Thursday, October 21, 2004


Background: the front-desk receptionist announced it was my birthday and in my honor, cake would be served in the break-room.

“So, which one is (insert my name here)?”

“I don’t know, is she the pregnant one or one of the other two?”

I am one of the other two; clearly, I do not get out enough.

Birthday Shmirthday

Today I turned 33. However, I had actually forgotten it was my birthday until my husband called during my morning commute and wished me a happy day.

Thursday, October 07, 2004


Well, I suppose you could say I had somewhat of an epiphany. I realized where some of the anger I've had is coming from. No, I'm not going to tell you.

Suffice it to say I've spent a considerable amount of time trying to quash these feelings but being unable to pinpoint the origins of said anger it's been very difficult to release or diffuse it.

The birthday is fast approaching and the usual angst is here but it's brought along its pals—sorrow and regret. If you have read this blog or you know me at all you know a lot about my background my inability at times to make a decision. I admit to being stuck in analysis mode for far too long on many an occasion.

I use music, art or poetry as a calming or alternatively as an incendiary device depending on what I need. This poem struck me when I first read it when I was 15 and now—almost 18 years later—it has hit me again. In my life it works for both dreams and anger.

The balance of who we are is comprised, in my opinion, not just of what we’ve done but also of what we’ve not done and there are still times I wish I’d followed the sprite muse and dared to be carefree. Then again, there are things I wish I’d never done.

A Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore— And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?