Several months ago and in the middle of a whole lot going on, the dogs and I loaded up and moved back to downtown Salt Lake City. I mentioned a week or so ago that I’ve moved five times in four years, but I failed to count some more and extend the time to a more reasonable five year—bringing the grandish total to seven moves in five years. In case you were wondering, that is something that is very, very wrong.

The last time I lived on the Hill was back in the beginning of 2004. It was my first solo apartment, except in a house filled with awkward relationship—the landlord wasn’t married to his wife, but instead lived in an apartment in the upstairs of her home. But he was the landlord? Sounds like someone has some authority issues. Also, apparently had some issues with leaving dirty workgloves in my apartment atop a load of CLEAN UNDERWEAR on my couch without notice or follow-up of any kind—except, you know, until I tenderly placed the gloves at his doorstep with a note on which was written a hastily-scrawled, “YOURS?” I managed a raised-brow lowering of the eyes my coworkers call the “Ashley Look,” when he messily attempted to explain the circumstances which allowed him unannounced access to my apartment and, apparently, my drawers.

(They call it the “Ashley Look” and laugh, but are wondering if maybe someone else can go to get lunch next time because they’re downright tired of eating spit. I just tell them to stir up their soups real good, and that maybe someday, the service industry WILL RECOGNIZE WHO IS WRITING THEIR PAYCHECKS.)

(I get that from my Mom, FYI.)

My situation has changed a bit since that first apartment alone. For example, I no longer have unlimited credit and no longer expect several boxes from GAP.com to flow from UPS and find themselves upon my doorstep at any given point in the week. I do still, miraculously, have my car, even with the bumped-up door and pole-cracked bumper, but it hasn’t seen the light of day minus dog food on the floor in quite some time. I’ve changed jobs thrice, and find myself on top of my own contentedness more often than not. I don’t dread phone calls from my family, and seek out conversation from my mother several times a week. I still struggle, but can find my way out more often than not.

It’s a good place to be.

I’m far from coming full circle in four years, but it seems just about right to be back in the neighborhood at this stage in my life, leaving lots of baggage behind and bringing two pups along for the ride. Besides, Ethel just downright giggles every time I let her loose on the Capitol lawn.

I am not sure I’ll ever be quite ready to talk about what happened a week ago on Wednesday-thru-Friday. I will, however, share something I came to know, intimately. I don’t think you ever quite know how a loyal pet can affect your life until you are suddenly struck with the unequivocal realization. I looked frantically around the room Wednesday morning, sobbing, and trying to think of the least painful way to downright end it all, when my eye caught Ethel’s—and I knew she knew things were bad, by the way that wrinkle above her left eye was creased against her brow—and I shuddered and cried aloud, “But then who would take care of you?”

And she saved me. She flat-out talked me down from the ledge and I buried my head into her puppy mullet, knowing I’d never have the courage to do anything so final, but also finding myself acutely aware of how not alone I would always be with her burrowed in the covers at my side.

I never really know what to write, or how, so I never do. Which is not productive, if you’re wondering. I figured enough time had passed since I’d made the proud declaration that I was actually doing something about the squalor in which I reside, that it’s time that we just move on from that notion entirely. If it happens during a manic episode, then I’ll be sure to photograph it and report on its splendor. Until then, here are some photos and blurbs. That’s what you do when you have no real content, but not enough aching in your arthritic hands to stop typing. Thus, a month, mostly, in review:

Because her body is way too cool for this pregnancy schnizzit and is actively engaged in the cause of expelling its current resident, Meadow was put on bedrest at the end of April. To pile on some perspective, her actual due date isn’t until 20 30 July. That is a really long way from April, even at its end. Currently, she’s standing strong sitting very quietly at nearly 31 weeks. Quite viable, yes, but not yet the strapping young lad he could be at 34 or even 36 weeks. She’s a good cooker, though, that Meadow, even if she rolls her eyes when I ask her if she has a broil setting.

Eadie Gwen had her first audition on Friday, 27 April. She wowed ‘em and giggled and flitted about like the hippie she is and gained a part, not just because she is my niece. You may route contracts through me, her full-time manager. Please, do not disturb the talent, especially when she is calling her Mommy to tell her how things went. After that, she’ll have a muffin.

The next day, Beadle and I went out for a morning-to-mid-afternoon together, just us two. I downright cherish the moments I have with that … wow, I’ve sat here for over a minute and am at a downright loss for a word to describe how amazing she is. That will have to suffice. We got lunch at McDonald’s and she chomped on her chicken nuggets as we talked about whether or not trees are living things. People live and they breathe, yes, but trees are very “tricky,” she informed me. We slurped cotton-candy-flavored ice cream in a darkened theater and saw Meet the Robinsons in 3-D, with her perched on my cross-legged lap and both pairs of our flip flops strewn about the sticky floor. She fell asleep in the car, Happy Meal-prized American Idol sunglasses on her face and a Wheat Thin with Laughing Cow cheese in her hands.

And wait, um, I just realized that I’ve taken more than one or two pictures in the last few weeks, so maybe I will break these up into subsequent posts, because that is how people do it: THEY DON’T JUST PURGE ALL OF THEIR CONTENT ALL AT ONCE, amateur.

Dawne, Meadow, Justin, the kids, and I have made a tradition of attending the Utah Lung Association’s Asthma Walk every year; 2007 was our third. Asthma has almost always been a big part of my life, so I feel like it’s a simple enough way for me to give back to a worthy and personal cause to get up early on a Saturday morning and jaunt around Sugar House Park to raise funds. Now, we don’t particularly “raise” many “funds,” as it were, but I’m always willing to purchase a $5 t-shirt and clap when someone says something inspiring. I give back in my own way, people.

Then we all take a puff of something dilatey and off we walk. People are divided into self-formed teams, some with clever slogans (”Kick ass-thma” never gets old, I’ll tell you what) and themed garb. Usually, there is a group of people full-on dressed like Star Wars characters.

I don’t know where I am headed with this, to answer Tina Fey’s recent question on 30 Rock. In fact, I have no idea how to end this post, except to say Boo, Asthma. Yay, Asthma Walk.