Oh darling, the seasons are your friend.

I feel very repetitive and that the continuation of focus on the fact that I love him and he's gone and it's hard will in the end bore not only me, but also you. In tandem, I am reminded that in thinking that way, I might have lost sight of my originating purpose. My reasons for blogging were inspired more so by the expression of self than ever they were for drawing readership...but of course I do appreciate my audience [please don't misinterpret].

I used to paint. I spent the better half of my high school days painting and purging all of the angst of adolescence on recycled canvas and old boxes and pretty much anything shy of my own skin. When time became less and high school lent itself to the responsibilities of college, I packed away the boxes of paint and old scraps and pencils. Cutting that part of expression from my life quickly proved unsuccessful. I'll spare you the year and a half of emotional unrest that followed...

I've always journaled, yet another outlet as they say, but blogging seemed more purposeful, more communal, more like a support group linking us all together. In the end this is my little plot, my own acreage for whatever I choose to cultivate, where behind the guise of a silly pen-name I can bear my soul and bleed my heart and spend every entry raging against life's lack of regard for fairness [if I like]. Luckily, I don't. [I don't think, anyway.]

Consider that your hands-on-hips-I-write-what-I-want disclaimer. If the appeal of throwing yourself into oncoming traffic seems more than that of poring over my momentary devastation, please take whatever measures are necessary to stop reading [now].

When he left, it seemed that his scheduled number of weeks away were mountainous in size. He kissed me in the dark kitchen and pulled the door of my apartment shut behind him. I watched as the glowing beams of his truck redirected toward the road and his brake lights vanished eventually into the night. He was gone. Start the countdown. Deep breath. Tomorrow will be one day closer to the [figurative] end.

...how fucking naive.

Weeks passed with unusual calm. I can count on one hand how many nights I wept for vainly mustered desires of closeness. Finally the visit was afforded, and even that return was handled well. I didn't backslide, I was smiling by Monday, the threat of The Army seemed so benign. I would not be deterred [I probably scoffed]. I might have even thought it would be easy easier than expected.

I watch and listen to my comrades, my other, other-halves who standby while their boyfriends/husbands deploy for 15 months at a time, plus training. It felt that if they could do it then my experience, guaranteed to be less in length, would be something similar to the simple act of eating ice cream in July.

[Yes, in July...]

Last week came with news of another month-long bought of training. I'd get him for a number of days before an additional month of distance wedged between us. In my normal fashion, I cursed The Army, voodoo hexed Uncle Sam, shed a tear or two but found myself coping the following morning. I commended the grace it seemed I was [slowly] adopting. I probably even canceled the hexes.

Down to only a few more weeks, my thoughts had begun venturing to welcome-home dinner menus, movies soon to be showing, the thought of kisses and smiles and hearing him breathe again. I was definitely on board with the glass half full approach. Even one more month would put him back home for graduation* and an eventful May wedding [...not mine], and the delight of early spring, and...ok, I'll stop. I was excited enough to look past the extension.

I. was. proud.

Y'know that instantaneous burst of over-confidence you find when a true challenge is seemingly conquered? For example, those first gliding 50 yards on the bicycle Dad just stripped of training wheels. You manage without error only to peer behind long enough to realize he's let go...and inevitably the episode ends in bloody knees and Barbie band-aids, and probably loose gravel in your nose. Tonight that was me, minus the bike and band-aids. Their understudies: an aching heart, public tears, discount retail therapy, the urge to throw my phone to the vinyl floor and jump and stomp it with my moccasined feet until either they or my phone met defeat. I wanted to snap shut my metallic messenger and rewind life's audio. I wanted to graphically peel back my ears to remove the newly embedded information.

"...another 2 months."

[breathe.]

"...back sometime in July"

[cling to lasting threads of calm.]

"...sorry to drop the bomb."

I have to go. I'll...um...call you back later, k?

I went into this thing anticipating the deployment...the pinnacle trial, the Iraqi Everest, if you will. A little training trip here, a slightly longer one there, I saw them as previews not piling obstacles. I wasn't ready to hear that the initial two months had turned into five and would then lead to some months of pre-deployment training before The War again consumed him. By the time July arrives in all of her humid, blistering glory, well over half of our relationship will have been sustained by phone.** That's long before the long stretch of fear, worry and cross-continental separation.

::sigh::

I question my true capabilities of endurance. Can we survive on relatively brief exchanges coaxed by what meals were consumed or the chronology of a day? Rather, can I ? Can we grow over a phone or is this a purgatorial stale-mate until he's back for some substantial amount of time? Will the envy of "normal" couples make me bitter? Or the envy of his mistress weaponry? How emotionally available will the focus of his travels allow him to be? Might the strain of separate lives lead us down different paths?

Maybe at the end of the day none of these worries will be validated. If it's meant to be, it will thrive even in the face of adversity, even when pulled by the literal ends of the earth.

And I wonder, "is love really all you need?"



_________________________________
*read as BIG, fucking deal [as in 6 years in the making]

** 81.8%

Soon We'll Be Found

Even when her hair forfeits its sunny hue and the elasticity of youthful skin begins to slouch, she'll remember the day he came home, how it felt to have him unknowingly approach her lunch party from behind and ask about the menu. She'll never forget the exact lurch of her heart and the rush of concentrated excitement that coursed through her every cell and left her shaking and in tears. Of all of them, even if he isn't the last, his memory will more than likely remain the strongest.

Over the phone I can hear the quiver of joy in her speech, "Obviously you didn't get my voicemail!" she taunts. Obviously I didn't. In a squeal she declares his homecoming and I waver on tears myself in the wake of her contagious mood. I don't know him from Adam save the stories she tells of off-hour phone calls and photos he sends, yet I find relief in the fact that he's finally here - feet on safer soil, un-uniformed, close enough for her to touch and smell him. Today she loves the Army because they brought him home. For the first time in some six months her mind is free. I imagine that she breathes easier in the security of his distance from explosives and enemy threats.

She'll tell her children about this Thursday, no matter their father, for as long as there is war, there will be war stories and the way that they defined a generation.

unbelievable

I've promised myself not to blog any longer about the sickness, so I'll be quick in the breach of said given word. I'll only allow it too, because it's a NEWLY diagnosed situation. It would seem that the flu moved inward to concentrate in the womb of my chest where it mulled for a while before mutating into bronchitis.

FAN-tastic!

We're treating it now so to prevent this off-shoot of the former illness from morphing [yet again] into it's close of kin, pneumonia. Two weeks later and I'm still...

[there are no words to release my frustration!]

...I'm going to the pharmacy now again.

Pleasure Seeker

I'm not sure why I failed to mention my birthday gift from The Staff Sergeant back in January. After all, I was thrilled and excited as the time to experience it approached. Upon request he signed me up for a six week course of Pole Dance Fitness. The classes began last week, but if you've been keeping up, you'll know that the only thing I was trying to master last Wednesday was the flu. Tonight was my first class and I love, love, LOVED it! It was so much fun spinning and twirling and trying to look graceful. It reminded me of hours spent hanging and dangling from playground monkey bars, only slightly more seductive...or an attempt to be such.

And now I really want one for my apartment [or his] and to be able to effortlessly flip and tumble upside down and around the pole. Like most things requiring great patience and effort, I already want to be a pro...I mean, not a professional dancer per se, but good at the skill.

Out of the Dark

I was sitting in the floor of the not-so-spacious stockroom, yet again recording inventory prices. In truth I was trying not to give into late afternoon sleepiness fueled by post-lunch digestion and my strategic position in front of the toasty little space heater I had childishly lugged along for the task.

11 at $23...

...65 at $32

3 at $22...

And suddenly, only two holes peering through to the outer storefront window were visible. Two eyes askew at the opposite end of the long, narrow space left to guide us out of the darkness into the only slightly less dark belly of the store.

An unexplained blackout had descended upon us, and the street lights, and the gas station across the road, and all other major establishments within a four to five block radius. It was as though we had regressed from 21st century order to third world chaos. It's amazing to me how poorly prepared the civilized masses are for such an occurrence. Treat the stop-lights as four-way-stops? Absolutely not. No access to credit card machines? What will we do? When I arrived at Panera to take advantage of my afternoon's extra hours of freedom they tried to give me my hot tea because they couldn't tender currency. While I dug for exact change the employees succeeded in several charitable pastry donations to others.

Due to the crippling events of the afternoon, we eventually closed up shop and in unison, cut into yesterday's leftover birthday cake...and entertained the possibility of heavy liquor consumption. Really, would there have been a more logical answer than lighting the store's display candles and stuffing our faces with sugary confections? No. We decided to wait on the bourbon. That may be better suited for a more dire affair.

[insert foot in mouth]

Not even one full month prior to The Staff Sergeant's honorable act of compassion [taking me on a much postponed, and ill-deserved rain-check-first-date], I was sitting in a coffee shop prophesying my immediate future.

On July 26, 2007, I wrote:

Apparently someone in the 80's thought it appropriate to "walk five-hun-dred miles", while The Plain White T's are currently crooning hipster lyrics about love and distance - not to mention the military sweethearts that are definitely feeling the stretch. If there are songs and books, and an entire branch of the US government that is valiantly surviving the dreaded plague of separation, I guess it can't be all that impossible.

[eerie, really]

This morning I was reminded of this archived post after Site Meter so kindly pointed to the curious individual in Somalia searching Google for...hope? inspiration? reassurance? I actually don't know - love with distance lonely worry.

Back in July I was much more than unsuspecting, in fact, the reference to the tribulations of the military was spurred only from a close friend of mine whose voice inferred the struggle across long-distance phone connections. It was almost one of those totally selfish, "Whew, glad it's not me!" mentions. But life has one hell of a sense of humor as it would seem. I'm now one of those "valiantly surviving the dreaded plague of separation" and though sometimes I wish that I could close my eyes and click my heels and have him home, sweet home, it really isn't an impossible feat when you understand the value of what you have.

Again, a bit redundant, but it made me laugh - the irony of my arrogant self, that is. Maybe this will reach Somalia. Maybe it will help to bridge the loneliness and worry.

consistency

I've finally rebounded enough to live once again in some semblance of normalcy. I still become engulfed by fits of coughing, and I tend to tire a bit more easily, but I can sleep on flat surfaces instead of last week's rising range of pillows [to keep the mucus flow maintained]. I can work an entire shift, sit through a day of class, and can sleep without the aid of medicinal remedies.

[relief.]

Everything else is also back to the usual, current state. I quickly readjusted to the single-dating life I left last week and it feels like a dream to have seen him, to know his environment as fact over imagination. Perhaps I put the thought of his skin against mine out of my head on purpose. A numbness about the separation makes it more bearable to be away from the object of one's true affection.

I've spent too much time focussed on these subjects. They have been somewhat overpowering in my presence, though.

...on another note, outside tiny flecks of glittering snow fall beneath street lights. As always I am hopeful for a day off due to inclimate weather. I'll not hold my breath, but I might cross my fingers.

It's short and choppy, but at least it's something to say I'm here. The bed calls, it's been a long day.

Upon returning.

"What is to give light must endure burning." - Viktor Frankl

It wasn't until the landing gear, in a mechanical moan, released itself from the plane's belly that I knew I wasn't ready to be home yet. I made it through the drop-off an hour and 20 minutes prior without tears only now to fight them off as I sat sandwiched between two unfriendly, self-engaged passengers. I was four-weeks fine having forgotten the true delicacy of our fingers entwined, of his playful gazes followed by smiles that I always question, of his off-the-cuff obscurities that don't quite convey over the phone. Like a candy from childhood that locks your jaws in immediate recollection, there he was waiting for me when I turned the corner...all of him, all of the whole of him, and as predicted, every ounce of possible anxiety dissolved. I wanted to be nowhere else in the wide world than in a bathroom doorway of an airport, wrapped in his arms.

He eventually was able to pry me from his neck in order to retrieve my circulating suitcase. After leaving the airport, we dined on Italian, we drove back to his temporary dwelling, we forgot about everything beyond our four walls.

Saturday was busy for both of us - he with an unexpected work obligation, and I with some collegiate business. By early afternoon we were finished with worldly distractions and able to get back to a vegetative state of doing what we do best together - nothing. Later we were off to dinner again and a movie that I won't suggest [Vantage Point]. Following the film and an unexpected run-in with a friend of his, we headed "home". Having already exhausted my still recovering body, I curled up next to him, cheek planted against his chest and blissfully fell asleep.

Sunday was as Sunday's should be. Some couples define "their thing" as a hobby or a mutual interest. Ours is pure laziness on the sabbath characterized by unusually large breakfasts and laying in bed for numerous, slothful hours. Even being away, Sunday followed suit...sleeping in, ridiculous laughter, waffles, no make-up. It was perfect, perfect, perfect.

Now I'm home again, void of the key element of the place. He remains [there] and will be for a number of weeks still, and I find myself back at the start of another one I can begin striking off the calendar of time apart. Time is so temporary a thing that it passes with each breath, each blink of an eye, every second mounting into minutes, into hours and days, and soon enough he'll be back, too. I sometimes question whether or not I really am strong enough, and then 48 hours of my life with him resounds with the deafening truth of will. Without fail, I will pick off each day that stands between us with determination because some things are too good to be waywardly discarded [even when they're really hard].

And so it is...

I found this little gem at shoeboxblog.com [and it made me laugh]:

Top Five Reasons Why February Doesn’t Suck:
By Chris
1. The weather. No, that’s wrong.
2. Summer vacation is just around…no it’s not.
3. You can start wearing…wait. No you can’t.
4. Valentine’s Day was happy. If you were already happy.
5. It’s two days shorter than the other months. But not this year.

This flu thing is really wearing me down, thus to illustrate my state of mind, I begin with a very cynical, yet clever top-5 list. I am feeling somewhat that way myself as of late. We are now into day 7, yes, SEVEN! of this delightful influenza journey and I've exhausted all patience with my body's lack of wellness and the inabilities I am face as I try to get back into the swing of work and school. I basically feel like the wee little scrawny kid who gets beaten-up every day for his lunch money. I'm just waiting for the parent-teacher conference that quells the daily ritual.

Tuesday I attempted two classes. Sitting effortlessly and immobile, what could be so hard? By the end of the second, I was practically asleep on the desk as all of my insides pleaded to go back to bed. I went home to nap for four hours and called it a night shortly thereafter. Wednesday I was shocked to awaken to an unfamiliar "whole human" feeling that had seemingly replaced that of the "walking dead." I demanded that Work let me come in for a half day, which entailed sitting in a chair recording inventory...yet again, my body failed me. I was asked to leave after four hours.

I'M READY TO BE WELL DAMMIT!

So here I am, still trying to ease into the routine I hated last week and that I now fantasize about today...oh, to be able to stand for an entire 8-hour shift of work, or to sit without struggle through my long academic Tuesday's.

It truly takes so little to rearrange a person's perspective. It seems that I am continually shown that lesson both with the trial of the army and those [evil] forces of nature and Her "Flu Season."

One of my biggest motivators for feeling well, or at least looking as though I feel well is tomorrow's flight. I'll be leaving [...on a jet plane] late Friday afternoon for a weekend retreat with The Staff Sergeant. I'll be honest, four weeks has seemed very long, not necessarily with grueling connotations, rather with dissipating ones. It hasn't been much of a battle, yet it's heartbreaking to realize how much of Us seems to have transitioned into a vaporous and intangible form, save that daily phone call. I've talked with my girlfriends who are in the midst of The Great Divide and have watched as they anticipate brief homecomings. I don't know how they do it and ever let him leave again. I'm uncertain what kind of person that makes me, but even now with two days to take him in, I can't help being worried that my return will be harder than even his initial departure. There is something to be said for the milestone marker of X weeks down and X to go, but the ones lying between now and then still lie between now and then. Seeing his face again will surely melt away any apprehensions in my heart, it's just...time will pass all too quickly, being in his presence will feel like a tease.

And so, tempted as I am to curse the stars, life happens for reasons beyond me. Even when it seems that nothing good can possibly be the result of sickness, distance or even February, there are always little glimmers of silver linings to either be found or forged.

I'll work on being mindful of that notion.

Flu, be gone!

As I sit down here with a cup of spearmint tea and honey many subjects come to mind.  They begin traveling down the synaptic gateways to anxious, waiting fingers, yet for none of them do I have the state of mind or energy to write.  The fingers must further be deprived...my mind's medicinal fog has yet to clear, I am still weary.

In what seems like The Era of Influenza, I have been battling the viral beast.  I'll post more when everything is clear again and I have the energy to focus.

If one might measure the night before by the hangover that follows it, last night was a true success!

Thank God for ibuprophen...

"Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom." - W. Shakespeare

Soon I'll be embracing the possibilities of the open road. I'll be caffeinated and en route to Atlanta, Georgia. I've mentioned my army-girlfriend-shortcomings many times and also how I feel as though I stumble [often] through attempts not to throw tantrums when the army works against my ideal plans. This is the opposite of that. This is a defining moment in proactivity. I have a friend from high school who grew up and married an army officer. In case you weren't aware, this whole war thing, regardless of your take on it, bodes inconvenient for holidays. That said, my date for Valentine's Day is a hot army wife in Georgia who inspires me to be less of child as I learn the ropes of military life one awkward step at a time.

Instead of feeling blue, I'll be belting out lyrics to love songs in-sync with my iPod's driving mixes. I'll be thankfully recalling the premature Valentine's celebration the Staff Sergeant and I indulged in before he left. I'll re-read the "happy valentine's day, I love you" text he sent long before I began to stir this morning, and I'll be looking forward to a girl's night out as both of our men have dates with Uncle Sam.

And to you, my friends, I wish all the best and lots of love!

Happy Valentine's Day!

on my nose and eyelashes

So, it wasn't quite a blizzard by common standards, but it definitely surpassed the banality of flurries. I love, love, love snow days!

Tuesday

The day began at 4:26am...with a scratching at my bedroom door. Beyond the stronghold of my lair lingered a canine, fearful of thunder [and lightning]. I tossed and turned and because of his outcries, I also then laid awake bothered by the flicker and rumble of the storm.

Thankfully, sleep befell me once again, and I did not stir until the hour of 8 [90 minutes later than intended]. I awoke with a start, sensing the missed alarm and leaped from my bed to quickly calculate the one hour I had to ready myself for the day.

Shower. [check]

Dogs. [check]

Make-up. [check]

Hair. [check]

I've mentioned the recent trial of parking at school, a true debacle if you will, yet this morning was a circus all it's own. It mirrored the honking and jams of traffic that occur only in a Manhattan rush hour. I yelled and cursed before miraculously, a vacant space appeared [and choirs of angels sang halleluiahs]. I fled the vehicle in a haste spurred by tardiness. Off to class.

Then a college job fair [and more bad traffic] that I might only ever equate to a nightmare of capitalistic proportion. Like Sebold paints the victim's Heaven, my mail order Hell must resemble twenty-somethings herded into clusters of awkward suits and phony grins, and firm handshakes and eye-contact. If given but one wish in this lifetime, I would gamble in every other opportunity to somehow bypass the slimy grip of corporate America.

Yet again, off to class, which preceded a third bought of traffic vexation...[ah, a trend!]

Dinner included a re-indulgence of last night's turkey chili, that like a fine wine only improves with age. I had enough time to eat, check e-mail, and tend to the dogs before embarking on a new adventure: a writing group. We gathered, provided introductions - our purpose and expectations, and mixed the hues of one another's richly colored characters in an hour. It was lovely and motivating and hopeful. It was one more baby-step in the professional direction.

Oh, and I failed to mention the traffic fiasco well underway in the parking lot of our meeting place...when it rains it pours [and it did that all day, too...].

Following the empowerment of writer-speak, I headed directly for Starbucks [which I hear may be incorporating free internet???]. It's where I go to study because it boasts fewer distractions than the zoo of my apartment. I chatted briefly with the Staff Sergeant, then not-so-briefly with Dad. Between phone calls I swallowed excruciating doses of strategic management in preparation for tomorrow's test. I'm praying that the televised meteorologists mean blizzard when they say flurries are in tonight's forecast. I could really use a whole day spent snuggled between the covers, free of obligation...but I won't be holding my breath.

And that, my friends, was Tuesday.

just a cage of rib bones [and other various parts]

I posted a blog last night [maybe some of you read it]. Its life was short-lived. I was on the fence regarding its content - back and forth about standing firm or conceding to the fear of probable judgment. Leave it posted or remove it? To be myself, or leave parts of me out of view so as to seem stronger [more like him]?

Ultimately I took it down.

I knew he would eventually read it, and then think...the things I wish I he wouldn't. [I'm no soldier, Love.] I wear my heart on my sleeve. I don't normally alter my self for anyone. It's always take-it-or-leave it, granted I am courteous of my crowds and refine antics when need be. But I never hide.

We have a number of fundamental differences. He is so reserved, I am the most open book. He epitomizes his role of Soldier, and I, Artist...feely, impulsive, unrestrained [his opposite]. There are times I know that he wishes me to be more like him, and in the nature of balance, there are likewise times when I want him to be more like me. At the end of the day, though, the reasons I love him are those so foreign to my conceptual existence. He is brave, mellow, honest and convicted. He is sturdy, still, patient and wickedly funny. I have been known to uselessly confess my selfish desires...that his job would be less risky, that he wouldn't have to trek to the ends of the earth, that something would miraculously blanket the world in peace. His answer is always gentle, but matter-of-fact: if these things about him were different, then he would fail to be.

[occasionally even I wish I were more like him.]

"Never, 'for the sake of peace and quiet,' deny your own experience or convictions." - Dag Hammarskjold

The truth is, I will probably never be the best army girlfriend by societal standards. I'm not used to being a rock [or a conservative]. While most of the time I have an upper hand in my on-going war with patience, sometimes I buckle. Sometimes I just miss the hell out of him, and that's just who I am.

Last night's post, reborn:

By March, the seasons will have changed. Green buds will balance at the end of branches and the crisp of spring will hang in the air.

Tonight these thoughts are heavy in my mind. The time apart seems long as Winter begins to dissipate, and longer still with the extension of six unexpected days. It has already been several weeks, and they have passed more or less, without issue of separation...but when one hangs such hope and forward looking on a date, on a conceivable number of hours until reunion, it takes very little rescheduling to wound an ardent spirit. A change of plans that perpetuate the divide will do it.

Tomorrow will be a new day, the beginning of another week to mark off the calendar. Monday will offer infinite chances to sew silver linings. I know that my heart will be well after a good night's rest. Tonight however, it aches...for missed kisses, for the expressions I can hear in his voice but cannot see on his face, for nights I haven't spent listening to the rhythmic change of his breath as he falls into sleep. I miss his chocolate eyes. I miss his pure voice having not been muddled by a flip-phone's speaker.

But I'm fine. [read as always fine, SSG.]

my cup runneth over

An unexpected outpouring of support followed that last post, more encouragement than I ever would have expected...thank you! I was reading one of Maggie's latest, and while I cannot directly relate to it's entirety, the notion of connecting with people you otherwise wouldn't is something of a techno-cliche that I love to hate. She said this of the phenomenon:

The thing about blogland is you get completely caught up in other worlds. You sit here in the privacy of your living room and you sift through archives and you subscribe day to day and you gradually learn all there is to know about a person. In a way, you come to love them.

And she's right. I feel as though we're friends who meet over bandwidths instead of coffee, and for whatever reason this tied into my gratitude for your kind words... La C left a composition in the comment window that greeted my sleepy Sunday eyes with a kind of inspiration I am in need of, being still very much in the infantile state of this thing. Gracie aligned with my snarky cynicism [as usual], which fuels the drive for my desire to prove wrong the nay-sayers. Maggie was uplifting, and SatinBarbie, whose identity is yet unknown, provided appropriate words of wisdom spoken by someone who shares my weaknesses. This is no attempt to provoke a moment of warm-and-fuzzies, but merely an honest thanks because I really needed it.

I struggle with the Writer dream.

If it were like art, a passion I've known all my life that grew in unison with bones and tissue and thick skin, it would be different. I'd know myself better in that role. I would be confident in my true abilities and able to decipher opinions from fact. Unfortunately, it isn't. I began a nonchalant blog on myspace without agenda, and as I like to say, the writing kind of found me. I had never thought about it as a profession until a year or so ago. Now here I am, trying to piece together a path that will lead me there. Take One opened my eyes to an occurrence I should have expected: there are an abundance of people who are waiting to knock you down. The world doesn't owe me a thing. Writing is a destiny I'll have to fight for if I want it [as are all destinies, I suppose].

Now having somehow produced an Oprah-esque tone, I'll first apologize, then retire the sensitive reflection and end with another Thank You. It really does mean a lot that you come here and read, and even more that you take the time to leave your comments. Often they are nearly the highlights of my day because it means that someone values the words I post enough to leave feedback. It means that my words have readers, and isn't that, after all, the purpose of writing?

What a bloody waste of time.

I wonder how many people have been discouraged only to find profound success in the very thing that was doubted.

She asked what it was that I wanted to do, and by this point in the conversation I was screaming profanities in my head at her invariable distraction among a sea of other tasks.

[HELLO! THAT'S WHY I'M HERE!]

Of course, if eye contact was asking too much, her taking the time to read a sample of my writing was absolutely out of the question. Write for the school paper, she suggested, or get an internship. Great advice except I'm one of those students who works to pay bills. You see, there isn't time for internships or extra curricular clutter. I just have to finish, already, and then decide what new frontier needs conquering. Here is where the prospect of grad school seems the next logical leap, but no, no, no, she thinks I've missed the boat and a master's degree isn't my life raft...

And as all hope obviously drained from my face, she told me to buck up, to send her my resume, to meet with the newspaper staff on campus.

[ARE YOU KIDDING!?]

With or without her blessings, I'll be steadfast in my future plans. I haven't been beaten down by one voice. I haven't quite loosened my grip on the dream. In grad school I imagine they teach you how to write, how to research, how to interview, and how to refine the glimmer of talent, if it's there. So she doesn't believe in me [she didn't even read a page]. She didn't bother to ask how I'd arrived at this place, in this seat in her office. She doesn't know me or my abilities from Adam's dog...

I was just. so. hopeful. Again that issue with expectations rears it's ugly head. I want too much from people, and when they can't deliver to my standards, I'm crushed. She jabbed and I stumbled from the impact, yet that was just round one. I guess I'm good for a few others before tapping out.

there's no place like home.

Last night CNN got a little caught up in some breaking news, reporting that a tornado was on the ground, moving toward downtown Nashville...or so I hear. It was ugly for about half an hour as the old roommate and I stood on her front porch stoop, poised and awed by the rage of Mother Nature. It rained [a lot], every siren in the city wailed, the lightning was so sharp that it seemed the sky would be divided, and the thunder quickly following might nearly have compromised the earth's position. It was the hail that finally made us nervous, the tell tale signature of a twister...but nothing more than strong, gusty winds accompanied the storm [here]. And we're thankful for that.

roses are red...

Did I mention that the Staff Sergeant sent a dozen roses for my birthday? Did I also forget to let you know that I'm the luckiest girl on earth?


After several days in their original state, last night I downsized them when it came time to change their water, and I remembered that I should share the photos - mostly because I'm still in awe :)