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.