway to Haven

2011-05-30T00:08:00.001-04:00

Since my return from Vegas, I wouldn't exactly say the hand I've been dealt has been a pleasant one. As happens many a time when you belly up to the table of life, the cards aren't the ones you hoped for and there's no ace in the sleeve. Instead, you have to toss your hand, nod to the dealer and cut your losses.

But losing my chips has left me a bit blue-deviled. I'm not an inherent risk-taker, but when I decide to take one, the consequences of failure tend to hit me like blunt-force trauma. I don't recover well.

A funny thing happened, though, this last losing hand. Even as I bemoaned my losses at one table, I was racking up winnings elsewhere. Other hands played suddenly came through like windfalls aplenty...and though my pockets in one moment seemed empty, the next they were filled with other treasures. Proffered Kleenex. Hugs. YouTube hilarity and brownie breaks.

Centerpiece at The National

On Thursday, I found myself lunching at The National with friends. The air inside was cooled by the cinderblock exterior; the colors were soothing, muted, peaceful. The food was exceptional; the company even more so.

I was feeling well and refreshed that evening as I sat across the desk from E and chatted about this and that. Realizing the lateness of the hour, we both agreed to pack it in for the night. Outside, the wind picked up and the rain, which had been falling steadily, began an earnest, violent downpour. We lamented our umbrellalessness as we pushed out the office door into the second-story stairwell landing.

Through the windows, we could see a tableau: the Athens skyline against an eerie greenish-white sky split above by a malevolent looking black cloud, its edges curling and twisting like it might give birth to a tornado at any moment. And just as we took in the scene, the power died; emergency lights cast bleak white light on the stairs, various sirens and alarms sounded through the building, and we headed for cover.

That's how E and me found ourselves huddled together under the concrete stairs while the wind howled and tore at the trees. The rain pummeled the building. And as we both looked up the radar on our iPhones and messaged homebases for advice on what to do, we concluded from the bright red doppler cells and the wisdom of our phone-a-friends to stay put.

Wall Stairs by Aaron Tang

It was dark under the stairs. A bit musty and dirty. From time to time, the voices of other inhabitants in the building would echo through the stairwell. But E and me stayed put, our little legs stuck out in front of us so that the only thing visible to passersby were four well-shod feet. But our voices - and more importantly our laughter - made it clear that we were there weathering the storm.

In 20 minutes - maybe 30 - the wind seemed to be more of a raspy rant and the rain dripped rather than dumped and E and me emerged from our stronghold as people under the stairs. Outside, the eerie lighting remained, but the worst seemed to be over. As we stood at the bottom of the stairs and conferred over whether it seemed safe for us to make a break for it, E said, "I'm glad you were still here."

"Me, too," I said. "And from now on, we'll just think of this as our 'Stairway to Haven.'" We laughed again, filling the empty stairwell with our cackling.

As I pulled away from the parking lot - E behind me, safely in her car - I thought of how lucky we were to have averted disaster. And I realized, that, even though it doesn't always feel like it, I do have an ace up my sleeve...and that when the chips are down...when it seems like the only choice is to fold as a loser...that I've actually always got a trump card: that those dear ones who surround me will be there during the storm. And though we may not come out winners, we'll at least hide under the stairs together until the worst of it passes.

Adventure Monkey in NOLA (without me)

2011-05-14T14:58:00.000-04:00

My buddy Chad spotted Adventure Monkey flying high at the New Orleans Jazz Festival last weekend. That wily fellow is making appearances even where I'm not. Love it!

A Luckless Longshot: How I Got to Vegas

2011-05-08T23:22:00.000-04:00

"You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em. Know when to walk away and know when to run." - Kenny Rogers, The Gambler

When I arrived at Dallas-Love Field just before 9 a.m. without having had a sip of morning coffee, my friend Halle assured me it would be fine - that a Starbucks awaited inside the terminal. It was the first gamble I took that day - hedging my bets that everything would work out just fine. Instead of a Starbucks, I found a 1960s-style lunch counter with a white plastic board above it with little press-on red plastic letters where I took my chances a cup of coffee that might've been brewed in preparation for President Kennedy's arrival.

And while I slugged coffee and tried to get internet set up, I took stock of my fellow passengers - two teenagers whose true love was evident in their matching Hollister hoodies and attempts to intertwine themselves on the ill-padded terminal chairs; a man I was quite sure was Wilford Brimley; and my kryptonite - a gaggle of small children playing tag. By the 20th time they sailed dangerously close to me, I could feel myself getting ready to Hulk out on them, tweeting "Children in Terminal 31, please be advised that I do not like children. Consider yourself warned to steer clear of me. #itrip #eviloldlady." Instead, I stood to go to the restroom. Perhaps my nerves were frayed from strong coffee and inconsiderate little people, but I found myself standing inside the men's room. Oops.

Soon I received a text from my mother. Wait, wait, wait. A text. From my mother? This is a game-changer. It was to inquire about the weather. In Dallas, it was sunny and cool, but the airline, in its infinite wisdom, had chosen to route my significantly westbound flight to the east via Memphis. Where a giant storm system was gathering. Which would explain why our Memphis-originating flight landed at the airport right about the time that we were supposed to be departing. And why we promptly loaded the plane, buckled in and prepared...to sit on the tarmac for an hour while the Memphis airport shut down to let the weather system pass. As luck would have it, the rambunctious children were just across the aisle from me chowing down on foul-smelling Sour Cream and Onion Pringles. I considered using the air sickness bag.

I was still (stupidly) optimistic at this point, imagining that the closed airport in Memphis meant that my connecting flight was also safely trapped on the tarmac awaiting me, my laptop and camera, and correctly routed checked bag. But the odds were against me, and as we taxied to a stop at the terminal in Memphis, I checked the flight status of my connection to see that it was also taxiing on the runway...and off into the great blue sky without me.

Inside the ticket agents hustled us to these fancy machines that scanned our ticket barcode and spit out our fortune: "You will be making an unforeseen travel detour in Salt Lake City." Because even though the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, going east and north to get west and south is the logical way to go.

And so I found myself having the second meal of the day in an airport. This time a barbecue sandwich from Jim Neely's Interstate Barbecue which, though delicious, was a gigantic mess that I attempted to inhale while talking to my sister who kindly entertained me through dinner and wished me luck for the last (insert extremely sarcastic inflection on "last") leg of my travel. That's what I told Mom when I called her to tell her we were boarding the plane on time and that this little eensy weensy snafu in my travel seemed to be over (insert eye roll indicating I realize how Pollyanna I am).

We did board the plane on time. And once boarded, I sent the following tweet: "Sweet Lord, there is a small child in front of me on a 2.5 hour flight. #serenityprayer #arewethereyet." Little did I know that by the time boarding ended, there would also be a small child behind me. I took Dramamine. Which may explain why I remained calm when the captain announced that the weather front driving the storms into Alabama and Georgia was causing high-speed winds that meant every plane had to take off from one runway. (Insert 45 minute delay.)

When I woke up somewhere over the Colorado Rockies, I checked the time and watched the minute hand creep toward my 9:40 p.m. departure time. But the flight attendant with her almost hypnotically calm voice kept telling us that Salt Lake was aware of our connecting flights and would make adjustments accordingly.

What you find out when you arrive is that "adjustments" means sending the plane without you. For the second time, I found myself grounded when I should've been skyward. At 10 p.m. MDT, they were shutting that place down. No more flights to Vegas or anywhere else.

That's how I found myself at the ticket counter with William and Al, two gentlemen from Jackson, Mississippi who were also on my plane and also Vegas-bound. William ostensibly had a speaking engagement the following morning - at a hooker convention, no less - that he simply could not miss. He and Al were trying to make sense of the arrangements we were being offered: a stay in Salt Lake City and standby on the first flight of the day at 8:30. Confirmation on a flight at 1:50. And, oh, by the way, 18 passengers were on standby for 7 available seats.

I reached my limit. Suddenly, I was Bear Grylls, Ash versus Vegas, and by God, I was going to make it to my destination. While the terminal computers choked through flight schedules trying to find us better arrangements, I had out my iPhone charting the distance between Salt Lake and Vegas. I figured with a rental car and a bag of beef jerky I could make it. Six-and-a-half hours through unknown territory, but Bear would never shy away from such a challenge. Even without the beef jerky, I probably could've made a passable meal from lint and stale french fries hidden under the rental car seats. The chips were down, the stakes were high, and I was ready to place my bet.

I contemplated this new plan aloud to William and Al. And to my mother, who I think I gave a near heart attack with my survivalist plan. William asked the ticket agent about the road leading to Vegas, and she looked a bit concerned over my plan, but I wasn't. I can handle a 10-to-4 drive through the mountains. I will not be deterred by the "deer being down." I'm going to VEGAS BABY.

William and Al, seeing my wild-eyed determination, sighed and shifted and then announced that if I were going through with it, they would go with me. The woman at the counter said, "Are the three of you traveling together?" And William replied, "Me and Al are. Me and Ashley have been dating about 20 minutes."

But just as I gathered my bags and prepared to make a beeline for the Enterprise counter, William managed to finagle the number for Southwest. And some woman, some angel of mercy, told him there was a 6:20 a.m. flight with 30 seats. A part of me was relieved. A part of me was disappointed - I was pretty jacked up for this insane roadtrip with my new friends William and Al and whatever supplies we could get at the closest 7-11. My mother was 178 percent relieved.

I booked my ticket via phone while we waited for the shuttle bus to retrieve us from the airport, and William asked me questions to verify our compatibility - did I smoke? Did I have a tattoo? Seemingly, negative responses to these two questions sealed our relationship. I was grateful for it, too, because there was one guy in the terminal who winked at me repeatedly until I gestured to William and Al in the baggage claim office and said, "I'm with them."

At the hotel, I tried not to look to critically at my lodgings as I arranged my bags and clothes for the next morning in the path of least resistance. And then I laid down for a blessed 3 and a half hours.

When the phone rang in the Baymont Shores Inn at 4 a.m., I woke with a start, sat up in bed and wondered aloud in an alarmed voice, "Where am I?" But there was no time to contemplate location. I had 59 minutes before the shuttle would be pulling away from the hotel, and I had already reached my quota on missed connections.

The desk clerk called me at 4:57 as I was zipping my bag to tell me that the shuttle was leaving. But I wobbled down the hallway like an overloaded pack mule and thrust my baggage into the hands of the shuttle driver who tried to convince me to wait 15 minutes for the next shuttle while I furiously shook my head no and squeezed into the van. In the darkness, I heard William say, "I told him, 'We can't leave without Ashley.' I was going to kick his butt." It pays to have friends, it seems, who understand in less than 24 hours that you're always late.

By the time I walked out to board my 6:20 flight, the sun was shining and a light breeze was blowing. We took off and landed in what seemed the blink of an eye. I slept as soon as I was safely strapped into an aircraft assured to get me to Las Vegas.

I landed at 6:35 a.m. PDT and found myself a taxi that I swear was driven by Shug Knight. He drove me to the Luxor, a giant shiny black pyramid guarded by a replica of the sphinx on its front lawn. I passed from the cool, bright early morning through the doors flanked by Anubis into cavernous darkness. I blinked twice and looked up to see a bleary-eyed man drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette mid-lobby. Welcome, I thought, to Vegas.

And so I checked in and was told...to head to the 13th floor. That sealed it. Absolutely no gambling for me. You gotta know when to walk away...and when to run.

Adventure Monkey & Monkeying Around in Dallas

2011-05-03T21:52:00.000-04:00

Adventure Monkey returns home to Dallas and a long, tall sangria (via Instagram)

Adventure Monkey at the Nasher Sculpture Gallery (shhh - you're not supposed to touch)

My Texas Twin Halle gets personal with the sculpture installation.

Smith meets Matisse

At Ivy Le's beautiful wedding

David Gray, Brought to You by the Letter "D"

2011-04-17T21:19:00.000-04:00

After the joy of seeing David Gray not once but twice last year, I thought for sure that it would be a few years before I was able to see him again. But through serendipitous good fortune, I scored tickets to see him this June - as in two months from right now. In Row D of The Fox Theater. The video below was taken from Row D of the Atlanta Civic Center when I saw him last April. I guess D is my lucky row. I can hardly wait to be this close to my favorite, favorite, favorite musician once more.

Smashville

2011-04-09T21:45:00.000-04:00

Early on in life, it was clear that I would not be known for grace. By age 11, my sister nicknamed me "Smash" for the collection of bumps, bruises and scrapes that constantly marred my arms, shins and knees. These injuries were of the sort one expects from a growing adolescent. Problem is, I never outgrew them.

Something about traveling seems to inspire my gracelessness, and my latest business trip was no exception. You may recall my 14-hour cross-country adventure or the time Captain Fail Pants went to Washington. I kept the klutz alive with my recent jaunt to Nashville.

The reserved rental car, advertised as a Chevy Impala, was a minivan, resulting in a confusing conversation about getting a car from another rental place in town and a cross-town drive to pick up said car. So much for leaving on time.
At 3:45, I tweeted, "Nashville-bound and stuck in maaajor traffic accident on 285 listening to Wheatus 'Teenage Dirtbag' and wishing I'd stopped for Combos."
At 4:30: "Officially lost an hour on 285 and #sittingstill #swearingtomyself
And at 5:15, when the standstill from the overturned tractor trailer blocking four lanes of traffic had stolen an hour and a half of my life: "This is the part where I start to lose it completely. Almost 2 hours lost. #iwillnotcry"
I didn't cry. I did eat two McDonald's cheeseburgers and an order of large fries, which fortified me until I arrived in Nashville, seven hours after departing from home.
The next morning, I discovered instead of shampoo, I had two shower gels, and so, I washed my hair with shower gel.
The first pair of pantyhose I put on ran from top to toe. But my awesome mother advised me to pack a second pair, just in case. Mother knows best. And knows that her daughter is a complete disaster most of the time.
At the tradeshow set up, the literature stand was broken and the tradeshow floor was sweltering and I tried unsuccessfully for 10 minutes to get the TV working only to realize it wasn't plugged in.
I finished the setup, stood back to admire my handiwork, sweating, and realized…that the materials that were urgently FedExed to my hotel so that I would have them for the tradeshow were, in fact, still at the hotel.
At this point, a complete, swirling monsoon descended on Nashville.
I forged across the street to the parking deck, holding my umbrella like a battle shield against the wind.
In my hurry to get out of the rain, I tripped on the lip of the sidewalk and fell crushing my umbrella. Literally broke it. Bent the handle into a frown - which technically could've been a smile if turned the other way, but let's face it: that was a frown.
Dude standing there says, "Are you okay?" and in total embarassment I popped to my feet and assured him I was fine. Then I limped away, toting the ruined umbrella and cursing.
Second pair of pantyhose? #totalled
Both knees #totalled
I pulled out of the parking space and came down the ramp...which was blocked by a paving machine. I waited impatiently until one of the workers directed me around the mammoth piece of equipment.
Turned the wrong way out of the parking deck and had to circle the block on one-way streets.
Drove back to my hotel, pulled into the turnabout, waved away the over-eager valet and ran inside, red-faced and sweating and asked for the package. They asked for ID. I showed them my tradeshow badge like it was press credentials.
Back at the parking deck, I left the crumpled umbrella in the passenger seat and focused on getting across the street in one piece.
Inside, I stopped in the ladies' room, ditched my busted up hosiery, wiped the blood from my knees and took stock of my reflection - I looked like Gilda Radner working the Weekend Update desk.
Later that night, I tried to escape my luck with a nice dinner with my clients. Instead, I got confused coming back from the restroom, and they caught me talking to myself - announcing that I'd taken a wrong turn - right beside our table.
And though the second morning went smoothly, by the end of the day, my high-heeled shoes had nearly crippled me. Though I had planned to go back to the convention center to change clothes for the drive home, I couldn't bear the thought of another step. Which is how I learned that desperation is changing clothes in a rental car on the fifth floor of the parking deck.
Only later, closing in on midnight, exhausted from head to toe and fighting to stay awake, did I realize that desperation is really being willing to listen to "Candyshop" by 50 Cent on high volume.

And so, I arrived home, once again riddled with bruises and scrapes, with a dilapidated umbrella in the front seat and a new appreciation for gangsta rap. And a host of reminders that Smash lives.

Hanging Up & Flipping Off

2011-03-20T22:33:00.002-04:00

Behold! The craptuclar phone!

Technology has never been a bandwagon I jumped on - maybe because I'm wearing heels that make running and jumping a bit difficult. Whatever the case, I'm walking around with a Nokia flip phone that I got free with a two-year contract back in 2007. It's been mocked by a waitress - not to mention my tech-savvy coworkers, a friend who told me that he'd seen homeless people in Washington D.C. with nicer phones and most recently, even Mom conceded that my phone is a piece of garbage. When Erica Martinez was in from our Dallas office a couple of weeks ago, she responded to the sight of my phone with, "Hello, 1991." It's true - I've been calling the 90s with my Zack Morris phone, but it's time to hang it up.

This phone is the Murdoc of mobile technology. It's been dropped too many times to count. Gotten wet. Pieces of the plastic have broken off around the plug hole for the charger, which means that doesn't stay in very well. And then there's the front piece that came off completely. The sticky strip intended to keep it on is now covered with a piece of Scotch tape so that it won't stick to everything I own. Can you say classy?

The camera is ridiculously bad. The SIM card is constantly getting full from text messages. And forget it if someone sends me a photo from an iPhone - it's like total system shutdown. The volume button is stuck on ten. For a brief time, the hinge was stuck in the open position, requiring a rubber band to hold it closed. But then I dropped it again, and that seemed to fix it.

Periodically, it experiences some sort of electrical hiccup and the screen freezes up and then shows horizontal lines that make the think Max Headroom is about to make an appearance. Alas, it's just another dropped call and a three-minute reboot process.

Goodbye, 90s phone!

I shall miss its monophonic ring tones. Its tweety bird text notification. Its Wayne's World dream sequence sound cue alarm clock. The callous on the inside of my right thumb from texting alpha-numerically.

But it's time to drop it like a call between cell towers. It's time to get more bars in more places, ditch the rollover minutes and get smart. Tomorrow I'm going to AT&T for an upgrade. I'll also be purchasing a 15-year-old to teach me how to use my new phone. Or maybe there's an app for that.

Let There Be Light...and Make it Purdy

2011-03-13T22:27:00.000-04:00

My den has no overhead lighting...which I don't mind so much, as I much prefer natural light or ambient lighting. But have you folks checked the prices on lamps lately? They's expensive! New lamps for the den could easily run me $100 or more.

So I went bargain hunting...in my sister's attic. She donated several brass lamps to my cause. But they weren't exactly jiving with the decor in my little ranchero. And while lamps are expensive, spraypaint is not. I turned those brass badboys into some citrus delight in just a few hours.

A few tips:

Use painter's tape to cover the electrical parts
Paint in a well-ventilated area
Apply a coat of primer to cover any rust spots and give yourself a nice even coat of paint
Buy a plastic spray gun topper for your paint can - you'll save your index finger, keep from getting messy and be able to spray in steady strokes.
Put the lamp in an oversized cardboard box to catch the overspray (thanks, Dad!)

Brass monkey...a less than funky monkey.

Primed and ready for a citrus overcoat.

Freshly squeezed orange paint

Orange you just loving this?

Clap on!

Godspeed, Lone Ranger

2011-03-07T20:49:00.001-05:00

He wandered into our garage more than a decade ago and took up residence in the seat of my grandfather's old Cub Cadet riding lawn mower. At first, we weren't going to encourage him. But then Mom couldn't stand to see him go hungry, so she set out bowls of food in the garage. When it got cold, a folded towel in the seat gave him somewhere to snuggle. And soon, there was a cat bed for him to weather the weather. Before many months passed, he breached the threshold between indoors and out because it was just too cold to leave him outside anymore. And so he became officially ours.

My brother dubbed him Lone Ranger because of the dark fur that circled his clear (though slightly crossed) blue eyes. He was put together by a committee that couldn't agree using parts that were rejected from everyone else - a too-skinny tail, short bandy legs, and a purr that had a hitch in the giddy-up. He wore the same expression every moment of every day, forever and ever amen. And his unerring ability to live by a schedule, his particularity about his place in the world, and his lifelong belief that by taking his picture, I would steal his soul, earned him the descriptor of "special kitty." Ranger, it seemed, needed to be handled with care and came with his own special instructions.

Ranger was a poor fighter, missing a bite of skin out of one ear and a toe off one foot, making his nickname "Ranger Danger" all the more ironic. His compromised immune system was constantly challenged by bites and scratches until Mama saw fit to just keep him inside all the time. We battled through countless oral infections and finally pulled almost all his teeth, but he still insisted on eating his morning treats. I guess he gummed them to death.

Today, we lost our battle with the final infection. It was time. Time to let Lone Ranger ride off into the sunset. I will miss his yowling meow at the door demanding to be let out. I will miss his swaying gait across the kitchen that made it so easy to imagine he was saying, "dumpity-dump-dee-dum-dum" as he went. I will miss his soft snores from the chair or the back of the couch. I will miss the intensity with which he used the cardboard scratcher. I will miss his straight-legged resistance when picked up and his complete indignation when kissed.

I will miss our sweet Ranger Cat.

She's So Unusual

2011-02-27T19:38:00.001-05:00

Last weekend, I went to Taste of Athens with plans to fill my belly with lots of good eats for a good cause. And I did. The Pink Champagne Cake Bites at Silver Lining Cupcake Co. were beautifully delicious and the mint gimlet at Hotel Indigo's table was the most refreshing libation I've had lately.

And when I found my way to the silent auction, I found something else delectable I had to have. I have never bid in an auction before, but when I saw this wire sculptured bust from Aurum Studios, I had to have it. I ended up staked out beside it at as the auction closed with a wily gleam in my eye daring someone to outbid me. I must have looked scary enough, because "Miranda" went home with me. Although, my friend Nikki and I felt like her messy updo and dangling earring made her a ringer for Cyndi Lauper.

Stiletto Surrogate

2011-02-24T11:01:00.000-05:00

My twitter friend, Lauren, better known as @cubanalaf, recently fell and broke her leg. Painful? Yes. An annoyance? To be sure. But for a fellow shoe-lover, there is a special poignancy in Lauren's confinement to...gasp...comfortable shoes. So, LAF, this is for you.

Photo courtesy of Ivy Le

Color Me Obsessed

2011-02-19T16:05:00.000-05:00

I'm lucky enough to work with my musical soulmate. When Rob Entsminger says, "Listen to this" followed by a link, I'm 99.7 percent sure I'm going to be smitten. After catching The Civil Wars at Unplugged in the Park back in October, he messaged me the next day with the duo's video for "Poison & Wine", which I proceeded to listen to on repeat for the next three or four hours. I hopped from video to video after that based on YouTube's handy recommendations of other performances. By the end of the day, I was a fan.

The Civil Wars met through a quite literal eHarmony - a Nashville singer/songwriter service that matches collaborators. Both John Paul White and Joy Williams tried to ditch the first meeting, but, lucky for us, neither had a bonafide excuse. And when they met, they discovered an other-worldly connection as though they'd known each other a lifetime.

When I heard that The Civil Wars would be making a visit to Athens to play The Melting Point, I made plans to be there by corralling my good friend and features reporter Joe VanHoose into covering the show. It came just a week after The Civil Wars' debut full-length album Barton Hollow soared to the top of the iTunes chart.

In concert, The Civil Wars are every bit as stripped down and haunting as they are on recordings. There is no overwrought instrumentation or backup band. Their performance is comprised of nothing more than White's collection of guitars, Williams's occasional stint at the piano, and the best instruments they've got - their perfectly matched voices. People often mistake them for a married couple - and they are married, just not to each other - but the mistake is easy to understand once drawn into the intimate circle of their voices matching bravado and mixing low throaty notes and contrasting Williams's sweet, clear, rich voice with White's gravelly baritone. And their performance is both musical and an embodiment of what they sing - alternately assuming impassioned lovers, the broken-hearted and sad longing. Interspersed with ballads and lullabies were quiet jabs spoken to each other in jest and amazed delight by these newly minted superstars. Their astonishment at hearing the audience sing along with them was genuine, and it's rare that you get to see a band that's on the first leg of their meteoric rise to fame.

There's a vintage quality to Barton Hollow. The Civil Wars almost feel like two souls from that time period telling their stories through the plucked guitar strings and the haunting, melancholy voices of Williams and White. You really believe the title track that no preacher man can save their souls - that wailing ache in their voices - and that the desperate plea in "Fallen" to know that love is over is in earnest. And "Forget Me Not" is a plaintive duet that seems like it should be listened to over a grainy radio connection in the 1930s.

If you follow me on Twitter, you know I've been listening to Barton Hollow nonstop since it arrived in my mailbox. (Yes, I still buy real CDs.) And if you're a friend who has music taste similar to mine at all, I've urged you to download their free live performance at Eddie's Attic from their MySpace page. And if you live in a city where they're touring, I've sent you the link and instructed you to buy tickets. So I thought it only fitting that I take my message to the masses and blog about my Civil War obsession.

If you're still on the fence, please note they do a killer cover of "Billie Jean" as an encore. What more could you possibly need to convince you?

Now We're Cooking

2011-02-13T00:13:00.000-05:00

Roughly 70 days, at least 7 different contractors and 7 degrees of sanity lost, the kitchen is finished. I mean, the renovation process is. Let's not get overzealous. There's still work to be done - heck, we might all die with the sugar residing in the spare bedroom. But at least we have a functional, fashionable kitchen to call our very own.

Let us first go back to the way we were, nearly 30 years of history housed in cabinets and countertops and really amazing retro shelf paper.

Before -note the stylish but functional formica

Here we have the always lovely "peninsula"

The always fabulous "vent hood."

Although our time machine isn't presently operational, this has just about the same effect.

Shortly after these pictures were taken, the demolition began along with a stint of microwave meals and takeout. And along the way, there were more than a few headaches. Like the one cabinet that had to be ordered three times. Or the backsplash that almost never happened. Or the floor gouging incident perpetrated by the backsplash guys that nearly made my sweet, even-mannered mother lose her religion and her temper. But in the end, it all came together. Behold!

And the angels sang...

Islands in the stream - that is what we have

Double ovens! More room for Mama Harp delicacies

It's all shiny and new!

Please note the backsplash. There was a lot of heartache in that backsplash...

Adventure Monkey: Universal Studios Florida

2011-02-05T14:23:00.001-05:00

Rosebud

2011-01-12T21:19:00.000-05:00

Just in case you wondered, I love food. Which is why I was delighted to be part of a party who brunched at Rosebud in Virginia Highlands on Saturday.

Corn muffin

Most of us started with a steaming cup of hot coffee, which was endlessly refilled by our kind waitress. For those who are not coffee drinkers, there are carbonated treats like Mexican Coke made with real cane sugar and Grown Up Sodas that come in a variety of delicious blends - like cranberry lime. The beverages were accompanied by the most delectable sweet corn muffins with a hearty, crumbly texture and melt-in-your-mouth goodness.

House-cured Salmon Slider

One among us had connections to The Angry Chef via her job, and so we were kindly treated to an array of appetizers - housecured salmon sliders, the eggrolls and chicken liver toast. Having never dined on chicken liver toast before, I was pleasantly surprised by the smooth textured spread topped with bacon crumbles and pickle relish that added a little tartness to the savory slice. I would definitely partake of it again.

Mama's Belgian Waffle & Country Ham

As an entree, I ordered Mama's Belgian Waffle served with whipped cream (the real thing) and Rosebud's Breakfast Syrup with a side of country ham. The waffle arrived warm and golden, and the whipped cream was so sweet and luscious that I barely to dip each bite in the syrup that held hints of orange blossom honey. What I loved best about the waffle was its lightness - some waffles are so dense, it's like eating cake. But this was fluffy buttery yum. The country ham was very thinly sliced, thoroughly salted and wondrously non-greasy.

Not Your Mama's French Toast

Sausage Benedict with Cheese Grits

Others at the table noshed on sausage benedict served with cheese grits (which she graciously allowed me to sample) and Not Your Mama's French Toast, an enviable confection of French toast stuffed with Nutella and cream cheese and topped with rum-braised pineapple.

Cranberry Lime Grown-Up Soda

Instead of dessert, I opted for a brunch cocktail - the pomegranate sea breeze which included a puckering dash of pink grapefruit.

The company was marvelous; the food was rich but not cloying, as brunch should be. Should you take yourself to Rosebud, you may find yourself like Citizen Kane muttering the word longingly for the rest of the day.

Adventure Monkey: On the Town

2011-01-09T19:09:00.000-05:00

Happy to see Halle in town

Happy hour at Piola

Happy with the moo juice at brunch at Rosebud's

Parting is Such Sweet, Sweet Sorrow, 2010:

2010-12-31T18:37:00.000-05:00

And I mean, that. The sweetness of your departure cannot really be amply expressed. It's the 365th day of you, 2010, you wretched beast of a year. The very last day of what seemed to be an endless hit-parade of trials and tribulations. The best I can say about you in retrospect was that you were unerringly efficient - with just 12 months to work with, you managed to pack a veritably bruising punch.

You took great delight in raising my hopes by delivering a price drop on the house I'd been pondering, and by the end of February, I signed on the dotted line. And while all that was very exciting, you jerked the rug out from under me before I could get a stick of furniture moved in when Kudzu got sick just a week or two later. That was a long and winding and emotional road to Tragedy Town. Hours upon hours at the vet hospital. Tests with bad results. With no results. With murky results. The hope that he was getting better; the realization that he was not. By the time Kudzu slipped away, I'd very nearly lost my mind. His death left a terrible hole in my heart.

But I had to go on. And you went on, too, taking another dear friend just weeks later.

There were less drastic measures in your arsenal - the 14-hour trip to San Diego and the $800 water bill from the running toilet at the house I didn't live in. The occasion upon which I was mistaken for a pregnant co-worker. A mistake that could arguably have been caused by my weight that yo-yoed between grief-stricken skinny and grievously chubbed.

Nashville nearly burned us to death. And the burning question on everyone's mind was why, oh, why don't you live in your house yet? At first, I was bothered, but as the year wore on, I became so accustomed to being asked that my hide toughened to the point that I had a pachydermal tolerance for it. And I decided I didn't give a fig what anyone thought. That's right. I'm crazy - so what? I do plan to finally move into the house, but that's to be filed under resolutions in a letter to a different year.

We started demolition on the kitchen in November - a process that seemed like it would be seamless enough. But you, 2010, have managed to muck that up, too, and even as we speak, there's still work to do.

In addition to those things happening to me, you attacked the periphery - dear friends who lost brothers, grandmothers, grandfathers in sudden and terrible ways, leaving chasms in other hearts. There were near misses, too, thwarted by surgical precision and medical miracles. But at every turn, you were certain to point out to me that life is a desperately fragile thing.

You broke my heart, 2010. In so many ways. And so I find myself on New Year's Eve - chubby, single, cat-less and crazy. You broke my heart. But not my hope - I will ring in the New Year, a toast to your departure, filled with anticipation that your successor will bring better days. Thanks for setting the bar so ridiculously low it's very nearly subterranean.

Good riddance,
Ash

The Kitchen Pit: An Update

2010-12-22T22:31:00.002-05:00

For the record, we're 50 days into the yet to be finished project. And while we've made some progress - a floor! a refrigerator! an island! - it wasn't smooth sailing.

The Domino Effect - Everything depends on everything else. Which is why the cabinets had to be installed before they could measure for the countertops and the countertops had to be put in before the sink. And it's also why when the cabinet above the microwave failed to arrive with the rest of the cabinetry, the microwave couldn't be installed as scheduled and sat in the kitchen floor for a week.

The Focus Effect - Not one of the installers is a multitasker. That's why we've had different workmen to install the cabinets, countertops, appliances, floor and backsplash. And why the kitchen sink was installed but not able to produce water until someone else came to make the magic happen.

The Second Guessing Effect - With a little extra time and anxiety at work, you second guess everything. Which is why Mom picked three different floors and two different backsplashes.

The Murphy's Law Effect - Whatever can go wrong will. Which is how the plumber got called to fix the water spewing from the old dishwasher connection. And why the cabinet above the fridge has no doors because the ones they sent were the wrong size. And why the stove isn't flush against the wall because it requires some mysterious plug that - you guessed it - the installer doesn't do.

The Nervous Breakdown Effect - This occurs during the later stages of the process when your bedroom smells like coffee all the time and you've eaten six weeks' worth of meals on a tiny coffee table and you sawed your way through broiled porkchops weakly seasoned in barbecue sauce because you could find neither a pan nor appropriate seasoning and when you have to make ONE MORE decision about whether to move the island two inches toward the refrigerator or one inch toward the table and then you discover that the brand new sink is leaking in almost precisely the same way that started this whole thing. And that's when you start drinking.

So when will we be done? I'm guessing two weeks.

Why BuyLife is a Dead End

2010-12-03T10:31:00.000-05:00

Ryan Seacrest, Alicia Keys and Kim Kardashian are dead. And I'm not sad - I'm a bit disgusted. I wrote a guest post for the Jackson Spalding Thinkstand on why this week's BuyLife.org promotion for World AIDS Day is a grave misstep. Please enjoy this little bit of shameless self-promotion - unlike the celebrities mentioned, I won't make you pay $10 for it.

Terra Cotta's Gotta Go from Walnut Grove

2010-11-28T18:53:00.000-05:00

When I was looking at houses, I passed over the one I bought a couple dozen times because I hated the shutters. I know what that anonymous eponymous they say about getting hung up on paint colors that can be changed. But this paint color gave the house such a repugnant drab watery look that I couldn't get over it. These terra cotta shutters destroyed the whole house for me - so much so that it took a little convincing from my real estate agent to include it on the caravan of listings we were scheduled to see in the neighborhood. Once I saw the inside and - let's face it - the towering trees in the backyard, I was sold. Suddenly the odious repulsive shutters seemed like a small obstacle standing between me and home sweet home. (We need not return to the list of much larger obstacles that have presented themselves since then.) But back to the vile shutters that looked like this:

There's something so...old about those boring brick-colored shutters that do absolutely nothing for the brick color of the house. It all melted together in one awful conglomeration of blah. And I may be many things, but blah is not one of them. As such, I decided to leave Terra Cotta Town for the olive-toned territory of Walnut Grove. Behold the great greenness:

It's like a new house. Like I left behind moth balls and knitting nights for swinging 21st century living. Or something like that. Also, I clearly need to spend some time admiring my new shutters while raking. *Ahem* And while I was at it, I had the deck stained to better match the house, too.

Perhaps part of the moving problem had to do with the atrocious exterior - the dated ill-chosen shutters that made me feel like I might be learning macrame and hanging velvet paint-by-numbers inside while wearing orthopedic shoes and sporting shapeless day dresses. But now that we're in Walnut Grove, I think that I have found a befitting haven for my stilettos, pumps and flats that is retro chic instead of retro shack.

Adventure Monkey: Tallulah Gorge

2010-11-27T20:43:00.000-05:00

Appetite for Destruction

2010-11-17T22:18:00.002-05:00

In the 27 years we have lived in this house, a lot of things about it have changed. The county renumbered our street, taking our original 255 house number. The carpet in the downstairs changed twice before getting the hardwood treatment. Wallpaper stuck up and then stripped down off walls now layered with paints of many colors. But aside from the avocado green and Gulden's mustard yellow fixtures in the bathrooms, the kitchen is probably the most constant.

The cabinet doors, once a depressingly dark wood, received a whitewash some time in the 90s. But other than that, the white freckled formica counters and the pantry with the squeaky door and even the totally retro shelf paper have stood the test of time. That is until a leaky sink led to rotted cabinets and the need for some serious kitchen aid.

Yesterday morning, I let a guy in who demolished those 30-year-old cabinets, stripped out the pantry with its squeaky door and pulverized those plastic-topped counters. And now, we find ourselves inhabiting a house in which the following are true:

- The stove is in the garage. The kitchen table is in my bedroom.
- When Dad put the utensil drawer under the table, he said to Mom, "Be careful when you pull out that drawer that you don't tear the carpet."
- I wash dishes in the bathroom. I put them away in my bedroom. My sister's bedroom. And the dining room floor.
- The microwave is in my parents' room. So is the coffeemaker.
- The poor cats are so distressed. Last night I found one of them sitting in the bald patch left behind by the pantry. He's since taken to sleeping in a cardboard box at the foot of my parents' bed.
- Half the contents of our refrigerator are at my house. The essentials - creamer, for example - are in the tiny microfridge I had in college that now resides in our bonus room upstairs.
- Likewise, my mother carefully located the box of Splenda like she was transporting the Ark of the Covenant.
- You may be asked, "Do you know where the salt is?" And the answer may be, "In Ashley's room."
- Yesterday morning, I was putting on makeup during the demolition, as the various lights in the room blinked on and off while they worked with the circuit box.
- Paper plates are dispensable. And therefore, indispensable.
- We will not be hosting Thanksgiving at our house this year.

Just as I was about to post this, I knocked over my water glass. I headed toward the kitchen to get a towel. And of course, all I found was rubble. And so it goes.

Introducing the New Guy in My Life

2010-11-16T09:28:00.016-05:00

A few weeks ago, I was on a whirlwind tour of five states in five weeks. I went from D.C. to the hills of northwest Georgia. Then west to Texas, north to Indiana and east to North Carolina. Along the way, I acquired a new companion. A lone Barrel of Monkeys monkey got mixed up at a bar with a bunch of Jenga pieces. Who could leave such a poor bereft creature behind? Clearly, he'd broken free from the confines of his barrel, consorted with a bunch of wooden blocks of questionable stability and made his way into my life. And so following that night at a Dallas pub (in which the rickety Jenga blocks failed me several times), Adventure Monkey joined my travels.

As noted before, I am not a particularly fine traveler. Adventurer in heart but trapped in a definitively homebody, I don't even have my passport. But perhaps, with the help of a swinging monkey man, I can find my way to a few more adventures in life.


Adventure Monkey is Born

Adventure Monkey takes on the Texas State Fair

Adventure Monkey in Kokomo, Indiana, City of Firsts

Adventure Monkey explores the cornfields of the Hoosier State

Rocking goat at the Valle Crucis Fair

With a little help from Dad, Adventure Monkey takes in the Valle Crucis view

Mama Harp joins in the Adventure Monkey game.

One of the 10 People from Heaven You Meet on Earth

2010-10-11T22:00:00.001-04:00

On a dour gray day at the end of my first semester of college, I mounted the steps of the great white columned house of Berry's founder and pressed the doorbell. Someone shouted for me to come in, and when I pushed open the door, I realized it was the large jovial man on the ladder who was disassembling an antique brass chandelier in the carpeted front hall. He smiled and asked if he could help me. I told him I was looking for Vesta Salmon in that tentative way of a green college freshman who isn't certain what she's just stumbled into. "Kitchen," he answered.

In the kitchen - where I would spend almost as many hours during my college years as I did in my dorm room. Where the white painted door was propped open, there was a long metal table where an army of college girls were seated with rags and toothbrushes and tubes of foul-smelling pink goop that they were applying to pieces of the antique chandelier I'd seen in the hall. Among them, scrubbing and buffing with the best of them sat Vesta. I don't know that I exactly remember that she said it, but I know she would've looked up, seen me standing there all lost and confused and said, "Whatchya need, hon?"

I needed a job to rescue me from the dreck of the college dining hall. And ever since I'd seen a picture in the newspaper of a local girl who worked as a tour guide at Oak Hill and donned a beautiful hoopskirted dress, I'd wanted to be an Oak Hill girl, too.

The interview was brief; I don't remember if Vesta even asked me about my skills. I would guess instead that she shrewdly assessed my puny spirit and decided somebody needed to look after this poor waify thing standing in front of her. And by the grace of God, she decided that somebody would be her.

For the next three and a half years, I worked under the supervision of Vesta. I dusted and vacuumed and scrubbed and polished every inch of that house. I gave tours, dutifully telling the stories of the house and its owner. I served lunches to potential donors and the college president. Those were all the requirements of the job.

But more important than all that, I observed. I observed Vesta in her provisions. She cooked biscuits and hot tea for breakfast for the morning girls. She made cornbread and big pots of vegetable soup when it was cold and blustery outside. She made lunches for visitors and lemonade for the grounds crew. When I was sick, she'd buy oranges and slice them for me to eat at lunch. She fed my body.

She prayed for us all - including the poetry professor who dared give me a B on an assignment, assuring me that we just needed to pray for him. (For the record, I ended up with an A in the class.) She talked to us about her faith - one that she demonstrated in so many ways: by baking an endless number of lemon poundcakes (for which she is famous) for birthdays, anniversaries, sympathy and get well wishes; by inviting those without family to her home for Thanksgiving and Christmas; by being involved in all sorts of causes that helped others. She was the essence of moral fiber. I never knew her to say no when someone needed her. She fed my spirit.

Having lost my biological grandparents at a young age, I was thirsty for her wisdom. She offered guidance in such simple and sage ways. She hugged me close and dried my tears on more than one occasion. Going to work became my refuge in times of turmoil. I could always count on Vesta for advice or support or encouragement or a hot cup of coffee and a hug. She fed my heart.

She once met Martha Berry. And her cooking was featured in the Atlanta Journal Constitution. One of the professor's established a scholarship in her name. Yet, she's always humble, always embodying the Berry mission - not to be ministered unto, but to minister.

I graduated from Berry almost 10 years ago, but Vesta and me have kept in touch through letters and cards and phone calls and the occasional visit to the alma mater. I cherish the times I get a Vesta hug and get to hear her ask, "How are you doing, hon?" in that marvelous way that you can't wait to tell her and hope she's proud.

When I think about the lessons I learned in college, some of the most important ones were from Vesta. She taught me so much about integrity and character and spiritual strength and just loving people so much that you can't stand but to do something to help them. I know she's touched about as many lives as there are stars in the sky. And I feel so lucky that mine is one of them.

Captain Fail Pants Goes to Washington

2010-10-03T22:19:00.000-04:00

Traveling with me is like traveling with one of the three Stooges - or maybe all three wrapped into one prat-falling package. Case in point: last week's trip to Washington, D.C. for a conference.

We were greeted by the Head of the Conference who hugged me and asked how I was feeling. How am I feeling?? And then it registered that she had me confused with the other woman of the same name who works on the account and is pregnant. Oh, sweet fancy Moses. She think I'm pregnant. Do I look like I am with child?
After dinner, the waitress brings a rather sizable glass dish mounded with blue cotton candy. One of my dinner companions has a few bites. And then I proceeded to eat all of it. All. By. Myself. And no one stopped me.
This lead to the mother of all stomachaches at roughly 2 a.m. Like, fetal-position-whimpering-praying-to-God stomachache- a prayer in which I prayed that God would smite me for my gluttony.
Tuesday I woke up very late with a very serious spun-sugar-over.
Once dressed, I stood sideways and gazed upon myself in the full-length mirror for confirmation that I do not, in fact, look pregnant.
At Tuesday's dinner, I vowed to be very good and not overeat. Instead, I stood up to go to the bathroom, dragging the tablecloth with me, and turning over an entire glass of water.
Later, I lost my cell phone - my precious 3-year-old Nokia flip phone with the busted front. We were assisted in our search by the waitress whose attention was no doubt captured by me on my hands and knees with my head under the table in this very nice restaurant. When she finally located the phone under the table, she told me she felt compelled to just leave it there, thereby deducting all the cool points I had in reserve.
Wednesday morning, I'm wearing a dress. Which reveals the lovely blue goose egg on my shin, origins of which remain unknown. Perhaps from crawling around in the restaurant?
I added to the attractiveness of my legs later while using industrial packing tape on a package and slipping the serrated edge against my knee.
My dress nearly gave me a heart attack at the self check-in kiosk at the airport. Because when I bent to retrieve my credit card from my bag, I realized that the two most crucial buttons were gaping wide open. In the middle of the airport. Classy.
I thought I would be done with dress mishaps at this point - until I was also flagged by security for my "decorative belt loops." Yeah, you have to watch out for synthetic bamboo. It's a killer.
Once seated on the plane, I took a deep breath and hoped for a quiet flight back to Georgia. Instead, I got teeth-rattling turbulence on a flight that I decided to brave without Dramamine. By the time we landed, I had a greasy oil slick in the bottom of my stomach that would've made BP look like amateurs.

It's no wonder nothing gets done in Washington.

Me & the Closet have a Come-to-Jesus

2010-09-20T23:41:00.002-04:00

Back in the spring, I made a valiant attempt to rid my closet of the unfit to be seen in and the simply unfit in the ongoing war of me, my shelves and pie - a battle between dignity, discipline and the capacity of my closet. Despite what seemed like a battle well-fought, my closet still seemed to be full to bursting with items that, in some case, I filled to bursting. When I put on the fourth pair of pants one morning that were unfashionably (read: unbearably) tight, I declared war.

Exiled from the closet.

On Saturday, I paraded in front of the illustrious panel of one judge (Mom), and we opened fire on my closet. The first time she said that something looked "okay," I reached for clarification. "Does it look okay or does it look fabulous? I don't do this that often, Mom, so let's be real." Given permission to declare the dreckitude of any subsequent ensembles, clothes started falling into one of the following categories. There were the proud and the few who returned to the closet with a hero's welcome. And then caught in the line of fire was the slim pile of fatter clothes I've managed to undergrow and the fat pile of skinny clothes that I continue to outweigh. Behind enemy lines was a robust mound of clothes that were to be given away, bound for a new home; and lastly, those clothes so worn out or so...awful...that there was nothing to be done but trash. Mom perched on the desk chair and snipered bunchy seams, tight bottoms, and baggy tops.

Give it away, give it away, give it away now

As Colonel Mustard said, "This is war, Peacock. Casualties are inevitable. You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. Any cook will tell you that."

In the end, there were causalities. The fat and skinny will be allowed to stay, living for a time in the basement until we determine if I am going to stay at this size or continue to yo-up and yo-down. But the giant giveaway pile? It's collateral damage. I've already donated some long slender pants to my tall slender sister.

Lest you think that this war waged left me unchanged, I am a seasoned closet soldier now. As much as I love shopping (and I do), I'm going to try to impose a few new rules on myself:

1) I will not buy clothing that does not quite fit or flatter because it is on clearance.

2) I will accept that I am no longer in my 20s and able to sneak by with inexpensive pants for my rather significant rear end and will invest instead in well-tailored bottoms for my well-tailored bottom.

3) I will limit myself to buying clothes with style and not add to my collection of simple, suitable, solid tops that make me feel simple, suitable and, well, a bit boring.

4) I will not purchase any more denim until 2014.

5) I will go to work tomorrow to earn the money to pay for the clothes I need now that I've dispensed with all that I had.

That's the Ticket

2010-09-13T22:28:00.089-04:00

In attempts to make progress toward moving into my house (no comments from the peanut gallery, please), I do sort through possessions from time to time to determine what goes to the house and what goes to File 13. I found a cherrywood box on the shelves in my room that contained a one-way ticket down memory line - a one-way ticket comprised of a plethora of little tiny tickets. Tickets to concerts. Tickets to sporting events. Tickets to theme parks. And like a confetti of memories, dozens of movie ticket stubs, each with the name of the movie and my companions written in tiny, tiny handwriting.

Earlier relics include tickets from White Water and the Braves game from my one failed attempt at summer camp (aside from sports camps) at 4-H's Camp Fulton in 1991. Stuck to these was one square photo from a photobooth strip featuring Sally Aamoth, Jessica Purvis, Bryan Chancey and me. For the sake of all of our dignity, it is not included here. Then there's the Campbell's Soup Tour of Champions Figure Skater's on Ice at the Omni featuring the 1992 Olympic champions of Albertville, France. I remember sleeping in the back of Heather Putman's parents' Jeep Cherokee on the way back from Atlanta in what seemed like the middle of the night but was probably 11:30.

Into the high school years with some real treasures: the Variety Show ticket from our senior year at which David Nudelman dropped the infamous f-bomb - my stub is signed by legandary English teacher Roger Bailey as "Rog the Cow" due to his bovine performance in a departmental skit. The 1996 Homecoming Dance themed "Into the Mystic" that I attended with a pack of girls including Allison Murrow, Jenn Oglesbee and Heather. Instead of a dance ticket for my senior prom, there's a ticket for Six Flags where my sister took Heather, Niki Hancock and me since we had no dates to prom. For the record, I also recently found photos of us from that same day with our calculus books that we turned into our teacher for extra credit. (And in calc, I needed all the extra I could get.) There's the Fiddler on the Roof ticket that I went to with my sophomore year crush, Chad Dudley. And the Annie Get Your Gun and Sound of Music stubs from lending moral support to performances by Tim Burger and Jenn.

Which brings me to the slew of musical theater performances I attended when I latched onto drama with a vengeance my junior and senior year. Singing in the Rain and Grease at the Classic Center. And Les Mis. Oh, sweet, lovely Les Mis in my very first time to the Fox Theatre. I remember being in awe of the ceiling, the grandeur, the smell of the theater. I loved it so much that I went twice in two weeks with Tim, Jenn, Allison and Tommy Raymer. I went on to see Rent with the same crew sitting in the very last row of the Fox. And Stomp - a notable event on the way to which I broke down on the side of I-85 leading to the demise of my beloved 1992 Honda Accord with the pop-up lights and at which was the first time I met my sister-in-law. (A fact I recognized whether my brother did or not.)

Speaking of my brother, I found the Universal Studios stub from when we went in high school. And a dozen or so tickets from baseball games and tournaments he played in over the years. Also in the sporting category is my scorecard from the now defunct Q-zar that suggests I need shooting lessons.

Tempe Landrum took me with her to the dress rehearsal of the opening ceremonies of the 1996 Olympics. I'm not sure I even knew who Jessye Norman was when I went, but I remember the still humid air being broken by her amazing voice.

Which brings me to a host of concerts - Don McLean, Rod Stewart, Counting Crows, St. Etienne, Tori Amos, Ani DiFranco, all three Lilith Fairs. When I saw the stub for Jump, Little Children at the Georgia Theatre, I had to smile remembering going with Niki and standing under the mirror ball listening to "Cathedrals" and totally falling in love with Matt Bivins during "Body Parts." And then I felt a little shiver when I realized the ticket was from a night almost ten years to the day before the theatre burned down.

As for theaters, there's a hilarious compilation of movie stubs - some mortifying - and some with funny notes like "First time I drove to Athens." For the record, that was to see Apollo 13 with Niki. My first rated-R movie stub: Legends of the Fall. A first date to see Speechless with Michael Keaton and Gina Davis. Major League 2 with Lizzy Keister, and Twister with Tempe - oh, how many times she watched that movie. The Cutting Edge with Heather during my figure skating obsession. Scream with Andi Jones, Jen and Niki when the Alps Cinema was "the dollar theater." Remember how scary Scream was the first time you saw it? Several stubs are noted as mine and Niki's "Loser's Night Out" - clearly, high school was bursting with self-esteem. And speaking of Niki, the ticket that notes we attended opening night of Jerry Maguire was no doubt due to her undying love for Tom Cruise.

These little pieces of paper, bent squares of cardboard, some so faded you can hardly read them, decades of adventures that all fit neatly in a little cherry box - which, for the record, is totally making the cut for the move to the house.

The Lawnmower (Wo)Man

2010-09-06T22:45:00.001-04:00

Call me spoiled. Or girly. Or the baby of the family. (All three would be apropos.) But I have never mowed the lawn. I do have a lawnmower - a housewarming gift from my parents - but heretofore the bright green self-propelled Lawnboy with the detachable clippings-catcher bag has been propelled by my dad. But seeing as how the lawn looked like this:

The grass has reached new heights.

Crop circles are really just aliens' way of telling us we need to mow.

And because the overall curbview of my house was starting to look a little bit unkempt and had me worrying that the neighbors I don't know on the left side might start leaving nastygrams in my mailbox or spray-painting "Cut Me" on the front lawn because it looked like this:

What's up, ghetto lawn?

I decided that today might be the day that I learn to push the lawnmower. I enlisted the instruction of the world's most experienced lawn mower who has been mowing lawns for eons and covered enough acreage on the Berry College campus (just ask him) to have dulled the blades of at least 87 farm implements: my dad.

We rolled the mower out of my basement and went over the basics. The little lever you have to grab to crank it. The best approach to pulling the start cord hard and fast enough to turn the engine over and the squeeze bar that controls the self-propellage. Grabbing the lever as instructed, I pulled the cord through til I felt resistance and then gave it a yank. Nothing. Dad suggested I straighten my left arm out. So I stood up and held my left arm out in front of me Macarena-style which caused Dad to double over in laughter. "What?" I asked, perplexed. He nudged me to the side, depressed the lever, and holding his left arm straight for leverage, gave the cord a mighty yank, immediately starting the mower. "Oh." After a few unsuccessful attempts, I was able to get it started. "NOW WHAT?!" I yelled over the motor. Dad gestured to the overgrown yard like the world was my oyster, looked at my determined face, thought better of the "have at it" approach and directed me toward a rather straight patch close to the house that would be hidden by bushes if I totally butchered it. But I didn't!

Obligatory action shot captured by Mom

Dad made me shut off the mower to give me a few tips, and then I had to start it again. Uh-oh. Seriously, you've got to yank that cord from here to Mississippi to get the dratted thing to work. Hello, lower back pain. Hello, totally out of shapeness. Hello, I look really stupid trying to start a lawnmower.

Look at me with my straight left arm!

I learned a few things today while mowing.

That self-propelled thing is garbage. There was pushing involved.
However, if you squeeze the bar hard enough, it will propel, and you will find yourself racing along behind a totally out-of-control Lawnboy.
Mom said I would learn to make the lawnmower work for me, but today, the lawnmower won.
It is best to close your mouth when removing and dumping the clipping bag.
I'm pretty sure that I have muscles in my butt that have never been used before today. Let's hope that in addition to trimming the lawn, I can get some tush-toning out of this arrangement.

We're going to need some Rogaine for this bald patch stat.

If you lose control of the mower when it's going over, say the edge of the drainage ditch, it is possible to scalp your grass.

It is cruel, cruel fate when you choke the motor with your ridiculously long grass for the 57th time and remember that you requested a key-start mower to avoid the aggressive cord-yanking rigmarole. And there, gleaming in the afternoon sun, after you've finished the back and front yard and pushed through to finish the side yard, is a key zip-tied to the handle.

With God as my witness, I will never go yanky again.

The shorn backyard in all its glory.

That, my friends, is a well cut lawn.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere are Signs

2010-08-30T22:18:00.000-04:00

On my way home from work today, I stopped by the house I don't live in to pick up the mail. As noted, I still have to pay the bills. The yard needs mowing, and the area around the front walk and the flower beds in the sideyard need weeding. There's a great burst of something unwanted coming through a crack in the driveway, thriving until I can get at it with some RoundUp.

I unlocked the door and walked through the house, just to assure myself that everything was okay on the inside. Other than smelling slightly shut up, all was well.

I left feeling discouraged, thinking about this state of limbo in which I find myself. I know I will get there, and in the long run, the six months that have passed will be inconsequential. But in that moment, I pulled out of the driveway,wondering when I would get there.

I passed a Methodist church that always has a pithy saying on the sign out front, and I've made a habit of checking the message when I drive past - if for no other reason than I love a good pun. Today, there was no wit, no wordplay. Just "The Joy of the Lord is Your Strength. Neh. 8:10." I pondered it as I came to the yield sign, looked to the left and then pulled onto old 441. When I looked back right, a smidgen of a rainbow was smeared across the clouds above the trees.

At home, I looked up Nehemiah 8:10. And lo and behold, the words just before the part quoted on the sign are "do not grieve." "Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength." Couple that with a rainbow, the sign of God's covenant with the earth. A symbol of peace and of hope. A reminder of the very shortly passed storm, its turbulence and fury, and the beauty that emerges after. A promise.

Rainbow photo via Life in the Bristolwood.