(Tooth) Fairy Tales

Saturday night, J and I went out to dinner while the kiddos stayed with my mom. At some point in the middle of dinner, Benjamin called us. He was terrifically excited because he had his First Loose Tooth. He had just discovered it while brushing his teeth, and he had to tell J and I about it immediately. Another reminder about how big he is getting.

He showed me the tooth on Sunday when I picked him up, and I had to agree - it was quite loose. How we'd missed it until Saturday is beyond me; that thing wasn't hanging on by much.

Aaaaand sure enough, the first thing he said in the car yesterday was that he'd lost his tooth while he was in Spanish class. And that he had to go to the nurse, and that it had bled a little but hadn't hurt, and here was the tooth, and wasn't he going to get a visit from someone that night? 'Cause you know, he gets money for this tooth!

Sure enough, the tooth fairy came through (not without a little angst between J and I on the subject). B came downstairs this morning and told me that he'd gotten a bonus last night from the tooth fairy. Not only had the she left him a few dollars for his tooth, but she'd left the tooth, too!

The tooth fairy remained conspicuously silent on the issue. Indeed, when the kiddo's head is firmly nestled on the pillow under which said tooth rests, and it is 11:30 at night, and the tooth fairy is dead ass tired, she's not about to risk waking up the kiddo with a few bucks obviously showing in her hand. Instead, she's just going to put the money under the edge of the pillow as gently as she can, make up a story about why the tooth might have stayed behind in the morning, and get the hell to bed.

But let it be known - had J not remembered to call (ahem, wake up) the tooth fairy at 11:30 last night, there would have been a LOT MORE STORIES made up this morning.

Perspectives

Many moons ago (ok, mid 1990s), I was a sophomore at the UA up in Fayetteville. J was a freshman at Texas A&M (we don't talk much about those dark days), and it was at least a 9 hour drive from Fayetteville, AR to College Station, TX. We were doing the long distance thing, and that meant that we were putting significant miles on our cars every few weeks.

A few months into that school year, we decided that rather than one of us driving 9 hours one way, we'd meet halfway in Dallas. J had relatives there who were more than happy to host us, so we made a plan to meet there one weekend.

Now, I grew up in the Little Rock area, and had never really driven anywhere other than in small cities at that point in my life. The idea of driving to Dallas and negotiating my way through the city was a bit nerve wracking, but it was either that or drive 9 hours, so it wasn't that hard of a decision. J gave me directions, and one Friday afternoon after classes, I set out from Fayetteville to make the drive.

Unfortunately, I didn't think about the fact that I would be getting into Dallas around rush hour. And I'm not sure I'd ever driven in rush hour traffic in a "big city" before that time (pretty sure I hadn't). And it just so happened to rain right about the time I got into town. And I was driving west as the sun came out after the storm, so I could barely see a damn thing on the road because the sun's reflection from water on the road and the steam made for miserable driving conditions. And despite J's directions, I never saw the exit I was looking for. So I kept driving. And driving. And driving.

Finally, I gave up. I was on the highway I was supposed to be on, but I hadn't found the exit I was supposed to take, and it felt like I'd been driving forever. I decided to take the next exit I saw, find a phone somewhere, and call. Assuming I had the number to his relatives' house somewhere in my car. Which I'm pretty sure I didn't...but I at least had some names.

I think.

I was in a pretty stressed state at this point in the trip, as you can imagine, and I was less than prepared for things to go wrong. Welcome to young adulthood, right?

So anyway, I took the next exit I came to. As I was pulling up to the stoplight at the end of the exit ramp, I glanced in my rear view mirror. Holy shit. There was J, gesturing to me to turn right at the end of the ramp, and then follow him. Thank God. 10 minutes later, we were at his relatives' house.

As it turns out, he'd given me the wrong name for the exit I was supposed to take, so I would never have actually found the right exit. He got into Dallas before I did, figured out he'd given me the wrong exit name, turned around and driven to the exit just before the correct one to watch for me. He'd been sitting at that on-ramp for over TWO HOURS before I finally drove by. I just happened to take the correct exit, which was amazingly lucky. I could easily have taken the one before, and God only knows what would have happened then.

The rest of that weekend was just as surreal as the arrival in Dallas. I was unused to cities that required 5-lane freeway trips to get places, kids 5 years younger than I who acted 10 years older, and the fast pace life that J's relatives lived. It was completely foreign to anything I'd ever lived. His relatives' house was huge, immaculate, beautiful, and just one of hundreds of others just like it. I couldn't imagine having anything like that, and I distinctly remember being intimidated as hell. J's cousins and relatives were all much more sophisticated than I, and living all sorts of interesting lives that I couldn't fathom living.

This past Sunday night, we all gathered at that same house in Dallas, with the same relatives. Except this time, it wasn't a bunch of 20-somethings looking for their path in life. This time, the house held 12 kids under the age of 10, and 12 adults (cousins, spouses, aunts, uncles, etc.) who hardly remember what life before kiddos was like - or who those people were, so many years ago. The house was comfortable, buzzing, and busy with folks living full lives. We all have a few (ok, some of us have more than a few) gray hairs, wrinkles, and scars that life has given us. And a bit more confidence than we might have had 15 or so years ago. Or maybe we're just too busy trying to live our lives to worry about some of the stuff we used to worry about.

Either way, the contrast between my first (nearly disastrous) visit to Dallas and this most recent one was very sharp. I know there are some advantages to youth, but I'm very happy to be at this place in my life. I might occasionally miss some of the things the me of yesterday had, but I would never want to go back to that time. The lessons learned in the interim have been too valuable.

And I sorta like being able to hold my own in Dallas traffic, too. Don't let the Arkansas plates fool you, asshole Dallas drivers. I can cut you off with the best of 'em...

Climbing Pinnacle

This morning, the kiddos and I climbed Pinnacle mountain. OK, OK, so it doesn't really qualify as a true mountain, but for us? It was as good as the real thing. It's only 1.5 miles round trip to get up and down the mountain, but it felt like much farther when we were only 2/3 of the way to the top. There was some whining and complaining, but overall, the kiddos did really well.

In fact, Benjamin and his friend did so well, I hardly saw them at all, going up or down. They were always just far enough ahead to be on the bare edges of my vision, but still well within earshot. His friend has already climbed it a few times, so I knew they could make it. And even though there is definitely some very real danger out there (lots of steep rocks and careful climbing required), I was glad to see him be independent and confident enough to tackle it without me. It's nice to give him some independence and see him take it, and I love that he enjoyed the  hike. He actually asked about doing the other trail (there are more trails than that one out there), so I guess we'll be going back out there soon enough. But maybe not when it is 90+ degrees out.

Alyssa had a little more trouble with the hike, but that was to be expected. I spent the last half of the uphill essentially hauling her uphill. I'm thinking my right arm is gonna be sore as hell tomorrow. But even though she said several times that she couldn't do it and she wanted to stop, she never really actually stopped. The older kiddos were always up ahead of her, and she wanted to be in on the action. So we had a few whining sessions, but in the end, she made it all the way up. I'm totally proud of both of them.

And I could totally tell how much the tennis and running is paying off as we did the hike. The last time I climbed Pinnacle, I think I either in high school or college, and was not in what I would call stellar shape. I remember my legs feeling like they were going to fall off by the time we got back down to the parking lot. You know the jelly legs you get where you aren't sure you're quads will hold you another step because they are shaking so hard? Yeah, those kind of jelly legs.

Today was a different story. I essentially hauled a preschooler up a large part of the mountain, as well as back down (carrying her a small portion of the way back down), and carried a backpack stuffed with a cooler of water and other assorted goodies for the trip. Hardly a hint of jelly legs, and aside from the rank stench emanating from my person, I can hardly tell I worked out. Sweeeet.

Heh. Now that I've written that, let's see how long it takes for DOMS to set in. I'll probably be in agony tomorrow morning. Oh well. We had our adventure today, and we had a great time. That's enough for me.

Easy Saturday

After a fairly busy morning (birthday party for J and the kiddos, tennis with friends & sunburn for me), we packed up pizza makings and trekked over to J's parents' house for dinner and a swim. My in-laws have a pool in their backyard, and we offered to make some pizza while we were over there letting the kiddos swim. I was craving some good homemade pizza, and it turned out quite delish. FWIW, a Green Egg rocks when it comes to making pizza.

My in-laws still live in the same house where J spent most of his childhood. They live less than a mile from the house I grew up in over in NLR, although J and I didn't meet until we were in junior high. Still not really sure how that happened...

Being back in that neighborhood is always comforting; I biked those streets like crazy when I was younger, and knew all the twists, turns, nooks and crannies that Indian Hills held. And if you know anything about that area, you know that's saying something. Whoever laid out those streets was obviously high on something when they did the layout.

Before J and I moved back to AR, we would visit my in-laws a few times a year, whenever we were back in Little Rock. I remember visiting them on days like today - hot, sultry, summer days where the pool was incredibly refreshing and the light didn't fade from the sky until impossibly late in the evening. The neighborhood, still so familiar, would be quiet, and the old, large trees would shade nearly everything but the street itself. It was still home, even though I hadn't lived there for many years.

We'd leave their house after these visits, and I'd take a second as we walked to the car to enjoy the peaceful evening. It always felt a little slower, a little cooler, and a little more content there. I distinctly remember thinking how nice it must be to be able to leave your relatives' house and go home on such a night.  Not to whomever's house you were staying with that weekend, with the long drive back to Htown looming in front of you, but to your actual home - with Sunday stretching out in front of you and a day well spent with relatives and friends behind you. And a nice peace of mind.

Today, as I was hauling wet towels, swimsuits, and leftover pizza to the car, I paused again to enjoy the evening as the sun set. And remembered when I used to wish for a night just like tonight. A hot summer day well spent with relatives and friends, Sunday open in front of us, and our own house only half an hour away. There are definitely things I miss about Houston, we had (and still have) so many good friends there. But my soul is at ease here. What else could I ask for?

Huh? The Running? What's That?

OK, ok, I haven't done a lot of running lately. In fact, when I switched on the Garmin yesterday before my 3 miler, I saw that the last run I did was over three weeks ago. Huh? How did that happen???

In my defense, though, I killed it on the exercise front in May, mainly in the tennis area. And in response, May decided to pay me back with a very sore hip.  From what I've read, it's indicative of overuse from repeated impact (imagine that!), so I'm gonna spend the next few days resting and keeping my fingers crossed that it heals. QUICKLY. Or it's gonna be a rough couple of weeks around here.

But. I did manage 3 miles yesterday, in some amazing humidity and 92 degree heat. Ouchie. My average was somewhere around a 9:40 minute mile. Considering I hadn't run in three weeks, had just eaten dinner, and it was humid and hot as hell? I'm quite happy with that. The fitness baseline is getting stronger all around. 

What was more interesting, though, was the mental side of things. When I get into a good running groove (meaning, running more often once every three weeks!), my brain tends to spin down at the beginning of the run into a pause, and then spirals out slowly on whatever topics have been going through my mind. But since it has been a while since my brain has had a chance to do that, there was no spin down or slow spiraling; more like frantic BBs fired in rapid succession. So the topics jumped all over the place, which was a bit irritating. There was no zone yesterday, just random threads that wanted picking but mostly disappeared before I could tug.

I could feel the change in seasons, even through the cacophony of thoughts. Earlier this month, my runs held the fragrance of honeysuckle and flowers and grass, with still-pleasant temperatures. Last night, I smelled minerals and deep, earthy odors, coupled with a distinct lack of breeze. Somewhere in the last three weeks, the long, hot days and muggy, sticky nights of summer arrived. Lightening bugs, afternoon thunderstorms, front porch conversations, popsicles, late bedtimes, and an excited anticipation of the future are what I remember of my summers, growing up.

It was fun to travel down that path for a little while, hearing the same sounds and smelling the same smells as I did when I was a kid. Remembering the big unknowns that were still out there at that time, wondering what my future had in store. As grown ups, we are supposed to set up our lives with some level of stability, especially if we have kids. Generating that stability feels like it leads to stagnation sometimes. I forget to anticipate the future, the unknown. The things that are out there to look forward to, known and unknown. The run last night helped remind me of that. Even if there were an untold number of BBs that interfered with that thought process.

Right now, the first thing I'm looking forward to is this damn hip healing. Getting old sucks.

Late in the Evening

I love XM Radio.  We've had it in one of our cars for about 5 years now I think.  Well, technically it's J's car, but I tend to drive his more than mine these days because it's better for trips.  I digress.  We have a variety of stations programmed in, including the trifecta 90's, 80's, and 70's stations.  Tonight, I landed on the 70's station at the exact moment they were playing Gordon Lightfoot's "Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald."

This song actually conjures up about three different memories for me.

The first time I heard that song, I was somewhere midway through college.  A guy friend of mine could play the guitar and kept one in his dorm room.  He and the guitar performed regularly at the tail end of those dark, smokey, hazy nights when we'd all finally meander our way back to campus.  I'm sure the first time I heard it was one of those late nights where we were all crashed around his room, draped over chairs, beds, people, whatever we could find to prop us up, and singing along with the songs we knew.  It became something of a signature song for my close group of girl friends (also known as The Girls), one of those songs where you can look at each one of them and know you are remembering just about the same memory, with similar emotions.  Well, maybe not exactly the same emotions - two of the four of us dated the guy, so I'm guessing there are slightly different memories for some of them.  But close enough. 

After graduation, all of us went different ways, and I forgot about the song for a while.  Sometime during law school, probably during some random study break, I stumbled across it again.  I downloaded it and put it in my studying playlist.  So the second memory that song recalls is of a desk and a room with blue walls where I spent many, many hours studying.  It was a stressful, but fairly uncomplicated time of life - sort of like college, I suppose.

The third memory I have is a bit random, but amusing as hell to me.  Several years ago, J and I took a trip to Vegas.  OK, there have been many trips to Vegas, but on this particular one, my friend Anne (one of The Girls) and her husband came along.  Anne and I ended up having to make a drive wayyy out to the outskirts of Vegas to pick someone up, and while we were en route, that song came on the radio.  Neither of us had heard it in several years at that point, but almost immediately we were taken back to that same dorm room, laughing at the capers and shenanigans that we had gotten into back then. 

This morning on the way to school, my kiddos heard Paul Simon's "Late in the Evening" for the first time, and they both loved the song.  Maybe if I'm lucky, a few of the songs I introduce them to will stick with them for a while.

Reading Madness

J gave me one of my birthday presents before I left town this past weekend.  On Saturday night, he handed me a very heavy box with the return address from Barnes and Nobles.  YAY!

So I cracked open the box among the excited chattering of the kiddos, and the box eventually revealed a bunch of exciting bubble wrap, aaaand...

The Complete Calvin and Hobbes. 

J and I both love the comic strip, and we probably have a few random collections scattered around the house.  However, these are 400+ page complete tomes, with three comic strips on each page.  Total awesomeness.  The absolute best part of this gift wasn't the actual books, though, even though I have great memories of spending long afternoons working my way through various collections. 

The best part was that B immediately grabbed one of the books, snuggled up with me on the couch, and we started working our way through the early comic strips.  That boy cackled for every strip we read, regardless of whether he understood it or not.  He especially liked the idea of Calvin ordering delivery pizza after being sent to his room for disparaging dinner.  Hmmm, I wonder if I should be offended by that..

I've been looking for something to help spark his interest in reading.  He regards it as a necessary evil, something that is harder than he wants it to be, and I don't think he's yet figured out how much magic a book can create.  Maybe this will help do the trick, and at least get him interested?  If not that, I might have to resort to the farting dog.  After all, there isn't much that is funnier to a six year old boy than that, right?

Definitions

So, I have an ongoing conversation with a friend about the difference (if there is any) between happiness and joy.  For some reason, I can't seem to let this one go.  Probably the lawyer in me just likes having everything neatly defined - that's how we make our living, after all!  Lots and lots AND LOTS of words.  Heh, you'd think I'd be pretty decent at my job, considering how many words I use here... 

But I digress.  One of the things I talked about in an old post was trying to remember how to find the joy in life.  Sometimes the mundane details of life are so overwhelming that I forget to look for it.  I forget that kind of emotion exists and I get lost in low level boredom and tedium.  Perhaps not surprisingly, I've been finding a bit more joy in life as I've been looking for it more.  But when it comes to describing that emotion, I have a hard time knowing what words to use.  I do, however, have a memory that is my definition of that word. 

One night back in high school, my group of friends decided to go ice skating.  No, none of us was very good, but everyone was up for going, so we trekked out to the local skating rink, strapped on some skates, and proceeded to make fools of ourselves.  At some point in the evening, I ended up skating around the rink holding hands with two guy friends of mine.  Holding one hand was my best friend at the time, a guy I talked to for hours nearly every night.  He was also the person on whom I had had a hugemongous crush but had been trying to get over for a long time because he just wasn't interested.  I had finally just about succeeded in getting over it around that time.  Holding my other hand was the guy I was about to start dating.  There was definitely some bantering going on between us, but nothing serious yet. 

The three of us stumbled around the rink, laughing hysterically and nearly killing each other multiple times as we tripped over the awkward blades.  At some point, this feeling of incredible joy came over me.  I was finally free from the annoying crush, I was hanging out with my best friends in the world, and everything - everything - was perfect.  There were no unpleasant undercurrents, no tension, just a great night out with some really good friends.  There was not one thing I would have changed, had I been given that power, and I just felt incredible.  I felt like I could fly, as cliche as that sounds.  It is one of my absolute favorite memories, and I'm not sure why it has stuck with me for so many years, but that is my definition of joy.  That is the emotion I think of when I look for the joy in my life.  I can't imagine 18 year olds have the corner on that market...

A Good Day

Yesterday, the kiddos and I spent most of the day together while J was at work.  Days like yesterday remind me of how far we've come in the child rearing years.  The kiddos and I joined a friend of mine and his kiddos at the big cheesy mouse place yesterday afternoon, and it was actually sorta fun.  It was the first time I'd been there in a while, and there's been a lot of growing up going on lately - and maybe not just on their parts.

For starters, as soon as I handed out the tokens, B disappeared.  And I guess I'd expected it, because I didn't feel the urge to chase him immediately and make sure he was ok.  This is what they are supposed to do, right?  And it was ok that I didn't keep him in my sights the whole time, or even know where he was most of the time.  Not only that, though, the girl got the point where even she was fine wandering around by herself.  I kept a little closer tabs on her, just because she's younger, but they pretty much entertained themselves, with an occasional air hockey game against mom thrown in (I won, in case you're wondering).  I know it's a fairly safe place for kids, but it's hard to get over that urge to know where your kids are every second, to make sure they are ok and know that nothing bad is happening.  They've gotten a little older, and I guess I am getting more comfortable with their rapidly developing independence. 

Two years ago, this outing would have been something I would have avoided if at all possible, and it would have left me completely exhausted, irritable, and ready to go straight home and throw everyone in bed, including me (you've gone to bed at 4 in the afternoon, right?).  It would have been an afternoon of me carrying the girl around and chasing after the boy, who wouldn't be quite old enough to play everything he wanted to play and who would be prone to temper tantrums because of it.  I would have been concerned when either of them got out of my sight for longer than 5 seconds, and the word "fun" would have not been part of that outing.  It would have been stressful, annoying, and I would have lost my temper myriad times before I gave up.  I would have stalked out to the car with two exhausted (and most likely screaming) kids, and we all would have gone home and collapsed.  I would have missed and/or avoided any activities that came later in the day, and my energy would have been zapped.

But yesterday?  Yesterday was - dare I say it - fun.  The kiddos played and amused themselves gathering as many tickets as possible,  didn't need me around for every game they played, and I think enjoyed a little independence.  My friend and I held down a table and chatted, and the kiddos checked in regularly for more tokens, or a hug, or a drink, or a bite of pizza, then buzzed off to whatever game they had their minds set on next.  We didn't have anywhere we needed to be yesterday, there was nothing we needed to do, so I guess we were all able to relax a little and enjoy the afternoon.  I know I tend to keep us on the go a little too much, and I worry that it wears on the kids after a while.  If it stresses me out, I'm guessing it stresses them out too, so I need to remember to build days like that into our schedule.

After the kiddos had blown through more tokens than I thought possible and used up their wads of tickets on the cheap-ass plastic toys, we headed out to local park (again, two years ago this would not have happened).  We got there as the sun was going down and the cold was setting in, so we didn't stay very long, but the kids still had plenty of energy to run around and play.  I watched them buzz around the playground, yelling and screaming, and pushed my girl on the swingset as the darkness grew around us.  The sky had all the sharp reds and oranges of the cold December sunsets that I remember from childhood, and the smell of wood smoke was in the air.  It was a very peaceful and relaxing evening, even if it was a bit on the chilly side.  I tried to remind myself, once again, that every now and then, I need to slow down and chuck my to-do list and just enjoy the day.  It was a good day.

8(0)

When J and I got engaged, it took us a long time to pick out an engagement ring.  We did lots of research and spent a good amount of time looking at rings and thinking about what we wanted.  I'm pretty sure we spent several weeks perusing different jewelry stores and gathering information.  In the end, we narrowed the choices down to maybe two or three different settings, and J picked out the final ring, along with the diamond.  When we got married, he designed and commissioned two bands to go on either side of the engagement ring; the three pieces were were soldered together into one unique ring that I wore for several years.

When I got pregnant with B, I decided that I wanted a plain, smooth wedding band so that I wouldn't end up scratching the baby accidentally.  For Christmas of 2004, two weeks before B was born, J gave me a plain gold wedding band that was perfect for what I wanted.  I received that band the same Christmas as the now-defunct Ipod.  At least I still have the wedding band, I guess... 

A few years later, we were at our house in Houston, preparing to head down the street for a neighborhood festival.  My girl was still a baby, B was maybe 2 and a half, and I was still wearing the plain gold band instead of my larger wedding ring.  It was just easier in those days; the kiddos were still so little, and I hardly had time to think about what clothes I was going to wear, let alone jewelry.  I wore very little jewelry in those days anyway, and tended to leave everything in my jewelry boxes on my dresser.  As we left the house that day, I decided to leave the windows open in the house because it was one of those rare, nice days in Houston.  Later that weekend, J realized that we were missing a photo printer in our bedroom.  On the heels of that, we quickly realized someone had come through our bedroom windows while we were out, and had taken not only the printer but also my jewelry boxes.  The only remaining piece of jewelry that I owned was the gold wedding band; the engagement ring and wedding bands were long gone, as were many other pieces of jewelry that had a great deal of sentimental value. 

After hearing about the robbery, J's mom gave him the rings she had received from J's dad when they got married; she thought I might want to get the diamond reset into a new ring.  J's parents divorced over 20 years ago, and his mom had put the ring away and quit wearing it after the divorce, so I guess it made sense to pass it along.  We've been meaning to get the diamond reset for two solid years now, but things kept getting in the way - weekends were too busy, I was traveling too much, other things took priority, etc.  Today, we finally set aside the time (well, J gets credit for orchestrating everything) to go to a local jewelry store and pick out a new setting.

It was such a different feeling, picking out a setting for a diamond this time around.  When we picked one out the first time, we were in our early 20s.  That ring was the most expensive item either of us had ever owned (except for our cars maybe), and spending a good chunk of change on a piece of jewelry was sobering.  Not to mention that both of us were still in college at that point and our future wasn't anywhere close to being clear.  No jobs were on the immediate horizon, our lives were still very much up in the air, and our bank accounts were not too far from 0.  It was humbling and thrilling at the same time - it felt like such a grown up thing to do.  This time around, the hardest thing about picking out a new setting was finding the time to go shopping.  I guess maybe we've been grown ups long enough that the novelty has worn off... 

I've never been one to wear a ton of jewelry, but I'm much more confident now about what I like and what I will be comfortable wearing.  After about an hour or so, I had narrowed down my choices to maybe 3 or 4 different settings.  As J and I were looking at one of my final choices, we noticed a little "S" on the side of one my favorites; it almost looked like filigree, but was definitely an S.  J asked our saleslady if that could be changed, because really, the letter "S" has no meaning to either of us and wouldn't make sense on a ring.  After she checked with one of the craftsmen, she said that it could indeed be removed or changed, joking that it could even be made into the number 8 if we wanted. 

I probably should have just stopped right there, made my decision, and saved us all some time, instead of continuing to mull it over for the next half hour.  After all, when your nickname has the number 8 in it, shouldn't you just take that as a sign and be done?  The ring will be ready for pickup on Wednesday - I'm looking forward to wearing it.

Meanderings

Saturday night, I drove down to Clear Lake to hear my friend's band play.  The drive south from downtown took about 45 minutes, and threw me down memory lane a little bit. This little 'burb south of Houston (think NASA) was home for the first year that J and I were married.  I had never lived anywhere except Arkansas when we moved, so I wasn't quite ready for the seasons that exist near the coast.  Or maybe I should say I wasn't ready for the lack of seasons, because really, there are only two seasons down here - Season #1, Hot, and Season #2, Rainy.  I suppose if you get Hot and Rainy at the same time, you get Season #3, Nasty...

We first moved down to Clear Lake in the summer of 1998, and it really wasn't that bad; it just seemed to rain a lot and occasionally it felt like we needed gills to breathe.  See Season #3, above.  But eventually the season turned and we encountered our first Houston "winter."  I kind of choke on that word a little - I'm not sure you can legitimately call it winter.  The warm humid air coming off the coast ensured that my definition of winter was drastically and immediately altered that year. The regular appearance of short sleeved shirts and shorts seemed bizarre amidst rows of Christmas trees, and the contrast between occasional 80 degree weather and Christmas lights was a discordant jangle.  Simply put, it felt surreal.  During that first December, I listened to Christmas music almost obsessively, trying to convince myself that it really was time for the holidays.  I missed my winters. 

As I meandered through the wide divided streets Saturday night, passing lawns that were still lush and trees with plenty of green leaves, I opened my windows to the evening air. It was easy to forget that it was a December night, and after reacclimating to the colder Arkansas winters, the warm weather was comforting.  The smells coming through the open windows were familiar.  The earthy fragrance of pine needles combined with the sticky dampness of ocean air were strong reminders of life in my early 20s, that first December in Texas, and those first few years post-college when life's path was much more of a question mark than it is these days. 

Every now and then, life tosses up a type of portal that takes you back in time and reminds you of one of the many former versions of yourself.  Saturday night I found one of those portals, and for a little while, the 23-year-old version of me seemed almost approachable.  It was a bit like visiting with an old friend with whom you've lost touch. Even though we don't have a lot in common anymore, there was still enough familiar ground that we were able to shake hands, reflect for a moment, wish each other the best, and move on.  While there are aspects of that time in my life that I miss - the freedom that I didn't quite realize was there, the drive, the excitement about the paths yet untaken, just to name a few - I'm pretty content with the paths that were taken.  It was still nice to drive down those streets again for just a little while, remembering the twists and turns that were required to create the current, updated version.    

100 Miles from Memphis

One of the stories that came back from the Vegas boys' trip several weeks ago had to do with Sheryl Crow - or rather, Sheryl Crow's doppelganger.  According to J, the look-alike and her entourage were wandering Vegas casinos, trying to convince people to "hang out" (whatever that meant) with Sheryl Crow. When the group approached J at a blackjack table, he called BS and asked them about Crow's hometown of Kennett, located in the bootheel of Missouri. Well, actually, he forgot the name of Kennett and asked about Sikeston, a town about an hour from there, but that didn't matter - the blank looks he got told him everything he needed to know. He did say the doppelganger looked enough like Sheryl to make him do a double take, but the Canadian accent pretty much sealed the deal. A little while later, he saw the entourage getting into an elevator with several college-age looking boys, who apparently expected to get to meet Sheryl Crow. Good luck with that, boys.

******

J was familiar with the small southeastern Missouri towns because I have a great deal of family in that area. A large number of my family members live in Kennett, a town with a population of less than 11,000. The bootheel is home to some fantastic farmland, a lot of flatness, wonderful people, and some of the biggest mosquitoes I've ever seen (with northeastern Arkansas possibly the only exception). One of my parents grew up in Kennett, many aunts, uncles, cousins, and other assorted relatives live or lived there while they were alive, the graveyards there have familiar family names, and the town is still alive with memories for my family.

Driving through downtown Kennett is very much like stepping back in time - the storefronts are dusty, the lettering is outdated, and the world has very much moved on from this area. We were on our way to St. Louis several months ago and stopped at a restaurant along the main drag for lunch. We were the obvious outsiders; everyone else exchanged greetings and handshakes as they came and went, with a lot of generational mingling. It very much had a small town feel, reminding you that there are still towns where no one is a stranger. At the same time, this small town in rural Missouri is home to a Grammy winning musician, and unless I'm mistaken I have an aunt who sings (or at least sang) with her in the church choir. Sometimes the world feels very small.

******

The first time I remember hearing Sheryl Crow on the radio, I was early  in my college years. I was driving from Fayetteville to Little Rock, down Highway 71, just south of Drake Field (used to be "The Airport" but XNA has taken over that role now) when the song "All I Wanna Do" came on the radio. It's rare for me to remember a detail like that. J can remember almost every movie he's ever seen, what year it was, what grade he was in, what theater he was in, strange details like that. He's sort of freaky sometimes; me, not so much. For whatever reason, though, I clearly remember rolling down the windows, cranking up the radio in my old Civic, and loving that song.

******

As I was running my three miler this morning, I listened to Crow's new album "100 Miles from Memphis." My brother-in-law recommended this album several weeks ago, and I finally remembered to download it last night. I queued it up in my Shuffle today to help my run, and while it doesn't contain the best rhythms for running fast, it was terrific for mind wandering. The album reminded me of several artists as I made my way through the songs - Tony Joe White (musician out of Louisiana, wrote "Rainy Night in Georgia"), Janis Joplin, some Elvis, and maybe a little Cash here and there. The rhythms and bluesy sounds reminded me of the many summertime family reunions I dearly loved when I was growing up. The feel of the album reminded me of these extended family members, where I came from, and the different places that I call "home" in this world. Even though I've never lived in the bootheel of Missouri, my roots are there, my history is there, and a large part of my family is still there. So for me at least, Crow's album was reminiscent of my memories of - and connections to - Kennett, a town about 100 miles from Memphis.

Ode (or Dirge) to One of the Best Gifts I've Ever Received

Alternate title: Waxing poetic about a damned Ipod.

For Christmas in 2004, my father-in-law gave me an Ipod as part of the annual gift exchange we do with J's family (he had drawn my name from the proverbial hat). It was a remarkable gift, because he paid full price for this gadget that was in high demand at the time. My father-in-law thrives on getting  good - no, killer - deals, and his amazing shopping prowess is surpassed perhaps only by his son's. So this gift was a bit out of character for him, and really made me appreciate it. That was a somewhat memorable time in my life - Christmas 2004 was about 2 weeks before my son was born, and about a month before I turned 30. It snowed in Houston on Christmas Eve that year, and parts of Houston near the coast had a white Christmas.  You could probably say that hell froze over that year. 

ANYWAY. All that to say that this gift of an Ipod started out in memorable fashion.

Music has always been an important part of my life. One of my earliest memories is of being in the car with my dad, listening to Gerry Rafferty's amazing sax in "Baker Street"; I think I was somewhere around 3 years old at the time. My dad had a huge record collection that I used to sift through (Fifth Dimension, Cream, Willie Nelson to name a few), and I can still remember my dad's record players and reel-to-reel setups lining the walls of the living room. My parents tell a great story about the first big purchase my dad made when he started working at his first good job. Apparently he came home one afternoon and told my mom he'd bought some speakers. All well and good, except the speakers were 3.5 feet high 2 feet deep black monstrosities, and cost as much as a car would have at the time. I'm surprised my dad survived, honestly. I think this little incident happened before I was born, and those speakers? Still stand in my parents' living room today, ready to blow out windows in the house should you ask them to do that.

I spent the better part of that Christmas day in 2004 getting the Ipod setup, learning what frustrations Itunes could (and still can) throw at you, and feeling sort of kid-like again. I hadn't spent that much time with a "toy" in years. I loaded a ton of music on it, figured out how to make it work, and it fell into my everyday life effortlessly.

When I leave the house these days, I always have at least three things with me - my wallet, my phone, and my Ipod. It has music on it that has gone the way of previous crashed computers and laptops; this music is no longer accessible by any other method. It has playlists that have been fine tuned with age and can suit my mood perfectly. It has songs on it that immediately conjure specific memories and emotions (some painful, some cherished) - these are songs that I might otherwise forget about. It is a music memory for the last several years of my life, and some of it will not be replaceable when the time comes to switch to something else.

As I drove down to Houston Monday night, the Ipod locked up on me. This was the second time it had happened in the last few weeks, and I hoped it was simply a bad cord connection to the car radio. But yesterday I had it plugged into my office computer, and at some point I realized that the music had stopped and I could hear this quiet, almost desperate "RuuummRuuummmRummm" from somewhere in my office; it reminded me of cranking a car with a mostly dead battery. The Ipod was completely frozen and making this most unhappy noise. I unplugged it, gave it a rest, and it came back around, but I'm not sure how many more times that I'll be able to avert disaster. After 6 years of flawless operation, I think its time in this world is drawing to a close, and that makes me almost ridiculously sad. It may be a little clunky and outdated (I like the word "retro"), it may not be the coolest thing to pull out on an airplane, but I'm not ready to let it go. The thought of trying to duplicate everything on a new Ipod is just depressing, but I probably need to start thinking that way. Sigh.

At this point, the question really is:  How the hell am I going to make it to Christmas without my music?? Because it's obviously too close to "that time of the year" to buy a new one for myself, and I'm afraid to use my old one (sniff) too much. Dammit. I have a feeling my wine budget needs to be increased for the next few two months.

Bug Zappers and Jerry Jeff

Late night drives + caffeine to stay awake = staying up long after I get to where I need to be. Tomorrow (errr, today) is going to be fun.

On the drive tonight, I was happily listening to some new music (Mumford and Sons and Avett Brothers) until my Ipod decided it was unhappy with its work hours and went on strike. I switched over to XM once I realized the Ipod had given up the ghost for the night. While channel surfing XM, I stumbled across a few Jerry Jeff Walker songs.

If you are from Texas, particularly the Austin area, you are probably somewhat familiar with Jerry Jeff's music. Similarly, if you've listened much to Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings, you've probably heard Jerry Jeff. His main claim to fame is probably "Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother," although "Mr. Bojangles" is another good one. The last song I came across tonight was "Gettin' By." The only way I can really describe what his music means to me is to call it "comfort music" - sort of akin to comfort food.

My family has a cabin up in southern Missouri; it has been in the family for several generations. It is in a very rural part of Missouri, out in the middle of nowhere, down three miles of dirt and gravel roads and across two creeks that often flood. When I was growing up, we would make the four hour trip up to that cabin several times a year to visit my aunt, uncle, cousin, and grandmother. I can remember a time when the cabin itself did not have an indoor bathroom - you had to trek about 30 feet across the yard to a bathhouse when you needed a shower or when nature called. It was fine during the day, but not much fun when nature called in the middle of the night and it was pitch black outside.

I used to love making those trips, even if it meant several long hours in the car. The adults would relax, catch up with each other, and blow off steam, so we kiddos were left with little supervision and acres of woods as our playground. The days consisted of swimming and fishing in the river, running wild in the woods, making up all sorts of games, having bottle rocket wars (the grown ups either didn't know or didn't want to know about those little games), and feeling total freedom. During the evenings, my dad and uncle would barbecue while my mom and aunt would take care of the rest of dinner. After dinner, the adults would sit outside for hours talking and drinking, usually with Jerry Jeff, Willie, or Waylon as background music. The conversations and night noises were punctuated with the periodic ZZZZAAAP from the fluorescent purple bug zapper.

Those weekends are some of my favorite childhood memories. The songs from that time frame, particularly Jerry Jeff's, have a way of reminding me of those simple, free days, and the warm, comforting nights when the grown ups laughed at everything, bedtimes didn't matter, and my shoulders had yet to feel the weight of life's responsibility. It's always nice to take a trip back there, even if the trip only lasts the length of a song.

Irrationality and Air Travel

I flew down to Houston this afternoon, apparently just ahead of the craptacular weather that took over LR this evening.  Honestly, I detest flying.  I'm not really sure why, but but I have a hard time getting through a flight without being nervous.  On a day like today, when I knew there were thunderstorms in the area through which we'd be flying, I was nervous before getting on the plane (if it had been already raining, I would've just given up and driven).  We hit a few bumps on the way up, and you could feel the wind blowing the plane around in the sky, but it certainly wasn't the worst weather I've ever flown in.  Regardless, until we cleared all the storms in southern Arkansas and got above the clouds, I had a hard time keeping my heart rate down. 

I know that the odds are against my ever being in a plane crash.  I know that air travel is exceedingly safe these days.  But at the same time, I knew someone in college who was killed in a plane crash, which sort of nullifies some of the more rational arguments.  After that happened, there was a period of time during which I was completely petrified to fly.  During this period, J and I planned a trip to Hawaii (I might have been terrified of flying, but I guess wanted to see Hawaii more).  So I had this great plan on how I was going to handle the flight.  The trip from LR to Hawaii required us to change planes in LA, so I figured if I could just suck it up on the flight from LR to LA, I had some great meds that I would take in LA that would knock me out for the longer flight over to HI.  (I'm not big on medicine as a general rule, but desperate times...).

So, we boarded the flight in LR and  I managed to hold it together for the flight out to LA.  As we were landing in LA, I took the medicine that I was hoping would knock me out for the flight from LA to HI (phinergan in case you are curious - a half tablet will render me loopy and sleepy for hours).   We disembarked in LA to catch our connecting flight when catastrophe hit - the flight from LA to HI was delayed.  For an undetermined period of time.  Right after I took the medicine that was supposed to knock me out for the next several hours.
 
I have a vague recollection of being in the LA airport, propped up on J's shoulder, drooling all over the place and struggling to remain upright.  This plays in a kind of continuous loop for the length of time we were in the LA airport.  FIVE HOURS later, we boarded our plane to HI.  By then - the medicine was beginning to wear off, I was once again coherent enough to be petrified of flying, and I couldn't take any other medicine for several hours.  Let's just say I learned a valuable lesson about air travel on that trip...

These days, most of my flights are of much shorter duration - an hour to an hour and a half typically; maybe an occasional three hour trip to Vegas.  For a long time, I was able to get past the fear, and flying didn't bother me at all.  But for some reason, ever since I've had kids, flying makes me at the very least nervous, and on some days more than a little frightened.  Today was just one of those days when the nerves and irrationality got the better of me.

Company Picnics and Making Friends

A few weeks ago, I went to J's company picnic. Despite having lived in LR for nearly 2 years, I had not yet met anyone he worked with, so I was kind of interested to put some faces with the names.  However, I assumed that I would be meeting these folks with J as a buffer - you know, to do introductions and silly things like that.  The joke was on me.

As it turned out, I ended up taking the kiddos and going it alone.  Oh the irony - J had to work that Saturday.  So I'm going to show up at this picnic, kids in tow, not knowing a soul.  Yay.  The kiddos immediately scattered to the big bouncy things that they all gravitate towards, and I forced conversation on someone who turned out to be something akin to J's boss.  I'm standing there, chatting about this and that, and he mentions all the places he has lived, including a stint in Houston for a few years.  We talked about that for a while, and he commented that LR is by far the friendliest place he's ever lived.  His neighbors are great, people talk to you without having an ulterior motive, and he and his wife are just blown away by how nice the people are.

Hmmmm.  I had to think about that.
See, while it IS a very nice place to live, and while I've met very nice people here, and while people may be more polite and friendly here than other places, it's been difficult to cultivate good friendships.  I know that it takes a while to form a group of friends after you move to a new place, but somehow I thought it would be easier here.  I've introduced myself to people at t-ball games and soccer games, and been met with limp handshakes and confused/frightened looks.  This was the norm where we used to live - that's just how you did things.  You struck up a conversation, shook hands and introduced yourself.  Maybe it was the business world, maybe it was the neighborhood we lived in, but that's just how it worked.  That didn't mean you were going to be lifelong friends - or even good friends.  But at least you could find common ground and hold a conversation for half an hour or so. 

It's a little different where we live now, and to be honest, it sort of threw me for a loop.  It's a slower pace of life, and a lot of people have lived here their entire lives.  Even though we grew up here, I still feel like sort of an outsider.  In thinking about it, I was probably a little too aggressive on the "playing nice" part...  But whatever the case, it felt much more difficult to strike up a casual conversation.

Anyway.  At the end of our first year back in LR, we were invited to a crawfish boil by a friend we knew from high school.  She and her husband throw one every year, and we thought we'd go, make an effort to be social, and see what happened.  At this point, I tried not to force conversation on most folks, because I seemed to scare people off.

So J and I went to this event sometime in October last year; it was outside at dusk, in their backyard, with a Hogs game going in the background.  It was a really nice set up, with a ton of people, and perfect, crisp fall air.  The very definition of football weather.  J and I stood around for a while getting a drink and some food.  I found a couple of chairs at a table that had several people already sitting at it, and sat down to eat.  I'll be damned if the lady sitting to my right didn't immediately turn around, stick her hand out for a handshake, introduce herself, and start a conversation.  After a few minutes, I got a few words in and asked her what she did.  Her response?  Attorney. 

Huh.  Maybe it's just in our blood.

Reminders

  

 So the Girls' Weekend to Fayetteville was awesome, of course.  We spent all day Friday just catching up with each other, playing cards, munching, and hanging out.  We had to make a Sonic run, of course - our friend who lives in Oregon has to have a Sonic run because the closest one to her house is nearly two hours away.  So her vanilla diet coke runs are few and far between, and our Sonic runs are tradition. 

 

 Saturday we actually managed to get ourselves out of the house at a reasonable hour - mainly with the siren call of HUGO'S!  If you are at all familiar with Fayetteville, you have to be familiar with Hugos, home of the Derek's special sandwich (one of the best damn grilled chicken sandwiches you can get anywhere).  Their fries are great hangover food, and the laid back, below street level atmosphere rocks.  These things are all well and good, but the real reason to go - Grasshopper Crepes. 

Holy cow guys, these things are soooo good.  Yummy crepes stuffed with mint chocolate chip ice cream and oreos, covered with more mint chocolate chip ice cream and chocolate sauce.  We were all completely full after lunch, but obviously that did nothing to impair our ability to make those bad boys disappear.  Awesomeness. 

 

  

We spent Saturday afternoon before the concert at Wilson park, a park about half a mile off the U of A campus.  We met up with some good friends from our college years, and watched everyone's kids run around with the disbelief that comes when you realize time isn't standing still.  It's bittersweet to mark time with old friends, you know?  It's always so much fun to catch up on what everyone is doing, but at the same time, we're starting to think in terms of our kids going to college down the road, and high school reunions with too many years in front of those words.  At the same time, we've turned into those older folks you used to see walking down memory lane  I used to watch them, being glad I wasn't there yet.  Heh.

Saturday night was the alleged reason for our Girls' Trip.  We went to see the Black Crowes at - get this - the Northwest Arkansas Amphitheater.  When we were buying tickets, we all somehow failed to see the tagalong line "at the Northwest Arkansas Mall."  It was a tent.  In the mall parking lot. That was when we realized why the tickets had been so cheap - you could get yourself a pair of Dockers at JC Pennys and see a show, all at the same time!

Of course, the show wasn't the main goal of the trip - they could have canceled the show and we would have all been just as happy; it was just an excuse to get together.  And honestly, the concert itself was pretty damn good.  I thought the acoustics were fine, and the Crowes played for nearly 3 hours - awesome, awesome show.  There was still some irony in the fact one of us flew from the Oregon, one from the North Carolina, and one drove from the Alabama, for what was essentially a mall parking lot concert.  

The details of that night shall remain confidential; however, there might have been one or two folks who rolled down a grassy hill just for the hell of it in the middle of all the exiting concert traffic.  I'm not sure they needing the rolling for the world to be spinning, but whatever.  It was a blast.  I get bogged down in real life a lot and forget to be grateful for the many things I have. Sometimes I think I forget how to feel happy.  This weekend, and these girls, are a reminder of that feeling.  I'm incredibly fortunate. 

35

I went with The Girls to Fayetteville this weekend.  We all met in college at Fayetteville sometime during our freshman year, and we've remained close friends ever since.  We are all over the country now, in four different states and three different time zones, but we manage to get together about once every year or two.  This weekend was in Fayetteville for the Black Crowes concert - signature music from our college years.  It was a terrific concert, made all the better by running into the keyboardist beforehand.  Great music, incredible weather, interesting ummm smells...it was all good.  Perfect, even.

As of this week, we are all 35.  It doesn't seem possible, really, that we could actually be contemplating our 40th birthdays.  The differences in being back on campus after being gone for many years were interesting, and it wasn't just the new buildings (although there were a lot of them!).  I can remember wondering who used to buy the clothes and non-school books in the university bookstore, because how the hell could I afford $50 for a sweatshirt and still eat???  Now I get it.  We buy them - the folks who go back, the ones whose memories help suspend time for a weekend.  But even in the midst of the memories, I'm still glad to be where I am now.  I'm not sure I'd go back to my early 20s again, as terrific as they were.  I kinda like where I am right now. 

35 Is:
*Being able to walk into a university bookstore and buy a shirt (or two) without worrying about whether you'll be able to buy toilet paper this week.
*Still being surprised by old friends.
*Going to a concert and really not giving a damn about how badly you dance, because you are just so happy to be there, with your best friends, enjoying the music.
*Taking your husband along with you for the trip (because he really is one of the girls) and watching him and one of The Girls get totally plastered - and no one getting sick, and no hangovers in the morning.  Guess that means that we drink smarter these days.
*Driving through campus and occasionally not knowing where you are because there is so much new construction.
*Beginning to feel settled in who you are, but knowing that the ability to surprise yourself is very much still there.  And being wary of it.
*Pretty damn good.

The White Ghost

I drove back from Houston last night, got a very late start so it was a hard drive.  It was after 6 before I cleared the north side of the city, so it was well after midnight before I made it home.  I did a lot of flipping radio stations last night, and at some point I hit a station that played a lot of late 70s / 80s / classic rock stuff.  It reminded me of something that happened when I was back in high school - one of those memories that sort of helps define a time in your life.

I had one of those friends in high school who was an absolute confidante and soul mate.  You know, the kind that you talked to on the phone at least an hour every single night, and three hour conversations weren't unusual.  Which meant that you never got enough sleep, but it was totally worth it.  I couldn't imagine my life without him, and it almost took my breath away to think there would be a time in my life where I wouldn't be able to talk with him daily. 

Anyway.  One night he was at my house and it was time for him to head home.  I told my mom that I'd be back in half an hour and I drove him back to his house in my car.  This was probably around 10 that night I'd guess.  We sat outside his house in the car, finishing whatever conversation we'd started, with the radio going.  Whatever station it was got on an absolute roll with the music.  We're talking Styx, Elton John, Billy Joel, Eagles, Journey, all sorts of stuff that just makes you want to sit in the car and listen to what's coming next, especially at that point in your life.  (See, this was the early 90s, the days before Ipods and easily writeable CDs and mp3s.  Some of that might have existed, but all I had was maybe a 1 disc player and a bunch of cassettes.)  So guess what we did - we sat in the car, listening to what came next, singing to all these killer songs, and talking when we weren't singing.  Our lives were on the cusp of change, college was looming, friendships were changing, and I suppose this was our way of making sense out of the tumult that high school is.  That night is one of my clearest, and probably one of my very favorite, high school memories.  For a few hours, all that really mattered was whatever important topic we were discussing, and what the next song on the radio was going to be.

As we sat out there, not quite ready to call it a night, it got later and later and later (imagine that) ... and the next thing we knew, there was a white car that oh-so-slowly pulled into his cul de sac, inched by my car, turned around in the cul de sac, and headed back the way it had come.  (Again, early 90s, well before we all had cell phones.)  It was my mom's car, and it was well after 1 am, and MUCH later than the half hour I had told her I would be gone.  Did I mention that I was still in high school?  Would it matter if I said that this guy and I really were just awesomely good friends?  Yeah.  Looks good, doesn't? 

He got this stricken look on his face, nearly gave himself a concussion getting out of my car (he was tall, I had a small car), and sprinted into his house, probably petrified that someone was going to come after with him with a shotgun.

I started the engine and drove home.  My parents were pretty reasonable and I rarely gave them reason to question what I was doing.  Still, the whole situation just looked bad.  My mom was still up and she explained that she was concerned that I hadn't gotten back after an hour or so and wanted to make sure I was safe.  I promised to try not to do that again, and that was the end of it.  Again - one of those events that reminds you that you are getting older and your life is about to change as you get more and more freedom to make your own choices.

When I saw him the next day, he said he had had nightmares all night about my mom's car, which he dubbed The White Ghost, and wondered if my parents had a contract out on him yet.  Of course they didn't, and of course it was all fine and time moved on and our conversations got less frequent and less in-depth and eventually nights like that didn't happen anymore.  But I'm so glad we had The White Ghost to remember that night by, and to help me remember what it was like to be 16 and on the cusp of my life.

A few years later, we managed to kill The White Ghost on a drive across the country for a ski trip.  But that's another story. 

The Cliffs of Insanity

In my 20s, I went through a hard time - maybe a quarter life crisis?  I was starting my chosen profession with a ton of pressure, I was trying to figure out whether a work-life balance was possible, everything was a struggle, and I couldn't quite figure out what the hell was going on.  I had everything lined up perfectly, I had a job that many people would have killed for as a young lawyer, practicing the kind of law I wanted to practice, making great money, and I should have been 100% happy with what I had.

Instead, I was miserable - more miserable than I had ever been in my entire life. 

I have this clear memory of looking over the cliffs of insanity one morning during that time.  I was on the flip side of the crisis.  I was beginning to make some progress on why I was miserable and maybe was seeing a little light at the end of the tunnel.  But for whatever reason, that morning I felt like I had been sucked under again and was once again fighting the same old demons.  I was walking through my office that morning, and suddenly felt the razor-thin edge of sanity.  It was as simple as that.  The planks of reality that made up my foundation - the assumption that goals mattered, that there was a point to the things I did every day, that there was even a reason for anyone to care about this life - splintered for a a few seconds, and the only thing left was a roaring rushing wind in my head, and the feeling that I was about to go spinning out into a void.  It was an utterly desolate, despairing feeling, and it was hard to believe that I'd ever feel good - or feel anything, really - again. 

I've only felt something similar to that once or twice since that day, and while I'm grateful it doesn't happen often, it does remind me every now and then to re-examine my life.  That time - be it a depression, a crisis, an episode, whatever - occurred because I hadn't learned how to really examine my life and ask myself what I wanted, as opposed to what I thought I should want.  These are two very different things, and sometimes I need a reminder to really think through decisions I make, just to be certain that it is what I really want, and not just what I think I should want.  It's a small, but very important distinction.