LADIES, DON'T LISTEN UP

       There are days when you just have to bite the ole bullet of responsibility and really clean the frying pan in which you burned the grilled cheese sandwich that has been dutifully soaking for nine days, vacuum the Melba toast crumbs efficiently swept under the kitchen runner the last time your fourteen month-old granddaughter visited and actually put soap in the washing machine and start doing the filled tub of laundry.  I find that these overdo but necessities in life can be made less tedious if I have the TV on (volume very low) while making the beds and my life a tad more orderly.
       You may recall (and , to be sure you are a happier individual if you do not) that we recently moved.  We now live in a far more rural, pastoral even, area where driving along the side roads, you can 'take in' one bucolic scene after another, punctuated by haystacks, toothpick-in-your-mouth farmers and lazy grazers abounding.  (I could just kick myself because my parents weren't Holsteins!)
       Today, booming out between politically analytical commentaries, I was subjected to (Out here in the 'country', our servers broadcast mostly local advertising - matters and places presumably of interest to those of us who live in this prosaic zip code) a whining little young married's attempt at providing useful (to me) advice in the form of, "Ladies, are you tired of just not being able to find the perfect recliner for your man?"  (Pu-leez! Can we just get back to mundane but magical music?)  There were no options but to consider the query rhetorical or beyond un-believable.  This travesty was soon hooked and soon replaced by a pert but serious 'journalista', lip gloss teasingly nearing the head of her hand-held mike as she gave us the latest on Hulk Hogan's lawsuit
against Hawker Magazine` where the editor gave a green light to a two inch piece on the videotaping of the former wrestler's tryst with his best friend's wife - in said wifey's own bedroom. The Hulk was nattily attired in a long-sleeved, black shirt, open-collared and matching his black 'doo-rag' knotted at the nape as he tried for a semblance of indignance in the witness stand. 
       He staunchly put forth the irrefutable non-truism of Gawker's shocking breach of taste which had head-locked our First Amendment rights en route to flagrantly and irrefutably decimating the Hulkster's heretofor gleaming reputation in matters connubial.

[Uncharacteristically stepping out of character for a brief technical 'non-explanation', dear readers, I must confess my shared frustration over this unintentional, distracting and non-professional foray into the inane Land of Annoyingly Frequent Point Size Variation. Having given a directive for the insertion of an amusing and apt visual - which may yet appear at a cloyingly inappropriate juncture - I was rewarded instead with the visual of the computer's choosing.Mea Culpa.  But it would be far too costly to Carpe Computer.]

       On a similarly tasteless programming note, but wearing a more 'BMOC' look, William De Vane insists on knowing "What's in YOUR safe?", coveting ALL neighbors' goods.  Well, not ALL. Doubtless, he has NO interest in the 'goods' of that dear young lady, seen alternately popping up from her center theater seat, slouched and whispering embarrassed "excuse me"s on her trek to the aisle.  She seems to live at the bidding of the demanding grip of an animated, bloated and determined little bladder.  After enduring these frequent, untimely, follow-spotted exits in similarly crowded venues, she takes a stand (or presumably a seat) with, "That's it. We're going to the doctor.!"  (The specialty is never elaborated upon)  My guess is that however HER story ends, DeVane does not want ANY of her anatomy in HIS safe.  Her endurance is admirable, but, let's face it, in the end (no pun intended), she, like so MANY others is a 'settler'.  I'm sure by now you're familiar with THAT crusty, poorly presented species of humanity so we shan't go there.
       Of course, "Restroom Lady" is not alone in her choice of resolution.  The asthmatics, the overweight, the blood clotters, the forgetful, the joint achers, the joint takers, (did I mention the forgetful?), the complexion-pocked, the heartbeat-blocked, the sleep-understocked - all malingerers NOT - to the malady jocks flock - your friendly pharmacist. He's got the stuff that gels your feet so you can jump, that tells your heart how fast, slow or strong it should pump.  The MAN.
       The medication, information, cost for this remediation, whence you came (DNA) and where you're going, he slides so smoothly (you never see it coming)  he's done with the cheering, the 'good news' he's been auctioneering.  "Paper or plastic, Ma'am?"  He's sure the spoils of your fixed income will fit in your van.
       Yup.  His tongue came to the fork in the road and he took it - and us.  That 'yellow brick road was fun but don't kid yourself into thinking you came out ahead - or at all.  That road morphs to quick (very quick) sand and you are swallowed up almost wholly into the dire, overwhelming, fatal even, things that can - indeed already have - befallen the 'miracle-cure takers'. Buyers beware.  You can lose more than your hair.  Just as brevity is the soul of lingerie, long-windedness has taken our breath away.  To bite the bullet of responsibility, I wound up catching too many glimpses of insanity
       Soooo, I'll watch my step (never know what it's going to do).  Time to begin.  As long as I'm walking with Pop's dog - cute little pup -Assassin.  Ladies, men can pick out their own recliners.  You just try to be sure your 'workout tights' match your eyeliner.

• Later, Lorane. . . .