We will never forget...

I wasn't sure if I should write this post or not and I struggled with that decision for days.  Finally, I decided that it just didn't feel right to not write about that fateful day 10 years ago.  It seemed disrespectful to me to not acknowledge the day and, as the 10th anniversary drew nearer and virtually every television station out there decided to air specials reliving the day's events, I found that I not only felt it the respectful thing to do, but I also felt it was absolutely necessary.  Necessary in that, with each program that came on t.v., I found myself reliving the days surrounding 9/11 along with all of my memories and emotions of that time.  With that being said, I consider myself very lucky as I did not, personally, lose any family or friends on that day.

Before September 11, 2001 New York City was one of my favorite places to be.  As kids, my parents would take my brother and myself into the City as often as possible to catch a Broadway show, watch the Yankees, have a dirty water dog, and sight see.  In high school, we would take field trips in to go to museums or see a show.  In college and beyond, my friends and I explored, and thoroughly enjoyed, the night life.  I've done the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade (that's a story for another time...what a story).  I've done Times Square on New Year's Eve (both pre and post 9/11 and the experiences were markedly different...again, stories for another time).  I've gone to the City to watch baseball, basketball, hockey, marathons, attend weddings, go Christmas shopping, and just walk around.  Let me say it again, I love NYC and, despite the events of that day, it is still one of my favorite places to be.  And, while RM is still too young to appreciate it, I hope to be able to share that beautiful city with her one day soon.  Some of my happiest memories are based in that City and now, sadly, some of my most painful memories are also linked to NYC.

I didn't plan on this becoming a "Where were you when..." post, but that seems to be where it's going.  So, here goes my story.  On that morning, that started off as one of the most beautiful September mornings I had ever seen, I was sitting in a room undergoing my second day of orientation with 3 of my fellow interns at our psychology internship at an agency in Hartford.  We were meeting with our staff psychiatrist, Dr. Mangini, when her pager went off and she briefly excused herself from the meeting.  When she returned, she seemed distracted and began talking without looking at any of us, "There's been a terrible accident in Manhattan.  If any of you know people there, you should make sure they are alright."  And, with that, she left the meeting.  Myself and the other interns sat there for a brief moment as I tried to understand what she had just said.  "A terrible accident in Manhattan?  What kind of accident?  What part of Manhattan?"  I sat there making a list in my head of the friends that worked in Manhattan: my college roommate, her husband (who also went to college with us), two friends from home, a friend from my doctoral program, a friend from church and her husband,...my head started to spin.  I needed more information.  I got up and ran down to my office hoping to get in touch with someone.  I called all the numbers I had, but either no one was picking up or the phone calls would not go through.  I ran back to the meeting room where my fellow interns had found a t.v.  We watched the news as flames billowed from the first tower and everyone tried to figure out what happened.  Was it a commuter plane?  Was there an air traffic controller error?  How many were hurt?  Then, we watched the second plane hit the second tower and immediately an overwhelming feeling of dread overcame the room.  I have never felt so helpless, lost, horrified, and numb.  Rumors were quickly spreading throughout the agency, "The Sears Tower was hit.  The White House has been attacked.  They are targeting nuclear plants".  On and on and on.  As we tried to wrap our heads around the confused and disjointed information we were getting, I sat there in horrified silence watching...watching the towers burn...watching the debris fly through the air...watching the poor, desperate souls trapped in the upper levels of the Towers decide to take matters in to their own hands and jump from 100 stories up...watching as the Towers crumbled...watching a new reality unfold.  I don't remember many more details from that day or the days that followed.  I think things became so overwhelming that my brain turned itself off in order to protect me.  I don't really know.  I  do know that, one by one, I was able to either get in touch with my friends or speak with someone who knew they were safe.  I had spoken with some of my friends in Manhattan.  Anna worked at a hotel in Times Square as the head of hospitality.  She was supposed to have taken a group to the observation deck at the top of the Towers that day, but a couple members of the group were late, so they didn't make it down there before the attacks began.  She said one of the most unsettling things about that day, in addition to the obvious, was that Times Square was quiet.  I believe her quote was, "You could hear a pin drop".  There were no cars.  There were no tourists.  No one was on the street...at first.  Slowly, people did show up in Times Square.  People covered in debris.  People who were trying to get as far away from the World Trade Center as possible.  People who wanted to go home, but couldn't get out of the City because all of the bridges, tunnels, and mass transit systems were shut down.  People who now had no where to go and took refuge in her hotel.  I spoke with Alexis who was doing her internship at a hospital in the City.  She spoke of how they were put on alert and prepared for mass casualties, only to have no one arrive.  I spoke with Hildy, who was safe, but couldn't get home and was able to stay with our other friend, Pat, who lived in Manhattan and was also safe.  But with each confirmation of someone being safe, I would also hear stories of others who were not so lucky.  People who had lost siblings, spouses, cousins, friends.  The sense of overwhelming sadness was paralyzing and suffocating.  The world, it seemed, had stopped.  New York, my happy place, my playground, was now a war zone.  I cried.  I screamed.  I wanted someone to say everything would be ok.  I wanted to do something.  But I didn't.  I couldn't.  I found I couldn't stop watching the news.  I couldn't stop replaying the images in my head.  I couldn't do much of anything.

It seemed like it took weeks for people to catch their breath.  It seemed no one really knew what to do...there was no more sense of normalcy.  But, slowly, things started to come to life again.  People started to laugh again.  Perhaps not as loudly or as vibrantly as before, but at least it was something.  And it kept getting better, slowly.  In November of that year, I went into Manhattan to cheer Cristina on as she ran the NYC Marathon.  Part of me wanted to go to Ground Zero and another part couldn't bear it, so I didn't.  Then, on New Year's Eve of 2001, Sara and I headed to NYC to "celebrate" the New Year in Times Square.  While many of my family and friends were concerned about this plan and didn't want  us to go, I assured them it would be ok.  We headed into the City early because we wanted to finally make the trek to Ground Zero.  The City had built a viewing platform to allow people to come and pay their respects without disturbing the people who were working there to help move the City forward.  We arrived downtown and waited in line for 3 hours to get our chance to see where the Towers once stood.  As we stood in line, we saw buildings covered in soot, layers of ash in the sewers, and a parking meter that had not only been bent in half from the force, but had also partially melted.  As we got closer, the crowd grew quieter and we reached a memorial area that had been set up outside a church where relief workers would rest.  The wall was laden with missing posters, flowers, articles of clothing left by people, teddy bears, and other personal items representing lost loved ones.  When we finally entered the ramp for the platform, there was an eerie silence.  The ramp ran parallel to a cemetery, ironically enough, and this cemetery was again covered in soot and littered with huge pieces of metal from the blast.  In the trees, there were giant balls of what looked like paper and, as the wind blew, we realized they were not paper at all; they were the blinds from the buildings that had been caught in the branches.  As I continued to look in the trees, I noticed a pair of torn slacks hanging on one of the branches.  As the crowd on the platform thinned out and I got my first look at what had become known by rescue workers as "The Pile", I saw a wasteland.  Where the Towers once stood, was now a crater which would be the final resting place for 40% of the victims from that site whose bodies would never be recovered.  As I stood there paralyzed, I was grateful for the police who were there to quietly usher people along.  I slowly walked down the platform exit and I realized we were the last ones from our group to leave and we were both sobbing.  Then, I heard someone say, "It's Giuliani!" and I froze.  I felt I needed to see him or say something to him for the strength and courage he gave the City, and those who love it, in those dark days.  He was there to pay his final respects as Mayor of New York and I found myself drawn to him.  I fumbled in my pocket for a camera and I ran back up the exit ramp to get his picture.  As I did this, I noticed police and Giuliani's security detail running toward me and I realized I still had my hand in my jacket pocket as I was running.  I quickly stopped and threw my hands straight up in the air to show I had nothing and I explained, as I was still sobbing, that I just wanted a picture of the Mayor.  The guard who got to me first, saw the camera, saw I was sobbing, and simply gave me a small smile, wished me a Happy New Year, and asked us to step aside and allow the Mayor to pass.  As he came closer, I managed to snap a picture of him and, when he passed, he caught my eye and began walking toward me.  I stuck my hand out and he took it.  As we shook hands, all I could manage to say was, "Thank you for everything, Mr. Mayor.  Happy New Year" and he wished me the same before walking again.  He then spotted Sara, who was now uncontrollably sobbing, and she said, "I'm so sorry".  Then, he froze, looked at his companion, paused a moment longer, and finally turned back to wish Sara a Happy New Year before moving on again.  And with that, he was gone.  We made our way down the ramp and another officer came up to us to ask if we were alright.  I couldn't speak, but managed to nod my head and, finally, I was able to get out "Happy New Year".  He wished us the same and we left.  That whole experience afforded me some peace that day and I knew NYC was the right place to be on that New Year's Eve.  I haven't been able to return to Ground Zero since that day.

As the tenth anniversary of that tragic day is here, I find all those feelings and memories flooding back.  I'd like to be able to say that I feel better equipped to handle things at this time, but with each t.v. special replaying videos of the attacks, with each show focusing on the widows, parents, children of the victims, with each article recounting the events of that day, I feel a renewed sense of pain, sadness, and paralyzing despair.  I'd like to be able to say that the events of that day helped make this country stronger, but I can't say that.  While there was a strong sense of unity and support permeating this country immediately following the attacks, those feelings gave way to anger, resentment, hatred and ignorance.  Unfortunately, 10 years later, those feelings linger and this country feels more disjointed and divided than it has ever felt before.  I'd like to say that America has healed from that day but, while the wounds may not be as fresh as they were a decade ago, we have been scarred and those scars are a constant reminder of what was lost that day.

I've gone to the Dark Side

Of all the people who may (or may not) read this post, the one who will probably appreciate it the most is Cristina.  The reason I say that is because Cristina is perhaps one of my oldest and dearest friends and throughout the entire course of our friendship, she has been a morning person.  By morning person, I mean she is one of those people that has that perky attitude and bright, cheery smile no matter what ungodly time of the morning it may be.  She's the person who gets up at the butt crack of dawn to run 15 miles and still functions quite well, remaining chipper, upbeat and looking as if she could enter a freaking beauty pageant.  I, on the other hand, would not fall into that "morning person" category quite so neatly.  Hell, I don't fall into that same universe.  For me, mornings typically consist of the alarm going off (probably later than it really should), me hitting snooze, rolling over, hitting snooze again, rolling over again, hitting snooze one last time (incidentally, I am not very good at math at all, but I am VERY good at precisely calculating how many times I can hit snooze in the morning and still be on time for work...or pretty close to on time anyway), rolling over one last time, and then finally getting out of bed with a very long stream of obscenities being uttered all the way from the bedroom to the shower.  On some mornings, my overall homicidal mood continues well into my shower and, on some very unfortunate days, can go well beyond that.  For those who enjoy coffee or other caffeinated beverages, mornings probably run more smoothly.  Your urge to kill your neighbors and/or their pets and children, probably end once that first steaming cup of Joe has passed your lips.  I, however, do not drink caffeine.  Not because of any wonderful health benefit or conscientious objection.  No.  I don't drink caffeine mostly because it makes me pee like a race horse and I act like I'm on speed for about 40 minutes before crashing and burning at my desk.  It's not a pretty sight. 

So, I think you are getting the gist of things; I like my sleep.  I don't like to be up any earlier than is absolutely necessary.  In fact, I am a firm believer that the whole idea that 3, 4, 5 o'clock actually happens more than once in a day is just a myth. Something parents tell their kids to scare them into eating all of their vegetables at dinner ("Son, if you don't eat all your peas, 3 a.m. is going to get you!"  Absolutely terrifying).  I know there are those of you out there who will insist that you were a witness to me experiencing those wee hours at some point in my life (probably close to my college years), but I have no recollection of such events and, therefore, I categorically deny ever being a party to anything that has happened, happens, or will happen at 3 a.m. or other hours in the day which I believe are simply urban legends.

Recently, however, a window to an alternate universe has opened and pulled me into a Twilight Zone like scenario.  Ready?  Cristina, are you sitting?  I have been getting up at...wait for it, wait for it...4:45 a.m.  Yes, Virginia, there are pre-dawn hours.  Now, you may be asking, "What in the hell would possess you to get up at such an evil, dark, cold hour"?  Good question, my friend.  Well, it all goes back to RM.  You see, when I got pregnant, I was quite a bit lighter than I am now.  I have tried (albeit, minimally) to diet and little has happened to change my shape.  Therefore, back in February, Nicole and I decided we would join a gym in town which offered a day care.  The plan, and it was a good plan in theory, was that we would pick RM up after work, head to the gym, and then go home and chill out.  However, when it came time to actually put this into practice, we both felt very badly because we realized we would essentially have RM in daycare all day long while we are at work, then put her in another daycare at the gym, and then go home, feed her and put her to bed.  In other words, Mommies out.  That plan was pretty much completely unacceptable to me, so that was quickly scrubbed.  For months (yes months), we struggled with trying to come up with a feasible plan and we couldn't come up with much.  Finally, in August, after making several months of donations to our gym, I decided that I was going to visit the inside of this place if it killed me...and it very well might.

Is everyone still with me?  Hang on tight to your shorts because I think we all know where this story is going...I finally broke down and my anger over donating to the gym overcame my firm belief that one should be in bed at any and all times when the sun is down.  So, last week, for the first time, my alarm clock was set to go off at 4:45 a.m. in order that I may go to the gym when it opens at 5 a.m.  (What the hell was that?!?!  Oh crap.  Someone get the smelling salts.  Cristina just passed out.)  On my first morning trip to the gym, I came to realize a few things.  First, it's really freaking dark at that time of the morning.  Second, you know that saying about the early bird gets the worm?  Well, at that time of day, I get the damn worm.  You know why?  Yeah.  That's right.  The birds are still sleeping.  Even the birds know to STAY IN BED AT THAT TIME!!!  Me?  Yeah, not so smart.  The third thing I came to realize is that there a hell of a lot of people who go to the gym at that time of day!  Who the hell are these people?!?!?  Why are they all here at this time of the day?!?!  WHAT IS HAPPENING?!?!?!!?  In my delirious, sleep deprived state I not only went to the gym and got on the elliptical, but I also approached a trainer and made an appointment for a few sessions (Don't get too excited.  They were included in the price of the membership, so I was taking them up on that!  Damn skippy).  The thing that blew my mind in my conversation with the trainer was this: The only opening he had was at 5 a.m. on a Monday in TWO WEEKS!  WHAT THE $@%&?!?!?  It really is the Twilight Zone.  Holy crap!!!  What's even more unbelievable is that I took the slot.  And in that one final act, my friends, I completed my passage to the Dark Side.  That's right.  I'm one of those people now.  Oh well.  I guess my getting up early does have one advantage to it: I have to go to bed so freaking early now that I can actually take advantage of all the Early Bird Specials in the area.   

Potty Talk

This post is probably not about what you think it's about...or, maybe it is.  It's about poop.  More specifically, it's about all the weird things that people think about poop.  The idea for this post came to me when I was using the bathroom at work the other day and, during that visit, it quickly became apparent to me that my colleague in the stall next to me was, uh, well pooping (aka Moving her bowels, dropping a deuce, hitting the groover, dropping the kids at the pool, painting the bowl, taking a dump, making a dookey, sitting on the throne, pinching a loaf, taking the Browns to the Super Bowl, dropping a stinkpickle, and my all time favorite, giving birth to Baron Von Turdmeister).  As I settled into my stall, I became aware of the fact that somehow the dynamic in the room had changed.  By that I mean, I noticed a change in her approach to pushing out her chocolate pup.  She seemed somewhat embarrassed by the whole act and wanted to hide her identity and what she was doing.  That observation got me to thinking, why are people so ashamed of their poop?  People will walk into a bathroom and not think twice about unleashing their stream (aka taking a leak, taking a whiz, seeing a man about a horse, draining the snake (there is no equivalent for women that I've found yet), taking a tinkle, going pee pee, going potty, tapping a kidney), but people seem to really have a tough time allowing people to know they are painting the bowl.  You know those of you reading this right now know exactly the dynamic I'm talking about.  Maybe you've gone into the bathroom and the overwhelming aroma lets you know that someone is flushing their pipes, but the person who is actually doing that will be really quiet and you get the sense that, if you could peek into their stall, they would be tapping their feet, quietly whistling, and looking around as if nothing is happening.  And, when all is said and done, that person will try to hang out in the stall as long as possible, hoping everyone will leave, so the other patrons of the pipes won't know who is guilty for the homemade stink bomb.  

Then, there are those people who won't go poop in public at all.  These are the people who, no matter how uncomfortable they may be, they won't go to the bathroom if they are not at home.  I always wondered how that came to be and, what do they do when they are on vacation?  "I'm sorry, honey, we have to fly back home today.  I've got a turtle head sticking out and I can't use the bathroom here".  How does this happen?  Was there some traumatic event in their past that no longer allows them to bake brownie bites unless they are in the comfort of their own commode?  Don't these folks know that everybody poops?  It's a natural thing that your body does.  Granted, some of the odors that accompany the action are wholly unnatural, but everyone creates their own natural gasses and that's just a statement of fact.

There's also the group of people on the other end of the spectrum.  We all know these folks, too.  These are the people who not only do not hide the fact that they're paving the Hershey Highway, but they share this information loud and proud.  You know these people.  They'll get up and say something like, "Man, I've got to take a crap".  Then they'll grab their favorite reading materials or hand held electronic and go settle in to the chapel of the porcelain god for a while.  Then, once they've emerged shrouded in a toxic gas cloud, they make an announcement like, "Whew!  I think I just lost a few pounds" or "I wouldn't go in there if I were you".  These also tend to be the people who will openly share when they have passed gas (aka tooted, popped, farted, sang the Weight Watchers theme song, been interrupted by their round mouth friend behind them, been chased by barking spiders, let one rip).  These are the people who will proudly claim the smells they create and may even have a rating scale for them.  Some of my guy friends in college would actually fart and simply say, "Rebuttal?" which would then invite any other male within gassing distance to throw their air in the ring to see how it would size up.  While it was a disgusting, if not totally entertaining game, these guys at least had the courtesy of giving people a warning by having a poster on their front door that had a picture of a guy in a gas mask and said, "Toxic gas area".  And they were proud of it.

Me?  I'm somewhere in the middle.  I will poop when I have to.  I won't make an announcement about it, but if the smell is really powerful, you bet I'm claiming credit for that bad boy.  I would love to hear how other people deal with their bodily functions, but until then, I'm going to go fuel up with some Fiber One bars...hm, hm, pppfffftttt.

Freakin' Phlebotomist

You know that saying, "You're only as old as you feel?"  Typically, I feel pretty good.  I'd like to think I have a good sense of humor, I have enough energy to get me through my day, and I can pretty much keep up with RM when her go go gadget legs rip up the living room.  However, I think I may not be looking as young as I feel.  "Why do you feel that way?" you may ask.  Well, thank you for your unspoken suggestion that I am indeed smoking hot and don't look a day over 21 (I don't hear your snickering, snide comments over the Internet, so there.  I would try to spell out the sound of me making a farting noise with my mouth, but I seriously don't have any clue how to spell that, so we're going to just pretend that you are agreeing with me and not at all making fun of me).  So, as I was saying, I have had some recent experiences which would suggest that my young at heart attitude is not reflected in my outward appearance.

As some of you may remember, back in July we went up to Maine for a couple of days (that was the whole double ear infection fiasco for those of you who aren't remembering).  Well, Nicole's family has this tradition of stopping at this restaurant on the way out of town each year for breakfast and, well, we did it again this year (see how that works?  It's a tradition.  That means they do it each time they're there.  So, shockingly, we did it this year.  Got it?  Good.  Now stay with me.  We can't keep having these little digressions for me to try and catch you up).  So, we're at breakfast, all sitting around and having a good time.  My precious little munchkin, who by that time was well on her way to recovering from her ear infections, was yelling and hollering to get out of her seat and run around the restaurant.  While I was dealing with her, the waiter (who was very young) came over the table to check in on us and, in the process, asked if I was RM's grandmother.  Yeah.  No, don't adjust your screen.  You read that right.  Grandmother.  Grandmother.  I'll say it again for those of you who remain befuddled (I do enjoy that word, "befuddled), Grandmother.  While Nicole's mother and aunt were politely trying to stifle their laughter, Nicole and her sister took great pleasure in openly laughing and mildly mocking me.  Now, granted, I might have a few gray hairs here and there, but "GRANDMOTHER"??!?!?!  COME ON!!!!

As you can well imagine, it took my bruised egos a few days...OK, weeks, to recover from that one.  But, I did recover and have been slowly returning to accepting my mental age as my reality.  In other words, I'm going back to that adage of being as old as I feel and assuming that means that I also only look that old as well.  While my recovery has been relatively slow, but steady (For those of you currently making a joke about my age, you should know I can't see you or hear you...through my computer.  So, neener neener neener), it had been progress...until this past Saturday when I suffered a tragic setback.  Essentially, we had to take RM to get some routine blood work done and we were all dreading it because we knew they were going to have to do a full blood draw and we knew that wouldn't be pretty (you know, stick the needle in her arm rather than doing a finger prick...(tee hee.  I said "prick")).  We got to the lab, checked her in and waited.  We didn't have to wait long and Nicole and I took her back to the assigned room.  Within a couple of minutes, a woman came in and prepped the vials.  Nicole and I talked it over and decided Nicole would hold RM in her lap and I would try to help hold her down if needed.  Two more women entered the room and we were ready to begin.  Now, first of all, the room was pretty small, so to have 5 adults and a toddler in there, was a little tight.  The other observation I had was that the women were of all different ages, with two of them being clearly older than me and one being in her early 30s probably.  Ok, I've set the stage and here comes the drama, ready?  The phlebotomist pricked RM's arm and the screaming began.  It was obvious that her lungs remain in very good working condition and that, while she has not been eating spinach, she had freakish baby strength as Nicole was holding her, a tech was trying to hold her, and she was still managing to wriggle enough that she was trying to break out of Nicole's arms and come to me.  Her screaming, tears and struggling was enough to absolutely devastate and puncture my heart, but I soldiered on and tried to help in any way I could.  While you might think this is the tragedy I had earlier referred to, it is not.  Here comes the tragic part.  As I'm trying my best to remain composed and strong, the oldest of the phlebotomists turns to me and says, "Are you grandma?  Maybe you should wait out in the hallway so she can't see you."  REALLY?!?!?  WHAT THE F*@%!?!?!?!  GRANDMA?!?!?  It's a DAMN good thing she asked me to step out in the hallway because at that moment I felt like Bruce Banner and I knew I was going to need to go buy a new shirt (please note: that's an Incredible Hulk reference.  Remember? Bruce Banner was the guy who turned into the Hulk and, no matter what he was wearing when he first got angry, he always ended up in the same tattered shirt and shorts as the Hulk.  His tailor must have freaking LOVED him because I'm sure the Hulk paid for the guy's summer home with all the shirts and pants he had to buy).

A short time later, they were done, RM settled down in my arms, and Nicole laughed hysterically and quickly posted the whole exchange on Facebook.  And that, my friends, is when I came to the realization that those grey hairs on my head really are visible to other people.  Oh, and I also came to realize that the freaking phlebotomist needs a to go see her freaking optometrist.

Redrum

We just came back from a few days in VT.  Now, I feel I need to add a disclaimer at the beginning of this post.  I have nothing against VT.  It is beautiful country up that way and there are some very nice towns to hang out in.  If you're a skier, VT is probably a favorite haven for you in this part of the world.  If you're not a skier (which I am not), then you have visions of hiking, biking, kayaking, and all other kinds of glamorous outdoorsy activities.  If you're sick of the city, then you may also have visions of escaping to the mountains for some R&R.  I'd like to say I am one of those people with visions of hiking, biking, and kayaking, but the fact that I haven't seen my gym since I joined it and that I can't swim pretty much leaves me in the latter category of wanting some R&R.  Yeah.  That's definitely me.  R&R.  You know, maybe take a nice stroll down the street, check out some local shops...aaahhh.

The reason we were taking this trip is that we had won the use of a condo for a week in a silent auction at our church earlier in the year.  The condo was located right on Mt. Okemo and, for that reason, we could only access it during spring or summer months...so, it was a last hurrah before heading back into the school year.  The condo was pretty big and had a kitchen, access to a swimming pool, tennis courts, and a sauna.  The owner said only about 90% of the condos get rented in the summer, so we would pretty much be on our own up there.  It did not have air conditioning, but who cares?  It's on a mountain in VT.  How hot could it get?  So, we did our grocery shopping for the week, packed our bathing suits, and headed North!!

The drive was quick (only about 2.5 hours from our home) and it was pretty.  We followed the directions we had and drove up to the condo which, as I mentioned, was right on the mountain.  What this meant was that I was pushing our car as hard as I could and we were still maxing out at a whopping 25 mph as we went up the hill.  Finally, after coming very close to pulling a Fred Flinstone and using my feet to add some extra power to the car, we arrived at the unit we were going to be using.  The place was really very nice - 4 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, 2 living rooms, a dining room, a kitchen, a deck, and a sauna.  And, just as the owner had said, there was no one else around.  "Oh man!" I thought, "This is really going to be great!"  Nicole and I unpacked the car, picked the room we wanted to use, and took a drive around the area to see what was around.  What we found on the drive was this: the entrance to Okemo was only about 1 mile from where we were (and there was a beer fest going on that night.  Normally, that would have made my week right there, but it was pretty close to RM's bedtime, so we decided it probably wasn't worth the $20 admission for only a little while), there was an Irish bar close by, a place called Taco Taco, a quilt shop that Nicole wanted to visit, and...and, uh,...well, that was really about it.  "Ok, don't panic" is what flashed in my head as I quickly fired up my iPhone to look up what there was to do in this part of VT.  Now, the fact that even Google couldn't point me in the direction of an activity was a little disorienting, but I figured it was only the first night and we would figure out what there was to do.  With that, we headed back to the condo, unpacked, made dinner, and settled in for the night.  Started watching t.v. and realized this place only had the "essential" cable package.  Translation = you can watch what's on the networks, but don't look for any quality programming.  Oh crap.

The next day, Nicole's sister, Jessica, and nephew, Owen, came up, as well as our friends Cara and Marc.  Now, since people were arriving at different times, we decided to hange close by to be sure we'd be home when people arrived.  Jessica and Owen arrived around 1ish and Cara and Marc arrived closer to dinner, so we planned a nice meal, people settled into their rooms, and we played some games for the evening.  Monday, we decided to head over to a town called Weston where we heard there was some nice shopping to be done and we figured this would be a nice way to spend the afternoon.  So, when we got there, I learned that my definition of "nice shopping" is vastly different then the people who had pointed us in this direction because there was pretty much the VT Country Store, a shop full of Christmas tree ornaments, and a type of general store.  That's it.  That's the extensive list of shops.  No.  You didn't miss anything and I didn't forget any.  That's what's there.  Being overwhelmed as we were as to how to tackle this vast shopping Mecca, we started with the VT Country Store which, in all honesty, was a really cool place.  Now, as many of you know, I don't like shopping unless there's food involved.  That being said, I LOVED this place.  There was a whole room dedicated to cheese and another section dedicated to dips.  My dear friend, Cara, and I were on high alert to make sure that we hit all of the sundries available for sampling in the store and we quickly became seasoned critics describing each taste that hit our palates and making sure we "cleansed" with appropriate free snacks before moving on to other flavors.  It was a nice place and I stocked up on the sundries which we had decided were good enough to take home and enjoy during our evening games.

Next stop was the store with all of the Christmas tree ornaments, but that was really uneventful, so I'll spare you the details.  In other words, there were no snacks there.

Our third, and final stop, was the little general store that had some clothing, little souvenir type things, and more free food.  But, don't get excited by the free food thing because, believe it or not, that was NOT the most awesome thing in this store.  The most awesome thing was one of those experiences that catches you completely off guard and one of those things that leaves you completely speechless.  This is what happened.  I was strolling through the store using my super senses to locate and consume the free food that was advertised at the door when I turned the corner into a small hallway and that's when it happened.  I saw something I thought I would never ever see in my lifetime and I am completely confident I will not be able to do it justice here with my meager words.  I turned the corner and saw a woman, roughly my height and maybe slightly older than myself, carrying a dog.  Now, her dog didn't seem like any particularly special breed - he (I think it was a he) was a small dog (maybe 10 lbs) with black and white spots.  In and of itself, that wouldn't have been that weird, but that's not the end of the story.  You see, she was carrying this dog by holding him in her arms in such a way that the dog was sitting on his bum, in an upright position, facing outward so that I had a clear shot of his chest.  Well, I didn't really have a clear shot of his chest because, you see, he was wearing a shirt.  Now, I wish I could describe what this shirt looked like, but I really can't because I was distracted by the designer sunglasses that the dog was wearing along with the blingy string from his glasses that dangled around his neck.  I'm pretty sure he was also wearing a gold chain, but that might be my brain having some fun with this memory.  In any case, when I saw this dog, I kind of froze for a second because of the sheer attitude that he was emanating.  I'm pretty sure that if this dog could speak, he would have said, "What the hell are you looking at, Be-atch?!  Get me a Double Doggie Latte and pick me up some cheese from across the street.  NOW!"  As the dog was giving me the stink eye, his owner turns to RM and says (in a thick French accent), "It's a dog.  It's a dog".  Thanks for the confirmation, lady.  I sat there, dumbfounded...speechless.  As the lady walked by holding the gay animal equivalent of Martha Stewart, I quickly spun back around to find Cara who, I saw, was equally mesmerized by the dog.

I quickly figured out what must have been the situation with this dog.  I mean, the lady carrying him, the attitude, the glasses...it was all making sense to me now.  Obviously he was blind and she was his seeing eye person.  How nice of her to care for her poor blind dog.  What kind of training do you need to be a seeing eye person?  Are there schools for that?  Does the dog use a cane when his seeing eye person is sleeping or something?  Can I address the person when she is on duty?  Are you supposed to give her treats or beers or something when not in service?  Maybe the dog wasn't completely blind.  Maybe he had cataracts and that's why he was wearing those glasses.  No, that couldn't be.  The glasses were not the ancient forerunners to blue blockers that every senior citizen with cataracts uses.  You know what glasses I mean...they are like the deepest black you've ever seen and they have walls on either side of them that have immensely powerful force fields built in that serve to block any and all sunlight from coming anywhere near the wearer's head.  Clearly, this dog was not wearing anything like that, so he did not have cataracts.  Obviously.  Anyway, this poor blind dog was the perhaps the single most amazing and ridiculously absurd thing I have ever seen.  I have continuously kicked myself in my patookus every day since that encounter for not taking a picture of this poor, blind animal.  If anyone out there has ever seen this creature or if any of you ever come in contact with him in the future, please snap a photo of him and contact me immediately.

Ok, back to our story.  Our shopping excursion...that's where we left off, yes?  After our dog encounter, we had pretty much hit all of the shopping this Mecca had to offer, so we decided to head back to the homestead.  By the time we got back, it was probably, oh, I don't know...Noon.  Hmmmm....now what to do?  We sat on our buttocks a bit and decided to give the pool a shot.  So, we suited up and headed down the immense hill and arrived at our destination...the pool.  Not a soul around...except for the massive colony of gnats that quickly figured out we were fresh meat.  Needless to say, we only lasted at the pool for about 45 minutes before we had to move on from the bug buffet where we were the main courses.  Even poor little RM had little specks of blood all over her head from the buffet.  Sorry, sweetie.  Ok, back to the condo.

I have an idea.  Let's play some games.  Movies.  Books?  Uh, maybe some games?

Tuesday.  Nicole and Jess head out to a quilt shop (I'll pass on that one, thanks).  Cara and Marc head out for a hike.  Owen, RM, and myself hang out at the condo.  Ok.  This is ok.  It's a nice day today.  No rain, like predicted, but also nothing to do.  Go for a walk?  I don't think I am experienced enough as a rock climber to walk around this neighborhood.  Go to the pool?  Our collective blood supply had not replenished enough to revisit the vampire section of the complex.   A movie?  Well, we know how RM does with that and Owen had already watched the only movie available in the Red Box that was appropriate for a 9 year old.  Crap.  Hey!  How about a game?  No?  Ok.  Hmmm....I would have blogged, but there was no internet access at the condo.

Have you ever seen "The Shining" with Jack Nicholson?  It's a movie about a guy who takes a job as a caretaker for the winter months at a mountainside resort.  He takes his family up there and figures he'll use the opportunity to write, only the family becomes snow bound and have no access to the outside world.  Oh, and did I mention, the place is haunted.  Well, I was starting to have the sensation that I was in this movie: mountainside resort, no one else around, nothing to do...all work and no play makes Jen go a little woohoo.

Wednesday.  This is the day that everyone is scheduled to head back home...everyone except me, Nicole, and RM.  Cara and Marc left around Noonish while Jess left around 4 after a short trip to a state park.  By 4:15, Nicole and I were all alone in the condo...hell, in the complex...and desperately trying to figure out what to do for the next two days.  Well, there's a brewery about 30 minutes away.  Yeah, but what are we going to do with RM at a brewery?  Ok.  Ben and Jerry's is about 90 minutes away.  I don't think RM will tolerate that ride for an ice cream.  We sat around for a bit longer unsuccessfully kicking ideas around until......

It was probably around 5:20 that night when we both looked at each other and said, "Have you had enough?".  We were packed and in the car by 6:45 and homeword bound.  Now, does this horribly failed trip mean that Nicole and I are unable to spend time together alone?  I don't think that's what it means at all.  In fact, I think it means that we both love each other enough to realize when to cut our losses and, if we're going to sit around and do nothing, we may as well do it on our own couches.

Loan sharks...they're gonna get ya!

Has anyone ever played the game Apples to Apples?  If you haven't, I highly recommend it.  If you have, then you might be able to relate to this post.  The way you play the game is that people take turns being "the judge" and that judge puts down a card with a word on it.  The other players have other cards with various words on them and each players is required to put down a card from their hand that they feel best fits with the word played by the judge.  Each player then has the opportunity to make an argument as to why their word is best suited to the judge's word.  For example, let's say the judge's word was "creative" and someone threw down a card that said "Picasso" while another threw down one that said "Pizza".  Each player then has to argue why they believe their word best fits with "creative" and the judge has the final decision as to who wins.  Everyone get it?  Too bad if you don't cuz we're moving on!

While on vacation with my friends, we were playing this game and, while it was fun, it was a bit heated at times.  You see, we're quite a competitive group.  Essentially, we're the people who won't let our kids beat us at checkers unless they've actually earned it (well, maybe not all of my friends are that way; maybe that's just me...whatever).  Anyway, we're playing this game and I noticed an interesting phenomenon that started to develop, particularly when people did not have very good words to choose from in their hands.  Essentially, what starting happening was that people simply started using their word in a defining sentence with the judge's word.  So, for example, let's say the word was "jovial" and someone put down "bone spurs".  Now, in my world, jovial and bone spurs don't go together at all, but you could actually hear people making an argument like, "You could be jovial if you had bone spurs"................huh?  (this was not an actual example used in the game.  If it had been, this blog entry would have been much shorter).

Needless to say, I did not share my observation with people about what was happening for a while because I was enjoying it and, we were playing with two of the oldest children on the trip (who are around 8 and 9) and I figured out that if you I used some of the words that were included in the definition listed on the judge's card in my argument for my own chosen card, I could sway the children's decision about 50% of the time.  What?  Like you wouldn't do the same.  Don't judge me.  It worked....did I mention that I'm competitive? 

I let the game go on for a bit with my little observations tucked in my head until it happened.  A card was played that pushed me right over the edge and I had to simply point out the absurdity of what I was hearing.  We are sitting at our table, playing our game and the judge's card was thrown: Dangerous.  Now, people started throwing out things that could be dangerous (I wish I could remember some examples, but they all escape me now).  Finally, it comes to my beloved Nicole's turn and she throws down "Loan Sharks".  Ok.  Granted, I can see where getting involved with loan sharks could be dangerous on some level and an argument could definitely be made.  However, when it came to  her turn to defend her selection, her response was, "Loan sharks!  They're gonna get ya!" and she leans in across the table closer to the judge as if this was some intimidating gesture that was going to sway the vote.  Now, in hindsight, the situation was maybe not incredibly absurd, but...well...we come back to my competitive side.  I believe my response started with uncontrolled and exaggerated laughter followed by a "What?!?!  Did you just say, 'They're gonna get ya?'  Is that really your argument?"  Then I started making up my own sentences to go with that ending..."Disney Princesses!  They're gonna get ya!...Unicorns!  They're gonna get ya!...Bunions!  They're gonna get ya!"  Thankfully, Nicole has an excellent sense of humor and laughed along with me because, quite honestly, had the roles been reversed...I may have become as dangerous as.....as dangerous as.....well, I guess as dangerous as a loan shark. 

Vacation! Vacation! Vacation!

Yay!!!!!!  Vacation!!!!!  Last week, me and the girls had the week off from work and went on vacation to spend some time with family and friends.  Here was the plan: leave Saturday early afternoon and head up to Narragansett to spend some time with some of my oldest and dearest friends.  Then, on Wednesday, head up to Maine to spend time with Nicole's family.  To prepare for our trip, I typed up packing lists on the computer for each member of the family, prepared the dogs's bags for their vacations (thanks, Mom and Dad, and AnnaMaria and Chris for watching those girls!!), got all of my clothes laid out, and took RM and Ella down to Danbury on Friday night while Nicole was going to stay home and pack in a child free/dog free home.  Sounds like a great plan, right?  Well, when I got to Danbury, I called Nicole to let her know I was going to have dinner with the folks and she let me know that she was not feeling well and had not done any packing because she had been sick (she even sent me a text message of her reincarnated dinner as proof...yeah...gross).  So, when I got home, nothing had been packed and we were further away from being ready for the trip now because there was all the disarray that comes with someone who is sick. 
So, Saturday morning, I get up early and start collecting up RM's things and getting the things out of the garage we are going to need for the trip: beach umbrellas (2), beach chairs (3 - yes, 3), cooler, beach blanket, beach toys...holy crap that's a lot of stuff.  Anyway, I get that all squared away and I prepare to take RM to a birthday party for one of her friends from daycare.  The party was at a public park with a little water sprinkler area that was very cute.  I thought, "Oh!  She's going to love this!"...Not so much.  She liked the idea of looking at the water and running around areas where water could potentially land (perhaps if we were experiencing hurricane gusts), but not so much getting wet.  It was a nice time there anyway and she really enjoyed playing with her friends.  "She's so cute playing with her friends.  She's going to love playing at the beach...wait...what time is it?!?!  Crap!"  Yes.  That's what happened in my head.  I was now about an hour behind schedule...the schedule I set up for myself...the schedule that no one else cared about, but me...and now I was behind.  DAMN!  Strike One.  Ok, no problem.  Let's go get Nicole and we'll be on our way.  So, we say our goodbyes and head home to get Nicole and load up the car. 

Now, for those of you with small children who have ever been brave enough to venture out on a trip with them, you know that they have more luggage than all the Kardashians put together.  It's no wonder that so many people with kids have minivans.  You need a freaking tractor trailer just to cart the kids's crap around.  I swear I'm going to go to one of those tractor trailer training programs they advertise on t.v. just to make sure we have enough room for all of our crap on our next trip.  Let me give you a brief list of the crap that we had to bring because of our beautiful daughter: pack and play (we all need her to have her own area to sleep in order that we may preserve our sanity), stroller, beach chair (because she confiscates mine, so I decided to get her her own chair so the little punk won't relegate me to sitting in the sand...I hate sitting in the sand...it gets everywhere...You know what I mean....EVERYWHERE!  It doesn't matter if it's dry or wet or whatever.  However, it does matter if it's dry or wet when it burns the layers of skin off the bottom of your feet and then, for extra enjoyment, the grains of sand stick to the newly exposed and extremely painful flesh on the bottom of your feet.  Especially the little bits of skin right under your toes...And it always feels like there are little bugs in the sand waiting to bite you or crawl up your suit and bite you square in the ass and you can't really scratch it because of what you'll look like to other people on the beach even though those other people would probably be thinking, "That poor woman had to sit in the sand.  She should have brought a chair for herself".......Good thing we're going to the beach for a week...), beach toys (to help facilitate the placement of sand everywhere on both her and me), diapers, swimmy diapers (which, by the way, apparently only become fully functional after they have gotten wet), beach towels, hats, sunglasses (yes.  She needs her own pair of these also...please don't get me started), and at least two changes of clothes each day.  Now, that's just some of her stuff.  However, I also need to bring extra clothes for myself because if she gets sick, and I'm anywhere within vomit range, I'm going to need to change.  That lesson, again, I learned the hard way and I was a slooooowwww learner...but now I've got it.

Sorry, I got a little lost in that last paragraph.  So, we finally got the car packed up and got on the road (later than I wanted, but still ok).  We needed to make a pit stop at Nicole's parents's house, but that was not bad either.  Finally, on our way to Narragansett.  One reason I was so excited to go and really wanted to get an early start was because I was going to be spending the next few days with friends that I hadn't been able to spend a lot of time with now, but had spent almost every day of my drinking years in Danbury with (and some were friends well before that).  In particular, my oldest and dearest friend, Cristina, was here from New Zealand with her family and I was very, very excited to be able to spend some time.  Needless to say, I was excited.  Did I mention that?  We got to our friend's house, unpacked and spent the next few days hanging out.  There were about 11 adults and 8 kids at one time and it was a pretty good party.  The kids had fun at the beach, RM again liked the idea of the water, but not really the idea of getting wet.  She was perfectly content to have me dig a hole and let that fill with water and sit in that...damn sand.  At the beginning of the trip, everything was great.  We were all so happy to see each other and hang out that the little annoying things that people did, didn't really matter...but, as the days went on, you could feel the tension building.  By the time we left to head up to Maine on Wednesday, I was sad to say goodbye to my friends, but I was also pretty sure that I was about to miss a heavyweight title fight reminiscent of Tyson v. Holyfield...damn.  I'd gladly sit on the sand to watch that one.

Ok, pack up the car and head north!  Vacation part deux.  Now, when we left Narragansett, RM was particularly tired and needy.  I chalked it up to her being out of her routine and being around a lot of people that she's not used to spending time with (which is an idea that makes me a bit sad inside), but I looked on the bright side and figured she would sleep in the car on the way up and that would make the ride go a bit more smoothly.  Well, I was mostly right in that she did sleep on the car ride up, but her demeanor did not improve.  In fact, she started to have a fever, was quite cranky, and was a drooling mess.  So, if you do the math: low grade fever + drooling + cranky = teething.  No problem.  We got this.  Next day...more cranky + higher fever + no food + no playing at the beach = misery...for all and for none a good night.  By dinner time on Thursday, RM was not doing anything other than screaming incessantly.   After a bit of discussion and some ibuprofen for her and drinks for us, we decided we needed to find a doctor.  Nicole walked down to the management office and asked where we could find a walk in clinic.  The response, "We don't have one around here.  We tried the Quick Quack thing and it didn't work out.  You need to head a few towns over to the hospital and they have an urgent care clinic at the emergency room".  (Quick Quack.  Classic).  And so it was that RM had her second trip to the ER in her lifetime.

Now, I know that plenty of you out there have had somewhat less than pleasant experiences in ER waiting rooms and I was fully prepared to spend the majority of my remaining vacation sitting and waiting for a higher order Quick Quack.  We get there, walk in, and a plump, jovial security guard greets us at the door and takes down some basic info (name, phone number) and then directs us to a waiting room.  We get there and before we can even sit, we get called in to triage.  Have you ever tried to get an oxygen reading on a screaming 18 month old who is clearly not feeling well?  No?  Yeah.  There's a reason for that...Sick kids don't like it.  Long story short, her lungs were working very, very well.  Essentially, the nurse gave up trying to get a read and sent us to another waiting room.  Again, before we could get comfortable, we got called to another desk to get intake information (i.e. Show me the money...and your insurance card).  A few minutes later, we get called in to an exam room and the doc comes in within a few minutes.
Doc: "What's the problem?"
Me: "Well, my money's on an ear infection in the right ear"
Doc: "Ok, let's take a look (you know, like they say in the GE commercials)".  Looks in left ear and says, "Well, that one's irritated.  That could be the problem".  Looks in the right ear and..."Oooohhhh.  Yeah.  That one's pretty bad.  Looks like they're both infected".  (Really?  That's awesome.  Thanks for playing.)  He gives her some meds and sends us on our way.

We went back home, put her to bed, and hoped for the best.  Yeah.  That hope would be what I would call Strike Two.  And here's why: At about 1:30 am, RM starts screaming...and screaming...and screaming...and...screaming.  Nicole and I took turns walking her around, taking her out on the patio, reading books to her...screaming.  Finally, at 3:30 I turn to Nicole and say, "That's it!  I'm taking her for a drive!"  Now, while I love my wife dearly, she does not function well on a lack of sleep.  Her response was, "You're not going anywhere!  The only people on the road at this time of night are drunk from being out at bars! "  Pace, pace, pace.  Scream, scream, scream.  "Nicole, let me try to take her for a drive".  "No.  We should just go home."  So, that's the part where I started to do that kind of screaming that you do while still whispering.  Do you know what I mean?  You are yelling, but in a whisper.  You know you are trying to do it right now while you're reading this.  Ok, now that you have it, that's what I was doing.  Me (in a whisper yell): "ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT YOU DON'T WANT TO DRIVE DOWN THE STREET BUT YOU WOULD DRIVE BACK TO CT RIGHT NOW?!?!?!?"  Now, something must have snapped for her then because she started to get ready to come with me (without our luggage) and, wouldn't it figure that as soon as I started to walk down the stairs, RM stopped screaming.  As we got outside, she actually looked content.  I strapped her in her car seat and, by the time I made it to the driver's seat, she was asleep.  Yes....that's what I said.  Asleep.  So, Nicole and I slept in the car and of all the crap we packed, we did not pack anything that could possibly have made that night's sleep (or lack thereof) pleasant.  Like I said before...Strike Two.

So, that brings us to Friday.  Last day at the beach.  Can you guess what happened?  Yes.  That's right.  It rained.  Now, I know what you're thinking...Strike Three.  Really?  You're a glass half empty kind of person?  Really?  Come on.  Yeah, it rained, but it was still vacation which meant I wasn't at work.  And that, my friends, is at least making it to first after being hit by the pitch.