Words I Cannot Use

A little more of my crazy for you. So you can get a little peek into my brain.
It's a wild ride in there.

The following are words with which I cannot bring myself to have any sort of voluntary contact.
Doesn't mean I have no contact with them. Turns out it's unavoidable at times.
But this does explain why I sometimes stop watching really, really great tv shows smack in the middle of season 3 (out of 6), or why I abandon books I have heard are great, and occasionally why I seemingly rudely leave conversations in social situations.

So here we go.

1. Journey: I literally (and I am using that word correctly here) cannot stand the word "journey". Many blog posts ago I alluded to the fact that I do not understand why anyone would refer to their medical crisis as a "cancer journey". It's not like it's a vacation. Or a trip. You're not fulfilling your lifelong dream to go somewhere. But it is quite the popular phrase among patients in the oncology world. Now, several years into this whole situation, I cannot bring myself to even use the word journey as a reference to an actual adventure. I just don't use the word. At all. Ever. Too much baggage associated with it (for me). If you happen to ask me where I am journeying next, I will respond by pointedly NOT including that word in my response. I will happily tell you where I am going. I will gleefully tell you about my upcoming voyage. I have lots of ideas of where I would like to wander.
I realize that me avoiding a specific word seems silly. But that particular word is this really unappealing mustard yellow color, and it makes otherwise bright and vibrant sentences dull and flat. So it is banished from my vocabulary.
It is not banished from yours. Please feel free. I would never presume to ask or tell anyone else what words they can or should not use around me. Just don't take it personally when you start to tell me about your amazing journey and I cringe. It's not you. It's me.

2. You made it to word number two? This doesn't seem just insane to you? You are dedicated, reader. Also, you are probably related to me, so I appreciate the loyalty.
My second carefully avoided word is the big C word itself. (NOTE: next time you see Dave, please ask him to regale you with the story of how he taught 180 eighth graders "the C word"--entirely different C word, obviously. Great story.)
Anywho. (anyhoo? how is that spelled?)
So anyway.
The C word.
Don't want to talk about it. Don't want to read about it. Don't want to hear about it.
I don't know what else I can say regarding this. I have a visceral aversion to contact with this word.
I think you can understand why. I think ANYONE can understand why. And yet.
You'd be surprised how many people tell me stories. How many people throw it into casual conversation. Regularly. Like, all the time.
Just throwing this out there: don't invite that word into conversation with anyone intimately involved on the patient-end of the world of oncology. Ever. Or at least, ever with me.

3. Those who shall not be named: There are more words. But they are the ones that, for me, evoke such instinctual aversion that I don't even want to write them down. They are my Voldemort. I will go out of my way not to avoid contact of any sort.

4. Moist
Just kidding. But as a caveat, I only use this word when talking about cakes.

So that's a glimpse into the gyri and sulci of my cerebral cortex.
It's a rollercoaster in there.
I fully realize that none of this may make sense to anyone but me.
Thanks for trying to ride.

Ed and Kelly, Part 1

I warned you. Stories to come are in no particular order. In fact, they are decidedly out of order. They don't really need an order is the thing. They're just stories about people. Completely unrelated people, whose only link has nothing to do with when things happened and everything to do with what actually happened. So here we go.

We were back in NYC. Honestly, I know it's supposed to be the greatest city in the world, everyone wants to be a part of it yaddah yaddah yaddah, but I don't get it. I really don't. I fully realize that I have a connection with New York City that perhaps precludes me having a positive association, but nevertheless, even without that, I don't get it. It's crowded. It's dirty. It smells. It's expensive. It's freezing (in the winter). I mean, really really cold! Sleet flying into your face horizontally kind of cold. WHAT IS THE DRAW?

Anyway. I digress.

We were back in NYC. In December. I had five days of radiation (this is not a word with any synonym, so I have to use it, and just for your own edification, for me the word radiation is yellow and red, outlined in black, and very jaggedy--like the word POW! in a comic book). Dave and I were staying at Hope Lodge, which is run by the American Cancer Society. It's a no-frills kind of hotel for those traveling farther than 40 miles to NYC for treatment. MSK secured us the room, which was great because we were there the week of the lighting of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree and hotels in midtown were close to sold out.

We checked in on Sunday afternoon, and were given a brief tour. We got to see the patient lounge floor (large TV room, small dining room, library, laundry room) as well as the shared areas on our floor (a quiet room as well as a kitchen for our floor). In the kitchen, every room had its own bin in the refrigerator as well as its own cupboard space, which was nice. We were going to be there for six days, so having space for our own breakfast foods and snacks was greatly appreciated.

The very nice woman who was showing us around also told us about the "community dinners" that happened every week on the patient lounge floor, in the dining room. During our week, there were several dinners being provided by various organizations--a taco bar on Monday, a Christmas Tree Lighting dinner and ceremony on Tuesday, and I think there was even a third dinner that week but I can't remember what it was. We nodded our heads as she invited us to join in, but my head was nodding out of politeness. I didn't have a huge interest in having dinner with a room full of... (I don't really even know how to put this into words because it makes me sound unkind and judgmental so please don't stop reading at the end of this sentence because I swear I somewhat redeem my attitude by the end of this post)... sick people. And yes, I get it. I am one of those people. Self-aware and somewhat in denial all at once. It's a great party trick.

So there we were. Ready to face the week. Not gonna lie--feeling a bit sorry for myself because I was having to spend seven days during the holiday season away from home.

Monday rolls around and Dave and I are having a late-night snack in the shared kitchen on our floor. Just the two of us. Until Ed walked in. He wandered over to the window and looked outside. It had been snowing all day. I think by that time it had stopped, but it was brutally cold outside. He turned back around and said hello to us, and the conversation began.

Turned out Ed was checking out the weather because he and his wife, Kelly, wanted to go home. They live in New Jersey--about 64 miles away from MSK. That's a very specific distance to mention. He explained.

Kelly was a "transplant" patient. Not organ transplant. Blood transplant.

Seriously.

The doctors at MSK had searched worldwide for a bone marrow donor for Kelly, and had found one, who only was a partial match. ONE. Kelly did rounds and rounds of chemo to kill off her entire immune system--all of it. They did the bone marrow replacement. And then the doctors transplanted someone else's cord blood. Which changed Kelly's blood type to the donor's (WHAT?!?!) and started to rebuild her immune system. As Kelly said to me the next night in conversation, "I've been to hell. And I've come back." Amen, sister.

They quite literally replaced her immune system and rebooted her blood so that the genetic mutation that was causing her cancer was not present anymore.

Mind. Blown. Ed summed it up, "It's like science fiction."

Now, back to why Ed was looking out the window and why it was relevant that they lived 64 miles away. Due to the serious nature of Kelly's procedure, and the fact that her immune system is severely compromised as it is starting to rebuild, she had to be within 60 miles of MSK at all times in case there was an emergency. So Ed and Kelly had been at Hope Lodge since October, because their house was four miles outside of the safety range.

They really just wanted to go home for a few nights. To their own house. Their own bed. Their own kitchen.

But they didn't. It wast late, and it was cold and icy outside, and Ed seemed to realize that perhaps this was not the best night to stage a break-out of the joint. He mentioned that they were hoping to head home, for good, in January. In about a month.

Ed thanked us for chatting and excused himself to return to his room, to Kelly.

Three months. Ed and Kelly were going to spend three months at Hope Lodge.

Hard to feel sorry for myself at this point. For my one week of treatment.

I know, I know, I know that one person's circumstances being very difficult really has no bearing on the impact of another person's circumstances. Your broken leg doesn't make my headache any less painful.  Apples and oranges.

I realize that Ed and Kelly spending three months in NYC away from home does not make my week away from home any less frustrating for me. But it does give me pause. It should give me pause.

Sometimes it's important to see what you DO have, instead of what you don't have. Which is not always easy. It requires effort, because grievance often comes much more readily than gratitude.

I'm an optimist by nature. I'm honestly reluctant to say, "Hey, it could be worse" (seems like a negative approach to optimism, and also frankly, I've said that numerous times throughout this ordeal and have proven myself correct) when I could, alternatively, say, "There's lots to be thankful for!"

But even I, the "glass is half full" girl, have to say that I felt like I got hit over the head with some mind-blowing perspective after a week at Hope Lodge. A week with Ed and Kelly.

Coming next... Ed and Kelly, Part 2: Dinner with Ed and Kelly

The Universe Made Me Do It

Have you ever felt pushed, no prodded--no FORCED--wait, no, (double caps if they existed; wait, is double-caps just a bigger font?) COMPELLED! YES! THAT's THE RIGHT WORD!-- to do something that you don't want to do, and will bring you perhaps an undisclosed amount of mental anguish and also, no one is actually forcing you to do it but yet here you are doing it anyway at your own peril?

Rhetorical question. Because really, when I ask it, not only am I not expecting you to answer it. I'm not even expecting you to understand the question. That's not a reflection on your intellect. It's a revelation of my crazy.

I am going to end up writing a metric ton (that is officially 1000kg, which I believe is also the equivalent of a shit-ton) about my medical adventures. I have tried so hard not to write about it. So very, very hard.

There is a lot to say. There are quite a few people you should know about. There are miracles happening that will blow your mind. None of which I want to write about. Not really. But I think I have to. The universe is conspiring to COMPEL me tell the story. The stories.

I will try. I don't really know how it will come out. It may not sound like me, but I'm going to force it out anyway because again, it feels like for some reason the universe thinks it's important.

Here's my dilemma, why this particular subject is so difficult (beyond the obvious idea that writing about it kind of has me re-living some crap that is, well, crappy). Normally, it's cathartic for me to release words from my brain onto the page and create the exact picture, the exact emotion, the exact thought that I'm trying to convey. For me, writing is full of colors and shapes and feelings and images and impressions that swirl together perfectly.

Here's the crazy. (Again, no worries if you don't understand this part. I'd be worried about your mental state if you do understand it.) Writing about my... I don't even want to write the word, honestly... it's not a color or shape or feeling or image or impression that I can identify. That word, that awful C word... I don't know what color it is. At first I thought gray. But no, it's not. And surprisingly it's not brown. Or black. And until I can identify what color it is, I can't fit it into my picture properly. The words are pieces that, as they fall onto the page, have to fit together perfectly to recreate the picture in my head. If just one piece doesn't interlock exactly right, the picture, for me, is distorted. And currently, the words in my head relating to telling the stories of this experience are a jumble. I can't see the shapes. I can't get a clear impression of the feelings I want to convey.

But I'm going to give it a go anyway. There are tales to be told.

So buckle up and prepare for some disjointed, but necessary, storytelling. Get ready for some puzzles with a few pieces missing (perhaps the most apt metaphor for my brain right now).

The Universe is making me do it.

The Rhubarb Dilemma

I find myself often at metaphorical crossroads (who, amongst us, has actually found themselves, ever, at literal crossroads, truly stumped by which direction to go? Anyone? Bueller? Didn't think so. I think the word "crossroads" at this point is understood to be a metaphor, but it sounds so much more ponderous when you say metaphorical crossroads, so there we are. Jesus. Sorry about that. Let's all surface now from my literary deep dive and I promise to try not to do that again).

Crossroads. Hard decision with potentially far-reaching consequences depending upon which direction you choose. Okay. Back on topic.

So my dilemma is this, and I have a feeling it's one that parents have all the time as their kids transition into adulthood: when is it okay to offer unsolicited (a) advice or (2) opinion or (thirdly) information for consideration?

The thing is, I know my kids are adults. They are 24 and 22 years old. That definitely puts them wildly out of the "child" range (wherein it is my duty to advise) and well beyond the "teens" category (wherein I still get to advise because... teens). They are solidly in the adult camp. Do I still have a say? If I have useful information or experience, do I pass it along?

I sometimes paralyze myself with this question. Will disaster strike if I don't pass along my knowledge and wisdom? Will my kids resent me (and by resent me I mean mock me when they get together or chat on the phone) if I do send them unrequested guidance?

My byzantine thought process goes a little something like this:

I hear a piece of information, for instance that vaping is on the rise and causing serious illness in young adults. My kids are young adults. This seems like important information, pertinent specifically to their demographic. But maybe they already know it. They're smart. They're informed. So if I mention it, I don't want them to think that I think they're not informed. Or that I disapprove of their potential habits. But if I don't mention it, what if they vape and become ill? That would kind of feel like my fault, because maybe if I had sent the information they wouldn't have tried it.

You see, I am sure, my dilemma (and also how batshit crazy it can be inside my head).
This whole perplexity (yes, that is a word) has its roots in a situation that occurred years ago, when Olivia was in third grade. There was a spelling bee at school, and she had advanced past the classroom round and into the final competition. She was excited, and wanted to prepare, so I would give her random words to spell. As we were driving home from the beach one afternoon, we passed a field of rhubarb. I thought to myself, That would be a great spelling word because it's kind of tricky! But I didn't give it to her, because we were just having a nice, relaxing drive and I didn't want her to feel like she always had to be practicing, that she had to win. And goddammit, what word did she miss in the spelling bee? Fucking rhubarb.

She was so sad that day. It broke my heart. And I felt partly responsible for her sadness. I could have prevented it if I had just given her the word on the drive home. (side note: I don't think Olivia has suffered any trauma from this incident; just me--I'm the traumatized party)

And thus, the rhubarb dilemma. When does a parent insert oneself? When is it proactive vs. pushy? When is it informative vs. intrusive?

I fully realize that this is all not nearly as complex as perhaps I imagine. I am an adult. The kids are adults (ha--that makes no sense!). I suppose that in a sane world, I would pass along information that I think might be useful knowing full well that the kids can consider it--or not; they can acknowledge it--or not; they can ignore it--or not. And my contentment would have to lie quietly in the space that we have given them the proper tools with which to evaluate whether or not the information is useful to them.

And also, I guess I just have to resign myself to the fact that when I send them an article on, say, how to be sure their Uber ride is a safe one (that is REALLY important information! I can't be expected to sit on it, can I?), they are probably going to have a great conversation hysterically laughing at the fact that their MOTHER is trying to tell THEM how to best take an Uber. (And by the way, kids, remember to ALWAYS ask the Uber driver if he knows your name so you don't mistakenly get into the wrong car. Just sayin'.)

You're welcome.

Everyone Has a Story

There used to be this segment on the national news that our family enjoyed. It was called "Everyone Has a Story" and the storyteller was a journalist named Steve Hartman.

It was human interest kind of stuff, but we loved it. The story would open with Steve throwing a dart at a map of the US, and then whatever town the dart landed on, he would go to that town and get a phone book and then pick a random name from the phone book. And off he would go, to meet that person and find out their story.

It doesn't seem like it would work, as a piece on a newscast or even as entertainment.

I mean, the first thing you think when you see him knocking on the door of an unknown person is, "Well, what if he knocked on MY door? I don't have a story. People would be so bored. There's nothing to tell. How can this even work when he doesn't know who's behind the door and if they are going to have anything interesting to say?"

It turns out Steve Hartman was right, though. Everyone Has a Story. Not once did he knock on a door and get faced with a dud. Not once. And I'm going to give Steve Hartman his due credit and say he was (is) a fantastic journalist. The guy knew what to ask and how to follow up to get good stories from people.

I got to thinking about this because last week I gave a statement in a courtroom at a sentencing hearing. The courtroom was filled with people, most of whom had nothing to do with the case for which I was there. There were defendants in orange jumpsuits waiting their turn to enter a plea with the judge. There were lawyers walking in and out counseling clients as to the status of their cases. There were family members there to support their relatives, friends to support their friends. It was a room filled with the spectrum of humanity, from victims to perpetrators and everyone caught in between.

I was there to tell my story. Which had nothing to do with most of the people in that room. Yet they all had to listen to it.

Afterwards, when I sat down, the woman sitting to my left, whom I did not know and had no idea why she was in that courtroom that day, turned to me and said, "You did great. I'm so sorry. I wish you all the best."

And then as Dave and I were walking to our car in the parking lot, a woman stopped her car and yelled out to me, "Excuse me!" and when I turned around to respond she said, "God bless you."

And I just wanted to cry. Not because I was sad. Kind of the opposite. These two people, who I do not know and will probably never see again, took a moment to let me know they heard my story. They stopped doing what they were doing to be kind to me, someone they did not know.

Because they heard me.

We don't live in a world right now that encourages us to take the time to ask people what their story is. We live in the era of snap judgements (Twitter likes) and assumptions (what channel you watch is who you are). Imagine if we took the time to ask people who they are, and then actually listened to them. And maybe shared some of who we are. We might find commonality, altruism, compassion in the unlikeliest of people.

Details. Facts. Background. Nuance. Those things take time and effort to find out. We should spend that time making that effort.

It's not likely that Steve Hartman is going to come knocking on my door. But if he does, I have a story. And I'd like to hear his.

keep going, Sideways Runner Guy

Dave and I moved to Elk Grove in 1991. It was a decidedly much smaller place back then. You could drive down the length of Laguna Boulevard in under 5 minutes (it now takes about twelve). There were 2 high schools (there are now nine). The population was significantly less--like by a hundred thousand! There was no Target, no Walmart. It was challenging to find a gas station.

I bring all of this up because through all the changes, sideways runner guy was a constant.

I first noticed him at least twenty years ago. I would see him running west on Laguna Boulevard, on the windy path that allowed people to bike, walk, roller-skate and run the length of the busy street without being on the road with cars. I'm a runner, and when I see other runners I notice. I estimate their pace, look to see if they're wearing a watch, observe their form--that kind of thing.

Sideways runner guy captured my attention, and then my imagination. I would see him every so often, usually in the evening, at various points on Laguna Boulevard. He was easy to spot because he ran tilted to his right. For lack of a better way of describing it (and I mean absolutely no disrespect with this description but I think it's one that makes the situation easier to visualize), he's sort of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, running tilted to his right.

For a while I didn't realize what was going on and I thought to myself, "That guy is wasting a lot of energy with that form."

But as I saw him again and again, always tilted to his right, I realized that he wasn't wasting energy at all. He was, in fact, running the only way he could. I don't know what happened, but clearly he and his body had undergone some sort of trauma, possibly a stroke. That realization changed the way I saw sideways runner guy. I no longer wanted to analyze his form, didn't care about his pace, and forgot to even look if he wore a watch. All I wanted to do was cheer him on.

You know how sometimes in life you see something again and again, always the same way, and then all of a sudden, for whatever reason, your perspective shifts, and you see that same thing completely differently? Sideways Runner Guy shifted my perspective on who I want to be. He shifted my perspective on me.

I want to be a person who appreciates people trying, not a person who notices their shortcomings.

I want to be a person who respects people's originality, not a person who criticizes their differences.

I don't know why Sideways Runner Guy runs sideways. But I do know that I want to be a person who simply appreciates that he runs.

In Favor of Cocktails

I made margaritas yesterday evening. And by evening I mean 4:59pm.

It took me a long time to come to margaritas. And tequila in general. I never drank it in college--didn't like the taste (as if that mattered--but it did, to me, at the time). I didn't like it in early adulthood. Just not a flavor that appealed to me for whatever reason.

But in my fifties--for whatever reason--tequila appeals. It tastes good. Not in shots. Really, let's be honest. Nothing tastes good in shots. Can we all just admit that now, as adults? Vodka has no taste. Whisky is nasty and no one likes the smell (and we all threw up on 7 and 7's in college--you know you did! Admit it!). Rum is just...rum. What's the point of rum? I mean, if you just want to get drop dead drunk fast, I guess shots might be your game. But that's never my goal (anymore). Now, a nice buzz, built up over an hour or two--yeah, that's a can-do.

So margaritas. Yes, please.

Yesterday, I made my own simple syrup (truly, simple--equal sugar to water ratio heated until sugar dissolves and then cooled) and squeezed fresh lime juice instead of using "sweet and sour" mix. No triple sec, either. Just lime juice, simple syrup, ice and tequila. Freakin' delicious. And I forgot to salt the rims of our glasses. Imagine how great these drinks would have been if I had actually followed ALL of the directions!?

And while we're on the topic, is there anything more refreshing on a warm evening (except, I guess, now that I've discovered it, a margarita on the rocks) than a gin and tonic? No. No there is not. That is the correct answer.

Okay, a good IPA. That might be an acceptable alternative answer.

But there's just something fun about making a cocktail. The glasses. The ingredients. The ratios. The mixing. The twist of lemon and the squeeze of lime.

And maybe a friend or two (or ten) to share your delicious alcoholic bounty.

Bring it, summer. My cocktail shaker is ready.

Ok, I meant that literally. I have a cocktail shaker. I'm ready to make cocktails. There was no double-entendre intended with that. Sorry.

Flying with Bonnie and Clyde

Let me begin by saying, genuinely, kudos to you, TSA agents. You have a very difficult job. I wouldn't want to be you. Seriously--fantastic work.

Let me introduce you to my in-laws, Dick and Jan. Here they are!

On the left is Richard. He's 84. On the right is Jan. She's 81. These two gamers recently accompanied me and Dave down to Los Angeles to watch Olivia walk the stage at her college graduation and celebrate her achievements. This was no small feat! It took some planning and some "out of your comfort zone" and some determination on the part of Dick and Jan. My in-laws, who don't travel often, came through in spades! Olivia was so excited to have all of her grandparents present for the occasion.

Let me give you (literally) a better picture of what was going on:

Okay there we go. There's beautiful Olivia in her cap and gown and stole, with her grandparents, Bonnie and Clyde.

I'll back up and explain. Dave, myself, Dick and Jan flew to LA. Which obviously means we went through security at the airports. Dave and I made it through just fine, thank you. No hiccups. No delays. Wham, bam, thank you folks. My nail file didn't spark anyone's interest at all.

Dick and Jan were another story. These two octogenarians set off all possible security apparatuses (yes, I checked--it's apparatuses, not apparati). I'm not kidding. The walk-through thingy beeped. The wand made that weird Star Trek-y sound. You would have thought they were suspects on the run from a bank robbery! Bags were checked! Cavities were searched!

Ok, well, that was just slight hyperbole. Cavities were not searched. But TSA hands did a VERY, and I mean VERY all in caps, thorough sweep of every inch of my poor father-in-law, who was nothing but patient and compliant. I don't think I would have been so patient and compliant (that's just me mouthing off for effect--I absolutely would have done whatever I was told to do).

Not only did they quite literally hand sweep every inch of him, they also made him lift himself up out of the chair so they could sweep the seat and his back pants pockets, and then they swabbed the entire wheelchair with one of those little pieces of bomb-maker-detector or whatever that is. Seriously--what is that? They never tell you while they're doing it. They just leave you wondering what it is they're swabbing for. What would happen if you just jokingly told them, as you were being swabbed, that you dabble in firecrackers? I mean, don't do that. You'd probably get in a lot of trouble. I'm betting cavity search.

So let's review. Dick (this menacing looking guy below, who was in a wheelchair) gets a solid ten minute head-to-toe search.

But it doesn't end there! Jan, the clearly-on-the-edge-of-committing-a-crime woman shown here

also gets pulled aside because her two fake knees set off all the bells and whistles! And in a little bit of poetic irony, the belt that Jan had taken off and put in her bag to go through the x-ray machine (because the sign said take off your belt and my mother-in-law is a rule follower damn it!) for some reason looked suspicious to the TSA officer so her bag was searched as well.

It's hard to imagine two less-suspicious individuals. They were troopers!

Again, I repeat, kudos to you TSA officers. If these two ne-er-do-wells had been packing, you definitely would have figured out where.

I know that's your job. I appreciate that you do it so well.

My mother and father-in-law in their younger years :)

Things I Kinda Miss

I don't dwell on this shit because it wouldn't accomplish anything. I get that. But here it is. Just to get it out. Does a whale feel better after letting everything out its blowhole? We can't ask whales that, but since they regularly do exactly that, I'm going with the notion that it provides them some relief.

OK, just for ducks I just looked up the whole whale/blowhole thing, and it turns out that's part of their breathing apparatus. So, YES! In fact, breathing DOES provide relief, right? I mean, if we held our breath for a long time we'd get uncomfortable, and then actually breathing would feel great, so I'm right on the money, apparently, with my whale "relief" theorem. And also, I just correctly used the word theorem so even though this post started out like it was gonna be a downer, things are looking up!

You know those words bank pictures that are so popular right now, with words people use the most being the largest? Here's a visual in case that wasn't the most clearly stated idea you've heard in weeks...

Picture the following list of things I miss as a mind word bank (not stuff I talk out loud about--just stuff that sits in my brain), but in the shape of a whale's spout! Now that I've actually imagined that little idea I can see that I'm clearly making myself the whale in this whole analogy. Who does that? Who makes herself a whale in her own cleverly concocted metaphor? Me, apparently. But whales are cool, so let's just keep going here. 

Things I miss: the thickness of my hair, the definition in my left knee, the ability to run normally, drinking soda for breakfast, event planning, yoga without a strap, walking down the stairs quickly, walking up the stairs quickly, not knowing my medical number by heart, being able to squat down, being able to get back up, my ponytail, above-the-knee dresses, my body looking athletic, my mind feeling like I'm athletic, not realizing the ubiquitousness of the word cancer on TV, doing a chaturanga smoothly, and my eyebrows. I really miss my eyebrows. 

Ok, I have spouted and I am once again breathing normally. 

I will work on my metaphors. 

One Mississippi

You probably already know this, but it's hard to be in the present moment for more than five seconds. Ok, for more than three seconds. Ok, one Mississippi. That's about all I can muster in the present moment. And it's not for a lack of trying. Don't judge. Try it. See how long it takes for your mind to wander.

Right? How many Mississippis did you make it through before you were thinking about what you were going to do next?

I signed up for a "yoga intensive" 40 day program, which is based on a book by a particular figure in the yoga world. As I learned on the first day, it's a three-fold program involving daily yoga, nutrition, and meditation.

I'm all in for the yoga. The reason I signed up is so I would go to yoga daily and hopefully get stronger. And more flexible.

I have now read the nutrition component of the program. Nope. Not happening. It's not that I don't care about my diet. I do. Very much. I think quite a lot about what I put into my body and for what purposes. However, never at all ever do I think that the "cool" foods I eat (?) will make me sleep in the fetal position, be a more quiet person and make me have pale skin (which I do not), as opposed to the "hot" foods which might cause me to have problems sleeping and also make me prone to bad skin and a loud voice. Also, they might make me have a bad temper. WTF? (sorry--perhaps I ate to many "hot" foods this morning...)

I'm gonna need some hard scientific evidence to convince me that a particular food will cause me to speak in a louder voice. So no, not quite on board with the nutritional component. Which is fine. Yoga, as it turns out, is a very "take what you want, leave what you don't" kind of practice. I'm leaving the food part. (And to be honest, I'm not quite sure how food is even part of yoga, so I am feeling no guilt abandoning a complete third of this program)

Lastly, there is meditation. Full disclosure: I've never meditated. I've wanted to. I just never figured out the what and the how and the why. This program is, I am hoping, going to help me with that. I'd like to try meditation. The very first class began with the instructor doing a "guided meditation" for all of us.

Another full disclosure: As it turns out I'm really, really not good at meditation. Yet. It was a ten minute ordeal experience that felt endless to me. The purpose was to be in the present moment, with our minds cleared and our thoughts on only what we could actually physically feel and hear right then, at that moment. We were all seated criss-cross applesauce, and the teacher told us to take several deep breaths and try to just feel the air going in and going out--think about nothing but what our breaths felt like.

I did that. And then in the nanosecond it took the instructor to get to the next sequence I was thinking about how uncomfortable my lower back felt sitting criss-cross applesauce (the name of this position seems to me to indicate the age-level at which you should be sitting in this position; if retired adults were meant to sit this way it would be called "sad sack jack your back"). Anyway, this guided meditation continued, as we were prompted to empty our minds and only feel where our feet were touching the earth (feel them pressing in), and then to only feel where our calves were touching our mats, and our hands resting on our thighs... were were a solid four minutes in and we had only reached the thighs. I was trying. I really was. And while I was not being very successful at keeping my mind in the moment, I was definitely learning some things about myself.

(1) While I am generally an endlessly patient person, apparently I need to have a general inkling as to why I am being patient. I wasn't quite sure why I was trying to feel my thighs (or my hips, my belly button, my shoulders, my elbows, my fingers, my neck, my head resting on my neck, my ears, my eyes, or the crown of my head... seriously, if you want a good laugh consider that I was frustrated at my thighs and then re-read the list of body parts that came after my thighs). We did this for ten solid minutes. After minute five all I could do was try to guess what body part I was supposed to feel next, and it seemed like it could be a very, very long list depending upon how much kinesiology the teacher had in her. I just wanted to scream.

(2) My mind wanders. A lot. To weird places. Inexplicably weird places. Let's leave it at that.

(3) I am not often in the present moment. I never really thought about that. It's a startling realization, somewhat disquieting. I think I might be missing a lot of what's right in front of me.

After thinking about it for a few days, I get it. I understand, now, why I was supposed to be feeling my various body parts. If you can really feel the sensation, then you can't be thinking about your grocery list. You'll lose the sensation. If you can really feel your breath going in and out, then you can't be worrying about whether the car needs repairs. You'll lose the sensation.

I get it. In the moment means feeling the sensation of what is happening right then, right there. And while it's true that not every moment is memorable (and certainly there are some that we'd like to forget), if you're not mindful about paying attention you'll miss them all. You'll be somewhere else.

I'm a goal setter by nature. It helps me to have concrete objectives, and I love a challenge.

Two Mississippi. That's the goal.

You're welcome. And I'm sorry.

Olivia was home for a few days of her spring break! What a ray of sunshine that girl is! I seriously feel like every sentence in a blog post including her should end with an exclamation point! Because that's kind of how you feel around her--excited!
!Perhaps I should begin each sentence about her with one as well as a newly invented (by me) means of literary approbation!

Okay, that's enough Nickelback (Olivia is possibly the only person who will get that joke so don't feel badly if I just lost you for a moment there).

But I digress. What I really want to write about is a particular conversation Olivia and I had while eating lunch together yesterday. Here's the background info:

I had gone to Bel Air to buy ONE item, and on my way in I ran into Bill, who at 173 years old is most probably the oldest bag boy in the history of bag boys. He was out in the parking lot, standing and chatting with a woman next to her car. The groceries had likely long ago been loaded into the car. And probably by the woman, not Bill. Which is pretty much how you will encounter Bill on any given day at Bel Air--out in the parking lot chatting with a customer who has loaded her own groceries into her car as he chats away.

As I passed Bill on my way in, he turned from his conversation to say to me, "Hey, I've got a good story for you! I'll find you inside!"

Uuuggghhh. I don't mean to be unkind. But I was there for ONE item. My five minute trip was about to turn into a twenty minute trip because make no mistake, Bill would DEFINITELY put my ONE item in a bag for me (he is a bag boy) and carry it out to my car if he has a story to tell or just wants to gab about the SF Giants.

Usually I don't mind shooting the breeze with Bill. In fact, there are times I look forward to it. Mostly when I have a very large cart of groceries and we chat AS he bags them (so slowly that the checkers almost always have to finish the job). To extend the conversation past the checkout line is to put your afternoon at peril. But it happens rather often with Bill. And not just with me. It's kind of his identity with customers and clerks alike. We all know Bill's MO.

So back to my lunch with Olivia. I wanted to know if she ever struggled with what I struggled with that morning at Bel Air. In a nutshell, I really just wanted to get in and out of the store quickly. I also, however, was going to feel badly if I just ditched Bill after he told me he wanted to tell me a story. I don't know why Bill is the oldest bag boy on the planet. Does he need the money? Is he lonely? I don't want to ignore him when he's always so nice to me. But also--I had shit to do!

It's not like this was a life-threatening decision, whether to stop and talk. I find myself in this predicament quite often, though-- is it okay to sometimes not be the nicest person you can be for selfish reasons? Or even, simpler, is it okay to sometimes just not be the nicest person you know you can be?

Olivia knew exactly what I was talking about. She recognized the struggle.  Being your kindest self doesn't always advance your day's agenda the way you want it to. Most interesting for me was what she said is her overall tack in these situations: she said she just goes with the "be kind". She said feels better about herself when she opts to take the high road, even though it is often not the most convenient route. It was a sweet moment-- she said that she learned from me and Dave to always try to be a good person, to be your kindest self. She thanked us for that.

And this is when I said to my lovely, altruistic daughter, "You're welcome. And I'm sorry."

Because it should be okay to opt for the selfish route occasionally (I mean, there are people--in high places--who opt for the selfish route exclusively) without feeling guilty. While I'm truly happy that Olivia is a young woman who, in a world that often seems to exude nastiness, chooses to be considerate, I don't want that choice to feel like a burden.

We all have to take care of the world around us, and the people in it. But we also have to take care of ourselves. Sometimes that means putting ourselves first. Guilt-free.

Not as easy as it sounds (at least for me). I want it to be easier for my daughter.

I'm going to end this with a quote from one of my favorite people, Lin-Manuel Miranda :)

"That imaginary fight you keep having in your head is taking up SO much room. Write it out... Tell it to a friend or a shrink. Or a canvas. Or chuck it. Get it out. You need your head and your heart for bigger things. Vamos."

So I've written it out, here, the imaginary fight I keep having in my head. I've talked about it with Olivia and Dave. I don't paint so the canvas isn't going to happen. But I've gotten it out.

My head and my heart are ready.

Talk to you soon, Bill.

OMMMMM with five M's

Sometimes you find yourself doing unexpected things.

There I was, taking a deep breath and exhaling "OMMMMM..." to begin a yoga class. The instructor said something along the lines of "let us begin our practice by making the sound of all creation..." I'm paraphrasing. But I don't think I'm far off.

Now, you know me. I know you do. Because honestly there's just not that many of you that (a) know about this blog and also (b) read it. So if you're anywhere on that venn diagram, anywhere at all, you know me. So picture me chanting OMMMMM. Better yet, picture me buying the idea that OMMMMM (yes, that's spelled with five M's for the purposes of this blog and I'm sticking with it for consistency) is the sound that, apparently, all creation makes.

I am, by nature, a somewhat sarcastic person. I've been known to mock. I've told Pope jokes in the Vatican (seriously, I have). I've invented a radio show called, "Wake Up, It's Hitler!" (just the title--no actual scripts were produced). If there's something screaming to be lampooned, I'm happy to accommodate.

So, yoga. Calm, quiet, tranquil yoga. Poor, defenseless yoga.

I cannot honestly say that I didn't bow my head to hide my smirk the first time I sat through an OMMMMM. Sorry about that. Couldn't help it. It just seemed kind of a hippy dippy thing to let out an OMMMMM, and I was also slightly skeptical that it was, in fact, the sound the whole universe makes. Was there scientific data to back up that theory? I do remember, though, being impressed that everyone (except me, apparently) in that room wholeheartedly exhaled their OMMMMM with satisfaction. I hadn't expected that. It was memorable. Scientific data be damned.

Also, still at that first yoga class, I may or may not (definitely not) have participated in the traditional conclusion wherein everyone puts their hands to their hearts, bows their heads, and says "Namaste", which means 'I bow to you'.

I don't know why I didn't do these things. I think a part of me was afraid people in the class would see me and think I was a poser who clearly had never been to yoga before but was pretending to know what I was doing. This was NOT the case, by the way, because when you say OMMMMM (yes, still five M's, count 'em) and when you say Namaste you have your eyes closed, so no one would have even seen me and in all likelihood would not have mocked me even if they had because they are better people than I am and probably would never make fun of the Pope in the Vatican.

Also, if I'm being honest, I didn't participate because it seemed silly. I didn't get it, and I wasn't making much of an effort to try to get it. I was there to get a workout, not find my place in the universe.

I mocked a lot, I mean A LOT, of yoga stuff those first few classes.

There was a gong. That got rung. I mean, come ON!
We were asked to set an "intention"--what we wanted to get out of the class. I wanted to get yoga out of the class-- why else would I be here?
There was incense. Because nothing is more delightful during a workout than the smell of burning patchouli.
We ended class lying flat on our backs for four solid minutes in "savasana", which it is worth noting is the 'corpse pose'. Yes, you end yoga class pretending you are dead.

I really, really do not think anyone can blame me for my satirical reaction. In a discourteous world, yoga practically BEGS to be ridiculed.

But that's the thing. When you're in the yoga studio, you're not in a discourteous world. You're in a refuge. You're in a sanctuary-- of your own making. You can mock. Or you can surrender.

I surrendered. Which is not usually my thing. I found, however, that while I was ridiculing "poor, defenseless" yoga for being so daffy and dippy, yoga was actually kicking my ass.

I'm a decently athletic, in-shape person, but I couldn't do even half of the moves in a "basics" class. I wasn't flexible enough. I wasn't coordinated enough. I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't calm enough. I was not enough of anything that yoga required. Pretty humbling. And after a few classes it got increasingly hard to mock something that was clearly getting the better of me, mentally and physically.

Thus, the surrender. I decided to attempt an embrace of the entirety of yoga--including what I previously referred to as the hippy, dippy stuff-- to see if I could improve my practice.

I took a deep breath and let out an OMMMMM. Oddly soothing, it turns out.
I set my "intention", which was to try as hard as I could to do all the moves and feel the strength I had, instead of worrying about the strength I had yet to build.
I tried to figure out the gong. Not going to lie. Didn't get anywhere with that. But I tried.
Also, not super into the incense. Just yuck.
Savasana (the dead pose) became my favorite part of class. Instead of derisively wondering for four minutes what the point was of spending that much time doing nothing in a class I was paying for, I cleared my mind. I quieted my body. At least, I tried to. It's really not as easy as it might seem. Try lying down (not when you're sleepy--that's cheating) all the way flat, palms to the ground, eyes closed--and see where your mind goes. See if you can stop it from going there. See if, instead, you can direct your mind to a calm space (oh, dear god, yes, yes I hear myself--you may mock me, you have my permission). It's hard! And then (and yes, again, yes I hear this but I'm saying it anyway because you probably at some point in your life told Pope jokes in the Vatican and need a little comeuppance) feel your body, lying flat. Try to lie perfectly still. Really, really still, and feel where your body touches the ground.

This sounds so stupid. I get it. But the thing is, if you do it with a mind open to the experience instead of with a brain trying to legitimize it, it's something. I can't very eloquently articulate what that something is, other than to say you feel like you have power over yourself. And that IS something.

I'm still working on my yoga. And my sarcasm. When the instructor yesterday told us that she would be "gently guiding" us through the next hour, I think I raised my eyebrows and amused myself by picturing me telling my seventh grade students that I would be "gently guiding" them through sixth period World History. Clearly I still have some work to do on my non-judgy acceptance of all things yoga.

But I do chant the OMMMMM now (although jury is still out on its significance in the universe). I smile when the gong is struck (possibly to stifle my smart-alecky impulses, but I do smile and that's never a bad thing in the end). I attempt all the moves, even the ones I know I cannot do well or perfectly, and allow myself the gratitude for achievement and the room for improvement. And as mentioned earlier, Savasana is the pose I love most. Not because I get to rest (although yes, that's helpful because again as I mentioned earlier, yoga kicks my ass). Almost the opposite. I love it because I am completely in control of my mind and body. I can do that now. I get it.

If you've never tried yoga, I recommend giving it a go. Go get yourself some cute LuLu Lemon capri leggings and a tank top (I'm not being sexist--that's pretty much what everyone wears regardless of sex, at least in my class). Roll out a mat and plop yourself down.

If you listen carefully you may (or may not) hear the sound made by all creation :)

Further Apologies

Also, I think my brother and I played cops and robbers, and if memory serves, I always wanted to be the robber, because EXCITING!

So apologies, quite sincere, for glamorizing crime and undervaluing law enforcement.

I guess there goes my SCOTUS seat.

I am sorry. So very sorry.

I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know what I was thinking. That's no excuse. I understand. I should have known better. I showed poor judgment, and I will bear the burden of that, willingly.

I know it's just too easy to say we just didn't think there was anything wrong with it. But we didn't. That's the honest truth. We were kids. And again, I know people say that. And usually that's just a convenient attempt at trying to evade responsibility. But in this case, it's not that. We really were kids.  We didn't know any better. I mean it. You have to believe me.

Everyone was doing it. Again, I know that doesn't excuse it. But it's true. Our parents even encouraged us to do it. They didn't know any better, either. It was perfectly acceptable. Not only that, we saw it on TV, so it seemed ok. There were even halloween costumes. I'm not kidding. That's how socially acceptable it was. Kids marched in school halloween parades, having no idea that their outfits would someday derail their careers.

There may even be a picture out there, of me, in costume. Oh, who am I kidding. There is a picture. A grainy polaroid. Or an orange-tinged Kodak print with the rounded corners. Probably blurry. It would be hard to make out our faces. But I'll just admit right now. It could be me. It's probably me in that photo. I'm not sure which one I was. I could have been either, and at one time or another I was probably both.

I'm a good person. I really am. I hope that this embarrassing revelation doesn't make me seem all of the sudden uncaring, unkind, or thoughtless.

I hope that me getting out ahead of this, instead of waiting for it to be "discovered" in the search for truth, helps underscore that I am not trying to hide from this. I am not running away from my past indiscretions. I admit them. I hope I am a different person now, that I have grown.

But I cannot deny. It was fun, when I was five, playing "Cowboys and Indians".

Please forgive me.

Living the Dream

I'm writing this as best I can, distracted by the landscape in front of me, the sea somewhere off in the distance. I feel like I can smell the salt in the air but of course I cannot. The water is far too far. You would think that being on an island would make for a watery existence, with boats bobbing nearby and the sound of gulls creating a never-ending somewhat discordant symphony. But this is a big island. I am nestled in gentle hills dressed in grapevines and cypress trees.

It was a lark, really. Buying an Italian house, on Sicily, in Sambuca. The article made it sound so simple. Buy a house for one Euro. Agree to put in an additional 15,000 Euros to fix it up. Ecco! For a very reasonable amount of money you now own a lovely little casa in a town that wants to welcome you as its newest citizen.

And it was simple. The buying part. The fixing it up part was a bit of an effort. Sicily is an island, after all. Sambuca is a tiny village. But as it turned out there were more than a few locals who were eager to find work and had an interesting assortment of skills, some of them useful. I tried to explain, in my elementary Italian, what I wanted to do with the house. They listened attentively, and then did what they knew how to do. And while my house may not have emerged from this process as I had anticipated, I am not disappointed. The house was sufficiently repaired. I myself was restored.

At at time when I needed a distraction, the house, and Sambuca, became my passion. I immersed myself in something that took me literally and figuratively to a place that I had imagined but never expected to actually occupy. I learned to speak Italian from villagers. I bought groceries daily from tiny little stalls full of fresh food tended by little old men. I drank red wine and Aperol spritzes. I grew to know and love the people of Sambuca, people who obligingly served afternoon (!) cappuccino to the crazy American who seemed to enjoy getting up before the sun and running through the town for no reason. I made friends.

It's so easy to imagine all of this. I feel like I should make this into a movie...

Here I am sitting outside my house, writing.

Me with the men who helped fix my house. 

Learning to enjoy red wine. Not the best picture but you get the idea...

And just so no one worries, while all of this is going on Dave is happily ensconced in his 2,000 square foot shop in Kentucky surrounded by unending supplies of beautiful hard-grain woods that are so plentiful they are dirt cheap. I send him postcards from Sicily. He sends me beautiful, artisan furniture for the house. He visits often. He has learned to love Aperol.