Pan Am 103

I was a student at Syracuse University on December 21, 1988.  It was time for fall semester finals and those who were left on campus were knee deep in their studies or were packing to go home.  The phone rang at the sorority and my friend, who worked at the campus radio station, was on the other end.  A plane coming from London had gone down with a number of SU students who were heading home from their semester abroad.  There were no details, no names yet.  She would keep us posted.

We immediately huddled around the TVs and turned on the news and waited and waited and waited.  As the hours went by, we heard all they knew about the when, and the where, and even the how.  But we were waiting for the who.  There were a lot of who's.  243 passengers, 16 crew and 11 citizens in Lockerbie, Scottland.  I made a list of all the people that I knew who were abroad that semester.  There were so many.  As they eventually displayed the list of victims, 35 of them were students.  When they had finished, I had one checkmark on my list.  One person I knew personally would not be returning, Cynthia Smith.  But 34 others that I had walked beside on campus would not be coming back either. 

That moment in time.  That split second explosion shattered a plane, and the passengers, and a neighborhood on the other side of the sea, and thousands of hearts all over the world.  The horror of how it went down was in many ways more terrifying than the fact that it went down at all.  It was unimaginable.  And as unimaginably horrible as it was and is, and forever will be, it was also a glue that bound a lot of people together.  It bonded us tightly then, but even over the years, when this date comes around every year, you remember that the bonds still exist.  The only comparison that I can give is that it was not unlike the days following 9-11 on a much smaller scale.  People were walking around numb.  Petty differences and grievances disappeared.  The worst sometimes brings out the best in people. 

So today, I raise a glass to those who did not return.  I send heartfelt condolences to the families around the world who were touched by this horror.  I send thanks to the men and women of Lockerbie, Scottland, for their tireless efforts of long ago and for their friendship ever since.  And to my friends from SU who are part of this tragic history with me, I miss you and I know we will always remember.

Don't Mess with Me, I Know Voodoo

In my opinion, New Orleans is one of the best places you can ever visit.  For exactly 4 days.  No more, no less.  If you stay less, you won't have a chance to do a swamp tour, the Creole Queen paddlewheel cruise, the plantation tour, the graveyard tour and 3 nights out on Bourbon Street.  You will need 4 days to hit the best of the best restaurants.  But if  if you stay longer?  You might as well go online and find yourself  a 12 step program right after you book your air and hotel.  They ought to sell it as a package.

Once upon a time, I was on my third day in New Orleans and I decided to take a little tour of Madame Someone's House of Voodoo.  Maybe it was the 2 previous nights out on Bourbon Street talking, or maybe it was the slightly spooky atmosphere in this little museum.  But I found myself asking "what would you suggest if you wanted to make someone 'go away.'"  I was speaking about my nemesis, an evil Napoleonesque troll who I could only imagine lived under a bridge in his exclusive Connecticut neighborhood.  The scary tour guide looked at me a little different from this point on, and suggested that perhaps I could place a voodoo doll in a boat in a bathtub and push the water to symbolize this 'going away.'  Of course in order for this to work, he did coach that I would need something that belonged to the putz.  The gentle boatride was a much kinder and gentler version of what I had been considering doing to this voodoo doll.  But of course this was all a joke.  Because I didn't believe in voodoo.  Just for kicks, I bought the doll.

I brought my cool souvenier home and hung it on the wall.  The troll must have done something to me soon after that trip to annoy me because I named the doll after him.  But what I didn't do is obtain a hair that had fallen naturally from his thinning head of hair. Because to do something like that would be crazy.  And I am not that.  But if I did, I would have attached it to the doll before moving the pin holding it to the wall to its stomach area.  Of course nothing ever happened to the troll.  Not that I was trying.

Then came a day when I was leaving the company that I had been graced with the troll's presence at.  Graced through his undermining me and effectively nudging himself in and me out of the project that I was spearheading with a few others.  As I celebrated my final week with the company at a lunch, he was not present.  But the voodoo doll with his name was invited.  He had a seat right next to me, head down, submerged in my water glass. 

You know, he never set sail while I was there.  And he never drowned (which, of course, I would not have wanted anyway - because we have already established I'm not crazy).  But according to legend, he did get himself into HOT water a few years later which cost him reputationally.  So, while I still don't believe in voodoo, I believe that you don't need it when karma is on your side.

Angelina, I Simply Cannot Plan You Wedding

What do you want to be when you grow up? How many times has your answer to that Question changed over the years?

My first memory of having an opinion on that was a lonnnnnnnnnnng time ago when I decided I wanted to be a waitress. I think I liked the idea of filling out the order pad at the time. I learned my freshman year of college work study that dining hall indentured servitude did not count. Running the gazillion degree 50 lb trays of food from kitchen to the serving area was not the glamour I had imagined. Loading dirty dishes into the hot steamy dish washing beast while the old sophomore "lifers" suggested you weren't exactly pulling your weight? Also not my cup of tea. Let's be honest, That was the first job I had ever held...if 3 days and a lot of sobbing equated to "holding" a job.

At the same time, it may be important to note that I was in school as an accounting major. It took about a week longer than it did in the dining hall for me to realize that accounting was also not the ideal career choice for me. It may have taken 10 days to realize that, but it took 3 years for me to put a fork in it. The thing that probably threw me over the edge occurred the day after I returned from spring break junior year. A classmate asked me what I thought about the Professor. In actuality, he was my favorite of all the accounting drones. "oh no, did he assign a lot of homework yesterday??" I asked cluelessly. "NO!". She said. "He died!!". OK. I got the message, enough was enough, I was done. It was a shame that such a nice man was taken out so that I would finally give up yet another career that I had selected because - again - there were some really cool forms to fill out.

As a result of my ditching my major after completing my junior year, I got to spend the summer taking classes. To supplement my income, I got a job as a...waitress! This time it was for real. I got the houndstooth form fitting boobalicious uniform AND the cool order pad...jackpot!!! During training, I was told that I would have a long career in this field. It was long for me. It lasted as long as my summer school did. During that summer I learned a lot. 1) That iced coffee did not mean a small mug of coffee with 3 ice cubes in it. 2) that holding up the 1/2 black 1/2 yellow bananas to show he customer what was about to go into her banana split was NOT the appropriate protocol. 3) It is also not okay to suggest to a line of customers who are competing in the Empire State games the next day that if they wanted to make curfew they should probably try another restaurant, and oh, by the way, can you please stop throwing silverware at us??

It was also this summer that I determined I would like to be Darrin Stevens...Advertiser... I wanted to write the words that made the whole world shop. And I'm pretty sure that I would have been a genius at it. But you know where they put a creative genius in NYC without a portfolio? It's called the media department. You plan where the cool ads you aren't writing will get placed and you buy the media space for where those not as brilliant as they could have been ads will be viewed. I worked at one of he top agencies in the country. I learned negotiation skills, and that it sucked to be you on the day your boss forgot she had an important meeting when getting dressed and you were the one wearing a nice suit that would fit her. I may never forget putting that suit back on at the end of the hot day with someone else's fresh sweat rings adorning it.

Eventually I sort of fell into what I do now. It was not planned, but it was good. I've been in the same industry for somewhere around 17 years now. I like it. I like the people. But it isn't what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a wedding planner. I want to create the fairytale, the dream for some lucky bride week after week after week. With one teensy weensy complication. I want to create MY dream for them. And I want them to give me a (huge) budget and I want them to tell me their favorite color and something special about them and then I want them to shut the F up and let me create my vision. And I don't want thir opinion Or their assistance, unless they assist me by saying "you are amazing, please take another $50,000 and see what you can do with it.". And when it is over, they will say "it was more perfect than I ever could have imagined. I would like to introduce you to my friend Brad. He is thinking of proposing to his girlfriend Angelina and would like your advice.". But you know what? Angelina would probably want to host it at an orphanage somewhere where diamond encrusted dinner napkins are considered "ostentatious" and that just isn't my dream for her. Maybe I should try writing instead.

Better Living Through Santa

I have always had an internal battle with the whole playing up Santa for the kids. Yes, I had great memories of going to see Santa and the excitement of racing downstairs to see what he brought me on Christmas Day. But I also remember the day that I found my Dad filling my Easter basket in the basement...and the fact that not only did the Easter Bunny die that day, but so did Santa and the tooth fairy. It was like a double murder suicide and it sucked. So why would I want my poor kids to experience that loss?

That said, I have two boys. While they don't get all jacked up to go see Santa, they are believers. In fact approximately 2 hours after seeing the movie "Arthur Christmas," the oldest one (7), had already written a letter to Santa and Arthur, addressed it and asked for a stamp. He did everything but mail it because we were out of town and he did not want them thinking that his presents should go there. This same child happened to spy Santa in Wal-Mart the other day while I was picking out sparkly ornaments. He pleaded with me to let him buy Santa a gift. How could I explain that Santa only gives gifts? If the kid is kind enough to want to give back to Santa, I was not the Mom to say no. I was the Mom who made sure he kept it to around $5 though. He was ecstatic when he came back from giving it to Santa and proudly showed me the candy cane Santa gave him in thanks.

So, you can see that in spite of my not wanting to really sell them the Santa story, I am, in fact, a sap. Fast forward to this week.

This same child has had the misfortune to be "blessed" with headaches. This week he had a pretty bad one and I coddled him and spoiled him and felt my heart lift when I saw him smiling again. The next day around 1:30 the school nurse called to tell me that he had a headache and a 99.5 degree fever. I overreact, worry, and obsess over my children's health. But even I did not freak out over 99.5. He got his Advil and stayed for the rest of the day. I started looking at my schedule to see if I could work from home the next day, knowing he would be sick. When I picked him up from aftercare he was bouncing off the walls. I loved seeing that he felt better and hoped he would stay that way after his medicine wore off. And he did. But when we got home, he told me about his chest pain.

CHEST PAIN??? I tried to contain my immediate freak out. I told him to lay down and like any normal day, he ignored me. He showed me what it felt like by punching himself in the chest as hard as he could. "DON'T DO THAT!!!! LAY DOWN!!!". He talked about how it happened at his desk. He told me how he remembered having it as a baby. He told me that it usually goes away (sometimes when he eats an apple), and then he told me about his friend from school who did show and tell that day. And show and tell was about this cool machine that hangs on his pocket and when his heart hurts, he pushes a button, and the machine records what happens before the pain and after it. And my 7 year explained that as he was sitting there with his chest pain, he thought that this gadget might help him understand what was happening to his heart before and after the pain. I quizzed him about what the pain felt like. And he demonstrated it by asking me to pretend he was holding a Lego...and then he was crushing the Lego with his hand. That just about sent me over the edge. We then talked about real vs pretend. I asked him if this was like the spy missions he went on, you know, when he was slaying the meat eating dinosaurs. "I'm not getting you Mom. But I have actually been on TWO dinosaur missions."

I had enough doubt and google skill to get myself off the "let's drive 45 minutes to the ER" ledge. But at 8:05am the next morning, I was explaining to the pediatrician's office that I just needed a nurse to call me so I could explain my situation or lack thereof. The nurse was barely capable of sounding interested in spite of the Lego squeezing reference. I can only hope it was because I had also told her that he had asked me three times for a heart monitor that morning because he likes pushing buttons. She called me back after consulting with the doctor or pretending to. They did not need to see him, call if he wasn't running around doing Kung Fu 10 minutes after this chest pain strikes.

Then the teacher called. I had e-mailed her earlier to find out exactly what the hell was said at show and tell. She started off by saying that she was laughing as she read my e-mail because that was exactly how the kid had explained it. He had experienced a squeezing pain. What about the Lego you ask? Ah, he had been wearing his monitor at Lego club when some kid touched that irresistible magic button. All the pieces fit together. I referred to my beautiful boy as a little bastard to his teacher and got off the phone with a lighter heart.

An hour later the school nurse called. "My radar goes up when a child comes in and says that his Mom said she will come get him if he has a headache." No fever. No headache in her opinion. And Mommy's bullshit-o-meter is higher than his perfectly normal 98.6 temp. He stays. Give him an Advil or don't and send him back to class. I stopped and bought a stopwatch on the way home. It was blue, it had buttons, and he could wear it like a friggin' necklace. It was $10 as opposed to $599 for a cardiac event monitor. Not that I googled it or anything...because I would never do that.

No complaints of chest pain that night and one admission of I just wanted to go home today so I went to the nurse. He wore his stopwatch to school around his neck today.

At 9:30am I saw the school's number flash up. I professionally answered "for the love of God, you are kidding me. What now??". She laughed and then I had to confirm if I was talking to the nurse or the teacher. Nurse. "He has his mind set that he is going home. He said he has a headache. Temp is 98.3. Should I give him an Advil?".

We are now several paragraphs into something that you THOUGHT was about Santa. And I am several days into considering seeking a psychiatrist for myself or just buying myself overseas anxiety meds. So let me tie the bow on the package for you. Tonight my children went to bed and found something...someone actually, in their room. He is an Elf. He was sitting on a shelf. And we named him Steve. I explained to my kids (and the book that magically appeared with him confirmed) that this creature's mission in life is to rat my kids out to Santa when they are not being good. And what does that mean? That means going to the nurse and lying that you are sick because you want to go home and hang out.

So now I will wholeheartedly sell the whole Santa, elf, reindeer, north pole legend for my own benefit. Steve has already made his first flight back to chat with Santa. My boys will wake up to find him sitting in my chair. If I get a call from the nurse tomorrow I may paint a tear on Steve. If I get a call next week, Santa may start sending "I'm disappointed" mail back with Steve. I will rig a friggin' good and bad meter in room. And if necessary I will invent holidays and little tattletale spies for every month of the year. I have already googled "short confidantes of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr." in preparation for January.