Welcome to Insomia Hour. How may I help you?

I don't really have insomnia. I'm just off kilter.

I am unemployed, and my schedule is such that I do not have to be anywhere during the day. Being awake means dishes and laundry. Or shopping. Or whatever.

These things do not interest me.

When Geoff finished up his summer camp with Rebel, my needing to drive all the way to camp every day ended and I didn't have to get up at 7am to get him and me ready, and then spend hte rest of the day awake until it was time to go get him.

So I basically just sleep in.

I went down to the island a few times to interact with the teen August program, talk a little bit about the tour, take some pictures for press... but I'm not on staff and felt that they were doing okay without me. This being the fifth tour, with seasoned directors, I felt the need to be there assuring the kids that the tour was going to be just fine was ... non existent. And I felt that I was glomming on them, hanging about... so I just never went down.

My schedule was okay right up to taking Jess to college. And now, I stay up late, sleep late. I just finished processing all the pictures from the Rebel tours. I have been tweaking websites that I've made and I am sending out resumes, and of course watching CSI (the original one, the others pale in comparison).

I just finished uploading all the photos that I took during the Much Ado About Nothing tour. This was a magical tour, with great acting and super kids and fantastic locations. The best location of them all is the quarry up at Halibut Point in Rockport. For Othello and Much Ado we had well over 200 people at each show. And the audiences.... LOVED the shows. Ugh. Magical.

Here is a picture from the quarry -- I had the kids go all the way down low and took a ton of photos of them down there. I love this one because I didn't zoom in, and focused on the quarry itself, and the sky, and everything else -- and the kids and directors are all down in the right corner.

The entire Danger Quarry Theatre set can be found here. If you want to see. The light, the faces, the kids were just amazing. Do go see.

Geoff starts school the day after tomorrow. I took him school shopping today and spent about 100 bucks. The big ticket item was a new backpack. He goes through one a year. By the end of the school year it is on its last legs, and then he uses it all summer with Rebel and then Boy Scouts, so by the beginning of August the zippers are broken, the seams are torn... I thought about getting an LL Bean backpack for him but I don't know if they still do that "if it wears out, send it back and we'll give you a new one" thing that they used to do. I once bought LL Bean shirts at a thrift store, shipped them back after I wore them out and got new ones. It was kind of a nice deal... but that was 1986... I should look into whether or not they still honor that kind of thing.

Geoff is ready to start school. I think he's hit the bored wall. He spent the weekend with Boy Scouts up at the Portsmouth Air Show, directing traffic in the hot sun. They paid 40 bucks for the admission and camping and then worked their asses off for two full days. I kind of thought that was a little expensive, but he wanted to go with his buddies... so I paid for it. He had a great time and thought the Blue Angels were cool, but he has never been INTO planes the way some people get INTO planes. Kind of sad, because I bet my father in law would love to spend some time with him in that respect.

So seeing as school starts the day after tomorrow, I will be alone officially. I spent several weeks just hanging around with Jessica. She's gone. And now Geoff will be gone. The full court press will be applied to find a job... but I honestly am not seeing anything that is good, and the good stuff never returns my resume/call/inquiry.

Speaking of Jess, I've spoken with her a couple times. She is doing pretty well. I think orientation week was too much and too boring for her. She got to move in early and do the Pitt Start thing, so she had the floor kind of to herself with just a couple others people for a few days. Then everyone else started showing up... the Freshmen who did Pitt Start earlier in the summer, the upper classmen... and women. She got a little pissed after they had to sit through this big long convocation on alcohol, and then she went back to her room and a mess of people went out and got shitfaced. She was a bit indignant about their stupidity. I told her to go easy on them. It's their first time away from home. Let them figure it all out. But she found a couple groups to join on campus, and she registered for all the classes she wanted and got a good schedule. So on the surface it seems to be alright up over there... today was her first day of classes and I hope she likes everything and does really well there. That is all a momma can hope for, right?

Alright then. I'm officially fading. Starting to get tired. So I'm going to mosey to bed. Wish me well in the falling asleep, and then in the waking up...

airports

Met the morning with Doug bellowing "oh DRIVER! Driver I need you... it's 6:30, time to get up and go..." He is off to Scottsdale Arizona for a conference/training thing for the hospital field he works in (rehab outcomes management) and I had to drive him into Logan Airport for his flight.

Fight is at 10am, so of course we are leaving at 7am (with all the commuters heading to Boston). I am not awake so he drives and I sit in my PJs in the passenger seat with a big coffee. I figure I'll be more awake for the trip home, and he's WIDE awake and bright eyed and bushy-tailed. So I let him do the driving.

Traffic is awful, which gives me time as a passenger to look down side streets off of Rte 60 into neighborhoods and industrial zones that I never get to look at. I also get to gaze longingly at airplanes. I'm impressed by their size, by the physics of what they do. The huge, shiny white noses with tiny little itty bitty windows for the pilots to look out of. My guess is they fly mostly with their gauges and science than by visuals based on the window sizes. I'm also impressed by how clean they are, compared to the front ends of cars and trucks. Air is much cleaner than roads, I guess.

At the airport, Terminal B, we are blocked in by vehicles that decide the second lane is the drop off lane, even though it is really the curb. I get out of the car to give him a hug and a kiss (apologizing for my coffee breath) and I'm aware that the woman behind us is looking at us. Him in his dress pants, dress shirt, shoes and his luggage, me in my oversize Pitt T-shirt and pyjama pants, flip-flops glasses and hair scrunchy with my coffee cup in hand.

It's almost like I'm kissing him goodbye at our front door as he goes to the office. Only I'm 40 minutes from the front door. This is a different front door, a different commute. And unlike his usual morning commute where I don't get to see him off (being unemployed means I sleep until 10am usually and he's gone at 6:45) I am glad to have the opportunity to see him off.

We take our time with goodbye and stand at the back of the Subaru for a minute because we (and the woman behind us) are still blocked in. I wonder if she looks at us and says "God, they are so fat..." or what she thinks. He takes his garment bag and backpack, tells me that he forgot our friend Amy R's phone number and asks me to call his voicemail with it. He is off. I walk around to the driver's side, get in, adjust the seat and mirrors to where I like them, and put the car in drive and signal on while I wait for the hotel shuttle vehicle and Limo Service car to move out of the way.

He's off to Scottsdale. I'm still in my pyjamas. And I'm jealous that I won't be waking up tomorrow in a hotel in the Southwest.

I need a vacation.

Geocaching Death March

Today we decided we'd get out and do a geocache. Yes, there is a foot of snow on the ground. Yes we are insane.

We bundled up good and headed out to Cedar Pond in Wenham. We'd driven past that location for many years and had NO idea what was there or what it was. It is some sort of wildlife sanctuary and no dogs/horses or electronic devices are allowed.

We broke the rules by using a GPS within the preserve boundaries. Suckahs.

The trails were in good condition. Several people had walked before us, and there had been plenty of cross country skiing in the area, so the walking wasn't hard.

This was a "multi-cache," which means you're given a starting set of coordinates to aim for, and you go to those coordinates to get more coordinates. This cache had parking coordinates, 3 "clue" coordinates and a final set of coordinates where the cache is actually hidden. So we had to aim for five locations total.

Here's Jess up on the terrace. I could almost hear Great Gatsbyesque banter echoing through the woods on the wings of long forgotten jazz tunes...	Geoff enjoyed the ruins and the many hidden nooks and crannies provided. Here a bush has overgrown into a little tunnel leading to a gate...
Here's the view from where we should have hiked down to get to the trail. Duh?	Aah, the view from our elegant porch... once beautifully maintained, nature has taken back what was once hers...

The property was obviously once a residence, as there was a gorgeous stone wall and lovely terraced porches overgrown with what was once meticulously managed landscaping. Geoff found several hidden passages and reveled in the fun of the ruins.

The first clue was easy to find. But we made a mistake in judging how to get from clue the first to clue the second and stayed up on the ridge where the porch ruins were.

There was no trail, and we were hiking through deer paths. Snow-whacking instead of bushwhacking. Had this been summer time, we would have been eaten alive, tick-covered, and ripped to shreds by the vicious thorns growing all through the area wildly.

There was plenty of deer scat on the trails, and lots of beautiful tracks preserved in the snow, but we were so in the wrong place. Eventually Doug found the trail we belonged on. It only took a half our out of our lives, and a half hour of daylight from us, which we would almost regret.

Jessie and Geoff sit and patiently wait while Doug and I scour the mountain laurel. I am very glad they both wore snow pants. Jessie wore my old pair from a few years ago which needs a new zipper. Without them, she would have had to stand the whole time, or sit and whine that her butt was freezing.

The second clue was in mountain laurel at the base of an oak tree (the mountain laurel all through this part of the hike was gorgeous and I bet in the spring it is glorious). The snow covered the mountain laurel and weighed it down, it was all caked with ice too and I was afraid of bending a branch and having it snap in my hand. I thought for sure we were doomed not to find the stupid thing. The kids sat and rested while Doug and I searched an area that matched the written description of the clue but was 20 feet off from the coordinates we had.

I finally found the those coordinates, brushed all the snow off, and made them easier to find until the next storm comes along and hides them.

The final clue was nearly impossible. There is a small trail we were supposed to take over to the pond, and the clue was in a maple almost at the pond. No trail was visible, so within 20 feet of where we thought we were supposed to be we headed to the left and started looking for a maple.

I don't know a maple without leaves on it. Or an oak. I can tell you what a bare cedar looks like, or a bare birch, but maples and oaks baffle me when they are nude. Doug finally found the clue, and it was right there once you laid eyes on it. Sort of like "Where's Waldo" once you find him in a picture he just jumps right out at you and kicks you in the teeth.

Finding the actual cache location was a bear and a half. The clue said it was in a hole created by some fallen trees near a large oak... Well. Duh.

All the holes in the friggin' forest were covered up with friggin snow. I could hear Bart Simpson's take on pure white snow, hides everything, covers everything... as we searched in what seemed to be pure vain for 15 minutes at least.

Our GPS said we were 40 feet away from it once Doug found it. Not sure if the coordinates are just off or if the cache hiders are deliberately not accurate in order to make you work harder. Regardless, Doug's new nickname is "Tenacious D." Because he's Doug. And Tenacious. Here he is with his find. He's not knee deep in snow, he's on his knees as it's a steepish slope he's on. And he really got in there and got digging. He pretended to bark like a bloodhound once he got sight of the location and got to pawing the snow. It cracked me up.

---

We had precious little light getting out of there. We were a quarter mile from the truck, but couldn't get onto Cherry Street to walk back in a straight line. There was a wire deer fence that we didn't think we could all get over. So we decided to stick with the trail.

The trail was clear and the way open, we just had to get out of there before it got pitch dark. Which meant we had to truck. At first it was nice and ran parallel to the street and I thought we'd make the .22 miles in no time, but then the devil trail looped back around the pond, taking us far away from our destination.

Geoff was very tired and didn't want to walk. He kept saying his batteries ran out and he had no more energy for walking. I was pushing him Bataan Death March style to keep moving.

Suddenly in the quiet of my mind I had visions of terrified mothers and hysterical crying children forcibly marching through night and snow in Europe during the Holocaust. Geoff wanted to lay down in the snow and give up. Part of me said that if it was 1940 and we were being marched to the trains for miles I'd have left him. Part of me said I'd lay down next to him and let them shoot me. And even though we were under no such pressure to march from forces outside our bodies, I honestly had a sense of terror. Mostly because for a minute there I questioned what I would do if I had had to live through something like that. I thought of all the things that could go through a woman's mind under extreme duress, and I was afraid.

I pondered the concept of what it would mean to have to sacrifice a child to keep one's own self walking. Would you or wouldn't you? Would the child cry out and beg not to be left, or would the child just silently fall? Would the mother try and go back, or steel her eyes on the back of the head in front of her, focused and determined to keep walking? Would she turn and squat and stay with, fighting to protect the child and perhaps losing her own life? Would she ignore his or her cries as she marched away? And would she think it was worth it to live without that child? Would she know what awaited her at the end of the march? Would a soldier immediately shoot the child? Would they just not bother, knowing that after the march has left the area the child would perish?

I thought of Elie Wiesel. I thought of his mother.

I pushed the thoughts out of my mind and focused on encouraging Geoff, prodding him gently with my hand, telling him what a great job he was doing.

"You're a super hiker! You can do it!!!"

In the back of my mind I heard dogs barking, distant trains and sirens, and German soldiers demanding we mach schnell.

I actually started to feel tears burning the back of my throat and in my heart and mind I began to pray for mothers with children in adverse and deadly situations right at that moment and through history.

All we were was out in the local woods. We weren't even lost. We were going to get back to our car no problem. But at one point Doug and Jessie got ahead of us and I was looking at trees and logs to see what would be good temporary shelter if we got stuck out there for the night.

I hate that it's pitch dark at 4pm. We made it though. All in one piece. Geoff never cried though. He told me I wasn't nice for pushing him along at one point when I gave him a shove as he straddled a fallen log and just stayed there. I really shouldn't have shoved him. I thought it was a gentle push, but he interpreted it as a very rough shove.

I explained to him that without speed we were stuck out there in the dark and it would make it harder to get to the truck.

What got him motivated to finish? It was this sentence: "Think of all the video games waiting for you at home, all the games you can play... think of them and getting to them and you'll go faster."

And he did.

Sunset... and I begin my growing sense of fear...	And there's the super cacher. Happy on the trail just before the Death March.

Walking in snow is hard, like walking on loose sand. It takes more control in stepping, more thought. I feel like I walked 5 miles when all told it was probably 1.5 total. Well, with all the searching for the coordinates perhaps it was 2. But my back and legs ache now... from all the extra effort. It's a good work out to get out and walk, and an even better one to do so in snow. I recommend it. There was no wind, the sun (while we had it) was bright. It was worth the trip, even with the macabre thoughts. Needless to say I am very happy to be home tonight and vow not to go out caching with only 2 hours of daylight ahead of me.

---

In other news, we rented movies last night. Ice Age, Monsters Inc., and Lilo & Stitch. I haven't watched Lilo & Stitch yet, but Jessie watched it today and said "it wasn't bad." Which means it was mediocre.

We watched Ice Age and Monsters Inc. last night, and of the two I must say that Monsters Inc. was the better by far. I am not a big fan of Disney on the whole. But for some reason, all the Pixar movies are better than anything else on the market EVER. I love the Toy Story films, and this one is just super. I'm looking forward to the new Nemo movie they have coming out this summer. They have unbelievable imaginations. In Monsters Inc, the story line is so creative and parts of it unexpected. Ice Age was at best predictable and at times overly schmaltzy and beyond unrealistic. I did enjoy some of the vocal characterizations and thought the interplay between the characters was funny, but it didn't shine like Monsters Inc, which I would gladly own and watch a million times.

The funniest thing about Ice Age was the parental guidance warning. Check this out:

This movie has Mild Peril in it. Jeeeesh. Glad they told me! Mild Peril. I have to be warned that there is Mild Peril? I mean really now. Labeling a movie for Mild Peril is like labeling a movie that there might be something funny inside of it. "Situations may be found amusing by some."

Mild Fucking Peril.

And let me tell you something, no such warning was on the Monsters Inc flick, and there was far more wicked peril in that one. I should have been warned!

Anyway -- back to what I was blabbing about ... Normally I find Mr. Billy Crystal annoying, but he is super as Mike, and I love John Goodman's voice (He's the big blue thing, Sully). He does the peasant in the "Emperor's New Groove and is great at that as well. He just has such a rich tone to his voice and really can make me laugh with a turn of phrase.

If you haven't seen Monsters Inc because you have no kids, don't let that be your excuse. This movie has a better story than most of the grown up blockbusters, and had me laughing out loud several times. Go. Rent. Enjoy.

Anyway -- I cannot believe it is 9pm at this point. I'm tired and sore. I have laundry to go move around. I'll catch you before the new year rings in.

Category 4 Kill Storm; Halesite Supermarket memories

There is supposed to be a big storm tomorrow.

A big huge category four kill storm.

The weather forecasters are putting the fear of God into bread, milk and egg buyers. They are the shrieking Cassandras, foaming at the mouths, uttering cries of certain death and doom unto us all.

You'd never know the killer storm approacheth. It is a gorgeous and delightful fall day out today. Warm. Sunny. Slightly breezy.

But in 24 hours we'll all be repenting our sins while crouching in the bathtub, hoping our bodies will protect our small children, surrounded by our couch cushions, if you listen to the weathermen.

We were low on food anyway, so I planned on going to the grocery store today. But Doug made it a point to remind me to go. Last night he told me to be sure to go to the market because a storm was coming, and "bread will never be made again!"

Yes. The weathermen are right! Avenues of commerce across the north east will be clogged with the bodies of the dead, abandoned vehicles, 8 feet of snow, fallen trees and power lines! I'd better buy four loaves!

Bread will never be made again. Shudder.

Nor will there be meat! Ever again. Better buy a lot. We'll freeze some, then use the frozen steaks to whack the heads of the looters and home invaders when they come here because our roof is the only which hasn't caved under the sheer weight of the heavy rain and snow! I may have to inflict serious pain with those chicken breasts -- better make sure they are bone-in so they'll be super sharp and pointy when my former friends and neighbors come over to kill us.

Dog food! The dogs must have food or they also will turn on us and eat us alive in this post-storm apocalypse. Better get two bags.

Toilet Paper!!! Everyone is going to buy milk, bread and eggs. But they will forget TP to wipe their asses with after they eat all their French Toast. But we will have plenty. Lots and lots of TP.

A great big bag of charcoal would be nice too. Not only will we be able to have cooked meat on the grill after we pummel our former friends and neighbors to death with it, we'll have warmth. The power will be out! Gas lines severed! But we'll fire up ole' Mother Weber and huddle round her with our well fed dogs and our fleece blankets, with frozen meat and poking sticks in our hands.

And we will laugh at those who are under prepared. Hahahahahaaaaaaa!

Even if the storm doesn't kick our collective Northeastern Asses, we'll have food for the next few weeks.

---

I like going to the supermarket in the morning.

It isn't crowded. People working and shopping there are much older so I feel so hip and young. Once in a while there is a stay at home mom with one or more rug rats, or a new mother with her new baby in the new car seat perched in the brand new shopping cart, looking shiny and happy.

The cashiers and bag "boys" are all in their 50s and 60s, and perhaps 70s. They are exceedingly friendly. Today when I was putting my stuff on the conveyor the cashier lady I always go to recognized me and asked how Geoff was doing (he is sometimes with me in the morning when we run in and get juice boxes due to my poor planning skills).

Note to self: Improve planning skills if I am to survive after storm, as Doug will surely die as a result of shoveling heavy snow off the roof to prevent cave-in.

Note to self: Try and figure out now what to do with his corpse as no rescue vehicles or coroner vehicles will be able to come get him.

The bag boys were talking about how great the Pats played last week. They are older greek gentlemen who slip effortlessly between English and Greek. The bag boy I had today is named "Chris." He always sings to me when he loads up the cart. Today I needed two carts (the dog food was to blame. And the 90 packages of chicken, and 200 packages of Ramen Noodles, and 15 loaves of bread) so Chris pushed out one cart and I pushed out the other. He offered to help put the bags in the back of the station wagon. I told him I could do it from there (improving my self-reliance skills for survival after the killer storm), and I went to hand him a dollar for helping me out.

You know, tip the bag boy.

He waved it off and laughed and said thank you, but he didn't want it. I'm not sure exactly if he thought it was a nice gesture and genuinely refused it, or if he was insulted. He told me he likes taking stuff out to the cars because he can get fresh air and stretch his legs. He waved good bye and went back inside.

I thought you were supposed to tip bag boys. Do people still do that? Am I such a loser that I think that still happens?

---

I am suddenly reminded of the grocery store when I was a kid. We used to go down to King Kullen in Halesite, there was no good grocery store up near our house, so we'd go down and shop there.

The name King Kullen just makes me laugh to myself now. What a funny name.

I have a memory in my head of the exterior of the store. Under the big awning, there was a metal roller conveyor belt, and there was a door from the inside of the store where they would slide your bags out and they'd be taken to the car (or you could take them if you want, but I remember guys doing it for us).

I always wanted to ride the conveyor belt. The metal wheels would make the greatest jingly sound when the bags would roll down them, and a boy would grab the bags and go off to some lady's car, put them in the trunk, and get tipped.

Those "boys" are now in their 40s. Funny to think that. We would run down the platform, and roll the rollers to see if we could get them all going. I remember trying to perfect my roller starting skills. Whole hand, whole arm, or one finger across one at a time... which is fastest. I guess it depended on how fast you ran down the line.

The metal roller shopping bag delivery system. One of the greatest memories of my child hood.

I also remember standing in the parking lot and looking across the lot to the woods and fields behind the lot and store. They aren't there anymore.

Okay, before I start getting all "Joe Tronzo" on you (that's a reference to the crusty old Beaver Valley Times columnist who used to reminisce about his childhood sitting under the gas lights in the summer spitting watermelon seeds up towards the moon) I'll finish this up. I am invited to a little party this evening at a former co-worker's swanky pad and I totally forgot to tell Doug, so I don't know if he'll be mad that I want to go.

Better go there and have fun. I may never see her again once this storm hits. Okay -- for the rest of you. There is no bread left. I bought it all. Don't come here looking for any. Your sloth and poor planning shall make a lovely liner in your own coffin!!! Mwah ha ha!

Cats and Dogs

When Doug and I were first married, we had a cat. I begged Doug for a cat. I was very very lonely in Atlanta, he was in Graduate School, I was depressed... we got a cat. His name was Linus, named for the first Pope (we're not Catholic but Doug knows a lot of church history so he thought that'd be a great cat name). Linus was a southern rebel, to the core. He was pissed to hell when we moved north, and he hated Doug. I think he blamed Doug for everything. Stupid Cobb County Animal Shelter attitude filled southern cat.

So when he'd get mad at either of us, he'd go into the bedroom closet and poop all over anything that was on the floor. I'd usually discover it a few days later.

He also would attack Doug without provocation. Doug hated that cat.

We traded the cat for a Rottweiler (My Missy). I loved Linus. He was such a good cat to me, but he and Doug definitely didn't ever bond. To this day -- Doug HATES CATS. My kids want one in the worst way. Doug's all about the big NO.

I miss Linus sometimes. He was a super cat (to me). He would curl up beside me and do this kitty kneeding thing into my inner arm and put his kitty lips up against my skin, and in a half asleep way, purring his head off, would be transported back to life in the barn in some backwoods Cobb County town with his Mamma kitty and all his brothers and sisters, before they boxed him up and gave him to us.

I loved when he'd go wild and run all over the house like a complete mental patient. We had no furniture, so he'd crash into walls, skidding all over the place. It was a riot.

---

Kinger ate a duck once. Not a live one, but a partially consumed roasted Thai duck that was left unattended. It was on the counter at Dan and Honey's house. Honey left it there, not thinking that Kinger, with the mindset of a stray, would eat the whole thing once she left the house to run to the market. Her dogs don't ever eat off the counter.

Dan warned us that it happened when we picked him up that night. He predicted the worst.

And the worst did happen.

Doug and I were asleep, and suddenly Doug woke up thinking, "What is that smell???" He got out of bed and walked into the kitchen. Kinger was cowering in the corner, the entire room was covered with both vomit and shit. Kinger was terrified. So was Doug.

To this day I'm so proud of what he did next. He didn't wake me up saying "Honey? There's some puke in the kitchen, and some shit. Can you go clean it up?"

He was wide awake -- his body shocked into response and literally unable to just walk away from it and ignore it. He took the dog outside, cleaned the house, cleaned the dog, cleaned himself, prayed it wouldn't happen again that night (after all that effort)...

When I got up in the morning there wasn't a trace of stink. He did an amazing job. A round of applause for the responsible dog owner.

We don't leave food unattended, not even a loaf of bread. All our pets for some reason have had this "thing" for bread loaves. Linus used to pull them off the counter and wrestle with them, fighting them until they were naught but crumbs and plastic shredded remains. Missy and Kinger both would take entire loaves and eat them. On our bed.

Not good.

Jack is proving himself to be kind of a food thief. I'm hoping he learns a lesson some way before we have a Thai roast duck incident.

Alright -- I'm off to shower. More tomorrow.

passionate lives, and a story about other people's passions

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A lot has changed and nothing's changed.

"This is the day that the Lord has made.
Rejoice, and be glad in it."

---

There are a lot of good journal entries out there today. This is not one of them.

People all across the web all remembering where they were, evaluating how their lives have changed. They are sharing their recollections, reliving their thoughts.

Like the Kennedy assassination, the death of Princess Di, this event is burned into our global memory cells (to sort of steal from Peter Gabriel).

Some bloggers and journalists perceive that nothing has changed in this world, that Americans were shocked into action and thoughtfulness for a few weeks and rebounded back to where they were on 9/10/2001.

Others perceive a complete change but for the worse... that our freedoms are all being slowly eroded and we are soon to become a police state rife with censorship and riddled with brutality in the name of national security. Others had nothing to say -- the placing of a photograph on their page was statement enough for them.

Still others feel we have done nothing to get the people/machine behind what happened then and they still call for blood to be spilled in the streets.

And others are like me -- they don't know what to do next, they aren't sure what to think or say.

How do I feel a year later? What has changed for me? Where am I now?

Well, I can't really say. Well, not that I can't say, I just don't know.

I'm still saddened by the event itself, that it happened at all. I'm saddened that political and religious zealots blame us for everything wrong in their lives. Boycotts of American and Israeli products by Arabs to prove a point is one thing -- but flying jet-fueled, human-laden bombs into a building and killing multinational masses, that's just not going to get any sympathy from me...

I'm still angry at the circumstances, the events. I don't feel we "asked for it," like so many believe. I'm sick to my stomach. I'm sad. I'm depressed. I just want it all to stop and I'm not sure if it ever will. I believe something else will happen, whether here or abroad. People still talk about how they want to feel safe. There is such a difference between feeling and being. You can feel all you want, but the reality of being is more important. And I doubt even if I feel safe that we are safe.

I'm unemployed as a direct result of the events, although to be honest I bet it would have happened eventually. I miss my coworkers. I miss the family of people that I stood with that day watching the events unfold on the TV in the workout room at our complex. I miss them all. And this is a position I'm in precisely because of what happened that day. While I'm happy to be me, be in this position, happy to have a country behind me that pays me unemployment (thank you, thank you very much !!!) I'm sad that a big part of my life was taken away.

I didn't loose any close friends -- one person I was friends with from back in the day was in the next building. One person from my graduating class worked for Cantor Fitzgerald and died that day. But we weren't close. So my personal cache of friends are all still intact after the event, all except for Clay who died months later and for entirely different reasons. And whose death means more to me than the thousands who were lost, whose names were read aloud today.

I'm not watching any TV tonight. Some of the "tributes" I've seen have been downright laughable. Last night in Boston there was a concert presentation which had the WORST music I'd ever heard in my life. Apologies to anyone who wrote the thing if they are reading or if a friend of theirs points this out to them -- but it really was an atrocity. The schmaltz, the lousy lyrics, the sentimentality, to me and to my husband it sounded like a parody of a memorial concert. It was that bad.

Bad art in the name of a cherished memory is still bad art, no matter what the intent of the creator.

So much of what is being peddled out there in the media is either bad art, pointless commentary, and/or utter crap. Print and media ads from major American corporations pointing out that they also feel the pain are making my skin crawl. Slow motion replays of rescuers superimposed on some Bruce Springsteen song cause me to actually shake with rage and sadness. I want no part of it. No damn part of it.

---

Today at noon I went to the church, rang the bell in the steeple with another parishioner for about 10 minutes. He pulled the bell extra hard, said for him it was therapeutic.

It was really -- the bell weighs a ton, His wife lost her boss in one of the planes, and they've been very shaken ever since. He cried when we prayed together. A man that I've always looked at as a strong fully-rooted man of God had nothing to say in prayer. I could feel his sadness, his anger as he and I held our hands together, clenched tightly. To feel someone's anger through their hands -- and then have to pray something that will hopefully make them feel better, that is no small task.

I prayed for both of us. I prayed for his wife, the family of her boss, the families of all impacted by these events. I prayed for our enemies. I prayed for right actions. I prayed for insight...

guidance...

clarity...

peace...

Don't know if I'll ever see my prayers answered. But I keep praying. He appreciated it and gave me a hug, and we ended up having a good laugh when we realized that both of us were from just about the same place. He grew up not too far from me and married his wife in a town closer to the city, then they moved up here. I asked him the obvious question I ask all displaced New Yorkers: "Before 9/11/2001, did you tell people you were a New Yorker or were you too embarrassed?"

He laughed that knowing laugh. He told me that he always tells people he's from Massachusetts.

"Funny," they sometimes reply, "you sound like you're from Jersey."

---

There you have it. My entry for 9/11. Just another crappy entry on a crappy day. I am a little ray of sunshine, aren't I? Sorry to be such a fat downer. But heck, in the last 15 months or so that I've kept this journal, how many entries have been bemoany whiny pieces? Not too many when I look back. We all have our time and season to be down. This too shall pass for me. And I'll be once again your (a)musing host.

I'm sure there are a lot more poignant, more positive messages out there. But for me -- I'm tired. So very tired. And that's all I've got for today.

Here we go...

I'm off.

In five minutes, after I brush my teeth and please God don't let me dribble Colgate down the front of my blouse, I'm going to the college for the meeting of the first class session for MF's online course. We're meeting in person to assess the level of tech knowledge these students possess, and to run through the first class and have them follow along in person.

I'm hoping to grab a quickie lunch with Ben and Dan. Hoagie is out of the office today and tomorrow. Not sure but it may be Sukkot or something (did I spell that right? I'm lame with my spelling on Jewish holidays...) and it'll be nice to see them. Best part of working for MF is seeing the guys a lot more. Don't know if they feel the same (grin).

We still haven't ironed out the webcam issues. The ivisit stuff seems to work best if there are a few people involved. Last night MF and I experimented and my reception of her transmissions of voice and even movement were painfully delayed, by about 20 seconds. She'd move... I'd wait. Hear sound. It was hard. She got all my stuff almost instantly. Stupid Friggin Dialup Connection! And I can't find my PC microphone, so I did my communication with her by phone.

Isn't she cute? She's a friggin riot and a half I tell ya. I enjoy spending time with her, even if she's ... kind of out there. But then again, aren't I?

Anyway. I went out this morning and bought two blouses and two skirts. Fashion Bug seems to think it is the early 80s again and has all this Indian (India Indian) stuff on sale. Just my speed. I bought a pretty brown skirt and blouse. And a white blouse and blue skirt. The heyday of my high fashion was when there was an Indian store in my home town and I would go there anytime I had a penny. I had all kinds of pretty Indian silver jewelry, blouses, vests, skirts... I was a hip gal for a day or two.

So I look semi-decent today. I'm not at all used to wearing clothing that looks ... nice. I'm a Tshirt/shorts/sweatshirt/jeans kind of girl. I worked retail for a little while after I got back from Oregon, and my boss, Mr. Roland (an old old old Italian stereotype) was constantly on my ass about my "casual" attire, when I thought I was pulling out the nicest stuff I had!

One day I went to Filene's basement and got a pretty little black and white getup that made me look like a waitress. I bought panty hose. I had nice black flats from another store in the mall. I dropped about 100 bucks on myself.

I came into work looking like a million bucks.

I made him cry. He was so proud of me. And I was baffled. First of all -- I've NEVER held the opinion that someone dressed well was smarter or to be trusted more than someone not dressed as well. I've ranted about this before in an office attire piece. But in retail, that's all that matters. You can be dumb as a can of mushroom soup and dress to the nines, and people make you a manager.

Mr. Roland encouraged me to go to the store once a week and buy myself one thing until I had a wonderfully built up wardrobe. Customers want me looking pretty and well kept.

Jebus. I thought customers wanted to buy a briefcase.

Anyway... I didn't buy myself one thing a week, I found that to be something lacking in my moral fibre. But I did buy a few nice dresses and he'd go gaa gaa over me when I came to work.

Clothing and work for me have never gone hand in hand. But today -- it's a first impression day. That's the topic of the class. And while I'm not a student I need to look somewhat more professional than my Cingular Wireless Tshirt and black denim shorts which I've been wearing for like two days.

Alright. I've babbled long enough. Cross your fingers. Pray to the webcam dieties that we don't get penii and vaginae in the class preview. Prof MF has a whole screed prepared educating them about what they may encounter online. That's a damn good thing.

I'm off.

Freely Giving Hugs

Today is my dad's birthday, and if you recall, yesterday was my mom's. She isn't a day older, but a couple years younger, so it isn't like she robbed the cradle or nothing. Not like me. Doug is 14 months younger than I am. Whooo Doggie! There should be laws against this kind of thing.

My initial goal for today's entry was to go on a complete raving lunatic rant about the unemployment "department of education and training" system... I think I'll save that for later though.

This entry, I'd like to talk about Wil Wheaton's entry for last night.

In case you don't feel like following the link, in a nutshell here's the synopsis. Wil was in traffic and looked over to see a young girl on the phone in her car, visibly upset, and arguing with someone. He was overwhelmed by her sadness, and also taken aback that we as a species are detached from one another in such a profound way. We see each other, we never speak; we are aware of another's pain, but rarely if ever do we reach out and ask if there is anything we can do to help.

All this hit him like a ton of bricks, and he sat there and cried. This traffic light, this moment, a metaphor for life. And I thought this was one of the better entries he's done in months... instead of sucking up to Michael Moore or detailing how no one wants him to act in anything, he really pulled together a great observational entry. The comments below the entry are mostly decent, but even there, you'll see people are just reacting like idiots, the way we always do.

I recalled the summer trip we took to Arizona. Geoff's first plane trip, we're going to the Super Desert to have fun with Doug and Jessie, who have been on the road for the better part of two weeks. We'll see them in just a couple hours. I'm thrilled to death to be going... and we're on the plane, waiting as passengers board. Southwest airlines has a no-seat assignment policy, so in a row of three seats, when there are two of you traveling, it's an interesting process as to who will sit next to you.

Instead of a ticket processing predestination, where the a credit card purchase by phone, or a travel agent, or through the web, will be the person next to you, the people come on board and size you up... deciding if you'll be the lucky neighbor for that flight. I know people were looking at me, fat chick with hyper little boy, and continuing right along... eventually, there was one seat left.

A girl got on the plane, looking as if she was running late. She was wearing brown corduroy hip huggers, an indian shirt, and mock bierkenstock sandals. She carried a bed pillow with a worn pillowcase that used to be purple but was now a very light pink. Our row was the only location where she could sit.

She sat next to me, I scootched my butt over so she could feel around for her seat belt. We didn't make eye contact, although I tried, and I said hello as she sat down. Geoff was busy playing with Grandma, so he didn't say anything or start in with his litany of personal questions like "what's your dog's name?" "what's your middle name?" etc.

The girl sat quietly, and then pulled her knees up to her chest, and burrowed her face in the pillow and softly sobbed.

Initially I'm sitting there thinking 'Crap on a cracker, I have to deal with some hippie chick weeping the whole way to Kansas City?' but I checked myself. The plane wasn't going anywhere yet... we sat and sat... and I did what I think Wil Wheaton would have been proud of... what he wishes he could probably do.

Wil said at the end of his entry: "I wonder how different the world would be if we made an effort to roll down our metaphorical windows and say hello more often."

Well, I did just that. I lowered my metaphorical window. I turned to her, and I said, "Baby, you look like you could use a hug," and I put my right arm over her shoulder and wrapped my left arm around her knees and her pillow. She cried heavily for a minute or so, felt longer... I didn't really know what to do or say. She looked as if she were 20 or 22, not at all old, not at all young. And I think at 22 I knew exactly how she felt. Whatever was wrong, I knew it. I'd been there. And I wished then that some old fat stranger had reached out and hugged me... I brushed her long blonde hair with my fingers, and she wiped her tears on her pillowcase. She said thank you, and pulled back from the hug.

I patted her shoulder a few times, and I felt sort of okay about just hugging someone, and sort of weirded out. What did I just do? I'm a mom with a 4 year old... I'm on vacation. I don't pick up hitch hikers, I don't smoke weed offered to me by strangers at concerts (don't do it at all as a matter of fact), I don't make prank phone calls, I don't walk up to strangers and ask them if they have a relationship with ourlordnsavior Jesus.

I'm reserved. When I was 22, perhaps not... but I'm a lot wiser, and a tad more careful about dealing with strangers. She, was like I was.

And she was thankful. I asked her if she was okay. She put her feet down on the floor, I noticed a pretty silver toe ring on her "index" toe, with a pretty turquoise and red stone in the middle. I liked this girl. She was very vulnerable, but she looked smart. She was sad, but looked like she'd be fine. She told me that she lives near Lake Tahoe, and was home for a few weeks to visit her family.

"I've lived away from home since I was 16, I've lived all over the country. I've traveled everywhere. And saying goodbye to them is still the hardest thing I ever have to do. I love living far away from them, I love being out in the country... but I wish that I was close enough to drive over on a Sunday afternoon and say hi."

Homesickness. Family Ties. The lure of the open road and adventures aplenty vs. the comfort of family and familiarity of the hearth. I sound like Professor Paul Borgman, doing his lecture on Ulysses.

We talked a lot about our similar backgrounds. I told her that it doesn't get any easier when you get older, that there is still a sadness when you drive or fly away from family. They can drive you nuts-o, make you angry, crazy and old before your time, but they are yours as much as the apartment you live in far away is yours. Enjoy them both. Revel in them. Pray for them. Your life where you are, fully grounded in you and your life in them, fully grounded as a sister or daughter of another person.

We shared our grapes and blueberries, and it was a good flight. At the end, Geoff and I got up to change flights to continue to Phoenix. She was flying through to Sacramento where she'd "deplane" as they say in the aviation industry, where her boyfriend was meeting her. By ground they'd travel the rest of the way to where home was for her, with him and with their friends, their community... their lives. I looked back over my shoulder and she'd spread across to the window where Geoff had been sitting, had her knees curled up to her chest in the position she was in when I hugged her, the only thing that was different was there were no tears running down her tan face.

---

Have you seen the video for the Dave Matthews Band song "Everyday"? It is a stupid song, I don't like it. I don't like much that is on the new album, but ... the video makes the song so much better, and I smile from ear to ear when I see it.

Essentially, there is this heavy guy wearing a red T-shirt, ugly eyewear and a weird hat. He is walking around town as the song plays in the background, approaching people and doing that universal gesture for "How 'bout a hug?"

You know the gesture. Eye contact, head kind of tilted to the side, arms open, palms exposed, shoulders give a little upward heft. How 'bout a hug?

People just look at him, walk the other way. He is undeterred. He approaches tons of people, flagging them down. Doing his gesture. Finally, someone hugs him.

Then someone else.

Then, fewer and fewer people are shunning the hug. They're hugging the guy, exuberantly! Heck, they are even hugging each other. He's a sensation sweeping the city... everyone doing the "How 'bout a hug" shrug.

Blue Man Group and Hailey Eisenberg hug him. Men hug him. Women hug him. He walks into Dave's studio where the band is playing, and hugs the band. They hug each other. Everyone is smilin'. Everyone is happy.

Hugging Guy is getting covered by the local morning news program and does a walk-on to give the anchor people hugs. I think he gets Conan O'Brien to hug him too.

At the end of the video, he goes to his apartment alone. He takes off his hat and glasses, gets under the covers and sighs. Goodnight, Hugging Guy!

All in a day's work.

What's your day's work going to be? Will you have an opportunity to lower a metaphorical window? Will you add some more mortar to your metaphorical brick wall?

"All you need is
All you want is
All you need is love.
Up from the bottom, everyday
Up to the top love, everyday
Pick me up love
Lift me up love
Pick me up love
Everyday."

---

Like I said. The song is kind of lame... but the video has purpose. Funny how the MTV changes perception, makes that which is banal interesting, that which is interesting art, that which is decent somewhat unnerving and confusing.

My son's in the sink in the kitchen. Sounds like he's trying to do dishes. Better go give him a hand.