Late Fragment.

Waitin' on A Sunny Day.

It's Friday.  And the boys in Orange and Black looked kind of lively for almost 60 minutes last night.  These are the things that are good in my world.

All the rest of it remains the same.  The bullshit with the job, and the bullshit with my life, and the bullshit on top of bullshit.  Sigh. 

Oh, and I just broke a filling. 

It's got to get better?  Right?  Right?

Oh, please, God, tell me it's going to get better.

I Saw Your face in Every Star.

I am going to Atlanta tonight, to spend the weekend celebrating the wedding of a good friend I will call Joy.  And while I am looking forward to seeing Joy, and to seeing Red, and to spending the weekend with Inspector free of the pull of my family, there's something about going back to Atlanta that always makes me a little... something.

I spent the two unhappiest years of my life in Atlanta.  And what's remarkable about that is that I still managed to walk away from there with two of the closest friends I have, women I still count among those essential to me.  I may not talk to Red or to Joy as often as I once did, back in those days when we were all young and single and living in Atlanta, when we used to meet for coffee every Saturday and Sunday morning at the Caribou Coffee near Virginia Highlands, but I continue to love them just as deeply.

Atlanta hit me with the double-whammy of a terrible love affair and a crisis of self-discovery.  I fell in love with David, which wound up being one of the worst choices I've ever made.  And I began to realize that I didn't much like what I was doing for a living, and I didn't really like the way my life was turning out, but I didn't have the faintest idea what I wanted or how to figure it out.

I spent long weekends deep in what I now recognize as depression, lying on the floor of my living room with a blanket over my head, only coming out to smoke a cigarette or drink another diet coke.  I started being tired all the time.  I was listless.  I was sad.  I was no fun to be around.

And yet, Red and Joy continued to call.  And to have coffee with me.  And to drag me out to dinner and clubs and concerts.

I found a therapist, and worked really hard to change my life.  And then I packed up my car one night and left town.

Going back to Atlanta always makes me jumpy, nervous, and it feels to me like ghosts are lurking behind every corner.

This will be my first time there with Inspector.  Seems to me if anyone can slay those dragons, it's him.

On The Towel Beside The Door.

Once again, surprise surprise, I'm busy.  Not bad busy, but busy.  It's made it hard to find time to write.

I was thinking last night about how I don't write the juicy stuff any more.  Some of that is that I know a bunch of people I "know" read here.  Part of it is that my relationship with Inspector has changed... and I am (rightfully, I think) more private about it.

Last night, on the way out of my office, a man walked by me in the lobby.  This man smelled of Drakkar Noir and cigarettes, a smell I so strongly associate with Kenny, that I actually stopped in my tracks, confused for a moment.  What is that?  That sense memory that you can't shake?  A song, the light through the curtains, a smell, a certain taste or temperature and it's all I can do anyway to not let myself fall into the past.  Just like that. 

I'm leaving to see Inspector tomorrow afternoon.  He's annoyed with me.  I don't know why and I don't know how to fix it.  But I am getting on an airplane and flying to where it is cold and snowy, and hopefully that will help fix whatever is rubbing him the wrong way.  I got him a super-cool birthday present too.  I can't wait to tell you all about it.

Comfortably Numb.

In about 4 hours, I'll be going under the knife again.  Inspector is here to take care of me. 

I'll be fine.  And the boobies?  They'll be spectacular.

Can't You Just Feel The Sun Shining...

I've been sick.  Really sick.  I have had a fever every day for a week now.  Doctor says it's probably bronchitis, probably viral, but gave me a Z pack anyway.  It's not helping.  It's viral.  I still have a fever.

My kid gets her blood tested again on Thursday.  I should know almost immediately if everything is fine or if there is further cause for concern.  I am afraid that either way, I'm probably going to cry in the pediatrician's office.

I've been interviewing. 

Somehow it feels like my life is kind of on hold.  This won't do for very much longer.  Sooner or later, I'm going to have to pick an action verb.

Bloom and Grow.

My kid is sick.

I am scared.

There's nothing else to say at the moment. 

So until there is, I'll stick with that.  My kid is sick, and I am scared.

eta:  It appears to not be the worst case scenario which is a tremendous weight off my shoulders.  More tests in a little more than a week, but for now, a heavy sigh of relief from Chez Brazen.  Thanks for all your good thoughts.

She Wasn't Much Good At Sticking Around.

Let's see...  where to start?

The interview today went well.  I don't have a good sense of how it will all turn out, but it is a job I'd be interested in, and one I'd be good at.  They are interviewing more candidates.  They want to move slowly.  I was warned not to get frustrated if it takes a while.  I wasn't shown the door with a "Thanks for your time" but I also wasn't told what the next steps would be.  There was some talk of salary without any specifics.  There was no talk of timing besides the professed desire to "move slowly".  Like I said, I don't have a good sense.

Other stuff?  I don't know.  My skin doesn't fit right.  I am annoyed in an unspecified way.  I think some of it is that there's a lot in my life that's unsettled right now and I don't have the ability to change any of it.  Here's something that may come as a shocker... I am a bit of a control freak.  And I hate hate hate that I can't control anything about my life at the moment.

There are all these balls in the air.  I want them to just come the fuck down.  But sometimes, gravity has a mind of its own.  Fucking laws of physics. 

In unrelated news, Happy Birthday to 'Stina.  You're a good friend.  I'm glad the universe brought you into my world.  Where I am is a happier, saner, more colorful place since I've gotten to know you.  Your friendship is a treasured gift.  Here's looking forward to many more birthdays together, you wild woman, you.

Since You've Been Gone.

Requiem, Kurt Vonnegut

When the last living thing
has died on account of us,
how poetical it would be
if Earth could say,
in a voice floating up
perhaps
from the floor
of the Grand Canyon,
"It is done."
People did not like it here.

I am certain that I miss the boy who used to sign his letters to me "Kilgore Trout" more than I will miss Vonnegut himself.  Nonetheless, there was a time when "reader of books by Vonnegut" was something I considered myself.  Perhaps it is time to start re-reading.

RIP.

In a Noisy Bar in Avalon, I Tried to Call You.

I used to have this friend, Melanie, who was so much more than a friend to me.  She was my sister, my alter-ego, my id, my confidante, my amiga, my partner in crime, my lifeline.  I counted on Melanie like I count on my family.  Not a day went by that I didn't see Melanie.  We spoke a language all our own, and to this day, when I see the word "Tobin" I cannot help but smile, and only Melanie would know why.

When Melanie and her husband moved away, I wept.  And I wasn't sure why.  I thought I was sad to be losing the day to day of our friendship.  I thought I was crying for lost cups of coffee and episodes of General Hospital I wouldn't be sharing with her.  (When Stone died, and right before, how he could see Robin?  And he said "I see you, Robin.  I see you."?  Melanie and I cried together through the whole damn thing.)  I thought I was weeping for the loss of companionship.

But in retrospect, I was bereft because I knew Melanie.  And I knew that her leaving was the end.  And I was right.  Melanie is not a girl who can sustain a long-distance friendship.  And while I can, I cannot do it on my own. 

I miss my Mel.  But seriously, what's the point?  She doesn't miss me. 

Brick. House.

I've been out of touch for a while because, well.... I'll admit it... I had some cosmetic surgery last week.

I was an early bloomer.  Sixth grade, to be precise.  There were three of us girls that year that got breasts... and while we weren't friends, we shared something that no one else did.  I have a vague memory of winding up in the girls' bathroom on the third floor of the lower school with the two of them one day by happenstance, and though I cannot recall if there was a discussion, I do remember a certain kind of solidarity.

They weren't just early.  They were big.  Big and round and fabulous.  In college, I got the nickname "Tits on a stick".  Someone described me to his future-wife as "having a body like those girls in the Victoria's Secret catalog".  I was chosen as one of Playboy's Girls of the Big East but ultimately chickened out.  (Add that to the list of regrets I have... a short but magnificent list, truth be told.)  I could have made a fortune as a stripper when I lived in LA, and I was all natural, baby.  Yes, they were real, and they were spectacular.

But life happens.  I got older.  I got pregnant.  I got ginormous.  And so did they.  And when all was said and done, what was once spectacular wasn't so much anymore.  (This is not to suggest that the men in my life complained at all.  Oh no.  They did not.)

So last Thursday, I had a little work done.  They are still swollen.  They are still bruised.  They are still riddled with stitches.

But you know what?

They're going to be spectacular.