Excuse of the week.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
civility...
I am glad I was raised in the 50's. There was civility which, looking back, may have seemed like a "put on," but it was something we all took for granted. We respected our "elders" and most little kids emulated a "scouting" type life where it didn't take a blue uniform and a badge to know how to say please, thank you and excuse me.
Today, it is more important to be tatooed and pierced. We don't have the skills when it comes to common courtesy or conversation, and are far more interested in money and looks than common table manners. People receive gifts and never mention it. Nowadays, they have email and texting, and, still, they never mention a kindness. Thank you notes are almost passe... which doesn't bother me as much as this sort of individual won't even email you.
Beyond. Rude.
I think it is impolite to answer, "what," when someone calls your name. Is this old fashioned? Probably. I think it is rude to run into an elevator before people come out of it. I think it is obnoxious to talk loudly in the theatre, push ahead of people in a line, say inappropriate epithets about someone's weight, not to RSVP early, start eating before everyone sits down, and pick your teeth at the table.
Old school? Okay, I'll take it.
It is RSVP (repondez s'il vous plait) - it means "respond if it pleases you." What a joke. In the days of civility, "if it pleases you" meant something as respect to the recipient of the letter. Nowadays, that makes me laugh because people think of RSVP as meaning, "respond when I bloody well feel like it." It takes having one wedding or big party to relate to the rudeness of not having someone respond in a timely fashion. I have never seen more hillbilly behavior as much as I have seen in the US of A these last ten years. We are slipping as a nation. Internationally, we are looked upon as a bunch of monkeys anyway and it is our responsibility to step it up. Every day, when we wake up in this country, we should feel pride, not entitlement. With that pride comes respect and civility.
If you don't know what it means, look it up.
Today, it is more important to be tatooed and pierced. We don't have the skills when it comes to common courtesy or conversation, and are far more interested in money and looks than common table manners. People receive gifts and never mention it. Nowadays, they have email and texting, and, still, they never mention a kindness. Thank you notes are almost passe... which doesn't bother me as much as this sort of individual won't even email you.
Beyond. Rude.
I think it is impolite to answer, "what," when someone calls your name. Is this old fashioned? Probably. I think it is rude to run into an elevator before people come out of it. I think it is obnoxious to talk loudly in the theatre, push ahead of people in a line, say inappropriate epithets about someone's weight, not to RSVP early, start eating before everyone sits down, and pick your teeth at the table.
Old school? Okay, I'll take it.
It is RSVP (repondez s'il vous plait) - it means "respond if it pleases you." What a joke. In the days of civility, "if it pleases you" meant something as respect to the recipient of the letter. Nowadays, that makes me laugh because people think of RSVP as meaning, "respond when I bloody well feel like it." It takes having one wedding or big party to relate to the rudeness of not having someone respond in a timely fashion. I have never seen more hillbilly behavior as much as I have seen in the US of A these last ten years. We are slipping as a nation. Internationally, we are looked upon as a bunch of monkeys anyway and it is our responsibility to step it up. Every day, when we wake up in this country, we should feel pride, not entitlement. With that pride comes respect and civility.
If you don't know what it means, look it up.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
badump...
If you want to know where your heart is, ask yourself where your mind goes when it wanders...
produce...
I am a people watcher. I am amazed how many hours a day people waste on the dumbest things. I was in the produce department today and a woman took at least fifteen minutes to buy some mushrooms and then pondered through some avocados. Why, I ask you? I filled an entire cart, ran all through the store, went to the bathroom, came back and she was still there. I don't get this. They smell it, touch it, turn it around, and do everything but make love to the damn thing.
The other burglar of time is rolling out the plastic bag and painstakingly placing individual items in the cart. You clip off at least twenty minutes of grocery shopping just throwing it in the cart and moving towards another task. The clerk does it for you at the end anyway. Who are these people who take at least an hour buying strawberries? I think I have grocery cart rage too. I wanted to run into her with the cart and send her to the ER.
I'd rather paint, read or plant something. My time is valuable!
Speaking of which...
The guy who created these videos is now a multi-millionaire. He did it just bein' creative one day.
The other burglar of time is rolling out the plastic bag and painstakingly placing individual items in the cart. You clip off at least twenty minutes of grocery shopping just throwing it in the cart and moving towards another task. The clerk does it for you at the end anyway. Who are these people who take at least an hour buying strawberries? I think I have grocery cart rage too. I wanted to run into her with the cart and send her to the ER.
Speaking of which...
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Cancer: not so perky
Chemo poisons all good things in your body.
I am always tired.
I go work out and then sleep for several hours to recuperate.
My veins are shot.
My right side is completely numb.
I lost all my hair and it came back like a Brillo pad.
People use sad voices when talking to me.
My cancer doesn't go into remission, so it is a crap-shoot.
I shouldn't get too much sun due to chemo making my skin more sensitive.
I may die far too young.
The inflammation in my belly due to scar tissue makes me look kinda pregnant.
I am more sensitive to TV commercials which remind me hourly of my disease.
My energy level isn't stable so I can't work.
Traveling is harder on me.
I feel like an old person. It isn't the cancer... it is the chemo.
I think the chemo will kill me before the cancer does. Frankly, I know it will.
I don't know who to listen to sometimes... are the holistic docs right? Wrong?
Every symptom that I have makes me think it is more cancer... I had (just) a stye a few weeks ago... and cried for an hour.
The internet isn't my friend and I avoid looking up Lymphoma.
Statistics are so frightening. They don't give me more than five years.
People are inappropriate telling me my chances, and sometimes I can't get them to shut up.
I lose two whole months a year due to more chemo.
My goals have changed to hourly snipits of what I can handle.
I am super brave and have a good attitude, but would be lying if I told you I wasn't scared to death.
I am always tired.
I go work out and then sleep for several hours to recuperate.
My veins are shot.
My right side is completely numb.
I lost all my hair and it came back like a Brillo pad.
People use sad voices when talking to me.
My cancer doesn't go into remission, so it is a crap-shoot.
I shouldn't get too much sun due to chemo making my skin more sensitive.
I may die far too young.
The inflammation in my belly due to scar tissue makes me look kinda pregnant.
I am more sensitive to TV commercials which remind me hourly of my disease.
My energy level isn't stable so I can't work.
Traveling is harder on me.
I feel like an old person. It isn't the cancer... it is the chemo.
I think the chemo will kill me before the cancer does. Frankly, I know it will.
I don't know who to listen to sometimes... are the holistic docs right? Wrong?
Every symptom that I have makes me think it is more cancer... I had (just) a stye a few weeks ago... and cried for an hour.
The internet isn't my friend and I avoid looking up Lymphoma.
Statistics are so frightening. They don't give me more than five years.
People are inappropriate telling me my chances, and sometimes I can't get them to shut up.
I lose two whole months a year due to more chemo.
My goals have changed to hourly snipits of what I can handle.
I am super brave and have a good attitude, but would be lying if I told you I wasn't scared to death.
Cancer perks...
I always have an excuse not to be social.
I have a reason to get off the phone.
I can look like shit at any time of day and people expect it.
I can leave parties early.
People pay for my lunch?!?
I am beyond joyful every day that I wake up.
Unless I get nailed by a Mack truck, I know how I'm going to die.
People are much nicer to me.
People who don't like me act like they do now.
I can take naps during family functions.
I can get out of menial tasks.
My neighbors treat me with kid gloves.
My mailman won't knock on my door for fear of waking me up.
My neighbors " " " " " " " " " " " .
My friends " " " " " " " " " " " " .
My in-laws " " " " " " " " " " " " .
People cook and bake stuff for me.
My brother actually calls me.
My doctor gets me "in" in 30 minutes.
I don't work because of my delicate condition.
I sleep in every morning.
I play piano for hours at a time.
I paint any time I feel like it.
I read while basking at my pool every afternoon.
Yeah. Other than my imminent death, my life is pure hell.
I have a reason to get off the phone.
I can look like shit at any time of day and people expect it.
I can leave parties early.
People pay for my lunch?!?
I am beyond joyful every day that I wake up.
Unless I get nailed by a Mack truck, I know how I'm going to die.
People are much nicer to me.
People who don't like me act like they do now.
I can take naps during family functions.
I can get out of menial tasks.
My neighbors treat me with kid gloves.
My mailman won't knock on my door for fear of waking me up.
My neighbors " " " " " " " " " " " .
My friends " " " " " " " " " " " " .
My in-laws " " " " " " " " " " " " .
People cook and bake stuff for me.
My brother actually calls me.
My doctor gets me "in" in 30 minutes.
I don't work because of my delicate condition.
I sleep in every morning.
I play piano for hours at a time.
I paint any time I feel like it.
I read while basking at my pool every afternoon.
Yeah. Other than my imminent death, my life is pure hell.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Tying the NOT...
Okay. It is disconcerting that people spend over 40k on weddings and can't even last a few years. So. You think life is perfect? You think your man is perfect? Wait. You think YOU are perfect? You think you deserve to be a diamond-studded traveling-the-world Pippa hoppin' around on Christian Louboutins? Think again. Be realistic. Have a relationship that will get you through ten minutes. Be. a. friend.
I am becoming more and more cynical as I watch couples fall apart at the wedding-gown-seam. There should be laws against marrying anyone before thirty years-old - considering - you don't even know yourself before you are close to forty. Understand that all this party-detail bridezilla hafta-impress everyone crap with weddings is just that.
Crap.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Paladium in Carmel, Indiana
I live in the most beautiful town. Now if the weather would just stay this way.
Putting on some shades...
I can't help but putting my two cents in and having some additional comments on Fifty Shades of Grey. I've come to the conclusion that FSOG is downright disturbing. From the outside it may look like I'm just a prude with alternative sex, but my discomfort of this bestselling book takes some further analysis.
I know it is fiction, but I couldn't help wondering why the world is drawn to a young woman right out of college going off with some weirdo, moody, sex-starved, sexually abused oddball who (from the onslaught) is a stranger-danger-hot-potato deviant whom (ding ding ding) anyone should know to avoid. Other than it being spin-off fan fiction of Twilight, why is this so fascinating?
Why is our culture drawn to hard abs, money and a chiseled face and not able to see through this male character as being depraved? Are we that shallow? Are we that horny? Where are the values? Being a mother, I couldn't get past thinking about my own daughter at that age, wondering where this girl's family was, and what the hell was interesting about her being in a isolated condo alone with some older, rich, petulant oddball who has a guest room full of B&D paraphernalia. To me, this book was as disturbing as the Jaycee Dugard dominant/submissive kidnapping. Not exactly a turn-on. WHY is this a bestseller? Women have spent years trying to fight for equality and now this protagonist screams... "Holy crap... he likes me, he reeeeeally, reeeally likes me. Wowee. Maybe he will put his impressive and lengthy cock in my mouth now." Nauseating. Even more so...
why am I taking this so seriously?
I can't help but wonder why women are so drawn to this kind of inappropriate trash. I'm appalled that young mothers (this is called mommy porn btw) are interested in reading books about a young impressionable girl running off in some helicopter with a weirdo, becoming attracted to the weirdo, giving blow jobs to the weirdo (and *swallowing it all), finding this weirdo irresistible, and (finally) not having any gift of fear that her mother should have imparted to her years before. What a horrible role model for young women.
I clearly need to get a life, move forward and... walk away from the book.
*you may choose to see "swallowing" as a metaphor for "acceptance" or decide on taking it as a literal gulp. Your choice, of course.
I know it is fiction, but I couldn't help wondering why the world is drawn to a young woman right out of college going off with some weirdo, moody, sex-starved, sexually abused oddball who (from the onslaught) is a stranger-danger-hot-potato deviant whom (ding ding ding) anyone should know to avoid. Other than it being spin-off fan fiction of Twilight, why is this so fascinating?
Why is our culture drawn to hard abs, money and a chiseled face and not able to see through this male character as being depraved? Are we that shallow? Are we that horny? Where are the values? Being a mother, I couldn't get past thinking about my own daughter at that age, wondering where this girl's family was, and what the hell was interesting about her being in a isolated condo alone with some older, rich, petulant oddball who has a guest room full of B&D paraphernalia. To me, this book was as disturbing as the Jaycee Dugard dominant/submissive kidnapping. Not exactly a turn-on. WHY is this a bestseller? Women have spent years trying to fight for equality and now this protagonist screams... "Holy crap... he likes me, he reeeeeally, reeeally likes me. Wowee. Maybe he will put his impressive and lengthy cock in my mouth now." Nauseating. Even more so...
why am I taking this so seriously?
I can't help but wonder why women are so drawn to this kind of inappropriate trash. I'm appalled that young mothers (this is called mommy porn btw) are interested in reading books about a young impressionable girl running off in some helicopter with a weirdo, becoming attracted to the weirdo, giving blow jobs to the weirdo (and *swallowing it all), finding this weirdo irresistible, and (finally) not having any gift of fear that her mother should have imparted to her years before. What a horrible role model for young women.
I clearly need to get a life, move forward and... walk away from the book.
*you may choose to see "swallowing" as a metaphor for "acceptance" or decide on taking it as a literal gulp. Your choice, of course.
The Man On The Dump...
Day creeps
down. The moon is creeping up.
The
freshness of night has been fresh a long time.
Now in the
time of spring (azaleas, trilliums,
That's the
moment when the moon creeps up
One sits
and beats an old tin can, lard pail.
- Wallace
Stevens
BE the purifying change...
lust for endorphins...
Yesterday I did 2.8 miles and then fell asleep for four hours.
:/
Thursday, May 24, 2012
I was taught...
to use the right fork...
to wash my paint brushes before going to bed...
to be kind to my neighbor...
to believe in God...
to drive a stick shift at twelve....
to yodel...
to play Pitch...
to write thank you notes...
to be completely inappropriate...
to appreciate the symphony and the ballet...
to blow really good smoke-rings...
to sail...
to read words out of a lit cigarette in the dark...
to gamble...
to put my napkin in my lap...
to wait until everyone sits down to eat...
to say grace at the table...
to honor all religions and cultures...
to not eat with my mouth full...
that being an artist is what counts...
that TV is poison and we rarely turned one on...
to read, but hated it because I was forced to do it...
that family tradition counts...
to bake....
to improvise in the kitchen...
that animals were sacred beasts...
to love unconditionally, but I wasn't...
to play several instruments...
to be honest, open, and inappropriately blunt...
that I could do anything I set my mind to do...
to be an intellectual snob...
to be silly...
to be daring...
to think out-of-the-box...
to feel guilty about most things...
to be a helluva good mother...
to ride a bike...
to appreciate good jewelry...
tenacity...
to be brave...
to be a little nuts...
patience... from my dad...
to have an unrealistic view of my talent...
to have illusions of grandeur...
that reading, playing piano, and painting were much more important than cleaning or ironing...
to be adventurous...
to be a friend...
to be quiet but...
that last one never worked...
to wash my paint brushes before going to bed...
to be kind to my neighbor...
to believe in God...
to drive a stick shift at twelve....
to yodel...
to play Pitch...
to write thank you notes...
to be completely inappropriate...
to appreciate the symphony and the ballet...
to blow really good smoke-rings...
to sail...
to read words out of a lit cigarette in the dark...
to gamble...
to put my napkin in my lap...
to wait until everyone sits down to eat...
to say grace at the table...
to honor all religions and cultures...
to not eat with my mouth full...
that being an artist is what counts...
that TV is poison and we rarely turned one on...
to read, but hated it because I was forced to do it...
that family tradition counts...
to bake....
to improvise in the kitchen...
that animals were sacred beasts...
to love unconditionally, but I wasn't...
to play several instruments...
to be honest, open, and inappropriately blunt...
that I could do anything I set my mind to do...
to be an intellectual snob...
to be silly...
to be daring...
to think out-of-the-box...
to feel guilty about most things...
to be a helluva good mother...
to ride a bike...
to appreciate good jewelry...
tenacity...
to be brave...
to be a little nuts...
patience... from my dad...
to have an unrealistic view of my talent...
to have illusions of grandeur...
that reading, playing piano, and painting were much more important than cleaning or ironing...
to be adventurous...
to be a friend...
to be quiet but...
that last one never worked...
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Fifty Shades of Dreck...
I am flabbergasted that this book is doing so well. I should have added terrible writing and Captain Crunch cereal box sex to my book and people would be clamoring to buy it. FSOG reminds me of Twilight... which I couldn't even get through. I made the mistake of getting the audio version of Fifty Shades which is so bad that it is difficult to finish. This writer was inspired by the Twilight series. What a shocker there.
(Hold the phone... I'm having a nice moment to myself... )
Oh my. Am I (perchance) a decent writer?
Maybe.
Compared to this ever so popular, best-selling dreck?
I'm stinkin' Hemingway.
(Hold the phone... I'm having a nice moment to myself... )
Oh my. Am I (perchance) a decent writer?
Maybe.
Compared to this ever so popular, best-selling dreck?
I'm stinkin' Hemingway.
Look inside? (uh) Maybe not.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
boondocks...
I've hated country music my entire life. I don't get it. I am in love with all soulful fair including Classical and Jazz. They makes sense to me. All of that is part of who I am and can change my mood in one minute. Then, there is living in God-forsaken Indiana with a crap load of Kentucky influence and you get this kind of song in your blood. It is cultural osmosis gone amuck. I was born and raised with the sophisticated culture of the East Coast and look at me. All I need is a Budweiser, a line, and a pole.
Awesome.
Mrs. Armstrong...
Out of bed... Jog, 50 minutes. Crossfit WOD. I'm back. Kinda. (thank God for Motown and Gloria)
phew.
xo,
Sally Armstrong
xo,
Sally Armstrong
“This is my body, and I can do whatever I want to it. I can push it; Study it; Tweak it; Listen to it. Everybody wants to know what I am on. What am I on? I am on my bike busting my ass six hours a day; What are YOU on?”
― Lance Armstrongbzzzzzzzzz
All of my limbs are numb this morning. Neuropathy has slowly plagued me for a number of years but this is at an all time high. Let's hope it is an effect of chemo and not MS or Lupus or something worse. Getting old is quite the bitch.
Someone told me that chemo can do this. Ah, more to worry about. I'll know more on my follow-up.
:/
Someone told me that chemo can do this. Ah, more to worry about. I'll know more on my follow-up.
:/
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Friday, May 18, 2012
Thursday, May 17, 2012
more rambling...
I was in the waiting room today ready to take an armful o' poison when I saw a celebrity on TV. I don't know why it hit me so dramatically, but he seemed ordinary as if he could have been a waiter, a person behind the counter at the theatre, a CVS manager or a person I ask where the almonds are at Trader Joes. Nope. This was a Hollywood type, the honored one. He had disheveled hair and an ordinary drab outfit, but nevertheless he was part of the hooplah at Cannes as he stepped out of a limo.
I believe that we honor the wrong things in our culture. We no longer are impressed with classic books, the arts, and are hanging by a thread as reality shows give accolades to those with poor values, bad grammar, hot bodies, lots of dough and terrible manners. It hit me that our culture puts these types who "make it" on pedestals, throws lots of money at them and then takes a huge amount of joy tearing them down and transforming them into a shadow of their former "creative" selves.
I simply can't figure out the reason why we are utterly obsessed with fake money culture. We honor their highlight reel as we compare our simple (but happy) documentary. Regular people like teachers, mothers, researchers, philosophers, gardeners, poets, musicians, designers, and some actors continue to thrive and yet feel defeated if they don't "make it." What they don't understand is... usually, the dreaming about it and going after it is more fulfilling than actually getting there. I wrote my book for the fun of it and yet am asked every day if it is "making any money." The golden calf lives on and on (and on).
My daughter is now in the actors studio in Chicago. I've been after all of my kids to find an outlet for the sake of the creativity... for without it, we feed into the lure of the money, the fame, the anti-depressants, the booze and the bullshit, which isn't that fulfilling in the long scheme. Fulfillment comes from within. I'm so proud of her, and told her that if she creates characters for the joy of it, it will be enough. If she makes money at it, wonderful. But if she loves it with all her heart, that is the thing for longterm joy. There are very few Meryls, but they do exist. Be an artist for arts sake and let the money unfold... or not. But, above all things... BE an artist.
I'm sure that the Kardashians and Jersey housewives are having a ball with their money, but when the shows end and there are no hobbies, no instruments to play, or poems to write, there might be a big joy gap, and we will see that in their divorces, substance abuse and unfulfilled relationships. Money is entertaining, but it isn't enough. I'm sure the shopping will occupy their time, but their true personal evolution shows in spades with phrases like...
"Her and I like it."
"I could have went to that restaurant."
Pronouncing genre like gen-ree. It just makes me crazy.
I have grammar rage too.
Why this bothers me so much is beyond me, but even journalists make gaffe after gaffe, and... I'm far from a grammarian or syntax junky. Journalists are being hired because they are thin and pretty - it is like a high school nightmare revisited. Our media is promoting MEDIOCRITY.
Why do I care? Perhaps being corrected verbally by my mother and her red-penning my letters for years at a time drove it home a bit for me. I believe that as much as my mother's family values were strange at best, I was raised to be obsessed with personal growth and to honor being an artist. I was not taught to be a 'famous anything' but to revere and search for the artist within myself, which I have done since I was ten years-old. I found my greatest celebration in loving my family, which (beyond my urge to create) is the only reason I am completely fulfilled and so strong at this juncture of my poor health. I can die in my sleep tonight and know I did it right.
I am drawn to more than TV, shopping, and trivia games. I honor my mother for allowing me to see the value in God, trying new things, making a fool out of myself for the sake of personal growth, and being an artist and a musician. I don't consider myself a writer, but I like the expression of it... I am into the ba-dum-bum and the rhythm of it. God, I love a decent poet.
Yes. I learned so much from my mother, but could never tell her because she needed to die angry and bitter. I'm a little crazy. She was a lot crazy. I think I may have surpassed her in the forgiveness, silliness and kindness department, but perhaps she just didn't know how. Sad.
What I do know is that love is enough.. love of your people... and love of your art.
At least it is enough for me.
I believe that we honor the wrong things in our culture. We no longer are impressed with classic books, the arts, and are hanging by a thread as reality shows give accolades to those with poor values, bad grammar, hot bodies, lots of dough and terrible manners. It hit me that our culture puts these types who "make it" on pedestals, throws lots of money at them and then takes a huge amount of joy tearing them down and transforming them into a shadow of their former "creative" selves.
I simply can't figure out the reason why we are utterly obsessed with fake money culture. We honor their highlight reel as we compare our simple (but happy) documentary. Regular people like teachers, mothers, researchers, philosophers, gardeners, poets, musicians, designers, and some actors continue to thrive and yet feel defeated if they don't "make it." What they don't understand is... usually, the dreaming about it and going after it is more fulfilling than actually getting there. I wrote my book for the fun of it and yet am asked every day if it is "making any money." The golden calf lives on and on (and on).
My daughter is now in the actors studio in Chicago. I've been after all of my kids to find an outlet for the sake of the creativity... for without it, we feed into the lure of the money, the fame, the anti-depressants, the booze and the bullshit, which isn't that fulfilling in the long scheme. Fulfillment comes from within. I'm so proud of her, and told her that if she creates characters for the joy of it, it will be enough. If she makes money at it, wonderful. But if she loves it with all her heart, that is the thing for longterm joy. There are very few Meryls, but they do exist. Be an artist for arts sake and let the money unfold... or not. But, above all things... BE an artist.
I'm sure that the Kardashians and Jersey housewives are having a ball with their money, but when the shows end and there are no hobbies, no instruments to play, or poems to write, there might be a big joy gap, and we will see that in their divorces, substance abuse and unfulfilled relationships. Money is entertaining, but it isn't enough. I'm sure the shopping will occupy their time, but their true personal evolution shows in spades with phrases like...
"Her and I like it."
"I could have went to that restaurant."
Pronouncing genre like gen-ree. It just makes me crazy.
I have grammar rage too.
Why this bothers me so much is beyond me, but even journalists make gaffe after gaffe, and... I'm far from a grammarian or syntax junky. Journalists are being hired because they are thin and pretty - it is like a high school nightmare revisited. Our media is promoting MEDIOCRITY.
Why do I care? Perhaps being corrected verbally by my mother and her red-penning my letters for years at a time drove it home a bit for me. I believe that as much as my mother's family values were strange at best, I was raised to be obsessed with personal growth and to honor being an artist. I was not taught to be a 'famous anything' but to revere and search for the artist within myself, which I have done since I was ten years-old. I found my greatest celebration in loving my family, which (beyond my urge to create) is the only reason I am completely fulfilled and so strong at this juncture of my poor health. I can die in my sleep tonight and know I did it right.
I am drawn to more than TV, shopping, and trivia games. I honor my mother for allowing me to see the value in God, trying new things, making a fool out of myself for the sake of personal growth, and being an artist and a musician. I don't consider myself a writer, but I like the expression of it... I am into the ba-dum-bum and the rhythm of it. God, I love a decent poet.
Yes. I learned so much from my mother, but could never tell her because she needed to die angry and bitter. I'm a little crazy. She was a lot crazy. I think I may have surpassed her in the forgiveness, silliness and kindness department, but perhaps she just didn't know how. Sad.
What I do know is that love is enough.. love of your people... and love of your art.
At least it is enough for me.
Choice.
so...
I am officially terrified of needles. I never used to be, but this is very stressful. I had the chance to get a port but being the hard-ass that I am, I thought I could get through this. I am supposed to drink gallons of water (like I'm drowning) in order to pump up my veins the night before... but nothing seems to work. I am officially... veinless.
So, Sara (my medical handle and given name) is not so happy about tomorrow's chemo. Yes. Chemo encourages me to talk in the third person. Funny. The nurse-y vampires don't even know my nickname... and I've never offered the info. It doesn't inspire me to get too personal and tell them who I really am...
The nurses are now arguing over me. "You take her." "No, you take her." "No, that's okay... you do it." I feel so freaking special. I've learned a lot about this chemo culture. At one time I thought that certain nurses would do a better job (you know) the older ones; the more experienced ones.
But no.
It is the luck of the poke. They warm up your forearm with a heating pad and pray for the best. These infusions are different than just having blood drawn. The chemo vampires dig deeply into bizarre places like your wrist or between your fingers - anywhere these blood suckers can get to you - they will. Horrifying. The more nervous I get, the more fidgety they become and so I like to pretend that this doesn't bother me... as I sit anxiously but calmly in my little chemo-strato-lounger-from-hell. Cold. Alone.
Not happy.
I have exactly three pokes before I begin to well up with tears. I can't take more than three pricks without getting emotional. I try to keep it to myself. After all, I am a gritty, determined kind of girl. I do this very well with magazines as I put them in front of my face so they can't see me crying. I MUST be strong or the little monsters get edgy, and begin poking quickly; inappropriately; frantically. Many times, I feel like I'm walking them through it to make them feel better. "It's okay. You're doing fine. It doesn't hurt me too much." They don't like it any better than I do, but they have a job to do and remind me weekly that...
"You could have had a port."
"You SHOULD have a port."
"You can get a port now, you know, Sara."
I am vain. I like my chest. I don't want a big, ugly, mother scar on it as a reminder. I have parties to go to. I have sexy dresses to wear. I do NOT want a chemo scar. I have enough scars from this crap on the inside. I have the ones you can't see... the scars of fear; of terror. Yes. I, Sara, have the scars of an unknown future.
Thrills.
someone who wants to wake up from this bloody nightmare.
Chemo Theme Song
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Friday, May 11, 2012
Oh, be still my heart...
Johnny Depp
Anderson Cooper
I am (so) (completely) (utterly) (inappropriately) (too many split infinitives to describe here) in love with these two men. One, so Boho artistic, funky, tortured, gorgeous and the other is smart, oozes charm, has my hair and is gay. These two untouchable types make me want to jump through the screen.
Call me.
Road Rage...
I'm not proud. I have it. I mean, why do people have to drive like fucking idiots. Oops. Did I say that out loud?
Sorry.
It was just one of those days where everywhere I drove was pure hell. I used to have quite a lead-foot years ago until I understood that people could die... including myself. So I've slowed down. I've gotten so many tickets now that if I get another one I will be going to driving school, so I am known now for my poky driving. Except the day before the chemo, that is. I carry my stress inside. Yes, I am a talker but I don't talk about my illness or treatments or my death. I don't even like walking into the hospital cancer center with the bag of comfortable blankets and pillows. Admitting that I am sick is such a life-altering thing. It's humbling. I will forever have that as a scar on my perfect health. Me: Cancer patient.
And yes, this will be for the rest of my life. What I have doesn't go into remission, so I plug along. I go to appointments, pull up my sleeve and take the painful prick of poison. For life. I try not to think of what it is doing to the rest of my good cells. I bury that. Well, let's face it. I don't bury it too deep because my road rage the day before the chemo was downright legendary.
I got behind this older (okay probably my age) lady in this red sedan. She was driving (you know) five mph under the limit, which considering I prefer five mph over the limit... we were experiencing a 10mph disparity that was making me seethe. I began tailgating her, putting up that one disgusted arm in the air, swearing (as I do), and... everywhere I was going it was though she was trying to go to the same place just to piss me off. If she took a left, I was... if she was taking right (yes) I was going there as well. OMG.
Torture.
So, as we were getting to "our" Whole Foods destination. I was behind her finding myself ranting and raving as she stopped waaaaay too long at a stop sign. Okay... enough was enough I was being wilding dramatic at this point only to realize that there was a blind lady I hadn't seen trying to edge painstakingly across her path. I felt terrible. I had lost control of everything I knew about myself. I sat, as I perspired, at the Whole Foods parking lot and started to laugh at my craziness. This wasn't just a giggle but a whole-hearted belly laugh because it was so against my patient character. As my palm held my laughter in my mouth I found myself beginning to cry. Laughter and tears are so close, you know.
Sorry.
It was just one of those days where everywhere I drove was pure hell. I used to have quite a lead-foot years ago until I understood that people could die... including myself. So I've slowed down. I've gotten so many tickets now that if I get another one I will be going to driving school, so I am known now for my poky driving. Except the day before the chemo, that is. I carry my stress inside. Yes, I am a talker but I don't talk about my illness or treatments or my death. I don't even like walking into the hospital cancer center with the bag of comfortable blankets and pillows. Admitting that I am sick is such a life-altering thing. It's humbling. I will forever have that as a scar on my perfect health. Me: Cancer patient.
And yes, this will be for the rest of my life. What I have doesn't go into remission, so I plug along. I go to appointments, pull up my sleeve and take the painful prick of poison. For life. I try not to think of what it is doing to the rest of my good cells. I bury that. Well, let's face it. I don't bury it too deep because my road rage the day before the chemo was downright legendary.
I got behind this older (okay probably my age) lady in this red sedan. She was driving (you know) five mph under the limit, which considering I prefer five mph over the limit... we were experiencing a 10mph disparity that was making me seethe. I began tailgating her, putting up that one disgusted arm in the air, swearing (as I do), and... everywhere I was going it was though she was trying to go to the same place just to piss me off. If she took a left, I was... if she was taking right (yes) I was going there as well. OMG.
Torture.
So, as we were getting to "our" Whole Foods destination. I was behind her finding myself ranting and raving as she stopped waaaaay too long at a stop sign. Okay... enough was enough I was being wilding dramatic at this point only to realize that there was a blind lady I hadn't seen trying to edge painstakingly across her path. I felt terrible. I had lost control of everything I knew about myself. I sat, as I perspired, at the Whole Foods parking lot and started to laugh at my craziness. This wasn't just a giggle but a whole-hearted belly laugh because it was so against my patient character. As my palm held my laughter in my mouth I found myself beginning to cry. Laughter and tears are so close, you know.
My life has changed so much. It is sad in kind of a funny, road rage way, and... on my way to buy organic vegetables, I just got caught in its path.
Ah, cancer.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Choose to thrive...
You have several choices when you come to the realization that your death could be right around the corner. None of us are getting out of this gig on Earth alive but most people (especially young ones) think that they will last forever. I did. When you get to this crossroad you have several choices. You can either decide to:
1. Accept it
2. Educate yourself
3. Avoid Type C personality (talking about cancer 24/7)
4. Remove all stress and be completely authentic to yourself/your truth
5. Make every day count
6. Take your power back (like learning karate or Tai Chi)
7. Set goals; have gratitude: laugh as often as possible
8. Quit blaming yourself
9. Get massages, do acupuncture, do yoga or pilates
10. Eat to heal like it is a job.
1. Wallow in self-pity
2. Join support groups to discuss the cancer ad nauseum
3. Waste your cancer
4. Plan your funeral
5. Become isolated
6. Become depressed
7. Try nothing new and just sit and watch mindless TV
8. Continue to eat franken crap food
9. Overeat, over-drink, over-exercise
10. Die with regret
Or...
1. Accept it
2. Educate yourself
3. Avoid Type C personality (talking about cancer 24/7)
4. Remove all stress and be completely authentic to yourself/your truth
5. Make every day count
6. Take your power back (like learning karate or Tai Chi)
7. Set goals; have gratitude: laugh as often as possible
8. Quit blaming yourself
9. Get massages, do acupuncture, do yoga or pilates
10. Eat to heal like it is a job.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
chemo...
I get the poison today. Oh how fun. I think what bothers me the most is the waste of a beautiful day since they have to put me out for most of it. Ugh.
Thank you so much Cindy for playing Words with Friends yesterday. It makes me forget about Thursdays. I loved kicking your ass on that last one.
Yes. I am a brat. I may talk about those 72 points for a long, long time and forget completely (and conveniently) when you kick mine out of the park. You competitor, you.
xo
S
Thank you so much Cindy for playing Words with Friends yesterday. It makes me forget about Thursdays. I loved kicking your ass on that last one.
Yes. I am a brat. I may talk about those 72 points for a long, long time and forget completely (and conveniently) when you kick mine out of the park. You competitor, you.
xo
S
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
all Jacked up...
So, do I give into this or not? I say "not." It is so easy for me to feel sorry for myself, accept homemade pies and help in my yard, lay around and plan nothing, do nothing, watch TV, become obsessed with dying, get nervous all the time, have a what-the-hell attitude about nutrition, stop working out, accept my death and move towards it, make excuses and enjoy everyone feeling sorry for me.
Forget it. I am not giving into this cancer. I have it. So what. I no longer eat sugar, stay away from white flour, chemicals in my food, plastic storage containers, and margarine. If I can't pronounce it, I don't eat it. I refuse to stop drinking but that is my choice. I hope cancer cells don't like Jack Daniels Honey: my latest boyfriend.
If this is about food, I have it covered. If this is about genetics or my ground water, I'm screwed. In the meantime, life marches on at a very nice pace.
Pilates, zumba, some painting today. I have a hot date tonight with my new honey on the rocks.
Forget it. I am not giving into this cancer. I have it. So what. I no longer eat sugar, stay away from white flour, chemicals in my food, plastic storage containers, and margarine. If I can't pronounce it, I don't eat it. I refuse to stop drinking but that is my choice. I hope cancer cells don't like Jack Daniels Honey: my latest boyfriend.
If this is about food, I have it covered. If this is about genetics or my ground water, I'm screwed. In the meantime, life marches on at a very nice pace.
Pilates, zumba, some painting today. I have a hot date tonight with my new honey on the rocks.
:)
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