Operation Find Don

I found the original version of this post in the weeks after 9/11. Unable to believe what I had seen that bright, sunny morning, I sought out the accounts of those who were actually there. Who'd actually be able to put a human face on the tragedy and make me, finally, begin to comprehend that what I had seen with Aaron Brown and Wolf Blitzer wasn't the Jerry Bruckheimer-style action adventure that I'd hoped and I prayed I'd been watching that day.

I know it's morbid, but at the time it actually helped with the healing process.

One of the posts I'd read during that time was a plea from a girl who'd survived to help her find her "disaster buddy." The guy was an African American man who'd she met in the NYC financial district (though not in the WTC complex itself) in the early moments of 9/11. They'd stuck together until he was finally put on a boat to Jersey at the end of the day, and then she never saw him again. She knew almost nothing about him...Jersey, birthday, looked like Blair Underwood around the eyes. All she wanted to do was buy him a beer. Her mother wasn't sure if angels - and that's what she was convinced her daughter's new friend was - drank beer.

After reading the post, I clicked on to the next, and soon it was lost to the millions of blog postings on the 9/11 tragedy. Still, every September I thought about the girl and the man, and while their names had been lost to me - she remained "something with an 'S,'" the blog 'strawberries or a tomato'" - I've often wondered if she'd ever found him.

About an hour ago, I got an update from the most unexpected source, like, ever.

My sister, whom some of you may know has just moved in with me after being laid off in NYC, has been watching the first season of Degrassi High (the old one when both Joey and Snake still had hair) on Netflix. When she got tonight's disc, I found myself trying to catch up. A google search of "Claude Kills Himself" landed me here, and after laughing my way through the post, I noticed the line:

Sarah mixes it up about TV and more over at Tomato Nation.

Suddenly, it clicked, and so did I.

It only took me a few moments to find the post I'd been looking for from September 14, 2001. Even today, seven years later, I found the emotions were flooding back, most especially the ones of peace that this girl, who was my age, had found someone to hold her hand and hope for a future where she could actually buy that man a beer.

Sadly, the update from this past September reveals that while my search for this post that affected me so deeply all those years ago is over, Sarah's search still continues. However, it seems that Sarah has, in the ensuing years, begun to become more and more open to the possibility that Don was, in fact, an angel. By her own admission, she may not believe in them, but there's still that possibility. I don't know. I believe in angels; but I also believe that people, real people, have an inherent good in them that make them appear at the moment you most need them.

Just in case Don is not an angel and is actually a flesh-and-blood man, the search continues. If you happen to know someone who lived in Jersey City, NJ in September of '01, whose birthday is 9/11, and who "looks like Blair Underwood around the eyes," tell him that a girl named Sarah is looking for him, and that her readers are looking for a happy ending.

Image of Blair Underwood shamlessly boosted from his official website.

Happy Happy

Congratulations, Jon and Vinny!!!

Signs to slow down, and other random thoughts

I'm sitting at Grand Cru, and the work network is down.

Actually, I'm not sure if it's "down down" or if it's just not letting me on. Either way, I'm taking it as a sign to slow down, drink some wine, and blog before I pay my bill and move on to Cafe Hon. The food may not be great, but at least the network is secure, which means I can get on to the work network.

Like that's a bad thing. Then again, that means lots more hours tomorrow....

In the meantime, I'm flirtexting with a boy in Charlotte. Of course it's strictly professional and won't go anywhere, but still. :)

The highlight of my weekend was singing at my friend's wedding reception. I sang "Fever" at her real wedding in February. Of course, the music (both copies) then didn't work, so I sang without music. Still, according to the small assembled group of guests, the Elvis hired for the occasion looked at me, singing her up the aisle a cappella and had a look on his face like "Yeah-I-should-just-pack-up-now."

This time, I sang "Making Whoopee" for their "first dance." They're such wonderful friends that it was an honor to do that for them. J told me I was "pitchy" when I was practicing at the house, but the bride was happy and everyone who didn't realize I was a recording told me I sounded great, so I'm thinking I did something right. After all, this was the girl (J) who told me, as I was walking into the American Idol auditions to switch the song to "9-5." Bad idea, that one. ;)

Then, as I was walking off, the Groom's Grammy walked up to me. She hugged me and asked if I would sing "Fever" again. She had told me in Vegas that Peggy Lee was her favorite singer, and when I put the music together for the party, I had included the song on the off chance "Whoopee" didn't work in the DJ's equipment. Not that, upon reflection, the second song on the SAME CD wouldn't suffer the same fate, but at least I tried.

Needless to say, I met the request. I checked with the bride and groom, and both of them had the attitude of "whatever Grammy wants, Grammy gets." She's such an awesome lady that I was glad to do it for her and them. Seriously, the groom reminds me of my dad in ways that I can't quite believe and the bride is the type of friend that I thank God daily that I have in my life. Though, I still had to focus away from everything when I looked out of the corner of my eye and found the groom's hot-but-young cousin and cousin-in-law snapping across the floor like extras from West Side Story. Otherwise, yeah, I would have laughed my ass off. ;) Still, this time I had music and Grammy was happy. Yay!!

My next "gig" is Walt's Inn this Friday. Come by, bring your vocal chords, and let's boogie!! ;)

I am

A big skinny loser!!! 3.6 lbs in a week.

Frankly, I think my body owes me. For the last five weeks, I've been slowly inching my way up into the territory that drove me to WW a year ago. Then, I run a half marathon last weekend (2:48:10) and I still go up!!! I wasn't expecting anything big this week, but I played by the rules (translation: counted the points), practically lived in the ladies room at work (drank the water), and ended up pleasantly surprised.

I also stopped going out to dinner every night. Yeah, that probably had a lot to do with it.

If it's nice tomorrow, I'm going to try to get a walk in before devoting myself to the hell that is Summer Reorg. I've tasted [the] blood (of a loss) and I WANT MORE!

The language of the kiss? Yeah, more like Kiss Off!

Sigmund Freud would probably have something to say about me having these thoughts on Mother’s Day (Happy, Happy, Mom!), but I swear that was a coincidence. I had these while vacuuming, which, upon reflection, Freud would probably have had something to say about as well. Oh well, I never denied being neurotic.

Nor have I ever denied being romantic. I believe in fairy tales, true love, and perfect kisses. That’s where I tend to get into trouble.

There are a lot of truths in kisses, and I remember the important ones: My first tongue-kiss, on the bus on the way home from the Band Competition; being attacked by “the octopus” in front of my sister and her date at Ring Dance; the crazy near-kiss at Chanco; the one in the Godwin parking lot that cold November night; and the one when I turned my back on one friend and my heart to another. That last one was a mistake, but I’m glad I remember it. It taught me that I should never, EVER do that again and to always be grateful to a friend who knows the power of forgiveness.

I also remember the first kiss I shared with the last guy. The one I initiated, the one with a man I very nearly fell in love with this year...until I realized I was initiating every kiss we had shared during our relationship.

I’ve never been the aggressive type. Sure, I’ve initiated my fair share of kisses, but when we’re both on the same page, the split has been so minimal, that I’ve never really noticed it before. I guess I’ve assumed that it’s 50/50, and if I’m to the point where I’m not interested in kissing someone anymore (it happens), I break it off with a pretty little speech. I don’t leave someone hanging for six months, waiting, praying for me to kiss them, and then playing hot and cold with their psyche -- disappointing them time and time again.

And yet, that’s what happened. I swear, it was like dating me in high school. A very nice person who was connecting emotionally, but refused to connect “physically.” My defense back then was that I was a “good girl.” Still, while I wasn’t giving up the goods, I was giving up enough of the above-the-jaw action to make it clear that I was into the guy. Plus, I was way under 18, and in Virginia “abstinence counted.”

I’m not 18 anymore. I’m also quite cute, skinnier than the average American, have a drawer full of hot lingerie, pushing 30, and at my sexual peak. That means that when I date a guy for six months, I expect to get laid. And yet, he wasn’t even kissing me...A girl could get a complex. Believe me, I seriously did.

It wasn’t halitosis: I brush and floss regularly, and I verified the minty-fresh quality of my breath with trusted friends. It wasn’t smoker’s mouth: apart from an occasional cigar, I never touch tobacco. I have all my teeth, my gums are in the right place, I have no piercings that would be off-putting to anyone who was about to put his tongue in my mouth, I wear normal shades of lipstick, and I (as I said) am pretty damn cute. I also, shall we say, studied French in high school. Believe me, when a man kisses me, he wants to do it again.

And yet, he didn’t. I couldn’t figure it out then, and I still can’t now! Here he was, a perfectly normal guy who seemed to be content with the idea that I was doing all the work!!! Where was the fun in that, I ask you? I already work 50 hours a week!

I couldn’t even ask anyone. After all, his best friend was dating my best male friend. The guru who before had helped me decipher the intricacies of the male mind was suddenly someone I couldn’t talk to for fear that my insecurities would get back to HIM. When I did attempt to talk to my boy, his girlfriend would remind me that HE had been hurt badly in the past and that I needed to tread carefully with his heart.

That part I got. You guys all know I’ve been badly hurt myself. Therefore, I wasn’t going to push him into a physical relationship when he wasn’t ready, and I was going to work to foster the emotional side. Still, the kissing thing continued to bother me, and with no one to turn to, I made a command decision.

I stopped kissing him. Granted, he was in Virginia and I in Maryland, but it was still three or four times from the time I made my grand decision to the last time I saw him. I would hug, I would talk, I would do everything I could to keep the conversation going, even if it meant self-monologuing. I was going to make this work, dammit, I had to. Just trust me.

And I never got kissed.

And so it was over. I devoted exactly enough time to the break-up as I felt he granted to the fostering of our relationship over the course of our six months together. I was satisfied, and I have high hopes for us being friends in the future.

So why am I bringing it up now? Simple: I’m starting to date again, and I’ve found that my confidence has foundered. Instead of being the funny, beautiful, confident girl that I was a year ago, the combination of Phoenix and this last round has made me start to wonder if there is something seriously wrong with me. (Preparing for inappropriate comments now).

I hate when the only type of fuck a guy offers is a mind one. At this point, I’d settle for an elbow ala RHPS!

On second thought, maybe not. Rif Raff had his own neuroses to deal with....

Did you miss me?

I'm sure, but your aim is probably getting better.

Something to think about....

Last night

You guys haven’t gotten a story from me in a while, so here we go….

Last night, I get home, and I’m walking from the car to the house when this guy probably around 22 stumbles out of a cab (thank God), tries to open the gate to the fence surrounding the house (um, there actually wasn’t one – fence OR gate) and failing to do that, falls face-first on the concrete stairs leading up to the house. This is the side of the street with a ton of stairs, so I’m not feeling too confident about his chances of actually getting up them without the police and a CSI unit being there in the morning (of course it’d be eventually ruled accidental, but still). I offer to help the guy up them. Not quite sure what I can actually do about that, but I figured I’d try. He lolls his head over and yells at me to leave him there. Nice. The driver sees this, gets out and goes, “Do you know this guy (I didn’t); does he belong here? (Not a clue).”

We decide not to leave him on the front steps so the driver grabs him around the waist, and I go up and start banging on the door. Then, when we realize no one’s home, we start dragging him up the stairs so at least he’ll be on the porch and not lying face first on the sidewalk. Even if it’s random, it’s better than nothing. Since he’s 100% dead weight, this isn’t fun. The driver is yelling at him to at least help (yeah that’s gonna work). We’re most of the way up, the guy’s pants are falling down, and the door to the house finally opens.

First thing I notice, stuff is EVERYWHERE. Seriously, it’s like the packrats from hell live there. Second thing, the guy who answered the door is preparing to yell at ME for getting what I presume is his son in that condition (completely obliterated and now half-naked! – Kinda sounds like an ad for a sleazy club on the Block, but I digress). Cab Driver steps in and goes, “Do you know this guy?”

Father: Yes, what the HELL happened (this is directed at me)?

Me (smiling, attempting not to provoke): No clue. I’m your neighbor, this is the cab driver. I was just walking by…

Cab Driver (who’s pissed that he’s now dragged this guy up the stairs and doesn’t know if he’s going to have to drag him down): His friend gave me $20 to take him home. Is…this…home?

Father: Yep.

Instead of taking his kid from the cabby, he just opens the door to let him inside. I drop the arm I’m holding, but seriously, there is an established order to these things. Whether it’s a pizza or a drunk-ass kid, if a stranger shows up to the door to deliver something and it’s not from IKEA, you accept it with a smile and a tip and you transport it inside yourself.

Thinking about it though, I bet the driver didn’t even get a tip.