Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Day 2, mid-way through
It appears that my attempt to do something good for my body has run me afoul of the aspartame lobby. Well, one member of it, at least.
Rather than go on about it, because it really doesn’t interest me at all, I’ll suggest that if it interests YOU, go find his comment to the “Day 1” post, then Google all the relevant terms. You’ll find him. And the controversy. Yada, yada.
I would much rather talk about me, and how much I’m not missing Diet Coke today.
Nope. Not missing it. Not one bit.
This has never happened to me before. I’m someone who starts to miss Diet Coke just as I near the last swallow of a can of, uh, Diet Coke. Not today, though. No siree.
Today, I’ve had one cup of coffee with cream but no sweetener, two quarts of seltzer water, two peanut butter sandwiches (one for breakfast, one for lunch), some microwave popcorn and a handful of peanut M&Ms.
I’ve peed 647 times and almost run to Target for a bag of those itty-bitty Baby Ruth bars.
But Diet Coke? Not thinking about it. Not thinking about it. Not thinking about it.
La-la-la.
The end.
Rather than go on about it, because it really doesn’t interest me at all, I’ll suggest that if it interests YOU, go find his comment to the “Day 1” post, then Google all the relevant terms. You’ll find him. And the controversy. Yada, yada.
I would much rather talk about me, and how much I’m not missing Diet Coke today.
Nope. Not missing it. Not one bit.
This has never happened to me before. I’m someone who starts to miss Diet Coke just as I near the last swallow of a can of, uh, Diet Coke. Not today, though. No siree.
Today, I’ve had one cup of coffee with cream but no sweetener, two quarts of seltzer water, two peanut butter sandwiches (one for breakfast, one for lunch), some microwave popcorn and a handful of peanut M&Ms.
I’ve peed 647 times and almost run to Target for a bag of those itty-bitty Baby Ruth bars.
But Diet Coke? Not thinking about it. Not thinking about it. Not thinking about it.
La-la-la.
The end.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Day 1
"A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step."
-- Chinese proverb
Today, I quit Diet Coke.
I had to. It was killing me -- robbing me of my memory, ruining my mood, causing me crave sugar and bad carbs, and generally making me feel like crap.
I quit once before, but fell off the wagon after a couple of years of going without. In the years since then, I’ve tried to quit many times. Another dozen or so times I just cut back. Every time, though, I went right back to it, like a moth to a flame.
Addiction would not be too strong a word for this, even in the figurative, non-physiological sense that none of us should ever use. Turns out, though, that addiction might even apply in the literal, physiological sense.
Now, I’m no conspiracy theorist. But Google aspartame and you’ll find a whole bunch of anecdotal evidence -- and a fairly suspicious dearth of non-aspartame-maker-backed scientific research -- that points to some real troubles with our dear friend NutraSweet. Add to that the fact that Donald Rumsfeld was CEO of patent-holder Searle at the time the FDA approved the substance despite scientific warnings that it might be very bad for you, and the whole sordid mess falls neatly into the category titled “Things that make you go hmmmm...”
I agree that some of the folks on the aspartame-poisoning bandwagon sound a lot like crackpots, but given how crappy I feel when I drink Diet Coke -- and how much better I feel when I don’t -- I wonder if maybe they’re not on to something.
Even if they’re not, you’d think that feeling crappy would be enough to make me give it up long ago. But when we keep doing things that aren’t good for us even when we know we shouldn’t because they feel soooooo good when we do them, well, that seems fall neatly into the category titled “I need to go to rehab.”
So today, my friends, was the first day of the rest of my life. Again.
It was hard. But I made it. And now, it’s over.
Sweet dreams.
-- Chinese proverb
Today, I quit Diet Coke.
I had to. It was killing me -- robbing me of my memory, ruining my mood, causing me crave sugar and bad carbs, and generally making me feel like crap.
I quit once before, but fell off the wagon after a couple of years of going without. In the years since then, I’ve tried to quit many times. Another dozen or so times I just cut back. Every time, though, I went right back to it, like a moth to a flame.
Addiction would not be too strong a word for this, even in the figurative, non-physiological sense that none of us should ever use. Turns out, though, that addiction might even apply in the literal, physiological sense.
Now, I’m no conspiracy theorist. But Google aspartame and you’ll find a whole bunch of anecdotal evidence -- and a fairly suspicious dearth of non-aspartame-maker-backed scientific research -- that points to some real troubles with our dear friend NutraSweet. Add to that the fact that Donald Rumsfeld was CEO of patent-holder Searle at the time the FDA approved the substance despite scientific warnings that it might be very bad for you, and the whole sordid mess falls neatly into the category titled “Things that make you go hmmmm...”
I agree that some of the folks on the aspartame-poisoning bandwagon sound a lot like crackpots, but given how crappy I feel when I drink Diet Coke -- and how much better I feel when I don’t -- I wonder if maybe they’re not on to something.
Even if they’re not, you’d think that feeling crappy would be enough to make me give it up long ago. But when we keep doing things that aren’t good for us even when we know we shouldn’t because they feel soooooo good when we do them, well, that seems fall neatly into the category titled “I need to go to rehab.”
So today, my friends, was the first day of the rest of my life. Again.
It was hard. But I made it. And now, it’s over.
Sweet dreams.
Another winner from Sarah
Sadly, I don't think any number of visits from my daughter will change her grandparents' minds.
But oh how I love this woman ...
But oh how I love this woman ...
See more Sarah Silverman videos at Funny or Die
Friday, September 26, 2008
Around my table
The writer in me would invite:
Carl Hiaasen
Theodore Geisel (the good doctor)
Kristy Sammis (my favorite blogger...)
JK Rowling
Anne Lamott
Me at the head. Rowling and Hiaasen at each side. Lamott next to Rowling. Sammis next to Hiaasen. Geisel at the other end.
The chef in me would invite:
Emeril Lagasse
Thomas Keller
Tyler Florence
Jeff Clabaugh (who'll be shocked to find himself at my table)
Stephanie Izard
Me at the head. Lagasse and Keller at each side. Clabaugh next to Keller. Izard next to Lagasse. Florence at the other end.
The journalist in me would invite:
Diana Henriques (the New York Times' greatest prize)
David Bloom (God rest his soul...)
Campbell Brown
Candy Crowley
Bob Woodward
Anna Quindlen (we'd squeeze in...)
Me at the head. Quindlen and Bloom at each side. Crowley next to Bloom. Brown next to Quindlen. Henriques at the other end. Woodward would serve as sommelier.
The woman in me would invite:
Queen Rania of Jordan
Indira Gandhi
Sojourner Truth
Angela Merkel
Eleanor Roosevelt
Me at the head. Roosevelt and Merkel at either side. Gandhi next to Merkel. Queen Rania next to Roosevelt. Truth at the other end.
The teen-age girl in me would invite:
Justin Timberlake
Brad Pitt
Tim McGraw
David Cook
David Krumholtz
Me at the head. All of them sitting on my lap.
The sophisticate in me would invite:
Uh, there is no sophisticate in me
And if I had to fill just one table:
JK Rowling
Queen Rania of Jordan
Diana Henriques
Anna Quindlen
Candy Crowley
Kristy Sammis
Henriques at the head. Crowley and Rowling at either side. Sammis next to Rowling. Queen Rania next to Crowley. Quindlen at the other end. And me serving as sommelier, server and sous chef.
Carl Hiaasen
Theodore Geisel (the good doctor)
Kristy Sammis (my favorite blogger...)
JK Rowling
Anne Lamott
Me at the head. Rowling and Hiaasen at each side. Lamott next to Rowling. Sammis next to Hiaasen. Geisel at the other end.
The chef in me would invite:
Emeril Lagasse
Thomas Keller
Tyler Florence
Jeff Clabaugh (who'll be shocked to find himself at my table)
Stephanie Izard
Me at the head. Lagasse and Keller at each side. Clabaugh next to Keller. Izard next to Lagasse. Florence at the other end.
The journalist in me would invite:
Diana Henriques (the New York Times' greatest prize)
David Bloom (God rest his soul...)
Campbell Brown
Candy Crowley
Bob Woodward
Anna Quindlen (we'd squeeze in...)
Me at the head. Quindlen and Bloom at each side. Crowley next to Bloom. Brown next to Quindlen. Henriques at the other end. Woodward would serve as sommelier.
The woman in me would invite:
Queen Rania of Jordan
Indira Gandhi
Sojourner Truth
Angela Merkel
Eleanor Roosevelt
Me at the head. Roosevelt and Merkel at either side. Gandhi next to Merkel. Queen Rania next to Roosevelt. Truth at the other end.
The teen-age girl in me would invite:
Justin Timberlake
Brad Pitt
Tim McGraw
David Cook
David Krumholtz
Me at the head. All of them sitting on my lap.
The sophisticate in me would invite:
Uh, there is no sophisticate in me
And if I had to fill just one table:
JK Rowling
Queen Rania of Jordan
Diana Henriques
Anna Quindlen
Candy Crowley
Kristy Sammis
Henriques at the head. Crowley and Rowling at either side. Sammis next to Rowling. Queen Rania next to Crowley. Quindlen at the other end. And me serving as sommelier, server and sous chef.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Thoughts by the pool
We are the classic planner-plunger couple, Husband and I.
To him, my style must feel like “Ready. Fire. Aim.”
To me, his style feels like “Ready. Aim. (Are you sure we’re ready?) Aim. (Am I aiming in the right direction?) Aim. (OK. I think I’m ready to fire. Let me sleep on it.)”
Of course, this difference brings with it some real frustrations. My spontaneous nature gets cramped by his caution. His need for assurance gets rattled by my willingness to jump without a net. I end up feeling hemmed in. He feels unsteady on his feet. And we both get grouchy.
Nowhere is this more evident than in situations like yesterday, as we walked through Old San Juan. I was ready to wander, to see where the day brought us. He needed to get his bearings, to figure out where we were and where we were going. I wanted to see, inhale and move on. He wanted to linger, to feel the history in the walls of an old fort or the spirits of those who came before.
It was like a push me-pull you, all day.
Fortunately, we love each other enough that the real conflict is in who’s going to help the other feel more comfortable. I struggle to hold my horses. He works on letting go.
You’d think that this would end up a compromise. Instead, it just makes us both unsettled. It’s laudable to work so hard to make someone else feel at home. It’s also a whole bunch of hard work, especially when it requires you to become someone you’re not.
As you may know (or may have gathered from these musings), we come from different places. I come from the Land of Perpetual Motion. He comes from the Land of Stay Right Where You Are. I moved more times before my third birthday than he’s moved in his entire life. He grew up on the same piece of land that his father did, and his grandfather before that. Though my parents live in the same house they’ve owned since 1981, I spent just two years there before I went off to college. My seven years in D.C., during which I moved once, represent the longest I’ve ever lived in one metro area.
As a result, change gives me comfort. It gives Husband hives. And still, I feel blessed to be in this contradiction. Before I met him, I had no stability in my life. Home was where stuff was. I was always looking for my next city, my next job, my next home.
I bought things I didn’t need. I made decisions I regretted almost instantly. I tried things I really shouldn’t have. I did things I’m not proud of. I essentially lived in chaos.
When I met Husband, my life slowed to what felt like a snail’s pace. At first – and for a good long time, frankly – it was wonderful. I’d never had so much time to be still and hear myself think.
After a while, though, I got restless. What had felt good at first started to feel claustrophobic. So I did what any self-respecting manic would do. I set about changing him. The result, of course, was catastrophic.
The faster I tried to drag him, the slower he went. The more I nagged, the more he resisted. The more this went on, the farther apart we drifted. Until one day, not too long ago, we looked up and wondered what had happened to our life-affirming love.
The realization that we had wandered so far from what we’d discovered in the beginning was stark and clear. I knew that if things continued the way they were going, I’d lose him forever. It scared the shit out of me.
And then one day, as I drove to work after another fight, I heard the wisdom of my friend Deb ring in my ears: “You can change only two things: Your environment and your attitude.”
From there, it was easy. I’m not willing to change my environment. In fact, I’ve never been so unwilling to change my environment.
It was time to work on my attitude. I did. I have. And I will.
It’s not always easy. On days like yesterday, when I’m hot, antsy and ready to explore, it’s hard to watch him stare at a map, getting his bearings and figuring out where to go. Despite the fact that his method gave us some much-needed direction, grouchy got the better of me on our walk through Old San Juan and I spent the rest of the day apologizing to the man who’s been trying to make me happy since the day we met.
Today, as I sit by the pool alone – and he attends the conference that brought us here – I’m kicking myself. It’s not the first time I’ve wished I’d been better to him yesterday, when I had the chance to be with him all day.
Like all of us, I’m a work in progress. As I work toward the peace that comes when you’re able to let those you love be exactly who they are, I’m thankful for my planner, despite all evidence to the contrary. His steady hand gives me grace under fire, even when I’m shooting at myself. His need to put down roots has helped me stop chasing chaos. And his willingness, sometimes, to follow me into unfamiliar waters helps me know that he loves me, too.
How lucky am I?
To him, my style must feel like “Ready. Fire. Aim.”
To me, his style feels like “Ready. Aim. (Are you sure we’re ready?) Aim. (Am I aiming in the right direction?) Aim. (OK. I think I’m ready to fire. Let me sleep on it.)”
Of course, this difference brings with it some real frustrations. My spontaneous nature gets cramped by his caution. His need for assurance gets rattled by my willingness to jump without a net. I end up feeling hemmed in. He feels unsteady on his feet. And we both get grouchy.
Nowhere is this more evident than in situations like yesterday, as we walked through Old San Juan. I was ready to wander, to see where the day brought us. He needed to get his bearings, to figure out where we were and where we were going. I wanted to see, inhale and move on. He wanted to linger, to feel the history in the walls of an old fort or the spirits of those who came before.
It was like a push me-pull you, all day.
Fortunately, we love each other enough that the real conflict is in who’s going to help the other feel more comfortable. I struggle to hold my horses. He works on letting go.
You’d think that this would end up a compromise. Instead, it just makes us both unsettled. It’s laudable to work so hard to make someone else feel at home. It’s also a whole bunch of hard work, especially when it requires you to become someone you’re not.
As you may know (or may have gathered from these musings), we come from different places. I come from the Land of Perpetual Motion. He comes from the Land of Stay Right Where You Are. I moved more times before my third birthday than he’s moved in his entire life. He grew up on the same piece of land that his father did, and his grandfather before that. Though my parents live in the same house they’ve owned since 1981, I spent just two years there before I went off to college. My seven years in D.C., during which I moved once, represent the longest I’ve ever lived in one metro area.
As a result, change gives me comfort. It gives Husband hives. And still, I feel blessed to be in this contradiction. Before I met him, I had no stability in my life. Home was where stuff was. I was always looking for my next city, my next job, my next home.
I bought things I didn’t need. I made decisions I regretted almost instantly. I tried things I really shouldn’t have. I did things I’m not proud of. I essentially lived in chaos.
When I met Husband, my life slowed to what felt like a snail’s pace. At first – and for a good long time, frankly – it was wonderful. I’d never had so much time to be still and hear myself think.
After a while, though, I got restless. What had felt good at first started to feel claustrophobic. So I did what any self-respecting manic would do. I set about changing him. The result, of course, was catastrophic.
The faster I tried to drag him, the slower he went. The more I nagged, the more he resisted. The more this went on, the farther apart we drifted. Until one day, not too long ago, we looked up and wondered what had happened to our life-affirming love.
The realization that we had wandered so far from what we’d discovered in the beginning was stark and clear. I knew that if things continued the way they were going, I’d lose him forever. It scared the shit out of me.
And then one day, as I drove to work after another fight, I heard the wisdom of my friend Deb ring in my ears: “You can change only two things: Your environment and your attitude.”
From there, it was easy. I’m not willing to change my environment. In fact, I’ve never been so unwilling to change my environment.
It was time to work on my attitude. I did. I have. And I will.
It’s not always easy. On days like yesterday, when I’m hot, antsy and ready to explore, it’s hard to watch him stare at a map, getting his bearings and figuring out where to go. Despite the fact that his method gave us some much-needed direction, grouchy got the better of me on our walk through Old San Juan and I spent the rest of the day apologizing to the man who’s been trying to make me happy since the day we met.
Today, as I sit by the pool alone – and he attends the conference that brought us here – I’m kicking myself. It’s not the first time I’ve wished I’d been better to him yesterday, when I had the chance to be with him all day.
Like all of us, I’m a work in progress. As I work toward the peace that comes when you’re able to let those you love be exactly who they are, I’m thankful for my planner, despite all evidence to the contrary. His steady hand gives me grace under fire, even when I’m shooting at myself. His need to put down roots has helped me stop chasing chaos. And his willingness, sometimes, to follow me into unfamiliar waters helps me know that he loves me, too.
How lucky am I?
Monday, September 22, 2008
A couple of random thoughts
Hey, fellow owner of $700 billion in bad debt and one $85 billion insurance company, how you feeling about this?
Yeah, me too.
Man, if that doesn’t get you out of your house on Nov. 4, I don’t know what will.
*************
Maybe this?
*************
Quote of the day:
“Life is short. Treasure each moment. Eat the brownie.”
-- Rosie O’Donnell
***************
A month or so ago, my Muse abandoned me. I wondered whether she had headed off to the beach, to drink fruity drinks, read trashy novels and look at cute boys.
She came back one day, without any fanfare. Where had she been? I never got an answer. So I’m going there to learn for myself.
San Juan, Puerto Rico. Five days in the sun. With my husband. Alone.
If we’re not back in a week, put the kid on a plane and the house on the market, will ya?
***************
While I’m gone, answer me this:
If you could invite any five people, living or dead, to your house for dinner, who would they be? Why? And in what order would you sit them around your table?
Please don’t let me down, dear reader. Show me this relationship is NOT one-sided.
Peace to you and yours.
Yeah, me too.
Man, if that doesn’t get you out of your house on Nov. 4, I don’t know what will.
*************
Maybe this?
*************
Quote of the day:
“Life is short. Treasure each moment. Eat the brownie.”
-- Rosie O’Donnell
***************
A month or so ago, my Muse abandoned me. I wondered whether she had headed off to the beach, to drink fruity drinks, read trashy novels and look at cute boys.
She came back one day, without any fanfare. Where had she been? I never got an answer. So I’m going there to learn for myself.
San Juan, Puerto Rico. Five days in the sun. With my husband. Alone.
If we’re not back in a week, put the kid on a plane and the house on the market, will ya?
***************
While I’m gone, answer me this:
If you could invite any five people, living or dead, to your house for dinner, who would they be? Why? And in what order would you sit them around your table?
Please don’t let me down, dear reader. Show me this relationship is NOT one-sided.
Peace to you and yours.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Oh baby, baby
Our new and very cool friends are having a baby.
A second baby. Another boy. Early next year.
As for so many parents these days, it wasn’t easy for them to get here. But after a couple of bumps in the road, they’re 18 weeks along and things are looking good.
I confess that I’m surprised to be bringing you this wonderful news. Not at all surprised about the news itself. Totally surprised to be bringing it to you.
I have been dreading the day this situation presented itself — the day that people I adore tell me they’re having another baby. I wasn’t sure how I’d react, frankly. I wanted to believe I’d be filled with joy for them. But I’ve seen enough pain around childbearing — and the lack thereof — to know you can’t really know until you know.
You know?
A dear friend of mine has four gorgeous children. She wants a fifth. It’s not in the cards. So she grieves. Some would call her greedy. I call them assholes. Who’s to say how many children are enough? Only each of us for ourselves.
I have one gorgeous child. I want another. It’s not in the cards. So I grieve. Not openly. And certainly not as I did when we first made our decision, my husband and I. But I wish every day for a realignment of the stars. I suspect that I will until the day I die.
Several dear friends aren’t able to conceive at all. Though their pain is enormous, I doubt any of them would call anyone greedy. They understand the pain of wanting a child. Even if it’s another child.
Of course, I also know women whose sadness over their own loss makes them incapable of being happy for anyone else. I’ve always hoped I wasn’t one of them. I don’t believe my sorrow is worth an ounce more than your joy. Besides, life isn’t fair. Sometimes you gotta pick yourself up, dust yourself off and move on.
My hope was to be able to grieve for myself and celebrate for someone I love at the same time. Still, I wondered how I’d react when the moment finally came.
Would it feel like a sucker punch? (It did, but only for a moment.)
Would I be sad for myself? (I was, just a bit.)
Would I get over it? (I did, in about two seconds.)
Could I be happy for my friends? (I was. I am. So very happy. Ecstatic, in fact. Over the moon.)
When Husband and I told our friends we were pregnant with Urchin, we were careful to be gentle with our friends who were still trying. Our “sensitivity” was discovered by one of them, who promptly told me to stop it.
“Just because I can’t have a baby doesn’t mean I’m not thrilled that you can,” she said. “Now tell me all about it.”
I did, on that day and many days afterward.
One day, close to my due date, we were talking about how much our lives had changed over the past couple of years.
“You know,” she said, “I’m gonna love this baby.”
And she does.
Like her, I can’t have all the babies I want to have. People I love can and will. And in some strange way, their good fortune feels like it’s my own.
A second baby. Another boy. Early next year.
As for so many parents these days, it wasn’t easy for them to get here. But after a couple of bumps in the road, they’re 18 weeks along and things are looking good.
I confess that I’m surprised to be bringing you this wonderful news. Not at all surprised about the news itself. Totally surprised to be bringing it to you.
I have been dreading the day this situation presented itself — the day that people I adore tell me they’re having another baby. I wasn’t sure how I’d react, frankly. I wanted to believe I’d be filled with joy for them. But I’ve seen enough pain around childbearing — and the lack thereof — to know you can’t really know until you know.
You know?
A dear friend of mine has four gorgeous children. She wants a fifth. It’s not in the cards. So she grieves. Some would call her greedy. I call them assholes. Who’s to say how many children are enough? Only each of us for ourselves.
I have one gorgeous child. I want another. It’s not in the cards. So I grieve. Not openly. And certainly not as I did when we first made our decision, my husband and I. But I wish every day for a realignment of the stars. I suspect that I will until the day I die.
Several dear friends aren’t able to conceive at all. Though their pain is enormous, I doubt any of them would call anyone greedy. They understand the pain of wanting a child. Even if it’s another child.
Of course, I also know women whose sadness over their own loss makes them incapable of being happy for anyone else. I’ve always hoped I wasn’t one of them. I don’t believe my sorrow is worth an ounce more than your joy. Besides, life isn’t fair. Sometimes you gotta pick yourself up, dust yourself off and move on.
My hope was to be able to grieve for myself and celebrate for someone I love at the same time. Still, I wondered how I’d react when the moment finally came.
Would it feel like a sucker punch? (It did, but only for a moment.)
Would I be sad for myself? (I was, just a bit.)
Would I get over it? (I did, in about two seconds.)
Could I be happy for my friends? (I was. I am. So very happy. Ecstatic, in fact. Over the moon.)
When Husband and I told our friends we were pregnant with Urchin, we were careful to be gentle with our friends who were still trying. Our “sensitivity” was discovered by one of them, who promptly told me to stop it.
“Just because I can’t have a baby doesn’t mean I’m not thrilled that you can,” she said. “Now tell me all about it.”
I did, on that day and many days afterward.
One day, close to my due date, we were talking about how much our lives had changed over the past couple of years.
“You know,” she said, “I’m gonna love this baby.”
And she does.
Like her, I can’t have all the babies I want to have. People I love can and will. And in some strange way, their good fortune feels like it’s my own.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Anne then some…
This is exactly what I’ve been trying to put into words for a couple of days now. Of course, she did it much better than I ever could have. *sigh*
By the way, dear reader, if you don’t read Anne Lamott — her books and her musings — I hope you’ll think about taking her up. Her way with words is my definition of faith-based healing.
By the way, dear reader, if you don’t read Anne Lamott — her books and her musings — I hope you’ll think about taking her up. Her way with words is my definition of faith-based healing.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Death of a dream
Sept. 11 rips my heart out every time it rolls around. I cry with my country, certainly. I also cry for myself.
I lost a dear friend in the North Tower. She’d been through the first attack on the World Trade Center, and had vowed to find somewhere else to work.
She never honored that vow. And on Sept. 11, 2001, she lost her chance. She was three months pregnant after years of trying to conceive. Her husband still hasn’t recovered. Few of us hear from him anymore and, sadly, most of us are relieved. His pain is so palpable it’s almost impossible to bear.
My pain over her death has dulled with some distance. My pain over the death of a dream on Sept. 11, however, haunts me to this day.
I’ve been a journalist for as long as I can remember. From the days of my third grade bulletin through my stint as editor of a Washington, D.C., newspaper, I never wavered from the course I set for myself the day I reported to my third-grade readers about what it feels like to be an ice cream cone.
My professional career has taken me from the Hamptons of Long Island to the theme parks of Orlando to the Hill Country of Austin, Texas, to the most powerful place on Earth. When I landed in D.C., I landed with a plan. It was time, I told myself, to leave the company I’d been with for so many years and find a more mainstream reporting job on a major daily newspaper.
I was well on my way to doing just that when the first plane hit at 8:45 a.m. on Sept. 11.
For the next hour, my staff and I marveled at the news as it unfolded. Then it became our story, when the Pentagon went up in flames.
With the story of a lifetime burning white hot a mile down the road, my staff did what any news staff would do in a similar circumstance. They looked to me for guidance.
Fortunately, I’d closed the door to my office before any of them could see that I wasn’t prepared to guide them through anything. Instead, I was fighting the urge to go home, curl up on my couch and be horrified with the rest of the nation.
After giving myself a serious talking-to, I gathered my wits enough to open the door and bark out a few instructions. We scheduled a meeting, talked briefly about a plan and sent a handful of reporters out to report back. I closed the door again and told myself to breathe. I would do that four or five more times that day. It kept me going, though I’m not sure how.
When I finally arrived home that night, sad and spent, I lit a candle, grabbed my cat and broke down in tears. I wept for the country, for the people who’d lost their lives and for the ones who lost their loves.
Then I wept for myself.
For my entire life, I had waited for this story. When it finally arrived, I learned that I have neither the mettle nor the inclination to stand in the face of something so fierce and stare it down.
It broke my heart. It has yet to mend.
Since that day, many wonderful things have happened to me. I’ve married, had a baby and found my home. Still, I mourn a loss so great it sears my soul.
Some people take solace in the belief that we never know how very much we can handle until it’s staring us in the face.
That doesn’t give me comfort. Because for me it isn’t true.
I lost a dear friend in the North Tower. She’d been through the first attack on the World Trade Center, and had vowed to find somewhere else to work.
She never honored that vow. And on Sept. 11, 2001, she lost her chance. She was three months pregnant after years of trying to conceive. Her husband still hasn’t recovered. Few of us hear from him anymore and, sadly, most of us are relieved. His pain is so palpable it’s almost impossible to bear.
My pain over her death has dulled with some distance. My pain over the death of a dream on Sept. 11, however, haunts me to this day.
I’ve been a journalist for as long as I can remember. From the days of my third grade bulletin through my stint as editor of a Washington, D.C., newspaper, I never wavered from the course I set for myself the day I reported to my third-grade readers about what it feels like to be an ice cream cone.
My professional career has taken me from the Hamptons of Long Island to the theme parks of Orlando to the Hill Country of Austin, Texas, to the most powerful place on Earth. When I landed in D.C., I landed with a plan. It was time, I told myself, to leave the company I’d been with for so many years and find a more mainstream reporting job on a major daily newspaper.
I was well on my way to doing just that when the first plane hit at 8:45 a.m. on Sept. 11.
For the next hour, my staff and I marveled at the news as it unfolded. Then it became our story, when the Pentagon went up in flames.
With the story of a lifetime burning white hot a mile down the road, my staff did what any news staff would do in a similar circumstance. They looked to me for guidance.
Fortunately, I’d closed the door to my office before any of them could see that I wasn’t prepared to guide them through anything. Instead, I was fighting the urge to go home, curl up on my couch and be horrified with the rest of the nation.
After giving myself a serious talking-to, I gathered my wits enough to open the door and bark out a few instructions. We scheduled a meeting, talked briefly about a plan and sent a handful of reporters out to report back. I closed the door again and told myself to breathe. I would do that four or five more times that day. It kept me going, though I’m not sure how.
When I finally arrived home that night, sad and spent, I lit a candle, grabbed my cat and broke down in tears. I wept for the country, for the people who’d lost their lives and for the ones who lost their loves.
Then I wept for myself.
For my entire life, I had waited for this story. When it finally arrived, I learned that I have neither the mettle nor the inclination to stand in the face of something so fierce and stare it down.
It broke my heart. It has yet to mend.
Since that day, many wonderful things have happened to me. I’ve married, had a baby and found my home. Still, I mourn a loss so great it sears my soul.
Some people take solace in the belief that we never know how very much we can handle until it’s staring us in the face.
That doesn’t give me comfort. Because for me it isn’t true.
In the final moments of peace ...
The night of Sept. 11, 2001, I wrote a column for that week’s paper. Here it is, republished without permission.
In a quiet moment before, in one or another building that towered high above a great city, a daughter put the finishing touches on an e-mail home.
A young man wondered where he’d find the courage to propose.
A new mother was planning her son’s first birthday party.
Someone balanced a checkbook.
Another craved a cup of good coffee.
Yet another was just a few days shy of a much-needed vacation.
A father worried about his son, who left for college last week.
A grandmother wondered if the grandkids might like a trip to the zoo this weekend.
A CEO signed her first memo of the day.
A trader wondered what the day’s market would bring.
A janitor smiled back.
A bride fretted over wedding plans.
A student dreamed of graduation.
A mentor beamed with pride.
A soccer mom thought about the night’s game.
A coach decided to change the night’s lineup.
A player decided to leave work a few minutes early that day, just to be sure.
A boyfriend made a list of things to pick up on the way home.
A shopkeeper prepared for the lunch rush.
An entrepreneur had an idea.
A teacher shared a lesson.
A writer told a story.
A tourist stared in awe.
A husband said “I love you,” before he hung up.
A wife said “I love you, too.”
Down the road, in a building that towered above the mightiest military force on Earth, a general said a prayer for the ones who went first.
A cafeteria worker wondered what all the commotion was about.
A security officer picked up her step.
A father hoped his daughter had stayed home sick that day.
A mother was glad her son went to work for that firm in Atlanta.
A hopeful started his first day at a new job.
A commander wondered why she couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling.
A sentry heard the rumble.
Then the Earth shattered.
Someone cared for a friend.
Another cared for a stranger.
And another.
And another.
And in the skies over both and beyond, in four verses of the same sad song, someone knew, at once, the time had come.
A wife found a way to call home.
An American pilot became a hero.
A passenger did, too.
A stranger provided comfort.
A friend helped to calm.
A brother cried for his sister.
A mother cried for her child.
A diplomat used her words.
A fighter used his fists.
Someone held his breath.
A priest prayed for their souls.
A soul prayed for mankind.
And a sinner found forgiveness.
When the dust settled, a nation was shaken but not shattered.
A people bloodied but not beaten.
No cause advanced.
A democracy intact.
In the weeks and months to come, we will try to shake the images from our minds.
We will wring our hands and ask “why? how?”
No one will answer, and our anger will boil.
Still, as we struggle to make sense, as we point fingers and look for answers, we must remember the mothers and coaches and brides and brothers and fathers and sisters and mentors and friends.
They deserve our attention.
They are what we’ve lost.
In a quiet moment before, in one or another building that towered high above a great city, a daughter put the finishing touches on an e-mail home.
A young man wondered where he’d find the courage to propose.
A new mother was planning her son’s first birthday party.
Someone balanced a checkbook.
Another craved a cup of good coffee.
Yet another was just a few days shy of a much-needed vacation.
A father worried about his son, who left for college last week.
A grandmother wondered if the grandkids might like a trip to the zoo this weekend.
A CEO signed her first memo of the day.
A trader wondered what the day’s market would bring.
A janitor smiled back.
A bride fretted over wedding plans.
A student dreamed of graduation.
A mentor beamed with pride.
A soccer mom thought about the night’s game.
A coach decided to change the night’s lineup.
A player decided to leave work a few minutes early that day, just to be sure.
A boyfriend made a list of things to pick up on the way home.
A shopkeeper prepared for the lunch rush.
An entrepreneur had an idea.
A teacher shared a lesson.
A writer told a story.
A tourist stared in awe.
A husband said “I love you,” before he hung up.
A wife said “I love you, too.”
Down the road, in a building that towered above the mightiest military force on Earth, a general said a prayer for the ones who went first.
A cafeteria worker wondered what all the commotion was about.
A security officer picked up her step.
A father hoped his daughter had stayed home sick that day.
A mother was glad her son went to work for that firm in Atlanta.
A hopeful started his first day at a new job.
A commander wondered why she couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling.
A sentry heard the rumble.
Then the Earth shattered.
Someone cared for a friend.
Another cared for a stranger.
And another.
And another.
And in the skies over both and beyond, in four verses of the same sad song, someone knew, at once, the time had come.
A wife found a way to call home.
An American pilot became a hero.
A passenger did, too.
A stranger provided comfort.
A friend helped to calm.
A brother cried for his sister.
A mother cried for her child.
A diplomat used her words.
A fighter used his fists.
Someone held his breath.
A priest prayed for their souls.
A soul prayed for mankind.
And a sinner found forgiveness.
When the dust settled, a nation was shaken but not shattered.
A people bloodied but not beaten.
No cause advanced.
A democracy intact.
In the weeks and months to come, we will try to shake the images from our minds.
We will wring our hands and ask “why? how?”
No one will answer, and our anger will boil.
Still, as we struggle to make sense, as we point fingers and look for answers, we must remember the mothers and coaches and brides and brothers and fathers and sisters and mentors and friends.
They deserve our attention.
They are what we’ve lost.
Friday, September 5, 2008
This I believe
I'm done apologizing for what I believe.
I'm done pulling my punches.
If you engage me in political talk, be ready for the full wrath -- the silver-tongued, in-your-face, "oh, I see" condescension that I've had to endure for most of my adult life. The events of this week have so pissed me off that I refuse to go quietly any longer.
And just so there's no confusion...
I love my country. I believe she's the greatest country on Earth. I also believe she's made some awful mistakes in the past eight years and it's time to make them right.
I believe you are entitled to your opinion and I won't question your patriotism or your intelligence if it differs from mine. Please grant me the same courtesy.
I'm tired of being branded a Liberal because of the profane way the word has been redefined. (P.S. If you'll stop calling me that, I'll stop calling you an ignorant, close-minded, can't-think-for-yourself, blind follower of a band of bullies.)
I believe the many, many scientists who say that humans are killing our Planet -- single-handedly killing our Planet -- and I want us to stop right now. I know there are a handful of scientists who say it's not so. I put them in the same category as the scientists who will testify to Congress that smoking isn't harmful.
I want my country, the greatest on Earth, to lead the rest of the world by example. Every day I tell my daughter that we don't hit, we talk it out. We don't lie, we own up to our mistakes. We don't gloat over our good fortune, we share it with others. We don't look down on those who are different from us, we seek to understand and appreciate our differences. We don't curse. We don't bully. And our goal is to leave a place, a person, a situation a little bit better than when we found it. I don't think it's wrong to expect the same thing of my country.
I believe in the right to choose what's right for me, my body and my family. I do not believe in your right to choose what's right for me, my body and my family.
I believe in a God who is just, fair, compassionate, tolerant, nurturing and forgiving. If you're OK with your God having different attributes, that's OK with me. I won't force my loving God on you if you won't force your vengeful God on me.
I believe there will always be enemies who threaten us and our way of life. I believe the greater threat is to destroy our own values and sacrifice our own freedom in pursuit of keeping them from doing it for us.
I believe there are justifiable reasons for fighting a war. I believe one of the two wars we're fighting is just (though neglected). The other, I believe, is criminal.
I believe there will always be people who work the system. I don't believe the system should be designed around them.
I believe we all have the same opportunities to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. To do that, however, we all must have boots. That is the responsibility of a just society: To make sure everyone has a pair of boots.
I believe parents are responsible to nurture, educate, shape, discipline and love their children. When they drop the ball, we can think less of them for it but we can't leave it there -- we must intervene. To punish children for having bad parents -- or to neglect them as someone else's problem -- makes us all a little smaller.
I believe W. stole the election in 2000 and that he and his cronies have been robbing us blind ever since.
I believe enough in the institution of marriage to believe it can withstand including everyone without crumbling. I believe enough in our country to believe it can withstand inclusive marriage laws without crumbling.
I believe a free press is at least as vital to democracy as a strong military.
I believe the single greatest threat to our country is the belief that we can go it alone because we have more guns. The second is our unwillingness to acknowledge that we are losing our standing because we're far too big for our britches.
I believe you can be a strong, smart, ambitious, career-minded man and still need to put your family first in times of crisis. Ditto for your spouse.
I believe that anyone who preaches that a woman's place is in submission to her husband, that sex outside of marriage is a sin, that all life is sacred, that lust in your heart is wrong, that homosexuality is an abomination in the eyes of God, must stew in those juices even when it becomes uncomfortable to do so.
I believe science and God can peacefully co-exist. In fact, I believe She's hoping we'll figure it all out before it's too late.
I believe I have the right to define myself and my beliefs. As do you.
I believe Barack Obama is the right man for this country right now. And I believe in your right to believe differently.
Peace to you.
I'm done pulling my punches.
If you engage me in political talk, be ready for the full wrath -- the silver-tongued, in-your-face, "oh, I see" condescension that I've had to endure for most of my adult life. The events of this week have so pissed me off that I refuse to go quietly any longer.
And just so there's no confusion...
I love my country. I believe she's the greatest country on Earth. I also believe she's made some awful mistakes in the past eight years and it's time to make them right.
I believe you are entitled to your opinion and I won't question your patriotism or your intelligence if it differs from mine. Please grant me the same courtesy.
I'm tired of being branded a Liberal because of the profane way the word has been redefined. (P.S. If you'll stop calling me that, I'll stop calling you an ignorant, close-minded, can't-think-for-yourself, blind follower of a band of bullies.)
I believe the many, many scientists who say that humans are killing our Planet -- single-handedly killing our Planet -- and I want us to stop right now. I know there are a handful of scientists who say it's not so. I put them in the same category as the scientists who will testify to Congress that smoking isn't harmful.
I want my country, the greatest on Earth, to lead the rest of the world by example. Every day I tell my daughter that we don't hit, we talk it out. We don't lie, we own up to our mistakes. We don't gloat over our good fortune, we share it with others. We don't look down on those who are different from us, we seek to understand and appreciate our differences. We don't curse. We don't bully. And our goal is to leave a place, a person, a situation a little bit better than when we found it. I don't think it's wrong to expect the same thing of my country.
I believe in the right to choose what's right for me, my body and my family. I do not believe in your right to choose what's right for me, my body and my family.
I believe in a God who is just, fair, compassionate, tolerant, nurturing and forgiving. If you're OK with your God having different attributes, that's OK with me. I won't force my loving God on you if you won't force your vengeful God on me.
I believe there will always be enemies who threaten us and our way of life. I believe the greater threat is to destroy our own values and sacrifice our own freedom in pursuit of keeping them from doing it for us.
I believe there are justifiable reasons for fighting a war. I believe one of the two wars we're fighting is just (though neglected). The other, I believe, is criminal.
I believe there will always be people who work the system. I don't believe the system should be designed around them.
I believe we all have the same opportunities to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. To do that, however, we all must have boots. That is the responsibility of a just society: To make sure everyone has a pair of boots.
I believe parents are responsible to nurture, educate, shape, discipline and love their children. When they drop the ball, we can think less of them for it but we can't leave it there -- we must intervene. To punish children for having bad parents -- or to neglect them as someone else's problem -- makes us all a little smaller.
I believe W. stole the election in 2000 and that he and his cronies have been robbing us blind ever since.
I believe enough in the institution of marriage to believe it can withstand including everyone without crumbling. I believe enough in our country to believe it can withstand inclusive marriage laws without crumbling.
I believe a free press is at least as vital to democracy as a strong military.
I believe the single greatest threat to our country is the belief that we can go it alone because we have more guns. The second is our unwillingness to acknowledge that we are losing our standing because we're far too big for our britches.
I believe you can be a strong, smart, ambitious, career-minded man and still need to put your family first in times of crisis. Ditto for your spouse.
I believe that anyone who preaches that a woman's place is in submission to her husband, that sex outside of marriage is a sin, that all life is sacred, that lust in your heart is wrong, that homosexuality is an abomination in the eyes of God, must stew in those juices even when it becomes uncomfortable to do so.
I believe science and God can peacefully co-exist. In fact, I believe She's hoping we'll figure it all out before it's too late.
I believe I have the right to define myself and my beliefs. As do you.
I believe Barack Obama is the right man for this country right now. And I believe in your right to believe differently.
Peace to you.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Love*
Tonight, my mother ended a fairly contentious conversation about politics with these words:
“I love you in spite of what you think.”
That pretty much sums up how we’ve related to one another since, well, forever.
Here’s what I wish for you, dear reader, as I head off to bed…
That the people you love don’t ever feel the need to put an asterisk on their declaration of the same.
Sweet dreams.
“I love you in spite of what you think.”
That pretty much sums up how we’ve related to one another since, well, forever.
Here’s what I wish for you, dear reader, as I head off to bed…
That the people you love don’t ever feel the need to put an asterisk on their declaration of the same.
Sweet dreams.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
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