PSA: From a Non-Paid, Attorney Spokesperson

       Just when I thought I would never see it in print, I recently came across an impressively cogent and accurate article, the reading of which confirmed that I am - have always been - a dyed in the wool INTROVERT.  Carolyn Gregoire poses 23 questions which, if the reader responds in the affirmative, confirms the fact that said reader is indeed a "secret introvert".  I urge you, then, to scotch any rumors to the contrary about this writer's 'way of being in the world'.
       Why, you might be wondering with hungry curiosity, is this mundane fact of any moment?  Well,  tucked snugly, protected from extraverted assault, is the proclivity to express one's self - with no small authority - via the written word.  (Other favorites included but were not limited to a negative response to excess environmental stimuli - can't help wondering if that applies to my abhorrence of sound pollution? - requisite 'down-time to recover/re-charge from the former, and reacting to a ringing telephone - 'incoming/unwanted call!' - as though someone had shouted "BOOO!" in the wee hours of the night.
       MOST profound was the fact that introverts have a constant, on-going inner dialogue in action.  This, coupled with an inordinate attention to details the rest of the population consistently ignores, has birthed this evening's brief but heartfelt outburst.  Indeed, though an uncharacteristic outpouring for me, I feel a strong emotional responsibility to YOU to relay my grievances.
       We've been down this path before, lo so many months ago when I shared my not-so-shining moments working as a DJ at a local radio station.  I call it to mind by way of justification and to lend some credibility to my observations - which, to be sure, are intended as a shield for your deservedly sensitive feelings.  Whether it be accompanied by the visual or not: CARELESS, PREVENTABLE COMMENTARY SPEWED OVER OUR AIR WAVES IN THE FORM OF ADVERTISING IS NOTHING SHY OF VENOMOUS.
       There.  I've said it and can only HOPE that the army of inattentive button-pushers and programmers on our televised and audio commentary menus are going to get wind of my observances and clean up their act! (Aware of the risk of redundancies, I'm soldiering ahead.)  Why?  Because it apparently needs repetition.
       You will recall, that the programing of commercials can/is subject to control.  It is also true that talk show hosts and journalist-types should be aware of the contemporaneous elements of reportage and advertising breaks.  For example, announcing that dear little addition to the Royal Family loses its ebullience when followed by threatening, negative dialogue.
       I will simply throw out, "Are you OK, Mrs. Meekham?", "No.", plaintively, "I've fallen and I can't get up!"  This tripe is immediately punctuated with the command-from-nowhere, "Susan, we've detected a strong presence of smoke emanating from your kitchen.  Get out!"  (Well, in the interest of expedience, without time to inform the listener that scenarios have changed, I naturally think in horror, "How can she?  She's fallen and she can't get up!")  Now then.  How can I - or anyone rejoice in the happiness abounding about the Prince changing the little shaver's nappies when it is upstaged post haste with this overwhelming tragedy that ensues?
       Then we have the lineup of pharmaceutical miscreants, at first teasing us with the unimaginable, never-before experienced pleasures of sexual enhancement at age seventy-seven.  This, of course deflates itself (no pun intended) when followed by the 'adverse effect' warnings legally requisite and ending with, "If you experience difficulty breathing, or swelling of your tongue and throat, contact your physician immediately."  Ladies and Gents, if you experience those last symptoms, they will be your last symptoms.  (Trust me on this one.  Unless a neighbor is present and you are damned good at ASL!")
       And what PSA would be complete without reminding us - following a teaser on the number of heinous deaths experienced in the Mideast at the hands of demons using chemical warfare products - in the unmistakably talent/taste-less tones of our own William De Vane, that "There's a storm coming."  (Can't beat the guy when it comes to pith and insight.)  Then old Bill shares his unique progenies' wisdom exhorting us to purchase gold.  "What's in your safe?"  "Pestilence and death, Bill.  Read the paper?"
       And the beat, as we once said, goes on.  But.  It needn't.  If you have been given the privilege of wearing a set of over-sized headphones and a mike over which millions will absorb your dulcet tones, PAY ATTENTION!  It's quite simple, really.  And the humane, responsible thing to do.  We realize that advertisers 'pay the bills', but surely even they don't want to be perceived as insensitive, greedy entities, do they?  (We'll leave that as a 'rhetorical' question.)
       Just do the right thing and do it right.

  PS:  "Do Tell, here.  Just reminding you that it is still Kathy's Birthday MONTH!
Later, Lorane. . . .

It's the Little Stuff

Gigi (AKA Lorane), Grandpeep Mia Lorane welcome NEWEST 'Peep', Wesley Xavier Compton.

 

       OK, I don't know how to rotate a photo from Sky Drive but I know you know how to tilt your head to the right.  So, after trying to accomplish the former for an hour or so, I've elected to go with the latter.  After all, it's far more important for you to meet Wee Wes and big Sis than for me to polish off every antacid I could find in the house.

       Been quite a ride lo these past seven days.  The grandparents, arriving at the end of yet another long day of parental pacing/fretting/very much OVER being pregnant as himself had decided to change his arrival date so far by 10 days, chatting amiably into the late evening over gripping topics like the successful execution of the nautical theme in the nursery and Jetty's (family Portuguese Water Dog; you've seen them romping around the White House lawn.) unbreakable attachment to pregnant Julie's side, the fascinating solar system ceiling night light in Mia's room, and-so-on.

       The next day, "The drama-Begins-Day", we head for the Mall with Mia and take in "Planes" while the parents attend the weekly-ordeal office visit and receive the cryptic determination that things have finally begun to move, they are to go home and get a good night's rest in preparation for "Opening Night", as it were/was going to be.

       They slept, packed, got admitted and continued all day to "move along" with help from a Pitocin drip to augment contractions, screeching on the brakes just long enough to get that epidural going.  We spent another lovely day with Mia, ending with a quick pit stop (no pun intended) to see Mom.  Bad move.  So caught up in the action were we, that we neglected to mention/explain the  presence of a snake pit (again, no pun) of wires and tubes that would be entering Mommy's person.  Too late to convey the fact that these were helpful, painless, everyday, ordinary 'fun lines' that Mommies get to play with while waiting for baby bro.  Oh no.  Mia never got past, "WHY are they hurting Mommy?!"

       Sweeping her out to the parking lot while blowing her nose, I promised to teach her a song on the way home in the car.  (This is something of a tradition with all of my peeps who still can belt out "Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree", "Pull Brass Rings on the Merry-Go-Round", and "Yankee Doodle Dandy" along with some very select Dory Previn numbers.) For some reason that night I elected to teach her "The Little Mouse"  song:

"Oh, the liquor was spilt on the bar room floor

And the bar was closed for the night.

When out on the floor crept a little brown mouse

And he sat in the pale moonlight.

Well, he lapped up the liquor from the bar room floor

Then back on his haunches he sat.

And all night long they could hear him r-o-a-r,

"Bring on the cotton-pickin' cat!"

       Oddly enough, morning came.  Odder still, no news from the hospital.  (Their home is in a quaint town in a very wooded area which is most assuredly NOT friendly to cell phone signals.)  Mia was cuddling with us in bed.  All seemed quiet on the suburb front.  Then my cell began a barrage of dings starting at almost 8 AM.  We'd check the text and see, "Media message".  We'd tap those horrid words and NOTHONG would happen but a nasty little "PS", "Tap again."

       Finally, I was reading words frlm our son, "Congratulations on having another healthy grandchild."  And just what potion of evil did HE have for breakfast?  "WHAT DID WE HAVE?", I SPAT BACK.  "Call on the house line."  He did and just as we were telling Mia about Wee Wes' arrival, Daddy Matt opened the front door - looking more than a tad ragged - inquiring as to WHY Mia wasn't in her special "Meet Little Brother" outfit.  The plan was for her to meet him first, then us 15 minutes behind so Julie could finally sleep.

       Apparently, she'd rolled to her opposite side the evening before (just as the doc was getting ready to head to the delivery room) and felt Wes twist a bit.  What ensued was an all-nighter of contractions/pushing, culminating in a non-stop one hour marathon of same beginning at 7 AM.  With the entire entourage exhausted, doc made the call for a section and at 7:52AM, "Prince Wesex" made his entrance.

       Mia was 'special-dressed' and out the door in a flash; we dressed lickety-split and followed;  Congrats and tears all around in Julie's room.  Then we got Mia to her Grammy so Matt could sleep; we moved to an inn in Plymouth so Matt and Mia could share a "Daddy/Daughter" weekend; visited Julie again before dinner with Matt's Lovely Mom and hubby.  Aren't you tired just reading all this tripe?

       I am just typing it.  The mystery lies still in the "little miracle".  One day you have a daughter who looks un-comfy with a basketball tucked under her diaphragm, sitting on her aorta causing shortness of breath.  The next, a perfect miniature human being, sloe eyes darting about the room, following voices and moving images.

       And so to bed, after, "Happy-Birthday-best-Buddy-Kathy-Dehler!" and to you, my hapless/loved readers, it really is about the 'little things'.

Later, Lorane. . . .

      

What's It All About?

 





        Alfie?  Hardly.  And "Hokey Pokey" is out.  Must, then, be something 'in'.

 

Had to really listen up, so hushed was his cue.

Five, six seven, eight - "Jump!"

Fly high, tuck and SPLASH-IN!

No room to run and dash in.

But must have the SOUNDIN'

like a song.  Like the song.  Light the song.

It's your heart and soul, Joey.  Because the

song alone - the melody,

cannot be 'in'.  It needs the harmony.

 

You were, always will be, the Harmony.

Joey Patrick Callahan,

born of the perfect shot.

Francis Sullivan lovin' Lauren -

and it flew from that tee, took aim,

and came to be that "Hole in one!",

yelled he as he gazed at Lauren's ever swollen, won belly.

It was you, Joey P, that then surfaced to be

the missing light in the links of song

now perfected and completed

by Joey's Harmony filling life undefeated.

 

First as son to Father, Mother.

Then as sibling shield to brothers and sisters.

He brought comfort, spoke truth in song and word and laughed easily, heartfelt, at

the bidding of humanity and his Lord.

 

His mission - to be there

when big bro Sully crashed;

to love and mind Coleen when she thought him rash;

to encourage, reinforce in Vincie

that needed self-discipline that, if gone unheeded

would stagnate Vince.  He'd not succeeded.

To cherish, bond with, allay Clare Bear's fears.

Acting as one from the start

and even now, to her end of these years.

 

There was a splash.  Perhaps one heard a snap

as he crossed over, met by a wee Irish shaver.

Rubbing his eyes in confusion,

faintly hearing cries, sobs of desperation

he thought - must be a delusion.

Then, blindkng light - coming from him ."Like the song, Joey," wee one plead, "Remember, only you are Harmony.  Only you make 'it' 'in'."

 

Sing with them.

Return her peace to Mom;  eradicate Dad's doubts;

and reassure Sully such that he knows he's the strength for himself and Vincie

while Vince begins to re-learn laughter.

Be sure Coleen knows she'll never lose her prince.  You're there always - always close and there.  Lastly, you're ever 'The Man' and trojble buddy for little princess, Clare Bear.

 

Make certain they all know

it was ever the plan

that only laughter, love and kindness

would alone be the one whom others knew as Joseph Patrick Callahan.

 

It's about being 'in' on all the right things

and the power of good raining down

when melody and harmony sing the music of this living

which is but prelude to the next.  A typically 'human' misunderstanding of prelude.

 

Later, Joey, Lorane. . . .