Having some work done

At our mutual birthday outing, Karen asked, "After 48 years, you just got tired of looking at it?"

That's it, exactly.
I got tired of looking at it. 

I should have asked her in the first place.  Because I didn't get to "I'm just tired of looking at it," without several months of soul-searching over whether this was a vanity.  I was going to write about that, but I know the Readership is much more entertained by my expeditions into the world of American medicine.

Ten minutes every year, my Dr asks what's on my mind and I never have anything interesting for her to do, so I said, "I'm thinking of having my mole removed."

She shrugs, hands in lab coat pockets,  and says"Sure.  why not."  Healthcare reform, indeed.

You can convince yourself that a skin growth on your face is barely noticeable  and it's just one of your features, and why go through the hassle (and is it Vanity??!!) -- but let me tell you, when you refer to it as "my mole," and everyone knows what you're talking about, even by phone, then you are on the right track.

Except at the dermatologist's, of course.  They say, "which one?"   

Or, as Jay once said, "You finally changed your glasses, thank God."

Here is the list of things you thought I would worry about.

What if it changes the whole look of your face?
Karen and I share a shuddering fascination for true mirrors, which do not reverse your image, but instead show you exactly as the world sees you.  Whenever I see a photo of myself, I think the mole is in the wrong place.  And it is all I can see.

What if you lose your super powers?
Only Greatest of All Sisters would know I really did consider this -- I knew a woman who lost her music scholarship after an accident ruined her embouchure.  Probably my facination with that sentence is greater than any true belief that my encyclopedic knowledge of TV trivia or uncanny sense of time are actually related to this undeveloped twin.

By the way, did you know Barbara Gordon is now in a wheelchair? 

But that's your Marilyn Monroe beauty mark..
You're sweet.  But 1.  hers might not have been real.

and 2. If you're going to have Lauren Hutton's gap, you'd better be Lauren Hutton.


What if you catch on fire?
Yes, of course this was my own question.  (Whoever let me work in healthcare....)
After our initial meeting, though, where I learned we were doing this with a scapel and not a laser, with novocain and not gas,  and...that I was out of my mind, I was fine.

What if it leaves a worse scar?
Well, this had kept me from it for years.  I thought, if I'm going for an eye-catching facial disfigurement, we can mark that already complete.

How do you bandage a lip?
We're using a sling instead.

Was it getting bigger?

No.  My face is getting smaller .  You think LBG was born with those earlobes?

Will it be biopsied?
Yes - how else would insurance cover it?

Did you watch?
I kept my eyes shut through the whole thing, which was only 10 minutes, so that wasn't hard.

Do you have body dysmorphic disorder?
No, but I may have decided to do it just because it didn't have to be orchestrated, discussed with anyone, or dependent on committee. 
And that's its own kind of disorder.

But is it a vanity?
It is.  But I have  room for the occasional human weakness.  

Everybody hurts

 

I am still working on my compassion.  It doesn’t come naturally – I am more Head than Heart – and Lord knows it’s difficult enough for me just to be charming.  But I think often of the words a wise young man said several years ago: “Every day I have the opportunity to do better.”  (He’s 10 now)

The other backstory to this post is a recent Mom’s Day Out with a Mom who told me how she had to cut her Mexico vacation short after receiving word her father had had a stroke.  She told me that she cried – racking sobs, she said – from Cancun to Boston, “and not one person even offered me a tissue.”

So what would you do? 

Last night, I was on the platform at Park Street, America’s first subway station.  Boston is not New York, as they are fond of telling each other, but it has its own kind of bustle, and Park Street is where it shows itself most.  It’s dark, and loud, and full of tourists, 3 sets of tracks upstairs, 2 sets down – everyone has somewhere to be.

In the middle of it, seated on what passes for benches by the D stop, a young woman was holding a coffee and very quietly succumbing to tears.  She would heave a minute, wipe her cheeks, gulp.

And I thought, “…and not one person even offered me a tissue.”

If you believe in the Sisterhood, and I do, you feel there must be something to do when handed this moment.  I also believe in the Humanity, but I’ll admit I believe the Sisterhood is more crucial.

Then I wondered, “do I even have a tissue?”  Into my Mary Poppins bag, where there is an umbrella, Hand-i-Wipes and a pack of crayons, but I was not sure about tissues.  It is not quite tissue season yet.  But I am a Spinster loose in the world, and we have our tissues.

I folded 2 discreetly in one hand, and with all the stealth of the city’s maiden auntie (who may also be a CIA operative, you don’t know), I stepped toward her and just held them out.

“Oh, no,” she mouthed, with a forced smile and bulging red eyes.  I kept them out and simply said, at a Stranger Danger distance, “It’s Ok.”  But no, she waved, and I said, “Are you OK?”  She nodded, but broke eye contact, so I only added, “do you need some help?”  And she said no.

I boarded the train.

 

 

Hope you're enjoying National Blogpost Month.
Here's another NaBloPoMo participant for you to enjoy.
http://zazamataz.com

The kindness of strangers

How modern technology, old friends,  and the car repair community turned Thursday night into this blogpost.  Settle in.  I just may tell this in real time.

The Groupon always sounds good when you are buying it.  That's how they make their money.   $20 for $50 dollars off your bill (small print: alcohol not included) at the Millenium Hotel Bar, Boston, MA.  And it's good for a year!  And I'm in Boston "all the time."   As the deadline loomed,  I looked for dates to burn through it, and the Tarletons were spontaneously available on a Thursday night.  How adult.

I pulled into a prime metered space with only 30 mins left to pay, around the corner from their place, and... the car won't shut off.  Blink and read that again.  Because that's me trying to move the key from its familiar "on" position to its even more familiar Off position.  It will not move and the key will not come out.  I can switch gears; I can drive.  I can not stop.  It's like something you would dream, isn't it?  Or something I would dream, where I have a recurring scene that I am trying to steer a very fast moving car on a busy street from the passenger's seat.  Jesus, take the wheel, already.

But this is no dream, this is real.  Nick comes out to help, and I am sure this is one of my moments of crazy, where I can't remember what the word "lettuce" means or I look for my glasses for an hour only to find them on my head.  He'll snap it off and say in his gentle voice, "what's your problem?" and we'll go have $50 worth of bar snacks.  But he doesn't.  Instead he finally says, "can we move this to a safer spot?" and we drive around the corner to the Boston MWRA Pump Station.  This will be important later, as it is an absolute landmark of the neighborhood, but nobody knows what it is.

The miracle, though, is that it is an open parking lot, one block from their house, 2 blocks off the highway, and it is the most gorgeous night in a year.  We hammer at everything in reach, and read the manual.  Because I am a big one for reading the manual.    Alyssa thought I was holding an ultrasound.  I think we are all glad to know I am not -- even if sponsored by Chevy.  The manual claims there is a "plunger" under the steering wheel to release the key in such a situation.  We find the panel it lives behind, but not the thing itself.  We predict that the airbag will deploy and kill us both.  Then we catch up on each other's news.

Jay comes home on his walking commute from his job, and tries his hand at it, with no more luck than we have had, and before long, we are just 3 people sitting in a running car like it's Modesto in 1962.  He says, "You know this is a f***ing Known issue.  And it sounds expensive."

When you call AAA in Boston at 5pm on a weeknight, you are in for a long wait, but you have some leverage if a) you are in an accident, b) you are literally roadside, or c) the car is running.  Which I only mentioned because I suggested he could bring a can of gas too if they wanted a two-fer.  And we wait.

  Minus the cocktails, this is the same night we would have been having anyway, so we relax and hang out.  When Perry from AAA arrives (after being unable to find Malden St), he has been told by dispatch that we need a jump (because who would voluntary take this crazy call).  "Quite the opposite," we say.  Perry takes his turn at finding the plunger, slamming the gear shift, jiggling the key, and viewing things through the help of Jay's iPhone flashlight.  It's a Smartphone, but not a Genius phone.  It did what it could.

Perry admits defeat.  He offers to disconnect the battery to stop the car. He's got nothing, but he'll call a locksmith and see what that can do.  What else do I have?

And I start to remember that there is a Chevy roadside assistance... USACHEVY, or CHEVYUSA, or HAHASCREWU,.... hours later I will discover the number is written on my keychain.  Jay works the Smartphone, and Nick finds it in the manual.  "Look at you, all Old School," Jay says with affection.   Locksmith recommends that I drive home and he meet me there, just to save the cost of the tow and I say I live 40 miles from here, and I only earn money to throw it at my problems.  So bring it on.   I try to explain Malden St.

Jay suggests that I drive it to my dealer and have the locksmith meet me there, and I remind him I am nearly out of gas.  He says there's a station on Albany St and I remind him priggishly that you can't pump gas into a running car.  "You're a rule-follower, aren't you?" he says tenderly, a hand on my skirted knee.

Chevy Roadside says, "we can pinpoint your location from your phone.  Is that all right?"  If you would not use the word "pinpoint" it would be less disturbing, but sure, go ahead.  And answer my emails while you are in there, would you? 

Chris the Locksmith.
Enter in slow motion...with big smile, tan hands, muscular legs.... his own flashlight.  We open the door for him.  We offer him Sun Chips.  We are never, never, letting him go.

He says he's seen this before, with GM cars.  (you bastards, I was there for you!) Though usually, the car turns off and only the key is stuck.  He slams the gear shift into Park: "See how I did that real ha'd like that?"  "Oh yes," I say, "We've enjoyed doing that ourselves.  Don't get cocky." I flirt badly.

We re-visit the battery idea, and stare under the hood for the while.  Nick, never far from the manual, advises that the battery is in the trunk.  "Like a BMW," says Chris.   "In so many ways," I agree.  Everything out of the trunk and onto the street, battery unhooked, exhaust still burning holes in our legs.  We all recall at the same moment that batteries start cars.  Alternators keep them running.  Oh.... riiiight.  Rehook, refill trunk.

Casey's towing arrives, and though that is not Casey driving, I do not catch his name.  He moves us aside, and becomes the sixth person to show us how it's done.  He says he can tow me whereever - Chevy pays the first 20 miles and I pay the rest.  I remind him the car is still running.  "I can tow it anyway," he says.  He does not put his hand on my knee.  But it feels like he did.   Chris is very concerned that I am going to leave a running car, with keys in ignition, in a car dealership overnight, and insists (in a deep throated tone I rather like) that I have "a better plan"

Towman suggests the battery; he pops the hood before we can stop him.  What he finds there instead  is the fuse box and yanks one out.  The car stops immediately. "What did you pull?!" cries Chris in consternation.  TowMan squints at it.  "Start."

So he wenches up.    I have also by now called my friends The Troys, who live near my dealership, and are considered "A List" friends.  You may remember them from such disasters as the 2008 ice storm.  The plan now that the car if off is to tow to the dealer, have Kit pick me up there.

"Ever ridden in a tow truck before?"  he says.  On the long drive to the suburbs, I learn a lot about the Towman, a young dreamer and hustler with tow truck stories to tell, and a life history you can tell in a 20 mile ride, but still seems like a life fully lived.  We share tells of life in Chelsea, where I lvied the year he was born.  {sigh} Thanks to the all-powerful Net, Chevy already knows we are coming, and Casey's Towing already knows where to park it.

My ride comes.  She is already expecting I will stay the night with them, and ride in to work with her in the morning, but offers to take me home first for a change of clothes.  And this is where I know we really are A-List friends -- because she offers this, and I can say without shame, "No, because if we go there, something else will be wrong -- like it burned down, or something.  And I can't take one more thing tonight."  We go to the house.  These people form one of the nicest healthiest families I know.  (she is expecting me to add here, "but the dog has to go."  So I will.  love you )

Lesson One: Membership has its privileges.
Locksmith - $35
Tow overage - $25
Car repair is covered under extended warranty with a $50 deductible.
They replaced the lock cylinder, and acted unsurprised by the whole thing, which may be explained by your Internet search of "key stuck in ignition."  Chris was not kidding.  This does happen all the time.  And if it really does happen all the time...it could likely happen again.  But try arguing with your service team when they are charging you deductible.  They have never heard of any "plunger" under the steering wheel, but I noticed their mechanic replaced the panel we had removed to find it.

I could consider trading it in to them, as long as they are denying it exists.  But I want an exchange - not to buy another car, so I will hold my faith that it is fixed and that Robert and Jeff, whose jobs were saved by the loyalty of customers like me, would not lie to my face.
maybe.

Lesson Two: Friendship has its rewards.
My friends do not want to hear my Witness of the powerful love I hold for them and our bond.  It makes them a little squeamish for me to go Christian on them, especially when I am dressed in white blouse and black skirt.  They say "that's what friends do," and they are right, of course.  They know I would do the same for them, and that it takes years of therapy and all my effort to ask it of them.  Thanks be to God for the humility to do so, and the serenity to find humor and fellowship in what could have been a miserable experience, but instead is an entertaining gift I give to you.

August 2012
An update:  for people search the google-webs for this issue.  From Chevy themselves.

2009 chevrolet cobalt recall

Item affected: power train:automatic transmission:lever and linkage:column shift
date announced: 3/6/2009

description of recall:
general motors is recalling 276,729 my 2009 buick enclave, chevrolet cobalt, hhr, malibu, traverse, gmc acadia, pontiac g5, g6 and saturn aura and outlook passenger vehicles. These vehicles fail to comply with federal motor vehicles safety standard 102, "transmission shift position sequence, starter interlock, and transmission braking effect", and fmvss 114, "theft protection and rollaway prevention". On some of these vehicles, the transmission shift cable adjustment clip may not be fully engaged. If the clip is not fully engaged, the shift lever and the actual position of the transmission gear may not match. With this condition, the drive could move the shifter to "park" and remove the ignition key, but the transmission gear may not be in "park".

Action needed to fix it:
dealers will inspect and ensure that the shift cable adjustment clip is fully engaged. In the event that the clip does not engage, the shift cable will be replaced free of charge. The recall is expected to begin on or before march 24, 2009. Owners may contact buick at 1-866-608-8080, chevrolet at 1-800-630-2438, gmc at 1-866-996-9463, pontiac at 1-800-620-7668 and saturn at 1-800-972-8876 or at www.gmownercenter.com.

Do you know what your company needs?

Corporate Chaplains of America does. 

You know how one of the lines in our cultural liturgy has become "Counselors will be present on site for those who need assistance"?  I found out where they come from.

When I worked in the world of Higher Ed, nuns and priesst, and rabbis and chaplains were easily had -- and I'll admit it: sometimes we talked to them about stuff we might not have talked to the Boss about.  I would say the same about the campus nurse and the head of student counseling.  So maybe it wasn't just the collar.  Maybe it was the well-scrubbed hands.

Anyway, I dare say that if you don't now work on a college campus, or in a Bon Secour hospital, you may not have ready access to the holy word in your workplace.  My position is not going to be for or against this in principle.  It is going to be wonder.... what that character on your little show would be like.

Because if you thought these 2 jokers were weak and ineffectual....

One of my favorite moments on The Office is Andy Bernard trying to mediate a conflict resolution, "because I was an R.A."  That's pretty much what I imagine your Corporate Chaplain is like.

"Corporate Chaplains of America implements a variety of means for caring in the workplace. These include any or all of the following: confidential care giving, crisis intervention, critical incident care team specialists, management consultation, programs for worship or prayer, referral to other professionals and agencies, training and education for employees and supervisors, employee/community/church relations and programs, and special events scheduled in response to needs which arise in the workplace. "

This need might have been such a need.
Maybe instead of the Muscle, the big man could have brought the Heart.
{{blllli-i-ii-ng..... The More You Know...}}

Start your visit to CCA through their introductory video.  Enjoy the corporate gear the chaplains get to wear.  I think we all know how much respect is given the co-workers whose jobs require the logo -- without irony.    "Their dress code is khakis-casual."  Their own press says that.

"Whatever the scope of each family's problems or concerns, Corporate Chaplains of America has a network of qualified and caring outsource providers that can help."

family?  seriously, CCA.  That is not helping.

HOW trained?  Oh, highly trained.
And temperament tested.   Like dogs from the shelter.
I wish this were also true of my management tier.  I think if we started our monthly departmental meetings with a round of "Peace That Passeth Understanding" ... I was going to say something else, but now I am just going to say... I would pay for that myself.  I might just start it on Wednesday.

 This is why he is so happy.  Cause you-all is craaazy.  And he gets to leave tomorrow.  The site explains that your chaplain is shared among 3-5 other companies.  Are they comparable companies?  Are they competitors ? Does he organize sandlot baseball, like Bing Crosby might have done?

This slide comes at the end of the video.  They hope you haven't noticed the line at the beginning, where they promise "...a life-nourishing resource built on christian faith and a helping hand."  Non-denominational must mean "other than ours."


Do not scoff at Corporate Chaplains.  Their 5 year plan might be more ambitious than your own company's.

They slid the dry-cleaning and the workout room right in on you.  They made you think you wanted your dog there.  And as long as the United Way decides where to spend the charitable donation the dept director pressures you into, you might as well have Bible study there too.  Why leave?

Coca-Cola has 25 of them.
Tyson Foods, 127.  Corporate Chaplains
LubeFast.       (stop it. that's not funny)
Though I should clarify that those companies were contracted from mycorporatechaplain.com.  A rival corporate chaplain placement service.  Chew on that phrase a while. 

Brunch with Jesus

"Jesus said to them, 'Come and have breakfast.'"  ~~ John 21:12

 In those games where you name 5 dinner guests, people often throw Him in.  "and... Jesus, I guess...."  Always mixing him in with Lincoln, Einstein, Betty Friedan...  I'd be more inclinced to leave him off the list.  Not because I have brunch with Jesus every day already, which I do, but because he is not a particularly gracious dinner guest.

He tells long rambly stories that have no punchline, and has a tendency toward outbursts of anger and name-calling when challenged.  He also doesn't help with the dishes.

Jesus' own 5 dinner guests in this game will be the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and... "Aristotle, I guess...." he'll throw in. 

Here's an interesting juxtaposition to ponder:  Jesus has to knock on the door of your heart, but your house he'll just invite himself to.

"oo, wait, a tax collector.  I need one of those.  Ok, Lose Aristotle."

The caption isn't entirely fair.  We know he ate fish, but we also know (as any well-raised Baptist will tell you) he ate what was set before him (Luke 10), even if it was topped with mini marshmallows.  Funny thing is, we don't see Jesus eat much.  He serves a lot of food, he interrupts a lot of meals --  including his own -- to rail against Pharisees, who also apparently barge right in wherever they like.

After Jesus' return, " he asked them, 'Do you have anything here to eat?' (Luke 24) "They gave him a piece of broiled fish,  and he took it and ate it in their presence."   He has a little nosh, and he walks with them to Bethany, site of another of his favorite dinner parties (and one stunning dead-raisin') but ascends before the first course.  Aristotle expected him 8-ish.

Enjoy your feast.  Serve ye, one another.

Things that swarm

I read in our favorite magazine that the Australian Plague Locust Commission is working on a new strategy -- so Wile E. in nature that is just might work.  

(Shame on us, I guess, if we have never heard of them.)

Despite what Laura Ingalls told you, North America has been essentially freed from its locust troubles.  The Melanoplus spretus that ate its way across the great plains has disappeared, and long before the Dust Bowl.  Biologist Charles Bomar explains that locusts are grasshoppers gone wrong -- not really a species of their own, but a "behavioral continuum."  grasshoppers : locusts AS teenagers : hoodlums  AS  women : brides

Australia... however, that's a plague of a different color.  This weekend they reached "peak stage," says the TTKN newsdesk, and The Economist reports that the Commission is considering "laying strips of insecticide in [the] path" of marching larvae, before they get a chance to fly.

Marching.

Larvae. 

I think its the word "marching" that does it.

Here is too much information about that.
Here is proof that locusts are insane robots.



Science suggests that it is the swarm that causes swarming; that is, a population explosion stresses the creatures into a frenzy.  They actually change appearance, and... overeat.  I have seen this in residence halls myself.  National Geographic has explored the role serotonin plays in swarm behavior, but which comes first?  Acting on this theory, Discover suggests the little fellows just need bigger brains.  That's what we need -- an organized devastation force with a bigger brain.

Leave it to the UK to tell you to stay calm and power through.
Armageddon Online points no fingers. They simply say... hey, locusts.  We're just sayin'...

Dia De Los Muertos

Today is Tinker Day.  An Old Girl's fancy turns to thoughts of Krispy Kreme and brambles caught on her fishnets.  (That was one fancy school....)    One laptop, one Big 80s playlist, and one pile of letters, and I am holding my own Day of the Dead Ceremony.

I have been slowly reading through a pile of Renee's letters over the past few months.  Slowly because there are not many of them -- that is, there is not an unlimited supply, and I wanted to make them last.  Slowly, because each one is a fat 2-sided multi-page packet of joy and possibility, gossip and panic, art and sarcasm.  And they take 15 or 20 minutes to settle into.  I have been reading them in the morning mostly, as a way to prolong the start of the day, and to see if I can harness some of the That Girl fantastic-ness of 20-ish Renee.

Always more fearless than the rest of us, always more ballsy, and yet (as her letters remind me), also struggling to like herself and the boys who liked her.  This pile is from 1987 to 1990 -- the very last of them is a postcard from Italy where she vacationed with her last boyfriend, who she married, and heart-breakingly widowed.

Reading Renee's letters from this time of our lives has made me so happy -- to hear her voice again, and to spend private time with her.  It has also made me so sad -- to only have this way to write back to her after all these years.

I marvel at what Renee would have made of the Internet, of  "social networking."  She would have been on MySpace first thing, because she was a band girl, and would have loved discovering new favorites this way.  She would most certainly podcast, and probably Tweet. I think she would dig the idea that Google has preserved her contributions to Spin magazine.  She would be a rabid blog commenter.  But thinking of her this way is like playing a game of "What cigarettes would Emily Dickinson smoke?" (1)  When I try to project her on the 21st century, she seems sort of Photoshopped.

But I know these past 10 years would have revealed themselves to be her time -- Free the Music, e-books, Yes We Can!  To have her meticulous handwritten font, in fanciful inks, on linen paper that probably came dear for her grad school budget, but which she thought was right and proper for the intimacies of personal correspondence, also seems True.  When I read her frantic (though confident) voice and the ridiculously age-appropriate (and not at all important) problems of her day-to-day struggle for Importance, I feel the girls we were then, and they can handle whatever we throw at them.

My shrine is in the form of these envelopes by the bed.  This essay is my calavera.  With you forever young, and forever hopeful, I don't dare become (too) old and jaded.

(1) Tareytons: "Because I rather than fight than switch, they kindly switched for me..."

Shiny blogs, over here; Happy blogs...over there

I have one precious hour before my new bedtime, and I could have spent it reading, but instead I spent it trying to screen-capture the shot of Jane Pratt in the Shiny Happy People video.  I would write that I did that for you, but you know better.  That kind of rabid focus is never in the service of others.

You know, in her giant close-up, her head is cut off.  Did Michael Stipe cut that out deliberately?  Incidentally, do you think Michael Stipe should play the lead role in The John Malcovich story?  I'll work out the treatment.  "You are neither.... shiny... nor....happy...." {freeze.  purse lips.}

Recently, me blog-mate Charlene bestowed on the DrawingIn Room another honor by naming us one of the 11 best, shiniest, happiest blogs she knows.  Cool indeed.  I'm not Jane Pratt, but I play her on the Internet. 

This was a very nice gesture.  I hope to live up to shiny and happy.  I know I often stomp around like Lucy van Pelt, but I am 10 Raves ahead of the Rants, and most of what I complain about is what I bring on myself.   Over at the Finishing School, we tried to kick off the year with an equally positive goal.  It is easy to jawjawjaw about the workplace, and we know it is what most of you tune in for, but what we want you to take away is something you can grow on -- some tools you can use.   So we tried to set Positive Change as the theme of this first quarter.

So here is tonight's Norman Vincent Peale moment, then we all have to go to bed.  Or maybe you don't have to.  Maybe you live close to where you work and/or don't live on the congested 300 year-old roadways of the northeast.  See, that sounded like snark, didn't it?  It's all in how you read it.  We lllooove the congested 300-year old roadways, that are even now icing over to a fantastic glaze just in time for the morning drive...

The reason I have a new bedtime is that I now leave my home at 7am to be at work at 8.  I don't have to be at work at 8, but if I am I enjoy a pleasant early morning drive at a leisurely pace, through the beautiful fields of the Minuteman National Park.

(another guy with a pretty rough commute, carrying both rifle and plow...)

Radio, podcast, or audio book, the occasional school bus or stop light, and a final stretch of highway that is still light before 8.

But it means getting up at 6.  And if I am going to get up at 6, there had better be 7 hours of sleep underneath that at least.  Or there is no shiny, and no happy.

And it should also mean pre-bed ironing and lunch making and charging up of phones and iPods.  Get me, I'm a working mom!  But when, you ask, would I blather on, just to entertain YOU on your lunch hour?

Now you know.

My list of recommended Shiny, Happy, Blogs are to the left in my Blogroll. 

To name 10 that put the emphasis on what you CAN do and not what you CAN'T, I call out

Business Woman's Finishing School & Social Club

this is not an nod to myself and my partner Miss Minchin, but to the many contributors who so generously share their stories

the treadmill diaries 

Charlene's Balance Beam 

From the Garden Bench 

Karen's Adventures 

The Dyer Family 

Desert of My Real Life 

VIDEO PANCAKES 

HRCleanUp 

Unobstruct Your View

 

 

 find your positive power this week.  

Release the Kraken

Someone is remaking Clash of the Titans, and it isn't me.  But I sure do have a story about that.

Here is what we can tell from the trailer already:
1.  things will fly
2.  people will throw their arms out to the sides with great force
3. there is a big scorpion
4. the editor has had too much Red Bull
5. the ancients, as always, will have British accents

Here is what we know without the trailer:
it has to be better than the 1981 original.

Dodie and I had (2) recurring themes in our play: Gone With the Wind and Greek Mythology.  Say whatever you care to about your Barbie, but mine wore armor and the head of a wolf.  So show her some respect.  We were capital-A APPALLED by this mess of a movie, and I am not referring to the stop-motion special effects.  That is unfair.  While they were not "state of the art," they were not what drove us to write a multi-page screed of what was wrong with it -- from the minimalist conception of Olympus, to the pouty non-hero casting of Harry Hamlin, to the cartoonish inclusion of Bubo, the ROBOT OWL.  I'm sorry, did I shout?  Honey, you had me at Burgess Meredith.

If that white paper still exists, it is in Dodie's General Archive.  What I have is the Casting List of our remake.

This document lives where it has always lived: pressed in the pages of my Bulfinch Mythology. One side is our brainstorming casting session, rewritten and categorized on the reverse, as we had designed the credits to roll.

We would film in Cinemascope, naturally, as we felt the current film had over-used close-ups of very ungood-looking people and missed the majesty of Olympus.  (If I appear to be italicizing more than usual, you must understand that in our girlhood, we always spoke emphatically.)  Keep in mind that we had never actually seen a film in Cinemascope as it was meant to be seen.  We were used to Sunday TV airings of "One With the Win" and "Klahom," where Shirley Jones sings in profile, then cut to Gordon McRae grinning in the opposite direction. We fully expected our stars' names to be cut off as well, and we found this hilarious.

I do intend to run the full credits, but I want to caution that in addition to real actors, we cast other celebrities we liked, and people from the neighborhood.  We figured they could act as well as Ursula Andress, and it was our movie dammit.  We also said "dammit," a lot, which we thought sounded very grown-up, or at least like Guiding Light.  So for the sake of those people from our high school that we cast, I'll just describe them parenthetically, so you can get the gist of the casting decisions.  We stayed with Roman names because Dodie is Italian and insisted.

Please remember that it is 1981.  And we still had Olympic Fever.

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The First Six
Jupiter - Richard Burton
Neptune - (the local piano teacher.  I forget why.  Perhaps because he was bald, and we felt that Neptune should be)
Pluto - Christopher Bernau (Shout out, fans.  this is Alan Spaulding from GL, who also had the distinction of being on Dark Shadows)
Juno - Elizabeth Taylor (not yet a car wreck in a dress.  And we thought, Cleopatra AND Juno?  Yeh, that's about right)
Ceres - Vanessa Redgrave (the Zionist Hoodlums boooo)
Vesta - (our Latin teacher in a cameo role)

The Children
Mars - Michael York
Vulcan - Gary Burghoff (if your spit-take is over, let me explain.  We felt this could be his dramatic breakout role and allow him to exploit his withered hand)
Hebe - (one of our classmates - Hebe was a favorite of mine, an obscure descendent that I thought needed more screentime.  And it rhymes with Pheobe, you wiseacre)
Apollo - remains uncast.  I think we could not agree on Parker or Shaun
Artemis - June Allyson (note that we also had the power to cast younger versions of people as we saw fit.  In retrospect I like Susan Hayward better here, or a teenaged Maureen O'Hara.  One thing is certain -- we thought Artemis was a redhead)
Venus - Vivian Leigh
Mercury - Mark  Hamill
Hercules - Christopher Reeve

Prosephone - what's written here is "Hope Bauer."  See how nicely that goes with our casting of Alan at Pluto?  ha-HAH, you're catching on.  For the record, we meant Elvera Roussel.

Bacchus - (Dodie's first kiss.  It was a joke.  oh, how we laughed)

Young Cupid - Ricky Schroeder.  (I really wrote "Ricky")

Cupid - Randy Gardner (don't worry...Tai will play Psyche)

Minor Olympians  Dodie has scratched this and written Featuring
I guess there were Union troubles
Pan - George C Scott (known in our secret twinspeak as "Pig Paws."  His name is never meant to be spoken, so Dodie has written "G.C.S")
Prometheus - Richard Chamberlin (I wanted him shirtless)

The Heroes
We scratched Orpheus here, moved him to a section called The Lovers, then cut that entire section.  It was made up of the A-List couples in school and Ben and Amanda from GL.

Perseus - Harrison Ford.  Seriously.  Harry Hamlin?  Please remember that in 1981, Ford looked like Indiana Jones.
w/Dodie as Andromeda
Theseus - (Dodie's current crush)  w/Eve Plumb as Ariadne.  We wanted to rescue her from Brady Brides
Jason - Timothy Murphy (this is a real one-hit wonder.  He was in the Kent Chronicles movies.) w/ (the English teacher we hated) as Medea.


The Iliad

I would think I had added this on my own, if not for Dodie's handwriting in the casting of Paris.  I made sure Parker got in the movie by putting him here.

Achilles - Parker Stevenson
Helen - myself.  I cast myself as Helen of Troy.  I looked like this at the time.
Paris - Robin Cousins
Aeneas - Clark Gable (maybe with a moustache.  definitely with an open shirt)

There follows another section of cameos of people we just liked, like our World History teacher, my next door neighbor, the spinster/sister school teachers who all lived together and probably were Graeae already.  ("GIMME THE EYE!")

There is also a note that Katharine Hepburn and George Cukor should be "Associate Directors."  Cause that's a thing.

Like most great films....it is in permanent Turnaround.

A flea in her ear

HUBBARDSTON: The dream of a beach day this year was never realized, but we did finally make it to Rietta.

Many months ago, Fitchy invited me to come along on a pilgrimage to Rietta Flea Market, "a family fun experience," says the website.  and Fitchy too.  So I began to roam the house looking for flea-worthy finds.


Oh, that picture at right will be explained soon enough.  It serves the same purpose there that it did for all us all day -- it attracts attention.


The hook to Rietta is that the tables are provided.  You rent the slot (or slots) and rig it up as you need.  Some of the regulars are elaborate, indeed -- canopies, chair rigs, tarps on the ground.  One family near us had a full taco bar going on in the bed of a pickup.  It reminds me of that scene in Charlotte's Web when they are packing up to go to the fair, where they will live for a couple of days through the ag shows.  Only at Rietta, it is only 1 Sunday at a time, from 6am to about 2pm.


Junk Bonds
Fitchy's family stays packed for these events, and use it as a go-to like your family might use touch football or yachting.  I imagine your family as the Kennedys.  As it turns out, I did too, because our original date was rained out, and after that it became near impossible to coordinate.  My bins stayed in the garage, taunting me, but the joke was on them.  They were in the garage, and no longer in my house.


As a result, I had time to pad my cache with pure-profit finds, namely, books from the town dump.  Some background reading to catch you up. (TV Guides, Bibles)  References may occur.  When the opportunity presented itself, I would load up on the kind of mass-market p'backs that the public go for and toss them into the bins with my thigh-length jackets, size 10 clothes (ha-ha, how cute) and entire bag full of ripped jeans that I boldly labeled "scrap denim," like that's a thing.

I found (yes, really found) a Casio keyboard missing its adaptor cord, some corporate-label swag from the Mill, and Otto's Sega Genesis, which he bequeathed to me as a house-warming because he knows my love of Lethal Enforcer ("keep a-goin'). 


Late Saturday afternoon, the family mobilized, and the plan was on.  Meet at 7am, drive to Hubbardston, add our carload to the family table already in progress.




The Early Birds
Fell into a few categories:
1) The Cadillac Jacks - these are the guys who buy for buyers.  When I am shoveling through the book bin at the dump, I pretend to be one.  It seems more respectable than being a person who shovels through dumpsters.  This is entertaining: according to abebooks.com, a signed first edition of Cadillac Jack goes for $8500.00
2) Old Guys - I think they come for the coffee, and because they are already up
3) Other vendors - who will catch you unprepared and paw through boxes while you are opening them, then resell on you later that same afternoon


The hoarders come later.  They can't rush through the house.  But they will come.  Because
this is who we want to be
this is who we are

650 vendors, of which we were 2, with our own table in between, 2 clothes racks, a shoe rack, a portable crib and a dog kennel, which we were careful to keep apart so they didn't compete with each other.

You in America Now  (said Old Fiddler to Kunta)

If you find the crowd at Walmart just too pretentious... if NASCAR's dress code is too formal... come to where America lives.  and smokes.  and barters you down from $2 to $1 on Ann Taylor linen pants.  And you give them up, because you already feel bad for not just donating them to start with.

People will tell you their stories, which was why Cadillac Jack did it, and a lesser author would have turned him into a detective franchise who solves crimes through his obscure knowledge of Americana and collectibles.

No charge for ranting

A guy who bought a book on cassette so he could tape over it complained to me about how hard cassettes tapes are to find, and even more expensive to buy, but people think the government should pay for health care.  It was like someone hit the remote on my Rant-o-Vision.

Big Ticket Items

Our biggest bulk, the crib and kennel, went fairly quickly, and not to the same family I am happy to say.  The Sega began to get dissected, since I could sell the games without the system, but the whole package made a better price.  The guns and LE game went to an Early Bird, who caught me before my brain was caffinated, and I let him get away with it.  A frequent flier kept trying to talk me down once the only games left were Disney, and he admitted he was only interested in the box, which I found suspicious, so I reserved the right not to serve.  By the end of the day it was $20 with 3 Disney games, and still had the $149.99 Lechmere price tag on it.  Lots of nibbles, but no strikes.

Which brings us to

The Attention Grabber

I no longer remember which of you gave me the pretty boys paper dolls.  I certainly got my enjoyment out of them (and I don't care what you think that means) and decided it was time to put them aside.  I priced them at 50 cents and put them in my book box where p'backs were 50, hardbacks a dollar, a first edition Lovely Bones for $2, which I hid in there for the treasure hunters, and the latest stash of Bibles, each marked "Free."  You can see why the cover of the Romantics Heroes paperdolls would be an eye-catcher (he's not actually naked, but he is wet).  Passersby would see that, the Bibles, then me, and are probably off writing their own blog right now.

It became a quest to sell the paper-dolls.  I pitched it as a gag -- "you want at least one thing today that makes you laugh," -- and they would laugh, then put it back.

Game On

The other item I stashed for the collectors was 4 TV Guides from the big haul -- Michael Jackson, Charles and Di, the Golden Girls, and Valerie Bertinelli.  I purposely obscured them, to see if I could lure a legendary monster trout out of his hiding place.  Next time I will have a rig for them, and bring a lot more.

A 2-foot tall clear spice mill, of the kind you find in Marshall's, or receive in Yankee Swaps, couldn't be given away.  Maybe because it was full of  unspecified "spices," maybe because it was branded as "Betty Boop," when so many chefs are available.  Maybe because it expired in 2006.  Even the woman wearing a Betty Boop fanny pack didn't want it.  She said "enough is enough."  She said it as if we had manufactured the thing.

The buyers have their games too.  One common move was to show a wad of bills (usually under 5) and claim it was all that was left.  Another was to offer to buy the entire box of shoes at a cut rate because they were going to Africa.  Both had the effect of pegging us as Richies (because of my shiny new Cobalt, no doubt, and the fact we were not smoking) who didn't want to take this stuff home, and who felt bad about asking poor people to pay for our castoffs.  It half-worked.  By that I mean, the shoe guy won; the woman who wanted the blender did not.

Fitchy's dad had a scheme for giving stuffed animals away.  They were priced, but if a kid showed any interest, he was going to get it for free.  On other items, he stood firm, but he was working his own set of rules.

Also priced as free was a book called "Free Yourself from Clutter," which I gave to a grandmotherly type who said she was going to hand it to her family and say "you take over."  Funny, or...??

Speaking of Therapy

I found my calling in Fitchy's boxes of baby clothes, which presented so many opportunities for sorting: boys/girls, seasonal, jammies/clothes, sizes... I learned quickly that sizes were what was called for, and created under 12 month, over 12 month, and Ts.  I maintained order throughout the day.  When people ask me "well, what do you want to do?"  I am not really kidding when I say, "fold things at the Gap."

This is not our set-up.  I just thought the page needed a break.

Let me close with this observation of what it is like to work hard for the money.  After about 7 hours (1 coffee, 1 donut, and the best hot dog ever made) I had personally cleared $32.  Not a bad margin when you figure most of the stuff I was selling I had never paid for, and I didn't have to kick in on my share of table fee.  The clouds and wind rolled in, and reminded us it was fall in Massachusetts.  Prices began to slash.  We began to look for people who had touched the peppermill before, or stared long at the Sega.  The paper dolls went down to 25 cents and sold seconds later.  Gag gifts are only a quarter-dollar funny.  Not half.

Fitchy and I ate most of our earnings for lunch.  We strategized for next year and were grateful we did not have to earn every meal that way.

This song has no title

When did this magazine become a weekly, anyway?

About the time 3 days ago when I started this post, only to have Blogger flake out and revert-save to an earlier version. Or maybe I did, but if that is a setting, I have no idea where it is. The "lose my stuff" setting.

This is the part of the show where I usually drop by with a lot of whining about how I haven't written lately, then cram everything I have been thinking about into one nonsensical post that shows all lack of editing and preparation. "Thinking is Writing," we used to say at the writing lab, which I never believed for a second. Thinking is Thinking. Rebecca Faery used to say, "you know you're a writer because you write it down."

Here's what I've been working out:

Playing Pandora on multiple browser tabs to see if I can either a) create a Round, b) discover a new style of Mixin. I think if you had beats on one and Aerosmith on the other, you might accidentally become Run DMC.

I heard the Reverend Run on NPR's Wait, Wait, Don't Tell me this weekend. I don't know what that augers, but it seems like something, doesn't it?

I made that picture just now while listening to my Pandora "Maeve" station. I think Run would want it that way.

I caused a stir in Facebook nation this past week by updating my profile pic to an actual picture of my contemporary self. I also experimented with opensalon.com for about 2 seconds before I realized that was too public for me, and for the same reasons I upgraded my picture. So I back-pedaled, and if I can figure out the import/export protocol, I can export/import The DrawingIn Room to Salon for some more exposure.

To tell the truth, I am not especially motivated to do it. I think I don't believe I would get an audience, and I can be rejected on my own time. I might challenge Rebecca and say you know you're a writer when people read it.

I can't stay ahead of the news curve before the blogosphere becomes saturated (talking to you, Salon....) I look at the front page of Opensalon and I think, I don't know that I have anything to add here. Not even a(n) LOLcat.

A friend's husband says we are supposed to pronounce that "Loll"...not spell it out "L-O-L." I said, "Eyem-ho, you're a pia. Jik."

But let's talk about Joe Wilson, shall we? This is a great sentence from Salon, moments after he cat-called the President and no one L'd O.L: "Wilson also reportedly called the White House to apologize; he spoke to Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel." How would you like to call to apologize to the President, and instead get Rahm Emanuel? There's a tweet I want to follow. Poor Joe thought he was in Parliament for a second. Pelosi looked like she was about to take off her shoe. Where's your safe word now?

You want to know what I think about health care? I live in Massachusetts. They think of it for you. I'm not particular about who pays my doctor $200 to see her for five minutes; wake me when they start investigating why it costs $200. One post I never finished was about how my insurance wouldn't cover 8 Vitamin caps because it was considered a 2-month supply, and they only cover 1.

Other things I have not reported/commented on because it is already old news is the passing of The Senator. It gave me the shakes, I tell you, and not because Ted and I were so close.

What flipped me out was the logistical planning of his funeral on a move-in Saturday in The Fenway during a tropical storm. How would they manage the traffic? And there would be all these old people, who require drop-off and parking considerations, and in that rain.... well, they would have to get one of those long funeral home canopies, wouldn't they? Keep in mind that I am in no way responsible for coordinating this event. It is just where my brain goes.



the shakes I had were shamrock!

Let me pause a moment here to say that Blogger's other bug at present is something off with its search engine, preventing me from finding easily the posts I want to link back to.


I have probably gone on long enough. The first night I wrote this, it took an hour. After I had lost that hour I thought a while about whether I needed to reconstruct it. I thought it was pretty funny. I had also had a cocktail. And I finally decided that I had gotten what I wanted from it, and it is all about me, isn't it? I guess that decision wasn't actually final.

Overheard downstairs by Curt Shilling's place, where his coder boys come and go in packs. They play a lot of Ultimate Frisbee and look as if they would head for California if not for their intense love of baseball and sweat-shorts. As they are walking into the office, one says to the other, "That's when fine art was commercial art." Ah... Bach.

There hasn't been a Mill Update lately because it is just too bleak. Plus they cut off our access and dared us to bypass the flimsy gates they put up. It is the equivalent of writing "Do not Open! Private!" on your composition book. I think Harriet M Welsh could tell us a thing or two about how breakable that lock is. So I'll just come home and blog about them. Do they think I have no workarounds?


I job hunt like other people fold down pages in catalogs.


I've been getting a whole lot of Rock Star of late, in a way that may require a proctologist to remedy. Today I said, as I slogged yet again to her door (all of 25 steps from my cage), "I really need to move closer to your office." Her face showed that she didn't get what I was driving at, so I explained, "It's just too far to walk." Longer beat. (haha. I'm funny. Please don't kill me.) She says, "Oh, see, I look forward to those opportunities."

:01 PAUSE, then I can only say, "Of...course you do."

By the end of the day with sass-o-meter cranked to 11, and The Boss MIA-PTO, I came back to the door and said, "It's a thankless job, so I have come to get some."

She: "Thank you."
Me: "You're welcome."I'll take what I can get.