Tomorrow is Veterans Day, and Kate has the day off school, so her dad is taking her to see “The Incredibles.” Grrrr. I guess I’ll take her for the dollar-theater screening in eight weeks or so. I’m starting to feel the cosmic pain of the sole breadwinner.
Not that I am complaining. Life is just easier when one person has the homefront well in hand. During our married life’s next-to-last incarnation, I was that person. Now it’s Alan. It works. It’s just new to me.
I guess I should spend some time in mournful contemplation of the price of liberty. My dad escaped WWII unscathed, while Alan’s got the shit shot out of him — three Purple Hearts and a long stint in VA rehab. My brother slipped Vietnam’s net in his own way (never mind, although I think it was more honorable than George Bush’s) and I’m glad he did. Tomorrow we’ll surely hear about our current war, and that’s fine, but if anyone calls it “Operation Iraqi Freedom” I’m going to reach for my pistol. I hate these latter-day marketing names for what boils down to the same old stuff: Bullets tear through human flesh for good and bad reasons, and people die. Call it what it is. There are only three letters.
I don’t keep track of my stats anymore, so I don’t know how my traffic will fare on a day many people stay away from work. I have no idea how many people use NN.C as a time-waster on the job and how many check in from home, but if you stop by, feel free to leave a Veterans Day comment. I’ll be thinking of my few appearances at last summer’s History of War class at the U of M. My attendance coincided with WWI’s battles, and there’s one to queer you on the whole idea of fighting it out.
Did Zell Miller really call Maureen Dowd a “hussy”? My God, he is a lame duck.