Hey Jakey,

Daddy said today before I left the house that you and he are bonding nicely. I never had a doubt, especially after that month off that he had in March before his job at WF started. I've always had a hard time with daddy's "down time" (aka "unemployed"), but this time it's different. He's home with you. This time I don't mind if he's living off of his unemployment checks, because--all told--half a paycheck is still more than full-time daycare. I just wish that *I* was the one at home taking care of you.

Here's my new favorite message from my Mac POS:

"Your computer did not shutdown [sic] properly. ATM is examining the fonts database and will make such repairs as are necessary. This may take a while."

What this probably *really* means:

"Your IT department has taken control of your computer and is examining the contents of your internet cache. The FBI and the RIAA and the Mighty Jerk-Off are on the way. A pink slip has been issued. This may take a while. Stay right where you are."

The good thing about working on Sundays is that there's nobody here. Theoretically, I can get a lot done: no phones, no Mighty Jerk-Offs braying their donkey bray laughs in the office next to me, no constant "dink!" announcing new emails, I can adjust the AC to just below freezing if I feel like it. The bad thing about working on Sundays is that there's nobody here: it's kinda lonely, there's nobody to make sure that I'm working and not blogging.

I'm staring out the window at the trees, and it just looks like the beginning of autumn outside. There's something different about the sunlight. Autumn is my favorite season. There's the promise of winter to come, the tourists leave town and the skiers aren't here yet. My favorite holidays are autumn holidays--Halloween and Thanksgiving.

I talked to your Nana (my mom) on the phone yesterday. I think she's going to try and visit again sometime in October. She still doesn't know that Daddy lost his job. He's saying that he'll have one by the time she gets here, but that probably won't happen. Oh well, I don't care.

Daddy's Chicago grandma is very old. I've never met the woman, but I've talked to her on the phone, and she seems to be very nice. Good to you and your daddy in that she calls all the time, sends cards and letters with money, etc. Daddy and his sister are the only two in her will. She's got a lot (by me and your daddy's standards) of money. Daddy's dad said that it would be enough for the both of us to buy a house outright, and to pay off all of daddy's outrageous medical bills. We don't talk about it, we try to hardly think about it. I only bring it up because daddy's dad brought it up the last time (only time) he visited. Just by bringing it up, I know I must sound like one of those scheming, TV-movie moms who just wants to get her hands on the inheritance. It's really not that way. It's just something that the lizard part of my brain glances at in the dark recesses of my mind once in a while. I know your daddy is the same way. It's hard not to think about it when you're on the brink of bankruptcy, unemployed/working for shit wages, and there's an (almost) new baby in the picture.

About your daddy's outrageous medical bills. These are monsters that all of us will probably be paying off for the rest of our lives. He's got a bad heart, you see. Hopefully you have not inherited one iota of his problems.

He's had three heart attacks since 2001. His first was in September of 2001, and they let him out of the hospital on Sept. 11. What a day. Hey, since I'm here at work, let me look through the archives and find the newspaper column I wrote on the one-year anniversary of Sept. 11.

Here it is. It's one of my longer ones, so grab a Yo Baby Vanilla Yogurt and settle down.

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Countdown to a bittersweet 9-11

This week, we observe the anniversary of the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, and nearly everyone in our nation and beyond is looking back on the day with renewed emotions kindled by the significance of a single year’s passage. I have reason, though, to look back on that day with more than a shred of happiness that mingles uncomfortably with my grief and anger over that day’s events. September 11, 2001, was the day the love of my life, my boyfriend Rob, came safely home to me.

The media this week are making much of timelines, a retelling of seemingly unrelated events that, assembled cohesively and viewed from a distance, string together a horrifying narrative of terrorism. Here, then, is my personal timeline of events leading to my bittersweet 9-11.

Sunday, September 2: My parents arrive in Nevada, having driven all the way from Texas. I haven’t seen them in several years, and Rob is meeting them for the first time. This is the day that American Airlines sends out an internal memo warning its employees to be on the lookout for impostors after one of its crews had uniforms and ID badges stolen in Rome.

Monday, September 3 (Labor Day): Rob and I take my parents to the Ponderosa Ranch for a haywagon breakfast and sightseeing. Rob lies down on a bench and complains of chest pains. I remark bitterly that he is being a drama queen, and suggest he snap out of it. We go home and Rob sleeps for 12 hours. On this day, the FAA claims to possess “intelligence of something about to happen.”

Tuesday, September 4: Rob’s pains return and I take him to his doctor in South Lake. He’s immediately admitted to a hospital room: Rob has suffered a heart attack. Meanwhile, back in Washington, Bush’s Cabinet-rank advisers hold a meeting on terrorism.

Wednesday, September 5: Led to believe that Rob just needs a few tests and some rest, I attempt to entertain my parents with a quick jaunt to Virginia City. We return to South Lake later that afternoon, only to find that Rob has been airlifted to Washoe Medical Center in Reno.

September 6, 7 and 8: Rob is told that he has 95 percent blockage of several of the larger arteries around his heart, and will need an angioplasty and stents installed to open up some of the more serious blockages. We meet his heart surgeon, a stunning six-foot-plus transvestite with four-inch heels and Jackie O. pearls. Rob’s parents drive in from the Bay Area, and my parents and Rob’s meet for the first time in the hallway of the cardiology intensive care unit. The State Department issues a warning, alerting against an attack by al-Qaeda. But the warning focuses on a threat to American citizens overseas.

Sunday, September 9: Having spent several days and nights now in the hospital in Reno, this is the day I finally hit upon a palatable meal combo in the hospital cafeteria: a grilled cheese sandwich with the potato broccoli soup. Prostitutes, it’s later reported, appear to have slept with some of the hijackers in Boston hotel rooms on this day.

Monday, September 10: Rob undergoes surgery to repair the blockages around his heart. We’re shown pictures of the stent installed in one of his arteries. It’s about the size of the spring in a ball-point pen. I catch a glimpse of his surgeon, exquisitely dressed this day in a lime-green mini-dress, with a decidedly Patty Duke-like flip to her hair. Elsewhere in the world, at least two messages in Arabic are intercepted by the Nat’l Security Agency. One states “The match is about to begin” and the other states “Tomorrow is zero hour.”

Tuesday, September 11: My father wakes me up to tell me that I need to watch what’s happening on the television. I figure it must be major, because he’s smoking a cigarette, something we had agreed he wouldn’t do in the house. I watch in horror as events unfold. My neighbor comes over and advises us to fill up all of our vehicles’ gas tanks. He’s convinced me that this is World War III, and I take my paranoia a step further by withdrawing a huge wad of cash from an ATM on my third trip back from the gas station, having filled all the family’s tanks now, mentally prepared for martial law and rationing.

I get home and the phone rings. It’s Rob. “Come and get me,” he says, “The doctor says I can come home now.” His tired, small voice centers me, and I jump in my truck to make one last trek to Reno to bring him home.

In the days and weeks following that horrific day, Rob and the nation both made stunning recoveries.

September 11 will forever be a day that stirs up a potent mix of emotions for me. As you read this on Wednesday, September 11, 2002, Rob and I are out camping in the sublime Sierra backcountry, reveling in another year on this earth, realizing now, as we all do, how really precious another year can be.

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That's it. He's suffered two more MI's (myocardial infarctions) since then, and has been airlifted to Reno from G-Ville one of those times. He was uninsured for that one. CareFlight, we love you, you're a lifesaver, but you are one expensive son-of-a-bitch!

We're doing our best to make sure you've got your momma's heart and not your daddy's, but help us out a little bit and take good care of yourself. I love you!