So you know that month when your dad goes to the emergency room and your mom has a mental health scare and your brother is in a car accident and your grandmother has to be hospitalized and your aunt finds out she has aggressive leukemia? And your nights, once a respite, are now filled only with dreams of people dying or snakes chasing you (but not on a plane) and you think you might be coming down with the flu and work is completely overwhelming and of course you pick this time to panic about your lack of a life plan which quickly becomes a full-fledged existential crisis? But despite all of this you still try to do all the regular stuff which is now "extra" stuff like go to yoga, meet with friends, be a (half-assed) blogger, bake bread for the bread share and, you know, smile? Because you'll be damned if life is going to grab you by the balls? In fact, you don't even have balls? Take that, Life! You can't grab me by the balls because I DON'T HAVE BALLS! And you continue thinking you're good to go as long as you're sans balls and, in this case, of course balls = emotions which is probably the only time you'll ever see that analogy (like, EVER) but still? And it's not until you suddenly get weepy while kneading bread dough that you realize: when you don't have balls to grab, the universe just kicks you in the ass.

Yeah, it's sorta been like that this month. As if you didn't notice.

Thanks for your uplifting comments, concerned emails, a super-sweet phone call, and a well-timed package. You people are so good to me and many days you made me smile when I wouldn't have otherwise.

I think the fan has finished splattering the proverbial shit. For the most part, anyway. Or maybe it's just switched from high to low. But I'm hopeful it's done for now. Because tomorrow?

Tomorrow is September.

As I pull into the grocery store parking lot, the sky succumbs to the dark clouds it has barely been able to contain throughout the day, the morose masses growing heavier and heavier until finally, with what I imagine is a shuddering sigh, the sky allows itself to cry. Big droplets splash against the roof of my car and slide down the windshield like tears on a cheek. I park the car just as the drops come harder and faster with the sky's frantic weeping.

I turn off the engine and settle into my seat. Usually I would make a run for it, cursing the puddles and laughing despite myself. But today I'm glad for a reason to sit here, to rest, to be still.

The raindrops create a rhythm of tiny ripples on my windshield. I watch, subdued. The storm subsides, slightly, but then rages back angrily before turning sorrowful once more. It seems to be absorbing my emotions. And releasing them.

I let the rain renew me. I shut my eyes and let the sound of it soak into my sapped spirit.

When the torrent's tears are just a trickle, I emerge from the cocoon of my car. There is no rainbow, no pot of gold promise, no guaranteed happy ending. There is just the sky, still gray and glum. But it is cleansed. And so am I.

I know I haven't yet posted the story behind the #6 mystery photo. I haven't forgotten. But I've needed to be quiet this week. (Just realized that a year ago I was feeling similarly. How odd.)

Here's the latest word game listy thing I've been mulling: brand names that have become everyday words. A brand name qualifies if it is often (or always) used as the noun for a particular type of product no matter what the actual brand is. For example, my grandmother always says "Pass a kleenex" when she wants a tissue.

Kleenex
Saran Wrap
Xerox (also used as a verb)
Post-it
Wite-Out
CrockPot
Jacuzzi
Band-Aid
Zip-Loc
ChapStick
Vaseline¹
Aspirin (has a whole story behind it)
Davenport² (grandparents' generation)
Tupperware (Maybe this is just a Redneck Valley thing, but here all plastic kitchen containers are called Tupperware.)

¹Courtesy of Doreen
²Courtesy of Rob^3
3Taught me how to do footnotes in html!

"Kelly?" she called as I was leaving yoga class. "Is that your yoga mat?"

"Yoga mat? You have a yoga mat? Because I lost my yoga mat!"

"Yeah, there's one over there. I think it's yours."

I followed her point and my eyes fell upon my yoga mat. My lovely, soft, blue, grippy yoga mat!

"That's my yoga mat!!!" I exclaimed, overjoyed.

"It's a little like finding a long lost friend, huh?" She chuckled. At me, not with me. But who cares? I found my yoga mat!!!

The jubilation of finding it almost outweighed the stupidity I felt given its location. It was rolled up, leaning against the wall. Right next to the shelf. The shelf where I put my shoes. I went to two classes last week, and each time I walked right past my yoga mat, stood several feet from my yoga mat while I took off my shoes, and then stashed said shoes in the shelf mere inches (inches!) from my yoga mat. You know, the one that was right there all along, leaning against the wall wondering, When will she notice me?

When she answers the phone, her hello sounds hollow. No, it sounds like it's trying not to be hollow. But I know her, and I hear the hollow she's hoping to hide. When I respond with my own hello, it sounds upbeat. No, it sounds like it's trying to be upbeat. But she knows me, and she hears the fear trembling beneath my forced cheer.

We know this about each other. Know that we both know. But we say nothing. Because we also know that to utter it, even in a whisper, is to make it real. For her to say it's happening, for me to even ask, is to give it life. So we don't say it. We don't dare say it.

Instead we mimic ourselves flawlessly, copying the tried and true tones and topics of conversations past. We tiptoe around the terror. We could convince anyone else, but we know each other. We know that our voices are but shells of themselves. Emulating normalcy only serves to remind us just how far from it we are.

Eventually there is a pause. In the silence, the unspoken seems as palpable as the phone I'm clutching tightly in my hand. I take a breath, conceal a sigh, and ask her the question she knows is coming. It's a commonplace question, and I deliver it casually. But she hears the meaning behind it. We have a secret language, a morse code. And her answer, when she finally gives it, is an SOS.

"I had rather be shut up in a very modest cottage, with my books, my family, and a few old friends, dining on simple bacon, and letting the world roll on as it liked, than to occupy the most splendid post, which any human power can give."

#5 - Inside the Burj Al Arab hotel - looking up at the balconies

I've been surprised by how many people (here in Redneck Valley, no less!) have heard of Dubai. But not for the reason I expected. Often when I would tell someone that we were headed to Dubai, I would see recognition register on the person's face, and so I would plow forward to help facilitate the connection. "Yeah, the Dubai ports deal? That whole controversy? That's where we're going." In response to this, I'd receive a blank look. Confused, even. And then the person would say (sometimes condescendingly, I might add), "Dubai, right? Isn't that the place with that hotel that looks like a sail?" Well yeah, there is that, too.

The Burj Al Arab is currently the most prominent landmark in Dubai, and it certainly symbolizes the city. It's the tallest building in the world that is used exclusively as a hotel. (The lobby/atrium is open all the way to the top floor, and it's so tall that the Washington Monument would fit inside.) It advertises itself as the world's only 7-star hotel. It's situated on a man-made island and you have to drive across a bridge to get there and your name has to be on The List in order to even be allowed access to the bridge. The interior of the hotel is posh and luxurious. Like Dubai, the Burj Al Arab is fabulously ridiculous.

When planning our trip, we decided early on that we had to stay at that hotel. Because it is so Dubai. Because we'll likely never be there again. Because we were giddy just talking about it. Because we never do shit like that. (See how I'm attempting to justify this decision? That's the guilt talking. Because this place is way hella fucking expensive, oh my god. The kind of expensive that caused us, when speaking the number aloud, to whisper. You know, as if we might be able to conceal the cost from our rational selves.)

We split the cost with Mojo and F, which helped ease the guilt. And then. THEN. When we checked in? We totally got an upgrade. "Compliments of the hotel." They put us in a two-bedroom suite that, during peak season, costs $2,500/night. (We paid way less than that so, as Mojo would claim, it was "basically free.")

The interior of the hotel - looking down from the floor we stayed on, and from the top

So, the hotel. First of all, every "room" in the Burj is a two-story suite. The suite we were in had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a dressing room, a powder room, a living room, a sitting room, a dining room, a bar, an office area, and a kitchen. It had more square feet than our house. Than our house, people! (This is perhaps reasonable considering the suite cost the equivalent of our monthly mortgage.) There were floor-to-ceiling windows. Remote-controlled curtains. Hermés toiletries in the bathrooms. A laptop to use while we were there. Complimentary fruit, pastries, and wine. Brought to us by our butler. Oh, I almost forgot. WE HAD A BUTLER.

Our butler, in tails, gives us a tour of the Royal Suite

[side story in the style of mrtl] I lost my lipstick. Couldn't find it anywhere. Rob and I searched the suite and then searched it again. (Which took forever because the place was, you know, bigger than our house.) Lipstick was nowhere to be found. At this point I was past the frantic phase and well into the pissed off phase, and so I stomped up the stairs saying, "DAMMIT. Where the fuck is my goddamn LIPSTICK?!" And I heard something drop and I looked down and my lipstick was laying there on the step, next to my foot. "Rob!" I exclaimed. "It's my lipstick! It just appeared here on the step!" And then I paused a moment to consider this and added, "It's the butler! It has to be! Where is he? How'd he do that? That guy is amazing!" (Okay, so shortly thereafter I determined that the tube of lipstick had fallen out of the cuff of my pants. But still, I have every reason to believe that the butler had a hand in its timely reappearance.) [end side story in the style of mrtl]

So, you see how ridiculous this place was? And by ridiculous I mean totally fucking FANTASTIC. But in a completely ridiculous way. And all I've described is the suite. The rest of the hotel was equally incredible. Infinity pools, a helipad, an "underwater" restaurant (complete with simulated submarine ride). Certainly many of the people who were staying there were gawking posers like us. But many of the people staying there were filthy rich. F and I had a conversation about how the hotel is probably so everyday to them, that having a hotel butler is surely such an inconvenience because he doesn't anticipate their every whim like their staff at home does. Needless to say, I found the rich folks as fascinating as any other culture I encountered on this trip.

The pool bar - I ordered a milkshake made with camel's milk

But what I was reminded of, staying at this hotel, is that it's all fluff. The exquisite thread count, the marble floors, the gold pillars, the "your wish is my command" hospitality - it's nice, but it isn't necessary. Two of my favorite memories from the Burj have little to do with the hotel at all. The four of us spent our first evening there drinking wine (compliments of the hotel), telling stories, and laughing. We were at the Burj Al Arab, but we could have been in anyone's living room. It was the comfortable feel of the friendships, not the furniture, that meant so much to me that evening. And the next night, Rob and I climbed into one of the whirlpool tubs and snuggled together in the suds. He gave me a divine foot massage, and I thought about what a good life we have. Sure, we were soaking in Hermés bath salts, but it's having that love that's the luxury.

(Which is not to say I don't totally need a butler. Surely he could find my yoga mat.)