Goodness me. Apologizing for the disjointed" grammar, let me simply say, it's been hard to find any. Goodness, that is. I've been busily soldiering on with my post-op rehabilitation. Again, with a sincere appreciation of tasteless word selection, I can only call this endeavor 'hardness'. Three times daily, I doggedly walk for at least one hour - weather conditions notwithstanding. Sans body brace, those back muscles are indeed feeling very 'put upon' when asked to perform. Then there's 'work'. Writing, for me, is not a matter of life or death. It's infinitely more important. Therefore, time spent away from this focused activity is time more painful than walking. ONLY because acts of love super cede 'work', I am thrilled that my Godson, Brennan, elected to move from Massachusetts to Virginia and is temporarily staying with us.
(The news-of-the-day - ever quietly in the background by habit, is ever so glum these days. I have nothing but respect for consistency - in its place. 'Glum-chum' tidbits on a global scale strongly snuff out anything close to respect. And the 'tidbits' seem to be escalating in magnitude as well as multitude with regard to wrong-doings, the varied legions of humanity involved in miscreant behavior and - perhaps MOST galling - the "watching-paint-dry"-brand of ennui assumed by the global audience. By way of comic relief, we still have William Devane's love affair with that shiny and near erotically sensate metal, GOLD, to follow with morbid if not forced interest. It remains safe in his 'free' safe in the wall behind the 'Currier and Ives'-like scenic tasteless wall art cum secret metal knob - the one he closes with an impish glint as the tag for this sixty second interruption of the 'news blues' boys and girls' reports.)
Brennan is remarkably determined in his job search. We revised his resume several times. He has an impressive background/bank of experience in the upscale cuisine-restaurant business. Starting out as a bartender, he's been successful - not merely successive - in his employment pursuits. In fact, his last position, in a Five Star well-known establishment, was managerial and he brings with him glowing personal endorsements from the owners of these eateries. Our resume revisions, therefore, were de minimus and he was by no means resistant. He WAS curious, however.
"What's wrong with 'Serving tables?'"
"Nothing. However, that is not what you were doing."
"I don't get it."
"You serve PEOPLE, Brennan, not TABLES."
"Oh. Right. That's what I do."
And so it went. Necessary, tedious for both of us and not adding any 'good cheer' to my already downward-trending mood swing. Such were my ruminations yesterday whilst taking the necessary _errand run" which life requires and schedules confound. Fortunately, a stop in a crowded store caused a pause in the action which proved a boon for us all.
(The magazine rack proffered a treasure trove of remedial offerings gs. I snatched - seemingly pedestrian at the time, but in retrospect heaven-sent. Right there, in her September issue of "LIVING", Martha Stewart, in a subhead tease "Having a Ball", gives us soothing salvation. Once home, I rifled through to "the piece" that promised peace in the form of "puffs". "Pom Poms" as in the remedy "Plastics" of Mrs. Robinson fame. Martha supplies the skinny - and the OVERFLOWING - on the many and varied uses of these critically required-for-the-perky-pleasant-ambiance crowd's needs. Dubbed "puff pieces", these colorful, infinitely varied - in function and form - accents of beautification, innovation, decoration and multiplication are de rigueuer in addition to essential.
We are provided the materials needed/preferred, the photographically captured effects and even the 'squad' of elves cum instructions - a company called "Clover", makers of pom pom-creation kits. Martha shares the wisdom and methodology of how we "can create many different sizes." So scotch any notion of going to all of this trouble only to find yourself sitting on a pile of pathologically identical pom poms. She goes on with the good news of manufacture, allowing as how we are to ". . . use very fine yarn to make gum ball-size ones and tie them to key chains or the handles of buckets or boxes for a hit of color and whimsy." There you have it, folks. Gone henceforth all mopes-on-ropes, harried/worried and focusing on things negative - personally OR globally. I daren't speculate as to whether the lady was dreaming or working sedulously at her brightly-lit office-at-manse, a benzene ring is a benzene ring. So too, color/whimsy life is color/whimsy life.)
I feel about tomorrow as though I'm awaiting Santa. Probably won't be able to sleep knowing that whatever else fills my day post sunrise, I'll be fiendishly fast-forwarding to my debut in yet another activity - but one that will bring true change, gratification and - hating to emphasize the obvious - AGAIN - an abundance of COLOR and WHIMSY, the stuff productive, balanced, healthy folk are made of. Who knew? Negativity shall never cross my threshold again. Like butter, I'm on a roll. I've got color and whimsy. And there's plenty to go around. Enjoy!
Later, Lorane. . . .
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