ONE RINGY DINGY, ONE MILLION RINGY DINGIES. . .



OOPS  "Ringy" needs a dinghy.

          My   good readers,

As promised, when I happened upon this post in the light of day - which occurred two hours after publishing it - allowed as how I must re-visit and re- vise the text at the point - probably four A.M. - at which it began to deteriorate, ultimately achieving gibberish re: meaning/sense.  Blame it on the hour.  Nay, there is NO excuse, only a trip down 'polish lane' to expunge the inherited 'Polish literacy'.  It is hoped, those of you who attempted to follow my train of thought, only to have your analytic skill de-railed, might experience a more intelligible foray this evening.  Or not. L. . . .

      Pack up all your cares and woes.  Here we go - again - and I've got you covered.  My personal provenance classifies me, metaphorically, as a 'globe trotter'.  This because I grew up in NYC, a city steeped in its tradition and then marinated in a vast olio of cultures over, lo, these fifteen or so decades.  I therefore traveled - extensively, internationally - at a very early age.  The concept of 'foreign land' is alien to me.  I simply can't imagine the feeling of  'I've NEVER been HERE before'.
      To boot, I'm no stranger to 'reaching out' and 'touching someone'.  You see, I remember when we had pen pals, shared an exciting day with a friend, then placed it in an envelope and mailed it.  I was in 'touch' with my husband every day of his nine month deployment - still have the letters; he'd be rounding the Cape of Good Hope while I was rounding our checkbook balance UP; I met/got to know HIS dad, who'd been gone from us almost thirty years when, while clearing out the attic of the family home, one of his sisters and I found - color me red - and scanned the letters he had written to his wife while he was serving - as a surgeon -in the European theater during WWII.  We wrote thank you notes, 'dear Johns', 'bread and butters'; we commiserated with friends who were lonely, far away. Then.  Telephone arrived and we'd spend hours on the line - while doing - or getting Herald Trib answers to do - homework.
      The best way to really know someone is by reading their letters.  This voyeur got chummy with Hemingway, Thomas Jefferson, Clare Booth Luce, C. G. Jung, Jennie Churchill and, of course, my father-in-law through their personal writings.  Thoughts, feelings, opinions, beliefs - all flowed unimpeded, languidly, allowing time to craft, find JUST the right word.  Sharing.  Bare-ing.  Mind to mind.  Heart to heart.  It was personal, had a signature - the way t.s.elliot's 'signature' was lower cases; Fred Astaire's, a top hat and cane; Mae West's cup size; FDR's cigarette holder; Emily Post's white gloves and never-on-a-table elbows.
      You get the picture.  You were presented with 'the picture'.
      (We wrote to inform, announce, update.  Today, for example, I listened as a journalist 'told' us a story about whales in their huge, reflecting tanks in California.  The accompanying visuals served to enhance the 'plight' of these glistening leviathans, romping, splashing, jumping UP, diving DOWN, 'puttin' on the' skits for the grinning, droplet-dotted faces of kids of all ages who'd come JUST to watch them do THEIR thing. Rewarded by clapping, cheering, it was one big, wet story of an adventure, a celebration of sorts.  The personal sort.)
      These days, 02/08/12, for one, we continue to write to each other and to 'reach out' with Ma Bell.  But boy-oh-my - such is the admixture - it's a much bigger deal.  You have your 'friends' on Facebook, Google runs you around in 'circles', you 'connect' on Linkedin and you stream with WII - pronounced 'whee', not to be confused with 'the big one'.  And, it's in technicolor and stereophonic - no - make that 'wrap-around' sound and 'hi-def', a compensatory 'widget' to make up for the loss of hearing sequela from the 'wrap-around' sound - now ebbing.
      You've got the whole 'enchalada' right at your fingertips - or maybe you're 'all thumbs'.  Whatever.  You 'tweet', you 'Like' and you 'LOL' - and even if I've been deaf since birth and signing, I 'get it'.


ON AIR. NO COMMUNICATING

      (The 'whale thing' rapidly escalated into a scandal.  As if on cue - "cue the Wackos!" - a sizable, motley crew of representatives from that august body-sans-wit, notorious by the acronym, "P.E.T.A", landed on the calm shores of normalcy.  As the Head Quarters from which this steerage deploys is located not far enough from our home, we've - the community - come to know something of their tacticians and body lunatic.  They are 'People for the Equal Protection of Animals', I think, although in spirit, the hegemony of this sub-culture springs from its 'for-the-prevention-of-cruelty-to-animals' thematic underbelly.

      Not uncharacteristically, they were secretly ebullient while being ostensibly cacophonic and unattractive, albeit clothed - a decided improvement over some more urbane, barely-clad demonstrative displays of 'skin-not-to-be-contaminated-by-the-associated-dermatological-pustulitic-infestations-associated-with-the-donning-of-hides/pelts-of-sacrificed/tortured-mammals.  I've referenced this roiling reverie lest the reader come away with a negative impression of this most recent 'P.E.T.A.' debacle.

      Indeed, the outraged champions of 'Free-Willy-ism' and 'Let-Moby-Dick-Go-ism' actually added a 'je ne sais quoi' touch to an otherwise potentially pallid parade with their colorful placards of indignance.)

      By way of explanation/comparison, the hegemony of the 'e-culture' can best be elaborated upon by creating, if you will - or not - a virtual 'benchmark case', to wit: Conductivity v. Connectivity.  The underpinnings of the former generate a descriptive ability and the extent to which an element/object can transmit/carry something from point A to point B, said objects  being as disparate as messages, electric current, goods and even people - unless the individual's avoirdupois is preclusive! The latter, didactic in nature, is the ability to reach/communicate/inform using words, images and emotional overtones. 

      Presently, I would place into evidence "Plaintiff's Exhibit 1", the soon-to-be-released anthology, "Every Child is Entitled to Innocence", published by The Orangeberry Press.  All proceeds from the sale of this collection of poems and short stories are to be donated to Child Helpline International, an organization that physically provides support, IE, food, clothing, healing and any needed improvements in living conditions to underprivileged/abused children worldwide.  This organization's mission statement embraces/demonstrates Plaintiff's very definition and serves to render tangible meaning to the phrase "reach out and touch someone'.

      (The reason P.E.T.A aficionados were all a-whisper about this 'whale' thing detection was that under the guise of harmless entertainment - for the performers AND audience - what was clearly patent in their pristine tank was cold- blooded, heinous transgression of our nation's constitution in the form of SLAVERY.  Please, readers, scotch any notions of canard in my re-telling of this incident.  One simply CANNOT MAKE THIS STUFF UP. 

      Hard to believe, but the P.E.T. A. pundits were asking us to accept 'THE REALITY' of these insouciant performers-at-play: THEY WERE RESPONDING TO COMMANDS.  "More arc, Moby!", "Wiggle, Willy - or the whip!"  Yes, dear friends, their frolic was FRAUDULENT.)

      In its Opening Statement, Defense indicted itself by utilizing the vapid prediction that it would show how its didactic nature would purport to/succeed in alleviating the plight of these enslaved mammals. 

      Whereas Plaintiff, utilizing a 'non-living' instrument, would typically fail at breaking the chains on this bounty of bondage.  Thereafter, it would resort to a ruse of smoke and mirrors 'a la', "But we will deliver hope and inspiration to churlish children worldwide!" And the whales? "Well, uh, they don't read."

      At this juncture I can only suggest the plausibility of Summary Judgment for Plaintiff if only for pragmatic reasons.  To wit, whence Defendant's 'jury of whale peers'?  And the proposition of  'like/kind', thus allowing dolphins to comprise the panel, will be thrown out by prior case law, refuted but once mentioned in a dissent referencing the use of the human Miami Dolphins.

      Moreover, at what point will the Court permit the erection of the only container that will humanely present the enslaved whales?  Obviously, there can be no appearance without an appropriate tank and, given the severity of the charge, Defendant will be held in contempt if it cannot produce its only evidence - the fatal flaw in Defendant's nature.  And, reading previously taken sworn depositions at trial would be garbled at best but, if allowed, would insure that Plaintiff must prevail because these glorious specimens of contentment would categorically elide their denial of enslavement.

      (Connectivity, then, can only demonstrate, by revealing its superficial, ineffective nature re: correcting wrongs, that it is but a useless widget that is marketed brilliantly as an effective, substantive tool.  When asked to deliver, its diaphanous cape and cause will evaporate, leaving shreds of bare detritus to face the court of reality's wrath - an outcome more in keeping with P.E.T.A.'s previous pontifications.

      Conductivity, by contrast, as evidenced by its own Exhibit #1, will win the day as the anthology, "Every Child is Entitled to Innocence" finds its way into the tiny - previously empty - grasping hands of the very children it is prepared to help worldwide, as the channels open and the 'mana' of hope flows freely to its target.)

      Plaintiff rests.  Minutes later, the Court declares in Conductivity's favor.  Connectivity will bear all court costs and make appropriate restitution to the 'kind strangers' in California for the temporary monetary and, more significant, cultural losses suffered by its citizens.  Adjourned.

Once more, later, Lorane. . . .

Till the Cows Come Home

      So this lady walks into a day.  More accurately, for the second time since this 24-hour span was launched, the three am stroll-about thankfully not having taken, this same lady makes her entrance.  Having been married to a doctor for forty three years, she's had more dress rehearsals than Helen Hayes, so start-of-day-interrupted is by no means a novelty.  And, as is her wont of late, she is determined that TODAY, she will dispose of post prandial, post ritualistic putterings and platitudes with admirable dispatch and then proceed post haste to do her own bidding.  Nothing big, but a win nonetheless.  Winning is a habit.  So is losing. All together, now, readers, which habit does she want to go for?
      One of my - OK, I'm 'the lady' - Peri-prandial putterings is doing the daily crossword puzzle - in ink.  And there's no 'pinning of a rose on the nose' of people who do crosswords in ink.  It's just as easy to alter inked mistakes as it is those pencil-penned.  In fact, it's less time-consuming.  One of today's correct responses to 'Arizona Indians' was H-O-P-I.  Even as I printed the letters I felt a grin coming on.
      (Must have been thirty one years ago.  I was gestating cum matriculating, indeed walking the two miles to the university, and, ever the sedulous student, was immersed in the research for my current class - one of the many in which I enrolled to ultimately receive the coveted, relatively new "Certificate in Jungian Studies".  This class was focused on archetypes which Dr. Jung held were paradigms of a sort, cousin to the more familiar prototype, but inhabitants of the unconscious world.  Albeit not readily accessible, they nevertheless exerted considerable control on one's personality type.  When applied to a group, they were referred to as "collective" and assisted one in analyzing, describing, understanding groups, like cultures.)
      Aware of at least two tasks left over from yesterday - editing an important letter one of our daughters was submitting and filling out an evaluation form I'd received from a medical center recently visited in Pittsburgh - I vowed once those promises were kept, it would be win/win day for this lusting-for-fulfillment-lady.  Intrepid though interruptions can be, THIS lady, like Lola, was going to get what she wanted - uninterrupted time to romp with and record thoughts, memories, observations, commentary whatever direction cagey Calliope indicated. 
      In fact, I was acutely aware of Calliope's restlessness.  Just last night, as I was commenting on a friend's post, she inserted her quill, de-inked my ball point, paralyzed my pecking fingers - resulting in a rather artfully phrased passage, one that could rise to the level of 'poetic' had it been a more protracted piece.  And I'm sure I don't have to tell you - but I will - just as with Superman, you don't tug on Calliope's cape.  Today, then, is reserved for composition.  I shall write till the cows come home, as the saying goes.  
 Then why was I getting the distinct feeling that it
didn't look like the cows were coming home any time soon?
      (After reviewing the list of choices of the cultural archetypes the prof had provided, I had decided I didn't like any of them.  So I asked permission to - utilizing Dr. Jung's blueprint, of course - 'create' one by combining several of his most colorful.  I called my archetype "IT" and focused on the culture of the Roaring Twenties, using the Trickster, the Child and the feminine, Anima.  On the day we were discussing titling our masterpieces, I was toying with "Re: Marx" v. "Syncopation and Sin-crony-city" when I  noticed a friend, seated close by, who seemed conflicted to the point of near tears.  I sidled over to her and asked how the title 'thing' was going. 
      Her selected culture was the Hopi Indian tribe and the archetype of the masculine, "Animus".  Recently returned from a vacation with her husband in the Himalayas, she'd been struck by Hopi 'footprints' in that region as impressing as those she'd researched in South America and Mexico.  She was therefore determined to incorporate this "element of the third" into her title and it just wasn't working. I wanted to put her out of her misery - especially since she obviously had no clue as to Jung's notion of "the third" - and brighten her day so I blurted, "Got it!"  She tried to focus her 'blank-tape' eyes on me but those brimming tears were a-bloomin' so I rushed in with "How about, ready?"  Nothing.  "It's perfect, Ann."  I was losing her, so, enunciating with robotic pauses, I mouthed, "Ho-pi-Springs-E-ter-nal". What with finding the little rascals in three huge regions, having exerted mega influence in each, was-there-a-CHOICE?  Help me here, dear reader.  Ann 'shut off' "Re: Me" faster than the "light on Daisy's dock".  Daresay, this 'old sport' could have used a shot of bathtub gin.)
      My penchant for tidiness was the next undoing, IE, doing the writing thing.  Computer on, signed in to access blog site, I - the devil's always busy - checked my email.  You know how it piles up and I'm waiting for an important reply from a doctor in Istanbul - no time to explain - so I checked, downloaded my daughter's letter, but before I could hit the "save" key, I saw it.  A new, talented, friend with whom I've fallen into a rather serious and emotional discourse, had sent a reply.  Well I had to open it.  She lives in Italy.  Something urgent may have happened hours ago that needed addressing. 
      I did and it had - in Bari - and address was executed.  She had posed follow-up questions to aid her in doing ME a favor.  You tell me.  Does one dare say, "Jeez!  I was just gonna create."  No, one responds in kind with answers and Asti Spumanti, if you have.  The issue involved my mother, no less.  A face-off between Mom and Calliope.  Not pretty.  On top of that, the questions involved some geography and I could feel my brain cells going cold.  "Like sand through the hour glass, so" were my thoughts pouring on the rocks, then whipping into a blended frostee.  'Mixed-metaphor-mind', I believe it's called, but I'm not sure. Time frozen.  That's not a cow, is it?  They DIDN'T come home.  They sent a bear.

On ice.  See what happens when you tug on - you know-who's - cape?  No bathtub gin for this lady today.  They're only serving 'cold shoulder'.  Gotta pass. Bad for my circulation.  Can't connect.  No friends here.  Will have to relate - Later, Lorane. . . .

Last Seen Wearing Thin: EXCITING STUFF

Last Seen Wearing Thin: EXCITING STUFF

EXCITING STUFF

      One can never be too early when delivering good news.  And this is a bona fide "Special D".

Every Child is Entitled to Innocence will be the first publication of the newly-formed Orangeberry Publishing Group. Due to release on February 14th, profits from the sales of this e-book will be donated to Child Helpline International.

Says initiator of the project, Dr. Niamh Clune, “I met many writers through the Internet that experienced difficult childhoods yet have overcome their brutal beginnings. I wanted to make the first Orangeberry publication a celebration of  creative imagination. This powerful friend of damaged children plays an essential role in an abused child’s recovery. Gathering this series of stories was a joy. Orangeberry Books has developed special, vibrant relationships with contributors and has forged many lasting friendships.”
We encouraged happy stories that reflected the innocence of childhood when infants feel wrapped in the warmth of loving arms. We wanted to contrast these with the sad ones, making them stand out in relief against a bright backdrop. We felt this comparison would demonstrate, without explanation, what happens when innocence is stolen.
In this book, the reader will find many wonderful, heart-warming stories; whilst the sad ones demonstrate the magnificence of the human spirit as it triumphs against all the odds.
Executive Editor, Karen S. Elliott stated, “While I looked at all the stories in the Every Child anthology, I edited only a few. I thought it was important, for this time, that the writers be able to express the heartbreak and joy of childhoods past without censorship.”
Spokesperson for Orangeberry Books, Niamh Clune, explained how The Orangeberry Group is at the vanguard of a new wave of Internet publishing companies. Orangeberry aims to put quality first and bring exciting, exceptionally talented authors to the reader’s attention. Its focus is not on commercialism, but on quality, beautifully written, well-told stories. Orangeberry will also publish poetry. A further aim of the publishing company is to bring a collection of exceptional artists from across many different art disciplines to collaborate on projects in a personal, hands-on, mutually supportive manner.
The motto of the company is, ‘Paying it Forward.’ The company relies on a well-developed social network, the dedication of the core team members, their talent and enthusiasm coupled with a socially entrepreneurial spirit.
        (I've been lucky to have made the acquaintance of some 'luminaries' in my time. Like the legendary actor Pat O'Brien and his lovely wife, "My Favorite Martian", Alan Seuss and the deeply sensitive, exceptional athlete and Olympic champion diver, Greg Luganus.  But getting to know - via email and the reading of their art - the contributors in this anthology, well let's just say I'm the only person here I've never heard of.)
      The spark of this creative literary pyrotechnical array, our own Niamh Clune, labored tirelessly, and coordinated brilliantly to deliver children of yore to children of now-in-need-of-a-way-out.  My own sharing from the shores of the East River circa 1950s is prototypical of the 'gotta-get-out' syndrome.  Back then, I felt caught in the flypaper of life.  Five or so decades later, however, I'm in 'swat mode' and proud of it.

And this book is 'apple pie a-la-mode' - an oh-so-just-dessert - served up in a way that tingles and touches the taste buds of the oh-so-deserving

       little readers/listeners of tales read aloud.  Tales not full of sound and fury, symbolizing nothing, by idiots who strut and fret their hour upon the stage and then are heard no more.  Hardly.  They are told by loving new friends whose tales are filled with quiet love and meaning that will tip toe through your dreams and hopes - always.
 Later (or hopefully Sooner), Lorane. . . .

Last Seen Wearing Thin: Nary a Word was Spoken

Last Seen Wearing Thin: Nary a Word was Spoken: Just got a wonderful-scary-Enuff!-info-mail from a dear friend. It was a Public Service type of info-sharing dealing with "Smart Phon...

COMMUNICATE: VERB? NOUN? ACTIVITY? WHAT?

      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. . . .

"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
     
                  

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. . . .

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. . . .
     

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.

Color me Coping

      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.

Sooner. L. . . .

PRIORITIES

      You know there's an ad on TV these days featuring a character called "Mayhem" which I used to find amusing.  Not so much - since he's moved into our house.  Ever feel like you're wildly spinning your wheels but getting nowhere?  I set specific days on which I'm to accomplish specific chores - NO diversions. Discipline. Just one-foot-after-the-other kind of lock-step organization. Then guess I didn't do enough 'focus work' or maybe just didn't plan ahead.  Because I'm barely approaching specific chore #1 and it's time to start dinner.  Feel like I'm losing my grip.  Too many distractions; too weak; subconsciously piqued because TR is relaxing with a book before dinner-walk-dog-sip-wine-put-talking-heads-sports-on-TV time.

Bandito

      (And I refuse to be petty - who has time? - but as the restful eventide progresses for TR, the sound, no, cacophonic 60-cycle interference, increases.  TV volume: UP. Open-mouthed chip-crunching: louder. Not intentionally, of course.  But when that "Burrito Bandito" gets a'chompin', you need those visual quotes from the 'silents' or maybe a signing translator because you certainly can't HEAR the thing over the reclining rock-fall going on at the head of the bed. So big deal, you say.  Grab a book, do a crossword, whatever. Rest up before morning grabs you and catapults you into specific chore day # 2.  Better yet. Make a LIST. And I did.)
      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

                                double play executed in 1910 when these three Chicago Cubs forced a New York Giant to hit into a double play. Symbolic today, like "smooth radio" or "fit as a fiddle" meaning a performance par excellance.  For me, it's just the ole 'chore-checkin'-chill'.  Now I don't have to tell you, dear reader, what you can get done when you know there's a giant, fat carrot waitin' for Mr. Ed when you've DONE it - if you get my drift.

      As productive as list-making, multi-tasking is yet another chore knocking-off enhancer.  And, unlike 'back in the day', we're given all manner of e-assists, like our smart phones and computers.  No more quills or carrier pigeons.  Just today I was working from my list AND multi-tasking simultaneously. Amazing!  
      (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. 

      List check: fax doctor re: incomplete bone density report sent to ortho doc.  I scribbled a mini-list of info he'd need - dates especially - and got to the keyboard.  Calender at my side, I flipped back to October.  Appt. w/ him 10/27; bone density 11/08; appt. w/ ortho 11/10.  EYES TO BRAIN: Tomorrow is the 31st! Veterans' pick-up must have been Friday!  Have to call them. Number on the bags. I'll just walk out there and get the number. Another multi-task! Exercise plus airing out Mom's old winter car coat. It IS almost December.

      Back at my post, I called, leaving long, desperate-sounding message about getting pick-up day wrong-but-clothes-out-on-street-getting-cold-donees-need-them-p/s-call-for-special-pick-up. Back to doc's fax.  Typing the timeline, I double-checked the dates.  What ho! OCTOBER 31 was a MONDAY. Tomorrow is 11/28, the scheduled day.  Stop typing.  Dial, leaving a follow up 'silly-me' message instructing the sainted listener to just forget about my previous call.  Everything's jake. No joke, and I hung up SO thankful that TR wasn't going to hear "Would you mind bringing those bags back in?" Finishing the fax and making a copy for the ortho, I wondered what  listener thought of caller.)
      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. . . .
     



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.