What a difference a day makes!

The week started out badly for me. I woke up Monday morning and couldn't put any weight on my left foot. Did I ninja-kick the wall during the night? Trip on my way to a midnight run to the fridge and not remember it? Fight off aliens who tried to beam me up?

It was puzzling. I was not happy.

It's amazing how hard it is to do things when your left leg is useless and everything becomes an effort. I bottomed down the stairs to the kitchen, sat down to breakfast and realized I forgot to bring my coffee over to the table. Where were my raisins?--still in that cabinet that was so far away. I was exhausted by the time I finished eating and then thought of all the things I had left upstairs--my favorite foot cream, my book, my chapstick, my comfy socks. I would just have to do without.

I sat down to my computer and the rest of the day went pretty well, since that's how I usually spend it anyway. Meals and bathroom trips were a trial, but Gary was helpful when he got home.

The next day was more of the same-crawled to the bathroom at night, since I didn't want to deal with the cane and felt sorry for myself that I would probably just be this way the rest of my life. Ponderings at 2 AM tend to be melodramatic.

By Wednesday morning, I was actually feeling better, could put some weight down on the foot and limp around without a cane. Problem was I had the orthopedist scheduled at 4pm. Should I cancel now? Best to get the xray, I thought, but I was actually embarrassed to be feeling so much better. I decided to still use the cane and, like one of those bad comedy sketches, I limped into the office, sometimes favoring the wrong foot. To be honest, I don't think any of the staff really cared. I was one of many "add ins" at the end of the day, so they had one eye on the clock.

Good news is the xray was fine. I was diagnosed as having an "overuse injury", due to going to a museum on Sunday, walking and standing more than I usually do. That's overuse? Pathetic. I'd feel better if I could at least attribute it to a 10 mile run or a strenuous hike. I guess I need to push past my current exercise regimen of walking to the mailbox every day.

I was so excited today on my new found mobility that I've been up and down stairs at least a dozen times. "Look at me," I want to shout. I can do anything! (except maybe get out of my pjs before noon)

Valentine's Day

I love this Valentine card/fan that my grandfather sent to my grandmother when they were "courting."

To my Heart's Elect. Sweetheart think of me.

What the bee is to the floweret,
When he looks for honey-dew,
Through the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I'll be to you.

What the bank with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear.
                                Moore

With love and devotion. My heart's gift.


I googled the poem and found out it was written by Thomas Moore, the Irish Catholic son of a Dublin grocer, and published in Irish Melodies between 1807 and 1834 with accompanying music.

According to allpoetry.com:  Moore, despite his humble background, "became the fashionable versifier of Regency England. His Irish Melodies ... were an immense success, and for many years his wit, charm, liberalism, and singing voice made him a brilliant figure in literary and social circles, especially among the aristocratic Whig reformers. The same qualities made him one of Byron's closest friends. He wrote numerous satires, lampoons, and prose pieces." This poem was sung to the tune of The Yellow Horse, an Irish melody described as a "lively dance tune."

The card and its history seem fitting for James Connell, a working class Irishman in 1908, from Jersey City, to send to his 27 year old sweetheart, Miss Mary (Daisy) Bailey of Hoboken.

I also love the handwritten note on the back of the fan:
"Miss D. Bailey Feb14th 08 From Jim"

An elaborately scripted letter F (which could have started out as an L)  makes me wonder if my grandfather debated signing the card "Love". But, I'm not sure that would have been a popular closing in 1908, where more formal language and customs prevailed. (I think that's part of our collective fascination with Downton Abbey--we are enamored of the formal manners of society, both upstairs and down--and, of course, the British accents help.)

As a footnote to the valentine, my grandparents were married two years later and raised six children in Hoboken and later North Bergen. My grandfather worked hard as supervisor of a large department of workers at the local power company. He died in his early 50's of a heart attack, when my mother was just graduating high school at age 16. My grandmother Daisy lived until age 91 and loved to sing. Her favorite song? --- Not The Yellow Horse or What the Bee is to the Floweret, but Daisy Bell with the familiar chorus of Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do.  Perhaps that was how James proposed?

Calling all criminals

I wondered if I should run this blog past The Ethicist column in the New York Times Magazine. Readers submit their issue and ask the Ethicist's opinion to sort out whether something is not only legal but also ethical.

Dear Ethicist:
I am currently on an oral chemotherapy drug with a very unusual side effect. My fingerprints have disappeared! Not all patients experience this, but apparently some of us do. I'm torn whether I should write about this in my blog or whether I would be inadvertently aiding and abetting the criminal element that would be only too happy to learn how to avoid leaving fingerprints behind at the scene of a crime.
Signed, Finger Printless in NJ

Dear FP:
I think you are worrying unnecessarily, as not all patients get this unusual manifestation and it may take years of taking the drug before it develops. It's hardly a foolproof method and criminals would do just as well using the time honored method of sandpaper and acid. Also DNA at the crime scene is becoming much more common in usage. I also took the liberty of Googling your condition and it has been reported in the news, specifically a case in 2009, where a Mr. S had difficulty entering the US from Singapore because of his lack of fingerprints.
I would advise blogging away, although I would think a more interesting topic could be found.
Signed, The Ethicist

What? Is he kidding? No fingerprints without having burned them off with acid is pretty cool in my book. I first noticed this when I tried to activate my new HP laptop's Simple Pass-- a program that simplifies remembering myriad passwords by having you store them, locked with a scan of your fingerprint. To access all your password protected websites, bank accounts, email, credit cards, and even Facebook, you simply swipe your finger across the sensor--unless, of course, you get the message: "The sensor could not collect enough of your fingerprint. Please swipe again." After about 100 swipes, I examined my fingers and realized they were slightly puffy, cracked and smooth.

Immediately I wondered if this were a sign. Should I start casing convenience stores, plan on robbing a bank or consider breaking and entering around my neighborhood? One of the many pamphlets I have on living with metastatic cancer urges that we "Do Something Crazy."  Hmm....maybe they mean the more traditional things, like taking a hot air balloon ride or travelling to Antarctica?

Back from the mountain

My spa-challenged daughter and I just returned from a successful trip up to Mohonk Mountain. This is the third year of this outing, which began when a friend suggested the wives get away, while the husbands were off skiing on their own adventure. Unfortunately not everyone from the original group could come this year, but we changed things up a bit and had a great time.

True to my upbringing (or trapped by it) I had decided this year to look for a more affordable alternative to the Mohonk spa package, which is all inclusive, but pricey. My plan was to stay six miles away in Gardiner at the considerably smaller Minnewaska Lodge-an A frame building with about 20 rooms as opposed to the 300 room Mohonk Mountain House castle. The castle is a beautiful building and setting, which should be experienced at least once, but the lodge was a cozy alternative. Off season with only two rooms occupied on Sunday and a few more on Monday, Minnewaska offered friendly staff and a healthy breakfast buffet. We ate breakfast enfolded in comfy,cushioned mission-style furniture in the great room, gazing out at the mountain. The other advantage of my plan was we had a chance to explore some of the interesting restaurants of the New Paltz-Gardiner area. 

My friend and former college roommate, being even more spa challenged than we are, joined us just for lunch on Monday at the Main Street Bistro- a popular college vibe place with pine booths and a diner sized menu. Portions were big and the food was good, although couldn't compare to our favorite lunch place The Main Course, which was closed on Mondays. (Missing you, lobster club!) While we ate and talked, my friend's husband trotted off to the used book/used vinyl record store. Awesome-someone actually will buy that collection of 60's records cluttering up my basement? I may need a return trip to New Paltz very soon.

Years ago I had eaten lunch once at the Rock and Rye Tavern (named The Locust Inn at the time) next to the New Paltz municipal golf course. The building is red clapboard and stone farmhouse/country tavern with slate floors, fireplaces and rooms whose floors sloped slightly left or right. Trip Advisor/Yelp recommendations were good, so we checked it out for dinner. Located just beyond the Huguenot Houses from the 1700's, the place has an aura of authenticity and promises good food. Well sort of. On the first exterior door, a typed sign announced that the chef had left abruptly and the new one would not start for another week, so the menu was limited and they were coping as best they could. Not exactly an enticing invitation, but we were hungry and reluctant to plunge back into the foggy night. We asked our waitress first if the chef had disappeared under suspicious circumstances. Was there a ghost of the tavern lurking in the low lit rooms that we should worry about? We were assured that it was simply the matter of a better opportunity and then proceeded to order and eat one of the best meals we'd had in a while. Wherever the R&R chef had escaped to, he must have left behind detailed recipes to follow.

The weather was crazy-lots of fog. Initially we couldn't see the mountain behind our lodge.  Morning dawned bright and sunny, but soon turned cloudy. Drifts of fog descended so quickly that it looked like a forest fire was sending up clouds of smoke. In 2011, we had enough snow on the trails to go snowshoeing. The next year, it was crisp and cold, but the trails were snow free and hikeable. This year with temperatures in the 50's on Sunday and Monday, the trails were officially closed-too muddy and slick. Who knows what augurs for 2014--trees sprouting leaves in a prolonged, global warmed January thaw? 

For the missing outdoor exercise we substituted a "shop crawl" through the town, visiting interesting little gift shops, tie dyed emporiums, and stores filled with unique clothing, jewelry and treasures. My favorite tee shirt: "914 Westchester: Manhattan with trees." (Deluded thinking, but gave us a laugh) We noted there was no "516-Long Island: not Manhattan, no trees" or  "201: Jersey: Not Manhattan, but lovely trees (in the burbs)."

As for the spa, my daughter and I finally decided we've got the routine down correctly. The hot rocks massage is the way to go for us. Nice warm, smooth rocks applied with slight pressure after your skin is oiled up---you feel young again! Our more adventurous friend opted for the body scrub, which she described as invigorating but mild. And, yes, this is the same procedure said daughter had last year, but described it slightly differently: "painful, raw and never to be repeated."


One disadvantage of my vacation itinerary was that there was some driving involved--through the fog, past open fields, dark woods--a dead deer on the side of the road, a wandering opossum meandering across the blacktop. My friend took one wrong turn and ended up on a long journey down a lonely dead end road and then a circuitous ride back. Looking a bit frazzled when she met us at the Tuthill House at the Mill that was our next dinner location, we contemplated starting the meal with shots all around but then settled on a St. Germain gin and tonic and some soothing, smooth white wine.

On the five minute ride back to the lodge, like Comic Book Guy on the Simpsons, we had to say it: Worst relaxing spa vacation ever! We comforted ourselves by stocking up on the home made chocolate chip cookies in the lobby for any late night munchie attacks. Our too short getaway ended the next morning after breakfast and relaxing in the lounge. Temps had dropped, so sitting on the outside Adirondack chairs was out of the question. Maybe next year?

Downton Abbey Fever

Sunday marked the end of the long wait for Downton Abbey fans, as season 3 began with the theme that the times are a changin’. Slowly to be sure, since this is post war Britain in 1920 and not the hippie 60’s in America with Bob Dylan.

The New York Times reviewer, clearly exhibiting an ‘upstatirs’ attitude compared the series about British aristocrats and their servants to “ Fifty Shades of Grey: soft-core pornography, but fixated on breeding and heritage rather than kinky sex… Downton Abbey is a fantasy that gets sillier in prolongation, and as is the case with Fifty Shades of Grey, there is a huge audience that cannot get enough,” says Alessandra Stanley. She attributes the popularity to the cheeriness of the melodrama—no bad news lasts too long and every problem is overcome, be it an inconvenient fiancée who graciously succumbs to the flu or a daughter running off with the chauffeur.

Sorry Alessandra, but I’m with the masses on this one. It is the stuff of good melodrama and how can you not love a series with those clipped, formal British accents and the butler delivering statements of righteous indignation when a fork is misplaced or one of the many rules of class violated. I love when people get to say: “I do love you so terribly much” or “I’m so dreadfully sorry” or “m’lady.” I’ve already decided when we become grandparents that I will be Grand-mama (accent on the last syllable) and Gary can be Papa (also accent on the last syllable).

Host Laura Linney’s analysis is a bit over the top when she describes the Crawley family as “so irresistible that they ought to be classified as a controlled substance,”  but she is the host after all and many fans would agree with her.

Maggie Smith, as the Dowager Countess still gets the zingers-my favorite when she mistakenly asks for a drink (one of the new fangled cocktails of the 20’s) from Lord Grantham and then recants “Oh I thought you were a waiter.” An understandable mistake since he appears in black tux rather than full white tie, a shocking break with decorum, due to some downstairs treachery among the servants. Maggie’s also right on target, commenting on the impending visit of Cora’s mother, played by Shirley MacLaine. “She reminds me how thankful I am to be British.” “I thought she was American,” asks Matthew. “Exactly,” replies our Maggie.

The 20’s costumes are interesting—amazing that a style that made women look flat chested was ever popular. The automobiles are grand—classy with running boards, big headlights and bright colors.

I can’t seem to escape breast cancer, even when I‘m engaging in pure entertainment. Mrs Hughes, the lovely housekeeper, has a lump the doctor will test with a syringe. The good hearted cook, Mrs. Patmore, who has accompanied her to the appointment, inquires if it will be painful and is shushed by Mrs. Hughes, who with that stiff upper lip is prepared to endure the necessary. I thought getting fluid always meant a cyst, rather than a tumor, but the fluid is bloody and must be sent away to be analyzed for 2 months. How’s that for turnaround time? (I don’t think even The National Health today is that bad.) Sneak previews seem to indicate it will be cancer, but that may be a red herring. In any case, I’m sure the good doctor will find a solution. After all, Matthew did walk again after being confined to a wheelchair with spinal injuries and Lady Cora recovered from the Spanish flu. Here’s hoping Mrs. H. won’t have to weather a Halstead radical mastectomy (which was used from 1892 until well into the 70’s.) If they do have her die, the only bright spot would be finally seeing a chink in the emotional armor of Carson the butler.

A very satisfying episode, but I regret to say I already know a significant plot twist coming up, due to unfortunate web surfing. Beware: the British started the season on Christmas Day, so they’re ahead of us and some posts blast headlines that are too late for even a spoiler alert. I’m so dreadfully sorry.

New Year's Resolutions

Reexamining the past year and setting goals to improve yourself in the coming year is a time honored exercise. Never mind that most resolutions don't last beyond January or the first quarter at best. I did try to give myself some easy ones, so I'd have some successes. Here's my list:

1. Get dressed every day- sweats count, as long as they weren't slept in and there's no nightgown underneath tucked into the pants.
2. Walk outside daily, even if it's just to the mailbox
3. More TMDs this year (Tuesday movie days)
4. Eat better (no chocolate before noon)
5. Visit Y at least once a month (and do some exercise while there)
6. Spend at least one day a week not doing breast cancer work (cancer free zone)
7. Go off the grid at least once a month
8. Do a daily organizing task in the household (this lasted one week last year, but I'm buoyed by my sock drawer experience)
9. Thank friends and family (and I don't mean the Verizon plan)
10. Blog more often!


Best wishes to all for a great 2013.

Organizing the sock drawer

Want to go to the movies?
Sorry, I'm just in the middle of organizing my sock drawer.

No, you will never hear this conversation from me, but here on the last day of 2012, I thought it would be significant to take on this task.

Why?  I'm not a terribly organized person, but while Christmas shopping this year, I stopped at the Container Store and was amazed at all the things you can buy to keep your things organized and reduce the hassle and rummaging that eats up a lot of time. Of course you have to factor in the organizing and maintenance time, which I've always thought would equal out the equation, but it would save on the frustration factor--hand me my scientific calculator while I work this out.

Apparently a new trend with teenagers is to wear colorfully mismatched socks. You actually buy them that way, but it's a statement, not an embarrassing mistake, like inadvertently wearing one black and one blue sock or one lowcut white sock and one mid ankle.

I have to admit I found over 50 pairs of socks, some of which hadn't been worn in the last 5 years. I immediately threw out half because I would never wear them now--too tight, too gray looking, stained from various creams and concoctions I put on my feet from henna to Bag Balm (thick petroleum jelly developed in Vermont to prevent cow udders from chafing-great for hot, swollen feet.) I then whittled down the 'maybe' pile, which included dress socks from my working days. Once you started tossing them out, it quickly accelerated to a sock frenzy.

I now have a very lean sock drawer and either need to restock or do laundry every 5 days. I know you're impressed because, after all, if someone bothers organizing their socks, they couldn't possibly be the same person that shoves credit card slips into zip loc bags or throws bills into one file cabinet drawer labeled 2012 or stuffs Christmas decorations in black garbage bags.

Well, tomorrow is for resolutions, but today, socks or not, I'm going to the movies.