That's about the most vitriolic utterance my grandmother every said.
I've been working a 6/5th's schedule at school now for the past month. This was set up before school started, and is supposedly part of my contract (unlike normal professions, we start working long before any contract is agreed upon. But that's another rant).
The reason I'm working this 6/5th's schedule, teaching this extra class, giving up my one 49-minute prep period is money. Lots of money. about $900 a month money. Money I'm going to use to buy a ticket to New York, money I'm going to use to pay off some bills this year.
Which, being that today is my first payday of the new year, I should finally see.
Which was not included in my regular salary.
All the things I'm thinking right now are much stronger than "I could spit" but I want to keep this polite.
It will get cleared up, but probably not today. And knowing my stupid school district, I won't get the pay until the end of October.
Which makes the buying of aforesaid plane ticket very difficult.
%#$#$%&!
Friday, September 29, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Doggy Sitting
Isn't anyone going to be here during Thanksgiving?
I'm going to New York for the week; first to see a friend in the city (I'll see my first honest to goodness Broadway show!) and then on to Albany where another friend and her family live. Actually way out in Schoharie... about 40 miles away. A beautiful place, and I've never been there in the fall.
Problem is, Charlie-dog.
My friend, Greta the Grouch's owner, is who would usually take care of him, but they're traveling over the holiday. My mother is not one to even ask, since she gets worried he might bark even when I take him over there for a few hours.
So yesterday I called the Kelly Kennel. I've taken him there before, and it's pretty good as far as kennels go. She actually runs it on her home property. The dogs get to run around, and Charlie gets to sleep inside a mud room with the other little dogs, instead of outside in the actual kennels. But, here's the kicker.
My friend Anna (Greta's mom) can take Charlie for the first four and a half days I'm gone. I know Charlie's much happier with her if he has to stay somewhere without me. But, Kelly, the kennel owner, said that she's only taking dogs for a week, not for just a few days. She can make more money that way. I get it, but what a drag. She's already raised her prices because of the holidays.
It's not like I have a lot of time to find another place either. Places are filling up.
What to do? What to do?
I'm going to New York for the week; first to see a friend in the city (I'll see my first honest to goodness Broadway show!) and then on to Albany where another friend and her family live. Actually way out in Schoharie... about 40 miles away. A beautiful place, and I've never been there in the fall.
Problem is, Charlie-dog.
My friend, Greta the Grouch's owner, is who would usually take care of him, but they're traveling over the holiday. My mother is not one to even ask, since she gets worried he might bark even when I take him over there for a few hours.
So yesterday I called the Kelly Kennel. I've taken him there before, and it's pretty good as far as kennels go. She actually runs it on her home property. The dogs get to run around, and Charlie gets to sleep inside a mud room with the other little dogs, instead of outside in the actual kennels. But, here's the kicker.
My friend Anna (Greta's mom) can take Charlie for the first four and a half days I'm gone. I know Charlie's much happier with her if he has to stay somewhere without me. But, Kelly, the kennel owner, said that she's only taking dogs for a week, not for just a few days. She can make more money that way. I get it, but what a drag. She's already raised her prices because of the holidays.
It's not like I have a lot of time to find another place either. Places are filling up.
What to do? What to do?
Monday, September 25, 2006
Monday
Dickybird's post the other day has had me thinking quite a bit.
See, a few years ago, things got bad for me. First, I started not sleeping. Oh, I could get to sleep, just not stay asleep. I'd wake up about midnight, stay awake until 5 am or so, then fall asleep for 15 minutes before my alarm went off.
Then, I stopped having the energy to do anything. I went to work, showered every morning, but that was about it. Never one for housekeeping, I just stopped. dishes piled up in the sink, not for days, but weeks. I would throw them out, rather than wash them and put them away.
At the same time, several friends moved away. I've never liked being alone, and there I was. Alone.
The few friends I had left were getting married or partnered up... I was not. The wonderdog wasn't yet in my life, and I just felt...
Nothing.
I felt like my presence made no difference to anyone. Oh yeah, if I died my mom would be sad, but really, I made no impression on anything. I wasn't a good teacher, I wasn't attractive, no one wanted to be friends with me.
What was the point?
One night, out to dinner with my mom, she told me she would pay for me to see a therapist. She said she was worried.
Whatever. I'd go. But it was just a waste of money as far as I was concerned.
Again, what was the point?
But, off I went.
Now, I love to talk, usually. Particularly about myself. My mom loves repeating something I said when I was 12 years old, " You know Mom, I think I'd be a pretty good psychologist, but I'd really rather talk about me than anyone else."
I went to Dr. No-Talk-About-It, who gave me a diagnosis of Clinical Depression, gave me prescriptions for two anti-depressants, one anti-anxiety and a sleeping pill, and sent me on my way.
She didn't want to talk about my childhood, or my issues with men, or my father, or how I had such a hard time with my boss at work. Just take the pills, make sure there aren't any bad side effects, and bob's your uncle, you'll be cured.
Okay.
So, the suicide question. I never considered it, even while I was thinking how my existence had no meaning in this world. Why not? Not because of any spiritual or religious reason, and certainly not because I was thinking of the pain I'd cause if I left this life for good (I didn't think anyone would care or even notice, remember?). No, I didn't think about it, because it would have required some energy on my part. I was throwing out Calphalon pots rather than washing them; what kind of planning would have to go into offing myself?
The pills actually helped. I started sleeping, which helped me get back on track, and the drugs did... I don't know, make me feel a little less adrift. I knew I had to do more though, so I switched doctors. A friend once said that drugs are what kept me afloat, but I'd have to do the swimming back to shore on my own. As goofy as that sounds, it was true.
I've not taken the pills for gosh... four years now? I don't go to a shrink anymore, and I wash my dishes now... if not every day, then every other day.
But. Whenever I feel blue or down, I worry. Will it happen again? Is it coming back? Depression is frightening because it feels so real. It's not like there's blood or pus that needs to be attended to. Something that's obvious to others.
Depressed people are shitty to be around. A former friend of mine, who knew I was going through some rough times, didn't believe in depression. It was just me "feeling sorry for myself" and being "very unpleasant and bitter to be around." She told me that lots of people had it much worse than I did, and I should get over it.
I wasn't much fun then.
The memory of feeling like I didn't matter, like nothing mattered, is still vivid; I know now it was caused by a chemical imbalance in my brain (a chemical imbalance by the way, that is quite common with people with frontal lobe Epilepsy, which I had as a child). It felt real though.
Which is why I don't believe in letting people choose suicide in most circumstances. I don't believe it's a rational choice most of the time. We like to think we are in control. We like to think we can just "get over something" or "choose happiness" if we try hard enough. Sometimes we can't.
I didn't have a terrible childhood, I did well in school, traveled around the world, had a decent job.
Depression just happened. Lucky for me, I came out of it.
Suicide would have denied me that chance.
See, a few years ago, things got bad for me. First, I started not sleeping. Oh, I could get to sleep, just not stay asleep. I'd wake up about midnight, stay awake until 5 am or so, then fall asleep for 15 minutes before my alarm went off.
Then, I stopped having the energy to do anything. I went to work, showered every morning, but that was about it. Never one for housekeeping, I just stopped. dishes piled up in the sink, not for days, but weeks. I would throw them out, rather than wash them and put them away.
At the same time, several friends moved away. I've never liked being alone, and there I was. Alone.
The few friends I had left were getting married or partnered up... I was not. The wonderdog wasn't yet in my life, and I just felt...
Nothing.
I felt like my presence made no difference to anyone. Oh yeah, if I died my mom would be sad, but really, I made no impression on anything. I wasn't a good teacher, I wasn't attractive, no one wanted to be friends with me.
What was the point?
One night, out to dinner with my mom, she told me she would pay for me to see a therapist. She said she was worried.
Whatever. I'd go. But it was just a waste of money as far as I was concerned.
Again, what was the point?
But, off I went.
Now, I love to talk, usually. Particularly about myself. My mom loves repeating something I said when I was 12 years old, " You know Mom, I think I'd be a pretty good psychologist, but I'd really rather talk about me than anyone else."
I went to Dr. No-Talk-About-It, who gave me a diagnosis of Clinical Depression, gave me prescriptions for two anti-depressants, one anti-anxiety and a sleeping pill, and sent me on my way.
She didn't want to talk about my childhood, or my issues with men, or my father, or how I had such a hard time with my boss at work. Just take the pills, make sure there aren't any bad side effects, and bob's your uncle, you'll be cured.
Okay.
So, the suicide question. I never considered it, even while I was thinking how my existence had no meaning in this world. Why not? Not because of any spiritual or religious reason, and certainly not because I was thinking of the pain I'd cause if I left this life for good (I didn't think anyone would care or even notice, remember?). No, I didn't think about it, because it would have required some energy on my part. I was throwing out Calphalon pots rather than washing them; what kind of planning would have to go into offing myself?
The pills actually helped. I started sleeping, which helped me get back on track, and the drugs did... I don't know, make me feel a little less adrift. I knew I had to do more though, so I switched doctors. A friend once said that drugs are what kept me afloat, but I'd have to do the swimming back to shore on my own. As goofy as that sounds, it was true.
I've not taken the pills for gosh... four years now? I don't go to a shrink anymore, and I wash my dishes now... if not every day, then every other day.
But. Whenever I feel blue or down, I worry. Will it happen again? Is it coming back? Depression is frightening because it feels so real. It's not like there's blood or pus that needs to be attended to. Something that's obvious to others.
Depressed people are shitty to be around. A former friend of mine, who knew I was going through some rough times, didn't believe in depression. It was just me "feeling sorry for myself" and being "very unpleasant and bitter to be around." She told me that lots of people had it much worse than I did, and I should get over it.
I wasn't much fun then.
The memory of feeling like I didn't matter, like nothing mattered, is still vivid; I know now it was caused by a chemical imbalance in my brain (a chemical imbalance by the way, that is quite common with people with frontal lobe Epilepsy, which I had as a child). It felt real though.
Which is why I don't believe in letting people choose suicide in most circumstances. I don't believe it's a rational choice most of the time. We like to think we are in control. We like to think we can just "get over something" or "choose happiness" if we try hard enough. Sometimes we can't.
I didn't have a terrible childhood, I did well in school, traveled around the world, had a decent job.
Depression just happened. Lucky for me, I came out of it.
Suicide would have denied me that chance.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
I need to get a life
So, I took this silly quiz. Maybe I do have too high an opinion of myself?
You are the Braggart! Like Muhammad Ali, you would surely tell everyone that you are "The Greatest" whilst bragging incessantly about your intelligence, your skills, and your abilities. You tend to be a thinker rather than a feeler, and combined with your extroversion and arrogance, this makes you someone who probably just LOVES to brag about his accomplishments. Despite this, however, you are a very gentle, tender person and truly care about others' feelings. You just happen to care more about yourself. Unlike Ali, of course, you are rather rational as opposed to emotional, and you are also much more gentle. But his arrogance and extroversion best reflect the most visible aspects of your personality. But his afro and his penchant for rhyming...not so much. There is not really much to dislike about you, aside from the fact that you can be incredibly annoying, and you probably never shut up about yourself. You may be one of these people who refer to themselves in the third person. If you have a nickname, it is probably one you gave to yourself, because you are too cool for the nickname others have given you--like "doofus" and "shitface". Your personality defect, in summary, is the fact that you are extremely overconfident, extroverted, and perhaps rather lacking in emotions. YOU ARE THE GREATEST! Or so you keep telling yourself every night as you stare at yourself in the mirror and practically make out with your reflection. Maybe one day everyone else on the planet will agree with your assessment of yourself. Nah, I'm just kidding. We think you're an arrogant dickhole. But a NICE arrogant dickhole, so no worries.
To put it less negatively:
1. You are more RATIONAL than intuitive.
2. You are more EXTROVERTED than introverted.
3. You are more GENTLE than brutal.
4. You are more ARROGANT than humble.
Compatibility:
Your exact opposite is the Bitch-Slap.
Other personalities you would probably get along with are the Hand-Raiser, the Haughty Intellectual, and the Capitalist Pig.
*
*
If you scored near fifty percent for a certain trait (42%-58%), you could very well go either way. For example, someone with 42% Extroversion is slightly leaning towards being an introvert, but is close enough to being an extrovert to be classified that way as well. Below is a list of the other personality types so that you can determine which other possible categories you may fill if you scored near fifty percent for certain traits.
The other personality types:
The Emo Kid: Intuitive, Introverted, Gentle, Humble.
The Starving Artist: Intuitive, Introverted, Gentle, Arrogant.
The Bitch-Slap: Intuitive, Introverted, Brutal, Humble.
The Brute: Intuitive, Introverted, Brutal, Arrogant.
The Hippie: Intuitive, Extroverted, Gentle, Humble.
The Televangelist: Intuitive, Extroverted, Gentle, Arrogant.
The Schoolyard Bully: Intuitive, Extroverted, Brutal, Humble.
The Class Clown: Intuitive, Extroverted, Brutal, Arrogant.
The Robot: Rational, Introverted, Gentle, Humble.
The Haughty Intellectual: Rational, Introverted, Gentle, Arrogant.
The Spiteful Loner: Rational, Introverted, Brutal, Humble.
The Sociopath: Rational, Introverted, Brutal, Arrogant.
The Hand-Raiser: Rational, Extroverted, Gentle, Humble.
The Braggart: Rational, Extroverted, Gentle, Arrogant.
The Capitalist Pig: Rational, Extroverted, Brutal, Humble.
The Smartass: Rational, Extroverted, Brutal, Arrogant.
Braggart
You are 57% Rational, 71% Extroverted, 42% Brutal, and 57% Arrogant.
You are the Braggart! Like Muhammad Ali, you would surely tell everyone that you are "The Greatest" whilst bragging incessantly about your intelligence, your skills, and your abilities. You tend to be a thinker rather than a feeler, and combined with your extroversion and arrogance, this makes you someone who probably just LOVES to brag about his accomplishments. Despite this, however, you are a very gentle, tender person and truly care about others' feelings. You just happen to care more about yourself. Unlike Ali, of course, you are rather rational as opposed to emotional, and you are also much more gentle. But his arrogance and extroversion best reflect the most visible aspects of your personality. But his afro and his penchant for rhyming...not so much. There is not really much to dislike about you, aside from the fact that you can be incredibly annoying, and you probably never shut up about yourself. You may be one of these people who refer to themselves in the third person. If you have a nickname, it is probably one you gave to yourself, because you are too cool for the nickname others have given you--like "doofus" and "shitface". Your personality defect, in summary, is the fact that you are extremely overconfident, extroverted, and perhaps rather lacking in emotions. YOU ARE THE GREATEST! Or so you keep telling yourself every night as you stare at yourself in the mirror and practically make out with your reflection. Maybe one day everyone else on the planet will agree with your assessment of yourself. Nah, I'm just kidding. We think you're an arrogant dickhole. But a NICE arrogant dickhole, so no worries.
To put it less negatively:
1. You are more RATIONAL than intuitive.
2. You are more EXTROVERTED than introverted.
3. You are more GENTLE than brutal.
4. You are more ARROGANT than humble.
Compatibility:
Your exact opposite is the Bitch-Slap.
Other personalities you would probably get along with are the Hand-Raiser, the Haughty Intellectual, and the Capitalist Pig.
*
*
If you scored near fifty percent for a certain trait (42%-58%), you could very well go either way. For example, someone with 42% Extroversion is slightly leaning towards being an introvert, but is close enough to being an extrovert to be classified that way as well. Below is a list of the other personality types so that you can determine which other possible categories you may fill if you scored near fifty percent for certain traits.
The other personality types:
The Emo Kid: Intuitive, Introverted, Gentle, Humble.
The Starving Artist: Intuitive, Introverted, Gentle, Arrogant.
The Bitch-Slap: Intuitive, Introverted, Brutal, Humble.
The Brute: Intuitive, Introverted, Brutal, Arrogant.
The Hippie: Intuitive, Extroverted, Gentle, Humble.
The Televangelist: Intuitive, Extroverted, Gentle, Arrogant.
The Schoolyard Bully: Intuitive, Extroverted, Brutal, Humble.
The Class Clown: Intuitive, Extroverted, Brutal, Arrogant.
The Robot: Rational, Introverted, Gentle, Humble.
The Haughty Intellectual: Rational, Introverted, Gentle, Arrogant.
The Spiteful Loner: Rational, Introverted, Brutal, Humble.
The Sociopath: Rational, Introverted, Brutal, Arrogant.
The Hand-Raiser: Rational, Extroverted, Gentle, Humble.
The Braggart: Rational, Extroverted, Gentle, Arrogant.
The Capitalist Pig: Rational, Extroverted, Brutal, Humble.
The Smartass: Rational, Extroverted, Brutal, Arrogant.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Marriage Proposal, May 4, 1990
I was 26, and teaching English in Japan. A man, Hiroshi Kogan, was attending the university very close by the private girl's school where I worked. My roommate, Mary, and I, met him one day walking down to the train station.
Mary was a stunning black woman, and I was a blonde, blue-eyed girl. We always got looks, but especially when we were together. Japan is not known for its diversity of race, or loads of immigrants, seeking a better life. We stuck out.
Anyway, we often were approached by people (usually men or school girls) wanting to practice their English. We would be polite, not wanting to be an "ugly American" nor cause any shame to our school due to our poor manners. Manners are big there, if you don't know.
Hiroshi said he was studying American History and Culture, and wanted to know if he could interview us. Okay, me. He was ignoring Mary, and it was obvious. He wanted to talk to me because I looked the part. He was a "golden hair" seeker. Just like the men here at home, who will only date Asian women, there are men in Japan who will only date Caucasian women. Blonde, blue-eyed, Caucasian woman.
We continued to be polite, said we were busy, but thank you anyway, and maybe, sometime, when we weren't so busy, thank you, nice meeting you, goodbye.
We laughed about him on the way to Osaka, and that was that.
Or so we thought.
Nope, he called the school office, and left a message for me. Only me. I was prodded into calling him back by Mary, who thought at the very least it would be a good story.
Below is the result of having tea with this man, for an hour at the most, and then trying to avoid him at all costs for three months afterward.
Dear Rebbecca [why can't anyone spell my name correctly?]
The fragrance of early summer fills the air. May is the season of young leaves. Fields, hills and mountains are covered with vivid green. The really please our eyes, don't they? How did you like your sight-seeing trip to Tokyo? I sincerely hope you enjoyed it very much. Until the Meiji Restoration was achieved and then Emperor Meiji transferred the capital from Kyoto to Tokyo in 1868, Tokyo had been called Edo. Tokyo means "East Capital" as opposed to Kyoto in the west. The city can be divided roughly into upper (Yamanote) and lower (Shitamachi) sections. Did you visit both? Tokyo is often said to be the place where the East and the West, and the old and the new, have blended most harmoniously. I enjoy the diversity whenever I visit there. How's your friend?
(At one point I had told him on the phone that I had a boyfriend, practically a fiance', whom I would visit Tokyo with. Actually, a girlfriend of mine had come out to visit.)
I hope he's fine and that he had an enjoyable trip.
How is everything going with you? Although I haven't seen you for some time, I presume you are in robust health.
Tomorrow's Children's Day. We celebrate Children's Day by hoisting carp banners. The number of carp banners has a special meaning. For example, four carp banners means that there are four boys in the family. Carp symbolizes courage and strength.
I have had many thoughts of you lately. You must be busy preparing for your classes. I sincerely hope you are in love with what you are doing. I wonder if you are still on trip in the Golden Week (Three holidays fall during the end of April, beginning of May, hence, "Golden Week"). However long vacation is,I always feel I want a few days more. I need to do some housework. My old-time friend has joked me, "It's a god investment to have a wife around."
It's nice to have a good house-keeper. She has also advised me regarding choosing an appropriate mate. She told me, in her letter, for American women, their own family is not easily let go of for the same of one man, They marry both families together; not just the woman going over to the man's family and being cut off from her own family of origin. She meant considering her or his own family roots, as well as my own, is crucial. I think it is important. How about you? Do you regard one's own family root is important when one gets marry?
She also advised me to consider the matter of my own life. I have wanted to marry someone having a same interest in common. Frankly, I wish I could marry you, Religion is a important factor when one gets marry, I suppose. You are christian, and I think you'd lead me spiritually. I have hoped to marry christian.
A culture in which one is raised might matter, besides the mutual love of a couple, when they decide to get marry. However I suppose intercultural marriages work. I know marriage is not dating. It might take a pain to understand each culture to which we belong, I believe we can progress in making that efforts.
Yes, I'd like to marry you, and I love you, I've been in love wich you. You are my kind of person. However, I know you've got a close friend, whom you probably love,. I believe he's quite a gentleman, for you've chosen him. It is out of the question for me to propose you.
I only want you to know that I love you sincerely. Rebecca, I love you and want to marry you from bottom of my heart. I really shouldn't tell it to you, for your boyfriend may still be here.
I'm not satisfied I secretly love you. I want you to know my sincere feeling toward you. I wonder if you will marry him, If so, I'll completely give you up. I think you'll probably get marry him, I'll be only too glad if you are my friend until you leave for the States for good.
I hope I haven't embarrassed you, If I did, please overlook it, Rebecca, am I still your friend? After I've confessed my love to you? I worry. I'd be delighted if I can keep seeing you. If he is your fiance, I will never write a letter like this.
Hoping this will find you fine,
Devotedly,
Hiroshi
Do you think this might be the only one I get?
Mary was a stunning black woman, and I was a blonde, blue-eyed girl. We always got looks, but especially when we were together. Japan is not known for its diversity of race, or loads of immigrants, seeking a better life. We stuck out.
Anyway, we often were approached by people (usually men or school girls) wanting to practice their English. We would be polite, not wanting to be an "ugly American" nor cause any shame to our school due to our poor manners. Manners are big there, if you don't know.
Hiroshi said he was studying American History and Culture, and wanted to know if he could interview us. Okay, me. He was ignoring Mary, and it was obvious. He wanted to talk to me because I looked the part. He was a "golden hair" seeker. Just like the men here at home, who will only date Asian women, there are men in Japan who will only date Caucasian women. Blonde, blue-eyed, Caucasian woman.
We continued to be polite, said we were busy, but thank you anyway, and maybe, sometime, when we weren't so busy, thank you, nice meeting you, goodbye.
We laughed about him on the way to Osaka, and that was that.
Or so we thought.
Nope, he called the school office, and left a message for me. Only me. I was prodded into calling him back by Mary, who thought at the very least it would be a good story.
Below is the result of having tea with this man, for an hour at the most, and then trying to avoid him at all costs for three months afterward.
Dear Rebbecca [why can't anyone spell my name correctly?]
The fragrance of early summer fills the air. May is the season of young leaves. Fields, hills and mountains are covered with vivid green. The really please our eyes, don't they? How did you like your sight-seeing trip to Tokyo? I sincerely hope you enjoyed it very much. Until the Meiji Restoration was achieved and then Emperor Meiji transferred the capital from Kyoto to Tokyo in 1868, Tokyo had been called Edo. Tokyo means "East Capital" as opposed to Kyoto in the west. The city can be divided roughly into upper (Yamanote) and lower (Shitamachi) sections. Did you visit both? Tokyo is often said to be the place where the East and the West, and the old and the new, have blended most harmoniously. I enjoy the diversity whenever I visit there. How's your friend?
(At one point I had told him on the phone that I had a boyfriend, practically a fiance', whom I would visit Tokyo with. Actually, a girlfriend of mine had come out to visit.)
I hope he's fine and that he had an enjoyable trip.
How is everything going with you? Although I haven't seen you for some time, I presume you are in robust health.
Tomorrow's Children's Day. We celebrate Children's Day by hoisting carp banners. The number of carp banners has a special meaning. For example, four carp banners means that there are four boys in the family. Carp symbolizes courage and strength.
I have had many thoughts of you lately. You must be busy preparing for your classes. I sincerely hope you are in love with what you are doing. I wonder if you are still on trip in the Golden Week (Three holidays fall during the end of April, beginning of May, hence, "Golden Week"). However long vacation is,I always feel I want a few days more. I need to do some housework. My old-time friend has joked me, "It's a god investment to have a wife around."
It's nice to have a good house-keeper. She has also advised me regarding choosing an appropriate mate. She told me, in her letter, for American women, their own family is not easily let go of for the same of one man, They marry both families together; not just the woman going over to the man's family and being cut off from her own family of origin. She meant considering her or his own family roots, as well as my own, is crucial. I think it is important. How about you? Do you regard one's own family root is important when one gets marry?
She also advised me to consider the matter of my own life. I have wanted to marry someone having a same interest in common. Frankly, I wish I could marry you, Religion is a important factor when one gets marry, I suppose. You are christian, and I think you'd lead me spiritually. I have hoped to marry christian.
A culture in which one is raised might matter, besides the mutual love of a couple, when they decide to get marry. However I suppose intercultural marriages work. I know marriage is not dating. It might take a pain to understand each culture to which we belong, I believe we can progress in making that efforts.
Yes, I'd like to marry you, and I love you, I've been in love wich you. You are my kind of person. However, I know you've got a close friend, whom you probably love,. I believe he's quite a gentleman, for you've chosen him. It is out of the question for me to propose you.
I only want you to know that I love you sincerely. Rebecca, I love you and want to marry you from bottom of my heart. I really shouldn't tell it to you, for your boyfriend may still be here.
I'm not satisfied I secretly love you. I want you to know my sincere feeling toward you. I wonder if you will marry him, If so, I'll completely give you up. I think you'll probably get marry him, I'll be only too glad if you are my friend until you leave for the States for good.
I hope I haven't embarrassed you, If I did, please overlook it, Rebecca, am I still your friend? After I've confessed my love to you? I worry. I'd be delighted if I can keep seeing you. If he is your fiance, I will never write a letter like this.
Hoping this will find you fine,
Devotedly,
Hiroshi
Do you think this might be the only one I get?
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
I finally finish my story
Jenny’s parents, her brother, Ed’s parents, his sister, and Debbie were in the “living room” of the W hotel. I joined them for one drink, and we then all turned in. Those that had driven to Chicago, had been on the road for two days; Debbie and I had been trying to get on planes for the last three. We were beat.
The rehearsal dinner had been quite an abbreviated affair, at Bin 36, a restaurant I had been looking forward to, but would have to save for the next trip out to Chicago.
The next morning, there was no time for breakfast. Jenny, Debbie and I got coffee at the Starbucks next door, and jumped into a taxi. Jenny had a hair and make-up appointment at 9:30. Originally, all the bridesmaids and the bride-to-be were to have manicures and pedicures on Friday afternoon; there was no time now for all that.
Remember the bridesmaids all had responsibilities? Everyone but me? There was a problem there too. Meredith, the one in New York was in charge of the gloves. Yes, we had to wear full-length, black satin gloves. I know! Brides lose their minds. That’s all I can say. Anyway, Mary had bought four pairs of black gloves and one pair of white. She’d also bought 5 matching lipsticks; lip glosses actually, Maybelline Lip Polish in Mauvestar.
And these items were in New York. Michelle, Seattle Bridesmaid, had been in charge of wraps. Her mother had actually sewn four black, burnt-out velvet (look it up if you don’t know what that is) wraps, and a white, raw silk one for the bride. Also not with us in Chicago.
While Jenny was getting gussied up, Debbie’s and my job now was to find the gloves and a wrap (at least for the bride), in just a couple of hours.
You do realize that elbow-length, white and black gloves are not the easiest things to find? Particularly in the middle of September? And the wraps? Well, if price was no object, there were several $300 jobs, but alas, price was an object.
Debbie and I found a mall, and covered quite a bit of ground in 120 minutes. We found two wraps for Jenny, at a Macy’s. Debbie bought both and hoped she could return the one Jenny didn’t want. We found the gloves, at of all places, Clare’s. Clare’s is a cheap accessories store; caters more to my 13-year-old girls than to adults looking for wedding apparel. While there, I saw a white, feather boa. Giggling, I bought it, laughing to think of Jenny’s face when I told her I found the perfect wrap.
The Maid-of-Honor, Debbie, was a force to be reckoned with (A force with which to be reckoned?). Anyway.
Somehow, in-between the time she spent trying to get on a flight during last three days, Debbie had made all kinds of new arrangements. I mean, that 67th floor of the Sears Tower sure didn’t sound all that appealing anymore for the reception – given the circumstances.
That became our catch phrase for the next 24 hours, “Given the circumstances.”
It worked for all kinds of situations. Late to the hair appointment? Well, given the circumstances… Canceling the mani/pedicures? Again, given the circumstances… Rehearsal dinner changed from 75 people to 20? You know, given the circumstances…
Debbie canceled the huge reception, and booked Bluebird, a very trendy restaurant with a private dining room upstairs. She set up a menu with them, a red and white wine to serve, and ordered the champagne. She was the one who dealt with the restaurants, the beauty salons, the church, the limo service. She was amazing.
I, on the other hand, had just showed up.
We hopped in another cab and got back to Jenny as the stylist was just finishing her hair. He looked and acted like the blonde guy from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Very much living up to the stereotype of a male hairdresser.
We showed Jenny the gloves, and told her we had found a wonderful wrap. A bit quirky, but given the circumstances…
She tried hard to be brave when I pulled out the boa from the bag. The stylist did not.
His eyeballs rolled back into his skull, his mouth opened, then pursed in dismay, and the disapproving “ohhhh…um…. No…” immediately was uttered.
All the fear, anxiety, and frustration of the last few days dissipated, at the moment Debbie and I fell into gales of laughter. Jenny was a beat behind, and the stylist… well, he didn’t seem the type to belly laugh.
We raced back to the hotel, got Jenny dressed, and got ourselves into our big black satin dresses. Her mom got pissed at her for running late, but given the circumstances…
In the Expedition limousine, intended for the large wedding party, almost everyone attending could fit. We got to the church, reapplied makeup for the last time in the little bathroom underneath the sanctuary, and it began.
The moment we walked down the aisle, with the bright, early afternoon sun streaming in through the stained glass windows, is the moment I remember most clearly. It was the saddest and the most hopeful moment of the whole experience for me. So few people actually made it. The church pews were almost empty. Many of Ed’s relatives, including some who had flown in from France to attend, were stranded on the East Coast. It was a glorious day, a beautiful place, and the most important time yet in Jenny’s life, yet almost no one who had been invited was there.
At the same time, just the fact that we were there, that Jenny and Ed were getting married (which to me is the ultimate act of hope), couldn’t be ignored. They were going on. They weren’t scared, or if they were, they weren’t going to let that fear keep them from their dreams. Every one of us in that church knew that the world had changed; and we also knew that it hadn’t. We were still going to love others; we were still going to have joy in our lives.
In the limo after the ceremony, driving all over the place, getting out and taking what seemed like three million photos, it was finally time for drinks. The bar was stocked with Coronas, sodas, and cute little bottles of – get this – Glen Ellen White Zinfandel. No other wine. No Chardonnay, no Sauvignon Blanc, no reds at all.
And you know, I worked at a winery for four years. I know my wine. I would not call myself a wine snob. However, White Zinfandel is not, how shall I say, my first choice of wine. Nor is it my sixth or seventh choice.
On September 15th, 2001, in a limo in Chicago, it was the best tasting wine I ever had.
The rehearsal dinner had been quite an abbreviated affair, at Bin 36, a restaurant I had been looking forward to, but would have to save for the next trip out to Chicago.
The next morning, there was no time for breakfast. Jenny, Debbie and I got coffee at the Starbucks next door, and jumped into a taxi. Jenny had a hair and make-up appointment at 9:30. Originally, all the bridesmaids and the bride-to-be were to have manicures and pedicures on Friday afternoon; there was no time now for all that.
Remember the bridesmaids all had responsibilities? Everyone but me? There was a problem there too. Meredith, the one in New York was in charge of the gloves. Yes, we had to wear full-length, black satin gloves. I know! Brides lose their minds. That’s all I can say. Anyway, Mary had bought four pairs of black gloves and one pair of white. She’d also bought 5 matching lipsticks; lip glosses actually, Maybelline Lip Polish in Mauvestar.
And these items were in New York. Michelle, Seattle Bridesmaid, had been in charge of wraps. Her mother had actually sewn four black, burnt-out velvet (look it up if you don’t know what that is) wraps, and a white, raw silk one for the bride. Also not with us in Chicago.
While Jenny was getting gussied up, Debbie’s and my job now was to find the gloves and a wrap (at least for the bride), in just a couple of hours.
You do realize that elbow-length, white and black gloves are not the easiest things to find? Particularly in the middle of September? And the wraps? Well, if price was no object, there were several $300 jobs, but alas, price was an object.
Debbie and I found a mall, and covered quite a bit of ground in 120 minutes. We found two wraps for Jenny, at a Macy’s. Debbie bought both and hoped she could return the one Jenny didn’t want. We found the gloves, at of all places, Clare’s. Clare’s is a cheap accessories store; caters more to my 13-year-old girls than to adults looking for wedding apparel. While there, I saw a white, feather boa. Giggling, I bought it, laughing to think of Jenny’s face when I told her I found the perfect wrap.
The Maid-of-Honor, Debbie, was a force to be reckoned with (A force with which to be reckoned?). Anyway.
Somehow, in-between the time she spent trying to get on a flight during last three days, Debbie had made all kinds of new arrangements. I mean, that 67th floor of the Sears Tower sure didn’t sound all that appealing anymore for the reception – given the circumstances.
That became our catch phrase for the next 24 hours, “Given the circumstances.”
It worked for all kinds of situations. Late to the hair appointment? Well, given the circumstances… Canceling the mani/pedicures? Again, given the circumstances… Rehearsal dinner changed from 75 people to 20? You know, given the circumstances…
Debbie canceled the huge reception, and booked Bluebird, a very trendy restaurant with a private dining room upstairs. She set up a menu with them, a red and white wine to serve, and ordered the champagne. She was the one who dealt with the restaurants, the beauty salons, the church, the limo service. She was amazing.
I, on the other hand, had just showed up.
We hopped in another cab and got back to Jenny as the stylist was just finishing her hair. He looked and acted like the blonde guy from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Very much living up to the stereotype of a male hairdresser.
We showed Jenny the gloves, and told her we had found a wonderful wrap. A bit quirky, but given the circumstances…
She tried hard to be brave when I pulled out the boa from the bag. The stylist did not.
His eyeballs rolled back into his skull, his mouth opened, then pursed in dismay, and the disapproving “ohhhh…um…. No…” immediately was uttered.
All the fear, anxiety, and frustration of the last few days dissipated, at the moment Debbie and I fell into gales of laughter. Jenny was a beat behind, and the stylist… well, he didn’t seem the type to belly laugh.
We raced back to the hotel, got Jenny dressed, and got ourselves into our big black satin dresses. Her mom got pissed at her for running late, but given the circumstances…
In the Expedition limousine, intended for the large wedding party, almost everyone attending could fit. We got to the church, reapplied makeup for the last time in the little bathroom underneath the sanctuary, and it began.
The moment we walked down the aisle, with the bright, early afternoon sun streaming in through the stained glass windows, is the moment I remember most clearly. It was the saddest and the most hopeful moment of the whole experience for me. So few people actually made it. The church pews were almost empty. Many of Ed’s relatives, including some who had flown in from France to attend, were stranded on the East Coast. It was a glorious day, a beautiful place, and the most important time yet in Jenny’s life, yet almost no one who had been invited was there.
At the same time, just the fact that we were there, that Jenny and Ed were getting married (which to me is the ultimate act of hope), couldn’t be ignored. They were going on. They weren’t scared, or if they were, they weren’t going to let that fear keep them from their dreams. Every one of us in that church knew that the world had changed; and we also knew that it hadn’t. We were still going to love others; we were still going to have joy in our lives.
In the limo after the ceremony, driving all over the place, getting out and taking what seemed like three million photos, it was finally time for drinks. The bar was stocked with Coronas, sodas, and cute little bottles of – get this – Glen Ellen White Zinfandel. No other wine. No Chardonnay, no Sauvignon Blanc, no reds at all.
And you know, I worked at a winery for four years. I know my wine. I would not call myself a wine snob. However, White Zinfandel is not, how shall I say, my first choice of wine. Nor is it my sixth or seventh choice.
On September 15th, 2001, in a limo in Chicago, it was the best tasting wine I ever had.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Monday, September 18, 2006
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Getting there (part 2)
Sitting in the almost empty airport in Phoenix, staring up at the departure monitors, which mostly showed the blinking, canceled flights, I felt it. It had taken me four days. Nothing was going to be the same again.
All the shops were closed. No magazines for sale, no fake Native American dreamcatchers to buy as a souvenir, no Whoppers, no non-fat mochas, nothing. There were police and guards and military all over. With guns. Big guns. Walking through the airport.
I hate to admit this. I hate it. But.
Every man with brown skin, dark hair, especially facial hair, made me look a little longer. Ask myself, “Could he be one of the bad ones?” As I thought it, I knew it was wrong, went against everything I believed in. And still.
At the same time, I wondered what they were going through. All of a sudden, they’re being questioned, because of the color of their skin. And this time, the questions are in stares, and averted eyes when those stares were returned.
When I saw that I was going to get on the flight to Chicago, I shoved all my moral and ethical thoughts aside. I was going to make it! I would get there.
Had Jenny made it? Did Debbie? Who else would be there? It looked like I would arrive at 10 pm at O’Hare. I’d just have to wait. Seriously, when I got back home, I was getting a fucking cell phone.
On the plane – again almost empty – we still had a meal. The airlines didn't stop serving meals on most flights until later. When I had bought my ticket, or rather, when Jenny bought my ticket, I had ticked the box off for the “Vegetarian” meal. I’m not a Vegetarian, but those meals always seemed better than the regular ones. To me, the only food that works on a plane is pasta or a sandwich. I’d much rather have cheese ravioli than a wizened up piece of chicken, undercooked rice and overcooked green beans.
Well, just like everything else having to do with airplanes that week, food service for the airlines had gone all asunder. There was something about outside venders not being trustworthy enough, or the ability to check them out wasn’t in place or something like that. I don’t remember the details.
What I do remember is this:
Everyone on the plane received a cheeseburger, with packets of mayonnaise, mustard and ketchup, a side of lettuce, tomato slice and pickle, a bag of potato chips, and an individually wrapped brownie.
Oh, everyone but me.
I think it was supposed to be a veggie burger patty, but it was so dried up it was hard to tell. It sat on my plate next to whole-wheat pita bread, a mini bag of carrots, and a box of raisins. Yep. That was it. No spread, no chips or brownie for me (are those non-vegetarian items?).
I’m ashamed that my most vivid memory of the flight was the meager meal I was given. I mean, I should be remembering how brave I felt, how I was telling the terrorists to “stick it” because they weren’t scaring me from the sky. But no.
I remember the crummy food.
After landing, I hauled my luggage to a payphone and called the “W,” the hotel we were all staying in. I said I was late but I wanted to make sure I could still check in.
They hadn’t heard of me. Nope, there was no reservation with my name. Nope. Yes, there was a reservation for Jenny and for Debbie, but not for me.
Shit. The other bridesmaid? The one from Seattle that was too freaked to fly? Well, she wasn’t too freaked to cancel her reservation. Too freaked to call me and let me know however. Sheesh.
In any case, strangely enough, when I said I’d room with Debbie, they said they would add my name to her room and give me a key when I got in. Seems they might want to ask Debbie first, you know, make sure I was who I said I was, but it was a stressful time.
In the shuttle bus to the hotel, which I shared with a flight attendant who’d been stranded in, of all places, Seattle, since Tuesday, I realized that one of my gold peridot earrings was gone. Just gone. My mother had given them to me for my birthday… gosh, only a month earlier, and now it was gone. Any other time I would have been crushed, but all I could think was, “it’s just a thing. Just a thing.”
Walking into the hotel was like walking into the middle of a disco. Seriously. I’ve been to other W Hotels since then, but this was my first, and the place was hopping. People milling about, drinks in hand, loud thumpa thumpa music playing. And dark. It was very dark in there.
The doorman said it was like a “living room,” that the hotel wanted people to feel welcome when they came in, not to be confronted with a cold and sterile reception desk like most places.
It wasn’t like any living room I’ve ever been in.
He walked me over to the check-in, and I started searching the crowd. I didn’t have my glasses on, and like I said, it was dark. Oh, did I tell you? I’d never set eyes on her husband to be? As the receptionist asked me questions, I thought I spotted her. I squinted… as if that ever helps.
“Eeeeee! Becky! Oh! You’re heeeeere!”
Jenny’s piercing scream, like one of my junior high school girls, trying to get attention out in the halls, sliced through everything.
She grabbed me, and almost knocked me over. Debbie was right behind her.
“I guess this means I don’t get to stand in for the Maid-of-Honor?” I smiled at her.
It was 11:30 at night. The wedding was at 1:30 the next afternoon.
All the shops were closed. No magazines for sale, no fake Native American dreamcatchers to buy as a souvenir, no Whoppers, no non-fat mochas, nothing. There were police and guards and military all over. With guns. Big guns. Walking through the airport.
I hate to admit this. I hate it. But.
Every man with brown skin, dark hair, especially facial hair, made me look a little longer. Ask myself, “Could he be one of the bad ones?” As I thought it, I knew it was wrong, went against everything I believed in. And still.
At the same time, I wondered what they were going through. All of a sudden, they’re being questioned, because of the color of their skin. And this time, the questions are in stares, and averted eyes when those stares were returned.
When I saw that I was going to get on the flight to Chicago, I shoved all my moral and ethical thoughts aside. I was going to make it! I would get there.
Had Jenny made it? Did Debbie? Who else would be there? It looked like I would arrive at 10 pm at O’Hare. I’d just have to wait. Seriously, when I got back home, I was getting a fucking cell phone.
On the plane – again almost empty – we still had a meal. The airlines didn't stop serving meals on most flights until later. When I had bought my ticket, or rather, when Jenny bought my ticket, I had ticked the box off for the “Vegetarian” meal. I’m not a Vegetarian, but those meals always seemed better than the regular ones. To me, the only food that works on a plane is pasta or a sandwich. I’d much rather have cheese ravioli than a wizened up piece of chicken, undercooked rice and overcooked green beans.
Well, just like everything else having to do with airplanes that week, food service for the airlines had gone all asunder. There was something about outside venders not being trustworthy enough, or the ability to check them out wasn’t in place or something like that. I don’t remember the details.
What I do remember is this:
Everyone on the plane received a cheeseburger, with packets of mayonnaise, mustard and ketchup, a side of lettuce, tomato slice and pickle, a bag of potato chips, and an individually wrapped brownie.
Oh, everyone but me.
I think it was supposed to be a veggie burger patty, but it was so dried up it was hard to tell. It sat on my plate next to whole-wheat pita bread, a mini bag of carrots, and a box of raisins. Yep. That was it. No spread, no chips or brownie for me (are those non-vegetarian items?).
I’m ashamed that my most vivid memory of the flight was the meager meal I was given. I mean, I should be remembering how brave I felt, how I was telling the terrorists to “stick it” because they weren’t scaring me from the sky. But no.
I remember the crummy food.
After landing, I hauled my luggage to a payphone and called the “W,” the hotel we were all staying in. I said I was late but I wanted to make sure I could still check in.
They hadn’t heard of me. Nope, there was no reservation with my name. Nope. Yes, there was a reservation for Jenny and for Debbie, but not for me.
Shit. The other bridesmaid? The one from Seattle that was too freaked to fly? Well, she wasn’t too freaked to cancel her reservation. Too freaked to call me and let me know however. Sheesh.
In any case, strangely enough, when I said I’d room with Debbie, they said they would add my name to her room and give me a key when I got in. Seems they might want to ask Debbie first, you know, make sure I was who I said I was, but it was a stressful time.
In the shuttle bus to the hotel, which I shared with a flight attendant who’d been stranded in, of all places, Seattle, since Tuesday, I realized that one of my gold peridot earrings was gone. Just gone. My mother had given them to me for my birthday… gosh, only a month earlier, and now it was gone. Any other time I would have been crushed, but all I could think was, “it’s just a thing. Just a thing.”
Walking into the hotel was like walking into the middle of a disco. Seriously. I’ve been to other W Hotels since then, but this was my first, and the place was hopping. People milling about, drinks in hand, loud thumpa thumpa music playing. And dark. It was very dark in there.
The doorman said it was like a “living room,” that the hotel wanted people to feel welcome when they came in, not to be confronted with a cold and sterile reception desk like most places.
It wasn’t like any living room I’ve ever been in.
He walked me over to the check-in, and I started searching the crowd. I didn’t have my glasses on, and like I said, it was dark. Oh, did I tell you? I’d never set eyes on her husband to be? As the receptionist asked me questions, I thought I spotted her. I squinted… as if that ever helps.
“Eeeeee! Becky! Oh! You’re heeeeere!”
Jenny’s piercing scream, like one of my junior high school girls, trying to get attention out in the halls, sliced through everything.
She grabbed me, and almost knocked me over. Debbie was right behind her.
“I guess this means I don’t get to stand in for the Maid-of-Honor?” I smiled at her.
It was 11:30 at night. The wedding was at 1:30 the next afternoon.
Monday, September 11, 2006
9/11 story (the first part)
Jenny was getting married in Chicago on September 15th, 2001. She had paid for my plane ticket when I didn’t think I could afford it (along with the hotel, and the two-hundred and twenty dollar bridesmaid’s dress). It was going to be a huge affair. She and her husband lived in Kansas, her parents lived in Texas, one of the other bridesmaids and I were in California, another was in New York, and the fourth one was in Seattle. There were East Coast relatives, and a few even flew in from Paris to be there.
She and her husband-to-be settled on Chicago as the location because it seemed the most central place for everyone. Besides, his parents lived there. The wedding party would be staying at the W Hotel, the wedding itself would be at an old and historic church (can’t recall the name now) and the reception was to be on the 67th floor of the Sears Tower. All the dresses had been tailored, the bachlorette party had been two weeks earlier (I should say, “bachlorette weekend” since it was three days up in Sonoma), and each of the bridesmaids had their responsibilities assigned. I was in charge of … gosh, maybe they didn’t put me in charge of anything… can’t always be trusted to remember things, you know.
I had taken Thursday and Friday off from school, to fly out before the wedding itself, and help with all the crazy, pre-wedding extravaganza.
I woke on Tuesday morning, when my clock radio went off at about 6:30 am. Something about a small plane flying into the Empire State Building.
Huh?
I turned on the TV just as the second tower went down, and Katie Couric kept her cool reporting it.
Early September is usually when we get our hottest weather, and the Santa Ana’s were blowing. It was already 80 degrees when I got to school that morning. Most of the classrooms had the televisions on. I remember going to the two vice-principals, and asking them to tell teachers not to show the news to students. Columbine was still fresh in my memory, and I remember thinking how inappropriate that we had teachers watching it as it unfolded in classrooms.
It was too late. Most of the students knew we’d been attacked, and that buildings had fallen down, but they (the boys, especially), were more into the crashing and burning aspect of the possible “bomb.”
That night I was on the phone for hours. I called several friends; Torn in Montreal, Kevin in Washington DC, but most of the calls were to Jenny. Of course, by that time, all flights were canceled. But for how long? Her father worked for American Airlines, and he had told Jenny that this was unprecedented. He said it could be up to a week. Jenny waffled back and forth between just postponing the wedding, flying straight to Jamaica (where they had planned their honeymoon), and getting married there (as soon as they could get on a plane), or going ahead with Chicago. After many phone calls, it was decided. The terrorists weren’t going to win, she was going to have her wedding, and show them they hadn’t stopped us.
However, there was a slight problem.
How would we all get there?
Well, Jenny and her husband packed up the car, and started driving. Her parents in Texas did the same, stopping along the way to pick up her older brother.
Mary, the bridesmaid in New York? Who, by the way, had an appointment at 10:15 that morning of September 11th, in the World Trade Center? Mary couldn’t come. New York was locked down tight. Cindy, the one in Seattle, was too freaked out to fly, and wasn’t going to make it. That left the maid of honor and me. Debbie lived in San Francisco, which sounded like it was going to be much more difficult to get out of than Santa Barbara.
Wednesday came and went, and all flights still canceled. Thursday, I went in to school for a half day, but it looked like my flight might leave. Of course, it had been delayed four hours, but it looked like it would happen.
I was the third person let into the airport when it reopened. I was there from 2 pm to 7:30 pm before they finally gave up and canceled my flight. I gave a young woman a ride back to her hotel; her flight hadn’t happened either.
Talked to Debbie, who also had had no luck in flying out; there’d been a scare at the SF airport, and so it was still totally closed down. Debbie said she was going to drive from San Francisco to Los Angeles (a 400+ mile drive) to get a flight out of LAX. I said I was just going to go to the airport early on Friday morning, and park myself until I got on a plane.
Although they were becoming more common, I prided myself for not having a cell phone. I thought they were pretentious and unnecessary. Very quickly I learned how valuable they were. At 9 am, I got on the almost empty flight to Phoenix, where I hoped I could make a connection. I had to use the payphone in the airport there to call Jenny. But, she was on the road, with a cell phone, but no service. The message I left told her that I was in Phoenix, but wasn’t sure which flight I would actually be on to get to Chicago. There was a good chance I’d be stranded too.
I tried calling Debbie, but couldn’t get ahold of her, and called my dad, who lives in Phoenix, to let him know he might have company if I couldn’t get a flight out. Each of these calls cost $3.00! Talk about using up change.
All this time, I hadn't let anything sink in. All my energy had been caught up with trying to get to Jenny's wedding. God bless her, my mother didn't say anything about her absolute terror at my flying so soon after the attacks. I just knew I had to get to the wedding. I had to be there for my friend. But still, at 2:30 on Friday afternoon, with the wedding less than 24 hours away, I wasn't sure I was going to make it.
She and her husband-to-be settled on Chicago as the location because it seemed the most central place for everyone. Besides, his parents lived there. The wedding party would be staying at the W Hotel, the wedding itself would be at an old and historic church (can’t recall the name now) and the reception was to be on the 67th floor of the Sears Tower. All the dresses had been tailored, the bachlorette party had been two weeks earlier (I should say, “bachlorette weekend” since it was three days up in Sonoma), and each of the bridesmaids had their responsibilities assigned. I was in charge of … gosh, maybe they didn’t put me in charge of anything… can’t always be trusted to remember things, you know.
I had taken Thursday and Friday off from school, to fly out before the wedding itself, and help with all the crazy, pre-wedding extravaganza.
I woke on Tuesday morning, when my clock radio went off at about 6:30 am. Something about a small plane flying into the Empire State Building.
Huh?
I turned on the TV just as the second tower went down, and Katie Couric kept her cool reporting it.
Early September is usually when we get our hottest weather, and the Santa Ana’s were blowing. It was already 80 degrees when I got to school that morning. Most of the classrooms had the televisions on. I remember going to the two vice-principals, and asking them to tell teachers not to show the news to students. Columbine was still fresh in my memory, and I remember thinking how inappropriate that we had teachers watching it as it unfolded in classrooms.
It was too late. Most of the students knew we’d been attacked, and that buildings had fallen down, but they (the boys, especially), were more into the crashing and burning aspect of the possible “bomb.”
That night I was on the phone for hours. I called several friends; Torn in Montreal, Kevin in Washington DC, but most of the calls were to Jenny. Of course, by that time, all flights were canceled. But for how long? Her father worked for American Airlines, and he had told Jenny that this was unprecedented. He said it could be up to a week. Jenny waffled back and forth between just postponing the wedding, flying straight to Jamaica (where they had planned their honeymoon), and getting married there (as soon as they could get on a plane), or going ahead with Chicago. After many phone calls, it was decided. The terrorists weren’t going to win, she was going to have her wedding, and show them they hadn’t stopped us.
However, there was a slight problem.
How would we all get there?
Well, Jenny and her husband packed up the car, and started driving. Her parents in Texas did the same, stopping along the way to pick up her older brother.
Mary, the bridesmaid in New York? Who, by the way, had an appointment at 10:15 that morning of September 11th, in the World Trade Center? Mary couldn’t come. New York was locked down tight. Cindy, the one in Seattle, was too freaked out to fly, and wasn’t going to make it. That left the maid of honor and me. Debbie lived in San Francisco, which sounded like it was going to be much more difficult to get out of than Santa Barbara.
Wednesday came and went, and all flights still canceled. Thursday, I went in to school for a half day, but it looked like my flight might leave. Of course, it had been delayed four hours, but it looked like it would happen.
I was the third person let into the airport when it reopened. I was there from 2 pm to 7:30 pm before they finally gave up and canceled my flight. I gave a young woman a ride back to her hotel; her flight hadn’t happened either.
Talked to Debbie, who also had had no luck in flying out; there’d been a scare at the SF airport, and so it was still totally closed down. Debbie said she was going to drive from San Francisco to Los Angeles (a 400+ mile drive) to get a flight out of LAX. I said I was just going to go to the airport early on Friday morning, and park myself until I got on a plane.
Although they were becoming more common, I prided myself for not having a cell phone. I thought they were pretentious and unnecessary. Very quickly I learned how valuable they were. At 9 am, I got on the almost empty flight to Phoenix, where I hoped I could make a connection. I had to use the payphone in the airport there to call Jenny. But, she was on the road, with a cell phone, but no service. The message I left told her that I was in Phoenix, but wasn’t sure which flight I would actually be on to get to Chicago. There was a good chance I’d be stranded too.
I tried calling Debbie, but couldn’t get ahold of her, and called my dad, who lives in Phoenix, to let him know he might have company if I couldn’t get a flight out. Each of these calls cost $3.00! Talk about using up change.
All this time, I hadn't let anything sink in. All my energy had been caught up with trying to get to Jenny's wedding. God bless her, my mother didn't say anything about her absolute terror at my flying so soon after the attacks. I just knew I had to get to the wedding. I had to be there for my friend. But still, at 2:30 on Friday afternoon, with the wedding less than 24 hours away, I wasn't sure I was going to make it.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Mini heart attack
So, I'm writing this honking long post, but because of prior knowledge, I'm writing it on Word and saving it before I try to post it on Blogger. I've lost too many words that way. Anyway, I was just winding down for the night, was curious how many words I'd written (956!) considering that I wasn't more than halfway finished with my piece, checked the word count, and boom!
There's that scary "Windows has detected a fatal error in the program you have been working in, and is now shutting down. You may lose information that has not yet been saved."
And it shuts down.
Cries of anguish.
But, hooray. All is well. Not sure if I'll finish it tonight, but there's quite a start.
There's that scary "Windows has detected a fatal error in the program you have been working in, and is now shutting down. You may lose information that has not yet been saved."
And it shuts down.
Cries of anguish.
But, hooray. All is well. Not sure if I'll finish it tonight, but there's quite a start.
Another story
Everyone has a September 11th story. We all know where we were when we heard what had happened in New York, then Washington DC, then Pennsylvania.
We seem to be bombarded with images and shows and memorials this time around. Is is because of the five year mark? Is it far enough away to actually have some perspective? I don't know.
I'm wondering if tomorrow it will just be overload if I write about my own September 11th story. Just another person on another blog, writing about a day that changed things. I wasn't there; no where near the East Coast. No one I knew was killed or injured.
What can I say that hasn't already be said, and more eloquently, by someone else?
I can't.
But, my story is mine. When it comes down to it, it's all we do when we communicate. Tell stories. We want to be, need to be heard. Reassured we aren't alone.
Isn't that the reason we blog?
We seem to be bombarded with images and shows and memorials this time around. Is is because of the five year mark? Is it far enough away to actually have some perspective? I don't know.
I'm wondering if tomorrow it will just be overload if I write about my own September 11th story. Just another person on another blog, writing about a day that changed things. I wasn't there; no where near the East Coast. No one I knew was killed or injured.
What can I say that hasn't already be said, and more eloquently, by someone else?
I can't.
But, my story is mine. When it comes down to it, it's all we do when we communicate. Tell stories. We want to be, need to be heard. Reassured we aren't alone.
Isn't that the reason we blog?
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Keeping it together
He didn't make it.
It was a bad bad day here at school. Teacher's meeting before classes started to make sure we were all prepared for the kids and how they would react. Then, the announcement in the early morning of the accident, then the one just before lunch telling us that he had died.
We had extra psychologists from the other schools here to help not just the students, but the adults who were having a hard time.
I've never seen my principal cry in 10 years. Until today.
I had a few moments talking to my students today when my voice got wobbly and they could tell how close to tears I was. I tried so hard to be strong for them, answer their questions honestly, but comfort them at the same time.
God damn it. I know it's part of life, that accidents happen... I know this... but it's so God Damn unfair.
It was a bad bad day here at school. Teacher's meeting before classes started to make sure we were all prepared for the kids and how they would react. Then, the announcement in the early morning of the accident, then the one just before lunch telling us that he had died.
We had extra psychologists from the other schools here to help not just the students, but the adults who were having a hard time.
I've never seen my principal cry in 10 years. Until today.
I had a few moments talking to my students today when my voice got wobbly and they could tell how close to tears I was. I tried so hard to be strong for them, answer their questions honestly, but comfort them at the same time.
God damn it. I know it's part of life, that accidents happen... I know this... but it's so God Damn unfair.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
A reminder
Today one of our students was hit by a car riding his bike to school. He was hit so hard that his helmet was knocked off, and he hit the ground head first. His backpack was wedged into the grill of the Expedition that hit him, and his bike was snapped in half. He's critical.
He turned 12 just last week. This would have been his seventh day as a junior high school student.
The father of this boy's best friend came to pick his son up and tell him what had happened. I can't describe the sounds the boy made when he found out. That pain is something a little boy shouldn't have to feel.
Our principal spent most of the day at the hospital, with the boy's family. Luckily, it appears none of the students knew about it, because news like that travels fast.
Tomorrow will be hard for everyone. The kids that know him will be upset, and the kids that don't will want to talk about the ghastly nature of the accident. It was reported with great detail on the news tonight.
I'm also babysitting Greta the Grouch again. My friend's husband's mother in Wisconsin is not doing well. She's bedridden, but somehow mysteriously broke her hip last week at the nursing home. She's also stopped eating, and by her request before she got sick, will not receive a feeding tube if this continues. My friend and her husband are driving to Los Angeles tonight to catch a flight out. His mother is five years younger than mine.
Today, other people are feeling incredible pain; for me, it's just peripheral. But it's still there.
A reminder to me to think of all I have. A reminder I wish I never had, but nonetheless; I'm so lucky for all the joy, and friends and my basic good health (BTW, I have an appointment for an ultra-sound for my lady parts problems. There's a possibility I have some kind of plumbing issue that's been causing this trouble).
Prayer to me is not asking God or anyone else for favors. It's more of the directed thoughts for strength or courage or wisdom. I believe in the power of will and thought and intention; sometimes it's called prayer.
One of my all-time favorite quotes is from Anne Lammott; she said there's basically only two prayers for her:
"Help me, help me, help me," and "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Both sum it up for me tonight.
He turned 12 just last week. This would have been his seventh day as a junior high school student.
The father of this boy's best friend came to pick his son up and tell him what had happened. I can't describe the sounds the boy made when he found out. That pain is something a little boy shouldn't have to feel.
Our principal spent most of the day at the hospital, with the boy's family. Luckily, it appears none of the students knew about it, because news like that travels fast.
Tomorrow will be hard for everyone. The kids that know him will be upset, and the kids that don't will want to talk about the ghastly nature of the accident. It was reported with great detail on the news tonight.
I'm also babysitting Greta the Grouch again. My friend's husband's mother in Wisconsin is not doing well. She's bedridden, but somehow mysteriously broke her hip last week at the nursing home. She's also stopped eating, and by her request before she got sick, will not receive a feeding tube if this continues. My friend and her husband are driving to Los Angeles tonight to catch a flight out. His mother is five years younger than mine.
Today, other people are feeling incredible pain; for me, it's just peripheral. But it's still there.
A reminder to me to think of all I have. A reminder I wish I never had, but nonetheless; I'm so lucky for all the joy, and friends and my basic good health (BTW, I have an appointment for an ultra-sound for my lady parts problems. There's a possibility I have some kind of plumbing issue that's been causing this trouble).
Prayer to me is not asking God or anyone else for favors. It's more of the directed thoughts for strength or courage or wisdom. I believe in the power of will and thought and intention; sometimes it's called prayer.
One of my all-time favorite quotes is from Anne Lammott; she said there's basically only two prayers for her:
"Help me, help me, help me," and "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Both sum it up for me tonight.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Comfort
We all have different levels of it. Right now, mine is somewhere near the bottom.
Cramps. Horrible, nasty, forget the joy of yesterday, cramps.
I know, how boring for half of you out there. Sorry. Skip this post if you'd like.
My annual "lady parts" checkup was a couple of weeks ago. I talked to the doctor (I'm sorry, Nurse Practitioner. It took me six weeks to get an appointment with her, and it would have probably taken six months to get one with a real gyno. Wonderful HMO system we have) about my cramping problems, and she looked at my chart,
"You're how old now? Yeah, 42. Well, you might think about -- surgery is an option at this point."
No she didn't.
She didn't just imply that I should have a hysterectomy, did she? Did she? Good god.
"Oh no. I'm not ready to give up all hope just yet. I just want something for the pain."
"Have you tried Ibruprofin? Heating pads?"
"Well, duh. Yes. This isn't a new problem bitch. If you take the time to look at my frickin' chart, this has been getting steadily worse over the last few years."
okay, so that was on the inside. What I really said was,
"Yes."
Went through the whole dance about birth control pills, and how that helps a lot of women. Had to explain that I have a hard time with them (make me crazy, I tend to get depressed on them) and that unless I'm using them for actual birth control (which is unnecessary due to my involuntary celibate state), I don't want to take them.
She then shrugged at me. Really, she shrugged. I asked if there were any kind of muscle relaxants or something stronger than Advil that I could take.
She shook her head and gave me a pitying fake smile as if I was trying to score some drugs to sell on the street.
No drugs stronger than Advil for the pain, but I could have major surgery to have all my plumbing removed. Boy, that makes sense.
She really was a bitch. I couldn't believe a woman was treating me like this. I know, how sexist of me, but men don't experience cramps, so I'd at least be more understanding if one tried to blow my pain off, but this woman.
I've been in pain all morning. I am thankful I'm not teaching right now. It's always a drag when I have to be in total control when all I want to do is curl up in a ball, go to sleep and wake up when it's over.
There has got to be a solution.
Cramps. Horrible, nasty, forget the joy of yesterday, cramps.
I know, how boring for half of you out there. Sorry. Skip this post if you'd like.
My annual "lady parts" checkup was a couple of weeks ago. I talked to the doctor (I'm sorry, Nurse Practitioner. It took me six weeks to get an appointment with her, and it would have probably taken six months to get one with a real gyno. Wonderful HMO system we have) about my cramping problems, and she looked at my chart,
"You're how old now? Yeah, 42. Well, you might think about -- surgery is an option at this point."
No she didn't.
She didn't just imply that I should have a hysterectomy, did she? Did she? Good god.
"Oh no. I'm not ready to give up all hope just yet. I just want something for the pain."
"Have you tried Ibruprofin? Heating pads?"
"Well, duh. Yes. This isn't a new problem bitch. If you take the time to look at my frickin' chart, this has been getting steadily worse over the last few years."
okay, so that was on the inside. What I really said was,
"Yes."
Went through the whole dance about birth control pills, and how that helps a lot of women. Had to explain that I have a hard time with them (make me crazy, I tend to get depressed on them) and that unless I'm using them for actual birth control (which is unnecessary due to my involuntary celibate state), I don't want to take them.
She then shrugged at me. Really, she shrugged. I asked if there were any kind of muscle relaxants or something stronger than Advil that I could take.
She shook her head and gave me a pitying fake smile as if I was trying to score some drugs to sell on the street.
No drugs stronger than Advil for the pain, but I could have major surgery to have all my plumbing removed. Boy, that makes sense.
She really was a bitch. I couldn't believe a woman was treating me like this. I know, how sexist of me, but men don't experience cramps, so I'd at least be more understanding if one tried to blow my pain off, but this woman.
I've been in pain all morning. I am thankful I'm not teaching right now. It's always a drag when I have to be in total control when all I want to do is curl up in a ball, go to sleep and wake up when it's over.
There has got to be a solution.
Friday, September 01, 2006
Vicoden Morning
I love that drug. I love it far more than is healthy. If it was available, I'd probably take it every day, every 6 hours. As it is, I have a prescription for it for the horrible torso aches I get sometimes, but I'm so scared I won't have the pills when the pain hits, that it keeps me from taking them for most any other reason.
However, when I do take vicoden, I feel in love with the world. I compare it to the feeling of being in warm, clean sheets when it's raining and cold outside, and lingering in bed because there's nowhere I have to be.
This morning, on my early walk with Charlie, I had those Vicoden feelings without the drug. The fog was unbelievably heavy, but it wasn't too cold out. Otherworldly, because it was so early that there were very few cars. The road I walk on has no sidewalks, and a field on one side, so there's all kinds of little creatures to see as we wander along. The bunnies especially made me smile today. They are just so damn cute, and Charlie so often is almost on top of them before he sees them. He's on a leash, and those wabbits are pretty darn fast, so he never does much more than bark at them.
I've seen two road runners this week too. I don't think I've ever seen one before, and then two in one week. They are funny looking birds. One was running into the street, saw a car coming, and did a funny three point turn thing, and ran back the way he came. Seconds after the car went by, across the street he ran.
The spider webs had caught all the dew, and were making wonderful patterns on the plants and the fences. I know, I should have taken pictures, but I think I left my camera at school ( at least I hope I did, otherwise it's gone, gone, gone).
What's the opposite of depression? Because that's what I felt this morning.
However, when I do take vicoden, I feel in love with the world. I compare it to the feeling of being in warm, clean sheets when it's raining and cold outside, and lingering in bed because there's nowhere I have to be.
This morning, on my early walk with Charlie, I had those Vicoden feelings without the drug. The fog was unbelievably heavy, but it wasn't too cold out. Otherworldly, because it was so early that there were very few cars. The road I walk on has no sidewalks, and a field on one side, so there's all kinds of little creatures to see as we wander along. The bunnies especially made me smile today. They are just so damn cute, and Charlie so often is almost on top of them before he sees them. He's on a leash, and those wabbits are pretty darn fast, so he never does much more than bark at them.
I've seen two road runners this week too. I don't think I've ever seen one before, and then two in one week. They are funny looking birds. One was running into the street, saw a car coming, and did a funny three point turn thing, and ran back the way he came. Seconds after the car went by, across the street he ran.
The spider webs had caught all the dew, and were making wonderful patterns on the plants and the fences. I know, I should have taken pictures, but I think I left my camera at school ( at least I hope I did, otherwise it's gone, gone, gone).
What's the opposite of depression? Because that's what I felt this morning.
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