Acronyms.  Nowadays they’re everywhere, but it wasn’t always this way.   They’ve filtered in slowly, undetected, under the radar.  Organized and committed, scouts deployed and embedded into unsuspecting communities.  They’ve played the long game and have now become part of our culture.  They have succeeded in overtaking the lifestyle and even the language of this great country’s citizens.  

Pilot acronyms were launched and they permeated into target areas, testing for sustained viability.  Lone Wolf, RSVP, parachuted in and nested firmly in place.  Polite society readily enlisted this acronym, engraving the letters onto expensive invitations to extravagant high profile galas, weddings, benefits and other exclusive events.  BYOB and FYI landed shortly after, assimilating rapidly all in accordance with the overall mission.  

It didn’t take too long for the Acronym Army to launch operatives into various other integral organizations.  The U.S.Government absorbed whole stockpiles of letters to refer to its numerous agencies.  FBI, CIA, DOD, HUD, IRS, DOJ and hundreds more alphabet combinations renamed countless departments and remain fully operational.  

The military, too, accepted the incursion of acronyms.  SCUBA, MEU, OTS, TBS, MAWTS, JAG, ASVAB, MEPS, OPSEC, CO, NCO and an entire language of capital letter shorthand words are now part of the official vernacular.  In fact, acronyms have assumed total functional control over the entire military machine.  They are winning an unnamed war.

Acronyms infiltrated the sports world with high speed and low drag.  The National Football League, the National Baseball Association and the National Hockey League are now referred to as the NFL, NBA and NHL.  Likewise, the Professional Golf Association, PGA, has adopted a title acronym.  Even within the sports themselves, acronyms have crept into common usage.

”USA,” says a golfer, urging his playing partner to continue putting.  “You’re Still Away!” 

“Oh no!” assesses another as a mishit shot lands better than expected, “that’s a UBE . . . Ugly But Effective!”

The Acronym Army’s efforts are not confined to the United States.  Not at all!  They have expanded into all countries in their attempt at world dominance.  One notable problem with foreign acronyms is in  their decoding.

While teaching international high school students at a Catholic school, I found it common for student work product to bear the acronym JMJ (a short reverant prayer meaning ‘Jesus, Mary, Joseph’) at the top of each page.  Understandably, when a student from Mexico submitted her papers with CTM atop her pages, I took it to have a similar meaning, but in Spanish.  

“We need to speak to you,” said a spokesperson for a group of Mexican students after class.  “Why do you allow Angela to write CTM at the top of her papers?  Why aren’t you angry?” 

“Why SHOULD I be angry,” I replied, “it’s just a prayer!” 

The students looked at each other, wide-eyed and bewildered.  

“No, it is NOT a prayer,” they said, “it’s meaning is terrible!” 

“Well,” I said, “the American students write JMJ at the tops of their papers and that means ‘Jesus, Mary, Joseph,’ so I just assumed that CTM is a similar honorific.” 

“NO!” they gasped in unison, “is NOT an honorific!  It means something horrible and unforgivable that someone does to a mother!”  

I realized immediately what had been lost in my ignorance.  The following day, I held Angela after class.  

Handing her a graded paper with CTM circled in red with a large question mark, I began sternly, “Um . . . care to explain?”  

“Oh, Mrs. West!” Angela sobbed as she melted into a desk before my eyes, “I HATE it here and I just want to go home!”  

We talked for a while and ultimately laughed at her inappropriate rebellion and my unwitting ignorance.  At the end of our conversation, we mutually concluded that swearing acronyms were definitely not the best way to channel frustration.  

Acronyms, firmly established and firmly fixed in place, have expanded their efforts.  A siege of them has launched an aggressive offensive on the entire world population.  The attack has been so coy, so cunning, so calculated that the success of the mission was guaranteed with the initial acronym bomb.  LOL is the texting counterpart to the initial Little Boy attack on Hiroshima.  First-time texters soon learned to convey tone and levity with its use.  

More acronyms soon proliferated like a mushroom cloud onto the internet.  They are as plentiful as snowflakes in a blizzard.  Many computer users, however, are not fluent or comfortable with them.  Americans, unwitting hostages of the Acronym Army, find themselves surrounded by operatives they don’t recognize, understand or appreciate.  They are forced to adopt a new way of life and language in order to communicate effectively .  And in the meantime, before we prisoners are conversant in the new Acronym culture, mass confusion prevails. 

What does this even mean? I asked myself, trying to decipher a new unread message on my phone. 

I’d texted a friend, asking if she’d like to meet for lunch.  Her response was unintelligible.

”Can’t decide on OOTD! Working on it! ISTG NGL. SYL. LOL!” 

WHAT?  What do I do now?  I wondered, Are we meeting or not?  What a ridiculous non-answer answer!

While I stewed about the text, I checked my emails.  Maybe she’d sent me something more clear and concise.  Nope.  Nothing from her.  Just a bunch of sales solicitations that were destined for the Trash Bin icon.  BOGO topped each e-flier in a banner. 

“60% off PLUS BOGO if purchased before End of Summer Sale!”  

O.K., I thought with satisfaction, I KNOW that BOGO stands for “buy one, get one.” 

Another ad enticed prospective buyers with an acronym everyone is supposed to know. 

“Limited Stock!  Order now! FCFS!” 

And still another.

”15 shoppers looking at this right now!  Buy now before it’s too late!  BNWOT while supplies LTD!” 

Obviously, supplies were limited.  Anyone would know how to translate LTD.  But BNWOT remained a mystery.  And as for the meaning of FCFS?  I had no idea.

Still not sure if I should meet my friend for lunch, I texted her again. 

“Got your message.  Are we still meeting today?” 

She responded immediately.

”WTF! Can’t you read? LMAO!  BTW you’re too funny!” 

At a complete loss, I mentally sparred with her. 

Of COURSE I can read!  But obviously YOU CAN’T WRITE OR SPELL!  I have NO IDEA what you said!

At that point, I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to meet her for lunch!  Was THIS part of the objective of the Acronym Army?  Cause mass confusion, hysteria and conflict?  Ruin relationships?  I was beginning to think so!  

Knowing that I was losing a battle, I called in some reinforcements . . . a young professional woman! 

I snapped a screenshot of the indecipherable texts I had exchanged with my friend and sent it to young, twenty-seven-year-old Hailey. 

“Could you help me with this?” I pleaded.

I waited anxiously as bubbles on my screen indicated that she was responding.  Finally my questions had been answered about lunch.  I WAS going to meet my friend!

”Sure!” came the response, “Your friend said:  Can’t decide on the Outfit Of The Day!  Working on it!  I Swear to God!  Not Gonna Lie!  See you later!  Laugh out Loud!”  

Laugh out loud?  I thought, Laugh out LOUD?  I thought LOL meant ‘Love you Lots!’ 

And, come to find out, her second response said, “What the F*? Can’t you read?  Laughing my A* off!  By the way, you’re too funny!”  

Thank goodness for young people!  They’ve broken the code and have been commissioned as Intelligence Officers for the Allies.  

My next assignment as a new recruit in the war with the Acronym Army is to enlist the expertise of these IOs and ask them to decode a whole list of acronyms for me. For starters, I have:

SMH

FOMO

IYKYK

OFC

TLDR

ETA

HMU

LFG

ATP

OTP

ISTG

NGL

PDA

STG

TBH

UWU

YOLO

IIRC

MBN

OG

TFW

FTW

FWIW

WHAT DO THEY EVEN MEAN?  

“I’m so glad we could all get together on such short notice!” exclaimed Gabby to seven of her gal pals. “It’s been like forEVER!”

Life and jobs and marriages, children, pets, parents and things in general interrupted their tight knot of friendship.  This set of self-proclaimed sisters was a patchwork quilt of mutual love and devotion.  They would be friends ‘til the end.  Some of them met in the sandbox during preschool, others bonded as cheerleaders in high school and the rest came together through mutual friends and acquaintances, either during or after college.  No matter from whence they met, they coalesced into a formidable, unbreakable bunch. 

Hazel, the newest, trendiest and most popular restaurant in town bustled with excitement.  Anyone who was ANYone, simply had to see and be seen there.  The former warehouse, with its brick walls, open ceilings and sizable paned windows was now the most sought-after eating establishment in the area.  Gabby was so pleased that she thought to confirm a reservation way ahead of time in high anticipation of this evening together.

Cara and Becky, Melanie, Molly, Rita, Jackie, Robin and Gabby all arrived within minutes of each other.  Like a newly opened bottle of champagne, the women greeted each other with effervescent energy, squeals of delight and sparkling smiles.  Right on cue, a hip and handsome waiter appeared, ready to take their drink orders.  

“Let’s toast to US!” exclaimed Gabby, raised cocktail in hand, “Our lives have become crazy busy, and though we don’t get to see each other as often as we used to, we’re still together and we’ll ALWAYS be . . . all for one and one for all!  Cheers!”

”To US!” cheered the rest, clicking their glasses together.

Lively girl conversation, like a symphony of songbirds, chirruped through the bistro in intricate harmony.  Cara’s three kids had run her ragged with their various activities.  Her son, Blake, was the star on his high school varsity swim team.  He held the fastest time for the 400 meter butterfly race and was now advancing to sectionals.  Sharon was a soprano in a prestigious madrigal group in high demand to perform at local town events.  The choral director expected attendance at what Cara believed were too many practice sessions.  And her little one, Marissa, was thriving in gymnastics.  

Melanie, now a single mother of two, was overwhelmed with Life.  In fact, she didn’t know HOW she managed to break away for this evening out.  She worked two jobs, struggled to make ends meet and was forced into reluctant dependence on her mother for emergency child care.  Most recently, though, she’d landed her dream job as a high school administrator.  She wasn’t living on Easy Street by any means, but her schedule now jibed with that of her children and she was happy.  

Molly was the managing partner at a prestigious law firm downtown while her husband, Bennet, saved the lives of countless patients with heart disease.  In fact, they had just returned from a business trip to New York where he guest-lectured at NYU’s medical school and accepted an award for Heart Surgeon of the Year.

Indeed, this group had all the ingredients for a best-selling manual on how to succeed in Life and maintain lifelong friendships despite the obstacles that get in the way.  Throughout their meal, each of the women shared the woes and wonders of their lives, the ups, the downs, the funnies, the sads, the surprises, the disappointments and even the not-so-notables.  

There was no disintegration of their mutual affection for each other . . . until three and a half hours later when the hip and handsome waiter delivered the check to the table.  Suddenly he was no longer hip . . . nor handsome.

“I’ll take that,” said Gabby, quickly grabbing the leather folder.  “Wow!  I was expecting a high number, but not THIS high!” 

Cell phones immediately jumped open to the calculator app, each woman deciphering her share and offering her own disclaimers of financial responsibility. 

“I only ordered a salad off the starter menu!”

”Well, I ordered the sampler charcuterie board, but we all shared it so we should all split the cost!”

”Hold on a sec!” interrupted another, “I’m vegan! I didn’t eat anything from the charcuterie board, so leave me out of the cost of THAT!” 

“Maybe, but French fries came with MY dinner and you ate half of ‘em, so you owe for that!” 

“That’s right!  And I gave you some of my pasta on your bread and butter plate!”

“You guys!  I’m gluten free and I didn’t share anything with anybody!” 

Gabby had had enough!  She was a hot kettle about to blow!

”Everyone pipe down and listen up!  What happened to our slogan “All for one and one for all?” We split the bill evenly, eight ways . . . after we add the tip!

Again, a cacophony of resistance and objections was so loud it caught the attention of nearby patrons.  The newly-demoted not-so-hip, not-so-handsome waiter appeared, asking if there were any problems. 

“No, No!” Gabby snapped, “we’re fine . . . just settling up.  We’ll be ready in a few . . . ” 

As soon as they were alone again, the fighting continued. 

“Well I’m NOT paying for something I didn’t eat!” hissed Rita,  “and I shouldn’t be forced to.  I can’t help it if I’m gluten intolerant!” 

Perusing the itemized bill, Gabby peered over her reading glasses and said smugly, “Well, Rita . . . Honey, you may be on a gluten-free diet but this little piece of paper here shows that you ordered three glasses of gluten-free Rombauer chardonnay for $12.50 a glass, so that’s $37.50 right from the get-go . . . before the cost of your gluten-free meal and your part of the gluten-free tip!  Now, who ELSE needs help figuring out what she owes?” 

“In case anybody’s wondering,” Gabby continued, “those blue signature cocktails with the smoke on top were $18.50 a piece.  I know I ordered two and so did Molly and Melanie.” 

Cara abruptly interrupted, “I didn’t order ANY alcohol, so I’m not kicking in for all of you guys that drink!” 

“You didn’t order alcohol,” Becky admonished, “because you have a little pink flask engraved with ‘Time to Par-Tee’ tucked inside your purse and you added whatever’s in it to your water!  Don’t think we didn’t see that!  Whatever do you mean you’re ‘not kicking in for those of us who drink?’  Pay up, Buttercup!” 

“Oh, by the way, Rita!” exclaimed Gabby, “don’t forget that you ordered a whole chicken parmesan meal and a side of garlic bread to-go, so obviously you’re responsible for that whole charge.  THAT didn’t slip under our radar!”  

“Oh shoot!” cried Jackie looking at her text messages, “Gotta go, Girlie-girls!  Emergency at home!  I’ll figure out what I owe and Venmo you some money, Gabs!  Sorry!”  

And on her way out, she turned back and said cheerily, “Let me know when we’re going to do this again!  Love you guys!”  And off she ran.   

Without noticing Jackie’s ultra smooth departure and the empty offer to ‘Venmo some money,’ the bickering over the bill continued well into the next hour with no satisfactory resolution.  Finally, disgruntled and disappointed with the whole scenario, Gabby announced her solution. 

“All right, everyone, it’s getting late and we’re all on each others’ last nerve . . . At least I know you’re all on MY last nerve.  So, here’s the deal:  I’m going to put tonight’s dinner on my credit card and each of you give me the cash for your HONEST  . . . And I mean HONEST share.  Next time we’ll have an understanding of how the bill will be paid beFORE we sit down.  Sound good?”  

How could it NOT sound good?  Gabby presented her card, signed for the meal, adding a healthy twenty percent tip, and brought the evening to a close.  

“G’night Everyone!  This was fun!  We’ll do it again soon!”  

As Gabby lay in bed, debriefing herself on the evening’s hysteria, she considered the wild display of personalities.  Despite their pecuniary behavior, she loved her friends and would have them in her life forever.  But, as the saying goes, she who laughs last, laughs best.  Gabby, full of self-satisfaction, planned to submit the entire dinner bill as a business expense and write it off.  After all, it’s All for One and One for All!

“Get in the car!” barked my father.  “Mass starts at 9:00 a.m. and it’s important that we get to the church on time!”  

Everyone should attend services on Sundays.  They are holy days meant to take the focus off of the daily grind, to break away from all the stressors of Life and to thank God for all the blessings He has given us.  We express our gratitude, we ask forgiveness for our transgressions and we pray for grace to sustain us through the week to come.  Throughout my childhood, I spent every single Sunday morning in church.  My parents made sure of that!  The entire family, dressed in our Sunday’s finest, occupied the same pew at the same service, Sunday after Sunday, week after week, month after month, year after year.  If my prayer missal was not turned to the correct page, my father quickly shuffled the pages, gruffly shoved the book back to me and pointed to the line and exact word that corresponded to the proper place in the liturgy, admonishing me with his stern scowl for not paying attention.  I attended religious elementary, middle and high schools and studied all the teachings of our faith from Genesis to Revelations.  To say that religion was ingrained in me would be accurate, but to further say that I was devout is a different story altogether . . . until recently.  I have seen the light and have become an avid church-goer.  And I am ALWAYS on time.

Part of my religious education included lessons on the construction of churches and their changing designs over time.  Throughout the ages, Christian churches were constructed in the shape of a Latin cross.  There was the altar in the sanctuary, of course, at the top of the cross and then an intersection by a horizontal transept across the nave, or gathering area for the congregation.  There were confessionals, secondary altars, votive candles available for the devout and penitent, locked collection boxes and icons representing the twelve stations of the cross.  The attic in my parents’ house is a veritable museum housing numerous school project models, dioramas and shadowboxes my siblings and I constructed.  

Not once, however, in my twelve years of religious education was I schooled on the social dynamics of church seating!  Congregants always sit in the same general area, give or take a pew or two!  Why is that?  Why do we stake claim to our territory?  I, myself, typically sit toward the front of the nave, thirteen or fourteen rows back, on the left side of the center, taking the aisle seat.  I even have church-neighbors who have planted their own flags.  We may not know each other’s names, but we expect their presence every Sunday, in their self-claimed areas.  A friend of mine and her husband sit across the center aisle a few rows ahead of mine.  All is right with the world when I see them there.  Two of my other friends sit toward the back of the nave, not together, but in that general neighborhood.  Another friend alternates each week between the front and the back.  Her husband likes to sit in the back and she likes the front; therefore, the compromise.  My church community operates well this way: a place for everyone and everyone in his place  Recently, however, a new worshipper has moved into the neighborhood.  I noticed him immediately.  It was pretty hard not to!  He is young (probably in his early-to-mid 30s), tall, strapping and quite the specimen of masculine magnetism!  “Who is HE?” I’ve asked myself for months now.  “Why does he always come alone?”   “He’s so gorgeous!  I wonder what his story is!”  And so it went until about three months ago.  I asked one of my friends who sits toward the back of the church if she’d ever noticed the hot guy in my neighborhood.  

“Yes!  I watch for him every Sunday!  I make sure to get to church on time so I don’t miss him!” she admitted, “Who IS he?” 

“No idea.  I thought YOU’D know,” I said, not even attempting to hide my disappointment.  “We’ve got to find out!”

”He looks like Jesus!” she noted, pointing out the similarity that the REAL Jesus was in HIS 30s when he caught everyone’s attention. 

Week after week, we Faithful promptly report to church.  Imagine my surprise when, upon taking my silent roll call and checking to see that everyone was in his correct place in his self-assigned neighborhood, Hot Church Guy took his seat right next to me in MY pew!  Right. Next. To. Me!  I stifled a gasp.  In an instant, I was my middle school self, nervous and giddy when in the company of a cute boy.  

I surreptitiously texted my friend who was not able to attend Mass that day.  

 “Boy! Oh boy! Oh BOY!!!  YOU should BE here!!  This is going to be the best Mass in the history of Mass!!!”  

During the homily, the lady in front of me blocked my view of Monsignor, so I wrestled with which way to move so I could pay attention to his sermon!!!

Should I scoot to the left toward Hot Church Guy OR to the right . . . away from him?  

I, of course, did the right thing and moved to the right.  I don’t know why I bothered to scoot anywhere!!  I couldn’t concentrate on one word that was said!  Just being next to Hot Church guy had me undone!  Then it hit me like a Category 5 hurricane!  In just a few minutes during the recitation of The Lord’s Prayer I’d be HOLDING HANDS with Hot Church Guy!!!  

Uh oh!  My hands!  What do I do about my hands?  They’re going to be all sweaty! 

Suddenly a loud THUMP behind me to the right (on the OTHER side of the center aisle) shook me back into the present!  An older lady collapsed to the floor and a couple of physicians in the congregation flew to her aid.  

While the flurry of excitement persisted around that lady, Hot Church Guy struck up a conversation with me while we waited. 

“Oh!” he began, “don’t tell me that’s an Oura ring!  Look!  I’m wearing one, too!”  

Oh my gosh!  He noticed my ring! He’s TALKING to ME!  What do I say?  WHATDOISAY?!

“Is yours set to report your calorie intake or your steps?” he asked.  

 Why did he have to ask me such a hard question?  I couldn’t think.  

 “Uh . . . Um . . . “ I stammered, not really knowing the answer, so I punted, “Steps taken!”

“Oh!” he said, “my Oura reports steps taken, too, but I mainly wear it to remind me to go to bed on time!” 

How do I respond to THAT?  I couldn’t.  I JUST couldn’t!  

The doctors removed the older woman from the church and Mass continued.  Divine Inspiration led me to blow on my hands just prior to the hand-holding, community-building recitation of The Lord’s Prayer, so I was no worse for wear.  

As Mass drew to a close, the lady in front of me wished me a good week.  

“Thank you!” I said, “You have NO IDEA!  It’s already gotten off to the best start possible!”  

Little did she know that no week could ever begin better than by sitting in the pew with Hot Church Guy!  If she only knew!”

Sunday after Sunday, Mass after Mass, it became quite evident that I am not the only churchgoer who has noticed Hot Church Guy.  Come to find out, there are many of us who keep watch over him.  We communicate through knowing glances, smiles and subtle nods.  We know when he arrives, we know in which pew he sits and we particularly take note of anyone who happens to accompany him. Since the service is also live-streamed online, many people attend Mass at home watching on TV.

“Hey!” my phone buzzes an incoming text, “he’s here and he’s got a girl with him!”  

“No WAY!” I reply, “I never even THOUGHT about a girlfriend!  Where is he?” 

Another text from someone at home razzes my phone. 

“Hey!  Where’s Hot Church Guy?  Is he there?  What’s he wearing so I can look for him?  The camera doesn’t have a wide enough angle, so I can’t see the whole church!” 

“That’s YOUR problem,” I reply, “If you’d come to church in person, you’d see him!  But, as long as you’re looking, he’s on the far right in the third or fourth pew from the front . . . he’s wearing a long-sleeved, corduroy shirt . . . Maroon colored, blue denim jeans and black leather biker boots . . . and an Oura ring on his left index finger!” 

As the congregants proceed up the center aisle to receive Communion, all eyes are on the lookout for Hot Church Guy and The Girl.  Glances ping throughout the church from one of us to the other like cell signals bouncing off multiple cell towers or like the ball in the old Atari video game, Pong.  In fact, there is so much going on in the airways it’s a wonder the signals don’t jam up and cause a major power outage!

At last we saw her.  Our eyes locked on our target as we silently assessed her suitability to become the Official Girlfriend.  Needless to say, she failed miserably.  The poor thing was thin (too thin) with long, mousy hair (too long; too mousy), wearing round glasses (too round) and her clothes were drab (too drab) and hung loosely (too loosely)  on her tiny (too tiny) frame.  

We, never even having MET Hot Church Guy, are extremely protective of him and are acting as his silent marriage brokers.  I doubt that ANY woman he brings to Mass will ever get our blessing!  

Last Sunday’s events may be the cause for an extended visit to the confessional.  There I was, minding my own business in my pew, antenna on high alert for the arrival of Hot Church guy, when six nuns filed in and plopped themselves down right alongside of me.  

“Good Morning, Dear,” said Sr. Mary Claire, introducing herself.  “My sisters and I came to this Mass because we wanted to hear the monsignor’s sermon.”  

“Good Morning, Sister,” I replied very respectfully, “you’ll LOVE this Mass.” 

Now I was nervous.  I was sharing a pew with SIX NUNS.  Oh well.  There really was nothing to fear, after all.  I could proceed, business as usual, like every other Sunday.  BUT (and I should have known this from twelve years of Catholic school) nuns have an uncanny sixth sense.  They KNOW things.  NOTHING escapes their finely tuned receptors. 

“Dear,” whispered Sr. Mary Claire, “I’ve been noticing several women darting their eyes toward you.  Is everything o.k.?” 

Holy crap!  NOW WHAT?  Do I tell her what’s really going on or do I lie? 

Everyone who knows me also knows I cannot lie.  I don’t know why, but I just can’t.  It’s a curse.  My nose doesn’t grow like Pinnochio’s, but my speech and mannerisms betray my words.  I HAD to tell the truth!  Sr. Mary Claire would be onto my deceit lickety-split and I couldn’t risk what unknown wrath would befall me when that happened. 

“O.K., Sister,” I sputtered, “here’s the deal . . .” and I proceeded to explain all there was to know about Hot Church Guy, all of our furtive glances and signals and our vehement disapproval of ANY girl who happened to accompany him.  

“Oh my,” she said with a hint of playfulness in her voice, “point him out to me!” 

“No way!  No can do, Sister!  That would be too obvious!  You’re just going to have to wait.  I’ll let you know when it’s cool to look at him!”  

From that point on, it was as if Sister Mary Claire had left the convent and returned to civilian life.  She was now simply Claire (or Mary), canvassing the congregation, watching, waiting and wondering when she’d get a glimpse of our obsession.

“See, Sister?” I risked, “I TOLD you this Mass was a blast.”

“Yes, you’re right,” she agreed, “but I’m going to have to stay for the next Mass!  I haven’t gotten one prayer said during THIS one!” 

I often reminisce about my parents and their commitment to raising my siblings and me to be devoted churchgoers.  I may have taken the scenic route in Life, but I know my father would be so proud to know that now I ALWAYS get to church on time! 

Golf and G.O.L.F. are not the same.  Golf is fun.  It’s a sport that can be played alone, with others or as a team.  Age is not an impediment.  Young, middle-aged and older people can enjoy playing due to the handicapping system that makes scoring equitable for all.  Golf is relaxing, therapeutic and it offers a four-hour time span within which to socialize with friends.  Playing golf is good for the mind, body and soul.  Golfers are outside, breathing fresh air, walking and communing with Nature.  Deer, squirrels and coyotes often share the fairways with the players.  In other parts of the world, animals such as kangaroos, alligators, flamingos and even other more exotic wildlife roam the courses providing opportunities for very memorable photographs.  The game of golf is SO pastoral.  It’s no wonder, then, that golf has become such a popular pass time.

Something uncanny happens, though, during G.O.L.F.  Competition.  It could be a team match, a two best balls of the foursome game, a tournament for charity where people who never or seldom play golf come out to support the cause, or the illustrious two-day member-guest events among the country club circuit.  All of the friendliness, good will, camaraderie and we’re-out-here-to-enjoy-each-other-and-have-fun attitude undergoes a seismic shift into something perverse.  Hobby golfers instantly become ranked PGA professionals.  They are committed to winning as if they are vying for the tournament trophy at Augusta National Golf Course.  This phenomenon occurs at registration for the event.  An invisible inner switch flips on in the players’ brains and activates their latent competitive gene.  This transformation is so serious that, after all the probes and investigations into the origins of Covid-19 have been exhausted, the World Health Organization, the National Institute of Health and the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services should launch a full-blown comprehensive deep-dive investigation into the gain of function research and ultimate lab leak surrounding this gene.  It is among us and it seems to be proliferating at lightyear speed.  It needs to be identified, treated and controlled.

“Mark your ball,” snaps the otherwise easy-going player, “that’s NOT a gimme!”  

“You’re kidding, right?” I ask, “the ball is only one foot away from the hole!  It’s literally a tap-in!” 

“Nope.  Mark your ball.  You could three-putt from there!  This is a competition, you know, and I’m only protecting the field!”  

For Pete’s sake!  When did Little Miss Mellow swallow the rule book and become a tournament official?  

For as many golf events there are, believe that there are just as many, if not more incidents of personalities gone wild.  Little things that go undetected on a Tuesday become ultimate causes de celebres the following day during a tournament. 

“Would you move w-a-y to the right?” motions a player, waving her hand at her opponent, scooting her with her gesture to relocate,  “you’re in my vision.”  

That’s funny . . . I played with you just yesterday and you never once asked me to step away.  

“Ugh!” she growled, “did you see that?  I missed the putt!  You were still in my range of vision!  That’s why I pushed the ball!” 

No, I was nowhere NEAR your ‘range of vision!’ You missed the putt because you MISSED THE PUTT!  

One of the assistant pros from the golf shop approaches in his golf cart.  

“Ladies,” he begins, “you’re gonna have to pick up your pace of play.  You’re a hole and a half behind.  Think you can be back on track by the end of the next hole?  Good.  Let’s do it!”  And he drives away never waiting for our response. 

“You shouldn’t take so many practice swings,” admonishes my opponent who, herself, swings the golf club no fewer than seven times before she addresses her ball.  In fact, she is notoriously the slowest player in the women’s group, bar none!  If anyone needs to pick up the pace, it is definitely SHE!  It should be no surprise that Vegas odds favor a sloth against this girl, any day, any time!  Check your Fanduel app for betting options!  You’ll be shopping for a yacht in no time . . . No time at all!

Team play triggers the competitive gene.  Those players possessing the gene arrive at the golf course looking neat and crisp in their sharp uniforms but beneath it all they are golf machines, transformed and programmed to win . . . whatever it takes.

“I scored a 5 on that hole,” says Player 1 from Team A with a hint of arrogance, “so that’s a 5 for 4 with my pop.  We take that hole, net.” 

“Um . . . Are you SURE about that 5?” questions Player 1 from Team B, “I count you at a 6 . . . A 6 for 5 . . . So we split the hole, net.”

Team A, Player 1 stops mid-step, turns back toward the fairway and proceeds to visibly recount her progress, pointing her finger to each place she took a stroke.  

“Nope, I’m a 5,” she affirms confidently.

”Hmmmm . . . . ,” says Team B, Player 1, dripping with sarcasm while she recounts the strokes, “You hit your drive THERE, articulating her arm and index finger with exaggerated grandiosity; your second shot landed there; your third shot . . . Oh, right!  Oops! You chunked your third shot; your fourth shot made it to the green and you two-putt . . . That’s 6!” 

“Oh! Right.  The chunked shot,” recalled the player.

“Forget to count that one, kindasortamaybehuh?” Team B, Player 1 rebuked.  “So . . . You scored a 6 for 5 and we split the hole . . . Just as I thought!” 

Better keep an eye on THAT one!  She’s sneaky, she is! 

Partner tournaments are armed minefields in disguise.  Players pair up months prior to the date of the event.  They purchase matching outfits (sometimes two, if the tournament spans two days) and they arrive with a full set of tools . . . Their golf clubs, more than enough golf balls, of course, but more importantly, their mental game.  Claws have been sharpened, handicaps have been managed and the gloves of sportsmanship have been left behind in the car . . . hidden in the trunk . . . beneath the spare tire! 

Music blasts through the loudspeakers all around the practice area during the players’ warm-up period.  Golfers greet each other like long-lost friends, hugging, laughing and placing individual side bets on teams most likely to win.  It’s all fun on the surface.  However, do NOT be fooled by all that feminine frivolity! The warrior game face luridly lurks behind every fake smile, every empty good luck wish and every false word of encouragement.  Finally the players take their places in their golf carts.  The head golf professional announces local rules and other points of note and the competition officially opens.  

“Hi, my name’s Susan and I’m playing a TaylorMade 2.”  

Susan tees up her ball, takes her practice swing, lowers her sunglasses onto her eyes (activating the competitive gene into attack mode), and strikes her ball with herculean force.  The TaylorMade 2 soars in perfect trajectory out to the middle of the fairway and comes to rest in perfect position . . . Position A+.  

“I’m Karen.  I’ve got a Titleist ProV1.” 

Karen’s sunglass gene activation is set, she sets her ball on the tee, takes her practice swing, hits the ball and . . . all four players’ sets of eyes follow the errant ball to the right . . . to the further right  . . . to even further right until it stops questionably close to the out of bounds stakes. 

“We’ll have to check on that ball,” announces Terri, Susan’s partner.

After the other two players’ balls enter the fairway, both carts race to the location of Karen’s ball. 

Terri jumps out of her cart and unzips a pocket on her golf bag, retrieving a ball of string. 

“Here, Susan,” she says, handing the loose end of the string to her partner, “I keep this in my bag for just this kind of situation. We’ll run the string from one OB stake to the other.  That way we can determine with certainty if Karen’s ball is out of bounds!”  

“Oh no you don’t!” scolds Karen with reproach, “It’s MY ball, MY call!  Put that string away!  Golf is a game of honor and YOU don’t get to determine if my ball is still in play or NOT!  So, step away and let ME address MY situation!”  

. . . and the tension just continues to mount as play continues. 

“Ugh,” complains another foursome of women who have been delayed on every hole by the slow pace of play in the group ahead of them. 

”This is riDICulous,” they whine, “we have been waiting on every.single.HOLE!  Where’s the marshall when you need one?  Somebody should be out here moving things along!”

”Just flash ‘em your bitch wings,” says another, demonstrating the motion . . . Hands on hips, elbows bent, one foot planted approximately twelve inches in front of the other.  “They should KNOW they’re slow and PICK UP THE PACE!” 

“I know how to make them play faster!  Just hit the ball into them!  That’ll send a message!”  

But that brilliant idea never works!  The ball is hit, it bounces on the grass, veers a little to the right and . . . hits the slow women’s golf cart.  They immediately speed back toward the impatient players in a display of full-blown hysteria and tears . . . an Oscar winning temper tantrum.

”Do you know what you just did?  DO YOU KNOW what you just DID?  You almost KILLED us!  You have been stressing us out all day long and now you hit our golf cart and broke a piece off AND you almost hit one of us in the head and KILLED US!” 

The woman with the bitch wings hands her a tissue but the tears keep coming. 

“I mean it, you guys!” cries the sobbing new player,  “None of us in this group has been playing golf that long and we were looking for a lost ball!  It was the fourth ball we’ve lost so far and now you guys are CONSTANTLY breathing down our necks and making us feel uncomfortable!  AND . . . We’re trying to figure out why there are so many dots in the little spaces on our scorecards!  You should REALLY be more patient!”  

The veteran players’ attempt to diffuse the brouhaha fails tremendously, but the tournament continues . . . now with four teams rattled and agitated.  

Somewhere further along on the Back Nine, two teams that were paired together get along famously.  Too famously, as it appears.  Birdie juice, a shot of Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey, is awarded to a player who scores one under par on any given hole.  It’s tradition.  THIS grouping, however, bent tradition and awarded themselves a shot of birdie juice after every swing!  They are all drunk.  Inebriated.  Hammered. Blotto.

“Uh oh,” slurs one of the girls, “I see three balls in front of me!  Which one should I hit?”

”The one in the middle!” advises her partner.  

And gut-belly laughing, snorting and cheering erupt from both carts. 

“Wait a sec,” cautions one of them, “we’re in a tournament!” 

More uncontrolled laughter.

”We better be serious!” 

Continued laughter. 

“O.K.,” she says, running the palm of her hand across her face, “this is me getting serious!” 

Laughter, laughter and more laughter.  

At least ONE foursome was enjoying the day . . . Until they have to submit their scorecards!  

Four hours and twenty-five minutes later, all cards have been signed, attested and submitted to the Head Pro.  The players convene on the patio to await the results and huddle into groups to debrief the day’s play. 

“Oh my gosh!” says someone, “you wouldn’t beLIEVE what we had to tolerate today!  The women we played with were HORRID!” 

“She improved her lie!” commented another, “she freakin’ improved her LIE!  That’s against the rules!” 

“That’s NOTHING,” added another, “I saw someone mark her ball on the green then replace her ball at least 5 inches closer to the hole!”  

“The rough was AWFUL!  I can’t believe it was allowed to get that long!”  

 . . . And the complaints continue until the winners are announced.  

 . . . And then the complaints being about how the winners aren’t truly winners at all  . . . They’re “sandbaggers,” scoundrels and cheaters! 

So . . . While the game of golf, in its empirical form is indeed wonderful, therapeutic, relaxing and pastoral, in its competitive form, it dissolves into something a little more challenging.  I believe that an appropriate acronym for competitive golf could be: G.O.L.F.: Game On!  Let’s Fight!

It’s happened.  Just like Alice chased the White Rabbit down that whimsical rabbit hole in Lewis Carroll’s acclaimed story, I have done the same thing . . . not by choice, you see, but by circumstance.  If you’ve ever experienced a rabbit hole yourself, you know how mind-boggling, emotionally confounding and categorically life-changing they can be.  I haven’t actually experienced REAL Mad Hatters, Queens of Hearts or Chesire cats, but the cast of characters in my life equal Alice’s measure for measure.  

Now that I think of it, maybe I’ve been living ‘down the rabbit hole’ my whole life!  I didn’t drop down one as Alice did.  I’ve been here!  What I’ve always considered normal and usual has been anything but that!  Many of my parochial school teachers would have frightened the crown off the tyrannical Queen of Hearts.  “You forGOT your homework, child?  OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!”  I have been employed by many Mad Hatters, lost in their own confusion and barking nonsensical orders, expecting rational results.  Tweedledee, Tweedledum and the White Rabbit have also been colorfully represented in my life and I’ve loved them all, but it wasn’t until just the other day that I realized I could really use Alice’s hookah-smoking caterpillar to help me out.  

I stand at 5 feet, 6 inches . . . Not too tall, not too short.  Clothes fit me without having to alter the length or width.  Doctors have never been concerned with the rate of my growth nor the number on the scale.  My statistics fall within the normal range for a modern-day Caucasian woman.  Why then do many of my friends and acquaintances remark about my exceptional height?  It hit me hard when the inbox on my tablet announced a new message . . . a group photo of me standing with three friends.  I gasped.  “They’re right!  I AM tall!  I’m towering over them like one of the Goons in the Popeye cartoons!”  A second look at the picture confirmed my first impression.  I am indeed too tall!  

Mirrors in my house lie to me daily.  My reflection depicts a well-proportioned image.  Could it be that my mirrors are really circus mirrors . . . diminishing my stature by a foot or two?  That must be the case . . . The picture of me with my friends does not match what my mirror shows.  It sure is scary down here at the bottom of the rabbit hole!

If only I could bring real life to the lyrics of Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit, I would be home free:  “ . . . Go ask Alice when she’s ten-feet tall.  Tell ‘em a hookah-smokin’ caterpillar has given you the call!”  

Well, I’m calling!!!!  HEY CATERPILLAR!!!!  

Jeff Foxworthy has it all wrong!  Why does he ask people if they are smarter than a sixth grader? Of course I’m smarter than a sixth grader! I was valedictorian of my high school graduating class, I matriculated from UCLA and I earned a masters degree.  There is no doubt that I am smarter than a sixth grader.  The real question, however, should be ‘Am I smarter than my TV?’ 

Berta comes to us weekly on Thursdays.  She scrubs, cleans, vacuums and polishes every surface in our house until they sparkle.  Not one dust mite escapes the numerous attacks of Endust, Pledge, Clorox, Pine-Sol or Comet. Mold, mildew and musty messes don’t stand a chance against Berta and her well-armed soldiers camouflaged as ordinary household cleaning supplies.  Every desktop item is routinely removed to accommodate the swift and thorough swiping of a dust rag.  Area rugs are rolled tightly to allow the vacuum to seek and destroy any stray pet hair or dust bunny that hides beneath their cover.  Books neatly standing on shelves are grazed by the rapid sweep of a dust-seeking Swiffer.  And, without warning, electronic boxes that communicate with the TV in the family room or printer in my office, become collateral damage as the same Swiffer wand brushes up, under, behind and over them unwittingly dislocating their connective cables. 

“Berta must have dislodged the cables again,” said my husband as he clicked on the TV remote, “the TV’s not working.”  In his attempt to set things right, he only made things worse.  He unplugged all the cables and inserted them back into the slots . . . The WRONG slots.  We had sound, all right, but even when the TV was turned off, the sound wasn’t! It was a disaster!

“O.K.,” I said, “what have you done?  We get network TV channels but AppleTV, Paramount+, Netflix and Amazon don’t work!  And what about the sound?  It won’t turn off!”  

Because the disaster occurred late in the week, a technician was unable to service our S.O.S. until early the following week on Monday.  Our entire weekend of television was limited to network offerings in which we had no interest.  

Monday morning couldn’t arrive fast enough.  As long as a technician was coming, I compiled a list of other problems I was having with electronic devices, namely a second Smart TV upstairs and the SmartTank printer connected . . . Or NOT . . . to my Apple computer . . . Sort of a three-birds-one-stone kind of thing.  While he was here on the housecall, he was my hostage!  (The irony is not lost on me that all of this equipment is called “Smart” something: Smart TV, SmartTank printer.  I fail to fully appreciate their intelligence).

Gus solved the problem in the family room within five minutes.  

“What did you do?”  I asked.

”Oh,” he said nonchalantly, “I just plugged everything back into the right spots.  Was there something else you’d like me to check?” 

I led Gus and his assistant, Roy, into my office and explained the issue I had with the SmartTank printer.  

“I shouldn’t have to unplug it and plug it back in every time I want to print something,” I explained.  “It takes itself off line and doesn’t know how to put itself back ON line!  So much for it being smart!”  

Gus unplugged the printer, then plugged it back in. (“Been there, done that, Buddy!” I thought to myself, “but go ahead . . . Give it your best shot!”)  

When that didn’t work, Gus accessed the Menu within the Systems Setting area and worked a little magic.  All the while, I watched and wondered if the average consumer should know how to do what he was doing, so I asked. 

“No, ma’am,” he said, relieving me of some of my feelings of foolishness, “I have access to codes.” 

Codes, I wondered.  CODES?  What ARE such codes and why don’t I have them?  Why aren’t they listed in the owner’s manual (that is now only accessible online on a SmartComputer after scanning a QR icon somewhere).  

Minutes later, SmartTank spit out a printed summary of Gus’s reprogramming and resetting.

”See here?” Gus said, pointing to a section of the readout, “THIS is where the trouble was!  I just input a reset code and she looks good now.  You shouldn’t have any more trouble!” 

That’s what YOU think, I thought to myself.  The minute you leave and I try to print something, SmartTank will jump off line again and because I don’t have ‘codes,’ I’ll be dead in the water!  Who knew that it was necessary to learn a whole new language to interact with Smart electronics? 

Onto the upstairs SmartTV.  

“O.K., Gus,” I started, trying to disguise as much sarcasm as I could, “here’s your real challenge for the day!  Can you tell me WHY I need THREE different remote controls to operate this television?”  I was certain that this TV would baffle him, so I sat and watched him work.  Gus pressed buttons on one remote, then the second one (to get the sound), then the third one (to set the sleep timer).  He accessed Samsung on his phone to get some ‘codes,” but nothing worked.  Poor Roy was sent out to the truck to retrieve different HDMI and other various cables, but even those proved unsuccessful.  Finally Dr. Gus conveyed his diagnosis. 

“We don’t usually like to suggest this to our clients,” he began, “but you have legacy equipment with your sound bar and your cable box.  Neither of them talk to the SmartTV, so . . . you can either continue to with the system you have or you can upgrade to a more current setup!  And, I don’t know if you’re bundled or not, so . . . That’s something to be concerned with too!”  

Bundled?  It’s the middle of summer!  I am NOT bundled!!  All of my coats and jackets are in the closet.  It dawned on me that Gus’s meaning of bundled and mine weren’t the same but I was reticent to comment.  And what’s WITH these SmartTVs?  How do they decide to whom or to what they’ll talk to?  And LEGACY equipment?  It’s not that old!!  If our equipment is legacy, what does that make me . . . fossilized?

“Let me tell my husband everything we’ve discussed and he can decide whether or not we should upgrade!” 

When in doubt, shoot from the hip!  There is no way I am prepared to admit to Gus or to anyone else that I am NOT smarter than my TV!

The Stretch.  Everyone knows about it . . . or them, I should say.  There’s the 7th Inning Stretch in baseball, a two to five-minute length of time to stand up, sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” and to purchase a hot dog and another beer.  There’s the stretch of road between two points, usually heard about when asking for directions.  “Yep . . . Take this here road for a stretch then turn right at the old, abandoned barn . . . .”  And again, there’s the final “comin’ down the home stretch” in horse races when jockeys frantically strike the necks of their mounts with riding crops, urging them to surge down the last few meters in hopes of winning by a nose.  But there’s another Stretch . . . the Stretch of Time, spanning years, decades really, but seeming like only days.  This Stretch doesn’t yet have a name but it certainly does have a heart . . . A BIG one.   

“Were your ears ringing last night,” were Inga’s first words when I answered her call early one recent Sunday morning. 

“No, but I’m guessing they probably should have been,” I answered tentatively.  “Why? What have I done now?” 

Inga explained. “Were you friends with a girl in high school named Sofia?  And her brother, Matteo?”

”Yep.  Why?” I asked, “what’s so important about THEM? And how do YOU know them?”  

“Because Sofia is my neighbor and I just spent the weekend with her and her brother at the beach!  I have been telling them about you for a long time and we finally made the connection that they knew you in high school!”  

I briefly wondered what sorts of things Inga had been telling them “for a long time,” but I cast all that aside for the time being (to be revisited later).  I was more excited about reconnecting with friends from my distant past. Those high school years were the sweetest, most memorable and happiest of times. 

Inga created a group text and sent it to the three of us so we would have each other’s contact information.  We were free to chat through our keyboards or to arrange plans to meet in person.  Sofia confirmed a lunch date for 12:00 noon, one week away.  

That Monday finally arrived.  Being an early riser, I performed my usual morning routine enjoying coffee, reading news apps, looking at and selectively responding to emails and texting back-and-forth with one of my very close friends.  A sudden wave of nerves unleashed through my body like a mighty, powerful tsunami!  I was nervous about meeting Sofia!  Why, I don’t know, but I was.  

“I’m having lunch with Sofia today,” my fingers clicked a text to Inga, never expecting an immediate reply.  After all, the grandfather clock had just struck five.  I am the only one I know (besides my morning coffee friend) who is awake at such an early hour.  

“I know!” popped up onto my screen.  

“YOU KNOW?”  I asked, “How do you know?  I don’t know what to wear!  I’m so nervous!” 

“She hasn’t seen you in forever!” began Inga, “ANYTHING you wear will be a new outfit to her!” 

“True . . . but whatever I wear has to be perfect!  What if I have a bad-hair-big-butt day . . . BOTH are entirely possible!  Maybe I should make myself throw up!!!  I’ll lose five pounds!  AND I have wrinkles!  There’s nothing I can do about them!  Maybe I should slather a snail slime mask onto my face, but no!  I can’t do that!  It’s too disgusting!  I think I should do a two-hour pilates class with heavy weights.  That will still leave me with enough time to run out and buy something new and fabulous to wear . . . for Sofia and Ghost Matteo!”

“Or you could just find a quiet spot to meditate,” Inga suggested.

”MEDitate?” I scoffed, “MEDITATE?  No way!  Get outta here! Meditating stresses me out.  Besides, I have too many things to think about besides taking deep cleansing breaths and focusing my mind on  . . . nothing!  Don’t be ridiculous!” 

My iPad slammed shut, I changed into yoga pants and sports bra and performed my pilates class . . . with weights, all the while thinking about different combinations of outfits I could wear.  Why, I wondered, can’t we wear uniforms like we did in high school?  That would make this whole ordeal so much easier!

One shower and four wardrobe changes later, I walked out the door ready to face my teenage past.  I arrived at The City Club, a private women’s social establishment, a half an hour early!  I wanted to make sure I was there to greet Sofia.  I perched myself on a chair just inside the front door so there was no way I would miss her arrival.  As other women arrived, they glanced at me sideways wondering why I was seated so close to the front door. 

“I’m the door monitor today,” I offered as another group of ladies gave me their once-over assessment of disapproval.  “Actually,” I continued, “I’m meeting a friend I knew in high school and it’s been over fifty years since we’ve seen each other!  I’m so excited and I want to make sure I don’t miss her when she comes through the door!”  

Their snooty scowls instantly flipped upside down into gentle smiles. “Oh, how lovely!” they said, “have a wonderful time!” 

I checked my watch . . . 12:02 p.m.  . . . And I panicked!  “She’s LATE!” hammered my fingers in a text to Inga.  “She’s not coming!  She’s stood me up!” 

“Send me a picture when you’re seated,” replied Inga.  

After what seemed like years (or the same number of decades since we’d seen each other), the front door slowly opened revealing the most welcomed sight I’d seen in a long, long time! SOFIA!

Of course I recognized her!  No words, just wide, ear-to-ear smiles on both of our faces.  We bobbed in a warm embrace (and a few tears of happiness) until the hostess interrupted us offering to lead us to our table.  

The long-dried riverbed between us filled with fresh Spring rain.  Conversation cascaded so quickly and plentifully that almost three hours passed in what seemed like a matter of minutes.  In my mind’s eye, we were back in high school discussing our lives . . . the highs, the lows, the gains, the losses and the yet-to-be-seen.  We would have gone on for another three hours but for the subtle whispers and “ahems” from the waiters trying to tell us that the dining room was closing!  

“Oh my gosh, Sofia!”  I said, “we’re the last ones standing!  Everyone’s gone!  I really don’t want to leave but we’d better before we’re asked!” 

There is much more to come, I’m sure.  The elastic band of friendship that bound us together over fifty years ago has stretched far enough.  This nameless Stretch of Time may have distanced us but our hearts have always  . . . And will always be close.  

Daytime dramas, yes soap operas, are addictive but not because the plotlines are unimaginably complicated and absurd.  They are.  Where else could one be a first-hand observer of Abe Carter, the mayor of Salem (somewhere in the Midwest) suffering from severe amnesia for months.  How long would Nurse Whitley hold him hostage, pretending to be his wife?  Intrigue surrounds Victor Kiriokis, missing somewhere in the Greek Isles before his body is discovered by air traffic controllers following a plane crash, leaving his wife, Maggie, to be seduced by his best friend, Konstantin Meleounis.  But . . . proving to be no friend of Victor’s, Konstantin’s only motive is to gain control of Maggie’s massive fortune. Not only does the DuPree family learn that the beloved matriarch, Anita, has cancer, but they also discover that her daughter, Dani, and granddaughter, Naomi, both inherited the Bracha gene.  Their chances of developing cancer have just risen exponentially and they both need the emotional support of the family to help them cope.  However, Naomi has to keep her test results private, even from her husband, Jacob Hawthorne.  Of course Naomi must stay quiet.  Jacob, a police detective, has undertaken an undercover mission on a very dangerous case.  No distractions, even a serious medical situation involving his wife, can impede his work!  After all, he must prove himself to his hyper-critical police chief father in whose eyes Jacob is still a child and can do nothing right.  Erica Cane, Audra Charles, Sally Specter, Adam Newman, Kyle Abbot, John Black, EJ DiMera and numerous others have navigated their own tragedies for decades in long-running daytime television dramas.  They’ve endured kidnappings, imprisonments, betrayals, corporate espionage and sabotage, tawdry trysts and rendezvous and babies switched at birth but that’s all in a day’s work.  What is noticeable only to the most well-trained eye is hidden in the details.  All of these characters, despite their stations in Life, and no matter how dire the situation, are always dressed to the nines.  It’s also perpetually ‘five o’clock somewhere’ on the set since cocktails flow freely and easily in nearly every scene.  Storylines aside, loyal viewers are intoxicated by the fashion and the folly.  

Nicole Richardson, a newly divorced and highly respected psychiatrist in the community of Fairmont Crest, sheds her conservative persona and unleashes her alter-ego on all of the eligible or ineligible men (marital status is of no consequence in these shows) at Uptown, the local hot spot.  In she struts, Sex in a skin-tight, barely-there, flesh-colored, sequin-adorned, Bardot dress, bright crimson three-inch Jimmy Choos, rhinestone chandelier earrings, llama-length eyelash extensions and ruby red come-hither lipstick and slinks onto a barstool . . . a dirty martini in one hand and a sultry smile not-so-subtly inviting attention . . . and finishes her grand entrance.  Questions beg to be asked: what if one of her patients were to see her?  Or better yet: does she even have patients?  She’s seldom in her office, and when she IS there, she’s sharing cognac (and other things) with Dr. Carlton Fitzgerald!  And: Carlton never has patients either?  Is he really a doctor?

“Sheesh!” thinks the viewer, “Nicole is playing with fire!  Of course she’s still in love with Ted (her ex-husband whom she divorced upon discovering he had a secret love-child with a deranged mistress twenty years ago) and she’s got Dr. Carlton Fitzgerald on the line!  What is she doing tramping around Uptown?  But more importantly, where did she get that dress? I have to have it!”

The viewer picks up her phone and types in “worn by Nicole Richardson, Beyond the Gates, January 30” into the search bar.  Exact Match appears on the screen beneath a photo of sexy, not-so-sweet Nicole.  One simple point-click-add-to-cart-proceed-to-checkout later assures that the outfit will be hers within the next seven to ten business days!  Yes, it’s THAT simple! Forget the dirty martini.  The viewer can make her own . . . OR wait for the postal delivery and role play as Nicole at her own local nightclub!

One half hour later, on a different serial matinee,  Audra Charles, jobless and penniless for months, bent on enacting revenge on the entire Newman empire, meets her bestie, Sally Spector, at Society for breakfast.  Given the fact that Audra is unemployed, is unable to  pay rent at the Genoa City Athletic Club where she temporarily resides, buy gas for her car or food for her table, arrives at the restaurant clad in a gorgeous light blue, bell-sleeved, asymmetrical sweater paired with Navy blue wool, boot cut slacks and blue suede ankle boots.  Notwithstanding the problem du jour (hacking into the Newman Enterprises computer system and planting a bug that will destroy all of the files and keeping her criminal past in L.A. a secret from  . . . , well, from everyone in Genoa City), the viewer is caught off guard by Audra’s clothes  . . . and her mimosa . . . and the improbability of it all. 

“That is the most beautiful sweater!  I wonder how it would look on me?  And Elvis has NOTHING on those fabulous blue suede shoes!” 

Audra and Sally continue scheming about the Newmans’ demise, toasting their plan with refills on their mimosas.  

“O.K.,” the viewer continues to dream, “that sweater is a must-have!  

Another session of point-and-click later and the sweater is on its way.  

Meanwhile, back at the Abbot mansion, Jack, Kyle and Diane share cocktails and conversation about their OWN plan to bring the Newmans down . . . And it’s not even noon!  Why are they drinking so early in the day?  Are ALL problems solved over cocktails?

Not to be out-schemed by the Abbots, across town at the Newman estate, Victor, Nikki, Adam, Chelsea and Victoria strategize against the Abbotts and Audra, each with their own glasses filled with something spirited!  (Foreshadowing of more problems being solved!)  Of course, Nikki, Chelsea and Victoria flaunt creations straight from Paris Fashion Week, but as gorgeous and enviable as they all are, the viewer will have to wait to order anything more . . . At least until the first two packages have arrived . . . (unless she ponders the situation over cocktails with a friend?)

So, As the World Turns in these complicated Days of Our Lives Beyond the Gates, tragedies and spectacles continue with All My Children, all of them Bold and Beautiful, sometimes checking into General Hospital, but what always drives the viewership is its fascination with fashion and folly.  

Thinking back about the Christmas holidays, one day stands out in particular and what a day it was!  After I walked the dog and completed my pilates class, I set out to the UPS Store to return a set of golf clubs I’d ordered by mistake.  Of course there was a line out the door; and of course SOME people were testy . . . especially one lady . . . most likely in her early to mid-thirties.  She was surly, impatient, intolerant and VERY demanding.  

“I’m NEXT!” she barked to an unsuspecting milktoast man who handed his return to the clerk, needing NOTHING other than to drop off his fully-packaged and labeled box.  

“He’s just making a drop-off,” explained the harried worker.  Her demeanor defied her outfit. Her festive ensemble screamed the opposite: a green, white and red herringbone miniskirt with glittered threads woven throughout, cute Calvin Klein black ankle booties, white laced anklet socks peeking out, a crisp long sleeved button down blouse and an ELF HAT! Talk about a contradiction . . She was Irony personified!  I’d sure hate to be at whatever Christmas party she was headed to! 

My return fully processed and receipt in my hand, I decided to stop in at CVS to get a flu shot.  While standing in line at the vaccine check-in, I made an appointment on the CVS app for myself at 11:15 a.m., and just like clock-work, my turn at the desk happened at precisely 11:15 a.m.  I was instructed to go wait in Aisle 24 until my name was called.  A few minutes later, “Mary West” was invited to sit in the vaccine chair.  

“Hey!” I said to the pharmacist, “where’s the privacy screen?  I’m going to have to take my blouse halfway off and I’d rather not do it in front of the entire store!”  

“Oh THAT,” the pharmacist sheepishly began, “a homeless guy snuck in here and used the privacy area as a make-shift apartment bathroom and there was a lot of biohazardous material left behind so Corporate instructed us to remove the privacy screen.”  (As if that was o.k. and par for the course!)  

“WHAT?” I gasped, “You’ve GOT to be kidding me!  A HOMELESS guy violates your store and Corporate accommodates it . . . making it so law-abiding, rational, sober, tax-paying CUSTOMERS have to disrobe in front of God and everybody just to maintain their health?  I’ll tell you what . . . I HATE coming into this store!  It’s a rat hole!  The Gold Line metro station is RIGHT OUTSIDE YOUR FRONT DOOR and there are ALWAYS vagrants and addicts lurking around!  Beef up your security and KEEP YOUR PATRONS SAFE!  What a joke!” 

The pharmacist agreed but said HE couldn’t do anything about it and that “Corporate” made all the decisions.  So . . . anger getting the best of me, I yanked my blouse ENTIRELY off over my head and told the pharmacist to select which arm he wanted to prick.  

“Watch,” I said, “I’ll probably be arrested for indecent exposure!  And, by the way, if I AM, you can bet that Corporate will be paying my legal bills!” 

After that total humiliation, I stopped in at PetCo to Christmas shop for all the dogs in the family.  There was a couple roaming the aisles with their two Jack Russell mixes.  Honestly, those dogs looked (and acted) like junkyard dogs . . . Aggressive, ill-behaved and ready to tear open and shred anything they encountered, including me! Oh . . . And the owners . . . Straight out of the bar scene in Star Wars!  The guy was rough. . . Tatted to the max . . . A box of cigarettes rolled into the sleeve of his too-tight T-shirt, short, slicked-back hair (kind of like The Fonz only DIRTY).  His girlfriend’s yoga pants must have been painted on and the sports bra she wore HAD to belong to her MUCH  younger sister (or former cell mate at the women’s prison!)  There was NOTHING left to the imagination.  NOTHING.  Scary Guy initiated a conversation with me (who was looking for non-squeaking toys for my very civilized, clean, groomed, powdered and pampered, NON-junkyard dogs).  

“Hey, Lady,” he started, sounding VERY much like an uneducated Rocky Balboa, “if you lookin’ for some bitchin’ toys, these here puzzles gonna be it!  Look (he said as the male junk terrier destroyed a box on the lowest shelf) . . . this little shit LOVES ‘em!”  

“Ya,” I replied with the full intention of keeping the conversation short, “I can see that!”  I grabbed an unchewed puzzle box from the shelf so Scary Guy would think I took his advice, but I restocked it on the shelf as soon as he and the girlfriend headed for the cashier.  After I’d made my selections, I made a bee line straight home.  I’d had enough “close encounters” for the day.