It was only a dream...

I have a new addiction.

A while back, I was on my way home from the city, and desperately needed something to drink. Spotting a friendly, neighborhood 7-11 on the corner, I popped in for some icy-cold refreshment.

And there, in the back corner of the store, I discovered what will surely be my downfall.

The Crystal Light, sugar-free tangerine-lime slurpee.

Friends, this comes from the girl who swore off the slurpee 25 years ago. Remember back then? You generally had two flavor choices - Coke or cherry. You could buy twizzlers at the same time, use them as straws, and eat the nasty half-frozen sugary candy by-product afterward.

Then you'd fight off the sugar rush and nausea for hours.

But this...this is different.

It is sugar-free.

And it is tangerine-lime. (sounds gross on the surface, doesn't it? Don't be fooled. It's magically delicious.)

It is guilt-free dessert.

So this past Friday, on an ill-fated road-trip to Mount Prospect, I dragged poor P into every 7-11 in a three-county area to see who carries them.

Alas, we only found the cherry lime-aid flavor. Still tasty, but not nearly as yum. We'll call it the methadone variety.

To date, I have only found two locations that carry the tangerine-lime. One at Foster & Northwest Highway, and one in Elgin on Randall Road. Both are a hike from my home and office, but I wil find more, I swear.

They are out there, and they are taunting me with their freezy goodness.

And when I do find them close to home, I swear I will spend all of A's college savings on them.

Isn't that how a good addiction works?

Or might I be able to buy a slurpee machine and supplies on eBay?

If I stop showing up to work and social events, please wait a few weeks before holding an intervention. I'll just have one more, I swear.

I will do this for you.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

:)

As I've made my way through adult life, I've tried my best to become an open, honest communicator. When I was younger, I was horrible about such things. I come from a family that would rather gouge its eyes out with shrimp forks than tell someone they had hurt your feelings. I also grew up thinking that when you tell someone that you care about them (regardless of the context), the most likely outcome will be shunning and public ridicule.

A lot of that I've gotten past. I have spent years forcing myself to say those very difficult things, whether good or bad. Regardless of the cold sweat and racing heart, I do my best to get things out in the open when necessary. It may be with a hundred caveats, and painstakingly slow, but I find a way to say it.

I'll manage not to pass out when I say, "I think you're a wonderful person, and I'm glad you're in my life." I'll fight back the nausea to mention, "This situation made me uncomfortable, and I think we should work together to fix it." Dear God, but I do try.

Right now, though, I'm struggling. My feelings are hurt, and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to tell a friend how disappointed I am in his behavior. I'm afraid that either way, the friendship is permanently damaged.

The story is very long, and I won't go into all of the details. What it comes down to, though, is that he and I went through a period where things were tense. He stopped calling, and when we did manage to talk, it was around an unacknowledged elephant. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable, even though he would never talk about the situation. I brought it up, I asked the questions, and tried to find out how to fix it. Nothing worked. (If, at this point, you feel like interjecting, "Duh, he's a guy..." please don't. I expect more from this one. I also expect quite a bit from myself, and won't play innocent. I made my share of mistakes, and take responsibility for them.)

Until I started dating P. All of a sudden, it was like a switch had been thrown. I guess I was safe again, and everything was supposed to go back to the light, frolicking banter of the old days. He called, he wrote, and acted as if nothing had ever happened. The silent sigh of relief was palpable.

It feels like I'm fifteen again, and my mom is saying, "Ssshhh. It's over, and he's happy now. Don't make him talk about it, or it is just going to cause a fuss."

Yes, this is more on the melodramatic girl side than I usually blog, and I'm sorry about that. My question, though, is this:

Is the fuss worth it? *

Because I honestly don't know anymore.

*This is a rhetorical question. I am not looking for your answers, as I know you don't have enough facts to address it. I'm simply wondering out loud. Or in print. However you want to say it.

The fog was so dense that I could almost pretend it was an early spring morning. Visibility was only a few feet, and the air was completely still as I was leaving the house at 6:15 this morning. I had to be downtown for an early meeting, and the sun was still contemplating whether or not it was going to come up.

The air smelled of fall, though, and the few yellow leaves that were scattered on my driveway left no doubt that spring was quite a long way off. Suburban winter lay between us like a snarling beast, and it was intent on making the journey as difficult as possible.

I pretended anyway.

The world was quiet. The small crowd gathered on the platform at the train station was relatively subdued. Several men stood with their ties still hanging loosely around their necks, and many women crowded into the small shelters where it was warm. As the train approached, we climbed silently inside, finding corners into which we could curl up and watch the world pass.

Crossing the river was nearly surreal - plumes of white fog rose like campfire smoke toward the bridge as the sun began its subtle attempts to push the mist back from where it came. The intercom was startlingly loud as the recorded voice announced that we were now approaching the next station. People stared emptily out the windows. I wondered if this was a function of the fog, or merely the fact that this was one of the earliest trains of the day. For me, it was a combination of both, and I just couldn't seem to make the morning seem real.

When I stepped off the train and into the city, everything immediately changed. Cabs flew around corners as swarms of people moved with a determined purpose. The air was crisp and clear.

Everything was humming.

It struck me how much I love this city, and how alive it makes me feel. Every time I venture in from the suburbs, it hits me all over again. And I smile.

When the time is right, I will make the move in. Every day will begin with the motion of the city, and I will become a part of the vibrancy that is Chicago. Even with its warts, its costs, and its hectic pace, I have fallen in love with it. Who would have thought, even ten years ago, that I would come to such a place?

Not me. But then again, we're never sure where it is that our evolution will take us.

The panic in the markets is just about enough to send me over the edge.

Morgan Stanley and Goldman Sachs reported better than expected earnings, and their stock prices dropped about 30%.

Some money market funds broke the buck this week because of Lehman and AIG inestments - this isn't a first, keep in mind. It happened a few years ago, and people took it relatively in stride. This time, investors are so convinced that the world is ending that they are flying to the safety of short-term treasuries like there is no tomorrow. They are so crazy, in fact, that today a billion dollars of them traded at negative yields. Yes, people purposely lost money in T-bills. This hasn't happened since 1940. We (along with several other big houses) had to close our treasury money market fund to new purchases last night in order to protect the yield for existing holders.

Imagine the fury.

The rollercoaster of the major markets is enough to make you throw up, even intra-day (150 points up, 150 points down, 410 points up. Pass the pepto, please).

My clients are calling in tears, and all I want to do is politely tell them that it's that kind of panic that has made this mess into a catastrophe.

Here's the thing. If the market goes down, keeps going down, and never recovers?

Yeah, you're not going to give two shits about your investment portfolio. You won't have a job, a home, an economy, or a government. And if you think that's going to happen, then you really shouldn't be investing at all, anyway.

Panic breeds failure. The media, the bears, and the fear-mongers have dug us a hole so deep that getting out is getting harder and harder every day.

Please just stop. Let logic prevail again. We'll get through this, and everything is going to be okay again. I promise. Stop making this so much worse than it really has to be.

Please?

You're killing me.

This is absurdly funny.

This is enough to make me swear off any more political discussions until mid-November. Don't even try - I won't be sucked in.

This gives me nightmares.

This is still my favorite blog entry ever. If you can even call it just a blog.

If I ever recreate my blogging style, it's going to look something like this.

Life is too short. Eat more cookies.

A came home from school today and informed me that he needs a lyre and a flip folder before next Tuesday.

If that leaves you saying, "Huh?" then you may want to just quit here.

If it hits you that on Tuesday, the junior high band is going to start marching in practice for a parade, then I'm sure you'll understand just how blown away I am. The next generation is starting to march. (Jonathan, you were right. You were so, so right.)

I remember being in the Leary Junior High Band in Massena, New York, and trying to get the hang of marching through the streets of my neighborhood for the first time. Mr Rotunde, the band director, had this obnoxious whistle, which he would use to mark time and get us going. Two long whistles on one and three, and then four short counts of a full measure. Then we were off, tripping and stumbling, trying to figure out which foot we were supposed to be on. We played the national anthem and the high school fight song. Kinda. At least slightly reasonable facsimiles thereof. If you listened closely.

Old people and women with little kids would stand in their driveways and watch us march by. My mom could hear us from our house - sometimes she would walk a few blocks to see me play (all hunched over and trying to keep an eye on both the person in front of me and my feet). She would wave, smile, and sometimes cry just a little bit...I never could figure out why. It didn't seem like it was such a big deal.

Now I know. It's a rite of passage. One more sign that my baby, well...isn't a baby anymore. His first parade is on the 20th, and his dad and I will stand on the curb watching just like our parents did. I'll probably cry a little bit too, and A won't understand why.

He'll be too busy trying not to crash into the kid in front of him.

For the next two weeks, my house is going to have one extra inhabitant - A and I are kittysitting for Mark's (formerly my) cat, Miles.

At 13, he's a bit of a crotchety old bugger, but I have to admit that it's nice to have him around the house. He seems to be settling in nicely, and has even found himself a favorite spot on the back of the couch (right behind my head, where he purrs like a old diesel for hours on end).

I have made a list of resolutions for this two week period, and I thought I should probably write them down so I don't forget any of them.

• I will take some sort of allergy medicine every day. I will avoid the sneezing even before it even starts.
• My bedroom door will remain closed, creating a dander-free zone. I will not forget to close it, ever.
• I will make sure A brushes him at least every other day.
• I will not take him to the groomer and have him shaved (lest he eat my face off in my sleep.)
• I will not take him to the groomer and have him shaved (lest he eat my face off in my sleep.)
• If he throws up on my carpeting, I will not kill him.
• I will not use barfed-on carpeting as an excuse to call 1-800-588-2300.
• I will spoil him with Fancy Feast and Iams, so that he's impossible to live with when I send him home. I'll be like the cool grandma. But younger.
• I will not take him to the groomer and have him shaved (lest he eat my face off in my sleep.)
• I will not decide to develop a full-blown claritin addiction and go out to buy myself a new cat.
• I will not let A talk me into buying a new cat.
• I will pet him and pat him and hug him and squeeze him and call him George (after which, he may eat my face off in my sleep).
• I won't even take him to the groomer and have him bathed. I am kind of attached to my face.
• I will give him plenty of love and attention while he is here. Every time I do so, though, I will wash my hands and remember not to touch my face (the aforementioned one to which I am attached).
• I will not let A talk me into buying a new cat.
• I will not fall asleep anywhere except behind the closed bedroom door, just to be safe.
  
• We won't even say the word groomer in his presence. Just to be safer.
  

If I go missing and stop answering the phone, please come see if you can find my face somewhere. I hear there are doctors (at least in France) that can sew them back on.

kthnx.

I was sitting outside this evening, waiting for the fireflies to come out. They seem to already be past their peak, as I don't see nearly as many now as I did a month ago.

Fall is coming. As if I needed further testament, I looked up into the trees that surround my patio. All of the little helicopters hanging from the branches have turned a golden brown...a precursor to the leaves that will soon follow suit and fall to the ground. I should know what kind of trees the helicopters hang from, but I don't. I just remember being a little girl and throwing them into the air, blowing them higher, and watching them spin slowly to the ground. Perhaps if I had felt a remnant of that innocence tonight, I would have done so again.

Instead, I tried to slow my racing thoughts and listen to the birds chirp sleepily as they settled in for the night. I'm a bit muddled this evening, as tomorrow is going to be an incredibly stressful day - I'm testifying in my babysitter's divorce trial in the afternoon, and it has me genuinely spooked. I won't go into all of the details, but I will say that I'm not terribly thrilled about telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about what I've witnessed from her soon-to-be-ex-husband. It's the right thing to do, and I will share my story willingly, but the guy seriously creeps me out. I don't like the thought of making a psycho enemy of someone who lives just a few blocks away from me.

_________


I haven't been blogging lately because I've not been sure exactly what to write. Life has been very good to me, and I have no complaints - I'm dating a great guy, I've been promoted and given a decent raise at work, and A is home, back in school, and very happy. It just seems like if I write too much about it, not only will I sound like a total sap, but I'll also jinx my chances at staying happy.

Silly? Of course.

But I've never claimed to be the world's most rational person.

So tonight, as I sat outside and lamented the missing fireflies and little brown helicopters, I did something I haven't done in a long time.

I prayed.

I asked that I get through tomorrow with dignity and grace. I asked that I find a way to hold on to this new-found, refreshing happiness. And I asked God to let me find a way to still my restless mind and stop waiting for the other shoe to drop, bringing me back to the angst-filled status quo.

I'll do my best to blog more often. It's good for me, and I've missed it. Thanks for hanging in there while I've been gone :)