Breakdown in the Fast Lane

I live about two blocks from where I grew up and not a lot has changed in the neighborhood over the past fifty years — in fact it is unchanged — a small section of the universe that time forgot. It is the perfect neighborhood for Halloween. The houses are mostly Victorians and Colonials, ideal for spooky decorations. The sidewalks are wide and you can walk for a mile of profitable Trick or Treating without encountering a dangerous intersection. And the parents are “into” Halloween and almost every front yard sports masses of spider webs, carved pumpkins, and glow-in-the-dark cats.

Tonight promises to be crisp but not cold, and the fallen leafs will make that great shuffling, crunching sound under the feet of the children as they go door to door in clusters. Lagging discreetly behind will be dads with flashlights, shepherding devils and spiderman and transformers. Moms will be home to open the door and hand out candy. The youngest children will be taken out before dark and the teenagers will wait until the moment between not looking duffie and not getting any loot. I especially love the teenage trick-or-treaters — they are so torn between embarrassment and fun. I make sure to reserve a few “good” candy bars for them.

Every year we buy way too much candy and end up scorfing it ourselves. This year we bought a large bag of what my daughter says is candy no one will want — even us. I will probably break down around three in the afternoon and go out and buy some more Quality goodies. And I should start looking for my Halloween candy dish — I rearranged the attic this year and have no idea where I put the Halloween decorations.

Our neighborhood triples in population on Halloween as kids are dropped off here from other towns that are less good territory. All kids are welcome to share in the neighborhood fun. I can just picture it now as kids mount the steps of one old Victorian whose porch is elaborately decorated, including a coffin. Little do they know that the homeowner is in the coffin made up as a corpse and will spring out of it the minute they ring the doorbell. The screams can be heard all night.

I will don the cowboy outfit I wear every year. Nero Kitty will have to put up with some tiny devil horns. In between doorbell rings my family will watch old horror flicks — my favorite being vintage Dracula. But now that I am thinking about it, I should take advantage of the livid scar on my neck from last week’s thyroid surgery and build a costume around that. That will clear the front steps pretty fast!

Mile high were the hopes of the Colorado Rox

As they met on home field with the Boston Red Sox

Down 6 - 0 into the third inning

The Rockies dug deep and started winning

A dramatic rally was all they could muster

Before the Sox sealed it in a late inning cluster

Of  RBI doubles and a sacrifice fly

Hope in Coors Stadium just had to die

Even Doc Holliday’s seventh inning three way

Could not stop the Sox from taking the day

I admit it was close and a respectable fight

But once again it was Boston’s night

If my friends describe me as a loving, generous-spirited person that is because I have managed to keep hidden the nasty pleasure I take in being spiteful. There is nothing I like more than being able to say “nah nah” or “I was right and you were wrong.” Being married has given me ample ground to be very happy in this regard. My husband, who I love more than life itself, has spent the last 40 years leaving himself wide open — he is smarter than I am so I consider it fair game to take every opportunity to let it be known when he is wrong.

Just yesterday I was reading the upcoming show guide for QVC and noted with happiness that Dennis Basso was going to have a Today’s Special Value in November. Another Dennis Basso coat to add to my collection of seven! Not more than an hour later my husband yells upstairs in a cranky voice “You’ve got so many coats in this closet I can’t even pry my coat out!” Oh oh, not the right tone to be receptive to a new addition. I yelled back “Hold on just a sec sweetie. I’ll be right there.” Then I forced my husband to witness the Coat Count. Wife = eleven coats. Husband = twelve coats. NAH NAH!!! He tried a lame comeback about his light weight windbreakers not counting as coats. Nice  try.

But Linshaolin, you say, that was very risky. What if you had had more coats? Please, what do you take me for? I monitor the balance of power more closely than NORAD. Of course I have more coats but they are in my office closet hidden behind my husband’s plaid suit from the 1970s which he swears he will fit into again. He has forgotten it is there but someday when he accuses me of being a pack rat I will slip it into his closet so that I can dramatically whip it out with an accompanying “And what is this relic?”

When my husband finally pays up all the money he has lost on bets with me I will be a rich woman. But I don’t really even want the money — I get so much pleasure out of winning because my spouse is so irritatingly convinced he is right all the  time despite the long history of his being wrong. “I saw a new restaurant today — it was called the Ye Olde Colonial Inn. Est. 1774.” “Sweetie, did the restaurant have crude wooden plank doors, purple glass windows, and sloped and worn steps?” “Why yes it did, have you been reading reviews?” “Sweetie, are there cow paths leading to and from the restaurant?” “Oh, so you have been reading about it.” “No, sweetie, the Ye Olde Colonial Inn has been around for a long time. We had our wedding reception there.” “Oh that’s ridiculous.” Out comes the wedding album.

Sometimes I let my husband have small victories. He especially enjoys pointing out people on TV  (CNN, Charlie Rose, etc.) and asking me if I know who they are. Yesterday he pointed out one of the Republican hopefuls. “Bet you can’t tell me who that is!” I looked at the TV and recognized Fred Thompson but decided to be nice. “Oh gosh, I can’t remember his name but I think he is strong on Law and Order.” The only person he got me on is Grace Slick when she was interviewed this year — I thought she was a character from Fiddler on the Roof. She and I both stopped at the one pill makes you larger . . .

I realize that when I stand before the Pearly Gates I will have to answer for my wickedness. But I know that God will understand. I am sure she has a husband too.

Yesterday I had a partial thyroidectomy and it went very well. Even though I was the surgeon’s first filet of the day I still had plenty of time while waiting in the prep room to take in the scene and, with my usual, sharp observational skills, to zero in on those oddities that make being at the hospital extra special. Let’s start with the ubiquitous “johnnie”.

Not all patients are created equal. I am a large lady with a substantial behind (which is not a candidate for ectomizing). Hospital gowns are housed on a small shelf in a closet — unlike the stores there are no  piles marked Small, Medium, Enormous. I watched as the nurse picked up the johnnie from the top of the pile. It was the size of a washcloth and had several holes worn out of the tired fabric and one of the vital butt ties was missing.  I was instructed to leave the opening at the back. I did complain about the breeze but the nurse assured me that once I was on the gurney I would be covered with blankets. (I  awoke in the recovery room in a state of Nature having kicked off all the blankets.)

As for the blankets, which had been yummilied warmed in a microwave, they are folded lengthwise into thirds so that they do not drag on the floor. A third of a gurney blanket spans me hip bone to hip bone, leaving the actual hips, boobs, and shoulders in the air conditioning. I asked for another blanket and had my husband drape it over me in the opposite direction, forming a white cross so that I looked like one of the Knights Templar on his way to be buried.

During my stay in the prep room, I was attended to by two prep room nurses, a visit from Rod the operating room nurse, the anestheseologist, a student doctor and his trainer, my surgeon and his lawyer, and a bathrobe salesman. I was IVed by the anestheseologist and vitaled by the student doctor who had to borrorw the nurse’s stethoscope since his had lost its ear piece somewhere between the employee cafeteria and the surgical unit.

The prep room nurse went over all my extensive paperwork and made note of what still needed to be done. Then she went to a shelf that housed plastic stand-up signs in fluorescent colors — one each for the tasks as yet to be done: anesthesia consent form, allergy bracelet, IV, and even surgery. As each task was completed the sign was removed. I asked a couple of times when were they going to give me that nice medicine in the IV that would make me happy. The nurse laughed and said “hey, you’ve been singing a duet with the old guy in the gurney across from you for the past twenty minutes.” Oh, I guess they gave it to me already.

Next thing I know I am awake in recovery thinking my cat is sleeping on my neck again. No cat. It is a surgical dressing made out of recycled bunker cement. I drift in an out for several hours. My husband is sitting next to me reading about a Chinese philosopher from 365 BCE. He is talking to me about having to grade papers while he waits for me to wake up. Remarkably I have no Parkinson’s tremor at all for about an hour — the first time by body has experienced peace in years. I ask if I can have something to drink and get a tiny can a gingerale and a straw. Delicous.  My drink is accompanied by five vanilla wafers. Having not eaten in twenty-four hours they tasted wonderful. I had no nausea or discomfort from the anesthesia and was well-rested. Kind of a  radical way to get a day off work, but hey, whatever it takes!

I am visited by the surgeon who informs me that my removed thyroid nodule was “a keeper”, that I can go home, can’t shower for two days, no heavy lifting, no housework ever, and see him on Tuesday. My “keeper” tumor is being shipped off to a biolab for examination — if it is benign then I am good to go and will only have a scar to show for my efforts. But it will be a cool scar and I can make up stories about it to tell children who are being naughty. If the tumor is cancerous (which my brother’s was) then they will do a second surgery. However, my goal is to think positively — no thyroid cancer, no lung cancer, no toenail cancer . . . nothing.

The nurse gave me a booster Vicodin to help me manage the trip home. We had to stop at the pharmacy to pick up my prescription and my husband told me he would wait in the car. Having just been Vicodinized, I was feeling no pain as it were and forgot what I was doing. I got a shopping cart and went systematically up and down the aisles filling the cart with whatever caught my fancy. By the time my huband came in to investigate my disappearance I had a daily prayer book, a romance novel, a bag of sour gummy worms, lip gloss, a package of felt-tipped pens, and some gift wrap. Hubby gently pried my fingers off the cart handle, gave me the gummy worms and put everything else back. We went to get my prescription filled and the pharmacist had a hard time not staring in horror at my slit throat which was being held together with steri-strips. He did not even ask to see my ID before handing over the pain killers.

Home at last, I ate a third of a sandwich and some chocolate milk and fell asleep. I dreamed about people whose heads were shaped like ice cream  cones. I woke up in the middle of the night and watched “Magnum Force” and then slept some more. My brother tells me not to be prematurely excited about this being a walk in the park. He says day one is terrific, day two or three comes and you are down for a week. We’ll see.

Almost every October for fifty-eight years I have gone to Arena Farms in Concord, Mass to get pumpkins and apples — it is a family tradition that I shared with my parents and brother and then with my husband and daughter. This year will be Arena’s last year as a farm market. After sixty years in business it has sold its land to the Concord Academy and will be closing its doors. Thousands of us will miss the enormous piles of pumpkins, the made-on-the-spot caramel apples, the oddly shaped squash and the duck pond. There will be no more apple cider or hot pretzels with mustard and no monkey bread. All the corn husk dolls and Hallween decorations were being sold. Only a few of their hand-painted pumpkins were left. Thanks for all the happy memories Arena Farms! I will miss you.

Nothing by mouth after midnight the doctor instructed

Or else everything eaten will be eructed

General anesthesia is the right prescription

To the slicing and dicing I don’t want to listen

No coffee, no makeup – think of the horror

Nothing but a nice wakeup shower

Be there by six AM for your check-in

By seven they will  have begun the dissection

It’s really nothing the nurse advised me

A mere slice into your throat no bigger than three

Inches or four at the most I was told

Just dice me up careful, nothing too bold

Unless of course while they are making a wreck

A quick nip and tuck could give me a neck

That would be fine and some lipo too

Go in for a thyroid and come out looking new

Hope they don’t ask for my true age and weight

Or draw blood to save for a later date

Or crack jokes when I am under anesthesia’s spell

About putting my goiter on eBay to sell

One night in the hospital is all insurance will pay

For medically necessary thyroid surgery

I will pay extra for private with cable TV

I don’t want to share in my misery

Then home again home again giggity jog

The boss is expecting me back on the job

To avoid having to hire temporary job fillers

I will return to work while taking pain killers

Will be soon back to normal if God is smiling

This is hardly more than getting a filling

Oh wait, I forgot to update my will’s instructions

Donate my body and take those deductions

Stress + shopping = retail therapy. It is a simple equation and an economical one too. When my husband complains that I have been shopping “again,” I explain to him that a therapist costs $150 an hour. Shopping at Marshalls costs about $69.50 an hour. I am saving us money by self-medicating. (Sometimes my husband, who teaches logic, is quite irritating and will point out that I don’t exactly cancel my week’s appointment with the therapist after I have been shopping — and so the cost of my therapy is actually $219.50). But I only shop when under really severe stress which happens no more than two or three times a month (ok, week). And, (and this is a really good point) my weekly shrink visit leaves me with a good feeling but no tangible goods. Retail therapy leaves me with  shoes.

Let’s take a look at my recent lung tumor anxiety: that netted a fabulous pair of red snakeskin patent leather shoes with red suede insets (marked down from $118 to $25) — fabulous for the holidays. Same anxiety was treated the previous day with a trip to Target for a cute Southwestern inspired watch ($12.99) and lavendar argyle sweater ($19.99) which goes perfectly with my new slacks. And you can tell the therapy is working. Please note my reference to the holidays — that means I am feeling positive about the future. And I must point out that I went to Marshalls and Target, not Saks and Nordstrom — so I am fiscally responsible as well as feeling better. And my shopping therapy is not all about me either. I went to Anthropologie specifically with my daughter in mind and found a gorgeous white winter coat marked down from $288 to $29.99. Who would not feel better knowing that their mothering skills were so perfectly honed?

It is a mystery to me why men do not appreciate the value of retail therapy. It is not like they do not benefit from it — hubby will be getting a Territory Ahead flannel shirt (30% off) and a wife who is not writhing on the floor in self-pity. There must be a male gene that is hardwired to the family’s discretionary spending budget and has been getting inflamed and nasty since March 3rd when the funds were maxed out. The gene does not seem to respond to comforting notions like this is October and there are only two and ahalf months before a new budget  period. And these same men vote for candidates who think nothing of going billions over budget. What is with that? But now I am getting cranky thinking about the gender-based discrimination and that will reduce the benefits of my therapeutic actions.

My husband is eager for me to come home from my business trip. He is afraid I have too much time on my hands after work and will sit in my hotel room and fret, or worse, not sit in my hotel room. He is right. But I am returning home today. I plan to get to the airport early because they have the most excellent shops . . .

I have been under medical watch for a lung tumor for the past one year and nine months. I am three months away from the official “all clear”. Today the surgeon who is going to do my thyroidectomy on Monday called me to tell me that as part of my preadmission testing they took an xray of my neck and chest and saw that the tumor has grown. Thank you very much gods of stress — I needed this news like a hole in the head.

They had already scheduled a CAT scan for me for as soon as I can get around after my surgery. So here we go again with the tests, the poking, proding, and hard decisions.  The pulmonary oncologist who had been following my case has just left his practice so now I have to find a new doctor too. When he left I kind of buried my head in the sand and put off finding a doctor to keep watch –  I was  so close to the end that I thought I could risk it. Guess not. So I am thankful that they caught it.

The worst part is that I am in a hotel room two thousand miles from home on a business trip. The doctor had called home and got my cell number from my husband. So I received his call while at my temporary desk at work. It was hard to remain calm and not let my colleagues see that I was devastated. I kept on working. I had to. But I left work at four and went shopping with a friend. Retail therapy — works every time.

So now it is the waiting game. I am promising myself to be positive. Apart from getting my thyroid sliced and diced I will do fun things. It is another reminder not to waste my time on the small stuff. I am going to accelerate my meditation practice, be kinder to the people I meet, read those issues of The Times Literary Supplement that are piling up in the bathroom, cook with my daughter, and see all the Pink Panther movies again. If my some miracle I get good news in the future it won’t have hurt much of anything if I enjoyed myself a bit more. And if I get bad news at least I will be feeling better.

Let me just close by saying, imploring really, that if you are putting off having a check-up or a preventative or diagnostic test, don’t be stupid. You are very important in this world and you need to take care of yourself. At least do it for me — make and keep that appointment.

I am a grammar snob. Paul is a grammar snob. Paul and I are grammar snobs. Got it? I believe I was the last American to receive an old-fashioned education — one in which grammar, geography, and mathematics were drilled painfully but permanently into our brains. If you think you are up to it, I am challenging you to a little quiz. No cheating. No googling. No calling your mother in the old country. If you do well please let me know and I will officially bestow upon you the BITFL badge of honor.

1. Sri Lanka was formerly called ___________.
2. Captain Picard drinks ________________.
3. If you are going to visit someone do you take a gift or bring a gift?
4. In ancient Greece, actresses were not allowed to wear men’s clothing. TorF
5. The equiangular spiral is found in nature in the a) ice cream cone b) chambered nautilus c) spiral nebulae.
6. What species of bird is associated with the Latin e pluribus unem? Why?
7. The lost Lenore is in which poem? By which poet?
8. Which women won the right to vote in 1971 a) Swiss b) Latvian c) Indonesian

Good luck! I look forward to hearing from the well edjercated.

Whenever I travel on business I make sure to leave time in my schedule for a “foreign” maniciure. I am not alone in this pursuit — in fact, I have actually run into colleagues having pedicures far, far from home. I am in Boulder for a week of meetings about business controls. I should really be carving out bar time but I am not much of a drinker, so manicures are my poison. Upon arrival and after settling in at the hotel, I mosied off to the local strip mall and found a nail joint.

Like 90% of nail salons in America, this one was owned and operated by Vietnamese ladies. I wandered in just as the only customers were preparing to leave. I asked if they were about to close. “Oh no lady, you come in and we help you pick a color.” An offer I could not refuse. We picked a lovely dark coral Opi and I sat down. My manicurist had limited English and I have zero Vietnamese but this did not stop our chatting. Soon we were joined by the lady owner who, upon hearing me say I had just arrived from the East coast, tut tutted and said “You must be exhausted. Let me give you a back rub.” Another offer I could not refuse.

She massaged my back and shoulders for the entire time I was being manicured. We were having a lovely chat and were soon joined by the other manicurists. My manicure was done and I started to get up. “No, no. You must stay for tea and watch our new DVD.” OK, I thought to myself, I have either walked into heaven or I am about to be doped and abducted. It turns out I had walked into heaven. The ladies put on a Vietnamese movie (no subtitle but plenty of tears) and explained the story to me as it unfolded. We all cried and hugged. The tea was like the nectar of the gods and the women were the sweetest people on earth. Finally it was time for me to go. I asked how much I owed.  “Twelve dollars for the manicure.” That was it. Massage, tea, movie, great company were gifts of love from strangers.

My appreciation of all things Oriental includes Feng Shui — the ancient Chinese art of arranging one’s personal environment to enhance harmony and prosperity by optimizing the flow of energy (Chi). Having the ideal state of Feng Shui in the home brings many benefits to the occupants, not the least of which is increased market value of the property. I have spent a good deal of time mastering this art and will generously share my widsom with you so that you, too, can have a home in which money and good health enter easily through the front door and linger at the exact spot where you rest your fanny on the couch.

The first step in Feng Shuizing your home is to evaluate its current condition. Go room by room starting at the foyer. You must have a foyer in order to achieve harmony. If you do not have one you must create the illusion of a foyer. Open the front door and stand in the doorway facing into your house and scan the space looking for Shar Chi (negative energy). At the back of the entrance hallway you spot the cat’s litter box. Tut tut. Have you ever seen a cat in ancient Oriental art (and the Siamese cats from Lady and the Tramp do not count — in fact any Disney memorabilia visible from the foyer is Shar  Chi). The litter box should be removed and put in the mud room. Continue scanning — you spot a pitted brass lamp with a corrigated lamp shade that was last dusted in 2002.  This is a no-no for sure. A) It is brass — brass is a base metal that will reflect and redirect Chi is a random fashion, sort of like a Star Trek energizer gone bad. B) It is pitted. Bad enough that a cheapo base metal is sending your home’s energy all over the place, but to have it pitted means that some of the energy is getting trapped forever in the corrosion. C) It is dusty. How can you have harmony when there are so many allergens and dust mites floating around? Toss out the lamp and replace it with three candles nestled in Delft candlestick holders. Lay a bronze snuffer at a diagonal precisely three inches away from the candles. Place one fresh shrimp and a lotus petal on a porcelain dish next to the snuffer.

One last step before we move on. Examin the floor. Hardwood floors are the best for the effortless flow of Chi. Boot mats, welcome mats, any rug with a Spiderman motif must be removed and replaced with a simple woven straw square 12″ x 12″. Remove any signs or posters welcoming friends or those that are made by cross-stitch. Chi can not flow in the presence of schmaltz. If by any chance you have artwork painted on velvet that can be seen from the front door you need to abandon your house immediately. Shar Chi takes root in the presence of a) paintings by Keene, b) paintings in which the subject’s eyes move and c) velvet art.

Scan the living room first focusing on color. That red wall at the back must be repainted either a soothing Spring green or in a neutral shade otherwise it will absorb the Chi and end its benefits at the wall. There is a test for home interior paint colors. Put a $20 bill in your wallet and leave it it the room being evaluated overnight. If in the morning the $20 bill is gone and your wallet contains only a Danish Krone and coupon for KFC drumstick and Coke then the room needs to be repainted. Do NOT (and I must stress the NOT again) paint the crown molding a dark or dramatically contrasting color. That just looks foul.

Plants, animals, and even people can block the flow of Chi and cause bad fortune to enter one’s home. For plants, you should have only delicate leafed plants that are healthy and lush. Discard any plants that have dropped all their leaves or those that you brought over from your neighbor’s house when she moved. Plants that have been previously owned bring with them both good and bad Chi — keep them at your own risk. Plants that are easy to maintain should be replaced with orchids.

If your living room contains a collection display the rules of Feng Shui are simple: beer steins, miniature spoons, miniature Nascars, and autographed photos of Prince must be removed and replaced with silk paintings of carp. All other collectibles must just be removed.

The kitchen: the heart of the home must allow the flow of Chi to move effortlessly. Your collection of plastic bags of moldy bread are hampering this goal as are the Portugese rooster water pitcher and matching olive plates. George Forman grills are perfectly fine — in fact Chi thrives in the presence of grilled cheese sandwiches. But check your kitchen flooring — Chi can recognize Pergo flooring and will let you know it is not real hardwood but flying right out that bay window with the wilted herb garden.

Before we leave the downstairs, we must evaluate your guest bathroom. If you really don’t want guests then leave it exactly as it is. Chi will not enter a room with white octagonal tile floors, bandaid pink tile walls with black trim. Nor will it rest its butt on a toilet seat that has a green K-mart toilet seat cover and it absolutely will turn into Shar Chi in the face of any reading material other than The New Yorker or The Paris Review.

To recap: Feng Shui is an art form that you can master. It requires critically assessing your environment and making changes. If you feel you are still not up to the task then you can take the shortcut and replace all your belongings with things from Pottery Barn.

(Sung to the tune of Aretha Franklin’s “Respect”)

My mission today is to get through the day and not explode. I am under the kind of stress that kills most people instantly. My therapist says I have good coping skills.. Ha! I am actually at the top of Darwin’s ladder bordering on morphing into a new species: homohighfunctioning.

I leave on Sunday for a week long business trip. I am still recovering from my last trip. I will get back one day before I have thyroid surgery. Between now and then I have to prepare for release of the software my project team is developing and we have found a problem that is not yet solved. There are six hours left before we have to shut down if it is not solved. I awoke  to find an email from my team leader telling me funding for my project is in jeopardy (no funding no job). My husband had an asthma attack yesterday and my daughter wants to live on her own (i.e., get an apartment). My Parkinson’s reacts badly to stress and I am oscillating at such a frequency that I am attracting dogs.

Yeah, yeah I know — some people have it a lot worse but this is about me not them, after all it is my blog. So, let’s do the exercise of breaking this whole stress thing down into manageable pieces. 1) Business trip: I have to drive on a highway for one hour when I arrive and a) I have a driving phobia b) I find it harder to drive now c) I have gotten lost every time I go there d) On my last trip I had a stroke and became delusional. 2) My software release is about to hit the skids: after a solid week of working on the problem the team has not yet diagnosed it and we have six hours left. Confidence level? Zero. 3)Thyroid surgery: my brother had the same thing including two clean biopsies and when they removed his thyroid it was cancerous. What me worry? 4)Asthma: my husband has severe asthma and had a bad attack last night. My father died from an asthma attack. 5)My daughter want to get an apartment: a)she has bipolar disorder and needs a good support system b)she can’t pay for an apartment c)I am not ready to have her move out. 6) No funding no job: I have always wanted to greet  people at Wal-mart. 7) My P D is bad: life’s a bitch. OK, now that I have broken things down into manageable parts I feel so much better. Why I am paying for therapy I don’t know!

“Stuffed to the brim with yummy cat food, Nero’s contentedness was complete.” “The completeness was without doubt.” “The fullness of  his belly was noticeable.”

The suffix -ness indicates state or condition. So does the suffix -ity. Let’s try the above examples this time using -ity.   “Stuffed to the brim with yummy cat food, Nero’s contentity was complete.” “The completeity was without doubt.” “The fullity of his belly was noticeable.” Hmmm. How are we supposed to learn English anyway? It is my responsibility to point out the ability we have in English to have suffixes with such similarity that it is a curiosity that we can not interchange them.

Oh dear, we also have the suffix -cy which also means state or quality. “There is some urgency that we figure out why the frequency of using suffixes contributes to our efficiency in communicating.”

English is Greek to me.

Having inhabited your planet for fifty-eight years now, I have had  the pleasure of living through several cycles of “jive talk’n”. Each decade has rewarded me with many pleasurable but, out of context, completely incomprehensible prases that seem to arise out of  nowhere, hang around for awhile enjoying enormous popularity and then all but disappear.  If it were not for vintage movies and reruns of sitcoms these words might be forgotten. But, happily, they are not.

Remember Rowan and Martin’s Laugh In? Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to me . . . followed by Artie Shaw getting socked by a boxing glove? That show was a fertile field for language. Who here does not know who said “One ringy dingy. Milhouse?”? Or, my favorite which I still say about twice a week: “And that’s the Trufth”. Same decade gave us “The mission, if you choose to accept it…” and “Book’em Dano”. All these phrases are known so well by one generation and probably a complete mystery to another.

Cool daddyo, 23 skidoo, I hate ya cause your feets too big, like man o man o man, when I’m good I’m very very good . . . can you place those in time? Of course you know “Groovey”  but what did it replace? Did it come before or after “Rad”. Like,  I am so over “groovey”. Of more recent vintage, “life is like a box of chocolates” and “I heart (fill in whatever you want here)” replaced “life is like a bowl of cherries” and  “America wants you” (or “Buy Bonds”).

“Beat it, just beat it” made popular by Michael Jackson was really first the rage in the 1920s. Flappers and rappers share a lot of common lingo. If it worked the first time! But sometimes meanings get changed. A bimbo used to be a “hood” or tough guy; now it is a ditzy woman. How did that happen? A “dick” used to be a law enforcement person now it is a nasty or jerky person and other things too.

Do you still say “he was smok’n weed” or do you say “give me some of that sht man”? Of course, you say neither. Now you say “six pack abs” and “booty” cause it is all about your body being a temple. “Hey Mikey. He likes it!” and “Breakfast of Champions” still linger in our speech but do you remember “Shot from Guns?” Music and the media (especially television) have a lot to do with linguistic evolution. A whole nation can “get jiggy with it”. If you send me classic phrases from the past f or my collection you will make be very  happy. “Go ahead, make my day.”

For the past five or six thousand years we have depended on sheep for their lovely wool but who would have thought that moles would surpass sheep and cause such a stir in the fashion industry? And no one seems to be speaking out against the obviously horrific mole slaughter that must be needed to provide all those mole skins. So I am raising my voice of concern and will begin investigating this crime against teeny, defenseless animals.

First let me point out some basic animal rights perspective. The Fashion Industry tells us that it is OK to wear wool because it is shorn off  the sheep and grows back. No animals are hurt. But let’s do some simple math to test this “fact.” If you go to the major catalogs or Sears or  QVC you will find that the majority of clothing items are made of “microfleece.” That equates to billions of tons of fleece off of small sheep (better known as lambs). Just when was the last time you saw a naked lamb? Something is fishy here — it does not add up. There is more microfleece being made into vests and jackets then there are naked lambs. I fear there is an underground industry where millions of lambs are slaughtered or live in inhumane conditions just to provide us with snuggly apres ski clothes.

Back to moles. Worse than shearing baby lambs for their tender wool is the killing of moles for their skins. Moles may be pests and ruin our lawns but that does not give Man liberty to eradicate them. And that is what we must be doing judging from the number of moleskin apparel items being sold. Look in your closet — you do have moleskin in there I just know it!

I plan on continuing my investigation. I have seen many articles of outerwear made of faux fur but I have not yet been able to find any wildlife or manufacturing statistics about fauxs. Perhaps they are extinct as a result of our disregard for Nature.

I implore you. Stop this attack on small creatures. Opt for fibre made from plants (like cotton). Wear Crocs (no silly, no crocodiles are actually used to make them…geesh!).  Save our baby animals and defend them against senseless slaughter for fashion.

All kidding aside, we share this earth with all creatures. Love animals. Don’t wear them.

One year ago I had a total knee replacement of my left knee. I had not yet become a blogger at that time, which is too bad since TKR is rich territory for the kind of material that makes for a  juicy blog. So I have decided to cast my mind back to those morphine-filled days and do an anniversary retrospective on The Ordeal. But I should begin with the Why I decided to become a bionic woman.

I have degenerative arthritis in both knees — I have Pseudogout. I quote here from rheumatology.org “Pseudogout is a type of arthritis that, as the name implies, can cause symptoms similar to gout, but in reaction to a different type of crystal deposit. Pseudogout, sometimes referred to as calcium pyrophosphate deposition disease, can cause severe episodes of localized pain and swelling resulting in incapacitation for days or weeks. It also can cause more chronic arthritis that mimics osteoarthritis or rheumatoid arthritis. Knees are most often involved but wrists, shoulders, ankles, elbows or hands can be affected.” It is a nasty, nasty disease. There are times when even the weight of a bed sheet is agonizing. I needed both knees replaced as a result but opted to do one at a time — a good decision. There is one memory that stands out in front of all others — the Pain, the truly unbelievable pain.

The hospital insists that all prospective TKR patients and their families attend a two-hour lecture on the procedure and the recovery. You are served tea and cookies while you watch films and listen to a Medical Professional explain. The procedure is basically that your leg is sliced apart so that your bum knee can be ripped out and a new one put back with a couple of screws drilled into your shin and a whole lot of Elmer’s glue. Then you are sewn back up, good as new. We will leave the lecture now and move on to the actual event.

 You awake in the recovery room to the sound of someone moaning. Then you realize that it is you who is moaning. A gentle nurse voice enters your consciousness — “Are you in pain?” You muster all your ether-ridden good manners and reply “Is this your bloody first time nursing a knee replacement? Of course I am in pain. I have just had my leg sawn off and then glued back together. Yes, I am in pain. I want pain killers and I want them now!” Through my blurred vision I can see nurse hands replacing the intravenous drip with grape kool aid. The next memory is of being wheeled to my room by an orderly who is talking on his cell phone. He is doing about 60 mph down the hallway heading to a set of doubledoors. I can just tell he is going to use the gurney as a battering ram to open them — I can feel the shockwaves of pain even before we make contact. I awake a few minutes later in my hospital room. My husband is holding my hand and my daughter is looking grim. “Mom,” she says, “the hospital made a little mistake. The swelling wasn’t arthritis.” I look at her blearily. “Mom, you’ve had  twins.” I look at my husband. “It’s true, sweetie,” he confirms.

I awake again a few hours later. Husband and daughter are watching reruns of House Hunters. I scan the room for bassinets. My throat is so dry I can’t speak. The nurse comes in and says, “Well, sleepy head, how are you feeling?” Then before I can answer she puts a cord in my hand that ends in a push button device. “That’s the morphine button, when you want morphine you press tha . . . yes, just like that.” I press the button six times. The nurse explains it works only once every seven minutes. I am given ice chips. The morphine kicks in and I say to my loved ones “@$%@!, I must have been insane.”

I sleep fitfully at best since the nurse has put my leg in a continuous motion machine. I feel like a lab mouse on the wheel except the mouse is not biting down on its sleeve to keep from moaning. At 7:00 A.M. breakfast arrives and is immediately sent back. I do not want a bowl of rice crispies. At 7:10 a woman pops her head into my room and says “Hi. I am Giselle your physical therapist. I’ll be in to get you up in about five minutes. You might want to give yourself some morphine now.” I blanche and press the button three times.

Giselle should have been named Brunhilde. She is a tiny woman who brooks no nonsense from her patients. “You are going to stand now and walk to the door.” I tell her she is crazy. “You can do it my way or I will help you get your leg off the bed,” she says with a tone I don’t like. I grab the overhead monkey bars and ever so slowly move my legs until finally they are dangling off the side and I am sitting. “Now let’s walk.” She hands me crutches. We walk to the door with me singing gospel music to help cancel out the pain. I start to turn to go back to the bed and she says “No, keep going.” We are now in the hall. It is a Fellliniesque scene of middle-aged men and women in johnnies crutching along and crying or swearing. They hear my voice in all its glory singing “Rocka My Soul” and join in. Soon the ward is a chorus of the wounded. We end up facing a flight of stairs. “Up you go.” I attempt a small mutiny but Giselle has a firm grip on my crutches. She teaches me how to go upstairs. “I hope there is an elevator down,” I say. She teaches me how to go downstairs. I get back to my room and sleep until noon.

The doctor comes to visit and looks at my blackboard where my physical therapy progress will be charted. “Oh, I see you have Giselle for PT.” He removes my bandages and for the first time I see my incision. It looks like the Mississippi River. “Looks great.” Doctor is happy and leaves, poking his head back in the door. “Oh, tell Giselle I want you to be at five degrees by Friday, not ten.” Right doc.

Husband and daughter arrive with flowers. “Mom, you look great for someone your age,” my daughter graciously informs me. We have a nice chat during which I fall asleep. When I wake up my daughter’s angelic face has been replaced by Giselle’s. “Time for PT.” My dinner arrives at the same time. I try the “come back after I eat” ploy — no deal. Giselle puts a death grip on my arm. I ask if she would like some chocolates. She squeezes my arm hard. “Shall we try the stairs again?” I comply.