It was only a dream...

You know what it's like when you have so many things going on that you just can't manage to stop?

That's where I am.

This is the hell week, and I have 76 hours worth of work scheduled in a five-day period. My parents are coming tomorrow to spend a few days with A, because I'm not going to be home until late tomorrow and Wednesday. I hate asking them for favors, but sometimes you just have to swallow your pride and accept the fact that you can't do everything.

So today, I left the house early, went into the office for a couple of hours, picked up a coworker from Cincinnati at O'Hare, drove to Milwaukee for a meeting, then drove downtown to drop her off at her hotel before heading home, making dinner, and helping Mark finish the installation of my dishwasher (finally - yay!!)

Then it was a trip to the grocery store, two loads of laundry, and taking out the garbage.

It is now 9:00, and I have to pay some bills and straighten up the house before going to bed. I have to be out of the house by 6:30 to be downtown for my first meeting, and won't be done until 10:30 tomorrow night.

So my brain is in go-mode. I am on. I am at mach 5, with a trail of smoke behind me. My to-do list is a mile long, but I'm okay with that. Every now and then, I thrive for short periods of time on utter chaos - it makes the quiet times that follow that much sweeter.

I can, however, almost guarantee that I will not sleep this week. I can also bet that by Friday night, I will be a zombie. But I will have been productive, and I will feel accomplished. Just don't get in my way, or I'll run you down like a deranged parade shriner.

No, I'm not bipolar. I'm just very much a product of my environment. Or clinically insane. One of the two. Take your pick :)

"A liar is somebody that tells the truth, and thinks it didn't happen. That's what this song is about."
-Glen Hansard

I recently fell in love with this. I just adore the way it's assembled - simple, pure, and lovely. Besides, who hasn't been on both sides of this story at least once or twice?

I played this afternoon.

It had been so long since I'd been really inspired to do so that I can't remember with any clarity when it may have been. Months, maybe, since I've tried. True inspiration, much longer. But this afternoon I awoke from a nap with a song in my head, and I wanted to play it.

For years I've been wary of picking up an instrument. Occasionally, I'll fuddle through something on my mother's piano, but that's easy. I was never very good on the piano, so my expectations are rather low. If I can make it through the first half of the Moonlight Sonata without cussing enough to make A chastise me, then I'm content. It's a lighthearted adventure.

But I remember being a flutist. I can still feel the residue of how it felt to form a pure, round, lilting sound that I could manipulate to recreate each and every human emotion at will. I can hear it in my head. I can feel it in my chest. If I think about it hard enough, I can melt into it, and be pulled...or dragged...under its surface to that place where breathing is optional and only the ache is required.

I don't know why it was today that I wanted to play. All I know is that I could not resist.

The horrible Emerson monstrosity sits on a shelf of the bookcase in my living room, optimistically assembled and available at a moment's notice to do whatever it is that it does. My beloved Wimberly is long gone, sold years ago to pay the bills of a man who never could figure out how to stop spending money. But the Emerson was smiling at me, and promised to do its best to match my lagging skills in a joint partnership of Saturday afternoon hijinx.

It only took me a second to wish I hadn't even picked it up.

I closed the keys, and spun air through it to warm it evenly. The keys are clicky and leaky, the action hesitant, and the corks worn. The leaks are the worst part. My low C is almost non-existent. But I gave it a shot anyway.

As an old habit, I always start with a B in the staff. Fill it out, center it, hold it for a moment, and slip down to the B flat. Years of work in a Taffanel exercise book made that permanent. Pause, restart the B flat. Clear it out, find the guts behind it, and fall into the A. And so on down the chromatic scale. When the lower register is in place, I pop up into the next octave. Again with the B, then down step by step trying to hold a consistent strength throughout the range.

My first B died on contact. Raspy and rattling, it lasted less than a second. I licked my lips, turned in, and tried again. Slightly better, but still airy and unfocused. Frustrated, I pulled away and stretched my lips. The third try stuck. I had one note.

Slowly and painfully, I made my way through half an octave. Each note was tenuous at best, hanging on by a thread and threatening to get caught in the lip plate before becoming realized. But I had some semblance of a sound. It wasn't offensive enough to push me away. So I jumped into the song...the one that had been in my head.

It was immediately apparent that this was a huge mistake. Every other note cracked, overblown and uncentered. You could drive a mack truck through the variance in intonation. Everything above the break was tinny, and everything below was weak and unsupported. I made it through the intro once...twice...

...and walked back to the shelf to put my flute away. I would rather bang my head against a wall for the rest of the afternoon.

But apparently, Ma Nature didn't get the memo. Today was a miserable mix of rain, sleet, and snow that made it feel like early February.

Oddly enough, though, it wasn't terribly cold. It hovered in the mid-30's all day, and was therefore tolerable.

I had meetings downtown all day with my boss' new boss, who was in from headquarters to get to know us a bit. Admirable on the surface, but really more of a disaster-containment plan if you look closely at it. With the latest reduction in force and the dangerously low morale, I think she felt she had to do something to make it look as if someone cared.

All in all I liked her, and think she will do well if given the chance.

About 4:30, she stepped into the office I had usurped for the afternoon. "I wanted to have some one-on-one time with a few people, and you were at the top of my list. Is there somewhere we can go talk?" she asked.

"Sure. There's a bar downstairs," I said with a chuckle.

Surprisingly, she bit immediately. We grabbed our things and headed to the elevator.

We spoke of what is happening across the company, what needs to happen in order to make things better, and how success should be measured. I liked that. Quantitative analysis is something we could use right about now. I was a bit shocked, however, at the last question she asked as we were getting ready to head to dinner.

"So why are you still here?"

I raised the bottle to my lips to buy a moment of thought. I looked at her earnestly and inquired, "Interesting question. Why do you ask?"

"You've been labeled an at-risk employee. When top performers fall into that category, we worry."

I laughed. "Is that because I have more seniority than anyone else, I'm sitting a level below my team-mates on two different scales, and am paid $25,000 less than the market is offering?"

She didn't laugh along. "What makes you say the market is paying that much more than you're making?"

"That's what the six head-hunters that have called me in the last three weeks have been offering," I said bluntly. "Look, I know I'm a young female, and have come up through the ranks. I know this company doesn't like to promote people, and we have the reputation for not paying anyone what they're worth. But I'm not stupid."

She smiled. "I'm realizing that. I can't promise you anything, but I'll do what I can to fix that over the next few years. So I'll ask again. Why are you still here?"

My answer was simple. "Loyalty. I love my clients, and I love working for C. It's been enough to keep me here so far." I didn't extrapolate on the other ventures I'm currently pursuing.

She nodded, and we headed out to meet the rest of the group. We all walked through the snow and rain to the restaurant, where I pulled my hair back into a sodden clip and ordered a French martini. I didn't say much as we ate, knowing that I'd already said enough. She watched me, though. As did C, my boss. I have a feeling there will be more conversation tomorrow on the topic.

I made my excuses shortly after six, claiming I wanted to make the 6:30 train home. Crossing the river to the station, I stopped to gather my thoughts. I was moderately intoxicated. The snow felt cool as it hit my face, and I stood on the bridge for a moment to enjoy it.

Standing in front of the train station was what we refer to as "A Rolex in a $1,000 suit". He was smoking a cigarette. I wanted one.

I walked up to him, smiled sweetly, and asked, "Hey, I don't suppose you would care to loan a girl a smoke?" I tilted my head, batted my lashes, and grinned up at him.

It worked. "You mean I can have it back when you are done?" he asked. "Then it's a deal. If you let me buy you a drink."

I laughed. "Okay, but I have a 6:30 train to catch. We'd better drink fast."

I savored that cigarette like it was the last on earth. For some reason, alcohol makes them taste like heaven. I can't explain why.

He helped me with the door, and we took the escalator up to the second floor. In the bar, he ordered two Coronas without even asking what I wanted. I smiled. "And what if I wanted hard liquor?"

"Then you'll have to stick around for another drink," he said. I was tipsy, but I wasn't about to have drink number four in a train station with a stranger. I laughed him off and flirted my way through the beer.

When I looked at my watch, it was past seven. "You are an evil, terrible man. You made me miss my train!" I admonished. I was full-blown drunk, and he knew it.

"Then stay for one more. You can have your hard liquor." He winked.

"I don't think so, but thank you. You're very kind." I realized that I didn't even know his name. Neither had I told him mine.

He reached into his pocket, and pulled out his wallet. "Here is my card. Give me a call some time, huh?"

I took the card, and put it in my pocket. "Thank you. Have a safe trip home, and don't melt in the snow!"

I did not give him my card. I did not even shake his hand. I turned on my heel with a smile, and walked out the door.

Careful not to waver, I made my way to the revolving door that leads to the tracks. I stepped through, located the nearest trash can, and pulled his card out of my pocket. Without even looking at it, I dropped it in.

I got on the (7:30) train, made a few quick phone calls, and closed my eyes. By the time I woke up ten minutes from home, I was disappointingly sober. I checked my pocket just to make sure the card was gone, and gathered my belongings as the nice conductor told me to over the intercom.

The last thing I need is to start collecting rolexes...but it's nice to know that I could if I wanted to.

And for some reason, I find myself savoring the label at-risk. It's exciting. It's dangerous. And it's about time.

Admitting that you want something is a very dangerous thing to do. It gives people power over you. The power to say no; the power to make you feel stupid for wanting too much. The power to demand something in return through negotiation; the power to withhold the object of your desire in order to hurt you.

I have begun to realize as of late that I am afraid of so many of the things I truly want in this world. Giving voice to them seems a cataclysmically disastrous proposition - I know that I am a dreamer, and I am often a fool for the romantic notion that I can be and do everything on which I have my heart set.

Part of the problem, I think, is that I am very good at many things. Certain aspects of life have always come easily for me, and I've not had to work terribly hard to be successful in certain key areas.

But the things that are important are the things that require effort. The payoffs worth reaping are subject to great risk - and I have never, ever been very good at losing.

So those things that matter, those treasures I would give anything to have, I am too afraid to pursue. Too terrified to speak up and say, "I want this." Because what happens if you give everything, sacrifice your whole self, and are rewarded with only a resounding, "No"?

Perhaps the timing was wrong, or the circumstances were not conducive. Maybe you really didn't have what it took, or you just weren't destined to have it. To lay everything on the line and be turned away is something that I'm not sure I can face.

Instead, I spend too much time preoccupied with the standard, safe goals. I spend too many hours at work, because I'm better at my job than anyone else I know. I do too much, blow through every objective, and drive myself to always be the best at everything that comes my way there. I make sure my house is cleaner than my friends' and family's. I communicate with my son ad nauseum, so that he is the wisest and most mature amongst his peers. I give constantly of all of the things that come easily to me...to the point that I no longer have the time or energy to think about those things that would make my soul sing.

Tonight, I am exhausted. I have successfully over-scheduled myself to the point where I'm not sure I can continue to function. My health has suffered, my heart has grown tired. I feel beaten by the very things I have pushed myself to achieve.

When all I really want is...

...if you really thought I would tell you, then you are even more foolish than I am.

I have tried, and I have tried. Too many disjointed thoughts, not enough cohesion. I've started six times, and keep coming back to a blank page. I'm utterly frustrated.

So here is someone else's writing (again, sorry). This is the first poem I ever fell in love with. It's on page one of my book. Read it slowly. Savor it. Then let's sit quietly in the dark, drinking wine and whispering wistfully about the tragic, beautiful tale of Prosperpine (Persephone).

The Garden of Prosperpine
- Algernon Charles Swinburne

Here, where the world is quiet,
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep,
Of what may come hereafter
For men who sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbor,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labor,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift and wither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Prosperpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes,
Save this wherout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born,
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch or portal,
Crowned with calm leaves she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than loves who fear to greet her
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow,
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined spprings.

We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
Time stoops to no man's lure.
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful,
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods that be
That no life lives forever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken
Nor any sound or sight;
Nor wintry leaves or vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.

My friend R in Portland posted this entry to her blog early this morning. It requires a password to read, so I've posted it in its entirety here with her permission.

R is another one of those people I would love to be when I grow up (even though technically, I'm older than she is). So, in her own words, here is R's secured ticket to hell. Enjoy, and Happy Frickin Easter :)


Eat me, Cadbury Jesus.

You ever get past the point of tired, where you start to believe you are awake?

I'm right there.

For the record, fuck Easter.

Seriously, my Mom is going to expect me to go to church with her. Does she go to the nice 11 am service?

Oh no, dear friends, she goes to the O'dark thirty service when Christ himself hasnt gotten his fat ass out of bed from the bender the night before.

I want to sleep in with Christ.

So, he is risen. Great. I want a new story for Easter. Its the same shit every year.

OK. So here is the Easter story for this year.

Christ was doing a couple of lines with Peter, when Judas was all like,

"Hey dudes, just got some cash! Lets get another 8 ball!"

Jesus and Peter were all like,

"Hell fuckin yeah!"

Jesus was so fucked up that he forgot to look both ways when he crossed the street. He got hit by a Walmart truck carrying toys made from the sweat of one little Indonesian girl.

That bitch killed Jesus.

Now go eat yer Cadburys, I gotta get ready in 2 hours.

So if you are squeamish and/or male, you may want to turn back now. Seriously, this is girl talk. I won't be blamed if you get squicked out after reading the whole thing - you have been fairly warned.

Oddly enough, this is my third visit today to this topic. How often does a person actually need to talk about menstruation? Not very often. This will tide me over for a while, I'm sure.

I had a dilemma today, and found myself in one of those horrible, what the hell do I do now? situations. I had a lunch meeting down in Geneva, and was running out at the last minute to make it on time. I wasn't thinking very clearly at the moment, because it had been a rather exciting morning. More on that later...

So anyway, we met inside the Geneva courthouse, and planned to walk to lunch from there. As we were gathering in the office, I had that feeling. The ladies will recognize it as the omg, I have to go to the bathroom right now or I'm going to have a really big obvious problem feeling. I excused myself, and realized (in great horror) that I hadn't stocked my purse with tampons before I left. I stepped gingerly into the bathroom....where there was not a feminine hygiene dispenser on the wall.

Well, hell.

In the stall, I decided to ransack my purse, just in case. You never know what may end up in the bottom, right?

Balancing the purse on my knee, careful not to let anything touch the floor, and sweating profusely in fear, I found what I believed to be gold. There, at the very bottom, beneath eight tons of useless crap and a cellophane bag of what used to be crackers, was one. lonely. tampon.

With a ripped plastic wrapper.

A lot of things go through your mind in a moment like this.

1. Anything is better than nothing, right?

2. Maybe not.

3. Well, am I better off with a handful of wadded up kleenex until we get to the restaurant?

4. No. No, I am not.

5. When is the last time I cleaned out my purse?

6. I can't remember. This can not be good.

7. I think a family of small rodents may have taken up residence in that purse.

8. Maybe the deodorant nature of the cotton has deterred them from making it into a nest.

9. Can I get some horrible disease from this?

10. What would I tell the people at the hospital?

11. I don't care. I have to go for it.

And so I took a deep breath, tore the wrapper the rest of the way off, and went along my merry way...just hoping that God would shine his favor upon me and save me from the evils of toxic shock syndrome, cooties, and whatever other abysmal evil may be lurking behind the pretty pink plastic.

Immediately upon arriving at the restaurant, I excused myself again, dug a handful of quarters out of my wallet, and made sure I'd be covered for the rest of the day. Still, though, a lingering fear has been tugging at me all afternoon.

So of course, being female, I had to tell someone the story. When I got back to the office, I regaled my assistant with the entire epic saga. She was mildly comforting in her reply of "hey, a woman's got to do what a woman's got to do, right?"

Right. I think.

But what she said next was mind-boggling. I have heard of such things before, but never really believed them to be true. This, my friends, is the bad part.

"You know, I've had a worse thing happen before," she said.

I knew instantly that I didn't want to hear it, but I'd already shared. There was no turning back now.

"A few summers ago, I was out with some friends one night. We were drinking and having a good time, when all of a sudden I looked down...and there was my tampon. On the floor. It fell out."

oh. my. god.

How does this happen??

I did not ask. She kept talking anyway.

"I always have to use the huge super-plus ones, because they're the only things that stay in place. I'd had to get one out of the machine, and it was just the regular kind. So right there in the bar, it fell out on the floor."

Again. HOW?

I mean, let's be honest. Is there anything more horrific in the world?

And just how....you know.....well, HOW??

What kind of cavernous...

I mean...

HOW??

I could understand maybe possibly in some way if it was a little junior thing that was the size of a large grape. Or maybe if she'd been dancing a lot. Hell, I don't know. Maybe not. But what do you DO in that situation?

I think you have to start kegels right then and there, and never stop for the rest of your life.

After faking a headache and going home, that is.

So now I've started doing preemptive exercises, just to avoid ever having to tell a story like that. But seriously. Why would you ever TELL that story? Why?

Now I have a bit of a cough tonight, and I'm thinking it's a purse-borne disease. Which can't possibly be bad as getting the respiratory flu, right?

Meh. Both suck. But neither is as bad as losing a tampon in a bar. I'll count my blessings and take my chances.

I want to be Beth Gibbons.

I came across this the other night in a conversation, and just couldn't get over how much I loved the live version of one of Portishead's finest.

Enjoy. It's damn sexeh.

Glory Box

...I will be lonely. A is going downstate to spend spring break with his grandparents.

Call me, write me, stop in for a visit.

It would make me smile.

:)

On our way home from A's guitar lesson tonight, we witnessed a car accident. A girl in a little red cavalier turned in front of a guy in a big Dodge Ram pickup (hauling a trailer, no less), and the two smashed right in front of us.

We stopped, and I let her use my phone to call her mom. I also made sure she didn't get back into her car, because the gas tank was slowly emptying into the middle of the road. I felt like such an adult - telling her that her parents were going to be more understanding that she thought, and introducing her to the firemen that showed up a few minutes later (the Fire Protection District is a client of mine, so I know a few of the guys). I remembered what it's like to be in that situation, and felt really bad for her.

As I got back into the car, A said, "Well, that was certainly an adventure. I have never seen anything like that before! I'll never forget this. I'm just glad you didn't blow up! Did you see that? The gas was leaking right towards the curb, approaching the gas pumps! What do you think would have happened if that had caught on fire? We'd all be burnt to crisps!"

At which point I felt like a pretty big heel. There were others there that could have stopped and stood with her, but I parked at the BP and ordered my kid to stay in the car, where he watched as a steaming, busted-up car's gas tank leaked out all over the road in front of me...and toward him. Probably not my most shining moment as a parent.

I guess sometimes instinct doesn't always lead us to do what's best for our kids. As he went to bed tonight, he said to me, "I'm really glad you're safe. It so would have sucked if you'd have blown up like Ricky's mom!"

I just shook my head and kissed him goodnight. I didn't know quite what to say. Lucky for me he has a sense of humor. Among other things.

*sigh*

Yes, I turn 35 next month. And yes, it's freaking me out for many reasons.

Being my fabulous, estrogen-powered self, not all of those are rational. Okay, maybe none of them are. But shut up. I don't want to hear it.

I mean it. I don't want to hear it. And if you insist on telling me that it's not a very big deal, I may have to kick you in the shin with a stylishly pointy heel.

Twice.

But anyway, I digress. I hadn't been thinking about this much over the last few days, because I've been out having a lot of fun. Friday night, we took a family trip down to Joliet, ate lots of yummy-but-horrific-for-you-food, and watched my friend Joel's band play a fabulous gig. But this morning, I was laying in bed feeling guilty about the poor boy sandwich from Merichka's. Really, it's no wonder that when I lived there, I weighed over 50 pounds more than I do now. Too many opportunities to be fat, as it were.

So how do these random thoughts all pull together?

Simple. I was just laying on my couch, reading the news, when I came across this stupid ad:



For the record, I am 5'2". And I've been struggling to stay in that acceptable range for a few years, now. So....let me get this straight. All of a sudden, next month I can throw in the towel and say, "Meh - what's another ten pounds or so? You're 35 now. Nobody cares if you're a disgusting cow. Ice cream on the house!"

Just for shits and grins, I should starve myself like an Ethernopian kid and get down to 114 pounds (the same weight I was at about age 9). This may be the final motivational straw that makes me lose the last of those pounds and say, "Look! I'm running with scissors! I don't weigh enough!"

Doubt it will happen. According to all of the charts, I'm getting old now. I'll likely forget about this tomorrow while eating pie and yelling at the kids to get off my lawn.

Time to wish you happy pi day, of course.

Not to be confused with pie day.

(I think I like the other one just a smidgeon better.)

In celebration, here is a little song for you.

I'd been slightly snarky, and I knew it.

It wasn't fair, and I knew that, too.

But I also know that if I don't ever poke, nothing will ever change.

For all I know, nothing will change even if I do poke.

Of course I always feel awful after said poking, because I know that even though I never see the bruises, they are still there.

So I made the peace offering, by way of a compliment.

As expected, I was poked back in response.

The reason we didn't talk for months was that I wanted to refrain from adding stress to your life. My honesty makes you uncomfortable, and I know it. This wall upon which we insist on continually bashing our heads just keeps getting bloodier. Don't you realize that I can only stop one of us from propagating the violence? I often wonder what significant event will have to happen before you'll be willing to talk openly about it. April, 2015?

But friends don't say such things. They just write them in unread blog entries.

So I gave another halfhearted poke, and I went home.

My head hurts.

-or This Octopus, let's give him boots.

Sorry.

But you know all of those other times I said something was the funniest thing ever?

I read Wes' blog this morning, and found out how wrong I really was. It just so happens that THIS is the funniest thing ever.

Or maybe this.

My apologies.

You know you're not getting enough when....

...you discover while driving home from work that you've developed an intimate relationship with the gum you've been rolling across your tongue for the last twenty minutes.

I can say no more.

Don't you see? It's all about the moments. Life is a collection of them to be experienced, savored, and remembered.

The tough part is recognizing the perfect ones when they happen.

This morning, I went into A's room to wake him up, and he was curled up in a ball with the blankets pulled tight against his chin. Instead of announcing myself at the door, I walked over to the bed, lifted the covers, and slipped into the bed beside him. He snuggled against my chest with a heavy sigh. I pulled him close, kissed the top of his head, and gazed out the window.

It was still relatively dark outside, and I could see the lighted wings of jets coming in from the north in their initial descent into O'Hare. Although we're twenty-five miles away, the lines of aircraft waiting to land sometimes stretch well past our house and into Wisconsin. As I stared out the window, arms wrapped tightly around my boy, I watched the jets one by one as they silently made their way across the dawn sky. I thought of all the people in the air that weren't lying quietly with their children, listening to them breathe as they awoke for the day.

I nudged A, and whispered in his ear. "Wake up, buttercup..."

He sighed again. "That's Doctor Professor Buttercup to you, lady."

I giggled. "Only when you're wearing pants. Any man in boxers and a tee shirt forfeits the title of Doctor Professor."

He turned, wrapped his arms around my neck, and said, "Okay, butter brickle."

I raspberried his cheek, flipped open the covers, and hopped off to the shower.

I love that boy.

You know how sometimes a memory hits you out of the blue, and you can vividly sense every detail like it was happening all over again?

Like hundreds of little orange butterflies I would see swarming around the yellow and brown flowers we called Indian Paintbrushes as kids. On a warm summer day, I could sit with a book and watch them for hours, listening to the insects buzzing and smelling the damp mellow greenness of the forest.

Or the nectarines my grandmother would give me, picked fresh from the tree in her back yard. We'd bring them into the house in a bushel basket with a red stripe, and wash them carefully in the kitchen sink before laying them out to dry on a paper towel on the counter. The next morning, she would hear my footsteps on the stairs, and get up from her knitting to begin peeling, so that one would be ready as I walked into the kitchen. Sweet, messy, and sticky, they were love in a bowl with skim milk and brown sugar.

Then there was landing at O'Hare Airport after my first week-long trip away from A, whom I'd called every day to discuss the wonders of his three year-old world. I recall stepping off the plane into the gate area, where he leaped from my mother's arms to sprint toward me as quickly as his stubby little legs could carry him. I fell to my knees, gathered him up, and sobbed into his shoulder as I swore to myself I would never leave him again.

And of course, sitting in the middle of the orchestra at the beginning of the second movement of Dvorák's Eighth Symphony and getting utterly lost in the beautiful melancholy, as the very air around me vibrated with sound. My heart, it seemed, would unknowingly quicken or slow to follow the steady lead of percussion. Each note, as painstakingly as it was created, would be heard not as my own voice...but as a part of the collective, indescribable being that came to life for only a few beautiful moments...before falling away into sleep among its players again afterwards.

All of those memories, cherished and untarnished by time, make me smile in wonder at the beauty I've been blessed to experience.

Yeah, I'll kind of remember it all that way.

Go ahead, you can do it, too. I won't tell.

I spent the weekend furiously cleaning my house, and worked until almost 10:00 last night in a desperate dash to get everything done. You know I'm in a frenzy when I get down to bedroom closet and baseboard level...but really, I just don't do well in dirt and/or disorder. I felt totally accomplished last when I crawled into bed, exhausted.

So then what happens?

This morning, A wakes up with a splitting headache. I gave him drugs, sent him back to bed, and have been sitting on my couch listening to conference calls all morning. The fact is that I'm home, and could have easily procrastinated on several things until today. Hmph.

Now pardon me, I'm going to sit here looking at my clean house for a while.

Okay, I finally watched 300. Not a bad movie, but really. I'd expected more from all of the hype. It was, in its own special way, sort of like watching an hour an a half-long bow-flex commercial. I can appreciate a six pack as well as the next woman, but they could have at least thrown in a token full frontal sPartan nekkid shot, couldn't they? Would it have killed them?

On another note, I was watching a clip on tv in which they showed a grocery store in Ohio - before the snow hit, it had been stormed for the 'essentials'. The manager said they were completely out of bread, eggs, and milk.

What is it about snow storms that gives everyone the overwhelming desire to go home and make french toast?

This afternoon, I went to the firing range with M and his Glock .45. Imagine it, neither of us even used it to shoot the other! We did, however, kill several paper people. They had it coming, I tell you.

Now, having grown up in the great state of Michigan, it should come as no surprise that I have an unnatural lack of fear of firearms. I think I was about six years old the first time I laid my hands on a rifle, and maybe nine when my uncle taught me how to shoot a shotgun. (Of course anyone who has met my uncle Tim will simply nod and chuckle to hear that he had me lean my shoulder against a tree before firing 'to steady myself and brace for the kick'. It took months for that bruise to fully heal.)

For Christmas when I was ten, my parents bought me a .22. I would pull it out at the cabin to shoot at targets, trees, pop cans, and the occasional trash barrel. All in all, I was a pretty good shot for a little girl, if I say so myself.

Today, though, that world seems rather foreign. Other than a pellet gun here and there, I haven't actually fired a weapon in about 25 years. (Wow, that makes me sound old.) When we moved to New York, that was sort of the end of the backwoods days for me. I'm much more of a city girl now...go figure.

So, in urban fashion, it was probably much more fitting to have a handgun in my grasp today. I'm sure that M would have found the entire thing much more entertaining if I had been nervous, but such is life. I'm just glad that we're at a place now where we can have fun together - even with weapons. You never know with all of the different phases he and I have gone through, right?

When we arrived, there was only one other chick in the joint. She was pretty butchy in general, so I felt....well, as if everyone was surely snickering. Being in jeans and sweatshirt helped, and when I added a Cubs baseball cap, safety goggles, and big honking ear protection, I felt like I fit in a bit more. This was not a day to worry about whether my lipstick was perfect, after all.

As we were waiting to check in, a young Asian man with bad acne, ridiculous hair, and a bit of an odd smell about him picked up his cell phone. "I'm going to call my dad," he said. "Wish me luck." After a few moments, the call connected. "Yeah, can I talk to my dad?" -pause- "Hi. Can I come pick up my stuff?" -another pause- then nothing. He flipped the phone closed and put it back in his pocket. Then he grabbed his pistol and stomped through the door into the range. That, I must admit, troubled me slightly. If I were his dad, I'd have let him come get his shit. I'm just sayin'.

It seems that shooting a .45 is significantly more of a challenge than a .22. The kick is pretty good, and aiming is not as easy as you'd think. M was right - it's not a surprise that everyone is always missing in the movies. Although I was no Bruce Willis, I don't think I embarrassed myself completely. The paper people quivered in fear (or a bit of a breeze), and nobody laughed at me. At least not out loud (for which I'm grateful).

M, on the other hand, is a pretty good shot - which is why I let him win at gin rummy afterwards. I may not be incredibly bright sometimes, but I'm not a total idiot :)

Thanks, M. If we ever do it again, can we use that automatic-rocket-launcher-thing we saw on the way out? Cuz that would be awesome.

Arkansas Razorback players Clarke Moore, Brett Goode and Casey Dick on the sidelines...

Today was D-Day for A. His teacher (whom I adore) has been all over him like a hobo on a ham sandwich to work harder at school. Although he's incredibly bright, he has a tendency to do just enough to get by. She's not letting him get away with that, and is grading him accordingly. Hence my push over the last month or so to do as much as humanly possible to bring things into place before today, when report cards were due.

His grades are not quite where either of us would like, but that's beside the point. Under the comments section, his wonderfully bright, slightly Nazi-esque teacher had typed the following:

"A is improving in writing as of late. He must realize the great power he has with his knowledge and how to use it to the best of his abilit."

Now, I'm not sure about you, but I'm a bit cowed by a woman who is so uber-smart, she uses words I can't even find in my dictionary. My goal for this weekend is to find out where my abilit is, try to determine what it does, and then teach A how to use his. I'm such a bad parent....it's all my fault. *sobs*

In spite of the heat lamps buzzing overhead in the small enclosure, it was a bone-rattling kind of cold as I stood waiting for the train this morning. Huddled in a group of strangers who silently agreed that it was too bitter to converse, we stared longingly west for the approach of the engine. Hands in gloves in pockets, toes curled inside too-thin socks, scarf and hat parting only from chin to eyebrows, I thought of the roses.

The day had been perfectly warm, filled with music and lemonade-carrying children. Velvety grass, crystal blue skies, easy laughter....and the roses. Strolling contentedly through the garden, I remember stopping in my tracks to stare in delight at their beauty - the trellis-arched walkway covered in thousands of delicate buds and blooms. Petals lined the sidewalk, and the fragile scent of warm, pink and white headiness filled the air.

Of all the things to remember from that day, I wish most to hold on to that moment, when peace, contentment, and a garden of breathtaking roses filled my mind.

Home is not a place, after all. It's a feeling that comes from being completely comfortable where you are.

I got up the nerve today to do something surprising - something I haven't done in over eight years.

I applied for a job. Polished up my resume, wrote a cover letter, the whole nine yards.

Not convinced I want to leave where I am, but if nothing else this will be a good experience.

I feel very brave.

The house is finally at peace tonight, and I'm tucked into my favorite corner of the couch. Outside, however, is the most blood-curdling sound - it's as if someone is killing babies in the trees.

There are two black cats that live in my neighborhood. Both, it seems, believe they rule the streets with unchecked authority. Tonight, as happens now and then, the two have crossed each others' paths. They tangle, screaming, with an eerie ferocity that turns a cold winter night into something vaguely sinister. I find it a disturbing way to end the evening.

That single-minded battle for dominance, however, is also fascinating. The willingness to fight and win at any cost is, in its own way, a certain sort of respectable. It's primal, instinctual, and very...

....alive.

It makes me ponder, as I sit waiting for the furnace to trip on and mask the racket outside, my own aversion to confrontation. Not at work, and not as a parent. Not in the ways I present myself to the world...but in the quieter, more personal matters in which I find myself less confident. So many times, with my father, my sister, and (not surprisingly) in certain relationships, I find it easier to say, "I won't argue. You win..." and I walk away before a challenge can be forged.

When exactly did I decide that it's better to duck out before trouble hits than to stick it out and take the risk of losing? What is is that I fear? It's certainly not a bit of blood, or a lingering limp. I've been beaten before, and have always survived. I think, regardless of how silly it seems, I have grown so attached to the fragile seed of dignity that has sprouted that I'd rather curl protectively around it than take a chance of having it trampled in the mayhem.

This in itself is unhealthy, I realize.

Everything I have, and everything I have worked toward is worth very little if I never stand up and say, "This is who I am, and this is what I want."

The next time I find myself with such a chance, I must try to stand my ground - and even push forward. Don't let me lose the struggle against myself...because really, I can't end up as the cat who smugly struts around her own tiny porch, proud to pronounce that she hasn't lost the territory inside her own perimeter.

And I hear that seeds of dignity are everywhere these days, anyway. How hard can it be to get my hands on a new one?

I know that I work in an industry that everyone loves to hate, but the simple truth is that the financial sector is a tough place to be these days.

Between mortgage crises, credit crunches, margins strangled by sinking interest rates, and a lack of consumer confidence, things are getting ugly fast.

Profits are evaporating, investors are screaming, and ratings are plummeting. So what do large companies do to save cash, and fast?

They reduce the workforce.

Today, in our case, it was 10% of all employees nationwide.

I've spent the last eight years dodging bullets in times like these. Today, I somehow survived once again. My small group wasn't hit - only because my friend Greg quit last week. If he hadn't left, one of us would have been escorted from the building today with all of our things in a bankers' box.

I'd like to think it wouldn't have been me, but egocentrism of that sort can get a person into trouble pretty quickly.

I'll count myself lucky tonight, and spend some time catching up on e-mails from when I was out last week. I have a feeling it's going to be important to stay on top of things for a while.

Last month, my eleven year-old son took the SAT test. I told him that if he beat my score from my senior year in high school, he'd have to move out and get a job. They've changed the scoring formats a bit since I was in school, but you'll get the gist of it here:

My score:

Verbal - 720
Math - 630

A's score:

Reading - 460
Writing - 450
Math - 510

He was in the 48th percentile of college bound seniors on the math portion, and the 35th percentile on the two verbal sections.

In sixth grade.

But he still hasn't beaten me. I figure he's got at least another year before he has to start working on his resume.