who did that?

My granddad worked for "the company" for fifty years, retiring in the mid-sixties.  "The company" was Southwestern Bell and he and my grandmother celebrated his retirement with a trip to Hawaii, quite the status symbol back in the day.

As I watch the fast-paced evolution of communication continue at warp speed, I can't help but wonder what my no-nonsense, Norwegian grandfather would have to say about it all.  Probably something like, "Now, be careful with that.  It is not a toy."

But really, isn't it more a toy now?  I mean, communicating with someone through speech is its most basic function, but no one buys a smart phone to talk on it, right?  That's so 2000.  Today's phones are used for everything from getting driving directions to answering trivia questions to charting a woman's ovulation cycle.  I can't begin to imagine what granddad would have to say about that.

Well, wait.  He wouldn't say a thing about it because I would never volunteer that kind of information to him.  He's my granddad, for Pete's sake.  AND, he's Norwegian!

Once I start down this rabbit hole of contemplating the vast mysteries of science that cause my teensy weensy brain great pain and suffering, I ease the discomfort by trying to focus less on technological aspects of our culture and more on stuff like this...

Who was the first person to shake a coconut and, upon hearing some sloshiness, thought it would be a grand idea to mash it open with a rock and then take a swig or two?

Who figured out that nasty, bitter cocoa pods could be smushed around and transformed into the loveliness we enjoy today?  Oh, I know it was the Mayans or Aztecs, but who was the FIRST person to figure it out?

Who figured out you could take the goop out of a pumpkin and bake what's left and make a pie?  Who figured out how to make a flaky crust?  Who figured out that cinnamon and cloves could give some zing to said pie?  And don't get smart and say "Betty Crocker."

As you can see, the list of these firsts is infinite.  And did you notice they're all food related?  That's just my brain being weird, which I warned you about yesterday.

To take these queries a bit further, because, let's face it, I'm not doing anything very productive these days and I can only watch so many YouTube videos at a time...

You gotta know that some of these taste tests had to go very wrong.  For every yummy discovery there had to be a couple of "hmm, a bit on the salty side, oh wait...cough...cough...gasp...um, having a bit of trouble over here...wheeze...gasp...oh, dear me."  Thwump.

Do you suppose they had designated taste testers?  Perhaps instead of capital punishment you had to do three months of berry tasting.

Not a bad idea.

this guy, post script + some other random stuff

I totally forgot to mention one of the best things Ron has been doing for me...making my bed.

I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I can count on one hand the number of times I've not made my bed in the last fifty or so years.  I cannot fathom getting into an unmade bed.  It's like fingernails on a chalkboard.  Gives me the willies.

Every morning my bed looks like a major military campaign has been waged during the nighttime hours.  Covers strewn about, pillows tossed hither and yon.  Remote controls either on the floor or MIA under the bed.  By the time I've done my morning toilette, Ron has righted the ship and made it PT certified.  And he does it several times each day.

If I could figure out how to clone his skills set, we'd be sittin' pretty somewhere warm with fruity cocktails.  Ok, Ron's would be Scotch, but you get the picture.

Speaking of getting the picture...

When Ron and I were in the "honeymoon" phase of this caregiving role reversal subplot in our marriage, one thing became very clear to me.  I have a very weird brain.  This is not a huge revelation to anyone who knows me, but seeing this particular situation play out made me face the grim reality of being a weird brainer.

It started out innocently enough.  I was getting dressed, with Ron's assistance, and I was trying to decide which top to put on.  Here's the gist of the conversation...words in () are my thoughts...

Me: Can you bring me my purple Estes Park t-shirt (oh, wait, that's a little too tight). No, wait.   (Which one will be most comfortable?).  Bring me the gray one.

Ron: this one?

Me: no, the one that's kind of a turtleneck, but not really.

Silence.

Ron: is this it?

Me: no.  Wait.  (That other one isn't warm enough.) Just bring me my Kanakuk sweatshirt.

If I was playing this little scenario by myself, it would have been resolved in, say, ten seconds.  But bringing in Ron (or anyone, for that matter) took a good three minutes!  And not a small amount of exasperation.

In a slightly raised voice, as he looked at me with a "you have GOT to be kidding me" stare, I said, "Now you have an idea what goes on in my brain every single minute of every single day."

He quietly handed me my sweatshirt, still looking into my eyes.  I stared back.

Was that pity I saw?

Or fear?

this guy

Up until now, Ron's had the corner on the market when it comes to TLC...two knee replacements, two shoulder surgeries.  I happily donned my Florence Nightengale uniform and puttered and hovered and futzed, plumped pillows, and adjusted blankets.  Anything to make him as comfortable as possible.

I was in my element.

Now, I don't want to negate the major strides women have made in the past few decades (still some issues to be addressed, thank you, Patricia Arquette), but women are innately wired to be caregivers.  Men, on the other hand, are innately wired to fix things with their hands and gather firewood.  That's why women have wombs and men have tougher skin.  I know these are stereotypes and generalizations, but for this particular musing, just amuse me and don't judge me too harshly.

So, it was with some trepidation that I approached Ron about taking off two weeks to help me in my recovery.  I may or may not have said three or four times that I took off FIVE weeks to nurse him back to health on his first knee surgery.  It might have been as many as eight or nine.  Trust me, a good dose of guilt or "you owe me" attitude can go miles in getting what you want.

One of the things you need to know about this man o' mine is that he cannot sit still.  If he does, he falls asleep.  Boom.  He's also a projectaholic.  He's usually got a couple of things in various stages of completion in the garage and another dozen or so floating around his Temple Grandin mind (he totally sees things in pictures in his brain like the fascinating Ms. Grandin).

So when he responded to my request with, "I'll do whatever you need," I just kind of stared at him.  There was probably an arched eyebrow involved as well.  "Do you have any idea what this will involve?" I wondered, silently.

After two weeks, I can pretty safely answer, "No, he did not."

He did his best. He tended to my every need...but, let's face it ladies...there are some things a girl's gotta do herself, no matter the circumstances. He loved me, he encouraged me, he made sure I was as comfortable as possible. He set the alarm at night to come give me my pain meds and refill my cooler with ice every four hours.
But, bless his heart...it wasn't easy for him.  Which makes it all the more dear to me.  Ron Martin, you are my best friend, my helpmate and the one I want to grow old with.

But for now, get the heck outta here.  You're driving me a wee bit batty.

And just like that the color returns to his face, his shoulders straighten and he's out the door before I've finished typing "batty."

"I love you, too!"

those €£+*%}\{}<>^*}~> commercials

I seriously don't how I functioned before the invention of DVR.  There are those who would argue that fire, or indoor plumbing or the polio vaccine should be at the top of everyone's List of Greatest Inventions ever.

But I shun those people because, truth be told, I am a personage who is very shallow and extremely self centered.  I'm not ashamed to admit it, because, by setting the bar so low, perhaps one or two people I meet will find me just a little less repugnant than the reputation that precedes me.

Back to the miracle that is the Holy Grail of television geeks.  By my very unscientific measurements, there are approximately 18 minutes of paid advertising during a one hour time slot.  I can think of a whole snorkel of things I could do for eighteen minutes every hour.  At the top of my list is NOT watching commercials.

Here's why.

I don't want to watch a Broadway revue-style song and dance about new carpeting.  Who green-lights something like that?

I don't want to watch those gross mucus people moving back into some poor sap's chest for the winter.

I don't want to watch Mr. Sun coaxing his fellow solar system buddies into eating a microwaved breakfast sandwich.

I don't want to watch everything from M&M's to new radial tires being sold through sexual innuendos.

I don't want to watch two people watching the sunset whilst perched in matching claw footed tubs.  Perhaps the answer doesn't lie in a pill...perhaps a claw footed tub for two might work.

I don't want to be told that I'll "enjoy the go" better with an extra soft bum tissue.

And I never, ever, for the rest of my life want to be told to "have a happy period."

Don't even think about it.

the long and winding and painful road

There are, in life, few things that eclipse the joy of getting released from the hospital.  No more needless interruptions in the wee hours of night to take a blood pressure or draw blood (I knew I was in trouble one morning when the lab tech kept saying "shucks.").  No more bland food, no more bright lights that make you squint in a most unbecoming manner.  No more pillows that resemble balloons.

Home.  Where everybody knows your name.  Your bed calls your name and you willingly respond with open arms and a deep sigh.

This is what I was anticipating.

This is what I got.

It takes hours for discharge paperwork to process.  Having a nurse who was PRN or a sub or a temp did not help.  She finally got all my stuff in order and went to get a wheelchair.  She came back in the room, muttering something about "these chairs are all different..."  She couldn't figure out how to adjust the footrests and my range of motion was pretty dismal so I couldn't bend my knee to put it on the footrest.  I finally just told her to fold the footrest against the front of the wheelchair and I'd just rest my foot against it.

Then she couldn't get the other footrest to lock into place so I was trying to keep my right leg from banging around, while at the same time keeping my left leg suspended in mid air so it wouldn't drag on the floor...remember, just two days prior I'd had all of my major leg muscles thoroughly traumatized.

And I was holding a walker in my lap.

This Angel of No Mercy clearly didn't know the lay of the land because she kept changing the route...still trying to balance, control and be congenial.  Once we finally got to the main floor, she picked the pace and then IT happened.  I don't know exactly what went down, but the result was my left foot being jammed into the floor.  The one with all those traumatized muscles.  Pretty sure I cussed.

There were a couple more jolts and jounces before we made it outside.  I suggested that it might just be easiest to strap me on top of the car.  In hindsight, that would most definitely been the best idea.

I tried getting in the front seat by hoisting my rear end over as far as I could go, but no go.  I then opted for the old "scoot your bum across the back seat and sit sideways."  It completely wore me out.

I was sitting there, just resting, planning one last scoot to make sure my foot was far enough inside when "WHAM" Ron slammed the door, shoving my leg (again, those traumatized muscles) inside the door.  Not sure what came out of my mouth, but whatever it was, it got Ron's attention and he yanked open the door and my foot responded like a jack-in-the-box, minus the goofy grin.  I am pretty sure I heard the whole "boooiiiinnnnggg" sound.

At this point in this comedy of errors, I'm just laughing.  Because any alternative probably would have gotten me locked up.

Or back into the arms of The Angel of No Mercy.

life in the slow(er) lane

Guess who went up and down thirteen stairs yesterday?  That would be me!  Zipped down and up like  'twarnt no big thing.  It will be awhile before I'm at my pre-surgery gait, but I am moving.

This was my "personal best" in terms of the length of my hospital stay.  I don't do well in hospitals.  I want all the creature comforts of home...my fan, my snacks and my schedule.  Of those things I just mentioned, the only thing that came close was a schedule.  A schedule.  Not my schedule.

I really can't complain, but because it's in my nature...the room was nice, part of a newly constructed wing of the hospital.  The furniture smelled new.  But - and you know it's true - you can put all the lipstick in Elizabeth Arden's arsenal on a smelly old pig but it's still a smelly old pig.  New paint and shiny floors can't hide the fact that you're in a semi-prison facility.  Most folks really don't want to be there...you can see it in their eyes...a cold, flat, desperate look that says, "If I had two good legs, man, I'd be so outta here."

The nursing staff, as a whole, was decent.  I had the same night nurse for three days and I think she slept through the classes  on "Listening to your patient" and "Anesthesia-Induced Humor Appreciation."

I don't trust anyone who doesn't think I'm funny.  And although I don't have a firm grasp on what comedic gems I chose to share my first post-op night, I'm pretty sure I was killing.  Every time I said something amusing I was met with blank stares.  Unnerving.

Is it possible that I was really just slurring something stupid?  Absolutely.

Does that give Nurse Never Smile a pass?  Absolutely NOT!

One of the worst things I encountered post-op were these uncontrollable tremors.  They'd start out innocently enough...just a shiver.  Within a few seconds, though, my whole body would be shaking, teeth chattering like a mouse.  It was awful.  Gives me a shiver just thinking about it.

Thursday night I was awake waiting for my pain meds and I looked at the whiteboard that had all kinds of info on it, including my daily goals.  One of my goals was to "stop shivering."

Not get my knee to bend or any other PT-related goal.  That's how bad it was.

Next time...the ride home

downstairs at downton

Let's face it.  Downton Abbey would be NOTHING without the loyal service of the men and women who toil below stairs (and above) to make sure Lady Mary has her fire lit before she sets one dainty foot upon the richly carpeted floor of her bedroom.

Nor would the fine folks who dine on eight course meals on the perfectly laid table have any morsels to put into their silver-spooned mouths were it not for the eighteen hour days Daisy and Mrs. Patmore et al put in day in and day out.

I've always been fascinated by the dichotomy represented by these two groups of people, whose lives are worlds apart in terms of wealth and comfort, yet they're existing within the same household... "Howard's End," "The Remains of the Day," "Gosford Park"...all great movies! And...The Grand Hotel is a great series set in Spain that also deals with the upstairs/downstairs drama.  It's all in Spanish but it's subtitled.

For the purposes of brevity (cue the roar of the crowd) I'm just going to focus on a few of the folks who make the wheels run smoothly at Downton.

Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes...
As butler, Mr. Carson is the head of the service household.  People stand up when he walks into the room.  He rules with a thundering velvet hand and expects his staff to toe whatever line he chooses to enforce.  He is the Rosetta Stone of Edwardian manners and is highly suspicious of anything that smacks of progress..social, political or economic.  

His many tasks involve decanting wine (sometimes through a sieve...Ron says he has to do that because it's so old it has an excess amount of sediment and heaven forbid any of the blue bloods upstairs get a speck of sediment stuck between their teeth), making sure the table is set impeccably at all three meals and keeping all the boys under his charge in line (meaning no hanky panky with the girls).

Mrs. Hughes, the head housekeeper, also runs a tight ship, but with a great deal of understanding and empathy.  I'm not sure how many girls are under her purview, but it's not insignificant. Most of the girls are very young and prone to heartbreak and the usual teen angst, but Mrs. Hughes doesn't allow too many shenanigans because there are fires to be laid (and stoked during the day), clothes to be mended, ladies to be dressed and undressed, then dressed and undressed, then dressed again and undressed...it's all rather ridiculous, but it's also what makes it so grand.

Thomas and O'Brien...
Thomas has been promoted from First Footman to Under Butler and is, accordingly, now called Barrow.  It makes me think of Clyde Barrow (Bonnie & Clyde) every time I hear him called that.  He is, without a doubt, one of the vilest characters on the series.  Always scheming and angling to obtain gossip in order to further his position.  It's almost as if he thinks he can actually become a Crawley if he connives enough. Just when I think he's done the most despicable thing ever and is about to be tossed out on his ear, he does something heroic and is saved by the skin of his teeth.  Grrrrr.

O'Brien, who left the show last season, was Thomas' partner in crime.  She was the lady's maid for Lady Grantham and did equally despicable things, on which I will not elaborate in case you haven't watched any of the series (again, tsk, tsk, tsk).  Since her departure, Thomas has yet to find a long-term accomplice, but it's not been for lack of trying.

Bates and Anna...
Perhaps the best story line downstairs.  Bates, a wounded veteran who served with Lord Grantham in some military endeavor, is now his valet (pronounced valett, not valay, like we uncultured Americans say it).  There was grave concern that he would not be able to manage the labryinth of stairs in the castle, or his many duties due to the marked limp created by his war wound.  That idiot Thomas even went so far as to trip in in front of the whole family, causing him to fall into the oyster-shelled driveway in season one with a resounding crunch.  Undeterred, Bates has won the hearts of the entire staff and family...and, remarkably, his limp seems to have vanished.  Or at least diminished quite a bit.  But, wait.  Bates has a past...and a dark one at that.  That part of the story has yet to be finished so I'll leave it at that.

Anna, sweet Anna!  A peach of a girl, perfectly content to be Lady Mary's maid for the rest of her life.  It was apparent right away that she was attracted to Bates and, defying the protocol of not dating co-workers, married him and is now dealing with what might, or might not be, a really devastating turn of events.

Anna has a very close relationship with Lady Mary...so close that Lady Mary gave her a book about birth control and made her go buy one of the devices for a clandestine tryst with one of her suitors.  Anna was so distressed at having to actually go into the local pharmacy and buy it that she waived off the instruction booklet.  If I'm right, it was probably some sort of diaphragm, which is not the easiest method to employ.  Eyebrows raised...Lady Mary...tryst...???

I don't want to minimize the other below stairs staff.  Each brings a layer of wonderful color to the tapestry of life below the castle.  Molesely is a hoot, with his quirks and feelings of inferiority.  (And his name is spelled Molesely, not Mosely, as I once thought.  I know that because, again, I watched the "Manner of Downton Abbey" and they had these lovely placards with the character's names spelled out in perfect calligraphy.)  Daisy is a delight, with her metamorphosis as a shy, uneducated young girl to a competent, eager cook's assistant.  Baxter, the new lady's maid for the Countess, has proven to have a strong backbone, resisting Thomas' demand for dirt on the family.  Brava to her!  And Mrs. Patmore, the woman who makes sure the family (upstairs and down) is well-fed, is a study in organization and chaos.

Dang.  I love this show.

Here's a link to a spot the cast did for a charity during the holidays.  It is hilarious!  Alas, the rumors of George Clooney joining the cast this season are false...or are they?
http://vimeo.com/115023404

Next time:  the do's and don'ts of Downton Abbey

the perfection of maggie smith

I have been in love with Maggie Smith for years. I think the first movie I really remember her in was "Hook."  She played Granny Wendy and I thought she was ancient back then.  I recently saw "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie," in which a very young Maggie Smith (pre-Dame designation) played a rather unconventional teacher at a girls' school in England.

The unconventional Miss Brodie has traded her free spirit in for a knock-your-socks-off performance as the formidable Dowager Countess in "Downton Abbey."

It was a good trade.

The matriarch of the Crawley family has quite a few ways one might address her: The Dowager Countess of Grantham, Lady Grantham, Cousin Violet, Mama (accent on the second 'ma') and Granny.  I'm sure there are other, shall I say, less flattering terms that might be whispered behind her back.  But I wouldn't try it.  She's as sharp as a tack and hears EVERYTHING about EVERYONE.

She is a force of nature that cannot be tamed.  Her acerbic wit and sharp tongue have led to quite a few YouTube videos highlighting her one-liners. My favorite?  In a dialogue with Mrs. Crawley (Matthew's mother and quite a commoner, in Violet's eyes), she says something to Isobel, who responds with "Well, I'll take that as a compliment."  Violet turns her back on Isobel and says, "Well, I must have said it wrong."

She is fiercely protective of her family - and the family name - and has conspired on numerous occasions to insure that the good name of Crawley is not besmirched.  I can't even begin to try and calculate how many family secrets she has floating under all those enormous hats she wears.  Makes my brain hurt.

I've never seen Violet lose her composure, but you can tell her displeasure by the pitch of her voice.  The higher it goes, the more outraged she is.  She's as smug as they come when it comes to deciding who's worthy of a seat at the dinner table and isn't above rigging a flower competition so that her perfect rose is given the Grand Prize.  Which, I might add, is a storyline lifted almost in its entirety from "Mrs. Minniver," a fabulous movie from 1942 starring Greer Garson.  I'm not kidding...watch it and see.

One of the most enduring - and endearing - story lines is between The Dowager and Mrs. Crawley.  (Is anyone as confused as I am with all the Crawley's?)  She can match The Dowager quip for quip...most of the time and steadfastly refuses to be demeaned by any of the scathing words directed towards her by Violet.  Mrs. Crawley is a forward thinker, much to the dismay of The Dowager.  Everything Violet views with suspicion, Mrs. Crawley firmly embraces.  It makes for lively dinner conversations.

Violet never shies away from giving her family advice, most often slanted towards what will be best for the family, not necessarily the individual.  She's a shrewd woman, who knows her place in the hierarchy and uses it to her advantage.  It's interesting to me that, when faced with any particularly vexing problem, the Earl goes to Mama first for advice, not Cora, his wife.  Violet still has a firm grip on the goings on at Downton, but in recent seasons she's relaxed a bit as Mary and Tom seek to introduce new methods of maintaining the estate.  Violet is savvy enough to know that their privileged life is becoming more and more of a dinosaur and she has no wish to see Downton go the way of the dodo bird.

So, Dowager, carry on with your dead-on observations and don't let that blessed tongue of yours be tamed.

Because what would be the fun in that?

Next time...below stairs

Note:  I'm getting a new knee this week, so it might be a few days before I can hobble downstairs to post.  Don't look so crestfallen...I'll be back...whether you like it or not!

how do you solve a problem like mary, edith and sybil?

As promised, here's a brief look at the lovely Crawley ladies...

Mary, Mary, (often contrary)...
The eldest of the three Grantham daughters never - not even for a moment - lets anyone forget that she was there first and, therefore, has a right to that haughty attitude of hers.  She has perfected that time-honored skill of looking down one's nose at others and does so on a regular basis, often accompanied by a smart toss of her head.  Although, as of late, she's adopted a more active role in the running of the estate and has opened up her once closely shuttered mind to accept new ideas about running the business so that they don't lose the whole kit and caboodle. Still, she can be a pill.  A big one.

She's had great story lines...the Mr. Pamuk scandal threatened to ruin her chances of ever finding a suitable husband.  Today that situation wouldn't be given a second thought.  Well, maybe a second thought - a dead man in a woman's bed is always good fodder for at least one news cycle.  The beautiful and drawn out "getting to know you" relationship with Matthew was a joy to watch and even harder to accept when it was stopped it its tracks a couple of seasons ago (Devastated, I was. Positively devastated)   Last season it was the "dueling suitors" saga and Mary did a grand job of keeping them both dangling.  However,  Lady Mary is now 32.  It's time to *blank* or get off the pot, girlie.  Of course, she has produced a male heir so her role in that department has been filled.  Now she can marry just for the fun of it!

Edith (aka Poor Edith)...
As often happens with middle children, Edith somehow manages to get lost in the sea of nobles at Downton.  Deliberately portrayed as dowdy (actress Laura Carmichael is really quite lovely), Edith always seems to grab the short end of the stick and any redeeming qualities she might have (and she does have some) are overlooked by the family.

I imagine she feels quite a bit like Jan Brady.

Edith also has some good story lines, but more often than not I find myself wringing my hands and dabbing the corners of my eyes with a finely embroidered hankie.  She's come so close to happiness, but then...it's snatched out of her delicate, white fingers.  There are a plethora of cliches that apply to Edith...always a bridesmaid, never the bride, a rose whose bloom has passed, unlucky in love, the one with the unfortunate face...alas, Poor Edith.

And I should also mention that there's a healthy does of sibling rivalry between Mary and Edith.  Mary's got quite an acerbic tongue and Edith can be quite crafty and deceptive, especially if she thinks she can take a rung out of Mary's elevated status.  During a particularly difficult moment for the family, Edith beseeches Mary, asking her if they can't put aside their differences and try to get along.  Mary responds with, "I highly doubt it."  Or something like that.  Perfectly touching moment ruined.

Sybil (the wild child)...
I knew Sybil was a rebel in the making when she donned that beautiful Moroccan-style outfit in season one.  Of course she got a way with it because she's the youngest and is expected to flaunt convention at every turn.  When she claps her eyes on the family chauffeur for the first time and sparks fly, you could almost hear the collective gasp of the entire county.  Forbidden love is always the tastiest and Downton devotees were not disappointed.  Of all the girls, Sybil was the one who inherited her mother's brash American heritage and was not going to be bound by the social norms of the day.  You go, girl! Her departure from the show was one of the most heart-wrenching scenes I've ever watched.

Rose (not really a Crawley, but close enough)
Cousin Rose has brought youth back into the lives of the Crawley's (if you don't count Sybie and George) and she is a lively little thing.  What with sneaking out to local pubs and posh London clubs, she finds herself in a whole slew of sticky wickets.  She invites a jazz band with a black lead singer to perform at Lord Grantham's birthday, which almost makes him (the Earl) keel over from shock...imagine what his reaction would be if he knew what was going on below stairs with the pair of them!!!

Being as young as she is, she can play the innocent and get away with it most of the time.  And she's very persuasive...getting some of the below stairs folks to aid and abet her mischievousness and finally, after much hinting and eye batting, haranguing Uncle Robert to get a wireless...just to hear the King make a speech.

One of the most beautiful scenes in the entire series is Rose's debut into London society.  It was a lush, glittery and spectacular affair, full of high society pomp and circumstance. It astonishes me to think how much money was (maybe still is) poured into those affairs.  Now that she's "out," Rose is prime marriage material, but don't count on her making a good match for the family's sake...it's love or nothin' at all with her.

Next time...The Dowager Countess

what's up with those downton abbey folk?

One of the things that irks me to no end is when so-called "period" pieces aren't true to the period in every last detail.  Like when Ritchie and Potsi started wearing their hair 70's style instead of the 60's.  Same with M*A*S*H...I'm no military expert, but I'm guessing that all military personnel - including doctors and nurses - would have been sporting buzz cuts during the Korean War.  I may be wrong...

Haha!  I like to fact check my assumptions, so I Googled military hairstyles in the Korean War and this was one of the first ones that popped up...pretty sure Bob Dylan wasn't in the Korean War.

Meanwhile...so imagine my utter joy and delight when Downton Abbey appeared on the scene some five years ago.  The castle alone is magnificent, a true homage to the Edwardian lifestyle.  And then there are the clothes.  I get misty eyed just thinking about those beautifully beaded gowns, the richness of the hats, gloves and dreamy, drapy necklaces.  And the palpable upstairs/downstairs dichotomy.  It's a spot-on period piece.  I can't get enough of it.

And because I can't get enough of it, you'll probably end of feeling like you've gotten too much of it as well.  But that's just how I roll.

Having watched all four seasons, now on season five, I've developed an affinity for these characters and thought you might be chomping at the bit to read my thoughts on this very proper British family and the folks in their service.  This might take awhile, but I'll try to make it entertaining, without too many spoilers who haven't caught up with this season or, heaven forbid, haven't even watched one episode.  (Tsk, tsk ala Cousin Violet.)

Lord Grantham - A blue blood if ever I saw one.  Born into money and raised with the singular responsibility to keep the land in the family name No.Matter.What.  Apparently, being filthy rich doesn't always include an MBA from Wharton, because the earldom had obviously mismanaged for a spell when we learned that the Earl had to "buy a bride" to bring some American cash into the estate coffers. (FYI, Winston Churchill's mother, Jenny Jerome, was also shipped from across the pond to shore up the Malborough estate.)

When the heir to the throne perishes in the Titanic disaster, the first thought is not "Oh, we've lost a dearly beloved relative."  It's "Who's gettin' the money?"  And remember, it's really, technically, though really not, Cora's money.

Once Matthew is found, all seems right in Lord Grantham's world.  There's just that business of getting Mary to like him so that the money can REALLY stay in the family.

Lord Grantham is a likable fellow, more than a little stuck in his ways, and prefers his daughters to be seen and not heard.  While he is keen to embrace modern conveniences like electricity, he'd rather not hear how the lower class is beginning to make some noise about equal rights.

Lady Grantham (Cora) - Raised in America, Cora didn't really have a say in who was to become her husband.  Although with a mother like Shirley McLaine, I'm kind of surprised that Cora is as subservient as she is.  I guess all those years of having breakfast in bed and being dressed and undressed five times a day by her ladies' maid have kind of sapped whatever American sauciness she might have possessed.

Her days are filled with menus, garden shows, sparring with her mother-in-law and trying to figure out what's wrong with "poor Edith."  She does have the all-important task of directing the conversation at dinner and by directing, I mean literally directing.  She turns to her right and starts a topic, and all other guests follow her lead.  Then, after what is deemed a suitable length of time, she turns and engages the guest to her left.  As do the rest of the entourage.  They even have a term for it: turning.  I know that because I watched "The Manners of Downton Abbey."  Really fascinating.  And exhausting.

I'm so, so grateful that I can watch this wonderful story unfold in my pj's, stretched out the couch with a bowl of popcorn and bottled water.

That would simply not do in Edwardian England.

Next time...The Grantham Girls

of wisdom lost

From August, 2008

As your kids grow up, the rites of passage become more and more spread out.  On Wednesday, Tyler completed his final rite as a teen (hoping and praying)...he got his wisdom teeth surgically removed.

The last time Tyler went under anesthesia he was about nine months old.  He had to have his tear ducts drilled.  Show of hands...anyone?  Did you know that was even possible...or necessary?

I was a basket case when they took him away behind those cold metal doors.

This time I barely looked up from the "Entertainment Weekly" I was reading.

"What?  Oh yeah.  See ya later."

In less than an hour, I was called back to see my wounded baby.  All I can say is that he was NOT wearing a cute little Children's Mercy Hospital t-shirt.  Here was this big ole' guy, barely holding onto a recliner, head thrown back with a slack jaw.  I rubbed his hair and his eyes rolled around and finally attempted to focus on me.  For about a split second.  Then he was gone again.

A nurse came in and asked me if I thought he'd want the teeth, the ones formerly housed in his mouth.

Tyler sat up halfway, eyes WIDE open and he said, "YETH."  Then he was out again.

I thought it was hysterical.  The nurse acted rather bored by the whole thing.  Perhaps she's seen worse...or funnier.

I finally got Tyler home - after telling him eighteen times that we were NOT going to stop at Ahnic (Sonic) because he could not have carbonated drinks.  Each time he screwed up his face (which was also funny because he couldn't really move his muscles all that well) like he was going to cry and said, "Wha?"

I had about a million wrecks because I couldn't understand him at all unless I looked at him while he was talking.  Which is really not advisable when you're driving on the highway at a high rate of speed (unless you're Ron Martin and then it's practically a requirement - driving at high speeds while not looking at the road, I mean).

After his initial day of being zombied out, Ron and I had to practically hogtie him to make him stay home and recuperate.

Tyler kept giving us the whole "It's my last week at home before school starts.  I have SO MUCH to do."  I told him it wasn't my fault he grew four wisdom teeth and had to have them surgically removed.  I told him I'd only had TWO wisdom teeth.

To which he replied, "Well, that explains A LOT."