FORGETTING

My friend said, "Ooo, I had a senior moment! "

I laughed appropriately, but I didn't feel like laughing. This friend was twenty years younger than I. We were having a mile-a-minute conversation about books, trends, publishers -- name dropping names, and numbers -- how much so-and-so was paid for such-and-such a book.

I wanted to get out of her office, get back to my house, my place, my world where I don't deal with "senior" anything.

When I lose a name, I say -- whatshername -- and just breeze on. When I was talking to another friend (quite some time ago but I remember the conversation), I couldn't remember the name of the tiny machine you carry if you're an accountant -- "calculator."

That was the day I started a file called "Verbee," and began putting down words and names I forgot.

I've had trouble remembered Robin Williams' name, Anthony Hopkins' and actor Len Cariou. "Paparazzi" comes and goes ... Also: "boeuf bourguignon. poinsettia, c'mon, dilemma, George Wallace, Lee Strasberg," etcetera.

I'm not going to type out all the words on the Verbee list -- like "paraplegic" (typing it just now, I had to check the spelling twice).

And spelling -- I lose the ability to choose between lose (loose), choose (chose). My blog coach Fran has to proofread each blog I write, because I often misspell words, even common ordinary ones.

And computer processes. -- two months ago I could open the "Neo Office" program on our Mac computer -- we used it for the sound effects last year, when we did a staged reading of "Shattering Panes." Yesterday ... duh ... I forgot how to open, retrieve and use Neo Office.

Okay -- but on THIS computer, my pal, my friend whom I meet with every day and use as my writing tool -- I certainly haven't forgotten any processes. I can do anything and everything I need to do, and MORE.

So, are my lapses -- spelling, names, words -- memory lapses? Or are they OVERLOAD?

Reality: Our new stove has burners that turn on differently. And our new window frames keep us warmer so I've been re-programming our thermostat daily. Also, the computer situation is s crazy -- two new ones plus the three computers I'm using -- I'm running back-and-forth, doing this-and-that on five different operating systems. Plus I'm writing seven blog stories each week -- each with a different subject, different research.

Golly, all that, plus the barrage of new things surrounding me -- got a bunch of new cleaning supplies, two floors with different sweepers and dust-busters, and let's not forget our cell phone applications, the digital camera pictures I download/upload on the computer, and the very latest news, the nonstop ads -- all the stuff I'm being sold, or told is different, is better, while I'm simultaneously warned that it's dangerous,"beware," "do not use."

Dr. Em says: "Forgetting is not something you ought to be regretting."

I'm thinking that NOT REMEMBERING, is my brain, my body, maintaining its equilibrium.

FORTUNE COOKIE BRACELET

7:15 a.m.
I' m clock watching, waiting on eastern standard time, for techies on pacific time, mountain time, and central time to open their doors. I've brought in my 6-foot ladder so I can tidy the shelf above my computer. (It's got my "good luck" goodies on it. When your computer's sick, you need prayers, good luck, and clear-speaking techies to tell you what to do.)

Yes -- the problem could be the printer. It could be the keyboard. The worst thing, the problem I'm dreading -- oh dear -- if it's Word Perfect, the word processing application I use for writing my blog, that's a time-eating disaster.

I'm going to dust my shelf ...

Wowie! Whoopee! I almost fell off the ladder! Bunched up behind my Indian Dancing Doll,
I found this --

a paper bracelet --
fortune cookie fortunes -- a bunch of them taped together -- some blown up big, others normal, tiny print --
great fortunes on it.

ALL YOUR HARD WORK WILL SOON PAY OFF.
I don't remember when I got the fortune cookie, but I remember I wanted to kiss the paper -- I was working on a revision of "Woman of the Century," (see The Readery, it's the book about Cordelia titled "Somebody.") I was going slightly nuts over my agent's notes -- "It's too long, Em -- cut some of the history!"

We had a copier. I made three, large-size copies of the HARD WORK fortune and scotch-taped them to my monitor.

10:45 a.m.
The techie (Carol) on the west coast, taking remote control of my computer, worked with me for two-and-a-half hours -- ran tests, uninstalled, re-installed, went to HP.com and downloaded new drivers. It's not the printer. Carol, like a good friend, stayed on line while I tested two other keyboards.

11:30 a.m.
It's not the keyboard. Now I'm in a cue of twenty callers, waiting for, hoping for, praying for some simple solution from a Word Perfect techie. Some of them are grumpy, unfriendly, and too quickly want to re-install the whole application.

A NEW ASSIGNMENT OR SPECIAL RECOGNITION WILL COME YOUR WAY.
I hope you know that I don't believe in fortune tellers, or what the cookie fortunes say-- but gee, that one's worth framing.

YOU WILL SOON GAIN SOMETHING YOU HAVE ALWAYS WANTED
I did. I got a "hot" nibble on that book. I remember it was Christmas and everyone toasted me with eggnog. Cordelia almost got published, but ... well, by the time the weather got warm and lovely, I had another version of Cordelia's story underway, and a producer optioned "Karen of Troy" for a TV movie. (That novel's also on The Readery.)

CHANCES ARE PRESENT TO MAKE HUGE PERSONAL GAINS.
I was gaining discipline, and a tough, mean eye on my writing, learning how to cut, and the danger in falling in love with a secondary character, or a pretty phrase.

YOU WILL RECEIVE SOME HIGH PRIZE OR AWARD.
When you get a prediction like that, you tape it to your monitor.

1:12 p.m.
The Word Perfect techie, Hans, who had helped me in August, is grumpy but patient, and he has strong, clear speech. He tested -- he tried this and that, (things I'd tried on my own before calling for help) -- he warned me that I might have to re-install the entire application. My heart sank, as I reached for my list of processes that have to be customized ...

2:20 p.m.
"Ah ha ," Hans said. "You don't have to re-install! Just make a new template!"

4:00 p.m.
Well, here I am. It took one-hour-and- twenty minutes to do a new template. The problem -- it seems to be solved.

YOU WILL HEAR PLEASANT NEWS.
I'm smiling -- I've check everything --computer's back to normal -- I'm admiring my hand with the fortune cookie bracelet -- the paper's dusty, the scotch-taped fortune cookie fortunes are fragile, bent, slightly torn.

Thank goodness I enlarged, my favorite --
ALL YOUR HARD WORK WILL SOON PAY OFF.
Peering down at my bracelet, lifting my hand so I can read those good
words once more, I take the bracelet off.

4:35 p.m. (Cup of fresh hot coffee's sitting next to me,)
I've skimmed the fortunes -- special recognition ... gain something ... huge personal gains ... receive high prize ... pleasant news. I've slipped the bracelet over the Indian Dancing Doll. Now I'm finishing this post.

PROMENADE

What's new on my schedule?

A walk first thing in the morning -- a stand straight, stand tall, head-high, stroll around my studio.

With JC.

We laugh, take hands and stroll (separately, if he gets up later than I do). But when he comes downstairs to his office, we take our promenade together.

Back in June I wrote "S S S"( a blog on 6/13, about sitting, standing straight). I was taking a good hard look at myself. After eight hours at my computer (sometimes more), I couldn't help noticing that I was slumping. Even after the hour that I devote to my barre/dance/exercise, my posture wasn't great. My chin wasn't high, my neck was tilted forward -- I looked tired.

Awareness of this galvanized me. . When I check (I don't like to check myself in the mirror too often) I do look better.

I WANT MORE.

I want an even taller, straighter, head high posture. I want that posture automatic, something I don't have to think about.

JC loves my quirky routines. Right now, he's in an actor's limbo -- offers on the table, scripts to read, possibilities but nothing definite. It's a little demoralizing -- each day he has to figure out what to focus on. As for "Em," having decided that Em is a columnist (see "Candy Jar," 9/23), not just a blogger among tweeters and bloggers, I'm doing okay as a writer.

Since we don't work to make money (never have) -- he works, I work to grow, learn, taste, experience something new -- we both need to tend to "morale."

The promenade helps. It's not an important exercise. It doesn't stretch our legs, or get even a small sweat going.

The path we travel is easy -- 15 feet down the inside hall to the entrance doors, , 30 feet from the doors to the other end of the studio where the big loudspeaker sits.

Then, holding hands, we square the corner -- it's just 25 feet from speaker to the skinny mirror. As we're approach it, we see the slender couple in the mirror and admire ourselves. We look ... well ... nice, handsome, sprightly, youngish, not at all thickset, mature.

We proceed 30 feet along the mirrored wall to the audience seats. After we square the corner, it's just 18 feet back to the hall.

He goes to his office, I go to mine.

Our promenade sets a mood -- exterior and interior, and somehow, once we get that tall, confident, head high feeling, we're able to sustain it -- almost throughout the day.

If I start to sag, or he does -- he'll call to me, or I'll call to him across the hall, and we do another walk-around.

ELIZABETH TAYLOR'S GIFT

The news about Liz and heart surgery sends me back to our "Private Lives" days, and how her private life intersected with our private life.

The very first novel I wrote, "Ribet Affair," was about Elizabeth and Richard, and a wacky boy who's infuriated by the intense media coverage of their romance and extravagant lifestyle, planning to bomb the theater which Elizabeth visits every night while Richard's performing there.

JC was one of Richard's favorite buddies in Toronto, where here was playing Laertes in Burton's "Hamlet" that was directed by John Gielgud. When I showed up, I was immediately part of the fun and games -- cocktail parties, dining, drinking and carousing with the famous lovers. They were besieged by paparazzi, followed by hoards of fans.

Being part of Richard's inner circle from his "Camelot" days, I'd sat with Sybil and chatted with her, during some of the rehearsals. Her situation with her husband pained me.

During "Camelot," Richard was having an affair with one of the chorus girls -- a beautiful girl whom I vaguely knew. When I phoned JC from Michigan (I was on tour with my dance company), she'd answered our phone -- the bedroom extension -- in a sleepy voice, sounding like she just woke up.

It was a shock.

What did it mean? Did it mean she was sleeping in our bed with JC? Or was she on a sleep-over with Burton?

Richard and JC were a dangerous pair.

The carousing and craziness of their partying continued after "Camelot," in Philadelphia, Chicago, and Los Angeles with me on the outskirts -- I was on another one-night-stand tour, wondering, worrying, agonizing about JC, knowing about Richard's affairs with other girls, wondering about Sybil, and my situation -- not sure what was real.

Not sure what was real ... It's a state of mind that happens when you love your husband, and you're not sure if he's playing around. (See my post 'Edwards Infidelity 5/26).

I remember Richard and Liz on their wedding day -- her coronet of daisies, her too tight, too shiny, too bright, yellow dress, the champagne, the exhausting non-stop celebrating in the Prince Edward Hotel in Toronto. And more, many more get-togethers. (See my post: "Elizabeth Taylor Socks Syndrome" 6/11.)

The Burtons fought and re-united, their other lovers were headlines. After their divorce, their re-marriage and a second divorce, JC signed a contract to play a featured role in "Private Lives," the Noel Coward play which Elizabeth and Richard revived for themselves.

After many weeks in Toronto and Boston (the cities where "Camelot" began), and 138 performances at the Lunt Fontanne Theatre in NY, "'Private Lives" closed.

The gift from Elizabeth was delivered by a messenger . It was a large fancily wrapped box. Presents are given by cast members to each other on opening night, but this present arrived months after "Private Lives" was over and done with.

It hadn't been a happy show -- bad reviews (but sold-out houses) -- new director, new costumes, new black curly wig for Liz (she'd been wearing red-brown hair that didn't suit her). And re-staged scenes, which upset Richard . He was ailing. Doctors said drinking was killing him, but he was drinking more than ever, sleeping with two actresses that I knew.

Liz performances were up and down, as was her weight, and her love life -- she was going steady with the producer, and sporting a gorgeous engagement ring from her fiancee, a wealthy Mexican lawyer. When she missed three performances, Richard refused to perform with her understudy, and out of the blue married his secretary, Sally.

(You couldn't help wondering if Richard Burton married Sally Hayes to annoy Elizabeth Taylor.)

The story behind their facades, and what happened with Sybil, was loud and in my mind when we opened Elizabeth's gift.

It was heavy. A pink satiny-cardboard box inside the fancily wrapped larger one.

And inside the pink one, beneath cotton, wrapped in a white silk cloth -- Elizabeth's face in a heart-shaped, silver, heavy, solid silver 11" by 9" frame.

There was a note, scrawled by Elizabeth, thanking JC, with love and kisses.

A gift for our mantelpiece? For JC's desk? For a table in our living room, loaded with pictures of family, friends, and celebrities?

We didn't have a table (still don't), but the gift is unique -- engraved -- silver -- heart-shaped -- that exquisitely beautiful face -- who in the world would have thought of sending a picture of herself except Elizabeth Taylor.

I hope, sincerely hope, that she's okay and the surgery will work for her.

It's a gee whiz time, whenever I think of Elizabeth Taylor. . A time when I am deeply aware of what it meant for us to be in her world, on the outskirts -- yet in it -- fascinated, intrigued, distracted, pulled in wrong directions, but holding on to "US.