Days of Wonder

Some strange things have been going on.

First of all, Delta hOtel read my blog. This is unusual because Delta Hotel dislikes reading so much that often he will clench his eyes shut while driving on the interstate to avoid accidentally reading the road signs. This is why we sometimes end up in Canada. Just kidding. However, I can only say nice things about Delta Hotel now that he knows how to find this blog. Delta says I am not allowed to talk about his "business" anymore because it belongs to him and he said so. That's actually fine by me, I'm tired of it anyway.

You might remember back in October when somebody stealthily crept up to my big orange pumpkin and painted it all black except for the letters B-O-O. That was the first incident in a string of unsolved curiosities.

The other day somebody who goes by the name "Dr. Jekyll" commented on an entry. Usually I can figure out who people are...but I have asked everyone I can think of and no one will admit to being Dr. Jekyll. Who are you Doctor of Mystery??? COme forth I beseech you!

And lastly, I have been in the trenches of motherhood for over nine years now. I have written, transcribed, helped write and proofread roughly twenty letters to the big man at the North Pole. I would call myself experienced in the art of Santa Letter Writing. Yet today something entirely unprecedented occurred. Santa wrote back. A letter arrived addressed to Ya-Ya in the fanciest most Ben Franklin-est hand writing I've ever seen, postmarked from the freaking North Pole, covered in sparkly little stickers, telling Ya-Ya about the weather, the elves, the reindeer and Mrs. Claus. This was no form letter, someone wrote it! Someone interjected "ho ho ho," from time to time, signed Santa's name, addressed it to Ya-Ya PERSONALLY and paid 37 cents to deliver it. Can you believe it? There really IS a Santa!!! sigh...

Determined not to be outdone

by her older sister, Phee-Phee has spiked a fever of 103. Well, you won that one, Phee-Phee.

What Happened?

We tread upon the grounds that the very first rebellious colonists marched, conspired, ambushed and eventually triumphed on over 200 years ago. We live but a crows flight from the very harbor that once masqueraded as the worlds largest cup of tea.

We, if only by geographical association, are offspring of this nations original freedom fighters. Tonight I watched a show on PBS where some Concord Militia stole a brass cannon from the British and hid it over on Colonel Barrett's farm, provoking the Shot Heard Round the World, the kickoff for the Revolutionary War. It's said that the armory guard from whom the cannon was stolen proclaimed upon finding the armory empty "These people'll steal the teeth out of your head while you're there to watch!" He was talking about us. What happened to our fire since then?

Let's start at the top. There used to be a time when honor was payment enough for the position of statesman. Now the leaders of the nation are so rich and well paid by taxes they're virtually parliament. We all know the percentage we pay in taxes today is higher than the percentage of taxes that fueled the fires of the American Militia.

Maybe our lazy attitude comes from low stakes. We're paying for the Big Dig over and over and over again. There's scandal. Some guys get fired, new ones get hired, we all shake our heads and call it a days work. But what if we took a cue from Early America and set the embezzlers in stocks on the Zakum Bridge? I wonder how much embezzling would get done then? Now, before you call the union presidents and organize a strike, I don't really mean that. But lack of consequences could be a motivating factor in greed. And for bad manners. What if the punishment for road rage was wearing a 17" Goodyear around your neck for a month? Or overdue library books resulted in the wearing of a scarlet capital L? (I'd have a freaking scarlet tattoo BTW)

Back to my original question. What happened to that irrepressible American spirit? Maybe it got a house and cable and a drive-thru burger. Maybe it's settled, content, with no reason to protest because it has a roof and food and clothes. Maybe the risk of revolution is to great to take American Spirit off the path of least resistance.

With the gross balance of the world's resources resting on American soil, I doubt if this'll change. The need to grow has to be bigger than the comfort of staying the same.

Just Finished

Watching Polar Express. I have a passionate LOVE for Tom Hanks, and I have since Splash, so I knew I was honor-bound to love it. I would have loved it anyway. I learned three key lessons.

1. It doesn't matter where the train is going, as long as you get on. Jump in where you are. Don't watch as the train passes you by.
2. Friendship is the greatest gift. A friend will reach out and grab hold of your hand so that you don't get left behind. A friend won't let you get too lost. Even when you find that you haven't mailed a single gift yet and it's Christmas morning, even when you find yourself sucked down the toilet bowl of circumstance, a friend will fish you out. Thanks friends. Without you, I'd be swimming in a sea of shit. Sorry about the gifts....they are in the trunk, ready to go.
3. Believe. If you're awake at 3AM Christmas Morning STILL getting "things" done, and you know you're not gonna get any sleep because "they" will be up at five demanding you witness the miracle Santa has left behind, you're lucky. You got to be magic. It doesn't matter if magic took some wading and sweating, you got to do it. And if you look up to the moon and happen to see a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer in your over-caffeinated acid-flashback delirium, if you believe it to be true, it is. We are all sorcerers of our own perception. Magical.

Christmas, stripped of it's controversy, stirs the embers of faith that might otherwise grow cold.

Hmmph

We made our annual pilgrimage to the Fatima Shrine tonight, to see the lights and freeze ourselves from our toenails to our cerebrospinal fluid, waddle around with stunned looks on our slushy faces then defrost with hot chocolate and coffee that's only redeeming quality is it's heat. But it wasn't really cold enough for that, so I did some thinking instead. I thought about Delta Hotel, Monks, Ellie and organized religion.

Delta Hotel's in rough shape. Actually, I'm convinced that Delta Hotel has gone on a Delta Hiatus and some strange robotic decoy has landed to act as his placeholder lest I forget what he looks like. My darling friend OHM came with us and at one point, I was so transfixed by my thoughts that, though I could see her lips and eyebrows moving I could not register her words, just a Peanuts-esque garble of noise which, with my luck, was something really important like tonight's MassMillions numbers or why ketchup is sometimes spelled catsup.

Delta Hotel's melancholy spread like spilled grease. I started feeling sorry for the monks who work so hard to put up what must be a hundred million Christmas lights each year. I looked up to a giant oak tree where a fully illuminated angel was perched, bestowing electric blessings on all who passed under her. I passed the moving (illuminated) moose and reindeer herd. The full color wise men, the archways and garlands and piped in music. I thought about how ironic Christmas is, with it's mixed heritage, and these little monks out there working their gnarled arthritic fingers in the cold, constructing this great big pagan display for all of us who travel to their monastery once a year for the lights. Then I noticed that some of the big, old fashioned, nuke-your-eye-sockets-if-they-short light strands had failed. I wanted to go over there and fix them or at least find a monk and hug him, but they were all busy serving hot beverages, directing traffic in their little outfits and generally being nice and monk-ish. There's these two caves, under the mound with the giant crucifix. The left cave shows Jesus lying dead in Mary's arms, and the right shows the nativity scene. The beginning and the end, two isolated moments in time.

We rounded the bend to my favorite scene, Our Lady of Fatima appearing in gleaming white marble to three genuflecting children, all swathed in delicate garlands and surrounded by votives. Nearby stands the angel of peace, and nearer still one of two candle sheds. This is where I light the candle for my soul-sister's daughter, Ellie, who died at thirteen months, three years ago on Dec 17th. Ya-Ya lit the candle tonight and we prayed for Ellie, but mostly for the people she left behind because December is colder for them than for most of us.

After that, I thought some more about religion, organized and spontaneous. There was a little poem on the wall of the cafeteria. I can't remember it well enough to quote, but the gist was this: My name is I am. To live in the past is painful, my name is not I was. To live in the future is frightening, my name is not I will be. To live in the moment is beautiful, my name is I am. I watched my littlest delight in her own purple boots crunching the snow under her feet, and the melancholy slid away.

I wanted to write yesterday

but before I knew it, the day was over. Har har.

Been some strange days. First the entire premise of my life has been altered by finding out a juicy family secret. Again, I can't tell till my Mammie says it's ok.

Then, I had a dream that a spider bit me on the left shoulder and I went to my friend TeeArr who is supernurse, and she said I was suffering from necrosis. I actually dreamed the freaking word necrosis. When I woke up, my shoulder was killing me so I called TeeArr and said "What in God's name is Necrosis and what sorcery have you performed upon me in my sleep you heathen viper?!" not really, I made that up. I didn't even call her till a few days later, but guess what?? Necrosis means....this whoa. To make it even STRANGER STILL... that night...I FELL DOWN and hurt my left elbow, which turned black (like necrosis - AHA) and then my shoulder hurt. So, if you can connect the dots like I can, you now realize that I predicted the future and am , beyond the shadow of a doubt, psychic. With a huge psychic vocabulary.

Now for the icing. The silky silver icing. My own Christmas miracle. After all this crap from Delta Hotel the past few months about Iraq, and believe me, it was crap.

***DIGRESSION AHEAD - I used every argument you could conceive of to get him to stay, and he refuted every argument with every justification you can imagine. We even went to therapy. Finally, when I realized one of us was gonna have to lose, I ceded. Not because I am a loser (duh, I'm a freaking psychic, people) but because out of the two of us, I can deal with losing better than he can. After regressing to my terrible two's for a couple of days, I did my best to soothe him that everything would be fine. A year's just a drop in the bucket. I pledged my unwavering support (with my fingers crossed behind my back) and I assured him we'd be fine. I'd learn how to run the snowblower. I'd figure out how to start the woodstove. I'd refrain from cutting off appendages. (See what I mean about me being a better loser? If he had lost, he'd have been sucking his thumb huddled in the corner of the couch.) -END DIGRESSION ***

Anyway, he went to check back in to his unit today, got all the way to the SgtMaj. That man, the final beating heart between my Delta Hotel and hot desert sand, that blessed savior of an angel Marine told Delta Hotel to go home. Family's more important than that war in Iraq, he said. Can you imagine that? It wasn't meant to be after all. If I had forced him to stay, he'd have resented me. If he'd chosen to stay on his own, he'd have hated himself. I guess you could say a higher power made the final call and that suits me just fine. Serendipity.

My little Ya-Ya has a fever of 101. She's my oldest and has the immune system of a sturdy old tank. She never breaks down. I remember when she was little, she had a fever that left her skin dry, hot and a little too robust for any mother's comfort. It was "only" 104, so the emergency room at Camp LeJeune, where we were living at the time, wouldn't admit her. I rememebr how panicked I was that she would erupt into febrile seizures. I'm way more laid back about fevers now. Just this past summer, my temp. raged to 105.7. Looking back, I guess I should have gone to the doctor, but at the time I just kept telling myself brain damage wouldn't kick in till 106. Then I spent the next week seeing shadows of invisible people in all the mirrors.

Happy, Merry (Fill in the blank)

Today I heard about the great big debate about Happy Holidays v. Merry Christmas. Fanatacism over the appropriateness of two measly little cliched words of good cheer is, frankly, not at the top of my list. And I am a born and bred fanatic. I'm fine with Happy Holidays. Predictably, Delta Hotel thinks I am jumping on the PC bandwagon. But here's the thing, the holidays kick off for me on the 27th of August (Phee Phee's birthday) and end on January 2d. That leaves, um, like eleven or so holidays not even counting solstice, kwaanza, chanukah or yule. I guess you could count the January holidays...then on to Valentines Day, anyhow. The point is, Happy Holidays simply saves you from saying "Happy Labor Day, birthday, congrats the kids are back in school, Happy Halloween, Columbus Day, Marine Corps Birthday, Veterans Day, Thanksgiving, Kwaanza, Yule, Solstice, Chanukah, Merry Christmas, Happy New year and whatever else I left out." That sort of nonsense would eat up time that could be better spent wondering about other modern quandaries like same sex marriage, Avian flu, Canadian terrorists and who lobotomized the president.

I guess what it boils down to is this: winter = holidays, holidays = parties, parties = fun, lawsuit over words = not fun. So save it for February when we've got nothing else to do.

Even in the Midst

Of the most profound suckiness, it is entirely possible to glean a sliver of happiness. It's easier, however, when your almost-stepfather happens to be a former NE Patriot with lifetime clubhouse tickets and a notion to take you to a game. I'm supposing that all of you who read this are more football-savvy than I am, considering I've only truly understood the mystery of the first down for about two years now. And it is a mystery. In fact, I might digress to mention that it could be the holy grail which bridges communications between mars and venus. More on that another time.

***PARDON THE INTERUPTION BUT I MUST WARN YOU - DUBYA IS BLARING THROUGH THE SPEAKERS OF MY TV IN LIEU OF DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES WHICH MEANS I AM, AS I WRITE, BECOMING STUPIDER.***

I can't even remember what I was writing. Sometimes you have to just think poor Dubya. Not that I'd pass up the oppurtunity to throw flaming shit-bags at him or anything, but really he's just like a big old dumb monkey. Sorry monkeys.

Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes, the subculture of Gillette Stadium.

Wait a minute, here's what I am gathering.
1. We went to war for no apparant reason, but we are winning. How is that? What is the prize? Me and Dub, we don't know. I bet Dickie knows. Oh well. I guess there's comfort in knowing we're winning. I hope it's chocolate.
2. We are rebuilding Iraq. That's nice. Kind of like a great big game of pickup sticks. WHat fun! Maybe I will try this. I think tommorow I shall drop SCUD missiles on my neighber JLO. Then we will have a grand ole time rebuilding her house. I shall draw up the plans now! I think I would like her house to be more of a cottage and more of a purply color.
3. There is a road in Iraq called "Victory" and it leads to home. It must be hard to find because some of them guys have spent eighteen months trying to get to it. I wonder if the Big Dig guys built it.
4. Dubya says I shouldn't despair and I shouldn't give up on this fight for freedom. Hmm. Dubya just quoted Longfellow. Surely that one came from his wife. He said that God isn't dead and peace on earth will prevail. That's nice. I wonder how much fighting we'll have to do to achieve peace. I guess it's like wondering how many quarter pounders I'd have to eat to flush the cholesterol out of my arteries.

Dubya is being very sneaky. He's telling me he understands that the issue of creating more problems is a big one. This is a departure from his usual bravado, but I smell a rat. I've used this very tactic on Delta Hotel. I call it my Pacifier tactic and it usually goes something like this: "I know you really want (fill in the blank here) and you're right. That really is important. If you could just bear with me here and (wash the dishes; bathe the offspring; make the lunch; rub my shoulders - circle one or more) I will have plenty of time to devote to whatever it is you need." But that's usually a lie. I usually let him fall asleep on the couch and then I get what I want plus I don't have to do anything extra. Maybe Laura taught him this.

Anyway, as usual listening to the wizard has left my brain cells aching. I must go soak my head. I will write more about my great day at Gillette later.

All Is Revealed (Title Shamelessly stolen from FatCharlatan)

A mere two days after the Leader of the Free World has eviscerated all doubt from the minds of rational thinking adults that he is a completely incompetent lunatic by publicly admitting the war is based on a lie, (but we're gonna win it by Gawrsh!) Delta Hotel has commited himself to his own act of lunacy. He has made his choice. In less than two weeks, he will put his ass on a plane to Iraq. By choice. FOr the THIRD F*$KING TIME. How Ironic that me, a woman who has uprooted all shrubbery from her landscape for the unfortunate connotations the word bush conjures, is married to superdickheadman who will apparently go to war for the sake of war. It's almost Shakespearean. So, if I metamorphize (is that a word?) into an evil man-hating, resentful, bitter, angry, shrewlike hag for a little while, please don't hate me. I would never project my feelings on purpose. Also, I may perodically refer to Delta Hotel as That Festering Canker Sore From the Ass of Satan. Just so you have a reference point and all.

I will try not to wallow in self-pity for too long, and I will try harder not to write about it here when I do. I am pretty freaking angry though. Sixteen pairs of boxer shorts - now crotchless - angry to be specific. Delta Hotel is a gambler, and the stakes are very, very high. And I'm quite sure the winnings are not worth the risk.

29 years

and I still surprise myself!! Who knew Mike Tyson was my daddy? Or is he my baby's daddy...

Your Japanese Name Is...

Tadako Hayashi

What's" your Japanese Name?

Your French Name is:

Édith Clement

What's" Your French Name?

Everything Pizza

Diverse and adaptableYou enjoy the full buffet of lifeIt's hard to you play favorites with friends... or flavorsThere's very little that you dislike!

What's" Your Pizza Personality?

Your Daddy Is Mike Tyson

What You Call Him: Old Man Why You Love Him: Because he's your baby daddy

Who's" Your Daddy?

The Day that will Live in....oops, forgot

Yesterday morning, I woke up to a video Holiday card from Dubya, Mrs. Cheney and the dogs. While..quaint...in theory, there are several disturbing factors at work here.

1. I don't have time to make a video Christmas card of my kids, never mind my freaking dog, and I'm merely Commanding Officer of my own domain. How is it that the leader of the free world has time to chat with dogs in the oval office? Let's see, foreign dignitaries and heads of state, presidential cabinet...Barney the dog!

2. I saw Mrs Cheney, I saw Dubya....who exactly is generalling this war?? Certainly not the curious monkey ...Oh that's right! The man behind the curtain....President Dick..yeehaw Dicky, Ride them boys out!

3. MOST IMPORTANTLY What I found MOST nauseating about the whole charade, DUBYA DELIVERED HIS EXCERCISE IN ECCENTRICITY ON THE DAY OF INFAMY. That fool did not pause his conversation with Barney and his new sister to spare a thought for all the Americans who lost their lives on Pearl Harbor day. Have we forgotten Pearl Harbor Day? Second in gross devastation only to 911? Shall we forget 911 next? How about Beirut Lebanon and the holocaust and the 1st British Invasion and the Trail of Tears? Shall we forget Birmingham?

I am thoroughly offended.

Good God Delta Hotel has the endurance of a herd of oxen on phen phen. If we could enter him an a vaccilating contest the way one might enter a hot dog eating contest, we'd be sportin the blue ribbon.
I say,F@#K it, I am just going to rewrite my own future. No more hangin on his kite string. Hold on, gotta take this call, it's Gloria Gaynor...

Let me explain

I'll start with the moral of the story: be careful what you wish for.

As you may know, Delta Hotel has been 180 lbs of walking stress for me lately. It was only natural that I should crave a spa weekend. And it followed that I should plan it, price it, pack for it, so that at a moments notice I could storm out in a fit of anguish and run away. To a spa vacation. In the Berkshires. At Canyon Ranch. OK, not Canyon Ranch because it's like $1200 a night, but another, more austere but way new age place called Kripalu. Anyway.
Delta Hotel's vacillating got my guts all worked up because apparently my gallbladder created a great big pearl of bile, blocked my ducts and pissed of my pancreas. That's the theory. I DID NOT require surgery, though I was assigned 2 personal surgeons who approached me with bloody scalpels and wicked grins.
These are the things that cause gallstones (BLECH) in someone as youthful as myself 1. Lot's of pregnancies 2. Losing weight too fast (yeah right) 3. STRESS I repeat STRESS 4. fatty foods 5. starving yourself to death because Delta Hotel has STRESSED you out 6. Not enough excercise 7. STRESSSSSSSSS I have an appointment with the surgeon tommorow for an upper GI test.
Back to the moral: Don't just be careful what you wish for, BE SPECIFIC. I got my spa vacation. Not quite the one I was looking for, but it was a restful (read drugged) weekend.

I don't know yet what the real problem is, but if you run in to Delta Hotel, make sure and tell him you think STRESS causes gallbladder insult. Why? Because I'm still trying to wheedle a real spa vacation out of the deal.

Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere's Didi

Being in the hospital for three days is no fun. Being in the hospital for three days under the intraveinous influence of diloten and morphine is fun.
OK. Thursday night I went to writing group (holla Niblets) even though I felt like some devil had skewered me by the bellybutton. I was barely home an hour when I was whisked off to the emergency room which, if you didn't know, is a perpetual United Nations convention. First I was checked in by an Irish woman from West VA. My wonderful male nurse in the ER was a very flashy and sophisticated and KIND Pakistani whose sole mission was to keep me comfortable and sedated. He played with my hair, told me stories, arranged my johnnie, kept me comfortably drugged and could stick an IV in less time than I can clear my throat, then I had this great CHinese doctor who might be my personal guardian angel. Each and every time I go to the ER in the middle of the night, this doctor fixes things. He's stitched and soothed us all more than my own doctor has. The on call sugeon was some kind of south american, kind of Rico Suave cool, WAY too young to be a surgeon despite his spectacles, but he seemed competent anyway. So, later my nurse had me admitted to the maternity ward because they have the very best rooms, and my nurse was Russian and she had a very clever sense of humor. "Vhy should I sink you must haff baby to be in maternity vard?" HA! My tech, who took my blood and/or pressure and temp every five seconds was Mexican, the woman who brought me food even though I was on a strict order that no substance should pass my lips was Brazillian. My Surgeon AND Doctor were Indian. Of course, when I told my doctor that the diloten made me want to build a condo out of chocolate in the heart of NYC, she made me switch to demerol, which is not NEARLY as fun. But I digress. THe point is, the grimace of pain is universal. And the healing touch transcends language. We are all human.

Charity

I don't make a secret out of the fact that I loathe this war with every fiber of my being. But I will always love the Corps. I think of those kids over there, and I know that most of them didn't go with a hard-on for revenge (GWB) or to kill Iraqis (again, GWB). They went, they go, because they are KIDS who have HIGH IDEALS and believe to the skin of their souls that they can make a difference, they can protect democracy and they aren't afraid to try. And then they meet IED's or mortar rounds or suicide bombers. Or friendly fire. And in a burst of muzzleflash... it's over.
I am a Former Marine married to a Marine, fathered by a Marine. Most of my old friends are, or were, Marines. Tonight I received an email from a friend who's still in, out in Hawaii. He had a simple request and asked that I pass the information on to all of you. He recruited this kid a couple of years ago. And now he's asking for our help. Here's an excerpt from the email he sent me:
When the spirit is willingWounded
Ellenville Marine determined to overcome his injuries
By Paul Brooks Times Herald-Record
pbrooks@th-record.com
Gallery: Photos from this story T
he first bullet struck Cpl. Eddie Ryan above the right eyebrow and bored through the frontal lobes, the seat of personality and memory in his brain. Traveling at about a half-mile a second, the bullet generated a shock wave that widened as it went. The pressure crushed brain cells into jelly. The hunk of metal slammed into the left side of his skull and shattered. A second bullet came from the opposite direction. It sliced through the back of his lower left jaw and burst out his chin. Ryan collapsed on the Iraqi rooftop in Ramadi where he and two fellow snipers crouched. The Ellenville native was bleeding, unconscious, and bullets rained down around him. It was 7 a.m. April 13. Eddie Ryan was as good as dead. He was 21. Brown eyes. Eddie Ryan has brown eyes, and he stares hard with his eyes wide open, unblinking, straight at you. He has a pale blue scar shaped like a Y, an inch or so high, on his right side of his brow. His forehead is otherwise smooth, unblemished. Two small scars dimple his chin and the back of his left jaw. A longer scar, pencil-thin, runs through closed-cropped brownish hair from ear to ear. Eddie's 6-foot, 1-inch frame is cradled in a wheelchair. He is still slim. He has trouble standing or walking without the aid of a machine. The fingers of his right hand, his trigger finger, too, curl tight to his palm. He holds a small toy dog in his left hand. "Chesty," as it's named, is the Marine mascot. It comes from World War II and has the name Germans had for Marines: Devil Dogs. A dog is tattooed on the Marine's chest; "Ryan" is written in ink across his stomach. He has other tattoos, including a sniper's cross hairs on his right elbow. "Welcome Sgt. Ryan," reads a sign on the wall of his room in Helen Hayes Hospital, in West Haverstraw, a first-class physical rehabilitation center about an hour's drive east and south from his home town. A flag knitted in red, white and blue yarn, made by the hospital staff to greet Eddie, hangs over the sign. Letters and pictures, cards, even a wooden cross, cover a bulletin board. Some are from friends and neighbors, some from total strangers. The Marines promoted him to sergeant on Sept. 1. Sunlight pours into the spacious, private room. Eddie's hospital bed is its center. An ample padded chair sits in front of the window. It opens into a bed and Eddie's mom, Angela, sleeps in it every night. Staffers call her an angel. She has been at Eddie's side constantly for the past six months, from hospitals in Germany to Maryland to Virginia and now Rockland County. Her job as a cafeteria monitor in the Ellenville School District languishes. She lives out of a single suitcase tucked behind the chair. Eddie's only sister, Felicia, quit her job at Gander Mountain and dropped out of SUNY Orange to be with her brother, too. She has been there every day. His father Chris, after nearly four months at his son's side, had to return recently to work as a heavy- equipment operator in Westchester County. Now he drives to the hospital every day as soon as he can. "Our mission," Felicia says, "is to get Eddie better and work with him every day." Eddie shouts. It's reminiscent of a bird cry. Angela says it means his mind is working on something or he wants something. Eddie cries out again. Then his face calms. He pauses, as his brain searches for words. In a low voice, barely audible, he says, "Good to go. Staying motivated." "He's in there," his dad says. EDDIE HAD WANTED TO BE a Marine since he'd been 12. His dad was a Marine. In his senior year at Ellenville High School, Eddie knew he was destined to join the few, the proud, as the Marines advertise themselves. He had gotten more intense after the terrorists attacks on Sept. 11, 2001. "He had tunnel vision," Angela said. "He lived on working out and staying in shape." Eddie said he could bench-press 225 pounds. In June 2002, he graduated high school and immediately enlisted for a four-year hitch. One month later, he hit boot camp. In September that year, he left for Iraq, manning a machine gun. He fought in Nasariya and Ramadi, 70 miles northwest of Bagdhad. He saw buddies killed. "He would say, 'Mom, I can't wait to get out of this God-forsaken country," Angela said. He came home, but he wasn't done with Iraq. "His goal was to be the best. He always told me he wanted to be a sniper," she said. The sniper training went well. His years of hunting deer and squirrel in the woods around Ellenville paid off. Eddie was one of the top three in his sniper class of 100. He excelled at both pistol and rifle. A picture sits in his hospital room. It's of "Reaper 6," the team of snipers to which Eddie belonged as part of the 3rd Battalion, 2nd Marines. They are dressed in camouflage and grip the heavy rifles of their trade. Eddie's mom did not want to give their names. In March of this year, the unit shipped out for Iraq, Eddie with them. Why? "To make us free," he said. ANGELA SAID SHE HAD A horrible feeling something was wrong. There had been some bad fighting in the area where Eddie was. Chris had called to say it was OK, that Eddie's unit had moved out before that. "But I felt something was up, something was not right," she said. A Marine officer called. He asked if he could stop by in five minutes. When he and another officer arrived, Angela opened the door. "Tell me, is my son dead?" "No, but he is severely injured. We need to get you to Germany." Within hours, she and Chris and Felicia were on a flight. It was April 14. Eddie's buddies pulled him from that rooftop April 13 to safety. They did first aid and saved his life, Angela said. Military officials said last week that fellow Marines accidentally shot Eddie. He was tough, rock-solid at 200 pounds. On leave at home, he used to load his pack with rocks and go on long runs. The body in the American hospital in Germany weighed 250 pounds, swollen from wounds. It was strapped upright to allow the fluids to drain. "The only way to tell it was my son was the tattoos," she said. "They told us he wasn't going to make it. I slept in a chair for a week, just hoping and praying he would pull through. It was bad." Two-thirds of his brain had been affected by the bullet damage, including bruising. Doctors cut away part of his skull to make room for swelling. Surgeons removed as much of the bullet fragments as they could. Some they left behind. It was less damaging that way. They put Eddie in a coma for nearly four weeks. The first word he said when he came out of it was "Mom." SOMETIMES A SHUDDER runs through Eddie as he sits in his wheelchair in Helen Hayes. His family sees it as a good sign. "The doctors say the brain is like a river. It will reroute. What his brain has been doing is reconnecting," Angela said. Dr. Glenn Seliger, a neurologist at Helen Hayes Hospital, said Eddie's injury could have been worse. If the bullet had entered lower and traveled through the brain stem, he probably would not have survived. Yet a slower moving bullet wound have caused less collateral damage. The family says he hasn't lost his memories or his personality. The tray on his wheelchair has carefully chosen pictures under a clear plastic top: his home, his cherished Toyota Tacoma pickup and four-wheel all terrain vehicle, his family. He can name them all. Felicia arrived one morning, She threw her arms around his neck and told him, "I love you." He burped and laughed. He smiled at her when she made funny faces and blew kisses to a female photographer. In halting fashion, he answered many of a reporter's questions. "He is amazingly better than he was," Seliger said. "He is still very impaired from this injury, but I do expect continued significant improvement," Seliger said. "The big challenge is to become independent again and resume his life. He is doing a great job up to now ... but he has a very long haul ahead of him." THERAPY AIMS TO PUSH him down that road faster. Most days he has double sessions of physical and occupational therapy. A speech pathologist works with him as well. His days run from 8:30 in the morning to 4 or 5 in the afternoon. It is hard work. Two therapists pulled at Eddie to get him upright in a machine. Yelps spilled from his mouth until they settled his feet on footpads and hooked up the safety harness around his hips. His forearms rested on a shoulder-high shelf. "Stand up straight," one therapist said and pushed his shoulders back. Eddie did. The day before he had walked down the hallway outside his room with the help of a machine. Like a good Marine, he has set himself a goal to walk. How long, Felicia asks. "Ten weeks," he says. The family support makes a difference, much as the support and prayers from Ellenville and other places buoys the family. They even got help from Rep. Sue Kelly, R-Katonah, who pulled a few strings to get Eddie into Helen Hayes, Angela says. "Faster," Felicia and Angela urge Eddie as he turns the handle on a video game, part of his occupational therapy. The faster he twists it, the higher his score. The more they clamor, the faster he twists the handle. Behind the closed door to the office of speech pathologist Christina Zacharopoulos, Eddie works to shorten the pauses in his speech. It's working. "He's in there. His comprehension is intact," she said. "He remembers what happened (in Iraq), but he does not want to discuss it." He says he wants to put his uniform back on. "When are you shipping me back?" he asks. He means Iraq. "He wants to be with his boys," Angela says. Right now, it's one day at a time. Maybe six or eight weeks more at Helen Hayes. Then home to Ellenville, Angela says. "This kid is my hero," said Eddie's father, his voice soft. "I said to him, 'Eddie, your mission is not over. God's got a plan for you.' It's a long road, but Eddie's got a lot of determination. He knows. He's going to keep trying till he gets back."
Eddie could use some help along the way. He's getting the therapy he needs. Hospitals and Recuperation centers get lonely though, even with Mom there 24 hours a day. His sister comes as well and Dad is now coming right after work every day.... it's about a 2 to 2 and 1/2 hour drive depending on traffic, each way. The thing is, Eddie loves to hear from people. He loves to see pictures drawn by kids. Eddie loves to connect with people in this way.If you could send Eddie a card, a drawing by a child, a note, I'm sure he'd appreciate it! He loves getting mail!!!You can mail Eddie at this address:SGT. Eddie Ryan4A Room 12Helen Hayes Hospital Route 9WWest Haverstraw, NY10993

This is an oppurtunity to be charitable where it counts the most. No money required. As a matter of fact, shoot me an email for him, I'll print them all out and mail them myself. Or drop a note off at my house. We all know what it feels like to be lonely...

I Get all the Cool Stuff from SuperRob

20 years ago I was:Nine years old. In love with my horse and a boy named Hank who thought I was a human bowling ball.
15 years ago I was: Dating a boy six years older than me who just about sent my soul packing for the underworld until a guardian angel swooped down and saved me from the clutches of hell. sigh.
10 years ago I was: A hard charging US Marine, running, shooting, playing war and headed for Kosovo (almost)
5 years ago I was: Realizing that after UMaryland and UMass, I was never going to actually finish an engineering degree, but was still struggling at it anyway, wondering what I wanted to be when I grew up.
1 year ago I was: Realizing I wanna be a writer when I grow up.
Yesterday: Chilled with Mamaw, my mother in law, went to Acapulcos, my most favoritest restaurant and stuffed myself like a sausage full of beef chimichanga.
5 snacks I enjoy: Apples with cheese, peanut butter with spoon, chips with salsa, mediteranian style yogurt, chocolate
5 songs I know all the words to: American Pie, Entire Phantom of the Opera (you can call an opera 1 big song, you know) Roxie, I gotta man, Marines Hymn
5 things I would do with a million dollars: Invest for my future, set up a trust fund for the kids, Pay off my mortgage, Buy a summer home in Scotland, add on to my house
5 places I would run away to: Scotland, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland
5 things I would never wear (unless someone was holding a gun to my head... or it was for a show): lederhosen, anything lycra, a bikini, that skin suit from Silence of the lambs, a wolverine hat
5 favorite TV programs: Lost, Craig Ferguson, Desperate Housewives, 2 1/2 Men, Ellen
5 bad habits: Reading Delta Hotel's mind, Smoking, Staying up too late, drinking too much coffee, thinking I am the alpha and the omega
5 biggest joys: My BABIES, Writing, reading, hope, feeling like I've got a grip on things
5 favorite toys: Computer, I don't have any toys. That I can mention. WAHHHHHHHH
5 fictional characters I would like to have dinner with: ERIK (Phantom) ,Walter Mitty, The Connecticut Yankee, Mma Ramotswe, Tom Buchanan
5 people I tag to do this: Do, or do not. There is no tag.

Why I HAte the Dusk

When I was little, about 4 or 5, my mother was dying from cancer. She went in and out of the hospital, nine times in all, and when she wasn't dying of cancer she was working three jobs. I missed her. An only child with no family but my grandfather, I was shuffled around when she went sick. This particular time I was staying with my grandfather. My grandmother had recently died from cancer, ironically, and the two of us, both grieving the people we loved the best, were in a world of shit. I hated staying with my grandfather because most of the time he was a cold, loathsome, boring German WWII vet. The rest of the time he was a manic, entertaining German WWII vet, but not this time, when he'd lost his wife, was losing his daughter and was saddled with me. I wanted my mother so badly, and after waiting and waiting for her to pick me up I asked in frustration when she would arrive. My grandfather waffled and hemmed and hawed and finally told me, "Your mother is zeek, she ist in zee hospital, she vill come for you vhen she can." I remember being so angry that I had to stay at that boring stinky house that I screamed, "I hate her!" My grandfather picked me up, put me on the cold, scratchy polyester sofa diagonal from the window and quietly said, "Zen I hate you." and he walked away. I sat on the couch as the sun sank down the sky until the treetops were lonely sillhoutes against the dusk and the house was completely dark and silent but for the soft clucking of the clock on the wall, until finally my grandfather came back. "I like you again." he said.

Recap and Discovery of New Species

Thanksgiving at the Asylum was, in a word, GREAT!! I'd rank this at one of the, if not the best in a long time. I only set one fire, very early. But I like to think of that as tradition. Kind of a T-Day kickoff. It's not really Thanksgiving until the smoke detectors go off, and besides, creole turkey is tres chic.

Everyone got along great. There were no pissing contests, no hurt feelings, no crying and the night did not end in vomit. Perfection.

Today we took my MIL to Honeypot in Stow because she loves it there. After we'd had some cider and donuts and apples we went to weave our way in and out of the early Christmas trees over to the animals. We fed the demonic goats, the roosters, the bunnies and the .... Hmm. What was that animal? It was a bird, black feathered and web toed like a duck, the size of a turkey yet it had a crown like a rooster. Very ugly creature indeed. I've tried to find a picture of it on the net but I can't. If you google "ugly goose" that's about as close as I can guide you. It wasn't till I was leaving that I realized what we had seen. A real live turducken.

In a nutshell...

I don't really get it. But that's ok.

Gearing Up For Thanksgiving at the Asylum

Lo I have retreated to the depths of hell and faced the sulfurous breath of the great demon himself, handed him a curiously strong mint and emerged tempered by the eternal fires. And now it's time to cook dinner for the following cast:
1. Logarrhea afflicted mother-in-law
2. Emerging-from-catatonic-fugue state father
3. Recently burned friend
4. Hopelessly confused and lethargic undecided husband
5. Assorted ferile children
6. Zen like mother and almost step-father (both black belts)
7. Emotionally needy mastiff

A drunk woman called me tonight. She'd found my number by calling the operator and asking for my father. Once, I recieved mail addressed to my paternal grandmother who died when I was but a wee ovum. My therapist told me that I am an earth mother and attract people who need nurturing. Really, I think all roads to insanity end here. But that's ok. WHat I learned in hell is this: Make peace with yourself. You are truly only resposible for what goes on inside your own soul. When you're ok, and you can look around the Thanksgiving table unconditionally, peacefully, grateful for the motley crew assembled before you, then you can really start to live.

Why I Haven't Posted

Delta Hotel is back to vacillating, so I am on a hunger strike and far too weak to post. Delta Hotel is famous for outdoing me. If I am sick, he has walking pneumonia. When I was pregnant with middle, he managed to lodge a kidneystone into his miniature ureter and explode in hydronephrosis. I cut off the tip of my thumb, a week later he practically lacerated an artery. I'll tell you, this is one time he WON'T WIN. I am going to outdepress him, AND be a size six to boot.

Answer:

Not Yet.

T-17 hours

Tommorow is D-Day. Between the hours of 1 and 2 PM, Delta Hotel will announce his decision. The polls are closed. SO, please, cross your fingers, legs, toes, anything you can manage to cross. Pray, chant, meditate, if you have a voodoo doll of Delta Hotel, please use it. I'll tell y'all how it goes just as soon as I know.

Today I learned

That I can no longer do a headstand. I'm not sure where the miscommunication is, but something in my body just does not follow orders and thusly, I am now suffering from whiplash, six slipped disks and a bruised brain stem. OK I made that up, but the fact remains, there is a mutinous group of muscles inside me somewhere. I'm reminded of this past spring when it seemed like a great idea to do a handstand in the front yard. I executed perfectly, but once I reached the pinnacle, my legs thought they should keep going and I ended up flat on my back with the wind knocked out of me staring up at a group of stunned and slightly amused neighbors. I think I will sign up for an adult gymnastics class at the Y.

Hormones have settled

Like a blanket of nuclear fallout. I am seething at Delta Hotel right now. Tonight is the ball. As you can see, I am not at it. I am eating a king size Reese's Peanut Butter Cup instead. Delta Hotel is not the only one with issues. I have some too. It's time for me to pull them bad boys out of the closet, dust em off and slap em down on the table. Take that, Delta Hotel, I'll take your avoidance and raise you one Reverse Oedipal Complex. I'm tired of sweeping my feelings under the rug. Delta Hotel picked the wrong time of the month to hold out on decision making. When he comes home from Peoria tonight, I won't be alone. I've invited my good friends Estrogen and Progesterone along. Us and Delta Hotel are gonna have a little chat. (sound of cracking knuckles)

Gotta Give Props

To my Alma Mater. I would be nothing without having lived this....

Happy Birthday Marines

Oohrah

Apparently

Business trip = eating festival. Delta Hotel has been gone for 3 days and has eaten at 7 different restaurants. There are over 124 restaurants in Peoria. I figure he can cover a third of them if he keeps going at this rate, eating his way across Peoria like a mutant caterpillar. You know, Peoria does translate to "Place of fat beasts". Earlier on the phone he gleefully informed me that tonight would be a smorgasboard of beef. Delta Hotel is apparently in hyperphasia. Ah well. Maybe if he stuffs himself as full as a strained bratwurst he'll be forced to decide in my favor. Eat baby, eat.

Patriotism

I went to an art show this weekend and bought two pieces. The same amount of money at WalMart would have bought me a new set of dishes, a mat for the front door, some tulip bulbs to plant for spring, an eight pack of socks, a couple of outfits for the offspring, laundry detergent, a whole mess of nasty lunchbox snacks and the new People magazine at the checkout line. (I really do want to know how Britney lost sixty punds in thirty days.) ANd maybe I could have thrown in a couple of cheap watered down prints to overcompensate for the art I'd have left behind.

But, aside from some self-indulgent escapist hoarding, what would I have gained? Cheap rolled back prices are instant gratification. Goods are goods, cost is cost, and I'm thinking somebody has to suffer for the smiley face. Who makes the stuff on the shelves of WalMart? What can they possibly be paid per hour for a hand painted door decoration that costs $4? And what's the impact of the fact that nearly any item you flip over is stamped "Made in China?" Would I have supported the job security of the dozens of employees inside? I think not considering the average salary of a WalMart employee is below America's poverty line and half of their full time employees are without health care. I'd say those jobs are ripe for the picking...with all the money WalMart saves from their employees paychecks they can afford to stay in business. But really what I;m thinking about today is the small, local merchants that can't compete with WalMart's bottom line, so they either fold or never get the chance to open.

The art that will hang on my walls after the show is over is a small triumph for true, local talent. I could only afford to buy two pieces, but I will savor them. I will be proud of them. I would rather have two beautiful examples of local culture than a dozen bags of cheap imported junk. Besides, if we don't reward our artists, our photographers, our writers,painters, craftsmen, the record keepers of our culture, what will become of them? Only sweat-shops work for free.

Evil Lurketh

I have this great friend. 99% of the time, she is an angel on earth. She's an accomplished, super accomplished nurse. She's saved kajillions of lives. She's so good that now she's in charge of all the nurses in the world. She's a philanthropist. Next weekend she is going to feed all the homeless people in Boston Thanksgiving dinner. She's a great mom. Her kids are well-adjusted, smart, compassionate. But. BUTBUTBUT. SHe has a mean streak. SHe KNOWS Delta Hotel is out of town for the week. She knows my narcissistic family has an obsession with dangling mirrors on every otherwise unoccupied inch of wall. Her own husband helped Delta Hotel install the porn star closet doors in my room. SHe KNOWS I am deathly afraid of little boys in the mirror. So what does this saintly Mother Theresa of moms do?

"Tell the boy in the mirror I say hi, DiDi."
"Cover the mirror up with a sheet. Oh, never mind, that'll just make you wonder what's really behind them."
"Don't look in the mirror."

And every possible variation on that theme that you can think of. NIce, huh? So, when my body is found, hunched in the corner of the bathroom floor, frozen stiff with rigor mortis because I have died of fright, CALL TIARA.

And for the record, I want my epitaph to read :
I Told You So.

Ah Well

Delta Hotel is off for a week's worth of business in Peoria. Peoria. Sounds like a venerial disease. "Don't mess around with Bruce, he's got Peoria. I hear he's on pennicillan, but still, it's REAL catchy." Really, this is what it means. Well, that's a little American nugget. Any city that can boast having the words "fat, beast, butt and Nixon in it's official entymological definition is pretty damn special if you ask me.

Another interesting American Nugget is something I learned from TeeDubya. Do the following:

1. Go to Google

2. Type in Failure

3. Hit I'm Feeling Lucky

4. Laugh your arse off at the ironic fellow who came up with this one.

Cheers!

The Surreal (PAST?) Life

Yesterday I was discussing Delta Hotel's dilemma (using code words of course!) with two friends on two seperate occasions. First was my dear friend ElEn. She gave me the sage, but somewhat out of context advice, "When the student is ready, the master appears." Interesting, but as it had little more than nothing to do with my tirade of complaints, I didn't give it much thought. Later, during Gee Dubya's rude interuption of Rosa Park's funeral, I was reminded by EmEl that I had not yet consulted a higher power. Pray, meditate, dance around a tree stump nekkid, whatever, I hadn't done it.

While the offspring were at school today I wore myself out with so many errands that I found myself in desperate need of an obscenely priced latte. While I was in Starbucks, searching for a place to sit, a man slid a newspaper away from his face and said,
"Hey there, Didi."
It was our great mystical philosopher friend The Jackamaniac! So, I sat down with him and prepared to listen, as one who sits with The Jackamaniac will surely recieve an education. He told me some of his latest theories on child raising and Genesis v. Big Bang, then I slipped in some hints about Delta Hotel's decision. (or lack thereof) After a moment of stony faced introspection, The Jackamaniac came up weith the most beautiful and profound theory, likening Delta Hotel to the king on a chess board. Every life is a story, he said. Delta Hotel's story might include this decision, but he must be careful how he weaves the tale for his daughters. He said that Delta Hotel must decide whether to be part of the few for the good of the many, or part of the many for the good of the few. Suddenly, a woman neither of us had ever met came and sat down beside us. She fit into the conversation as if she'd been there all along, and neither The Jackamaniac nor eye even raised an eyebrow at her presence, which is wierd enough alone. But then she looked at me with eyes as startlingly blue as the November sky and she told me to operate from a feeling of unconditional acceptance. She stood up, thanked us for including her and handed me her business card. As I put it in my wallet I looked at it and read "Divine Intervention." Now, I don't know if that would wierd you out or not, but two prophesies from the day prior had been fulfilled at Starbucks, no less. I stood up to leave as well, I had to pick up the girls and the milk and eggs I had left in the car were in frantic need of a refrigerator. I said, "It was really nice to meet you again," gave The Jackamaniac a hug, and turned to leave.
"You just said 'again'", said the stranger.
And so I did. Have we met before? Hmmm.

Later, Delta Hotel and I went to "mediation" to help him make up his mind and to help me to keep myself from choking him before he does it. Really, it's therapy. I am so freaking happy to have a therapist I could do cartwheels. If I'd known how great it is to tell all your problems to someone whose sole purpose is to listen patiently then fix them, I'd have been in therapy all along. My friend ElBee said that I better not like therapy too much or I will turn into Woody Allen. Let me know if you see this happening, okay?

Today

at noon I watched the funeral for Rosa Parks. I was baffled, at first, that none of the major networks were carrying it. I saw The Price is Right and The View and Ellen, but the funeral for the catalyst of the civil rights movement was nowhere to be found. "Only on CNN," my dear friend EmEl lamented. "One of the most profound historical moments in American history, and it's only covered on CNN."

So we watched. And suddenly, in the middle of a old Negro spiritual, Gee Dubya burst in. Breaking news. He's having lunch with the future King of England. They're shaking hands!

Rosa Park's funeral and not only is the most prominant Republican on the planet not there, but the only network covering the event considers news of his lunch date far more pressing.

If that's not an illustration of the degradation of society, then I just don't know what is.

The Clock in the Bathroom

Goes tick-tock, tick-tock. I thought for a while, I heard wish-wash, flip-flop, but I was wrong. I hear it clearly now, tick-tock, tick-tock: Delta Hotel's metronome. He's buying peace and easing me into his stupid decision by confusing me with hope. I'm onto him.

Watch and See

I bet everyone on Pres. Bush's Christmas Card distribution list gets a supreme court nomination gift certificate in their card this year. SHoot, I bet he's handing them out as tricks today.

What Will Happen Can't Be Stopped

I've tapped my best tapdance in my best butt shaping mini-skirt. I've pulled all my fancy rabbits out of all my finest hats. I've spread a banquet table of evidence for the jury to peruse, and I've made my final, breathtaking comments. The judge has retreated to his chambers, court is in recess, and I will wait will bated breath for Delta Hotel to make up his Ant Jemima flipping mind. But I'll wring his neck with his own damn bowstring if his scales don't tip in my favor. And then you'll get the whole story, hot off the press.

SPOOOOOOOOKY

Every now and then, my youngest daughter (who is still young enough to see such things) sees things the rest of us cannot. Often she will point and cry and ask "Mummy WAS DAT??!!". So, a couple of weeks ago, before Delta Hotel's never ending quandary reached the nailbiting crescendo it has, one such episode occured over dinnertime. The air in the dining room changed, became static, chilly, malevolent. Youngest started to cry, her lower lip trembling. "Mummy, I scared." Like a gazelle leaping from a cheetah's hungry jaws, she jumped from her highchair onto my lap. Escaping from some unseen predator. I, not overly fond of terrifying things as you know, wondered, what'd he say in Exorcist?

According to our youngest, whoever was in the room with us was sticking by Delta Hotel. Delta Hotel is the quintessential Marine. He just sat there with his big old blinky eyes, completely unfazed by the fact that Satan was leeching off his brain waves, chewing on some meatloaf and drinking his water while the rest of us squeezed ourselves onto my chair like a bunch of half-witted clowns.

Luckily, Delta Hotel's best friend is well-versed in the paranormal. As a matter of fact, he's licensed. Who you gonna call? I hadn't even hung up the phone with his wife before he was knocking on our front door, like Terminex but for ghosts. He came in, unpacked his case of equipment and before I could even say "Boo!" (sorry.) his meter was finding activity in the very corner youngest had indicated. He checked the house, endured the assault of Darling Dog who is madly in lust with him, (yes, it's gross but true) and left me with a voice-activated tape recorder to set up on the dining room table before going to sleep.

Sometime during the night, the kitchen timer went off. It wasn't saying it's usual bee-bee-bee-beep, however. It was shrieking maddeninly, loud enough to wake up both me and Delta Hotel.
"Go turn it off, Delta Hotel,"I whispered.
"You turn it off."
"I can't I'm too scared."
Snore

But eventually it ceased and I resumed sleep, and fell into the lull of my lacking attention span. I remembered the voice activated tape recorder midway through the before school dance of threats, coercion and Sponge Bob.
"Shit. This thing is taping me." Is, I believe, the last thing on the tape.

I rewound the tape and listened. There was my footsteps retreating to the bedroom, Darling Dog snuffling and jingling (no doubt fantasizing about our friend the Ghost Hunter) then a peculiar "Grawk" noise, followed by some banging and more jingling (a la Darling Dog) and at last the sounds of Delta Hotel getting ready for work. I stopped the tape there. (No need to relive my Mommy Dearest episode) What was lacking was the kitchen timer. That thing could have raised the dead, and may have, yet it wasn't on the tape.

But, my attention span prevailed and I forgot about the tape until last night. Our friend the Ghost Hunter came over to help Delta Hotel install our new wood stove and, as an after thought, I grabbed his tape recorder. I told him about the timer and the one strange noise that I hadn't explained, the "Grawk". He listened and knew right away what it was.
"Delta Hotel. Someone said, 'Delta Hotel'" .
Whew. Creepy. I have to admit, I was relieved the walking dead weren't saying "Didi." But what does it mean???

WHO IS THIS VILE SPECTRE AND WHY DOTH HE TORMENT US SO? DID HE PAINT OUR PUMPKIN?

There is a vigil

Tonight at 6:30 at the town green to honor the fallen troops and their families. More info here.

It's a pity party

And you're all invited.

Really, it's too beautiful a day for me to feel so very sorry for myself. Also, I'm wasting a perfectly good hormone balance which doesn't happen often. I could be in a REALLY good mood today, if only I wasn't so miserable.

I try, I really do, to put things in perspective. At least we aren't under water or fire or communist rule (yet). I still don't have bone marrow cancer. I know that a lot of people have it a lot worse than I do. But you know what? Perspective is gloomy. I have enough problems of my own without being depressed about everyone else's as well. Gloomy. Who thought of that word?

I think I'll just hang out here for a little while until I feel better. Of course, there's always here as well.

Wouldn't be Rich for all the Money in the World

Someone very near and dear to my heart is involved in something so controversial that I can't even risk you guessing at the pseudonym I make up. Suffice it to say that s/he runs in very elite circles. I mean, we're talking second home on the Riviera type of elite. "Thanks for the lovely birthday gift, Senator," type of elite. But the cost is time. There is an epidemic of parental neglect rampant in the hallowed halls of many coveted prep schools.

My middle daughter might be the most sensitive soul on the planet earth. Tonight she told me, sobbing, that she felt lonely. She cried in turn for each friend, each family member, even a neighbors dog who passed away two years ago. She cried for all the time that's passed in which she hasn't played. SHe cried for all the little issues that break the heart of a soulful five year old, and I listened the whole time. WHen she was done, I wiped her eyes and held her in her little bed and told her about all the wonderful things she can be happy about. I didn't wish for more money or a private jet or "connections". I looked into her round, trusting eyes and I thanked God that when she needs me, I am there. I am there. Such a priceless commodity, time, and I wouldn't trade it for all the money in the world.

Wouldn't be Rich for all the Money in the World

Poor Delta Hotel.

He's really caught between a rock and a hard place. Only, the rock is really a great thing and the hard place is really a sucky thing. Only he can't see that. People who are stuck there, wedged between two gargantuan things, rarely can. And all the repetitious coaxing in the world can't get them out of it. Somethimes you gotta just reach down, grab hold, pull on your big girl panties and make a decision. Decisions move mountains. Poor Delta Hotel. He's a Libra. His mountains weigh heavier.

On a Previous Entry

My make believe German from a previous post has been elliciting some response. I grew up in a German-speaking household and can understand it if it's spoken reeeeeaaaaaaaaal slow, can read a bit but speak very little. However, I'll tell you why you need to love the German language. Next time you need to motivate peoples, particulary small peoples, dogs, terrorists or drivers who feel as though they need to drive eighty miles an hour to get in front of you at the red light by Wal-Greens, holler the following: "Das ist der bahtzimmer und ich murkte ein banana und ein glas weis wein bitte!" I'm telling you, you'll get results. German is a results-motivating language. I'm sure you'll find plenty of uses for that statement. Can you imagine the look on Gee Dubya's face when hearing that line? Wait, scratch that, he's waged war for less. You can yell it at the banker, the police officer, the potential thug, whomever you want. Just don't tell them it means you're in the bathroom and you want a banana and a glass of white wine, please. (I didn't say I was FLUENT for chrissakes.)

Beyond These Borders There Be Dragons

Delta Hotel is off for the weekend, and whenever he's gone I turn into this great, bloated seed-crystal carcass attracting all the scary things that you can only see when you look over your shoulder in the mirror. That's why, if you drive by my house tonight or even tommorow, you will find it ablaze in an electric-company orgasm. I'm not afraid of the dark, just the dead little boys with long fingers and black eyes that lurk in it. It doesn't help matters any that Delta Hotel, in a fit of eccentricity, installed massive porn-star mirrored closet doors, gateways to the underworld, right next to the bed. Boy am I glad we have Darling Dog. As long as the ironing board, vacuum and rake don't attack, he'll protect us.

Oh Happy Day

Lost is on.

If I ever meet the writers of this show I'm gonna buy them all an ice cream.

Darling Dog is either is suffering from an acute case of split personality disorder, or he has spent his spare time learning how to channel Cujo. Or maybe he's channeling Sybil. At any rate, I needed to bring in the heavy gunner today, my German mother who could make Sasquatch heel and sit for ten minutes. My mother worked on Darling Dog and his irrational fear of rakes, vacuums and ironing boards , and she also worked on me. After outfitting me in jodphurs, leathers and a riding crop, she showed me how to command obedience from that wicked creature. So, if you meet me on the street and I greet you with something like "Gerflugershteiten maksetehd die", please, understand, I am simply method acting.

My Dear Friend eLeN

left this comment, so profound and also a challenge. Let's all find the gift in this day.

"My father taught me many things in this life, but one of the most n.b. is to find the gift each day and savour it. Some days it will be that great blue heron that flies over head for a split second or hearing your youngest child from the back seat say "Mommy when will my frunkle go away?" The trick is to catch the moment and hold on to it for as long as you can. The more you can do this the less time between the gifts. " ~ElEn

Dog Did a Bad, Bad Thing

The only good things about yesterday were that it ended and I didn't have bone marrow cancer. One redeeming quality about life is that no matter how many times you get sent to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200, the sun always rises on a new day. And from time to time, you'll find a Get Out of Jail free card in your pocket.

Coyote Junction

Ever have so much to say that you can't possible get it all out at once?

Yesterday was so jam-packed with excitement that I don't even know where to begin. Before I'd even blinked the sleep from my eyes, I received an email from my Soul-Sister beseeching me to concoct a dissertation on my stance on marijuana legalization, which, due to my lack of coffee, monthly hormonal imbalance and it's side effect - a generalized irritation with Delta Hotel - evolved into a torential rant against tyrrany, taxes, moral authority, the current administration and the Parliament. Poor frightened Soul Sister has not answered my email yet.

Then, while attempting to drop the Bird off at CCD and creep back out before anyone noticed me and thought about asking why I have not attended Mass in the last year, I had a complete religious epiphany only to return home and discover that a renegade gang of coyotes had besieged my neighborhood, eating pets and picking on old people. Then, I realized that my dishwasher is not broken after all, just unable to digest the non-dishwasher soap I was feeding it. After that we found EmEl (who had knee surgery last week) hopping around like Tripod, the three legged dog, cooking pork and chicken on the grill and cutting up pecan pies, caught in a great frenzy of cooking and Gospel music. We came home, fell victim to an evil manipulative plot, then went over the Metalica's house for dinner which is always a great way to wind down a day, even when Delta Hotel locks their children in a dark room and makes them cry.

FYI

In case you're wondering why it's stopped raining, it's because I am retaining so much water that I have literally sucked all the moisture out of the atmosphere. People with sump pumps, you're welcome. No gifts are neccessary, but if you insist I am partial to dark chocolate and books. Now, if someone would kindly get me a salt lick I will be on my way.

Hardly a Minute to Spare

Because Murphy, after having read my previous blog entry, has flexed his mischevious muscles upon my unsuspecting dishwasher. That's right, folks, I'ma havin' ta scrub them there dishes by hand. I'm not sure why that makes me speak like a West Virginian (not that that's a bad thing) but it does. And Sears is all booked up for weeks and weeks and weeks, swimming in broken dishwasher repair slips, and they don't even care that my poor hands are going to crack and bleed from all the work I have to do now. As a matter of fact, they relish the thought of it. They won't even write my work order until one of my knuckles splits open. Have they no compassion? Are they not human? Just what order of monster answers the phone's over there?

Also, I am not in the proper mindset for writing since I am in the middle of a hormonal nuclear winter. I should be fine in a few days.

Now Don't Get Me Wrong,

I couldn't love my washing machine or dishwasher more if I'd given birth to them. Last night while I was cleaning up, I thought about all my sisters who came before me, forced to name the days of the week according to the chores. (Monday's wash day, Tuesdays iron day etc...) These days, like strange domestic time-travellers, we can span an entire week's worth of chores in an afternoon. This is the age of streamlined convenience. There is a method or a gadget to reduce the time it takes to do just about everything. Our society rockets down the black-top, multi-tasking all the way because the quicker we get things done, the more time we have to do more things.

Have you ever been part of a swimming pool whirlpool? The longer you walk the easier it gets as centifugal force pulls you along, forcing you to participate even if you'd rather stop and play a game of Marco Polo. Water splashing up the lip of the pool, hands scraping on the concrete, eyes bulging with frenzied vortex creation.

Swimming pool whirlpool as a metaphor for life... Faster and faster round and round we go, never slowing down to ENJOY the life we are working so hard to create, never kicking up and floating on momentum, just continuing around faster still. Until something spins off under the water... heart attack, anxiety attack, vague feelings of unease, obesity, road rage...all baggage for the journey.

By we, I guess I really mean I. I can't speak for the rest of the world although I'd love to think that you all are just as mentally ill as I am. I try to make a meal in under thirty minutes. My family tries to eat it in under five. There's always something to do somewhere to go, and that's how I gained weight. Part of living in the now is doing less in more time. Preparing a meal that is healthy, nutritious and good, looking forward to sitting down together and then savoring it rather than choking it down like a half-starved wolfhound.

Watching listening, touching, smelling, living our lives sensually rather than laser-focused. Taking the time to float and enjoy the momentum of life for a little while.

Grace

Tonight I was planning on writing about Yom Kippur and the issues I have reflected on. But then I received an email that made my fat ass, strange delusional fantasies about torturing the people I hold pit-bullish grudges against, and excessive use of the f-word seem, well, petty.

There's this woman in my writing group, Kay, and her husband has brain cancer. Tonight Kay emailed to tell us that her husband is declining exponetially and she won't be able to come back for a while. Now, Kay is this beacon of goodness. She's got what most of the world longs for, a deep, solid pocket of hope and faith. And when you are with her, that hope is contagious. She sees the possibility in everything. To know that tonight she is out there in this October gloom, suffering, it makes me cry.

Two years ago, almost three, another good friend lost her husband to cancer. A year before that, my soul-sister's toddler daughter died. It's such a cliche to say that life is fragile, precious, not to be taken for granted. It's so smug, so trite to say that. But tonight, I feel like there's only one thing for me to focus, reflect on, absorb and make part of my very essence. Live every moment, squeeze every single second of life because right now, everything is ok. Tommorrow that may not be. But right now, this one, single, okay moment is perfection. That is the state of grace.

God I Love Lost

I really do. I can't wait to find out what's up with that crazy island. I hope they don't pull some stupid X-Files shit where you don't ever find out what the hell is out there. It took me a lot of meditation to get over that let down, and sometimes I still relapse.

Also, there is an uncomfortable trend manifesting in my daily display of large motor skills. Two days ago, I was walking down the hall, happily wearing my purple plaid pajamas that OHM gave me, when the most inconceivable thing happened. Somehow, in blatant disregard of the laws of physics, my right foot became tangled in my left pant leg, I went airborn for half a second, then bellyflopped on the hardwood floor. Delta Hotel watched the whole thing from the comfort of the armchair in the living room. I was up, he saw me, then I was down in a house-quaking tumble of epic proportion. Then today I was bringing Darling Dog outside for his mid morning poo-poo when the combination of new driving moccasins, never ending wrath-of-God drizzle and slimy deck all conspired to whip my feet out from underneath me as if I were starring in an old silent film and had just stepped on an errant banana peel. Except I wasn't silent. I yelled the f-word loud enough for mothers in Tibet to cover the ears of their inncoent offspring. Darling Dog thought this was a gorgeous display of playfulness, worthy of his mounting, which is really just adding insult to injury.

What is the message I am supposed to be getting? Have I inadvertantly summoned the slapstick spirits of the Three Stooges? Do I have an inner ear imbalance? Do I need remedial walking lessons?

I am not so fond of Invasion, and it's on now, so I'm off to soak my sore ass in some Epsom Salts.

Correction and shout out

That was a hot Leuitenant Colonel, Delta Hotel reminded me. Far more embarrassing. And good morning P. Cakes! Holla!

OK, I'm a dork but

I can’t wait for the ball. This year, Delta Hotel got promoted so we get to sit at the grown-up table. Last year, and every ball before (including my own enlisted balls) has been spent at the kid table. That's not so bad when you're a kid and have yet to find a pucker across your youthful abdomen, never mind the rogue shar pei belly that the birthing of children heaps upon you thanklessly.

Last year, I was having a rather uninspiring conversation with this gorgeous young girlfriend of one of Delta Hotel's friends when we discovered that we were wearing the same pair of shoes. "When you're just starting out, it's hard to afford shoes like these," she said. "I'm sure you remember...not that you're old or anything," she gushed. So, I did what any self-respecting, youthfully challenged, utterly chagrined woman would do. I went back to the kid table and drank my old ass eighteen again. Mind you, drunk eighteen is only charming on an eighteen year old. By the time Delta Hotel dragged me, the last woman standing, out of that ball I had heckled the Sergeant Major, contributed to the underage drinking of a Japanese girl on a student visa, gushed the same three lines to the hot leutenant for fifteen minutes straight IN FRONT OF HIS WIFE, and would have flashed the DJ for a free copy of "Lady Killers", except for the fact that my bodice was all but polyurethened to my chest. (Not for lack of trying, I got the movie anyway. AND a cup.) Now that I think about it, I'm surprised Delta Hotel is bringing me back to the ball.

The point is, this year will be different. Must not be matronly old drunk cow this year. So, I've been following this diet. It's not the coolest diet out there. But I hadn't planned on telling anyone, just magically becoming young and hot again. But, I made the mistake of forgetting to put the book away. There it was on the kitchen table when CeBe W. came to pick up Jay. Before I could throw my body upon it, grenade style, CeBe W. had already placed a single index finger on the cover. One dark brow raised as my cool points floated out the window like steam from a fresh apple pie.

"What," she said, with cultured disdain, "Is this?"

And so now I admit it. I bare my soul before you all. My name is DiDi, and I am addicted to Denise Austin.

And so, thusly, the humiliation for the '05 ball season begins. Let the good times roll!

Whoops

Musta been too much chocolate cake. That would be ONE SCORE and fifteen years ago. One. Sorry Delta Hotel :)

What a Day!

Happy Thanksgiving Canada!

Happy Columbus Day...um...well...eh...not really I guess.

Happy BIRTHDAY DELTA HOTEL!!!!

Two score and fifteen years ago KayEs brought forth on this continent a new son, and boy am I glad she did.

READ BANNED BOOKS

I just stumbled across the American Library Association webpage, and I discovered that out of the top 100 banned books, 39 are personal favorites. I am not an advocate of banning books or any other moral decision the government wants to make for me. If I wanted to live with my parents for my entire life, I would have.

SO, from now on I am going to make it a point to read banned books and practive every single civil liberty I can. First I must re-read The Constitution. Hmm, come to think of it, I wonder if it's on the ALA list....
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Top 100 banned books

The Fall is Rolling In

Yesterday's Thoughts:

Nature's tranquilizer: a rainy day. If I could take a peek in Mother Nature's dayplanner, I'd guess she chose today to roll out the scarlet and gold carpet of autumn. Delta Hotel woke up with a yen to pull out the fireplace, so I took the kids shopping at that great, golden, chicken ranch of commodities commonly referred to as "The Mall" (duh-duh-dum). I suffer from a deep seated loathing bordering on phobia of The Mall , but Delta Holtel says that he has sensitive skin. He says he can only use a "certain" kind of soap or he will become dry and itchy. Delta Hotel's magical eight dollar bar of soap can only be found deep in the lubricious heart of The Mall at a store that set me up for a twelve step program when I couldn't stop buying their freaking lotions many years ago. Strangely, Delta Hotel adores The Mall, but as it is his birthday on Monday, I felt that sending him on this errand would be a bit crass.
One of the reasons I avoid The Mall is because I abandon self control at the door and assume this rabid hyde-like alter ego who believes herself to be very rich and very needy of all things she sees.
"Promise me you won't let me buy anything but soap," I begged my eight year old daughter. "Not a thing."
We made it to theSoap Store fine, but then I realized that in the year I had avoided it, the store had grown exponetially and in it's growth someone had labeled every single bottle of lotion with my name. The salesgirl was very happy to show me all the changes and when my poor little daughter reminded me that I mustn't overspend, I shut her up with some American Girl bath products. All anyone has to do to get me to buy something is promise it will make me thin, beautiful or happy, and that devil af a salesgirl new it. Just as the rabid drool around my mouth began to dry and I thought I might make it to the checkout counter with a spoonful of dignity intact, that wretched girl hit me with a sucker punch - the sales.

Come Now....

I came of age during the lifespan of Party of Five, so I'm not entirely convined I can take Jennifer Love Hewitt seriously, but I'm willing to try for The Ghost Whisperer.

During commercials, I want to write about several issues that I find...disturbing.

First of all, I am a bit horrified thinking about this whole quarantine situation. Delta Hotel and I were driving down the street today after a delicious lunch at Eo Noodle when he triggered one of my spontanious soapbox monologues. He said, "I think the quarantine is a good idea." Or something equally as me-irritating, it doesn't really matter. Delta Hotel likes to make believe that he is hard of hearing when I unleash my inner orater so he patiently stared out the window as I explained my fears. What if Beepee, our across the street neighbor, contracted The Bird Flu and we had her over to dinner so we were exposed to it and then the Federalized National Guard came in like storm troopers and took us all to the quarantine camp. What if Delta Hotel was quarantined with all the other Delta Hotels, I was quarantined with all the other women and the kids were taken away to pediatric quarantine? I know I learned something about similar scenarios in history class. Something smacks of internment and....even worse. Now, after reading all that, do you realize that I have succumbed to the clever diversionary tactic of fear??? (See Just a Harmless Observation Part Deux) Curses!

Another thing that's got me kind of freaked out is the fact that legislators in Indiana are attempting to pass a law that puts limitations on who can and can not become a parent. It's called the Unauthorized Reproduction Bill.

The third item on my list is Florida's new Stand Your Ground Bill. Might not want to take the kids to Disney this year, Floridians are armed. Maybe I should ask them to send me Delta Hotel's birthday present.

And lastly, why do I always attempt to lose weight in the fall? When will I learn that in a previous lifetime I was a bear and that all my cells are genetically programmed to enter hyperphasia before winter hits?

So, The Ghost Whisperer was not exactly what I expected. I thought it would be spooky, but it's melodramatic. I like JLH more than I expected to, and I actually got all choked up on the last scene. Mainly because the girl "going into the light" looks a lot like my oldest daughter.

Rating: Guilty Pleasure.

Just a Harmless Observation Part Deux

Have you ever noticed that whenever certain people in high ranking postitions (with the initials Gee Dubya perhaps) make decisions that seem to have very little to no basis in reality, decisions that might make us question just what monkey is pulling the strings, all of a sudden a great national disaster threatens or befalls us?

For instance: "Don't question my decision for Sandra Day O'Conner's replacement. Look over there! A deadly bird flu!"

On to a more frivoulous note: Black tie season nearly upon us. Every year at this time I try to starve myself down a size. So, I have roughly five weeks until our first event of the year. I'll be trying a combination Dr. Weil/French Woman Don't Get Fat with a sprinkling of Denise Austin. I'll talk more about my moral issues regarding the juxtaposition of the First World diet industry against the Third World starvation pandemic another time.