8 Random Facts About RP

So, I've been tagged by Epimenides to provide 8 random facts. Since both Epimenides and Foul Bastard are such witty writers, I feel a bit intimidated.....but here it goes.

1. Timeliness. I am obsessively punctual. I hate being late, I hate when someone else is late. Just bad form, in my opinion. I know that makes me sound uptight, but really, I'm not...only about this.

2. The Whole Age Thing. Upon approaching, turning, and passing 40 years of age, life really changed. I started writing, stopped smoking, lost weight and began enjoying myself. Quite a relief, since I was a complete nerd in high school and college :)

3. Balance. For the most part, I am an optimist. Things will always get better. There is always something good to come out of every bad thing. That said, I also believe that everything in life is a trade off. In every bit of joy, there is either a titch of pain, or there will be. Must be my pagan tendencies.

4. My Aching Feet. I have NEVER worn a pair of shoes that didn't give me huge blisters the first time I wore them. Ever. Including today, when I was going to wear a stunning pair to an interview lunch. I wore them around the house, the shoe store, etc., and all was well. Wore them to work today, and blisters!!! Glad I had the sense to bring a back up pair! OUCH, dammit!!!

5. Work/Life. I work because I have to. No overarching passion to do what I do, or anything else for that matter, just recognition that I need to have an income to get along...I ditch work at every possible opportunity. I NEVER stay past 5pm, unless I am meeting someone after work to do something fun--gym, belly dance class, yoga, kid's ballgame, upper East Side pub crawl....you get the idea.

6. Winning attitude. I am, I have discovered, one hell of a competitor. Had I a healthy self esteem as a kid, I would have gone out for sports, but I was afraid of failing. I like to compete physically and/or vicariously through others. So, I will play with all I've got, and root for my team with all I've got. My neighbors have definitely heard me screaming at my TV when watching a Mets game. Or an Ohio State game. Or a Jets game. Or the Olympics. There is usually swearing involved.

7. Mmmmm Chrome. I really, really like big trucks. I have been known to really dig Trick My Truck on CMT. Love 'em. Peterbilts are my favorite. And I like motorcycles (won't ride, just drool). You gotta know that Harley'd be my fave...

8. Loves Music, Loves to Dance. I am not a club chick at all!! I like shit kickin' cowboy bars or Irish pubs with kick ass jukeboxes. Play me some rock-n-roll, old disco, or a little country, and I'm gonna dance. How can you keep still listening to the Talking Heads? Why would you want to????? Love my husband, but if he won't dance, I will find me someone who will. He, thankfully, understands, and is happy to be excused. One of the freest forms of self expression is to just get out there and shamelessly shake your moneymaker. Love it. Someone, get me a Jamies rocks while I put another dime in the jukebox, baybay.

There it is folks...8 random facts.

r.

There is No Joy in Astoria...

...For the mighty Orioles have been eliminated from the playoffs.

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Great Night for Baseball!

Post season little league ROCKS! Christopher's team, the Orioles, won their first round game. It is a single elimination tournament, so it's win or go home. They beat the Yankees 3-2. Chris struck out twice, but took a sweet swing. Timing and mechanics all good--he just missed. He got a slew of hits during practice though, so he knows he can do it. All our big hitters came through, and the kids turned in some defensive gems.

Since it is a win or go home situation, I think it puts a lot of stress on some of these kids. Our third baseman, a wiry kid named Keith had a Yankee caught in a rundown between home and third. Now, the longer these things go on, the greater the probability it won't end well. It didn't. Keith made an errant throw, the tying run scored. He came back to the dugout crushed. The O's came up to bat, staged a rally, and got a run across. 2 out. Keith comes up to bat. Struck out. That poor kid was devastated. Just in tears. Our coaches are great guys, and did all they could to build this kid back up. He got back out on the field, played a mean rest of the game.

Next round is Thursday against the ICYP Mets. I am so proud of every one of these kids.

Oh, and the New York Mets won tonight. I went out to Shea after Chris' game with a girlfriend of mine. They kicked the snot out of the Twins.

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A Shared Birthday

Saturday was my son's 11th birthday. We had breakfast, and gave Chris his presents and card. Then we got right down to business with readying the house for an onslaught of 11 year-olds. It took a couple of hours to get the house and party food ready. It took 5 kids all of 5 seconds to completely decimate it!

Since it was also MY birthday, once all the kids arrived, I had my husband take them to the park for a much anticipated water balloon/water gun fight. They came home soaked, filthy and hungry. Except my husband who came home perfectly dry--he was armed to the teeth, should anyone think of dousing him. Change of clothes, food, and cake all around. It was a hoot! Parents came around 7 to collect their children.

Now, it's time for Mommy's party :) I donned my little party dress, turned up the music, and had at it! We had some unexpected guests, LOTS of really good wine and great laughs. Gotta tell you, I love dancing around my living room with good friends. Chris visited with the adults for a while, and happily played video games until he fell asleep.

We have finally learned how to share this day well. For years, I felt like I had to cede my birthday to my son, and he happily let me. Now that he is older, he makes it as special for me as I try to for him. I know that in a few years, it will just be a phone call that connects us on this day of days. I am very, very happy we have some time before then to fully enjoy the strange coincidence of our birthday.

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They Won!

Christopher's final make up game was tonight. It was a quick game. His team, The Orioles, beat the Reds in convincing fashion--7-2. Chris played right field. He struck out looking twice. The umpire was a crotchety old fart. C'est les vie. Coaches bought victory hot dogs at the field house. Playoffs begin either Monday or Tuesday, they'll let us know. He can now savor his end of school and birthday parties.

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The Past 36 hours...

...have sucked!! Just ass kicking in every conceivable way.

Yesterday was going along swimmingly. I was in a great mood. Called my husband to see when he'd like to meet to take Chris to his therapist appointment. The rant began...He wasn't yelling at me, just to me. I tell you, it was like being hit by a truck! So we figured out what the problem was, I gave suggestions. He seemed comforted. OK. Breathe...

Get to the school, pick up said child, no husband. He's running late, and irritated about it.

Get to the therapist's office. Chris goes in, meets with his talking doctor, and his boss. Then it's our turn. They say well, maybe he has a learning disability, and maybe that is why he a: hates school, b: failed math. A WHAT?!??! While my husband and I have both heard throughout our academic careers "he/she doesn't perform up to his/her potential," it never occurred to me that he could have a learning problem. For me it was a motivational issue, and I thought that is what it was for Chris. So they will perform some testing through the summer. Oh, and he's depressed. So THIS is what getting hit by a truck feels like. Got it.

We're home now. It's late. In the mail are two birthday cards--one for Chris and one for me...from my father's widow. Wasn't expecting THAT. A momentary wave of grief..."mom, what's the matter? Don't cry." Sorry, honey, just miss my dad. "oh, I'm sorry, mom."

My husband's sister called. She wanted to catch up, and wish us a happy birthday (Chris was born on my 30th birthday :)) Turns out she just had a miscarriage a week ago.

Any body get the number of the damned convoy that just ground me into the pavement? That bottle of Petite Syrah is going down...right after Christopher's ballgame.

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Rained Out!

Last night was my son's final (barring post season) baseball game. They HAD to win in order to advance to the playoffs--the 11 year old boy equivalent of the promised land. The stage was set: they were to play the Reds, their teammates in the All Star game, their opponents twice before. They had a 1 and 1 record, so this was the rubber game. Did I mention that I love baseball?

Yesterday, the weather report called for scattered showers, high of 82 degrees. We reached the day's high pretty early, and by 3:30 the thunder storms started popping up over Westchester, the Bronx, Jersey, Staten Island, Brooklyn and Manhattan. Miraculously Queens in general, and the ICYP fields in particular stayed dry. I called the field house, and was told they would play. I headed to the ballpark directly from work.

Game gets under way. We scored 2 in the first, and 1 in the second. We kept the Reds scoreless through 3. All we needed was to get to the end of the 4th inning for the game to be official. Everyone had their eye to the increasingly threatening sky. Few drops in the top of the 4th--eh, who cares--we played on. Chris struck out looking, as did Daniel. A scoreless fourth. Umbrellas started popping up in the bleachers.

Bottom of the 4th. Reds up to bat. John walks 1, stolen base, 1 out. Reds definitely threatening. Rained a little harder, Orioles fans hoping it'll pass over, Reds fans praying for a rain out. The deluge began and play was suspended. Five minutes later, lightening, game called. Kids, parents, coaches, umpire all scatter from the far back field to the shelter of either their cars or the field house. We drove a dejected teammate and his mom home. Before we got there, the rain stopped, the skies began to clear. And we have to play FROM SCRATCH on Thursday. ARGH!!!!

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Summer School!

We just learned that our son must attend summer school. He has been flirting with flunking math all year. He might not actually fail, but he is borderline enough that he has to take and pass 5th grade math in summer school before he can enter 6th grade. As is par for the course, Mom and Dad have very different approaches to this, and very different backgrounds.

As a life long A/B student (unless you count all the classes I cut in high school and college), I can't imagine coming close to failing a subject in grammar or middle school. It would never have been tolerated by my family (my mother having been a valedictorian). Part of me wants to scream, "where is your motivation?!?" Another part of me sees that he really didn't think this would be the consequence of his mediocre effort, and maybe this in and of itself will be punishment enough.

My husband, who I am convinced is smarter than I am by a mile, was definitely NOT the student I was. He was also not encumbered with the expectations that I was. What he is reacting to, as much as the poor performance, is the expense and scheduling hassles. Since Christopher attends Catholic school, summer school is not free, unless you enroll in a public school program in MAY, before you actually know you will NEED summer school.

What is ironic is that while I was brought up to be a high achiever, as an adult I am not nearly as ambitious as you'd think. From a young age, I knew that I would never live up to my mother's expectations. Sometime around 10th grade, I stopped trying. I decided to live up to my own expectations. When my mother asked me in complete frustration what I wanted out of life, I told her I wanted to be happy. She asked me if that was enough. I told her it was more that I could hope for. And in my angst ridden teenage years, that was absolutely no exaggeration. As an adult, I am fine--I am a professional woman, and support my family.

So, how to approach my beloved son. This is a child that I absolutely adore. I don't mean to be trite. Of course I love him, but more importantly, I LIKE him. This is a person I want to hang out with. Such a wonderful spirit. Honest heart. He is kind, sensitive, loving, smart, sarcastic and funny. And completely un-freaking-motivated when it comes to school, or many other things that take actual effort. Do I accept this trait, and trust that down the line, a switch will be thrown, and he will begin to see that effort is both required and rewarded? Do I try every motivational trick in the book, and invent a few, in the hope that something will take root and grow?

I don't want to harangue or belittle him. I don't want him saddled with my disapproval, or set off in him a disastrous strain of self loathing. He hated failing math tests. Maybe I should have gotten a tutor earlier. Getting him to study is pulling teeth, even when he sees the fruits of his labor. English, vocabulary, reading, no problem! Social studies, he can also perform well, when he pays attention. Science is ok for now, but math, not so much. Ok I guess that is perspective.

So, for the month of July, we found Christopher an accredited math tutor. He will have one-on-one sessions, and hopefully benefit both academically and emotionally. Maybe it will be just the boost in self esteem he needs to tackle 6th grade, and beat it into submission.

r.

The Crone

One of my closest friends went to Ireland about a year or two ago, and brought me back a wonderful triskel pendant (similar, but not identical, to the one pictured here). I wear it almost like a talisman. At the time, I had just finished reading Princes of Ireland, by Edward Rutherfurd. This is a wonderful book about Ireland from the time of the Celts. The more I read of pagan peoples, the more I come to think they get it mostly right. There seems to be more balance in that world.

(An aside: Please don't think I overlook or romanticize the brutality present in Celtic Ireland. There were blood sacrifices and the like. But, really, was brutality quelled in any way by the introduction of a monotheistic religion? Then as now, blood is shed in the name of god and gods. Only now is Christianity beginning to respect the environment, but I suspect that is for political gain, at least in the US.)

Take, for example the triskel. It is a three pronged conjoined spiral, that is, according to Celtic lore a symbol of the female divinity. It represents her three stages of being: Maiden, Motherhood and Crone. At the age of 40, nearly 41, I have been the Maiden, I am the Mother, and will be the Crone. What I find most interesting is that there doesn't seem to be a particular stage that is more revered than any other. It also seems to me that the final stage, the crone, is really the hardest to fully realize.

The word Crone connotates a shriveled old woman, hooked nosed and mean. When I was young, my mind's eye conjured up the evil old woman in the Hansel and Gretel fairy tale. But really, a Crone is a post-menopausal woman full of wisdom, and willing to impart it. A fully self-realized woman. She is wise in the ways of the world, at peace with it, and herself. Able to teach without bitterness. I strive to be this woman. To shed the failings of my youth, find contentedness, and show, if only by example, how to reach it.

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I Got Hosed

My son just lost 2 teeth recently--bottom canine and first bicuspid. For the most part Daddy plays the tooth fairy, since he is generally up later than I am. Last night, he forgot. When my son got up this morning, he came to our room and said, "guess what I got from the tooth fairy?"

Knowing he gets a buck or two for incisors, and a few more for a molar, I jokingly said, "what? A quarter?"

"Nope."

"Nickel?"

"Nope."

"Well, what?"

With a look of complete disbelief he said, "Hosed, I got hosed." Then he turned on his heel and went into the shower. His delivery was spectacular. Jaded. Funny. The look I shot my husband should have left him dead in his tracks.

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Bow to the Instructor Within

Or, I have begun my practice

Last Saturday, I went with my girlfriend to my first Yoga class. It was much more challenging than I thought it would be. I am accustomed to a hard workout in a noisy overbright gym: 40 minutes of cardio, then another 30 or so with the weights. Hard work, burning muscles and a whole lot of sweat! I never did enjoy aerobics class, I prefer the solitary workout.

I must admit, I went into the class a little intimidated. I needn't have been. First of all, the environment itself is just soothing. Soft light, unobtrusive music, gentle voice of the instructor. Oh, and bare feet and candlelight! It is about flow, breathing, balance and a still mind. And I was able to do it! I made the poses, mostly, and held them. It isn't at all easy! My muscles, especially my quads, were screaming, sweat was pouring off of me. I did have a couple of sore muscles a day or two later, but not too many.

I love how yoga is considered a practice, an ongoing experience. Seems a very good metaphor for life. If we keep working at it, we will attain a deeper understanding of it. We will be better able to move from one pose to another, move through life with greater fluidity. We will learn from others the basics, we will learn for ourselves what is comfortable, we will come to understand how to live within ourselves, yet constantly reach deeper. While limbs are reaching outward, the mind focuses inward: Balance.

At the end of the session, the room dimly lit, we returned to our lotus position, held our hands together in prayer, lifted our hearts to our prayer. We were positioned around the room, backs to the wall. We were to bow, not only to the instructor, but the instructor in each one of our classmates for what they offer, and bow to the instructor within. That's what got me. We were to honor ourselves as we honor our instructor. May we always remember to continue the practice, and bow to the instructor within.

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I Am Charlie's Daughter

Or, Damn, I Miss My Dad...

I sat watching Gray's Anatomy last night enjoying a glass of wine. I knew it was a rerun, but no matter, I missed most of the season anyway. In this episode, George O'Malley's father died. It was a wrenching episode. Made all the more so by Christina welcoming George to the club--exclusive to only those whose father has died. George says that he doesn't know how to exist in a world where his father doesn't. Christina replies yeah, that doesn't get any easier, or something along those lines.

My father died in November 2003 of cancer. He was away from me most of my life due to divorce and bitter rancor. When he died, it was as if a part of me died. I was completely unprepared for the depth of my grief, how long it would persist, and how profoundly it would affect my life.

I still miss him terribly. I hate what Vietnam did to him. I hate that he is dead. I hate how he died. I hate that I didn't get to say good bye. I hate that we took tomorrows for granted, even though we knew he was sick. I love that he introduced me to big red Bordeaux wines. I love the way he said "Love my girl" at the end of every conversation. I love hearing his mild drawl in my mind's ear. I love that he loved my husband. I grieve that my son doesn't know him.

Upon his death, my father left me a tremendous gift: a very large extended family. Were it not for his brothers and sisters and all my cousins who welcomed be back to the family that I had been so long without, I think I would have been lost. I finally could be among people who looked like ME, who were of a similar character. It was the most affirming experience of my life. While I wish life had been different, that my family wasn't so fractured for so damned long, I can't spend too much time in that place. It would tarnish what I have now, and be a gross injustice to my father.

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Rebecca Time

Since I have turned 40 (see prior post for more) I have definitely taken better care of myself! So far, I have lost about 70 pounds. I haven't worn clothes this size in 15 or more years! I am very proud of myself. I am also very grateful to my husband and all my friends who have been a source of tremendous support and patience during this process. It cannot have been easy for them to put up with me at times.

I still have much more work to do. The physical care seems to have been the easy part--a focal point that has allowed me to be successful in one (very important) area of my life, and let some of the other issues slide to the background. Since my goal weight is in sight, it is time for some reshuffling of priorities.

It has been a hard year, in some respects. Friendships have been sorely tested. I am unsure where I stand at any given time. But I think that is mostly my fault. Or maybe not. I feel like both sides are walking on egg shells, and we have either been unwilling or unable to get to the bottom of it. Maybe I am just too damned hard to be around, but I would like to hear that so I can be sure. Would give me something more concrete to go on rather then this nebulous feeling of unease. Maybe I will just give some more thought to what it might be like to be around me.

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Baseball Season

This year, my nearly 11 year old son is playing baseball. He has been looking forward to it since February, and we were happy to sign him up. He goes to practice, plays when he isn't feeling all that great, and played a game after being drilled in the face by a ball. He is still too sensitive--prone to tears when striking out, and long sulks if a game is lost. But still he goes back. Tries again. That is the biggest difference in him since he turned 10--he is much more willing, and sometimes determined, to try again rather than give up. His coaches have shown him great patience and given encouragement. His teammates have also been supportive.

We are definitely gonna do this again next year!!

r.

On Words

"What cannot be said will get wept"

A wonderful quote by Jim Harrison, author of nothing I've read (True North, Legends of the Fall). Of course, I'd clean it up to read "What cannot be said will be wept," but that is the undeniable editor in me. I love words. Always have. I love to accumulate them, find or argue the meaning of them, find just the right one for what I am trying to express, either in writing or in speech, and to rearrange other people's words. I am not nearly as adept with grammar or construction, but words? Words I understand.

It is galling, isn't it, when you realize that words, the tools you've depended on for clarity and expression, are completely and utterly inadequate. Love or joy or pain or sorrow so great that to put words to it would be an injustice. Joy at the birth of one's own child, or the moment you realize the depth of love you have for someone, or that they have for you; sorrow over the death of a parent/spouse/child, that takes your breath away. Leaves you with tears of ecstasy or agony. The feeling can be one of sweet surrender or powerlessness.

Or is Mr. Harrison describing words that ARE not said rather than CAN'T be said? The opportunities we miss to express our love, hurt, joy, or anger to the person towards whom we feel it. The times we think to ourselves that we will talk about it later, and later never comes. The times we decide it is just too hard, or that we won't be understood anyway... Grudges build that way and grow like cancer. Or, perhaps the person to whom you had so much to say dies. Instead of a grudge, we are left with a pit of regret. And how else to respond to that but with wracking sobs.

In either case, what cannot be said will be wept. It can be taken as a fact or a warning.

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She Finally Gets to the Heart of It

I just finished reading Sue Miller's Lost In The Forest. While I wasn't really satisfied with how it ended, I found it a very interesting read. I have read several other Miller novels, The Good Mother, While I Was Gone, and The World Below, and enjoyed them all. What emerges when you think of her writing is the theme of something broken, or dysfunctional in the upbringing of a daughter, the result of which is sometimes disastrous, but the cause often invisible. I find that very interesting, indeed.

In Lost In The Forest the reader follows the development of the central character, Daisy, from 3 different viewpoints--her mother's, her father's and her own. Her near ruination, as well as her rescue. When the book ends, the reader is left with the sense that Daisy has entered adulthood a little bloodied, but definitely not bowed. That she and her family are putting the work in to make it so. This is somewhat unique for Sue Miller novels. The author normally relies more on flashbacks to show why the central female character is who she is--and that who is usually quite damaged. And there is usually no parental admission of fault. That there is in this novel, I find very refreshing.

Another interesting aspect to Sue Miller's female characters is how they use sex. They are both victimized and empowered by it. Daisy, in Lost, is exposed sex on several levels, though she doesn't really understand that until later in life. Her parents who divorced, her mother's remarriage, her older sister's experience. When her stepfather, John, dies, 14 year old Daisy is a bewildered gangly adolescent. John was the only person who really spoke to her. Wanted to know her opinions, completely and without judgment. He paid attention to her Daisy-ness. Daisy is bereft. No one is able to comfort her. Her mother is lost in her own grief, her father is emotionally unavailable. She and her sister have grown apart. Daisy is seen as difficult. Sullen. Distant. She acts out in insidious ways--stealing money from her mother's store. As she gets deeper into her adolescence, she hates her too tall body. Shaves her pubic hair. And finally, enters into an illicit affair with a much older man.

When she is caught stealing from her mother by Duncan, the 53 year old husband of her mother's best friend, he holds it over her for a long time. They engage in a sexual affair, which is never consummated per se, but that is a very powerful experience for Daisy. It is sexual abuse for sure, but in Daisy's mind, she holds the power. She is using Duncan to explore her sexual identity and its power, not yet understanding how it will affect her overall sexual development. He has no emotional attachment to her. She needs to know what she is to him, and he cannot or will not give her that.

I think what I find most interesting or disturbing is that Daisy is unable to express herself in any way other than sexually. She does write. But that is very private. She doesn't participate in her after school activities in order to go with Duncan to explore the world he opened up for her. A world in which nothing is really asked of her. All she has to do is take--and she is a very needy young woman. It isn't until Daisy's father overhears a very sexual conversation between Daisy and Duncan that affair is forcibly broken off. Her father steps in and actually does the fathering. Not particularly well, but I don't think Daisy needed it to be done well, just needed him to do it. To make her accountable. She needed a FATHER. Much is made of that, and rightfully so. A young woman feeling unvalued by her father will seek value in very bad places. Daisy needed her father give her to to know what she sought from Duncan--What am I to you? What do I mean to you?

I admire Sue Miller's ability to time and again come to this theme and develop it. It isn't easy reading, and it surely cannot be easy writing. To read or write these books is a continual poking at something that hurts, that you need to explore, to exorcise. My sister-in-law, in particular, criticizes Miller's women as weak--especially in The Good Mother. And to some extent, she is right. But they are not bad women. They have had some really difficult experiences that brought them to where they are, and to where they commit very damning sins. What I find compelling is how these women were failed, how they fail, and how they get back up and go on. This is not a sad read for me. I take from it the moving on. The work and courage in facing yourself and your background, and picking yourself up, trying again. It's the getting up. Gets me every time.

r.

Oh, Michael.

I am happily married to my husband of 16 years. I have a really neat 10-year-old boy, a moderately successful career, and several really good friends. By contrast, college was a very rough time in my life. I had no idea how to be me, just could not get comfortable in my own skin. I left college behind for the most part. Thank GOD for my thirties! That said, I did register with classmates.com, and every so often check out the site to see who else has registered. This is how I learned that Michael Lawrence Maguire died. July 14, 2003. All these years later, why should this news bother me at all?

Over 20 years ago, when I was a 19-year-old freshman at The University of Maine at Machias, I met a 26-year-old junior named Michael Maguire. We went everywhere, did everything together, it seems. we rented an apartment (right next door to my ecology professor) the summer after my freshman year, to my mother's complete horror. He graduated midway though my sophomore year. It broke my heart, and I handled the separation very poorly. When I left Machias, he visited me in NY, then the separation was permanent. He left. No explanation, no goodbye, nothing. Just gone. I was 21 at the time.

Twice in the intervening years, I thought sure I saw him on the streets of New York City. It stopped me in my tracks. He made such an impression on me. I remember how he held a pencil, his handwriting, what he ate (and sometimes drank) for breakfast, the way he walked, wore a baseball cap, the car he drove. My forty-year-old self mourns the loss of that man anew. But in a different way. Not as the lovesick idiot I was then, who couldn't handle a hangnail. But with a little more sight. He was a good man, with a good heart. Somewhat haunted. Clever. Smart. Funny. VERY Irish. An Alice McDermott novel waiting to be written. I hope he found some peace. I wish I could have said goodbye.

r.

September 11th.

The anniversary of September 11th always finds me quiet, this year, even more so. For the whole of the day and the next, I have had a large, painful lump in my throat. Five years can seem such a long time and yet an instant. Anyone with children, or close to them, will relate. A lifetime, gone in a flash.

I didn't know any of those who perished, but knew of some near misses. But every morning on my way to work, for weeks, I could see the smoking wreckage from the platform of the Number 7 train at Queensboro Plaza. Some days, depending on the wind direction, I could smell it. And every day I offered up a prayer for those living and those not.

My sense of grief is more diffuse than those personally involved, to be certain. It is also tinged with a profound sense of regret. I was so completely stunned, I did nothing at all. Not a thing. I didn't join the thousands who expressed their gratitude or encouragement to first responders. I didn't donate socks or water. I didn't visit a firehouse. I didn't even visit the site until December of 2005 when out of town relatives wanted to see it. By then it was relatively antiseptic. The more powerful place to visit was St. Paul's Chapel, where the pews are still boot scuffed.

It wasn't because I didn't want to go downtown. I just couldn't face it by myself. My husband could not face it, period. With someone or alone, he just could not, and I had to honor that. He still has not actually gone down to the place where the towers stood. It truly breaks his heart.

This year, as last, I missed Peter Jennings’ commentary on September 11th. He brought it to me first. His voice and raw emotion that sometimes slipped through gave one to know the sheer magnitude of the day. So much grief. Such a huge sadness. Lives and innocence lost. That must be it. Things that are unrecoverable, that ring with such a finality, bring about the most profound grief. Some days it is shown as anger, fear, resentment or resignation. On the anniversary, though, we are reminded that what we are is simply bereft. That, perhaps, we have not yet cried the last tear for our beloved city, those beautiful towers, and every one of us changed.

r.

Having a Drink and Drankin'

My girlfriend and I got together last Thursday night to meet a third friend who has recently moved into a new apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. It was a spectacular afternoon in the city, and we had some time to kill.

First, we went to a roof-top bar in Manhattan that was just spectacular! 230 Fifth Avenue commands a stunning view of the Empire State Building, as well as the rest of the New York City skyline in a 360 degree view. And it don't come cheap!

We arrived early in the evening--around 5:45 or so. I would say this is the absolute outer limit of arrival time. While already crowded when we got there, by the time we left an hour later, the line to get in was all the way through the very deep lobby and snaking down the block.

We found a spot at the bar and ordered our favorite drinks--1 Stoli martini, straight up and dirty with 3 olives, and 1 Bombay, straight up with a twist. Total bill: 28 dollars! I think we were able to keep our jaws from actually hitting the floor before anyone noticed. At least it was a nice sized martini. And again, the view was stunning, and I am sure the Flatiron District rent is exorbitant. This is a place you take first-time visitors or clients. It's where the beautiful people are.

We then visited our friend and had a wonderful time. Caught up on mutual friends, noshed on light summer fare, and just enjoyed each other's company. Around 11 or so, we thought it time to go and bid our host and her roommate bon nuit.

Here's where the drankin' kicks in. We went around the corner to a favorite Irish pub, Snapper Creek. Great bartenders and a kick-ass jukebox! It's where you go to kick back with friends. And kick back we did. Talked, visited, flirted, played a really bad round of pool, and danced. And enjoyed drinks at last one third the price!

I was glad to have both experiences on the same night. It matches who most of us are as people. We put on our professional mask and go to work every day. 230 Fifth was an extension of that. Then we come home and let our selves just be. Snapper Creek definitely fits that facet of our lives. And to do both with one of my best friends was truly priceless.

r.

Conspiracy Theory

I was on the phone last night with a good friend of ours for over two hours. It wasn't unpleasant, but my ear was VERY grateful when I unstuck it from the phone! The major topic of conversation was various and sundry conspiracy theories. Everything from September 11th to healthcare to smoking. In the age of the Internet, especially blogs, this sort of information, or published conjecture, is rampant.

I am certain that the concept of conspiracy theory is as old as humanity itself. It is the nature of the human mind to question, and need to have those questions answered. Equally necessary is the need to feel comfortable or satisfied with those answers. Where answers are viewed as insufficient, uncomfortable or incomplete, people fill in the blanks any way they can. And now, with the click of a mouse, anyone can publish their views, giving other questioning minds validation of their own conclusions.

One thing that outrages my friend the most is the medical profession, specifically managed care and drug manufacturers. It is his view, and he has researched it extensively, that there is a vast conspiracy to keep Americans feeding at the pharmaceutical trough. This is why certain alternative treatments are not widely available, why our government banned publicly funded stem cell research, and why we as a nation are sicker than other developed nations. Maybe. But it may be something else altogether: Maybe it isn't a pharmaceutical conspiracy, but yet another religion based control on human behavior. Stem cells can be obtained from spontaneously or medically induced aborted fetuses, as well as the umbilical cords of full-term, healthy babies. The religious right is terrified that women will run out and have safe, legal abortions feeling good that at least they are contributing to medical advancement. Can't have that!! But maybe there is something else at play. I don't know.

And then there is the matter of September 11th. Flight 800. Weapons of mass destruction. Tobacco companies. Oil companies. Here's another one: The Homeland Defense Department issued an announcement on August 10th stating that everyone should download the latest security patches available from Microsoft, especially if they are running XP. Am I alone in thinking that the government and Microsoft could be in bed together to produce a "patch" for one of the most deeply penetrated Operating Systems on the planet in order to have PCs open to scrutiny by Big Brother? August 10th is the same day a so-called plot to blow planes out of the sky over the Atlantic was broken up. The perpetrators are thought to be linked to Al Qaeda. But it is a rehash of a plot exposed in 1995. I could be wrong, but I don't think it likely that they would resurrect an idea that failed.

Questioning is not a bad thing. It is healthy. It is our civic responsibility in some cases. But I think as un-omniscient beings, we at some point, must accept that we may never know the actual answers. And some of the ones we have come up with might be completely wrong. If you consider the fact that no one can ever know another person's core motivations on any given matter, it becomes an almost infinite array of who has what to gain by doing anything. Like statistics, you can make conspiracy theory fit whatever your given agenda is. Spend any time questioning "facts" and the possible "conspiracy" behind them, and you can easily lose your mind. Of course, we should not bury our heads in the proverbial sand, but we should not forget to just live life. Awareness and intellectual exercise is great. Obsession is not.

r.