This morning at work, Staffano received a present from his step-mother. Apparently his mother and his step-mother had offered to get him the same thing, and he declined both times. But, his step-mother tood the initiative and got it for him anyway.

It's a gasmask.

It's a really nice one. Heavy-duty rubber straps. Solid construction. Black.

I was envious. In a flash, gasmask showed up on my shopping list.

Staffanon joked that should he go to the Black Party, he'll be all set. I responded by saying, "Yeah, I was going to ask if I could borrow it this weekend." I remarked that in the days just after September 11th, I found it interesting that instead of wearing signs indicating "I'm a total drama queen!," total drama queens opted to identify themselves by wearing surgical masks and, on a few occasions, gasmasks.

But the lightness died pretty quickly. Because it's chilling. All of it. His parents' well-founded fear and concern. And the justification for it.

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