It's warm today in the wake of the hurricane.  Windows are open and birdsong is in the air.  I was rather hoping that the storm would serve as a giant leaf blower and clear my yard, but if it did, it must have done the same for a neighbor because I have at least as many as before it started and now they are wet and icky.  I spent a little time wandering around the neighborhood in my red plastic poncho and high boots yesterday calling for my foster kitty, Martin.  I suppose I looked more than a little like an apple and if I had been he I wouldn't have come either.  Eventually he did turn up at his home (I got a text message...from his owner, not from him) and I could relax.

As the stories pour in from New York and New Jersey and all along the East Coast I realize how very lucky we are.  Looking at the pictures of Manhattan I found myself hoping they had been Photoshopped.  Unfortunately, they appear to be the real deal.  The usually bustling metropolis looks like a movie set from a science fiction disaster flick.  Fires in Queens took fifty homes.  At least sixteen people lost their lives yesterday because of the storm.  Even here in Massachusetts there are many still without power, although compared to the mid-Atlantic states we got off easy.

And so we are issued another reminder of how unpredictable life is, how fickle and unfair.  All the toys and fancy cars, the political signs and pedicures, don't really amount to much in the face of life and death.  Be grateful you are safe.  Check on the neighbors. Help those who didn't fare so well.  And open the windows.  The birdsong is beautiful.

Hurricane Sandy is expected to kick the stuffing out of Massachusetts (and most of the East Coast) today.  I don't treat the subject lightly, because these storms are very dangerous and people do lose their lives.  Still, there is some part of many New Englanders that relishes dramatic weather.  Certainly it helps with motivation for house-keeping, since it takes a threat of Armageddon to get the air conditioners out of the windows and the lawn furniture put away.  This is related to how I clean the inside of my house.  If I don't throw the odd party or have a dinner here or there I find it hard to care about the vacuum or a clear path through the clutter.

Luckily I haven't found a job yet, so I don't have to wrestle with my conscience about whether or not to go in and try to convince whomever that I am "essential personnel".  The path of the storm is halfway between the boys' colleges, so they should be spared the worst of it, and Himself is on an all-day conference call from home, so unless the power goes out we're tucked in and cozy for the day.  The wind has already begun howling, but we have another five hours or so before the storm really starts raging, and then we are in for it for a good nine hours.  The temperatures are not frigid, so losing heat won't be a problem, and much of the tempest will occur during daylight hours, so if we do lose power I can amuse myself with the piano or a book.  It might even be time for the semi-annual fake log in the fireplace.  Usually I only remember to do that on Christmas Eve. 

The drama of hurricanes and blizzards always reminds me of how little control we really have in the world, for all our technology.  I watch in utter fascination as the sheer power of nature lets us know who's really the boss.  And I bow in deference to the Maker of the winds, astonished to know that the birds will survive this and so shall we.  Send up a prayer for the emergency responders, the television crews, the power company employees, and all those who will work today to keep us safe and informed.  I will.  And then I'll sit with my cocoa and stare out the window completely entranced.

Nothing has changed.  There are still daily trips to the nursing home to see my mother, and every evening when he comes home from work Himself and I drive eight miles to make dinner for his mother who is also suffering from dementia, and whom his dad insisted on bringing home.  Flanagan remains dead.  I remain unemployed.  The boys' rooms are still empty while they cram their heads and souls with high-priced knowledge.  The air-conditioners are still in the windows as Hurricane Sandy approaches.  I haven't been to Weight Watchers in three weeks. Christmas is less than two months away.  Why, then, did I wake this morning with such a peaceful heart?  The weight which was crushing my spirit just a few days ago has been lightened and I can only think of one explanation.  Somebody out there is praying for me.

In polite society we're not supposed to talk about religion, politics, or sex.  Well everyone seems to be blithely violating the second tabu with a vengeance, so I'm not uncomfortable with shattering the first.  For those of you who don't believe in the power of prayer, I'm sorry.  It happens to be real, however, so for today you will have to cope.  Or skip this blog.  I can tell when someone is praying for me.  And if you get quiet enough, a difficult thing to do in a world like this, you will feel it when someone prays for you.  So whether Romney or Obama wins, we'll be fine.  And something about Dear Flanagan's passing has moved me from "believing" that our spirits don't die to absolutely "knowing" it, although I couldn't tell you why.

I don't believe in fairy tale endings.  Life is probably holding another nasty ace or two up its sleeve, maybe as soon as today, so whoever you are (and I suspect there is more than one) please keep those prayers coming. They make a difference.  I feel them.  And I need them.  We all need them.  I'm sending mine up for you as you read this.  Thank you.

My lawn (and I use the term advisedly) is an interesting place.  There's some real grass, some crabgrass, some dandelions, some clover, a convention center of grubs, several holes from some kind of critter I've never actually met, and a bunch of crunchy leaves.  I mow it when it gets embarrassingly high, and my theory is when you squint it looks green and that's good enough.  I have mandevillas climbing up the wrought iron supports on my front porch from May through October.  They are very low maintenance plants and quite dazzling.  The pink trumpet flowers are still throwing out blossoms this close to Halloween, and as in dressing, once a woman reaches a certain age, it's all about distraction.  People walk by and all they ever talk about are the pink flowers which are so pretty they look artificial.  They live in pots on the porch and the stairs, and when the frost comes I cut them back, bring them into the cellar where I occasionally remember to water them over the winter.  But this year I have a surprise.

Next to my front stairs a "green thing" has popped up.  I didn't plant it, so it is probably a weed, but there it is, around the corner from the hydrangeas my father-in-law planted this summer in ninety-degree heat.  It's not a giant dandelion.  I have lots of experience with those.  It has enormous green leaves and almost looks like a cabbage.  Perhaps a passing squirrel planted it, or one of the mysterious and unseen critters from my lawn.  It has become an object of fascination to me.  I mow around it.  I clear the leaves away.  I want to see where this thing goes.  There may be a flower someday before the first frost.  Mostly it is a reminder for me to keep looking at the world for new things.  So many days I am the prisoner of my chattering "monkey mind" that I don't see what's in front of me.  Driving down the street, I sometimes ask myself how I got here, where the heck I am and where I am going. But until it blooms, dies, or takes over the city, my little green friend reminds me that there is still an awful lot about the planet I don't know, and I'm not through learning yet.

Some days it takes a Herculean act of courage just to put one foot in front of the other.  The forces of the universe just seem to conspire and almost everything that can go wrong does go wrong.  Notice I said "almost" because I don't like to challenge God.  S/He can have a quirky sense of humor when challenged.  I know it can always get worse, but could a girl catch a break here?

You know the days.  You're paralyzed with how much there is to do, so you get nothing done.  You try to hold your feet to the flame to tackle the one project against which your soul shrieks and find yourself gasping for air.  The Stress Monkey sneaks up behind you and gets you in the dreaded choke-hold until you run for the front door, car keys in hand, on the way to anywhere.  Just OUT.  I'm having one of those.

The sun is shining.  The meeting at the nursing home this morning about my mother's condition was predictable and pleasant enough.  I know what I'm cooking tonight for my in-laws.  I have a piano lesson at one.  Why do I want to scream?  Panic is setting in about finding a job at my advanced age.  I'm missing my sons with a white hot fury.  I'm surrounded by well-loved but utterly depressing women nearing the end of their lives and well past the end of their trolley tracks.  The clutter in my house is an accurate symbol of the clutter in my soul.  And I'm missing many too many friends.

It's sad not to know what you want to be when you grow up when you're over 60.  I feel all this potential and I'm terrified that if I pick the wrong thing I will blow my last chance at  finding out what I can really do and who I really am.  Writer?  Administrator?  Singer?  Speaker?  All of those and more, but how does that translate into a position someone would pay for?  So while I ponder these very serious and scary questions, and before the Stress Monkey chases me out the door again, I guess I'd better start the vacuum.  Because on days like this it's important to see that you've accomplished something.

For a country so set on security, I find it confusing and slightly hilarious that one night a year out of 365 we open our doors in the dark to anybody wearing a mask.  Welcome, Halloween!  Still, it is fun.  I've always loved dressing up, which for me is infinitely preferable to Jolly Ranchers and Tootsie Rolls (what ARE those things, anyway?), so today I will share with you some of my favorite costumes. 

First, I'm all about comfortable.  The gum ball machine, with the giant clear trash bag filled with balloons is adorable...until you have to drive a car or use the rest room.  Anything involving a leotard is usually strategically awkward, as well.  However, I once wore a full length white slip over a black turtleneck and black leggings and I wrote "FREUD" all over it in magic marker.  Ta da!  A "Freudian slip" and still wearable under a dark dress!  Of course good luck finding a slip these days.  In this economy a "pink slip" works, too.  That's pretty scary!

I used to own an opera cape which belonged to a Monsignor in the 1930's.  It was a gorgeous (and warm) circle of black broadcloth, lined with satin and with brass crosses and a chain to keep it closed at the neck.  I wore it to winter dances and over maxi-dresses in the 70's, but mostly it was for my witch at Halloween.  It, in combination with my graduation robes from college (a present from a member of the class of 1924 and replete with moth holes) made a scary costume.  I am very good at face painting.  The neighborhood children lived in terror.  But I gave it to a young priest a couple of years ago who wears it over his robes at funerals.  The Monsignor has finally stopped spinning in his grave.

One year I wore a sheet stitched up the sides with a place for my head to poke out of the top and my arms to poke out the sides.  On it was carefully painted a replica of a tube of Crest toothpaste, front and back.  On my head was an inverted white paper paint bucket and I carried a car brush which looked like a toothbrush.  Face paint did the rest.  It was so comfortable that I couldn't understand why no one stopped for me when my car broke down on the side of the road.  Hmmm.

I made my kids a Bionic Bunny costume with a sweatsuit, felt squares, a glue gun, a propeller hat, a bunny headband, and an Exacto knife.  The cape came from the skirt of my favorite red dress, which no longer fit me after childbirth.  That same cape, painstakingly hand sewn, has gone to college to be part of a Super PAC Man costume.  My son is a political science major.  I don't think anyone will get it, but he insists his friends are brilliant and it will be a big hit.  Yuh.

But my favorite costume of all time is the Franciscan habit I borrowed from a friend.  I wore an old man's mask with it, and pulled the hood over my head.  I drank my beer through a straw all night.  I pinned empty potato chip bags all over the front of the habit.  That's right.  I was a "chip monk".

Now for the really scary part of Halloween; living in the house with a bag of miniature peanut butter cups and Hershey's Kisses for a week!

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!"