2012

Happy New Year... An amazing dinner with my children. Charlie discovered Siri and kept asking her to call him. Siri kept answering him "I don't understand 'cowl Chowlie,' please repeat the question." Charlie just asked her louder. COWL. CHOWLIE. What a character he is!

I would rather drink Clorox than be at Times Square tonight and am glad to be in bed early. Most people love the idea of the once-in-a-lifetime celebration there. All I can see are horrifying lines at porto-toilets and the possibility of terrorist attacks. I am beginning to wonder if I am the ultimate killjoy.

I don't like Vegas,or amusement parks either. I'd rather be hangin' with Chas and Will, watching Thomas the Train and changing wet diapers.

be it

a last effort

Have you ever wanted a relationship with someone when you know you shouldn't have it? This seems to happen to me a lot. I do wonder why I continue to search for components of people that are the missing parts of those long lost areas in my life. I believe that we search for those pieces to fill ourselves up, but we rarely succeed.

Life isn't perfect. Relationships are certainly not perfect, but I do think that there are losses in your childhood that leave deep crevices in your soul that are never ever filled. These holes have a profound effect on current relationships. As they unfold, their connection to you is just like a freight train on a mission... there is no screeching stop at the crossroad to protect you from the inevitable crash as the impending accident approaches.

A friend of mine once told me that she had memories of being on a back porch in a snowsuit and was crying to come inside - it was clearly cold and she was a very little girl. Her mother took her large slippered foot and kicked her at the chest off the porch. The humiliation must have been unforgettable. These are things you just don't bury.

The problem with me is that I suppress things that have hurt me. I unearth them in inopportune times as I am driving in the car at night, or worse, when someone says something to me and I blow up for no reason. I have been hardwired to be wounded and am waiting to prance like a large cat on the next person who is unsuspectingly in my path. It may not be a comment that sounds hurtful to the innocent bystander. But for me it says, "you don't count, Sally... you are not important, you are not pretty enough, you are not smart enough, you definitely do not contribute in any way in this life, and generally we don't like you so you might as well just go jump off that cliff over there." It is very easy for people to take their foot and push little Sally off the porch (and, by the way) I allow them do it. I seem to search these types out on a regular basis.

That happened yesterday and my friend didn't even know what had actually happened. They said something that detonated that little bomb inside me and... BOOM. I take it to the bank, get inappropriately disturbed, and disengage the relationship because that is the easiest way to control it: to leave.

I don't have very many intimate relationships. I have lots of friends but very few that are intimate. This is for my own protection as I remain zipped up in my armored snowsuit. I'm usually waiting for the worst to happen because it surely will. People aren't perfect and can be insensitive, jealous and edgy. After all, they have their own childhoods to battle. I never get too close to them for fear of getting thwarted again.

I am far too afraid of that porch to even step out the door in the cold air.

today...

The local paper caught wind that a woman in Carmel who has cancer is giving free massages to chemo patients, and they wanted to do an article. About me. There was a time in my life when I craved attention. I got so little of it as a child that I was flabbergasted that I didn't become a crack addict or a pole-dancer. I have other things going on for attention at the moment like (uh) non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.

Cancer (per se) is not my thing. I don't even like cancer and am not having as much fun with this boy hairdo, the uncertainties, the swollen gut, or the unnecessary phone calls asking about me from those people I don't like or can't remember. I'm quite enjoying the clearing out of crap thinking that when I do die someone could find that irresponsible journal in my dusty closet, that body weight-chart from the 90's, the email I shouldn't have sent, the underwear I should have pitched, my obsession with buying belts, my hideous senior picture that I refuse to throw out, or the CD that my mother recorded of how she really felt about me. I've never listened to it, but am afraid to destroy the only thing I have of her scary voice. I am so damn twisted in my own little way.

I met the young man from the paper at a hamburger joint in town, but... had the studio owners (where I rent) tag along, and (with my super-talent of stellar bullshit) made the entire interview about the philosophy of the zumba studio. He didn't know what hit him after we sat down. I refused to talk about myself... he got the tip about (cancerous) me from the Executive Vice President of the paper who wanted a cover (are you kidding me?) cover page of my story. The Vice-Pres had a Jimmy Buffet cover band of which I was a member - I sang and played the keyboards back in 2004 or so. Newspapers get desperate for stories this time of year and so... voila! - Sally had a chemo-party. It does pay to be old and get around, try anything, turn down nothing, and believe that it is your job in life to fake it until you make it. This has gotten me a very bizarre reputation - and many people insist that I am like a Renaissance woman of some kind.... That makes me chuckle loudly -- >little do they know that I am merely the Queen of horse manure with super-powers of Rikki-tikki Tavi.

It will be very interesting to see what they write, as he did insist on taking at least ten photos of me from various angles. Ugh. Now I will get the sheer pleasure of being called on the phone in two weeks by more people I don't like and can't remember.

I am such a little bitch.

Eve and the Eve of Eve...

Lily, Reese, Charlie, Gwen, Will

Twas the night before Christmas...

My present from the kids this year... love.

9 hours later

12 hours later

last minute shopping....

I had trouble at CVS with my debit card and the cashier said, "strip down facing me."

I said... "in your dreams you disgusting little freak."

Dear Santa,

Define good.

better watch out...

You can be in a crowd of people and feel alone at the holidays. It is easy to drift into Christmases long gone and fret over the missed family members whom your kids don't remember, and so you alone feel the loss. It is unexplainable to them and it isn't worth bringing up. Most of the time I can bury it, set it and forget it - kind of like the Ronco lost family of memories infomercial. It runs over and over in my mind but they are dead and gone and I have to come to terms that it is my loss only.

I found my Dad's old Timex watch, but it was only part of it and the guts and watchband were gone. I moved it from drawer to drawer never having the heart to pitch it even though it means nothing to anyone but me. One year I put an ornament hook on it and put it on the tree. It makes me happy - as though my dad is here somehow. Does anyone else in the family care so much? Probably not... but it is the little piece of my past for Christmas that I get to look at knowing my dad is in my heart.

He was such a nice man... a courtly man. You don't see too many of those anymore. He wore a bow-tie, walked on the outside of the sidewalk when you strolled with him on the street, always sent notes of thanks with his own monogrammed stationery, stood up if a lady came into the room, and would push in your chair after you came to the table. I was lucky to have known a man like that. At least I have his watch.

want.

There are....

very few things that surprise me as I am passing this sixty mark with record speed. People around me are pretty much the same and do very few things within the realm of their personality to give me pause. As a matter of fact, most people, including my family, are (unlike me) very stable and when I am with them I can count on them to be similar to the way they were yesterday or the day before - kind of like Ground Hog Day. This is not a putdown. This is human nature. We develop a personality whether it be funny, negative, judgmental, quirky, unreliable, insensitive, religious, obtuse, punctual, boring or touchy. I mean the list of traits are as long as Santa's. So, although people can transform themselves, become enlightened, have change of heart, awaken the spiritual side within, get a new job, determine another sexual preference or become a hermit - in most cases they seem to stay within the confines of their said personality. I accept this.

So, when I am hit by a truck behind my own little personality wall, I am taken aback. This happened to me yesterday and (yes) this is (then again) another story of the weirdness of cancer. Two days ago I was invited to do a gift exchange with people I don't know very well. My friend, Catherine, who is a triathlete is on a Masters swim team of which she wants me to join. These were her friends who are also part of the team, and although I am an athlete in my own mind I keep telling her that even though I have the stamina of a bull elephant, I should probably admit that I am currently in cancer rehab and not so interested in being in public with my swollen tumor belly. Although the tumor is down, the inflammation remains. Doc said it should take the better part of next year but swimming next to triathletes might make me feel a bit (uh) like a troll, or perhaps a stork of some sort. The skinny legs don't help. I was invited anyway (as I have been before) to join the "team" for the night at a restaurant.

Having been sick this week, I contemplate bailing out, staying home watching Modern Family. I rarely watch TV but never miss this show. I am such a pleaser that I do have to ponder why I am going at all. Is it for her? Is it because I have no other social life? I do like them even though I don't know them very well. Most of them are divorced and forty-five-ish, sit at the bar looking hot, cute, and available and I sit at the end of the bar with my silver-chemo-hair and practical shoes. If I were single, I would rather get a root canal than be picked up by a man at a bar. It feels like a butcher shop to me. Okay, I'm rambling off topic. That is irrelevant.

It is a gift exchange and I had some Banana Republic cologne that I am re-gifting (I bought it for another person, if that is considered re-gifting) but also threw my book in there for good measure. I figured what the hell. I clean up, decide I will go and make a short evening of it, wrap the gifts and head out the door. It is raining as though an ark should be showing up on my street, and if it weren't for the makeup I had put on I would have turned around... yes, makeup takes time. Inside my head is like a turnstile because I can change my mind on a dime, switch subjects when someone is in the middle of another and generally get on my own nerves. This is my Ground Hog personality... it is okay. I'm used to me. I might decide five more times during my drive in the flood to turn around. This is normal. I am now talking aloud to myself, which my kids over the years had commented on... "mom, you're doing it again." These traits can be counted on and are all very Sally-ish.

Heading down the highway, I see the beltway of 465, which goes around Indianapolis coming up fast, but there is a huge amount of construction and the slick of rain on the street made all of it look like some kind of surreal Van Gogh painting-from-hell. Almost having an accident, I can't decide which lane to get in - because everything is turned around due to the construction. I have moments to decide - one lane is the turn-off to the restaurant and the other is getting ON 465 which would take me twenty-five minutes out of the way by the time I... well you get the drift.

Yes, I screwed up. I am now on 465 going slowly around the cloverleaf knowing that I will be stuck in the rain on the highway going in the complete opposite direction to where I want to be. I was struck by my blase calm - my entire body went MEH. MEH is my new mantra but this type of thing would make most people have the vein on their forehead pop out and at least give them a rise in blood pressure. I begin to analyze. I have no idea why this doesn't bother me at all. I will be late. I will surely be insanely provoked trying to find my way back on track, but no. My body does the ZEN-MEH. I have a eureka moment to myself.

I am a very laid back person but when it comes to punctuality I am an utter freak. This gives most people pause because I am so easygoing, but normally (because of the punctuality gene) this would have sent me into some kind of trucker road-rage. But no. This year, I found out that I could die at any time. I could have twenty more years to live or six months and I'm gone - I have that type of cancer... and so, I feel very differently about an extra twenty-five minutes. I smile. I turn on some music. I meditate as I drive, and I have a moment of clarity (one of many) of "what's the damn hurry about?" The radio is playing a song from the movie Weird Science which made me smile so much that I turned it up too loud. It reminded me of the boys when they were around eleven and twelve, and I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. I did a little of both.

Cancer is a weird ride. Most people take it on like a train wreck, but if you can stop and look at things differently, you can enjoy it as a kaleidoscope-type spiritual journey of joy that only gets better and better.

Cancer is some weird science all right.

Beating it with a stick...

So much support, sooooo many wristbands

Alopecia Wristband
Ankylosing Spondylitis Wristband
ARDS Wristband
(Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome)
Arthritis Wristband
Brachial Plexus Injuries Wristband
CA Anti-Second Hand Smoke Wristband
Canada Anti-Tobacco Wristband
Child Abuse Wristband
Child Neglect Wristband
Chronic Fatigue Syndrome Wristband
Colitis Wristband
Colon Cancer Wristband
Colorectal Cancer Wristband
Crime Victim's Rights Wristband
Crohn's Disease Wristband
Drowning Wristband
Dysautonomia Wristband
Dystonia Wristband
Education Wristband
Epstein-Barr Virus Wristband
Erb's Palsy Wristband
Familial Polyposis Wristband
Free Speech Wristband
Guillain Barre Syndrome Wristband
Huntington's Disease Wristband
Hurricane Wristband
Hurricane Katrina Wristband
Hystiocytosis Wristband
Ichthyosis Wristband
Interstitial Cystitis Wristband
Langerhans Cell Hystiocytosis Wristband
Leukodystrophies Wristband
ME/CFIDS Wristband
Myositis Wristband
Police Officers Lost in Duty Wristband
Rectal Cancer Wristband
Responsible Use of Public Land Wristband
Restless Legs Syndrome Wristband
Reye's Syndrome Wristband
Save The Music Wristband
Short Bowel Syndrome Wristband - (my favorite)
Springomyelia Wristband
Steven Johnson Syndrome Wristband
Teens Against Smoking Wristband
Transverse Myelitis Wristband
Victim's Rights Wristband
Water Accidents Wristband
Water Quality Wristband
Water Safety Wristband

I would be afraid to wear the non-Hodgkins lymphoma wristband for fear it would be the same color as the...

I-have-a-skin-condition-due-to-an-irresponsible-evening-with-a-stranger wristband.

Cancer family effect...

I think a dreadly disease gives perspective to everyone involved, but most especially with your family. I find it interesting how it affects each child of mine in various ways and also amazed to see how dissimilar they are to one another. My oldest son pretends that it never happened. He has never mentioned it, never showed up at chemo, and asks me to babysit any time of day or night. After bumping into one of his friends I found out that that is the way he deals with it... we are extremely close and yet his friends also tell me that he never brings it up and changes the subject when they do. It is his way to cope.

My middle two sons are the men with the feminine side. They wouldn't like this analysis, but there is nothing dearer to me than a man who can cry, talk about their sad times, share their insecurities or do those little things that make your heart break. My son, Josh, writes too and makes a book for his wife every Christmas. When he was here last weekend, he read 2011 to me... and in the middle of it realized that he mentioned my illness, and (in doing so) broke down in tears. It's hard to have a clue as to how this hurts those in my life - not knowing if I will even get through this year is so hard for them. This is what breaks my heart about cancer - to hurt the ones you love so deeply is beyond heartbreaking. Yesterday, he sent me his children's book... I helped him edit it, and am going to illustrate it for him with all my spare time. What a great thing to be able share this between us during this time.

My third son has not surprised me in his reaction to all this. Jake is a person you tell your secrets to, and does things for me that many men his age would never consider. During chemo, he would come next to my bed and just rub my feet while I was asleep. There isn't a day when he doesn't call and mention my illness. These are moments in your life that you don't forget - even when you pretend to be asleep. He shows his worry the most, and he is my sensitive boy. Even this flu of mine this week made him fret for a bit until I started feeling better. A woman will be lucky to have him as their partner one day.

Then there is Rachel, my strong-willed, sensitive, creative and guarded daughter. We are nothing alike. I look at her and see my husband who is also guarded and (acts) unemotional with people. (the opposite is true). The funny thing is, she is the most social out of all of us, but I run a close second. Rachel has been a little like her oldest brother (by ignoring things) but sends me "high-five-you'll-do-fine-don't-worry-so-much" texts. Her texts are frequent but very "buck-it-up-cheerleader-esque."

Ironically, you need all different types of support. Bruce's reaction has been more culinary-like in his sympathy. You know, "would you like some capers on that lymph node?" or "how bout some Vodka sauce on that chemo body-ache"? You need a myriad of reactions because sometimes you crave the awwww, the tears with your friends, or just sympathy ----so you might have a clue that someone actually cares. But most of the time you couldn't possibly live with that overkill, and the "get-on-with-it-bacon-and-eggs-bone-marrow-test reaction is much more soothing. I'm glad I live with Bruce because the hard-ass approach is probably best for the daily cancer-diet. The non-reaction is more important than they realize because it makes me feel like a normal healthy mom. God, I wish I were.

I am lucky enough that I have so much family that I get to pick the reaction of the day. All of them count, even when there is no reaction at all.

Kurt

I am spending most of the day reading my book out loud to the voice recorder on my phone. My friend, Kurt, is blind. Even though most people in this world aren't clamoring to buy my book on Amazon, my friends are curious. He has asked me several times when it will be out in audio version. To me, that is so sweet because this book isn't going to be marketed like so many, and that won't be the case. My mother-in-law says she keeps looking at the reviews in the paper even though I tell her, no... it won't be, but she looks anyway. I continue to like to look at my book on the shelf in the living room because it is enough. I have no expectations or illusions of grandeur beyond my bookshelf. I am as proud of the cover as I am what's inside but that is the artist in me.

After all, I am not a Kardashian, or Herman Cain's wife, or someone who murdered her parents in the dark of the night. I am a person who likes to write stories. If you can find the one thing you like to do, it doesn't matter if you make any money at at it - for the joy in doing it is enough.

So, today I will be recuperating in bed and recording my book with my sultry, sick Demi Moore voice. Not too bad for Emily, I think.

Sexy blind.

We wear many hats...

My friends think I look like a dominatrix here (S.W., author)

This is the way I feel most days... Sal, Super Star!

Tonight, I'm going with the dominatrix. Don't screw with me - I have body aches.

uh...

flu.

first Amazon review...

If I only touch a few people, I've done what I set out to do. Cool.

"I was instantly captivated by Feldman's 'truer than most people think' depiction of a woman who just wants to be heard. There were several times through this giftedly crafted read when I felt that the narrator was speaking of my own life rather than that of a fictional character. With grace, charm, humility, witt and an endless amount of humor, the portrayal of 'Emily' was brought to life with each passing page. To say that I thoroughly enjoyed this book is an understatement. As a married woman of twenty-two years, I can relate to how 'just being heard' could indeed open pandora's box to a myriad of thoughts and emotions. After reading of 'Emily's' experience, I no longer feel like I am the only square peg who is desperately trying to fit into a suburbian hole. S.W. Feldman has captured an element of 'mundane' and has turned it into something brilliantly witty, fun and highly entertaining. I sincerely look forward to many more "Weeks" spent in this author's company."

Vivaldi and Disney

I have a bone to pick with Disney. Why do they have to ruin every single book and make it into a new movie? When I was a little girl, I thought that Beauty and the Beast carried such power, romance and mystery. I read it a hundred times. Now, I can't even think of it without wondering about Gaston and his cronies and the music that someone invented to make us think of the movie - not the book, but the movie. I feel sorry for this generation because they are missing the story - the essence.

Oh God... sounding like my mother.

Then there are Vivaldi's FOUR SEASON concertos (1723). They have beaten the Spring to death, cremated and had after-lives of it, though you rarely hear of the others.

WINTER - too frenetic for my hyper-ness

SUMMER- I love the beginning but at the middle - makes me need decaf -

AUTUMN - a nice little waltz befitting of Disney

SPRING - and then there is the one that has been beaten down to a pulp on Burger King commercials and Ferris Beuller movies. I'm sad that I like this one the best - the violin is to die for... but commercialism, just like Disney, destroys the sweetness and makes it into a forgettable Burger-beast.

Sad.

a book review...

This is great! It seems that either people don't get TWO WEEKS or want to read it three times. I loved this:

"You have officially inspired me to want to learn how to dance, play the piano, learn French and color my hair the shade of a Raven. You make it sound so "Normal" and almost soothing to have coffee rings on countertops, socks with holes in the toes, nylons with runs, separate bedrooms, separate interests, secret thoughts, hidden ambitions and simmering passions. If I didn't know better, Sal, I would think you were trying to steal my identity!!!!! I love you, I love you, I love you and all your wild, crazy, fun, witty, intelligent and down-to-earth normalness! x0x0x0x0x0x0x"

Touching one person may be enough for me.

*smiling*

$

Why do people brag about their money? If I had it, I would never brag about it because that makes no sense to me.

Do people brag because they are insecure or just insensitive? Let's face it, it is terribly impressive that they can do whatever they like, go wherever they want and indulge themselves in anything that Nordstroms has to offer... good for them. How enlightening! How stinkin' earth shattering.

Is it spiritually uplifting to have money? Does that automatically give them tenderness or a soft place to fall when they are lonely? Right. The ATM machine is such a warm and fuzzy place to confide your secrets. Does money give then their health or the ability to change the damn weather forecast? Better yet - does money ensure that God gives them a better life because (after all) owning more stuff makes them (uh) better?

I just had an argument with someone in my life who never fails to remind me of his ability to earn great amounts of dough and that he alone is the king of the almighty dollar bill - the buyer and hoarder of the expensive wine.

BS... I may puke.

I haven't had any money until right now, and the last thing I would do is to shove it up someone's butt that I have it and they don't. How crass. I once knew someone who gave my daughter extravagant gifts because he just wanted to do it. At the time, he was just like Jesus Christ and the fairy godfather all rolled up into one person. In times like these, when I have money and someone else doesn't, I MUST ask myself...

WWSD?

my manicure

We babysat all three girls tonight and they wore us down to a pulp. The teasing, the gnashing of teeth, the jumping on furniture, the consequent falling, the tears, the teasing each other more, the Alvin movie, the spilled drinks, Bruce saying "we will never do this again," my legendary, lengthy bedtime stories, more drinks, more bathroom visits, more pleading, and finally letting them give me a manicure in my bed - a bribe. If I would let them do it they said that they would go to bed without complaining.

My nails are now filed down to a nub. It was worth it.

RELIGION

Sorry. I can't take this organized club anymore. Even still, I could not have gotten through all this without GOD, meditation, Gospel music, prayer, joy, belief, faith, humor, Jesus, Buddha, the Tao, and the fact that I see the world HALF-FULL. If I didn't, I would live in desperate fear every day. It is a choice.

This is my church:

This is the tackiest youtube video I've ever seen, but the best version of this song that I could find. Put headphones on and close your eyes. (if you look at the video, you'll puke... it's like Currier and Ives on speed) Nevertheless, the music makes me want to go tell it on the mountain.

I can't listen to this without crying.

Rub-a-dub

I made a decision today to go back to work. I have no intention of killing myself with it, but want to give massages to cancer patients going through chemo. Also, I decided that I can't paint, play the piano, watch movies all day, and wait for the cancer-bomb to burst by belly apart again. The problem is that I, folks, am a bit of a firecracker, and I need to be overly stimulated and/or do something for other people to make me happy. I am going to give two free massages a week and start a support group for chemo patients at the studio.

What the heck was massage about? Honestly, I was driven to do it and I never knew why. Now that I feel better, I know. When I was going through chemo, getting massage was the only relief for me. My body ached everywhere and there was no reprieve except for massage or a hot bath. Even in the bath, I couldn't make the water hot enough to make the pain go away. I'm a pretty tough broad, but agony isn't such a pretty picture. Though it all was beyond the brink of horrible, those massages were just too expensive. Being touched in a gentle but fluid manner was an indescribable elixir during chemo and so, I am going to give free massages. Feeling good should be free, not $85.00 plus a hefty tip. It's something I can do... between spoiling myself rotten and working out in the gym like a farm animal, that is.

In the words of Martha Stewart, "it's a good thing."

Murder or dinner?

yummmmmmmm

Thank you, Cindy, for giving Erin the most delicious chocolate pie recipe I've ever eaten. Good job, Erin!

We were fighting over it.

Tradition

We all have memories from when we were small that conjure up those good feelings of the holidays. As much as my mother was a bit of a nut, she gave us so many things to hold onto and I've treasured that. My brother and I have to have sweet and sour red cabbage on Thanksgiving and Christmas and most people think that that is a little weird. My in-laws and out-laws need to have the cabbage now and as a matter of fact, I made a recipe book for every one a few Christmases back with that included.

I feel surprisingly good, but know the drug is sucking the moisture out of my body, and I can't drink enough water. I wish I could stay away from the good whiskey but that probably won't happen, and I am really looking forward to overeating today. I've been kicking some butt with the workouts but the doctor said it will take a while to straighten out the war raging inside my belly.

I am doing all the cooking this morning for fifteen people and I am as cool as a Taoist monk. Everyone talks about the stress but I've never been that way, and knowing that these years are precious makes me kind of relaxed about it all. It is 6 am and I am ready to go downstairs, have some coffee (another moisture leech) and make my stuffing. I had to tell my mother-in-law to stay out of the kitchen because her traditions are not so in sync with my own. I'm not sure Caesar salad (her suggestion) is what I'm going for today and I'm afraid she might bring some kind of Thai appetizer or garlicky Italian side dish. Americana is definitely not something she understands, but she is one of the biggest cheerleaders of my life. Velma was always in the front row when I was singing in the band and cried when she saw the book. I'm sure she will be clapping furiously when I go to trapeze school in Austria next year and audition for the circus. Ah, the joy of the Big Top...

I'm sure people laugh at me behind my back but when they bury me, they can't say I was bored.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!

Holy schneikes...

The UPS man delivered my book to me today.

The process of writing this was the best time I'd ever had. The biggest problem with writing anything is that it is like painting a picture. You paint a lovely picture of a tree and it doesn't matter how you slice it, you can talk yourself into putting another leaf on a branch. This manuscript became an obsession for eight (count 'em) eight years. How anyone writes anything more than 150 pages is remarkable. Developing chronic writing-OCD is putting it mildly for me. Everyone knows, my tenacity is legendary.

Massage school? What the hell was that about?

Just like architecture, one person can look at a building and find it beautiful and another person thinks it is the nastiest thing they've ever seen. This will happen, and my expectations other than holding the book in my hand are slim. Face it, I have a lot of balls to try this anyway. I'm not a writer.

I believe in this sort of pursuit for artistic reasons only. Writing is so intriguing to me that on a dime I could turn into a cat lady who sits with a pen in my hand in a dark corner of my attic forgetting to eat, drink, shave my legs or talk to anyone for months. Lucky I don't have to support myself.

Meow.

I called the publisher, and the book is doing very well. I think when you put the word libido in the overview it gives way to its erotic possibilities, and everyone likes sex. Even if they don't like sex, they like reading about it. I should have kept the original title, THE BIRTH OF MY LIBIDO, and I could have really made a killing, but I didn't want to scare the children off. Considering you have to be a Kardashian, be caught on a Girls Gone Wild film or kill someone to be published these days, doing it for fun may be the best plan.

I don't care if anyone reads it. I'd do it again.

Dreadly perspective...

I'm in shock that this crazy disease has given me so much. I want nothing. I need nothing. There is not one other way that I would have felt so happy to just BE. I have now embraced something close to the Tao. I've read about it, but I was far too much of this earth, its pleasures and pain to be fully immersed in the calm.

Cancer has given me a tranquility that I've never experienced. I'm a better listener because every sound resonates more crisply. My mind is clearer. There is very little that depresses or worries me. I can sit with fourteen strands of tangled Christmas lights, and feel nothing but peace in slowly undoing the snarl. I enjoy simple tasks that used to annoy me. I'm not in a hurry to get anything done because I can look at every single minute I have here as a gift. I am so grateful to have experienced this. Mostly, I am beyond blessed to be a child of God and know that I will be okay no matter what happens to me. I'm not afraid.

I'm tired after Friday's ordeal, but spent the next day setting our table. I have some little people who are kind of excited to be here on Thursday.

The Tao is so empty,
So hollow.
Yet somehow its usefulness is inexhaustible
It is so very deep
So very profound.
Like the source of everything.

It blunts the sharpest edges
Unties the knots
Softens the glare

It is so very deep
So tranquil
It seems to barely exist at all.
Its origin is unknown
It preceded the Gods themselves.

funny...

finally...

So happy to have this over. Tomorrow is my last chemo right in time for the holiday so I can do what I want for the fam.

Lovin' the holidays this year... I can't wait to workout on Sunday and lift some serious weights. God, do I miss it. I am addicted to that good kinda pain, and the doc today said she couldn't believe how good I looked for having gone through this. I refuse to buckle under the pressure.

Want to know a secret?

Since I've been very young I have always been very attracted and enamored by depressed, dark, bitter and angry men. I won't go into details but I have a pattern that I could (actually) write another book about. I find angry men a challenge. I think depressed men are ones I can fix and make happy - such a delightful undertaking... the more bitter and mean, the better. I imagine I could play crack psychologist to figure out why this is true, but there is no explanation. I'm friendly enough. I don't have a fatherly complex (I don't think) and yet I always find a way to have men in my life who are bossy, and tirelessly willing to make me feel as though there is something really wrong with me - you know, like shit. It doesn't matter whether I've worked with them, they are extended family members, or if they are friends of family members or friends of friends - if they are mean and nasty, I like 'em. No. I just don't like 'em...

I love 'em.

I met Bruce when I was eighteen. He is never angry or bitter. He doesn't criticize or berate. He doesn't confront. Not only that, he never has a problem with me and honors me as if I am a perfect specimen of a woman ---which is a big joke. I have issues on my issues and am an extremely complicated human. He puts up with all kinds of ridiculous illustrations of neediness that would make most men cringe. He doesn't care. I have no idea why I was lucky enough to cross paths with some "boy" from McKeesport, Pa when I was so young whose family is nothing like my own. My grandfather was the President of a college and his grandfather quit school to work in a mill in the sixth grade. He is Jewish - well not really, but he was raised that way and has some Lox/Smoked Fish connections still. Through the years, I haven't a notion as to why we are married considering the obvious polar distance of our needs and background. We are intellectual opposites and have different politics and social mores.

However, I am now in awe of my luck of the draw as a little girl. In the long scheme of things the most important thing two people have in common is family. Amidst the myriad of differences (which has never made any sense to me) there is the one thing we share: a deep abiding family value.

So for as much as I should have probably married a dark, angry, nasty man whom I would have divorced twenty years back, I was one lucky lady. Sometimes what you are drawn to isn't so good for you.

I'm not so sure I believe in fate. I certainly don't believe in marriages made in heaven - that's for sure. But this relationship of ours was a freaking miracle of nature, which has lasted for over forty-two years.

Maybe because we share so little is why we share so much.

Sailing... my way

I'm turning into my mother. There is an old fashioned civility that is missing today, and I can't quite get over it. This isn't just about thank you notes or standing when someone comes into a room. This is something more subtle, and as much as I am not espousing to say that I am mother-of-the-year, I think I may be close.

I told my children that when they would leave my house that they would be gentlemen and a lady. I did my work. I reminded, cajoled, taught, tutored, reprimanded, and pleaded. I spent hours insisting on things that they find inane still, and even today I will remind my thirty-four-year-old son to take his hat off --->at Burger King. I have serious standards, which most people outside of this house are unaware, but I do. Even close friends of mine think I am a little ridiculous, and my paper-plate-at-holiday in-laws can't relate, even remotely. I've spent years making them feel uncomfortable too, because I do not care what anyone thinks. I am the maker of civil humans, and it is a very serious job that I take (um) seriously.

Mother would turn over in her grave now - I think it would by doing the Paso Doble or an Olympic-worthy Triple Walley pole vault of some sort.

My grandchildren will get the benefit of my being raised like Princess Grace. This sort of thing is driven by some bizarre osmosis that has the subtlety of a charm school bulldozer. I am not impressed by children who do not respect their elders, or their teachers. I am not inspired by babies who are precocious and sarcastic. It isn't cute. I've always told my children that although it seems silly, people later in life will like them better, and they will be more successful in their jobs and in social situations if they learn to be civil and well-mannered.

Today's parents are missing the boat, and I think they need to take a little ride on my sailing ship.

Do my kids think I am a massive pain in the ass still? Yes. Am I proud of that?

Damn straight.

Acapella and Marvin? Are you kidding me?

Nothing but voices for bass. No instruments at all. This is talent.

Let Mia transport us to Italia

Rapsodia

I would like
to free you tomorrow
and would like
to see you fly
over the snow-fields, like before.

You, so far away.
even though by now
so near.
And the soul departs
To eternity.
Rhapsody.
I would like
to free your heart
and would like
to stay behind
and pretend to fall.

Because like this you are closer
and can light
my life.
And the soul departs
to eternity.
The soul departs

Because like this you are closer
and can light
my life.
And the soul departs
to eternity.

Gnocchi and Valpolicella anyone?

Ingredients

• 
  
• 
  
• 3 pounds russet potatoes
• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 egg, extra large
• 1 pinch salt
• 1/2 cup canola oil

Directions

Boil the whole potatoes until they are soft (about 45 minutes). While still warm, peel and pass through vegetable mill onto clean pasta board.

Set 6 quarts of water to boil in a large spaghetti pot. Set up ice bath with 6 cups ice and 6 cups water near boiling water.

Make well in center of potatoes and sprinkle all over with flour, using all the flour. Place egg and salt in center of well and using a fork, stir into flour and potatoes, just like making normal pasta. Once egg is mixed in, bring dough together, kneading gently until a ball is formed. Knead gently another 4 minutes until ball is dry to touch.

Roll baseball-sized ball of dough into 3/4-inch diameter dowels and cut dowels into 1-inch long pieces. Flick pieces off of fork or concave side of cheese grater until dowel is finished. Drop these pieces into boiling water and cook until they float (about 1 minute). Meanwhile, continue with remaining dough, forming dowels, cutting into 1-inch pieces and flicking off of fork. As gnocchi float to top of boiling water, remove them to ice bath. Continue until all have been cooled off. Let sit several minutes in bath and drain from ice and water. Toss with 1/2 cup canola oil and

store covered in refrigerator up to 48 hours until ready to serve.

Ciao!

today...

The chemo has built up in my system and I feel weak and breathless tonight. It makes me begin to dwell on what these chemicals are really doing to the healthy cells in my body. It is clear that I am not the firecracker I used to be. I'm not sure if this is chemo or what sixty just feels like. Getting old is a bit unnerving. I guess it could be worse.

Siddhartha and Glinda

I've met so many nice people through this experience. Cancer is a club I never wanted to join, but it is shocking that you can't bring up the word to anyone without a story - their story. Many times it ends sadly with the death of their sister, friend or granny, but there is always a story.

The latest one was as I was embarking on #3 of chemo 2. As I sat in the waiting room a scrawny woman with very long hair sat beside me. I asked her if she had an appointment and she said - "oh yes." And I said... well look at you, as I jutted my chin towards her long hair. She said, "oh my - it has been 20 years since my melanoma and I have had lots of years to grow it back." I asked her if she was scared for her appointment. It was none of my business but when you are in the cancer club, you are allowed to talk about personal things to others in the club. She said "she was terrified." After being in remission for 20 years, she had to get her petscan every year, and every year is terrified for its return. The fear is a part of every day existence. I understood.

I'm reading a book that is the overview of Buddhist thought called Siddhartha. It is about young man who leaves his father's home to find his bliss - he is unhappy and is very sure that it is out there to be found. So, he goes on a journey - one of deprivation, and then one of money and privledge. But he comes to the conclusion that it is within him that he can find the true bliss of things so simple that they cannot be explained. He suddenly walks around seeing every nuance of beauty and describes everything in grand, glorious detail.

"All of this had always existed, and he had not seen it; he had not been with it. Now he was with it, he was part of it. Light and shadow ran through his eyes, stars and moon ran through his heart."

This is what the cancer club gives you. I walk around with the bliss that was always there. Kind of like the Wizard of Oz and Glinda. She says, "Home is a place we all must find, child. It's not just a place where you eat or sleep. Home is knowing. Knowing your mind, knowing your heart, knowing your courage. If we know ourselves, we're always home, anywhere."

I adore this new fear, which has opened my eyes to the beauty within myself.

Joe Pa et al...

This is such a good lesson on doing the right thing even when you aren't sure of the backlash. Coming forward may upset your family, make you lose your job, reevaluate your standing, your money, your degree or your friends but it isn't worth barfing all over your integrity. Honesty is part of a truthful life. If you don't know how to be honest, you lose what matters. If you aren't part of the solution you are equally part of the problem.

Honesty doesn't always come in a cute little wrapped package with a bow. Sometimes it is dirty and difficult. At times it may even be scary and out-of-the-box. The one who gets me is McQueary who could have saved that child on the spot. What a bunch of pathetic losers...

Be careful what you ignore.

sexy mama 11.11.11

hahahahah. How hot are the PCDs? Who the hell am I? Granny who?

(who put the Al-Qaeda bridge in here? Huh? Was it you Snoop Dog??)

whaaaaaa

Rant:

I am so damn tired of people and their depression. Tonight I'm thinking about those people who are so self-involved that they have nothing better to do but think too much, worry too much, and dwell on all things about... you got it:

themselves.

I do have some specific people in mind but won't bother to mention names. I can look back on my life and realize that I, too, had spent a good deal of time doing the same thing - wondering why my mother never called, or why this person said this or that person said that. Whyyyyyyy blah blah blah. I find it quite comical now, but that is only after evolving into this other person who (of course) has cancer... the larger-than-life, horrifying Big C death threat. I can say now that I don't know where I begin and where the cancer ends. Oh yes, it all sounds so cliche, but nevertheless one does change with this sort of horror.

I would rather live three and a half more years, be cremated, hang out on a mantle in a cloissonne urn with this perspective than living another thirty years as the self-absorbed downer that I used to be. People tell me, oh Sal, you have such a great attitude. What the heck do I have to be sad about? I'm not hungry, homeless, abused, or neglected. Am I living the middle-class dream? You betcha.

What does that mean, really? Unlike rich people or wannbe rich people, I am truly satisfied with what I have.

Give me a blue sky, a nice cup-a-joe and no bullshit and I'm in hog heaven.

That's a gift.