So.

About my arm.

The pain disappeared eventually in spite of the physical nature of
my job but returned after a couple of days of pain-free functioning.

I actually got in a week or so at work before I started feeling that old feeling,
and I don't mean love.
(Remember that great scene in Radioland Murder where Rosemary
Clooney sings 'That Old Feeling'? If I could sing like that, you'd have
to pay me to shut up.)

I called my doctor's office on Thursday but couldn't get in to see the P.A.
until this coming Monday. It's scandalous. I've never had to wait so long
to get in. The voice on the phone explained that I could get in
sooner if I didn't have Blue Cross. Huh?

Yeah. That's not a typo.

The voice went on to say that they have a doctor in their practice that
doesn't take Blue Cross or PhP patients: "Well, what I mean is, they
won't work with her."

Excuse me? If you had a medical office with numerous doctors, P.A.'s, and nurses,
wouldn't you make sure that the big third-party payors approved them?!
Especially when those insurance companies comprise the bulk of your practice?
Why would you bother to hire a doctor that only rich uninsured people
could afford?
And since there is no such animal as a rich but uninsured person,
who in the hell do you expect such a doctor to treat? And then bill afterward?
It makes no sense to me.

Anyway, I'm off work until Monday afternoon, resting my right arm.
Mostly I've been tottering around the house, clutching the offending member
to my side and self-medicating.

And wincing. I'm a good wincer.
I don't always say much about how much pain I'm in.

It takes more talent to seem as if you're trying to 'carry on', stiff upper lip and all.

So, you reach for your coffee mug (or Vicodin bottle or whatever) and freeze mid-motion,
with perhaps a small yip like puppies do when they're spanked on the butt with
a newspaper for again mistaking the carpet for the newspaper at the door- and scrunch
your face, remembering to include the all-important eye-squinting.
Done correctly, this will melt the hardest heart and result in someone handing
you your coffee (or drugs or whatever). Trust me on this--I've been
perfecting this technique for a long time.

The Wince.

Just one more of my many talents.

Semi-Out of Commission

I'm sorry to be such a non-entity around the blogosphere lately.
My summer has gotten frantic, and to top it all off,
I've injured my right arm.
Forearm, to be exact.

Hold out your forearm, palm facing down.
Now, try to twist it, pinkie first, up, thumb down.
Does it hurt?
Of course not. If you run out of range, your
forearm just stops moving.
But mine is very tender, nay, inflamed and
it sends burning pain shooting down from the base
of my little finger to my elbow.
When I try to turn it palm side up, it won't go far without
hurting either.

Harumph! (As an old friend of mine would say).
If I'm very careful to keep my wrist in neutral, it doesn't hurt
and I can type. Otherwise, I'm sunk.

Motrin 800's are my new best friends.

We have a family cookout in Ohio scheduled for tomorrow, which means
a three-hour drive there, and a three-hour drive back.
In two cars because there are so many of us. I may not be driving much.
And of course the canoe trip on Sunday is out for this not-very-outdoorsy-anyway one.

But it also means I probably won't be able to do anything useful around the house
that afternoon either. Maybe that'd be a good time to get something baked,
which hasn't happened around here in donkeys' years.
But I'm right-handed. Sigh.
I'll keep you posted.

Double harumph!

A Cautionary Tale by Jane

The Western Shore, a Cautionary Tale
by Jane



Once upon a time, there was a man who discovered a beautiful beach.

He decided to walk along the shore and enjoy nature's beauty.
He removed his shoes, the better to traverse the sandy water's edge.

And at first, all went well. The soft sand felt warm on his toes.

Which way shall I go? he wondered. Finally he struck a northerly path.

He noticed many others happily playing on the shore.

The waves lap...lap...lapped on the sand.

It was lovely and peaceful.




The man walked far. The sun lowered on the horizon.

He decided it was time to retrace his steps.
He paused to take one last look over the vast expanse of water,
and then...

and then...

he heard a faint sucking noise.

He tried to turn and flee from the noise, but it held him in
its grip, paralyzing his efforts...

Frantic, he looked down...

down...

down...

down to his feet.

But they were gone!!

No matter how he struggled, how valiantly he fought, he could not get free
of the warm and sucking sand.

Soon his right foot disappeared from sight.

And the man was left with just his left foot. (And a stump.)

Being a positive person he reckoned, This is not too bad. I can always hop.


But even as these thoughts were being thought, The Cannibal Sands
claimed his right foot as well.


And that's the story of the man they call Stumpy.

And the tide goes relentlessly on, seeking new victims.

Please share this story as a warning to others.

You never know who might be next.

The Summer of Our Content

I'm writing this from the Library Lounge in the Renaissance Syracuse Hotel
in New York.

How did you happen to be there, you ask as you scratch your head.
You live in Michigan, Happyville to be precise. How came you to be so far from
hearth and home?

I had the great good fortune to fall in love with, and subsequently marry a man whose career
involves a certain amount of travel during the warmer months. This is one of those trips. And I was invited along. It meant six days and five nights of peace and escapism.

I'm big on escapism. And so here I am in New York.

I am surrounded by opulence of a sort, if you're impressed by over-sized club chairs
that gather you in their soft leatheriness and whisper relaxing nothings in your ear; and plush earth-toned carpet lined with bookshelves. Who wouldn't want to write in this place?

One other patron slaving away on a laptop--otherwise, it's just me and a discreetly hovering
bartender, watching but not watching, in case I should suddenly find my muse
dried up and in need of that next vodka and cranberry.

No household tasks, no children, no worries, no cares,
NO TELEPHONE.

As a teenaged American girl, our rotary dial phone was practically an
appendage. I had that thing sticking up against the side of my head constantly.
I'm not sure why or when it changed, but I despise the thing now.
I cannot stand talking on the phone. What a time-waster. I could be perfecting my Solitaire skills or winning copious amounts of make-belive cash in online Jeopardy, where my every answer is applauded by a studio audience.

I'd much rather e-mail or drive the distance it takes to have a conversation in person.
Of course, the phone, especially the cell type, is very, very practical and useful.
But...once I'm at home for the evening, I tend to guard my time jealously, and I
hate to share it with some little appliance, as if it's the boss of me or something.

At their advanced ages, my kids still fly toward the land line when it shrills, but I
refuse to be its slave. When I keep sitting and let it just ring repeatedly, they look at
me as if I've taken one too many punches to the head.

I guess I've learned that short of a national emergency in which President Obama
desperately needs my unique and skewed point of view on the nation's current problems
(one of my current fantasies, btw) it'll keep.

We have an answering machine, after all.
I fully doubt that any incoming call could be that important that it couldn't keep until
morning, or whenever I feel like checking the voice mail.

This, however, is a long way away from Syracuse. We arrived Wednesday and will
be leaving on Sunday, breaking our journey in Pennsylvania somewhere.

But until then, I have almost every day free to...well, do anything I please.
True, I have no transportation, but I am a resourceful person and don't need wheels
to amuse myself. There's a great little bistro within even my walking distance for
sustenance that I frequent so my nourishment is taken care of.
What else could any girl want?

Just give me free WiFi and I'm happy as a clam.

When's the last time you had several hours to surf, research, or just play on
your computer, with no distractions to pull you away?
See, to me that is heaven. That may not hold true for you. (If not, you're strange and I
don't understand you.)

And reading.

Accompanying me on this trip are many magazines, books, and
reams and reams of paper on which I printed out all those things that I didn't have time
to investigate further in my real world. This is vastly different from JaneWorld,
in which investigating further is a high priority and must be pursued right then and there.
In JaneWorld, reading rates bigger than baseball, the Pope's fractured wrist, and the disposition
of Michael Jackson's will.

(I see I'm terribly off-task, as they say of first-graders. Back to the subject, my girl.)

So I'm here in Syracuse. What I want to post about, however, is

How I Spent This July Fourth Holiday, by Jane.

My husband and I managed to eke out several days to travel to my favorite place
in the state of Michigan: the Leelanau Peninsula.
It borders Little Traverse Bay and is lush, hilly vineyard country.
We had been there last year over the Fourth, and were lucky enough to score


a room at a wonderful bed and breakfast this year that was so lovely that I don't know
how it's managed to escape attention of the Mongol hordes, but I fervently
hope it continues flying under the radar so we can keep it as our own secret.

I am posting a few pictures (I took millions over the weekend) but will not
tell you the name of the inn for obvious national security reasons. If you can recognize
the place by the photographs, you truly deserve to know about this nirvana,
and I will gladly alternate weekends with you.

But only if you enjoy many flower beds planted in the English cottage-style.
I couldn't do justice to the beautiful pinks and purples with my poor little Canon
and slowly emerging camera skills.
And if you don't like strange innkeepers depositing creative, fresh, and delicious hot breakfasts
outside your door, this place is not for you.

The picture at the beginning of this post is the view from the front lawn of the inn.
You can see Little Traverse Bay peeking through the trees at you. Very enticing.

We spent our few days lazily winding through the Leelanau area, up hill and down
dale, drinking in the beauty of the vineyards and orchards and hamlets
full of --dare I say it lest it sound too vapid?-- local charm.
Friendly people abound who are always glad to steer you toward the best little restaurants
(and ice cream places--Moomers, anyone?).

And of course we were in Traverse City for the Fourth. We shopped, ate, shopped, drank,
and ate some more before it was time to gather on the Bay for the spectacular
fireworks display. I have developed a serious addiction to The Cherry Republic's Boom Chugga
Lugga Cherry Cola. It's only distributed locally which is the pits (sorry) so I hauled
some of this nectar home with me. If you ever get the opportunity to get your hot little
hands on a bottle of this stuff, hang on with all your might and DO NOT SHARE.
You'll thank me later.

Not to change the subject but...

Did you know that some point-and-shoot cameras have a 'fireworks' setting?

Neither did I.

But it didn't stop me from clicking furiously away at the bursts of fire gleaming over the water.


No, that's not my husband. He insists I tell you that. Marty has hair.
We got very fond of this guy, though, and a good thing, too, since he appears in
every bloody shot I took that night.

I am such a doofus.

(Disclaimer: If the aforewritten seems a little manic, please excuse. I am high on escapism and much, much Mountain Dew.)

Here I am!

Gone but not forgotten, yes?

I have been weathering several momentous events, some
of which I will cover later, some I won't.

And along the way I took several days off to go Up North
with my Sweet Baboo.
(Do you remember in the Peanuts gang that
Sally, Charlie Brown's little sister, was in love
with Linus? That was her endearing term for him.
I like it because it's affectionate and yet makes him
look appropriately ridiculous.)

I wanted you to know, however, that in spite of the earth-shattering
happenings that have, er, happened lately, I am
committed to keep writing to all of you (best friend Carmen and
all you crickets chirping away) and breaking into new frontiers
of baking, cooking, and kibbutzing.

Just give me a day to catch up on the mountain of laundry
that is as tall as I am and get back into the groove of work and
cooking, and I will do my utmost to post blogworthy, scintillating
work. And play.

"Let me entertain you, and we'll have a real good time."
(But not until later in the week.)