There is a little red dog who lives with me. He has few redeeming qualities.

TUESDAY, MIDNIGHT

Derek, aka The Snuggler, aka Snuggie, aka Little Red, aka Rusty, aka Snugglelicious, aka Snuggie Snugs, aka The Snugmeister, aka Wally, aka The Beast, aka Turd Ferguson, lives up to his reputation of World’s Worst Dog, and, while out taking his midnight constitutional, busts through his outdoor pen in hot pursuit of something he’s seen.  He is now loose in River Vale, emboldened by his rage, hunting and killing and leaving man-sized turds in his wake.  I, on the other hand, am trapped on my deck, caged like a rat and frozen at the thought of the carnage that will ensue. I run into the house, grabbing treats and flashlight, and head back out into the darkness, unaware that this was part of my job description as dogsitter.  Like a mother summoning the adrenaline to lift a car off her child, I hoist the gate of Cerberus’s pen from the frozen ground and shine the flashlight into the thick night. 

Expletives fill the air, as does the pungent, fetid stink of the Mephitis mephitis – your common backyard skunk. 

From 1634:

“No sewer ever smelled so bad. I would not have believed it if I had not smelled it myself. Your heart almost fails you when you approach the animal; two have been killed in our court, and several days afterward there was such a dreadful odor throughout our house that we could not endure it. I believe the sin smelled by Saint Catherine de Sienne must have had the same vile odor.”

This smelled worse. 

Derek seemingly glides back into the house, cradled in a viscous cloud of stink, grinding himself into his bed as if to cleanse himself from his unspeakable crimes. He seems proud of himself.  

WEDNESDAY MORNING

Guided by the Google, I boil all the white vinegar I have in the attempt to remove the stench and be able to breathe again.  The air in my house now seems to have a texture; it is almost gelatinous. I pray for death at this point, or at least noseblindness. I take Satan’s best friend out for a walk – we both could use some fresh air. When we return, the hot, syrupy blanket of skunky vinegar assaults me at the front door. I fear this entity is here to stay.

WEDNESDAY MORNING

I fear I can never show my face in Wegmans again.  I have a short list, with vinegar at the top.  Need vinegar. Gallons of it. While waiting on the gentleman to stock the shelf, a woman next to me in the aisle drops her sunglasses.  She bends down and says, “Excuse me I’m a clutz.”  I reply, “No! Maybe you’re just excited about this sale on canned soup.”   She laughs and leans over.  “Let me ask you something,” she whispers.  “Do you think this store smells like skunk?  Because I’ve been smelling it throughout the whole store.”   The whole store.  I start sweating and babbling and high-tail it out of there with half my order, leaving numerous watery eyes in my wake.

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

I don’t know what makes me cry harder — the mess I’m watching on the news or the fact that Derek the Red Menace’s vet informs me that they cannot help me. They tell me to wash him in Dawn. This beast nearly takes my fingers off when I try to help him retrieve his snack ball, and I’m supposed to try to bathe him? My neighbor suggests that I simply take him in the shower and leash him to the towel bar if need be. All I can picture is 11 pounds of snarling, barking, growling fury running down the street with a chunk of my bathroom tile attached to him and me running after him in my birthday suit. I’m near a breakdown. The clogging of my nostrils brings me little relief. 

THURSDAY MORNING 

I’m at my part-time job. It’s slow this morning, so I suggest to my boss that we work on a project that we’ve both been putting off.

“Show me what to do with this paperwork, and I’ll do it,” I say.

“Nah, why don’t you take the rest of the day off,” he replies.

“No, why don’t we just get this done and over with? There’s not much going on here, and it’s only ten o’clock!”

“No, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Why? This needs to get done.”

“Well, if you must know, I don’t want to work with you today.”

I’m stunned. Maybe at the thought that my boss may actually not like me, or that he would actually say it to my face.

“What? Why?” I ask.

“Well…it’s because you stink. Did you get sprayed by a skunk? I mean, what is going on here? Go home.”

EPILOGUE

I’m told I should be mindful of skunk mating season, because that is exactly what a single woman of my age wants to be reminded of. Just what am I supposed to be on the lookout for? I mean, if I let the dog out and I hear Johnny Mathis playing, does that mean that the skunks are getting it on under my deck?

Personally, I think even the skunks were offended at how bad this dog smelled and haven’t been back.

I can’t pinpoint why I think it’s important that everyone’s 9/11 story be documented.  Is my story interesting? Not really.  Is it tragic? No. Maybe it’s my own arrogance that someone, somewhere, long after I’m in the next world, would read it.  Maybe my little godson Oliver can use it for a history paper or something, if kids are still doing that in the future. 

My mother used to tell me that she remembered exactly where she was when JFK was assassinated, even though she was miles away in New Jersey.  She was in a car, I believe, and the driver had to pull over out of shock.  Everyone from her generation has a memory like that.  

Everyone in my generation has a 9/11 story.  This is mine.  I can’t promise that it’s interesting, or poignant or that it even has a point.  It certainly isn’t the hilarious, light-hearted fare that my tens of subscribers have come to expect.  But as any writer will tell you, a story is like bad Mexican food – once it’s in you, it’s coming out one way or the other. It probably also will not be pretty. 

A lot of people helped me that day, whether it was calling to find out where I was, offering me a place to stay, or welcoming me into their home and feeding me, a perfect stranger, a home- cooked meal after a long day. But the people I think most about on this day every year are Jessica, Dennis, Margaret, Cherryl Lynne, Cecilia, Maura, Jen, and the rest of the crew at 605 Third Avenue, 9^th floor, New York.  

9/11/21

The sky is as blue and cloudless today as it was twenty years ago. That is one common theme in every 9/11 account you will read.  The sky wasn’t just blue – it was BLUE.  There were no clouds.  It was a morning that so gorgeous people actually stopped for a second to notice it.  I was living in my very first apartment where I had a 3-minute walk down the block to catch the 167 bus into New York.   No one had a smartphone yet, so my morning commute wasn’t yet tainted by furiously reading emails from another time zone, scanning the headlines, or playing Brickbreaker. No, my commute was mostly spent staring out the window in a 40-minute moment of Zen (or 3 hours if it was raining.)  It would be my last. 

The entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel from 495 is called the Helix. I’ve traveled it a million times. For a few seconds, it provides a tremendous view of the NYC skyline, and it was here again that I remarked to myself about the blue sky.  On our final curve around, I noticed a large white cloud, my view somewhat obscured, and thought how odd it was that the entire morning I was going on about this blue sky and here was this one puffy cloud over lower Manhattan.  

We did have cell phones then, albeit gigantic and I think mine even had some sort of antenna, and a lot of them started ringing.  Mine didn’t, but the general consensus on the bus was that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center.  The story was that it was a Cessna, and that the pilot had suffered a heart attack.  My fellow commuters and I all muttered about how this was horrible but in a second we were in the tunnel and had moved on.  I never made the connection with the cloud I had just seen. 

The 90s are long past, but I am still wearing sneakers like Working Girl and have a selection of dress shoes under my desk, and I don’t care. By the time I walk across town, get a coffee at Au Bon Pain, and head into the office, the second tower had been hit.  I am still blissfully unaware, as are most people who aren’t in front a television or computer.  In the elevator, the only person I run into is the kid who delivers our mail.  He’s excited to see me – I apparently have won the office football pool for that week.  I get off on my floor, a cool $75 in my pocket and plan to drop my bag off in my office and go get bagels.  I wonder why I’m the only one there.  I walk around, muttering to myself that it’s after 9am – everyone should be here by now.  I panic that I’m missing a meeting when one of the assistants appears and I berate him about how no one is in the office.  

“Don’t you know what’s happening, Karen?” he asks me in disbelief. 

“No.  But I do know that I just won the football pool!” I say to his wide-eyed expression. He must think I am heartless, or just insane.

“A plane hit the World Trade Center.”

“Yes, I heard that.  That is terrible – the pilot had a heart attack or something?”

“It was a jet. And there are other jets that are missing.”

There is still a part of me, twenty years later, that can’t fully comprehend this.  I’d like to think it says something about how I am a civilized person and can’t wrap my head around the level of depravity it must take to commit such an act of violence, especially in the name of God. It’s probably my naivete; I spent a lot of time in CCD in the 70s and there was a lot of peace and love and respecting your fellow humans. I’m glad I don’t understand. 

My office mates are crowded into the bank next door, whose tv usually broadcasts Bloomberg all day but everything has switched over to news.  I sit in my office, overlooking the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and a sky filled with smoke and debris.  For some reason, I have one of those cheapo cameras in my giant work bag, and I take a picture.  I still haven’t shown it to anyone. 

By this time, cell/landline and internet service is sketchy.  The only person I have heard from is my friend Windsor – and he lives in England. He tells me there is horrific news on the tv and is checking in on me.  I tell him I don’t really know what is going on but will let him know when I can.  I can’t get in touch with my parents. 

I have a tiny clock radio in my office, which is the only thing giving any information.  My office crew filters in, trying to hear 1010 WINS, perhaps taking comfort in the fact that they are amongst friends. I’m one of the managers here; I don’t know what I should be doing at this point.  Did anyone? We’re in a tall building in the middle of Manhattan.  When is the other shoe going to drop? The bridges and tunnels are beginning to close. Am I trapped here? I still can’t get in touch with my parents.  My dad knew his way around the city, so I am hoping that he knows, and will tell my mom, that I’m in midtown.  Not that it matters at this point, but I really wish I could let them know that I was OK. 

I still can’t get emotional at this point, which is strange for me.  I cry at Geico commercials, Christmas carols, when I hear someone’s insane conspiracy theories, or when I listen to a certain series of songs.  Today the world is ending and I simply don’t know what to do.  I don’t feel anything yet. 

When the North tower collapses, I can hear and feel it.  I still can.  There is a frantic attempt in the office to establish where everyone’s loved ones are.  I finally get a call through to my parents. My dad doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to fix it, like he always does.   He immediately hands me off to my mother. She is nervous.  She has already spoken to her friend Jeanne.  Jeanne’s daughter Valerie and I have been friends since the second grade. Val is in a hotel at LaGuardia airport and tells me through the moms to come there if I can’t get home. It’s at this point that I think I become aware of what is really happening.  I tell my mom that I just heard the North tower come down and how I don’t know what to do. Maura closes my office door so I can have a moment. I’m 31 years old and all I want is to be home with my mommy and daddy.  My mom tells me to stay calm and to stay close to God and He’ll get me through this.  At this point I’m not so sure. I promise to call them regularly. 

Margaret and I decide that we are going to have to stay in the building.  We rush across the street to Au Bon Pain to get food.  I’m on line waiting for sandwiches when I get my first cell phone call of the day.  It’s my friend Jacki, calling from California.  

“Where are you?” she asks. 

“Uh, I’m in Au Bon Pain on 3^rd Ave.”

“Ok, the world is ending and you’re getting food?? What is wrong with you? Why are you still in the city?”

Leave it to Jacki to lecture me on the day the world changed.  She’d be glad that I’m documenting this, and that I mentioned her. 

When we cross 3^rd Avenue, I see a woman with her face covered in dust.  I have second thoughts about spending the night in the city.   Margaret hears that some of the LIRR trains are still running and she decides to chance it.  I sit in my office, trying not to look out the window. 

Jen comes to say goodbye, that the Queensboro bridge is open to pedestrians and she and Ben are going to walk home.  She is the first one to notice that it’s 9/11, as in 911.  

As a group I don’t think anyone has decided what their plan is yet. Hattie is 80 years old and informs me she is going to sleep under her desk.  At the time she lives in the next town over from me and I tell her I can’t allow her to do that and I will somehow get her home.  She can’t walk all that fast but there is no way my conscience will allow me to leave her here when we all leave. 

There is a little bit of calm as we pack up our belongings.  Or maybe it was simply concentrating on getting home.  I had no plan, but at least I wasn’t alone.  

We leave in a large group and walk across town.  The streets are weirdly calm for New York, but how could you tell? I’m just glad I’ve got my Reeboks on. We make it to the ferry terminal, hoping to get a boat across the Hudson.   Again, I’m not sure what I will do once I get there, but I’ve got enough friends on the other side of the river who will take me in.  There is an 8 hour wait.  Jessica would end up getting on a Circle Line boat, part of the maritime community’s rescue efforts to get people out of Manhattan.  One of us is carrying a portable radio, which tells us the A train is still running uptown.  So we head for that.   Andrea decides she is headed for Grand Central in the hopes of getting a train to Connecticut to try and meet up with her sister.  Our group is getting smaller. 

It’s now late in the afternoon.  I call my parents every time I change locations. We end up at the bus terminal at the George Washington Bridge, where the line for a bus snakes out of the building and wraps around it three-fold.  I sit down on the ground next to a woman who worked in the north tower.  When the first plane hit, she simply picked up her bag and left, started walking and didn’t stop until she reached the bus terminal.  Which took hours.  I immediately feel guilty for the fear I have when I think about what this woman has been through.  

The bridge opens for a while and then closes again.  Those in cars are picking up people and taking them across.  Some for free, some want $50 for a ride.  Every time some clown calls in a bomb threat every way out of New York closes.  And I’m again filled with sickening fear.  It is the first time in my life that I am not sure that everything will be ok.  I am afraid. Will a plane hit the bus terminal? Will the bridge be blown up? Is it today?

At around 5:30, 7 World Trade collapses.  We don’t know if it’s collateral damage from the morning or another attack.  I’m aware of the fact that I haven’t gone to the bathroom in about 8 hours. 

The group I’m with is finally crammed on to a bus that dumps us in Fort Lee.  That’s all the buses were allowed to do – empty out in Fort Lee and turn around.  All roads in New Jersey leading to New York were closed or required police checkpoints. Cecilia informed us that her sister-in-law lived nearby and we should all go there.  

The one detail I don’t remember is Cecilia’s sister-in-law’s name.  Probably because at this point I am the only Caucasian in the overcrowded house.  Everyone there is Filipino, and they’re more comfortable speaking Tagalog amongst themselves.  She is a godsend; she sits me down at the table and starts bringing out trays of food that she’s been cooking.  I feel like a refugee.  There are people streaming in from the bus.  None of us know how long we will be there. 

The news keeps showing the same images over and over.  I can’t look at it.   

Cecilia gets word from her husband, Richard, that he is on his way to pick her up and will drop me off on their way home.  I am forever grateful to her.  What should normally take about 15 minutes takes hours, but I am finally at my apartment and it is the last place I want to be. I stuff a few things in a bag and head to my parents’.   Throughout the day, I hear the song “Superman” by Five for Fighting.  The DJ on whatever station I had on dedicates it to the first responders.  It will forever be my 9/11 song.  Listen to it sometime. Or don’t. 

My mom opens the door at 10pm and I can see the relief in her face. “Boy, am I glad to see you,” she says.  They have the news on.  My dad is abnormally silent.  There is pain in his eyes.  I can’t tell what he’s thinking and I don’t want to ask.  I wonder if he is reliving his own experience heading to Africa during World War II, or if he is simply ready to suit up and take care of business.  I tell him I don’t know how to understand this and he tells me that I will someday. He prophetically comments that we are going to be entangled in a war we can’t win.  He doesn’t say much else.   Later, he will have some colorful, Francis-like comments about those responsible for the attacks, but today there is a noticeable silence. 

I don’t say much for the next two days.  My cousin Sonny calls to see if I am ok.  I answer in a couple of words, but I don’t feel like talking. My mom and I go over to Peggy’s across the street and sit in her backyard for a while.  They chitchat.  I can’t help but be overwhelmed by the noticeable lack of planes in the sky.  There are always planes flying.  You notice the low-flying ones, the newscopters, the private jets on their way to Teterboro, sometimes even a blimp flies overhead.  When they are not there it’s deafening.  I feel like I don’t even recognize the world I’m in.  Christine and Tony come to visit.  I stay with my parents for over a month.   

I have to admit that I chuckle pessimistically when I see some of these “Never Forget” memes, because there are things that I don’t think I will ever forget – the posters of missing people, the cars at the train stations, the skyline of my favorite city with a hole in it.  The sounds and the lack of sounds.  The smell of the fires that burned for days.  I have no interest in watching documentaries about this day, hearing conspiracy theories, or even attending ceremonies. I fear that even if I’m lost in the throes of dementia one day I’ll still be able to remember the events of 9/11.

Speaking for all members of Gen X, we all have a 9/11 story, no matter where you lived. I would soon learn that I lost a classmate from high school.  A gentleman from River Vale lost his life.  The only member of the FBI to lose his life was from Ridgefield Park.  The entire town and most of the turnpike closed down for his funeral. A friend of my dad’s was late for work and missed the attack on the Pentagon by a half-hour.   We all have these stories.  

I heard a member of Gen Z say that the coronavirus was “their 9/11.”  It’s not.  Seemingly immediately after 9/11, we were awash with flags.  They flew from homes, cars, bikes, boats – whatever.  They were everywhere.  It didn’t affiliate you with anything.  We were also uncharacteristically nice to each other.  We in the NY/NJ area are not known for our courtesy to one another.  I don’t think that’s really true, but I’ve been to enough places in the US to understand why outsiders might think that. (Ever been to Salt Lake City? I got freaked out by all the people smiling at me.) But in the weeks following 9/11, we were letting people into traffic, saying “thank you” with a wave, holding back expletives.  We were also lining up to donate blood, supplies, money, whatever was needed.  Val, Daniela, and I went to Costco and bought huge bags of dog food for the doggies doing search and rescue.  It made you feel less helpless.  Alex drove to the office and helped us take hundreds of t-shirts to Ground Zero so that the first responders could have a clean shirt to wear.  Full of typos, of course, but better than sitting in Rebecca’s office.  I remember receiving messages of condolences and support from authors all over the world.  It was the first time in my life that I felt genuinely afraid, but somehow I kept telling myself that we were Americans, New Yorkers, New Jerseyans, and we’d get through it and would overcome.  And Rudy Giuliani was going to be the guy who took us there.  

To be honest, it felt weird with everyone telling that they loved each other, man, and it just didn’t seem normal.  About a month after, I was waiting at the same spot to cross 3^rd Ave as I always did, when a bike messenger cut in front a cab.  The cab driver let loose a string of expletives that made me blush but it almost as if he were exclaiming, “IT IS OK! WE ARE GOING TO BE OK!”.  I looked at the woman waiting next to me and she said, “I haven’t heard anyone curse in 3 weeks.  I think we’re getting back to normal.”  Normal is the operative word, of course.   Two months after 9/11 a plane tragically went down in Queens.  It was not terrorism-related, but as soon as word broke I calmly put my Reeboks on and said, “see ya!”, as if this was going to be a regular event from now on.  

So what have we learned since then? I don’t know.  I hope that no one has to experience this again.  Would we react the same? Would we receive the same kind of support from the world? Would we support each other?  I mentioned that 9/11 was the first time in my life that I remember being truly afraid, but I still had not lost my faith in humanity.  I felt that good would rise above evil.  I still had a shred of hope that we as a civilized nation could not fully comprehend actions like concealing explosives IN YOUR UNDERWEAR in order to take down a plane.  Lately I’m not so sure.  We all know who divided the country, and here’s not the place for that discussion, but we all know.  We are so horrible to one another and maybe that’s part of some master plan.  Who knows.  So, no, Gen Z.  The pandemic is not your 9/11.  We rose above 9/11.  I’m not sure how we’re getting out of this.  We had America’s Mayor.  Sadly, you have Nosferatu.  

So I shall share with you a true story that happened to me today. After finishing a big project, I decided to take myself out for an ice cream cone. While perusing the complex menu, a gentleman approached me and asked me if he could ask me something very random.

I immediately thought the night would end in one of the following:

a. This man is going to rob me.

b. This man is going to club me over the head, hog tie me, put me in the trunk of his Camry and bring me to his “church.”

c. The gaggle of 8-year-old super spreaders invading my personal space is just part of his plan to distract me while he robs me.

d. This man is going to take one look at my behind and ask me if ice cream is the wisest choice.

Instead, he explained that it was his best friend’s birthday, and that she had passed away five years ago from cancer. Each year on this day he tries to do something kind for someone in order to honor Amanda’s memory. He asked if he could purchase my ice cream. It came with one caveat – that he could take a selfie to show Amanda’s mom, because she also tries to keep her daughter’s memory alive by showing kindness. I shared that I was a survivor of the Big C, and that my birthday is also in July. I went with a modest ice cream cone, instead of the Colossal Gutbuster that I had my heart set on, because I am not a cafone. I promised him I would say a little prayer for his friend, which I did, including one that my picture doesn’t end up anywhere like an advertisement for adult diapers or an obesity clinic or just hanging in this guy’s basement.

Do something kind today. We could all use that.

Folks, it’s that time of year. After weeks of baking, shopping, wrapping, and suffering a spastic colon from worrying about how to get it all done, Christmas is now over. Time to put away the decorations – although who am I kidding? I can guarantee that come February that wreath will still be hanging on my door, turning an interesting shade of orange, while I wonder about how I can repurpose the pinecones and ribbon that adorn it.

If I play my cards right, I can get my cousin Roseanne to come over and help me wrap up the few little figurines that I put out at Christmastime. I don’t put up a tree, save for a ceramic one from the 1960s. Although I have toyed with the idea. But the reality of me leaving it up all year round and having to think up how to decorate it for things like Arbor Day, or just plain throwing a sheet over it to avoid having to haul it back downstairs gets overwhelming.

I’m still trying to find spots for a few of the gifts I received; all of them welcome, but sometimes without a natural resting place. For example. I love getting new tea towels each year. A normal person would retire the old ones, stained, frayed, and burned from that unfortunate chocolate chip cookie incident.  I wonder how to cram the new ones on top of the old ones. You know, in case I need them for something.

So I can live with the bulging kitchen drawers, keeping a wine bottle on the floor because where else am I going to put it?, and having so much underwear I had to get one of those plastic bag dispensers to hang on the wall. (Again, normal people would retire things once they became stained, frayed, or burned from a chocolate chip incident.)

What I don’t know what to do with are these photo cards. They begin arriving the week after Thanksgiving. I enjoy getting them, especially from people I don’t get to see very often, and I proudly display them so I can have fond remembrances and warm holiday thoughts of all of my dear, dear friends and relatives.

So many greetings! My hand hurts.

On the other hand, I do get a little resentful that married people with kids have it so easy. I used to help my mom address hundreds of cards every year, and even when she did send out the rare photo card, she’d hand sign each one of them. These days, you just type anything you want into Shutterfly and bing-ety bang-ety, your holiday greeting is served. But wait, there’s more! Services like Shutterfly can even MAIL them for you as well. Having no cute kids to dress up in matching costumes, or not having taken any cool trips during the year (does Big Flats, NY count?), and being tied to my old-fashioned ways, I feel like I still have to buy traditional Christmas cards – at 75% off the day after, mind you – and hand write each and every one of them.  Here’s how it usually goes:

• mid-November. Begin wondering what I did with the boxes of cards I bought a year ago.
• post-Thanksgiving: Find cards, but let sit on dining room table for at least 3 weeks, claiming it’s “too early” to be thinking about cards.
• December 15-18: plan to write cards, but fill with dread about having to do it.  Wonder if I should just throw in the towel. Realize my pals who live outside the US are going to have to get emails instead.
• December 19: make tea, put on Christmas carols, cry, then marathon-write cards like I’m a 10 year old making iPhones. Complain that my hands cramp up and vow that this is the last year I’m writing cards.

But, as I drop the last stack of holiday greetings in the mailbox, I do pat myself on the back for always getting it done. But you can see how those photo cards can stir up feelings of jealousy and rage. Not because I forgot to have kids, but because of all the cards! So many cards.

So now it’s time to put away the holiday fare, and what on earth do I do with all of these cards? Being a Cancerian and a borderline hoarder, it’s hard to throw anything away. I love encountering things from my past – I recently found a card I’ve kept for 40 years. Will I throw it away? Never. But can I really keep any more?

In years past, I would keep these photo cards in an album, but in my defense, I was a lot younger and most of my friends didn’t have kids yet. Then as both families and cards starting increasing, I started cutting off the “card” part and keeping the photos.  This turned out to be a serious error in judgement on my part, as 20 years later I don’t even know who some of these kids are.  But still, I found space on a shelf somewhere. Soon, I’d run out of albums and resort to dumping them in a box.  Now I’ve got albums and boxes full of pictures of people who are now in their 20s and who I can’t even remember.

Somehow this seems wrong.

Sometimes the pictures get cropped and stuck around my house. Kitchen bulletin board; stuffed into already-framed photos; sometimes they go on the fridge. At this point, there are more child pictures on my fridge than food items in it.  And still, when it comes to these cards I simply can’t throw them away. If I keep any more, I fear I may have to move into a hotel. This may be a cry for help; it may be asking for permission to enjoy these things for a few weeks and then recycle them back to the earth.

Am I alone here? I swear, next year I’m sending out a photo card with a stock family photo on it. And I give you all permission to throw it away.

I don’t know if it’s just me getting old, but Halloween just doesn’t seem much fun anymore.  Maybe it’s because I’m nostalgic for the days when Kimberly Danzuso Wade and I would patrol our little neighborhood, in some sort of ridiculous get-up, wanting to encounter a fabled character we called The Mad Egger. The Egger threw eggs at the trick-or-treaters parading around the streets in search of fun-size candy bars. I think we always knew it was the guy who lived down the street from us, but we had fun creating a local legend of a crazed guy in a brown station wagon called, aptly, The Eggmobile. If I remember correctly, he’d honk the horn several times to alert people he was near.  As we got older, emboldened by the fact that our parents let us out alone (if we stayed on our street), we’d form a battle cry of “We’re fightin’ the Egger!” But really, every time we’d hear a car horn we’d get really nervous and hide behind a tree.  I’m giggling at the fact that a warm childhood memory is of two young girls thinking they could, in essence, carjack a high school boy and beat him senseless. And then egg him.

Halloween used to be something we started thinking about two days after school started, but I’d always wait until the last minute to put my costume together. I’d fight with my mother about how she clearly didn’t understand my artistic vision if she insisted I wear a coat.  And after we’d walk the cold night, filling our bags with goodies and listening for car horns, I’d come home, red-cheeked and usually with a tear in my costume.  My dad would be stationed at our kitchen table, ready to inspect my loot, because in the 70s, there was apparently a rash of people putting razor blades in apples. I think in all my years of trick-or-treating, I may have gotten one apple, and I wouldn’t have eaten it anyway. It would take me years to realize that my father would look at each piece, deem his favorites as suspicious and put them aside. “I don’t think you better eat this one, Karen. It looks like someone might have stuck something in it,” as I’d lose another Reese’s peanut butter cup.  In his defense, I did always stick him with the Good & Plentis, because they were seriously gross. Add to the list Mary Janes, Bit O Honeys, raisins, and I seem to remember something called a Zagnut, but don’t ask me what that is. And there was another candy that began with a D. I just read an article that Necco wafers are on the list of the worst Halloween candies. I used to give those to my mom, save for the chocolate and orange ones.  The point is, I never had a bad Halloween. They were simply, always fun.

I don’t know exactly what is going on here. All I know is that mask I’m wearing would scare the bejeezus out of me if I found it in the cellar. And Kim’s would be considered politically incorrect these days.

Fast forward several years, past the days of high school Halloween parties, the days of being Halloween Chairwoman in college and winning our house first prize (with some help from Christine Tiritilli’s “borrowing” a gigantic red wagon that was too heavy to return), and I’ve returned to my childhood home.  I’ve forgotten about Halloween this year.

In Bergen County, we call the night before Halloween “Cabbage Night.” We just do. Now, I’m not in favor of vandalism, nor do I condone damaging other people’s property, but I used to get a kick out of the toilet paper displays each Halloween morning, courtesy of the young ruffians who would run about with shaving cream, soap, and/or eggs. (Although my house got egged one year, and that crap ain’t easy to get off.)

This year, I opened my curtains and was disappointed, to a degree, that no toilet paper, no shaving cream, no eggshells were strewn on my street. Or seemingly anywhere. Again, I always make sure my car is properly garaged on Cabbage Night, because one time when I lived in the ghetto my windshield was covered in shaving cream and I ended up running in to a “don’t let your dog poop here” sign.  But seriously. A little toilet paper never hurt anyone. (Unless it’s the cheap kind – ouch!)

It’s called “Cabbage Night”, thank you very much.

I’ve purchased too much candy, as usual. I’ve bought the stuff that I like, in case there are leftovers, but it also has to be on sale. I wait until the morning and open up three bags – 3 Musketeers, Snickers, and Milky Ways. I figure I can’t go wrong with this trifecta of chocolatey goodness.

Each bar is slightly smaller than my thumb. They taste cheap and oddly tangy, and now I’ve found something else about which to be disappointed. It doesn’t stop me, however, from inhaling a few of each, thinking that when I run out I can always shut off the porch light, sit in darkness, and pretend no one’s home. With each bite I see another yard of fabric that will have to be added to a bridesmaid dress I’m scheduled to wear in about a year, but I’ll eat nothing but plain cabbage tomorrow. I promise.

It’s still early, and I boot up my computer, wondering what news story or idiotic tweet will make me cringe, and I see an email from the police state in which I now live. My sleepy little town with one traffic light (ok, now two) issues their zero-tolerance policy on any kind of mischief on Cabbage Night and Halloween.  Again, vandalism isn’t cool, but you know you’ve gone a little too far when buying eggs, toilet paper, or shaving cream is banned from early October til sometime after Thanksgiving, just to be safe.  At least I have an excuse for not shaving my legs.

The first group to ring my bell is a group of four boys. They don’t appear to be wearing costumes and they are carrying their loot in yellow plastic bags from ShopRite.  They look at me with blank stares as I offer them my big blue bowl of second-rate candy.  I wish them a Happy Halloween to which I receive a grunt or two as they run off. Two days ago, my nephew informed me that I “wouldn’t understand” his costume, as if I’m so ancient and uncool to not to be in tune with any pop culture past 1984. (He was right. I had to Google it.)  I’m hoping the next batch will be some kids who put at least a little effort into it.

The neighbors across the street have simply thrown what looks like a pillowcase of candy on their front stoop, and I watch in horror as the same boys riffle through it, grabbing and pulling and screaming as if they were in Puerto Rico getting rolls of paper towels thrown at them.  What’s happened to Halloween?

A classic feature of a 1970s Halloween was wearing a costume with the picture of what you’re supposed to be on the front of it. I’m wearing my mother’s nightgown.

The next group on the stoop is a bunch of younger children, who I am convinced are about to open up my front door and storm in. I’m in the bathroom when I hear an army of pint-sized candy-nappers banging and yelling, “OPEN THE DOOR!” My mother would have thrown them all off the stoop.   They are dressed in store-bought costumes, which are cute, if not a little lazy. They all yell, “Trick or Treat!” and say thank you as I hand them candies that are 1/8 the size they used to be. The little boy dressed like a cow proceeds to fall down my concrete steps and all I can see is his parents sitting on the beach in Turks and Caicos with my 401K. He is OK, though, and I toss him an extra Milky Way as hush money.

I sit back down in my tv room, tapping away at some actual work and in approximately 8 and ½ minutes, completely forget that it’s Halloween.  The doorbell rings again, and I am perplexed, wondering who could be calling on me. I shuffle to the door and it’s the kids from down the street. I’ve known their dad since I was three, and they are all very polite and call me Karen and say please and thank you.  They have homemade costumes on and they restore my faith in humanity.

I remind myself out loud that I’m not required to palm three candy bars each time I walk through the kitchen. They don’t taste good but I down a few anyway.

It’s now T-minus three hours before I can turn out the porch light and call it a night.  Another large group of little ones beckon, I slam another Snickers in my gullet, and greet them with feigned enthusiasm. I’ve taken out the screen from the door, so I can simply hand out the candy through the opening. They all think it’s funny, including the moms, but it’s what my mother used to do because she was so afraid of kids falling backwards down the steps, trying to get out of the way of the door. (See part about my 401K.) Before I can even dole out the first piece, a SpiderMan who likely has to buy his clothes in the husky section, grabs a meaty handful of about 7 candies. “Wow,” I say to the little cavone. “You’re going to take all of those?” “YES,” he says without looking up. “Oh, you don’t think you want to share any with your friends who are only taking one? You know, you might clean me out here,” I say to this little Augustus Gloop. “NO!” he yells as he runs down my front yard, whooping and bragging to his friends about all the candy he has collected thus far. I look at his mother, standing in the driveway, and I’m suddenly paralyzed with fear at the thought that this little Michelin Man will be the one to take care of me in the nursing home. And he will probably steal my lunch.

I hear some leaves rustling so I hang out by the door, preparing myself for the next assault on my candy and my sense of fun and decency. A little boy dressed in scrubs, but with an inexplicable silver streak spray-painted on his head is yelling Happy Halloween to me from the street, up the sidewalk, as I’m giving him a candy, and as he is leaving. I have hope for the future.

Another couple of Snickers later, I am so hopped up on sugar that I’m ready to start painting my house.  I pick mercilessly at a chicken leg, and then I feel I have to treat myself with a few more Milky Ways. They are so tiny, I can eat a whole bunch, right? And Snickers have nuts, and nuts have protein!  Although now I’m seriously nervous that if I get a sudden last surge of miscreants dressed as things I don’t know about or worse, the kids who come late with pillowcases dressed in their school football uniforms, I’ll nothing have left to offer them except Shredded Wheat, and that’s going to be awkward.

I get depressed thinking about how sanitized this holiday has become. Halloween is such a fond memory for me. I hope that it still is for today’s kids, although I can’t help but feel like they’re missing out on something. Now they come in huge groups, some of them actually driven around by their parents, grabbing and pawing at cheap candy like it’s their last meal.

I’m up one more time for another batch of Halloweeners who ask me if I have any chocolate. I tell them it’s all chocolate because I like to eat it too, and they stare at me like I have ten heads. Tough audience. One little boy proceeds to lecture me on how he has a peanut allergy and how he can’t take any of my candy because apparently it’s all been contaminated. Now, of course I feel for this kid and for a split-second I think about offering him the Shredded Wheat, but I can’t be held responsible for this. I don’t have any kids. I don’t know about these things. I make a mental note to buy nothing but Skittles next year but then I wonder if some five year old dressed as something from The Walking Dead will express his concern about Red #5.

Defeated, I go back to my work project and some fairly heavy news stories. Soon, the little burg that has become Brave New World will sound a blood-curdling alarm to signal curfew and the rolling up of sidewalks.  I start to think I’m in the clear.

The doorbell rings one more time and I’m pleasantly surprised that it’s my next door neighbor and his little girl. She greets me with a smile and proudly announces that she has just come from a Halloween party with her little friends and came home with her whole bag full of candy. (She holds up her bag and it says Keep Calm and Eat Candy.) She informs me that she is just going around her street now, and maybe she could get another bag! She’s on her mission, but she seems like she is having fun. I’m wondering if I passed the torch to her. I’m wondering if maybe five years from now, she’ll make her costume with stuff she finds in her mom’s closet, fight with her about wearing a coat over it, and just maybe, she’ll egg my house.  And I’ll smile.

DISCLAIMER: I didn’t write this. I gave up some real estate here to a guest blogger who recently participated in the Women’s March in New York. (Although another disclaimer would be that I’ve been friends with this broad for 40 years and she was looking for a way to get this out there, so I said why don’t I just publish it on my blog because it’s not like I’m doing anything on it anyway.  That’s what friends are for. Enjoy.)

I’m writing this because I have stayed silent for too long (though I have been more active this past week, I admit). I have watched the never ending bashing of those who do not see eye-to-eye with “you”. I have watched the left-wing throw insults and I have watched the right-wing throw insults. I have stood by and watched hate being spewed forth by friends and family who I never knew had so much hate in them. I have been made to feel that I am not a Patriot because I do not support your views. You have been made to feel like something bad because you do not support my views.

I am asking for that type of talk, writing, posting stop. It is detrimental to all sides and all parties.

I read an interesting (viral) post today by a dear friend explaining why she did not support the women’s march. And I know there are other women and men out there who feel the same way. And I kind of get it.  I would like to share it and explain my side (and please note when I say “you”, it’s the general sense. I am not singling out this friend, or you, the reader, specifically).

“I am not a “disgrace to women” because I don’t support the women’s march.”

I agree, and if someone said that to you, they undermine the true belief and god given right that everyone has a right to do and think anyway they want.  So, conversely, do not call me a “whiny bitch” because I DO support the Women’s March.   Again, these insults need to stop.

“I do not feel I am a “second class citizen” because I am a woman. I do not feel my voice is “not heard” because I am a woman. I do not feel I am not provided opportunities in this life or in America because I am a woman.”

I am glad that you have been lucky enough in your life to have not been made to feel like a second class citizen. Most times in my life, I have not felt that way either. I was raised by great parents who had two daughters. They praised me because I was a person and not a gender. I was never told I couldn’t do something because of my gender, but rather if I couldn’t do something it was because of my lack of knowledge, education or skill in that particular experience. I was encouraged to then pursue those things I needed in order to become something.

I have many strong women in my life who have seized opportunities and made something of themselves – they are lawyers, accountants, business owners, doctors and mothers and more.

However, not everyone is as lucky as you and I who have never experienced those second class citizen ideals. There are many, many women in this country and around the globe who have been made to feel that way. Who have been pushed down by their peers, their community, their own family. They have been told they can’t do something because they are a girl or a woman. They have been denied access to education – yes, this can and does still happen in our own country! – they have been accused of instigating rapes and told it was their fault, they have been denied justice in these cases, they have been beaten either mentally, physically or both because they were not the son the parents wanted, or simply because they were seen as a second class citizen.

That’s why I marched. For women in America and around the globe who have not been lucky enough to feel the empowerment you and I have, or to believe that they are and can be more.

“I do not feel that I “don’t have control of my body or choices” because I am a woman. I do not feel like I am ” not respected or undermined” because I am a woman.”

I am glad you have never been talked down to by a man. I have and it sucks. I chose to be polite in those situations and turn the other cheek. I chose to be silent. That is my hang-up. But that’s why I marched today. To not be silent anymore and not turn the other cheek.

I am glad you have never been made to feel uncomfortable or fearful in a room full of men. I have and it sucks. That’s why I marched. To gain power and strength in myself while being selflessly supported by complete and total strangers.

“I AM a woman. I can make my own choices. 
I can speak and be heard.”

I agree, and that’s why I marched. To speak and to be heard, because those that were with me were willing to listen even though we all had different issues that were important to us.

“I can VOTE.”

And I did vote. I want to make sure that I always can vote and that women around the world should have this right. That’s why I marched.

“I can work if I want.”

And so can I and so I do. That’s why I marched. To remind those who may try to hold me down that you can’t hold me down. To march against the old beliefs that are still held today by some that women are better off to be silent, not heard, barefoot and pregnant and in the kitchen. Don’t believe me that this belief is still out there? I’ll introduce you to a cousin who is my age who feels that way.

“I control my body.”

And so do I (or maybe my body controls me! lol). That is one of the main reasons I marched to make sure that that control is not taken away from me, ever.

Let me put it in a way you may understand. Let’s talk a little bit about guns.

I always wondered why the NRA is against stricter gun laws. so I asked some of my pro-gun friends. An argument was made that we were on a slippery slope. The more laws made to make it more difficult to own a gun just means you are slowly stripping away the rights until it becomes an empty shell of the constitutional right to own guns.

I understand that. Let it be clear, I don’t like guns, I don’t want to own one. I appreciate though that this law is pretty much all inclusive and that if I changed my mind, I could go and buy one. I completely respect it is your right as it is mine. Though I wish guns were illegal, I won’t take your rights away.

I am asking for the same respect when it comes to my body and my reproductive choices. We are on a slippery slope where the more the government gets involved with stricter controls or lack of support for Roe V Wade, the closer we are to stripping away all the rights and control you and I have over our bodies. You can choose to do with your body whatever you want and if you don’t agree with what I might choose to do, don’t do it. But please don’t tell me what I can or cannot do with my own. And that’s what is in danger of happening.

And so I march for that right. I also march for the right to choose assisted-suicide in the face of serious illness/disease.   Something not on the main platform – but to have total control over what I do with my body and to choose how I die if I am able to.

“I can defend myself. I can defend my family. 
There is nothing stopping me to do anything in this world but MYSELF.”

And that is why I marched. To make sure that other women who do not feel the same as you and I know that they can rise up, they can fight whoever has held them down. They can fight whatever culture or tradition their families, their communities have taught them that said otherwise, that treats them or makes them feel less-than.

“I do not blame my circumstances or problems on anything other than my own choices or even that sometimes in life, we don’t always get what we want. I take responsibility for myself. 
I am a mother, a daughter, a wife, a sister, a friend. I am not held back in life but only by the walls I choose to not go over which is a personal choice. Quit blaming. Take responsibility. If you want to speak, do so.”

And that is why I marched, to take responsibility and to speak. To express my thoughts and fears that we could be in danger of losing some basic rights that we as HUMANS and women should have. We are on a slippery slope in the government where more restrictions on my right to choose what I can and can’t do with my own body becomes governed by the very government you say you don’t want in your lives. You don’t want the government to tell you what to do. Neither do I. So leave my reproductive rights to the person who knows best. Me.

“But do not expect for me, a woman, to take you seriously wearing a pink va-jay-jay hat on your head and screaming profanities and bashing men.”

This world needs a little more brevity and light heartedness while still trying to make a point. There is nothing wrong with that. But, I did not wear the hat so here I am. Take me seriously.

Also, if you were not at the march, don’t assume you know what happened. I was there to witness an unbelievable thing. Thousands upon thousands of women and MEN, young and old and in between – came together in peace. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would see such a thing. There was no bashing of men. There was full blown unity. There might have been a few chants against one man in particular, but turnabout is fair play. If those that hated the last president could make disparaging remarks about him, post insulting messages, and poke fun at him, then people have the right to do the same thing to this president. Let’s not be hypocritical.

If you are patriotic because you fought back against what you thought were socialist beliefs by the last president, then I can be just as patriotic because I am fighting back against what I believe to be tyrannical and divisive beliefs.

And let’s talk about profanity and bashing of people in general. Why is it that those that support Trump don’t want me screaming profanities and bashing people (which by the way, I have not done) when the very man himself has done the same thing?   Why is it ok for him to do it and not me? Why is it ok for one side to do it and not the other? Are these profanities and statements that “bash men” and/or Trump (again, for today’s march I barely heard) insulting your sensitivities? Isn’t that political correctness on your part – the very thing you say you like about Trump is that he is not politically correct. I’m confused. Which way is it to be? Politically correct or not? Respectful or not respectful? I’m not accusing, I truly am confused.

“If you have beliefs, and speak to me in a kind matter, I will listen. But do not expect for me to change my beliefs to suit yours. Respect goes both ways.”

I agree. Respect and a peaceful exchange go BOTH ways. Unfortunately, I have not seen this behavior by people on either side. Nor have I seen this by our very own elected leader. I have seen far too many rude & insulting posts, posters and signs by people who are my friends. When you post or say something with hatred, that is rude and insulting at the “other-side” you are not just getting back at or insulting some nameless, faceless person in the cloud. You are directing that towards your friends and family who may not share your political views. Essentially you have just attacked someone you may respect, like or love. Name calling and insults do nothing to help your side (whichever side that is). But don’t be blind to the fact that this is happening on BOTH sides of the argument. Don’t accuse someone else before looking at “yourself” first.

As I’ve mentioned I would like the insults and bashing of those that have opposing views to stop altogether. We will never get anywhere until we have an open dialogue and not one filled with hate and finger pointing.

“If you want to impress me, especially in regards to women, then speak on the real injustices and tragedies that affect women in foreign countries that do not have the opportunity or means to have their voices heard. Saudi Arabia, women can’t drive, no rights and must always be covered. 
China and India, infantcide of baby girls. 
Afghanistan, unequal education rights. 
Democratic Republic of Congo, where rapes are brutal and women are left to die, or HIV infected and left to care for children alone. 
Mali, where women can not escape the torture of genital mutilation. Pakistan, in tribal areas where women are gang raped to pay for men’s crime. Guatemala, the impoverished female underclass of Guatemala faces domestic violence, rape and the second-highest rate of HIV/AIDS after sub-Saharan Africa. An epidemic of gruesome unsolved murders has left hundreds of women dead, some of their bodies left with hate messages.
And that’s just a few examples.”

Yes! Now you get it! That is why I marched and that is why women around the WORLD marched. To bring women up out of those trenches. To be HEARD around the globe! To understand what is going on not just in our own country but all over the world. It was a movement that caught on not just because of the concerns that some of us have in the United States, but the concerns that women (and men) have in their own countries. We came together to voice those injustices. It was something spectacular. When was the last time you ever saw that kind of GLOBAL movement? Men and women peacefully voicing all issues around intolerance, injustice and hate, not just women’s issues.  If you can just take the opposing political arguments out of the equation for a minute and just sit back and look at the power of the people of all races coming together on the same day around the world to voice their issues – can’t you just see how incredible that is?

Also, please don’t presume to know what I have and have not done to support those injustices that you speak about. Because most of the time if I speak about that with people I often hear “how about helping out the poor, poverty-stricken people in our own country?”. So which way is it supposed to be? Who do I help? Our own people or people in other countries? I’m confused by the message. And therefore, I march to speak out against this in ALL countries and I support charities that support our down-trodden, as well as globally. And now, I’m inspired to do more than just support, but maybe even ACT to help those less fortunate than me and to ensure we never become like those third-world countries.

“So when women get together in AMERICA and whine they don’t have equal rights and march in their clean clothes, after eating a hearty breakfast, and it’s like a vacation away that they have paid for to get there…
This WOMAN does not support it.”

If you did not support it, then did you do all the research on these marches? Citizens came together for a purpose. Some of the less fortunate could not afford the bus fare and so donations were made to help support them. And trust me, with over 100,000 people in NYC not everyone was clean. I met people from all walks of life. Rich and poor, black and white and brown and yellow and all colors. Jews, Catholics, Muslim, Hindu a full repertoire of religions were there. And yes, I even met people who voted for Trump who were also marching in solidarity with those who did not vote for him and peaceful conversations were had. There was no hiding behind the computer saying we should all talk to each other but no one doing anything to actually invite a calm, peaceful, respectful conversation. Again, I cannot impress upon you how awesome this experience was.

And so I marched. I marched because, contrary to popular belief, I love this country. I marched because this country has always been great and I want to keep it that way. I marched because black lives matter, white lives, and all lives matter. I marched because blue lives matter. I marched because I support our veterans, and our wounded veterans making sure that they did not fight for our freedom in vain.

I marched for equal rights for ALL citizens even if I don’t like your kind or disagree with your points of view.

I marched because I could not stay silent anymore.