I was screwed last night ...

... and the screwing got me good. Tight penetration. Difficult to twist. Then all the way in.

Sadly, this is not at all what you are thinking.

Not even close!

My my that would have been a lovely pleasure. A dirty secret dream.

But noooooooooooooooo. No such luck.

My screwing involved a glistening sleek, hot off the BestBuy register, straight out of the box, tough to fit into place oval stand brand spankin' new flat screen television.

Couldn't get it in. Neither of 'em. And lordy I tried. Hard and long.

The two teeny screws not quite the correct length (size does matter) to slip easily into the openings firmly attaching the stay-in-the-box until tightly fastened screen. Three Phillips screw drivers, a pair of rusty pliers and wire pinchers were needed to guide the screws deeply into the pre-cut holes.

Tightly. No wobbling to undermine the soon to be pulsating signals from my sensitive to the touch, no chemicals allowed, pixillating voyeur into the depths of humankind broadcast throughout the night. Awakening even the most solemn deep sleeper.

Not easy. Not one bit.

I am out of commission. Way more than I imagined. My nearly sixty year old self limply gripping the rubberized tools. The ones from the shiny red metal tool box gleaming like a fire engine that recently replaced the tattered Barney's bag holding what I know now to be useless hardware.

But with sheer determination. I twisted until it went in deeply. First the right, then the left. Success!

I have finally arrived. A decade into the new millennium. Resisting until now the sex appeal of the sleek gadgetry of the 21st century. The plug and play allure ... tantalizing me. Luring me to ditch my fifteen year old analog VCR combo and run head first into the decadence of gazing mindlessly into my new lover's high definition face.

Loyalty be damned. I am hooked. Lusting after the clarity. Charmed by its newness. Its youth.

Cheers to all things electronic and their ability to at once deflate and excite me!

Finally ...

... after nearly three months of law, law, law there is touchdown.

A connection to the me that was.

My prior life. The one in the steel and glass scrapers of the sky in Manhattan. Connection.

Now it is personal. And maybe, just maybe, there is a place for me after all as an integral part of a legal team. God, I was hoping.

Corporate law. Commercial transactions. Litigation of perfected priorities, ownership rights, use of intellectual property.

NOT, and I repeat NOT, prostituting the courts with personal melodramas of "he said, she said, and I don't care what you said because I am right" and who the hell really cares?

Or the proliferation of product liability cases where ... of course, dumb ass, if you stick your penis in a vacuum hose for a thrill that you'll get that jolt ... it just might be electric in the real sense of the word. Gheesh.

So now it hits home. My home. Yay. A discussion question on the online boards re just what floated my professional boat three decades ago. The germination of my interest, nay passion, in consummating a deal. The thrill of the negotiations. The exhilaration of closure. Ahhhh!

Having spent years on the proverbial other side of the table as senior lender syndicating mega-million dollar credit facilities among multiple money center banks, the due diligence that I undertook coupled with the preparations for these humongous closings took considerable time and the coordination of a team of many, many players.

Always, and I mean always, these deal ran to the wire. The last possible moment before the deal fell apart due to expiration dates on purchase agreements, etc. Invariably these were on a Friday. Or the last day of the month. And more than I care to remember, the last day of the calendar year. Goodbye week off between Christmas and New Years. Hello prickly sofa in a Wall Street law firm in between rewrites of documents being negotiated to the 11th plus hour.

And, all of these HAD to be signed, sealed and delivered (i.e., UCCs files in multiple jurisdictions, mortgages recorded and released if necessary, etc.) BEFORE funds were wired anywhere. And with a 2 PM cutoff, it made for a hectic, exhausting but somehow energizing final few hours. And to top it off, more than a few deals also involved assets being secured in Louisiana where French law is still in place. Don't even ask!

So here I am on the legal team. Not the client. And wow, there is as much due diligence, if not more.

Steps I'd take to conduct and finalize DUE DILIGENCE for a $10,000,000 secured revolving credit would entail:

-- Discuss terms of deal, parties, jurisdictions, timeline with my supervising attorney.
-- Start a file for all documents in preparation for the closing and to satisfy the opinions to be expressed in our law firm's Opinion Letter.
-- Create a Due Diligence checklist based on the discussion with the supervising attorney, the term sheet, etc. to be used also as a basis for the Closing Checklist and Closing Books.
-- Review term sheet, bank's letter of intent, Bank's commitment letter for deal specifics (amount, rate, term, maturity, repayment schedule, prepayment penalties, assets to secure facility, negative and affirmative covenants, reps and warranties, personal guarantees (if any).
-- Determine salient facts of transaction.
-- Review financial statements of entity and personal guarantors.
-- Confirm business entities involved actually exist and are in good standing in states of organization.
-- Check to ensure that if they are operating in multiple states that they have duly registered as foreign corporations and entitled to do business there.
-- Review bylaws and actions of the board to ensure that entity is empowered to enter into the credit facility and can encumber its assets.
-- Also for signatories who will execute documents. They must be empowered by board and duly authorized to sign on behalf of the entity to pledge assets, borrow funds, etc.
-- Identify and review financial statements of parties.
-- Identify and review all assets of parties to ensure they exist where they are said to (inventory, A/R, deposits, equipment, buildings, etc.)

-- Review licensing agreements and other IP for changes of control, transferability, assignment issues.
-- Order UCC and title searches.
-- Prepare UCC-1 and mortgage filings.
-- Keep copies of all documents received and provide draft (version) control for all red-lined changes in security agreement, etc.

-- Blah, blah blah

In essence, my responsibility is to ensure that based on due diligence and proper filing of all financing documents that all is accurate and there are no errors or omissions. That the senior attorney on the case can opine as to the points in the letter to the client. Daunting to say the least!

For the CLOSING, I would prepare the following:
-- Closing Checklist of all documents needed to be signed
-- Stickies on all documents (and enough signature pages for multiple copies) where signatures and dates are required
-- Copies of all documents from due diligence phase together with recording and filing documents (UCC-1s, Mortgages) in order so that they can be accessed or referred to as needed during the closing.
-- Verification of time and date and location filings are recorded before funds can be wired. This is critical.
-- The completed file will serve as the basis of the Closing Books.

Whew ... and it is not over yet. Follow up on open items with copies (and conformed copies) of signature pages or pages with initialled changes included in respective document.

And I am certain I left something critical out of the mix. But hey ... at least I am back in the game. Sidelined no longer.

Cheers to new beginnings and the everlasting ability to reinvent my professional self ... and why my musings have been delayed since October!!

Pump Boys and Dinettes ... or the global travels of one pair of Brooks Brothers patent leather formal pumps with grosgrain bows

Lesson learned. UPS is better, faster, more reliable (hands down) than its closest competitor who coined the generic overnight delivery term. But noooooooooo. Not this time. Took nearly a week for the white package with the blue and red logo to wend its way from our nation's capitol through Newark to southern Maine. Boo hoo on them. Yay, UPS!!

But the shoes. Charlie's precious shoes. The ones ordered from Brooks Brothers in November made it in time. The nick of time, I might add. But in time. Thanks in part to the diligence of his lovely chestnut haired Mama (c'est moi) and the ubiquitous brown trucks and planes that fly through her hometown in the deep blue grass and whoosh ... across the earth. Made a special compensatory nod to Charlie's dilemma, and delivered them with hours to spare. Around the world in a nano-second. So he could dance, Fred Astair had nothing on my boy, into 2011.

Santa's route, indeed.

The jolly bearded man in the red suit belted with a wide black cinch belt and spiffy high top black well polished boots looking oh so courant could make the trip around the circumference of the globe in the twinkle of his eye and a twitch of his pug nose.

But not the FedEx-express. Nope. It's UPS all the way from here on out. No choice. Not unless requested specifically by the recipient.

I should be so lucky. To travel from the east coast of the United States, through the rolling hills of Kentucky, pop up to Alaska, over the Pole and then wend my way to southern China and the new Hong Kong home of my darling son.

But ... ah ... I am. Fortunate. I, too, will be following that route through Newark, over the pole (hey there Santa, pooped ol' man) and into the booming island metropolis where my sweet Charlie has taken up residence.

In February! In celebration of my 60th. Wahoo!

Cheers to safe travels ... to me ... dancing shoes ... and the new year!

Organic!

Somehow I backed into organic food.

Me!

Imbiber of eight TaBs a day. User of dozens of those pink Sweet 'n Low packets on everything from grapefruit to oatmeal to vinaigrette to hot drinks and cold ones, too.

Oooh, I love fake sugar. In fact I adore sugar. Am a processed food lover extraordinaire.

Apparently.

Ersatz low fat or better yet non-fat cheeses, sour creams, half and half. Kind of defies the laws of nature.

So how did I back into this reader of labels and purchaser of foods sans chemicals?

Well, the simple truth. A diet recommended by my good friend Gayla.

I have been wanting to detox. Nope. Not from martinis ... I drink them rarely. Not from Newport Lights ... I stopped puffing my two packs a day almost thirty years ago ... not from a lusty Cab or a sexy, smoky Malbec. No overindulgence there. I never sip alone. So that leaves me sober as a granite stone.

Then what? you are asking.

So if you really care to know. Drumroll ...

Chocolate chip cookies. Baking almost every night to be able to eat the batter (I know, I know salmonella lurks between the blades of the beaters). Brownies. Blueberry crumble. Banana bread. I swear I only buy fruit to see what I can bake it in with a streusel topping. Oh yes and candy. Most kinds. But M&Ms ... peanut ones ... by the bagful are my fave. Or coconut patties handdipped in dark bittersweet chocolate. The ones from Florida in the rectangular box. And, yep, that ubiquitous saccharin sweetener that I sprinkle on or stir in everything.

You'd think I wouldn't be able to fit through a door. But I manage. Although there have been times when I bump into the refridgerator bacause my sonar is off and I underestimated my hip girth. I am the lightest I have been in over two decades.

Ah, but I digress.

So now I find myself marching up the aisle at the supermarket looking for almond butter, forsaking Skippy's reduced sugar highly processed creamy that has forever been a staple in my larder forever. Or, looking for virgin pressed coconut oil. Arteries be damned. Stevia in green packets replace the Pepto Bismal pink ones that litter the bottom of every purse from every season.

I read labels. Pass by all things white. Rice, bread, flour sugar, potatoes, pasta. Gheesh. Forego anything that ends in -ite ... or -ose ... or is difficult to pronounce and makes me feel as if Mrs. Wimp, our 11th grade chem teacher, is spraying her words re marble chips and Hcl as petry dishes bubble steamy.

What's a girl to do? Gotta slide into my seventh (OMG) decade in style. Svelte. Healthy. Glowing skin. And speaking of skin ... in black skinny jeans and ballerina flats.

Cheers to getting through the holidays with nary a sugar plum fairy hovering over my sweet chestnut mane whispering naughty things in my ears. Ever the temptress.

Missed Calls

Is that my mobile phone vibrating in the back pocket of my jeans signalling a call?

Or my untoned ass jiggling as I stroll through town on my daily walk, Bailey tugging not so gently on her leash?

Yep. Missed call. Good lord. Another one.

With the colder weather ... the need for gloves to warm my fingers against the frosty morning air ... and the zippered fleece substituting for a warm weather lining under my quilted Barbour barn jacket ... I miss calls. Many of them. And that is too bad.

I only receive calls from a few of my dearest friends, my sisters and of course, the lovely Bobbie (my gorgeous mother who checks in daily if I don't first).

Talking on the phone accelerates my outings. Time zips by. Before I can say "holy shit, is that my phone buzzing or an errant nerve ending?" I am back at my front door.

The only problem presented is how to gracefully bend over to scoop up the remnants of Bailey's breakfast, balance my ever present water bottle while keeping the phone delicately in place between my shoulder and ear so as not to interrupt the conversation.

Dropping it on the cement sidewalk. Now that would be a disaster of the first order. Missing that infamous call from Dialing for Dollars. Unfortunate.

This is my lifeline. My rolodex. No one knows (nor do I want them to) the number of my landline.

I am too mobile. Me and the phone. We are well suited. We fit.

Maybe I should set the phone to Vibe and Ring. Place it in the pocket of my coat. Or leave it at home.

Hmmm. Decisions.

Laughing Faces

What is up with the universe? No I mean it. What gives?

As soon as ... and I mean as soon as ... I drove away from his apartment complex he had rejoined (or maybe he never resigned) one of those online dating services.

So you are asking: How do I know? And, what was I doing perusing the catalog of eligible sixty-somethings in a part of the northeast some 200 plus miles away?

Simple.

First, I am not a paying member. Nope. Not for me. Five years ago, well that was another story. Yep, back then I went out with ... count 'em ... two and a half dozen unattached guys everywhere from here to Buenos Aires. And to be honest, only a handful were what I'd call datable. One is still a dear friend. But the others? I can honestly say that there are around 24 women scattered over the country that are waking up every morning with a huge smile on their faces and screaming: THANK GOD HE'S NOT SLEEPING IN MY BED ANYMORE!

So why the look-see?

Simple.

My darling friend, and fellow BSer, recently parted ways with her online dating partner after two years. They had grown apart. And if I do say so myself, weren't really headed in the same direction anyway. But that is not for me to judge. Anyhoo, she checked the site absentmindedly and drumroll ... amidst the sadness and crocodile tears that were streaming down the man's cheeks was his picture as big as day: Active within 24 hours.

So I said to myself: Hmmmm. Weren't those emails from the dating site in his gmail inbox when I last visited? You know right under the letter from his daughter that he asked me to read? No. He wouldn't be searching while he was professing that I was the love of his life. That he couldn't believe his good fortune that we reconnected again after 17 years. That I was: Easy to love and that he'd never let me go.

So he must have done an about face. Or was searching all along. Just in cases. But no. In one of his final communications he emphasized that it might take another few months to appreciate me and we should just be friends. Appreciate me? He has had, off and on, 39 years to figure me out. But I digress.

He wrote that he is a simple man and wants to focus on two things: his thirty year old daughter and managing his shrinking retirement funds which were downsized by the shift in the markets a few years ago. Out with his love life.

But I looked anyway. And lo and behold his gorgeous eyes were staring back at me from among the lineup of eligibles in his neck of the woods. ACTIVE WITHIN 24 HOURS. Whoa ...

In a nutshell, I was saved by his tantrum in the car a few weeks ago. Big time. His head in his hands.

So who is smiling now? Me!

Not because I am happy with this turn of events. I am not. I truly thought this was our forever. But because it is early. Any later and I would be devastated.

To my tomorrows ...

In a Flash

I am cyber-challenged.

Not that I cannot wend my way through the world wide web. I can.

But I am all thumbs and no brain when it comes to getting a new device up and running. Like my new Sony Cyber-Shot camera. Or, the Lenovo ThinkPad Edge I am picking up from Best Buy tomorrow. Fear pervades my every pore. Swirls through the vacuous dimensions of space.

Fear that I will lose my entire Outlook Contact List. Or, my email trails for Charlie, Mom and all my bestest friends. What happens then? Gheesh. Or, my blog posts in Word format. And the tax return backups for the past umpteen years.

Techno-paralysis.

With Charlie 8,000 miles from home how can I be assured that all this will transfer? Seamlessly. Like before. The mishy-gosh that is currently connecting my Dell Latitude laptop to my wireless router. Will this all be lost, too?

Can I trust the geek who, in under 30 minutes, sets it all up. He is about 14 years old. And this is not his laptop. His photos. His files. His life on my C drive. I don't think so.

With trepidation I will back everything I can up to my stick drives. Yep, two of them. Fingers crossed that I can connect to Charlie via Skype. Connect to BU's online paralegal course which starts in a few short weeks.

This is why I rub the letters off the keys before I agree to upgrade. Next time I'll be Medicare eligible. Now that is worth the wait.

In the meantime, wish me luck!

Grand Central Station

The first time I arrived alone on a train at Grand Central Terminal I was eighteen. Not that that was my first visit to the city. I was a frequent guest for most of my life.

It is familiar. In that part of my genetic makeup way. Not sure why. But it is.

My memories of that bejeweled grand dame -- the storied train depot -- began, however, in my formative years.

Under six, I believe. Not sure how old.

Visiting my aunt, uncle and cousins in leafy Summit, New Jersey. A trip into "the city" to see the first of many Broadway musicals. Peter Pan. Starring Mary Martin. A very special treat. Dressed to the nines in a smocked cotton dress, Capezio Mary Janes and white cotton gloves we boarded the train to the Emerald City ... ah, New York.

Little did I know that (1) the filming of this classic play would be a television holiday broadcast every year of my childhood, or (2) that I would be disembarking on a platform leading to this majestical station hundreds of times.

I just remember that it was magical. In that sparkly Oz kind of way. Mesmerizing. Alluring.

Her cavernous domed ceilings etched with gilded arches and pediments. So very different from our train station on Broadway in Louisville where the L&N whisked me to Lexington stays with Ma and Baba, my maternal grandparents who would later be known as plain ol' Grandmother and Grandfather.

The city sparkled glittery. Pulsating with an electric current that coursed through my veins the moment the train submerged into the darkened underground rails of the city. I arrived flushed at dinnertime. In awe.

Thousands of businessmen ... uniformly attired in tailored flannel suits, their felt hats placed just so on their carefully groomed heads ... streamed by grey-brown neon. Their leather briefcases deftly swerving to avoid unnecessary impact. Beautifully choreographed.

Women in silk dresses, delicate high-heeled pumps and nylon stockings raced this way and that. Some with fox collars; others on their way from the glass and steel office buildings lining the streets of Manhattan carrying brown bags and bulky purses.

Evisceral. Stimulating. I knew then I wanted to be part of this world.

And over the years, I was.

College nearby brought me into The City all the time. Dressed in style to fit the day: bell bottom Landlubber jeans when weekend hippies. Sophisticated little black mini dresses and pearls when partying at The Dakotas or Pen and Pencil. Lovely wool dresses trimmed to match Papagallo shoes, our coats when meeting a friend's parents for tea. We could play the part. Any part. And did.

My early penchant for government and the American legislative process introduced me to political campaigns. Handing out leaflets for cousin Dick Ottinger's senate race. Telephone polling for support of Lindsey's mayoral re-election. Accompanying Andrew Stein in his inaugural bif for the City Council to the decaying streets of Bed-Sty to meet and greet the edgy constituents.

Earth Day. Autumn peace rallies at the NYC Library serenaded by Joan Baez and Peter, Paul and Mary with speeches from Bella Abzug and Ralph Nader.

So many times I whirled through the now familiar portal, flowed up the escalators through the Pan Am building exiting through the arched hallways onto Park Avenue aglitter with holiday twinkle lights or fields of yellow tulips. Often just heading out the lower doors to hail a cab or catch the subway at 42nd street to the Village.

Theatre of the street, the absurd or legit. At the Fillmore East seeing rock's legends before they were known, on the stage, Hair (eight times) in one season backstage, in the house seats of the compliments of the producer's niece, my dear Jorie, Cafe La Mama, concerts on Central Park's Great Lawn, the Village Vanguard and Blue Note, hip Bleeker Street, seedy Times Square. 25 cents and breakfast. Ah, the memories.

Shopping sprees at my four Bs ... porting enough shiny black boxes and elegant striped bags to make Holly Golightly's spree pale in comparison.

The time my friends, Chris, Sue, Jill and I missed the last train back to Westchester and slept on the floor as close to the Information Booth as humanly possible. The Commodore and Biltmore Hotels atop Grand Central unwilling to allow us a room for the night. Thinking we were god knows what. Four preppy girls in Gucci shoes and Pucci panties. But how would they know that?

Once, when traveling back to college alone after having met my parents for drinks When I fainted and nearly collapsed amid a sea of swirling people rushing past. The time we didn't have enough cash to purchase our ticket and borrowed from a man who looked like Dad (and whom I later repaid in full).

I came of age here. Me and Holden Caufield. Grand Central the portal to newly shaped values, passions and delights.

So it saddens me to be seated on the circular bench this gorgeous September afternoon in the recently spruced up waiting area outside the track that will once again transport me to Westchester with an uneasy feeling in my gut from an unknown source.

Things just don't feel the way they should.

Mercury in Retrograde

It seems like it always happens.

The bubble bursts.

This time it took less than two months.

Unconditional love. Yeah sure.

Love of his life. Blah blah blah.

It took one reference. One. To a belief system he had no interest in. No knowledge of. No desire to understand. To shut me down.

This is the first time in this iteration.

There will be others.

A casual reference to that zany, unpredictable, sign-no-contracts phase of the stars. No alignment. Things out of whack. Askew.

One paltry mention. In passing.

If this were the 1600s and we were in Salem no doubt he'd have me burned at the stake ... or dunked in the pond. No ifs, ands or buts. But this is 2010. And hey, he's (by his own admission) a changed man. The father of a daughter. So he knows now how to be sensitive. Compassionate to his woman folk.

But no. He is curious as to what this is all about. My rigid, tied-up-in-knots friend. Wants total acceptance. But seems unwilling to turn the tables. Allow others freedom to think and be.

This is just the beginning. Or, with luck an anomaly. Fingers crossed that it is not history repeating itself.

If so, I am the dupe.

Mercury retrograde comes three times annually. It provides us the unique opportunity to adjust our thoughts, attitudes and decisions about issues and bend in a new direction as we move through 2010.

But this is numero tre. Our third foray. The last time. The charm. Right?

Mercury, the divine messenger, must really be in retrograde.

House H(a)unting

It's a hoot and a tickle just to surf over to realtor.com to peruse the offerings. To gaze at available properties. To get a feel of the market. Test the waters. See what's out there. A real estate voyeur.

It doesn't matter where the homes are located. Not really. But it is the way I familiarize myself with a new area. Just for kicks and giggles. Always have. Always will.

New York City. Connecticut. Oklahoma City. Tulsa. Boston and environs. Palm Beach. You get the picture. I don't even have to have taken up domicile. Just have a few spare hours and a tank full of gas ... or an idle computer. I have even checked the real estate market in the Seattle-Tacoma and Boulder areas.

This is a pastime. Idle folly. No harm. No dollars down. Pure entertainment. And creative if I do say so myself.

Never contact the agent. Nope. Just take down the addresses and swing by if I am in the vicinity. Check out the neighborhoods. The landscaping. The house styles. The lay of the land. Nearby shopping. Cultural landmarks. Whatever.

Socialize. Criticize. Fantasize.

It's fun. An activity. Merely a way to become familiar with new turf. Mapquest on steroids. See up close and personal where one street leads and what is behind the stone walls and over the berm.

And ... aside from the money for gasoline and Coke Zero ... it's free.

So imagine my surprise when he felt I was directing him to sell his condo so he could shell out the high six figures to purchase one of these make-believe abodes. No matter how hard I tried to convince him I have no desire or inclination to sell my home in Maine, much less relocate on a whim it fell on deaf ears. Especially after he indicated this is fun ... keep 'em coming.

Go figure.

Skype and the Needle

Horrors.

Me on Skype is no pretty picture.

Deep wrinkles. Shadowed crevices. Furrowed brow.

And I am not even smiling. Nope. No laugh lines or crows feet etched. A straight face. Relaxed.

Scary. Very.

Even Charlie looked amazed. I could see his jet-lagged expression of repulsion when my video snapped into view. Unsure as to whether it was his initial reaction to his pint-sized bedroom overlooking Quarry Bay. Or, a knee jerk expression to the sight of his beloved Mama on camera.

No Meredith Viera here. Imagine an extra ten pounds and the wrinkles of a SharPei. No thank you very much. A big resounding no to my dream of becoming a television celeb. Not too sure how that was going to occur, but it is scratched off my bucket list in permanent Magic Marker.

So this is how I sit now. I have practiced. My facial expression. Position of my hands. The degree of closeup. The angles. The lighting.

Posing and finetuning my position.

Elbows firmly resting on my desk. Fingers not so gently pulling back the sagging skin taut around my eyes, my jowls. The heels of my hands holding up the double chin.

Better. Much.

Pause for thought.

Am I now ready to contemplate the needle? Inject botulism into my facial muscles? A syringe of Botox here? A shot of Juvaderm there?

Hmmmmm.

A woman must have her secrets.

But this one is too broke and a bit intimidated of poison flowing so close to her brain cells ... the ones that survived the college acid trips and way too loud rock music at wigged out concerts, the anti-mosquito pesticides sprayed from the back of trucks rolling throughout our Highlands neighborhood every summer and the effects of nearly six decades of grey matter on overdrive.

But hey ... it is a most definite strategic option for serious consideration. When my ship comes in!

China Trade Route Hopping (and Hoping)

Hello, my love … and welcome to your new home in the Far East!

In reality you are a mere 16% of the way there. I am tracking the flight on a map (had to get it from another website) and you are 1,100 miles from NYC with 7,000 to go to touch down.

Bailey is looking over my shoulder and is pleased you are above her native Labrador. She asked me to inquire whether you can see black labs frolicking on the snow covered terrain, since she knows as a fact that all Labs love freezing weather, but I reminded her that you are in the middle section and most likely the shades are drawn so you and your fellow passengers can view movies and play backgammon with themselves en route.

It is suppertime here and I have thrown together a big salad Niçoise (sans potatoes and haricot verts but you get the picture). Bailey is staring at her bowl in the corner of the crate and trying to psychically alter the state of the kibble in hopes that it will magically convert to hamburger bits before her eyes. Bored, she steps back out onto the Kilim pillow and sighs. She has ventured up to your room in vain. Didn’t even take a rest on the calico patch floor cushion she knows is hers. We are both trying to adapt to your absence in our own ways.

I, on the other hand, have been busy Googling hotels and flights to Hong Kong, train schedules to Guangzhou (around US$60 RT for the 90 minute ride on the iron rooster with commuting Chinese proletariat no more), and my desired destination of Hanoi near the lake and as close to the Opera and all things French Vietnamese as possible. My armchair sojourn has been quite exhilarating. I feel that I am getting the lay of the land (your new land) from the comfort (for the time being) of the French rattan bistro chair in front of my aging Dell Latitude.

This is so much more efficient than waiting several months for sea-sodden letters describing the gateway to the East. Marco Polo has little on you, my intrepid son. We (that's the collective 'we') miss you. But, my darling (and this I mean with all my heart) you are off on the adventure of your lifetime. A modern-day post-colonialist with the very best of intentions, compassion, passion and an unimaginable zest for the new and unknown.

Welcome to your new home. May you flourish despite the tropical clime and sow seeds that will reap a bounty over your lifetime. I love you, Charlie.

Devotedly (and admittedly pea green with envy), your Mama sitting on the edge of the sea in an olden New England seafaring town yearning to join your adventure (if even from afar).

Cheers, my love, safe travels and Godspeed xoxo

Of Mice and (Wo)Men

Here we are. Me and my baby sissor. That's Robin. Road trip. Kind of. Driving a law abiding 25 through the streets of Salem, Massachusetts in search of the Peabody-Essex Museum showcasing the most fantabulous collection of Chinese art and artifacts this side of Beijing's Forbidden City and Summer Palace.

When lo and behold out of the corner of my eye a grey image darts up the driver's side of the windshield. Robin is redirectioning her iPhone's GPS. But I know. Immediately. Like one knows the cries of her baby in the navy blue middle of the night ... and whether they signify a wet nappy, hunger or loneliness. That was a mouse.

A mouse? How?

Backstory: Yesterday Charlie and I drove our pewter Volvo V70 wagon the 90 minutes from the coast of Maine to the lovely 18th century saltbox colonial of my sweet sister and Ken for a farewell visit.

Parenthetically, before I go further and to further illustrate how I seem to be able to find the perfect partner for everyone sauf moi ... that's her husband. The result of my yenta-style match making in the early 1980s when Robin sauntered into downtown Boston to meet me for lunch. And right there amid the not-so-attractive metal desks of a dozen bank trainees in varying modes of pre-noon preparations (read: distractions) lightening bolts sparked.

On the itinerary is a day trip to Salem. Home of witches, pilgrims and Nathaniel Hawthorne. But since we have different end destinations ... Robin and Ken back to their home, us to Maine ... we are driving in two cars.

Ooops, I forgot to mention that they reside in the country. The leafy Boston exurbs. And that their dog food (kept annoyingly open in their three-car garage) attracted colonies of teeny mice over the winter. The country one. Brownish grey with oversized ears.

Back to the future: We are driving through the rambling streets of Salem. Robin fumbling nervously as I keep repeating obnoxiously "was that a mouse?"

Approaching the parking garage scary things roll through the crevices of my mind. What if it is a mouse and it jumps in the car while I reach through my window to grab the ticket from the automatic attendant? Or worse, suppose an entire family is nesting under the hood wreaking havoc in the insulation surrounding the engine? Even more disastrous, chewing cables and wires that will render the car inoperable at the worst possible moment?

My head swirls as I head up the ramp. Bravely I lower the driver's window. Just far enough to grab the ticket and hit the up button. No more than necessry. Safe. No mouse jumps in.

Oh ... did I mention that Bailey is curled up in the back of the car? She joined us to visit her canine cousins, the Doodle Brothers. An open sack of her kibble on the floor. Treats, too. Mouse bait. And, it is over eighty degrees outside. Windows must be opened a bit the sunroof slid back to let air circulate.

Up the ramp we drive. Floor 2. Robin is still fooling to align the GPS software with our new coordinates. I am sweating bullets. I slide the car into a space on the shady side of the garage. Steel myself and slowly open my car door. I peer up onto the roof.

There, clinging cartoon-like by every toe on its teensy feet to the edge just below my face, is one very scared large eared mouse. Petrified. Both of us.

I beg with my sister to put down her iPhone (we are at our destination for god's sake). Hand me something to swat the mouse off its perch. She grabs Bailey's leash. What am I? A circus act? Am I going to whip the frightened rodent into submission? No.

I spy the Maine atlas of road maps is peeking from the pocket behind my seat. My weapon! Grab that. Please. Tentatively (and I might add more freaked than our roof top passenger) she cracks her window. Barely. And shuts it so quickly that the map book gets stuck. Hurry. Pleeeeeeeze.

Hunter Alice. Armed with the clumsy, page flipping open atlas I sweep the roof of the car. The mouse darts from side to side and then falls into the channel on the hood between the wipers and the windshield. Eeeks. Is it going to go under the hood? In the dimly lit space I cannot see the color-coordinated mouse. Yikes.

I sweep the booklet one more time. With gusto. And purpose. Bingo! The mouse jumps to safety and scampers along the concrete and steel girders. Far far away from its transportation. Farther from its family and friends. Alone on an adventure in rugged Salem.

My heart pounds. I jump back in the driver's seat. Turn the key in the ignition firing up all cylinders post haste. And screech the car in reverse heading to another floor. God knows that I do not want to vacate my open-sunroofed vehicle. The mouse might just be thinking this is the mothership.

Gheesh!

Beach Blanket Backgammon

Salad days.

Not the ones of my youth.

Of Charlie's.

They are flying by. Whizzing neon stripes in motion. Buzzing electric.

We are taking advantage of every moment we have together.

Reliving our cherished moments.

DVDs by night.

Me snuggled on the comfortable study sofa wrapped in a forest green afghan. Him with his long legs stretching from the Martha Washington chair nearby to the butler's tray table. Balancing baskets of popcorn. Digging into an array of hummus, Wheat Thins, Trader Joe's peach salsa with blue corn tortilla chips.

A diverse mix of our most beloved films. Spanning his childhood. Encompassing my unconventional journey and irreverent sense of irony - Dead Poet's Society, Golden Eye, Trainspotting, Austin Powers, Baby Boom, the British Office, Entourage, Friends.

Beach by mid-afternoon.

The most special time of our unusually hot this year, August day. Home from his summer internship in New York City. Capturing precious moments before his imminent departure for the Far East and the rest of his life. Well those are spent at Parsons Beach eating turkey-avocado wraps, sipping Stellas (him, pas moi ... I have my TaB, of course), playing game after game of highly competitive backgammon. In case you are wondering. We are pretty evenly matched. Though I do believe it tips in his favor. He is luckier in his rolls. Much!

Parsons is the loveliest beach in town. Newly discovered by me. And the closest. Parking is limited so it is off the radars of seasonal tourists. Serene. Enchanting views from the sea grass waving on the dunes to the craggy beaches and seaside cottages along the shores. Quietude. No blaring radios or gabby teenagers or chattering families with their children kicking sand on our bamboo mats. Lovely.

[Photo compliements of Captain Lord Mansion, Kennebunkport, Maine]

And this year is different. A first for me. I am sporting a bathing suit. Yes, folks. An honest to god, bathing outfit. Not turn-of-the-last century knee length wool bathing costume replete with its CYA pleated skirt. Nope. A black maillot, no straps. Stunning actually. I have shed those unwanted fat cells. Not exactly toned. But it works. This makes me smile. Widely.

So here I am with my darling son enjoying our fleeting moments of life as we know it. Ready to create a brand new paradigm. Charlie on the other side of the world. His bedtime, my morning walk.

To these summer days filled with my darling son!

Hired Help

Back at the barn.

A shop girl. "Why, Miz Beverly, you are treating me like the hired help. Oh goodness me. I am the hired help."

Eight hour stints. No time to rest. Up and down the stairs. Count this. Straighten that. Fold the mohair throws one more time. I am stuck to the inventory. Beads of persperation glisten on my forehead. I am a mess. Part time seasonal assistance.

Less than a few hundred dollars a month after taxes and other withholdings.

Hardly worth it. But it covers the lawn cutting. Or, the groceries. Not much. But, something.

We're selling nostalgia. Summer cottage schtick. Seashore memories. None vintage. Signs mass produced yesterday in Indiana workshops. Old, new, eclectic eccentricities to the likes of 41's aging bride and their assorted and sundry in-laws, summer guests and name droppin' friends. Nothing real anymore. All picked over.

Busloads of seniors day trip at the port. Drop by. Just to browse. Buy a souvenir. A remembrance. A giftie ... $3 matches adorned with a mermaid or an olden time three masted tall ship. A lobster tea towel. Fake sea glass key chains.

Summer residents from Virginia and Montreal and New Jersey pop in to fetch a pale blue highboy stressed and distressed for their beach house. A Dash & Albert cotton rug for the breezeway. A tin mirror for the entryway. All fake. Otherwise fitting.

The days are hot in this 12,000 square foot warehouse dressed up like a quaint old cottage. Two ceiling fans barely stir the air. The agitating standing fan behind the counter rustles the papers messing up the receipts and faxes. A cool ocean breeze tries to enter the open front doors but is halted by the hot exhaust of the cars in the sandy parking lot.

It is summer by the sea. A few day jaunt for most. A break in the monotonous doldrums of life in Des Moines. A cracked lobster tossed casually on a blue and white earthenware plate drowning in butter. Old fashioned homemade salt water taffy. New England clam chowder with the ubiquitous oyster crackers crumbled on top. Blueberry pie and melting vanilla ice cream drip over the edge of the plate.

Summertime in Maine. I am bored here at the shop. But the sun has been shining. The nights are cool. Walks on the beach in the early morning are delicious. And I have a new-old lover 5 hours away.

Sometimes it pays to be the hired help. This year is one of those times. I am in the weeds!

BSers

Tapered candles flicker throwing a soft glow over my friends. The shadows bounce. Smiling faces erupt in the gaiety of tinkling giggles as another swig of Vitamin V swills smoothly down our throats. Mine of course is G. Up with three olives!

It is the eve of our annual soiree. Casual meeting of like spirits. Like minds. Aligned sense of adventure. No hangers on. No wannabes. Not this time. Just the four of us. The original cast of characters. Trustees unattached. A ship of not so foolish souls.

Witty banter. Sophisticated palates. Global travelers we. Enjoying the camaraderie and festive joys of our five year old friendship. Suppers extraordinaire. Decanted lovelies. Tonight's fare: poached salmon with cucumber dill sauce and summer salad of Bibb lettuce and peaches. Lemon mousse with blueberry coulis for dessert. Nectar of the gods flowing freely.

Cheers to my darling friends: Bruce, PJ and Chris. Without them the winters in Maine would be a bit lonelier and the summers not as delightful.

10,000 Square Feet of Old, New and Unique

Here I am again! Five years later. Rummaging through 10,000 square feet of English, Continental and American furniture, paintings, decorative accessories, architectural elements, and garden accessories.

Not as a customer. Nor an antiques dealer. Nope. A lowly part-time salesgirl. Double minimum wage. One of the hired hands. But I adore it. In a hate it kinda way. It is not air conditioned. The owner thinks we are moving experts versed in the art of hurling heavy oak seven foot tall French armoires and double pedestal mahogany English dining room tables into the tightest of spaces. All the while balancing lamps and export china ... and tending the ringing phone, the day trippers 'just looking', providing a measuring tape and extra care when First Lady 41 arrives, logging in new merchandise. Whew. Our Tennessee southern belle proprietor gets her money's worth!

But creating the displays is sublime. A joy. Rearranging the eclectic mix of old and new and sometimes weird ... porcelain figures, model sailing ships, stunning lamps with hand painted shades, vintage resort signage, the most handsome decorative pillows I have ever seen to create an ambiance found in a most comfortable, gracious well-appointed home ... is my forte. My talent.

You see ... "junking" and the subsequent decorating are in my blood. Wound tightly into the braid of my DNA. From Grandmother Rose to my darling Mom, to my cousins, their daughters and even my brother! Fabulous taste runs the spectrum from sumptuous English cottage to the sophisticated urbane interior of a Manhattan co-op. This love, my appreciation and ability to design pleasing spaces, courses naturally through my veins. Generations of a penchant for creating stunning homes with the most welcoming ambiance amidst period antiques, great art and personal treasures gathered from a life well lived ... or on a shoe string.

On a recent trip across the pond I packed a torch (read: flashlight) for an early morning jaunt -wee hours and jetlag be damned - to the busy stalls and live action of the Portobello Road marketplace. Just to see. To experience the excitement of trading fine art and antique treasures unearthed at estate sales or discovered hidden in a remote family castle to raise a bit of cash for the landed gentry. In China last summer I frequented street fairs and scoured boothes for that have-to-have-it momento, an ivory etched snuff bottle replete with dusty sppon hidden in the cap.

Ooops! Time is getting away from me. I need to get myself down to the barn near the coast for another day of tourists and decorators and renters. So if you find yourself in Kennebunkport, Maine pop on in for a visit. I promise you will not be disappointed. Cheers!

Sparkling Friends from The Edge of the Prairie

It is a perfect summer day in Maine. Perfect.

The mercury hovers in the mid-70s tinging my unsunscreened skin with a blush of rose. The midday sun shines lemon yellow in a cloudless cerulean sky. Maybe there are a few fluffy white cumulus clouds out there. On the horizon. It's hard to tell. The ocean sparkles incandescent. Zillions of shimmering mirrors capturing the dancing sunlight. Dazzling sequins on the sea goddess's midnight blue gown flowing chiffon graceful as the waves ebb and flow onto the wide sandy beach nearby.

But this is not the best part. Not by a long shot. My dearest friends from the landlocked edge of the prairie arrived yesterday afternoon. For the holiday weekend. Birthday celebrations. Lobster rolls. Lobster bisque. Lobster dinner al fresco.

Today is the crème de la crème ... drum roll ... a quintessential sailing trip down the river, past fishermen gathered on the granite sea walls bordering the channel and out into the wide open seas. Postcard views of large grey weathered shingled cottages, wooden white inns from the turn of the last century with huge lawns sweeping to the shore. The pristine expanse of beach (yes, here in Maine!) dotted with gaily colored umbrellas and hundreds of bathers spread out along the shore. Glorious.

Ah, the Schooner Eleanor, a double masted wooden ship built and captained by the grandson of one of Kennebunk's finest ship builders from the early 1900s. My Charlie was fortunate enough to crew on the schooner a few summers ago. Three, two hour cruises a day. Gilligan in a blue/white striped French sailor sweater, barefoot and sea worthy.

Out into the Atlantic. Up and down the coast. Past Walker's Point and 10,000 lobster buoys marking traps. Local fishermen. Local fare. Supper! A soft ocean breeze lulls us. Salt spray mists our tanning skin. A whale and a few seals pop out of the deep waters to sun themselves. Gulls. Terns. Flying fish.

It doesn't get much better than this!

Happiest of birthdays, Golden Bull! Salut to the red white and blue.

Loon de Tabagisme

"You knew your night would get a little bedda now that the Smoking Loon has graced you with his presence."

On the cement basement floor where water seeps in after a particularly heavy downpour next to the white plastic shelving (that is euphemistically referred to as 'the wine cellar') sits a bright yellow carton replete with twelve neat cardboard dividers each holding a dark amber bottle of Cab. From Napa. A loon etched yellow floating proudly on the red label boasting of a night of bliss. Or at the very least, a smooth sail.

A gift from a friend. A card carrying Alpha Squared member for several decades. Who swears it is okay to keep off the hard stuff, but sip from time to time the nectar of the gods. But who am I to say whether this is gospel? I am both a heathen and a cheap drunk. One dirty martini, up, three olives ... or on occasion a glass and a half of wine ... will set my chestnut haired head a'buzz.

Ainsi je suis un peu davantage que confus. Mais c'est moi. Pas lui. Le plus assurément il est correct. Au moins de son point de vue. If you know what I mean!

If I am going to imbibe the fruit of the vine, it will most likely be claret with a hint of lavender and a scent of sorrel mushrooms and a soupçon of pencil shavings. Not a bona fide wine aficionado I just want it to please my palette. Not impress my guests. Decanted. From France, preferably. In my earlier days I was a budding Francophile with a modicum of fluency. A real lover of all things du Gaul: Louis Vuitton, Hermes, Perrier Jouier, evergreen scented Rigaud boudoir candles. You get the picture.

Mais un canard? If so, then definitely one with aplomb. Debonair. Dashing. Self assured. Naturellement.

And that's the truth, so help me God!

Pinball Wizard

Ever since I was a young girl I've played the silver ball. From Nantucket down to Edmond, I must have played them all. But I've never seen anything like him in any amusement hall. That deaf, dumb and blind boy sure plays a mean pinball.

Must be those crazy flippers. His touch gives them a thrill. His deft tongue wags so glibly, I know I'll take a spill. Such a smooth talking wizard. There has to be a twist. Words warp illucidly. Hit me like a fist.

Cunning. Sharp. Plays by intuition. Scores big by manipulating the landscape under glass. Uneven pressure. Metal balls crashing, bouncing. Racking up the points. One offs no more.

Bells a' flashing. Buzzers squealing. Knot growing deep in my belly cutting off my inner joy. Attacking my self-assuredness. Shrouding my joie de vivre. Until I acquiesce. Fold my cards. Melt into the shadows.

Things going bump in the night. My night. Once solemn peaceful slumber interrupted by rattling noises. Breath whistling scarily. Noisily. Carrying me to the very edge of my comfort zone. And beyond. Uneasily. Ding. Ding. Ding. TILT!

To think I almost handed my pinball crown to him.