Sunday, January 4, 2015

CLICHE:  an expression, aphorism, proverb, maxim, idiom, or phrase that is overused, trite, hackneyed, stale, commonplace, banal, unimaginative, worn-out, and tired. 

About the worst insult one can hurl at writers and speakers is to accuse them of being a purveyor of cliches, and, therefore, deficient in original thinking.  In truth, attacking cliches has become a cliche itself.

Well, I’m here to defend the cliché and those who use them and to convince you that the study of the cliché not only improves one’s critical thinking but teaches us to appreciate the history of human experiences, shared across cultures, language groups, and time.   

To begin, ask yourself:  

            “Why would a group of words be used, re-used, and overused?  

The answer:

            Because they describe undeniable truths about the human experience,
            and they do so effectively and efficiently. Cliches are shorthand forms
            to human behavior and history.

The cliché’s crime is its success, and its success lies in its ability to cut to the gut (a future cliché, I hope) of a matter in a language understood by all.  Oh, yes, I suppose a writer or speaker could invest countless hours in search of a new and different way to say “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” but why bother when chances are the result will be second-rate and not connect as powerfully as the original with the receiver?

And that’s because clichés reflect the best thinking of our forebears.  Their users should be thanked for perpetuating their usage; in fact, if I had my way, public schools would be mandated to teach a course on the “The Wisdom of the Cliché.”  If studied, understood, and examined through observation, we would all be better-armed against double-talk, scams, fluff, and all around bullshit.  The cliche, a rational commentary on life, lets you penetrate below superficial surface structures to the truths that lie below.    

To prove my point, take the three cliché tests below, all descriptions of real life events, and pick the cliché(s) that go to “the heart of the matter.”

1.     A parishioner attends the same church every Sunday for twenty years and listens to the minister deliver anti-American and anti-Semitic sermons.  Later in life, the parishioner insists that he never agreed with the minister’s views of the world.  

      a)   It’s not what you say.  It’s what you do.
b)     Birds of a feather flock together.
c)     You will be judged by the company you keep.
d)     Lay down with dogs, get up with fleas.

All four describe the truth of the parishioner’s  behavior.   

2.     An engaged woman is leaving her hospital room after undergoing abdominal surgery.  Her fiancé says to her:  ‘I’m glad that’s over.  I was sure worried about you.”  He starts out the door, turns to see if she is following, and says:  “Pick up your suitcase, Honey, and let’s go.  I sure do love you.”

a)     A friend in need is a friend in deed.
b)     Actions speak louder than words.
c)     What you see is what you get. 
d)  A stitch in time saves nine.

A, B and C are correct. (And my advice to the young woman is to “run, don’t walk, to the nearest exit!” ALONE!)

3.     We are told that Cuba is an economic and social success; that its people are healthy, happy, and productive.  Yet on a recent eight-day tour of Cuba, my fellow-travelers and I were chased through the streets of Havana by crowds of raggedy people, begging for food, soap, and toilet paper.  Scaffoldings -- erected 15 plus years earlier for the purpose of reconstructing deteriorating buildings – were now stories-high metal trellises, now long-time carriers of vines and debris. And driving hundreds of miles across the island, one sees only a trickle of cars and trucks (until the vintage cars of Havana).  Most transport is by horse-drawn wagons, and despite the obvious shortage of food in the country, acre after acre of fields are uncultivated.   

a)     One picture is worth a thousand words.
b)     Seeing is believing
c)     Don’t believe everything you read.
d)     Killing two birds with one stone.

      The answers:  a, b, and c.

At the root of these vignettes and all good stories (novels, plays, movies) are cliches. And that's because LIFE IS A CLICHE!  These age-old truths are not the products of lazy minds, but their automatic rejection is most definitely a sign of the closed mind.

                    To reject the cliche is to reject human history.


                                               Whiningly yours, Carol

Cliches deserve your respect.  They are not the product of a lazy mind, but their automatic rejection is most definitely the product of a closed mind. To reject the cliché is to reject human history! 

Saturday, December 6, 2014


     It’s December, which means that in no time at all New Year’s Eve will be here.  But instead of getting excited, I am indifferent, and I wonder if there are others like me who hate New Year’s Eve.  I do a Google search and input “I hate New Year’s Eve,” and would you believe?  There are over 6,500,000 entries. Apparently I’ve got plenty of company.  I don’t know what their beefs are, but I can tell you mine.   
             It started way back, as far back as I can remember.  My parents would be all gussied up and flushed with excitement, apparently heading out for the be-all and end-all of nights, while I was being left behind in the care of a babysitter who obviously hated me.  The sitter’s instructions were to take me to a movie.  She would enter the movie house, hat pulled down low over her forehead, and look furtively about, praying that no one she knew would see her.  As young as I was, I got the message: the worst thing that could happen to a girl of dateable age was to be seen in public on New Year’s Eve without a date.  
Years later, when it was Near Year’s Eve, and I was of dateable age and without a date, I would close my bedroom door, draw the drapes, take the phone off the hook, and read a book.  God forbid anyone should know that I was dateless.  And back at school after the holidays, when the girls would stand together describing in exaggerated detail their fabulous New Year’s Eve, I would join in with a fictionalized account of my own.  I was out-of-town, of course.  Out-of-town dates were impossible to disprove… plus they sounded more exotic.   
One year I was in Chicago, where I met up with my long time pen pal and his family, who were visiting from Paris. We made the rounds of comedy clubs and ate dinner in an exclusive restaurant. Dustin Hoffman was at the next table.  Another year I joined a group of exchange students from Mexico at a private party hosted by the Mexican Museum of Art, but my finest New Years Eve fantasy took place in Cleveland, where my cousins and I went on a city-wide scavenger hunt that took us to bars, restaurants, famous landmarks, and—in the end – to a police station for a pair of handcuffs.   
I was thankful when in my senior year of high school I was invited to a party.  I didn’t think I could dream up anything to top the previous year’s scavenger hunt.  John came to the house, and with shaky hands, pinned a corsage to my dress (that was the fashion back then), and off we went. I was looking forward to a night as unforgettable as the ones I had invented, one filled with witty jokes, clever repartee, and Ginger Rogers-Fred Astaire-like dancing couples; instead, we all stood awkwardly about, waiting for someone – anyone – to make this night different from all other nights.  It wasn’t; in fact, it was worse – except for the few minutes some time before (or after) midnight during the Disputation.       
 “Get ready!” the host yelled.  “It’s midnight!”  “No, it isn’t!” someone argued. “It’s five minutes to."  Another voice piped in.  “You’re both wrong.  We missed it.  It’s five minutes after twelve.” Everyone was on a different time.  Mayhem ensued… until the voice of reason took over.  “It doesn’t matter what time it is,” he shouted.  “It’s arbitrary.  So I say that the New Year starts when I reach zero.  So get ready!  Pick up your glasses!  Sixty, fifty-nine…”  And down he went.   When he hit zero, screamers screamed.  Drinkers drank.  Tooters tooted.  Kissers kissed, and John planted a saliva-drenched smack on my mouth.  It was all downhill from there.
If I had known years earlier that New Year’s Eve was a hoax, I would have enjoyed those nights I spent behind a closed door, curtains closed, and the phone off the hook.  Yes, New Year’s Eve is different from all other nights, I decided.  It’s worse, much worse, but how could it be otherwise?  Such a build-up can only lead to a letdown, which is why I spent the next two New Year’s Eves in my bedroom.
In my junior year of college I was part of a sixty-student contingency traveling by busses to Mexico City for a semester of study.  On New Year’s Eve we stopped for an overnight in the town of Ciudad de Valles.  One hotel room became the designated party room. When we arrived at the party, three naked young men were in the bathtub, singing their hearts out.  Fifty-seven more students stormed the bathroom and joined in a drunken rendition of Auld Lang Syne.    

 This was no forced gaiety.  This was real.  These were the unconstrained voices of students in the 1950’s who were suddenly liberated; no dorm mothers, counselors, chaperones, hall monitors, sign-in, sign-out sheets, or curfews for probably the first time in their lives.  We had freedom of choice: to behave or misbehave, get drunk or stay sober, stay with the crowd or go to sleep.  It was a New Year’s Eve that surpassed all my imaginary exploits.  That raised the question: could such a high lead to comparative lows in the future?        
            The answer to that question is:  if and only if you buy into the commercial fantasy of New Year Eve: the $100 a plate dinner, an on-site presence at Times Square when the ball drops, or being in a roomful of old friends you’ve never met before.  You have the power to make New Year’s Eve (and every other eve) whatever you want it to be.  But if you’re one of those people who makes a list of resolutions for the new year, do yourself a favor and don’t!
 First of all, you and 92% of the population will break them before the month is out – at which point you will beat yourself up.  So this year make yourself a different kind of list -- a list of your past year’s successes.  Let the positive energy of everything you did right in 2014 carry you into 2015.   

                         Whiningly yours, Carol
                                                               And HAVE A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR!


Saturday, November 8, 2014


               Borders have existed since time immemorial. It’s part of our DNA -- to mark off the spaces between us – and the others.  We create borders for personal, political, social, economic, health, and security reasons.   We fix boundaries between our home and our neighbors’ -- subtly, even subconsciously -- with vegetation, driveways, rock piles, etc… and, of course, a legal document.  Finally, and most importantly, we expect these borders, once established, to be secure and respected. In that regard, our southern border with Mexico is a joke.
            Many call it “porous, but “porous” seems a bit disingenuous, considering that at least 11 million illegal immigrants have already crossed that border and are now living in the United States.  Tens of thousands more enter illegally every month.  Our border isn’t porous.  It’s wide open.  So far this year 90,700 illegals have crossed that border and entered the U.S. That’s double the number for the same period last year, and numbers are expected to increase further in 2015.  Among this year’s illegals are 60,000 unaccompanied children (UC) from Central American countries.  That number is expected to reach 100,000 before the end of 2014 and to climb higher in 2015.  To what do we owe this great success?  The U.S. Government. 

In 2008 -- when our economy was already depressed economically and hundreds of thousands of people were out of work – Congress passed the “Trafficking Victims Protection Authorization Act, which provides asylum to Unaccompanied Children (UC) from Central America whose lives are in danger.  These children, upon arriving in the U.S, are asked by border agents if they are afraid of being killed in their home country.  If the answer is “yes,” then an appointment is made with an immigration judge who decides the veracity of the claim.   If the judge finds the claim believable, the UC can stay.
The recent onslaught of tens of thousands of illegals has overwhelmed border staffing and created such a backlog of petitioners that it could take years for a UC to get a hearing (This is a deliberate and successful strategy!).  Meanwhile, agents have no choice but to place these children in the custody of family and friends.  To date: 85% of all “fear” claims have been approved, which may explain why these petitions have tripled since 2012….
The WELCOME MAT grows cushier and plusher…  
… as the Obama administration defers deportation of more than 500,000 illegals and hints it might grant amnesty to as many as 5 million.     
            Which begs the question:  why would anyone bother to immigrate legally when there are only incentives for entering illegally and deterrents for legal applicants?   Whereas 98% of all illegals enter relatively quickly, can expect immunity, get a green card or visa within three years and U.S. citizenship within thirteen, the legal applicant could easily wait up to fifteen years to enter and 25 for citizenship.  According to U.S. Representative Jim Sensenbrenner, our current immigration policy is holding skilled workers hostage to comprehensive immigration reform. (What about the rest of us?) 
And while our Government acts as a giant magnet, attracting illegals to the U.S., their home countries do everything they can to facilitate their departure -- equipping them with directions, maps and guides to the border.  And who can blame them?  Mexico’s second largest source of foreign revenue -- approximately $20 billion a year -- comes from Mexicans working in the U.S. who send money back home to their families.  Never a good deed goes unpunished: think Andrew Tahmooressi, who served two tours of duty in Afghanistan and returned home with PTSS, made a wrong turn en route to California and entered Mexico.  For 214 days he was held in captivity under rude and crude conditions, beaten by guards, and chained to his bed post, naked, for nine hours. With friends like that, who needs enemies? 
Adding fuel to the illegal immigration fire is the influx of gang members, terrorists, drug and sex traffickers.  This summer, 14 members of Mara Salvatruccha (MS-13), one of the world’s most notorious transnational criminal gangs, tried to enter the U.S.  They were apprehended at the border, but not because of any brilliant investigative work by agents.  While waiting to be processed, members painted gang-related graffiti on walls of the center.  But don’t relax!  For every illegal interviewed and given a “pass,” three illegals pass unseen over the border and disappear.  (Government Accountability Office)   This might explain why MS-13 has gained a major foothold in the U.S, continues to expand its influence, and why gang memberships have increased in the past ten years from 200,000 to one million.  (Michael Sullivan, Director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives)
Islamic terrorists have also taken note of our hospitality.  In August of this year the Texas Department of Public Safety and Homeland Security alerted federal agents that Islamist terrorist groups operating in Mexican border towns were exploiting weaknesses (are there any strengths?) at the border.  On October 8th Homeland Security confirmed that ten (10) ISIS and Al Qaeda terrorists had been apprehended in Texas by federal authorities but that another 40 had slipped into the U.S.  Recent intelligence confirms that terrorist groups are planning attacks on the U.S. with car bombs and other vehicle-borne improvised explosive devices (VBIED).  Border states are on high alert, and Ft. Bliss has increased security measures.   
ISIS and Al Qaeda are not the only terrorist groups eyeing our southern border.  In 2013 290 illegal Somalis entered the U.S. Of these, three have subsequently been found guilty of providing support for Al Shabab. 
Carriers of scabies, lice, and chicken pox have been crossing the border for years, and now it’s possible that Ebola will become part of the mix. (Pew Research Center). When “Investigative Radio” asked Chris Cabreta --Vice President of the National Border Patrol Council in the Rio Grande Valley -- if illegals entering this summer had been screened for diseases, he answered that because of the onslaught of illegals “a lot slips through the cracks.”  Slipping through those cracks were 71 illegals from Ebola-infected countries who were not screened.   
The Department of Homeland Security blames Obama’s lax immigration policies for the country’s inability to stop terrorists from entering the U.S.  “He and his administration have announced to the world they will not enforce our immigration laws.” (U.S. Senator Jeff Sessions).  
So why IS our southern border still wide open?  Why aren’t illegals deported?  And why hasn’t the security fence -- approved by Congress in 2006 -- been completed? 

THE BOTTOM WHINE:  Illegals experience no negative consequences for breaking the law –only rewards, which is why Albert Spratte of the National Border Patrol Council observes:  “We used to chase after them (the illegals).  Now they chase after us.”   

                                                                       Whiningly yours, Carol

 P.S.  If you like The Bottom Whine, you might also enjoy my novel "Coming of Age...AGAIN."  It is about four women "of a certain age" who prove that with a mix of moxie, humor, wisdom, and a weekly mahjongg game, coming of age can happen more than once.  Available at
in paperback and kindle editions.  

Wednesday, October 1, 2014


            Once upon a time the words “Secret Service” conjured up images of virile, responsible men, dressed in suits, packing pistols, and wearing ear pieces and sunglasses, and charged with the formidable task of protecting the President of the United States.  Like I said, that was “once upon a time.”  Now “Secret Service” evokes images of middle-aged fraternity boys, drinking, whoring, and snoring on the job, the 21st’Century’s take on the bungling Keystone Kops.
When did that imagery begin to change?  In 2009, a year after President Obama took office, when Secret Service agents ignored security protocol at the White House, and Tareq and Michaele Salahi crashed a private party.  Actually, they did more than crash.  They got close enough to the President to shake his hand. Good thing they hadn’t greased their palms with poison.  Secret Service bungling was later discovered only because Michaele Salahi posted photos of herself taken at the event on her Facebook page.  The Salahis were not the only gate crashers that night.  Carlos Allen, a party promoter, also got past the government’s so-called “security.”
Then, in April of 2012, twelve Secret Service agents were sent to Cartegena, Columbia to secure routes and sites before President Obama’s arrival for the sixth “Summit of the Americas.” For the week prior to the Summit, the twelve agents mounted their own summits with local prostitutes. 

It’s possible their dereliction of duty might also have gone unnoticed if one of these brawn but no brains agents hadn’t decided not to pay his lady love the $47 he owed her for the sleepover.  The lady – smarter than the agent -- filed a report with the local police, and the police notified the U.S. Embassy. All of this transpired just twenty-four hours before the President arrived in Cartegena.  These agents not only set themselves up for possible blackmail (all were married) but could have jeopardized the President’s safety.   When news of the orgy reached Conference delegates, agenda topics  -- trade, energy, and regional security -- took a back seat to joking and jiving about American’s fittest and finest.      
What could these agents have been thinking, I asked myself – rousing and carousing while on assignment?  In truth, they hadn’t been thinking at all.  As my wise old Grandmother used to say:  “When the prick is up, the brain is down.”   
Following the Columbian fiasco, the President replaced the then-Director of the Secret Service with Julia Pierson, a thirty-year administrative veteran with no field experience.  Her assignment was to clean up the Agency and “rehabilitate” its reputation.  But in April of this year, three elite members of the Secret Service, sent to Amsterdam to set up security systems for protecting the president during an upcoming visit, drank heavily for a week and were still drinking the day before Obama’s arrival (Agency rules strictly forbid agents to drink alcohol in the hours preceding official assignments).  One of the agents got so drink that he passed out in the hotel hallway.  A hotel employee notified the U.S. Embassy, and the three agents were sent home.
Despite continued evidence of the Agency’s kindergarten behavior, Obama continued to applaud Ms. Pierson’s management, but that may soon be changing.  On September 19, Omar Gonzales, a veteran of three tours of duty in Iraq and diagnosed with PTSD, scaled the fence on the North side of the White House, ran 70 yards across the lawn to the executive mansion, opened the unlocked doors, and entered.  He knocked down a Secret Service agent and got as far as the East Room, which is close to the stairs leading upstairs to the Obama family’s residence, when he was finally tackled by an Agent and handcuffed.  A folding knife was in his pocket, and in his car -- parked nearby -- were machetes, hatchets, and 800 rounds of ammunition.
            That wasn’t the first time Secret Service agents had “interviewed” Mr. Gonzales.  Two months earlier he was arrested in Virginia for possession of a sawed-off shotgun and resisting arrest.  Police found a cache of rifles and handguns in his car, plus a map of the City of Washington, a line drawn to the White House steps.  Yet Secret Service agents determined that Gonzales was not a threat, and he was released.  
A month later, in August, Gonzales was again stopped by a Secret Service Agent when he was seen near the White House south fence, a hatchet adorning his waistband.    The mental giants at the Agency again concluded that Gonzales was “no threat.”  
You have to wonder what the Agency considers a threat to national security if it’s not 800 rounds of ammunition, knives, sawed-off shotguns, machetes, hatchets, and a map marking the pathway to the front door of the White House.  What kinds of tests – if any -- do future agents have to take before being admitted to the Secret Service?  Probably something like: Can you find the one image from below that represents a clear and imminent danger?  
   You also have to wonder where our biggest and best were when Gonzales jumped that fence and entered the White House through unlocked doors.  You might also wonder where the watch dogs were, and why the Secret Service, in all its infinite wisdom had muted the alarm system.  Most of all, you have to wonder why Ms. Pierson, following this fiasco, commended the agents for showing “tremendous restraint.” So now all the geniuses in Washington are deliberating:  how can we better secure the White House?   Their answer: block off additional streets so unwanted visitors have farther to travel to reach the front door.  Let’s think about that.  If the agents can’t secure a “smaller” space, why would they be more able to guard a larger area?  Besides, the problem is not OUTSIDE the fence.  It comes from the INSIDE!  
So what is the answer?  Before finding the answer, one must first ask the right question: “Who’s in charge”? 
I’ve noticed that in medical clinics supportive staffs generally reflect the attitudes of those at the top – the doctors.  When doctors are professional, thorough, and polite to patients, so are supporting staffs.  But when those at the top are arrogant, non-receptive, and rude, so goes the staff.  I call it “Clinic Culture.”  Clinic Cultures exists across all offices  -- private and public.  If there’s slop at the top, there’s slop at the bottom!
See where I’m going?  If Secret Service agents are unprofessional and irresponsible, they are reflecting values learned -- either consciously or through osmosis – from their Director.    
And if Ms. Pierson teaches a culture of laxity and carelessness, whose signals has she been following?    
 THE BOTTOM WHINE:   Monkey see.  Monkey do!       

    Whiningly yours,  Carol  

No whines, just laughs, as four friends of a "certain age" prove that with a mix of moxie and a weekly mahjongg game, coming of age can happen more than once.  Available through Amazon in paperback and kindle editions:

Monday, September 1, 2014


Have you ever had dinner with a narcissist?   If not, let me tell me be the first to tell you that it’s an unforgettable experience – one you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.  In normal conversations, there’s an exchange of ideas, a give and a take, but that’s not how the Narcissist works.  They speak.  They don’t hear.  They pontificate.  They don’t reciprocate.  In twenty minutes (but who’s counting?) I was able to speak a total of nine words: “I’ll have the crusted tilapia,” and “How was your summer?”
Maybe if I hadn’t asked first about her summer; if I had jumped in with a summary of my own, the evening might have played out differently… but I doubt it.  I checked my watch again.  Twenty-five of the longest minutes I could remember, more painful than sitting in the dentist’s chair. 
I hoped the look on my face hid the truth: that I was bored out of my gourd, and that my cheek muscles were starting to ache.  I didn’t know how much longer I could hold this pose.  I thought back to the week before when we first met and how I had been charmed by her articulateness, her intelligence, and showmanship.  Oh, yes, she was all of that, but now I knew better and was reminded of that old elementary school playground chant: “You can dish it out, but you can’t take it.” 
The waitress brought our dinners, and when she asked if there was anything else we needed, I overreacted.     
            “Yes, yes, yes,” I answered, “Extra lemons, please.  Yes, yes. Thank you.”  It was good to hear the sound of my own voice. 
            The Narcissist picked up her fork and dug into her lasagna.  I had to admire the way she was able to eat and talk at the same time without spraying bits of food across the table.  I listened inattentively as she continued talking about her trip to the Brazilian Amazon, the native informants she had interviewed, and the day in Manaus. 
 I wondered what I could do – if anything – to turn off the broken spigot.       
 “Speaking of Manaus,” I interrupted, “did you ever see that wonderful movie about the opera house?  You know, Fitzcarraldo.”  
She answered by thrusting her smart phone in my face and showing me photos of children playing in a village, women cooking at an open fire, a crocodile on a riverbank, and a snake up a tree. 
            “I’ll be returning in two months… to continue my research.” With glazed eyes and a determined bite, I chewed my tilapia, enjoying the feel of my tongue and mouth in motion, while she described her research project in even fuller detail, which was, of course, funded by some major research foundation. 
My life may not be as exciting as hers, I thought, but I did have one. Did she even know I was here?  I remembered reading somewhere that researchers found that all adults – except those afflicted with autism and schizophrenia – responded to other people’s yawns with yawns of their own.  I decided to try it – just to see if I was here or not. 

My first yawn was relatively subdued, obviously too subtle to register.  I yawned again, adding audio to video.  It, too, went unnoticed.  My third yawn sounded like a cat in heat.  Still she didn’t yawn.  She didn’t miss a beat.  Obviously there was a third group of adults unresponsive to the yawns of others -- Narcissists.  
Next I rested my elbow on the dinner table and dropped my forehead into my hand.    
When she didn’t react to this show of disengagement, I pushed my dinner plate aside and collapsed dramatically on the table.   
The imagined image of myself lying on the table top, unnoticed by my dinner companion, racked my body with swallowed laughter.        
            “Are you OK?” the waitress asked.  I pulled up my head.   Tears were streaming down my face.  I wiped them away with my dinner napkin.
            “Yes, fine…. And thanks for noticing,” I answered.   
            “Dessert?” she asked.
            Before I could say no, the monologist asked for strawberry pie and coffee.  That would add another twenty painful minutes to the evening.
            “Nothing for me,” I said.  “Just the check.”  
            “Let me tell you about my niece,” she continued.  “She’s only eighteen months old, talking a blue streak and in full sentences.”  A number of smart ass answers were on the tip of my tongue, but I said nothing; after all, I was raised to be polite … plus I doubted she would hear me.  “And she can do 100-piece jigsaw puzzles by herself.  Totally amazing.”
            “Totally,” I repeated after her.
            The waitress left our checks and disappeared.  I opened my purse, found the exact amount plus a tip for the waitress, laid it on the table, and got up to leave.
            That was when she first took note of me.     
            “You leaving?” she asked, surprised.  “But I haven’t had dessert yet.”
            “I’m sorry, but I have an appointment in twenty minutes.  I don’t want to be late.”
            “We must do this again sometime.”
            The monologist’s total disconnect with reality finally got to me.      
“By the way,” I asked, “Do you know my name?”
            She hesitated, obviously flummoxed by the question and was still grasping for an answer when I exited. 

            THE BOTTOM WHINE:    The spell of the Narcissist comes in a breath,
                                                         But dies an even faster death.  

                                                          Whiningly yours,  Carol