Bye Bye Boobies

Today is a big day in my life.  I mean REALLY big.  Today, I am fulfilling a promise that long ago, I made to myself.  Today, I'm having breast reduction surgery.  Plain and simple.  A mammoplasty of major proportions.
A year ago I started to do battle with my insurance company. The same one that turned me down for a varicose vein repair. The same one that I know to have approved more "not medically necessary" procedures for clients I have dealt with, than I could possibly count.  When it came my turn, I got refused because I did not have sufficient evidence of it's necessity.  So, I spent the entire year breezing through my insurer's money.  I visited doctors of all specialties.  I began treatments with a chiropractor.  I itched, ached, tingled and numbed, all of course due to my breasts.  I made very sure this time that I had documentation and topped it all off with an Xray of my upper back which proved, beyond doubt, that there was no "pathology" and that my complaints were all due to the fact that I own heavy breasts.  There, it's out.  In case you never noticed, mine are large breasts.  I cannot say that they are out of proportion with the rest of my body.  It's not exactly a small body. But, I will say that their presence has prevented me from exercising and from doing what it needed to be done to make the rest of this body smaller.  Did you ever try yoga when you have large breasts?  They get in the way.  Tap dancing.  Wow!  It's painful.

There are so many problems associated with large breasts and I've lived with them for 64 years.  I never, ever had small perky breasts.  This, I blame totally on genes.  My mother, her mother and her sister all shared my problem.  Her sister died from breast cancer.  My mother had breast cancer.  I've already had a lumpectomy for what could have been a malignancy but God spared me.  Thus far.  Most women do not enjoy having mammograms because they find it painful to have their breast squeezed for the one second that it has to be.  I have lived with so many unpleasantries associated with my breasts, that I don't mind this at all.  What I do always dread is the time sitting in the hospital johnny gown, bra-less, waiting for my turn.  Okay if I'm the only patient.  Not okay with a room filled with normal sized breasted patients who don't look like mother cows without their bras!  Can't wait for my next mammo.  I'll sit there topless if I want to this time.

I have made my decision after a lot of thought.  Not all of my thinking has been based on vanity or even comfort.  I am on a personal campaign to attenuate some of the cancer risk factors that I have inherited.
My mother has had colon, breast and most recently, uterine cancer.  She's in Hospice care at the moment.
I'm diligent about my colonoscopies, mammograms, GYN visits and do all I can to try to beat the odds.
I can't go back and relive my life, I can't change my genes or heredity, but I can change my future or at least I can try.  Very simply, having less breast tissue might mean having less cancer growing space or at the very least, having more accuracy in early detection.  I'm already scheduled for a preventive total hysterectomy in the fall.  I'm truly a work in progress.  I owe this to myself, my mother, my children and grandchildren.

But then there IS the vanity part of this story.  I'm having my breasts made smaller so that I can wear pretty bras and can find them on the upper part of the bra rack in the stores.  In case you haven't noticed, the large sizes are always on the low racks so a big woman has to practically lie on the floor to find her size...if it even exists.  Short of that,one had to shop in a specialty store, where a clerk does the finding-of-the-size and the prices are top shelf.  Oh, just when you get a bra that feels good, fits well, and has all the right features, the manufacturer decides to make a few changes and your favorite....it's discontinued.  Why? Why????
Bathing suit shopping is another nightmare.  If I find one that allows my anatomy to stay put, I hold on to it for years and years until the straps start to lose their tone and I show up at the beach looking like a saggy baggy camel.  Not a pretty sight. But this summer, it will be different.  This summer, I will have my choice of swimwear, not from the bottom rack.

Oh, and one more thing.....sorry guys but the show is over.  I'm done with being the object of your cheap thrill. You'll have to start looking at my eyes.  Of all the good reasons for my choice, your gross and obvious stares will end.  I'm not wearing any more of those "hide" the breast shirts.  I'm wearing what I damned well please and you will not make me feel uncomfortable ever again.  Find someone else.  Especially YOU, you know who you are....you are the "gentleman" who everyone thinks of as "gentlemanly" just because you are Italian. I can hardly wait to see your eyes when we meet again.  I should have spoken up sooner but instead, I outfoxed you, you old fox.  Now you can focus on your wife's "rack".  I'm just a little old pancake and I'm loving it.  Had my surgery on Thursday and I already feel like a brand new woman.  I'm lovin' it and I'm thanking God every minute.  A good husband, a good surgeon, wonderful nurses and a healthy body that's healing well at the moment.  Bye bye boobies.  Amen.

Happy Mother's Day

I don't know, maybe it's just me or maybe it is "me".  But when I was a little girl, Mother's Day was a big day. On the second Sunday in the sunny month of May, the rest of the world stopped and Mom's world restarted with a bang.  No, it wasn't a major holiday, but it was an important one, especially in our family.  We never accepted invitations to events such as weddings or dance recitals.  We made plans, bought new outfits, sent cards, purchased plants and lovely gifts for Mom and Grandmother.  Dinner was special with cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents, gathered for the big meal.  Moms were celebrated, emulated and likened to the female saints who we came to know from their statues in our churches.  On this day in May, Moms everywhere were treated to breakfast in bed, first thing in the morning, and wearing their corsages, saluted in their churches as parish priests asked them to stand and be counted.
My father was a different man in those days.  He was a family man who held my own mother in a special place. His eyes were not yet dimmed by the fear that now makes him difficult to converse with.
He respected and loved Mother and was never shy about making that known.  He lost his own mother as a teenager and it was in my mother's home that he found the mother who would sustain his need for many, many years.  My grandmother was his new mother.  So, Mother's Day was extra special.  He taught my brother and I well.  We knew from our earliest days that there was one day out of all the rest that would be the day during which we showed the most love, the most respect for our Mom.
When I was growing up, all I ever wanted was to be a mother.  I loved the whole notion of having children of my own.  So, it was fitting that the days calculated in determining my first baby's due date started on May 8th, a Mother's Day.  Back three months, ahead seven, a due date of February 16th was to be the date.  Three whole weeks later, my very mature first born baby arrived.  His pediatrician diagnosed him as a real,true, living and breathing example of a post-mature infant.  Wow, already my baby was special!
As the years progressed, another baby, our daughter arrived and now my dream was totally fulfilled.  A boy and a girl, a husband, house and a fireplace.
I have so many photographs of the early years of our little family.  So many of myself and my husband looking happy but tired.  We worked hard.  We had extra smart, active children and we did not want to deny them anything.  Dark circles, hairstyles that always looked like a trim was in order.  No fancy hairstylists or expensive wardrobes for us in those days.  Just lots of love and resolve to do our very best at all times.
Now it was my turn to be the mother of honor on the second Sunday in May.  There were handmade cards, breakfasts in bed, sweetest of gifts, some handmade, some purchased on clandestine shopping trips with Daddy.  My own special day, surrounded by little loved ones.  A big day to be sure.
But what has happened?  When were my children given permission to change this?  Who told them it was okay to grow up, to have lives of their own, to live where they want to live and do what they want to do?
I think it started in the college years.  Kids away at school didn't come home for one non-major holiday, or so I professed.  Stay there!  I know you love me!  Don't spend your money!!  I started to send the message that it was all okay with me.  Now that I think back, it really wasn't.
Miles now separate us.  My daughter is a mother and it is her turn to be the special mommy for the day.  I am delighted that her husband and her little girls recognize that.  I would be bereft if I found out that they did not embrace the opportunity to show her just how much they love and respect her.  My son does not have children. Nor does he have a wife who takes on his responsibilities.  She "does" her parents, he "does" or "does not" his.  The day comes, the day goes.  No card or phone call.  Sad, but true.
My own mother is very ill now.  It will be a true miracle if she sees another Mother's Day.  She didn't even realize that today was Mother's Day until I arrived bearing card and gift.  She's medicated so that she does not have pain.  She didn't wish me a happy Mother's Day.  I'm hoping that her day today includes some prayers to our Mother in Heaven and some thoughts of her own long-deceased mother, thoughts that I hope will bring her some comfort.
My husband made sure that I had a very nice day.  Card, flowers and a beautiful lunch out.  Just like he did in the "old" days.  He knows I still have the need to feel special one day a year, this one especially since I took on the new role of caregiver to my mother.  He did a darned good job covering the bases and I am so grateful to him.
When my mother finally departs, I will give up my Mother's Day expectations and do what a lot of other moms of my generation do, treat it as any other day.  Times have changed.  My life has changed.  Now it's my granddaughter's turn and I just hope they do a darned good job of it.

COFFEE ANYONE?

I should have known when I met my future in-laws, forty five years ago, that coffee would be the "other woman" in the life I was soon about to share with my husband.  When I visited their home for the first time, I was astounded at the array of coffee makers that they owned.  Some were in present use, some just sitting in the kitchen, having been tested, discussed and put aside for their failure to produce the perfect brew.

In my own home, the simple percolator had simply been replaced by the newly introduced electric Farberware pot.  The Farberware was streamlined for its day, easy to use and reliable, at least by my parent's standards. Now, don't get me wrong, coffee was an important part of the daily life of my family.  We never started a day without some version but we were unfussy and easily satisfied, going through jars of instant coffee every month.
My father needed a cup of coffee to accompany his chocolate doughnuts.  My mother needed hers to get me to sit down with her at the table where we held our "breaks" from our ritual Saturday morning cleaning sessions.

I have so many memories of the life that Joe and I have spent together thus far and as I open the file in my brain, thumbing through those, I find that I stop at the letter "C" a lot.  You see, he inherited his parent's obsession and we, also, have been through many versions of brewing implements as we marched forth in our quest to find the perfect one for our needs.

Our married life started out with a little percolator pot that sat perfectly on top of a burner on the little gas stove of our first apartment.  Brought to the boil and then turned down to simmer for exactly seven minutes, the little pot yielded nice little cups of coffee.  Cups that got us through many a sleepy morning or late afternoon drowse, courtesy of our sleepless wonder baby.  Of course, we did own both a four and an eight cup Farberware model.  What bridal shower would be complete without those gifts?  These, however, we  reserved for company.  I knew that I had a place in the family on the day that my mother in law oohed and aaaahed over what she considered to be then, and still now at her tender age of 97, the best cup of coffee she's ever had.  Yes, it was I who held the honor of delivering this to Senora el Exigente herself.  A perfectly aromatic, full-bodied cup of coffee that I made, plastic lid from coffee can, right there in the brewing basket during the entire ten minutes that it took to produce.  She still talks about it.

We've had the good fortune of having traveled both in this country and abroad as have our relatives.  In the family archives, are many a postcard on which the word "coffee" makes an appearance.  "Great hotel, nice view, lousy coffee"....."Beautiful area, great weather, mediocre hotel, great coffee"......"Good coffee here but no half and half!!!"......"Miss you, wish you were here, bringing back a bag of the local blend for you".
No matter where we find ourselves, we always find ourselves seeking coffee.  My husband can not go very far without it.  I've even known him to take the train into Manhattan, en route to meet me for dinner, first stopping for a cup of java at Grand Central Station. Weddings, lavish parties, school plays and parent's nights, I always knew the words were coming.  "Where's the coffee?"

Now you would think that Starbucks would have a special place in our hearts.  Surprise!  We are not fans.
Perhaps it is the type of bean, the price of a cup or maybe it's the ambiance that we don't like.  Instead, Duncan Doughnuts and MacDonald coffees are much more satisfying.  Could it be that we are too old for Starbucks?  We would never admit that but we do meet a lot of "our kind" of coffee lover on lines at the less elite places.

At the moment, I am thinking of the very best of the very best and of course, Italy is on my mind.  There isn't a postcard in the world capable of describing the role that coffee plays in the experience of visiting this, the coffee capital of our world.  I can smell the cappuccino and the espresso.  I have visions of that first cup that we enjoy soon after our arrivals in the Rome airport.  No matter where we are headed next, we take the time to sit and savor.  Absolutely perfect, every single cup.  Beautiful in every way.  A sea of white foam, a random pattern of cinnamon sprinkled atop, an aroma drifting upward, taste buds meeting in the middle.  I hesitate before the first sip for I do not want to disrupt the beauty in the cup.  That first lovely cappuci brings the promise of so many more as we set off on our journey.  Delightful elixirs to be enjoyed only in the mornings.  Afternoons will bring us to tiny cafes or bars for quicker pick-me-ups of espresso. I can see and smell those places and long to be there. With my own stove top espresso pots, the little lavender one a gift from our friends in Umbria, Giselle and Mark, and cans of imported espresso coffee, I simply cannot reproduce what we take so for granted in Italy.  One has to be there, not just dream of being there.

As I look up at the clock, I am reminded that it is time for "Elevens", time to go load up the basket of our beloved Capresso coffee maker, time to get ready for Joe's return from his morning work.  I just know that on this rainy morning, there will be nothing that he will want more than a fresh cup.  We need it.  It is, after all an important part of our lives.  We'll talk about our plans for our next trip to Italy.  We can't do that empty-handed!

Ciao!

Tocco da Casauria

This is the last assignment of this semester's writing class. The assignment was to write a lyrical essay. I am still struggling with essay writing but essays are my favorites to read and to write.

At the top of my list of the most admired women is my maternal grandmother, Emilia. She was a beautiful woman, full of grace, class and courage. Most of my childhood was spent at her side, my fondest memories began in her home.

Its Monday morning, from the little yellow radio in the kitchen I hear the familiar theme song of one of her favorite shows….”sing everyone sing, sing everyone sign, all of your troubles will vanish like bubbles, sing everyone sing”………

After many trips to central Italy, we made a very good decision one late Autumn and spent a lovely week further south, visiting Sorrento and the gorgeous Amalfi Coast. Our plan was to drive directly north at the end of the week, to our final destination of Orvieto before returning to the states to prepare for our Christmas holiday.

As I enter the door to the kitchen, I see the mounds of pasta dough on the black Formica counter. The long narrow rolling pin is whirling to the tune…..sing everyone sing….

Was it the romance of Sorrento or the call of the open road that set my dear husband Joe to his generous offer of a side trip. "Let's set the GPS for Tocco da Casuria". My heart leapt and my response needed no second thought. Very soon after, we were on the road. The unusually warm November weather that we had enjoyed was changing and we left Sorrento with clouds over our heads and the threat of rain.

After sharing our greetings, I walk away from the kitchen, down the long hall that leads me to the “Little Room”, that which belonged to my mother and aunt so many years ago. I glance into the big bedroom and see the special sheet, draped the entire length and width of the bed, the pasta sheet, now holding almost the weeks’ worth….sing everyone sing…..

Tocco da Casuria is a tiny town in the province of Pescara in the Abruzzo region of Italy. It’s patron is Saint Eustachio. A small town with a current population of 3,000 inhabitants, located high in the mountains. The birthplace of my grandmother whose grandfather came from the nearby town of Capistrano as a stone mason. He left his home for the job of creating the relief work for the Municipal Building in the center of Tocco before meeting her grandmother. We knew little more than that when we set out that day for our drive through the Gran Sasso mountains along roads that were more modern than we could have imagined.

My grandmother Emilia was educated by the nuns. In my mind as a child, I was sure that she meant that she left her home, taken by the clergy women, never to return. I thought that she only learned how to embroider but as the years went by, I realized that she was smart, nicely educated in many areas, and especially classy for an immigrant…..sing, everyone sing…..

If you ever find yourself in Italy and you do not like to miss lunch, you should know that it is necessary to plan your day very carefully because lunch time is sacrosanct. The entire country shuts down for it and it happens at the same time every day, everywhere. So, from noon until two, streets empty and the serious work of preparing, eating and relaxing starts. It was at this very time that we saw the sign we had so anticipated and headed off the highway and up the hill to the official blue and white "Tocco da Casauria" sign assuring us that we were in the right place. Slowly, we proceeded, around the curves and into the center of the tiny but pristine town. Empty streets, this was not a tourist town and this was lunch time.

When I was still a teenager, my brother became ill and my parents had to go to California to help him, leaving me behind. My grandparents came to our house to stay with me and my grandmother continued to do her domestic duties which now included reorganizing some things for my mother. One day, I opened the pantry door and found that she had labeled some canisters, her way of helping my mother as she tended to her child….The flour canister now had a perky new label which ready "Flower".....it remained that way for years to come......sing, everyone sing……

As we wound our way, we easily found the Municipal Building with relief work , a row of the most heavenly stone cherubs encircled the building, my great-great grandfather’s work, beautifully adorning it. My heart started beating, faster and faster as I tried find anything that would be familiar to me from my childhood memories. I had so few. I just knew about the convent, the church of San Eustachio, and the houses with the dirt floors, now long since replaced.

My grandmother had stomach problems. The doctor across the street in the Bronx had the solution. Routine surgery. Some news about Potassium loss. We’ll be there tomorrow to visit her. All of your troubles will vanish like bubbles…. A phone call, instant heartbreak. I was the one to tell my mother….sing everyone sing.

Slowly, we walked around the paved stone road in front of the church. I tried the ancient door, it was locked. My disappointment lifted as I allowed myself to realize that I was touching the very same door handle that she had touched, walking on the very same pavers as did she, looking out at the very same snow-covered mountains that my grandmother observed every day for the first fourteen years of her life. I studied this view, took it all in for what seemed like a very long time before I realized that the sun was shining, the clouds had lifted.

She’s here….here to greet me…..all of your troubles will vanish like bubbles so sing everyone sing.

Auntie Mae Brandt

My mother gave me one great gift in my life when she chose her very best friend, Mae Kelt, to be my godmother. She was the most vivacious, beautiful woman I had ever known and she, childless for most of my childhood, treated me as her own, the daughter she wished she had. I was the object of her affection and she always made that very clear to me. She knit for me, bought for me, baked for me and shared me with her friends and family just because she was proud of me. I vividly recall, to this day, almost sixty years later, an outing to New York City, a first trip to see the Radio City Musical Hall's famous Christmas show. I can't remember the outfit I was wearing but I do remember my high emotions. As she held my hand and we waited in the long line to enter the theater, I pretended she was my mother. Later that day, she treated me to my first trip to Rumplemeyer's ice cream parlor on Central Park West, the height of little girl nonchalance. I don't recall this, but she has told the story over and over as the years went by, about how sophisticated I was and how amused everyone was by my ability to order my confection. I have a feeling she was one very proud auntie, pretending to be a mommy.

There were so many birthdays and Christmases that were made so much more special for me by a doting Aunt Mae who always had just the "right" gift, the prettiest of cakes, cards and special birthday dinners. The memory of those times still gives me an incredible feeling, like a little child rapt in anticipation, over and over again.

Auntie Mae was gorgeous. Slender, well-heeled, beautiful hair and skin, a true Scottish lass who bore the pain of the loss of her equally beautiful Danish sailor bridegroom, just weeks after their wedding, with grace as she finally re-entered the single world. She was wined and dined by many a charming man, desired for her great looks, beautiful figure and adorable sense of humor.

If she had a heartbreak, I as a child had no knowledge of it. To me, she was a constant source of happiness and fun, fun, fun.

When she finally remarried Arthur Brandt and became pregnant with her only child, she did not abandon me. Richard, fourteen years my junior, became part of the nonstop wonder of our relationship. He was a perfectly beautiful child with a wonderful disposition, adored by all. Her joy was obvious as she now she had her own child to shower love, attention and pride upon. Never did she ever make me feel that I had lost my place in her heart.

Instead, I felt that Baby Richard made all of our lives happier and all of our celebrations richer and more meaningful.

Aunt Mae was there for me as I grew up, supporting my entrance into adulthood and cheering me on. It was she who bestowed the first string of pearls upon me. It was she who made certain that I would have a proper bone china tea set, hand selected by her cousins and sent to me all the way from their home in Scotland. It was Auntie Mae who made,by hand, the most beautiful of all the gifts my babies ever received. Items that are still held in special places, as lovely as they were when I had my first born, forty one years ago. Hands of gold produced sweaters that my granddaughters have only recently worn, still in perfect condition, a testimony to the quality of work and love that went into them.

I can hardly have a dinner party without being reminded of the gracious ways in which Aunt Mae entertained her own guests. The "Aunt Mae" china is used on my table with a lovely pink tablecloth, just as she used it before me. One day, my daughter will use the same set and hopefully, her daughters after her. I only hope that it shall forever be referred to as "Mae's China" and that it will cause it's present owners to have a moment to think about all the love and admiration that it has come to represent.

I also hope that my granddaughters will have relationships with their own godmothers. It's sad that my daughter lost her godmother, her Aunt Patty, before she graduated from college, years before she married. I'm comforted in knowing that Sara had a godmother who loved her in a special way too and, like my own godmother, can never be replaced.

My godmother died, peacefully, this morning.

Rest in peace, Auntie Mae and thank you for just about everything a little heart could desire.

Guest Post

Patty Hughes is a member of my writing class. She's also affiliated with another of my pleasures, the Barnstable Comedy Club. We've both rescued and fallen in love with dogs and she's lucky (?) enough to still have hers. For all of you who have the same love......enjoy!

Let him know you’re in charge! “He thinks HE’s in charge! Take control!” So said Ryan, a flaming 20 something who gelled his hair upward into a curl on the top of his head.

That’s good advice I responded with a hint of insincerity. I’m not in charge and I know it!
I can’t lie to myself. From the moment they pulled him out of a stinky cage at the far end of that 18 wheeler, I was lost.


“Tater”, drawled the burly tattooed man. “That’s funny.” “I have a cousin named Tater.”

I was momentarily distracted by the thought of some guy in Oklahoma with an improbable name and then I took my scruffy little sweet po-tater in my arms and he gazed meekly at me with those soft innocent brown eyes fringed with white lashes. From that first giddy moment, I knew with a certainty, that I was not in charge and that I would spend the rest of my days devoted to his doggy desires.

After a few days the trouble began. Left home alone, he got into trouble with the wood pile. He was positively contrite when I returned. If his little cropped tail could have been between his short stubby legs, it would have been. I hurried to reassure him that I was looking forward to vacuuming the entire house anyway and not to fret about it. Cookies kisses and hugs followed.
Next it was the toilet paper roll, ripped from its holder and torn and shred in some mad rampage room to room. I ran for the camera. He posed nonchalantly amidst a cloud of white tissue. “You’re a bad bad boy!’ I cooed adoringly.
He chewed the bottom of a folding screen …nothing a file and a little paint couldn’t fix; a plant stand, the arm of a wicker sofa… He took a bite out of a hymnal…as if it were an apple.

I started taking him with me everywhere I went.- just to be safe, but leaving him in the car had its own perils. He got hold of a pen. He had a new spot and it was blue. My prescription sunglasses were mistaken for a chew toy.
One night I let him outside with the half-hearted suggestion that he “get busy”. My Christmas lights went black..
One snow boot lost its sole; the computer power cord was severed. I was worried. The problem was escalating.

In desperation, I convinced my bachelor neighbor that the dog thought of him as “Uncle Jim”. He bought it. - Tater went down the street to watch the Super Bowl, but not before I lost a leather boot, my pocketbook strap and a sneaker. When I went to get him, he was out cold, glutted with Cheese Doodles and Dorito chips, his little freckled tummy full to bursting with forgotten food from the kitchen floor.

My outdoor garden bench took a hit, a Feng Shui manual called “Move Your Stuff Change Your Life” appeared in the back yard,- sending me a cryptic message , an entire bag of curtains was dragged from a bedroom closet and deposited in a different room. He’s redecorating! I joked.
The keyboard foot pedal, it’s power cord and an extension cord became defunct . Guess he doesn’t like music, I quipped. “You’re a BAD DOG, yes you are, a BAD Doggie, yes you are ! Yes you are!” He flopped onto his back and began to wiggle.

He got tangled up in a roll of duct tape. One foot stuck to the floor when he walked.

The breaking point arrived the day he charged past me out the door and I dove under a UPS truck to save his life. I experienced an epiphany as I lay there on the ground, holding my shattered leg. My rescue dog has “issues“.
Admitting you have a problem is the first step. So,
I signed him up for an obedience class, the dog equivalent of a 12-step program.


There were 6 exasperated, fed-up and worn out people sitting in a circle with their problematic dogs . Ryan, the instructor, in gabby girlfriend style said, “Lets’ go ‘round and introduce ourselves and tell us why you’re here.”

“Hello, my name is Bill,” Bill shouted to be heard above his barking dog…“and this is Rusty.” “Rusty barks at everything.” Ryan jammed a toy into Rusty’s mouth.

“Hi, my name is Ellen,” a very apologetic Ellen announced, “and this is Coco.” Ellen sat a little apart. “Coco hates other dogs.” A tiny snarling mop of hair peered out from under Ellen’s chair. Certainly Tater’s occasional incontinence wasn’t as bad as Jane and Frank’s pooping poodle!
When my turn came I panicked wondering which bad habit to announce. “Tater chews things”. I said stoically.

Meanwhile, As Tater strained at his leash to grab Rusty’s discarded toy and investigate the reclusive Coco, an overzealous pit-bull puppy knocked him over and pinned him down. Ryan gave a rousing command and 6 obedient adults stood and practiced using a clicker in one hand while holding a leash and silently offering a treat to their bewildered pets with the other.

Our dogs, waiting patiently for us to master the awkward routine, got tired and sat down to wait it out . To all appearances, our dogs had mastered the first lesson - ‘SIT” But, in truth, they were confused by the strange sound emanating from 6 clickers simultaneously, the invention of some marketing genius no doubt, but the treats were good and plenty. In our hands we held our last hope and clicked a little SOS message to our respective dogs. Swatting and yelling hadn’t worked; maybe communicating with our pets in the aboriginal language of the Masai is what they needed.

I was so proud the first time Tater “SAT”. I began to show off a little as I had already taught Tater at home how to “sit UP.” I received a commanding “NO’, from Ryan but fortunately not with a rolled newspaper. I learned that Ryan is “in charge.” That’s called “sitting PRETTY” he explained in his Chatty Kathy style. He has to “SIT”.

After that we learned the cardinal rule of potty training. There was a solemn hush when Ryan revealed the secret, “Never let them see you clean it up!” after a thoughtful silence I raised my hand, tilted my head to one side, - an attention getting trick I had learned from my dog. - and asked “WHAT?”

The explanation was lost on me as I tried to get into the mind of my sub-equatorial speaking dog. Had Tater seen me take apart the vacuum and scrub all it’s moving parts after encountering a surprise on the Oriental carpet? Was that the problem? Was I to blame?

“Never punish your dog after the fact” “You have to catch them in the act.”

I feigned sleep that night holding a flashlight under the covers waiting for Tater to make his move. Sometime around 2, groggy from sleep he dropped off the bed and waddled quietly from the room. Like a commando I leapt from the bed and caught him with my flashlight in a telltale crouch. “NO” I said, and I kinda meant it, and to my surprise, he complied. I’ve been a light sleeper ever since.




I suspect Tater’s hiding something from me though. Learning to SIT was all a little too easy. He wore a bored “been there, done that” sort of expression, like my friend Jim wears at every social function that reads , I‘m just here for the food.
I like Ryan’s gabby girlfriend style though and I’m sure I’ll get the hang of this “taking charge” thing and being “in control.” In the meantime, I bought a kennel to lock him up, just in case.

There’s just one big problem as I see it. The damn dog is diabolically cute! Today he “SAT” without the aid of a foreign language and “DROPPED” a paper towel he had retrieved from the trash. He’s very smart! We haven’t even covered FETCH and DROP yet! And,… to top it off, under all that curly white hair,… he’s pink!

Recently, I read an essay which was written by a man who professed his lack of patience with a peculiar habit of his countrymen. He told of how the Italians don't like to answer invitations or, if they do, they tend to avoid making a commitment. One never knows, when planning a party, how many of those invited will simply show up. He finds this to be particularly aggravating and seems to think this is a breach of etiquette that is unique to the Italians. I beg to differ, having issued many an invitation or other type of query that required an answer or at the very least, an acknowledgement. I know the author's frustration and hold no hope that the trend will reverse any time soon.

I have my own personal etiquette peeve. Mine involves the loss of several time-honored and very uncomplicated series of words: please, thank you and you're welcome. Simple, to the point and ancient. Babies, the world over, have been taught these words. Prayers have started and ended with them, so have relationships and wars. Favors have been bestowed or withheld pending the mouthing of these easy expressions. Our first words, our earliest forms of communication. Do or die, especially with figures of authority who patiently awaited their utterance.

My best friend Cam recently brought this to light when she told me that she has yet to receive any acknowledgement whatsoever for a gift she thoughtfully chose for her niece's birthday. She was visiting me at the time of the purchase and together we ooohed and ahhhed over the perfect choice. We agreed that her niece would love the hand crafted pottery bowl, ornamented with shells which would remind her of her beloved Cape Cod. The party came and the gifts remained unopened. Surely a note would soon follow. After all, the recipient was a well-educated physician, celebrating a fifthieth birthday. To this date, one year later, neither she nor her sister in law who's gift was a rather large sum of money, have received anything from their niece.

What's happened? Where have the words gone? Why have they left us? Where are they now, at a time in history when we've needed them more than ever before?

As amazed at the times I have expected to hear a simple expression of thanks in vain, I am equally amazed at the times I do hear words of gratitude. That is a very sad note. Is a nod of the head supposed to signal thanks? Has "you're welcome" been totally replaced by "no prob"? Or, is it all down to the symbols used by the new generation as they text, tweet and social network on Facebook with a little "shout out"? It all escapes me. I refuse to buy it. I want to be thanked, the good old fashioned way, with simple words. No nods, signs, symbols of facial expressions for me, thank you. And if this is a "prob", I ask that you please consider a shout out so I will know, especially if I have invited you to a party.