I remember where I was the day of September 11, 2001. I was at work. I was complaining about an elderly man I had to screen for glaucoma and that he kept blinking. Dr. Rollins came into the room and said that a plane had crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center. We laughed at the idiot pilot who made such a grave mistake. This was before we realized America was being attacked by terrorists. We turned on the television in the office only to see the second plane hitting the second tower. It was then that we knew something was very, very wrong. I can’t even imagine not coming home from work that day.

I can’t image that George Merkouris or his family ever thought the same thing. It brings tears to my eyes even to this very day that so many innocent people lost their lives to terrorism in our country.

How do you calculate the worth of one’s life? There’s no amount of money in the world that would compensate for the pain and suffering and grief that George’s family, friends and co-workers went through. Even more haunting is the knowledge that there’s no amount of money in the world that can bring George back. He was taken from this earth too soon. Because of the acts of terrorists.

All across the world today, millions upon millions of people are mourning the loss that happened five years ago today. There are memorials in New York City, Washington, D.C and Pennsylvania. Moments of silence. Mourners wearing red, white and blue. Bearing our flags. Showing their grief and patriotism on this five year anniversary.

It will never be enough. Yes, the memorials and prayer vigils and services are an amazing chain of people coming together to remember those who died. The civilians, the firefighters, the police officers. The people who risked their lives to help wherever they could. America is grateful. But we are also sad, angry and we still don’t understand how this could happen. We can’t even begin to contemplate this tragedy. Even five years later.

Remember George. George had family who loved him. He had a job and a home and friends. He went to work today, five years ago, and he never made it home. God had a special place in Heaven for George.

I found this poem in an e-mail. I don’t know the author, it was not listed. But I felt the poem was fitting and I encourage you all to pray for the souls we lost this day in 2001.

TWO THOUSAND ONE, NINE ELEVEN (2001-911)
Two thousand one, nine eleven
Three thousand plus arrive in heaven
As they pass through the gate,
Thousands more appear in wait
A bearded man with stovepipe hat
Steps forward saying, “Lets sit, lets chat”
They settle down in seats of clouds
A man named Martin shouts out proud “I have a dream!”
and once he did The Newcomer said, “Your dream still lives.”
Groups of soldiers in blue and gray
Others in khaki, and green then say
“We’re from Bull Run, Yorktown, the Maine”
The Newcomer said, “You died not in vain.”
From a man on sticks one could hear
“The only thing we have to fear…”
The Newcomer said,
“We know the rest, trust us sir, we’ve passed that test.”
“Courage doesn’t hide in caves
You can’t bury freedom, in a grave,”
The Newcomers had heard this voice before
A distinct Yankees twang from Hyannis Port shores
A silence fell within the mist
Somehow the Newcomer knew that this
Meant time had come for her to say
What was in the hearts of the five thousand plus that day
“Back on Earth, we wrote reports,
Watched our children play in sports
Worked our gardens, sang our songs
Went to church and clipped coupons
We smiled, we laughed, we cried, we fought
Unlike you, great we’re not”
The tall man in the stovepipe hat
Stood and said, “Don’t talk like that!
Look at your country, look and see
You died for freedom, just like me”
Then, before them all appeared a scene
Of rubble streets and twisted beams
Death, destruction, smoke and dust
And people working just ’cause they must
Hauling ash, lifting stones,
Knee deep in hell, but not alone
“Look! Blackman, Whiteman, Brownian, Yellow man
Side by side helping their fellow man!”
So said Martin, as he watched the scene
“Even from nightmares, can be born a dream.”
Down below three firemen raised
The colors high into ashen haze
The soldiers above had seen it before
On Iowa Jim back in ’54
The man on sticks studied everything closely
Then shared his perceptions on what he saw mostly
“I see pain, I see tears, I see sorrow — but I don’t see fear.”
“You left behind husbands and wives
Daughters and sons and so many lives are
suffering now because of this wrong
But look very closely. You’re not really gone.
All of those people, even those who’ve never met you
All of their lives, they’ll never forget you
Don’t you see what has happened?
Don’t you see what you’ve done?
You’ve brought them together, together as one.
With that the man in the stovepipe hat said
“Take my hand,” and from there he led three thousand plus heroes, Newcomers to heaven
On this day, two thousand one, nine eleven
–Author Unknown

There are nearly 714 links about George Merkouris and this is not nearly enough in my eyes. Here are a just a few of those links. I encourage you to take the time and read them and remember George and all the people who died on September 11, 2001. All the people who worked in the WTC and those who were passengers on the 4 flights.

George’s family and friends post wonderful things about him.

CNN’s September 11 Memorial lists George’s name.

When you visit this page, a flower is added that shows someone remembers George and his life that was taken too soon because of terrorists.

The following website will allow you to submit a message in memory of George Merkouris. It also has a scroll of every person who lost his life on that inconceivably tragic day.

You must read this. And this. This one, too. About the Quilt. Then click here. And then here.

This one makes me cry. Every time I read it. Every Time. The message states, “DOES ANYONE HAVE INFO ON MY COUSIN-GEORGE MERKOURIS-1WTC??????? “

In my defense, I’m still trying to catch up on laundry and housework. After four days away, I feel like life is in disarray. It kind of is.

But the good news:  I’m blogging from the couch (my favorite place to blog), Dawson is WIDE AWAKE (and making me suffer through another episode of Diego) and we just upgraded our high speed internet (and wireless) to SUPER MEGA faster-than-the-speed-of-light service. It’s the shit. Just 48 hours ago, I could only blog on this laptop if I had the patience of a saint. It would get stuck and the pages wouldn’t load properly. Today? It is bliss. Really groovy, just sayin’.

Oh…look at that, Dawson finally fell asleep. I swear that child is torturing me. His sleep schedule is still screwed up. When I was in New York, he spent most of his time at my parents’ house. The place where there are no rules for really adorable 3-year-olds. The kid went to bed whenever he wished.

When I finally got home and tried to put him to bed, it was like a reenactment of the Civil War. Canon balls exploded. Or rather, a very demanding, screeching child exclaimed, “But I DON’T WANNA GO TO BED! Poppa NO make DAWSON GO TO BED!!” Grandparents. They mean well, but now I’ve got to undo the spoiled rotten damage that has been done.

I just realized I’m still blogging and Diego is still on the damn T.V. I’m too lazy to find the remote to shut it off.

I don’t know if I’ve blogged this before — I searched my archives but found nothing — but I’m a fan of James Patterson novels. Most especially the Women’s Murder Club books. A million years ago my friend Dish lent me the first two in the series and I absolutely loved them. This is how I got hooked on the show on ABC, too.

So, anyway, I bought books 3, 4 & 5 just before I left for my trip. I finished reading 3rd Degree and 4th of July in two days. I couldn’t put the darn books down. I’m sad because I’ll most likely finish the 5th Horsemen in a day and I don’t have the sixth and seventh in the series yet. My husband is impressed. Not about the fast reading, but about all the “time” I have on my hands. I really don’t have time. I just don’t sleep. There’s a difference.

Okay. Enough 11:30 rambling. You all, you normal people, are probably in bed right now. Sleeping soundly. Sweet dreams!

It seems their x-ray machine thought my souvenir snow globe was a “dangerous” or “forbidden” item and they decided they needed to cut the lock on my checked luggage to inspect these things. I totally get that since 9/11 security is tighter and measures are much more strict than the past. I understand why we have to take our shoes off to make sure we’re not hiding razor blades, knives or sharp pointed scissors. It’s inconvenient, yes, but I get it.

What I’m not to happy about is the fact that after inspecting my luggage, these assholes didn’t zip my suitcase all the way and several items were sticking out. Any Joe Schmoe could have gone through my shit, and taken or damaged things.

The lovely note from TSA saying they are not responsible for lost, stolen or damaged items really chapped my ass. Basically, they can do whatever they want in the name of airport security. I’m angry but I don’t really know at whom. The terrorists? Our fucked up government? Myself, for having the nerve to buy souvenirs and store them in my checked luggage that any asshole could rummage through? I had a wonderful trip, so I’m trying not to let this one incident ruin it.

(Trip recap posted here.)

The alarm clock in my room was set for 7:15 a.m., but again my internal alarm went off twenty minutes ahead of my electronic wake-up call. I was groggy and then I realized that technically my body thought it was 5:55 a.m. What was I doing awake so early? I slept well for the most part. The bed wasn’t very comfortable, but I was so tired from the night before, I could have slept in the bathtub and never noticed.

I started the morning lazily. I was hungry, but I didn’t know where I wanted to eat for breakfast. I had a list of “must-see” attractions I wanted to get to, so I prioritized my itinerary, and eating an omelet didn’t make the cut.

After getting ready, I ventured toward the subway station. If I could use it successfully the night before, I would have no trouble the second time around. I had my map and studied it carefully before I left.

Then I took the wrong train. I wanted to go to Union Square and I knew I had to take the 2 train to Times Square, then get on the N train to 14th street. Somehow, I got on the W, freaked out, got off at Herald Square and waited for the N Express. I’m so glad I memorized the directions and carried that subway map with me.

After exiting the subway and visiting Union Square for a moment, I walked seven blocks south on University Place to Washington Square Park. Greenwich Village was bustling with people, mostly college students from NYU, which I passed along the way.

I fell in love with the townhouses on Washington Square North and Washington Mews. Again my mind wandered to eras past. I tried to imagine what life was like in New York circa the 1800s.

Beautiful Townhouses.

After daydreaming, I grabbed a Village Voice and a copy of The Onion and parked my behind on a bench. It was peaceful, well…except for the jackhammer loudly pounding nearby. Unfortunately construction was taking place in front of the Washington Arch. I still took some great photos, but the chain link fence as a back drop irritated me.

I loved watching the parents, nannies, au pairs and children playing in the gated playground. As they passed me they spoke in many tongues. French, German, Spanish, Armenian, Chinese. Never before had I heard so many foreign languages spoken in less than ten minutes.

Next I ventured up 5th Avenue. My goal was to see my beloved Flatiron. From the moment I saw that building in a photo so many years ago, I fell in love with it. I can’t explain why. The triangle shape amuses me I suppose. When I finally got there, I didn’t even know I was there until I saw Madison Square Park and realized I walked under the scaffolding adjacent to the Flatiron. It looks like crews were doing some work on the exterior.

The building is amazing. I was so drawn to the lines and the windows and the beautiful architecture. I took way too many photos from different angles. I was just so darn excited.

The Flatiron Building, my favorite architectural wonder.

Next, I stopped at a little souvenir shop and bought a beautiful snow globe of a New York City scene. When I wound it up it played “New York, New York” and the little taxi, fire truck, police car and horse drawn carriage inside moved around the Twin Towers, Flatiron building, Statue of Liberty, and Chrysler building inside. I also bought some post cards and three framed, black and white prints the store owner was selling. One was a photo of the Flatiron, another of Lower Manhattan and the last one of the Bow Bridge in Central Park, overlooking the Dakota. They are such beautiful photos.

I left the store and continued walking down 5th Ave, which is where I met Kenny Mayne. Then I went to the Empire State Building. It was a beautiful, sunny day and the line wasn’t long at all. Once at the 86th floor, I was amazed at the gorgeous view. I could see for 15 miles. The crazy pigeons made me a little nervous. I feared bird poop on my head. They are not shy, those birds. They get right up to you, hoping for food I suppose.

Empire State Building, from 5th Avenue.

Crazy Pigeon.

View of Lower Manhattan from Empire State Building Observation Deck.

After my observation from the sky, I walked up 5th to Times Square, passing the New York Public Library (with it’s Lion statues at guard) and Bryant Park along the way. I was so tired from walking and my stomach was rumbling. I remembered there was a T.G.I. Friday’s on the Square and I was so excited because they had wait staff. I could sit down, enjoy a drink and eat something — which is exactly what I did.

After lunch I took a taxi back to the hotel and got ready for my Circle Line boat cruise at 4 p.m. I dressed as warmly as I could and took a cap to the 82nd Pier at 42nd Street. The cruise was wonderful. Again, I took a million photos of everything I could.

Our tour guide was wonderful. He gave us several history lessons about New York in the old days and showed us so many great attractions from the boat. I loved the Brooklyn Bridge.

So strong, yet graceful in appearance.

I saw the World Trade Center. It was so lonesome without the towers. I started to cry just a little.

Something Definitely Missing

The Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island and the Brooklyn, Manhattan and Queensboro bridges were breathtaking.

Statue of Liberty

By the end of the cruise I was so tired and chilled to the bone. I walked to W. 52nd street and then gave in to a taxi. It was a wonderful day. I think I lost 10 pounds too, because my pants were falling off my butt after that night.

Once at the hotel, I ordered dinner from the Columbus Gourmet because they were just around the corner and were happy to deliver to me. I fell asleep at ten o’clock, that’s how tired my body was — but it was definitely the best day in the city.

Biggest Burger and Best Cheese Cake Ever.

Friday, after checking out of the hotel, I took the subway to Penn Station (getting my luggage on the train was a challenge, but I made it. I bought a ticket from the NJ Transit desk and headed to Jersey to see Liz from This Full House and meet her family.

It was only an hour long train ride, but I was so happy to get off at my stop and see a friendly face. Some of the people on the train were mighty strange, and I hated when the train stopped on a bridge with water beneath the tracks. It scared me senseless.

Liz and her four sweet, adorable children took me to the boardwalk. I’ve never in my life been to the ocean, so this event was absolutely amazing. The sound. The smell. The breeze. The sand. It was so beautiful and serene, even with the waves crashing to the shore. I truly felt at peace.

Liz and Me. And lots of waves.

After the boardwalk, Liz showed me all around New Jersey. The houses are big and bold and very gorgeous. Especially Bon Jovi’s house on the river.

Seriously. My entire town could live in that house.

After my wonderful Jersey tour, I got to meet Liz’s husband Garth (not his real name) who greeted me as if he’d known me for years.

We ordered Chinese, and Liz and Garth thought I’d been smoking weed when I asked if the restaurant had crab rangoon on it’s menu. Good Grover, the looks on their faces. You’d have thought I’d asked for ketchup on steak. Apparently New Jersey peeps have never heard of crab rangoon. And then to try to explain it! We were all laughing our asses off.

After that, the kids crashed from all the excitement I think. Garth (not his real name) hit the hay early because the poor man had to work on Saturday, so Liz and I made screw drivers and chatted until midnight. It was the best time. And her adorable dog Rudy slept at my feet, just like my Murphy.

Saturday morning, Liz was kind enough to take me to the airport. We drove through Staten Island, Brooklyn and Queens — and got lost a few times — but thank goodness Garth (not his real name) was able to talk us in the right direction from the cell phone.

I was sad to leave but I had the most wonderful time. I was ready to go home, but when I got to Wisconsin I couldn’t wait to plan my next trip. You know, after I kissed the ground at the airport (turbulence all the way home, not good for my nerves).

“Dear Lord, please let this plane land safely…”

Took the Subway again yesterday, just to spite my mother.  And guess who didn’t get kidnapped?  I felt like I lived here for years.  Although I did get on the wrong train somehow.  I quickly figured out I had to hop off at the next station to get on the correct one.  I’m glad I memorized my subway map and all the trains that go to various stops (seriously, I started learning it in December and even had Doug quiz me on it, just to be sure I got it) so that I never got lost.

I met Kenny Mayne on 5th Avenue yesterday afternoon.  That was just the highlight of my day, next to seeing the Flatiron building of course.  He is just as funny IRL as he is on TV.  Of course, it’s not everyday that I see celebrities, so the first words out of my mouth were, “You’re hilarious on Dancing with the Stars!”  He didn’t miss a beat.  “Yeah, I’ll be doing that again on April 29th.  Stay tuned.  By the way, I had a book reading at Barnes & Noble and no one showed up.  Where were you?”

Kenny Mayne chats with the Fed Ex guy.

I couldn’t stop laughing, then I realized a guy with headphones on, and some sort of (very large) video camera, was filming this exchange.  Kenny handed me a little photo card with his “book” title on it and I quickly got on my way.  I have no idea what they were taping but I’ll die if I see myself on national television.  Ugh.

I’m getting ready to check out of the hotel in a couple hours, then I’m off to visit with Liz from This Full House.  I’m so excited.  I haven’t seen her since BlogHerCon last July.

It’s going to be a wonderful Friday!  I promise to blog more soon, once I’ve got more time.

So, before I left on this grand adventure, I was e-mailing with Liz from Mom-101 and told her how my worry wart of a mother was freaking out about me coming to New York City.

My mom was so convinced that NYC is very dangerous and that I would get mugged. Or raped. Or murdered. OR KIDNAPPED. I remember how afraid I was to go anywhere on my bike as a kid. My mother would shriek, “Don’t go alone! You might get kidnapped!” As I was leaving for the airport she yelled, “Don’t use the subway! You might get kidnapped!”

Liz was very reassuring, saying that it was like daylight at night down there in the subway tunnels and that if she hadn’t been kidnapped in a lifetime of living in NYC, then I was probably fine.

Well, I did it, folks. Last night I used the subway from W. 72nd Street and I managed to get to Times Square in one piece. I’m so proud of myself. I didn’t even freak out. Okay. Maybe a little.

I walked less than a block from my hotel to the 72nd St. pavilion and bought a single ride ticket. I got on a train car that had plenty of other women on it, so I knew it must be somewhat safe. It was crammed in this little car, I had to stand by the doors and held onto the railing as tight as possible, and I didn’t make eye contact with anyone. But then I thought that might looks suspicious, they might know I was from out of town, so I started making eye contact with everyone — which probably only made me look creepy. Or maybe it was the smiling.

I have to tell you, I’m a smiler. I smile at everyone. I don’t know if it’s my Midwestern, friendly neighbor upbringing or the fact that I just like to be polite, but I smile at strangers all the time. I can’t help it. Sometimes I don’t even know I’m doing it! And New Yorkers? They don’t smile back. They just look at you as if to say, “What the fuck are you so damn happy about?”

So as I’m standing on the subway, smiling and making eye contact, the other passengers are probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me. So then I got a scowl on my face. That ought to make me a pseudo-New Yorker right?

Anyway, I got off at 42nd Street and 7th Avenue, right in the heart of Times Square. The lights. The sights. So much action. So. many. people. It was amazing. Surprisingly, I felt totally safe. (I didn’t even need to carry a pistol.) This may be because of the many police officers on every corner, too.

I got to the Paramount hotel and met up with Liz, Laura, Maria and Mir, and met some really awesome bloggers from Roosevelt Island who highly recommend I take the tram and tour the neighborhood. I just might do that.

After a few hours of socializing I was feeling pretty tired. I took a cab back to my hotel and checked e-mails, posted at BlogHer, and finally went to bed.

Can you believe it? I took the freakin’ subway!

Times Square

I wonder, does he get paid to stand there in all that make-up? I’d hate to get that all over my clothes!

I awoke at 2:10 a.m. this morning, twenty minutes before my alarm was set to go off. It’s as though my body sensed it was time to start our New York City adventure. The excitement! The anticipation! I just couldn’t sleep. This may also be due to the fact that my stomach was in knots all night about the flying part. I hadn’t been on a plane in 15 years.

After showering, dressing and double checking that I had everything I needed, I kissed Doug and Dawson goodbye (several times) and drove to my parents’ house. My sister, Rachel, was going to ride to the airport with me and then drive my car back. I didn’t want to pay the exorbitant overnight parking fees, especially when my parents live 20 minutes from Central Wisconsin Airport (CWA) in Mosinee.

We got to the airport at 4:05 a.m., I printed my boarding passes and checked my luggage, then waited for 45 minutes until I could board the plane. I had my carry-on bag, and when it was time to go through security I was surprised that I had to take my shoes off and have them checked for razor blades. Times have definitely changed. I knew flying regulations were different since 9/11, but it still surprised me, eight years later.

The first flight was a small commuter plane. I had a window seat and thankfully it was still dark outside. I only saw navy blue sky and lots of street lights on the ground below. Flying over the Mississippi River scared the bejeebus out of me. My connection was in Minneapolis-St. Paul and my first plane was 10 minutes late in landing. This left me with only 30 minutes to run like the wind from gate A6 to gate G16, which consisted of several escalators and a sky way. I made it to the gate with only 10 minutes to spare. I was sweating profusely by the time I got on the much larger jet that would take me to LaGuardia airport in Queens.

I tried to sleep for most of the two hour flight. I was so exhausted from getting up early and trying to stay calm as we were thousands of feet in the air. Thirty minutes before we were scheduled to land, we hit some turbulence which jolted me awake.

As we neared NYC, I was absolutely stunned when I saw the Statue of Liberty from the air. It looked so tiny, and so far away from Manhattan. But our lady is beautiful, and the freedom she represents still takes my breath away.

Seeing the Empire State Building and the Chrysler building from the plane window was pretty cool, too. They look so majestic, these icons of Beaux-Arts architecture. Even Central Park was breathtaking from the air.

As we neared the airport, the plane began to shake and dip. I could feel every vibration, every sudden change in altitude, right in the pit of my stomach. It scared me enough that I practically threw up in my mouth, and I even uttered the words, “Dear God…make it stop!” A nice woman next to me offered to hold my hand, but I politely declined. I figured I had to get over my fear eventually.

After we landed, I collected my baggage and bought a ticket for an Air Link van to take me into the city. The driver managed to cram nine people and all of our luggage into the vehicle. It was neat to see parts of the outer boroughs and I kind of freaked out when we entered the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. I could hear this rushing sound and I wondered, “Is that the East River or the subway?” I still have no idea. I’m just glad I didn’t hyperventilate in such close quarters. And the way this guy drove? Oy vey. Speeding. Tailgating. Horn honking. Cutting taxis and buses off. I’m lucky to be alive.

Once I got to my hotel, I pre-registered, but check-in wasn’t until 3 p.m. I had two hours to kill. The hotel held my luggage for me and I walked a block south to Gray’s Papaya.

Sex and the City fans will remember this as the place where Carrie went for a hot dog after her book party. It was kind of fun to be in the same place as something filmed for HBO. I had the “Recession Special”: two dogs and a papaya fruit drink for $3.50. I hadn’t eaten yet and my stomach was rumbling. I’m tellin’ ya, hot dogs never tasted so good.

Next I ventured east on 72nd street toward Central Park. I saw the Dakota, the building in which John Lennon lived. He was shot and killed outside the Dakota in 1980. Across the street in Central Park, just steps from the Dakota, is Strawberry Fields, a quiet knoll dedicated to the memory of John Lennon by Yoko Ono. When I went through that part of the park, a man named Gary was giving a bit of history of Lennon and Ono and the building. Yoko Ono still has an apartment there. Gary had made a peace sign from beautiful flowers on the “Imagine” circle tiled in stone.

I continued walking through the park toward the Mall (the only straight path, formal promenade in the park) and giggled with glee when I saw the horse-drawn carriages and the coachman in his top hat and overcoat. I felt as though I had been transported to the era of Edith Wharton and Henry James. It was magical. I still can’t believe I’m in this great city.

While I was admiring Bethesda Fountain, a gentleman offered to give me a tour of the park on his bicycle carriage for $120. I passed on his offer, especially when I could get the exercise for free. At the fountain, which has no water in it this time of year, there was a jazz quartet playing wonderful music. I took a few seconds of video footage with my camera because I wanted to remember this sound. Up the stairs from the fountain, another musician was playing a xylophone, and yet another a ukulele.

Some of the other landmarks I passed included Cherry Hill, Hans Christian Andersen, Alice In Wonderland, the Loeb Boathouse, Belvedere Castle, the Ramble and the Bow Bridge. It was there that my camera batteries died and I decided to head back to the hotel. My feet were killing me. This city definitely gave me a work out.

On my way back, I was getting hungry again, so I stopped at Columbus Gourmet and ordered the Beef Burger Deluxe and Fries. The sandwich was as big as my head. I couldn’t even eat a quarter of it. The time was 2:45 and thankfully the hotel had a room ready for me and I checked in. I finished eating and then sprawled on my bed to rest for a moment.

It’s extremely hot in this Upper West Side apartment/hotel complex. The heater won’t seem to turn off, even though the switch is pointing to off. I have the window open and the New York breeze is wonderful. Right now the Presbyterian Church around the corner is playing “How Great Thou Art” from their bell tower. I can’t help but smile. My grandmother loved to sing that song to me when I was a child. Before that I could hear the faint sound of a French horn wafting among the skyscrapers, and the occasional fire engine or police car siren reminding me that I am indeed in the Big Apple.

It’s been a great first day. Tonight I’m going to attempt the subway to meet Mom-101 and the sk*rt girls for drinks. Wish me luck!

View more of Central Park and NYC.

Shortly after I lost my job, Lisa Stone of BlogHer informed me that the BlogHerAds network had a position available for a headlines editor. After learning more about it, I was offered the position and I gratefully accepted. I’ve been working from home for about a month and so far everything is working out wonderfully. Not only that, I love what I do. This opportunity has allowed me to work just the right number of hours and contribute to my family’s financial well-being. The bonus is that I’m able to spend more time with Doug and Dawson and my house has never been this clean.

This is also the reason why my blog posting has been sporadic and I do hope you’ll forgive me. It took a few weeks to learn the ropes and get a routine in place.

Many of you know that March 17th was my 29th birthday. Doug took me to Chili’s for dinner. Neither of us had been there before and our local restaurant opened last fall. The place was booming for months and we wanted to wait until the “newness” wore off before having dinner there.

We each had the shrimp and ribs combo. The food was good, but overpriced for what it’s worth. I had one cosmopolitan with my meal and it was so strong I think I was drunk by the time we left. After dinner we went to a bar called Partner’s Pub. People celebrating their birthdays can drink free all night. Four double drinks later and I was really sloshed. We were home by 8:30, and I only missed half of Dancing with the Stars. The new season premiered that night. I have to say I’m not really into it this season. I know you’re surprised. I am a diehard DWTS fan. Except my boyfriend isn’t dancing this go ’round and I’m disappointed. It’s not the same with out Maksim. Although I’m totally rooting for Priscilla Presley and Kristi Yamaguchi.

I agree with Maks when he says that another woman may not win Dancing with the Stars. It’s true. Most women are reluctant to vote for other women. I was terribly disappointed when Melanie Brown and Maksim took second place to Helio Castroneves and Julianne Hough. Melanie was the better dancer by far. She worked hard and had the technique. But I think women were wooed by Helio’s charm and good loooks. Helio was a great dancer, but not the best. Kelly Monaco was the first and only woman to win DWTS thus far, and I think it’s because of her soap opera fans.

Back to talking about me. Heh. So where was I? Oh yes. My birthday. So, I wasn’t as nuts after turning 29 like I was when I turned 28 — although I did have my obligatory meltdown about age and having babies and blah, blah blah. I was content about entering my last year in my twenties, that is until my husband discovered a dozen gray hairs on my head. I totally believe he gave them to me. Like a contageous disease. And then the SOB plucks two out of my scalp. I did end up buying the hair dye. My new color is a bit too light. I should have just forked over the $60 bucks and had it dyed professionally. It would have turned out better, I’m sure.

The Easter UPS man delivered Dawson’s Leapster L-Max on Thursday and when we opened the box he got so giddy with excitement I thought the kid was going to explode. “Mommy! That’s for me! That’s mine! I waited for it a week ago!” It was so cute. He even said to me, “This is my favorite toy, ever!”

He played it non-stop for eight hours that day. Yes, you read that right. Eight hours. And then the game stopped working. For real. My poor kid was heartbroken. We tried to change the batteries and it still wouldn’t power on. Friday morning we tried again and nothing. So I had to call the company and have them send a shipping label so that we can get it replaced. It will take two weeks. Dawson is devastated. We don’t even know what happened. He was so careful with that game. Doug thinks it was defective to begin with.

In other news, I leave for New York City this coming Wednesday. Did I tell you about this? I can’t remember. Let me just start again. Last fall I decided I really wanted to go to BlogHer Business ’08. I talked with another fabulous blogger about going with me and sharing a hotel room and she said she had been wanting to go to the conference, too.

So, I booked an airline ticket, made the hotel reservation and waited patiently for the conference registration to open. When it did a few months later, I realized how expensive it was and decided that I probably wouldn’t be able to afford it. But then Kristy from Blogher told me apply for a BlogHerShip to live blog the conference tracks which would waive my fees. I was just going to do so when I lost my job, and so I canceled the hotel reservation.

Unfortunately, my air ticket was non-refundable. But Liz offered to have me over for a visit and I graciously accepted. Another turn of events and stroke of strange luck occurred, and it turns out I’ll be spending two nights in NYC (a pal of mine hooked me up with an apartment rental on the Upper West Side, two blocks from Central Park, at a too-good-to-be-true rate) and the third night with Liz in Jersey. I’m totally cool with that because I’ve always wanted to tour the museums of Manhattan, and I don’t know when I’ll have another opportunity. The best part is that an old friend of mine lives in Queens (the one who scored the apartment for me) and we’re meeting up for dinner on my first night in the city.

It’s strange that I’ll be a pseudo single girl in Manhattan, but I’ve wanted to do this for years and never did. I’m a little nervous about flying, though. The last time I was on an airplane was 15 years ago when I went to Washington, D.C. in ninth grade.

So, that’s pretty much what I’m up to these days. Tomorrow I’m going to tell you about my ridiculous shopping trip to Kohl’s yesterday. It’s a funny story. Stay tuned.

When Suzanne introduced BlogHer’s Letter to My Body project I was very excited to participate. Excited but nervous and scared, as well.

For so long I’ve struggled with body image and my very unrealistic expectations of how I should look and what I should weigh, and I didn’t know how I would put my feelings into words.

So many amazing women have written beautiful letters to their bodies.

I’ve felt similar feelings about my body as Angella has about hers:

You have never made it easy for me.

For as long as I can remember, I was referred to as a Big Girl. I was bigger than all of my friends. Taller, wider, thicker.

I was a regular kid who liked candy and Pop Shoppe pop. My Mom loved me to a fault. She did not want to deny me anything, for fear that I would choose my Dad over her. Any food, any treat, was mine to be had. I was never denied anything.

I had friends who were skinny. They could eat candy and drink pop and still retain those pencil-thin thighs. I was beyond envious.

My thighs were never pencil-thin. I had that inner thigh that swayed in the breeze and reminded me that I was not in the same class as the Pencils. I would pound my pillow while chanting, “It’s NOT FAIR!” and hope that you would hear me. That you would ramp up my metabolism and let me be like the other girls. Candy and pop, and pencil-thin thighs.

You did not listen.

This made me so very, very sad. I would cry myself to sleep and wonder why my body hated me so.

Lady Beams is amazed at how reliable her body is:

Here we are after spending a half a century together, and I figure I know you pretty well. We’ve pretty much come full circle, the baby with her belly hanging out over her diaper, the little girl who was taller than almost everyone in her class, the blossoming young woman who quickly turned into “full figured”, and the older woman who has once again turned into a body with her belly hanging over her underwear. You’ve taken me from being a kid to having 3, and I must say we got along pretty well thru all of them. We’ve gone thru menopause together and it was easy. No matter what I’ve done to you, you have always bounced back and been strong and reliable.

But it’s Sepha’s letter that moved me to tears (please read it’s entirety at her blog, Undone):

I used to revel in my body; it looked pretty fancy without much effort, it brought me pleasure, allowed me to feel good. The breasts came in a little early and I could have done without nasty people pinging my brand new brastraps. But perhaps it’s good that they did because it gave me a little more time with a full pair before the mastectomy at age 28.

Didn’t you know body, that you weren’t supposed to let cancer in? That it was a baddie who you ought to have fought? I know I didn’t go in for playing cops and robbers when I was a child, was that what you needed to teach you to fight baddies?

You did bad, you let me down, you’re responsible for the lopsided mess that is now my bosom and yet you still didn’t learn because you let Mr Cancer come back and set up residence in my bones and lung. How did he sweet-talk his way back in? Was a year’s worth of hideous treatments not enough to teach you to attack Mr Cancer?

It’s so hard to hate you, body, because you are me and hating you means hating me – but I do. I can’t really bear to be with myself a lot of the time. I look away from the bathroom mirror when getting into the bath. I struggle over what to wear that won’t show off a non-existent cleavage. You’ve cheated me – because the world out there thinks that women have *two* breasts – it’s in the magazines, on the Television, in films, in fashion, it’s instilled into every baby being breast-fed; it’s on every woman I see walking down the street. You’ve turned me into the Non-Woman.

I had over a month to write my own letter to my body, but I hesitated and worried about what I should say. Each time I started writing, I would find something “wrong” with my letter and I’d start over. I thought that my letter had to be perfect. Then I realized my body image issues were carrying over to other aspects of my life, and it was time to end this obsession with perfection. Here’s my letter:

Dear Body,

For most of my life I’ve treated you terribly. For most of my life I’ve been unhappy with how you look. Growing up I never believed you were pretty. I constantly compared you to other girls. Your hair wasn’t long enough. Your eyes weren’t blue enough. Your stomach wasn’t flat enough. You weren’t a size four. You would never be a super model.

I’d like to tell you these feelings of inadequacy began in high school — junior high even — but I remember feeling depressed about you, dear body, in fourth grade. I still remember my tenth birthday and calling you fat for the first time.

Do you remember that day? Mother had taken us to a department store to buy a new outfit. I was trying on clothes in the dressing room, looking at your stomach and thighs in the three angled mirrors, and wishing you were skinny. You were the body of a typical ten year old girl, but I thought you were ugly. I didn’t know that you weren’t fat. I didn’t understand that you were still growing. I didn’t know you were healthy.

My perceptions were skewed by what I thought you should look like. Looking back now, I truly believe my first dressing room experience affected how I would look at you for several years to come.

Every television commercial or magazine ad featured a thin, blond, green-eyed girl with sparkling white teeth. Those models always looked so happy, so confident, so beautiful. I believed it was because they were petite and thin. I thought they had the perfect bodies.

Those ads made me feel worthless. I hated you. You didn’t measure up to the bodies of those girls. You were big boned and “hefty,” as the school nurse called it. She tried to tell me not to fight genetics. That I should be happy with who I was, not what my body looked like.

Body, what you looked like affected everything in my life. I never went to prom because I didn’t think you were thin enough to wear a formal dress. I stopped playing sports because I thought your thighs were huge and I didn’t want anyone to seem them jiggle when your legs ran. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a two-piece swimming suit because you had large breasts and wide hips and I couldn’t risk anyone seeing my less than perfect body.

As I reflect on all of this, I get angry. Not at you, dear body, but at me.

I’ve spent twenty-nine years insulting you instead of cherishing you. You’re the one constant in my life. My relationship with you is the longest I’ve ever been in and I treat you terribly. If I treated my husband this way, he’d have left me a long time ago.

I constantly insult your breasts, stomach, ass, thighs and arms. For ten years I forced you to smoke cigarettes. For too long I’ve shoved chocolate and potato chips into your mouth instead of all the healthy foods you need to function properly.

I’ve neglected you, yet you’re still with me. Your heart still beats. Your lungs still breathe. You conceived and carried a beautiful child for nine months. I never thanked you for the wear and tear, and the pain you endured to deliver my precious baby.

I’ve never treated you with respect and honor. I’ve done nothing to show you how much I appreciate you. In twenty-nine years I’ve never told you I love you. Not once. But, I do love you.

I love your eyes. I love your hair. I love the freckles on your knees. I love the scar on your right arm, proof that you were able to heal from my gymnastic clumsiness in kindergarten.

I love your wide feet (even if it is hard to find shoes that fit them), because they’ve carried me everywhere I need to go.

I love your lips, they’ve given many kisses. I love your arms, they’ve given many hugs.

I love your stomach, stretch marks and all, proof that a little person lived there. I love your breasts that nourished my baby.

My deepest regret is not taking the time to tell you how much I love you and appreciate you before now. Thank you for sticking with me. Without you I’m truly nothing.

Love Always,

Me

Writing this letter was therapeutic for me. As I dug through all the layers of my body, I discovered so many emotions have prevented me from loving my body. I had taken my body for granted, always expecting it to just be there without realizing what it does to keep me alive and well. It’s empowering to discover how much I do love my body when I think of all it’s been through.

I’m challenging you to write your letter to your body. Don’t hesitate like I did. Don’t worry about what to say. Your body is beautiful, imperfections and all. Won’t you share your story with us? Click over to this post at BlogHer and the Mr Linky to ensure we click to your blog to read your amazing letters.

What are you waiting for?  Get to it!

However, what I don’t enjoy is the way they constantly leave the same things in the middle of our living room, over and over again.

Like Doug’s shoes! He takes them off leaves them in the middle of the floor, and then I end up tripping on them as I zoom from room to room on my broom cleaning and dusting and putting things away.

Or Dawson’s toys! It doesn’t matter how many times I put a certain toy away after he’s finished playing with it, the toy magically makes it’s way back to the hot zone next to my husband’s size 12 boats.

Or Murphy’s bones! He has two nylon bones that he chews on and leaves them all over the house. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve nearly broken an ankle because I’ve accidentally stepped on one of them?

I’ve actually fallen into a routine. Wake up at 7:30. Eat half a bagel and an omelette. Work online for four hours. Finish work and then yell at Dawson to pick up his shit. Put all the pillows and cushions back on the couch. Follow the kid around until all his toys are back where they belong. Dust and vacuum the living room. Blow up the damn TV that always seems to have SpongeBob on. Make all the beds. Vacuum the bedrooms. Clean the bathroom. Do the dishes, sweep the kitchen floor and take the garbage out. When the husband comes home from work, escape to the gym. Rinse and repeat as necessary, seven days a week.

And then in the midst of all of this, my husband uses the very last roll of toilet paper and doesn’t tell me. I don’t discover this until I have to pee and realize I have nothing to wipe with. So I shake myself dry and do you know how infuriating it is to shake female your parts over the toilet seat and hear your butt cheeks flap? And you wonder why I go to the gym obsessively?

So this weekend, I told my husband how angry I was that he didn’t tell me we were out of toilet paper. He gave me his usual excuse that he forgot or maybe he said he didn’t tell me on purpose to drive me over the edge, I’m not sure because I was so mad I started to hyperventilate.

Anyway, as I’m calmly discussing the situation screaming, my husband, who is much taller than me says, “Wow…are you getting gray.”

I can feel my face getting hot. He inspects the top of my head. “Holy hell, woman, you’ve got a dozen gray hairs on the top of your head.”

I do not think this is funny. Not funny at all.

“If this is some stupid male tactic to distract me from what I was yelling at you about, it’s not going to…OUCH!” He plucked a hair from the top of my head. Sure as rain, the hair he pulled was as white as snow.

“Okay, so that’s just one…OWWW! Stop pulling hairs!” I look to see the second white hair in his hand. I began to cry.

“There’s like, ten more. You want me to get those out, too?” my husband asked.

“Are you fucking nuts? An army of silver hairs will come back to replace the two you just killed.”

Through my tears, I got up, put on my shoes, grabbed my keys and started out the door.

“Where are you going?” my husband asked.

“I’m going to Wal-Mart,” I said. “To get toilet paper.”

“Don’t forget the hair dye!” he shouted after me.

Not funny. So very not funny. I’m only twenty-nine! I was prepared for gray at 40, but not at my age. I’m still young. Right?