what a busy couple of days i have had. wednesday was my usual mommy-and-me day; thursday was BC's school picnic, which was a blast but which ate up most of the day; friday, my parents arrived for a whirlwind tour since BS was in school and i could do with the company; saturday, my parents and BC and i ran about to the LL Bean Store and to lunch before my parents set out for home. sunday, BC, BS, and i went to see the bowie baysox play the reading phillies (the latter, btw, won) with dear friend of ours including one of the cutest little kids to walk the earth, anya.

not to mention i had a work deadline in the midst of this, a minor medical crisis which i decline to write about at the moment, and angst. plus three close friends have birthdays this week. much to remember. think, think, think. and the roof leaking into my living room.

in short, i am exhausted. if i have forgotten anyone in the midst of all of this, apologies. i should resume normal programming schedules soon.

i failed to mention that the other day, my BS taught BC two songs off the old Presidents of the United States of America CD: “peaches” and “kitty.” i don't know which was funnier, BC singing “movin' to the country, gonna eat a lot of peaches,” or simply “meow, meow, meowmeowmeow meow!”

juxtapose that with the fact that she now is singing – randomly, i would add – a line from an old flower-power Donovan tune, at the top of her lungs in the middle of Target:

“oh juanita, oh juanita, oh juanita, i call your name.”

words that really have nothing to do with the reallydeep lyrics of the rest of the song:

“first, there is a mountain, then there is no mountain. then, there is.”

i can hardly wait to explain to BC what LSD is and why people on acid should reconsider writing lyrics until their collective heads return from the ether.

yesterday, i broke out abbey road and put it on the car CD. after discussing music, particularly the beatles, the other day with BC, she noted how “funny it was that that band liked to sing all her kiddie favorites: “yellow submarine,” “all together now,” and “strawberry fields forever.” how to explain to her that these songs were originated by the beatles and not necessarily as kiddie songs…

anyway, so i put on abbey road. i have not been playing as many beatle albums as i used to, probably because subconsciously, i don't want her to rebel and hate them when she grows up, which, of course, she may well do anyway. so “here comes the sun” comes on, and i tell BC how much i have always loved this song. (i spared her the part where i mention how, when you listen to the middle part: “sun, sun, sun, here it comes” on headphones, it nearly puts me in religious ecstasy.)

so you know what she said about “here comes the sun”? “mommy, i would rather hear “pink moon,” please. she is picking nick drake over george harrison.

i have to think about this.

yep, there i go again, mentally meandering around my neighborhood, thinking about terror again. i guess it is hard at times to divorce yourself from fear – it isn't every day a plane goes down 5 minutes from your house into the center of your nation's defense group. i think only new yorkers can understand — maybe even better than we DC metro folks — how you always have this creeping sense of dread in the pit of your stomach. i live in the flight path of National (i refuse to call it REAGAN Nat'l, so don't even make me) Airport, and every time i hear a plane, i twinge for a hot second, thinking of a split-second mini-prayer that the damn thing stays in the air until it is good and ready to come down of its own volition.

anyway, the pentagon. i am shocked and stunned that the building is fixed ahead of schedule. in my short but eventful career as a nearly-civil servant, i have never, ever, EVER heard of something being done on-time and under-budget. anyway, i was thinking about this as i took a mini-stroll down memory lane. i just relived my impressions of the first time i went past the pentagon after a plane was dropped into it.

here they are. from 10/7/01.

Yesterday, my husband and daughter and I were running errands – nothing unusual about that, of course. What was unusual was the fact that the entrance to Rte 395 was open from the GW Parkway. Now, big deal, I guess you might say. But this entrance has been closed for a while to us locals, thanks to that hijacked plane crash-landing in the Pentagon on September 11. Like everyone else around the world, I have seen many pictures of that crash site on TV and in the paper; I have consumed the statistics. I have even gasped upon reading obituaries in the Washington Post of people found (or not found) in the wreckage. But in truth, there has been such immense loss and destruction up in New York, and thus so much intense focus there, though, that I could barely contemplate what had happened here. The media coverage concentrates on New York, and understandably so — thousands upon thousands of people, just gone. Buildings that defined a skyline — that I have thrilled to see for most of my life — obliterated. Maybe it is just easier for me to focus on New York — that way, I did not have to think about what is happening here in my home, Arlington.

So I suppose I was not prepared for actually seeing the Pentagon with my own two eyes.

As we merged onto Rte 110, we were suddenly confronted by an immense, black, gaping hole in the side of the building. You've all seen it, I am sure, but to see it right there, right in front of me… I wept. The realization that I was so close a place where evil visited was simply overwhelming. The fear of that horrible day returned to me in an instant — all the rumors of planes still in the air over Washington. The terror of wondering where my husband was. The seemingly-impossible task of keeping my family safe. (People merging there with us in traffic must have had the same “kicked-in-the-stomach” reaction – I was uncertain for a split second whether other cars would collide with ours.) Anyway, back to the building. Astonishingly, the inner ring of the building looks incredibly intact. Chalk one up for the defense contractor who built that puppy. I am sure “withstands a direct hit from a suicidal terrorist air attack” was not in the requirements for that contract.

As we returned from our errands, we missed our usual turn and ended up going on the Pentagon entrance that dumps you onto Columbia Pike. (Many locals always giggle at tourists who get lost here — somehow, if you are unsure of yourself in that neck of Arlington, you inevitably end up in the Pentagon parking lot. In recent days, that would not be possible, as many Pentagon exits were closed. Period.) As we drove up the Pike towards the Navy Annex, we saw something amazing. Cars parked on medians. People in droves, on the street, on the medians. Just looking. Just staring at that building's gaping wound. To say it is surreal would be the understatement of the year. A makeshift memorial is up near the hill, and all sorts of tokens of love and sorrow are scattered there. Here we were, October 6, and people were still simply stunned. It happened. Here. Here, in the self-proclaimed epicenter of the free world.

Our Arlington firefighters. Our cops. Our EMTs. People who live here in the metro area. The military planes overhead. The hospital where my daughter was born was the same place where many of the victims were taken. I imagine that the Dulles terrorists also must have been here before the attack as well, and it sickens me. Try as I might to distance myself emotionally from this entire experience, I cannot any longer. In the past, residents here often would joke about a situation like this. I know I have joked — hell, we live in the flight path of Washington (AKA Reagan) National Airport and are five minutes from the Pentagon. When danger happens, we are toast, I used to laugh. I am not laughing anymore.

But people here, like their brethren in NYC, are pretty darn steely. On September 12, Washington, DC was open for business. As the Nation's Capitol, Washington is required to brush itself off and carry on. While we surely did not suffer the physical manifestations of the attack to the astonishing level suffered by New York, we definitely share the psychological ones. But life must go on. And freedom will prevail. It is our job in the days ahead to make it so, I guess.

“no sleep! no sleep. no slEEEEEEEP!”

you heard what the girl said. now do it.

i accepted a freelance gig writing bits and bobs about local events, sports, restaurants, and other fun things to do in our neck of the woods. my “test” assignment this week: five different venues/events. i was able to complete 4 of them today; and some of the venues kindly offered me press passes to events (keep yer hair on – they are shows for kids, which i am psyched about because i know BC will enjoy tagging along on these gigs. no, i didn't get free tix to Ozzfest…)

so far, so good.

but one event i am supposed to write about involves polo that is played every sunday a.m. in west potomac park. (not far from the lincoln memorial, for those of you keeping score.) apparently, there are wacky people who get up and play horse hockey not far from the pros who play bull shit just up the road a piece. i called up the national park service, as west potomac park is in their jurisdication. no, they said, you need to call the DC Parks and Rec office – they schedule the playing. DC Parks and Rec then sent me to their Adult Rec office. Adult Rec sent me to the National Capitol Regional Office-East, who subsequently sent me to National Capitol Regional Office-
Central. They, in turn, wanted to send me to the National Park Service.

AAAIIIEEE!!!!!

knowing that you can't throw a cat in this town without a permit, i called up and found the office that issued the permit for the field on sundays. (don't even THINK about asking me how i figured that one out or i might have to hurt you.) i got a phone number for a gent in Maryland. i left a message on his answering machine, which had all sorts of info for polo players, so let's keep our fingers crossed.

gosh, this is a shitload of work for the pittance i am paid. i do it for fame and glory and love, you know 😉

right.

ok, who let kelly osbourne sing? ozzy should have his head bit off by a bat for letting her cover madonna. there is something surreal about kelly osbourne crooning “papa don't preach,” as if her father would be even think about screaming moralistic anti-abortion slogans at her. she gets two points for having multi-colored '80s hair, but beyond that, it is like watching teeny-boppers' stupid home videos. why, oh why did i click on it???

of course, the best part about it all is her quote:

“I didn't choose the song. My mom did and asked me to do it. I'm kind of crapping myself because I don't think I'm a very good singer.” Kelly Osbourne

another wily sharon osbourne production.

my beloved three-year-old (“three and a HALF, mommy!”) is happily taking her entirely new playdough set and mashing all the colors (i think there are 8) into one giant doughball. but this may be joy in the making, so i will just sit out and shut my mouth. i have been a bee-atch from hades today, so i will just step aside. besides, BC only wants her daddy today, and since it is father's day, i will graciously defer. its father's day, and i am glad that she has her father and i have mine.

we went to glen echo park today to see a little puppet show. the three little pigs and red riding hood — from the wolf's perspective. it was really lovely except for all of the shifting and squirming — and that was the sound of the adults in the group. grownups over the age of 20 are not meant to sit on the floor for an hour. legs cramp, backs go – maybe we all need to do more yoga. little ones were pretty well behaved, although there were those really young ones who shrieked in terror when the big bad wolf came out and howled. but who could be mad at them?

there is an oooooold carousel at the park. reminded me of the carousel i used to ride as a child on the jersey shore. boo hoo. how on earth did i get so freakin' old so fast? especially since i don't feel old. people talk about grownups and i forget that they mean me.

not to mention the fact that i would have been 6 months along now in my pregnancy. had i not lost the baby, of course. i hate that expression. as if i would ever let a child of mine go missing. i would never let a child of mine disappear. you should see how i track my BC when she plays on a playground. i never let her out of my sight. nope, i will never lose her as long as i have any control over anything. and i will never let this other child i no longer have ever vanish from my mind. but everywhere i go, people have just had babies or are pregnant. i am happy for them, to be sure, but i am still grieving a bit. like i have said before, i do okay 99 percent of the time. but i think i am currently engaged in that tricky one percent, that wallowing place that no one can seem to understand.

i'm sure i'll snap out of it shortly. tomorrow is another day and all those clichees to note. harrumph.

i'm just a “blue boo” today, as my mom would say.

i just found out that my friend's mom has died. simone and i have been friends since we were teenagers, and “D” as we called her mom definitely played a role in my life. D was amazingly outspoken. in fact, whether you wanted to hear about something or not, D would let loose on whatever was wrong with the world, with somebody, or you. i remember being on the receiving end of one of these tirades when simone and i had what i think was the only fight we have ever had in over 20 years of friendship. i don't even remember what we were fighting about, but we didn't speak for awhile. i called up her house to see if we could make peace, and her mom answered the phone and LET ME HAVE IT. and i mean, don't hold back, ma'am, tell me what you REALLY think.

i admired her for her outspokenness, her courage, and her generosity. underneath that tough chick was a loyal lady who dearly loved her family and friends. she battled breast cancer for a long time. i think she was trying to live long enough to see her future granddaughter, who is due in august.

i am sure her spirit is going to be in that child.

i'm really, really annoyed. is it because the news reported that some asshole planned to set off a dirty bomb here in washington? no. is it because i am terrified that india and pakistan are going to blow each other to smithereens? no. is it because israel and palestinians keep going at it in a harsh, bloody way? nope.

it is because of the corrs.

i took a mild power nap this afternoon and fell asleep with the TV on. when i awoke, i saw some sliver of a chick inviting Ron Wood — yes, THE Ron Wood — up on the stage to join her, her sisters, and her brother. The Corrs Live In Dublin, i think it is. anyway… this chick then launches into “Little Wing.”

lemme 'splain something here. “Little Wing” is BS and my wedding song. We had our first dance to it at our wedding — the Sting version only because, well, it was a wedding. But I adore the original Hendrix version; I enjoy the Stevie Ray Vaughn cover; and there is even a wonderful Clapton tribute which my friend Leifer thought was the original “Little Wing” until I set him straight 😉 Sting's version is clever insofar as he has taken the standard and jazzed it up. it works, i s'pose, because it's Stingerino.

but this corrs chick? she sang the Sting version of it. she brought nothing original to it except for that little irish recorder thingy she played along with her sister on violin. and, to make matters insulting, she had Woodie play a teensy-weensy solo in the song. This is a song that has a soaring, and i mean SOARING guitar opportunity in it. and everyone — even Sting — has taken advantage of that wonderful solo.

but not poor Woody. i think they drugged him up or read him a riot act: please keep your guitar playing sanitized, please. either that, or maybe he is sleeping with everyone in the band (including the brother.) i saw that after this song, they covered “ruby tuesday.” i couldn't bear the muzak-ification of the song, not to mention the probable muzzling of Woody.

i turned it off.

what a nightmare.