Will write soon

Finally back in Austin, just getting my legs back under me.

This is a picture I just took in the parking lot of the grocery
store. The look on his face says it all... yeah, we're exhausted and
the daily grind is a bitch.

Ahhhh, yeah. I'll scrape myself together by tomorrow, I'm sure. At
least I hope I do.

Dearest Grandma Berber,

Easter 07

You died tonight. You were 89.

I was told you looked nothing of your old self; your nails were long and unruly, your hair unkempt, and your body frail and tiny beneath a cotton gown.

We found out Friday you had a heart attack late Thursday. Last night you had a stroke, then we found out it was even more severe... then you were gone. Just like that.

I was going to fly out this weekend as soon as someone could watch Hollis. Though without any real hope of seeing you alive, I still had hope I could be there in some way that you might know. But you had other plans.

The last time I saw you I said Good Bye and not just in our parting ways, but in my heart. I knew you were already gone, a shell of the woman I once knew and loved. I am so sorry that it ended this way. Your worst nightmare, really. Alone, scared, and ancient to your own memory of yourself. You probably didn't know yourself in the mirror any more. Maybe you were at peace with that. More likely you just didn't remember to mind.

But at least there was relief in that, your memory. For you had almost none left. What you remembered was whittled down by time to you noticing the bright sky outside your window and that you were always so, so tired. Phone conversations befuddled you and lasted 30 seconds. Your warbled words fading as you clicked disconnect. You had long since stopped any written correspondence, an art form of connection you had relied upon for decades.

I remember when I first realized you were changing. It was before Dad died - before I even knew Dad was sick - and you didn't send me a Christmas card or present. At first I thought you must be mad at me for not talking to your dearest son, your baby, but I soon realized it was because you had simply forgotten it was Christmas. And to think, just the year before you had painstakingly embroidered two identical pieces for Gabby and me, had them framed, and mailed to us for Christmas. An image of a young girl with a frilly cap, herself carefully embroidering. How quickly things changed.

Did you know that it's because of you that I ever endeavored to cook or entertain? Your stories about beef Wellington for an average Wednesday night dinner inspired me. Your fine china, and pretty "entertaining" room taught me that it's the littlest things in life that can make you feel special in your own home, or that can make a stranger feel welcome.

I remember that you quit smoking your single afternoon cigarette the day the surgeon general said that smoking was bad for you.

I remember that you used to dry your diapers on the line even during brutal, arctic Chicago winters and that you'd have to crack the ice off of them to reveal a mostly dry diaper.

I remember that you called Great Grandma Ursula a "slut" and wouldn't let her and her "man friend" stay the night in your house and how proud of yourself you were for that. (Even now imagining you calling anyone a slut makes me laugh.)

I remember that Pa told you he would turn the car around on the way to the church to marry Grandpa Ray, but you were too determined to get out of the house to admit you wanted to.

I remember that you didn't know until your wedding night that men had other things besides just a penis and how hard we laughed at the absurd naivete you'd had.

I remember the bright yellow dress you made for me and the matching baby blue one for Gabby that we wore on Easter.

I remember your kitchen, every inch of your house, every knick-knack, even where every painting and photo was in your house. I could probably draw the insides of your makeup drawers even today.

You were always the epitome of old school feminine regard, never without lipstick and a kitten heel, never without your hair done, always with a quick hello and how-do-you-do, you were the master of small talk.

I never really understood why so many people turned their backs on you over the years, but you never let them shut the door. You always persevered and won them back. Those mean ladies at bridge in Oak Park? You charmed the pants off of them anyway. Church ladies who thought you were judging them? You invited them over for lunch. You made friends when you were 6 and never stopped loving them. What a remarkable thing that is.

And Grandma, I am so sorry that you lost Ring and Dad and that Randy and you had such a complicated relationship. I'm sorry that you lost your baby brother all those decades ago, your own 9 day old baby girl, your mother when you still so desperately needed her, your Bob, and then your grey-haired baby sister. All you ever spoke of when you could still tell stories was of them and how much you missed them all. I've never known anyone who lived among the dead so passionately as you.

I could write for hours about you, Grandma Berber. I really could. When I finish this I'm going to go and lay down and think, "Shit, I forgot about the time: we colored Easter eggs and drank copious amounts of white wine; cleaned your river rocks for hours and hours one by freakin' one; went to the senior country club and we couldn't figure out why we were the only ones not having to ask for more champagne then realized it was because I was the only one under 60 in the entire joint; we ate tiny, crust-less sugar sandwiches with our teeny tiny tea cups; went to Rawhide and drank a yard of beer together and got our old western pictures taken; or the time when I called you crying because I was with Grandma Katie and she was so sick and dying herself and I didn't know what to do and you hugged me through the phone with your sweet voice and strength and told me that no matter what I did Katie would know I loved her." Thirty-four years of loving memories, Grandma... that's pretty awesome.

I hope you always knew how much I loved and adored you. Tricking you that day to get you into assisted living was one of the worst things I've ever done to anyone. Gabby and I were appalled at what we were doing, but also knew it was the best way. A little Valium, a lunch out, and The Devil Wears Prada later and you had a new home a la Jessie and Gabby. You were never even mad at us, just scared. Thank you for that. I never would have forgiven myself had you blamed me... but then again, you were beginning to leave us then, so maybe you just couldn't remember how you ended up there.

I will always remember you in your doorway, hunched just a little, small and silver, with a bright smile on your face with the love you felt for us, waving goodbye. I'm not sure you remembered our names this last time, but it didn't matter. You recognized our hearts, even the newest one we introduced to you. - What a remarkable meeting that was to witness: the old and the new, both in a place of innocence and dependence just from two different places on the circle. Did you even realize how comforting it was to see us all together like that?

Sweet Grandma Berber, I trust you are finally at peace with your family. You will always be missed and always loved. Thank you for being you. Thank you for loving me.

Your loving granddaughter,
Jessica

Barbara Janet McDowell Warner Schrader
July 9, 1920 - November 23, 2009

Your kitchen & Anthony, Easter 03

Easter 07

March 08

Playing I Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man April 09

Too much

It has come to pass that I have bared too much.

I can no longer continue in this way as I delve for self rediscovery. Sometimes, I don't even recognize myself as I continue to search for me. I am trapped in a fun house of insecurity, self-revision, and pain. Yet, things so precious, so sacrosanct, so vitally important to me draw me back and guide the way. In these moments I feel whole again. And hopeful.

I can no longer see the forest through the trees and am wondering if it even matters. What's wrong with just being with the trees? A part of the trees; the ambiance, the rustle of leaves and smell of bark, the crunch underfoot. Just fucking be.

It is no longer acceptable to me to feel this way and be so public about it. I feel raw and exposed. I feel pushed around and vulnerable. I feel like a perpetrator and a victim of unadulterated selfishness and ego; mine.

I am calling bullshit. On myself.

Therefore, it is no longer congruent with my heart to share it with so many. It belongs to one man, one boy, one family only. I am honoring that.

Till then.

Jess

[Ed. notes: That is to say, less sharing. I'm still gonna be here. I'm thinking less yapping, more photos, and shit. You know, lighter fare.]

Eight years ago

The world changed irreparably 8 years ago.

The following year, with $.99 Lady of Guadalupe candle in hand, I sat
below Stevie and sadly watched the Austin skyline, wondering what was
happening to our world.

I haven't visited this spot on any other anniversary, but felt
compelled to today.

It's still my favorite view of the city; jackhammers ting in the
distance, wet dogs run amok on the trails with their owners and
boaters skim along the river. It's Austin life.

And I'm sharing it with Hollis today because I need to be reminded of
this city's unique character and the general goodness of people living
their everyday lives to the best of their abilities.

So here's to you, my fellow brothers and sisters. I'm glad you're here.

I feel slightly less dirty

The pretty Rain from those sweet Eaves
Her unintending Eyes
Took her own Heart, including ours,
By innocent Surprise

The wrestle in her simple Throat
To hold the feeling down
That vanquished her -- defeated Feat
Was Fervor's sudden Crown

-- Emily Dickinson

Current head space

Just to give you an idea of where I'm at right now: I have an appointment with my therapist, whom I've been seeing for the greater part of a fucking decade (what can I say? I believe in the process), on Thursday afternoon. However, I'm thinking of skipping it, using the child care I've already arranged, and getting a pedi instead.

.

I also have about a dozen really cute Hollis things to share that are about to explode out of me. So, I'll leave you with this:

It's so fucking hot out in Texas right now that the only way I can get my son any vitamin D is by allowing him to play with the hose at his leisure. I know. We're also in a drought and have strict water covenants, but what can I say? It's either him and me or the state of Texas and I think we all know where I stand on that.

Behold...

He likes to water paving stones.



He likes to water plants.



He likes to wash away his impure image -- oh wait -- that's me.



He likes to water my feet.



He likes to water himself.



He likes to repose.



But mostly, he just makes me have sunshine inside. I don't know whether or not he likes this. But I do.

Update: I canceled. Will attempt a reschedule for next week before I head out to San Fran.

Grieving is like barfing: It hurts, but hopefully you'll feel better

Three years ago today I was crying.

My chest cavity had been pried apart by the ugly hands of abuse, history, death, and pain and my insides pulverized. I could barely breathe for the sheer magnitude of the storm of my feelings: grief, relief, anger, pain, and, yes, even happiness that he was finally gone.

So far today, I have been successful at holding back my tears and keeping intruding thoughts of his death at bay. But I have only to think of him and his tyranny on my and my sister's emotional landscapes while he was alive and of his excruciating, pitiful death at the end to feel the backs of my eyelids prick and my throat grow thick with unvented emotion and tears.

I am unsure how to approach this anniversary; where to log it in my brain. It is a great relief that he is no longer on this planet. First, I don't wish suffering of any kind on anyone and my father had layers of it from all points in his life: physical, mental, and emotional. Secondly, my life is better with him gone. I no longer worry he'll show up on my door step unannounced and unwelcome or that I'll get another filthy email or feel obligated to mother him or have to sit through yet another diatribe about - who else? - him. And lastly, I simply don't have to feel the pain of our relationship as a living, throbbing beast always hiding in my darkest corners. In the last three years of his absence I have shown the light on those corners and I have begun to let myself off the hook: No, I wasn't a bad daughter; No, it wasn't my fault he wasn't a good father; No, I didn't deserve to be ridiculed and mocked; No, I really am a good human being; No, I AM WORTHY.

I consider myself a generally nice person, so to feel this much relief over my own father's death is unsettling to me. And, honestly, I am happy he is no longer here. It means that his death has negated that I ever give any emotional real estate to our relationship again. It's fucking over. OVER.

So why don't I feel better about it??

::

When I got the call from his friend that he was, essentially, dying and would I be interested in talking to him it took me about an hour to decide that I would do this thing for him. Because it certainly wasn't for me.

Talking to him, a weak, sick and dying man, was not for my benefit. It was my parting gift to him so he could rest with a lighter heart. We spoke of nothing but his cancer and how it was viciously attacking his insides. So much, I thought, like he had attacked ours over the years. Wasn't this Karma at its height? That a bad, bad man like my father would die tortured in a hospital bed alone and penniless? Well, I can tell you that even witnessing a lesser man die a big death doesn't make it feel any less violent to your heart and soul. It can crush you nonetheless. For this reason, I would never watch a killer die. It's still a life lost. Someone's baby choosing the wrong path...

I couldn't just leave him on this earth with only phone calls between us so I went to him when he was in hospice. My family and I steeled ourselves for the worst. I was expecting him to be emaciated and frail. He looked quite the opposite. He was huge and looming, like my memories of him as a little girl. The only change in his appearance was his hair: it was shock white and fine as a baby's, cut close and sticking straight up.

He smiled, happy and afraid. He had given up on us, he said, and had been afraid all these years to reach out to us. Such was my father's outlook on life. - Never mind that I spent years of my life fighting for a better relationship with him.

We spent several days in Phoenix with him, visiting him twice a day. Outside of hospice we spent the rest of the time collectively drunk and sobbing, laughing at fart ring tones, and yelling to perfect strangers, "I'm SHY!!!!" I cried every hour, tears streaming down my face like a waterfall. It felt like my face was trying to flush my eyes down the drain of my neck.

Only once did my father address his behavior towards and treatment of me during our time there. He seemed somewhat apologetic. I wanted to believe he was sorry, but still felt in my gut he was mostly scared for his own soul than repairing mine. I felt brushed aside, much as I did during my childhood, as he gave a more fervent, heartfelt and fearful apology and embrace to my sister. She whose heart shown gloriously in its strength, beauty, and capacity to forgive in the face of his ugliness and depravity. I felt ashamed that I was jealous of the attentions he was giving her, even in this moment, but let it settle on my shoulders with resignation. I will always be a little girl dying for the attention of her father, no matter what's happening.

And what I did as a little girl to get my father's acceptance and attention was take care of him. Therefore, it was fitting that I be the one to sign cremation papers for him. I was his little mother AND his next of kin.

It felt wrong doing all this for a man who never liked me, who abused my sister, and who hurt everyone who ever cared for him. I was losing a piece of myself as I signed the paperwork to authorize the burning of his remains, yet I was doing it for him because he was my father and I loved him.

Yes, even after everything, of course I loved him. And that's another feeling that has no home in me. Where in the hell do I put that?? I loved a crippled, abominable man. It's not the kind of love you put next to the love of a friend or your baby. It's a love you're embarrassed about, because how could I possibly??

But it's true, and I still do. And I wish more than anything that he were still here as a different man. Someone who I could look up to and rely on and call in a pinch for a laugh or advice. Now July 8th is a day to remind me that all hope of having a Father in my father is really and truly gone. My relief at his passing, while great, is still no match for my heart's yearning for a Dad. A real, bona fide Dad. Someone who was trustworthy and kind and, above all else, a safe place.

Maybe I've romanticized what it's like to have a father, but you can't blame me. I don't know what it's like. I'm sure it's as complicated and frustrating as having a mother (and I definitely have a Mom), but as someone who never in her life felt as though she had one I think it'd be pretty fucking awesome and I'd welcome it.

After everything, I feel as though I was a wonderful daughter to him. Especially in the end. Even after leaving hospice and the hours of sitting in his room watching the rise and fall of his chest behind I continued to be there for my father. He would call me, delusional from the pain meds, afraid and confused. He talked to me about coming to my graduation that winter and of being a grandfather to my unborn kids. I told him he was welcome to it all, knowing in my heart that he wouldn't survive that long, and if, by some miracle he did, I still wasn't sure I could open my world up to his pervasive emotional sickness. I've never lied to a dying person before. I don't regret it, but the words still haunt me. I hope he knows why I did it.

Finally, my aunt, my father's sister-in-law, called me to tell me he had died. It is a moment frozen in time. I was standing in my kitchen, in the walkway area. I buried my face in my hands and Rooster held me. I wish like hell I felt one iota better about him today than I did then, but I don't, and I haven't. Maybe I never will.

Sad thoughts, real thoughts, and fake thoughts

The past week has been an odd one. A sad one. I'm new to the blogosphere via Twitter, but I'm just linked in enough to know that two babies were lost this week. Thalon from Shana and Maddie from Heather. They are living a parent's worst nightmare. A phrase I'm sure you've heard a thousand times in your life, but what has that statement really meant to you?

Today for me it means bone shatterning loss; unfathomable pain, fear of the future - could my marriage weather such a blow? my heart and soul?; abject sorrow; blackness; confusion.

You'd think that with my life as it is (healthy, happy, fruitful) this wouldn't come anywhere near home, but it does. On a daily basis, for years now - ever since I fell in love - I concoct catastrophic events in my head that affect me and my loved ones.

Let me illustrate for you. Today, for example, while driving south on MoPac in medium-heavy traffic I thought about the wreckage I'd seen on the evening news the night before and wondered, "What if that was me right now?" I peeped into my special baby rear-view mirror and saw Hollis dazedly watching the road ahead of him. Would he survive the impact of a tractor trailer rolling on top of us? Would the middle, back seat really save him if we wrapped around a tree or light pole? -- But luckily, I'm always the one hearing about such a wreck and never the one in it.

Or some of the other things I think about are even more sinister. Like when I hike with him strapped on my back. What if a strange man jumps out of the bushes and throws me down on my back and rapes me, our weight crushing my baby against my spine; me, helpless to stop it. Sobbing. Dying inside. -- But luckily for me, I am always safe, always protected.

Or any moment throughout my day when Hollis naps and I haven't heard a "sigh," "snuffle," or "shuffle." I peek through this door to look for chest movement, I fully expect to see blue skin. My stomach will drop, my face blanch. -- But luckily for me, he's always breathing. Always warm. Always rosy.

But for these two families, their worst nightmare - my silly daymare - has come true. They have lost a baby who just discovered her bellybutton and one who was just cutting teeth. Their posts about the future with their children is heartbreaking. We all assume we'll have our kids with us 40 years from now.

It's a breath-snatching, time-stopping pain that reminds us that we cannot write our future. Free-will puts us on a path that leads us somewhere, right? I don't know. I just know I've cried and cried this week and then beat myself up for conjuring up horrendous things that haven't even happened because there are real people out there living real nightmares. I need to get a fucking grip. Somehow, I feel as though I'm being disrespectful to these mourning parents, and I'm sorry. Really, really sorry.

I've read a lot of other posts this week about these two losses and we all seem to be saying the same thing: slow down, appreciate what you have, take nothing for granted. I'd like to also not subject myself to my sick imagination about slaughter, rape, and carnage. Seriously. I've got a short circuit or something, right??

My heart goes out the parents who have lost their babies. Prior to October 9th, 2007, I could have empathized with their pain, but after that day, I practically feel it myself. It's a shared mourning, which is why $20,000 were raised in a matter of 24 hours for Maddie. And why so many bursts of ether are out there about hugging your little one tight tonight.

It's a powerful thing, the innocence of a child. It humbles, it strikes you down. You can't see anything beyond their perfection. And when it's gone, you sense its absence, this innocence and purity.

Remember that your life is good, that you are strong, that you are loved. Because it's all true. And, quite honestly, you never know what will happen tomorrow. It's a powerful, scary, vibrant, exhilarating world out there and you better remember to enjoy every morsel... lest you be caught unawares and wishing you'd known what you had.

For real. And for keeps.

Peace.

Year in review - rearview

I know it's a couple of weeks late, but I really wanted to write about my 2008.

Here goes:

My baby turned 1.

I didn't earn $1 outside of the home - first time since I was 15.

I officially joined the underground society of SAHMs.

I breastfed.

I took Hollis to meet his four of his great-grandparents on 4 separate trips.

I traveled by plane with a 5 month old, 6 month old, 8 month old, 11 month old, 13 month old, and 14 month old, and I did it solo 4 of the 6 flights.

I started this blog.

I joined Facebook.

I was able to visit friends in SF and meet their babies.

I traveled to Phoenix, Santa Cruz, San Francisco, and Kansas City.

I said goodbye to Levi.

I witnessed Hollis blossom into a toddler.

I grew closer to Anthony.

I celebrated my 3rd year of marriage.

I lost weight.

I gained weight.

I started back to therapy - although half-heartedly.

I organized our finances.

I continued to say goodbye to my father.

I continued to work on being an adult daughter and sister.

I fell in love with Anthony all over again.

I busted my ass to keep my sanity - and was successful... I think.

I softened.

I developed a full-blown addiction to Perez Hilton (my dirtiest secret ever).

I researched thousands of toys, strollers, baby gadgets, and I still don't have a grasp on any of it.

I let go, while still holding on.

I'm having a bad day

No, really. I am. It's not Hollis-related (he's napping right now).

I woke up mad at the world. It started when Anthony tried to cuddle with me at 2 am. That's my hot time. And not the "hot" as in sexy time, I'm talking when your body temp shoots up. Everyone has a time at night when that happens and mine, inevitably, is when Anthony wants to snuggle.

I'm not mad at him. I'm mad at the bad timing.

Then, the radio was on the fritz.

Then the scale told me I weighed 159 lbs when just two days ago I weighed 154 lbs when in August I weighed 148 lbs.

Then Anthony, trying to help me feel better about myself, suggested that I "get out more" with Hollis to "exercise."

Then my face hurt and my eyes burned because the shit that's in the air here wreaks havoc on my contacts and my constitution in general.

Then I had to eat breakfast standing up in the kitchen because Anthony was leaving for work early so he could come home early.

Then I wasn't sure what to do regarding working out. It seems every time I take Hollis to the gym he gets sick and I have a trip to SF coming up next week and I don't want him ill for that, so I'm confounded.

Then I think do I do a work out tape? Well, ok, maybe, but I just ate, so I need to wait a little while.

Then what about my morning ritual of hopping online, checking email, blogging, whatever while watching The View? It's my one indulgence every day and I SO look forward to it.

Then I guess I'll be ready for my yoga tape after The View. I sure hope Hollis isn't awake by then. (Update, he woke up exactly as the The View ended.)

And my eczema is back in spades and it's cracked and sore this time. I can't even wear my wedding rings.

So that's where I am right now. I'm sitting in my chair, blogging, The View is on, I'm drinking my chai maté and I'm fighting my old friend of self-loathing. It's come out of no where.

I told Anthony when we were kissing goodbye this morning that the reason I get fucking nutty on him whenever he tries to "solve" my body problems with helpful workout tips is because I feel like I'm letting him down somehow and all I want to hear from him is, "Oh sweetie, you're beautiful and I love your body. You'll figure it all out."

And he says to me, "All I want is for you to be happy with you. That will make me happy."

*sigh*

It'd make me happy, too. I don't know where this is coming from. For months I was mysteriously losing weight and I was elated. Finally I was just living my life and things were going my way, I thought. Then I started breastfeeding less and I started putting the pounds back on.

I'll be brutally honest: I like the way I'm living my life and I don't want to do a whole lot differently, but I do want to be fitter. Yes, I'm one of those. I want it to happen to me, not make it happen. The only option in this scenario is to be happy with my body and health as it is, instead of thinking I should be something different.

But oh... if only this were an easy thing to do. My mom told me once, years ago while I was in a fit of frustration and unhappiness about my weight, "Just eat less, Jessica!" For her, that was always the answer for her lithe, 5 foot 9 inch frame.

I've been watching The Biggest Loser religiously and I see how bodies react to working out - even putting weight on in a single week, but I still want to see immediate, positive results. I know my body well enough to know that I need prolonged, consistent working out to yield changes. A month isn't even enough. I need at least 12 solid weeks... so why I can't do this for myself is beyond my intellectual reach, and I'm embarrassed.

I tend to beat up on myself when I'm feeling badly about something. If I spend more money than I expected on something you can bet I'll start feeling like shit about myself. It's at the point now that I can recognize that it's not a body issue at all, but something different all together. Somewhere I learned a Pavlovian response of self-loathing whenever I did something I didn't feel good about instead of just avoiding said behavior. It's a cycle I've been trying to break for a decade. Because if I could release myself from this beast, it could very well be the key to solid inner peace. For real.

I'm also exhausted by all the bullshit out there. Eat carbs, don't eat carbs, eat protein, eat Omega-3s, 12 pieces of fruit, 14 veggies, lean meat, no saturated fats, no trans fats, organic, nothing processed, 2000 calories, 1200 calories, 3 meals, 6 meals, no dairy, no wheat, no gluten, high-fiber, low-fiber, the right kind of fiber, fish, not tuna, eat a Mediterranean diet, a Japanese diet, walk 10,000 steps a day, do strength training, break a sweat, exercise 30 minutes a day, eat yogurt, avoid lactose, bacon is bad, eggs are good, yolks are not, meditate, get enough rest, no food after 7, protein and fat for breakfast, fruit for breakfast, no cantaloupe, no bread, no salt, no alcohol, drink one glass of red wine, no sugar, support humane treatment of food animals, buy local, support your local agribusiness, walk, don't drive, buy a hybrid, be green, recycle, don't vaccinate your baby, vaccinate your baby, use cloth diapers, not disposable, but chlorine-free disposables are ok, beware of autism, make your own baby food, use glass jars, not plastic, read books, write your own story, be polite, but answer to no one, know yourself, improve yourself, beware of the financial crisis, don't be in debt, don't live outside your means, don't forget yourself, take care of yourself, take care of your family, your marriage, your man, your dog, don't be inhumane to pets, be kind to your neighbors, do what's right for you, but don't forget your family, take care of dying animals, know when to treat them, know when to euthanize them, manage your emotional boundaries, give, but don't be a doormat, love, but don't be reckless, go to school, be smart, get a job, be a career-woman, take care of your babies, be supermom, don't be a martyr, don't be an asshole, bake a casserole, save the planet, save yourself, save the future, be a responsible citizen, vote.

It's all there... in my head, weighing on me like a million pounds. It's no wonder I'm waking up depleted and sad and mad. I'm paralyzed with the enormity of it all. Please, I don't want any words of advice. Words of encouragement, fine. But not advice. I can't hear it right now. I'll implode if I hear one more thing I should do. It's enough already. I know it all. It's all there. I just need to let the dust settle and I'll feel better.

This is a private entry for the public sphere. I have no idea why I just did this, but here it is.

PS: I love foggy mornings

Even if it is 80 degrees outside.