Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be lawyers...

I don't have much use for the alumni publications I get from Syracuse.

One, I don't go there any more, and know no one who does, so I have no stake in the new building they're constructing on their Disney-fied version of a college campus, no interest in the programs sending freshmen overseas, don't care who is now a sitting professor in the College of Take-Your-Money-And-Give-You-Kids-Who-Don't-Know-Shit. (which is not how it used to be, so Mom, Dad, no, I did find my four years there a valuable and educational experience...)

Two, I resent the fact that if I DID send in any alumni contributions (come on, what do you think they use them for?), they'd mostly go toward producing the several slick, oversized, five color extravaganzas I receive in the mail every quarter or so. Plus all of the salaries of everyone on the masthead.

What I am interested in is that section in the back where alum can write in little blurbs about what they're doing now, that they've married Buffy or Biff or finally learned to read. Along with a little photo, that, while there are some that are really creatively shot, most are the standard top-of-the-balding-head-to-the-bottom-of-the-necktie bio shots.

Come on. Don't tell me you don't go there, too. It's like watching NASCAR for the accidents or Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan for, well, any move they might make.

Yes, it's potentially destructive and definitely cynical (there is a study going that says that people who are cynical die earlier than their more positive-minded counterparts, but, hey, if you're cynical, you already knew that, didn't you?) but I often compare people's bios to where I am in my own life. And the women - well, I just have to see if they're aging faster than I am.

And no, it's not fair that I graduated with Vanessa Williams. And it's definitely not fair that I torment my poor husband about it when we're watching Ugly Betty:

Me: We're the same age, you know. She was in my Art History class.
Him: Yeah, you tell me all the time.
Me: I don't look older than she does, do I?
Him: (silence)

Which is probably the smartest thing he could have said.

But anyway, I opened my latest "How are we spending your alumni contributions now" publication, flipped to the back and BAM! There's a blurb (with photo!) of the first guy I kissed at SU. We met at a party. He was adorable, with curly hair and eyes like Bambi. Picture that guy from Scrubs with a faux 'fro (hey, it was the late 70s). We met at one of those spontaneous dorm parties that spread like mold during that first week or so of school. He tried to get me drunk on Pink Champale. One kiss was as far as we got and I never hung out with him again, as we both quickly discovered that we had nothing in common except being away from home for the first time. We greeted each other with embarrassed grunts whenever we passed in the halls, which gradually petered out to no contact whatsoever.

But oh, my god, this picture! He's a lawyer (which I never would have predicted - CPA, maybe, but not a lawyer), just joined some new firm in New Jersey. I tried reading between the lines...hmm, simply joining a new firm, not a partner, what happened at the old firm...(it's a joy to be a writer sometimes...) Perhaps he tried to get some intern drunk on Pink Champale...and then the photo! I'm sorry to say the years have not been kind. I looked for the adorable eighteen year old in there and...nope. Couldn't see a whit of it. This guy looked like a shoe salesman from Long Island. (not meaning, of course, to disparage the shoe salesmen from Long Island)

I'm hoping it was a bad photo.

Or a misprint.

I just don't like knowing that the first guy I kissed when I was away from home for the first time became a lawyer.

It could have been worse, I suppose.

We could have missed each other entirely at that party. Then I wouldn't have the memory at all of this pure moment, the sweet deliriousness of being partially tipsy at my first college party and the cutest guy in the room kisses me, not some mega-babe, which of course meant that life was perfect and I belonged.

Even if he did turn out to be a lawyer with an overbite.

And I DO think that I don't look any older than Vanessa Williams.

No matter what my husband doesn't say.

Do The "Seven Dirty Words" Still Matter?

Words have always fascinated me. Particularly the contexts in which you can say certain words and can't say others. This started in childhood, with some very interesting discrepancies on my parents' part (remind me to tell you that story later.) But I really got hooked into it when I swiped my father's copy (or was of my brothers?) of George Carlin's "Seven Words You Can't Say On Television."

And with that, a writer was born. At least one who appreciates the power and hidden meanings behind words. I learned that if the context was correct, you could get away with practically anything. Even on television.

But lately, it's getting ridiculous. Like the little man at the bleeper switch has fallen asleep. Or, wakes up and shaking himself into consciousness, realizes he better start making an example of somebody so he can justify his existence. (or make up for the ones that got away)

Will the FCC get its act in gear already? We seem to have a consistency problem. I'm no prude, and by now I've heard every single word there is to say and then some, including some very creative combinations.

But what they allow to be said on TV makes no sense whatsoever.

I think it all started with "NYPD Blue," with David Caruso's bare buttocks. It proved that not only could you say "ass" on network television after a certain time, you could even show them. (As long it was a was a tasteful glimpse - and believe me, even a tasteful glimpse of Caruso's hindquarters is nowhere near my list of the "thousand things I want to see before I die.")

Then the boundaries began to blur. I've seen some shows lately where you could say the word "penis," but couldn't say (except you could imply, by careful use of euphemisms) its function. But I've yet to see a TV program where you could say the word "vagina," except in the context of the play, "The Vagina Monologues." (an interesting aside: my text-to-speech program recognized "penis" immediately but I had to teach it how to say "vagina." Twice, in fact)

And there are some words - those that describe the scatological functions - that, although they may not be uttered, can be creatively described or inferred by their euphemisms. Everybody knows what you're talking about although the actual word cannot be said. So what's the big deal about saying the actual word? Would it kill anyone? Would any child actually be scarred for life? Many years ago, you couldn't say "pregnant" on television. You could say, "expecting." You could say "with child." For Christ’s sake. TV couples slept in separate beds. Which made me wonder how the wife got to be "expecting" at all.

It's just stupid, and an insult to our intelligence.

An argument may be that it lowers the level of the conversation. Have these people actually watched television lately? Could the level of the conversation get any lower?

Some of the more inane examples I've heard lately:

--You can say boobs, knockers, headlights, any number of clever euphemisms for the female mammary glands, but you still can't say "tits." But isn't that just another euphemism? Why is this one forbidden? Also, you can say "breast," but only in the context of their biological function or if it relates to cancer.

--You can say any number of the thousands of euphemisms for the procreative act. You can even show it, after a certain hour. Yet the "f" bomb is just that - something that will bring the censors down on you like it's the Blitz and you're London. Yet everyone over the age of, say eleven or so, knows exactly what you're referring to.

Yet avoiding these certain words does allow for a vast world of creativity. I’m willing to bet that the English language has just as many expressions for the procreative act than Yiddish has for lack of intelligence or that Inuit has for snow.

Which proves what is most important around here.

If it’s that important, why can’t we just call it what it is, and get over ourselves already?

Can You Put A Price On Integrity?

I know I'm late to weigh in on this, but I'm still rankled by the September 14th scandal in which the New England Patriots" Bill Belichick was found to be spying on his opponents defensive signals using video tape from the sidelines.

So much for "America's Team." So much for Tom Brady as "America's Quarterback." The supposed "best" team in football has to cheat in order to win against... the JETS?

Come on. The lowliest ranked NCAA team could probably stomp the Jets into the sod and Belichick needs to cheat against them?

OK. They didn't get off completely scot-free (or, as will probably wind up in the American lexicon "O. J.'d it). They were fined $750,000 ($500,000 was to come from Belichick personally) and they lost a draft pick for next season. And they got the mildest slap on the wrist (it was more like a disappointed eye-roll) from Commissioner Roger Goodell.

"This episode represents a calculated and deliberate attempt to avoid longstanding rules designed to encourage fair play and promote honest competition on the playing field," Goodell said in a letter to the Patriots.

He said he considered suspending Belichick but didn't "largely because I believe that the discipline I am imposing of a maximum fine and forfeiture of a first-round draft choice, or multiple draft choices, is in fact more significant and long-lasting, and therefore more effective, than a suspension."

Who says? A guy whose interest it's in NOT to sideline the winningest coach of the winningest team that gives the NFL the most winningest pile of green?

It's not good enough. A token suspension at least, at the very very least, they should have had to forfeit the game to the Jets.

Anything to cut "Mean Green" a break.

I've seen a few peevish editorials, a few letters from a few angry fans, but the following Sunday, it was back to business as usual. Tom Brady looked tall in the saddle and the Patriots went on winning and nothing more was said.

So is this the way it's going to work, now? If you put asses in the seats, if you throw enough money at the problem, it simply goes away? If Pete Rose coughs up enough to build a Cal Ripkin wing onto the Cooperstown museum, will he be allowed into the Hall of Fame? If Michael Vick makes a 750G donation to the ASPCA will he be back in the pocket the following Sunday?

It's wrong. All of it's wrong. Apparently we're going down a cash-laden path that tells kids that it's OK to lie, cheat, steal, and make animals fight each other as long as you were previously almost a living legend. Then you can just write a check and look appropriately ashamed for as long as it takes to get a few sound bites out for ESPN.

Now the Pats are cracking down on scalpers who use StubHub to get money for their tickets. Probably most of these scalpers are season-ticket holders trying to unload seats they won't be using. Way to go, Pats. Take it out on the fans who help pay your inflated salaries.

But damned sure that if any of them are caught, they won't be able to simply write a check and walk away smiling

They might have to actually (gulp) suffer lasting consequences of their actions.

"Oh, Brave New World..."

Just for fun, I've been rereading the classics that I was made to study in school. Hopefully now, without having to write essays about metaphors and such, I can simply sit back and enjoy them.

First up is "Brave New World." And it is sending chills up my spine. Almost seventy years later, the book not only still holds up, but is creepily prescient. The world that Huxley imagined is upon us. The cult of the automobile. Promiscuity. In-vitro fertilization. Genetic Engineering. Aromatherapy. There is even a drug named "Soma," (which muffles signals from the central nervous system) but it might as well have been reality shows. Or Starbucks. Or all the ways that society has engineered to keep us distracted and happy.

It's a vision of the future that, while arguably has come as true as 1984, is a little more spot on.

I'll let you know what's on the table next.

While not a classic, I just finished reading a little book titled "Conservatize Me," By John Moe. It's a bit of a spoof on the documentary from a few years ago, "Super Size Me," but in this version, Mr. Moe crafts his 30-day experiment as follows: a self-described liberal democrat who works for a public radio station in Seattle immerses himself into the "conservative" world, to see if he can make himself become conservative by osmosis. It's a bit stereotypical - meaning that in choosing his influences he shops at Wal-Mart, listens to Country/Western music, learns to shoot a gun, and changes his brand of beer, just for starters.

If you care to read it, I won't spoil the ending. But as he went upon his journey, actually talking to conservatives, reading their books, and living (his version) of their lives, he actually ended up in a less stereotypical place then I thought he would.

Overall, this was an amusing journey.

My Grandmother

I didn't want to go another day without mentioning my grandmother, who passed away last week at the age of 96, mercifully after a brief illness. She managed to evade the two things she feared most about getting old: going senile and being put in a nursing home (she only had to go as far as moving into an assisted living facililty.) She had all her marbles, up until the end. Just two weeks ago, at my mother's wedding, we passed the phone around, and she was wisecracking with Husband:

"So, Grandma, when are you getting remarried?" he asked.
"Hah," she said. "You should see what's here."

On Sunday, she was laid to rest in Miami, next to her husband, Phil, who died when I was five and predeceased her by over 40 years. What a long time to be away from someone you love. I can only imagine the conversations they are having now (if such things happen).

Him, smirking, taking the cigar from his mouth: "So, Yetta, what took you so long?"
Her, giving him a playful smack: "It's your fault for leaving so soon?"
Him: "Did you have a nice life, a good life?"
Her, smiling: "Yes. A lovely life."
Him: "You'll show me the pictures. But not just yet. Come on. We need a fourth for bridge."

I wasn't at the service, although I sent along something for my brother to read. But there will never be enough words to tell what she meant to me and how she influenced my life and how much I loved her. Words are weak conductors of feelings, but sometimes they are all we have, and sometimes there are no words at all.

This is what I offered:

I have so many memories of the ways that Grandma Yetta enriched my life that it’s hard to choose which ones to share.

She expanded my cooking repertoire. She made me beautiful scarves and sweaters (and one my favorite dresses), taught me how to knit and crochet (even though I promptly forgot how), but mostly what I remember is her wonderful sense of humor.

When I was a child, and Grandma came to visit, my younger brother and I loved to play tricks on her. During the 60s and early 70s, family cars had back seats with humps in the middle, which, if you had more than the standard 2.4 children, started many an argument about who got stuck sitting on that seat. My brother and I had a little routine that we used on Grandma on trips when my older brother didn’t come with us. We’d make a big show of letting her get in first to the backseat, then I would get it after her, but my brother would run around to the other side of the car and get in, leaving her to sit on the hump, and she would laugh and laugh with that wonderful cackle of hers, yet she kept letting us do that to her each time we got in the car.

But my favorite story, and one that I might have told some of you already, was one summer when Grandma was visiting. We were walking along the streets of Poughkeepsie to meet my mother after work. I was about 16 or so, and one of the fashions of the time was Danskin wrap skirts. I was wearing mine and it was a rather windy day. So I discretely held the flap in place so I wouldn’t expose myself.

Grandma turned to me and said, “Honey, if I was your age, I’d wear red panties and let the wind blow.”

If nothing else, at least I got someone to say "panties" at a funeral.

I think Grandma would have gotten a good laugh out of that.

Fun With Typos

I love to collect typos: call it an editor's enthusiasm, call it OCD, but at the very least, call it fun. And a constant reminder that computer spell-checks are stupid.

This, from a flyer I received from a massage therapist:

"It is estimated that $85 BILLION a year is spent directly and indirectly on treading low back pain." (wow, no wonder we all hurt so much with all that treading upon our lower backs...)

"Low Back Pain is Devastating! You are in constant pain, always shifting your weight to take the pressure off your lower back (and, I assume, from all that treading...). Standing, sitting or even lying in bed doesn't seem to ease the pain. When all else fails you turn to a bottle of pain killers. Knowing full well the affects oral medication has on your lover and gastrointestinal track." (um...uh...this is a family blog so when I see "oral" and "lover" in the same sentence the censors here in Opusville get a little nervous. But feel free to write your own joke.)

The Bride Buys A Book... The Bride Buys A Book

I had the privilege and honor to attend my mother's third wedding ceremony last weekend (since I missed the first one and all).

It warmed my heart to see the bride and groom so happy and to be with them as they shared that joy with our combined families.

You never know quite what's going to happen when two families are joined by a pair of wedding bands and a pair of hearts, but I can say that there is one thing that most of us have in common.

As the ceremony in the Brooklyn gallery ended early, and the restaurant where we were to have the reception was not quite ready for the two-dozen or so of us, we had some time to kill. My new sister in law, a very talented artist, who together with her husband, the groom's son, arranged most of the details - said the eight words that are like music to my heart: "who wants to go to Barnes and Noble?"

Not a single dissenting voice was heard.

And with that, we decided, that a new wedding tradition had been formed: the ceremonial tour of a local book store. (And I won't say which one of us took the opportunity to use the stop for some last-minute wedding gift shopping.)

All and all, it was a beautiful afternoon (adorned with two adorable flower girls). I stand (or sit, as the case may be)humbled at the courage my mother and her beloved have shown in this simple but powerful act of trusting their hearts to each other.

Congratulations and Mazel Tov and welcome to the family!

Not another season of Survivor...

I know I know, I skipped over many more important topics to blog about (yes, there will be a wedding blog, when I get some pictures), but last night something really ruffled my feathers.

It happened when I was watching Survivor. I know, it’s gotta be like the twenty third season already, but I still watch because it’s fun brain dead TV, and this one is set in China.

If you’ve never watched, each season begins with the introduction of all of the Survivor contestants, and shows them making the transition from regular life to the Spartan Survivor camps.

And I don’t know where they get these people, but inevitably, there’s always a handful who come completely unprepared and act as if they have never seen the show before in their lives. You think that if you were going on a TV show to win a million dollars that you would want to have some kind of idea what you’re getting yourself into.

Particularly, what you should be wearing. You have got to know that no matter what kind of luggage you are bringing along (or are asked to bring along), inevitably you will be told that from here on in you will go to your camp with nothing but the clothes on your back.

The girls are the worst. One came in a mini skirt and motorcycle boots. One, a self confessed “city girl,” hated everyone and, came wearing full-on makeup, a skimpy top with no bra and flat thong sandals.

I’d vote her off for stupidity alone.

But then again, I’m watching the show, so who can I claim is more stupid?

Yet if I were going on (and I’m not, as I’d never make it past the opening credits, if I got that far), I’d start with Under Armor bike shorts and a sports bra. Layer that with a quick-drying t-shirt, rain-resistant overshirt, work pants, running shoes that I can wear with or without socks, and, of course, a hat.

Of course I’m a sensible sort.

My vote for this season is on the gay Mormon flight attendant. Because surely anyone in that position could use a million dollars.

Is that an iliac crest in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

No offense meant to the men in my audience, but male authors write lousy sex scenes. Especially Tom Wolfe. I’m sorry, but reading the words “iliac crest” and “pectoral sheath” as the romantic leads are getting busy is about as sexy as reading the Congressional Quarterly.

I’m having the most marvelous time mocking the prose of his latest, “I Am Charlotte Simmons.” I picked it up at Barnes & Noble, because it was remaindered and because I have a weakness for fat novels. And I finally got around to reading it.

I’ve read other male authors who seem to be suffering from the same problem. They have a great set up. They have great characters. They have prose to die for. But when a sex scene looms, they either pan up into the trees or go about it as clumsily as an anatomy lesson. In fact I believe that the contest held every year for the worst sex scene in literature has been won by a male author. Philip Roth and Salmon Rushdie have won, and in 2004 Tom Wolfe garnered the dubious honor for “…Charlotte Simmons.”

Here is an example of one of his “winning” passages:

“Slither slither slither slither went the tongue, but the hand that was what she tried to concentrate on, the hand, since it has the entire terrain of her torso to explore and not just the otorhinolaryngological caverns.

Oh God, it was not just at the border where the flesh of the breast joins the pectoral sheath of the chest no, the hand was cupping her entire right - Now! She must say 'No, Hoyt' and talk to him like a dog...”

It only goes downhill (or, as he might say, a slither on the southbound express to her iliac crest) from there.

My solution for these well-meaning men? Hire a woman to write your sex scenes. At the very least, have one of the XX persuasion read it for you and comment. If she either laughs or falls asleep, that’s not good.

And Many Returns...

It’s odd, the feeling of being back in my room again. It’s not an unfamiliar place, as I’ve written in here for many years before, but it’s different this time.

The only thing I’ve been able to concretely put my finger on is that I’m approaching this space after an extended period of writer’s block. I had my occasional days where the characters weren’t doing what I wanted, or the plot was not quite working out as I planned, but I don’t think I’ve experienced anything that’s commonly referred to as writer’s block. (See, those of you in my writers group who tease me about my prolific tendencies, you’re not the only ones.)

It’s not that I’ve been trying to write and failing to come up with anything but an empty page, or screen, it’s that I haven’t felt driven to write much at all. I’m hanging my hat on faith - faith that I’m only at the bottom of a dry well that will once again fill. Or that someday soon, I’ll wake from this magic spell, and my characters will be there again, clamoring to tell their stories. Oh, do I miss that! (as are several others who are waiting for the next installment) That feeling of wanting to jump out of bed and get to my novel, that feeling of going to sleep at night knowing I had put in a good days work, and knowing where I had to start again the next day.

Ironically, I’m the one who’s fond of telling other writers that (supposedly) Michael Crichton told an interviewer that the secret of writing is butt to chair; that is, get yon buttocks hither into yon chair. But I’m finding it much more satisfying to feather my old-but-new-again little nest – to get the keyboard and monitor at the right height, to find a proper footrest (Norton’s “Encyclopedia of Literature” – is that blasphemy?), to place my mug o’pens within arm’s reach, ditto the wireless mouse and the copy stand, to dust off my baseball bobble-heads and stuffed penguins.

Is it good enough to be close to one’s chair during this process? Sigh. I guess it’s not the same thing.

But here I am, having sat mine posterior end in the heretofore mentioned writer’s throne, waiting…waiting…waiting.

I’m leaning more toward Woody Allen’s secret to success. That 99% of luck is simply showing up.

Or so they say.

(PS: and for those of you who are interested, I typed the last five paragraphs of this blog, using my actual fingers on my actual keyboard. So begins the return…and keep your fingers crossed)

Exercises for Women of a Certain Age

Yes, it's one of those hard facts of life that none of us wants to deal with, but we women of a certain age sometimes have to work a little harder to burn off the same number of calories as we used to. Here are just a few ways you can add more exercise into your daily life:

Where Did I Park My Car-dio

This is one of my favorites. Forgetting where you parked your car, especially in any giant box store parking lot, is an excellent way to add more exercise to your routine. I've been known to walk at least half a mile out of my way just to find my vehicle. For beginners, you may want to tie a very bright piece of clothing to your antenna to make it easier, and as you progress, you can either make this color less apparent, or feel the burn by removing the article completely.

The "I Missed My Turn" Upper Body Workout

I don't know about you, but those little brain blips often cause me to do things like miss my turn, find myself going in the wrong direction, etc. I've found that wrenching the wheel around to get where I'm supposed to be going really works those arms and shoulders, especially when I'm doing an 18-point turn on a side road or in somebody's driveway. The more garden gnomes or flower beds or other decorative frou-frou to avoid, the better. For the beginner, try a simple U - turn on any three lane highway.

The "Why Am I Here?" Dash

No need to be embarrassed about it - we all do it (some of us more than others). We find ourselves in a room of our abode and wonder why we came in there and what were we looking for in the first place. Don't fret and think you're losing your mind - use your mental lapse as an opportunity to get more exercise! When you find yourself in the wrong room, instead of scolding yourself, just dash to the next. Burn more calories by dragging a vacuum cleaner or bucket of cleaning supplies along with you. This exercise can also be used when you find yourself putting something in to the freezer when you intended to put it into the microwave, or socks into the garbage instead of the hamper. Use thse hidden opportunities to get a good stretch.

So be creative - instead of fretting about those little menopausal moments, use them to shape up! And don't forget, each hot flash burns at least 100 calories.

Moving day...

Tomorrow, perhaps I’ll the funnier, but today, I’m reclaiming my Space.

With that I mean my writing room. Since Husband was the one who was using the fancy computer, the fancy scanner, and the fancy drawing tablet more frequently than I was, I let him have the use of the Space, while I had moved my command control center to the kitchen table.

The arrangements have been made. The shiny new workstation stands twinkling in the corner of Husband’s studio. All his equipment in a nice shiny row.

Even though my Space is not yet exactly a “turnkey” operation, today I moved the first piece of my equipment – my keyboard – back into my new old home.

It looked a little lonely there – of course most of the diagonal desk had been taken up by a big ass monitor – but when I get everything else set up, I will make it mine again.

I feel like I should have some kind of ceremony, a ritual, something to commemorate the occasion. A room-warming, if you will. Flowers don’t quite cut it – while they’re beautiful, sometimes they make me sneeze. A fresh coat of paint? It’s already painted the color I like – a nice, soothing shade of pink. Some art on the walls? I already have some prints up that I like – a framed movie poster from “Picasso,” another from “Casablanca,” and the room is too small to take on too much more. Plus sometimes I like looking up and seeing a broad expanse of soothing pink, just to clear my head.

Speaking of clearing my head, perhaps I’ll light a few sage candles and intone passages from Virginia Woolf. Paint my face and do a ritual dance or two.

I’m open to suggestions…

Didn't miss a thing...or did I?

Just flew in from paradise and boy, are my wings tired.

I suppose that among various problems one could have, spa withdrawal is one of the better ones.

After having wonderful meals ready and waiting for you, hot tubs and massage therapists and every kind of exercise possibility at your disposal, it's a little tough to go back to the real world.

Reentry has been difficult. But I think I can handle it.

I learned several things about myself. One, I can physically handle more then I thought I could. Two, I'm not alone. And three, for christ sake I need to lighten up a little.

One thing I took away from the experience is that for the good of my soul, I need to take more walks in the woods. I never realized the subtle power of letting nature clear your head and soothe your psychic wounds.

Now back to our regularly scheduled program.

No offense to those of you in the media business, but for five days I didn't so much as pick up the newspaper, watch news on television, listen to the radio, or cruise the Internet. And you know what? Nothing has changed. I figured as much. I figured that when I remerged, the war would still be going on, the media and the majority of the American public would still hate Bush, and things would still be blowing up halfway across the world. Presidential would-be candidates would still be polluting the atmosphere with their sound bites and rhetoric, and no minds would have been changed.

So what does this say about what we're doing? I suppose that more voices offering their dissent raised up to the stream of consciousness is a good thing, I still admire the people who really put it out there, the ones who stand on street corners with signs, the ones who write letters to the editor, and the regular bloggers who daily add their voices - opinionated and strong - into the atmosphere, but I'm left wondering at what level of commitment I'm willing to give.

It just takes so much energy. And I'd much rather make people laugh.

After all, we need laughter just as much as we need a sign of protest thrust into the air.

Opus is off the ice floe

I'm off to the land of low-fat rice milk and organic honey.

Back next week !

Deja vu all over again

It’s hard enough getting my courage together to talk to a computer without that little “tah –dah” sound my computer makes on start-up.

It’s almost as if the computer is saying, “All right folks, now watch this!”

Oh, the pressure.

Of course I could simply turn it off, but what’s the fun in that. I like a good challenge, some more than others. Especially challenges that don’t involve pain and getting over thereof.

Speaking of which, each morning I strap on my black elbow braces (I’m vascilling between referring to them as my wonder woman magic bracelets and looking like I’m ready to take a piece out of somebody) with a sense of déjà vu.

About 15 years ago, I was doing the same thing. The elbow braces were less high-tech (a foam - lined plastic cuff with a woven strap) but the condition was much the same. My wedding gown had those detachable sleeves in case I needed them to cover my braces, because without them (the braces, not the sleeves) I was worried that have been be able to carry my bouquet down the aisle.

But that pain went away (after the stress of planning the wedding was over, and after lost my job) and this pain will go away too.

I don’t even want to wonder to the universe what I’ll have to give up in order to make this one better.

Is There A Doctor In The House?

I’ve been going to the same general practitioner for nearly twenty years. He’s a very odd man; and normally begins each appointment with me by telling me what’s wrong with him.

This week’s visit was no different. "Oh, I have this pain in my shoulder,” he said. "I go swimming, and it doesn’t hurt when I go swimming but when I wake up the next morning… Oh, man that hurts.” All the while he’s rubbing at this spot in his shoulder that’s been bugging him. “So that’s why I’m glad that this summer’s almost over so I can stop swimming.”

“Why don’t you join a gym so you can keep swimming?” I said. Which sounded logical to me. There are lots of doctors and gym, and some have ridiculous hours. Both the doctor and the gym.

“Yeah but who am I kidding,” he said. “I’m up at 5:30, don’t get home until 6:30, and at lunch I’m really hungry and need to eat.” I start wondering if maybe I should see somebody else instead. But he’s helped me lot, and it’s been real interesting to see his growth for the past 20 years.

“Anyway,” he says, “what’s wrong with you?”

I tell him about my elbows. About when the pain started, when it hurts, what makes it hurt, etc. While I’m talking, he turns his back and takes a very large manual out of the cupboard. If you’ve never seen a physician’s desk reference (usually called the PDR), is about the size of your average microwave. I’m thinking, oh great, once again I have something so strange he’s got to look it up. But no. It’s much worse than that. He holds the book out to me grasped by one spidery hand, tells me to hold out my right hand, and take it from him.

I just look at him like he just asked me to pick up the Statue of Liberty.

Whatever, I think, and take it from him. “That hurts,” I tell him, sagging under its weight. Then he asked me to hold it with my hand going in the other way, and then comes the worst part. He wants me to the same thing with my left hand (that arm is the one that’s been hurting more).

“That hurts a lot more,” I tell him, gritting my teeth and sagging under its weight.

“You have tennis elbow,” he tells me. So much for scientific diagnostics.

And this is only one reason why he’s an interesting guy. He’s also gone a little more anti-meds than he used to be. Now he’s into stretching as the cure for everything.

“Now here’s what you do,” he said. He then showed me a series of very scary looking, very intense looking, and not very fibro-friendly stretches.

And had expected me to do them three times a day. Including mashing the lights out of anything that hurts.

Afterward, I went to work out at my physical therapist’s. I asked him about the stretching and the mashing, including the physician’s opinion that the weight regimen (extremely light and wimpy one pound weights) that the physical therapist had put me on would only make the situation worse. The physical therapist disagreed. This makes me crazy. Sometimes I want to get all of them in a room, give them a pot of coffee and half an hour, then come out with three alternatives for me to choose among. So during my workout I let my doctor’s advice and the PT’s advice duke it out in my head. My gut told me to go with the weights. After all, a PT treats more cases of tendonitis than a doctor in any one year. Plus the idea of all that mashing gives me the heebie-jeebies.

All I can do is make the best decision for me.

A Laugh Any Way I Can Get It

At this point, I’m willing to do almost anything to get a good laugh. Even if it takes nearly burning my house down to get it (and no, I didn’t do it).

Husband was grilling some chicken on the barbecue for dinner. He finished, and like he usually does, he left the grill on low with the cover closed to burn off the residual fat. He was at the sink doing some dishes, and I was sitting at the kitchen table watching a DVD on my computer.

I looked up and happened to notice flames licking at the bottom of the barbecue, where the grease cup normally is.

“Um, husband? You might like to take a look at the grill. It’s on fire,” I told him.

He looked up. Then scrambled outside. He opened the hood, and it’s dancing with flame. He turned off all the knobs, and that only licked them down a little. Then he turned off the propane tank.

“You need the fire extinguisher?” I asked him.

“Nah, it’ll be alright.”

It might have been alright, except that (he claims) when he blew some of the cinders back into the grease cup, he created a spectacular fire ball that had that engulfed most of the barbecue. Anyone else looking at the scene would think that he was trying to blow out a grease fire.

“Now do you want the fire extinguisher?” I asked him.

“ Get it,” he said.

I got it. I also told him that he might want to move the aerosol can of wasp and hornet killer (does anyone know the difference between a wasp and a hornet, and does it really matter when they’re swarming around your back deck?) out of harm’s way. That’s all we needed, a house fire, and a true aerosol bomb.

Turns out he didn’t need the extinguisher (although he did more the aerosol can) and the fire, while it had flared spectacularly, had now burned itself out.

I’m saving the irony for last. For on the side of the propane canister was a magnet which read, “Danger Men Cooking.”

Apparently, printing the magnet with one inch high letters is not a prominent enough warning for some.

The Blame Game

A horrible tragedy happens, and we look for someone to blame.

The epoxy failed. Somebody sold the sick kid a gun. The project went to the lowest bidder.

The rubble is still settling around the Minnesota overpass, and the media is there, compasses out, wanting to know where to point the finger.

I suppose this is only natural, the human thing to do. We simply do not want to believe that something horrible can happen for no good reason.

But there’s nobody that I can blame.

The lost jobs, the money I spent at doctor’s offices, the procedures I’ve undergone. There’s no finger that I can point, no lowest bidder that I can chastise for using the wrong 0 ring, no epoxy that I can claim did not live up to its promises.

Even if I believed in him I couldn’t even blame God.

And it wasn’t my parents' fault. They didn’t know what kind of primordial soup their combined DNA would foster; and nobody even knows if this thing is genetic anyway.

Meanwhile I keep on going, this little energizer bunny, having long ago given up on the idea of looking for someone to sue.

What am I afraid of?

You might have heard it said that as far as fears go, more people are afraid of speaking in public then they are of death.

I’m afraid of speaking to computers.

Because of an undisclosed and undetermined pain in my elbows, my physical therapist recommended that I try voice-activated software so I can rest my arms for a while.

But the way my brain is wired, it’s so much easier for me to write than to speak. My verbal skills, sadly, fall far behind of my written skills.

So I sit here looking at a blank screen, wondering what to say. No. Not just wondering. Afraid of how to start, is more like it.

I used to be afraid of thunderstorms. Deadly afraid. Like hiding under the covers screaming kind of afraid. That lasted until my early teens, when I cured myself of it through aversion therapy.

It was nothing formal; No therapists involved. At the time we live in a house on a hill with a view of the Catskill Mountains, which was the direction the weather came from. Including the thunderstorms.

One day a storm was developing, and I forced myself to sit in the center of that room, floor to ceiling glass pane windows on two sides, and experienced that storm from beginning to end.

I was nervous at first, but eventually realized I had nothing to fear. Eventually instead of seeing the fear and danger of the thunderstorm, I began to see its beauty. The dramatic colors of the sky as the clouds bunched up, the way it took hold of the trees and battered the leaves to and fro, the way the rain pelted down on the windows, and the clean way the sky and the air looks after the storm was done.

And I suppose to cure myself of the fear of speaking to computers, I should approach it the same way.

Just sit in my chair, make a cup of tea, and talk to the stupid thing.

I think I can handle that.

Feels like Daytona to me...

Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, we've joined the 21st century here on the hill, with high speed internet and all that stuff, and man, this thing is fast. Where's that checkered flag!

More later; still working the bugs out...of the system and out of me. Something that might be tendonitis or just fibro in my elbows is slowing me down.

Guess I won't be finishing in the top five today...