Captain’s log, Starday Sunday afternoon…

I come to from a three-day migraine, convinced Son’s graduation barbeque and pool party is two weeks away.

“No, D, it’s next Sunday.”

The Twilight Zone theme floats around my head. Full work-week ahead. In-laws arriving Wednesday. Pool not opened. Fifty people coming. Nothing started. I want to EEEEEEKKKK! but can’t: too drained from the migraine.      

More proof that Murphy’s Law rules.  Whine? Roll with it? Whine.

Hubby and Son open the pool. Yuk. Disgusting. I sigh. I go on-line and order a huge fort float. Hoping for the best? No. Locking myself in to getting that water sparkling clean.

I ponder the menu and dash off the first of many to-do lists. I’m exhausted.

Hubby and Son promise they will do whatever I ask, without attitude. Really?

“Your command is like an order!” quips Hubby.

OK then. Forward march. 

THREE PART SECRET JUST REVEALED!!!

Got by you? Here it is, stripped down:

•  Keep a sense of humor.
•  Accept help.
•  Soldier on.

Simple in theory. But tough in the implementation. In other words, it's a spiritual practice. Sigh.

You can stop reading now if you want. That’s the gist.  If you're a glutton for detail, read on.

“You’re so busy! How do you do it?” I’m asked, not infrequently, about my writing process.

“With difficulty,” I usually quip. But, it got me thinking. How do I do it?  

It’s simple really, but not obvious.

It’s all about identifying your Modus Operandi (M.O.), your fundamental operating assumption(s).

By definition, we don’t question assumptions. Until…. 

One day, I noticed— very important, the act of noticing— that when I’m writing regularly, I am happy.

Yet— I also noticed— that I wrote only after taking the garbage out, at the end of the day when I was tired, or on edge that Son would interrupt my train of thought to ask for a ride. What’s up with that? I asked my self.

A-ha!  I wrote last, and then only with the dregs of the day’s energy. No energy left, no writing.  Sound familiar?

There it was, my self-defeating M.O., naked in the light of awareness. In a flash, I got it, and— Ciao baby!— committed to the new M.O.: 

“Let me see you in two weeks,” I said to the patient as we left my office, happy the session was over for two reasons. I was running twenty minutes behind. And, my bladder was full.

I glanced at the day’s schedule. Maybe I had a cancellation and could catch up a little. No such luck. Somebody new, and... What an odd name. Mild stage fright skittered low in my belly. He could be a Forest Gump, a Hannibal Lector, or just a pill, you never knew. 

Entering the waiting room en route to the loo, I stopped short at the psychedelic vision popping up from a chair. “Dr. D? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Pillbo Baggins.”

He was the oddest little man I had ever seen in a long career marked by odd scenes. 

Rotund and hairy, he wore an aquamarine, three-piece suit, mustard shirt, garish floral tie, with a bowler on top.

His dark beard ran up his cheeks leaving only bright black eyes and nose exposed. He wore no shoes. His feet and toes were covered with dark hair to the nails. Those were long and dark. 

He was remarkably short. I am only 5’2”. The bowl of his bowler barely reached my sternum.

Taking all this in at a glance, I nodded and shook the hand he offered me. He tipped the hat with the other hand in a courtly manner, saying in a plumy, English sort of accent, “I am most pleased to meet you, Doctor.”  

“Likewise.” A warm, popcorn aroma wafted off him. His furry hand was squishy, with long dark nails.

We stood there a beat or two longer. He continued holding my hand. I raised my eyebrows. Another beat, and he let go. We locked eyes.  Let the games begin. 

The three of us lined up, stage right. Our music started. I counted the intro phrase then danced on stage, right left right pause, smiling at Hubby and friends somewhere out there in the black across the lights.

One two three pause— Right left right pause— Toward stage left I tripped lightly, the two other dancers behind me. And missed a beat— Damn! 

If I’ve learned anything in five years of performing in student recitals, it is this: obsessing about one mistake draws a second, and a third, and so on. Like blood attracts sharks. Still, the craving to berate myself was strong. A siren song. 

Has the death of Bin Laden dealt a death blow to terrorism? I think not. It makes no difference whether the cause is just or evil. Eliminating a leader kills only the physical man (or woman), not the function. 

It’s group process. We are pack animals. The biology of pack animals demands an alpha. Contenders will sort each other out, whether peace-ably or murderously, until one emerges as the leader of the pack. 

Nature is not picky. She doesn’t demand the leader be good for the pack. Or even that the alpha be good. 

In fact, to become a leader, it helps to be bad. A concern for other people’s feelings and needs gets in the way

Have you noticed that after Death pays a visit, you find yourself entangled in irresistible, life-affirming acts? Such as, say, throwing yourself in an undeniably intimate manner at your loved one. Taking home a stray iguana after it makes goo-goo eyes at you. Chortling instead of groaning over bad puns. Me too. 

This amusing piece by my brainiac friend Roger, a.k.a. A Very Funny Guy (AVFG) is just what the doctor ordered, and this patient needed. Want to chuckle? Read on. No worries if you're not a math head. Trust me, you'll get the really bad puns and double entendres. If you're paying attention. he he he

The Numbers of Mathematicians Have Been Increasing

A Guest Post By Roger Lambert

According to the Mathematical Association of America  (MAA), the numbers of mathematicians have been increasing exponentially. While such growth may be surprising to the layperson, perceiving the difficulty of most mathematicians to carry on a normal conversation, let alone meet and woo fertile mates, the unexpected result is nevertheless being defended as highly significant by the Association. 

“We may not know why the numbers of mathematicians are multiplying,” said Professor Pascal LeFermat, the current president of the MAA, speaking from behind

It was freaky cold last weekend (twenty seven below Sunday night). The heat shut down in the house Friday. But we didn’t know that. I piled on the sweaters, but couldn’t warm up, like when the flu felled me. By the time we figured it out, it was too late to do anything more than hunker down under double wool blankets and down comforter, bundled up in double fleece pj’s and double wool socks. 

Saturday morning, I layered on an ankle length down coat and wool scarf, then called Friend Karl, who helps us with house ailments. His phone was down. But I didn’t know that.