PIANO

Fran (my blog coach) sent this in an e-mail -- click -- it's a fun stairway exercise .

Fran knows I'm a dancing nut -- every once in a while, my husband and I meet in the hall between our offices and bow to each other, clasp hands above our heads, and dance a stately minuet, humming a tune we both know (but aren't sure if it's Bach, Beethoven, or Mozart).

Having seen the stairs in Odenplan, Stockholm, I searched YouTube, and found piano stairs in Tokyo -- found myself remembering the movie "Big" -- the great scene when Tom Hanks and his friend were dancing -- playing chopsticks on a giant keyboard at F A O Schwarz.

Whoosh -- memories of my piano lesson days came over me. I was going to be a concert pianist, or a doctor, or a ballerina.

Ah yes -- but my best friend, Harriet, was a natural at the piano. Her hands, her stubby fingers with pillows on the end of each finger -- those fingers said she was born to play. When Harriet played anything -- even without the pedal -- the keys had resonance -- her music filled the room.

Not so for Em. I loved to put Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" on the record player, and pretend I was playing it. Whenever I played the piano, I swayed -- let my body feel and display the emotions -- the ripples, the chords, and boy -- did I ever use the pedal!

When I read that pianists practiced for hours each day I was sure it was going to be my career. I knew once my piano teacher gave me a piece of music to play, I'd practice morning! noon! and night!

My piano teacher, Mrs. Gregg, with her huge, up-lifted, corseted front, was shaped like the prow of a ship, and gave orders like a captain, commander in chief. She had me playing Czerny scales, and dinky kiddie tunes. After I begged, she gave me a piece of sheet music -- Poldini's "General Bum-Bum." She said, "Practice it, memorize it, my dear, and you'll play it at the piano recital you and my students will be giving at my church."

I would have preferred to play Beethoven's "Fur Elise," but another one of her students had dibbs on that.

Alas, "General Bum Bum" was a boring march, with nothing for me to feel. The more I practiced, the dumber, the stiffer, the worse it sounded.

On the recital day, I was very nervous. As the hour approached I felt nauseous. Sitting in the church pew, waiting for my name to be called, I was shivering.

I marched down the aisle. Sat on the piano bench. My hands were chunks of ice but I proceeded to play "General Bum Bum" -- made no mistakes, but gee -- it sounded dumb, dead, stiff, awful.

Afterwards Mrs. Gregg folded me into her chest and said "Excellent, my dear. Next week I'll give you Poldini's Opus 79 to master. It's a lyric waltz, in three quarter time."

Mom said, "You played all right, dear" ' but I knew from my cold hands, shivering, and the wish I were dead feeling I had when I walked from the pew to the piano bench, sat, and put my hands on the keyboard, that I was not going to be a famous concert pianist.

Doctor was better. Ballerina was much better-- so it was after that performance that I set to work on convincing my father that I had to have ballet lessons.

Well, I danced in Tokyo ...

So, if I ever go back to Tokyo, or visit Odenplan, would I use the piano stairs?

Yes, I would! I'd like to do what Tom Hanks did in "Big."

After chop-sticks, with my feet on half-toe, I'd plunk out the opening of "General Bum Bum," thanking my lucky stars that I went for ballerina, NOT concert pianist.

IF IT AIN'T BROKE ...

How many times do I have to learn what I already know? If the thing is operating, doing its job, leave it alone.

Don't study it. Don't look it up in a "How-To" book. No checking, no researching, don't even peer at the thing. Or wonder about it, or be amazed by it -- it is what it is.

Don't fix it!

My brain holds on to miscellaneous facts -- computer timing, boot speed, error messages, beeps, odd shut downs, stalled loading, too many windows opened, a light flickering, a light not flickering.

And trivia -- things techies said a year ago, two or ten years ago, experiences with remote access, turn on switches, turn off switches, upgrading, downgrading, temp files that shouldn't be there, or should be and aren't.

I can, after a computer crash or serious trouble, remember all the steps taken in remedying the trouble. It's my dancer's brain -- I somehow photograph and retain processes.

And, after the major troubles, I reconstruct what I did or didn't do that might have created the event.

Uh oh! Here comes the FAULT, the FLAW in Em's brain.

CURIOSITY. For instance, the day I wondered "What is system restore?" I remember when I first noticed that folder in one of my earlier versions of windows -- boink -- I deleted it.

Furthermore, when the folder I'm working in does not appear at the top of the list of what's in my C drive, I re-name the folder -- move it, change the name of files, move them, eliminate them -- yep -- blithely I've gone into CONFIG, EXE and INI files, and evolved different ways of organizing and ridding my computer of un-necessary temp files, and those irritating Perflib files.

What a shining clean house I would have, if I cared for my home the way I care for a computer!

Are you laughing at me? Feeling sorry for me? Do you do similar things with your favorite tools?

Playing with the operating system, customizing it --especially customizing word-processing software is ... well, it's interesting, sort of relaxing if you're careful, and don't make a boo-boo ...

Woe is me ... How many times have I learned, if it' ain't broke, don't fix it. And proceeded to fix it, and broke it...

Dr Em says it's a good thing you're so busy writing these days, that you don't have time, end of the evening, for tidying, re-organizing, checking, fixing your computy-wooty .

Do I really call my computer that? Well ... sometimes ...

Anyhow, being a blogger commentator, I've got blog lists, notes on ideas, a backup blog named "Teecherme" that I scrupulously keep up-to-date -- and QuickFinder search files so I can keep track of what I've said, or written about before, and ...

Gee, I love work and the work of my work gets me working better, faster, more creatively -- hey, "'My cup runneth over!"

DINK

Why do I make up words? I rarely drink water. Even when it's purified with a Brita filter, I don't really like the taste of water.

And eight glasses of water day? That's too much for me. Hey, I'm a coffee drinker, three or four cups, plus dink ... a glassful when I'm thirsty!

How come? All those years of dance classes ... awful lavatories, in studio classrooms, standing in line waiting your turn, everybody knowing you need to pee ... As a young dancer I learned to drink less, and NOT to drink before class.

The fact is, I don't perspire a lot when I'm exercising, except in the middle of the summer when it's 80 degrees or more in my studio. Then I get hot enough -- perspire enough to work on split stretches, and drink another glass or two of dink.

"Dink" isn't baby talk. It's a shortcut. I'm not going to say "pass the bottle of Crystal Light, please," every time I want a refill. Dink is the Crystal Light we drink rather than water -- it's a low-calorie powder one buys in packets from which you can make a glassful, or tinfoil cups (we buy the cups) from which you make a half-gallon of your favorite flavor.

Mine is lemonade. I've tried the others ... the pink lemonade's good. the orange, raspberry, tea, cherry -- no thanks -- the flavor stays with you, like candy. Therefore, "ours" is lemonade.

Sure, we'd love "diet" Sprite, 7-up , Coke, (especially Fresca) but toting those economy-sized big bottles up and down the stairs -- that's a no-no, in if you live on the top floor in New York City.
,
I have two sturdy, plastic, gallon-sized containers , and we keep both on the top shelf of the fridge -- the fresh jug of dink in the rear, the current one toward the front.

"Dink" is a word, as well as a tradition in my family. It's the beverage that my guys request. Not because they're catering to me, they say "Pass the dink, or "I want some more dink" -- it tastes good, it's refreshing like water, clears the palate -- doesn't distract from what we're eating.

Don't worry, if you're coming to dinner -- we'll offer you water, wine, or dink . (You might end up loving it.)

Hey, hey --the family that dinks together, stays together.

NEW STRING OF FORTUNES

We've been ordering from a new Chinese restaurant -- two especially good dishes: ISLAND PRAWNS -- apples, pineapple, lichee sauce; CURRY CHICKEN -- thin sliced white breasts, ultra spicy sauce. JC likes their PEPPER STEAK and loves their PORK LO MEIN so it's "our place" for now.

Our new place has a fast delivery guy on a motorcycle, and the girl who answer the phone and takes the order speaks reasonably clear English.

BUT the fortunes in their cookies .. well, these fortunes cookies are different.

IT'S FUN, BEING A KID
Huh? That's a fortune?

MORALITY IS TRUTH IN FULL BLOOM
Religious, philosophical message. Old fashioned, stiff, and a bit boring.

MAY THE WARM WINDS OF HEAVEN BLOW SOFTLY ON YOUR SPIRIT
Pleasant, not thrilling, okay fortune.

OVER EVERY MOUNTAIN THERE IS A PATH, THOUGH IT MAY NOT BE SEEN FROM THE VALLEY
True, wise, mature, and even hopeful. I might paste it on the string on my door.

DO YOU WANT TO BE A POWER IN THE WORLD? THEN BE YOURSELF.
Is the writer guy into Scientology?

LOVE GOES NOWHERE UNINVITED.
Now he's cooking with gas.

IT'S NICE TO BE IMPORTANT, BUT IT'S MORE IMPORTANT TO BE NICE.
I think I'd appreciate this fortune more if the second phrase came first. Or if the whole thing was reversed.

LUCKY YOU. GET OUT OF YOUR PARTY CLOTHES.
Huh? Maybe the guy who wrote the fortune is a girl?

EVERY DAY THERE IS SAD NEWS, BUT EACH DAY IS GLAD NEWS.
Philosophical, a little dull, but optimistic.

SOMETHING NICE IS COMING TO YOU IN THE MAIL.
Boring.

LOVE IS THE FIRST THING PEOPLE FEEL, BECAUSE LOVE IS NICE.
Nice? (Boring, and simplistic.)

EVERY IMPORTANT CALL IS A CLOSE ONE.
JC likes this one. I don't.

I have about eight more cookies to eat. I love the new Chinese restaurant's two specials, but these fortunes .... Oh well ... maybe the fortune cookie writer is on Prozac.

If you want any of them, let me know, Click the Ask Em icon, and I'll send you a copy.

So -- -- see my post, "Fortune String" -- June 22.
Big question: DO I, DON'T I keep them?
Should I paste the new fortunes on the string that's on my office door?

OOPS. EEK, HELP!

I'm thinking about disasters -- why? -- well, our roof suddenly sprung a leak, and the men who are fixing it arrived with enormous rolls of tar paper, and someone put a tarred hand on one of my hallway walls which are wallpapered PINK ... and that hand-print is a disaster.

Small disaster, but oops, oh dear -- how am I going to get that fixed? Well, it brought back travel days, performing days, disasters that couldn't really be solved.

Once, in California, Pennsylvania, on our very first tour as the Dance Drama Duo, we were doing a 9:30 a.m. morning assembly performance. Mark Ryder and I came prancing out of the wings. (Black velvet side curtains that were hung from bars in the ceiling above the stage, the bars that also supported the red velvet main front curtain.)

Oops! Help! Eek -- what in the world -- the entire thing fell ... I mean entire. Red velvet, black velvet, on us, on the stage -- there was no stage, no performance, no way to save the day, no on with the show! (No $200 fee, and we needed the money to pay for our train fare to the next booking!)

And suddenly, I'm remembering -- the Dance Drama duo on the "Gary Moore TV Show," with Don Ameche --he was in the wings, ready to perform a song after our number. (Remember him, he was wonderful, great fun in "Cocoon!")

The Dance Drama Duo was already in its (pre-divorce) arguing phase, performing Irving Berlin's ballad, "I'll be loving you, Always."

The AD (assistant director) calls out, "Standby."

We take our positions ... me, head down submissively, hands crossed on my heart, Mark, standing tall, ready to bow and do a loving noble gentleman's obeisance his lady love.

Click the link -- and you'll hear what we heard, as the tech guy cued on our record. (Just listen briefly. I'll paint the picture. )

Mark froze. I improvised, using bits from other duets, prancing, waltzing, jogging around him with graceful arm gestures, like a seductive maiden seducing a stern reluctant man. It was two and a half minutes. A disaster. (Not a total disaster -- Don Ameche blew me a kiss as he took his place in the spotlight.)

The guys have finished their work on the roof for today. The roof will be fixed by tomorrow. JC gave me a kiss as he was off to the Princeton Club, to tell a story on camera for a documentary, about co-starring with Madeline Kahn in "On the Twentieth Century." (I was afraid they were going to fall in love, but they didn't!)

Hey, here's my favorite John Cullum tune from the show .

FORTUNE STRING

YOU ARE HEADING IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION
We used to take JD and the toy bear he called "Concrete Hands," to eat at the restaurant on the corner. JD loved mushrooms, and called them "Manies."

BEAUTIFUL THINGS AWAIT YOU

SPECULATIONS WILL TURN OUT WELL
I never paid attention to the boring fortunes, just put the errant cookie in front of JC.

YOU WILL HAVE GOOD LUCK IN PERSONAL AFFAIRS
Oh boy, did I ever want to believe that. Some girl kept calling. I couldn't stop thinking jealous wife thoughts.

YOUR LABORS WILL BEAR SWEET FRUIT
Booking Dance Drama Company tours, my three automatic typewriters paused for me to type in a personal something or other -- 3000 letters, three times a year. Every "nibble" from a possible sponsor was a thumb-tack on the map of the US that JC tacked up in the kitchen.

LADY LUCK WILL SOON VISIT YOU
JC sang "Luck be a Lady" and I choreographed it for him, and it worked -- he got the jobs.

A SUDDEN CHANGE IN PLANS WILL LEAD TO GOOD FORTUNE

WHEN WINTER COMES HEAVEN WILL RAIN SUCCESS ON YOU I hope so.

YOU WILL BE SUCCESSFUL THROUGH DETERMINATION AND INNOVATION I hope so.

YOU WILL BE AWARDED SOME GREAT HONOR
When? I kept asking myself, as applied for Ford, Guggenheim, NEA grants.

FROM A PAST MISFORTUNE, GOOD LUCK WILL COME TO YOU
Interesting idea ... I wondered who made the fortunes for the cookies that came from the corner. Other places had better food, but cookies with ho-hum boring sayings by "Confucius."

YOUR HOME IS A PLEASANT PLACE FROM WHICH YOU DRAW HAPPINESS
It was, and we (with me as the decorator), were having fun wall-papering our crumbling walls with brilliant colored cloth.

YOU ARE ENTERPRISING, TAKE ADVANTAGE OF IT

SOON YOU WILL BE GETTING THE RECOGNITION YOU DESERVE
Oh yes, please yes, make it soon!

THE PROJECT YOU HAVE IN MIND WILL SOON GAIN MOMENTUM
When that popped out of a cookie, I remember we were raising money for our "KINGS" on Broadway

YOU HAVE THE ATTITUDE OF A WINNER
True.

YOUR GENUINE TALENT WILL LEAD YOU TO SUCCESS
Maybe, maybe not.

BE INNOVATIVE AND TAKE CHARGE
I do.

FORTUNE SMILES UPON YOU AT THIS TIME

ALL YOUR HARD WORK WILL SOON PAY OFF

STEP BY STEP YOU WILL ASCEND THE STAIRCASE TO SUCCESS
When we got back from living in Malibu, the restaurant was gone. Others in the area have occasionally marvelous food, but uninspiring cookies. Even so, my string hanging here, continues to delight me and give me ... shh ... a ping of hope.

Those crunchy cookies -- "love 'em, eat them, or leave them." Click the icon below the list of labels. and I'll e-mail you a copy of the words, the super good luck fortunes on my string.

GOOD LUCK STUFF

I don't believe in "Luck" -- I believe in work but ...

For years I collected Fortune Cookie fortunes and taped them to a long red cord. Only the good ones. If JC got a super great one, I took it and pasted it on my string. My fortune cookie fortunes are hanging on the door to my office.

My red apple on a gold string hangs just below the light I keep on for Mother. (I wrote about this s in "Night Light," April 13th.)

High up on the window, there's a poster from "People in Show Biz Make Long Goodbyes," written by me as H. Jean Schaeffer. (One of these days I'll explain about H. Jean, Harold and Harried -- the Schaeffer family.)

On the shelf above my monitor, there's a hand painted cup in the style of Rouault -- brought it in Spoleto where I danced my very best despite Baryshnikov and Fracci watching in the wings.

Next to it -- a doll from India that does a belly dance if you blow on her. H, a dear pal of JC's who propositioned me, bought it for me, along with a 4 oz. flagon of $90 an ounce Joy perfume.

On the shelf above that -- 3 tall wooden flowers. JD bought them for me for good luck when I left Malibu, moaning about missing the flowers.

Under my calendar a demonic wooden Chinese Lord who's staring angrily at my Fortune Cookies -- he's a gift from my stage crew in Hong Kong who taught me to say "Go Cue. Take a break. Thank you," in Chinese.

I don't pay much attention to any of my good luck trinkets ... never had a rabbit's foot or knocked on wood ...

But I always wear my purple T shirt, no matter what the weather -- on the first day of a new project. And though I haven't added any new fortune cookie fortunes to my string, it hangs there. Maybe one of these days I'll type out the fortunes ...

ELIZABETH TAYLOR SOCKS SYNDROME

Okay, the story behind yesterday's "socks" story:

Once upon a time, Richard Burton (yep, the real one) had asked me, to accompany Elizabeth T (the real E. Taylor), to a huge party. He was going separately. Her limo picked me up before it picked her up at her hotel.

Of course it had taken hours for me to decide to wear my black organza layered ruffles with its skinny glittering straps. I'd been to galas, where eager beaver photographers rudely leaned over me, and on me, to take pictures of the stars at our table. Someone had tipped them off -- I was not really a "somebody."

When we picked Elizabeth up, she greeted me, "Hi" (yes she really has lavender eyes), and immediately took out her mirror -- during the ride was totally involved with checking her face and hair. We spoke once. She asked if the rouge on one cheek was brighter than the other. I said "yes."

Ahh, but at the party, attention was paid to me. Since I'd arrived with the queen, some of her celebrity-dom must have rubbed off. Maybe they were thinking, "she" (me) must be somebody, because she's Liz's friend.

There's more to this story. My very first book, "Ribet Affair" was about the Burton Taylor romance. (RIB for Richard, the ET for Elizabeth.) I'd told their love story using newspaper headlines, the months of unending fascination of the press, while we (JC and I) were a small unit within the hugely glamorous conglomeration of famous people that were in and out of Burton's dressing rooms during the years that JC was Burton's best buddy. (And I was a very young version of what "Em" is now.) RB liked my blunt, direct, not worshipful, not celebrity-hungry shadow in the background.

This post is NOT about JC and his carousing days, how we outgrew it, and it outgrew us. The famous couple was in our lives for a long time. The last show RB and ET did, "Private Lives," featured JC. And I, as usual, was a shadow at the opening night party -- RB wanted me seated next to him and his new not glamorous wife, Sally Hay, whom everyone was ignoring, so I paid attention to Sally.

Am I beating around the bush, hiding behind B's various wives, before I blab about me and my jewels? Yes!

R had told us all about his buying a 3 million dollar diamond for E. I was at table #1 in Sardi's with RB and wife #2 (Susan Hunt) when she lost one of the fabulous dangling diamond earrings he'd given her. It furthered our friendship when I, dancer-like, crawled under the table and found it.

Yes ... all this affected, still affects me, is part of the sheen on my shell (the protective covering of a gal who's been around -- not a Hollywood expatriate, just a wife of a great-looking guy who's known in show biz).

Em's shell is made of "Project Residue" from ventures as leading lady of a dance company, from being a soloist with symphony orchestras, from making myself the star of a nightclub act, which I created to keep my dancers employed. A tough hard shell of hard work, that almost, not quite, sort of, kind of, perhaps, maybe semi-succeeded, but did not make me a place or a future or a permanent solid footing in the Dance World.

Woo -- ee -- those nightclub act days ... Bought myself an Emerald ring, like the one ET had, not consciously to imitate her, but because it comforted me, when the club canceled our booking.

The nibble on the "Ribet Affair" (title changed to "46th Street Binge"), inspired me to buy an 80 carat Amethyst brooch, and get a jeweler to transform it into a knuckle-high ring.

Offers to produce my play? Got myself a 40 carat, Aquamarine in a horizontal setting that fits across two fingers. Other plays -- big golden Sapphire for my pointing finger; a dainty, costly, cluster of opals interspersed with diamonds, for my pinkie.

What the hell was I thinking? Well, I guess you know what I was thinking ... I was rewarding me, and wearing my rewards that I now keep in 5 white socks in my sock drawer. Can't wear them. Too flashy. Mugger encouraging. Wrong style for who I am.

One day, in a down mood, I stuffed my socks in a shoulder bag and ventured into the forties, between Sixth Avenue and Fifth Avenue, where pawn shops, jewelry shops, stores filled with diamonds, silver and gold rings, watches, bracelets, necklaces -- stores with WE BUY & SELL signs in the windows.

In jeans, floppy T-shirt, sneakers, I went from store to store, from counter to counter, planning what to say, what to do, which one of those unfriendly faces should I approach, to ask how much the do0dads in the socks were worth?

If I'd taken out a sock, would I have been arrested?

I never took them out.

The 5 socks are in my sock drawer. Maybe someday I'll find someone who needs to be rewarded... meanwhile, I donned this one ...

Oh my, I love wearing this golden sapphire -- I'm pointing it to myself, telling myself it's not too flashy, it's the sun on my finger.

SOCKS IN A DRAWER

JC was going to be inducted into the actors' Hall of Fame at 8 p.m. After working on his speech, he'd rushed off to check the microphone, calling, "Don't be late."

I fingered through the hangers in my closet, finally picked a black simple something, and elegant boots. It took an hour to dress, do hair and makeup. Then I took out the 5 white cotton socks in which I keep my jewelry. One of the socks is for rings with gemstones. The cotton protects them from getting scratched or dusty.

I picked the Amethyst, left hand, Emerald on the right. It had been a chilly day. I slipped on my red-orange-yellow knitted coat -- it wasn't a warm coat ... gee, where was the event?

Only then did I realize no limousine had been arranged, and I wasn't sure of the address.

Off with the rings, back into the sock, socks back in the drawer! Our top floor loft (where we live in Manhattan), is reasonably safe. The fact is, I'd let the insurance policy lapse when we were living in our Malibu log cabin.

In California, I'd worn my rings to a Hollywood party that was given in my honor by a friend, when "The Woman" was sold. (It never occurred to me that publishers could change their minds.) I'd worn jewelry to meet the agents at ICM, but the literary agent I wanted to work with, last-minute canceled.

Sometime later, I'd worn my very best, most expensive jewelry at the Christmas party given by a writer who was turning "Cordelia," into a TV series. Though the show didn't happen, my rings got a few ohhs and ahhs -- the host's fabulous home got my ohhs and ahhs.

We'd chosen a log cabin "simple" life -- loved living on top of a winding hill, with a driveway you couldn't find unless we faxed you a map. That's why I put jewelry in socks. I had an abundance of socks -- writing and my daily excursions to the gym were my full-time job.

Anyhow, JC's Hall of Fame night wasn't a occasion where my jewelry would be noticed. Also, the rings are too large to wear with gloves, too spectacular to wear on the street if you don't have a limo.

When I finally got to the theater by cab, finally figured out which of the entrances to use for the gigantic complex that houses the Gershwin, I managed, finally, to find a manager who told me which of the many stairways to use. And got to the entrance -- found an usher, who said there were no seats left. With a "shh," the usher opened the door and pointed. JC was on the stage in a spotlight. I heard applause as I edged my way in. By the time I sat on the folding chair the usher arranged for me, JC was introducing the next honoree.

Whoops! Oops! About a week later, his manager told me that his speech, thanking producers, directors, agents, and managers, had started with a long, detailed, touching tribute to me.

Wow ... Will I ever learn that the fuss you make over how you look is not as important as the moment -- being there -- on -- in -- at the moment itself?

Is How-You-Look fussing a fatal female flaw? Is this something we can blame on our mothers? On movies? On red carpet nonsense? My friend S, having been invited to a party at Buckingham Palace for Camilla, Prince Charles' wife, bought a new dress, new shoes, new bag, and a hair cut, hair style at a fashionable London salon. Last minute, rented a hat. It was raining when her taxi arrived. The veil, the brim, the whole thing dripped and drooped. S couldn't bring herself to go in and join the tea-sipping festivities.

Oh dear ... . yes, I was corrupted, confused like S and ... oh dear, my case history is worse ...

Enough of this ramble! Maybe tomorrow I'll tell you about me and my Elizabeth Taylor syndrome. I'm off to play the tape of JC's tribute that his manager gave me!

HAIR

Remember when "one glove" Michael Jackson first appeared with kinky, long, wet looking hair? It looked like recently un-braided, braided hair, and became very stylish. Some people still wear their hair that way. It never went out but other styles have come in, way IN.

I don't know if you noticed, but I certainly have -- females these days wear their hair Like H E R.

Blond-brown, shades of golden brown or light bronze -- it's been getting more and more popular. It started after 1994, got hot, and hotter by 2004, and now, right now, it's more than ever T H E LOOK.

Shoulder length, sometimes longer, randomly wavy ends, center part that is not neatly parted, so no part works fine.

Is it her hair style, or her that made her the most memorable friend in "Friends?" Believable actress, comedic, touching, able to dance, sing, cry, be boisterously rah-rah, hugely seductive or prissy prim -- all that, plus a ideally proportioned shape, and neat, right, perfect facial features. (But not one of those typical movie star faces, out of the box of perfect faces, all of which seem similar.)

I didn't see the show in its heyday. I'm snobby -- anything with canned laughter gets me clicking other channels. And in the mid-nineties, we lived in our Malibu log cabin -- no cable, just two local stations. But when we resettled in NYC, I caught a bit of the show, then started looking for bigger bits, and "Em," who isn't a fan of anyone on TV, belatedly became a fan.

I have long hair that's been long since I was twelve. Even when other styles are IN, I know my pulled-back hair style, the way I make two ponytails into a double bun is fairly unique. When I wear my hair loose, it usually attracts attention.

Well, the days of attracting attention with my long hair are gone.

Yoo hoo Jen! If you get blue over those two, (you know who) -- its you, not HER that women all over the world have been imitating for more than a decade -- grandmas, lady execs, moms, teachers, actresses, models, chic young woman, wild girls, teenagers, kid sisters, famous females as well as ordinary females.

Is it your spirit? Your hair? Who knows exactly what it is, but YOU are the one, Miss Jennifer Aniston!

BLACK COAT LAMENT

I threw out clothes I loved.
I miss them.

I could have thrown out love letters, less regretfully. Even without re-reading those letters, you remember the words ... so precious, caressive ... You don't really want to see if if they feel the same way now.

I had a black coat I bought at Bloomingdales. I was 18. It was fitted. My waist was 24. I was as tall as I am now. (Actually taller -- I keep forgetting the inch I lost, when my broken back was fused.) The coat had a high collar, four inches that stood up, not because it was stiffened with buckram. It just stayed high ... Buttons were covered, fabric soft wool, bodice formfitting, skirt flaring into a half circle ... It made me feel like a Russian princess. It cost $125.00, which was my birthday money.

I was in New York, with barely enough money to live on, having fled, spur of the moment, from the University of Chicago. Was I taking classes at the New Dance Group? I can't quite place this marvelous coat in the sequence of my career pursuits.

A few years later, when I was beginning to be looked at, and wanted to be looked at in unique, ahead-of-the-trend outfits, I sewed a five-inch antique silver chain onto the collar so that I could fasten the elegant collar in an elegant way.

Time passed. I was getting to be a "name" in dance. I had a baby. And a thicker waist. JC was earning a lot . We got me a fabulous, white, sheared Canadian badger coat. With brilliantly hidden zippers, it could be worn as a traffic-stopping full-length evening cloak; a calf-length coat, or a fun "shorty."

Though my Russian Princess coat was stunning, it was tight if I ate anything. Even after I moved the buttons , I rarely wore it. I'd try it on, twirl in front of the mirror, debate what hat to wear, but didn't have anything spectacular, and those were the days when I wanted to look spectacular. So every fall, the coat was taken out of the closet where it was protected by cedar chips -- not worn -- returned to the closet with fresh cedar chips in the spring.

When we were living Malibu, animal lovers were donating furs, not wearing them, and I didn't want to be attacked on the street. Bye-bye incredible three coats in one. I gave my Canadian Badger back to the designer.

When we said bye-bye Malibu and returned to NY, my closets were filled with show biz glamor clothes. There wasn't hanger space for California clothes worn by a writer who'd lived in a log cabin on two acres, who no longer wore high-heeled leather boots, and elegant outfits, because you wear jeans, men's shirts, and sneakers, when your desk overlooks semi-tropical vegetation, and you're expanding "The Woman" into "Woman of the Century." (and mulling over yet another version.)

Yes, clothes affect me, creatively. I had no room for my log cabin outfits, so I made an Em rule. "If you haven't worn it in ten years. you throw it out."

Chiffons, velvets, lace, organza, be-jeweled, sparkling, floating dresses, blouses, skirts ... Bloomingdales coat, capes, jump suits -- I see them one by one as I write this and miss them ... that coat, oh my ...
I called my friend's daughter to whom I'd given a Kangaroo coat I'd bought in Australia, hoping I'd given her my Russian Princess coat. "No," she said, "You showed it to me, but didn't give it me ..."

I'm thinner now -- it would fit, it wouldn't be too tight, but if you haven't worn it in ten years ...

I guess I'm sad because the time for wearing it is gone. I can't get it back -- coat, or glamor clothes, or the person I was. So I'm lamenting the coat because it's gone, like my youth.

DORIS D. & RACHEL M.

Last night we saw that movie where Doris Day sings Que Sera, Sera.

We'd seen it before. How many times? Her son's been kidnapped and she thinks he's in the embassy building where she sings for the ambassador and distinguished guests.

I'm not sure what the song title actually is -- is it Cera, Sirra? I'll hum it for JD who knows French. I studied French at Berlitz because I was supposed to go to Paris, to stage a scene for Maria Callas in a film. Learning to speak French as well as read it was fascinating, boring, and a big challenge. Though the film was canceled, what I'd learned inspired me. I wrote a "Cyrano " for JC which was (and still is) a favorite marvelous project that got extraordinary reviews, raves for us both throughout the U.S.

Anyhow, we were watching the movie, at the kitchen table, planning to discuss a new play possibility for JC, but Doris Day totally captivated us, diverted us.

Doris' bell-like singing voice, every word clear, the shape of her face, her neat movie star's body, her utterly convincing acting -- has she been praised, lauded, credited for that? Or remembered for her typicality, her perfect American Wife-Mother-Girlfriend looks?

I can't help wondering how she's doing now? Would my rave notice touch her, delight her, lift her out of any end of life fears and doldrums she may be having?

Am sending her telepathically a stream of affirmation, to ripple and pour over and around her -- what a gift Doris Day has given us with her talent.

Like Rachel M but I can't write about her now ... real life, and that new play is summoning me. Que Sera ... JD told me "sera" is a form of the word, "to Be." He pronounced it -- oh my-- it delighted his mother's heart, to hear him say it so beautifully.

Actually it's a two character play, a possibility for JD as well as JC.

Mm ......

DOODLER

I like to get up early and write before my guys are up. Lay out the breakfast things, but greet them. (Both are named John).

I've developed the habit of leaving a doodle for them, a quick picture of my state of mind---am I up or down, feeling wonderful? Powerful, or fearful--fretting about something.

I'm still sort of sleepy, wondering what to do....