"..and you wouldn't believe how Gladys was dressed. Really, the Wreck of the Hesperus." 

"Wait, wait I thought. I know that one. The wreck of the Hesperus. Because of an impending hurricane, the father ties his daugther to the ship's mast to keep her from being swept overboard. She was, horrificially, found days later, washed up on the beach (still tied to the mast). I guess, like Gladys, she probably didn't look her fashion best. 

I am fond of metaphors. I like literary or historical references. I just know that when presented with one when I am hearing a story, I sometimes, freeze with anxiety. Do I know that reference? Where do I know that reference from? Can I infer the meaning of their story if I don't know it? Was it used correctly? Do I have too much time on my hands?

Some of my favorites, because I actually recognize and use them, (and are apparently, the favorites of others are because they recognize and use them too) are Sisyphus, the Baatan Death March, Phyrric Victory.

Did you nod in recognition? Or, not? Have to look them up? Figure a way to work them into your next conversation? 

I haven't met a word I don't like, and happily use hundreds of them when one or two would probably do. It would be sooooooo much easier on all of us if the teller of any story would adopt my philosphy. Albeit, the story might not be as intellectually challenging and provocative, but you'd know, immediately what they were actually talking about.

Or am I being to Taozi?

Have you ever had this experience? 

For a brief and fleeting moment, your eyes locked, you held each others gaze, you started to speak, but then, oh no, the doors closed, the moment passed, finished, over, done.

Me neither.

Not that I haven't wanted to.

I've often thought it would be so healthy to channel my fantasy life productively. I envision, we met, married, raised extraordinary children, helped in getting the health care reform bill passed, we freely traveled the world, creating philanthropic foundations whereever we went. And world peace. Bill and Melissa, move over. Except she met him at the office. And I don't go to an office. Strike that opportunity.

Snapping back into the here and now, the only eye contact I make is the pleading look that says I'd really like to not race you to get that empty seat. Otherwise, eye contact is studiously avoided. Perhaps explaining why I probably missed my moment.

Since I am pretty clear that you make your own opportunities, and timing is everything, I am resolved to keep my eyes darting furiously back and forth, my mind open and my telepathic energy signaling, you might be the one.

Who better not take my seat.

No, not back to my set point or goal weight, I'm so over that. 

It's the business brag, "I've made my numbers…" sentiment, which baffles me.

Really, if uttered by Warren Buffett, this might hold some meaning for me. From most of the regular folk I know, not so much. What's the jumping off point, I wonder? Do you offer congratulations to someone you know is just squeaking by?

Sure, why not.

It's November, when you're told this piece of information. Would "phew, you just made it", be taken as less than complimentary? Alternatively, you are told this in March. Once again, do you think they might have set their sites low? Do they simply coast for the rest of the year? Do you casually mention that the year after this one could be a bummer, take a deep dive, show no signs of improving? Would offering up this depressing insight take the wind out of their sails?

"Make Hay While The Sun Shines" I found out, by the way, is literal. If you chose to roll those bales, (or whatever it is one does with hay) on a rainy day, you get soggy hay. That wasn't a mulitple choice question. I just knew it. Nonetheless, I failed the farmer exam.

Anyhow, I've thought about this and think that the next time someone tells me that they made their numbers my response will be, "Me too, I won the lottery. I'm set for life."

What, I wonder, could possibly attribute to the fall of our Governors?

Do you think that our elected officials are in cahoots with Dick Wolf? They give him fodder for his Law and Order franchise, he casts someone really compelling, handsome, youthful, to portray them? 

Governor Paterson, poor misguided thing, immediately upon taking office claimed that he did drugs and had an extra marital affair. Are confessions absolution? Now, ducking and parrying with the finesse of Ali, he is steadfastly holding onto his crown. Why?

We all know the sexual predilections of his predecessor. And the outfit he apparently opted from during his transgressions. 

And while he was no longer the Governor, but I think we could surmise that this wasn't his first romp, we have Nelson Rockefeller dying in a way that most of us long for, in our beds.  However, the ultimate long term sleep sedative, an orgasm, wasn't the way he thought he'd go, I imagine.

Even, way back when in 1913, a mini research project told me that William Sulzer, while keeping it in his pants, did fall victim to a vice of dipping into the campaign funds that helped elect him. Or some such thing.

New York, as we know, is not the only state that has witnessed the dance of the deranged. I think it simply holds the record. 

Whose up next? 

A reasonable campaign slogan might be "let he that has not sinned cast the first stone." Takes the pressure off, don't you think?

The Red Carpet query “who are you wearing” is no longer query enough. It’s now “turn around and let me read your back” or “your arm” or “chest” or…

I thought I might include some of these overly wordy, sometime literary referenced, totally obtuse sentiments for your pleasure reading. Then, I thought, why?  For me, call me old fashioned, but I prefer the really simple, straightforward, and truly meaningful type of tattoo. Homage where homage is due.

If you really really need to know whose sporting what, you can google, or watch the Oscars.

In the meantime, what I really wonder about is what ‘fill in your celebrity’ was thinking during the moment of being inked. I suppose, though, if you can name your child Apple, Sailor Lee or Sage Moonblood (all real, not kidding) and not consider the consequences, you can do whatever else you want to your body parts.

Unless you don’t plan ever ever ever to age, have you considered what ultimately happens to that sharply defined piece of art you’d be sporting? Not the look you once thought you were going for, I imagine.

I, for one, know I’ll never get a tattoo.

You see, I don’t even wear T shirts with sayings on them.

After flipping through The New York Times Style Magazine section I'd like to share a couple of observations.

To begin, I was mesmerized by the almost, but not quite, Grouchoesque eyebrows arched, oh so gracefully, above the wide eyed gaze of the sweet young things. 

Sweet young things still have eyebrows. 

Mine have been disappearing at about the same rate as my facility to remember nouns. What to do?  Can you wield that angled, laced with powder, eyebrow brush? Right. Not many can. Besides the deep crevices that surround the eyebrow seem to catch and hold the powder. Not the smoky look I'm going for.

Or, the article about the latest in cosmetic surgery. Let's consider the term "non invasive." The description of this particular procedure started with the insertion of a "needle like device…tiny holes…injecting….molding." Am I mincing words, here? Non invasive, to me, would mean being hypnotized into believing that I no longer have a slackened jaw.

 My absolute, I can relate, portend of things to come, where can I buy that look, came in the editorial section called Jumble Fever. While just a mere consonant or two away from a politically incorrect sentiment, or a Spike Lee movie, here's what emerged for me. Sometime, in the next 30 or so years, when I am certain that my fashion sense, along with my mind, are both circling the drain, I will, with arthritic finger, point to this saved and dog eared section for just this very moment.  

Hmmm, the family will think, she is really fashion forward, afterall.

David Geffen? David Geffen!

Oh so sad. 

After 38 years of speculation, was it Mick, Warren, Cat (yeah, him) Kris? It appears that the truth comes out. And, purportedly, Carly Simon wrote the song because she was pissed that Mr Geffen was showing a tad too much interest in Joni Mitchell's career.

She could have sang, "he's so opportunistic" but it would have been challenging to make it work with "don't you, don't you…"

Other than Carly's long queried who is she talking/singing about, she and Joni Mitchell are the iconic voices of multiple generations. 

Living out loud. They both chronicled the lives, loves, aspirations, the reality/fragility of life. Mitchell's "Nothing Can Be Done" is a refrain in her song "Night Ride Home" which is about the resignation that comes with aging. And Carly, similarly, chronicled the demise of her marriage, then created an anthem for women in her "Coming Around Again"

Right up to the present, slugging it out with Starbucks for breach of contract. Apparently, like the rest of us Baby Boomers, according to the story, she too is struggling with funding her retirement.

Okay, perhaps a slight exaggeration. 

I, still, though had secretly wanted the fellow 'who walked into the party' to be an object of my fantasy, didn't you?

Wouldn't you know it?

Put forth a fairly snarky epistle about beliefs, ponder whether there is a bigger plan for us, shy away from considering whether there actually is an all seeing, all knowing Being and then…

An omen.

A zillion years ago, in a moment of abject curiosity I agreed to go see a friend's psychic. "Why not," she cajoled. "Why not?" I countered. "The fact that I catergorically, absolutely, positively don't believe in this concept is in direct conflict with what if he says something really meaningful and profound?" "Get over yourself" was her wise counsel.  

So there I found myself with Central Casting Psychic. Long caftan, shaved head, a meaningful relationship with Navajo jewelry.  He, clearly, took the chic part of psy chic very seriously. Understand this was not your neighborhood storefront variety. This was a hip and trendy upper west side Manhattan locale. 15th floor with a panoramic view of the Park. Either business was very good, and/or he really could foretell the future reaping the benefit of that from the ponies, Vegas or the stock market. Perhaps he just married well.

So, then what?

Not telling. 

But yesterday, in the mail, came a card from him. "Now, it said, is the time to express our personal, spiritual, and creative power." "Our", I thought, is that an invitation to join him on the road to fame and fortune? Is this the royal "our"? Is there such a thing as the royal "our" or is only reserved for the royal "we"? Could I use more quotation marks? 

Suffice it to say that I didn't throw the card away. He'd know.

Are you, like me, conflicted as to what to say when asked "are you religious?"

Never quite sure exactly what I am being asked. I know it holds more gravitas than, "how are you?" But there as well, does the asker really want a multisentence response? Anyhow, I nod, sometimes with a beatific smile on my face, further emphasizing that I am, might be, must be, should be, want to be…. and respond that I am "spiritual".

Thankfully, no one ever asks exactly what that means. I, to be honest, really wouldn't be able to tell them.

I read today that the  Dalai Lama has a twitter account. Perhaps he can, in 140 characters or less, lend some insight to this age old question. Unless, of course you are getting all your conventional wisdom from Ashton Kutcher.

There does seem to be some scientific evidence, however, to support the truth behind the "laying on hands" concept making you feel supported and heard. Yet again, our old friend the hormone oxytocin is released, enabling a feeling of trust, and reducing stress. (Do need to find out if this is commercially available).

Anyhow, going forward, if you feel compelled to know the religious persuasion of someone, approach them with a reassuring touch, unless of course they are fingering beads and handing out pamphlets.