A very very fine House

Our house is a very, very fine house
With many dogs in the yard
Life used to be so hard
Now everything is easy
'Cause of you

-with a nod to CSN and a minor change in feline to canine lyrics line 2


We attended Old Westbury Gardens Dog Days on Sunday, April 18, 2010. Two weekends a year, the grounds are open to leashed dogs and their owners unleashed or leashed. Since Saturday was chilly, raw at times, with grass still wet from morning showers, Sunday brought the big turnout. Dogs of all breeds, and temperaments, lazed, leaped, marched, rolled, sniffed all through the house grounds., some held close, some running ahead, creating a temporary elite dog park.

Some history-
The construction of Westbury house was started in 1904 and was ready for its family, the Phipps, in March 1907. http://www.oldwestburygardens.org/
Old Westbury Gardens, listed on the National Register of Historic Places, is the former home of John S. Phipps, his wife, Margarita Grace Phipps and their four children. Completed in 1906 by the English designer, George A. Crawley, the magnificent Charles II-style mansion is nestled amid 200 acres of formal gardens, landscaped grounds, woodlands, ponds and lakes. Westbury House is furnished with fine English antiques and decorative arts from the more than fifty years of the family's residence.

Liam loved the thatched cottage, the view of the main house the reflective West Pond. He was mistaken for a lab puppy several times by other dog owners, which caused us to puff with pride announcing that he is 4 dogs in one. Liam lived up to this blog's name by licking and leaping on all who appeared interested in him. He met Maggie and Sadie; he seems to go for the big girls, but also was cordial and sniffy to his smaller dog strollers. He pawed his respects at the Phipps doggie family graveyard, wagging by each headstone, noting from the headstone inscriptions that many had lived long cherished lives

One of our LiamLicks blog members and fellow SSA retiree has an online collection of photos that are vivid, professional, and indicative of all the Old Westbury Gardens has to offer and shows its best qualities as well as his incomparable talents. See link following.
http://www.pbase.com/jimrob/oldwest
a very very fine exhibit.

Another house on our minds this week is Arlington. That would be the little house built to honor George Washington, inhabited by Robert E. Lee and then dedicated as a National Cemetery.
All this took many years.

Arlington House another very fine house

On a Virginia hillside rising above the Potomac River and overlooking Washington, D.C., stands Arlington House. The 19th-century mansion seems out of place amid the more than 250,000 military grave sites that stretch out around it. Yet, when construction began in 1802, the estate was not intended to be a national cemetery. It started as a memorial to George Washington and down the line ended up as the residence of Confederate general Robert.E. Lee. and his wife, a descendant of Martha Washington.

http://www.arlingtoncemetery.org/historical_information/arlington_house.html

Now Arlington has one of the larger Columbariums for cremated remains in the country. Any honorably discharged veteran is eligible for inurnment (meaning not in ground burial) if she or he served on active duty at some point in her/his career. So my father is the vet and my mother gets to join him. see Columbarium courtyard next

On Friday April 23, 2010, my mother, Ruth McNiff, will join Charles McNiff in their niche-together again.

Amanda from Arlington (that is how she announced herself in the message on our machine), informed us that Ruth arrived at Arlington, Thursday, April 15, 2010. and that her remains will be placed in the niche on Friday, April 23, 2010. So her name will join his on the plaque tomorrow

We invite you to join us in a toast this Friday for Ruth's journey's end, wherever you are, with whatever you drink, virtual or real, whatever time!

As my dad, would say, "Happy Hour is in session, what is your pleasure?"

"Death leaves a heartache, no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal"

-from a headstone in Ireland - (from a dear friend's sympathy card)

Granddogger Liam dedicates his first grass roll over of the season to his grandparents Ruth and Charlie at rest in Arlington.

here we go on back other side, where is my head? done, aah

Woof, Woof

Pharmacy Phrenzy

Liam has a wiffle ball that came over the fence into our yard

The night we arrived home from Tampa, we stopped at CVS to pick up my prescription. I had called in this prescription before I left confident that it would be waiting here for me. I have spoken about it in my prior blog story "Tested in Tampa." My drug is klonopin and is my miracle drug calming my restless leg, and inducing sleep eventually. I had some remaining but our Tampa visit had upped my klonopin ingestion and brought me down to a scary pill total. Facing no sleep, a restless leg after our life altering trip was not what I needed on my agenda. I had prepared for this eventuality. No last minute stuff for me. I approached the high countered pharmacy (soon they might be bullet proofed like banks) and asked for my prescription. By the fumbling going on, I soon realized that it was not under McNiff, or Carol or in the "in tray" pile. I have often observed or possibly imagined an elitist attitude in the pharmacy. Needless remarks like "Do you know you have no refills on this one?" when initially submitting a prescription. No, I didn't. Thanks, let me now worry for the month.
Or, "You have waited too long, this prescription form is too old, it must be submitted timely to be filled." Well, I did come in timely and you said it was too soon. A pharmaceutical smirk follows with an insincere "Sorry."
Or, "Are you sure you still want this?" Well, why would I be here?
Or "Sorry, we only have a few, can you come back?" Sure, I cannot wait to come back.

This night, March 24, night of the day of my mother's death, I am here in CVS, but my refilled prescription is not. Two persons behind the counter are explaining that my miracle drug needs an entirely new written prescription. They cannot call for me. "Okay, but I called," I say. "They should have told you the rule. This is a controlled substance and no phone call either way is acceptable.
Then I lose it. "What am I supposed to do? What if I cannot sleep? Why didn't the doctor's office call me?" (a question very unfair I know). I am building up with the steam of a lunatic sleep deprived person. I have seen folks fall to pieces at the pharmacist, cry, sob. try to climb over the counter and choke the pharmacist. I am fast on the way to being one of those demented individuals.
Paul pulls me away. He tells me firmly " Stop, there is nothing that can be done tonight."
We leave. I do not dare turn. I imagine victorious grins, drug supply in the pharmacy intact.

The next day, I resolve it, return with my written prescription, and thank goodness, the team from the night before is off duty. Whew. I hope by the time I see them again, they will have no memory of our encounter from the night before.
I continue to have all sorts of crazy minor maladies. My head never clears from the flight, my ears hurt for days, my impaired hearing is even more so.
I start to feel very anxious if I am not near a bathroom.
After 2 weeks of ignoring my symptoms and taking Advil I wake up last Wednesday and I know that no amount of cranberry juice cranberryjuice.com/ will fix me now. Gallons would be needed and I might drown. I know what is wrong and here is the link womenshealth.about.com/cs/bladderhealth/a/UTI.htm
I know it, I have self diagnosed. I must get the proper drugs for a cure.
The pain of sitting, walking, of just being, is suddenly so excruciating that I wonder how I will drive Sassy to StatMed (like a First Med).

I do drive; I can scream out aloud in the car. I park in King Kullen parking lot across the street from StatMed not noticing there are spots right in front. This causes a 5-minute delay getting across Jericho; zooming cars, no chance of running between them, pain increasing exponentially. I open the StatMed door, no one is waiting. Questions. I answer- "yes, I have been here, yes, I have the same coverage," yes, yes, let me in!!!

I am deposited in a waiting room, give my sample in the bathroom, confirms my illness, doctor comes in. I am reading USA Today standing. I explain, I cannot sit and reading is a distraction. Do not want her to think, this is casual or bearable at all. She sends me out with a sympathetic touch on the shoulder, writes the prescription. Then the two receptionists, a trainee and mentor, explore my record to see what my co pay is. As a retired manager, I recognize a mentoring situation and as a promoter of teamwork, I admire their shared mission, except not now when I need to get pain pills in me. Minutes are going by, and I am minutes away from screaming in pain in the waiting room, not good for business. Mentor/trainee say in unison "We are trying to find your co pay." I say "Take my credit card, my car, my ring, I will leave all with you as collateral, I need to go to CVS now. "No, we almost have it-their thrill in the hunt has totally obscured me as a client/patient/. "Almost," trainee says. "Almost," mentor chimes in, they get it-I throw the money, rush out, cross Jericho as if I am a contestant on the "Amazing Race" get in Sassy and go. Arrive at CVS, run down the aisle. Oh no, my team from March 24 is on duty! Will they exact revenge? I announce, "I need this now, please." I add, I am sorry for my behavior two weeks ago, my Mother had died that day and I was ragged. Now I have this ailment and I might soon act much worse than I did then." The two women are silent, they confer, check the prescription-cipro antibiotic and pheno for pain, they know what these drugs are for and that I am desperate in my need of relief. They work as a team, get it done. Two bottles. They tell me "Your reaction 2 weeks ago was mild. People scale the counter. We get death threats."

I race back down the aisle, jump into Sassy, I take the required pills. Then read. Oh no, the pain ones MUST be taken with food. I know this instruction to be serious and not observing it results in a hole in one's stomach. Been there. I reenter CVS, grab a bag of chips, only one person on line, No, no. It is a coupon lady. I have seen such folks in the supermarket, rarely in CVS. The drugstore cart is bulging with her items many tumbling out; drugstore carts are tiny-not compatible with coupons. Her pile of coupons is high and she has 8x10 Internet ones also. I could rip open the bag of chips and eat them. Her coupons do not scan, manager is called. I run out, dropping the chips on the way. How much time do I have before the pheno pills eat away my stomach lining. Is it doing it now? I am in a pheno phrenzy. Back in Sassy, drive back to King Kullen, get rice chips, 10 items or less line, today honest people there- no 20 itemers. Start eating. I know that the pain pills kick in within 25 minutes. I drive to the gym. Gym? you ask. I cannot go home, our housekeeper is there, I do not want her to see me in this weakened condition. At the gym, people grunt, most are plugged into IPods singing off key, weights are crashing, bikes whirring, feet pounding treadmills, sports fans cheering with the 6 TVs- all noises are deemed to be exercise related therefore appropriate.
I am in the best place in which to recover under cover.
Within half hour, I am back to my game face.
The course of treatment is one week. I am done.

How did I get this? Most folks might have some ideas, but I actually know exactly without a doubt what has happened. Liam. He sleeps in the den at my feet, curled up on his pillow. I will never disturb him once he is there. Any time I feel the need to go to the bathroom during the night and believe me there are many, I just ignore it. I got sick because I adhered strictly to the idiomatic proverb
"Let sleeping dogs lie"

I should have followed another popular statement"When you gotta go, you gotta go"

woof, woof

Liam liking it outside "come in, Liam" okay, here I come

A Bad and Good Friday

Liam enjoying the last licks of my good Friday latte

When my father died in April 1997, I was there in Sun City Center, Fl with my mother Ruth and husband Paul. Paul and I had arrived Monday April 28, my father, Charlie, passed away on Wednesday, April 30th.. Although he was gone, the three of us felt his spirit was around for a bit more. Why? There were signs of Charlie. My Mom , Paul and I were sitting on the floor in the den, searching for his military service papers. Both of my parents were obsessively neat, labeling, alpabetically organized people. To find nothing under "M" in their steel document box was puzzling. We could only assume he had them out recently, maybe reminiscing or preparing. He had been sick for about 6 months and might have been getting his papers in order. My mother, exasperated, exclaimed "Charlie, where are the military service papers? We need these to get you into Arlington!"

Thwack, on the head, comes down an envelope, and yes, inside were his papers. And he sent them at Ruth, she having done the asking.

Later, I went to their clubhouse gym, a little room of donated equipment that serves its purpose during my visits, keeping me exercised. As I walked into the room, I heard a familiar song "As Time Goes By" from the movie "Casablanca." This would be my Dad's favorite all time song, one I have heard sung from the shower in our one bathroom apt while growing up, many many many times. I had never heard a soundtrack in this gym. I asked the staff member on duty, why there was music tonight. She said " Oh, we just decided to play a tape tonight." Charlie-there he is again. You get the idea-he is hanging around.

But no sign from Ruth in the first days after her death on March 24, 2010.

That changed, April 2, 2010, Good Friday.
I subscribe to the Merriam-Webster, Word of the Day. Usually they are words rarely used and hard to retain. Most recent: irrupt, sward, pullulate, esemplastic. On Good Friday, the word is ruthless. I felt a jolt.

Merriam-Webster’s
Word of the Day

April 2

ruthless

\ROOTH-lus\

Did you know?

"Ruthless" can be defined as "without ruth" or "having no ruth."
So what, then, is ruth?
The noun "ruth," which is now considerably less common than "ruthless," means "compassion for the misery of another," "sorrow for one's own faults," or "remorse."
And, just as it is possible for one to be without ruth, it is also possible to be full of ruth. The antonym of "ruthless" is "ruthful," meaning "full of ruth" or "tender."

"Ruthful" can also mean "full of sorrow" or "causing sorrow." "Ruth" can be traced back to the Middle English noun "ruthe," itself from "ruen," meaning "to rue" or "to feel regret, remorse, or sorrow."

I decide this is a sign from my mother, she is telling me she is okay, she is on her way. From the number of emails and texts I am receiving (having sent "The Word" to hundreds) legions of folks agree that Ruthless is telling me something.

I am not a churchgoer, I would check Catholic on a questionnaire, however I usually am only there for funerals. Today I am without Ruth-ruthless and I do something non-routine. On my trip back from the health club, up New Hyde Park Road, destination Starbucks latte -table waiting, I make a detour-I turn into Notre Dame Catholic Church. There are many spots. I know that the time period 12-3 are the Christ on the Cross sacred hours; it is 2:40Pm, I figure I have a small window in which to connect with my Mom, sit quietly, feel Ruthful.
I am wrong.
No, I do not have any time. Within minutes people start appearing. I am at the end of the pew and I am asked to move in. No, I do not do the movie theater stand up and let the newcomers slide in, I shove over, one body space at a time. One of the dutiful newcomer worshippers, shoots the kneeler directly into my shin. Thanks for that. It does not stop. A miracle. multitudes are arriving. A deluge of people. The realization of my entrapment permeates my body in a physical way. My skin hurts, my right eye is twitching, I have a lump in my throat, holding back the dam of gulping sobs trying to burst through. All I wanted was to be alone with my mother. I do not want to recite, stand, kneel, chant, sing, answer, question. I am at the traditional Good Friday service all consistent Catholics know about and here I am stuck so far in the row that there will be no escape that is socially, morally and religiously acceptable.
I am feeling, Ruthful-full of regret. Why am I not in Starbucks? Why did I not just keep going and get my latte?

The congregants are squishing in the pews with help from volunteer ushers, one of whom seems fixated on me with a ruthless smug gaze. "You," she points. "Are you talking to me?" I reply in my best Robert DeNiro imitation. "Yes, you with the lime green bag." Without a glance to either side, I know it is me. I name her Cruella in my head. "Put your bag on the floor." Now people are looking at me and my lime green bag. I turn to the woman on my right for comfort and with anger "Does she work here?", my voice is tremulous. All my maturity and coping skills that shone through my mother's death dealings are now flying out the stained glass windows. I might even cry, because of Cruella the usher on a mission to rid the pew of lime green bags. Cruella commands "Put it down on the floor." "It is okay dear, she is fierce about packing a pew." says my pew mate to the right. I turn to my left pew mate. "My mother just died, and now my bag has been ostracized. this is why I do not come to church." As I am choking out these words, I feel "without Ruth" My mother would never have let this Cruella get away with such rudeness. My pew mate counsels me in an ecclesiastical tone "HE is testing you; here hide your bag next to mine. I now notice that all the women have their bags next to them on the bench. Only my lime green bag has been banished to hell beneath the kneeler.

The service begins. We are halfway through the telling of the Last Supper, a story I like, when the money collection baskets come out.
I hope, no, I pray that Cruella will still be on her mission to seek out and banish all green handbags. No, she is back with a new assignment, passing the money basket- a true multitasker.
Have to give a donation- a sort of bribe for my green bag. People have their checkbooks out. Are they kidding? Can't they write at home?
I reach for a dollar, carefully shielding big lime from Cruella's piercing gaze,
A dollar, there it goes in. Damn, the woman next to me gives nothing. She has no handbag. I suppose having no handbag excuses one from a donation. Maybe I should have just shaken the basket, pretending to have contributed.

The kids in the row in front of me have been given dollars by their moms to drop in the basket. They each hide the dollars in their pockets until the basket is safely through the row, then dance with joy, dollars unfurled , they have kept their money.
I secretly rejoice with them, a victory over Cruella, over all the attendees, over the entire Notre Dame parish.

There is movement. People are heading up front. Now is my chance. I go with them, maybe some wine will be offered. No, must kiss the cross, part of the ritual. I do and keep walking to the exit. I am out.

So, Ruth/ruthless, Mom, mother, I am sure you gave me a sign. I experienced every meaning of the WORD of the Day. So, what then is Ruth? A person who is as complex, many layered and shaded, as interesting, as varied, as seemingly contradictory, as unexpected, as welcome, as the many meanings of the words ruth/ruthless.

Thanks Mom for a good Friday. It really was not bad at all. I got my story.

Liam licks his latte, woof, woof

Tested In Tampa

"Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, and I say it's all right
Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter
Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun and I say it's all right"

We had plans to visit my mother, Ruth, who had been living in Tampa for the past thirteen years. She was not feeling well and we were going down to check on her. So, we did not classify it as a pleasure trip. I booked through Expedia and just bypassed all their tempting offers for discounts to the area attractions.
Our travel date was March 20, coincidentally the first day of spring. After this brutal winter it seemed appropriate to start out that day,
Paul arrived home the Thursday before our trip, midday. He said he was not feeling well. I immediately asked if he had a fever. Paul does not consider anyone sick unless one can produce a fever. He answered. No "my legs are heavy, I could barely drive." I declared"no fever, not sick." He took to his bed with Liam.
They both rose later that evening for our beloved reality show "Survivor." I thought watching the harshness of the challenges would inspire Paul to pull himself together. Nope. He woke Friday, called in sick and announced "you have to go by yourself."
What!, go by myself. This was a trip chock full of meetings with staff, caregivers, accounting, lawyers , doctors, management, housekeeping and future plans with Ruth. Oh No! "What is wrong with you?" " I am having an anxiety attack. Take one of your friends." Oh hello. Isn't that what a terrorist does? Just give his/her ticket to a friend and pretend to be a U.S. citizen? Too late. Drugs needed. There are drugs for cruises, there must drugs for planes.
We got the miracle flying drug, xanax, after an emergency doctor visit. A medicated hubby is a fine companion. Why didn't I think of this 27 years ago? Paul did not even mind the 2 hour delay or that I had a window seat or that there were no snacks or that I was sharing the NY Times over him with a nice man in the aisle seat-the seat Paul coveted. I could not wait to tell Ruth, she would love this story.

We arrived at the hotel via rental car about 8:30. The online ads for our hotel boasted of an on site restaurant. When we asked about it we were sent to an on site restaurant in the broadest sense-on the same block. It was charming, named Central Park, with a mural drawn on the wall by its owner, a New Yorker, we got in just before closing at 9. Obviously not a true NY restaurant. Paul had yummy pork chops Again my mom would love this story and the pork chop photo, cannot wait to show her. She might not like the small rental car though.
We ate and vowed to make it our daily nite spot.

Tampa Night March 20, 2010

Newly medicated Paul was ready for bed. Bed! My night was just beginning. I have restless leg syndrome, sleep apnea, insomnia-all these maladies are only enhanced by an unfamiliar hotel room. A sleepy Paul asked which side of the bed I wanted. Which side of the bed? I need my own room. I need two floors. I need a kitchen, a second bathroom, I need Liam. Liam and I sleep together. He has the bottom I have the top of the couch in the den in NHP, Then midway through the night he joins Paul upstairs in the bed on what was once "my side"
My friend Lynne describes my experience that first night by sharing how she feels:

You know that I can fully appreciate the sleep situation you are dealing with (besides everything else). When my husband and I go away somewhere and share a room, it is not an easy night. As you know, I have so much trouble falling asleep on any night. Some nights I just convince myself to stay up and wait until morning. I usually can get some sleep but it is not fun.

Then if I am in same room as him, it is nearly impossible. I cannot lay there and listen to snoring. My body reacts as if it is being forced to listen to jazz (hope you laugh at that one). And then the more I try to relax and fall asleep, the more impossible it becomes.

And then I get nervous since I am not in familiar surroundings. he does not care; he is asleep. But I am faced with being confined in a small room, no ability to wander. or sit curled up in the den watching TV, playing with dogs, etc. All of the things that take my mind off of the fact that I am awake and the world is sleeping. And I too must be quiet. In my own house, I can wander to another room, get a snack, flush toilet, etc. and he probably will not hear. Hotel rooms do not give you any room to "escape", turn the lights on, and just pretend it is morning.

Paul announces. Lights out. The panic sets in. He sleeps in a position that is the opposite of his day personality. Totally open, on his back armed stretched wide. It is a queen size bed , but no other person could fit. Liam could curl up somewhere, not me. But we have a room with two Queen size beds, so I am on the other.

Then the snoring starts, I have no earplugs with me. I put toilet paper in my ears, Kleenex too bulky. I read. I take- klonopin-my restless leg drug. How many are fatal? I text. I read. I have 5 books with me. I look at Facebook on my bb, email, media, photos anything on my bb. Somehow I fall asleep.

Day, Sunday, March 21.
Arrive at University Village Nursing home.
We go in to visit Ruth, room 154. I expect a chat, a possible drive to the beach, some talk of the future, some laughs about our Tampa adventures. I walk pass a group of folks in wheelchairs slumped against the wall, going right to her room. "Your Mom is out front, didn't you see her?" Not my mother, not one of those sad dependent wheelchair people! I come back out, the nurse ( my 2 month phone friend) brings me to my Mom. I do not recognize her, then I see. It is a new version of Ruth.
She does recognize me, maybe. I do not know. I think she knows me. maybe. She pleads "help me"
There will be no drive to the beach, no shared stories, no back and forth exchanges. This is not a pleasure trip in the truest sense.

Night, Sunday, March 21.
I now have earplugs, hot pink squidgy ones. I have wine. I have drugs. I have Amazing Race. I have my defense against the medicated snorer.
We have discovered that our cutesy NY restaurant is only open one night per week, on Saturday, and that day is now over and done for our stay here. We have no nighttime place. The on site restaurant is their Continental breakfast nook misleading, oh yeah.

We have a fridge and microwave. We buy food. I eat on the desk, Paul in his bed. after all it is his bed.

Day, Monday, March 22
Arrive at University Village Nursing Home. Today is worse. She only recognizes Liam's photo, but the smile that little dog brings was the last sign of any recognition. The staff confides that her decline since our arrival has been precipitous and observed by all. Ruth is not on machines or drips or anything. She is just leaving us.

Night, Monday, March 22
Same procedure. But this night we have no TV shows we agree on watching. Thanks goodness for Anderson Cooper. I now have found that wine, klonopin, earplugs, a late shower, my bb next to me get me to sleep around 3AM. The medicated hubby sleeps deeply. I try not to hate him.

Day, Tuesday, March 23
I talked to my Mom for a long time. I tell her what has been happening with everyone, relay their hellos, their good wishes, I rival Jay Leno in doing a good monologue. I then tell her "Time to go, join Charlie at a sunny beach." The staff asks "Did you tell her to go?" I say "yes"


Night, Tuesday, March 23 Our last night in Tampa
an ominous feeling settles in. I take a photo of the night Tampa oaks with moss Texting on bb with friends. wine, restless leg, shower, Klonopin, is there a limit as to how long a person can stay awake? Will morning ever come? Do I want it to come?
Wednesday, is our last day and something is happening all night and early morning. Nothing, nothing has let sleep come. I am struggling to sleep with all my power, but it is elusive. Lynne also has a bad feeling.

Day, Wednesday, March 24, 2010.
Early morning we get a call from the Nursing home. "your Mom is gone."

My Mom, Ruth McNiff, was an avid reader of LiamLicks. She only wanted a hard copy, she refused to make the leap to the Internet. so I mailed one each week. All the LiamLicks were stacked in her apt. Most recent ones unopened-guess that is when the trouble began. On her desk was Liam's puppy photo.
She said his spirit and look of Independence made her smile every day. She had said "he is his own person" This is the pic that she loved. She had folded it to fit it into her favorite silver frame. I think I had once resided in that same frame, but Liam was the one!

You were your own person, Mom. Rest In Peace.

Woof, Woof
Liam unfolded from Mom's frame in photo next now free, you may notice the lines she has drawn to make sure she got him in the the frame just right. So like her to be so precise.

Some Wicked views on musicals

Liam is ready for St. Paddy's Day-green eyes also

I do not like musicals. That would be plays as well as musical movies, musical TV shows. I avoid all like the plague unless they are about the plague as was Spamalot. How can one not love a play with lines like:
dead Collector-Bring out your dead
not dead body -I'm not dead
dead collector -Well, he will be very soon, he's very ill
not dead -I'm getting better
dead collector -you're not, you'll be stone dead in a moment.
not dead -I don't want to go on the cart. I feel fine
dead collector whacks the body with a club.
Silence.

MY type of musical. Wicked.

So I guess you can see I will not be running to see "South Pacific." I think it all started with the musical, "The Music Man." A group of folks marching down the street singing "76 Trombones." Why? Why would they all do that? Why would they think it is fun?

Then "Oklahoma." Any time some one says Oh, I feel they will continue and extend the sound into
OOOOOOOk lahoma.

4th of July is my least favorite holiday. An all day musical. Street fairs -same thing. Ugh-always someone on a rickety stage performing.

So when a newbie asked me to see the play I was afraid.
First, what is a newbie?
A newbie in my world is a person hired in Social Security in my unit or surrounding units within this century. I love the newbies. I rarely can say "No" to a newbie. So I said "yes."

I must confess though, the story of the Wizard of Oz is a favorite of mine. There is some really wicked stuff in that story. And this play Wicked took part of that and twisted it up.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wicked_%28musical%29

I bought the CD and while listening studied the story online-. It's complicated. But there are several positives- the Wicked witch is green. woo hoo. My favorite color.
I love witches, I am always a witch on Halloween-my Celtic background.
I am nuts for the Emerald City, all that green, so festive, so shimmering.
So I am going.

March 7, the day of Wicked, is an unexpectedly warm March day. I will be joining several newbies and a newbie Mom.

I take the LIRR to Penn and start my walk. This time the trickster street Broadway is my friend, leading me to my 3 destinations.
A- Starbux ( I am early)
B- the play at the Gershwin theater
C-Ellen's Stardust Diner. You will see my route in green (in honor of Wicked) and A, B and C representing my stops. with my head popping up on Broadway.

In Starbux, the line is huge. Everyone using S/B as a staging area pre-play. When we place our order, the server asks our name. For some reason I stutter and he repeats "name please"
I know the answer, I yell "Carol." I join the large group waiting at the drink dispatch area. Drinks are called, tall skinny vanilla, venti iced coffee, grande soy latte and so on. The group becomes smaller and I remain. Finally, no one else. "Kara" the barrister calls out. I look around, no one moves in. Again "Kara, grande non-fat latte" That's me, I proclaim. In a moment, I become Kara. Did I steal the real Kara's drink? No one comes forward to fight me for it. I feel wicked.
Then the lines from the CD play in my head

Are people born Wicked?
Or do they have Wickedness thrust upon them?
After all, she had a father.
She had a mother, as many do......

Yes, It is thrust upon a person! As simple as a stolen latte. As simple becoming Kara. Wickedness is thrust upon us! Poor Wicked Witch. I understand. I feel drawn to the theater. Must be with other wickeds. I am costumed in Wicked witch green and black, and now by the theft of a latte I am wicked on the inside- my wickedness is complete. I am ready for the play.
I walk up the street to meet the newbies while humming the refrain from Wicked:

"Dancing Through Life
Swaying and Sweeping
And always keeping cool
Life is Fraught less
When you are thoughtless............"

Kara (formerly Carol) loves Wicked, loves our dinner at the Stardust Diner loves Broadway. Kara is so "deeply shallow" (one of my favorite phrases from Wicked)

FlashForward.
It is 4 days later, I still love the musical Wicked. In Wicked, The Green witch, Elphaba, faked her death. Death by melting,followed by a green poof of smoke.

Only melting here at home is the snow. No need to fake melting, I am now proudly wicked.

Speaking of melting, Liam explores the new partially grassy yard Unlike me, he has not seen any green in over a month. But the wearing of the green is coming up and we wish you
good health, good times, good friends

be green and on St, Paddy's Day!
woof, woof