It's been a sad-ish few days around the old parsonage, dear reader. I've not been able to write - turned out Laptop's condition was far more serious than originally thought.Indeed, in the end - well, not the VERY END - the doc, breaking with standard protocol, made a house call. And he wasn't alone. Rather, as he is also on staff at the School of Teckie-ology, he had asked - before setting out in the ETS (Emergency Technician Savior) bus, whether he could bring an intern-in-training along. Of course I dared not object. Firstly, (and my apologies if that is not a word) you know/should know that I am a champion of clinical experience in the education process. And - the honest albeit selfish motivating factor - Laptop's condition was deteriorating. I had already prepared Desktop for the worst when I was with him fetching email. Thought it best. And now a fledgling healer would be exposed to his first challenging emergency. What could I do? You know what they say, "Man proposes, God disposes.". (You remember "They", the users of phrases like, "when I was 'coming up'". Goes to show this group of pundits can also, on occasion, be profound.
(You know/have no way of knowing, when I studied - at Georgetown U., I was always struck by the choice of words used by its membership when describing - anecdotally or on patient data templates - the patient/patient's condition. Twenty years later, when one of our daughters matriculated through the very same program, two significant changes prevailed: Four credits of Statistics was required - Color me grateful to be a living anachronism - and "patient" was taboo, "client" now the politically correct terminology -Color me in black avec veiled chapeau.
By way of example, the patient was not "having" or "in" pain but rather "complains of pain" (c/o). At the outset, then, our hapless, suffering patient is pre-cast as 'The Complainer' who whines, bitches, demands - runs the gamut of demanding/inappropriate modes of expression EVEN if he's an above-the-knee-amputee who is unable to 'run' at all.)
Laptop had not been running well for a few weeks. It had been showing ("presenting with") signs and symptoms ("sxs and sxs") which this observer intuitively associated with pain - displaying prompt after (p) prompt, attempting to 'install' tray applications, only to fail at the task for lack of required disks (CD-ROM) during the start-up process; (I quickly learned to cancel the attempt as soon as I saw the prompt. I mean, why re-enforce an obviously ailing Laptop's experience of failure?) a fiendish memo informing me that "Microsoft Office 2003 is corrupted", also during start-up and, the most humiliating/damaging sx for Laptop as well as the most eviscerating sx for me - the inability to access the Internet. Laptop had been exiled from the fold; I had been cut-off from family, friends, business associates, clients (LAW clients - I no longer practice the art of nursing which deals with patients.) and potentially important updates as well as definitely important help in curing this pathology. And, I might add, (you knew I would) during ALL of this trauma, not a 'peep' from Laptop. Never complained; 'sucked it up', as they, our new comrade-in-penning, say. Sadly, this would be the intern's (his name is Christian) first exposure to an on-site attempt at resuscitation. And even though his mentor, Mike's, skills, knowledge and experience are without equal, Christian was unwittingly about to be launched to the lions.
(Of course, there was a class of medical nomenclature which was benign in addition to having the same Druidic security encoding as the malignant. I give you "PND" - which I interpreted as 'post nasal drip' on my first in-hospital cardiac patient assignment. I quickly learned via my clinical instructor's acuity, that it meant "paroxysmal nocturnal dyspnea" or intermittent attacks of difficulty breathing during the patient's sleeping hours; "SOB" was was not what I was thinking with attendant embarrassment, but rather 'shortnes of breath'; "ataxia" referred NOT to how the patient arrived at the hospital, but problems with balance and coordination; "Hx" was the patient's past medical history, NOT a poorly-scribed prescription; "appy" - NOT the patient's pet. He'd had an appendectomy in the past; "PAT" - NOT his wife but 'paroxysmal atrial tachycardia (as chatted up in today's TV ads by the doctor/actor in the white lab coat).
The heart has four chambers - two upper, the right (R w/ circle around it) and left (L w/ circle around it) atria or chambers and two larger lower, the R and L ventricles or chambers. Our heart rate - incorrectly dubbed 'pulse' - is generated by a pacemaker, an in situ electrical impulse generator, located in the R atrium. When things are jake, it sends impulses down via the intersection of A and V, to the ventricles which, being healthy, well-mannered soldiers, OBEY and pump or squeeze in response to each impulsive command - roughly 70 - 80 times a minute. BUT. If the patient suffers from the abnormal condition of PAT, gangs of little reprobate pacemaker wannabees start a rumble in the R atrium. "And the winner is. . . . .THE FASTEST!". So, as the obedient ventricles will follow the fastest pacemaker, they squeeze their myocardial muscle strands - THE TEAM - OVER AND OVER, FASTER AND FASTER. Sometimes, for plain old capability reasons, they can only execute every 2nd or 3rd order.
Now, we have the mayhem scenario of rebel-controlled atrium trying to beat 350 or so times a minute and winding up just looking silly; the ventricles pumping away with impressive regularity at some 'bad-for-your-health rate; a decrease in blood flow because, let's face it, when you're racing THAT fast, who's got time to fill up at the pit? And the patient is feeling a funny fluttering - or not or just scared or dizzy. SO. It was really a giant step in my learning curve when the cardiologists' lecture took the patient's "wife" out of MY notes. Now I I could look for those sxs and sxs of PAT & act, with something along the lines of ,"HELP!".)
When the ETS van arrived, I immediately (STAT) told Laptop that help had arrived. Mike (Attending) proceeded directly to Laptop - who hangs by my bedside table, directly above the router on the floor below. Perched on the bed - with Christian at his side, Mike turned Laptop on and watched with furrowed brow as his fingers fluttered over the keyboard assisting him in aborting all of those 'intall' attempts. Laptop looked - and I KNEW - he was in 'good fingers'. Noticing the red 'X' on the 'internet access' bars, Mike asked for the password - which I thought was the WEP key & could not locate. We all trundled downstairs to elicit the password/key from Desktop's router. (If you need a break, dear reader - go ahead, take that cruise. "They' will take notes.)
Back at Laptop's bedside, Mike swiftly re-stored Internet access. But things remained dicey with the 'install' rascal. He couldn't ID it so couldn't stop it.That ole 'Druidic Security'. I shed a few as Mike and Christian carried Laptop out to the van, thence to become an in-patient.
(What I have indicated as malignant nomenclature in medical terminology covers a broad spectrum. I guess a soupcon will have to do. "Patient denies pain" - totally uncooperative; "admits to smoking" - currying favor with forced confessional info; "reports bloating after eating dairy products" - the kind of bloke who would turn ANY body in, even his mother, especially if she's called 'Elsie'; "refusing assistance with ambulation" - showboating, probably to his own detriment. Note to BRAIN: Get a psych consult.; "says zero Hx of HTN" - this according to a patient who we KNOW denies. Of course, he may CONFESS if someone just told him that HTN means high blood pressure; his "affect is flat" - you want grins from a sick man?; his prognosis is "poor" - no surprise given he won't play nice; the outcome borders on "grave" - forget serious, disastrous even. "grave" has JUST the right imagery baggage.)
The good news is that Mike tells me Laptop can come home today. Makes it all worth it. I'll get right on those notes to the kids and they, in turn will shower me with lols, BTWs, FYIs, smiley faces - their entire arsenal of evocab for which we spent twelve plus years and close to $200K. So what? I'll be able to write, the sun will probably rise tomorrow, Christian's a happy camper with all that extra teckie-knowledge bang for his buck and - at least last time I looked, we humans are still biodegradable. Later, Lorane. . . .
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
"Information, How can I Help You?
Remember her? Back in the day, we were buds. Even in Brooklyn, I could - rotary -dial "0", and there she'd be, - And lest you readers think I had it 'bad' growing up in Brooklyn, re: telephone calls I was several "up" on one of my high school classmates. Mary, one of 6 or so sibs, needed dimes. Her Dad, a ruddy, frugal chap, SOME how got a Public phone booth installed in the house. Kids had unlimited use - a REAL person, who REALLY wanted to help me. Even if I wanted the phone number of someone and only had the LAST name, which was Slavic, contained 19 consonants and I wasn't "REAL sure if that ended in an "i" or a "y". In fact, often this 'dilemma' morphed into a chatty exchange about how if it ended in "i", it was probably Polish whereas Russian people usually used the "y".
(You'd REALLY get a kick out of the mess - conundrum being but a 'tip-toe' performance - our family found itself in because of some name-spelling changes -- if I had the time/space here this eve. Must be some hereditary quirk. I mean do you REALLY think my name is 'Lorane'? It started innocently enough - Grampa, for business purposes - he owned a few furniture stores for a while - changed 'Grodzki' to 'Grocki' thinking, for some reason, the 'dz' business didn't sound American, whereas the 'ck' was shorter, cleaner, whatever.)
On a slow day, with a REALLY chatty operator, you could even go with a few 'asides', comments like, "Boy, those Russian cooks can do stuff with beets that makes you think 'borscht' means 'heaven', countered with, "Yeah, but Gramma makes potatoes SING in her platzkis." The point here, (c'mon. wake up for the'point') is that you hung up with 'information' because Olszefski was not yet a common name and when she said "Is it 'Jusef'?", you remembered Celie's father was called 'Joe', PLUS a talk about customs and food - stuff you shared with this 'REAL' person operator.
(Back in Warsaw our name was spelled 'Grodzki'. Although it IS true about Gram pa's reason for the spelling change, as I watched the emerging of new, grownup 'aunts' and 'uncles' fresh 'off-the-boat' as it was said, I noticed that Gram pa's 2 brothers and two sisters kept the 'dz' version. I was MOST interested in Uncle Mike. First off, Mom REALLY liked him - so his recommendation was from above. But the guy, like Grampa, was a charmer. Good-looking, impeccable English, NOT a welcome visitor by Gramma (positive endorsement for me) & kinda mysterious. He also had this fun, pretty wife - Regina - who was a concert pianist. I never got the scoop - then - but they split. Bummer.)
Well times change. As do modes of procuring information. I GUESS the suppliers are REAL people but I KNOW the very notion of a friendly - nay - civil exchange is an anachronism. This affliction seems MOST prevalent in the need-help-from-customer-service-re:-computer-maladies arena.
I either cannot understand the speaker because the English language is being mauled by rapid-fire-Mideastern-British-clipped overlays - accompanied by consistently inappropriate attempts at humorous one-liners that would have demonstrated a modicum of wisdom had they remained unspoken, accompanied by equally inappropriate SOLO chuckles of appreciation or, as with my attempt to inoculate myself from ANY oral 60-cycle-interference by using the fun "chat" option, I STILL hit the wall just this morning as soon as I saw that my "helper", 'information-provider' was one "GEORGIE BANGO" - you can't make this stuff up - who typed WITH A RUSSIAN ACCENT & wouldn't know/care about the difference between borscht & creme freche infused with red food dye.
(Speaking of 'red', I finally came to realize that Uncle Frank had been infused with a few 'isms' before emigrating and, not wanting to taint the (already miss-spelled) family name with data NOT ABO-TYPING-related, maintained the 'dz'-issue' spelling AND split with Regina after their son, Bobbie, was born for the same reason. But he was still a 'Big Tent' performer in this family circus. I heard - by eavesdrop - that he gave rather eloquent, soap box speeches on his personalized, REAL soap box down on 14th street in Manhattan - the forum for this genre of performance.
Over time, being a cogent, observant and lucid man, his ardor for the 'organization' and what it represented waned to the point that - when I was probably in 5th or 6th grade - he'd made the decision to sever all ties, turn in his card, cancel his subscription to the Daily Worker - in short (I know, too late) he went to his penultimate meeting on St. Mark's place and formally announced his official intentions. The announcement caused not one choppy ripple in the East River. Indeed, he was soon-thereafter invited to a bon voyage fete at the very same St. Mark's meeting Hall.
Honored AND relieved, he gussied up that evening, having shared the news of the event only with his brother, Grampa. I recon' pillow talk, generated by Pop's pride in his brother's decision, got the info to Stella (Gramma), then everybody. The following morning, The New York Daily News (a true fount of worthy journalism) dedicated its front page to a photo of a corpse on a stretcher under which the bleak copy announced that one Frank Grodzki, whilst in attendance at a party in his honor, was the victim of the friendly fire of a masked burglar during an attempted surprise robbery.
Gram pa's only son-in-law, employed, I was always told, as a 'space-man', leaving me with the impression that he had something to do with aeronautics when, in fact, his job was to find/create office space for new exec-level types in a company in New Jersey, jumped right on it and, lest the (already miss-spelled) family name (which he, of course did not carry to space land - or anywhere else) be compromised in any fashion re: national security, called my dad and his three brothers, and, in hushed, self-important tones that usually go with disinterested/unaffected party-wannabes, instructed ALL to check out the 'front page' & tell the kids that if there are any questions from the nuns at school re: relatedness, recite: "MY name is spelled with 'ck', not 'dz'. So, I dunno the poor guy.")
Oh, for the days of "Information, may I help you?". New York actually had REAL journalism at the time. One such entity was The Herald Tribune. I loved that paper. Knew THEIR info number by heart. This, because they had a 'general information' service from which you could elicit all manner of accurate, quickly-retrieved arcane material. Wish I had a nickel for every time they 'provided' my homework in high school. Now that's REAL help. 'Coourse it would cost Mary a dime, but it'd be worth it. Knowledge is like that. Worth every penny you pay for it.
(Too much knowledge, it is said, can be a dangerous thing. On autopsy, eavesdropping revealed, a 'dead-center-close-range-bullet-entry-wound' was described as being on Frank's forehead. But I know HE knew the price tag. And with typical, classy, selfless courage, took THE one for the fam. Cheers, Frank. Here's to a REAL 'can-I-help-you-?' kind of guy.)
Later, Lorane
(You'd REALLY get a kick out of the mess - conundrum being but a 'tip-toe' performance - our family found itself in because of some name-spelling changes -- if I had the time/space here this eve. Must be some hereditary quirk. I mean do you REALLY think my name is 'Lorane'? It started innocently enough - Grampa, for business purposes - he owned a few furniture stores for a while - changed 'Grodzki' to 'Grocki' thinking, for some reason, the 'dz' business didn't sound American, whereas the 'ck' was shorter, cleaner, whatever.)
On a slow day, with a REALLY chatty operator, you could even go with a few 'asides', comments like, "Boy, those Russian cooks can do stuff with beets that makes you think 'borscht' means 'heaven', countered with, "Yeah, but Gramma makes potatoes SING in her platzkis." The point here, (c'mon. wake up for the'point') is that you hung up with 'information' because Olszefski was not yet a common name and when she said "Is it 'Jusef'?", you remembered Celie's father was called 'Joe', PLUS a talk about customs and food - stuff you shared with this 'REAL' person operator.
(Back in Warsaw our name was spelled 'Grodzki'. Although it IS true about Gram pa's reason for the spelling change, as I watched the emerging of new, grownup 'aunts' and 'uncles' fresh 'off-the-boat' as it was said, I noticed that Gram pa's 2 brothers and two sisters kept the 'dz' version. I was MOST interested in Uncle Mike. First off, Mom REALLY liked him - so his recommendation was from above. But the guy, like Grampa, was a charmer. Good-looking, impeccable English, NOT a welcome visitor by Gramma (positive endorsement for me) & kinda mysterious. He also had this fun, pretty wife - Regina - who was a concert pianist. I never got the scoop - then - but they split. Bummer.)
Well times change. As do modes of procuring information. I GUESS the suppliers are REAL people but I KNOW the very notion of a friendly - nay - civil exchange is an anachronism. This affliction seems MOST prevalent in the need-help-from-customer-service-re:-computer-maladies arena.
I either cannot understand the speaker because the English language is being mauled by rapid-fire-Mideastern-British-clipped overlays - accompanied by consistently inappropriate attempts at humorous one-liners that would have demonstrated a modicum of wisdom had they remained unspoken, accompanied by equally inappropriate SOLO chuckles of appreciation or, as with my attempt to inoculate myself from ANY oral 60-cycle-interference by using the fun "chat" option, I STILL hit the wall just this morning as soon as I saw that my "helper", 'information-provider' was one "GEORGIE BANGO" - you can't make this stuff up - who typed WITH A RUSSIAN ACCENT & wouldn't know/care about the difference between borscht & creme freche infused with red food dye.
(Speaking of 'red', I finally came to realize that Uncle Frank had been infused with a few 'isms' before emigrating and, not wanting to taint the (already miss-spelled) family name with data NOT ABO-TYPING-related, maintained the 'dz'-issue' spelling AND split with Regina after their son, Bobbie, was born for the same reason. But he was still a 'Big Tent' performer in this family circus. I heard - by eavesdrop - that he gave rather eloquent, soap box speeches on his personalized, REAL soap box down on 14th street in Manhattan - the forum for this genre of performance.
Over time, being a cogent, observant and lucid man, his ardor for the 'organization' and what it represented waned to the point that - when I was probably in 5th or 6th grade - he'd made the decision to sever all ties, turn in his card, cancel his subscription to the Daily Worker - in short (I know, too late) he went to his penultimate meeting on St. Mark's place and formally announced his official intentions. The announcement caused not one choppy ripple in the East River. Indeed, he was soon-thereafter invited to a bon voyage fete at the very same St. Mark's meeting Hall.
Honored AND relieved, he gussied up that evening, having shared the news of the event only with his brother, Grampa. I recon' pillow talk, generated by Pop's pride in his brother's decision, got the info to Stella (Gramma), then everybody. The following morning, The New York Daily News (a true fount of worthy journalism) dedicated its front page to a photo of a corpse on a stretcher under which the bleak copy announced that one Frank Grodzki, whilst in attendance at a party in his honor, was the victim of the friendly fire of a masked burglar during an attempted surprise robbery.
Gram pa's only son-in-law, employed, I was always told, as a 'space-man', leaving me with the impression that he had something to do with aeronautics when, in fact, his job was to find/create office space for new exec-level types in a company in New Jersey, jumped right on it and, lest the (already miss-spelled) family name (which he, of course did not carry to space land - or anywhere else) be compromised in any fashion re: national security, called my dad and his three brothers, and, in hushed, self-important tones that usually go with disinterested/unaffected party-wannabes, instructed ALL to check out the 'front page' & tell the kids that if there are any questions from the nuns at school re: relatedness, recite: "MY name is spelled with 'ck', not 'dz'. So, I dunno the poor guy.")
Oh, for the days of "Information, may I help you?". New York actually had REAL journalism at the time. One such entity was The Herald Tribune. I loved that paper. Knew THEIR info number by heart. This, because they had a 'general information' service from which you could elicit all manner of accurate, quickly-retrieved arcane material. Wish I had a nickel for every time they 'provided' my homework in high school. Now that's REAL help. 'Coourse it would cost Mary a dime, but it'd be worth it. Knowledge is like that. Worth every penny you pay for it.
(Too much knowledge, it is said, can be a dangerous thing. On autopsy, eavesdropping revealed, a 'dead-center-close-range-bullet-entry-wound' was described as being on Frank's forehead. But I know HE knew the price tag. And with typical, classy, selfless courage, took THE one for the fam. Cheers, Frank. Here's to a REAL 'can-I-help-you-?' kind of guy.)
Later, Lorane
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Resolutions, Revelations. Rallies
Been hearing all manner of change - that will debut tomorrow. Hardly a joiner, I most definitely am a mull er. My musings took me from "Remembering" yesterday to 'and now?' today. We have scanned, eye to mind, mind touching mind, with all the reverent anticipation of "Looking for Mr. Goodbar", through the frenzied yet purposeful jungle that we call mankind. If one subscribes to the concept - and I daresay I do - of the 'Whole' of Mankind, then one accepts the thesis (count me in) that mankind is indivisible and the 'mysteries' not yet solved speak not to Nature's disorder but to man's intellectual immaturity.
Please forgive me the bromides indispensable to pragmatically applying this thesis to my advocacy of the rights to which, I believe, mankind is entitled. First, you gotta believe that injury to any part of mankind, injures - in part - all of mankind.
(John Donne drove this home with: "No man is an island. Each man's death diminishes me for I am involved in mankind. So, ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee." The boy indeed had a knack.)
Next, survival in today's world is made tolerable by the enjoyment of living. This enjoyment is markedly decreased by emotional and psychic disabilities. Dear Dorothy Parker had a bead on this one in "Coda".
(There's little in taking or giving,
There's little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top.
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop.
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest's for a clam in a shell,
So I'm thinking of throwing the battle-
Would you kindly direct me to hell?")
Now these imbalances - and their Siamese twin, physical limitation - rob mankind's life of its pleasures. The Bard provides but one example.
("Ah, sleep, that knits up the raveled sleeve of care.")
And at the very heart of mankind's dilemma, bypassing the pulmonary artery - and, therefore, lungs - and hopping right over to the left ventricle (you don't tug on left ventricle's cape, if you get my drift) which launches gallons of weakness through mankind's system per diem, is the loss of what I call the 'sharing experience'. This because the ability to create and SHARE the creation in communal productivity is a source of great pride. Losing it leaves a large blank page in our book, "The Pleasure of Living". You're on your own. Living isn't pleasing. It's a crap shoot.
(As Groucho Marx opined when his "You Bet Your Life" TV program was challenged on a different network with the very engaging/amusing Bishop Fulton J. Sheen, "Well folks, I guess now you can bet your life or better your life." Re:Marx, nobody could top him when it came to speedy, snappy repartee.)
It is therefore up to us, dear readers, to ensure mankind's entitlements, overcome this inchoate mentality, facilitate and preserve mankind's pleasure in living. I know you've all been a-tasking to the nth 'multi' of late, so I have set about fixing the problem. Mankind's life, I am resolved, shall NOT be robbed of its pleasure! Debuting on the morrow, I will do the man proud.
(I refer, of course, to Clint Eastwood/Ronald Reagan's "Go ahead. Make my day.")
Tutorially speaking, I refer you first to the parentheticals above. Cherished pearls of wisdom - cast NOT before swine but enshrined, etched, inscribed (any guesses where I'm going with this?) ON PAPYRUS, PARCHMENT, PAPER, then having been marked with 'P', tossed in the oven for you and me. Obviously, in this scenario, 'oven' is used metaphorically for book/library/collections and the like. Yes, I READ them. They were gifts from my friends. Gifts I could take to bed, a grassy knoll, a sofa by the window, watching the snow fall -quietly, so as not to disturb my READING.
I'd seen them neatly arranged in book cases with doors made of crafted leaded glass; on shelves over mantels, Moroccan-leather-bound, gilded-edged pages announcing "The Royals are 'IN'"; on the desks of my children in their rooms; the bedside tables of octogenarian nuns; in stores, on subways at launches, the proud author beaming as the lines formed, waiting a turn to have the newly-purchased treasure touched by, actually written in, by its creator. That, dear reader is the penultimate 'sharing experience', the ultimate delayed so as to be a very private affair to remember - perhaps a soupcon of crackling wood in the fireplace, a fragrant magnolia floating in a Waterford bowl on a nearby Deco ottoman, hints of Beethoven surround-sounding softly, almost a whisper of puppy's breathing, curling up from your feet.
And, like the cradle, the curtain will fall. Bidden or not bidden, the parting will be sweet sorrow. Sweet because 1) you now become tachycardic, perhaps do some anticipatory panting even, at the very thought of a brand new 'sharing experience', IE, telling all comers about 'this book I just read," and 2) you know that I'll be sooo happy for you and the chosen-to-be-sharees, that I'll not use ONE MORE HACKNEYED cliche in this post!
(To be sure, I really did see/admire one such book case when I first visited my husband's home. Their living room was forty feet long (the baby grand looked like a preemie) and at one end the wall WAS the book case. He morphed it into an apprentice-piece by lounging over the top shelf - home to every sports trophy he'd ever earned - until the hapless visitor HAD to say, "Gee, Phil, what're all those shiny statues in the book case?"
And around our home, each dedicated community of books had different bookends. some were bona fide antiquities; some were from my family or bought by me. But they have SUCH personality. Huge solid brass elephants (trunks UP, good luck, you know) support my cookbook collection (remember cooking, Lorane?); carved wood Civil War cannons embrace Phil's sister's collection. Her ashes were scattered and you'll be as well if you mess with her books; bulbous, contradictory, IRON wing-back chairs support the law books in my study (Contradictory in that you will never find a comfortable chair in a courtroom - save the 'bench' on which his honor perches); Stone, squares, sporting embedded brass ducks support my husband's medical tomes; our son's desk sported leather, 3-D slices of the globe (which always said 'basketballs' to me); one of our daughters used flat, brass squares imprinted with Rodin's "The Thinker" (I suspect, is was the male anatomical precision, not the artistic value that attracted her) and our other little lady had clowns - silent commentary on how she viewed the entire educational 'drill'.
Whatever shall I do with them? What will they embrace, adorn? Whence functionality when 'The Trend' finally becomes 'The Only' means of accruing knowledge, favorite quotes, maps, recipes, fables, bed-time stories? When dawns the day during which what was once known as 'reading material' is generated by robotic, computerized chips or multi-channel analytic towers, information to be characterized, disseminated and osmotically absorbed by the 'end user', AKA humans.
The very embodiment (rather, mechanization) of efficiency, its applications have no limits; its productivity matchless as well as eviscerated. As will be the humans forced to rely upon them. Is THAT the world we want? You-show-me-your-new-template-I'll-show-you-mine relationships? Nay, say I. Fie on curling up with metallic, meditationally-transmitted data. Dam Data. Any day. I love dairy products but never wished my parents had been Guernseys. I thrive on the written word, thought, emotion but would not have traded my folks for a pair of matching, fluorescent transducers.)
Soooo. Here's the plan. Remember those queues, populated with humans, happily, willingly awaiting their turn for hours JUST to 'meet the press', as it were. Touch the hem. Perfume the washed feet of the creator. No holds barred when it comes to that 'shared experience'. That fulcrum upon which mankind balances its pleasure of living with its wholeness.
Well, we're going to bring those lines back. Introduce the reader to his writer. Save the jobs of ALL of the workers who perform ALL of the tasks involved in producing ALL of the books produced by ALL of those publishers. Once again, the writer will stop by, say "Hi" and leave a smidgen of who-what-where-when-why, then SIGN the book, using the same nimble fingers that caressed the keyboard whilst forming the words that, when strung together, formed sentences that built paragraphs which marched step-lock-style across the paper pages, telling a story, drawing a picture, birthing another "shared experience'.
I've 'named the baby'. Stop by the nursery. The nurse will wheel it over. Just ask for "Calling Card". Cute as it can be. And starting tomorrow, I shall embark on a journey of "Deliverance". I'll still be based on this page, of course. But here's hopin' NEXT year, if you buy a book for you or as a gift (same thing, really), when you open the cover you'll see an affixed note to you, from the writer. And if you do, tell your friends about it. And please tell me. Like I said, I'll be here; and like Mae West said,
("Come up and see me sometime.")
Later, Lorane. . . .
Please forgive me the bromides indispensable to pragmatically applying this thesis to my advocacy of the rights to which, I believe, mankind is entitled. First, you gotta believe that injury to any part of mankind, injures - in part - all of mankind.
(John Donne drove this home with: "No man is an island. Each man's death diminishes me for I am involved in mankind. So, ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee." The boy indeed had a knack.)
Next, survival in today's world is made tolerable by the enjoyment of living. This enjoyment is markedly decreased by emotional and psychic disabilities. Dear Dorothy Parker had a bead on this one in "Coda".
(There's little in taking or giving,
There's little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top.
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop.
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest's for a clam in a shell,
So I'm thinking of throwing the battle-
Would you kindly direct me to hell?")
Now these imbalances - and their Siamese twin, physical limitation - rob mankind's life of its pleasures. The Bard provides but one example.
("Ah, sleep, that knits up the raveled sleeve of care.")
And at the very heart of mankind's dilemma, bypassing the pulmonary artery - and, therefore, lungs - and hopping right over to the left ventricle (you don't tug on left ventricle's cape, if you get my drift) which launches gallons of weakness through mankind's system per diem, is the loss of what I call the 'sharing experience'. This because the ability to create and SHARE the creation in communal productivity is a source of great pride. Losing it leaves a large blank page in our book, "The Pleasure of Living". You're on your own. Living isn't pleasing. It's a crap shoot.
(As Groucho Marx opined when his "You Bet Your Life" TV program was challenged on a different network with the very engaging/amusing Bishop Fulton J. Sheen, "Well folks, I guess now you can bet your life or better your life." Re:Marx, nobody could top him when it came to speedy, snappy repartee.)
It is therefore up to us, dear readers, to ensure mankind's entitlements, overcome this inchoate mentality, facilitate and preserve mankind's pleasure in living. I know you've all been a-tasking to the nth 'multi' of late, so I have set about fixing the problem. Mankind's life, I am resolved, shall NOT be robbed of its pleasure! Debuting on the morrow, I will do the man proud.
(I refer, of course, to Clint Eastwood/Ronald Reagan's "Go ahead. Make my day.")
Tutorially speaking, I refer you first to the parentheticals above. Cherished pearls of wisdom - cast NOT before swine but enshrined, etched, inscribed (any guesses where I'm going with this?) ON PAPYRUS, PARCHMENT, PAPER, then having been marked with 'P', tossed in the oven for you and me. Obviously, in this scenario, 'oven' is used metaphorically for book/library/collections and the like. Yes, I READ them. They were gifts from my friends. Gifts I could take to bed, a grassy knoll, a sofa by the window, watching the snow fall -quietly, so as not to disturb my READING.
I'd seen them neatly arranged in book cases with doors made of crafted leaded glass; on shelves over mantels, Moroccan-leather-bound, gilded-edged pages announcing "The Royals are 'IN'"; on the desks of my children in their rooms; the bedside tables of octogenarian nuns; in stores, on subways at launches, the proud author beaming as the lines formed, waiting a turn to have the newly-purchased treasure touched by, actually written in, by its creator. That, dear reader is the penultimate 'sharing experience', the ultimate delayed so as to be a very private affair to remember - perhaps a soupcon of crackling wood in the fireplace, a fragrant magnolia floating in a Waterford bowl on a nearby Deco ottoman, hints of Beethoven surround-sounding softly, almost a whisper of puppy's breathing, curling up from your feet.
And, like the cradle, the curtain will fall. Bidden or not bidden, the parting will be sweet sorrow. Sweet because 1) you now become tachycardic, perhaps do some anticipatory panting even, at the very thought of a brand new 'sharing experience', IE, telling all comers about 'this book I just read," and 2) you know that I'll be sooo happy for you and the chosen-to-be-sharees, that I'll not use ONE MORE HACKNEYED cliche in this post!
(To be sure, I really did see/admire one such book case when I first visited my husband's home. Their living room was forty feet long (the baby grand looked like a preemie) and at one end the wall WAS the book case. He morphed it into an apprentice-piece by lounging over the top shelf - home to every sports trophy he'd ever earned - until the hapless visitor HAD to say, "Gee, Phil, what're all those shiny statues in the book case?"
And around our home, each dedicated community of books had different bookends. some were bona fide antiquities; some were from my family or bought by me. But they have SUCH personality. Huge solid brass elephants (trunks UP, good luck, you know) support my cookbook collection (remember cooking, Lorane?); carved wood Civil War cannons embrace Phil's sister's collection. Her ashes were scattered and you'll be as well if you mess with her books; bulbous, contradictory, IRON wing-back chairs support the law books in my study (Contradictory in that you will never find a comfortable chair in a courtroom - save the 'bench' on which his honor perches); Stone, squares, sporting embedded brass ducks support my husband's medical tomes; our son's desk sported leather, 3-D slices of the globe (which always said 'basketballs' to me); one of our daughters used flat, brass squares imprinted with Rodin's "The Thinker" (I suspect, is was the male anatomical precision, not the artistic value that attracted her) and our other little lady had clowns - silent commentary on how she viewed the entire educational 'drill'.
Whatever shall I do with them? What will they embrace, adorn? Whence functionality when 'The Trend' finally becomes 'The Only' means of accruing knowledge, favorite quotes, maps, recipes, fables, bed-time stories? When dawns the day during which what was once known as 'reading material' is generated by robotic, computerized chips or multi-channel analytic towers, information to be characterized, disseminated and osmotically absorbed by the 'end user', AKA humans.
The very embodiment (rather, mechanization) of efficiency, its applications have no limits; its productivity matchless as well as eviscerated. As will be the humans forced to rely upon them. Is THAT the world we want? You-show-me-your-new-template-I'll-show-you-mine relationships? Nay, say I. Fie on curling up with metallic, meditationally-transmitted data. Dam Data. Any day. I love dairy products but never wished my parents had been Guernseys. I thrive on the written word, thought, emotion but would not have traded my folks for a pair of matching, fluorescent transducers.)
Soooo. Here's the plan. Remember those queues, populated with humans, happily, willingly awaiting their turn for hours JUST to 'meet the press', as it were. Touch the hem. Perfume the washed feet of the creator. No holds barred when it comes to that 'shared experience'. That fulcrum upon which mankind balances its pleasure of living with its wholeness.
Well, we're going to bring those lines back. Introduce the reader to his writer. Save the jobs of ALL of the workers who perform ALL of the tasks involved in producing ALL of the books produced by ALL of those publishers. Once again, the writer will stop by, say "Hi" and leave a smidgen of who-what-where-when-why, then SIGN the book, using the same nimble fingers that caressed the keyboard whilst forming the words that, when strung together, formed sentences that built paragraphs which marched step-lock-style across the paper pages, telling a story, drawing a picture, birthing another "shared experience'.
I've 'named the baby'. Stop by the nursery. The nurse will wheel it over. Just ask for "Calling Card". Cute as it can be. And starting tomorrow, I shall embark on a journey of "Deliverance". I'll still be based on this page, of course. But here's hopin' NEXT year, if you buy a book for you or as a gift (same thing, really), when you open the cover you'll see an affixed note to you, from the writer. And if you do, tell your friends about it. And please tell me. Like I said, I'll be here; and like Mae West said,
("Come up and see me sometime.")
Later, Lorane. . . .
Thursday, December 29, 2011
REMEMBERING
So this kid walks down the stairs. It's around 3 in the morning. She was thirsty. Around step number 8, her orange, fuzzy amoebic-shaped slippers freeze. Rubbing imaginary 'sleep' out of the corners of her eyes, (In later years, well after reality had established residency in her head, she would refer to the location of this discharge as the inner canthus but this is now, it's my story and reality hasn't even knocked. Hunger, thirst, fantasy - knocked AND moved in. Reality who?) she allows them to morph into protruding globes as she stares.
Whaddya know. It's Mommy. And SANTA. She's no expert, but that sure looks like a very long kiss all wrapped up in a red velvet hug. She snickers - a hushed snicker. A self-satisfied snicker. Santa's "beard and stache", gleamy white, combed and ELASTIC-BANDED to his brown-haired head, is doing a stashe stand, straight and stiff, on his now flattened red velvet hat, actually up-staging the famous white, fuzzy pom-pom. This is good stuff. Enormous potential. "So, uh, Mom. The kids are goin' skatin' at Wollman's in Central Park Friday ni. ." "Absolutely NOT!" ""Was this year the FIRST uh, ya know, for you and 'Santa?" "You have a mean streak, child. Your father's side. . . You'll have to promise to stay with the group and come RIGHT home after a hamburger and shake at Prexy's." (Prexy's - The Hamburger with a College Education." The logo's a picture of a burger on feet wearing a mortar board with its tassel dangling into the oozing red ketchup on the side. Mom's fave for after ice skate appetites)
(Wrapping presents this year, I was bathing in the oldies. The songs we knew when I was coming up. (Up where? Why do people say that? We were singing these songs in a six story walk-UP - although we only had to climb to four.) "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" always made me laugh. Back then, I mean. Because Mom favored Mussolini when it came to management style. And Dad had this little thing for "Four Roses" - or ANY rye, for that matter. Bottles hidden everywhere. Mom rarely drank.
So I knew it would be a 'Bachus Debauch' for Dad if I ever caught Mom in THAT kind of hanky-panky. I'd picture her yanking a half-drained "Four Roses" soldier out of the umbrella stand by the front door. There I'd be, miming "The Kiss" -back to her, the way we used to do. Lots of hand work. Outcome? "At ease, Soldier." Then business as usual. Mom cooking, cleaning, going to work during the day. Me, going to school (on the shoe leather express) homework and, after we got a TV, watching "Ozzie and Harriet", wondering what it was like to have stairs leading to bedrooms on a second level IN YOUR OWN HOUSE, and, - always - playing out a lively imaginary life in my head.)
Somehow - and we'll skirt the details (wouldn't want to run into the Devil. They say that's where he is. In the details.) - she made it from under the stable roof to Camelot. Deedee-doo, at the tender age of eighteen, she was being driven - reluctantly, tearfully, with trunks filled with trepidation - to Washington, D.C. and 'Destination Georgetown University'. It was 1962, the campus was teeming with co-eds draped in Pendleton, penny loafers, Ladybug blouses, cashmere cardigan belting or 'shawling', soon-to-be-stored madras and espadrilles from Charlettesville (the ONLY thing a Hoya would deem worthy from THAT city) and the ubiquitous sparkling white 'Chiclet'-teeth smile, strolling the Mile Path (best walkway on which to be seen) to the bookstore, Coach-leather breezes softly swaying their silky, blunt-cut bobs.
During that four years, she forced herself out of her own head and heart so as to meld with her beautiful Colleagues-in-Camelot-Community. By her senior year, she'd streaked her hair - where Jackie used to have hers done on Wisconsin Avenue, lost thirty-five pounds by keeping up academically, socially, theatrically (devoted member of the university drama club, The Masque and Bauble), clinically - the school of nursing demanded more clinical hours than any collegiate program in the U.S. - as well as babysitting for VERY well-paying clients who entertained the notion, to appease their guilt over having NO intention of raising their own children, that GU nursing students were the creme-De-la-creme re: safety, prestige and capability. Kids seemed to like them, too.
She had spent breaks at a variety of manses - Chevy Chase , CT, Potomac Park, Manhattan, McLean - where she learned basic equestrian maneuvers, 'proper' serving/entertaining rudiments, THE ONLY labels one wore, sports one watched vs played, men one dated and where one requested they go. Summers were all Manhattan. A group of eight secured jobs at New York Hospital where dorm-living was provided, salaries outrageously high, off-time spent owning the city. She'd 'done' The Russian Tea Room, Bogie's, parties on Sutton Place, Bergdorf's, Bendel, and the Plaza for lunch and drinks many times over. The Village, already a second home, was very 'coming' in the sixties, as was fountain bathing Au naturale. It was all passion, urgency, causes and all carried off with bona fide ELEGANCE.
(Perhaps the wrapping paper had sparked that parade of royal glitterati - and the Magi didn't even wrap. they just followed their star. As did I. And I noticed the music had changed. I was listening to The Commitments, "Destination Anywhere" in particular, Niamh Kavanagh, lead vocalist. (Recently, I befriended a lovely, talented Irish author named Niamh. I'd never heard the name before - or so
Never saw the 'charm'/'quaintness' in the mafia, the gangs, tattoos, black leather-ware, the pointed shoes ("Puerto Rican Fence Climbers"), garish make-up, teased hair, motorcycles, playful rituals (It seemed we hung and burned Casey Stengel in effigy every year to every one's delight) - the 'Brooklyn Schtick'. And I married a Hoya whose dream - if he didn't make the cut as the shortstop for the Pittsburgh Pirates, was to be a part of the Mafia. (Unfortunately, that was behind door 3 in my family) He still delights in my telling the story of getting a ride home from school with my Mom's older brother, Paul, who adored me. He drove a black Cadillac and I was fascinated with the shiny, wood and chrome dash. OOPS! The glove compartment opened, a small, heavy, black revolver rocketed right into my lap. I froze. (Never saw a real gun before or since) Uncle Paul waited for a red light., gently leaned over and replaced the gun in its cache and said, "Why don't ya do some readin' or somethin'." I did.
Back to my wrapping, I noticed I'd bought wonderful book gifts this year. Coming out of my bleak reverie, I realized I was wrapping a baby's-first-alphabet book in which the letters are characters. Opening it in a desultory fashion, I read (sans context), "Y says, 'Why isn't E even crying?' And O answers, 'Sometimes, she's a silent E.'" I thought, "How sweet." Then I thought - that ole 'looseness of association' - of how when my Dad was helping me with my reading and we came across an 'e' that was not to be expressed, he'd say, after I'd muffed it, "No, Elgee, the 'e' is silent, like the pee in toilet" and have a good laugh at his pun. Where's Uncle Paul's gun when I need it? Huh? I ask you. You pick - pun or gun? See what I mean? Quaint is as quaint does. Pee-in-toilet ain't.)
Memory Lane strolls CAN be therapeutic. You evaluate how you've approached this 'human experience'. Have I just let it happen or did I run to embrace it. Did I ride it in subway-stance - eyes straight ahead or reading; if standing, hold strap, feign reading placard ads; no co-passenger exchanges beyond, "scuse", "yeah" or, if your trench coat is suddenly wet at groin level, hatpin-thrust forward at same level - even if priest or nun-in-drag. Or did I reach out, listen, hold in silence, befriend on the journey like some opulent millionaire, squandering precious coins of personality. I can only hope I made a good run at being laughter's gentle soul, not sulks' hit man.
I'll keep following my star - relentless, unafraid, taking the "road less traveled", not because I'm dauntless. Rather because I know I'm NOT working without a net. This because, as the carving over C.G. Jung's entrance says (in Latin - showoff), "Bidden or not bidden, God is present." We'll do this again next year. We'll keep track together: Rx: 'remembering' per anum. Later, Lorane. . . .
(Wrapping presents this year, I was bathing in the oldies. The songs we knew when I was coming up. (Up where? Why do people say that? We were singing these songs in a six story walk-UP - although we only had to climb to four.) "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" always made me laugh. Back then, I mean. Because Mom favored Mussolini when it came to management style. And Dad had this little thing for "Four Roses" - or ANY rye, for that matter. Bottles hidden everywhere. Mom rarely drank.
Somehow - and we'll skirt the details (wouldn't want to run into the Devil. They say that's where he is. In the details.) - she made it from under the stable roof to Camelot. Deedee-doo, at the tender age of eighteen, she was being driven - reluctantly, tearfully, with trunks filled with trepidation - to Washington, D.C. and 'Destination Georgetown University'. It was 1962, the campus was teeming with co-eds draped in Pendleton, penny loafers, Ladybug blouses, cashmere cardigan belting or 'shawling', soon-to-be-stored madras and espadrilles from Charlettesville (the ONLY thing a Hoya would deem worthy from THAT city) and the ubiquitous sparkling white 'Chiclet'-teeth smile, strolling the Mile Path (best walkway on which to be seen) to the bookstore, Coach-leather breezes softly swaying their silky, blunt-cut bobs.
(Perhaps the wrapping paper had sparked that parade of royal glitterati - and the Magi didn't even wrap. they just followed their star. As did I. And I noticed the music had changed. I was listening to The Commitments, "Destination Anywhere" in particular, Niamh Kavanagh, lead vocalist. (Recently, I befriended a lovely, talented Irish author named Niamh. I'd never heard the name before - or so
Back to my wrapping, I noticed I'd bought wonderful book gifts this year. Coming out of my bleak reverie, I realized I was wrapping a baby's-first-alphabet book in which the letters are characters. Opening it in a desultory fashion, I read (sans context), "Y says, 'Why isn't E even crying?' And O answers, 'Sometimes, she's a silent E.'" I thought, "How sweet." Then I thought - that ole 'looseness of association' - of how when my Dad was helping me with my reading and we came across an 'e' that was not to be expressed, he'd say, after I'd muffed it, "No, Elgee, the 'e' is silent, like the pee in toilet" and have a good laugh at his pun. Where's Uncle Paul's gun when I need it? Huh? I ask you. You pick - pun or gun? See what I mean? Quaint is as quaint does. Pee-in-toilet ain't.)
Memory Lane strolls CAN be therapeutic. You evaluate how you've approached this 'human experience'. Have I just let it happen or did I run to embrace it. Did I ride it in subway-stance - eyes straight ahead or reading; if standing, hold strap, feign reading placard ads; no co-passenger exchanges beyond, "scuse", "yeah" or, if your trench coat is suddenly wet at groin level, hatpin-thrust forward at same level - even if priest or nun-in-drag. Or did I reach out, listen, hold in silence, befriend on the journey like some opulent millionaire, squandering precious coins of personality. I can only hope I made a good run at being laughter's gentle soul, not sulks' hit man. I'll keep following my star - relentless, unafraid, taking the "road less traveled", not because I'm dauntless. Rather because I know I'm NOT working without a net. This because, as the carving over C.G. Jung's entrance says (in Latin - showoff), "Bidden or not bidden, God is present." We'll do this again next year. We'll keep track together: Rx: 'remembering' per anum. Later, Lorane. . . .
Sunday, December 11, 2011
OOPS!
Well, I guess the ole fuse has been on overload of late. And speaking of 'late', that's exactly how I've been running. "Today, Self, YOU WILL WRITE". Right. Today. BRAIN: Just checked calender and - oops!, it's tomorrow! Self didn't write. Again. Wrong.
Of course whatever can go wrong, does. Especially when you are rushed, addled, cannot tolerate dog hair, crumbs, etc on white tile kitchen floor thereby wasting chunks of productive time eliminating same. Then there's appointments kept for simple tests only to find out data missing/not sent to doc who needed them; Selecting presents to help Santa & finding out chubs doesn't reimburse for this favor; staying in touch with really important people. And since that is never a 'wrong', no apologies.
But I sorely MISS writing. Miss you, dear readers. Think of the pluses. When I write, I heal, I deal (as in cope), I extract myself from the ho-hum rut of overstimulating reality. And when you read, YOU can take a break from the daily (nano-second-ly) grind - which has nothing to do with a good cup of Jo OR pole dancing - which has nothing to do with elves. You can enter MY world for a bit - and unless you've got the IQ of a box of frozen snow peas, you can exit STAT. There are always choices. To get up; to put paper weight on snooze button; to read; to swear off of this blog.
If, however, you are a Karma 'type', I think things are re-sol-ving. I really do. SOME thing happened this week - obviously I was too busy/frazzled to notice - that has things rolling along with far more 'grace under pressure' (and please don't call me Grace); in more of an "old sport", "light-on-Daisy's-dock" ambiance which means - DRUM ROLL - I AM going to write again. Soon. Mayhaps tomorrow - after Molly's dance recital. (Grand peep Molly of "Good-Golly-Miss-Molly"-fame. I'm just sayin', "Let's talk, SOON.
Of course whatever can go wrong, does. Especially when you are rushed, addled, cannot tolerate dog hair, crumbs, etc on white tile kitchen floor thereby wasting chunks of productive time eliminating same. Then there's appointments kept for simple tests only to find out data missing/not sent to doc who needed them; Selecting presents to help Santa & finding out chubs doesn't reimburse for this favor; staying in touch with really important people. And since that is never a 'wrong', no apologies.
 |
| Color me Coping |
If, however, you are a Karma 'type', I think things are re-sol-ving. I really do. SOME thing happened this week - obviously I was too busy/frazzled to notice - that has things rolling along with far more 'grace under pressure' (and please don't call me Grace); in more of an "old sport", "light-on-Daisy's-dock" ambiance which means - DRUM ROLL - I AM going to write again. Soon. Mayhaps tomorrow - after Molly's dance recital. (Grand peep Molly of "Good-Golly-Miss-Molly"-fame. I'm just sayin', "Let's talk, SOON.
Sooner. L. . . .
Sunday, November 27, 2011
PRIORITIES
 |
| Bandito |
I LOVE lists. Actually, it's checking off a completed item that is pure nirvana. It's gratifying and, just for emphasis - in case anyone NOT checking is taking a gaze break - I make it garishly dramatic. Use a squeaky fluorescent sharpie, pin an Italian flag - on cork board days - on the accomplished ONE, tap out a drum roll on the tile breakfast room floor. And I've got two birds with one flourish. I had success AND disturbed TR's ennui. The ole one-two; or in his argot, the double play. Yup. I know some stuff, too. In the athletic arena, if you will. Even if you will not, that was the famous
 |
| Tinker to Evers to Chance |
(Well, there was one itsy snag. I had finished packing two huge bags of clothes, shoes, etc. for the Veterans of the Vietnam War - a chore begun a month ago but I plugged - and reminded TR that tomorrow - 11/28 - was pick-up day. I was proud to see the effort he put into lugging these very heavy bags down the driveway and placing them on the road next to our mailbox. The boy's nothing if not patriotic. Then he went off to watch beloved football with his sons, leaving the house blissfully unoccupied AND quiet.
Somehow, putting all of this drivel on paper is therapeutic. There is no QUESTION but that daily life presents far more complicated 'to dos' than in the days of yore. And mine, too. AND, I just heard from my dear friend KD yesterday - our B-day mother of seven, grandmother of seventeen? She was a smidge melancholy because although Thanksgiving was wonderful, spent with her eldest and her offspring only, she missed 'the house' as she hung seventeen little stockings in their condo. No 'day at the beach'. But she did add a chuckle-tag. She and Will had gone up to Vermont, I think, to see one of their daughters receive the "Teacher of the Year" award. At THE moment of presentation, Will jauntily whipped out his new i-phone for a 'Cell Phone Moment'. Aim, click, shoot - a great image of Will's nose. Where does it say "Turn the thing around, stupid!"? I ask you.My Grandpa used to sing, "Ya gotta give a little, take a little", and my Dad's favorite saw was, "Ya live, ya learn, and ya die stupid." So, I conclude that, as to priorities, I guess, "Everything old is new again." Think: "Plink!".
Later, Lorane. . . .
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Thanksgiving; Thanks Taking
The pace. It's the pace at which we must do this 'thing' of living that obviates the very need/desire to live well. It follows, then, that, if 'living well' is a noble and good goal, we must remove any obstacles to its achievement. We are, it would seem, due - actually ethically bound - to effect a change of pace.
During this time of year, while we focus on being thankful for our blessings, our good fortunes, we must also focus on our 'wish lists' and disappointments. Just as we acknowledge our capabilities, we must accept our limitations. Only then, can we begin our journey toward 'wholeness' or, for a woman, completeness. As a woman, wife, mother, citizen, I pray and hope for wholeness, contentment, for those whom I love. This day, my reflections are wrapped around a very special loved one. My daughter Robyn, wife of my son and mother of their children, is not at peace. Indeed, she is in emotional and spiritual pain. I dedicate this entry to her and the initiation of her journey back to good feelings - contentment, shared pleasures, the knowledge that she NEVER walks alone por in darkness. Come. Come with me to Robyn.
During this time of year, while we focus on being thankful for our blessings, our good fortunes, we must also focus on our 'wish lists' and disappointments. Just as we acknowledge our capabilities, we must accept our limitations. Only then, can we begin our journey toward 'wholeness' or, for a woman, completeness. As a woman, wife, mother, citizen, I pray and hope for wholeness, contentment, for those whom I love. This day, my reflections are wrapped around a very special loved one. My daughter Robyn, wife of my son and mother of their children, is not at peace. Indeed, she is in emotional and spiritual pain. I dedicate this entry to her and the initiation of her journey back to good feelings - contentment, shared pleasures, the knowledge that she NEVER walks alone por in darkness. Come. Come with me to Robyn.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
TRICK or TREAT ( the SEASON) NOSTALGIA
Not too long ago - what's two weeks? - we celebrated an "un-happy" Halloween. Of course, we did not do it on October 31. Rather, due to scheduling constraints, my Halloween missive was posted on October 29. Ergo, "un", found its way, as I'm certain you have surmised, into the title. I think the time has come, dear reader, given the honesty and candor that are the hallmarks of our relationship - such as it is - to reveal the literary Hoochie Coochie lurking in the wings whilst Halloween played itself out center stage.
(In fact - and hindsight, the clarity of which is legend - I NOW realize that the collage of images that left us with that 'happy-ever-after' glow, emanated from the warm, crackling, dancing flames of ALL the 'happies' in our lifetime of Halloween 'play-acting'. But that's another story - which we'll not hear today. No. I'll just refrain, be disciplined; ZIP IT.)
You see a delightful, creative gal in a writers' group to which I belong - we'll call her Janet, because that's her name - suggested we 'play' a writing Trick or Treat game. She had us warming up at the barre for weeks until the choreographic rules were set. PLACES! We would each enter a challenge/assignment; execute it on 10/31; include concise, instructions and - ENCORE! - offer a "Treat" to the best contenders. Enthusiasm ran high as did the entrants. That is, there were an impressive NUMBER of players - in case you were picturing besotted writers jogging aimlessly and amok.
I fretted over my 'treat' as the competition was stiff - autographed books, free professionally-illustrated book covers, thousands of edited pages of an inchoate manuscript - you know, grown-up stuff. I finally decided to offer 5" by 7" collages of my favorite Halloween photos over the past 50 or so yrs. The lucky recipients needed only to visit my blog, leaving a comment on Halloween and be one of the ten pluckiest/most riveting of said comments.
(Through no fault of mine, I feel a zipper sliding open. Blame it on faulty technology, overbearing Catholic guilt that haunts the liar, that ole Jungian feminine quest for completion, the weather - whatever. But here's what happened. Having assembled 33 photos - circa 1950 through 2011 - I 'plugged' them into my handy collage-maker and received the condemning news that only 26 made the cut - as they say.
Panic consumed me. Which 26? Were 'key', prized entries rejected? Was this daemonic "app" just out to get me? Steeling myself, I squinted - a 'meanie' squint - as the chosen were paraded, in a perfect geometrical, circular reel-of-misfortune, on the monitor. Selecting a 50% overlap with authority, I clicked "create". Naturally, the 7 rejects were stellar components of the finished piece. BUT. "Foiled!", I shouted as my squinted visual acuity, now enhanced, perceived the absence of star-quality images I'd - in my excited haste - neglected to scan. Ha. Guilty Christians 1; App Lions 0.)
Given the size of the field, visiting all entrants' blogs and accommodating the 'trick' was time-consuming. Then printing, laminating and packaging my ten recipients brought me to 11/15. That's what "two weeks" is. I've been contacting them to extract snail mail addresses lo, these past 12 hours. To be sure, the grown-up winners, by now, have read their prize books, approved their illustrations and changed their edited manuscripts. Beware the 'seemingly simple'.
(So be it. I simply cannot/will not desecrate my treat by NOT including the entire pictorial story. Unfortunately, I was only able to find a segment of the image, but I give you Bill. A new next-door neighbor in the 80's, Bill came over to inquire of my husband as to whether the parents wore costumes when escorting their kids Halloween night. Mom always used to say, "The Devil's always busy." Now my impish, Irish husband always wore hand- painted boxer shorts, a t-shirt; bow tie, a Groucho Marx nose/mustache mask; a trench coat on this special night. He went, if you asked, as a "flasher". So, to Bill's query, he said, "Why, of course." Dear Bill, a brilliant lawyer & very kind friend/dad, spent en entire week meticulously building a perfect, multi-colored Rubik Cube which revealed only his head and legs - knees to shoes. And such a good sport. Had us over for ice cream sundaes that night.
The flasher, seen left, didn't ALWAYS present with such panache. There were times when his son was the ONLY guy who would be seen with him - for obvious reasons. His biker outfit was intended to be a costume. The above has no justification. Ironically, only our (his) dog was left out.
Bridie, as you can see, was NOT as willing a participant in looking-the-fool as some other folk. And our own children were often in agreement with her.
At age four, our oldest, Philip, announced he would not speak at the school Halloween party. Therefore, he was clad in an absurd multi-color fro; clown suit and carried a horn. "You needn't say a word," I admonished, escorting him to the bus, "Just honk."
Our youngest refused to speak at age 3, so she wore green tights and a leotard. Festooned with purple balloons, she went out as a bunch of grapes. The following year, Mommy had the flu, the flasher was carving pumpkins and once again, Jennie decided she was not going to speak. The tree to your right was the result. Their children did not suffer the same afflictions. Emma, Jen's daughter, was delighted to trot her royal stuff and although "Harpo's" daughter, Molly, was not a merry bumble bee, she loved her role as a toddler jockey and bounced right along to her conquering pirate this year.)
I believe the recipients in our writing performance will not only agree, but, hopefully, conjure up some happy nostalgia of their own. Perhaps, you will as well. Later, Lorane. . . .
 |
| DEM OLE TRICK or TREATS |
You see a delightful, creative gal in a writers' group to which I belong - we'll call her Janet, because that's her name - suggested we 'play' a writing Trick or Treat game. She had us warming up at the barre for weeks until the choreographic rules were set. PLACES! We would each enter a challenge/assignment; execute it on 10/31; include concise, instructions and - ENCORE! - offer a "Treat" to the best contenders. Enthusiasm ran high as did the entrants. That is, there were an impressive NUMBER of players - in case you were picturing besotted writers jogging aimlessly and amok.
I fretted over my 'treat' as the competition was stiff - autographed books, free professionally-illustrated book covers, thousands of edited pages of an inchoate manuscript - you know, grown-up stuff. I finally decided to offer 5" by 7" collages of my favorite Halloween photos over the past 50 or so yrs. The lucky recipients needed only to visit my blog, leaving a comment on Halloween and be one of the ten pluckiest/most riveting of said comments.
Panic consumed me. Which 26? Were 'key', prized entries rejected? Was this daemonic "app" just out to get me? Steeling myself, I squinted - a 'meanie' squint - as the chosen were paraded, in a perfect geometrical, circular reel-of-misfortune, on the monitor. Selecting a 50% overlap with authority, I clicked "create". Naturally, the 7 rejects were stellar components of the finished piece. BUT. "Foiled!", I shouted as my squinted visual acuity, now enhanced, perceived the absence of star-quality images I'd - in my excited haste - neglected to scan. Ha. Guilty Christians 1; App Lions 0.)
Given the size of the field, visiting all entrants' blogs and accommodating the 'trick' was time-consuming. Then printing, laminating and packaging my ten recipients brought me to 11/15. That's what "two weeks" is. I've been contacting them to extract snail mail addresses lo, these past 12 hours. To be sure, the grown-up winners, by now, have read their prize books, approved their illustrations and changed their edited manuscripts. Beware the 'seemingly simple'.
(So be it. I simply cannot/will not desecrate my treat by NOT including the entire pictorial story. Unfortunately, I was only able to find a segment of the image, but I give you Bill. A new next-door neighbor in the 80's, Bill came over to inquire of my husband as to whether the parents wore costumes when escorting their kids Halloween night. Mom always used to say, "The Devil's always busy." Now my impish, Irish husband always wore hand- painted boxer shorts, a t-shirt; bow tie, a Groucho Marx nose/mustache mask; a trench coat on this special night. He went, if you asked, as a "flasher". So, to Bill's query, he said, "Why, of course." Dear Bill, a brilliant lawyer & very kind friend/dad, spent en entire week meticulously building a perfect, multi-colored Rubik Cube which revealed only his head and legs - knees to shoes. And such a good sport. Had us over for ice cream sundaes that night.
The flasher, seen left, didn't ALWAYS present with such panache. There were times when his son was the ONLY guy who would be seen with him - for obvious reasons. His biker outfit was intended to be a costume. The above has no justification. Ironically, only our (his) dog was left out.
Bridie, as you can see, was NOT as willing a participant in looking-the-fool as some other folk. And our own children were often in agreement with her. |
| HARPO |
Our youngest refused to speak at age 3, so she wore green tights and a leotard. Festooned with purple balloons, she went out as a bunch of grapes. The following year, Mommy had the flu, the flasher was carving pumpkins and once again, Jennie decided she was not going to speak. The tree to your right was the result. Their children did not suffer the same afflictions. Emma, Jen's daughter, was delighted to trot her royal stuff and although "Harpo's" daughter, Molly, was not a merry bumble bee, she loved her role as a toddler jockey and bounced right along to her conquering pirate this year.) |
| PRINCESS EMMA |
I believe the recipients in our writing performance will not only agree, but, hopefully, conjure up some happy nostalgia of their own. Perhaps, you will as well. Later, Lorane. . . .Monday, October 31, 2011
HAPPY UNHALLOWEEN
You may recall - or not - that on October 29, I asked that you engage in a little 'make believe'. We all donned our tin-foil-hats, thereby deflecting any alien rays which, if not deflected, might leave us vulnerable to mental aberrations such as mind control and all of its pathologic dangers to our person/thoughts. So armed, we then read a hauntingly-crafted Halloween tale. We did this on 10/29 because 10/31 was taken. What follows is the jammed dance card that caused this untimely switcheroo.
On Monday, 10/24, I had a doctor's appointment in Norfolk. At the Medical Center downtown. Said 'Center', I'd been alerted by 2 post cards, was temporarily across the street as the facility was getting a face lift. BACKGROUND: I had already tended to the blood work necessary for Dr. #1 (post card #1) and would be doing the same for Dr. #2 (post card #2) for the following Monday. END OF BACKGROUND.
As driving to downtown Norfolk's medical center & paying their parking fees rates right up there with driving to Pittsburgh in the snow for 12 hours with a hungry, crying eleven month old child, a friend suggested I use our new Light Rail system - The Tide - leaving my car at the Newtown Rd. station in Virginia Beach and riding in quiet, $0.75 senior bliss on a beam-me-up-Scotty type glistening transport vessel which would speedily/scenically whisk me to the 'center' in 15 minutes whence I would stroll languidly to the pedestrian crossover - gazing down at the pitiably glazed/irked drivers - white knuckles to the wheel - processing inch by inch, sweat beads abounding to sundry, vacuous destinations - then descend, nary a lock a-muss, to amble 0.3 miles - as the pedestrian paces - to my appointment. (Did I mention the FREE parking @ the Newtown Rd. station?)
In an imperfect world there'd be at least one glitch. Mine was that the 'newness' of the travel mode had me 'tiding' a tad late so with Andy at the ready, I called doctor 1's office to report potential tardiness. And, ooops, lovely lady assured me there was no problem as my appointment was for the FOLLOWING Monday. Indeed But not to worry. The blood work would still be OK. The NOT OK department was the appointment I was missing with Dr. #2 whilst gliding toward her 'center' in shameful comfort.
I frantically called to report my mix-up and the receptionist, serving up some icy shoulder with her 'advice', suggested I come in anyway. I could AT LEAST get their blood work done and meet my new doctor (who had agreed to see me) Which I did. Blood pressure up. (REALLY?) Blood draw by trainee smooth until I returned to examining room and noticed a trail of (still flowing) purple blood the rivulet of which had already Tye-dyed my cords, socks and Bircks, saturated my watch & rings & puddled along with me on my return to the lab across the hall. No problem. Dressing changed. "Keep some pressure on that, honey." followed by "Peroxide? We don't have that here."
But, having lots of time to kill & Perrier (Dr. #1 is kidney guy so I'd been hydrating for the previous hour for my not-needed-this-week donation), I emptied their canister of cotton balls & a bottle of bubbly & went to work on the wardrobe & jewelry. My new Dr. @2 was SO sweet - and concerned about the pallor from the back spasms caused by doing the "bend-and-scrub" - so she suggested I rest a bit & slowly, carefully start my homeward voyage. Oh, and "Your blood work is great!". (Been there so long, they'd had the time to do all 9 orders AND generate a printout).
Of course the truly UPSIDE was that today, I got to kidney guy in a timely fashion on my new best friend - The Tide - and received a glowing report from him as well. All of which put me in the best of moods as we motored at break-neck speed to Portsmouth for Trick-or-Treating with the peeps. Felt SO New Age. "Appointments went very well. And I just love that light rail."
In between the two fateful Mondays, there were lots of other surprises. And me without my tin-foil-hat. Tuesday, 10/25, marked the 8th anniversary of Jen and Ross' 'burning trolley' wedding. And surprise! NONE of the confirmed-delivery-by-Tuesday gifts arrived. (Actually one arrived, but contained the wrong item)
So, partly because of THIS let-down, we said "Sure." when they unexpectedly asked if we could extend our baby-sitting afternoon at their house to an overnight at ours. And, surprise! Emma - 4 - and Charlie - 18 mos - and their bags - 10 or so, give of take - arrived at 11:00 AM Saturday. They were SO excited. We would play ball, ride around in the red Mustang rag top, music blaring, get to play with rubber duckie in the hot tub before nite-nite, walk our beagle, Bridie - and give her treats (like the 8 year-old milk bone carrier I'd found & had out to empty & wash to give Declan as he's train- ing Max) AND have ravioli & french toast in the morning.
They had a ball. And we had them packed & delivered home Sunday in time for Molly and I to go to lunch & then see "The Mighty Macs" while the guys watched football. I cheated apres the movie and had some WONDERFUL "cheesecake delight" ice cream with Molly. (can't have sugar) Once back at their house, I promptly passed out on the sofa. (hypoglycemia). But it was still a fun-packed weekend. Once home, Phil walked Bridie whilst I went room to room, discovering, disposing and disinfecting the MANY results of her feast of 'aged' treats.
The evenin
Friday afternoon, thought I'd spend some time with Emma. Mommy was all a-dervish with Halloween decorations PLUS preparing for the Sunday Football gathering which she was hosting. Steelers (all of the guests) v. Patriots (the Matt-Julie-Mia renegades in Boston). So Em and I went to see "The Mighty Macs". She was adorable in her matching garnet headband and slippers (adorned with huge garnet gems). That the 'slippers' slid off every 20 steps or so - because they are inside 'slippers' - was of no moment. We popped into Barnes & Noble & got 2 silk rope bookmarks with red hearts at either end and tied them around the slippers ala ballet shoes. Worked. Kinda. But the warm embrace of the theater seat for 2 plus hours worked even better.
Perhaps you're beginning to understand why the 10/29 switcheroo. Busy is as busy does. And I was busy doin' so that 10/31 would have a most memorable ending. Think it worked out. I mean, I'm just sayin'.
Later,
Lorane. . . .
On Monday, 10/24, I had a doctor's appointment in Norfolk. At the Medical Center downtown. Said 'Center', I'd been alerted by 2 post cards, was temporarily across the street as the facility was getting a face lift. BACKGROUND: I had already tended to the blood work necessary for Dr. #1 (post card #1) and would be doing the same for Dr. #2 (post card #2) for the following Monday. END OF BACKGROUND.
As driving to downtown Norfolk's medical center & paying their parking fees rates right up there with driving to Pittsburgh in the snow for 12 hours with a hungry, crying eleven month old child, a friend suggested I use our new Light Rail system - The Tide - leaving my car at the Newtown Rd. station in Virginia Beach and riding in quiet, $0.75 senior bliss on a beam-me-up-Scotty type glistening transport vessel which would speedily/scenically whisk me to the 'center' in 15 minutes whence I would stroll languidly to the pedestrian crossover - gazing down at the pitiably glazed/irked drivers - white knuckles to the wheel - processing inch by inch, sweat beads abounding to sundry, vacuous destinations - then descend, nary a lock a-muss, to amble 0.3 miles - as the pedestrian paces - to my appointment. (Did I mention the FREE parking @ the Newtown Rd. station?)
In an imperfect world there'd be at least one glitch. Mine was that the 'newness' of the travel mode had me 'tiding' a tad late so with Andy at the ready, I called doctor 1's office to report potential tardiness. And, ooops, lovely lady assured me there was no problem as my appointment was for the FOLLOWING Monday. Indeed But not to worry. The blood work would still be OK. The NOT OK department was the appointment I was missing with Dr. #2 whilst gliding toward her 'center' in shameful comfort.
I frantically called to report my mix-up and the receptionist, serving up some icy shoulder with her 'advice', suggested I come in anyway. I could AT LEAST get their blood work done and meet my new doctor (who had agreed to see me) Which I did. Blood pressure up. (REALLY?) Blood draw by trainee smooth until I returned to examining room and noticed a trail of (still flowing) purple blood the rivulet of which had already Tye-dyed my cords, socks and Bircks, saturated my watch & rings & puddled along with me on my return to the lab across the hall. No problem. Dressing changed. "Keep some pressure on that, honey." followed by "Peroxide? We don't have that here."
But, having lots of time to kill & Perrier (Dr. #1 is kidney guy so I'd been hydrating for the previous hour for my not-needed-this-week donation), I emptied their canister of cotton balls & a bottle of bubbly & went to work on the wardrobe & jewelry. My new Dr. @2 was SO sweet - and concerned about the pallor from the back spasms caused by doing the "bend-and-scrub" - so she suggested I rest a bit & slowly, carefully start my homeward voyage. Oh, and "Your blood work is great!". (Been there so long, they'd had the time to do all 9 orders AND generate a printout).
Of course the truly UPSIDE was that today, I got to kidney guy in a timely fashion on my new best friend - The Tide - and received a glowing report from him as well. All of which put me in the best of moods as we motored at break-neck speed to Portsmouth for Trick-or-Treating with the peeps. Felt SO New Age. "Appointments went very well. And I just love that light rail."In between the two fateful Mondays, there were lots of other surprises. And me without my tin-foil-hat. Tuesday, 10/25, marked the 8th anniversary of Jen and Ross' 'burning trolley' wedding. And surprise! NONE of the confirmed-delivery-by-Tuesday gifts arrived. (Actually one arrived, but contained the wrong item)
So, partly because of THIS let-down, we said "Sure." when they unexpectedly asked if we could extend our baby-sitting afternoon at their house to an overnight at ours. And, surprise! Emma - 4 - and Charlie - 18 mos - and their bags - 10 or so, give of take - arrived at 11:00 AM Saturday. They were SO excited. We would play ball, ride around in the red Mustang rag top, music blaring, get to play with rubber duckie in the hot tub before nite-nite, walk our beagle, Bridie - and give her treats (like the 8 year-old milk bone carrier I'd found & had out to empty & wash to give Declan as he's train- ing Max) AND have ravioli & french toast in the morning.
They had a ball. And we had them packed & delivered home Sunday in time for Molly and I to go to lunch & then see "The Mighty Macs" while the guys watched football. I cheated apres the movie and had some WONDERFUL "cheesecake delight" ice cream with Molly. (can't have sugar) Once back at their house, I promptly passed out on the sofa. (hypoglycemia). But it was still a fun-packed weekend. Once home, Phil walked Bridie whilst I went room to room, discovering, disposing and disinfecting the MANY results of her feast of 'aged' treats.
The evenin
Friday afternoon, thought I'd spend some time with Emma. Mommy was all a-dervish with Halloween decorations PLUS preparing for the Sunday Football gathering which she was hosting. Steelers (all of the guests) v. Patriots (the Matt-Julie-Mia renegades in Boston). So Em and I went to see "The Mighty Macs". She was adorable in her matching garnet headband and slippers (adorned with huge garnet gems). That the 'slippers' slid off every 20 steps or so - because they are inside 'slippers' - was of no moment. We popped into Barnes & Noble & got 2 silk rope bookmarks with red hearts at either end and tied them around the slippers ala ballet shoes. Worked. Kinda. But the warm embrace of the theater seat for 2 plus hours worked even better.
Perhaps you're beginning to understand why the 10/29 switcheroo. Busy is as busy does. And I was busy doin' so that 10/31 would have a most memorable ending. Think it worked out. I mean, I'm just sayin'.
Later,
Lorane. . . .
Saturday, October 29, 2011
The
 |
The Great Halloween
Counter-Plot
|
On an appropriately cool, dark night, damped with fog, a neighborhood of masked, midget marauders had prepared excitedly to march door-to-door seeking munchies and amusing assortments of fungibles in honor of All Hallows Eve. (They, however, had the date right.) Unbeknownst to these little revelers, a group of miscreants, armed with retaliatory mischief for the non-compliant, thwart/tort/pillage and loot our costumed innocents to secure provisions for the anticipated long ice-age ahead.
Their booty was to be stashed in an abandoned gazebo adjacent to the property that sported a marble likeness of King Neptune at the edge of its water-surrounded point. Its owner/plotter (OP) prized the piece along with his pool and winterized lanais. OP had a devious plan - indeed a tribute to HIS scientific acumen. Helium-filled, giant, colorful replicas of the King Neptune statue, the whimsical (and plentiful) mounted mermaids which graced the port city of Norfolk and the equally magical mounted mustangs that dotted the Outer Banks of Dare and Currituck Counties in North Carolina had been assembled and were at the ready.
When their 'originals had been safely enveloped within, nary a single costumed nubile would dare non-compliance if approached by these threateningly huge 'creatures'. Just as these artful originals were proudly mounted beautifying their surroundings, so, too had OP 'mounted' the details of his plot to undermine the plot of fortune-acquisition by the Trick-or-Treaters. Being the very soul of fairness, however, he planned to strip them of only half of their fun. His 'ghouls' would be fetching just the Treats.
The 'beauty'of this counter-plot was the beauty of these precious works of art plus the NICENESS of the NCIS detail which was already stealthily poking around the Hampton Roads area. They would rather destroy Abby's dog collar than demolish, nay, even dent this special statuary. Now, OP had created a potion that actually breathed life into statues, thus opening the door for OP to assemble his very own army of 'monument minions'.
With a thirty-five foot tall King Neptune doing his bidding, those little ones would 'hand over the chocolate and nobody gets hurt'. Talk about cooperation. As Coach Kathy Rush once said of failure, "Get out the winter clothes." In THIS instance, that would translate to "It will be a cold day in Hell if we ever let ourselves be so vulnerable that we have NO defense." Talk Radio hosts like Nancy on "How Do You Roll?" were flooded with calls from hysterical parents without a clue once OP's plot began. It was "tin-foil-hat" kind of stuff.
Nobody was wearing their tin foil hat which deflects dangerous rays that can lead to mind control and other mental distortions. That is why everyone believed they were seeing giant monument minions!
And at six PM, King Neptune and Company had inflated a reptilian-hued replica of the Monitor using OP's handyman's top-of-the-line compressor, got in, attached an outboard and motored down the Lynkhorn Bay to the Lynnhaven Bay whence they disembarked and disseminated. The mustangs hoofed along the city streets (land attack); the mermaids plunged in and swam through the maze of the perfectly-routed Tidewaters. (sea launch) OP, having memorized the routes of the new light rail (The Tide) in place at the time of the caper, bought the most efficient round-trip tickets and secreted them in King Neptune's crown.
King Nep was to ride The Tide and use his tine to pierce and nab booty as swiftly as his webbed feet would permit, securing it in his stash and carry, re-usable, 'green' net sac, then Tide back to rendezvous at the Gazebo point by nine PM before NCIS - now really rollin' to make good the kids' Halloween.
Then, OP/Master-mind would get to the business of deflation - sapping the air from the many Cammi-colored, ruses constructed for the occasion. BUT. Some pieces of the puzzle were lining up - contoured edges smooth and flush; traces of a mysterious contaminant were found and analyzed from the mustangs' droppings; spy photographs snapped the owner amid the rogue regiment at the gazebo executing mission orders: stockpile booty in gazebo storage trove.
The Wrap-Up
 |
| GOTCHA GHOUL!
|
Return All statuary to proper homes
Return to HQ
Write, file and submit report
SEALS: Dismiss: No such regional rampage. Prudent resolution in the face of a potential epic engagement. (Military town, after all.) SEALS then trekked through the icy night to The Tide Newtown Road Station to stand stolid and strong, facing East until the light rail project is completed.
COUNTER-PLOTTERS: Inspection of bounty
Ingestion of one selection
Irrigation
In bed at nine PM
PARENTS: Get out real winter clothes
Grope downstairs for exhausted treat
Go back upstairs:
"Honey, WHO lifted the kids' stuff?"
"Dunno. Gotta catch 'Bones'."
"Night."
"Night."
BLACKOUT
(Slow, eerie noise) "G-H-O-U-L N-I-G-H-T. . . ."
Later, Lorane. . . .
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)