The Three Degrees of Google

Charlie Chaplin was in a movie called "Monsieur Verdoux" with Herb Vigran...who was in "Amazon Women on the Moon" with Steve Guttenberg, who, in turn, was in "Diner" with Kevin Bacon. And so, the cult phenomenon known as "The Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" took its place in the annals of trivial history.

Based on the theory known as "The Six Degrees of Separation" - whereby any one person is separated by any other person by only six steps in the "human web", John Guare's play, later the popular film, "Six Degrees of Separation"...pretty much coined a phrase with which we are now more or less familiar. While this whole idea was not new...it took the film, and subsequently, the "Kevin Bacon" Internet game sensation of the 1990's to bring it to the forefront of most peoples' forays into it.

I remember, quite some time ago, being the [quote - unquote] filmophile that I am...trying to find a "Bacon Number" higher than anyone else's. Oh, yes...to get that elusive Bacon Number of eight...THAT would be a thing.

But the fervour of the game began to wane and I seemed to have my own issues and most of those issues centered around me personally...instead of him personally. Specifically, my health.

And because of my health...or the decay thereof, I've since made up another little "game". With the advent of "everything" out there at your fingertips - and only a click away..."imminent death" is as well.

It's really not that morbid when you think of it...let me explain. Gimme any MINOR illness, and with three or less clicks online...I can find out that it leads to death.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "So, what, Mariann...everybody and their uncle has a website or blog with a bunch of misleading health information." And you'd probably be true in this assessment...BUT...I only "play" this "game" on bona fide websites, such as WebMD and MayoClinic.com.

Oh, yes...many has been the night where I felt funny, found a bump that wasn't there before, or as my latest venture online...obsessing about THIS thing on my leg:

It can't be a simple, ordinary bruise - oh, no...no bruise looks like that...plus I asked the lady who checks my blood clotting level at my cardiologist only this past Monday...and she replied, "Hmmmm...that's an ODD bruise...I've never seen one like THAT before". And she's seen lots of strange bruises I'm sure...dealing with all us Warfarin-takers - who bruise if you only look at us funny.

Against my better judgement, I Googled. I've been told by a few doctors that I was not allowed to anymore...they forbade me to Google...in essence, my Google license has been revoked.

But...I still do.

So, what went from an innocent "skin" and "ring" quest - progressed to "bite"...then on to "spider bite" - culminating with "Brown Recluse bite" which ultimately stated necrotic tissue death and full-blown death. Blown out of proportion, hopefully...

...but you know the deal -- if it's ON the Internet, it must be true, right?

Oh, the Irony (Part III)

When I was a child I used to read those Aesop's Fables - they tried to let you know life's lessons and personality faults - usually portrayed through the eyes of animals. And then along came Captain Edward A. Murphy working at Edwards Air Force base in 1949...some 2549 years later...supposedly coining the infamous "Murphy's Law"...which basically states "If anything can go wrong...it will".

So, I figure - if you combine the two and add some irony - you get my dilemma: each time I post a blog...even if no one has added one in a whole entire day...there will be an onslaught of people rushing to post their blogs directly after.

Now...you might say to yourself..."Um...who cares, Mariann - deal with it". And you might also be saying, "...and how does this relate to me?" Well, it doesn't...unless you are those people who post blogs directly after mine, thereby bumping me out of the primo first slot...down to one of the sub-primo three slots visible on the home page of the Montgomery Advertiser's online site...then relegated to the "click here if you even want to bother waiting for the page to load" slot on the "other" page...culminating in the "totally bumped off the side of the virtual flat Earth which blogland is here".

For those who don't know - a maximum amount of ten blogs get to remain on the newspaper's site at any one time...when a new blog is posted...the one that's been there the longest - gets bumped off to fall into "Internet oblivion"...never to be seen again.

Sure, you can wait until such time you post another blog and hope that someone will happen upon it and read...but typically the home page is key...because people are creatures of habit and usually they are habitually lazy. Clicking to another page is one more step they don't have the patience for...and I say this, because I've heard it said many times: "Ugh...the page takes too long to load - I have to keep clicking on 'refresh' and it STILL doesn't load".

So, while you can sometimes teach an old dog new tricks - it doesn't take too long for that dog to give up if he never gets a bone.

And somewhere in that above statement is possibly a moral to a fable which is probably vaguely similar to one of Aesop's...but for now I'll just be content to play the fox to the Internet's sour grapes.

Oh, the Irony (Part II)

In my earlier, Part I "Irony" blogumn, I pointed out a couple things I thought were ironic...and, while they don't necessarily pertain to you personally, I'm sure we have all shared a bit of irony in our lives...so since I don't live anyone's life but my own, I'm sharing things I find ironic to me...hopefully you can relate somehow.

I am not versed in the classical arts. I never go to plays because I can't afford it and I don't want to go alone - I love museums, but I don't go as often as I could...but the other day I figured, "By golly I'm going to get 'culturefied'..." - the Montgomery Ballet was putting on their annual "Performance on the Green" aka "Ballet Under the Stars" free performance at the Blount Cultural Park. I've never seen a ballet altho when I was a child I wanted to be a ballerina - I would stand tippy-toed and dance around directly on the tips of my toes doing my versions of pliés and pas de duexs as only a free-spirited and uninhibited child without any dance training can. I loved the ballet - the tutus, the "en pointe" loveliness - the graceful lifts and the gallant "defying gravity" leaps - it was mesmerizing to me as a child and I still don't know why. I remember intently watching the goings-on regarding the Baryshnikov defection with as much fascination as I watched the moon landing. So, suffice it to say - when they mentioned the free ballet here in Montgomery, which I've never seen altho it's been a mainstay here 33 years prior; I jumped at the chance to see it.

Unfortunately, I did not know that both days' performances were not the same. Smart me...I didn't check online - I just "supposed" they would be - after all they do performances over and over and over - it's usually just a matter of timing and tickets. But, I ended up going on the second day - not saying the second day was worse...it was just put on by amateurs (albeit VERY talented amateurs) - and not the professionals as was the performance the day prior.

I also didn't know that my bothering to dress up a bit and put on a face would be a total waste of time as, such as the name implies, "Ballet UNDER the Stars" - is pretty much done in an informal setting...and that setting is pretty much dark.

While those things might seem a tiny bit ironic - the thing I found strangest was the fact that instead of looking AT the stage - I glanced upwards for a second and saw one of the best displays of a meteor I've ever witnessed. It lasted so long and the blazing crackle and pop of light as it streaked across our portion of sky had quite a few onlookers thinging it must have been an errant firework. From all sides you could hear the initial hushed whispers gradually growing louder talking about it - and as we were walking back to our van, the nice lady who offered to carry one of the chairs my daughter was burdened with, mentioned how incredibly great it (the meteor) was. Sure...we just saw two hours of beautiful ballet - but a bit of wayward space rock seemed to take center stage.

Who would have thought -- had I been there to watch the ballet on the first day - I wouldn't have seen the meteor...and had I really been watching the ballet on the second day...I wouldn't have seen the meteor. Irony, no?


Irony (Part III), tomorrow.

Oh, the Irony (Part I)

There are multitudes of things I see in my life which make me stop and take note...pause, reflect, and just go on. Some are shelved in the archives of my brain never to see the light of day again...some peek out now and again as if to say "yo...if you aren't going to need dis here...we're gonna put it through the shredder" (I'm from Jersey...my brain's inner voice talks that way)...and some, because of a whole other trigger mechanism...jump again to the forefront and just dog the heck outta me.

I cannot be alone in these thoughts. Thought processes probably are pretty much the same. Some people obsess over that message left on an answering machine. "Did I say my number? Did I sound like a complete idiot? Oh...I HATE answering machines...I bet I sounded like a moron. It stopped recording before I was done - I better call back up to be sure I left my number." Some people (purely fictional people [who aren't me] with an equally fabricated story), years later - wonder if that guy they talked to (at the party in their friend's brother's garage) when they were 15 remembers how idiotic they sounded...and, did they remember me tripping when I got up? I can't believe I actually tripped when I got up. I NEVER trip when I get up - WHY did I trip then - and, most importantly, does anyone remember? Oh, c'mon...it's been 30-odd years...no one remembers and no one really cares. Or do they?

I recently hooked back up with an old friend on Classmates.com - and she NEVER thought I'd remember the minute details of that time we skated on the lake when it was frozen over...but I do! She laughed and I laughed. We laughed because I remember her doing it...she laughed because she remembers doing it - but we both primarily laughed because the thing she did...which was so incredibly "non-noteworthy" was remembered, clear as day...in both our heads. And I haven't a clue why.

But this certainly proves our brains do indeed wonder things long after the fact and remembers things, the silliest things, the things we've thought we long forgot...and the things we hoped others have long forgotten as well.

But, as I say...some things pop back and some things really never leave you.

Case in point: Mad Cow Disease.

I remember a few years back, an incident here in Alabama where a guy had a cow or some cattle which were connected somehow to some British cows which tested positive for bovine spongiform encephalopathy or BSE. I caught it on the news ONE time...and one time only. For years it's been festering in my brain (hopefully not in the BSE fatal way) because I never did hear any other news about it. Was there any closure? Did he turn over his cows? Did they test positive also? Did the beef industry just hush the whole thing over? If the beef industry and the Centers for Disease Control battled it out in a caged death match...who would win? Who trumps whom? Why did everyone I talk to remember the initial story - but never heard the follow-up?

So, the other day, I'm sitting at home after finding out, firsthand, some disturbing news about Mad Cow Disease and some deaths pertaining to it...and I decided to do a little digging on Google. I turned up this, straight from the CDC's site (bear in mind this isn't "Bob's Site About All Stuff Mad Cowy" - the CDC is a very legitimate and reputable place and if anyone knows their "Mad Cowy" stuff...it's them):

On March 15, 2006, the USDA announced the confirmation of BSE in a cow in Alabama. The case was identified in a non-ambulatory (downer) cow on a farm in Alabama. The animal was euthanized by a local veterinarian and buried on the farm. The age of the cow was estimated by examination of the dentition as 10-years-old. It had no ear tags or distinctive marks; the herd of origin could not be identified despite an intense investigation (see second featured item above and Alabama BSE Investigation, Final Epidemiology Report, May 2006 ). In August 2008, several ARS investigators reported that a rare, genetic abnormality that may persist within the cattle population "is considered to have caused" BSE in this atypical (H-type) BSE animal from Alabama. (See Identification of a Heritable Polymorphism in Bovine PRNP Associated with Genetic Transmissible Spongiform Encephalopathy: Evidence of Heritable BSE . Also see BSE Case Associated with Prion Protein Gene Mutation .)

Now - when you start talking "prions" and "gene mutations" and "atypical" along with "had no ear tags"...well, my ears did a little perking up themselves. I'm not in the cattle industry - but aren't all cattle supposed to be accountable and trackable? This was, remember, 2006, not 1956. We had the knowledge...we had the technology and we also had the scare factor of Mad Cow Disease hanging over our collective heads years prior with all the "Do NOT Eat Meat in Britain, Whatever You Do...Because It Can kill You In a Fortnight" programs on "Dateline" and "60 Minutes" and "20/20" and "CNN" and "CBS" and "NBC" and so forth.

If we can track a UPS package online with the click of a finger - trust me - we can track a whole damn cow. But yet...as if David Copperfield (or Criss Angel for the younger crowd) stepped in - this whole cow story mysteriously disappeared...and has not resurfaced. I say it's high time we find out what happened to that cow - behind what the above paragraph states - so we can finally stick a fork in it and call it done.

Coincidence? Propofol Recall and Michael Jackson's Death

This is going to be my shortest blog ever. Don't get too excited...as I'm sure I'll more than make up for it in my next one. ;)

Anyway, I get automatic government recalls to my email account. Anything from melamine tainted pet food to salmonella-infested alfalfa sprouts to baby cribs with the slats spaced too far apart to 1996 Dodge Grand Caravans being recalled outright because they slowly fall apart and then they subsequently totally replace said vehicle with a brand new one at their own cost (wishful thinking on that last one)...and everything in between.

So, I'm checking my mail tonite and I came across one I just had to say "hmmmmm...coincidence?" to.

Propofol Recall

It's a recall for Proprofol - the drug that's been bantered about lately as being the likely culprit (along with the doctor) for the untimely death of Michael Jackson:

Possible Causes of Death

If this doesn't create an isolated hotbed of controversy in the next few days...I don't know what will.

But, regardless...it certainly makes me sit up and say "hmmmmm..." - and being from New Jersey I can't help but have all sorts of "conspiracy theory" thoughts now floating around inside my head. So, coincidence?

Nah...I'm not buying it.

Don't Dog and Drive

To the man or woman who was driving in front of me on Wednesday, June 24th, you are completely lacking in any type of foresight - even if your reflexes are to be admired.

You - you know who you are even if you shall never read this. You are one of the multitudes of people who think they are impervious to anything bad happening to them...in fact, nothing bad has probably befell you - but that doesn't meant you weren't the cause of it happening to those AROUND you.

There you were, on the stretch of road which traverses next to the construction work to widen the lanes going over Interstate 85 in Montgomery, Alabama. You were in your white Pontiac Grand Am, license plate starting with "2" and ending with "H", with your little moppy-haired dog sitting on your lap trying desperately to hang over the edge of your completely open driver's side window.

My son and I were on our way to our destination - directly in back of you. I kept telling my son how no one should be driving with a dog in the driver's seat - talk about distractions and an accident waiting to happen.

So, as we sat; I, myself, tempted to get out of my car to tell you what a complete ignoramus you were...I realized it would undoubtedly fall upon deaf ears. I am sure this obstacle course-type of driving you do - was not an isolated occurrence.

So, we sat in back of you - all the while this scenario repeated in my head: your happy little dog leaps out of the window, runs into traffic and becomes the initiator of a three-car collision (at the very least) - by innocent people trying to avoid your equally innocent, freedom-loving, frolicking doggie...until the inevitable squeal of brakes, shrill doggie yelps, and the cringe-worthy clash of metal against metal happens.

I thought of this, my son thought of this, the policeman I wished were still in back of me - he would have thought of this. In fact, I'd wager the ONLY person NOT thinking this...was you.

And then it happened. With my perfect vantage point directly behind you, I could see everything - your dog decided to "go for it".

This is the part where we give you credit - about the same time your dog was two-thirds out of the car and I was saying, "Oh geez...I hope I don't run over it" - you managed to calmly and reflexively...and in one fluid movement, catch him by the butt end and yank him back in.

Lesson learned, correct?

Nope. You continued driving, making the next left - dog still in your lap and window still completely down.

Personally, I care too much for my animals, my life and the lives of others - to ever put anyone in this situation to begin with...but, had I -- I would have counted my blessings and myself lucky, rolled up my window and bought a dog car harness the very next day.

You know...some people aren't impervious -- just oblivious.

(My thanks to Phil for the title.)

The "I'll (concede) of Capri" (Part II)

The other day I was on Maxwell Air Force Base and decided I'd go on over to the thrift store there. Oh, don't let it fool you - they have a LOT of brand new stuff there; things with tags even. I highly doubt anyone...at least not most people...would save the tags, wear the clothes for a year or two and then invest in one of those "plastic hang-tag doohickey" devices to pop the tags back on - in order to sell it for a whopping $5.00 instead of $3.00 at the thrift shop.

Well, I'm walking around and I find a couple pairs of pants and then I spy "them" - just hanging there with their tags intact. "Ralph Lauren" blue and white cotton...Capri pants!

But they aren't really Capri pants in the sense of the ones Marilyn Monroe had to change out of in "The Seven Year Itch" because, as Marilyn as "The Girl" says, "You just can't drink champagne in Matador pants." (I originally wrote "Capri" pants...but someone's comment, at another site I post this, got me thinking and I believe she says "Matador"...altho, technically the ones she wore in the film typically were known as "Capris" or "clamdiggers")...

(Actually a pair of Marilyn's own Capri pants at an auction site.)


...but wider, stumpier versions...

(Not mine...but supposedly an actual pair of Ralph Lauren Capri pants, which look totally different from mine, on another auction site.)


As you can tell - these are much less sexy versions...but...the kind that every woman around my age are sporting here in Montgomery, Alabama. And, if you remember my "Part I" blog about them (that blog here)...everyone that is...except me.

I walk away from them...but I am lured back by the $85 price tag still hanging on - angled to face me as if to say "c'mon, I USED to be $85 and now I'm $6.00 - you just gotta...even IF you never wear me".

So, I succumbed and tried them on.

I must interject...a little bit of backstory here...

I belong to an online forum which is predominantly made up of women - and I asked them "WHY? Why would ANY woman wear these God-awful things?" To my astonishment, they were wearing them as well - and LOVED them. Again, I must not have gotten that memo - but it surely was making the rounds...and dammit...I wasn't going to be THE only woman over 40 who didn't own a pair.

I bought them.

I have since worn them several times and, contrary to my self-conscious pre-conceived notions, no one looks at me like I'm an outcast...and not one person stopped in their tracks to point and laugh. To be fair about it, though, no one has come up to me and shown me any secret handshakes or anything. But I have been given multitudes of compliments about them -- so I gather the clandestine aromatherapy candle buying meetings and "Pampered Chef" party invites can't be too far off.

Things Are Going From Bad to Worst...

Well, it's been a very bad couple weeks in the entertainment industry...Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, and now Billy Mays. Very sad indeed.

So, I thought a little levity might be in order. But, be forewarned...these are really bad. In fact, they are amongst the worst out there...and therein lies the rub: they are SUPPOSED to be.

Imagine sitting at your desk in school when you were young...and the teacher just told you to write a story about summer vacation. If you were like me...it was an exercise in futility, imagination, and worst of all...getting it all started. The dreaded opening sentence. It all hinged on that. Once you got your story started...it usually came easier after. But...oh...that "starting off" point.

There's a myriad of ways to start off any story. Now, granted, first grade English class compositions probably weren't exactly going to garner you any movie deals. The number of screenwriters who struck it big at seven...well, you can probably count them on any cartoon character's hand (bear in mind...cartoon characters typically only have four fingers...or, three fingers and a thumb, if you prefer). In other words...there probably aren't many. But even at the tender age of seven...you came to realize just how detrimental the wording of that opening line is...and how hard it is to just...well...start...period.

And the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest capitalizes on just that. Period. Yes, up until that dreaded period...you can string words together any way you like...all forms of time-honoured punctuation is accepted...except the period. Once you place that dot at the end. That's it. That's all folks...that's all you get...that's all she (or he) wrote.

So, Professor of English, Scott Rice, started this contest way back in 1982 - as a lesson of sorts I figure...highlighting the pros and cons of opening sentence structure. It goes something like this:

Good: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." -- Opening line to A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.

Bad: "Me and Mommy and Daddy went to Disneyworld and we rode the rides and then we got popcorn and then my brother, Timmy, threw up, and the lady had to clean it, and then we went back to our room." -- Opening line reminiscent of countless children's' essays (around the world) the first day of school.

Worst: "It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness." -- Opening line by Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford.

Do you see where this is headed?

Well, perhaps Professor Rice didn't either...but from a small beginning with, I believe, three whole entries...from his English class the first year...to what it has become: A literary legend. To win this prize is [almost] akin to the Nobel Prize, the Pulitzer AND the Oscar...rolled into one. It has ballooned into the juggernaut that it is now.

And how do I know this?

I won it back in 2003...but you can read all about that in a blog I wrote back in 2006.

But back to the winner at hand, David McKenzie, of Federal Way, Washington, who won with this flowing refuse of writing:

"Folks say that if you listen real close at the height of the full moon, when the wind is blowin' off Nantucket Sound from the nor' east and the dogs are howlin' for no earthly reason, you can hear the awful screams of the crew of the "Ellie May," a sturdy whaler Captained by John McTavish; for it was on just such a night when the rum was flowin' and, Davey Jones be damned, big John brought his men on deck for the first of several screaming contests."

Bravo, David. Bravo, everyone else who won sub-categories and got mentioned...but most of all, bravo, Professor Scott Rice...for your monumental contribution to [would-be] writers everywhere.

Capris, Clamdiggers, Pedal Pushers, and Knickers, Oh My!

I keep saying it to everyone - "I am NOT accepted here in Montgomery". The cheerleader-type mentality reigns supreme. They've drawn that circle in the sand and I cannot cross over. I am "Little Ralphie" and his "A Christmas Story" friends; noses smooshed and faces pressed up against the window of "Higbee's Department Store" but I can't get in...

...or can I?

But...I wonder. You see, someone must have sent out a "clothing memo" to the "over 40 crowd" and counted me out once more. I never got word that I should, in some "Stepford Wivesonean focus" go to the store and plunk down ready cash on some Capri pants.

It's clearly evident everyone else here got the memo, as everywhere I look, women who fall into that "cougar-aged" category...are sporting these horrid things.

Oh, don't try to convince me otherwise...I saw it a little at first, a few years ago...or at least I "think" I did. I'd go into a store and try on some pants and remark to myself, "huh...that's funny - usually they are overly long - these don't even make it to my ankles...they just kinda "high water" it there. And I'd write it down to some sweat shop in Pakistanjurbec cutting fabric short and catering to the overly short-legged girls of the world.

And staring at that "lower exposure of skin" in the mirror takes me back...way back - to a time in my youth, all regional locales aside - although I'm sure everyone across the world has experienced this in one shape or form...the time you HAD to wear your sibling's pants (be them brother or sister) they outgrew...because you were next in line, height-wise. Surely you can sympathize with the emotional scourge...the raking over the coals...the cutting down a few notches...that only 3rd through 6th graders can inflict upon one another. The finger-pointing, the name calling, the ostracizing - the social embarrassment of seeing...or worse yet, of wearing those high-top Keds (or Ked mock-offs...which we called "Bo-Bo's") the "clever" moms would buy in order to conceal and camouflage the obvious - thereby doing even MORE damage by their misguided, albeit thoughtful, misdirection.

So, when I tried on those things...a wellspring of horror came rushing over me like a flood...reminding me even MORE so of those high-water pants that never needed to be hiked up...and unfastening that first button cum snap thing...and shimmying them down past your hips...well before sagging pants were in "vogue"; no, that kind of deception never cut it.

Back on the rack these misfits went.

Now imagine my chagrin when I find out NOW...that THEN - I could have been a trend-setter. Just think...all those social pariahs I went to school with - were way ahead of their time. Unfortunately, they never lived in present-day Montgomery where they could parade around and flaunt those ankles...and calves with confidence. Believe it or not...they can even wear them in front of 3rd to 6th graders and NOT get mocked...even at the ripe-old advanced age of 48.

Me? In a way I'm glad I didn't get "the memo" - my Washington, DC trip last month solidified my thoughts and confirmed my suspicions. It's really more of a regional thing - Capris were far and between there and, I'm guessing, even further between in Jersey...where I grew up. Further bolstering the old saying "you can take the girl out of Jersey...but you can't make her wear items of clothing which will leave an indelible mental mark on her like those all too often scabbed knees from Dodgeball on the playground...which ruined an infinitesimal amount of tights"...or something like that. Or perhaps it's just "You can take the girl out of Jersey and plop her in Montgomery...but will she wear them to fit in?

Well...let's find out next installment, shall we?

(Part I of II)

Forrest Gump's Mom Was Wrong

Life is NOT like a box of chocolates - it's really like a game of Rugby.

I made this revelation only yesterday while being driven home from the doctor's office by my son.

Let me run some comparisons by you and you can decide for yourself...

Box of Chocolates:

- Okay, first off - "you never know what you're gonna get" - I claim foul on this one. Those Whitman ones always had the "lid diagram schematic" and Godiva comes with a "piece identifier" folded map-type insert. So, unless you are extremely daft...which Gump really wasn't...you'd easily be able to tell.

- You get a whole variety of them in there - if you don't like one, you can always spit it out, give it away, or try another. Sorry - in your one life - these are just not options.

- You can choose to eat your box quickly...or savour every bite and leisurely go through it. Sorry again, not so with life - it's really not up to you, now is it?

- Most of your little confections under that lid will be - well, sugar-coated and sweet - and only once in a while will you meet a nut. Ummm...not so in life...it's pretty much covered with nuts...and many times it will be very, very bitter.

Now to Rugby:

- To start, you don't get to wear any padding - whatever comes at you...you'll have no defense against it unless someone comes to your aid...and you'll just have to take what life gives you - head on.

- No time outs. You can't throw up your hands in frustration or desperation and have everything stop - you don't have the option to regroup - you just have to make do with what's coming at you.

- It's timed - into two 40-minute periods. When it's over...it's really over. Period. And sometimes there are absolutely no winners...and sometimes you win and...sometimes you don't. Sure, you do have the luxury of knowing when it will be over...but you still can't drag it out any longer - no matter how much you'd like.

- Lastly, it's governed by "laws", not "rules". Well...there ya have it - life in the proverbial nutshell...but...totally without chocolate.

So, I'm not sure if you agree...but I think my analogy works a lot better. Hmmm...I wonder what Tom Hanks thinks about this...

Hitting It Right On the Head

First off I have to let you know - I'm NOT a clumsy person. I'm not prone to stumbling over my own feet, over table legs or cat toys. I have never been called a "klutz" and the second to last time I remember falling on my tush - I had a pair of roller blades on about 10 years ago and I got too cocky. Let's just say wearing them IN the house on a RUG and then going out through your garage holding on to stuff and then letting go in the driveway when it has a 2 degree angle...well, I'll just say - butt and pavement will intersect.

Enter Warfarin aka Coumadin aka blood thinner.

I had to go on a blood thinner for a couple reasons. I won't bore you with them, I'm sure you've been bored enough reading my blogs (yes, insert "Catholic guilt trip" here) - but when the doctor who prescribes you them in the hospital says "this is an EVIL drug"...well, that's the beginning of a series of not so good signs.

The second bad sign? The "Welcome to Hell" booklet. Oh, sure...it wasn't called that, but it could have been. Let me quote some statements directly from it:

"...call your doctor or go to the emergency room right away if you have any of the following:" (It then sites a whole list which is logical and pretty much a no-brainer across the board for anyone, regardless of medication - and then this...)

A serious fall or a hit on the head.

Blah blah blah...avoid some activities and sports that could cause injury...blah blah...if you like to work in the yard, be sure to wear sturdy shoes and gloves. Activities that would be safe for you include swimming and walking. It is very important to know that you can be bleeding and not see any blood. For example, you could fall and hit your head, and bleeding could occur under your skull. Or, you could fall and hurt your arm and notice a large purple bruise. This would be bleeding under the skin. Call your doctor or go to the hospital immediately if you have taken a bad fall, even if you are not bleeding. (Yes, it was in bold
lettering.)

Then it goes further talking about other things I should do and not do, including:

Inside:

Use an electric razor.

Use a soft toothbrush.

Use waxed dental floss.

Do not use toothpicks.

Wear shoes or non-skid slippers in the house.

Outside:

Always wear shoes.

Be very careful with sharp tools; wear gloves when using them.

Avoid activities and sports that can easily hurt you.

Wear gardening gloves when doing yard work.

Stay active.

Followed then by a whole list of precautions about what to eat and what not to eat (a much longer list) and how every single medicine will now interact with Coumadin/Warfarin in some manner, shape or form.

So, after reading this, I asked the doctor..."Oh, c'mon - I can't eat a salad with arugula anymore?" "Nope." "A cranberry??" "Nope." "Alcohol????" "Nope."

"Oh, just kill me now."

So, let me get this straight...I can't do anything anymore - and whatever I do, don't get into a car accident. BUT...I can walk and swim. Walk and SWIM??? Now think how many other activities there are in this world - and then there's walking and swimming. "Gee...thanks!", Warfarin people.

And this wouldn't have been so bad if not for the fact I have a head.

Oh, go ahead and laugh - or think I'm insane. You try living your life being aware of your head every single waking minute.

I was told "if you hit your head...go to the ER right away".

"Wait...maybe that statement is meant to be read, 'serious fall and SERIOUS hit on the head'? Or is it just 'SERIOUS fall and hit on the head?' 'ANY hit on the head?' I mean ANY??" Which IS it, Warfarin booklet people!?

How many times have I hit my head in my life that I can remember?

Maybe four.

I fell (was pushed) off the sofa once after jumping up and down on the furniture with my sister and gashed my head on the door lock mechanism when I was a kid. Did I tell my mother? No. Did I tell on my sister? No. Did I survive? Yes.

I walked into an I-bar pole once outside "Korvettes" deparment store - splat. I have a scar on my forehead from it. I didn't know I was bleeding until it ran on my coat. My mother put a makeshift "butterfly" bandage on it and I never went to the doctor. Again, I lived.

There's gotta be another in there at some point.

And I hit my head pretty hard loading stuff into a dumpster at my parents' house in Jersey when we were cleaning out the house/sheds after they died, before we put the house on the market. Did I go to the ER? Nope. Death? Nope.

So, four times. Four times in 48 years. That averages once every 12 years. Not bad.

How many times have I hit my head since December...since I've been on Warfarin?

About a dozen.

Sure, you can surmise I'm just more AWARE of my head now so I remember every little knock and bump - and it might be true. But let me give you the rundown on some of my head hits:

Taking a shower...after putting the Waterpik showerhead doodle back on the holder - it decided to jump off and hit me right smack on the forehead as I was kneeling down turning off the faucets. Number of instances documented of a Waterpik showerhead jumping off its holder and attacking a person? Oh...I Googled - I found none.

Flushing the toilet after - well...flushing the toilet and hitting my head on the towel cabinet which sits directly over the toilet. The odds? Again...probably higher than the showerhead incident...but still, relatively low.

The microwave door left open aka "you're stupid, Mariann - close it already" syndrome. An over-the-oven microwave door left open and my head coming into contact with it? You don't want to know how many times.

Unlocking the cat door - and hitting my head on the overhanging granite edge on a wood chopping-block cabinet when I got back up...in the pantry? Once. Resulted in subsequent CT scan. I do not recommend doing this - it hurts.

Tossing grocery bags in the backseat of the car when I've been used to a much higher profile van? Once. Again...it hurts and requires a trip to the ER...and also makes you cry in the parking lot of Fresh Market...not because of the pain...but because you know there's probably a cat scan involved at some point...because, as the book says, I HAVE to let my doctor know I hit my head.

Putting the cats' water bowl in the water bowl/food holder, which, ironically, sits directly under the pot holder rack - and directly adjacent to the very pointy and very hard wooden pub table top in the kitchen. Both - varying degrees of hitness...varying angles...varying areas of my head.

And the mother of all "oh, c'mon and cut me a break already" events?

Lobbing, very softly and very slowly...a rubber playground-type soccer ball to my daughter whilst talking on a cell phone. This is where I swear to you that I can chew gum and walk at the same time...unless there is blood-thinner involved. First lob on the grass? Fine. No problem. Ball crossing street...me crossing street...me crossing my one leg over the other to just barely kick the ball back? Gotcha! I fell flat - like someone dropped off the side of a building, flat...on my right side. My cell phone flies across the street. The first thing I thought? "Oh...damn...I hope I didn't break my cell phone!" The second thing I thought? "WHY did you kick the ball to me? Why why? And WHY did I kick it back?" Third..."call on-call doctor"...who proceeds to say the magic words "Well, you didn't hit your head...and I don't think you fell hard enough to rupture your spleen or liver - because that would be fatal. Would you maybe like to go to Pri-Med?" "Nah, that's okay...I think I'll just risk DEATH...what do YOU think??!"

I now am a master of awareness. I am aware of my head in relationship to my body and to any object at any given time. I get up slowly from any kneeling position - I look up before I get up...I find myself looking up when I am standing up...for no explicable reason whatsoever; and I stand far away from the underside of my showerhead. No kidding.

My life (and my head) is now like one of those 'spoon and egg' races...only a LOT slower...and always wearing shoes and gloves...you know...JUST in case; and, as long as I wear shoes and gloves as I walk to the pool in the backyard, I'll be okay...right? Right??

Cell phone etiquette...or actually the lack thereof...

You've seen it, in fact you've heard it - people who act oblivious to all those around them as they somehow imagine themselves to either, a) walk around in their own little bubbles - like a sci-fi movie - a force-field they put up which makes them impervious to any and all exterior penetration combined with some silly notion they have this Maxwell Smart "Cone of Silence"...mentality which, in turn, makes them think no one can hear them; or, b) are just more important than anyone else.

My money's on "a"...but that's neither here nor there. How someone can tune out all manner of things and in the same process, lose all manners...continues to amaze and astonish me.

Oh, I'm not saying I'm the most versed in refinement - but I don't go through check-out lines gabbing away on my phone, never acknowledging the "have a nice day"s. I also don't walk around with "Bluetooth/Hands Free" technology in the store -- looking like I'm either aimlessly talking to myself. I can't tell you the amount of times I said "excuse me?" to passing people thinking they were engaging me in conversation...only to be ignored, nary a word directed my way...totally oblivious that I exist and actually said something to them. The "tunnel-vision" glare they give - that "Stepford Wives" blank stare...is the only clue I have that I misspoke.

But the end of all breaches of cell phone etiquette - worse than the annoying guy in the theatre who "forgets" (numerous times) to turn his phone off...with EACH subsequent call and audience admonishment, was the guy who was sitting (with the obligatory empty chair between us) next to me today at the base clinic.

He gleefully sat there - in full voice - calling company after company checking on the status of various payments. HOW do I know this?? Well, it wasn't bad enough he was on hold listening to such classic ditties as Barry Manilow's "Copacabana"...apparently I had to be on hold with him. And there he sat, undoubtedly unconcerned that, instead of holding the phone to his own head, for his ear only - he felt somehow compelled to share his private insurance claim business with anyone within earshot - by taking advantage of his phone's "speaker" feature.

With phone prominently displayed in a two-hand hold before him, he sat there, legs akimbo, and slightly hunched over at the waist...his eyes intently watching "it" - like you see people portrayed watching radio programs before television was invented. It was if...he was mesmerized by it. I, on the other hand, was less impressed.

Oh, I'm sure I'm going to one day find something someone does with their cell phone more annoying, more insensitive, or more bold...this one will hold that place of "prominence", at least to me, until that time.

Ring Around The Toe-sy...

I've been wanting to do a blogumn about this for a while...but hadn't decided on an angle...thinking perhaps I just ought'n not do it (yes...I put that in specifically as an "in-joke" for one person...so there, I did it) - so, therefore, that means I will. This same person figures I'm being too much like the female version of Andy Rooney with my opinions lately...probably just because I'm getting old and curmudgeonly...but, what the heck...I'll run with it - or at least trot a little...

Just what IS it with toe and thumb rings lately? They look awfully silly and quite uncomfortable to boot. In fact...if you were wearing a toe ring AND a boot...I bet it would be all the more uncomfortable.

I remember, back in the 1960's - toe rings and thumb rings started to be quite the sensation...but they also had the Indian-inspired toe-ring "attached anklet" which made it look like much more of a fashionable accessory than the simple "got my toe caught in the gasket of my tub's faucet and I decided I'd run with it" kinda thing. In fact, if I'm not mistaken - this toe-anklet chain was quite akin to the middle finger-bracelet chain...which also had that whole "Hindu-inspired, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, Beatles, George Harrison-influenced, Ravi Shankar, sitar-playing, patchouli incense burning" era thing going on - which, I, as a child growing up in New Jersey...would see first-hand because we frequently made near-monthly Hippie-watching pilgrimages to New Hope, Pennsylvania - way back then when these things...and Twiggy...were, literally...in vogue.

Now...I was too young to don toe rings or toe ring-anklet chains back then - but I remember them clearly as I have an older sister...who really isn't that much older than me...but always acted much older than she really was. That not being here nor there...I remember certain things distinctly...and this was one of them.

Then the 60's made way for the 70s and they, in turn, brought in the 80's and MTV and Dynasty and no one on prime-time television back then would be caught dead wearing anything less than shoulder pads and attitude. The 1990s came and fashion went out and it still really hasn't returned if you ask me...but...toe rings and thumb rings are now back...and I've just got to ask everyone...

WHY??

And the thumb rings I've seen aren't particularly attractive...they typically look like those bird-banding rings they tag onto birds in the wild to track them...plus they look about as comfortable. They aren't ornate...and simply look completely out of place on most people...but I have to keep coming back to the Indian/Hindu culture as to why there's a resurgence with them. Certainly most people aren't archers who wear them (oh, yeah...I did some research here on thumb rings)...and as far as I can tell archers really aren't on the fashion forefront...so I'm going to blame it on Bollywood.

So, my theory is that back in the 60s - Hindu influence was everywhere...and these toe and thumb rings cropped up. Of course, most of the people who are wearing these today weren't even around back then to remember any of this - fortunately there are old people like me to remember. And recently, especially with the success of "Slumdog Millionaire", Bollywood films have taken everyone by storm...thus we're thrust back into the whole concept where everything old is new again...and, like those circular toe and thumb rings...they came around again.

But, unfortunately, most people can't pull this look off...and seriously...most thumb and toe rings I've seen on people...look like they couldn't pull them off either - at least not without some pain and soap or butter involved.

Stalwart? Not Walmart.

I don't typically write about my trips to Walmart - but this one just stood out more than the others, so I thought I'd share...



I needed to pick up a few things like a battery for my nifty pedometer I've never used (but am intending to), some sunblock, some Epsom salt, and some soda. So, I pack up my daughter and head on over to the Walmart down the street a ways.

First on the list: Get the Epsom salt before I forget. But first - pull out one carriage. Defective. A second. More defective. A third...worst of the lot...go back and get the first carriage. Yes, I know I only have to get a handful of things...but I will undoubtedly forget one of them...and buy 18 more I didn't come in for - therefore I need the carriage.

I go on over to where I figure they'd stock Epsom salt. The part of the store where they have band-aids, aspirin and soap. I walk around - I walk around some more - and sure enough I spot it. Right next to this lady who works at Walmart talking to another lady who works at Walmart. Epsom salt - bottom shelf...about inch from the one lady's leg.

Now I'm not invisible the last time I checked, but wouldn't you know it - I must be invisible today! Usually when someone comes within a radius of say a foot of your personal space, most people will take notice. Nope...not these two ladies. Even with me saying "Excuse me" - they didn't even pause in their conversation to each other and neither took notice nor moved. I had my face literally at crotch level to the one lady - and seriously, it really wasn't where my head was today...nor where I wanted my head at today. Even with me saying "Uh...I need to get the Epsom salt here"...she didn't flinch a muscle. She apparently had no problem with me being close enough to be able to read the manufacturer of her zipper; I, on the other hand, did. I reached over with my arm as extended as it could go and snatched up an Epsom salt and promptly left, remarking again very loudly to my daughter "You would think they could have moved over a TINY bit so I COULD HAVE GOTTEN IT!" Hey, since I was invisible today and all...I figured I should take advantage of it and be a little jerkier than usual.

Next stop: The battery.

I need a replacement battery which goes by the name of "LR43". It's one of those round watch-types; a seemingly easy to spot kinda dealie ...but all the round ones are pretty much round and vary by 1/1,000th of a micrometer in diameter or width or circumference or whatever...and they make a LOT of them and I'm figuring with the luck I've been having lately they discontinued this exact size ages ago or just sell them in the UK.

Now had I known that this would have been like looking for the needle in the proverbial haystack I would have sought out some help when I first saw someone pass by...but I'm a big girl and I can surely find where they keep the batteries in Walmart, right?

Wrong. While I might be a "big girl" - the store is much, much bigger than I am. There's also no real rhyme nor reason order to it. Let's see...batteries right next to the muffins? Yep...sounds like there was some master planning here. Heaven knows I like to pick up some batteries when I'm buying a tasty muffin...but not this time...I needed the round kind - everyone knows the batteries they sell next to the muffins are only the double A, triple A, and C kinds. Duh!

My daughter then makes a grand assumption. A pedometer is kind of like an electronic thing - round batteries just might be in electronics? Right? Sounds logical to me. So we wheel our wonky carriage on over to the electronics aisle where we scope out the batteries and find a very small display with more empty slots than batteries and sure enough - the only round ones there were LR44s. While they look the same - I'm sure it would cause my pedometer to blow up...so I'm not going to chance it. I decide to ask the guy behind the electronics counter who looks to be a whopping two years older than my daughter. He proceeds to tell me that they are on the other side of the aisle...where again...only LR44s. Close - but nope. And they really didn't have a wide selection of any batteries there to start with. Have you seen the size of a Walmart lately? I mean they are ginormous. Surely I can't be the only person in this town to ever need a battery. These two lousy displays AND the muffin battery assortment wouldn't serve the population of Mayberry let alone Wetumpka.

Okay, let's get the soda - I know where they keep that.

Much to my chagrin there's no batteries next to the soda. What a really lame store. We'll have to look elsewhere.

Now, I vaguely remember, once upon ago, when I needed another such round battery for something - they had them where they sold the jewelry - where I initially thought of going, but was reluctant as I spied no watches there...plus after the "Epsom salt incident" I wasn't too keen on asking another woman Walmart worker anything. But she was behind a counter and my fear of getting up close and nearly personal with this one was thus alleviated. I asked her.

As luck would have it - no LR43s. She was, however, helpful and directed me over to the pharmacy where she thought all the other round batteries were kept.

They only had a couple kinds there - most were super tiny...so again, I'd have to go away empty-handed. This was getting old. We gave up the battery search.

So, we shuffle off, still pushing our incredibly wonky carriage (I'm 100 percent certain Walmart doesn't own a carriage that isn't defective in some way...all Walmarts, not just this one) to go and get sunblock. It's the last on my list after all...I am not even going after the 18 other items that I don't need this time. I just want to grab the sunblock and get out as fast as humanly possible.

We look around and around and around. Up and down all the aisles in the pharmacy-area department. Not by the hair dye, not by the body wash, not by the tampons, not by the vitamins. I was beginning to think maybe they kept sunblock next to the muffins...but I didn't go back to check. I reluctantly (whenever I ask someone in Walmart...it's always my last resort) decided to ask someone behind the pharmacy counter as both "Epsom salt" ladies were nowhere to be found. A guy was talking there forever so we decided to look some more. We found a tiny one in the "tiny things to take on trips" aisle...but I couldn't believe there'd be less choice of sunblock than there was batteries - but it didn't look good.

Back to the pharmacy window...the guy was still there. Then another lady behind there popped over and asked if she could help. "Things are looking up" I foolishly think to myself. I asked her about the sunblock and she proceeds to tell me, "I don't know - maybe it's in the outdoor gardening section." "Yeah? MAYBE???" I reiterated "MAYBE???" to her...quickly followed by "I've been all over this store for the past forty-five minutes...couldn't you PHONE someone up to let me know where they keep it instead of just 'MAYBE' it's somewhere? Maybe it's somewhere - maybe it's not?" I didn't even wait to hear her reaction and we took off down the aisle towards the outdoor section...all the while I'm muttering under my breath, "I don't work here, she works here...she's got a phone, she could have asked someone where it was. I can't believe no one in this whole store knows where anythi..." ...then I spotted it: A huge section of the aisle across from the pet food, but well before the outside department, chock full of sunblock paraphernalia. How could I have been so stupid NOT to have gone directly across the pet food aisle to look for sunblock? Just what the heck was I thinking??

Oh, I'm sure that next to the Bedazzler and knitting needles there's a whole battery section I never knew existed. THEY don't even know it exists. Next time I'm in Walmart I'll be sure to check.

(By the way, in case anyone was wondering...Walgreens stocks LR43 size batteries.)

"X-planation"...no wait..."'splaination"...no...um...oh just stop explaining it to me already, okay?

"Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do!"

Sure, Ricky Ricardo said it often...and poor Lucy would sometimes accommodate him by trying to conjure up some far-fetched explanation for her silliest of lame-brained schemes. Now, the joke was usually on Ricky as he, continually, was the one in the dark while, we, as the audience knew what Lucy had been up to all along. Of course this was really Hollywood and we all knew better...but...Hollywood still has a lot of 'splainin' to do - and to them, we're all a bunch of Rickys to their Lucy.

Picture if you will...a dilemma of sorts. How do you interject complicated phrases which are commonplace to, say...a doctor, a lawyer, the FBI, the crime scene investigators, a brilliant scientist conversing with another...and well, you get the point by now I'm sure...in your movie or show but still get the point across to the lay person?

Certainly words that are way beyond most people's scope of reasoning are bantered about by people who know what they mean all the time. You wouldn't expect a doctor to explain to his colleagues each time he rattles off a chain of ten dollar words. You wouldn't expect the DOD to stop using acronyms ASAP just because their ASCON and their ASD can't figure out what their GORP over in CE is saying. You wouldn't expect there's a lot of explanation on film...but...if you delve deeper into the script you can tell that Hollywood must take us for a bunch of popcorn munching morons.

Without sounding condescending...let me explain...

...I really started noticing this quite a few years ago but I didn't think too much of it. But ever since I rented the entire nine seasons of "The X-Files" back-to-back and played them episode after episode, night after night...I began to see a common thread.

What normally would occur one week to another as the series aired wasn't exactly obvious - but when viewed in this repetitive fashion, I noticed something which was cleverly laced over like the so many layers of dialogue which made this show such a hit. Whenever Scully (the female FBI agent) would be doing an autopsy on some poor misfortunate soul who lost his life battling a Chupacabra or some bile-sucking creepazoid...she would say to Mulder (the male FBI agent) a whole string of very technical sounding jargon. Then Mulder would innocently ask, "You mean her flesh was literally being dissolved by this fat sucking vampire like a spider dissolves his prey before he eats it?" Of course, that's not the exact wording (far from it)...but you get the idea, right? Chances are good if she just mentioned something clinical about lipids and amino acids and recombinant DNA and whatnot - the whole point would be lost on the majority of the viewing public...and we'd pretty much be staring at the screen shaking and scratching our collective heads going "huh?"

Now, you do get what I'm trying to say, right? I mean, I wouldn't really have to simplify it further for you at this point...but apparently - when you slap something on film...even the most elementary of dialogue tends to be dumbed down in this way...sometimes to the point of comic proportions.

I don't know how many of you have ever watched the show "NUMB3RS"...but when I watched it the first couple seasons (I had to...long story) it just didn't have the finesse that "The X-Files" had. It was painfully obvious the whole premise was...pretty much astronomically impossible to take seriously. The show centered around a math genius with a whole slew of inept FBI agents who didn't even know what the words "triangulate his location" meant - and without this one agent's math-whiz brother to solve case after case on his blackboard in the father's basement...well, the entire FBI would just be a bunch of bumbling Inspector Clouseaus hopelessly trying to find the way out of the building each nite.

Then you have the extreme "duh" factor...where the movie industry clearly doesn't think we are as smart as any fifth grader. Not only do they insult us by clearly defining what a word is...but they take it one step further...they clearly insult us by making us believe the character being spoken to doesn't have a clue either.

Case in point: Most of us have probably seen the Spiderman films. Who wouldn't? They are fun - Spiderman's fun...there's nifty CGI effects, geek turned hero to save the day, bad guys get their comeuppance...just a fun time for all...right? Well...aside from Mary Jane screaming her face off each time and whining "boo-hoo, no one loves me as an actress in New York City" where you only have 20 billion people all sharing the stage with you, most of which have connections, are better actresses, or have a resume longer than you can hold that sustained eardrum-bleeding banshee yell of yours...it goes a bit silly with the characterizations. Peter Parker aka Spiderman...is supposed to be a brilliant guy. He was shown to be superiorly intelligent in the first film...his diametrically opposed, 'superiorly stupid' best friend's dad, who just happens to own a business where he can become an evil maniac on the side...covets him as a future employee. In the second installment he expounds exponentially - bouncing mind-boggling theories of infinitesimal knowledgeable know-how off of this prominent, world-reknown scientist ("Doctorpus" as I call him) who also has the wherewith all (and unlimited funds) to be able to build his own maniacal evil-doer side business at the drop of a hat as well. So, it is now established...Peter Parker is quite the intellectual...he knows his stuff. He could beat pretty much you and me at "Trivial Pursuit", especially those green Science questions. He'd whoop our butts at "Jeopardy!"...but...he doesn't have a clue what a symbiotic relationship IS in the third film...as this dialogue which takes place ensues:

Professor: "Don't let any of that get on you..." (pointing to the black
jumping threadlike blob under the glass).

Peter Parker:
"Why?"

Professor: "It has the characteristics of a symbiote...which needs
to bond to a host to survive..."

Now, I don't know about you - but I knew what "symbiotic" meant back in - well...a LONG time ago. My son knows what it is...my daughter knows what it is...if my cats could talk...THEY'D know what it was. How on Earth did they not realize good ole Spidey-boy would, too?

So, in one fell swoop (Spiderman pun clearly not intended - but highly suggested) not only do they insult our intelligence...but they insult poor Parker in the process. This is inexcusable in my opinion. Hollywood didn't used to do this. Did the witch in "The Wizard of Oz" explain to the flying monkeys why the poppies will make them all sleep? Did "Citizen Kane" have to whack us on the head to get us to know this story clearly was written about William Randolph Hearst? Did Dickens need to have the three ghosts come back twice in order to get the message across to Scrooge? I think not! They didn't need to do it back then in film and they really don't need to do it now. We're really not THAT stupid...the ones who are...well, there's always the opportunity to Google it when they get home IF they can remember that far into the future. For the rest of us...stop doing it!

"But, why?" they'd undoubtedly ask...because heaven knows it always, always, always needs to be explained even further. Because...well...frankly, my dear Hollywood...we do know a damn.

"B" Rating Okay; Berating Not Okay

I was glancing over the "news" stories they feature on AOL's main page the other day (by now "the other week"...as I've sat on this idea for a while) and happened upon one which piqued my interest: Doctors Seek to Silence Online Reviews . Honestly, I'm reluctant to click on any of AOL's "news" links because chances are I'll be shuffled off to some guy's blog who apparently knows someone on AOL to get the prominent front-page link-up...

...but, I was a bit intrigued as it spoke to me in a language I have recently begun to be far too affluent in: medical.

It seems some doctors are so miffed about all those "Rate Your Doctor" sites readily available to even the least adept Googler, that there is now a service (or probably a few by now) where, for a fee, your physician can pay some "company" to troll those sites and report all the "bad" findings back to them.

This apparently was enough for some doctors to get so bent out of shape over that they've added yet another form for you to sign when you fill out that ever-growing stack they hand you when you get there: Basically, a promise that you will not go to any of these sites and rate them in any negative or derogatory fashion. Oh, and it doesn't stop there. You also cannot mention anything against them on Facebook, MySpace, Twitter, or even on your personal blog. You are, in essence, being stripped of your First Amendment rights in order to receive medical care from these doctors. And, if the trolling service finds you have indeed breached this contract with your doctor, you are then - terminated. Plus they can also then bring legal action against you. Nice, huh?

So, we are now being told that not only "an apple a day keeps the doctor away" - but also public criticism. This is absolutely ludicrous - it is censorship at its most base level.

I am not aware how many of you have used these ratings sites...or even know of their existence - but I have done so, for obvious reasons. (I have some medical issues for those of you who don't know.) Not that I would use them for any "make or break" decision device as I'd wait to "rate" my doctor after a face-to-face visit. But, I do like having at my disposal, the opportunity to peruse the credentials of a doctor whose name is the only thing known to me. You see...he had MY whole history splayed out in front of him to pre-judge me...way before he opens the door after that obligatory "two-knock" custom they must have learned somewhere between Pre-Med and Residency...and he has it still.

Certainly you've seen it, haven't you? Oh, surely I can't be the only one to sneak a peek at what's inside that mysterious manilla folder they gaze at, and up from, whilst talking to you. You know the one I'm talking about...that one they leave open...enticingly within arm's reach of you - when they are called out of the room for a moment.

Haven't you ever been curious about what's inside that thing? For sure it has lab reports and a little synopsis of your current and past ailments - but aren't you at all just a little interested or even a bit more than nosy to know what else they keep in there? It is, after all, YOUR folder - I've read and signed those disclaimer sheets I spoke of earlier...we are entitled to view it. So, recently, I've taken it upon myself to investigate just what my doctors say about me - you see...this is the stuff they never share - other than between themselves.

At the risk of implicating myself even further than I already have, let me toss out a few things I've surreptitiously gathered about myself during my "I spy with my little eye - super quick-like before the doctor comes back in" waiting game. (Thank goodness for that "two-knock" warning.) I have mastered the art of stealth equivalent to a James Bond Ninja - I can leaf through it - photograph it with my "super memory", return it to the original page and pop back on that papered "couch" with the agile ability even "Grasshopper" from that "Kung Fu" show of the '70s would have envied. Then to complete the whole effect - I don my "mesmerized by the circa 1980s 'worn at the edges from the cheap thumbtacks' human anatomy posters" facial expression. Trust me - I've got that whole dance down to a science - I AM poetry in motion - bad poetry...a Haiku perhaps - but nonetheless, I've yet to be caught.

But in a way I feel like I have been caught - I am that unruly child whose school folder is stamped "TROUBLEMAKER" and passed from one grade's teacher to the next - labeling me before I ever sat in that classroom chair. I have been classified, in the medical community, as "neurotic". I've seen my "medical report cards" - words like "worries unnecessarily", "convinced she has..." and the dreaded "reads WebMD" crop up here and there in my introductory referral letters.

So, while I am allowed to be "rated" and passed from one doctor to the other, I'd like to be afforded the same opportunity as these physicians who are demanding their patients NOT rate them. I DON'T want to be rated either - other than my condition, thank you. Keep your opinions of me to yourselves - you are already swaying the opinion of my next doctor before he ever sits down and talks to me himself. I don't need him coming in with some attitude that I'm going to be a neurotic head-case or troublemaker - calling him for everything I have, might have, or have "convinced" myself through WebMD that I must have. Trust me, like little Johnny in Kindergarten who might have pulled Amy's hair - don't label me because someone "tells" on me - give me the benefit of the doubt...perhaps I'm really not that bad.

And to all you doctors out there thinking of subscribing to (or who have) this "service" which really is a disservice...stop pre-judging your patients - you certainly don't like it when it happens to you. Remember, you took an oath to help people...and it wasn't "The Hypocritical Oath".

Earth Hour '09

Well, I was going to do a blogumn about all my ills and my doctor visits and whatnot and bore you all to tears...and then a friend of mine wrote me suggesting I write something totally "off the wall" and unexpected. Keep in mind, I have this handy-dandy notebook (geez - I miss that Steve guy from "Blue's Clues") which I drag along to place with me to look remotely like Johnny Depp did in that "Finding Neverland" movie where he played Peter Pan's creator, James Barrie. But, I will never look that good no matter how hard I try...but yet again...here I go digressing.

So, while I mulled over which "doctor piece" I should ram down your throats...I could nearly hear the collective sighs of "Poor, poor Mariann...just shut up and get a life already..." - but hey, at least I didn't blame Obama for my health...and I decided I would write something else. Now, this decision of mine was a few days ago...and here I still sat debating if I really should write up what I wrote or write about my new cat toy. My new cat toy IS phenomenal - by the way. And while I sat, with the distant sound of thunder off in the distance and thirty minutes to kill before "The Grapes of Wrath" comes on at 5:00 a.m., I made a switch to "The Weather Channel" to take up that interim space.

And what inspired me to get my little fingers in gear? What could possibly be so interesting (besides looking at Jim Cantore) on "The Weather Channel" to get me to toss all my other ideas off on the sofa next to me? Well, to paraphrase Alfred Doolittle (of Shaw's "Pygmalion" and "My Fair Lady" fame)..."I'm willing to tell you. I'm wanting to tell you. I'm waiting to tell you."

A little public service announcement of sorts - of theirs...came on - all about "Earth Hour '09". I vaguely remember seeing some online headlines about this and a couple emails which I failed to open, so when I heard this, I stopped perusing things on the computer and looked up.

Now I don't have a fancy degree in television broadcasting, no formal journalism training other than two years in high school and ghost writing for the Times Advertiser and The Burlington County Times a couple times when my Journalism teacher, Mr. Bauer...who also worked at the local paper, tossed a few stories my way to do up for them. Unfortunately, come to think of it, I don't have any degrees...but apparently I DO have something THEY, over at their fancy schmancy Atlanta headquarters, don't: The ability to spot stupidity when I see it. Oh...not to demean your intelligence...but let's see if you can figure this out, too. It pretty much went like this (TiVo is great for purposes such as these)...

The spot starts out by featuring a few places which have turned off their power in the past with a voiceover stating X amount of people participated during Australia's outage in 2007 and so forth...which then segues into their talking about turning off our power for one hour, between 8:30 and 9:30 p.m. on Saturday, the 28th of March...to help fight global warming. Okay, nice thoughts and isn't that lovely and all, right?

Then they add "Tune in to 'The Weather Channel' for 'Earth Hour '09'"...and at the bottom of the screen, the words: "Join us. Turn out. Take action".

Now, again, I reiterate, I am no great genius, I don't even purport to be that darned astute - heck, I can only do two sides of a Rubik's Cube...but I CAN tell you that if you have no power on between the hours of 8:30 and 9:30 p.m. - you certainly aren't going to be able to WATCH "The Weather Channel's" broadcast regarding it. And to take it one step further, isn't it a bit of a hypocritical stance to BE broadcasting about NOT having your power on...when you are telling everyone to turn it off??

So...I did what anyone in my predicament would do. I wrote an email to them. Oh, I've written to "The Weather Channel" before once - long time ago. They had a link to a dating site on their home page - they wrote me back saying "Oops...I guess a disgruntled web monkey put that there as we sure didn't approve it...thank you so much for bringing it to our attention and NO, you can't have an autographed photo of Jim Cantore...stop asking already!" Well, okay...they didn't add that last bit...but to be fair, I didn't ask for one.

The only problem I had was that I was restricted to using only 500 characters/spaces...and, if you know me...brevity isn't my strong point. And yep, you guessed it...I used them ALL. This is what I sent:

I am watching your broadcast and an announcement comes on regarding "Earth Hour '09", relaying information about when it is and what it is and how I can be part of the "one billion people who will switch off their power for one hour".

Then it goes on to add "Tune in to 'The Weather Channel' for 'Earth Hour '09'". Then at the bottom of the screen: "Join us. Turn out. Take action."

Please tell me how I am to turn off MY power and still watch YOUR broadcast of the event if WE are all off?

I'll keep you informed of what they write back...if they write back. Hey, it's either that or a long-winded blog about some doctor's office visit. You decide. :)

The Heart of the Matter

Well, it seems I haven't written in an eon.

Oh, I was going to - but each night around 10ish I just got sleepy and toddled off to bed without even the aid of my trusty friend, Ambien. This, of course, if you know anything about me, was not my "normal" routine. My normal routine was anything but normal: I would stay up until my daughter went off to school, I would then proceed to take my Ambien and sack out until it was time to pick her up. Oh...yes, sometimes...most times...I would take half my Ambien in the hope of getting tired, but I would just binge eat - and that, in turn, would make me stay awake even longer (the more food you have in your body - the slower the Ambien takes to kick in) - and then I would take more Ambien after she went off to school and then I'd semi-pass out until around 2:00 p.m., wake up and feel like something the cat drug in (yes, "drug" is the word I'm emphasizing here...so keep your proper grammar knit-picking to yourselves - it was intentional).

Anyway...far be it from me to complain (insert "massive whole-hearted belly laugh" sound effect here) - but I didn't have the energy to stay awake to write a blog...much less anything really for that matter...and things I've promised myself I'd do - fell by the proverbial wayside. But...I'm back...and with a vengeance! "Grrrrr!" Okay...that was silly...but I'm almost famous for being silly...so I ran with it.

I have this whole concept of "all things medical" to do up in a two...or three-parter blogumn. Unfortunately, for you, the readers, I will also, undoubtedly, tend to dwell on my own mortality for some of it. Perhaps not as much as I originally intended, so I will indeed spare you my latest [past] current whine-fest. But, there's a method to my madness...and if you stick around, you just might see what it is. :)

But...I am back - just wanted everyone who took the time to ask about me...I am indeed still alive - and I will be writing again very, very soon...perhaps even tonite...if I can muster up the fortitude to stay awake past 10:00, that is.

Rooms For Improvement

I have no real problem admitting to anyone that it took me...oh...probably a good ten years to find a living room table that 1) I liked, and; 2) I liked that wasn't over $1,000. I ran across the one I will keep for life while shopping at the now defunct Henredon Clearance Outlet in North Carolina. Oh, sure - they have another and another one as well...but not like the previous one. You could walk into the previous one and see rows and rows of extremely expensive furniture marked down to...well, something nearly everyone could afford. Save for a $10,000 sofa marked down to $2,000 that, IF I woulda had $2,000 it would be sitting here right now - directly across from me, never sat in, so I could just stare at it in wondrous awe. It was one of THE prettiest things I've ever seen. You can have your Renoirs and Picassos - I'll take that Henredon sofa I saw in North Carolina.

But, again I digress once more.

Not that the average person spends ten years looking for that one special piece of furniture - most of my things were bought at antique stores or by my mother (at antique stores) which I then commandeered from her (she would always say "I KNEW you were going to want that - that's why I bought it) on my visits home to New Jersey. The fun part of decorating your home is to shop...to seek out and mix and match furniture, artwork, and trinkets. The "'oohs' and 'ahhs', wishing and walking away, or happily walking away clutching that "buy of a lifetime" with a smirk on your face to rival the Mona Lisa's...making everyone who passes by you stop in their tracks and wonder what you just found that they just missed" experience. The whole enchilada: The coming home and placing that vase or bowl on your cabinet you bought three months before and going "SEE! It does look great...didn't I tell ya??" Plus, it's the satisfaction that YOU did it...face it, no one hangs your "masterpieces" on their fridge anymore...but that shouldn't stop you from getting that warm, fuzzy feeling that you did something that pleased someone - ever again.

But someone wants to yank our warm fuzzies right from under us.

I first noticed this gigantic omni-structure in Atlanta...and thought to myself "What is this gigantic omni-structure?? It can't possibly be what I think it is...that would be really stupid."

Well, now one cropped up in my very own town..."Rooms To Go". "Just what IS this thing?" I asked myself and set about finding out. Well, from what I've gathered, it's geared toward people who are just too lazy or unimaginative, or too much in a hurry, to throw together a room themselves. Now, don't get yourself all in a twitter...some people undoubtedly enjoy going into this store, as they have 110 stores scattered in the Southeast and Puerto Rico.

I don't know - I just don't subscribe to this "Garaminals" approach to furniture shopping. I think I would have a hard time if I were uber-rich and some decorator wanted to tell me what I liked...and what belonged with what...and why I shouldn't get what I like and to only get what they liked - because they know me better than I know myself...but I just don't know it.

I just made a quick "turn-my-head" around surveillance of my surroundings, and other than the fact I could use a maid, I really like what I threw together...with no help from anyone but myself. I like my cabinets, I like my mirrors, I like my antique throws, I like the pillows on my sofas which took at least four trips to that Henredon Outlet Store in North Carolina over the course of many years, I like the hodge-podge, "thrown together like I meant it all along" feel that my house conveys...and I REALLY like the fact I have a little memory...a story, if you will, which goes along with each and every piece of "stuff" I have crammed into my house.

And you can't get that from an "All-At-Once" type of store...but don't take it from me...take it from someone some store hired who probably just got fired from "Sonic"...after all, what do I know? I did spend ten years looking for a table, for Pete's sake. ;)

Dirty Writing

I'm still in wondrous amazement how our little human brain managed to evolve the way it has.

We have tools that can make things to take us to the furthest reaches of our galaxy, yet people can't shake the internal desire to inscribe "WASH ME" on the back of a dirty automobile.

As I sat and watched the man now beside me, who was only a few moments ago behind me in line as I dropped my daughter off at school; my thoughts, like a long ago geared mechanism (I'd like to think of this internal process as my own personal Antikythera mechanism) took hold of my otherwise unthinking brain and catapulted it into warp speed. All occurring because the man who waited behind me was now next to me making a right turn in his much nicer, albeit much dirtier vehicle than mine - had that very same (pardon the pun) 'older than dirt' decry hastily smeared on his back windshield.

Now, granted, most people wouldn't have given this "event" a second glance...perhaps it's not even really worthy of a first - but me, being the self-proclaimed "writer" that I fancy myself - (and have even taken it upon myself to pen in "writer" each time the "occupation" blank in the countless forms I fill out...presents itself) saw this and a chain reaction of sorts...ensued.

It kinda went like this:

Who first scrawled "WASH ME" on a vehicle? How did it manage to catch on - I mean, really - had it been on a car in Slapout, Alabama, chances are it would never have attained the domino effect it once grew to become. So, with that deduced, it must have been somewhere countless people could see it. How about LA? Sorry - unless you count smog as dirt -- plus the people there are way too obsessed with cars. Nope...no car there, unless it was on a movie set, has ever gone long enough without a wash and wax.

Chances are it was someone driving cross-country who ended up in a place with attitude, done by a person who didn't mind getting their finger dirty after doing it. This leaves New York. Chances are also good once they did it, they shouted out "Yo, Vinnie, getta loada dis!" And then proudly flipped him the bird with the very same finger...and proceeded to do the same thing with everyone he knew the rest of the day. So, what originally started off as something silly some guy named Sal did on East 34th Street - caught on.

"But", I thought as waited to negotiated the left out of her school, "Do naughty Amish kids, in their best penmanship, carefully write "WASH THEE" on buggies, snicker and run off behind Brother Jebediah's barn to watch the hilarity ensue?

Maybe this has been part of our culture much, much longer than anyone could ever imagine. Did ancient Mesopotamian children, after that first piece of glass dusted over, take their finger and gleefully, unknowingly, leave their mark in history?

Or did any one [of any] of the Pharoah's dozens of children draw three wavy water lines and a Cartouche on their father's sandy chariot upon his return from an outing in the desert - and then point that same dirty finger at their "lesser" sibling to take the rap?

And then the light changed...