Don't pity the fool...

Chemo today.

I am exhausted. The infusion was on the back of my hand... they've even stabbed me between the fingers as though I am a crank addict. My veins have collapsed and so (without a port) I have several more times to be tortured... six to be exact. Today wasn't too bad. But, they have to put me to sleep so it is such a waste of my day. Now, I can't sleep tonight, and I am dealing with my dog who has emotional issues. She freaks out when I'm gone. She was eating her own poop outside ten minutes ago. Crap.

Well, that was an unfortunately-placed epithet. Sorry.

There is such a delicate balance about my wanting any kind of attention when it comes to this cancer. I can't tolerate pity, and yet, if my plight isn't mentioned at all I feel unimportant. If I analyzed it, I would rather be ignored completely than given the look of pity. My friend called me yesterday and said we should start a business of some kind. Now, that's the best medicine. The idea of looking forward in a positive, inspiring light... like before the BIG C hit the fan.

I can't decide what I want in the pity department. I don't want to be driven to treatment by someone else. I am half-asleep afterwards, but insist on driving myself there and back home. I am asked if I want visitors and I always say no. It is my way of pretending that none of this is true; that I'm not one of those statistics that you hear about. If they sit with me, they are a reminder of what I once was: healthy. It's like being in prison, and they are on the good side of the glass window. They get to leave.

 I am a hardass. I refuse to give in to the limitations of what chemo gives me. Yesterday, I painted my entire downstairs bathroom (and cabinet) and spackled the hallway to bury my anxiety. Normal, right? But in acting like nothing is ever wrong, I also get the no special treatment or sympathy from my family... (definitely my own fault) but it feels strange. Bruce has the perfect balance with it, and I am so grateful. He lets me drive there, offers to visit, but does NOT show up when I tell him not to. I don't want his look of worry, and his gift (after all) is his food obsession, so I'm never starving. On the contrary, it's like eating with Emeril or Mario. Bruce doesn't bring up the chemo in the evening, because he wants to believe that the glass window in the prison was never erected in the first place.

Denial.

No. I don't want the visitors, and beyond all things, I DON'T want their pity. The chemo culture at the cancer center is a freaking party of the friends and family keeping a supportive vigil along side of my sick, bald, cancerous cubicle-neighbors. No thanks. At least they give me sedatives so I can tune the pity-party out. I go there with lipstick on and refuuuuuse to be a party to their cancer festival. I know this whole thing has brought out my cranky side, but that's how I roll with cancer. To me, this thing is personal. Unlike the status-cancer-quo, I'm not buying the t-shirt and joining the club. 

I hate it. Even the party-people give you this look as they walk past your cubicle with their homemade brownies and balloons for the other victims... it's a look I've never experienced. It must be the stare that those in a wheelchair get - 'I'm so glad I'm not you' but 'I'm so curious to know how bad it is for you. You poor thing.'  Cancer is like a bloody car accident. They are horrified, but they have to look. They want to look at it, and turn away in horror as they are making sure to see it all simultaneously. I've never wanted to be more normal in my entire life. I hate it. And it isn't the cancer, the fear, my looming death, the needles, the scans, or the chemo... it is the PITY.

I got a Starbucks today as I was driving to the cancer center. I had this strange ah-ha moment as I got into the car... wishing that I was like everyone else in the latte-line. I wished that I had a job like I had before or a meeting to go to... it would even be fine to go to a job with people I didn't like. Why? Because the business of life is normal, and what I was doing by getting five hours of some poison concoction in my bloodstream after my latte ---->just wasn't.

You can't lecture people about appreciating the little things in life because it sounds like a dipshit platitude, and you have to be on the other unhealthy path to relate. I am far from angry that I was pushed to this dark side. It has given me more than I can fathom to understand truth in my life. Now, I am blatantly honest with friends and family and have a more authentic relationships. Meandering through life without coming to terms with your demise is such a waste. You cover up a lot because you assume that your time here is limitless, so why bother telling your truth? The stuff that scares you, gets you mad, depresses you, makes you laugh, hurts your feelings, causes you to feel embarrassed, or pissed (like when that hazelnut latte spills on your crotch) is what gives you that beautiful thing that we all take for granted. It's called...

life.

Speaking of which, it is 4:20 am and my dog just crapped in my kitchen. I need this. Anyway, if you are having a reason to hate your life today, and are feeling sorry for your poor self because yours is  just so unfair and depressing...

Got it?

Kimbra-licious...

Lennon and Maisy...

The only thing that trumps their talent is their sweetness.  Here's why:

And these, my friends, are their beautiful parents: The Stellas.

yikes!

Below is a Science fair project presented by a girl in a secondary school in Sussex. In it she took filtered water and divided it into two parts.

The first part she heated to boiling in a pan on the stove, and the second part she heated to boiling in a microwave.

Then after cooling she used the water to water two identical plants to see if there would be any difference in the growth between the normal boiled water and the water boiled in a microwave.

She was thinking that the structure or energy of the water may be compromised by microwave.

As it turned out, even she was amazed at the difference, after the experiment which was repeated by her class mates a number of times and had the same result.

It has been known for some years that the problem with microwaved anything is not the radiation people used to worry about, it’s how it corrupts the DNA in the food so the body can not recognize it.

Microwaves don’t work different ways on different substances. Whatever you put into the microwave suffers the same destructive process. Microwaves agitate the molecules to move faster and faster. This movement causes friction which denatures the original make-up of the substance. It results in destroyed vitamins, minerals, proteins and generates the new stuff called radiolytic compounds, things that are not found in nature.

So the body wraps it in fat cells to protect itself from the dead food or it eliminates it fast. Think of all the Mothers heating up milk in these ‘Safe’ appliances. What about the nurse in Canada that warmed up blood for a transfusion patient and accidentally killed him when the blood went in dead. But the makers say it’s safe. But proof is in the pictures of living plants dying!!!

FORENSIC RESEARCH DOCUMENT
Prepared By: William P. Kopp
A. R. E. C. Research Operations
TO61-7R10/10-77F05
RELEASE PRIORITY: CLASS I ROO1a

Ten Reasons to dispose off your Microwave Oven
From the conclusions of the Swiss, Russian and German scientific clinical studies, we can no longer ignore the microwave oven sitting in our kitchens. Based on this research, one can conclude this article with the following:

1). Continually eating food processed from a microwave oven causes long term – permanent – brain damage by ‘shorting out’ electrical impulses in the brain [de-polarizing or de-magnetizing the brain tissue].

2). The human body cannot metabolize [break down] the unknown by-products created in microwaved food.

3). Male and female hormone production is shut down and/or altered by continually eating microwaved foods.

4). The effects of microwaved food by-products are residual [long term, permanent] within the human body.

5). Minerals, vitamins, and nutrients of all microwaved food is reduced or altered so that the human body gets little or no benefit, or the human body absorbs altered compounds that cannot be broken down.

6). The minerals in vegetables are altered into cancerous free radicals when cooked in microwave ovens.

7). Microwaved foods cause stomach and intestinal cancerous growths [tumours]. This may explain the rapidly increased rate of colon cancer in UK and America .

8). The prolonged eating of microwaved foods causes cancerous cells to increase in human blood.

9). Continual ingestion of microwaved food causes immune system deficiencies through lymph gland and blood serum alterations.

10). Eating microwaved food causes loss of memory, concentration, emotional instability, and a decrease of intelligence.

Me and my big-ass-bone...

For the three people who are reading this (actually two because I am most likely one of the three), I am fine. No cancer, but the stress due to my outlandish imagination put my BP up to 153/92 for an hour ---afterwards --- it went down to the usual 128/80. I am writing this because they anestethized me for four hours this afternoon and I'm awake at 3:30AM.

I have the coolest family, the most joyful, spiritual girlfriends ever, and a marriage with issues worth ignoring, which is pretty damn honest after forty-five years together. We are so lucky to be who we are together (and apart). That is the only way to be together for that long.  *together&apart*  Oh, I could lie... but then you would know it, and I would get called out - kind of like a picture of me.

Photoshop after chemo is a must but... really? My neck looks like I am eleven.

I had this taken for my book. I wrote a story in 2004, edited it for another six years, and then, after publishing it, never felt like marketing it.. even though it sits alone on Amazon.com. So sad. I didn't write it for money. I wrote it because I was compelled by the story. I heard about this same twisted obsession from the Twilight author about her series... bless her heart. 

I was driven. Put it this way: I AM the dog on the bone. I do it with everything... then I drop things and move to something else. I paint beautiful paintings, then I drop a brush for years. I joined a band and was obsessed with learning Jimmy Buffet. I don't even LIKE parrot music, but it was an opportunity to fail. And in falling on my face, I grew. I learned my instrument (piano) backwards and forwards. I found that I am a decent singer too, but didn't feel comfortable doing it. I am no longer afraid to make speeches or talk in a public forum because of the band. 

I started this blog, which I forget to look at or work on. I obsessively learned Italian for three months before my trip. I became a certified massage therapist just to try something new, and bury the death of my bitter mother.  I spent two months on labeling everything in my entire house (that's just a sick-ass dog) but now it's pretty great. But at this point, I am too lazy to put the batteries in the damn label-maker and will most likely give it to Goodwill. I'm doing charity work for an African-Amercan women's group even though I can't join because I'm Caucasion. Seriously?

i.am.different.

But I will tell you this much: I have lived a life of being unafraid -->-of any of it. I'm pretty sure I will get a tattoo before I'm too wrinkley and go sky-diving before my knees give out. Frankly, I never wanted to be ninety and look back and wish I had done something crazy, hard, or scary. I have to live with my children's looks of confusion and wonderment, knowing that they might be happier if I acted like a "normal" mother, but...   guess.what.  you only get one shot, loveys. And once you get your wings after you die, sky-diving won't seem like such a terrifyingly, big deal.

Carpe Diem, kids!

thoughts on poison...

I have to bite the poison apple on Thursday morning.

I know. Chemo is the giver of life, but I hate it. It is scary, makes me so tired, ruins an entire month and (worst of all) it makes me remember that I am saddled with cancer: the taker of life.

One day, it will kill me. I pretend that this is not true, but I'm not a fool. I may just decide to sit in the house and sulk tomorrow. Well.. that's what I want to do but…

My itchiness for life won't let me. I gotta scratch it.

ah-ha moment...

Kahlil got it right when he said that kids come through you and are not a part of you.

When you have a little baby, their essence is so much a part of yours that it is unnerving when they grow up and their lives are nothing like yours... even down to the people they choose to hang around. This isn't to say that I'm one of those smothering baby-talking Teddy Ruxpin Earth-mommy types, but it was still quite the eye-opener when the reality knocked me over. They do not have thoughts like yours and (in fact) they may not even like you... for that respect must be earned over long periods of time.

So to those of you who are watching your children leave home for the first time, understand right.now that they may surprise-delight-question you and your opinions...  and that it is their job. They are not  tiny little yous...

even though you think that now...

Balance...

Italy... continued

It hit me like a brick after two days why we Americans are so fat. Italians do NOT sit down, and I'd be a fool not to adopt this lifestyle. We drive everywhere and even try to get the closest parking space in a lot. Italians eat everything and line up for gelato like it is their job, and yet, they are the most gorgeous group of people I've ever seen. Style comes with the territory even at twelve years-old. This culture of people knows how to dress but having said that... it is far easier to dress a fit body then a chubby one. I ate pasta, had gelato every single day and lost weight there. One hour of cardio a day on some machine at a gym doesn't cut it. Getting away from the computer and walking (yes walking) to the grocery store every day may do the trick. I tried it yesterday but I may forget to do it again tomorrow.

Have I mentioned the bathrooms? First of all, they are difficult to find unless you plan on paying for something at a cafe. Perhaps this is why not going on a planned tour has its challenges... I'm sure most bus trips have pit-stops, but when you are on your own, it's impossible. We did sign up for a three hour tour of ancient Rome - a must-do at night... but there wasn't one single bathroom on the entire tour. At one point, I had visions of being on the national news for having been the first American woman to take a dump in an archeological dig at the Roman Forum. Holy.shit.

Cheap shot. Sorry.

Secondly, the bathrooms there are beyond filthy, and I'm not sure what that is about other than a) they don't care, b) they don't clean, c) it's the only way to tell us to get the hell out and don't come back, d) we have turned into over-civilized freaks who even need handwipes to go grocery shopping... god forbid we contract e. coli from the buggy handle. I am far from a germaphobe and yet, I ran through four packs of Wet Ones during a two week stay in Italy. The hotels were spotless, but the public restrooms were gross. Beyond gross.

Florence... just a beautiful city all around and other than the bad bathrooms..  it was just awesome.  The art galleries are unsurpassed. I'm not much of a meat eater but the Tuscan steaks were to die for.. bloody.massacre.raw, but tasty.

 The whaddya-need-now-bitches mindset towards us was surprising. The waiters were snippy. Period. I've had snotty waiters all over the U.S. but Italy not only gets the cake for rude, but gets a big, juicy, bitch-slap raspberry on top.  We were so elated to experience the Italy I had remembered.

I don't think we will be back any time soon knowing that Italy has nothing on France's reputation for hospitality.

At least we had amazing food, great wine, met some great new friends from all over the world, and had a fun time together. That's something.

Prince blocks his version. :(

Italy... some thoughts

Rome - Vespas on steroids litter the streets as do drivers who see rules or stop signs as mere suggestions.  I was lucky to come home alive after coming in close proximity to several angry bumpers. The driving is a reflection of the nature of the Italian. Pure and simple - they don't like us. They have opened up their beautiful city to the world and now regret the offering. Sitting down to dinner was almost a threat as opposed to a respite. I was friendly to a fault to ensure that a gift of pissed-off-saliva wasn't hurled into my pasta bowl.

Not pretty. The graciousness of servitude is a thing of my past. (sorry... I sounded a bit Paula Dean just then). However, I was saddened but fortunate to be able to have compared this experience to another of mine almost fifty years before.

The Vatican was a joke. The tour was a despicable cattle herd with no air conditioning or place to rest. By the end of it, I couldn't have imagined how fifty years had bastardized this place into a money-making touristy souvenir shop only to be trumped by a mooring of a sub-standard cruise ship on the Carribean. Sad. The Vatican will be closed in a few years... this is more than just opinion since the world of tourists has taken over... its once reverant atmosphere has turned into a freak show with everything short of deep-fried Twinkies. As I said, I was honored to be a visitor many decades before the latest carnival. A visit from the pope doing Gangum style with a Nicki Manaj backup girl-group would have fit the bill.

Cinque Terre - there is nothing like this group of charming villages. Unfortunately, we did the Cinque Terre hike, not realizing that we were screwed until we saw a Finnish tour-group with poles, water-filled waist-packs for ULTRA-hydration, and massive hiking boots. I thought to myself as I stood there in my flat Keds with no water bottle... i.am.thoroughly.fucked.

It was a one-thousand step, four hour trek-from-hell through the terraces of the five (cinque) cities. There was no attire-warning to Americans  -  fortunately... the Finnish group did get the hiking memo.

Lucky them.

Back tomorrow with more about Florence, Naples, and the Amalfi Coast...

(I must go ice my ankle.)

Italy -- highlights!

Cinque Terre hike

Gabriellllla e Marco

Florence cooking school

Americans and Canadians think alike. Finnish and Bruce... not so much

Oh my.

Sorrento

Tadaaa. 

Praying to the Prociutto God

Positano

Pompeii

 Roma

Before Capri.... just a simple girl with a dream

apres Capri... Dolce Salbana

Arrivederci, baby.

don't be a pig...

Would you like to be stuffed in an elevator with ten other people? 

no?

Then be aware of this when you buy your dinner. Make it possible.

http://www.makeitpossible.com

Choke down health...

So... I've done a lot of research on a kill-the-cancer diet, and it is widely known that cancer does not like an alkaline environment even thought the AMA thinks this is bullshit.

Our bodies are like a swimming pool, and you must treat it a certain way so it doesn't get loaded with gunk and give you disease. Alkaline foods are fruits and vegetables but unless you are a Spartan or a liar, this isn't happening. You will drink the random glass of wine, have meat, eat dessert or scarf down a piece of smoked gouda some time in your ife.

I found an answer. First of all there are test kits right at the drug store to see just how acidic your body is... just go buy alkaline strips and lick one to see. It took me a month to gain total alkalinity - your level should read 7.2 which (believe me) is hard to do. I discovered a trick.

First of all, I definitely upped my intake of veggies but *mostly* I choke down a powdered green/raspberry ketone/magnesium/sea salt/tumeric drink twice a day. Not so bad if you add stevia.

By the way, stevia should be the ONLY sweetener you touch. Sugar=acid  aspartame=acid poison Stevia is a plant and comes in flavors at Whole Foods.

This is empowering and makes me feel like I'm doing something good for myself and my disease.

If I die young, you'll know that none of this worked...

LISTEN to this radio show:

"OverAcidification is Killing Us" Interview, Life Tips Radio Show, Boston

Pinteresting...

 Pinterest is the new craze and the latest form of (then again) another non-communicative community of the Gen-Xers. Nobody talks; they text. Pinterest is just another graphic form of this. It all started going downhill after the death of the "card-catalog" at the library, but...  don't get me started. Let's watch the downward spiral of our culture until we dry-heave a Kardashian, shall we?

Every other "pin" on Pinterest is devoted to six-pack abs and Plyometric workout routines. The next pinning favs are thousands of fattening appetizers, entrees and desserts to make, thus deeming it physically impossible to attain those six-pack abs. 

And I thought I was a contradiction.

Don't get me wrong... I'm feeding into this crap.  I have kick-ass senior citizen delts to prove it.  I'm one of those serial gym-rats where the car drives itself to the weight machines  I've even made lame excuses to those who think I indulge too much. "I'm off the the library again. I'm headed to the dry cleaners." Liar, liar, pants on fire.

 It's just my thing.

I do get that "good for you" look (because of the cancer) but they don't realize that I am just feeding an addiction that I got into in the early 80s when Jane Fonda and her videos emerged. My oncologist was flabbergasted when I asked if I could lift weights the day they inserted the picc-line in my arm last year. He looked at me as though I was mentally challenged. I digress...

Unlike the crazed Pinterest lovers of today, in the 80s we were definitely more active, and not into food. We ate because we had to do it to survive. Today, our culture is obsessed with fitness yet prone to gluttony. Now, we schedule our workouts, and sit in chairs doing Pinterest,  TIVO cooking shows, and watch the Food Network.

All I know is that as a sixty-something, I should really be letting this go. I have to laugh when I think of my grandmother at sixty-two in her house-dress, rolled-down stockings and marm shoes.  I should be reading the paper and eating a cheese danish.

But nooooo...  I have illusions that I'm forty.

I think I'll pin this.

expectations...

I know. That "lower your expectations" for marital advice sounded just awful because most people can't handle the truth. They want more (uh) delicacy.

Right.

When people get married, they have no clue who they are marrying and pretty much figure if it doesn't work out... well,  if it doesn't work out just...   leave. The BEST thing you can do for any relationship is to lower unrealistic expectations. Then, if something goes right, you will be pleasantly delighted.

The saga of my personal growth towards marital bliss is quite telling. It began very innocently around 1969.  I knew early on that my husband wrapped nothing. He didn't propose in any particular way either other than.. "are we doing this?"  The romance almost knocked me over. There was no ring. No velvet box. No ceremony. Just a question of practical means. After that, there were no anniversary presents... remember? He wraps nothing. I used to get pissed.  (expectations) Then, I realized that this was what I signed up for the day I said yes to the non-proposal. He's NEVER wrapped a gift. Frankly, he never did before we got married so what was I trying to do to myself as the years progressed. If I thought about it too much I might have had a little snit... so I kept much of this to myself.

After several decades of this bullshit, I finally realized that he wasn't being mean; he was just being himself: a person who wraps nothing. It was then that I had an epiphany.  I began to lower my expectations in all my relationships and they all got better. Another good example: my brother doesn't visit me. He never has. He never will. It used to piss me off (more expectations)  until I understood that this is my brother. It isn't a personal thing. He just doesn't do visiting. When I realized that he was just being himself, I began to relax.

So in case you didn't like the last entry; feeling that it was a bit too blunt or insensitive... I was just being my quintessential honest self... he doesn't wrap? I don't ever lie.  It annoys and confuses people, but I'm just being who I am. Some people don't wrap or visit. I don't tell you the anniversary sap that you are dying to hear. So there.

You want to stay married? Understand who you are marrying the day you do it and you might have a prayer of having it last for more than five years.

We now have a great relationship. I just buy myself things and wrap up whatever I like.

He pays for it.

40 years.

July 21, 1973

So... how the hell do you do this? Well.... (of course) I will tell you.

1) Marry someone you actually like

2) Lower your expectations

3) Have a bigger perspective and grander scheme like building a family 

4) Have your own life, your own interests, and your own friends 

5) Have similar family values

6) Grit your teeth and stay together when you don't want to do it... it will come around

7) Be satisfied with your financial state (it isn't important)

8) Have a similar humor and similar intellect

9) Be a partner, even when your partner checks out...  they will.

10) Learn new skills like playing an instrument, learning a language, or going back to school.

Sitting and watching TVevery night together and staring mindlessly at each other as you watch The Bachelor doesn't cut it. This leads to bitterness and boredom. Been there; bought the t-shirt.

11) Most importantly: reread #2 ten times a day, and then read it again.

(If I had to do it over again, I would have waited ten years. You shouldn't be allowed to get married until you are at least thirty.)

"We" work because I don't have just one love-of-my-life to hug... I have more than I can count.

This was taken this morning.

doubt...

"love and doubt are never on speaking terms..."

Read this quote last week and it helped me to understand those discomforting relationships where you just.aren't.sure... you know what I mean.  Those snarky little comments that you analyze later with a...

"huh?"

Wack... they nailed you.

People like this blindside you with their own insecurities and before you know it, you've been dissed, offended and judged. Bam: the tailor-made bitch-slap.

There was a book I read once called the "Gift of Fear" by Gavin De Becker, which was written to (supposedly) save your life by encouraging you to listen to your instincts and not your learned civility. Dogs protect themselves instinctively and growl all the time, but instead of showing our teeth to the enemy... we (as evolved humans) allow the bastard dogs to hang around a while, make them coffee as they drag us down with their clever little comments and sinister tactics. Because they are professional bloodsuckers, they easily make us feel like shit. We cower. We begin to process the possibility of doubt. After all, we are polite and wouldn't want to offend such a good friend..

Make no mistake about it: love and doubt don't mix... If you doubt a person AT ALL, there is a reason...  My advice?

RUN.

Clearly...

I've had nothing to talk about.

I am studying Italian, and because one of my dear friends is from Florence, speaking the language regularly seems to be the best way of learning it. My accent is pretty good (I'm told) and having a musical ear has its advantages, so lucky me. I'm going all over Italy for two weeks in September, so I have a reason to kick it up quickly. Molto bene!

My health is good but the chemo has messed up my joints. My memory is back as is my obsession with trying new things, so it's been a plus. I'm not so into the piano anymore, but that will come. I get bored with the old and excited for the new. I'm mad that I refuse to paint. I don't know what that is about. I would rather throw the ball to the dog, clean my garage or make some nice soup. Painting is the one thing I'm really good at, but without a studio set up, I tend to procrastinate. One day, I will have a huge messy studio with paint everywhere. If it is set up, I'll do it. If I have to take forty minutes to set it up, I would rather make gazpacho.

Well, geez.. that was just a completely inspired blog post.

Ciao.

silly wabbit....

yup.

flu...

bit me hard... and my immune system is not picking up the slack...

that bitch.

Ode to Lymphoma

it's not if you win or lose....

it's this

Piglet: "how do you spell love?"


Pooh: "you don't spell it, you feel it."

Cry me a river...

The facts are in. Researchers have proven that it is unhealthy to shower or bathe in chlorinated, polluted or unfiltered water. It is a real anger. When you shower or bathe, chemicals in the water vaporize, releasing poisonous gases from organic compounds. This transforms the bathroom into a min-gas chamber filling the air with the same gases used as poisonous gas in WW II.

Good God. Now I get to worry about that too. Sheesh. 

I'm choosing to be gassed to my death. Whatever.

Music...

"Music is my religion."

Jimi Hendrix

I can relate. I've often thought of how I could ever choose between being blind or deaf. I'm not sure, although most people could answer that easily. To be blind would put you in a darkness - a black void. But somehow, I believe my empty abyss would be greater in silence. I love music so much.

I talk a lot about hip-hop because of my love of dance and the joy in that... but if I had to choose anything that rocks me to my core, it is truly the violin.

For this Passover season, this song is in honor all of those lost... I shake my head still in disbelief.

Don't worry...

be happy...

Twins...

My daughter's beautiful hair.... my coat.

MY Siri...

auto-corrects everything into smut and filth, but that's just on my phone. I'm fairly certain that my Siri has a drinking problem and mocks me when I'm not being productive.

respect...

motherhood, bitches.

tude...

I'm in awe with the attitude of most people who are diagnosed with disease.

i.e.

I hate God.
I'm pissed at the world.
I'm going to die.
I'm going to dwell on the negative.
I'm going to Google all the worst shit about my disease.
I'm going to be a big downer.
I'm going to have a pity party and invite guests who have to listen to me bitch.
I'm scared to death now... all day long.
I dream about my funeral.
I stop exercising because I am so sick in my head that my body won't work.
I'm angry.
I make my family feel like crap over my disease.

or...

I choose to live within a joyful framework.
I feel that my life has been changed for the better.
I appreciate my people so much more.
I make goals.
I research only positive things about my disease like new research in order to empower myself.
I exercise to the point of excess because I love the endorphins and serotonin released in my brain.
I choose to have nice people in my life who soothe my emotional state.
I eliminate the presence of assholes.
I honor my higher power by living a loving life.
I help others.
I learn something new every day, even if it is two bars of a difficult piano piece.
I empower myself with good nutrition.
I don't mention my cancer to my family very often.
I dwell on living, and not on dying.

We are all going to die. I'm not particularly interested as to the when or the how for myself.

Go ahead and pray for me. It won't matter... because I am going to be happy about every minute I'm here whether you do or whether you don't.

Sally Out.

media rant...

I'm over it.

I'm not alone. Everyone feels frustrated with the poor phone behavior in this foolish, media-connected society. We are all at fault. We don't remember what it was like to sit quietly at a cafe, be alone, read a paper or a book, or talk to a stranger without "it." We don't have moments of utter solitude anymore because we have "it" right in the palm of our hand. If we aren't talking to a friend, we are doing business simultaneously with it, playing games, working on blogs, or using hundreds of apps doing God knows what.

Then, there are phone manners, or lack thereof. Mostly... the latter. It is clear that society has been transformed into a faceless, featureless, facsimile of a cultured life that is going, going... by....gone.

Forever lost.

Oh, it's exhilarating to be this connected... at first. Then... you wake up from chronic eyestrain, chores undone, books unread, canvases unpainted, treadmill turned off, piano unplayed and time has simply... disappeared. I used to think TV was a waste of time until the internet came on the scene. I believe that certain OCD types (like myself) are susceptible to misuse where other normal people aren't so inclined. But just like junk-food, there is a plethora of media gluttony that has ruined the creativity and the social skills for a good portion of our population.

I was with a friend for an entire week who found it impossible to sit at lunch, drive in a car, or shop with me without checking out her phone every four minutes. The addiction is palpable and sucks in most unsuspecting users. After all, that little handheld piece of plastic and lead has every friend and family member attached to it. It has Match.com love prospects and Nasdaq info. It owns up-to-date opinions of twitter-ers and news of the hour from all over the world. It is an indispensable nightmare that we can't live without. Good App Almighty.

I don't have the answer, but I do know that the technology is going faster than we are humanly prepared to cope. We cannot keep up with its lack of societal propriety and so, we are turning into oversexed, over-informed, uncultured lunatics with zero manners or privacy. It's quite insane.

Oh... these darn kids today.

hmmm...

I need to grow up. I am a 61 year-old grandmother. Why do I love these songs?  I'm gonna pop some tags while my mother turns over in her grave.

who.the.hell.am.I

chomp chomp chomp...

Probiotics are more important than vitamins. Disease is built in your gut... clean it out. 

Probiotics = PAC MAN for your colon!

(you can tell you are over 60 if you talk about our colon and the amount of fiber you consume in your cocktail conversation.)

whoa...

The dowager in Downton reminds me of my mother. If that doesn't say it all, I don't know what does.

Bahhahahahahaha...

remember...

"Rudeness is the weak man's imitation of strength."

Eric Hoffer

my kinda philosopher...

whaaaaaaa...

This was you. You were born in a state of joy, and yet in a very short period of time you were taught to be jealous, timid, fearful, depressed, sad and angry. Why? They say that the first three years, you were wired to manifest personality traits to last throughout your life. I don't know how much of this I believe, but I do know that being happy is a daily choice. Most of us decide to water the weeds and not the flowers... perhaps because of the sheer personal drama in it, which, by the way, is just a bad habit. People are addicted to the rush of the pain, and dwell on anything that makes them miserable. Oh please. 

To me, the worst thing you can do (I did this for years) is to blame your parents. I don't care what your parents did to screw you up; it is your job to get over yourself and quit dwelling on it. If you were abused in some way or yelled at too much by your drunk father or kicked by your selfish bitch mother... that was then and this is NOW.

You just can't let that go. Really?

Do what makes you happy... and if you can't do it, dream about it. If you don't know what that is, it is your job to figure it out...  but most of all, simplify your life by digging out from under all that self-pity. It's a little ridiculous this many years later, don't you think?

Snap out of it, you baby you.

Feel it...

Joy.

angiogenesis...

stupido...

Why is it that after finding out your cancer diagnosis do random people feel the need to tell you the dramatic, detailed and tragic stories of their mother, their aunt, their grandfather or hairdresser who (of course) had the same type of cancer that you do, and then proceed to inform you that they... uh..

died.

Everyday Italian...

Ah, winter dieting has approached once again. Every year at this time I take stock and realize I cannot zip my pants, and the fear sets in over what I will look like when the sun hits my face... ( i.e. thighs).

It is a bit of an obsession of mine.. this body. I realize now that the experience of being checked out naked in the shower by a bunch of teenage boys was (as I look back) like thirteen year-old rape, and so my body image has been distorted over the years. I was born with a beautiful body, but like all women, I pick it apart, analyze it, drag it in the mud, take it to lunch and then feel guilty that I ever let it eat a thing. It's a vicious cycle, but most women understand the pain and confusion. Perhaps, I a little more so.

I went through periods of anorexia and bulimia most of my early life trying to attain a level of perfection that no one but Barbie and Giada seem to have. The illusion of the beauty-obsessed media, an over-zealous skinny model-type mother with an attitude, and the horrific thought of leering shower stares at my prepubescent nakedness have left me perplexed and raw about what I look like today. I don't know anymore and (frankly) have stopped really giving a shit. Having white hair is disheartening enough without this strange pre-geriatric, post lymphomatic girth and so... I continue to lie about not caring, fight the fight, be hungry, work out like it is my profession and...   watch cooking shows to ease my sorrow. As I plan a September trip to Italy, I am practicing my Italiano and watch Everyday Italian... my favorite. It is what I do in the winter frost when I am hungry and wait for the thaw of spring. I watch her show, go grocery shopping and whip up my version that same evening. I, of course, am not allowed to overeat any of it and so I continue to inflict wanton mental suffering upon myself... as I smell the fragrant garlic in olive oil and fresh basil while deliberating the wearing of shorts in the upcoming warmer months.

I do love that sexpot Giada.  After my demise, I am reincarnating as her life partner.

Ciao. A più tarrrrrrrdi.

All I need is a mustache and a plane ticket...

Friday is just Tuesday with a drinking problem.

Why should I be afraid of dying of cancer? A meteor could hit my house any second now.

What me worry?

For the record, I don't believe in funerals or burials. I think taking room up in a cemetery on Earth is just ridiculous. Viewings are grotesque. Depressing black clothes reflect sadness and do not celebrate a beautiful, joyful life. Instead of all that insane hoopla, I am having a very large party at the dance studio with all my favorite hip-hop music. I may request a signature drink, line dances and balloon rides. If my kids insist on having a traditional funeral, I simply refuse to be a part of it.

Smack it up, flip it, rub it down.

a decision...

When I was twenty-seven years-old, I had my first baby. When he was two years-old, I decided to take him to a mother's day-out. I had trepidation because I knew that no one loved him like I did. I dropped him off anyway because all the mothers did it. He cried.and.cried. I went out to run errands thinking about nothing but him the entire two hours I was away.

Anxiously, I parked the car when I returned, walked up the daycare stairs, wondering how my sweet little baby boy had faired without me. There was a door with a small round window in the middle like something in a restaurant kitchen. I looked inside the window which was about as tall as I was. As I looked around the room there were about twenty highchairs lined up.  I was looking for my baby in the lineup. I found him. He was around seventh from the left of the twenty in the highchair parade. He looked vacant. Sad. Lost. Alone. I had never seen him look this way, and it was an earth-shattering, life-changing moment.

As I looked inside the round window his eyes met mine, and it was at that moment that I realized that I would never leave him (or any of my babies) in public daycare again. He raised is arms up to me as to say..."where have you been?... I love you so much... you are the love of my life, Mommy...  please get me the hell out of here now."

I did. I never looked back.

If I had been a single mother, my choice may have been different out of necessity. I am the mother of a two income family who lived with one income because of this experience. I was broke, lived within a very small budget and rarely had anything for myself even though I had three more babies. I don't live with one regret having made this decision. It was all due to that one afternoon.

A decision. The right one for me.