18

I'm blogging early this week; probably because I can't wait any longer to wax sentimental about the quickly changing season here in my city of Atlanta.

This time of year makes me feel alive. The temperature has been hovering around the 90 degree mark for the past three and a half months, at least. It's hard here in the summer. You start to feel like you'll never cool off, you'll never be able to step outside without instantly feeling somewhat drenched.

Then I walked outside last night, to go home from work. The rain was still falling, though I could see light behind the trees in the distance. The temperature had cooled, I think into the 60's, and for the first time all summer, I was able to stand and take a breath and feel complete; I had no desire to hurry to my car and crank the air conditioning, no. I wanted to stand there, arms open, welcoming in the season that had taken so long to arrive.

Today was even better. Sunny, 72, and Target had a bunch of Halloween things that I had to buy. This is my time of year. This is when I truly feel like myself.

The nights are getting colder...I step outside after work to a dropped temperature, a darkening sky with smears of red and pink, and a slight breeze. I drive home with the windows down, and when I get there, the smell of my next door neighbor's wood burning fireplace greets me, and I take my time getting my things from the car just so I can breathe in that wintry smell just a little longer.

I wish the trees would catch up with the air. Alas, they're still defiantly green, holding onto their color and refusing to grant me my favorite part of autumn. Ah, well. All in good time.

As an aside, Saturday marks the one year anniversary since my Pa-Pa had open heart surgery and received his pacemaker. He is doing wonderfully, completely back to normal, or back to better, if one can describe something as such. Those first fall days in 2009 were marked by hospital visits, late night intensive care meetings, and coffee runs for everyone. It was dark for a moment, but fall hasn't let me down yet, and it's as much a testimony to her glorious afternoons that he's still here with us, having lunches with me and greeting me with hugs and smiles. No, Dr. Hyman, fall does not mean death and endings. It's a chance for new life, for a fresh start, for new chapters, and for feeling alive.

(My pa-pa and my small one I nanny)

17

Much is happening these days, and inspiration hasn't struck. Though Mr. Wonka and Mr. Edison were correct in the idea that genius is only 1% inspiration, the 99% perspiration part hasn't struck, either. However, I refuse to let you down, loyal readers.

I spent the afternoon at Ikea with my roommate, and we spent quite a long time in the kitchen section, dreaming about a possible future house where we have lots of money and can afford one of these fancy-pants kitchens. I'm a giant nerd, I love flipping through Southern Living and Real Simple, making plans for a far off dream. Some people make fun of me; but I just smile and ignore them. How can I know what I want out of life without looking at all the choices?

Tomorrow I have a coffee/business meeting with a representative of the Chamblee Farmers Market (you can find them here). They are looking for someone to join their marketing team, to write various articles for the newsletter and for other local publications. I'm excited, not only for the opportunity to write things professionally again but also for the byline and experience. This is a big thing for me.

Finally, I got up early yesterday morning and went for a nice mile and a half power walk. My legs are sore today, but it's a good sore. If I can keep getting up early, this might be the start of something very, very good. Running the Peachtree Road Race is on my list of things to do before I die, and I hope to realize that goal in the next two years.

That's all for this week, folks. I'm loving this blog, it's become a dear part of me and my week, and I will be sad when a year is up. But I'm certainly glad you are here to share this with me. Thanks for sticking with it and reading. Love!

16

Happy sweet 16! Or, in other words, it's my 16th post, which makes my dear blog one of those surly teens, who stalks about the house with its iPod buds permanently stuck in its ears, kicking at things, scowling. But I prefer to think of her as one of those slightly dorky but very nice girls, who sometimes wear glasses and reads a lot and can't wait to get to college.

In light of being 16 weeks into my 24th year, or perhaps being 36 weeks away from being able to say I'm a quarter of a century old, I've decided to write about something very basic.


This is my desk. It used to belong to my mom, until I moved out and took it / she gave it to me. I used to do my homework on it in elementary school, and I think there are some pen or marker spots in the top drawer. Nevertheless, it is mine now (I think!), and as we all know, the desk of a writer is a very important thing. It can't be too big, because then our ideas would be too spread out to be useful. But it can't be too small, either, because then we couldn't cross our legs underneath, and uncomfortable sitting just doesn't make for good writing. The ideal size is cozy, with some drawers and hiding places to put things, if only to fish them out when you're stuck in the land of writers block and are avoiding the page altogether. You can't write when your thoughts are flying everywhere; the writer's desk has to be a sort of home within the home, a place you can go to unfold your thoughts slowly, piece by piece, and lay them out out on an uncluttered, non-judgemental surface.



On my desk? My Paris box, which makes me feel all sorts of nice whenever I look at it. A picture of my family, which is, of course, the most important, as they keep me in food, entertainment, and good material. Pens, of which any good writer should be in abundant supply. There is always a spot for coffee, since there is always coffee. And finally, one of those little paper organizers stuffed with cards my girlfriends have sent me over the years, ones that always make me smile and make a note to call the sender later in the week. These things cushion me, they surround me, they make me who I am, and therefore, make my writing better.

So this is it! This is where the brilliance will hopefully one day spring from. I can't wait for fall to really start, so I can sit here, drink my coffee, and watch all the leaves cover the driveway. Maybe I'll be a real writer soon.

15

We grilled out last weekend, to celebrate it being Friday, and also a three day weekend...and all I could think the entire time I was sitting there smelling the charcoal and watching the smoke rise up into the sky was goodbye, summer. It's been real.

The sun set slowly, and with every inch the sun sank the smell of chicken and corn and charcoal grew stronger. The smell of the grill has been a staple of my summer life for as long as I can remember. When I was small, my grandparent's neighbor, Mr. Summers, spent every Saturday night on his back porch. We'd hear the screen door slam just as the sun crested the top of the trees, and before long, we could smell the smoke wafting through our open windows.

Summers passed, and I'm in my own little house now, with a cat and a dog and a boy. Mr. Summers is gone, and the house he lived in was recently sold. Still, the smell of summer is synonymous in my mind with grilling and smoke. And, as the days start to get cooler and the nights longer, and thoughts turn to Halloween and Christmas, I will still remember this first summer as mine, as the first of my real adult life, and one that I will never, ever forget.

14

There is nothing like a road trip with friends.

That said, I took a road trip this past weekend with my three best friends. We've been friends since kindergarten, and it had been a good year and a half since we'd all been together, without boyfriends or husbands. There were 19 years of memories and jokes and general craziness on the agenda, and the weekend didn't disappoint.

We got stuck halfway to South Carolina because of a horrible thunderstorm and stomach problems, so our trip started out at a Racetrack gas station at 9:00pm on Friday. I'm not sure if that set the tone for the weekend, but it was certainly very us.

We have this talent of all talking at once, about different things, but still holding a decent conversation. I'd forgotten this, until we were sitting in a circle at a Greenville coffeehouse, and I look around and realize that we're all talking over each other, but I'm following the conversation perfectly. Again, very us.

By the time we graduated from high school, we'd all read the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, and claimed this story as our own. Kelley bought us all tiny sterling silver pants, little charms, for graduation, a symbol that we might travel our separate ways, but would always be connected. It was true.

We looked like tourists; we all had our cameras, and took pictures every time we sat down, or were still, and sometimes when we weren't. Picture frames at home were empty, waiting for this weekend.

We talked about first love, first kisses, and marriage at our big dinner Saturday night. And I remember all the sleepovers we used to have, in elementary and junior high, staying up late discussing and imagining what love would be like. And now, one of us is married, we've all been in love (and subsequently been kissed) and talk has turned, seemingly overnight, to more serious topics, like making a marriage work, making babies, making a career, making a life.

Alison and Kristen fell asleep on the way home Sunday afternoon, and I was left with my thoughts and the music. Friends are invaluable. These three girls know me better than anyone, and they are the only ones to whom I can say just one word and they know exactly what I'm thinking and feeling, and can almost finish my thought themselves. I don't laugh with anyone the way I laugh with them. And sure, we don't see eye to eye on everything. That's life. And that's also necesary. Keeps us on our toes. They're a different breed of friend, and my life wouldn't be the same without them.