I’m not much of a shopper, any of my friends will tell you that. The only thing I truly enjoy shopping for is books. On the other end of the spectrum, I absolutely hate shopping for one thing. Bras.

Walk through the lingerie section of any department or specialty store, and you’ll see rack after rack of pretty bra and panty sets in a wide variety of shapes, colors and sizes. But rather than filling me with any sort of thrill, the sight gives me hives.

My stress stems in large part because of what is missing from those racks – anything pretty or colorful that will actually fit me. No, support undergarments in my size are always in drab shades of white or beige and usually tucked off in a corner somewhere.

My college roommate thought it was a real hoot to go bra shopping with me. Her way of helping? Putting the bras on her head to see if they’d fit. Talk about being scarred for life.

I have nightmares about thin little sales associates sneering, “Oh, we don’t carry anything in THAT size.” And before you decide I have an overactive imagination know this: That actually happened to me 10 or 12 years ago. I have a witness.

I can’t describe the smug satisfaction I felt when I first saw that the specialty store in which the incident occurred is now associated with Lane Bryant. Now bras in “THAT size” are among the smallest they carry. Finally, after all these years, I have justice! I hope that flat-chested wench still works there and is forced to handle gigantic bras every day.

The final straw for me happened two or three years ago. I had finally found some bras that I liked at Victoria’s Secret. But when I went back a couple of weeks later to pick up some more, I was told that everything above a D had been pulled from the chain’s stores in that area as part of some market test.

I was given a number to call to express my discontent and, while I made my obligatory phone call, I will never go back. Whatever their final decision, I just don’t care. I’ll find somewhere else to spend my lingerie budget.

After years of feeling self conscious and stressed out by the prospect of bra shopping, I’m done. No, I won’t be going bra-less. I’m just done letting anyone make me feel like there is something wrong with me.

I’m not 90 years old and sagging to my knees and I’m not going to buy a bra designed for someone who is.

I am confused by one thing in all of this. Breast enlargements are one of the most popular elective surgeries out there. Women (and their husbands, lovers and sugar daddies) pay a heck of a lot of money for enhancements to bring their chests up to my size.

I really want to know where they get their bras.

A couple of weeks ago my mother asked me if I would sign up for a Latin dance class with her. In the past we’ve golfed, bowled on occasion and even taken kick-boxing together. With the exception of one particularly intense exercise class that left me unable to climb stairs for a week, she’s never lead me astray before. So, I said yes without giving it much thought.

But as D-Day (dance day) approached, I began to have my doubts. I absolutely love Latin music. Rumba, salsa, merengue…the music just gets into my blood. It’s one of the reasons I loved living in Miami.

But I don’t dance very much. I’m not sure if it has anything to do with watching Elaine dance on Seinfeld (if you can call that dancing) thirty or forty times too many, but I usually require a few glasses of wine to loosen me up enough to get me out on the dance floor.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from the class, but I figured that I would probably be the least coordinated of the bunch. I was right. And to make matters worse, I was totally unprepared, wardrobe wise, for our first session. I am definitely going shopping this weekend.

Pre-dancing angst and wardrobe inadequacy aside, I loved it. Martha Brower-Ryan was our dance diva and she was fabulous.

In our first session we learned the basic steps of the samba, salsa and merengue. I’ll admit that I needed a little remedial intervention to get the side-to-side part of the salsa steps down, but I picked it up better than I thought. It was invigorating and I felt great.

At the end of an hour, I wasn’t ready to leave. My right hip is thankful, though, that I quit when I did. Next time I’ll know to take some Aleve before I start shaking it.

Martha promised to make us all CDs so that we can practice at home. I think she’d be happy to know that I’ve already started. I’ve caught myself twice this morning. I’m sure my co-workers were wondering what the heck I was doing.

I can’t wait to get back on that dance floor. Unfortunately, the next class conflicts with the Norwich City School Board meeting on Tuesday. Do you think anyone would notice if I called in sick?

The carnage continues to pile up on Wall Street and bailout plans seem guaranteed to increase the anxiety levels long before they stabilize financial markets. To make sure Americans are ready to handle further economic  crisis, I suggest creating a financial disaster preparedness kit.

While similar to the supplies that residents of natural disaster prone areas gather each year, this kit is less about bottled water and canned goods and more about medicine cabinets and stashes of cash-equivalents.

First and foremost, stock up on your antacids. With stress levels and stomach acid rising, don’t risk runs on your local pharmacies. Make sure your medicine cabinets are fully loaded with a supply of the chewables, liquids and gelcaps you’ll need to fight frequent bouts of heartburn and indigestion. I know I will.

Financial guru Suze Ormand assures that deposit & demand accounts (a.k.a. savings and checking accounts) with local banks and credit unions are safe as long as they are insured through the FDIC or NCUA. That doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t hedge your bets by hoarding precious metals, gemstones, old fillings and the items I call “barter-ables” like cords of firewood, bottles of sour-mash whiskey and cigarettes.

You should also invest in fresh batteries for your remote control. You’ll want to make sure this device is in good working order when the stress of watching 24-hour news networks gets to be too much. I find re-runs of Walker Texas Ranger, Living Single and How Its Made particularly helpful when I need to unwind after 14 hours straight of hearing about chaos on the world financial markets.

Forego stock-piling bottled water in favor of mini-bottles of gin, vodka and rye. These “cheap and cheerfuls,” as I like to call them, are readily transportable and are just right for a quick pick-me-up when you’ve learned that the blue chips that was the core of your investment portfolio are now considered “penny stock”.

And don’t forget to invest in a new bucket. Fill with sand and insert head as needed to avoid facing reality at any point where it gets to be too much.

A co-worker admitted to me this morning that she didn’t consider herself a good driver. There was no sugar coating. I believe what she said was “I tend to crash a lot,” but maybe I shouldn’t quote her on that.

We were discussing driving, not in light of any recent mishaps, but because her 17-year old cousin is working on getting her driver’s license.

This co-worker (who shall remain nameless for the time being) is worried that she may not be the best person to instruct a new driver in how to make a three point turn or parallel park, skills she admits she has not used since passing her own driving test. A test which she strongly believes her parents only allowed her to take because they believed she would fail.

I was, of course, reminded of my own experiences learning how to drive. (Yes, there were cars back then.) My father was my primary instructor, or shall I say tormentor, in the process which shaved years off both of our lives.

Oh, it started simply enough, driving in endless circles around the Oxford Primary school parking lot. And then driving in reverse along that same path. From there we progressed to back roads, where I invariably hit every pothole and rock I tried to avoid. Then we tackled actual paved thoroughfares where there were other cars and my father expected me to drive at or at least close to the posted speed limit. I was so not ready. The day he made me drive on Route 12 for the first time, I cried.

I would like to tell you that it was the first and last time I cried in that car, a white Buick Lesabre, during my quest to obtain my drivers license. But I won’t lie.

I didn’t think that my father would ever deem me ready to take the test. Our “lessons” became more and more infrequent and finally, in an effort to force the issue, I decided to sign up for the driving test at DMV.

I had been told that it was typical to wait for several weeks for an open appointment, but thanks to good old Murphy’s Law mine was less than a week away. I was so screwed.

Needless to say, I was unsuccessful in my first attempt. My downfall? Not the difficult stuff like parallel parking and K-turns. Hand signals. My examiner? The same woman who had failed my sister 15 years before. I was convinced it was personal.

I was devastated, of course. And so traumatized that I refused to drive for more than a month. My father was persona non grata around the house.

I signed up for driver’s ed before taking the test again. Our driving instructor was Mr. Todaro, who I believe is still training Oxford’s youth to obey the rules of the road. The class gave me the confidence I needed to retake (and finally pass) the driving test. And having to arrange my transportation to and from the school during the summer months was suitable punishment for my father.

My father successfully taught many non-family members how to drive and he’s an amazingly patient and thorough flight instructor. The two of us in the car together was stressful to say the least, but I love him dearly. I wouldn’t trade him in for anything.

I made it through okay in the end and I consider myself a safe driver. Especially compared to my co-worker.

Some friends and I debated religion a few weeks ago. It was more of a philosophical discussion, really, rather than faith-based. We talked about the development of different belief structures, the purpose of organized religion and the varying roles that religious faith plays in society.

I realized yesterday, while attending a memorial service at St. Bart’s, that we had failed to mention one very import role of religion. Comfort.

It was comfort I was seeking as I sat in that pew struggling to make sense of the death of a young man who had fought a fierce battle against cancer.

And it was comfort that I found (at least to some extent), not from solemn readings and hymns, but from the stories told by those who knew this man best.

We were gathered to morn the loss of a husband, father, brother, son, classmate and dear, dear friend. But with those stories, we were able to celebrate his life. And what a life it was. Filled with love, laughter and light.

As evidenced by the crowded church, John Lobdell touched many lives. He was, quite simply, a legend in Oxford. Whether or not you traveled in the same circles, you knew John. He was larger than life. And to contemplate his death at the age of 35, is almost unfathomable.

I can’t claim to have known John as well as many of those that attended the mass, but he still helped create some of my best high school memories. And as those who knew and loved him best shared their stories (leaving out the ones deemed inappropriate for the surroundings), I could almost feel John’s presence and hear his laugh.

My thoughts and prayers go out to his loving wife and two beautiful sons, his mother and sisters, close friends and all the rest of that he has left behind. May you all find some comfort in the fact that memories of John live on in the hearts of many.

You will be missed by many, John. And you will always be remembered with love and laughter.

I love the fall. The new found crispness in the air, the first few brightly colored leaves peeking out behind their green neighbors, flocks of honking geese flying overhead…What’s not to love? Especially if the sky is that clear robins-egg blue. It makes me want to pull out the turtlenecks and long pants I tucked away last spring and go for a long walk, after which I’ll curl up in front of a fire with a hot cup of mulled cider.

I relish the fall, with all of the memories I have of cutting wood with my father and baking apple pies with my mother. I’ll be doing both this weekend and I’ll enjoy it more than I ever did when I was young.

Oh, I’ll miss summer when it’s gone. But there is something about this time of year that just IS upstate New York. Autumn in these rolling hills is one of the things I missed most during my years away.

No matter where I was or what I was doing, there was always a part of me that felt something was missing. It took me a long time to figure it out, but I came to the realization that what I was missing was “home.”

After far, far too long I have finally found my way back to this place where I will always belong.

Seven years ago today I received a phone call from my brother, Dennis. “Are you watching TV?” he asked. I’d been heading out the door, but noticing something in his voice, I grabbed the remote.

Plans were immediately forgotten as I watched images of smoke and flames loop on the screen. I stayed in front of that TV for hours watching footage of what was happening in New York and Washington.

I juggled phone calls and tried to reach family members and friends. My efforts to reach those in the New York and DC areas grew more frantic every time I heard the words “all circuits are busy.”

I had countless relatives and college classmates living and working in and around the World Trade Center at the time of the attack. I had lived in Northern Virginia for several years, just a few miles from the Pentagon, and still had many friends in the area. Even though all of my loved ones made it home that day I can’t think of each of their stories, let alone write about them, without crying. I thank God for keeping them safe.

So many families were torn apart on that day seven years ago. My story is insignificant compared to theirs. I feel guilt and sorrow for the losses they deal with every day. My thoughts and prayers go out to them even more today as we look back and remember.

Previous generations talk about where they were when they learned of Pearl Harbor or Kennedy’s assassination. We’ll talk about where we were on September 11th. As I sit here typing, I am back in my sister’s living room all over again, witnessing the world change on 32″ screen.

I remember looking at the calendar that day, determined to commit the date to memory. Like any of us would or could ever forget. I know I, for one, never will.

The change of season seems to have come overnight to the hillsides. Perhaps it is Colorscape’s spell that has inspired mother nature to pull out her pots of autumn-tinted paints and drag her brushes with practiced hand across the landscape, weaving a full spectrum of crimson and gold through yesterday’s palette of verdant green.

I can understand because I, too, feel myself inspired by the festival. As I walk through this gathering of musical and artistic talent for the first time, my thoughts are of osmosis. I fervently hope that the passion and creativity surrounding me will leach through my skin and be absorbed by every cell.

I breath in, savoring the scent of paint and lullaby of music in the air. And then I exhale with the hope that I am making some small contribution to the creative melange on the wind. My addition to the mix? The love of poetry and prose.

I made the mistake, I mean decision, to take a road trip over Labor Day weekend. In a roughly 72-hour period, my boyfriend and I traveled the 1,740 miles round trip to visit my brother Dennis and his family for approximately 30 minutes. OK. Maybe we were there for a little longer than that, but not a whole heck of a lot. I’m still recovering.

We departed for our southern destination on Friday afternoon, “enjoying” construction related traffic jams and inclement weather much of the way through Pennsylvania. The mountains of western Virginia are gorgeous, but difficult to see in the dark.

After close to 12 hours on the road, we finally stopped for a few hours of rest. We were just three hours or so to our destination in Dunlap, Tennessee, but too tired to continue on.

An early start saw us enjoying the beautiful morning meandering through the Tennessee mountains thanks to the scenic route our GPS had mistakenly assumed would be faster and more direct than that recommended by Dennis. I tried to make the argument that perhaps, since my brother had actually lived in the area for several years, we should follow his directions. I was overruled. Apparently I lack the required testosterone (or internal electrical circuits) to make decisions of that nature.

Once we arrived at the mountain-top lake my Tennessee brethren call home, we had a great time. We spent blissful hours fishing and paddling around the lake. I lost count of the number of puzzles and board games with my 7-year-old niece, whose birthday prompted the visit.

The time flew by and, all too soon, we were packing the car again to head north. Our trip back was relatively uneventful. The weather was gorgeous, and it the drive was mostly enjoyable. Other than the whole driving part. And being in the car.

I’m not disappointed that we took the trip. I have always believed that the purpose of travel is to open our eyes to the world around us. And let me tell you, my eyes were opened to one thing in particular. The huge disparity that exists between gas prices here in Chenango County and those outside our area.

Gas was easily the biggest expense of our trip and I paid close attention to prices along our route. The most we ever paid for gas was before leaving New York State: $3.63 a gallon outside of Binghamton. Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia, Virginia and Tennessee? All cheaper. I’d have to take a closer look at my receipts to give you an average, but I’ll tell you this–I nearly wept with joy when we filled up for $3.44 per gallon at a service station somewhere off Interstate 75 in Tennessee.

I did weep when I returned to Chenango County and saw gas stations along the Route 12 corridor still at over $3.80 a gallon. And it certainly was not with joy.

It was with a heavy heart that I wrote my Norwich City School articles for today’s paper. I penned first the Notice of Claim and then the Thomas Knapp interview before trying to get some sleep. I was fairly certain of the type of response these pieces would elicit and I’ll admit, it kept me up much of the night.

Because of legal constraints, the Norwich City School District was unable to respond to the allegations against them. My coverage is, therefor, decidedly one-sided. I don’t like that. It feels biased, even to me. I am glad that I have this forum to express my thoughts on the matter.

First, I’d like to thank Tom Knapp for granting me the opportunity for an interview. When he gave me his phone number at the August 19 board meeting, I thought I would be lucky to get a comment or two. I never dreamed that he would be willing to speak so candidly and at such length.

He was so open, in fact, that I was left wondering if his lawyer knew he was speaking to me. I think probably not.

But I was honored that this man, who is so well-loved and respected by the students and staff at Norwich High School, chose to speak with me. It was a gift, as Adrian Monk might say, but also a curse.

After reading the Notice of Claim (which I believe Jeff is planning to post on the site), I was left with a lot of questions. While my conversation with Knapp answered some of them, I hung up the phone with even more buzzing around my brain.

I have heard so many rumors as I’m sure have all of you. And I feel like it is my responsibility to help separate fact from myth for our readers. But that is difficult because of the very nature of a Notice of Claim.

As the first step in bringing litigation against a district, any and all allegations that may be named later have to be enumerated. The claims made are just that–claims. There is no proof or evidence attached. A read of the document yields references that the allegations made are based “upon information and belief” and what so-and-so said “in substance.” Remember if and when you read the document that none of the allegations have been substantiated at this point.

Despite his assertions, I just have a hard time believing that Tom Knapp has absolutely no idea what prompted the superintendent to call for a medical review under section 913 of the state education law.

Regardless of your personal feelings, if you have spoken to Gerard O’Sullivan you know he is an intelligent man. Legal counsel was present at the meeting in May where Knapp was suspended, so it can not be said that O’Sullivan acted alone.

I won’t sit here and poke holes in either Knapp’s story or the Notice of Claim. That is for the lawyers on both sides to work through. But I do ask that you remember there are two sides to this as there is to every story.

One of Tom Knapp’s claims is that the district has denied him the right of due process. If you read Knapp’s interview and the notice of claim and convict the district, the school board and O’Sullivan based on their contents alone; you are committing the same crime.

At this point, the matter is destined for the courts. Unfortunately, there is nothing to stop it from being tried in the forum of public opinion long before it ever sees a judge.