I don't have the patience or the focus to write. It certainly isn't that I don't have material. Turn on the news--I have LOTS of commentary. I have traveled to both ends of America this summer. And now that my personal life is slowly settling down, while the world is keeping it's usual, tumultuous pace, I just can't find the desire to express myself in words. The Middle East has temporarily made me a reader instead of a"writer."

8 of 31: giving (a glimpse)

...of the weekend so far.  No matter where I go, Murphy's Law follows.  That's a long blog waiting to be written once I get home.  In the meantime, here is a brief version in pictures:

The [excruciating] hour of practically stand-still traffic that we sat in on the way to Atlanta 

The view from hotel room number one

The reason for hotel room number two

The unchanging but chic hotel lobby

The temple of holy home decor.

Where we had breakfast on Saturday morning [SO YUMMY!]

Dessert - dark chocolate soft-serve fro-yo.  It's ok to be jealous.

The shopping loot

The bounty unveiled [notice orange clearance stickers!]

you know all the rules by now

I'll preface the following with this character flaw: I can be a little neurotic.  

I missed Thursday's call and then Friday's.  I blogged that already.  

I was crossing the street when I noticed the second one and I thought, though just for a fleeting second, about stopping mid-stride.  To say that I was angry with myself would be an understatement.  Both prompted minor episodes of...[cough]...graceful disappointment but life went on.  I kept the phone close all day Saturday and Sunday but by Sunday night I could no longer stave off the throes of absolute hysterics.  

I struggle with the lack of control that this deployment seems to yield.  Two missed calls back-to-back is one thing.  Worrying that he might think it was intentional is another.  After four days of furious festering, all I could think about was the probability that he had concluded I no longer loved him.  In retrospect I can acknowledge the level of ridicule that this deserves, however in the moment it was reasonable fuel for a kind of discord that unhinged me.  I couldn't tell him that I was punishing myself for the simple error of a silenced phone.  I couldn't tell him that he had done nothing but make this easier for me, that I love him to pieces, that I was sorry.  I couldn't do anything more than watch for a tiny screen to light up, "unknown."

This morning I finally got to talk to him.  My mouth opened and apologies gushed like dammed water released -  

IloveyouandI'msosorryandpleasedon'tthinkIwouldignoreyouonpurpose

[breath]

I don't think I could be too angry to want to hear your voice.  Please don't think I don't love you.

I think he phrased it as, "jumping to extreme conclusions," and I'm pretty sure he said so laughing.  After all he knows me and how I let the cynical committee of judges in my head take over sometimes.  He assured that he never once entertained any one of the crazy things that I had assumed and that he had never questioned how much he is loved.  

After our conversation, I was too relieved to feel as embarrassed as I should have.  He is the Reason and Strength in this couple.  I grip tightly and sink in my heels, all the while hoping for just enough prowess to portray a state of sanity.  

I [heart] my soldier.

For various reasons, I still must be vague. The undefined churning has been no thanks to Uncle Sam, but I'm sure that was clear in one of the various past posts reeking of drama. I'm not much for roller coasters, you see. They're fun at first with the weightless sensation and the washing cycle tickle in your middle space. Then the curdling occurs and the surplus of unknown dips and turns and up-side-down loops becomes much more than you had ever really wanted. It's hard to ride this high for too long without finding yourself eventually bent over the first available bush or retching into the open mouth of a trash can. Thrill rides are best handled in small doses for a reason...because after too many jolting corkscrew twists, the fragile girl frays a little at the edges and would much prefer the ride to slow [if only for a minute].

This is one of the more volatile stretches it seems, one for which I could not have been prepared. As usual...well, you've read how well I've handled the rapid changes.

I'm driven to write most often by those ravaging feelings that need to be purged lest they eat me alive in viral gluttony. The joyous ones are held close, achieving the same comfort as a child's blanket - sacred, guarded and mine. I come here to unload the blubbering nights and the sometimes scalding recaps of less favorable interactions because I want my memories to remain untainted. I want my night and day dreams to be mystically romantic and heart-fluttering, not marred by the inconsiderate mishaps doled out by The Army. In rereading the last week or so worth of posts, it has become apparent that I have unjustly deprived The Staff Sergeant of any homage owed. It's the institution that's hard [for me], not us. It's the tremendous challenge of assimilation that feels so large and intolerable at times. It's the high-speed roller coaster that makes me restless. He on the other hand, is incredible.

There are some things that you should know, some filler for the woe: I take him out of his element...much farther, I'm guessing, than he would ever want. I'm certain that I test his patience. I know that there are moments when my girly-ness is just as foreign to him as his army-ness is to me. We don't always see eye-to-eye. He doesn't love everything that I do and I do some things anyway [blogging him, for example]. He's very strong and very brave and very, very admirable. When it would be so easy for him to hang up the phone, he chooses to stay on the other end even when I'm sure he and I are both teetering on the edge of sanity. We speak other languages entirely when we try to process the meaty parts of this relationship. Imagine trying to achieve a serious goal with a Martian. You are equipped only with the ability of speech...you're both blind or stuck on the phone. Just imagine it. I spit a phrase and it comes out skewed on his end, but he doesn't give up on me. He reminds me that this isn't just my new terrain.

He sent me roses on my birthday when he couldn't be there. He took me shopping this weekend, for no reason. He opens every door for me even when I've become accustomed to opening my own. He takes my cookies to work even though he gets heat for his girlfriend's home-baked goods. He picked up that I heart my soldier sticker I've been wanting even though the cliche and kitsch [probably] make his skin crawl. He's honest and doesn't play emotional games. He's supportive of my dreams and always tries to live up to whatever I've said that I need him to be. He humors my not-so-funny-after-all stories. He humors me a lot, actually.

That's just the shallow end of him, but I'll save some things because he isn't much for exposure. He's infinitely more than opened doors and purchases. He's more than humoring and supporting me. He's also more than absurdly sexy, but I felt I that justice couldn't be served without its brief mention.

I admit that the reading has been bleak as of late. If you asked him, he'd probably say that the chatter has been as well. My heart however is weathering the storm just fine - a little ache never killed anyone. He's back this time for a literal minute and the next jaunt into the world bodes poorly for even phone calls. That's very hard to think about even now without feeling dreadful tears begin to scratch at my eyes. I'm not good with missed milestones, just as I have outgrown my love for roller coasters. I'm not a fan of lonely nights or long stints of absence either. I would have never chosen the army but some things are well worth their sacrifices. Seeing his smile after weeks without it is one of those things, and I'd do it ten-fold to be able to wake up in his arms.

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%

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.

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.

Home is...not Memphis.

I said I'd post the back-logs, but I ended up journaling most of them. I'd recap the 4 days of holiday "bliss," if I wasn't exhausted just thinking about mentally reliving them. I saw some friends and family. I ate some good tasting, but not good for you Southern food. I wore skinny jeans and silver pumps to Christmas Eve's festivities. I received my grandmother's wedding set for the possible event of its [very future] intended use, and a fancy GPS, and some books, and lotion. I saw three movies. Drank one beer and two glasses of bubbly. And received 2 birthday presents a month early because my parents...I don't even know.

And it rained.

I'm glad to be home.

I'm sorry, what?

"Calls in Sudan for execution of Briton"

I am learning that there are many things in life that I will never understand, though I may try. Today's concern regards a certain teddy bear now carrying the [apparently blasphemous] name, Muhammad. I don't know if Ms. Gibbons had intentions steeped in spite, but it seems that naming a stuffed bear after a prophet pales in comparison to the 200,000+ living, breathing people that have been slaughtered...or the infinitely larger number of those displaced, homeless, and starving in the wretched conditions of refugee camps. But again, there are many things I don't understand, and I'm perfectly willing to stand corrected.

A teddy bear holds the name of a prophet and it makes headlines...blazing headlines. They want her stoned, rifled down by a firing squad, the people are moved to riots. The media whores have seduced their public with the hype of this event and the Sudanese have united...

If this much energy was spent in an attempt to squelch out all of the killing, all of the raping, all of the starving and homelessness created by the tragedy of this country, it would stop. It would have to. Instead, we foam at the mouth, we salivate at this news, we want to gather 'round the poor British teacher [who may or may not have known better]. The point is not that she is unworthy of concern. If I can cause you to think, rather, about the polar imbalance, then I will have said my piece. One woman stirs nations. One woman who very well may serve her 15 days in prison and be sent back home, she can cause this kind of international buzz but the hundreds of thousand dead cannot?

I am perplexed and a little bit disgusted.

Mmm...delicious!

I wandered around my apartment this morning contemplating the situation plaguing last night's late hours. I poured myself a bowl of Cheerios, set my coffee to brew and relived each painfully ridiculous thought and action...







...then I baked cinnamon rolls [courtesy of Cooking Light]:

Ingredients

Dough:
1 package dry yeast (about 2 1/4 teaspoons)
1/4 cup warm water (100° to 110°)
1/2 cup warm 1% low-fat milk (100° to 110°)
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1/4 cup butter, softened
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 large egg, lightly beaten
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, divided
Cooking spray

Filling:
3/4 cup raisins
2/3 cup packed brown sugar
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
2 tablespoons butter, melted

Glaze:
1 cup powdered sugar
2 tablespoons 1% low-fat milk
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preparation

To prepare dough, dissolve yeast in warm water in a large bowl; let stand 5 minutes. Add 1/2 cup warm milk, granulated sugar, 1/4 cup butter, 1 teaspoon vanilla, salt, and egg; stir with a wooden spoon until combined (batter will not be completely smooth).

Lightly spoon flour into dry measuring cups; level with a knife. Add 3 cups flour to yeast mixture; stir until a soft dough forms. Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface. Knead until smooth and elastic (about 8 minutes); add enough of remaining flour, 1 tablespoon at a time, to prevent dough from sticking to hands (dough will feel slightly tacky).

Place dough in a large bowl coated with cooking spray; turn to coat top. Cover and let rise in a warm place (85°), free from drafts, 1 hour or until doubled in size. (Press two fingers into dough. If indentation remains, dough has risen enough.)

To prepare filling, combine raisins, brown sugar, and cinnamon. Roll dough into a 15 x 10-inch rectangle; brush with 2 tablespoons melted butter. Sprinkle filling over dough, leaving a 1/2-inch border. Beginning with a long side, roll up dough jelly-roll fashion; pinch seam to seal (do not seal ends of roll). Wrap roll in plastic wrap; chill for 20 minutes.

Unwrap roll, and cut into 20 (1/2-inch) slices. Arrange slices, cut sides up, 1 inch apart on a jelly roll pan coated with cooking spray. Cover and let rise in a warm place (85°) free from drafts, 1 hour and 15 minutes or until doubled in size.

Preheat oven to 350°.

Uncover dough. Bake at 350° for 20 minutes or until rolls are golden brown.

To prepare glaze, combine powdered sugar, 2 tablespoons milk, and 1/2 teaspoon vanilla, stirring well with a whisk. Drizzle glaze over warm rolls.

The other stuff.

A lot of what I've written lately has revolved around matters of the heart. I'm sorry, it's distracting. You've all [hopefully] been there...[more than] smitten. The following is an update of life in addition to my amorous chronicles:

Mom has already spilled the beans regarding Christmas gifts. This year I'll be getting a queen size mattress that doesn't sag or fall through Dad's homemade platform bed frame, and my grandmother's 1920-something engagement setting adorned with an antique [conflict-free] diamond solitaire.

WAIT!

Before you jump to conclusions [and I know that if you know me, you are], it is not being passed on as an heirloom symbol of engagement. I already promised to exclude any reference to romance, so breathe and calm your racing pulses! It's just beautiful and it was given to me a few years ago by an aunt [sans rock]. It's very, very, [very] small...maybe 1/8th of a carat? But it's size is to be expected. It was purchased in an[other] era of war and somewhere around the beginning of depression...so it's sweet and sentimental and I'm really excited to finally have it once again intact.

Speaking of the infamous fam, Mom will be kindly serving my unknowing father with divorce papers next week. She just wanted me to have a "heads-up"...I was really more inclined to be heads down, over the toilet, sick with upset. No matter, it's coming [can you hear the rumble of impending discourse?]. If possible, I'll attempt to brace myself for the onslaught. Part of that plan includes sitting out on Thanksgiving. I'm staying planted for one of the two dreaded holidays. The [not so] Future Californian has expressed possible interest in spending it with me in rebellion, and The Staff Sergeant might possibly be game, and Mom claims that she might make the drive to Nashville, and maybe a cousin...I just want to lose myself in the preparation of a bird and cornbread dressing and cranberry sauce [even if I spend it alone].

In other news...I love the new[ish] job. Love, love love it! I love the people and the atmosphere, and today I fell in love with a china pattern, or rather, a mix of 3:

Richard Ginori, "Duchessa Gold"
Royal Crown Derby (accent plate only), "Indian Summer"
Haviland, "Laque de Chine Gold" (charger only), in "brick"

Again, WAIT! I haven't "picked out china"! Breathe, my friends. I will gladly accept these items in accordance with any/all upcoming occasions for gift-giving [Christmas, my birthday, just because you like me, etc.].

Now that you've gotten your BPM's down to a level of normalcy, I think Macbeth and I have kicked the flea infestation. I've become a domestic, baking machine [again] and I LOVE it [again]! I've also sworn off sweets, alcohol, and eating out while The Staff Sergeant is out of town in an effort to drop a few pounds [so my jeans fit]. I needed a project to focus on, and today marks the second of my 30-day gym commitment. No, the sudden cool-down is not a result of Hell freezing over, so don't ask or comment.

That's a fairly conclusive and loveless update on my life as I know it. I'm sure next week's earth-shaking debut of legal papers will prompt some interesting words. Until then, I may post again about missing my soldier.

A time and place for all things.

I wouldn't even know where to begin if I indeed had the time to spill forth all of the thoughts I'm warring with in my head and heart. I've stepped on some toes this week...some regretfully, others unknowingly. There are those things I wish that I was brave enough to exclaim loudly, awarding them the legacy of resounding echoes, and others I wish I had never uttered [or otherwise communicated]. at all. I've wanted to hang up in mid-sentence - Oh! the temptation of an effortless flip of wrist. I've wanted to [and may or may not have] shed tears of absolute frustration...or was it a mere imbalance of hormones? I've been tempted to shatter fragile things, and indulge in the gluttony of gentle affection, and not to honor obligations.

I'm not perfect and I hate that.

There's this passage in the opening paragraph of Hornby's, How to be Good that I've just recalled. It's both sobering and reflective of the human condition [and it's how I feel right this very second]. Sometimes terrible thoughts are thought and things are said or done, or not done or said, and you can't believe the moment has just transpired. Regardless of preference, it's done or lost, and you are the doer or the loser or the thinker or the "bad guy." Maybe it matters, maybe it doesn't, but it's You for better or worse:

"Even though I am, apparently, and to my surprise, the kind of person who tells her husband that she doesn't want to be married to him anymore, I really didn't think I was the kind of person to say so in a car park, on a mobile phone. That particular self-assessment will now have to be revised, clearly. I can describe myself as the kind of person who doesn't forget names, for example, because I have remembered names thousands of times and forgotten them only once or twice. But for the majority of people, marriage-ending conversations happen only once, if at all. If you choose to conduct yours on a mobile phone, in a Leeds car park, then you cannot really claim that it is unrepresentative, in the same way that Lee Harvey Oswald couldn't really claim that shooting presidents wasn't like him at all. Sometimes we have to be judged by our one-offs."

I love it when I'm right. I hate it when I'm right.

Sleep cannot be fitful when it is unachievable. Sleep is, in fact, impossible when the demon-possessed canine whines and cries and when left with no satisfactory response from the human, BARKS [and barks and barks, and it's 11:45pm, but she doesn't care, and she barks]. She is quarantined in her crate at the foot of the bed because of an unfortunate infestation [of fleas]. I will not share the sheets with little nasties and she's pissed. She is irate with her imprisonment, and I am so mind-numbingly tired.

shut-up. shut-up. SHUT UP!

And she barks.

Sunrise is a beautiful phenomenon - the birth of a new day, boundless opportunities, a bounty for the seizing announcing it's debut with jazz-hands and a burst of glowing glory. This said, we are not well acquainted until this week, and it's as though I've reconnected with a distant relative. You know, obligatory familial adoration and the like? Three days later [in a row], and the warmth of camaraderie has shifted a bit to that of friction. We have a shaky love/hate connection. By last night I was hopeful to give our interaction a break. Without veering forth into another pocket of circumstances all together, it became very clear that despite my preferences, the alarms would again sound in the pre-dawn darkness of another day.

Back to my silent seething anger as I lay still, praying to the Gods of Sleep that my thirty-pound, lurid spawn of evil will soon surrender to slumber herself, but she is stubborn. There is apparently no chance she will assume I don't care or can't hear her. She's a persistent little creature and she's testing my patience. I have to be up before the sun to manage a situation, and beyond myself in a bedroom teaming with the echoes of raging protests, I'm pretty sure my neighbors [and roommate] hate us both.

I love the way it feels to reach the noon mark and have mastered a day's worth of living. I love the peaceful beauty as the sorbet sky melts into blue. I hate the way my eyes burn by 3pm and afternoon errands behind the wheel become risky business and good business for the dealers of caffeine. I especially detest the passionate yearning that overtakes my heavy limbs around 10pm to crawl into bed and conclude the day. I'm too young to give up the midnight breach, but such is life. And she barks.

I'm nearing the brink of sanity. My mind is desperate for a solid recharging. She hates her cage. Solitary confinement is more than likely challenging her mental capacity. She's merely making audible the screaming cries of frustration that I contain inside, and I cannot reason with a dog. She doesn't care or understand that I want the wash of sleep to blanket me like asphyxiating lungs beg for air. I concede. She has no principles on which she has based this duel, she just wants free reign at any cost. This isn't a show-down of wit or smarts, so I bow out.

She sleeps in the living room, liberated. The barking ceases. I fall away from consciousness...until the alarms wail.

And they do, before daybreak.

The grinding limbo of a 5 day interim...

Hello, Monday, my first day foe.

Left palm is tattooed with today's agenda:
1) email marketing group
2) check syllabus deadlines
3) set apt with [non-profit contact]
4) GET A JOB!

I did rise early today, in relation to usual and to bedtime, but early is all together relative, right? [I reference my morning's 8am debut.] I made it to Marketing on time, a commendable feat, and in my break between class and work, I stopped by an establishment I have been meaning to peruse for a job. They're hiring - interview Wednesday.

Between a promising job opportunity and the planned banishment of in-house internet, the belated conversation with Mom should be more smoothly received. I promised to call following my afternoon spent in the cooler, er, the office...the office that will hopefully no longer rob me of body heat after Wednesday. No one can live on 9 hours a week and the immanent threat of frost bite.

After a good 5 days of willful silence, and ignored phone calls/emails, I feel that I am rested enough in the motherly situation to again speak cordially. She isn't guilty of heinous atrocities, but now and again the mounting anxiety of her role in my life peaks and I have to stop for a sanity break. So I've been breathing, and thinking, and I've made a few changes that she'll smile upon, and I've reckoned [momentarily] with the live-in-boat-man with which she has taken up companionship [although without formal introductions as such, or mention of the fact], and her friendly relations with fermented grapes [somewhat].

A low, throaty growl threatens audibility, but instead I chew anxiously on an inner wall of mouth...

Long Weekend

Off to the lake with Mom and The Future Californian...

...be back Monday (if I survive).

A series of unfortunate events.

I retired my laptop hours before usual to instead lay in bed and devour a chapter or two of On The Road. Right about Fresno my eyes got heavy, and for once in long while, I surrendered to their sleepy desires. It was before midnight when I set my alarm for 7am and turned out the lights to wedge between the covers. A good plan, I thought, to bed early to rise early. My body revolted like an angst-ridden teen...tossing and turning and waking on the hour. When the alarm jolted me from a lukewarm slumber, I laid there exhausted for half an hour more. At 7:30am I was still doing well for time.

This morning I swore to leave 30 full minutes before class was to begin even though my campus is only 3 miles from my front door. It seems that with the influx of freshman, a simultaneous disappearance of parking slots has also occurred. I've thought about calling Roswell to investigate, but instead I attempt to remedy the problem with futile curses contained within the solitude of my car. It isn't really working. You should also know that time management is a great weakness of mine, but this morning I was on my A-game. I was prepared to be prompt in my attendance.

At exactly 9:05am I stepped outside, locking the door behind me.

First hurried step, phone - check.

Second, iPod - check.

Third - I'm gonna be on time!

Fourth, keys - che...where are my keys!?

I didn't yet launch into panic, although it was more than warranted. This would be my third missed class since the semester's beginning from which I would be absent. I'm pretty sure that under such circumstances, a student becomes a top candidate for immediate failure or dismissal from the course. I calmly turned back and lunged for the spare...I should probably add it to my list for Roswell's research, seeing that it too has mysteriously gone missing.

Shit!...and panic ensued.

To make a short story not as long as I would otherwise make it, The Roommate left work to let me in, I sped to class, found a miraculous parking spot in the garage, the door wasn't locked today, and I sauntered awkwardly into the classroom only 10 minutes late. I was at odds with the universe! After a solid effort of flawed preparation, I think I'll stick to my preferred by-the-seat-of-your-pants method.

On happier notes, The Staff Sergeant and I have a date tomorrow. I believe we'll be attending an indie rock affair in the Gulch. Hopefully it will prove to be as good of a show as the talk seems to bill it.

This week's top 5 reasons I might toss my cookies (and it's only Monday):

1. Whatever the eff-ing hell this travesty calls itself...

2. That CNN story about Seniors and oral sex that aired between unnerving footage of soldiers in Iraq...

3. (said unnerving footage courtesy of CNN, and the theoretical heart palpitations I credit to the intensity of their musical score)

4. My masochistic tendencies and the search capabilities of YouTube and Google: [base location], [military branch], [specific category] = the virtual deflowering of my mind and eyes

5. The prospect of another long weekend spent with one of the parental forces of evil...a predicted 3 days of psychological warfare hidden behind the smoke and mirrors of, "I know that you asked not to be put in the middle of this, but there's something you should know..."

I would send you a newly sharpened bouquet of pencils, if I knew your name and address

Classes reconvened today, and even though I occupied a seat in four this summer, it seems as though an era has passed since I was last in the presence of my campus home. If one considers three months an "era," then "seeming" would become an actuality...and in a round about way, the excitement of a homecoming becomes less unfounded. I opted for night classes between semesters, the kind that meet at satellite campuses and are mostly filled with middle-aged professionals. They don't lend the same collegiate feel. I've been homesick.

It's no secret that I botched the summer session originally intended to aid in December's graduation. I kind of want to kick myself when I think about it. But what's done is done and doting on the loss will not rewrite the current reality of an additional semester. May 2008 can't come quickly enough! I shamelessly blame my parents.

Shamelessly.

It was a Thursday night as I sat in my car beneath the dense heat of summer, and in a continuous flow of garrulous chatter, she slipped in divorce - effortlessly.

Divorce.

There it was in it's finite moment - the verdict. From her lips it flowed so smoothly, and almost literally knocked the wind from my lungs. OK, so it wasn't a startling surprise since they have harbored a hatred for one another since...well, sometime prior to my existence. Despite this previous notion, it was nonetheless far more final than the talk of "separation" ever was. It poured from her mouth and settled in my heart, stale like set concrete. It has hindered my every move since, and has made appearances throughout my summer weeks under the guise of apathy.

So today when I (finally) parked my car, and (finally) reached the safe haven of the School of Business, and (finally) took a seat in a familiar classroom, it was as though my subconscious mind permitted my lungs to again breathe freely.

Friends and family have afforded a barrage of advice on what to say, the optimal parameters for relationship boundaries, how not to be pulled into the middle of the hot-zone of parental hostility, etc. I have yet to master the methods, but paralysis was never an acceptable option.

I am not a failure and I will prove that to myself in the 16 weeks of unmolested opportunity that lay before me.

Lucky.

It's 3:41am and moments ago I was about to call it a late night. I had shut off my lights, crawled under the covers when the unmistakable squeal of rubber on pavement caught my attention...it lingered long enough that I began to anticipate the rupturing rumble of crumpled metal. And then as though scripted, the noise explosion occurred.

I jumped from my bed and moved toward the window facing West End Ave. Right where the road joins a low stone wall and then drops several feet rested a lone Lexus with axles and wheels upright. This end of West End is not so well traveled this time of night, so it only felt natural to throw on today's jeans, a pair of flops, grab my cell, and sprint the distance of MBA's freshly watered field where the car had landed.

By the time I reached the wrecked vehicle two others had stopped to be of aid. One gentleman already had 911 on the phone, and another was talking to the driver who was, at best, disoriented. After a few moments passed, he began assuring us that he was alright, although obviously shaken...and intoxicated.

I think he was ok, and the situation lacked many a dangerous element that could have made it really terrible. The engine wasn't leaking gasoline, the driver seemed uninjured, he wasn't trapped inside, and he didn't hit anyone else. There are a hundred things that could have made it worse, but walking away, back home through the sloshy grit of sand and freshly laid sod, I couldn't help imagining what I would do if anyone who I value and love had been in his place.

It made me nauseous.