But I’ll come to the point: Here is a picture of my neighbors’ Halloween decorations:

Yes, it's the Wizard of Oz Family.

And just in case you’re not properly impressed, here is what hung from the tree to the right of this family gathering:

The Wicked Witch of the West

Now let’s look at my Halloween decoration (yep, that would be singular, not plural).

And I can’t even take credit for the face. I bought it already cut out for only an additional $15.

Here is the thing—at first, I clapped my hands with glee when I saw said neighbor’s Wizard of Oz decor. I can appreciate fabulous creativity as well as the next person. But then people started driving onto my property to park and take pictures, and I started to get irritated. Friends commented on the difference between my Jack O’ Lantern and the neighbors’ production. Over and over again I came home, drove past their house, and felt the giant chasm between them and me. But in the end I let it go. I gave it up for their brilliance, deciding that Halloween must be their favorite holiday, and I can live with it for one month a year. I even stopped by to tell them how cool the entire thing was. Really, I did. And I meant it. Oprah has taught me nothing if not to be authentic.

Then a week or so ago, they were out there taking it all down. Wow, I thought as I drove away. They’ve been out there for hours. I had no idea it could take so long to dismantle such a thing as Dorothy and her band of brothers. (By the way, there should have been another girl in Dorothy’s band of Yellow Brick Road Travelers. Dorothy and three men? I will have to address that issue in a future blog.)

Anyway, I come home a few hours later to this:

Really?  Come on. Are you serious? Look at that friggin’ turkey for God’s sake? Who does this?

Then I started to get anxious about Christmas. Should I hire someone? Do I move? Will they do Valentine’s Day?

There are so very many things to get anxious about these days, and I’m not willing to allow keeping up with the Jones’s holiday decorations to become one of them. I should add, by the way, that they are the nicest couple ever. Really. The problem is me, not them.

Anyway, I’m moving. I’ve checked out the neighbors who live by the new house, and I think it’s a better fit. They have a decaying car in their yard.

Happy Thanksgiving.

For me, the fact that the sun came out the very next day, that my cell phone continued to ring with business calls from people seeking answers to questions they had asked the day before, is unthinkable. The fact that I laughed not forty-eight hours after my mom stopped breathing seems criminal. You see, I was not finished with her. I have not asked her all I need to know. I was just learning things about her that seemed to make sense of other things. I didn’t get to take her on that last trip she wanted to make to Provincetown. I forgot to ask her where she wanted all those needlepoint pillows to go. I wasn’t finished, and neither was she.

I didn’t want to write about her here. Way too public. But the thing is, if I don’t write about her here, I can’t write about anything else. For if my mom deserved nothing more, she deserved to have something stop for awhile to mark the moment when she left us all. And so that marker will be Freesia Lane. Freesia Lane is the only thing I have that I can stop for a time to lay her to rest properly. Nothing else has a stop button.

Let me introduce the best of my mother to you here. The rest of her will go somewhere on the cobwebbed shelves of my mind, where it will haunt me now and then, but will never again see the light of day. I get to do that now. I get to rewrite the future of our relationship as what I always wanted it to be, so I can bring her with me for a moment during an evening and not have to worry about getting her home. I can bring her to that part of the movie that she would have liked. I can ask her to send me a sign, and I can see that sign if I want to. Everything about the two of us will now be exactly as I want it, and that should be something, right?

My mom was quieter than me in every way. We had very different political views. I realized as I was struggling to write her eulogy that she never once tried to change my political leanings, while I tried relentlessly to change hers. She accepted things that I would never have accepted. She accepted other people—including me—the way they were, without trying to make them into something they were not meant to be, or didn’t want to be. I like that about her now.

I like that she would give you anything you wanted; she had no real investment in her things. My late mother-in-law, who was my beloved mentor, once told me that within a few days of her death all that she had acquired over the course of nearly 100 years would be dispersed as if no one had ever gathered it. She was right. My mother, on the other hand, gave away much of what she had, so that scattering of belongings will not be so dramatic in her case. Her things live in homes all over the place. Her friends, family, my friends, and strangers have had her things with them since long before she left us.

My mom was the mother who waited for you to call her, just in case a call from her would bother you. She didn’t brag about her own achievements, only those of others. Her sense of humor sometimes involved sleight of hand, and was occasionally for her benefit alone. This summer I gave her an Obama mug, just to drive her crazy. I told her there were only 1,000 of them that he was giving away. She asked me if I could get ten more of them. I was pleasantly shocked and got them—which was not easy, I might add. The next day I went into her kitchen and saw that she had put them in the garbage. When I indignantly asked her why, she replied, “You said they were a limited edition. I figured that would be ten more that no one would get to see.” It was her joke to herself. She would never have told me she did that. I would have needed to tell people. She never did. In her honor I have vowed to play one joke, once a year, that is for me alone. Just her and me.

That’s it. Nothing more. The sun is still shining into my office. Nothing has changed since I started writing this, and tomorrow I will be back to my blog as you have known it. But for the last three weeks it stopped to mark the passing of my mom, Mary Ann Ilse, who lived for eighty-two years the very best she could.

A few years ago, I read John Steinbeck’s letters. They are great, by the way, and I urge you to read them if you haven’t. I especially like the letter he sent to his physician before he saw him for the first time. He told him he didn’t want to know if he was really sick; the doctor was to tell Stienbeck’s wife what was wrong with him and tell the author himself that he was fine and just had a cold. Stienbeck’s philosophy about health was that since the doctor would know him so intimately—after all, the doctor would know went on inside his body—he wanted him to know who he was as a person as well; hence the missive. I decided to do that too when I went to a new doctor in LA. I faxed her a fabulous letter, but when I got there, she said she never got it. I think the letter had embarrassed her, and she was lying about not getting it, but I didn’t say that. I also never went back to her. But as usual, I digress.

Steinbeck wrote letters in the morning to friends, family, and fans as a ‘warm up’ to writing his fiction. He felt he was stretching his writer’s muscle by doing thins, and he did it every morning when he went into his studio. I loved the idea. But I had no fans. My family really isn’t all that interested in hearing from me (except for the daughter extraordinnaire, whom I regularly speak to on the phone), and they would find daily letters from me a burden. My friends keep in touch by e-mail, and I don’t even know if they check their postal mail. So I decided that starting a blog would be a daily warm-up for me. I had no idea it would take off, and I am so grateful to you all for your support, which has kept me writing it for these past few years.

So that’s why I write it. Plain and simple. If you are thinking you want to do a blog too, I have recommendations, so e-mail me and I will let you know how to avoid some of the pitfalls I fell into.

I’m exhausted from the sheer weight of carrying these books around, and I find myself unable to track my life for more than a few weeks because of all the books I have started and stopped.

Here is a picture of just the books from last month. Two spiral calendars and three notebooks of different sizes (so one would fit more readily in my handbag). The lovely blue appointment book is big enough to last eighteen months (who am I kidding?) and so far I like it a lot. The purple one was nice, but there was something about the pages that didn’t work with my favorite pen. The dark brown notebook in the back had these really cool slider things into which you could put extra papers, but I really don’t have extra papers and I didn’t like the tacky plastic.

As you can see, I have an organization problem. I can’t commit. I can’t commit to where to live and I can’t commit to how to handle my calendars and to do lists.

I talk to friends about it and ask them what they do. “How do you keep track of your to-do list?” I ask them. “Is it like mine—longer than your life-span?” Usually they look at me like I’m nuts, but some of them actually answer.

“I write it on a Word document, print it out, cut out stuff I’ve finished, add new stuff in, and then reprint it,” said Roseanna, who also has a long ‘to do’ list and seems to be an organized person. But I don’t like that idea, because once you have deleted your finished items from the Word document, you have no record of what you did. Also, how can you get that great feeling at the end of the day looking at all the things you have crossed off? I need that carrot at the end of my day. I ask for so little.

I also have trouble committing to pens and pencils. I’ll pick a favorite brand and stock up on them, and then another one that sneaks in and I like that one even better. I am a pen whore. I will drop one for another with the snap of a pencil over your thigh. My favorite pen right now is square and it came, I think, from the W Hotel. It’s very expensive to stay there, so it makes sense that they would have good pens. I may go to the W in NYC next time I’m there and see if I can lift some of them so I have a stash.

All in all, I would like to commit to a to-do list protocol and an appointment book for at least one year. I’m hoping some of you out there in cyberspace have the same problem and will not judge me. It’s hard to come out of the closet about some of these shortcomings, and if you are going to judge me, please do it silently so I don’t become self-conscious.

Let me set the stage: I receive approximately 400 emails a day that I have to open and read. I’m not complaining; I love my e-mail life. I love the work I do. I love hearing from friends and family. Just the other day my cousin in Florida, whom I rarely see or speak to, sent me a fabulous piece about how there is no such thing as a true soul-mate. Reading it allowed me to sleep better that night; it helped me realize that I am not missing anything by not having a man in my life at this time. So please do not misunderstand or get the idea that I don’t like e-mail. Quite the contrary.

There are e-mails I hate though, and I will list them for you here in the hope that you hate them too and I will feel better about myself for being so petty.

Let’s start with the e-mails that promise that, “if you pass this on to ten people, good things will happen to you.” Even worse are the ones that say bad things will happen to you if you do not. I’m in marketing, so I understand that the strongest reason people buy is fear. Fear that there won’t be any left if they don’t act immediately. Fear that not having something will lessen the quality of one’s life. So I’m sure that on some subliminal level, the “bad things will happen to you if you do not pass this on” e-mails work better than the “good things will happen” ones, but either way I don’t want to get them. First of all I don’t believe in that stuff, but second, and most importantly… what if I’m wrong? Sometimes I do forward these e-mails out of fear that I might be wrong about the consequences of not doing so. but then I also recognize that maybe other friends and family hate them as much as I do. I imagine that when they get them they experience the same e-mail rage I do. They must think, if you were truly my friend, why would you send me something that says if I send this to five of my best friends a million dollars will walk in my door and shout, “I’m here. Finally here! Yay!” Talk about unfulfilled expectations. And as for the ones that say something bad will happen to me if I don’t pass them on within five minutes, if you were my friend you would realize that I might not have time to respond within the next five minutes. So now you have ensured that something bad will happen to me. Nice.

I also hate it when I send an e-mail and someone replies, “Thank you.” I realize that in life, if we are together, saying thank you when I open the door for you, is polite. I try to use my pleases and thank yous as much as the next person, but seriously, I do not wish to open an e-mail from you that says nothing more than “Thank you.” Does that mean I have to send you one back that says, “You’re welcome?”

And, then there are the e-mail replies that simply say, “Okay.” If I send you something asking you to PLEASE do something, don’t send me an e-mail back saying, “Ok.” Please. I assume you will do it or let me know otherwise. You do not have to say, “Okay.” It’s a waste of cyberspace, and let’s face it, the Information Highway is already the most crowded highway in the world.

Last but not least of my pet peeves is the ‘reply to all’ button. This button should be removed from all e-mail programs. Reply to all is not your friend. Usually those who reply to all are trying to show you one of the following things:

1. How brilliant they are. I’m so smart that you all need to know my opinion of what the sender sent.

2. I am on top of all things.

3. I am the most articulate person in the world.

So, that’s it. I feel better already. Just letting you all know how I feel has made the start of my week better. Please don’t forward this to everyone you know. They really don’t want to receive it.

Thank you.

On the other side of the discourse is the question, did Sarah Palin’s comments send this man to the mall Saturday to violently end lives? The man was mentally ill. He was violent. Did he see the map Palin posted with gun-sights trained on Gabby’s district, and did it send him on his quest to stop Gabby’s journey? I have no idea. But I do believe in the power of association. And please Sarah, this is not your first foray into violent insinuations accented with raised eyebrows and well-placed sighs.

The following is an excerpt from a 2008 editorial by Jeffrey Friedman about Palin’s actions during the Presidential Campaign.

Milbank describes how Palin told the crowd in Florida that Obama has close associations with a terrorist who sought to bomb the Pentagon and the U.S. Capitol, in response to which the crowd responded with a threat on  Sen. Obama’s life:

“Now it turns out, one of his earliest supporters is a man named Bill Ayers… and according to the New York Times, he was a domestic terrorist and part of a group that, ‘launched a campaign of bombings that would target the Pentagon and our U.S. Capitol,’” she continued.

“Boooo!” the crowd repeated.

“Kill him!” proposed one man in the audience.

Palin went on to say that “Obama held one of the first meetings of his political career in Bill Ayers’s living room, and they’ve worked together on various projects in Chicago.” Here, Palin began to connect the dots. “These are the same guys who think that patriotism is paying higher taxes—remember that’s what Joe Biden had said.”  She paused and sighed. “I am just so fearful that this is not a man who sees America the way you and I see America, as the greatest force for good in the world. I’m afraid this is someone who sees America as ‘imperfect enough’ to work with a former domestic terrorist who had targeted his own country.”

Palin’s new rhetorical strategy signifies an alarming new development in the 2008 Presidential election, and one that has been not only been documented by such high profile newspapers as the Washington Post, but confirmed by the McCain campaign itself.

“It’s a dangerous road, but we have no choice,” a top McCain strategist recently admitted to the Daily News.  “If we keep talking about the economic crisis, we’re going to lose.”

Making comments like those above, and publishing a map with gun scopes pointing at members of our American Family, or even towns that house our family, is not putting forth your best self. It adds no solution to the discourse. Sarah Palin has no intention of solving problems with that type of language; her goal is to evoke the rage of looking at others rather than oneself. And I have no intention of giving her my attention ever again, or for that matter to anyone who adds to a problem rather than providing a solution.

There is a great scene in the movie An American President, in which the president says of his challenger something like this: “He has no interest in your problems, he is only interested in telling you who is to blame for them. His fifteen minutes of fame are over.” I feel the same way about Sarah Palin. She quit being Governor to make a ton of money telling sad, disgruntled Americans who is responsible for their lot in life. She has made a lot of money doing it, and she has built nothing other than a divisive discourse that makes someone like me angry at her and encourages someone not as fortunate as me to blame others for their life not being what they want it to be. Shame on her. Shame on me.

So tonight, as I lay my weary head on the pillow, I intend to ask myself if I have built things or ripped them apart; if I have given something back to my country, family, and friends, or taken something away from them; and if I have taken a moment to thank great communicators who take the high road, who help me strive to be extraordinary—or listened to the rhetoric of those who have nothing to bring to my table of life. And to those people: you had your fifteen minutes of fame. It’s over.

“I want one-quarter chicken please. But does it come with that pita bread that my friends told me I have to try, and …”

“Ok, hold on. Focus. I need you to focus on the sides. Don’t worry about anything else, just focus on the sides.”

Huh?

I stopped dead in my tracks. He needs me to focus on the sides. I immediately started focusing on the sides.

“I’d just like the broccoli please.”

“Ok, now …”

The person with me, who works with me, burst out laughing. I’m not known for focusing on the sides apparently, but I really do what I’m told when told by a voice belonging to someone I’ve never seen from out of a squawk box at a drive in window. Stop dead in my tracks and do what I’m told.

I remember being at Disney World when Sarah (the perfect child) was five or six with friends and their children. There was a very long line at the hotel to go to Disney World on the rail tram. There were two lines, one was for the premier guests and one was for the regular (don’t remember what they were called) guests. The regular line had about two hundred people in it. The other line, had maybe five plus us. Our hotel was the last stop on the tram before Disney World, and no one was monitoring the line.

The tram pulled in and the last two cars reserved for premier were empty. The other cars were quite full but the other line filled them up and we stepped toward the empty premier cars. I looked back at the line that had stopped moving.

I got in the car and turned back and called out to the line, “Get in! There are two empty cars here and a few hundred children waiting to get to Disney World. Break the mold. Step into the cars with us! This is the last stop before Disney World!! Save yourselves!!!” (Ok, I might not have said, “Save yourselves!”) No one moved, the car doors closed, and we pulled away. I sat down in the empty car feeling dejected.

It has stuck with me all these years. The sheer “follow like sheep” mentality of all those parents not cutting in line. Now, I know I’m from New York and we don’t follow anyone’s directions except for a Democrat President, and we only do that for five minutes after he’s become president. But these were parents. It was hot. It was going to take them hours to get through the line and two cars for each train were going empty to the next stop which was Disney World. How could they not assess the situation and fill up all the cars going? Not one of them moved to the empty premier line.

Twenty years later. And there I was, stopped dead in my tracks, following the voice out of thin air telling me to focus on the sides. I mean I didn’t stop and consider what he said for one minute. I just did it. Was I proud or what? I realize I like being told what to do.

I was thinking I might make a audio tape and put it in my iPhone that says, “Focus.” I could play it every twenty minutes or so and make sure I’m focusing on what I started and not what distracted me on my way to doing it. Might work.