After a week's break at home, Number One Son is back to college today and I am actually going to miss having him around.  Disrupting though it may be to my schedule (such as it is) it's been fun to drive him to see his friends and have him around for breakfast.  He even spent an evening at his grandparents' house making endless circles with his grandmother's wheelchair since she must be in constant motion or she gets up and "wanders".  I heard him telling her about his political philosophy courses, a gentle drone so she could hear the sound of his voice, which seemed to quiet her ever-present anxiety.  Himself and I had a dinner to attend and couldn't do our usual preparation of meal and helping Papa get her dressed and ready for bed, and in steps our big-hearted 19 year old son to save the day.

I am finding it very interesting getting used to dealing with my sons as adults.  One of the best parts is I can go back to swearing while I'm driving (I know, I know, but as Mark Twain said, "There is a relief in profanity that is denied even to prayer!"), and we get the same jokes.  OK.  Sometimes he has to explain them to me, but you know what I mean.  Nothing gives me a greater understanding of the passage of time or the natural flow of life than watching my sons turn into the kind of people the planet needs.  I have decided that caring hearts are more important than large bankrolls.  There is so little that we actually need, especially in this country.  But to teach compassion to the next generation is critical to the survival of all the good things we cherish.  All the fancy gadgets in the universe don't give joy.  That only comes from feeling that we really matter to someone else. 

I can't wait until Thanksgiving when both boys are home.  My heart is full at the thought of it.

I have no idea when I first heard of Lane Goodwin, the young teen from Kentucky who lost  his battle with cancer this week.  Someone must have sent me the Facebook link at some point, and somewhere along the way I became caught up in his struggle.  The outpouring of love and support from total strangers was enough to lift my heart and make me believe in the basic decency of most people.  Movie stars and athletes and farmers in the field were all photographed with their "thumbs up" for Lane.  This brave little soldier, for as long as he could, would show his optimism with his own "thumbs up" and an increasingly weak smile.

What I found most amazing was the willingness of his mother to share her incredible pain with the world in order to raise consciousness about childhood cancer.  There were pictures of her with Lane and his brother at Disney World, and at major league ball games, and many other places that people had generously arranged for them to visit.  I will confess that when I first saw all the pictures I was a little skeptical, but it soon became obvious that this child was really dying and this was no scam.  How does a mother share so many private moments at what she knows is the end of her child's life?  Angie is incredibly brave and generous, and I suspect that trying to find the kernel of something positive in all this pain is all that is keeping her going.  She has made a lot of people think about childhood cancer who never gave the issue a thought before, and that is definitely something positive.  I have a young friend in my town who is now a junior in college who raised my consciousness on this issue a while ago.  She, too, is a fighter, and she is doing well, thank you, God.

So when people ask me how we are dealing with the stress of sending two kids through college at the same time, my standard answer has become, "I thank God I'm not looking for money for chemotherapy," and that is true.  There is no rhyme or reason for who gets cancer.  No one deserves it, and it's especially hard to deal with it when it attacks a child.
Every day we are surrounded by reminders of how short and unpredictable life is, and also how beautiful.  So enjoy the gorgeous autumn leaves, hug your kids, and say a prayer for Lane's family.  He, himself, is finally resting pain-free in the arms of God.

So here it is, more than half-past October, and we haven't turned on the heat yet.  There have been a couple of chilly moments, but we have warm clothes and blankets, down comforters and flannel sheets, for all of which I am very grateful.  By now it's a matter of principle.  November is when you turn on the heat in New England.

My friends on Facebook confess when they cave in.  We all feel a little guilty when we bend to the lure of creature comforts.  The cost of oil (and gas, I suppose) is certainly a consideration, but I've always thought it had more to do with a perverse pride in being from "sturdy pioneer stock" and sheer stubbornness, at least in my case.  We are playing "chicken" with our friends to see who can hold out the longest.

My nose is pink, my lips are blue, and my LL Bean chamois shirts are covering my waffle-weave underwear, but I'm not about to crumble!  However, if you are looking for me later, you'll find me at the library, or the supermarket, or the mall, or pretty much anywhere that doesn't play the same silly games that I do!

It's always a mistake to wait until the end of the day to write.  In the  morning my intentions are so good, and the day is so full of promise.  There are a million plans waiting to be executed, each one sure to make a difference in how I feel about the world and myself.  By the time dusk starts to creep in I realize that I've blown it again.  I didn't run.  Heck, I didn't walk.  I didn't get as much laundry done and put away as I'd hoped.  I didn't send out enough resumes to find the perfect job.  The list goes on and on.

There were things I did do, of course.  I played chauffeur for my college son.  We went to visit my mother and fed her lunch to her, bite by unappetizing bite.  We went to Town Hall to get a flu shot (which apparently isn't offered until next week....I really should start reading signs), and we got Himself's car to the shop so that it no longer sounds like a Sherman tank as it zooms down the highway.  The list isn't nearly as impressive as I would like it.  There is time to get something else done, of course.  Another load of laundry, dinner, the Board of Directors meeting for my theater group.  Mostly I would like a nap, but the likelihood of that is dwindling fast.

So, like most of the human race, I fall a bit short of my target pretty much every day.  At least I still have a target most days.  And tomorrow morning, assuming I am granted another day (which most of us blithely take for granted, but I've learned better), I'll give it another shot.  Maybe that's what matters most.  That we don't just shrug our shoulders and say, "Well, that's just the way it goes," because I am not ready to settle for that.  Are you?

Nursing homes really are not funny places.  I should know.  I'm visiting one an average of five days a week to see my dear Mom who is 89, wheelchair bound and dealing with Alzheimer's.  But why is it that I so often want to write a sit com for some brave network about the residents?

All of my mother's neighbors have their "quirks".  There is the one who puts her makeup on with a shovel and flirts with everyone.  There is the one whose dentures really need adjusting and who sends her teeth flying when she gets yelling, which is fairly often.  There is the debonaire guy with severe arthritis who rolls out to the nurses' station every day at the same time to get his two cigarettes which he then takes down in the elevator so he can smoke them in peace outside.  There is the guy who does amazing bird calls....all. day. long.  And then there's Snoopy.  That's not her real name.  I won't tell you her real name.  But you've probably met her.  She hangs on every conversation, especially the ones in which she is not a participant.  From another table she will chime in with her two cents on any subject.  She asks unbelievably personal questions, and is guaranteed to make at least one very unwelcome personal observation in the course of a week.  "Geez, you've packed on a few pounds," she will tell you, whether it's true or not.  "Your mother's hair is getting thin.  It's the medicine," she kindly offers, even though Mother could probably have lived without the information.  It goes on and on.  The nurses have moved her to another table for meal times.  It's not for my mother's sake.  It's for mine.  And for Snoopy's safety.  Because one of these days I'm going over the table and strangling her.  I'll just snap.  I can feel it coming.

I realize that she can't help it and that she is bored out of her mind by sitting in the same place all the time.  I do know that I represent "the outside world" and that she is starving for conversation and company.  Sometimes I even try polite chit chat with her, because I'm not a monster.  I have a heart.  The foibles and weaknesses of all the other residents I view with patience and compassion.  The nearest I can figure out is that she represents all the traits I see in myself which I like least.  And if nothing else, she does help to keep me humble.  Because for all my smugness about what a wonderful daughter I am, I am truly ashamed of how often I dream about hitting this poor old lady right in the smacker with a large cream pie.

We picked up Son Number One at college this weekend, and I swear he's grown another six inches, put on fifteen pounds (all muscle) and his voice has dropped another octave.  Hugging my "baby" was like hugging Mount Rushmore.  This guy is solid.  Of course the price for such motherly joy is I had to watch my first rugby game.

My son is called a "scrum half" (I think).  I guess that's good.  He does a lot of running, shouting directions, and getting thrown to the turf like a rag doll.  There was no blood shed on our team, for which I was grateful.  The other side did have a broken nose and an ambulance ride, but they took it very well and since their team shirts were red it wasn't too visually disturbing.  While dodging a large party of wasps of the flying variety, I did get a chance to talk to some of the players from the previous game who attempted to bring me up to speed on what was going on.  The best I can say about rugby is that it is less confusing than cricket and it moves faster than football.

It was a mistake to talk to the very nice lady selling candy and coffee to raise money for the team.  She was selling muffins, too, but the wasps discovered those first and after watching them parade back and forth over the muffin tops in sugar-induced frenzy, they weren't selling very well.  She was a mom who lived an hour and a half away from the school and came to every home game.  Strike 1:  She made me feel guilty.  Then she told me about how many times her son (also a scrum half, but for the "A" team) had had stitches, broken bones, and trips to the emergency room.  Strike 2: She gave me no motherly comfort at all and something brand new about which to worry.  Then, when she learned that we would be bringing our little scrum back to school next weekend she offered to copy her book of rules for the game so that I could understand it better.  Strike 3:  I've got homework???

We actually did have a lovely time.  The weather cooperated.  The sun shone.  The kids in the stands were delightful and apparently knew my son by name since they shouted it fairly regularly. Nobody on either side lost consciousness, to my complete amazement.  And not one swear word did I hear from parents, players, coaches, or student fans.  I did, however, utter a few myself "sotto voce" when my kid got sacked, but I was dainty and quiet about it.  I think.

I could tell you I'm not sulking today, but chances are you wouldn't believe me.  You're no fool.  Rejection is not easy for anyone to deal with at any age, in any field.  Whether it's in work, love, or writing, being told that you just don't quite make the grade "stinks on toast with a twist", as my friend Maggie used to say.  I had the shopping spree planned for the new wardrobe!  And it was going to be really cute.  Sigh.  Back to the drawing board.

What is interesting and heartening is the support that has been springing up from unexpected sources.  Friends on Facebook have been wonderful, of course, but I have been getting phone calls, offers of lunch, and (my favorite) a comment on this page from someone I've never met.  People are basically very kind and caring.  Don't believe what you read in the papers (or see in the Vice Presidential debates).  The fundamental purpose of life (at least according to me) is to help one another get through the tough bits, holding hands like kindergarteners on a field trip, until we get to the end.  If somebody falls, you pick them up.  And as long as we don't all have our breakdowns on the same day, this system works pretty well.  A friend of mine who recently lost her wonderful husband much too soon, and whom I've been trying to encourage and comfort, sent me an e-mail last night that said, "You may not have 'a job' but you are certainly doing important work," and I was very moved by that .  It is more important than getting a particular job.  Still, there are those pesky tuitions that need to be paid, so I suppose I'd better stop sucking my thumb and get back to work figuring out what I want to be when I grow up ...as if!...and sending out resumes.

To all the kind people who are sending love and prayers my way, I feel them.  And when you fall down on our "field trip", I'll be there for you, too, with an outstretched hand.

Well, we got the word about the job.  And the word wasn't "yes" but I'm putting on my happy face and dealing with the disappointment.  At least I got to the interviewing process, and from what I hear that is becoming rather unusual these days for most applicants.  It gives me hope.  Which brings me back to yesterday's entry about letting God steer my shopping cart. 

I really do believe that there is a plan and I am just clueless as to what it is. The trick now is to quiet the pity party, the self-doubt, the panic, and just listen to what is really going on in the Inner Chamber, as I like to call that place in my  heart where it's just me and The Deity.  My dear friend Flanagan (missing him again, doggone it) often told me, "Be a human being, not a human doing!" and there was wisdom in that, as in most things he said.  It's hard in this society to be quiet all the way down to the core and not feel guilty about not doing laundry or sending out resumes or inventing chocolate that makes you skinny.  But just as the fields have to lie fallow every so often or they stop producing crops, the heart has to have a "time out" away from the hustle and bustle to learn what is actually important.  What makes me happy?  What would I love to do so much that I would be embarrassed to get paid to do it (that's legal, of course)?  And of course I'd cash the check anyway.  And the answer is "Uhhhhhhhhhhh" which isn't much of an answer at all.  I love writing.  It's fun and it comes easily and it's basically just typing out the voices that chatter all day in my head.  I love doing voice over work.  I even did a commercial or two back in the day (complete with sung jingle).  Or singing.  Or, or, or.  Oh wait.  This isn't me being quiet and learning from this experience.  This is me chatting with you. (Who did you say you are, anyway?)  So it's time for a cup of tea, a thank you note and a dinner out with a friend.  Tomorrow the search begins anew and we'll figure out how to live life "happily ever after" one step at a time the same way everyone else does.  And sometime this evening I am planning on a half hour or so of rocking in a chair in front of the fireplace and listening.  Just listening.

Today I happen to be thinking about those very cool grocery carts which are in the supermarkets now and were nowhere to be found when my kids were little.  You know the ones.  Some look like cars, some like rocket ships and some like fire engines.  The children are deluded into thinking it was their idea to come and drive through the aisles, and they frantically steer, twisting the wheel this way and that, and they beep beep endlessly on the horn.  It occurs to me that this is a powerful symbol for how I live my life.  How most of us live our lives.  We look busy, and we are very serious about what we do.  But to think that we are "in control" is just plain cute.

So many factors change the outcome of our days, things over which we have no control whatsoever.  We are impacted by the people we meet and whether they are in a good mood or bad.  We are put off by weather, by news, by the price of gas.  We could wake up with a cold, or a disease.  Or we could wake up cheerful with the remnants of a lovely dream that carry us to lunch.  As for the big questions, life and death, career, marriage, friendship, family relations, it is always so much easier to see those things with hindsight.  I am grateful that a large number of my prayers have been answered with a resounding "no" over the years, even though it seemed like the end of the world at the time.  Have you bumped into any of your boyfriends or girlfriends from thirty years ago?  Have you wondered what you were thinking?  The flip side of that is the serendipitous string of meetings that have woven their way through my life.  There are people I had no right to meet who came into my story through middle school teachers, a talk-show host from New Jersey, a co-worker's boyfriend, and in the confessional at Saint Anthony's Shrine in Boston.  Some of these people lived in another state.  Some lived in another country.  Who knew these people would become my F.B.C. (Family By Choice)? The trick is to stay open so you can recognize them when they show up.  So whether I get the big job (no word yet), or how to pay for college for two brilliant boys, or how to deal with a mother and mother-in-law both dealing with dementia, is really out of my hands.  I will trust the Driver of My Cart and beep beep my way through one aisle at a time.

Three cats live next door.  Fiona is a beautiful calico cat and a total snot.  She stays in the house and deals with no one but her owner.  Stella is a lithe, green-eyed, shiny black coated hunter.  She likes me well enough and comes to visit every few days.  Mostly she stalks prey in the jungle which is my yard, and she is exceptionally good at it.  For a small cat she has taken down some fairly large size snacks.  She tortures chipmunks, birds, and every now and then she manages to kill a squirrel who is at least her size.  While it can be messy and disgusting to watch, it is also fascinating.  She's just being a cat, after all, and that is what they do.  I have a lot of respect for Stella.  She will rub up against my legs, then throw herself on her back and allow me to scratch her belly.  This is a rare privilege, awarded to few.  To pick her up and pat her would mean a trip to the emergency room, for sure.

And then there is Martin.  Martin and I love each other.  He is a long haired black cat, also with green eyes, and a lot bigger than Stella.  My husband accuses me of feeding him tuna.  Well, maybe I did once or twice, but I haven't in at least six months, and Martin still loves me.  Each morning, as soon as he is out of his own house, he heads for my front door.  He meows until I open up and give him what he wants, which is generally speaking some serious cuddling.  I will sit in the chair on my front porch and he will jump onto my lap.  Once he gets settled and I start stroking his fur he purrs like a well-tuned car.  He'll change position, put his paws around my neck and park his head on my shoulder.  Occasionally he will go over my shoulder, climb over my back and land on my head.  I'm not sure how or why he does this.  Himself says it is so he can spot mice better, but I prefer to think it is a token of affection.  When he's had enough he will jump down, look back for a quick second, then walk off to catch whatever mice might dare venture within a hundred feet of my front door.  I don't know where he spends the rest of his days.  Maybe he has another lady who does feed him tuna and he's two-timing me.  I don't care.  I love this silly cat.

In the bad weather Martin will make a bee-line for my porch and sit under the chair.  He will meow pathetically until I open the door and if my husband isn't working from home and the weather is really nasty, I've been known to let him in. I'll dry him off with a towel, and after casing the joint he will trot up the stairs and perch in the window in the hallway outside the bathroom so he can "Nyah, nyah" at Fiona next door.  But Martin is moving.  His owner is the daughter of the lady next door and she has just (wisely) opted to buy herself a house in the next town.  I'm sad, but also happy for her.  Her mom broke this news to me as though she were expecting me to be crushed.  When you start not making big life choices because the nut next door has a crush on your cat it is time for serious counseling.  I'll miss him like crazy, but I'm happy for her.

Thinking about what is so special about our relationship, I realized how affirming it is to have a creature select me for a friend.  His instincts are good, so I must be doing something right.  Either he senses that I really am as kind as I'd like to think I am, or maybe I just give great ear scratches.  Either way, I shall miss my furry friend and have every intention of visiting.  Maybe I'll bring tuna.

Yeah, yeah.  New England in October is beautiful.  Blah, blah, blah.  Although the colors are indeed spectacular this year, I'm not in the mood today.  I need to do fall cleaning, get the garden ready for winter, and find the orange and gold tablecloths which I could have SWORN I put in the same spot in the attic as every other year, but apparently they've developed legs over the summer and taken a hike.  The furnace really should be replaced, but maybe we can squeeze one more year out of it.  And then there's the subject of my kids...one is coming home for a break this weekend, but the other won't be home until Thanksgiving.  Guess which one I suspect is missing me?  And as Winnie the Pooh says, "Tut, tut.  Looks like rain!"  I want and need a nap.

To further waddle in my misery, I keep playing "Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again" from "Phantom of the Opera" and "Bridge Over Troubled Water", which I find poignant on a good day.  The fact that my piano playing doesn't seem to be getting any better aids this situation not at all.  Some days just stink.

From years of experience I realize that there are things I can do to snap myself out of this.  There is, indeed, a nap, which often works.  There is physical activity, like a short run, which might help.  There is even meditation, which is usually enough to calm my mind and lift my spirits.  Nuts to it all.  Today I'm throwing myself a "pity party" and I'm going to wallow for another hour or so.  It's stupid and pointless, but on some level I am enjoying feeling sorry for myself.  So go on, Recorded Rachel from Card Services, call me about improving my interest rate.  I double dog dare ya!

I love community theater.  I watch it, I perform in it, I paint sets, usher, and sweep floors for it.  I have even been known to clean the toilet, in spite of the fact that I'm reluctant to tackle that job at home.  Lately, however, I do find that it is getting on my nerves in one particular area.  There are no roles for women "of a certain age".  Well, that's not strictly true.  There are some, and there is a circle of delightful and talented women whose company I greatly enjoy who all audition for the same parts.  When I walk into the audition hall there are hugs and kisses on cheeks and gabfests as though among long lost friends, and let me make it quite clear that this is all genuine and authentic admiration and affection we're seeing here.  Nevertheless, I have been forced to form the "O.N.C."  That's not the real name.  The middle letter is different, but I didn't want to offend anyone. 

When I see these wonderful, talented, and delightful women, the little voice in my head says, and I paraphrase here, "Oh NUTS!  She's here!"  I'm not proud of it, but there you have it.  When I look at those gifted ladies I do a mental rundown of their past theatrical triumphs and realize that I haven't got the prayer of a snowball in hell to get the part.  Oh, once in a while I get something here or there.  I played Kate Keller in Arthur Miller's "All My Sons" a few years back and it got nice reviews.  And I can sing, which helps narrow the field a little.  In the long run, however, I am playing with the big girls here, and I'm over my head.  These ladies are so dear to me (and not the least bit stuck on themselves, any of them) that I have paid them the compliment of informing them of their membership in the O.N.C., of which, since I thought of it in the first place, I am President.  Let me tell you, I didn't have to explain the concept.  They all got it right away.

This rainy Sunday afternoon I have just returned from a performance of "The Savannah Disputation" which starred not one, but TWO members of the O.N.C.  I had auditioned for the part of the "sweeter" sister (although I would have preferred to be the witch, but Sharon nailed that role) and got as far as the callbacks, but I lost out to Karen, who did an amazing job and really deserved the role and put a spin on it which would never have occurred to me.  In a situation like that you don't so much watch the play as dissect it.  I was so hoping to find a major flaw.  No such luck.  It was fabulous.

So, once again, my ego in tatters, but my heart full of admiration, I take off my hat to the ladies of the O.N.C.  We are an amazing group.  And I made Karen Vice President.  Good thing we don't actually have elections.  I might be out of a job there, too!

Audio books are fun in the car.  I'm currently listening to something called "Don't Miss Your Life" which seems like good advice and is read by the author in a perky voice.  One of the challenges thrown out there as I wended my way home from a gain at Weight Watchers (never good for my mood) was to "think about your happiest childhood memory."  The first thing that came to mind was an enormous cardboard box which had contained a refrigerator.  It became, in turn, a house (complete with "curtains"), a train with an empty coffee can chimney,and after my brother and  I upended it, it became a store.  We sold mud pies, made from the backyard dirt.  There was no garden and very little grass  We grew up in the city in a three-decker house and my grandparents lived next door in a one bedroom apartment.  The stairs on their fire escape became the "shelves" for the mud pies.  I suspect that we broke several fire department regulations that day, but it all turned out well, as most things we worry about do.  We played for hours and days with that box until eventually the rains turned it into mush.

When I think of my sons' childhood, it is largely populated with plastic toys marked "Fisher Price", a fine company and the source of many hours of enjoyment.  I've already told you about the pirate ships and castles which will outlive all of us and may, someday, make it out of my attic and into homes of their own.  But I wonder if they missed out on something.  Most kids today are proficient at computers and video games, and can program an iPod, an iPad, and the Space Shuttle from the age of three on, but given a long summer afternoon with an electrical outage I wonder what they would do.  The pace of "Sesame Street" and life in general has produced a generation that is not very good at doing nothing.  Or at doing something simple and non-electronic.  There were the occasional "forts" made out of kitchen chairs and bed sheets (mostly when Auntie Lynnie babysat), but not a lot of going into the back yard (or "back of the 'ard" as Son Number One called it rather endearingly) to just "hang out".  I'm rather sorry about that.  Oh, they read like fiends and even wrote their own books but I don't remember a single over-sized cardboard box in their entire life that wasn't dutifully taken apart and recycled on trash day.

One of my favorite pictures of Son Number Two has him lying on his back in the middle of a field, legs casually crossed, arms under his head, and just staring at the sky watching the kites.  He wasn't worried about dirt, bugs, or dog poop.  He was enjoying the tickle of the grass and the colors darting across the ridiculously blue sky.  I don't know about you, but I think that sounds like a brilliant idea.  And I think I know where to find a kite!

Nothing will get you into Weight Watchers faster than seeing a picture taken at your high school reunion.  The mirror will lie to you in the right light.  You can tell yourself that you look much younger than your years and actually believe it.  That new outfit is very chic!  You haven't changed a bit.  Like a mother gazing adoringly into the bassinet of the ugliest baby in the world, you see what you want to see and "oooh" and "aaah" with the best of them.  Facebook has popped that bubble forever.  Not only are you confronted with the ugly truth (really, kid, 40 years later and you think it doesn't show that you've had kids and vacationed in Florida every winter?) but EVERYONE gets to see it, too.  Gone are the days when an "unfortunate" photograph could be tucked away or shredded.  Whether you like it or not (and most of us do not) it is on display for the world to see.

I have often wished there were an "approve" button on pictures so that if someone tried to post one of you that was really heinous you could say "uh uh".  Many pictures of me dancing across the internet have been posted by people who love me and thought I looked great and were glad I was wherever it was I was.  It is a rare day when I agree.  If I stop to think about it, I always think that everyone else looks great except me.  They look the way I see them in real life and I see them with loving eyes.  They look "actual size".  So why does the internet take the one spot on the photo where my image is and distort it so?  It doesn't take long to figure out the nasty truth.  Time marches on...and stomps on my face and inflates my waist in the process.  We are all in the same pickle to one degree or another, although it's certainly possible to make healthier choices and slow down the rock slide. 

Maybe it's not such a bad thing that I look as though I've been around long enough to learn a trick or two.  I've seen the face lifts that make people look constantly surprised and unable to smile.  That doesn't look like any fun either.  So I'll kick up the exercise routine a notch or two and go back to tracking each morsel that enters my mouth (well, for as long as that resolution lasts) and be happy that I'm still out and about.  Because there is something to be said for the wisdom that comes by dint of hanging around long enough.  Eventually it dawns on us what is really important, and it's not wearing a size 2 or having the perfectly unlined face.  It's respecting that person we see in the mirror, being kind, having people in our lives to love us and to love, and being aware of the beauty in every day.  But I'm still going to look up the Points Plus Value of the pumpkin coffee at Dunkin' Donuts.

Did you miss me yesterday?  I missed you!  And why?  Because someone somewhere cut a fiber optic cable and there was no internet from 9 o'clock yesterday morning until sometime in the wee hours of this morning.  You know the kind of panic THAT sort of thing engenders.  When did I become such a cyborg that I cannot take a deep breath without checking Facebook, or comments to this blog, or the weather once an hour?  At what point did my cell phone become the equivalent of a pacemaker, so that I have anxiety attacks when I realize I've left the house without it?  This is just silly.

As I lay awake this morning I pondered these and other weighty issues.  How many years have these electronic invaders been running my life?  What did we all do in the days when we relied on the telephone and GASP! the hand-written note to communicate?  Remember when it took effort to keep in touch, so we only kept in touch with the people we actually cared two hoots about?  If I remembered your birthday it was because I wrote it on my calendar in ink, and at the end of the year I transferred it onto my new calendar because you were a person who mattered in my life, not because a pink wrapped box popped up in the top right screen to tell me today was your big day.  Well, here's a bulletin:  I still write it in ink on my calendar, because you do, indeed, matter.  Oh, I send out a "HBTY" to acquaintances, but the friends who go back (and I am grateful that there are so many of you) know who you are.  I don't need a reminder.

My sons were worried about "missing their high school friends" when they went off to college.  Hah!  They play video games with one another across the country.  They chat face-to-face on a regular basis, and get constant updates on every trivial event.  And it requires zero strain on their part.  I think they're missing out on something.  The effort is part of the gift of friendship.

Don't get me wrong.  I love being able to catch up with so many more people than I used to, and I can't tell you how much I miss my almost daily e-mails from my Dear Friend Flanagan.  But at some level of my soul I was calmer yesterday.  I worked on the extremely imperfect scarf I'm knitting for Son Number One in his school colors.  I played the piano.  I read.  It was a mini-vacation.  Perhaps it's one I should take voluntarily more often.

Himself is out running again.  This means two things.  He's working from home (which is mostly a good thing, although my routine goes right out the window) and I'm feeling guilty.  As he does his five or ten miles...who even knows...I sit here in my faded pink fuzzy bathrobe which I remember wearing in the maternity ward twenty years ago.  The elastic on the cuffs is shot, but it's otherwise just fine and I like the collar.  At the moment it has cat hair on it.  We don't own a cat, but there is a sweetheart who lives next door who comes to visit every morning.  I sit on the chair on the front porch and cuddle him.  He hates my husband.

I have a drawer full of running clothes.  "Technical shirts" which wick moisture, long stretchy running slacks with zippers on the legs so I can pull them on over my over-priced and scientifically structured running shoes, belts to carry water bottles, and something called a "Spi-belt" which holds house keys, money, and telephone without letting them bounce.  I am READY, baby!  The only thing I don't have is the ambition.  In fact, I would rather lick a pigeon.  Once in a very blue moon (except the recent one, because I didn't feel like it) I actually go out and "ralk" at the beach.  This is one-quarter run and three-quarters walk.  Oh, I'm really a little better than that, and I can go two miles without needing a transplant.  I have even done two 5K races.  A 5K, for those of you who live in blissful ignorance of these things, is 3.1 miles long.  You wear a number and usually get a tee-shirt that you will seldom wear again.  These are very dangerous for me to do, because if I were any slower I would get sucked up into the street-sweeping machine.  But I finished two of them.  You'd think I'd be so proud of myself.

 The reality is my husband has done the Boston Marathon eight times.  EIGHT TIMES.  And there were a couple of other marathons, but we don't even count them.  Now I have a saying of which I'm fond, "Once is curiosity.  Twice is perversion."  I think it applies here, but what the heck, it makes him happy and as long as he's not chasing after a blonde he can catch I don't care and I'm glad he's taking care of himself.  But my accomplishments (with my short little legs) pale beside my six-foot-plus string bean's.  So I'm doing my blog (something he would NEVER tackle! HA!) and about to make another cup of tea.  I may go for a run later.  Nah, it's a jog.  Who am I kidding?  But I probably won't.  But in my defense, let's remember one thing....the cat LOVES me!

When I was young and charming (well, younger than this but probably not as charming as I thought at the time) my mother had a long list of expressions which she used to guide us on the path, as it were.  "If you want a thing done, do it yourself," was a biggie.  Also, "Depend on yourself and you'll never be disappointed."  There was a theme, now that I think of it.  She often said, "Fruit is golden in the morning, silver at noon, and lead at night," which took me until I was about 17 to figure out.  The subject of today's musing, however is, "Patient waiters get good tips."

I am not waiting patiently to hear about my job interviews.  I don't actually wait patiently for much of anything.  I want to know and I want to know NOW.  When I was carrying my first child I remember buying orange juice in the supermarket and being amazed, AMAZED I tell you, that by the expiration date of that carton I would be a mother.  That juice couldn't go bad fast enough for me!  The weeks leading up to Christmas are always torture, of course.  There is no snooping allowed, nor would I want to, because the surprise is always the best part.  But it kills me.  Bananas seldom reach full maturity in my house.  So sitting here waiting for the phone to ring is not making me a happy camper.  Realistically, I should be putting out new resumes and exploring new leads, and I have every intention of doing that, but as I type I look over my shoulder at the wall phone every third sentence or so, as if that might make it ring.  Sometimes it does, but it's usually "Rachel" offering me a better rate on my credit card.  I hang up.  One does not waste time on recordings around here.

So I shall continue to wait, patiently or not, because really, what choice do we have here?  But I do find myself thinking of the cartoon with the two vultures sitting in the tree and one vulture says to the other, "Patience my ass.  I'm gonna kill something!"

At the risk of sounding hopelessly naive and saccharine, I must confess that every day, before I put my feet on the floor, I lie in bed (and do, please, notice the correct usage of that verb which is becoming rarer than civilized discourse in an election year) and I list the things for which I'm grateful.  The list is long.  There's Himself, of course, who is everything I never used to look for and everything I need.  And even when he snores (yes, dear, I'm sorry, but "facts is facts")  I remember all the years when I lived alone and the house was dead quiet at 3AM and I hated it.  I am grateful for my two wonderful sons, entirely different from each other and each an absolute miracle to me, arriving as they did so late in my life.  I miss them, because as you know, they are away at (expensive) college, but rather than suffer from the dreaded "empty nest syndrome" I find that most of my thoughts of them are full of hope, energy, and gratitude.  They are each getting a wonderful education, and more importantly, turning into the kind of people I would pick for friends were they not related to me.  They are kind, compassionate, talented, funny, and bright.  There is a long list of amazing friends, some of whom reach decades back, who have brightened my life with witty conversation, laughter, warm and caring hearts, and a few escapades that nobody will ever hear about from ME!  There's the house..no, I correct myself.  It's a "home" in all the best senses of that word.  It's dusty and cluttered, but I am not unaware of how many people in the world would consider themselves rich if they had that patched roof overhead.  The list goes on and on, with food, health, vision, hearing. I could go on for days.

The point here, I think, on this very rainy and gloomy autumn day, is that we all have a voice chattering endlessly in our head.  When we awaken we pick the "dialogue of the day" and whether it's positive or negative is largely within our power.  There are things I could choose to whine about...several relatives and friends who died too young, unemployment, the odd creak from..oh let's call it "maturity", shall we?..the election, the way people drive.  You get the idea.  But why would I want to do that?  Nobody would want to come to my "pity party" and that includes myself.  Although every now and then a really good rant that progresses to silly overkill can be very entertaining.  The trick is to carry it to the point of laughter, otherwise it's a complete waste of time.

So if you started today with the wrong tape running in your head, it's not too late to change the track.  Oh dear.  I'm dating myself, aren't I?  Nobody plays tapes anymore.  Well, you know what I mean.  Download the right feed or whatever the heck they do.  Stop right now and look at your life and pick out the things that don't stink.  Start small.  And when you feel the calmness that fills your heart bring it out into the world and spread it around.  Because it's getting a little crazy out there.

We're looking at several rainy days in a row.  In theory, this is a treat.  Afghans on laps (the blankets, not the dogs), books in hand, tea and biscuits on a side table and a fire in the fireplace.  In reality the Guilt Monster bangs on the door and points out the dust dragons in the corners.  They ate the bunnies years ago.  The laundry starts to creep down the stairs to the washer on its own, and the science experiments in the fridge start making muffled noises through the door. It's hard to find excuses enough to go around. The great outdoors beckons not.

The solution to this I hear is to set an old-fashioned kitchen timer for fifteen minute bursts of activity.  Fifteen minutes in one room.  Brrrrinnng.  Fifteen minutes in another room.  Brrrinnng.  Fifteen minutes in a third room.   Brrriiinnng.  Tea, cookies, maybe a nap.  Well, just one chapter in the book I can't put down.  Oh, and I haven't called Jane in a week.  And suddenly it's time for dinner.  I meant to get back to it, I really did.  But who can resist the lure of an autumn day when the rain heightens the contrast between the red leaves and the black bark of the trees?  When the cars make that wonderful ssssssssssss noise as they pass by?  When the pitter patter on the window exactly duplicates the sound my sleep machine is scientifically engineered to make to help me drop off at night?

I say it's more important to pay attention to the sounds and the colors than the dust dragons.  They're always easier to spot when the glare comes through the windows from the fresh fallen snow anyway.  Which reminds me...I suppose I should clean the windows.  Tomorrow.

From the time he was in kindergarten I took great pride in the fact that my older son never had a broken bone.  He played violin, but even this didn't get him beaten up in middle school, because he also had a black belt in karate.  And he was so good at violin that he made money playing at the weddings of various teachers.  He played baseball, soccer, and basketball, and did a fine job at every sport.  There were five stitches in his forehead when he walked into a tree at age three, but other than that not one emergency room visit did we make. He never played hockey or football. We didn't "forbid" it,  but we certainly never steered him in that direction either.  He is now in his second year of college and still has not had one broken bone.  But I know now that it is a matter of time.  My son has discovered rugby.

It's probably our fault.  We used to take him and his brother to England to visit friends fairly often when they were little.  The only thing I know about rugby is that I like the shirts that L.L.Bean makes by that name.  My friends now inform me that it is basically football with no padding.  Great.  I understand that the equivalent of a touchdown in rugby is called a "try", and that he was responsible for one this past weekend.  I get a weekly text to let me know that he survived the game and the level of his bruising.  He started on some safe position off in a corner somewhere, probably the "left field" of rugby, but was so enthusiastic that he is now in the thick of it.  They are going to break my baby, I know they are. 

He is almost twenty, and although I share this with you, I don't worry him much with my worries.  Of course, he will read this and then he'll know, but he won't be surprised.  We know each other pretty well.  The plan is to go pick him up at school in October for his fall break and bring him home for a week or so.  But we'll have to wait for him to finish his home game.  That's right.  I have to watch him get pummeled.  So we'll drive through the autumn glory, watch the game (I should look up the rules first, huh?) and then pick him up.  I just hope it won't be with a squeegee!

One of the paybacks for the pain of childbirth, years of cramps, and mood swings is the ineffable joy that only women (well...and a few cross-dressers) experience at the end of the day when slipping out of pantyhose.  It is a bliss that dwarfs the best chocolate in the world.  This is probably one of the real reasons that people bemoan the end of summer.  The sandals go on in May and come off with a crowbar around the time chilblains are forming on the toes.  So when I needed to get "dressed like a grownup" for a job interview I had to try to remember what I had actually done with said instruments of torture at the beginning of spring.  Not one clue.  I put on the suit, the tasteful earrings with matching necklace, the heels, but my legs were bare.  And then it dawned on me.  I had read an article that the Duchess of Cambridge ("Kate" to her friends), had "revived" the trend to wear hose.  I was a little surprised since I was never aware they had gone out of style.  Just my rotten luck that I had missed the fad I'd been waiting for since I was thirteen.  And now it was over.  Or was it? 

I seemed to remember that there was a discussion about how "old fashioned" it was to wear hose and how surprising it was that the Duchess was going that route.  OK.  If it's old fashioned, maybe I could get away with being "with it" by being "without it" and not bothering.  I felt absolutely racy, but I was running short of time, so off I went.  All the way to the interview I held the debate in my head.  "Should I? What does this say about me? Does it say I'm on top of the trends or down on my luck and can't afford L'eggs? (Do they still make L'eggs?)"  This was a burning issue.  With ten minutes to spare I stopped at the grocery store and picked up a pair of Sheer Energy in nude (if you wear them, they HAVE to match your skin tone) and stuck them in my purse.  I asked the opinion of the cashier and her bag boy.  "Do people wear pantyhose anymore?"  Heads shook from side to side.  "Can I get away with this?"  "Well, what are you wearing?  Is that the outfit?  C'mere!"  I got the once over and was gratified to receive two thumbs up.

I made it to the interview in plenty of time.  I don't know if the panel noticed that I wasn't wearing hose.  They were busy watching me scramble when my telephone screamed a message from my purse that the nursing home was calling me for the second time in two years.  I tried to ignore it, but they insisted that I take it. Things went rather well, other than that, or at least I think so.  The whole day was quite an education. And by the way, have you tried to buy a slip lately?

I've heard about the "sandwich generation" who are torn between taking care of elderly parents and taking care of their children, but I haven't felt the intense pressure of it until now.  My mother is 89 and has Alzheimer's.  I won't say she "suffers from it" because for the first time since 1967 she seems at peace and charming.  That was the year my older brother died in a car accident after returning from Viet Nam with a Purple Heart, and my mother hated the world and everyone in it until she had a fall in her bedroom almost two years ago and broke her hip.  I don't know who this new lady is, but she is much easier to deal with.

I try to get to the nursing home about five to six days a week and I always come at meal time.  There is nothing to discuss besides food and how sleepy she is.  She calls me a "Deah"  and a "Dahlin" (this is Boston, after all) and some days I think she knows I'm her youngest daughter, but most days I think she thinks I'm a REALLY attentive aide.  "Why are you so good to me?" she asks at least twice a week.  "Because you're my Mama and I'm your baby girl!" I reply.  The answer is usually, "Well, I'll be damned!"

Watching her fade away a little at a time is strange.  I still have my mother, but I don't.  There has to be a bubble of protection around me when I visit or the sadness will crush me like a bug.  She had her hip repaired, but has been in a wheelchair since January of 2011 because she's too afraid of falling.  She has gone from regular meals to ground food, to puree.  I ask sweetly which lump she'd like to taste first, the green one, the beige one, or the white one?  Sometimes there's gravy.  None of it looks appealing.  She takes a mouse-sized nibble of each and then announces that she's full.  She has been on a gastric feeding tube overnight for a long time.  The coughing is starting, even though I always remember to put the thickener in her coffee.  She always wants her coffee.  They tell me that once she forgets how to swallow (and it's coming) they will rely on the gastric tube for all her nutrition, and then eventually her body won't be able to process that either.

Knowing what to pray for is getting more difficult.  I feel guilty if I want the end to come more quickly.  Part of me really doesn't want to be an orphan, even if I am 60.  But she doesn't participate in the music, or the "activities", because she is legally blind along with everything else. It doesn't seem fair to pray that she hang on for this life.  The next one is bound to be an improvement and she deserves the rest.  For the moment, I'm glad that she is not in pain, either physical or emotional, and that she has no clue that she is in a nursing home.  Because if she ever figured it out it would kill us both.

Summer's back would appear to be pretty much broken.  While there might be an 80 degree day hiding around the corner, autumn has arrived.  The edges of the day are cool and require a sweater, and the mornings arrive later and later, while the nights sneak up on me earlier and earlier.  I'm not a beach bunny and never have been, so it's not as though I'll miss "summer fun".  The closest I get to a tan is when my freckles all come out at the same time.  But this time of year always makes me wistful.  The ghosts of first days of school, my own and my sons', come back to haunt me, and I have an uncontrollable urge to go out and buy new notebooks and pencils in spite of the fact that we could supply a small country with what we already have in the desk.  Reason plays no part in this.

There is something poignant about autumn.  The trees are tired of being green and are getting ready to put on their big show before November strips them bare.  And to tell the truth, I think I'm tired of them, too.  I'm ready for something different.  Still, I am not altogether happy about the fact that the boys have another summer under their belts, that my mother is that much frailer, that my hair is that much grayer (or "silver" as my younger son, the diplomat calls it) or that so many of my friends have joined what I euphemistically call "the advance team".  I'm missing people and times gone by.  For some reason many of my friends have decided to take their leave of The Big Blue Marble during the month of September.  Then there's 9/11 to think about.  All in all, it's becoming one of my least favorite months.

I'm listening to Thomas Moore's "Dark Night of the Soul" in the car these days.   There are some interesting observations about the positive aspects of dwelling on "the dark side" and most of them involve personal growth, which I believe happens far more often during times of sorrow than joy.  I don't want to become a permanent citizen here, though.  I'm already planning my escape from the doldrums.  I think I'll start by planting a sea of daffodils for the spring.  But first I'm buying myself a new notebook.

Tomorrow I will do something I haven't done since Jimmy Carter was President of the United States.  No, not "wash the kitchen floor," although that was a good guess and I can see where you might come up with it.  I am going on a job interview.  That's right;  after sending out fifty resumes and pleading cover letters, I got a call.  Actually, I got two calls, one for next Tuesday.  The interesting thing is that they are in two completely different fields.  This is the time in life where I get to re-invent myself.

For thirteen years I've been juggling piano and violin lessons, soccer tournaments, karate classes, and basketball, not to mention the gruelling schedule of the high school musical (both my boys love the stage and they're both great).  But the nature of work has changed significantly since I left the wacky world of local television.  There is no such thing as videotape anymore.  Everything has gone digital.  I don't want to go back to television anyway.  But since I had been in "the biz" for 22 years, everything from finding leads to how to write one's resume has changed.

I took a course on interviewing.  There is a wonderful non-profit group in the Boston area called "One Life At A Time" which helps people who are re-entering the workforce to catch up with what the world has been doing while they've been elsewhere.  I re-wrote several forms of my resume, I did mock interviews which were recorded and critiqued, and I learned the culture of searching on-line for job openings.  A dear friend of mine even gave me a three-piece suit for my birthday so that I could look professional on interviews.  Luckily, it will be ready at the tailor's today.  I told you I was short.

Now all I have to do is figure out what I want to be when I grow up.  Substitute teacher?  Concierge?  Town official?  Office administrator?  Writer?  Voice Over actress?  The number of possibilities before me is almost enough to paralyze me.  Another one of the gifts from my dear friend, Flanagan, is the sudden realization that I don't have all the time in the world to live my life.  None of us knows how long he has.  So I'll dust off my sensible shoes and go see what the world has to offer me and try to make them realize that I am just the right fit for whatever it is.  Because once they meet me they have to love me...who wouldn't, right?  But it's tough to get your foot in that door.

I'm off to research the companies I'll interview with (that's very important, I'm told).  But first I think I'll go wash the kitchen floor, because you were right.  It really is time.

It be "Talk Like  A Pirate" day!  There be many annoyin' varmints who be talkin' all day like a parrot be sittin' on their shoulder and they be deep in the grog, and by noon I be makin' them all walk the plank!  Oh good heaven, that's enough of that nonsense!  I was first introduced to TLAP Day by my children who find this endlessly entertaining.  I feel really sorry for their professors today, because I'm not sure either of them will be able to turn it off just because they are going to (very expensive) college.

Pirates have a long history at our house.  It started when Son Number One was three and Santa brought the Fisher Price Pirate Ship.  Then came the Castle.  The next year Santa brought Son Number Two the new and improved Pirate Ship.  Then the new and improved Talking Castle.  All of this, along with more toys than Macy's has in stock for Christmas, filled what would be a den in a normal house. Walking through the room was interesting, because the chance of getting hit with a flying plastic cannon ball was very high, and it didn't matter if you were family or honored guest, you were a target. At one point Himself and the boys made "pirate hard tack", which were disgusting cookies or biscuits or something made to the actual recipe that the pirates used.  Happily, they left out the maggots which usually took the place of sprinkles that adorn better tasting cookies.  They turned out interesting rather than tasty, and were tossed into the trash after one information seeking bite.

The ships and castles are in the attic waiting for the boys to get apartments and lives of their own.  The population of little pirates and ghosts and dragons and knights are tucked into plastic boxes awaiting the next generation.  There are still two small pirate flags on either side of the bay window, and my husband's toy box from his childhood, covered with 1960's pirates and ships and flags, is serving as a coffee table. We still call it "The Pirate Room". 

It's another day when I miss having the boys at home.  Himself is working at home today, but he doesn't have the pirate knack.  His brother, who lives in Alaska, is an expert, but he's not here.  So I be talkin' to meself today and missin' the bairn (who be all grown up) and realizin' how important be tradition.  I be surprised every day at the silly things I be missin'!  Arrrrggghh.