the pointy universe

Times Like These

2011-11-18T14:10:00.003-05:00

My hearing still hasn’t returned. I still sound like Harvey Fierstein. I’m still taking ibuprofen for some overall body aches sustained during the three-hour Foo Fighters show at the Garden on Wed night. It was well worth the agony.

For the record, the aches and pains aren’t from hurling myself off the balcony onto the hydraulic lift where Dave Grohl performed his acoustic set. (Though if I were more spry, it could’ve happened.)

We were an assorted bunch in our friend Andy’s company box. Life-long friends, some random cops, two amateur porn stars that one of our friends brought as dates (“We had to come together, we’re a threesome.” OK.), and a couple in their 60s who were all prim, swaddled in sweaters and suede. All prim, that is, until the Foo’s first chord smacked them upside the head. Next thing you knew they were rocking out huge, as if high on bath salts.

Early on, I was certain someone was going overboard, knocked off the balcony by an overenthusiastic hip check or a flailing limb. For a few songs, I bounced around, white knuckled behind the highest glass partition. But soon I was confident I would float off the balcony, and not crash headfirst onto the unassuming Foosters below. Thank you, high spirits.

I’ve always loved the Foo Fighters but the Dave Grohl issues are well documented. The man is pure energy and hotness. The music was loud, the pace frenetic. The show, beginning to end, was an all-out assault on the senses. Grohl used the whole arena as his stage, granting everyone a piece of his intensity. On the big screen, we got some gratuitous close ups of him, head banging and wailing on his guitar and letting loose his trademark throaty growls. We saw Taylor Hawkins beating the living shite out of his drumkit and screaming into his mic. For a while, we ladies in the front row of the box could only stare, transfixed by rock star magic. We were absorbed into the show and were on the inside of the music looking out. It was getting hot and tingly in there.

Woo hoo, rock star magic.

James has hair

Soon, however, everyone in the box, even James, had violated the “Hands over Head” rule

Aside: The “Hands Over Head Rule” was created by my brother several years ago as a benchmark of self preservation. It’s typically applied to dancing, but can be applied anywhere when you're out. The moment you raise your hands over your head, it’s time to go home.

In the Herald's early review of the show, the critic wrote something like "It's the 20^th anniversary of Nirvana’s 'Nevermind,' but when you see the Foo Fighters live, you can't help but think, 'Nirvana who?' So true. Grohl won’t be remembered as the drummer from Nirvana, but as one of the great rock stars in his own right. In 16 years, he’s more than earned that.

“The fact that he can keep that up is fucking ridiculous.” -- DT on Grohl’s tireless energy. And he never appeared to break a sweat.

The songs: A back-to-back trio of some favorites --- “The Pretender,” “My Hero” (which included the loudest sing-a-long I’ve ever heard), and “Learn to Fly.”

The acoustic set with “Best of You” (raw and awesome) and “Wheels.” I’d entirely forgotten about the song “Wheels.” You never hear it on the radio and the band said they never play it live because the only people who like it are the Germans. That was proved false. The band said if the audience sang the chorus louder than the Germans, they’d promise to play a small dive bar in Boston the next time they're in town. Apparently, we'll see them at Sully's Tap some time in the near future.

Other favorites: “These Days,” which Grohl said was the most favorite song that he’s ever written. “Walk,” which is uplifting and a regular on all of my playlists. A bluesy cover of Tom Petty’s “Breakdown” which was absolutely riveting and even had the random cops on their feet.

I know I’m leaving so much out, there are too many stand outs to mention.

There were some long meandering guitar solos that were a bit much, but the high-energy more than compensated for them.

The band closed the show with the the rocking, frantic "Everlong."

The chorus:

"And I wonder, when I sing along with you

If everything could ever feel this real forever

If anything could ever be this good again."

This left a box full of concert veterans asking the very same questions.

Breaking it Down

Without getting all “Nowadays” and “Get off my Lawn-ish” – I will say Grohl does seem like he’s from another time. You don’t get these types of shows any more. Bands don’t put that much effort into it. To play a three-hour show, including a six-song encore on the final date of a long US tour is unheard of. The last time these sweaty, marathon shows were prevalent was in the 70s and 80s when arena rock was mainstream, before Kiss 108 and country crossovers became king.

Earlier this year, Grohl said, “Just because rock ‘n’ roll isn’t No. 1 in the commercial mainstream doesn’t mean it’s gone. All I know is what rock ’n’ roll means to me. It’s this living, breathing thing that you can see in someone’s eye.”

It’s this passion for his music that was so striking on Wednesday night. (And did I mention he was hot?) While the set list was identical to many other shows on the tour, there was never a sense that the songs were well-worn, never a hint of been-there-done-that.

It’s clear from his energy and enthusiasm that Grohl loves what he does, and it’s clear he wants his audience to share in the love. At one point, he joked: “I hate all this attention. It sucks. Being a rock star is such torture. I just want to go home.”

After more than a year of touring, they could've easily phoned it in and gone home with zero repercussions. But instead, as a three-year-old Paulie once said, the Foo Fighters always "break it down and bring it home."

PU Flashback: Paulie, 3 ½, bringing it home with his best Dave Grohl mugs and moves

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Set list, Nov. 16 2011

Bridge Burning

Rope

The Pretender

My Hero

Learn to Fly

White Limo

Arlandria

Breakout

Cold Day in the Sun

Stacked Actors

Walk

Monkey Wrench

Let It Die

These Days

This is a Call

In the Flesh?

(Pink Floyd cover)

All My Life

Encore:

Wheels

(Dave Grohl acoustic)

Best of You

(Dave Grohl acoustic)

Times Like These

(Dave Grohl solo acoustic into full band)

Dear Rosemary

Breakdown

(Tom Petty cover)

Everlong

Updates: "Keep Calm and Carry On"

2011-11-16T12:52:00.001-05:00

Like intuition, writing/journaling is a muscle that needs to be flexed to stay strong. I sat down a few weeks ago to churn out a post and realized I’d become completely blog atrophied. So, here are a few narcissistic updates to clear the cobwebs before (hopefully) getting back to the business of the PU.

Update #1: I tried to start the PU back up again earlier this year and then kind of puttered out. Somewhere between March and September, I fell through the cracks of society. I spent a lot of time light deprived in my basement office, unshowered beneath a dropped ceiling. There, I toiled away in my little cubby with exposed insulation hanging like a fluffy pink thundercloud over my head. (Good morning, fiberglass.) I shuffled to and from the kitchen for tea refills on the shattered remains of Wii games that have become encrusted in the carpet.

Encrusted because I still can’t vacuum without having to lie down. I got winded slicing a crusty baguette at a friend’s birthday party a few months ago. The physical atrophy remains and is hopefully the next to go.

Update #2: Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been having a ball, living a bit too high on the hog and justifying it like Steve Dunne: “I’m not wiggy. This is hang time. I’m regrouping and thinking about regrouping.” All the while becoming one hot stone pedicure shy of insolvency.

During the day, I was carrying on like Brett Ashley, enjoying long lunches and day drinking at the Scarlet Oak with my other friends down here beneath the cracks.

Update #3: At some point over the summer, I morphed into Donatella Versace. This video hits a little too close to the mark.

Update #4: So, I was having a lot of fun practicing these avoidance behaviors, knowing full well they were unsustainable. I’ve had up to three jobs, coupled with full-time momma hood. Running frantic, willy-nilly, undisciplined in a non-routine. In a million places at once and never truly “present” in any of them.

Update #5: Rotational neglect has its side effects.

I mumble to myself when I’m out in public like some cracked-out degenerate.

It’s been taking an unreasonable amount of mental gymnastics to write a simple paragraph.

Update #6: Rotational neglect causes anxiety.

My counselor/energy healer who is like a Cesar Millan for humans has been helping me see the upside of anxiety. Take your natural neuroses and channel them into something productive. If you don’t mix it up now and again, life stagnates and you never leave your comfort zone. I’ve seen what that looks like. It’s cringe worthy.

The freelance lifestyle isn’t working anymore. I need a place to show up, at least a few days a week.

“Keep Calm and Carry On”

Sometimes you receive little signs, flashes of intuition, that gently nudge you toward a certain path. Sometimes you get actual, concrete signs that become a new mantra.

Over the summer, I found a card with a portly pug on it. The pug was wearing a sign around his burly chest: “Don’t Feed the Pug.” The photo’s caption: “Keep Calm and Carry On.” I was familiar with the photo because I’ve had an 8x10 glossy of it posted over Vito’s food dish in my kitchen for 5 years. It was the October photo on a 2006 calendar, except the caption on mine is: “Round Mound of Hound.”

“Keep Calm and Carry On.” I liked the sentiment so much that I stuck it on my whiteboard as a wee mantra.

About two months ago, I got a part-time job at a local make-up and skincare boutique. I’d been looking for a way to supplement my infrequent freelance checks, and honestly, just wanted to have someplace to be other than my basement office. At the very least, I figured being surrounded by anti-aging products would keep the inner hag at bay.

To the contrary, it awakened her.

The last time I worked in retail, it was 2001. It was pre-kids, pre LOTS of things, pre the past two years of shite. Pre-perspective. So, after spending a few Saturdays being run ragged by a mannerless and self-entitled clientele (a.k.a missing my kids’ games to wait on hags), I realized that this was not going to work. Either that or that I was going to end up going all Ninja with a bottle of Glycolic Wash on the next person who came in with Wellbutrin eyes.

I walked to my car that evening, quietly berating myself for making another poor occupational decision, even a part-time one. I was wondering if I could even trust myself to make the right one; to not waste my precious times on things that are clearly not right.

There’s a store near the boutique where I covet everything in the front window. They sell trendy clothes, bags, cool jewelry, trinkets, vintage reproductions of old signs, old postcards with kitzy bumperstick philosophy and punchlines: “I Childproofed My House But They’re still Getting In.”

This night, right there in the window, like a blue and white beacon, was a painted sign, blaring my mantra: “Keep Calm and Carry On.” I ran inside and purchased it, along with some vintage postcards.

Keep Calm and Carry On. There is still a certain weariness (as Pablo says) here, but I’m continuing to clear out the cobwebs and get back (as the Beatles say).

So, PU, let’s try this again...

I'm Tired of Chickens

2011-11-10T20:52:00.000-05:00

*** A pre-post poem from Pablo Neruda says it all, but I will say it in my own words as soon as possible. More of my own nonsense coming soon. ***

Excuse the melodrama; I've been drinking.

I love this.

"A Certain Weariness" by Pablo Neruda

I don't want to be tired alone,
I want you to grow tired along with me.

How can we not be weary
of the kind of fine ash
which falls on cities in autumn,
something which doesn't quite burn,
which collects in jackets
and little by little settles,
discoloring the heart.

I'm tired of the harsh sea
and the mysterious earth.
I'm tired of chickens-- (best line of a poem ever)
we never know what they think,
and they look at us with dry eyes
as though we were unimportant.

Let us for once--I invite you--
be tired of so many things,
of awful apertifs,
of a good education.

Tired of not going to France,
tired of at least
one or two days in the week
which have always the same names
like dishes on the table,
and of getting up--what for?--
and going to be without glory.

Let us finally tell the truth:
we never thought much of
these days that are like
houseflies or camels.

I have seen some monuments
raised to titans
to donkeys of industry.
They're there, motionless,
with their swords in their hands
on their gloomy horses.
I'm tired of statues.
Enough of all that stone.

If we go on filling up
the world with still things
how can the living live?

I am tired of remembering.

I want men, when they're born,
to breathe in naked flowers,
fresh soil, pure fire
not just what everyone breathes.
Leave the newborn in peace!

Leave room for them to live!
Don't think for them,
don't read them the same book;
let them discover the dawn
and name their own kisses.

I want you to be weary with me
of all that is already well done,
of all that ages us.
of all that lies in wait
to wear out other people.

Let us be weary of what kills
and of what doesn't want to die.

So Much to Say

2011-10-26T23:02:00.002-04:00

Can't stay away! Updates soon.

27

2011-07-25T16:43:00.000-04:00

Another beautiful artist's voice snuffed out too soon. RIP.

Daughta Blogga

2011-07-20T15:19:00.001-04:00

Caroline started her own blog today to document her summer vacation. All her idea...be generous with the accolades at Those Awesomeee Days! I hope everyone is having a fantastic summer. Will be back soon!

Clamoring out of the Malaise

2011-06-28T09:47:00.000-04:00

...be back this week with some half-assed manifesto. ~KJ

I'm Down with Ghandi

2011-03-28T18:58:00.002-04:00

It was an average Saturday morning; I was shaking the lint from my filthy reusable shopping bags on my way to the market. Caroline always comes to Stop & Shop with me because she likes to use their EasyShop device where she can scan and bag the items herself as we go along. And she knows she can always sneak in a few extra 600lb Gorillas in along the way with zero protest. I like the bonding time and appreciate a shopping experience that affords minimal interaction with the deli counter and cashiers. I hate small talk.

Aside: EasyShop is also the milieu of (mostly) unintentional shoplifting, which is a post for another day.

Next to the scanning kiosk, a young woman and her daughter from the Unitarian Church were collecting items for the local food pantry – pretty successfully, considering the towering assortment of groceries stacked around them. Also hulking over them: a 60-ish burly gent who was decked out in burnished denim and enormous white sneakers. His neon white hair was shaking beneath his Sox cap as he spoke with animated gestures. From a distance, he appeared non-threatening, like someone’s grandfather who would jokingly shoot at you with a pricing gun while stocking shelves.

But after a few more steps we realized this man was ranting in the woman’s face, telling her, in no uncertain terms, that she and others of her ilk were going straight to hell.

Caroline and I joined the semi-circle of onlookers who kept their distance, eavesdropping, exchanging glances: Who is this guy and what is his fucking problem?

We were all fidgeting. Do we say something? I have my daughter with me. This kook is probably armed to the teeth!

FOOD PANTRY WOMAN: "With all due respect, sir, what do you think happens to peaceful, God-loving Buddhists, Muslims, Jews?"

BIG WHITE SNEAKERS: "They all go to hell too. It’s in the Bible!"

At this point, I was convinced John Quinones from “Primetime: What Would You Do” was lurking behind the Cheez-It pyramid with a camera crew. It was hard to believe that a real person could be this mindfuckingly backward. Or so unabashedly obnoxious.

The woman’s daughter was tentative, but unfazed. She handed Carrie and I a list of items the food pantry needed, which included baby formula, school snacks, and juiceboxes. Heathens!

FOOD PANTRY: "With all due respect, sir. I disagree. I don’t believe God is religion. He’s larger than that."

BIG WHITE SNEAKERS: "No! This isn’t a matter of agreeing to disagree! You are wrong! Get it through your head! You’ve been brainwashed!"

Aside: This is a huge pet peeve of mine. The moment someone tells you you’ve been brainwashed, they should be immediately disqualified from any debate. What they’re saying is they’re too arrogant (or naïve) to believe that they could ever (ever!) be unduly influenced, regardless of how long they've been stewing in their own broth. You could be brainwashed, of course, but not them. Never them. They are right. You are wrong. There is no other side. In a situation like this, a true exchange of ideas is impossible.

The Food Pantry woman continued to hold her own while this buffoon raved on about the fire and brimstone that await her.

I realized this guy is exactly the type of person who Ghandi was speaking about when he said: ”I love your Christ. I do not like your Christians. They are so unlike your Christ."

FOOD PANTRY: "With all due respect, I disagree."

It was probably the frustrated pacifist that lives inside my soul, because the words "with all due respect" made me dry heave a little. My words were projectile:

“Excuse me, please stop staying that! He’s not worthy of your respect. He’s not trying to have a conversation, he’s just yelling in your face."

She smiled and said thank you. "It's ok."

Then I turned to Big White Sneakers. My actual words are in quotes, my thoughts in parentheses:

“What is wrong with you?” (Dickhead). “You are harassing a woman and a child who are collecting food for the poor! “(Is this how you get your ‘Christ on’?) “What else are you doing today, beside harrassing people?”

BIG WHITE SNEAKERS (he's got black eyes, lifeless eyes, like a doll's eyes): “I support what’s she’s doing, just not what she stands for.”

ME: “Did she ask you?" (You narcissistic pig)

SEMI-CIRCLE BYSTANDER: (chiming in, thank Christ!) "Maybe your time preaching could be better spent besides, you know, screaming at people collecting food for the poor."

(Yeah!)

A decent pile on ensued, but we stormed away in search of John Quinones, almost overturning an Entenmann's table in blind rage.

Caroline said, “Mom, that man was a butt.”

Indeed he was, Sweetpea (with apologies to the butts).

By the time we were checking out, though, I was still seething, determined to EasyShoplift a juicer and hurl it at Big White Sneaker’s head if he were still there. (also very Christ like).

But he was gone -- probably off to deface some “Coexist” bumperstickers in the parking lot.

We donated some juiceboxes and gorilla cookies to the food pantry box.

Random Quizzilla

2011-03-03T10:39:00.002-05:00

1. What is your favorite time of the day?
Usually the very beginning or the very end, depending upon the day. Yesterday, it was lunch time. Had a superlative lunch and prosecco toast at Sportello with Doreen, one of my dearest friends, former editor and Eastie cohort who is officially five years cancer free this month.

2. Tell me about your grandparents.

Maternal grandparents: Aurora (Nana Rora) & Charles (Papa Charlie). Nana Rora worked in town and also cared for my Italian-speaking great grandparents -- Big Nana and Big Papa -- who lived upstairs. Papa Charlie worked as a bricklayer in the Charlestown Navy Yard. Both died very young so my memories are limited (MF cancer). I remember Charlie swirling ice in his drink and always having one of the grandkids on his lap. I remember Nana Rora being glamourous. She wore Chanel No. 5 and was always dressed up, including hair and make-up, even while cooking four-course Sunday dinners. She brought us Jordan Marsh blueberry muffins after work every Monday night. Paternal grandmother: Mary Agnes (Nana Rie). I've written about her extensively on this blog. She went by "Marie" most her life, having told everyone her real name was Marie Antoinette. She always disliked her nunnish name, which certainly didn't suit her. Nana Rie was a single mom who worked as a secretary. She took the train to work every day and once boarded it wearing only a slip because she'd forgotten to put her skirt on that morning. This may have happened more than once. At age 37, she got breast cancer. This was the 1940s when it was a death sentence. She died in perfect health after being struck by a car on her way home from a dance class at age 81.

3. When was the last time you were truly startled?

The other day, a freakish wind gust caught the storm door and slammed it so hard against the side of the house that I was convinced (convinced!) it was a home invasion. Shit! I slid across the kitchen in my fleece socks and headed for the back door.

Of course, Vito was right on it:

Are you shitting me?

The V himself was startled moments later when some curious flamingos flocked our front yard. He charged at them but quickly retreated when he realized they weren't dispersing the way seagulls do on the beach.

WTF.

4. How have you changed in the past year?

I'm more of a morning person and a homebody these days. I still love to stay up late and get out on the weekends, but during the week it's like Grey Gardens in here. The house would have to be on fire to get me out the door after 6 p.m. on weeknights -- except for Flash Mob rehearsals, of course.

5. Name something thing you consider a "bonus" in your life.

Having some friends who are musicians. Winning!

The Lure of the Velour

2011-02-25T16:28:00.004-05:00

So we're finishing up school vacation week here on the South Shore. Mentally, though, I’m still planted on an overstuffed green velour reclining sofa, doing shots of Trader Joe’s corn and chile salsa.

Backstory: We packed the wagon and headed north to visit the Kielys in NH where they rented a house for the month. Both families were in dire need of a change of scenery on many levels. The only view from our front windows is of our retired neighbors Lou and Nancy going to and from dinner every night. We also needed a respite from Sponge Bob, Wii and Webkinz. Dr. Nic needed to get out of Southie after a menacing encounter with a DB neighbor who accosted her for trying to park in an unmarked spot on a public street that he'd claimed as his own. She said no and he threatened her. She had the kids in the car with her so she had to subvert her instinct to leap out, rip off his windshield wipers and beat him with them. She managed a "You're pathetic," before pulling away. She will flier the neighborhood upon her return to let everyone know there is a DB living among them that threatens women and children.

So, the fresh mountain air and plentiful parking were like nature's Ativan.

Their house is nestled on a scenic notch just south of Conway and surrounded by lush forest and snowy trails. Its wrap around deck and glass walls offer sweeping views of the White Mountains and look out over a steep hill dotted with scrubby pines. [This paragraph works best when read with a British accent.]

We were surrounded by all of this beauty and peace, but the strongest lure of all was the lure of the velour. Two hulking green velour reclining sofas served as the center piece of the living room, dwarfing everything around them. You know what I'm talking about. Those inertia-inspiring behemoths, the staples of man caves and your auntie’s parlor in Saugus. Many come with snack trays, remote caddies and cup holders. They feel like they should have a hot tub as a trundle. For aesthetic reasons, they're not something you’d ever have front and center in your home. But, now I’m not so sure. I may be a changed woman.

Sit on me.

We had no set plans for the weekend but, depending upon our whims, we had an ala carte menu of winter recreation at our disposal. We could ski, snow tube, ice skate, snowshoe, etc. But the wind was off the Beaufort scale; it brought the trees to their knees, and randomly hurled large chunks of frozen snow in your general direction. In short, you needed a rubber ski mask if you wanted to keep your face.

I generally don't engage in anything cold and outdoorsy if it’s under 40 degrees. I’m an apres-skier. I prefer skating in a rink. Snowshoeing – not so much. But, when you're with the kids, you suck it up like it’s your job (because it is your job.)

All of the kids were dying to go outside and play in the snow. They dressed in their snow gear in lightning speed and bolted outside with James and Paul K. right on their heels. Nic and I were a little more leisurely in getting suited up. I spent at least 10 minutes trying to find my high-powered mittens in our 10 bags of gear. I had one boot on when everyone came running back inside all torked up.

Paulie, effusive: “That was the best time I’ve ever had in my life!!” James came in behind him looking sheepish, but laughing.

Apparently, they were playing on some sleds out back when Paulie disappeared over the top of the hill and slid almost all the way down on the seat of his snow pants. He finally stopped after softly crashing into some small cone-bearing tree.

James scaled down the hill to retrieve him, thinking he was probably traumatized. Nope. He wanted to do it again.

My generalized anxiety disorder and I are grateful not to have witnessed this. Especially less then 2 months after the First Night travesty. James said they never thought he was in any danger but were mildly horrified by his velocity.

Aside: Of course, I started to unravel into a Sonny Bono-Michael Kennedy mindset. But then I didn't want to turn Paulie's "best time of his life" into a lesson on the ill-fated deaths of celebrities. I was also reminded that the sledding experiences of my youth amounted to coasting down a short hill in a vacant MassPort lot that dead ended into a fence separating the lot from the Blue Line tracks.

Still, something shifted. I'm not going out there to frolick in the snow. I'll have a stroke watching them teeter on the hill top. We decided the Dads and the kids would play outside for a bit, then we’d all go to lunch.

Nic and I set up shop on the recliners with some tea. We opened all of the blinds and let the mountains in. And then we unwittingly let the recliners in as well. While we were getting deep into the craic, Nic kept getting distracted by the show on TV.

NIC: “What the ffff…? What the feh…? What the feck are we watching? What is this shite, Kate?”

On the screen, Bruce Jenner was polishing a remote-controlled helicopter. We’d stumbled upon -- as the Church Lady recently called them --"the Holy Trinity of Sluts." It was a Kardashian marathon. Within moments we were transfixed, then catatonic. I don't even know how many episodes we'd watched when everyone came thundering back inside and found us strung out on the recliners like a couple of junkies.

Aside: It's not the first time something like this has happened. Last year, I got sucked into a Stars Wars LEGO Wii game. James returned home from work early to find me jumping around, still with bedhead and in PJs, looking like Gary Busey.

JAMES: What are you doing?

ME: Trying to get to level 5.

JAMES: What?

ME: Return of the Jedi.

Conclusion: Recliners = Ass Velcro. They also make you susceptible to reality shows produced by Ryan Seacrest. And you may find yourself barking at your kids to fetch your credit card from your bag ('cuz you're not getting up to do it) so you can order some Pajama Jeans.

I snapped out of the recliner spell after uttering the following sentence: “I’m craving a SlimJim. We may have to stop at the Mobil Mart.”

We all went out to lunch and had a big feed. Nic and I thought we'd completely recovered but then ordered salmon and steamed vegetables because it looked so good when the Kardashians ate it. Jesus. We had a couple of goblets of wine, steeling ourselves for whatever outdoor activity lay before us.

We asked the kids: Tubing? Skating? Hay rides? Nope. They wanted to go to the arcade and then back to the house. Apparently, they were under the spell as well, having planted themselves on the reclining sofas earlier that morning. The lure of the velour.

The Dads and the kids went to the arcade. Nic and I went outlet shopping a little drunk. Once we got back to the house, we all gathered together on the recliners and ended up ordering take-out that night.

"Colder than a Midget in a 'Frigerator"

2011-02-09T13:55:00.001-05:00

This is awesome. Megan McGlover, I hear you!

(hat tip: Bridget Duffy & Susan Howard)

Check Your Baggage, Fear the Brownies

2011-02-04T13:37:00.005-05:00

‘My Room, My Rules” – Caroline is coloring in a sign that she’s written in bubble letters on a piece of construction paper. My little fascist has also compiled a visitor sign-in sheet to post outside her door that warns: “Keep Out, Evil Maniacs!” (a.k.a Paulie’s friends). She’s frowning, bearing down on the crayons as if she’s had to resort to making these signs, as if she isn’t enjoying every moment of this perceived unrest.

Don't mess with me.

This is my daughter. She loves rules and loves to enforce them. While she shares my general sloppiness, she doesn’t appreciate any loose interpretations of rules -- written or unwritten. She gives me shit every day for not hanging up my coat. Last week, I had to drive her to school and the bell rang when we were about 10 feet from her classroom. She immediately did an about face and started running up the hallway, “I have to go get a tardy pass from the office.” “But we’re right here,” I said. “No, Mom, I have to! It’s the rules,” she yelled over her shoulder, her backpack careening from side to side. I’d like to think I bear some responsibility for instilling such a fierce sense of right and wrong, but it’s really just her nature. I’m sure it’s largely the result of having a flaky mother. Despite our differences, we fall into a groove.

****

She’s finished coloring her sign and is gearing up to go play in the slush.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, my dear little fascist.”

“I’m thinking I should become a girl scout.”

I froze. She may as well have said, “I’m thinking I should get a lower back tattoo.”

For the first time, I realized I needed to "check my baggage." The term is from a parenting book I've been reading on and off for about four years. It's about not letting your own personal experiences seep into your kids' experiences.

****

I joke about Caroline being a fascist, but she’s 7. I am emotionally scarred after experiencing the wrath of a true fascist during a short-lived stint in the Brownies in third grade.

Looking back, I’m not even sure if the group was a legit member of the Girl Scouts organization. It was more like a generic off shoot to keep kids out of their parents’ hair. We didn't sell cookies. We didn't earn badges. We had some jive-looking uniforms, purchased in bulk -- sleeveless, brown sacks with brown or orange turtlenecks worn underneath. If my scanner were not broken, I would share this spectacle. Most of us looked Amish, except for some of the 9-year-olds with boobs (there were several, one of whom was driving a car by age 11 --a post for another day).

Our troop started out fine, but quickly deteriorated when our leader Mrs. T. had to go in for surgery and her despotic, keg-shaped assistant ”Bindy” took over. Bindy was a graceless loudmouthed woman of 30, about 4'11'', with a greasy black bob. Every day, she wore a hooded Eastie sweatshirt and elastic waist jeans She began her iron-fisted reign of terror in the fall of 1979 with her equally-scary daughter Denise by her side. Denise's main role, as far as I remember, was to confiscate people's Doritos.

Aside: Bindy reminds me of David Sedaris’ story about his sadistic babysitter Mrs. Peacock. Mrs. Peacock was able to act somewhat normal in the presence of Sedaris’ mother, but the second his mom left, Peacock made the kids scratch her back fat with a monkey paw backscratcher and fetch her soda and chips.

Our first order of duty at Brownies was to help Denise learn some disco dance steps for one of her dance classes. Bindy pointed at us with her middle finger, spitting Dorito bits through her yellow teeth: "Don't screw it up, girls! Don't screw it up!"

Bindy was also parsimonious with the craft supplies. I don't know what she did with the extra supplies she absconded with every week, but I know she used to make Kleenex box cozies for the church bazaar, so that is one theory.

That Christmas, we were making ornaments to deliver to the local nursing home. Bindy passed out styrofoam rounds and sprinkles and hoarded the remaining glitter, felt squares and pipe cleaners. "Just make Christmas cookies!" she barked. Sure enough, one of the nursing home residents tried to eat one of the ornaments and accused us of trying to poison her. We were asked to leave.

The rest of the year, we spent our meetings scrubbing the classroom and making useless crap with popsicle sticks. But the absolute nadir was the camping trip. It was like Deliverance.

It was only an overnight trip and was probably no farther than Saugus, but it was many worlds removed from reality. About 10 of us stayed in a ramshackle cabin with Bindy and two chain-smoking teenage chaperones who were even nastier than she was. There was one bathroom.

After a long hike in the woods (in jelly sandals) without sunscreen or water, we were dying for lunch. But there was no lunch. We just hung inside watching TV. A couple of hot dog-free hours later, a few of us helped ourselves to some Devil Dogs in the kitchen. Bindy caught us and said since we spoiled our lunch, there wouldn't be any lunch at all. What?! It was almost dinner time.

I was outraged. We are on a camping trip and there will be no hot dogs? Are you shitting me? I think it was contrived. I don't think Bindy or her scrubby minions knew how to light the charcoal grill (it remained unused the remainder of our time there.) Dinner consisted of a slice of Wonder bread with a stingy slab of peanut butter and a warm cup of lemonade.

We could smell the burgers and dogs from neighboring camp sites and our stomachs turned over with hunger. We bonded together: Should we sneak out? Try to smuggle some grub in a flashlight like the Bradys did in the Grand Canyon? But we were was too scared to move. And too hungry to be denied any more food.

So, there were no hot dogs. No campfire songs. No games. Bindy sent us to bed at 8 p.m. I was salivating over a pack of raw hot dogs I could see glistening in the moonlight on the kitchen table. They were floating in their own salty broth and hadn't been refrigerated. I didn't even care.

At 10 p.m., Bindy got annoyed that we were talking too much and made us march in a circle for what seemed like hours.

“It’s like we're in 'Annie,'” my friend Danielle said and started crying. Bindy finally fell asleep sitting up on a filthy futon. One of the 9-year olds with boobs snuck a loaf of Wonder Bread into the sleeping bag circle and we devoured it. The next day, I crawled across the threshold of my house and kissed the kitchen floor. And ate until I passed out.

Mrs. T. returned to the Brownies the following fall, but none of us from the camping trip re-signed up for the troop. We remained war buddies, however -- the only Brownie troop to ever experience the fascist regime of dirty Bindy.

*****

So, I had to check my baggage. Our local Girl Scout troop is legit and is lead by some kind and maternal women that I'm well acquainted with. A Bindy couldn't exist today. You couldn't get away with treating animals the way Bindy treated us. Luckily, the only thing we have to worry about today is pedophiles lurking in the bushes while we're out selling cookies.

Hello, My Deer

2011-01-27T07:55:00.002-05:00

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Whenever I catch a flurry of movement, a flash of fur out of the corner of my eye, I have a mini-heart attack. Even after six years, the thought of roaming wildlife still freaks me out a bit. When I let Vito out early in the morning or late at night, I still stand at the front door with a hockey stick ready to chase off on any renegade coyotes looking to snack on my little pork chop. The vigilance has not waned. Get off my lawn! For the past two seasons, we've had a family of six deer traversing the woods and brook behind our house and they're so much fun to watch. Yesterday morning, I caught this curious little one out of the corner of my eye. Instead of having a panic attack, I calmly reached for my camera. I think I've had a break through.

Mista Steamy

2011-01-25T09:48:00.002-05:00

So this is what happens after a year's worth of inertia. I ripped up my forearm in a senior citizen yoga class last week and am back in the land of limited motion. I can't even ball up my left fist in blind rage. Exercise-wise, I've been taking baby steps so as not to pop an implant, so this pathetic injury is all about being woefully out of shape. These days, I get winded playing Wii and almost pass out after vacuuming a small room. So I'm on the yogi DL for the week.

In the meantime, I figured it was high time to venture back into the steam room. The steam room and I go way back. Back in the day, I would slip unnoticed into the steam room at the Boston Harbor Hotel during lunch hour. Today, in the post 9/11 world, you can't even breach an office food court without getting tazed. Several years ago, I'd go for weekly steams at the local spa where you got your own private bath and unlimited (+free!) use of the spa products. I'd steam it out, then moisturize myself to within an inch of my life with their $400 body cream -- Kanebo Sensai Premier.

We became Y members a couple of years ago so we go there now. It's a beautiful facility and while the community steam room is no frills, it's clean. Mostly. But I knew it would be different from my past experiences when I spotted a woman eating a tuna sandwich in the neighboring sauna.

Still, the Y steam room was especially dear to me over the past two years when I was going through treatment. It was a perfect place for visualization exercises. I'd set up shop on my soggy towel and would envision myself sweating out cancer cells. The only downside was feeling self conscious when other people were in there with me. There's no need to make idle chit chat when you're sweating out toxic waste. But it's even worse when you're bald and disfigured and just want to be invisible, an apparition in the fog.

An advantage of working from home though, is that I can avoid the throngs at the Y and sometimes even get the steam room all to myself. Most days, I find myself steaming among the elderly and Moms with jacked-up Madonna arms, taking advantage of the free babysitting. That's all well and good. However, I also have a nemesis.

One of my neighbors is kind of a middle-aged version of "The Situation." He's one of these guys who finds it physically impossible to keep his shirt on. He mows the lawn shirtless, even if it's 50 degrees. In the summer, he shuns his backyard and deck, props himself up on one of those rubberized chaise lounges from the 70s and sunbathes close to the street. We see him all over town and he's a pleasant enough guy, just a little creepy. I once saw him leering at a table of young women at Uno's. Leering at Uno's. Really?

And as much as he can't keep his shirt on, he can't stay out of the Y either. He is always there. Always. And he frequents the steam room. We'll call him Mr. Steamy.

Aside: Not to be confused with Mr. Steamy dryer balls, which I have an unhealthy obsession with and will discuss on another post.

The last time we had an encounter in the steam room, my hair was in nascent stages of regrowth and I was bird-skinny. I looked like Gollum wearing a furry bathing cap. There were several people in the steam room that day and I sat on the far end, just wanting to close my eyes and do my visualization

Then I heard him:
.
"Hey, is that Kate over there?"

Fuck.

"How you doin? You look good. You feelin good?

Then he proceeded to move over closer to me and ask if i had any recipes for stuffed mushrooms.

It happened a few more times, but now I make sure his car is in his driveway before I venture over to the Y.

Earlier this week, I suited up and headed to the steam room. Sure enough, rounding the corner in full peacock strut -- Mr. Steamy, mindlessly fumbling his dryer balls.

I did a mini cannon ball into the jacuzzi, splashing an older gent who muttered "Jesus" under his breath. Sorry.:)

Mr. Steamy was heading in for a steam so I waited it out in the jacuzzi for a bit. When it was safe, I opened the door and walked in on a what felt like a scene from a mature porn film.

There were two older ladies exfoliating each other with sea salt from a Ziploc bag. Another older man "Lou" was dropping some fragrant essential oils around the floors. Then, lo and behold, Mr. Steamy comes back in with a vial of clear liquid that looked like some kind of lubricant.

"Heyyyyy! Kate! How you doin? Long time, no see. (slaps my back). You look good. You feel good?"

One of the women held out the Ziploc bag and asked me if I wanted some sea salt. She was gracious, but I just can't participate in public exfoliation.

Mr. Steamy walks over to the place where Lou was dropping his oils. "Ladies,Lou, try this..it's really strong eucalyptus. A little different." Mr. Steamy adds his concoction to the already overwhelming sinus-clearing cocktail that Lou had thrown down.

"Oh, that's delicious," said one of the ladies, still rubbing herself silly with sea salt.

Delicious. No..no..no.. it was like homemade tear gas!

I was getting dizzy and anxious. The exact opposite of my intent.

It was time to blow out of this new age whore house.

Does anyone know how much it costs to install a steam shower or infrared sauna in the house? The kids don't need to go to college, do they?

Random Quizzilla

2011-01-14T11:23:00.001-05:00

It felt like a Quizzilla Friday today. It's high time -- the last RQ was Oct 2008. Let's do this thing.

1. Do you hoard anything?
Free perfume samples. It's the French whore in me.

2. Name five things that annoy you: Platitudes, guitar solos lasting more than 6 minutes, Eeyore-esque FB statuses about aches and pains, xenophobes, the Olive Garden.

3. What is the last song you had stuck in your head?
For the better part of a year, I (and several pals) have broken out into the theme song from “What Up With That” from SNL, not unlike Kenan Thompson does in the skit. Watch this clip and try NOT to sing it the rest of the day.

4. When was the last time you slept on the floor?

At Dreama's apartment in Manhattan last year.

5. What is your one of your favorite Urban Dictionary words?

Rick-Rolled. **

**If you clicked on the link, you've just been Rick-Rolled.

Overheard in the Kitchen

2011-01-13T09:38:00.000-05:00

JAMES: Paulie, next weekend is a long weekend.

PAUL: I know. It's Martin Luther King weekend.

JAMES: Do you know who Martin Luther King was?

PAUL: (disdainfully) Of course I do, Dad.

JAMES: Who was he?

PAUL: A pirate!

The "duh" was palpable in Paulie's response. After being corrected, however, he realized he was thinking about Christopher Columbus -- also technically not a pirate, but more understandable with all the ship imagery and pillaging and such. It's a good thing they are learning about MLK in school this week, because this moment, in a different place, could rival the time Caroline told the cashier at Whole Foods that she had yellow teeth.

"Ooh Hoo Makin' Money!"

2011-01-06T13:58:00.004-05:00

The attendant at my regular parking garage looks like Pat Morita and I’m a bit obsessed with him.

I see him twice a week or so, whenever I have meetings in town. Without fail, he approaches my car, a burning cigarette in one hand and a wad of cash in the other. He hands me my parking stub and cat calls: “Ooh hoo! Makin’ money! Makin’ money!”

(What?)

Does he think I’m some pantsuit prostitute? After a few times, I realized this was his trademark greeting, a pep talk of sorts to all us morose corporate souls, dragging our wheelie laptop bags behind us like balls and chains.

Today, a young man reeking of high finance (and failing to look hip in a fedora) looked affright as he grabbed his stub and quickened his pace to the stairwell. Rookie.

“How long ya stayin, lady? Pat Morita says, as always.

I lie and say 30 minutes because I don’t want to leave my keys and get blocked in by the phalanx of cars and SUVs that will end up packed into every last inch of this garage by midday. I made that mistake once and will never do it again.

“Ok, see ya latah,” he says

Pat waddles back to his tiny office, no bigger than an outhouse. It has a small microwave with a piece of charred bubble wrap hanging over it. A Healthy Ones frozen lunch sits on top of the bubble wrap next to a frozen 12-ounce Mountain Dew.

This garage is insane. It operates like a nightclub – one out, one in -- with a “bouncer” standing by the ticket gates, waving in cars when spaces open up. I use the word “spaces” somewhat tenuously. Spaces are irrelevant here. Cars are packed end-to-end, almost all the way to the exit for most of the day. A line starts forming outside early and usually doesn’t subside. I’m sure they’re violating all kinds of codes, but I don’t care. Nobody cares. It’s the cheapest garage downtown. To get a rate this low, you’d have to park in the Seaport and then cringe in that icy head wind (hag face) over the Fort Point Channel.

If you get blocked in, though, you need a crash helmet and nerves of steel when it’s time to leave. When you return for your car, Pat Morita dispatches his posse of attendants who look like A Tribe Called Quest. They fan out with pockets full of car keys and snap into action, moving the other cars around to dig yours out. This is no small feat. These guys must be masters of sliding block puzzles. They’re doing 18-point turns, swearing at each other, screeching in chaotic unison, like bumper cars trying NOT to bump each other. Sometimes alarms are set off, and I’m sure there have been accidents. But most of the time they get it right. Even though it's terrifying to behold.

The garage has been here as long as I can remember and the city has really morphed all around it. I’m surprised it hasn’t been replaced by luxury condos or a Chipotle. They must doing something right. Still, it looks as out of place as I feel these days wandering around town.

When I worked here, it was a giant construction site with a lot of jackhammering, dust and detours. Now, it’s almost serene, walking down pretty, tree-lined streets that don’t dead end into glory holes (and having work days that don’t end with me drinking cheap wine out of a shoe at Weggie's Pub.)

Still, I'm happy to be back in here and makin' a little money (Ooh hoo!) from time to time. Even Pat Morita is happy -- almost jolly -- in his work, even in his little outhouse office.

At the end of the day, I retrieve my car and Pat’s still there.

“Hi, lady! You make money today.”

“I did.”

“Good, good! Ya gotta make money! See ya latah!"

I climb into my unblocked car and maneuver my way down the ramp, trying not to sideswipe any cars illegally squeezed onto the median.

Then it hit me. “Makin' money” is not about Pat’s customers at all. It’s about him! It’s like his own personal ka-ching. Every time he hands out a parking stub and crams in another car, he’s raking the cash in hand over fist. Makin’ money! Likely a lot more than most of us. Good for you, Pat.

As I caught sight of Pat in my rearview mirror, I swear he rolled up a dollar bill and began to smoke it.

7 Minutes in Hell (aka First Night)

2011-01-03T13:35:00.005-05:00

I've always found New Year’s Eve to be a collection of common disasters and I tend to avoid crowds whenever possible. But my kind neighbor gave me 10 First Night Buttons and some VIP passes and it was 50 degrees outside. So, in a moment of holiday cheer (or weakness), I indulged my delusions of family magic in the city. I pictured us drinking hot cocoa and watching fireworks. I thought the kids would just love walking in the Grand Procession alongside some of those crazy large-headed puppets shooting laser beams into the sky. The plan was drama free: Caroline, Paulie and I would meet KT and her three kids on the BPL steps at 3 p.m. see some ice sculptures, perhaps get some faces painted, watch the freak parade, and be home by 6 p.m.

Visions of face painting danced in their heads. But it was not to be.

Within moments of meeting, however, KT and I realized we should've just gone to the W for drinks, instead of wandering into this Copley Square clusterfuck with five young kids.

It was madness. It appeared that all of New England had converged on Boylston Street to take advantage of the balmy weather. It was nearly impossible to keep the kids herded into our own personal space. Worse, my kiddos aren't city savvy yet. Without hypervigilance, they would wander into intersections, or stop short on a crowded street, sending disgruntled revelers veering into filthy snowbanks to avoid tripping over them. This year, the sidewalks were narrowed further, partially roped off with yellow "caution" tape because of the ever-present threat of getting impaled by one of the death icicles dangling perilously from the buildings' underhangs. Every now and then, one would smash to the ground and it was like a window had fallen out of the John Hancock tower. Mad crowds, hypervigilance, death icicles. Happy New Year! What the hell were we thinking?

I think Paulie knows the day is going to suck.

What the hell were we thinking, part 2: We purchased vuvuzelas for the kids.

The First Night vendors are the creepiest lot, likely part of some prison work release program. And probably pedophiles. Another charming thought: Pedophiles selling light-up butterfly wands and disco ball scepters to legions of young children in crowded, chaotic places.

First Night was not a great place for young kids, and certainly not for my generalized anxiety disorder.

We walked up to the Hynes Convention Center in search of face painting. Instead, we were accosted by a salesman who asked us if our basements were waterproofed. We then learned that the line for face painting snaked around the entire convention hall. We decided to get the hell out of there. "Hey guys! Wanna go see if the ice sculptures melted?"

It was a 30 minute, two-block pilgrimage back to Copley Square. It was a challenge not to lose the kids in the throngs. The whole way, we were barking at them for their lack of spatial awareness. "Use the buddy system!" "Don’t space out on the escalators!" "Look out for that mailbox!" "Watch the light pole!" "Don’t blow the vuvuzelas in Starbucks!" I was starting to believe that people who leash their kids aren’t insane. Finally, I just held onto their hoods.

Hold on to your hoods! Let's get some street meat!

And we thought the afternoon was bad so far? It hadn't even begun to suck!

Everyone was starving, so we got some fried dough and street meat and gawked at the sweating ice sculptures for a bit. A couple of police officers asked if the kids wanted to sit on their motorcycles. Paulie stood beside me eating a basket of chicken fingers, while the girls climbed into the seats.

This was the final photo of the day for reasons that will become clear.

I snapped a photo of the girls, then went to grab Paulie’s hood and he was gone. GONE! I looked left, looked right, I spun around. He was nowhere to be found. We all started spreading out, calling his name. I told Caroline to stay with KT, and I ran up and down the sidewalk with my hair on fire, peeking in between the throngs of people. All I could think was: This is how it happens. In a split second. Someone took him. He couldn’t have gotten out of sight in two seconds by himself in this huge crowd. With every frantic second that passed, it became more real. I was shaking and running amok, screaming his name in a voice I’ve never heard before. He was not anywhere in the immediate area. I started running back to the police officers but was mobbed by Samaritans wanting to help: What does your son look like? What was he wearing? How old is he? By now, I was hyperventilating, trying to get the words out: Patriots sweatshirt. Brown hair. He’s 6.

Thankfully 10 –year-old DT (smart ) said “He was eating chicken nuggets!”

One of the Samaritans yelled out: “I just saw a little boy in a Patriots sweatshirt with chicken nuggets. I think he was up by the bus stop, just past Clarendon Street!” This was a block and a half away. We all took off – KT, the kids, the Samaritans. I was still convinced somebody had him. I was in a full-on panic – an epic fail in the cool head department.

Then beautiful words from DT : “I see him! I see him!” Then we all saw him at once. He was standing with a man, a woman and their two young sons, still holding his basket of chicken fingers. I screamed his name and he spotted me and ran to me crying. The Samaritans and the young family that was watching him all broke into cheers. I broke into convulsing sobs and just hugged Paulie for about five minutes. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

I’ve always told the kids if they get separated from us to find a policeman or a woman with children. But this woman found him first. She spotted him walking down Boylston Street, looking scared and totally lost. She had the presence of mind to just stand with him there and not move, "We are going to stay with you right here until your mom finds you. She is definitely looking for you." She also shared a simple but brilliant tip. She writes her cellphone number on her kids’ arms so they can have someone call if they get lost. Paulie knows my cell phone but couldn’t recall it in the panic.

How it happened: Apparently, he spaced out and started following a woman who had a similar coat to mine. I just can’t believe how far away he got in so little time. This whole ordeal went down in about 7 minutes, but took about 7 years off my life.

The single worst moment I’ve ever experienced. I don't even know what we would've done if KT and the sunshine band weren't with us. Thank you, my friends.

Caroline, who was also shaken, piped up: “Quick! Let’s get out of here before someone else gets lost.” Best idea we'd heard all day.

When we got home, James tried to talk me down, saying it probably happened to about 100 people that day. And that at least it happened in 2010. True. Best NYE ever: At home, everyone safe, watching Taio Cruz sing “Dynamite” in Times Square with Caroline and Paul in a bear hug on my lap. And a gigantic goblet of red wine on the coffee table.

Scenes from the Blizza

2010-12-28T10:59:00.000-05:00

For hours, we sat slackjawed in front of the TV, Wii, and iPad. Then we figured out how to turn Apples to Apples Disney Edition into a drinking game. Some gratuitous shots from a serious snow day:

James tackles the heartattack snow while Caroline pelts him with icy snowballs and Vito
hampers progress.

James scares the shit out of the photog.

Vito cools his junk on a snowbank.

Seriously?

No creature tracks yet.

Bunny-sitting: One of the rare shots of Zippy that doesn't include Vito trying to wheelbarrow
her cottontail.

There were balls and gravy.

And snowy trees.

And more snowy trees. Pretty.

Get Drunk on the Christmas

2010-12-23T20:29:00.003-05:00

Happy Holidays to all! Vito is going to reward everyone now with 30 seconds of uninterrupted eye contact.

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Word of the Day: Frottage

2010-12-20T11:53:00.000-05:00

"I love living in Manhattan so much that I don't even mind it that much
when strangers dry hump me on the subway." - Dream

My friend Dream came to town to celebrate the Sag/Cap birthdays and within minutes our pre-Beehive conversation turned to the phenomenon of Frottage. From the french for "rubbing," Frottage is basically the act of dry humping unsuspecting people in crowded spaces. Apparently this happens often in NYC and in larger cities, usually in night clubs or on the subways. And while it's not accepted, it's by no means uncommon. Dream said the "frotteurs" as they are called, "just get on you on a packed subway car and there's no where to go really." In her case, she stomped on the guy's foot but it only seemed to encourage him more. "He was like a golden retriever on my leg."

Dream did a little investigating and learned that Frottage was recently added to the DSM as a legit psychological disorder. In fact, the frotteurs prefer it when the humpee is an unconsenting stranger. I can't imagine a scenario where anyone would welcome some gyrating intruder -- and definitely not on public transportation! Thanks for that! Would you like me to buy you a donut with sprinkles at the next stop?

In all my years riding the T, I'm thankful that I never experienced this phenomenon, but I'm shocked that I have never witnessed it. A large sweaty person fell on top of me on the Green Line once and lingered for what seemed like an unreasonable amount of seconds. Another time, a dude who looked like Richard Simmons sat across from me on the train wearing short mesh gym shorts. Seconds later, his junk was weaving out of one side like a charmed snake. I've definitely seen and experienced the occasional grope, but a full-on dry hump? No.

Apparently, some well-trained "subway" frotteurs have honed their skills to the point where they are so attuned to the clickety clack of a train on tracks, that they can convince their unwitting victim that "maybe it is just a duffel bag." Not all of these renegade rubbers are men, either. Many women are part of the movement as well, according to one of their Facebook pages.

This FB site is UK based and features hilarious descriptions of different types of "frotjects." I've pasted them into the post below. Study the list. The next time you're in a crowded space, you may realize that jogging stroller behind you is not a jogging stroller at all! It could be a "The Blitzkrieg." We're pretty sure that Dream got "Bus Stopped."

'DRY HUMP'
The canine approach, favoured by those new to the practice, used openly on friends, usually in a pub or club. One grabs the subject of the frottage (the Frotject) and while maintaining a firm grip with your arms on any available encirclable appendage they possess, repeatedly hammer your pelvis against their leg.

'THE RAA THRUST'
A more subtle approach. Perfect for drinks parties and when amongst new friends. Facing, and in close proximity to your Frotject, ensure you have a G&T in your left hand and your right hand in your trouser pocket. Whilst making the small talk, crack a ribald joke or comment and laugh obnoxiously loudly whilst simultaneously arching your back away and thrusting your hips forward into the Frotject. (Good Frommonts ((Frot comment)) to accompany the thrust are, 'COME FAR?' and 'LOVELY DAY FOR IT!'

'THE BLITZKREIG'
A lightning attack on unsuspecting prey. Perfect to use on the beautiful stranger on that darkened dance floor. Gains maximum frottage for minimum slappage with strangers. Circle your frotject without making any obvious advance in their direction, gradually edging closer (similar to stalking wildebeast). Place your innermost advance to be situated immediately behind the Frotject. Under the play of grooving to whatever godawful song is lacerating the tender ambience of whatever sticky floored, red wallpapered, jug filled lounge you may find yourself in, raise your arms and, similar to the raa thrust, gyrate and thrust your crotch into the callipigian rump found in front of you. Immediately spin away to absorb yourself anonymously into the crowd to assume your innocent dancing.

'THE BUS STOP'
Queuing for drinks at the bar, bank queues, standing on the tube. The most reckless of frottage involves a long contact frot, probably the most sensuous of frots on strangers. In a busy bar queung for drinks, one may engage themselves to press overly far forwards and 'hold' themselves against the back of the innocent frotject ahead of you in the queue. If any protestations of contact occur, the offence is easily palmed off to the people pushing behind you.

'FENCING IN'
A skillful dance of the frotteur, dancing with your chosen partner guide the frotject towards a wall and keep bumping and grinding whilst pinning them against said wall. Great for turning that innocent boogy into something far more sinister.

'COWBOY'
One of the more rambuctious approaches to frottage. straddle your prey while they unsuspectingly take a break on a chair/sofa and ride the frot.

No longer a misanthrope

2010-12-13T12:49:00.001-05:00

Euphoric.

Not Paulie. Me. I am officially no longer a misanthrope. My faith in humanity has been shored up by some extraordinary kindnesses over the past two years, often in unexpected places. This weekend: another testament to the random kindness of strangers. Caroline and I had our girls' night at the Nutcracker a few weeks ago (thanks, Momma!) and Paulie and I had our own night out at the Bruins on Saturday night (thanks, Michelle P!). We went super premium in the plush Heineken Boardroom. Before we sat down, Paulie plotted his mission to get on the Jumbotron and I lingered by a carving station with a glass of pinot noir. A group of men sitting in the front row saw Paulie and I trying to find a seat. They all got up and rearranged their row so we could sit in the leather club chairs right up front. Though he was the youngest kid in the Boardroom, Paulie got everyone on their feet, led the "Let’s go Bruins" chant and got up on the Jumbotron twice before the game even started. He treated our seat neighbors to his best Rene Rancourt impersonation, complete with fist pump. Then he removed his yellow Bs cap, placed it over his heart and belted out the National Anthem.

Lord of the Jumbotron

It was heartwarming to see strangers enjoying his company, *appreciating* him and being right on board with his passion and silliness and incessant toasting with Sprite. He told his new friend Jack that his favorite player was Tyler Seguin and that Tim Thomas rocked. Jack disappeared for a bit during the third period. When he returned to the Boardroom, he handed Paulie a bag. Inside: a brand new Seguin shirt from the Pro Shop. Still flying high from his third appearance on the Jumbotron, Paulie became positively elated. I thought he was going to faint. I teared up and thanked Jack for his generous gesture. He waved it off. "Merry Christmas! He's a great little guy!"

There's a lot of good will floating around out there lately. I need to plug into it. I love the stories about people buying coffee for the drivers behind them in line at the Dunkies drive thru. I may have to start drinking coffee again.

And more good will. Last week, a local company, Brownstone Insurance, pledged to donate $5 to Paula's family for every person who "Likes" their Facebook page. Watching that number go from 12 to 1,200 within an hour of posting...let's just say I haven't cried that hard since the Apple store replaced my shattered iPhone free of charge even though it was past warranty. Unexpected places. Not a misanthropic bone in my body.

So I'm on a MISSION today to do a random good deed. Any ideas?

Boulos and I in the Boardroom

Lennon, man

2010-12-08T16:03:00.000-05:00

Elizabeth Edwards

2010-12-08T10:59:00.002-05:00

I was planning on posting a couple of John Lennon songs today. I certainly wasn't expecting this. When I heard the news, I felt like someone kicked me behind the knees. Then, I began steeling myself for an onslaught of packaged, flowery news stories; of celebrity doctors prattling on about early detection; and of tabloid mags salivating over the prospect of reliving the big scandal. I flipped on the Today Show this morning and heard a truly bizarre interview with that Dr. Nancy lady about "the good death" and "owning the death." Wha? It's been less than 24 hours; it's a little premature, Dr. Nancy. Obviously trying way too hard for a "more enlightened" news angle. Show some restraint. Wretched hag.

Amid all of the muck, I can't stop thinking about five friends of mine, in particular, who are feeling the unavoidable uneasiness this morning. Hang on, ladies. If anyone needs wine this week, you know where to find me.

When I was trying to diagnose myself on Google, I found an interview with Elizabeth Edwards where she discussed finding her own lump: "I'd like to say that I found it because I was doing a breast exam," Edwards says. "No. I found it because it was just so friggin' large. In fact, I was thinking, 'How could I have not felt this yesterday?'"

I knew exactly what she meant. How do you walk around with what feels like a ceramic hummel in your boob and not be aware of it? But it happens. Sure, you wish you could've found it earlier, but at the same time, you were out living your life, not scouring your body, groping for impending doom, or searching for disease in every discomfort or discoloration.

Be vigilant, but not doomy and obsessive. You'll hear enough about early detection this week so I'll spare you my screed here. :)

I love Edwards' final message that she doesn't want to be remembered for "losing" her battle with cancer. She wants to remembered for living a good life. Amen.

Aside: "I'll save my 'battles' for AT&T's customer service reps." Mary Elizabeth Williams, a melanoma survivor, discusses why it's time to put to rest the tired cliches of "battling" or "losing the battle to" cancer.

Earlier this year, some opportunist political hacks published a book about the 2008 campaign trail that excoriated Edwards for being a raving lunatic bitch. It was distasteful, poorly sourced, and felt like an unnecessary piling on (but, hey, it sells books). At the same time, I thought, if "bitch" was the worst label these people could attach to Edwards, perhaps she should wear it as a badge of honor. I felt badly for Edwards but was relieved to hear she wasn't a saint. If anything, it made me like her even more for being human.

A Jan 2010 column by writer Connie Schultz was quoted many times after that book came out. I hope it gets rolled out again when the publicity whores crawl out from beneath their rocks this week to critique Edwards' behavior in and out of the public eye over the past few years.

"If I were living Elizabeth Edwards' life, I'm not sure who I'd be by now, and that uncertainty is mighty humbling.

We want to believe the best about ourselves. We watch someone else stumble and insist we'd respond differently. But live long enough, and life will bring you to your knees. I have not buried a child. I do not have incurable cancer. I have not been betrayed by the man I love, never had to set eyes on the baby the entire world knows he fathered behind my back.

I know this: I would stumble forward in pieces."

I Think I May Be Over Thinking Things

2010-12-07T14:13:00.000-05:00

I'm listening to Vito growl at a coil of fresh garland that I'm supposed to be stringing up but I keep getting drawn back in here. I miss the PU. I made a few ham-fisted attempts to start another blog over the past couple of months but could never quite agree on a name, or design, or font, or some other silly setting. At one point, I actually used the word "rebranding." Out loud. Then I immediately had the urge to smack myself upside the head with a Mistletoe-scented Yankee Candle (large jar variety). How could I let inane corporate speak tarnish this terrain? Circle back up your own arse; this is not a goat rodeo, it's the PU!

Actually it's simple procrastination. I've been paralyzed by fear. After all that's happened the past two years, I'm afraid I have nothing to write about, or worse, nothing to say. But, in revisiting some of the pre-2009 posts, I realized that never stopped me before.

So, it's 1 p.m. on a Tuesday and I've just poured myself a glass of red this big (no judgment) to see if I can conjure the spirit of this rudderless blog. If Vito doesn't lift his peg leg anywhere near the garland in the next few minutes, we could be in business.

Updates (just in case...)

I lost my amazing sister-in-law Paula on Aug 9 and it's been nothing less than a spiritual amputation for everyone. Anyone who has experienced loss can attest it's like waking up in a new reality that you never wished for. She was a fixture on this blog and with bear hugs to Peg M and e.e cummings, the mantra: "i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart). i am never without it (anywhere you i go you go, my dear)."

I wrote this essay about Paula for the Patriot Ledger in Oct and it's much more clearheaded than anything I could repeat here about the impact P had on me. You would hear 100+ similar stories from anyone who knew her.

The Rack

I started the first phases of reconstruction back in April and it was touch and go for a several months as to whether the teets would “take." I had my final surgery on Nov 12 and all is well. I look pretty much the same as before but they're just *out there.* I didn’t want to look like a porn star (at least not permanently) so we're not dealing in cannonballs so much as billiard balls. Rack 'em up.

I'd write about the surgery experience but thanks to a wonderful, amnesia-producing pharmaceutical called Versed, it's all eternal sunshine. I remember nothing except an orderly in the recovery room who may or may not have been a member of Alice in Chains in the 90s.

Other news:

Vito has lost 6 pounds...

Can't you tell?

How about from this angle?

So, with a giant sigh and a "WTF was that," I'm ready to move forward. Can the PU be reignited? Can I get a fawning chorus of Hallelujiahs or boos? I'll cry either way...believe.

And in the End...

2010-01-11T14:00:00.003-05:00

(Rolling out)

My last post was October 29th? Really?

It’s official. The PU can’t go back to being what it once was. After this past year, it’s just too awkward a segue.

I've tried but I can't conjure the universe of yore, pre-2009: Extemporaneous musings on whatever the pointy finger was trained upon, be it Dunkin' Donuts or Mixed Tapes. Random Quizzillas, Suppah Clubs, Wee Brown shenanigans, Vito Video, Cream Shop Fridays, Rants on current events, etc.

But if I’ve learned anything this year, it's that the energy goes where it's needed most.

I started the PU in June 2005 as a respite from the daily shit show. I'd just moved to the suburbs. I freelanced at home with a one and a two year old (and no sitter). I'd been chronicling my daily observations in notebooks and journals since I was old enough to spell, but this type of writing was different. Being so isolated, I needed a way to plug in, and the PU provided the perfect outlet.

Also, at age 35, I felt like my life and the lives of my friends were on some life-altering cusp. We had one foot in the adult world, the other one stubbornly entrenched in a more youthful one. During this time, we essentially lived two lives: One about family life: We get married, have kids, buy homes and go to BJ's Wholesale Club. The other about the craic: We mainline bowls of loud mouth soup in town and act out, sing Beatles songs, and kitchen dance on Nantucket vacations. Such transition naturally gives rise to introspection, analysis, and ridiculous situations. For me, the PU became a way to celebrate the small joys during this time. And to rage against the incurious. I also had a million laughs connecting with people the only way I really know how.

As a bonus, I made new friends and reconnected with old ones. I acquired some new sparring partners and had a crash course in Shoebox philosophy more valuable than any degree. I conversed with regular readers and butted heads with more than a few angry trolls. I've been insulted and inspired, but mostly inspired. Somewhere along the way I learned anything can be solved or celebrated with a bottle of red wine and a kitchen chinwag.

Now, I'm on the other side of the cusp. In the past year, I beat cancer, celebrated my 10th year wedding anniversary and turned 40 in a blow-out party (thank you). And so far the view from this side is awesome.

That said, I feel the PU has reached its natural end. Five years is a good run. I'm tempted to say I'm taking some time off to be with my family but that statement in 2010 sounds like I'm covering up a a sex scandal involving Nutella fudge and a hidden camera. In the coming months, I am going to focus on some new work assignments and writing projects. And of course, James, the wee brown ones and Vito. The energy is going where it's needed most.

I WILL launch another blog. The drive to document hasn't waned, it just needs to change shape. If you care in the slightest, please subscribe to this site and you’ll be pinged with any updates -- and possibly a new link or muse.

Wishing you so much peace and joy in 2010 that you have to unbutton your pants and be cut out of your winter coat with fabric shears.

Signing off for now.

With love,
KJ

Energy Healing with Ms. PacMan and German Shepherds

2009-10-29T13:30:00.000-04:00

Body, mind, spirit -- not quite sex, drugs & rock-n-roll but a similar package deal. Each has some effect on the other. I've been taking care of the body and mind as best I can, but have been focused on the spirit as of late. I've started Kundalini yoga, which focuses on meditation as well as poses. It's been a challenge not to dissolve into church giggles during the chanting portion of the class, but I'm getting better. I've also been trying to scare up some Reiki on a regular basis.

I have two good friends and a cousin in California who are Reiki masters but I needed someone closer to home (and less close to me) to do some massage on my busted soul.

Aside: During brunch at Strawberry Fair many months ago, I was telling some pals about the Reiki masters. A distracted Cameo replied, "What? Reggae Masters? You mean like Rastafarians?"

After some online research and a flurry of emails, I found a practitioner nearby, a woman who does Reiki, Acupressure and Craniosacral massage interchangeably. She also had a number of glowing testimonials from cancer patients. The therapist told me she could come to my house but I thought it would be more helpful if I got out of my daily element, i.e., the hulking pile of laundry in the corner, rugs encrusted with Honey Nut Cheerios, Vito whining by the fridge, etc.

She said her studio in the woods offered a great healing environment -- “if you don’t mind rustic." Now, I’m not a big fan of rustic but can handle it in small doses if it's within driving distance to Dunkies or Starbucks. I scribbled directions on the back of a Hannaford's receipt and headed out.

Aside: Google Maps pinpointed three DDs and two Starbucks between here and there and it was only a few minutes drive.

Per her directions, I pulled onto a dirt road with no street sign. An adorable yellow lab freaked out in the first yard on the right (also per her directions). As I drove deeper into the woods -- and way, way up a hill -- the road became narrower, the brush thicker. The leaves and branches hung lower and lower over my car brushing past the windows like the bristles in a car wash. I started thinking that you could not only hide a body up here, but also an entire car. I drove a few more yards and then stopped the car, thinking I'd bail on this half-assed holistic mission. Are this many trees necessary for chilling?

But then the therapist appeared a little further up the road. She was a tall woman with very broad shoulders. Her hair, grayish brown, hung past her waist; her bangs were cropped severely across her forehead. She was part Kevin McHale, part Danielle Rousseau from Lost. She raised her long arm, beckoning me to pull my car up a little further.

Shit.

I glanced at her directions, which I'd scribbled down verbatim: “Pull to the very end of the road. Cut the engine.”

Cut the engine?! Her choice of words suddenly struck me as alarming. I decided I would tuck my iPhone under the floor mat in my car so the police could track me on the GPS if I went missing. I pulled my car forward. Then I decided I should probably keep my phone close by in case I needed to call 911. She signaled for me to stop. I was convinced I'd wandered into the lair of some insane Craig's List killer or a scene from the book "Lovely Bones." In a few months, that yellow lab would dig up my elbow or femur.

Then I remembered to breathe: A) I didn't find her on Craig's List. b) She came highly recommended, and it was my idea to come here. c) Relax.

I wasted a little time pretending to rifle around in the front seat and then stepped out of the car. She walked ahead of me, not speaking.

I degenerated into inane nervous chit chat: "So, how long have you been up here?" “Wow, is that your horse over there?"

She answered me, Rousseau-style, one-word answers: "Twenty years." "Yes."

Her studio, outfitted in a small log cabin, was cozy and warm. And once inside, she became a different person, very soothing and personable. Or maybe I finally tuned out my irrational mind.

For the entire two hours, she explained in great detail how energy healing works. She discussed blocked chakras and the flow of chi and the power of visualization. She said she knew of a woman who actually cured her own cancer by picturing two doves flying around inside her body, pecking at corn kernels that represented cancer cells. When the corn kernels were gone, so was her cancer.

Aside: Ok, definitely skeptical about that one but I've decided to visualize Ms. Pacman and a pack of German Shepherds -- because why not.

She also shared techniques for dodging the shards of negative energy, however insignificant, that bombard us daily. From the news to DBs at Derby Street to road ragers to the Octomom, even the small things, overtime, can pollute the soul. And they're harder to dodge than you think (without imaginary German Shepherds).

Aside: Herein, the phrase "it is what it is" earns you a bombardment with New Age crystals.

Driving home from the massage, I was teeming with chi, caffeine free, no need to stop for coffee when you have Reiki. The rhyming and healing continues...

Shamelessly Pimping My Words Again

2009-10-27T13:25:00.009-04:00

(As Dr. Nic would say: "Big face, big face.")

Pink Lady
Today, the Patriot Ledger features a sort of in her own words story and audio slide show on the wee brownies and me. Vito even makes a few cameos (be kind: the camera adds five pounds) Great family photos, but the sound of my voice makes me want to crawl under the nearest braided rug.

"The Devil Wears a Mini Skirt?" -- KB
Also in today's PL is an article I wrote on how slutty Halloween costumes for young girls enrage parents. Some great quotes from local mommas who have insightful, often hilarious takes on the issue.

The Land of Ned

2009-10-09T20:27:00.006-04:00

Last October, I participated in breast cancer walks. I clicked on the pink ribbon in a Facebook application or two. I even scoffed down one of those pink bagels from Panera Bread.

What I did not do, however, was perform a self-breast exam (SBE) or schedule a mammogram. Granted, the restroom at Panera is not the ideal location for an SBE. Still, once I polished off a bagel, sponsored a walk or logged off Facebook, breast cancer simply slipped my mind. I was only 38 years old. I have a family history of cancer but have always been vigilant about annual check-ups and leafy greens.

Then three days before Christmas, I was flipping channels with my daughter and we came across the movie “The Sweetest Thing” starring Cameron Diaz and Christina Applegate. It was the scene where Diaz’s character, age 28, is standing in a dressing room, talking about breasts and gravity.

She pushes her breasts up to where they were when she was 22, then lets them fall to where they are now at age 28. She repeats this a few times, “22, 28, 22, 28.” My daughter found this hilarious, so I mimicked the movements. Then I felt something in my left breast. Something big and weird, like a ceramic hummel, one of the creepier ones, possibly pushing a wheel barrow with a hairless cat. I decided to schedule a doctor's appointment for after the New Year, because mammograms around the holidays…meh.

Aside: I think Christina Applegate, a breast cancer survivor, may have had all her films re-edited with subliminal messages to perform SBEs.

My first ultrasound was “suspicious.” I ran around with my hair on fire, ordering $200 worth of supplements from the Internet. I Googled images of malignant mammograms and learned the medical terms that would condemn or save me.

I pointed to my mammogram films and asked my doctor, “Are those pleomorphic calcifications in the upper left quadrant.” “Yes,” she said, pointing them out.

“I see they’re in a cluster, but are they also linear,” I squeaked out this question, knowing the answer. The doctor suggested I stay off the Internet and said the results, while “worrisome,” didn’t necessarily translate into doom.

I Googled survival rates. What was I going to tell my kids? I was officially swept into the current.

The MRI and biopsy results brought the final verdicts crashing over me like a series of rogue waves. You have breast cancer (CRASH). Invasive Ductal Carcinoma, stage 3 (CRASH). It’s in the nodes (CRASH). Just as I was getting my footing, the final wave ripped the suit from my body and knocked me to the ground: You need chemotherapy, a mastectomy, and radiation, starting immediately. I felt completely naked, lying in child’s pose on the floor of the doctor’s office, not wanting to walk out and face what was ahead.

Whenever I saw a pink ribbon, I saw red. The color pink, so soft and feminine, represents a disease that completely defeminizes; a disease that robs women of their breasts, their hair, their sex drive, their self image. Not to mention the pink ribbons are so ubiquitous that they’ve become generic and no longer mean anything. Each diagnosis is as individual as the woman going through it. We all need to find our own talisman.

My grandmother, Nana Rie, got breast cancer at age 37. She died in perfect health at age 81 after being struck by a car on her way home from a dance class. I wanted to conjure her spirit. Instead of pink ribbons, I wore her funky costume jewelry and pins. I wore medals and good luck charms. I showed up to my first treatment looking like George Clinton.

Nevertheless, I give thanks to the pink ribbon and its army. One in eight women will get breast cancer in their lifetime. Because of the pink ribbon, and the sheer numbers who’ve contributed to the cause, coffers overflow with research dollars and many more women will survive, even thrive, after breast cancer.

Aside: There was a fantastic article by Kris Frieswick in the Boston Globe Magazine about companies profiting from the pink ribbon. It’s something worth keeping in mind before purchasing pink products.

At the market last week, I saw “Sweet and Low” candies emblazoned with the pink ribbon. My first reaction was, “Wait, doesn’t that stuff cause cancer?” Even if it doesn’t it can’t be healthy. Going forward, I’ve decided that instead of buying pink candy, I’ll donate to a local breast cancer charity like Learn, Live, Love here on the South Shore. When I see pink, I’ll grab a healthy whole food snack and remind a friend about early detection. I’ll book a massage or take a yoga class. I’ll not only donate to great causes, but invest in my own health and wellness along the road to the land of NED (No Evidence of Disease).

Burn, MF, Burn

2009-10-03T13:43:00.002-04:00

Around a backyard bonfire with James, the wee brownies and some pals -- a glass of Veuve Clicquot in hand -- I torched the johnny. Then I went to my car, found the mesh tube top, and torched that too.

The Sacrificial Johnny

2009-09-28T15:32:00.002-04:00

Rad # 35 -- Today, 11 a.m., DF L2
Tomorrow marks the end of a seven-week journey that began with gamma rays and meditation and ended with second degree burns and Percocet. Radiation -- or "rads," as the cool cancer patients call it -- blindsided me in its degree of suckage. My Irish/Italian skin is no stranger to sunburn, having sizzled with baby oil and other foolish grease during my teens and early 20s. I figured a religious application of aloe would suffice just as it had in sunburns past. But these are not normal sunburns. These are like nuclear holocaust burns. I'm torched! If anyone knows where I can rent a hyperbaric chamber, please let me know.

After 35 rads, I'm pretty freakish. I'm hobbling around, Igor-like, and can't swing my arms when I walk. Simple cotton T-shirts are like an all-out assault on the torso. That's the physical toll. I'm fried mentally as well. Every day since August 10, I’ve driven to the DF for an 11 a.m. appointment. I've suited up in a johnny, gotten blasted, and then driven home in a mesh tube top jury-rigged with Aquafor and an ice pack. By 3 p.m each day, I've collapsed in a heap, narcoleptic. Waah. BUT.. all this slashing and burning seems to be working. And now, there's just one treatment remaining! Just as hair grows, skin heals and energy recharges. Within a few weeks, things should be back to some semblance of normal. And, overall, I've had it pretty good. Things could have gone far worse.

Aside: Whoever invented Aquafor needs to be glorified from on high.

(TBB)

Still, today at the DF, something snapped in me; it was similar to Easter Sunday when I hurled my clogs into the brook behind my house. This time, I focused my frustration on the shapeless, generic johnny and all it represents. It's the gown of the sick, designed for intrusive treatments; its faulty twill ties are the culprit of many unintentional ass flashings. After I changed back into my regular clothes today, I seized the johnny. I was going to chuck it out the nearest window and watch it flutter down onto Binney Street. Then I remembered I was on the basement floor of the DF. Curses! So I balled it up, stuffed it in my purse and beat feet out of there. I am going to do to the johnny what’s been done to me for the past seven weeks: I’m gonna burn the MF.

For awhile now, I've been planning a "Fuck Cancer" bonfire where I will incinerate all tangible memories of cancer -- the headscarves and wigs, the jeans and yoga pants that I wore to chemo and radiation over and over again, my eyebrow kit, a pair of North Face flip flops, and maybe even a few organic yogurts for good measure. The whole idea of this bonfire delights the tiny pyromaniac that lives inside my soul. Last month, James and my nephew dug an old school firepit in my yard, the primary intention being a gathering spot for this fall -- roasting marshmellows, drinking wine, and watching football (many thanks to our dear Rowlettes who have provided the outdoor TV for this endeavor!). But I also plan to do some hard core destruction out there once my treatment is finished. While I'm not officially finished until May, I'm going to sacrifice the johnny tomorrow evening to mark the end of rads. Milestones!

Rad One -- August 10th, DF, L2
The radiation therapists are a bunch of good looking extroverts in their 20s; they've gathered in the treatment room to check out the tattoos on my chest. This is not some strange fantasy. A fews weeks earlier, my radiation oncologist tattooed a smattering of freckle-sized dots across my radiation fields. This is done so the therapists can line up the radiation beams in the same spot each day.

This is an awkward situation for me but the therapists are thoroughly unfazed. All of them appear to be gifted in the art of small talk. These are exactly the kinds of people you want hovering over you when you're lying topless on a narrow table, arms in straps over your head, your disfigured body and jutting scars on full display. They are true professionals who look you in the eye and ask you about your weekend plans while they are drawing dotted lines on your chest (connecting the tats!) with a green Sharpie. For a few moments, I don't feel like my dignity is hanging by a shred, I feel like I'm at jury duty. It's almost casual.

Rad Random -- Tues., Sept 22nd
A rotund young man singing opera by the elevator banks in the parking garage -- in Italian and everything.

Rad (Crap!) -- Mon., Sept 21st
With only a week left, my radiation oncologist decided to she wanted to add on a few extra treatments because of some internal mammary nodes that looked "hot" (aka cancerous) on an MRI that I had back in Jan. Apparently, cancers in the internal nodes are most likely to spread and/or recur. For me, they were the nodes that made the difference between stage 2 and stage 3 (and right now, I'm a stage nuthin). So, the doc said why not throw everything and the kitchen sink at this thing now to give us a better chance of not having to do it again later. Yes. Yes, please. LDT. Let's throw it all out there -- kitchen sinks, cafeteria trays, plastic bags of deli meat -- whatever works. I don't want to ever do this again.

Rad Pals
Going into the DF every day, you start to see the same people over and over again. Overtime, you develop a camaraderie and adopt a set of unspoken rules. For instance, there are no empty platitudes thrown around, no words about thanking God every day for the gift of C. Everyone here is all too aware of how much this sucks. If prayers are offered up, they are for the strength to get through it all -- for us and those who have to deal with us. Another rule: When it's someone's first day, whoever has been there the longest sort of welcomes the new person and explains what it's been like, etc. Most important rule: Be positive. Nobody needs to be brought crashing down on their first day of rads when they have 30-40 more ahead of them.

Here are some of the pals (names changed):

Stats:

Mary (lung), age 72. She is Florence Henderson with a brogue. A beautifully-dressed, positive force of energy. Most days she worries about how her husband of 49 years is handling all of this. She talks about their place in Florida and how she can't wait to get back there when she is better. All around lovely woman.

Lisa (breast), age 37. Just got married last year and was trying to get pregnant when she was diagnosed. Had her eggs frozen pre-chemo so she can get back to her plans next year. She has the exact same diagnosis as me, but had a really tough time with chemo and is still on crutches because of neuropathy. She has no tolerance for whining. She's always smiling, always compliments people on their hair growth, and loves the word "frig."

Stephanie (breast), Newton, age 44. On oxygen (no idea why she's on oxygen). Like a thundercloud in the room. Always discussing her ailments and general misery. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that out of the four of us in the room, she's got the best prognosis. A total camel.

Enter Ruth from Dorchester (lung), age 62. She walks through the waiting room, having just finished her first radiation treatment. "That was like getting abducted by aliens!" she says. We all laugh. Ruth works at Brigham & Women's; she just had surgery, and will be doing rads on her lunch hour every day. She has 6 kids and 18 grandchildren. She jokes that she doesn't know half of their names. "Every now and then one of them runs through my kitchen and I say, 'Who the hell are you?'"

What we say to Ruth:

MARY: We just do the best we can. We are lucky to live in Boston, we are in the best possible place.
LISA: Yes, Boston is the best city to get cancer in, no doubt.
ME: This place gives you confidence in your treatments, which has got to help with healing on some level.
STEPHANIE: “That's all true, but unfortunately, cancer always wins.”

UGH. I could hear the Debbie Downer “wuh wahh” hanging in the air. MF camel.

What we say to Stephanie:

ME: Not always.
What I wanted to say: Whatever, keep fucking that chicken.

MARY: Now, now.
What Mary probably wanted to do: Hurl a waiting room chair in her direction.

LISA: [Blank stare]
What Lisa probably wanted to say: Why the frig are you on oxygen!?

Absolutely astounding. Stephanie will say she's just being "honest" and "a realist" but the only reality is that she has a shitty attitude and personality. Another reality: Five years from now, Mary, Lisa, Ruth and I will all be alive and kicking. In the meantime, I'm sure Stephanie will have found something else to die from.

Just then, a man pushing a catering cart enters the waiting room. He's got Poland Spring, Diet Coke, Sun Chips, Power Bars and a ton of Fig Newtons on offer. His name tag says "Jesus," and since he's a young Hispanic man, I'm assuming he goes by the Hispanic pronunciation.

Then Ruth -- arms raised like she's celebrating mass -- cries out: “Praise the Lord! Jesus is here!" (New Testament pronunciation)

Holy crap.

We all look at her, horrified. Jesus tosses her a bag of Sun Chips. Apparently, Ruth knows him from the Brigham and this is the way she always greets him and his snack cart.

In the corner, I see that Stephanie has crumbled into convulsive, soundless laughter.

Perhaps there is hope for the camels, after all.

Tsang's Willage Cafe, Thursday, Sept. 24
My BC-surviving friend Julie and I met over some Chinois and dirty martinis. I schlepped in, all stooped over, still wearing my mesh tubey under my clothes. Having been there, done that, she immediately knew what to say as she's known the unspoken rules all along: "I know I never told you this before because I knew it would've been the worst possible thing to hear. RADIATION SUCKS!!!!"

Time to let it rip. I told her I couldn't wait until the 29th, to be done, and she gave me more words of wisdom about managing expectations. She told me how she and her husband planned a night out on the town the day she finished radiation, got a hotel room and everything. Unfortunately, she felt awful. Even though she was psyched to be finished, she was still burnt and fatigued. She reminded me that even though you're ready to be done and want to just snap out of it and be back to normal, it can take a few weeks to get there. Her first reaction when coming out of treatment was being hit with a "What the fuck WAS that that I just went through?" You're focused so much on the daily grind that stepping back from it all can be overwhelming. So, it'll take some time before it's a blip on the radar (still my favorite metaphor), but we'll get there.

Speaking of which, there was a great piece in Sunday's Globe on how metaphors help us make sense of the world around us. So here's mine for the day:

Cancer is the bug that hits you in the mouth when you're trying to do your job. It knocks you off your game for a little bit, but then you recover and carry on like it never happened. In short, it's a blip on a radar, as illustrated by this awesome guy:

Not Dead Yet!

2009-09-15T15:32:00.001-04:00

New post coming soon. :)

Voices of the Unintentionally Browless

2009-08-20T08:37:00.003-04:00

Please check out my essay in the G section of today's Globe entitled "Brow Beaten."

When I was in the eighth grade, a friend arrived at school hiding her face behind a loose-leaf binder. Earlier that morning, she’d plastered her teased bangs with Aqua Net, lit a cigarette, and - poof! - burned her eyebrows off.

Though she tried to fill in her singed arches with a brow pencil, she still looked like a completely different person. Too much hairspray and the ill-timed flick of a lighter had rendered her totally expressionless. [Read more]

Don't You Forget About Me

2009-08-07T12:00:00.008-04:00

How could anyone possibly forget about John Hughes? He achieved immortality -- even prior to his death on Tuesday -- through his relentlessly quotable movies. So, here is a wee tribute to the man who is single-handedly responsible for my Molly Ringwald complex, a writer and director whose movies were not so much films as they were a parallel universe for us teenagers of the 80s.

When the light gets into your heart, baby!

Some favorite quotes in no particular order:

"Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." -Ferris Bueller, Ferris Bueller's Day Off

"Could you describe the ruckus, sir?" -- Brian, The Breakfast Club

"Now, you listen to me, mister. God did not put me on this earth to be awakened by filthy suggestions from a foul-mouthed hooligan like you." -- Grandma Baker, Sixteen Candles

"Very clever dinner. Appetizing food fit neatly into interesting round pie." -- Long Duk Dong, Sixteen Candles

"No more yankie my wankie, the Donger need food!" -- Long Duk Dong, Sixteen Candles

"I did not achieve this position in life by having some snot-nosed punk leave my cheese out in the wind." -- Ed Rooney, Ferris Bueller's Day Off

"Dimented and sad, but social." -- John Bender, The Breakfast Club

"Knock knock" "Who's there?" "Who." "Who who?" "Helen we got an owl out here in the hall..." -- Grandpa Fred, Sixteen Candles

"Well, uh, let's see, he was wearing a red argyle sweater, and tan trousers, and red shoes...No, he's not retarded." --Grandpa Baker, Sixteen Candles

"I make $31,000 a year and I'm not about to throw it all away on a punk like you." -- Mr. Vernon, The Breakfast Club

"Blane? His name is Blane? That's a major appliance, that's not a name!" -- Duckie, Pretty in Pink

"What about prom, Blane! What about prom!" - Andie, Pretty in Pink

"You look good wearing my future." -- Keith, Some Kind of Wonderful

"We're all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that's all." -- Andrew, The Breakfast Club

"Automobiiillee" -- Long Duk Dong, Sixteen Candles

"When Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse." -- Clark Griswold, Christmas Vacation

"Those aren’t PILLOWS!" -- Neal, Planes, Trains & Automobiles

"Break his heart, I'll break your face" - Watts, Some Kind of Wonderful

"I don't know why they call this stuff Hamburger Helper. It does just fine by itself." -- Cousin Eddie, Vacation

"Boat leaves in two minutes... or perhaps you don't want to see the second largest ball of twine on the face of the earth, which is only four short hours away?" -- Clark Griswold, Vacation

"She get married to oily bohunk." -- Long Duk Dong, Sixteen Candles

McCartney@Fenway

2009-08-07T10:59:00.010-04:00

Why I love technology: James and I decided last minute that there was NO WAY we could miss Sir Paul at Fenway last night. We met up with our fellow throwbacks and pals, Chris and Paula, the only engineers-turned-cookie entrepreneurs who can speak in Beatles lyrics.

("LDT... ZZ")

On the way into town, I posted a status update on Facebook about going to the show:

"When the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me." McCartney@Fenway!

Seconds later, I received a text from BG: "In a cab on the way to Fenway. Meeting up with Haleys pre-Paul."

They'd also decided there was no way they could miss this show. Minutes earlier, none of us knew the others were going. Within moments, a party of four became a party of eight at Cambridge 1 around pizza and drinks.

(ladies)

During our spontaneous pre-show, we looked for tickets on Craig's List from our Blackberries and iPhones. Then there was an old fashioned scalping transaction on the sidewalk outside of Copperfield's.

(Paula and I)

Just an amazing show/evening all around. And everyone (especially James) was very, very thankful that Peter Wolf didn't jump on stage and “ruin everything.”

This morning, I woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head and relived the entire "Hey Jude" singalong on YouTube.

I love technology. Technology is good.

In the AC for the first time this summer

2009-07-27T12:35:00.002-04:00

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Italian Sausage

2009-07-26T11:35:00.003-04:00

All Vito needs is some pepper & onion.

Here's to Romance (clink)

2009-07-24T23:26:00.003-04:00

I've been sent this video 8 times today. Props to Cam who sent it first, knowing the impact it would have on hopeless (helpless) romantics. Rock on, Jill & Kevin.

Surgery and the House of Crazy

2009-07-21T17:01:00.014-04:00

July 13, Gimme Drugs

I’m in my johnny, biggie hospital pants and a hairnet, nodding my head and waiting for some sedatives.

The anesthesiologist is explaining all of the “possible” complications of anesthesia. He has a retainer that gives him a slight lisp. He speaks in starts and stops. In hand mannerisms, he is a ringer for John “the Biscuit” Cage from Ally McBeal.

THE BISCUIT: Anesthesia-related deaths…are about 1 in 200,000…sometimes there are rare instances….where a patient can feel….the surgery happening…but is unable…to alert…the doctor. This is…very rare…but…it can happen…OK?

At the end of each sentence, he makes church steeples with his hands and keeps them that way until I respond.

ME: OK.

I understand he’s making sure I absorb the disclaimers before I sign the consent form. I’m more concerned about his understanding my unholy claustrophobia and the involuntary karate kicks that are going to fly in his general direction when that oxygen mask comes at me in the OR. Unless I’m sedated, of course.

His eye-rolling pre-op assistant, a nurse from Quincy, warned me that I’d have to fight to get a word in edgewise with this guy, or any of “the men around here” for that matter.

NURSE: “Sweetie, when the anesthesiologist gets in here, don’t let him leave until he gives you the drugs. These men around here, I tell ya, if something isn’t as obvious as a dog’s balls, forgetaboutit!”

ASIDE: When I had a c-section, some crafty anesthesiologists hooked me up to a valium drip and cut creative shapes out of a wee plastic oxygen mask that I learned -- somewhat unceremoniously -- was just a decoy, a distraction from the hulking mother ship of an oxygen mask they cupped over my face just seconds before I passed out. I felt like a dog in a car headed to the park, only to veer into the vet parking lot at the last minute. It was a total mind game, but it worked.

Right now, my anxiety is mounting.

THE BISCUIT: “Sometimes…in a very, very rare instance… people don’t wake up…from anesthesia. Again…this is very, very…

ME (interrupting): You know I need sedatives, right?

*****

My surgeon shows up and is teeny tiny. At first I don’t recognize her. I remember her being taller and having a more formidable presence. Then again, the last time I saw her, she was using the word “treatable” instead of “curable,” which made me shrink, cartoon-like, in her office chair. I knew the huge difference between those two words. She’s since used the latter, so perhaps perception is reality.

Size aside, she is ALL business – and a little scary – and all of the things I’ve liked about her all along. She scribbles the word “yes” on LEFTY to indicate the rogue boob of the pair.

As I sign the rest of the consent forms, well-wishes in the form of texts continue to bubble up on my iPhone.

Then, I look around and realize the Biscuit has left without giving me the drugs. SHIT!

I’m about to page my wisecracking nurse when he returns, patting a pocket protector full of syringes.

BISCUIT: I’ve got some happy, happy cocktails.

He injects one into my IV that makes my head swim, melloowwwwww. I reluctantly hand over my do-rag and phone to James. As they wheel me away to OR, I blow James a kiss, then I want to cry but can’t.

*******

The next thing I know, someone with a thick Indian accent is tickling my feet.

“Helloooo Kathryn, Hellooo (tickle, tickle, tickle) “ Your surgery is over. Helloooo.”

There is a kindly-looking doctor at the foot of my bed. His manner was so calming and reassuring that I had to ask later if he actually existed or was just a narcotic apparition.

DOCTOR: “Did you have any dreams? (tickle, tickle) Hmmm? Hmmm?”

Apparently, I told him I dreamt about being at the beach. It was not so much a dream as a replay of the prior weekend at Minot. And the cool little table with cup holders that materialized out of thin air as the perfect appetizer and Corona dock.

ASIDE: This marks an improvement in my anesthesia-related conversation skills. I’ve said all kinds of random shit under the influence like “go fuck yourself” to an innocent bystander. Or “Vito has a lot of friends” -- which I whispered conspiratorially to my brother for no apparent reason and of which I have zero recollection.

DOCTOR: “Are you in any pain, hmmm?”

I shake my head no, but he shows me how to dispense the morphine drip that I was hooked up to with the click of a button.

I never realized just how much pain I’ve been in all my life until I clicked that button. The button not only emits a pleasant trilling sound like the Tri-Tone on a Mac, but also a steady stream of awesome into your soul.

This mastectomy thing: So far, SO not a big deal….

*******
July 13, 6 p.m.-ish : My Pie-Seeking Nightmare of a Roommate

I have these MF blood pressure cuffs around both of my calves that randomly seize up and scare the shit out of me. In my morphine haze, they give me the sensation of someone grabbing my ankles. I keep kicking into the darkness before remembering it’s just the damn cuffs. They are supposed to prevent clotting, pulmonary embolism and all that. As a trade off, they give me miniature heart attacks and make me itch like a MF.

I’ve just been wheeled into my room from recovery and soon realize that these calve cuffs are going to be the least of my worries. James and I realize we are not alone.

A voice cries out from the other side of the curtain. A first, it sounds like the voice of Caillou and I think I’m freaking out on the drugs.

(If you don’t know who Caillou is, click here.)

Why have I been put in a room with a child? But we soon learn the voice is that of a 30-ish pregnant woman who’s apparently been admitted for a migraine, but that remains unclear.

WOMAN: I need pie! Pieeee with berrieees! PLEASE.

Then she starts sobbing. And sobbing and sobbing. It turns into a hysterical meltdown.

James and I look at each other, not know what to do.

The nurse keeps coming in and out of the room. “We’re trying to find you some pie, Tammy.” (not her real name)

TAMMY (still sounding like Caillou) Can you get me some Ativan? Just until you can get my pie. Please! Please!

Nobody seems to be denying her anything so the pleading is even more annoying than the Caillou voice. The crying continues. The nurse brings her some Ativan. Another nurse takes my vitals, James takes off to get Carrie and Paulie to bed and I drift off into a narcotic haze.

~One hour later~

More screeching from beyond the curtain

TAMMY: Pie? Is there pie?

LONG SUFFERING NURSE: All I could find you was a slice of angel food cake and some canned peaches.

~Sounds of eating at a troph~

Throughout the night, Tammy shuns tap water in the name of the fetus but demands all of the narcotics she can get her hands on. Against my will, I find out she is also anorexic and completely unstable. The crying stops only to be outdone at 3 a.m. when she places a frantic call to her husband “Todd” and has a screaming conversation that goes on for 45 minutes.

She hangs up, cries and swears to herself for a bit, and then turns Law & Order up to volume 10 on her TV.

I furiously click my morphine drip and am determined to sleep with one eye open.

July 14, 8 a.m. Rectum? I Damn Near Killed Him!

James calls. “Did that horror show next door finally pass out?”

I am too tired to get into it. All I really want at that moment is one of those monkey paw back scratchers.

*******
Tammy's nurse for the day is originally from Arkansas and speaks like a shrill Dixie Carter.

Then, Todd shows up. Turns out, he is a tool of the highest order, barking at his wife telling her this is happening to her because she is "weak" and "cannot have a bowel movement."

ASIDE: I could not make up this story if I tried. I hope I am able to convey the sheer insanity of this hospital stay.

TAMMY: I can’t poo. I’m trying. They want me to poo and I can’t.

TODDY: Tammy, do you feel like you may have something in your rectum?

There is a flurry of phone calls that culminates in a rectal examination of Tammy.

Now I need Ativan.

Moments later, James cheerily arrives with snacks from Whole Foods, magazines and an abundance of good vibes that help balance out the toxic energy going on on the other side of the curtain. There have been no less than 8 people over there in the past few hours. Not one moment of peace. I've even started using the restroom in the hallway to avoid getting sucked into the vortex of Tammy & Todd.

JAMES: Hey, how’s it going?

I point to the curtain.

TODD: Tammy, answer the doctor. Do you still feel like you may have something in your rectum?

JAMES (shakes head): Are you kidding me?

ME: Oh, you just missed the rectal exam!

The doctors, nurses and Todd discuss all kinds of invasive procedures from enemas to excavation via backhoe.

James throws his hands up in disgust.

It's now clear that these people are completely deranged, have zero regard for the other people in the room trying to heal. Being in this room is not good for what we now call the "proverbial tumor." This is no way to spend Bastille Day.

The nurse gives me some Benadryl in lieu of a monkey paw backscratcher and I start dropping off. James heads to the Federal to grab a fresh sandwich (it’s going in the book) and get away from the ongoing discussion about Tammy’s rectum.

We decide to see if I can have my room changed when he gets back.

~15 minutes later~

I can’t believe it’s still July 14th.

I wake from a deep sleep and find a figure hovering by my hospital bed. At first, I think it’s Tammy wielding a bulb syringe. When my vision unblurs, I realize it’s my brother P trying to read my hospital bracelet.

“Oh my God, it IS you," he says.

He's been walking up and down the corridor for 10 minutes. The nurse told him I was in room 22 but when he peeked in, he thought I was some little boy. This is an ongoing theme. James told me I look like "little Michael Russo" with my fauxhawk. Michael is a six-year-old classmate of Caroline's.

We get about 10 seconds to laugh about this until the conversation fires up on the other side of the curtain again.

TODD: Tammy, I think you need to take a stand on the bowel movement issue.

My brother points to the curtain, bewildered.

ME (whisper): Fucking crazy. I’m getting out of here.

James returns and Dixie Carter asks him and Paul to leave as they'll be doing yet another invasive procedure on Tammy. She turns to me, "But don't worry, hon, you can stay."

Ooh, lucky me.

JAMES: I'm getting your room changed right now.

What transpires next is blurry as I was still in a Benadryl haze.

James and P were standing at the nurse's station and I apparently came flying out out of my room with my ass hanging out of my johnny, not caring one bit. I was grasping the spot formerly known as Lefty with one hand and pushing my IV with the other.

“I can’t stay in there another second I can’t stay! They need to be on the psych ward!”

My nurse tells me I'll get my own private room at 5:30. James, P and I sit in the hallway in the full view of the elevators. Nic and Paul were coming to visit and we want to intercept them lest they walk in on the horror of the invasive procedure going down in my room.

6 p.m. -- Peace, at last

My room is big, bright and clean. Footloose is on TV.

My nurse asks me if I want one or two percocet.

ME: "Two, please. And for future reference, the answer to that question is always going to be two."

I fall asleep that night and have more dreams of the beach. When your dreams are of scenes from your actual life -- it's a lucky life.

************
UPDATE: It's just gotten even luckier! My surgeon just called with the pathology report. There are no remaining signs of invasive cancer, all lymph nodes are negative and the margins are free and clear! Yahoo!!!!!!!

The Surge

2009-07-13T10:20:00.002-04:00

I'm heading into surgery today at high noon. This bust is busted. As my friend Super Bon Bon put it: "It's time to bid farewell to the girls who have served you so well." Bring on the "595 rack" in 2010. Gotta take the elevator to the mezzanine stop!

In the meantime, enjoy a slideshow of the good times in between. As crappy and low res as ever.

Onward.

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Life Ain't So Bad At All/Live Life Off the Wall

2009-06-26T10:47:00.004-04:00

(Who did NOT have this poster?)

We returned home from a senior-citizen early dinner at the new Fours yesterday only to learn that Michael Jackson had died. What a double whammy, the news coming just hours after Farrah's Or triple whammy this week, really. (Poor Ed McMahon)

We fired up the iTunes library and had an MJ dance party with the wee brownies. Later, Caroline and I fell asleep watching MJ videos on MTV.

I became irrationally angry over Rhianna's pilfering of "mama say mama sa mama coo sa" for one of her songs.

Now, let's hope there is some peace.

For Farrah and her iconic hair, peace from her cancer -- and from Ryan O'Neal.

Aside: Hopefully, we'll no longer be subjected to O'Neal crying on cue in the media. He struck me as an insincere and opportunistic DB throughout her whole ordeal.

For MJ, peace from all of his inner torment (and tormenters). Hopefully his kids will have the childhood that he never had. He will obviously live on forever through his music and videos.

Anyone my age would be hard pressed to go back to any time in our lives where there isn't a Michael Jackson song playing in the background. For me, it was "Off the Wall" at the ice skating rink when I was nine. Trying to learn all the dance moves to "Beat It" in the St. Mary's schoolyard. Listening to the entire Thriller album (taped from vinyl) over and over on a hot pink boombox at the beach. And that random song "Farewell my Summer Love." The "We are the World" and "Say, Say, Say" videos. "Man in the Mirror" playing in a club during spring break in Bermuda and people forming a big dance circle. I think one of the BLA prom themes was "I"ll Be There." "Bad" and "Black & White" blaring at keg parties in college. T-Bag doing the Thriller dance on Nantucket and inspiring others to do so at subsequent weddings. Singing "Rock with You" as a lullabye to Caroline and Paulie.

More than ever, I am wishing I had hair right now so I could pay tribute with some feathering and a jheri curl. Luckily, it's been done before and documented.

Farrah's hair provided endless inspiration for throwbacks like me.

Some MJ hair, albeit completely unintentional at the time.

************************************************

Seven Songs of the Day 6/26/09

Let the madness and the music get to you..

1. Theme from Charlie's Angels
2. ABC
3. Shake Your Body Down to the Ground
4. Off the Wall
5. Rock with You
6. Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'
7. Man in the Mirror

**Bonus*** Dirty Diana (ouhh)

(egregious omission the first time around, Cam)

Sun, Sun, Sun on the Last Drip

2009-06-22T10:28:00.006-04:00

Woo hoo! We're here at the DF for the final drip. It's appropriate that we started this journey on Ground Hog day because every Monday since Feb 2 has been some version of the same day: Up at dawn. Get coffee/green tea. Drive in gridlock listening to WERS and Jack Lapieres on the news. Valet the car. Go to DF10 to get blood drawn. Grab a pager and go to the caf to wait for chemo to be mixed. Read paper, go online, have snacks. Pager goes off. Back to 10th floor to mainline pre-meds, Herceptin and Taxol. James goes in search of Red Sox ticket lotteries and sandwiches. Ten minutes before the drip ends, he goes to get the car so we can tear off down Binney Street without slowing down. Sometimes, I've almost run out of there with the IV still in my arm. Today could be one of those days.

The better Mondays included chemo buds and cafe sandwiches. The worse ones, a camel nurse on Memorial Day (warded off, thankfully, by Nic's & Amy's giving of the stinkeye). It's been almost six months of ups and downs and there is an even longer road ahead, but today is a huge milestone. Even the late June clouds and dank cannot drag us down. The sun is shining. I will be back here every three weeks for Herceptin but that's an antibody, not a poison.

It's also brighter in here today due to the ginormous, beautiful flower arrangement from the Moschella clan with a card that simply read:"No More!" Right on.

The people watching here is usually depressing but even that's lightened, both literally and figuratively.

In the waiting room, a 50-ish woman in a hot pink bandana and auburn shag wig wears a t-shirt that says “Cancer Sucks!” The words are in large block letters that recall "Frankie Says Relax" (Dating myself. Let's do the time warp agaaain.)

As I'm getting my vital signs taken, a woman outfitted in lime green eyeglasses, lime green shoes, and lime green pants with yellow pineapples on them (The fruity equivalent of whale pants. Cue T-Bag sashaying by in tight-fitting jean jacket) takes the seat across from me. She begins staring at me while my while my IV nurse is tapping my veins. Then she keeps staring to the point where I am uncomfortable. Who is this lady and what is her fucking problem?"

Then she speaks:

LIMEGREEN: Excuse me, can I ask you a question?

ME: (Here we go) Mmm hmm.

LIMEGREEN: What was the name of that skating lady from Boston who got hit by Tonya Harding and some thugs?

ME: Nancy Kerrigan?

LIMEGREEN; Nancy Kerrigan! Right! Golly! It’s been driving me crazy all morning. Thank you so much!

I cracked up at the utter randomness but also at the fact that you really never know what is going through people's heads. Very often they aren't rude, just insane.

Drip, drip, drip. -- 32 minutes to go and then off to the Teddy Bear Picnic with a keg cup of wine.

*************************************************************

Seven Songs of the Day - 6/22/09

1. Here Comes the Sun - Beatles

2. Dance, Dance, Dance - Lykke Li

3. Get Up - REM

4. Maybe Today - Ryan Montbleau

5. Rightstarter - Public Enemy

6. Sure Shot - Beastie Boys

7. Lovers in Japan - Coldplay

Fables of the Reconstruction

2009-06-16T18:16:00.003-04:00

In addition to reaching the land of NED, I assumed the light at the end of this crapbasket would be a fierce boob job. Nothing like gravity-defying cleavage to turn around a tragic boob situation! But I recently learned that the huge amount of radiation I am going to have will pretty much destroy any chance of implants -- at least successful ones. I'm told if I attempt them, I could be walking down the street one day only to have one slip out and get trapped in my pant leg. Clip the wrong end of a revolving door? Bang, explosion. Booosh.

This turn of events will not doom me to a boobless existence, however. Instead, I'll likely have reconstructive surgery, a procedure that involves building some brand new hammers out of my own fat cells. Many pals have already offered up generous T&A donations (thanks, friends) but the doctors said it doesn't work that way. So much for going up a size.

Anyteets, reconstruction involves more extensive surgery, skin grafts, and the very Sci-Fi experience of walking around without nipples for up to a year. Nipples are "tattooed" on post operatively. There are people out there who actually specialize in this rare art. If you do a search for nipple tattoo artists, you'll find people who design all kinds of nips from the natural looking to those for which no areola is too big.

Later, Lefty
But all of this is down the road. In the here and now, I am completing chemo on Monday (yahoo!) and preparing for my mastectomy which should take place sometime in July. I've been kind of lax about getting a surgery date scheduled. I've had this laissez-faire "it's all good - whatever" attitude that's been zapping my sense of urgency. Maybe it's fatigue, or maybe I'm just sick of talking about tits! Also, some of the side-effect meds (not marijuana, but may as well be) could be causing this mellow cloudiness. I've had trouble writing lately (if the lapse in blogging is any indication) and have had all the mental clarity of an elderly driver at a farmer's market. I've also been in a very, very good mood -- unshakably good, but mindlessly so.

Last week, the only thing I had to do one morning was call my surgeon to schedule my consultation. I started picking balls of dried grape jelly off of Vito’s hindquarters and completely forgot about it for the rest of the day.

Would you please pass the jelleh?

I'm afraid I've become too complacent while plodding through what seems like endless treatment. At my last oncologist appointment, I learned that the A/C, Taxol and Herceptin has worked so well that the 10cm mass in Lefty is no longer palpable! My doc said I may even be a candidate for a lumpectomy since the tumor has shrunk so much. While I was thrilled to hear the treatment is working so well, this surgical scale-back threw me off a little. I've already bid farewell to Lefty and have resolved to go as drastic as possible surgery-wise to ensure this cancer doesn't come back. I'm trying to rekindle that sense of fear and urgency I felt in January.

Aside: Besides, Lefty is busted. It's always been trouble, rogue even, popping out of bathing suits at the most inopportune moments. Nobody has been subjected to this horror more than poor BG. Waving his hand like a white flag on the beach: “It’s out again! It’s out again! Put it back! No!”

My doc said survival rates are the same regardless of the type of surgery. There's a less than five percent chance of local recurrence (If HER2 recurs, it usually recurs distantly). There is always the chance of getting a second BC in either Lefty or Righty, but it's also a small one.

I trust my doctors and I know there are protocols that are more attractive, but ultimately you have to do what’s right for you. The BC statistics have been in my favor all along but have not necessarily come in on my side: Only six percent of BCs occur in women under 40. Only 20 percent of all BCs are HER2 positive. This is a trend I would like to buck. So I will not fuck with the odds just because they seem to be in my favor. So, off with the boobs! I want to be talking about reconstruction next year, not recurrence. I don't intend on going through this ever again.

DF 10, June 15 - Killing time
It's been awhile but my social worker (SW) has popped by my chemo cubby for a wee visit. She keeps calling me Kathy but I'm way too mellow to correct her: “It’s all good, you crazy coot.” The last time I saw the SW, I was in a crooked do-rag looking for happy pills so I can see how my newly calm exterior would throw her off.

SW: How are you feeling?
ME: Just chillaxing.

James returns from a sandwich run and sees the SW. Realizing we never tried to guess where she was from, we dig into our favorite time-killer.

JAMES: Definitely Brookline or Newton.
ME: “Yeah, man, sounds good. Good. Good. All good.”

A subsequent Google shows she is indeed from Newton Center.

**************************************************************
Seven Songs of the Day -- 6/17/2009

1. Heavy Metal Drummer - Wilco
2. Hell Yes - Beck
3. Sports & Wine - Ben Folds Five
4. Tower of Strength - Mission UK
5. Outside - Tribe
6. Dry Land - Buffalo Tom
7. Hello, My Treacherous Friends - Ok Go

Today's playlist comes courtesy of Bart Parker in ME. Thanks, Bart!

Good Times Are Contagious

2009-06-09T11:20:00.002-04:00

Another post coming soon. In the meantime, enjoy...

Brushing Shoulders Off

2009-05-26T13:25:00.003-04:00

I know it's been awhile between posts. I'm feeling great but have been more preoccupied by the outer life than the inner lately. I took on a work assignment for the first time since March, and then started noticing all of the things around the house that needed to be done. Being a recluse will do this to you. I'm usually not such a freak about ill-fitting slipcovers.

In the yard, I noticed my flower beds were starting to look like something out of the History Channel's “Life After People." Vegetation, weeds and bramble were taking over due to a lack of human intervention. I had to take care of this lest we be invaded by feral cats. (Seriously, have you seen this show? I have to get out more.) Anyway, weeding was therapeutic in more ways than one. Got that dirt off my shoulders.

I planted some sunflowers with Caroline and Paulie while Vito attacked his reflection in the garden shovel (I know how you feel, V). Like every year, we planted some tomatoes in big pots on the deck. Even though we have room for a garden now, I can't help but do the containers. It's the Eastie in me. My friend D. noted it's only a matter of time before we "hot top" the backyard and plant a Bathtub Madonna amid the rhododendrons. Can't have a yard without a shrine!

Follicle Magic

These days, I tend to avoid all mirrors or anything that produces a reflection. There are times -- in between weekly drips and getting felt up by Czechoslovakian exchange students -- when I actually forget about the BC. Then I'll see a reflection in my computer screen and it's right in my face: the glare off my bald head, eyes without eyebrows, the outline of a do-rag. The alternatives aren't great: Headscarves make me look like Stephen Van Zandt. My raspberry beret, like a Guardian Angel. My wig, kind of southern -- way too coiffed. All are reminders, not just to me, but to everyone around me.

Aside: If I'm out and sense someone is uncomfortable, I will pull my wig way back on my head, giving myself a good Jan Brady five-head. This tends to loosen people up.

Whenever I'm heading out with Caroline, she's adamant: "Mom! Whatever you do -- Do NOT forget your wig!" I originally thought she was embarrassed by the baldness. But once we're out, she gives me up to everyone within earshot: “Do you like my mommy’s wig? She's actually bald.”

Last week, I got out of the shower -- spaced out on autopilot -- and accidentally wiped off the steamed up mirror. I saw a shadow on my head. At first, I thought it was dirt. When I tried to brush it off, my head felt fuzzy! Upon closer inspection, I realized I was definitely sprouting some fresh new follicles. The docs told me my hair could *possibly* start growing back in the Taxol/Herceptin phase of treatment, but not to expect it. I didn’t expect it. And while it's not much, it’s something.

Even though it could take up to six months to have a covering of hair, I have to say these first few follicles restored a little faith. I always had a fairly optimistic outlook on life. Whenever I was going through a bad patch, I would flip ahead a few months on my desk calendar, pick a random date, and write something like: "Are things better?” Usually, by the time I got to the selected date, things would have improved. This whole BC thing, for whatever reason, robbed me of that sense of things turning around. Treatment is slow and long and it's easy to believe that you'll never feel or look like yourself again. It's easy to believe whatever the insidious bitch BC tells you. The disease not only screws with your boobs but your head.

So, my sense of things turning around has returned, at least for now. This morning, I noticed the expiration date on the orange juice was June 29th. Instead of gloomily focusing on the words "expiration date," my first thought was: "By June 29th, I will have been finished with chemo for a whole week." ~Brushing shoulders off~

Bring on the Roadies

Of course, the inner hag wants to shelve the blueberries and quinoa for marbled meats, a few packets of Sweet & Low and a cigarette. So far, I've pegged the BC on everything from shitty karma to hot dogs. Last month, it was wine. "Our Daily Red." It's time to turn that around too and release the inner torment/hag/blame. Get that dirt off your shoulders. Live healthy, move forward, vices in moderation. And get out of the house more!

My final chemo is June 22. (Four more!) I'm thinking about a roadie on the way home from the DF, a dirty martini in a to-go cup.

"Remember what the drowning man said -- a little drunk is better than dead."

Hats off in the HOV Lane

Two weeks ago, after a particularly long and slow treatment, we were rushing back from the DF, trying to make a Mother's Day Tea at the kids' school. Of course, there was heavy traffic and by the time we reached Dorchester, we had to cut across four lanes to get into the HOV lane. We made it over in time, only to get pulled over by a State Trooper at the entrance.

James pulled over and looked at me: "Quick! Take off your hat!"

A perfect opportunity to play the cancer card.

I whipped off my hat and leaned over the driver's seat so the trooper could get a good peek at my dome. James handed him the license and registration.

ME: My fault. I am late for a Mother's Day event at school. We're in a hurry, the traffic, etc.

ST: (Totally unfazed, probably thinking I was a skinhead). Reckless driving, lane switching not safe, not cool, etc.

ME: But officer, we are rushing back from, you know, chemo.

He let us go. James' quick thinking saved the day. I made it to the event, a little late, but had had time to get the wig on!

WITH THANKS AND LARGE LOVE...

...to my good friends Stevie B. and Colleen. Both have been mentioned numerous times on the PU over the years. Colleen left Boston several years ago to go work for the American Cancer Society in DC. While she no works longer there, she still participates in the Society's Annual Relay for Life. This year, she's assigned my name to her cause. I was overwhelmed by her letter.

This is Steven's 3rd time riding the Pan Mass Challenge. This year he's dedicated his ride to his dad who just finished treatment for colon cancer, and also to me. He even mentions the PU on his page. His said no tears allowed. Too late, Stevie B.

Thank you (with love) to both of you and everyone else who participates in these events, gives back, or just gives because they can.

Please check them out!

Colleen-Relay for Life

Stevie B.—Pan Mass Challenge

************************************

Seven Songs of the Day -- 5/26/09

1. Milk -Kings of Leon

2. Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots -Flaming Lips

3. Chocolate Town -Ween

4. I Know I'm Not Alone -Michael Franti and Spearhead

5. Sweet Virginia -Rolling Stones

6. One Big Holiday -MMJ (strong NED theme contention)

7. Fees So Good -Chuck Mangione Live at the Holiday Bowl

**Bonus/Filler: Mahna Mahna -Cake

--Today's playlist comes courtesy of Alex Scalisi in SF! Thanks, AS!

2009-05-11T16:58:00.002-04:00

Seven Songs of the Day

1. Whatever Gets You Through the Night - John Lennon

2. The Way We Get By - Spoon

3. Paper Boats - Nada Surf

4. Farewell to the Old Me - Dar Williams

5. Death of a Disco Dancer - The Smiths

6. Sulk - Billy Bragg

7. Takes A lot to Laugh, Takes a Train to Cry - Bob Dylan

Meh-na Meh-na

2009-05-11T12:30:00.003-04:00

Live, DF 10

It's been awhile. All is well, just meh. I’ve been reluctant to put up a post because I couldn't do so without sounding like a miserable camel. So much to say, but my head is swimming too much to write coherently. I've been climbing out of the haze -- slowly -- and should be back this week. Six more weeks of chemo. Getting there, slowly. In the meantime...

It's a Go-Go

2009-04-28T16:06:00.007-04:00

4 p.m., Apr. 27, DF Caf
We're nibbling on some veggies and dip waiting for the DF 10 pager to go off and call us up to the Infusion floor. I'm reading an awesome New Yorker article on Muzak that my friend N. passed along.

We're on an upside down schedule today, here much later than usual, waiting for the lab to determine whether my blood counts are Taxol-worthy. Even if they're not, I'll still be getting the Herceptin, the antibody that supposedly shrivels up the bitch that is HER2. So, here we wait.

Aside:
Caroline: Mama, what's a swine?
Me: A pig.
Caroline: Why isn't it just called "pig flu."

Looking around, I'm starting to believe that Code Red was right about the MJ mask being "trendy" amid all the pig flu hoopla. While I've been coming to the DF since the end of January, I've never seen SO many masked patients wandering the corridors. And this is a place where you'd expect to see masked people, pig flu notwithstanding. Is everyone just in from Mexico?

Muzak Riveted
Anyway, I'm really into this Muzak piece. Did you know why it was dubbed "elevator music?" Me neither. Apparently, when skycrapers first came on the scene (bringing multi-floor elevators along with them), people were anxious about riding up 50 floors in these little boxes suspended on wires in narrow vertical corridors. The music supposedly lessened the anxiety while their ears popped. It's the same reason why dentist offices adopted Muzak -- to take the edge off the horrifying reality that someone is about to drill into your skull via your maw.

I get that, I just don't get how string instrumentals of Elvis Presley tunes could possibly have a calming effect. I clearly remember being at the Finast supermarket with my mother -- I was probably 7 or 8 years old. A trumpeted Muzaked version of Him by Rupert Holmes came on and made me furious. "They're ruining it," I thought.

Anyway, Muzak is no longer in the elevator/dental office business, they are no longer maiming songs with harpsichords and tubas -- unless you're in Japan where business owners routinely request "contemporary instrumentals of popular songs" for some reason. Whenever you hear playlists of songs in their original formats -- at supermarkets, retail stores, restaurants -- there is a good chance it's Muzak. I always assumed it was satellite radio.

Muzak is also rampant at the loathsome mall. Which is no suprise. The mall is to me what the elevator was to those skyscraper newbies. I feel suffocated, barked at, like the floor could fall out from beneath me at any time. Still, sometimes it's unavoidable.

Marketing to Mall Rats with Muzak 101, and a little Falco.

Hollister or Abercrombie: Homogenous techno beats pump out at you from behind beveled room dividers and fake ficuses. The design, as well as the crappy techno, are meant to convey exclusivity, like that of a NYC nightclub or in this case, a keg party in the really, really good part of the woods with hardly any animal droppings. It's also useful in repelling 39-year-olds and others of my ilk: "You are way too old to come in here, lady. You'll just get confused." ** Not to worry, though, nieces and nephews, gift cards will always be purchased when requested, they'll just be purchased online.**

Ann Taylor: According to Muzak, AT's clientele is conservative women who don't want to take any fashion risks, just look polished. They just want everything "bright, positive, optimistic, and uplifting." So, Muzak tends to pipe in Sting and Celine Dion (huh? CD, uplifting? Don't most people want to see her crossing the street against the light?)

Gap or Old Navy: Since customers range from infants to adults, Muzak often throws covers of old songs into the mix. Think: Counting Crows doing Joni Mitchell's "Big Yellow Taxi."

Now I'm wondering what the Muzak soundtrack for Tello's in the 1980s would have been. What songs would have enhanced the experience of strolling those racks of impeccable cheese, searching for Jordache bags, neon socks and purple rayon with a stolen grape Fanta from Liberty Market in your hand. One song I always remember blaring in there was "Lover Girl" by Teena Marie, the employees dancing and mouthing the words as they organized thongs and beaded barrettes behind the counter.

Still, I'm thinking: How is this Muzak any different from satellite radio? My question is answered just a few paragraphs later. Whereas satellite radio does genres, Muzak does customization to the base right down to the song segue. Being a slave to (and never disappointed by) my Party Shuffle on iTunes, I totally get this. Many people have simliar mindsets, but not everyone dresses the same. In other words, sometimes a little well-placed Falco goes a long way.

I also get this because I went through a phase where I would only listen to satellite radio but my craving for musical variety along with my being too lazy to channel surf won out and lured me back to the college radio airwaves where I can hear Bob Dylan one second and Cat Power the next. In fact, my entire musical M.O. these days involves Shazaming songs from WERS and downloading them to my iPod.

Segueing...

Having new music on the Pod is actually creating an incentive to exercise and right now, I am in need of an epic, cobweb-shedding walk.

Aside: There's a 90-year-old man that lives next door to us that takes his daily walk (shuffle) past our house. Every day, he walks about 100 yards down the street to a little sidewalk bridge that goes overs a brook. He rests there on a wrought iron bench for a few moments before turning back. Vito, who remains staunch in his belief that nobody else has a right to exist let alone walk by our house, barks at the man every day, menacing him back and forth from behind his invisible fence barrier. The man, depending up on his mood, greets him with: "Hello, big fella!" or "Up yours, fatso!" James said he was going to ask our elderly neighbor if he needed a walking partner since a 100-yard shuffle is about my speed these days. All I need is some tube socks, etc. Very funny. I refused to give in to the way-too-close-to-home humor of his suggestion. I told him that when I walk, I must walk alone.

5 p.m. It's a Go! BTW, were you just released from a concentration camp?
James is reading aloud a story from ESPN the Mag about a service called Cha Cha where you can text any question -- anything -- to 242242 and receive an answer within three minutes. (I'd never heard of this, but in under 24 hours, I've seen it everywhere. There is also a similar service called KGB.)

I'm in mid-celery stick, trying to think of a question to ask when our pager goes off and we're heading up to the DF 10 Infusion.

My fellow/doctor Katie meets us there to let us know that my white counts are back up -- way up -- higher than is even necessary. So not only is treatment a go for today, we're also going to scale back on the Neupogen shot this week, only twice instead of thrice. This is all music to my ears. It's going to be a MUCH better week.

Without a doubt, the past week was the toughest one since treatment started on Feb 2. I hit the wall for sure (but not the floor, not yet). I knew being hermetically sealed off from the rest of the world for 7 days was going to suck but at the same time, I looked forward to some enforced downtime: I would finally catch up on emails and FB, maybe do some writing. When the sun finally came out, I would read my book on my back deck or sit by the brook with Vito and let the kids run around. Regroup, restore and rest. Aside from reading with Roxicet, none of this went down. James ended up having to take the entire week off because I saw white dots just going up and down the stairs. Then there were the Neupogen side effects: Headache, bone pain and spine pain (what!??), all of which were in full effect and rendered me completely horizontal or stooped over with an icy eyemask and a heating pad for the entire week. Then the antibiotic I was taking gave me some kind of stomach flu and melted away about 7 pounds, so I am not only bald but skeletal -- concentration-camp chic. Katie notes my birdlike physique and prescribes donuts for the week to bulk up. If I weren't at the DF, I'm sure I could be mistaken for a recently released prisoner.

7 p.m. Guess the Nurse Part IV
Today, we have a different chemo nurse because we had to come much later in the day. The sun is starting to set outside. The other patients who were sitting across from us have all cleared out. My veins, after three MF IVs, have finally started cooperating and opened up a pathway for those antibodies and poisons. It's clear we are going to be here awhile. I'm on my 12th Jolly Rancher. James, of course, discovers some fresh sandwiches in the fridge. We wolf those down in seconds.

We're really in need of a chemo buddy. Because of the uncertainty of this week's schedule, I couldn't line up anyone. James is awesome, my constant, but he's living inside of this too; he welcomes the healing distractions of an outsider or a not-so-outsider. Doreen came last time, bringing her positive energy, laughs and the hilarious story of purchasing an authentic $1,500 Gucci purse for under $300 -- while at Jeveli's in Eastie. As a BC survivor, she also brought consolation, saying that BC has got to be better than that anal cancer that poor Farah Fawcett has. She would've been great at our guess-where-the-nurse-is-from game, but we had our faithful Judy from Norwood that week.

James, having read his mag cover to cover, now turns his focus to the new nurse and from where she hails. The dark haired woman, early 30ish, is not feeling him. She won't even glance in his general direction when he starts peppering her with questions. I've never seen this before. Granted, the nurse is very busy this evening, one of the few nurses still on the infusion floor past 7 p.m. She's very talkative with me, but mostly she because is intent on making sure the drugs are seeping into my vein and not the surrounding tissues. I have too much Benadryl in my bloodstream and am too loopy to ask the right small talky questions even if I could get away with them, which I can't. Not the way James typically can. "She won't give me anything, not a thing!" he says, frustrated.

Right now, he's floundering in his usual stellar attempts at idle chit chat: "Are we your last patients of the day," he asks her. She smiles at him and it looks like she's about to throw him a bone, but only says,"Oh no, I'm here until 8:30." When she walks away, James, with the most minimal info to date, confidently states: "North of Boston: Wilmington, Woburn, Winchester, one of those." I shake my head in agreement. North of Boston. Sound guesses, for sure, but not ones I would've blurted out so soon.

I googled the nurse this morning. She is from Woburn! What can I say..it's a gift!

The Network, Walking & Go Go Dancing
This past week, I was emailing/FBing with friends/fam, Paula, Julie, Lisa Daria, Evanne and Heather, all of whom have gone through different cancer treatments. Every single one suffered almost identical setbacks, healing crises of sorts, right around the same time as I did. It usually hit around the fourth week of Taxol or a couple of months into their treatments. Some even ended up in the ER for a few days. But it sounds like things do turn around once you've hit this new low in WBCs.

Julie said what ends up happening is that you're over-the-top happy on the days you actually feel good. Feeling good is a higher high.

This is how I feel today. It's beautiful outside, it's a feel-good day and I'm elated. Cued up: "I think I'll go for a walk outside now, the summer sun's calling my name (I hear ya now). I just can't stay inside all day, I gotta get out get me some of those rays.."

I AM going to take a walk right now because quoting Brady Bunch songs on the PU kind of makes me want to punch myself in the back of the head, just a little.

When I return, I might install go-go dancing platforms all around my house.

*********************

Seven Songs of the Day -- 4/29/2009

Today's playlist (with those explanations that I love) comes courtesy of Chris Seremetis. Thanks, Tif!

1. God Am - Alice In Chains, just cause it's fun to say 7 times fast
2. Pass the Mic - Beasties Boys, cause the line: "be true to yourself and you will never fall" is awesome
3. I'll Stick Around - Foo Fighters, cause they rock
4. Rusty Cage - Johnny Cash, cause he's the only who could sing it better than Cornell
5. Stardog Champion - Mother Love Bone, grunge!
6. Do What You Want - OK Go, cause we should all do so
7. Be Free - The Cult, "to be free, like the birds and the bees" cause Billy Duffy just rocks the angry chords

Hermetically Sealed, Hermit-Like

2009-04-21T10:38:00.001-04:00

(It was only a matter of time)

I thought I'd finally adjusted to the undercurrent of dull energy that shuffles me through each day. For whatever reason, just knowing this is a temporary state helped me resume a normal, albeit slo-mo clip, throughout this past week. We had some friends over. Took the kids to the beach. Celebrated James' birthday a bit. Caroline and I went to fashion show fundraiser with everyone on Sunday. Some said I looked kind of pale -- but like being eyelashless, it was nothing a ridiculous amount of make-up couldn't fix. I may walk around looking like Norma Desmond in a suburban-blonde wig, but again -- it's temporary. Dealable. All we need is a little sunshine. But then, I couldn't get my treatment yesterday. The docs sent me home from the DF with dangerously low white blood counts, some preemptive antibiotics, Neupogen syringes, and a Michael Jackson mask. They basically said no public places, no visitors, no nuthin' until the WBCs climb out of the red, or the white hot as the case may be. Because if get so much as a wee fever, I'll have to be admitted to the hospital. Funtime. They said the Neupogen shots should turn this thing around by the end of the week. So, until then, I'll be in some form of drug-induced repose.

Call the Waaambulance: The Not-So-Merry Recluse

2009-04-14T13:41:00.007-04:00

Pointy Note: Today and the next few days will be a compilation of many posts from the past week. I've been out of commission, down but certainly not out!

On Easter Sunday, I threw my winter clogs into the brook behind my house. We pulled into the driveway, returning home from dinner at my parents. I took off my shoes, strode through the soggy, bloated yard and chucked each shoe as hard as I could into the water. The windswept rain from the past week had turned our peaceful bubbling brook into the River Wild; the clogs got swept up in the current and flew downstream like two harbor seals in swift retreat. James looked on in stunned silence as I slogged back up the driveway in my muddy socks. Caroline and Paulie laughed and began to remove their shoes but we got them to cease and desist.

To me, those clogs represented the mental and physical rut I've been in for weeks. Better to take out my frustration on a pair of Steve Maddens then on the people I love, I say.

"Hang up your chairs to better sweep, clear the floor of the dance, throw the walls into the fireplace." - REM

It was time to clear some cobwebs. I'd been sporting those MF clodhoppers since November. In the beginning, they were a somewhat stylish alternative to the woolly suburban footwear I spy around these parts that tend to be too flat for me -- at 5'3" -- to wear with jeans or a loathsome sweatsedo (and I absolutely refuse to have yoga pants hemmed). The clogs were safer than high-heeled boots that sink into the grass, trip you up and muddy your arse. I wore those clogs to all of my doctors appointments as I spiraled toward my diagnosis. To all of my chemo infusions thus far. I wore them throughout this seemingly endless April cold snap. But most of all, I wore the clogs because my unforgiving Chemobrain precludes shoe shopping because I don't even know what I like anymore.

On our home computer, we have a scrolling slideshow of all the pictures on our hard drive and I barely recognize my old self. Suppah Clubs and Nantucket trips, gardening with the kids last summer, kitchen hanging with James on a random weeknight. I can't reconcile the person in the photos with the bald, lashless, hollow-cheeked hag in a do-rag I see today. I belong on the Sci Fi Channel.

Second Phase of Ass
I'm not delusional. I wasn't expecting round two of chemo to be a joyride on the ding dong cart. I did not expect to start punctuating my sentences with woo hoos or for my energy levels to be restored to 2008 proportions. I was just expecting to bounce back a little. Granted, this second phase is not NEARLY as soul sucking as the first. But since the treatment is every Monday instead of every other Monday, I am subsisting on a steady stream of low (low!) energy with zero in-between days. I'm a naturally high-energy person so this can be frustrating at times.

For instance, last week the sun shone for a few hours and temps edged toward the high 50s. I put on my wig and a Sox cap. I grabbed the iPod and headed out for a walk, volume cranked as a forcefield. I barely made it around the loop without sucking wind. Vito would've put me to shame.

It's not just the energy. I can't do errands, attend the kids' soccer games, or go out to dinner with James or friends without feeling completely self conscious. And, call the waaambulance, I'm tired of having to reach for my wig whenever the doorbell rings (that is, if I even answer the door). I'm becoming a total recluse.

Hermit Flashback, Summer 1986
This feeling isn't completely foreign to me. I started remembering another time when I felt freakish and hermetic. When I was 16, I had a back operation to straighten my lower spine that was dangerously curving toward my left lung (the original Lefty, I suppose). I was in the hospital for two weeks and then had to wear a back brace for six months that was basically a large plastic girdle. Though you really couldn't see the brace under my clothes, it made me appear excessively hippy and flat chested. NOT good for an achingly self-conscious 16 year old. The only thing my friends and I ever did was go to the beach. Since bathing suits were out of the question, I stayed in the house the rest of the summer eating potato chips and watching the Peoples Court. When school started, I wore baggy, XL sweaters as camouflage (which were luckily the style in 1986). But soon, I became paranoid that people (boys) would physically bump into me in the halls and think I was some kind of bionic-plastic freak. So before school, I started taking the girdle off in the Dunkin' Donuts bathroom in Kenmore Square and stuffing it into by book bag. After school, I'd return to the same DD's and put it back on. One day, however, I decided to swing into Planet Records on my way home and my worst fears were realized. Three boys from my school (a few grades ahead of me) were skulking around and one accidentally brushed by me. He raised an eyebrow, then knocked on my back three times. Cardiac arrest. His other two friends walked behind me and did the same. I was so mortified I ran out of the store still clutching an empty record sleeve. I ran all the way down Comm, Ave with a 20-pound bag of books, praying I'd be hit by a bus. So, this bald 39 year-old in a do-rag is not so different inside from that 16 year old hiding out in Dunkin' Donuts bathrooms.

The Not-so-Merry-Recluse
Caroline Knapp often wrote about the difference between solitude and isolation. In her essay "The Merry Recluse," she wrote that social muscles, like actual ones, must be flexed often so they don't become atrophied. Man, when she was right, she was right. I love my solitude, but I've been inching toward isolation these past couple of weeks -- and not just from the outside world. I've become delinquent among all my social mores: Email, Texting, Facebook, Twitter -- the lifelines of a lifelong phone-hater.

It was clear I needed to get out immediately! So, after four or five cancellations, we were finally able to nail down dinner plans with old Big Dig pals. (A dinner plan that had become so complicated to arrange that my friend Kathy likened it to "assembling the Pentagon")

Thurs., Apr 9, Batten down the wig! Off to Mistral!

My fierce wig was filthy so I decided to go with my long red one from Dorothy's Boutique. It doesn't fit as well but I figured it'd work fine in the dark corners of Mistral. But when I pulled into the parking lot and caught sight of myself in my rear view mirror, I immediately regretted leaving my safety zone. My wig had ridden up very high on my forehead and had shifted to the left. I knew it wouldn't stay put all night long so I gathered my drag queen hair into a side ponytail and sprayed it to stone with some archaic hairspray I found in the glovey. Of course, the ever present high winds prevailed and I held onto my wig for dear life as I walked upwind on Columbus Ave. As I passed Club Cafe, two men who I'm sure could spot a Dorothy's wig a mile away turned to look at me. I imagined them whispering, "What's up with girlfriend in Red Hot #7." I'm pretty sure the doormen and hostess at Mistral looked at me sideways too. I felt like everyone was on to me.

At the bar, it was hugs all around. I became more at ease after a dirty, filthy martini. But all was not well with me. Besides expressing mild horrification at learning that some of the men at our old office used to refer us as "The Spice Girls," I couldn't remember how to participate in a normal conversation. There was a heated exchange about Tom, Gisele and Bridget and some recent Vanity Fair article. My eloquent contribution to this was something like: "They're dicks. All three of them. Dicks."

I was definitely a merry spectator all evening, however, tucking into my beef tenderloin pizza with white truffle oil.

Aside: I was chewing slowly and deliberately on one side because of some leftover mouth sores from AC chemo that simply won't heal. I was able to coherently reassure my friends that I was NOT having a stroke at the dinner table.

Return of the Sunday Night Creepies
When I threw my shoes into the brook the other night, I think it may have been in defiance of a new brand of Sunday night creepies. Knowing that you have chemo every Monday colors Sunday nights with a dread similar to that of knowing you have to get up and go to a job you hate the next day. Years ago, when James and I hated our jobs, we would listen to "Blues on Sunday" on 92.9 FM and wallow in the creepies. It's a similar feeling now. Although I'm pretty sure I prefer chemo to the PR firm where I used to work.

My former co-worker and good friend Brad (or "Sugar Brad" going forward for the Hermes scarf he sent to cover my bald head when temps get too balmy for wigs.) used to make nooses out of paperclips during interminable, pointless meetings. The meetings were bad enough but lunchtime in that suburban office park was pure, unadulterated hell. Every day in the lunchroom, a keg-shaped account manager would hold court with her little Igors on such scintillating topics as: *I like sweet pickles * So and So's husband wants to buy a camper * How many Weight Watchers points are in this mini Charleston Chew * On Fridays, they'd all ply themselves with generic salsa, shitty margarita mix and manufactured outrage.

Yes, I'm certain I prefer the DF on Mondays over that place.

Guilt...
When I get into a rut, the guilt piles up quickly. I feel like a crappy, inattentive mother who can't even muster the energy for a game of iPhone checkers let alone go on a bike ride. Some days, I feel like the roles are reversed. Caroline recently asked if she could read ME a bedtime story. Paulie patted my do-rag and asked if I needed a juice box and a snack.

...then Laughter

Caroline busts out her karaoke mic and sings the National Anthem before Bruins games. Paulie follows it with the Renee Rancourt pointing and fist pumping.

James got Paul a giant T map of all the rail lines for his room and he almost fainted.

PAULIE: (walking into his room earlier today) Mom, I keep forgetting about my train map. Every time I walk into my room, I get excited about it all over again. C'mon, look at my map with me. I want to show you where Haymarket is.

At the playground a few weeks ago, Caroline ran to the top of a structure where a group of boys were playing around a large captain's wheel.

CAROLINE: (commandeering the wheel). This is a ship! I am the captain! All of the boys, get into the water! (They all did)

She'd make an awesome Somali pirate.

Things that are Better than a Giant Plastic Bag of Happy Pills from my Doctor

Retro WWII dishtowels, TimTams, fragrant soaps, CDs, New Yorker articles and other magical mystery care packages from the Roving Lemon (not Rovingle Mon) Down Under.

Molly Kristant Brown

A good kitchen chinwag in SoBo with Nic & Di

Nic sporting the Snuggie

People I don't have to put on wigs for when they ring the doorbell: LPD and her Vertical Watermelon belly bumrushing the house with all kinds of good cheer.

James photographing, then fishing my clogs out of the brook, hosing them down and dropping them off at the Swap Shop at the dump. Sayonara, sad footwear.

So, the curmudgeonly ruts are a reality but they are fleeting.

Now I have to go cut about an inch off my yoga pants so I can wear my sneakers with them.

*************************************************************
Seven Songs of the Day -- 4/14/09

Today's playlist courtesy of Dawn Flanagan-Haley

"I tried to think of songs that reminded me of spring, but I’m not even really sure why these do" - DFH

House of Love – I Don’t Know Why I Love You
Throwing Muses – Not Too Soon
Belinda Carlisle – Circle in the Sand
The Cowsills – The rain, the park and other things
The Cardigans – Carnival
Elvis Costello – Veronica
The Beautiful South – We Are Each Other

Chemo Brain in Full Effect: The Chemosabes' Daily Fight Againt Idiot Slippage

2009-04-06T11:01:00.003-04:00

"Chemobrain," an affliction that turns otherwise coherent individuals into full-on space shots and glassy-eyed fools during and after chemotherapy, is no longer considered a myth thanks to people like Ellen Clegg, an editor at the Globe, who wrote THE book on it this year, "Chemobrain: How Cancer Therapies Can Affect your Mind." Ellen also had a fantastic piece in the Globe Magazine yesterday entitled "The Cloud over Chemotherapy" that I'm re-reading here today at DF on the TH drip (where I just overheard the nurses saying they've already canceled Opening Day because of the MF rain. Boo.)

The book, which I read cover-to-cover the day it arrived in the mail, talks about what happens after your hair and energy return. About how that spaced out feeling often lingers, leading to impaired memory and an inability to concentrate or multitask. Many doctors, including many here at DF, are starting to take these mental curve balls seriously, offering ways to combat one's slippage into slack-jawed idiocy. (And we idiots appreciate it).

Ellen blogs about the topic daily on her blog Chemo Brain Boston and offers great advice to those on or off the toxic stew. She also gave the PU a much- appreciated shout out here.

All of the information is fantastic not only for us Chemosabes, but also for anyone forgetful or spacey by nature. You can learn how to open up those neural pathways by exercising your body and brain, clearing your mind of distractions, and controlling your environment to your benefit.

I am a self-anointed guinea pig in this area and have hereby offered my Chemobrain stories to Ellen Clegg for any second editions.

Here are some of my symptoms below (some of which could also indicate an onset of Tourettes Sydrome)

"I've never been too good with names, but I remember faces." Not anymore. Now I'm horrible with both. I completely blanked on the name of our mailman of almost four years -- Stu. How do forget a name like Stu? It's the all-time best mailman name that ever existed. (Caroline and Paul reminded me as they bumrushed the mailbox upon his arrival. "STU!!!!!! MAIL!!!!") In the past two weeks alone, I've called my neighbor Alan, "Earl" and another neighbor Rich, "Ken." I completely forgot the names and faces of some parents with whom I've had full conversations at Paulie's school. This weekend, I did the same at Caroline's soccer game, but I think I was just preoccupied. There were some very high winds blowing and I was mentally preparing myself in case my wig flew off and rolled down the field like a renegade tumbleweed.

Typist Idiotus: At one time, I could type a ridiculous amount of error-free words per minute. I was a typing savant; my skills were sought after by many a temp agency in the early 1990s and garnered me several "Temp of the Month accolades" that involved my Polaroid hanging by the elevator banks and a couple of $25 gift certificates to Souper Salad. Now, everything I write is littered with typos and grammatical errors (the sneaky kinds that elude spell check) And whenever I type the word "this," it comes out as "shit." My unconscious mind must have a sense of humor.

Driving with Geggy Tah: I've always been a terrible driver but now I've become a scary one. Recently, I was meeting a friend in Braintree for lunch and forget which Exit I was supposed to get off of. "Get a grip, Kathy!" When I tried to bring up the address on my phone, I started lane swerving like a daytime DUI. Luckily, the moment passed and I was able to recall the exit number, but not before becoming a justifiable target of Route 3 road ragers. Thankfully, some motorists (I love the word "motorist.") were more patient with me and let me switch lanes at the last second so I didn't miss my Exit or sideswipe the guardrail. To these patient drivers, I mentally dedicated the impossibly addictive tune "Whoever You Are" by Geggy Tah: "All I want to do is to thank you, even though I don't know who you are. You let me change lanes, when I was driving in my car." It's still stuck in my XS head, however.

Aside: Looking back, it was not so much my memory coming back at it was Gail Sheena's voice entering my head. She was always the reassuring voice of reason from my backseat: "Um, I think you're OVERSHOOTING it a little," as she used to say -- quite calmly -- just before I blew past the parking lot at whatever bar or restaurant we were trying to find.

Things accidentally put in the fridge: Vito's leash, an Anthropologie catalogue, Caroline's detangling spray.

MF Dishwasher: I've emptied more than three dishwashers full of dirty dishes. James usually walks into the kitchen just as I've placed the final coffee mug onto its shelf. "I think those were dirty." *Stream of kitchen profanity* "Mom, please stop staying naughty bathroom words. I'll call the Easter Bunny" - Caroline

Cafe Rodgriguez, Anyone?: I've long chided poor James for his mispronouncements of restaurants, i.e., "Cafe Rodriguez" for Casa Romero, "The Groratoria" for Circes Grotto, or "Astros" for "Cosmos." This weekend, I doggedly insisted that the name of the tapas place we wanted to try in Marshfield was "Ole." Then why couldn't any of us find it on Google or 411? Because I insisted it was "Ole, in Liberty Plaza RIGHT ON 139." In reality it was "Hola, in Library Plaza in RIGHT OFF 139." Hello? We finally found it after driving up and down Ocean Avenue with a GPS that led us to a nice cul-de-sac off Liberty Street before locating the restaurant in a strip mall next to Kokopelli's tanning salon.

Misplaced: Every day, my shoes. But I think this is less Chemobrain than it is James' gaslighting me. Sure he grumbles about "land mines" and how I'm trying to kill him by leaving my shoes strewn in his path, but we all know he's facilitating my devolution into dementia at age 39.

Sidenote to Ellen: I'm sure you already do, but please ignore the crazy ass troglodytes who post on the Globe's message boards. (any message boards, actually) At least 85 percent of them are angry old coots, spewing crumbs on their keyboards as they type (with plenty of spelling errors) their bitter tirades. They are camels, one and all.

***********************************
Seven Songs of the Day 4/6/2009

Today's Seven Songs come courtesy of Tom Haley, complete with explanation. Thanks T-Bag!

1. April Skies – Jesus & Mary Chain (I figured, Fuck March)
2. Story Of My Life – Social Distortion
3. Dog Gone – Frank Black
4. Nevertheless – Brian Jonestown Massacre
5. Elvis Presley & America – U2 (I had to put down at least one U2 song, and there aren’t many underplayed ones left)
6. On The Road To Find Out – Cat Stevens
7. Good Feeling – Violent Femmes (la laa, la laa la-la-la-laa…)

Meeting Halfway, then Backsliding, in Newburyport

2009-04-01T13:52:00.000-04:00

Sat. March 28
With Chrissy and Amy coming from New Hampshire and Goy and I from the South Shore, it was really more like 3/4 of the way but Newburyport was the perfect place for our long overdue night out. Chrissy had to be close enough to be dropped off because, even though she's traveled as far and wide as China, she still can't bring herself to drive on the highway. Amy, who is the mother of four kids, took comfort in the fact that she only lived 20 minutes way.

("No crumpets, no crumpets")

True to form, Chrissy showed up for a 24-hour outing with a suitcase the size of a small office building and a curling iron wrapped in a floral, curling-iron cozy. Amy brought in a huge tray of organic cookies and muffins and teas -- and a sleeping bag, which she promptly set up on top of her bed at the Essex Street Inn as we looked on, bewildered.

"You guys, I spend my Friday nights watching 20/20, ok, " she said, covering her pillow with another piece of fabric brought from home. She told us about an expose that 20/20 recently ran on the nastiness that lurks within the microscopic fibers of hotel bedding. She also shared her firsthand experience of staying in a Foxboro motel with Mike (her husband) after a Patriots' game where a chain-smoking chamber maid discovered a cookie on the floor next to their bed the next morning. "And, it wasn't our cookie, guys, ok? That's all I'm saying," Amy said, her disgust palpable. She was not taking any chances and Goy and I thought she may be onto something once we walked across the hall and took a whiff of our own room.

Over some lunch and cocktails, we brought each other up to date. And over some crotchety old photo albums, we brought each other down to size with a lot of high-waisted pants and trouser socks. Our plan was to walk around Newburyport, go back to the Inn for a disco nap and then head out to dinner at one of the local establishments, maybe Agave for Mexican or the Mission Oak Grill, where the Inn had given us a $50 gift card.

My friend Dave (the one who coined the "camel" phrase) lives in Newburyport and planned to meet us out for drinks that night, but he contacted us at 3 p.m. with what he called "a better idea." With some "surprise guests" in tow, he suggested we bag our "nice dinner" and just meet them at the the Port Tavern around the corner right now for some appetizers and drinks.

We weren't ready to completely let go of our plan, but we decided to forgo the nap and went down to meet Dave, et al, around 5 p.m.

And soon we were backsliding into the mid-1990s.

Dave had brought along our old friends Clarky, Con and Crev, whom we haven't seen in probably 10-15 years. We used to spend many weekends together in the city: Red Sox games, snow days at the Green Briar, numerous Great Woods tailgates. It was officially impossible not to backslide. Dinner was off. We stayed put.

Chrissy, an empty Seabreeze in front of her, was hell bent on getting girl-drink drunk amid all this backsliding. As she sucked down the remnants of a Sex on the Beach, she pointed disapprovingly at my and Goy's full martinis. "Hey, c'mon, drink up!" She was working her way toward a Sombrero.

I cupped my bowl of loud mouth soup with one hand and pointed a cocktail sword full of vodka-soaked olives at her with the other: "Listen to me, woman. This is straight vodka."

"Corrupt Chrissy" and "Fucking Dave"
Dave has a long memory and is just nostalgic enough to be dangerous. He is the last person you'd want to have witnessed any bad behavior in your youth because he's incapable of holding a conversation in the present tense that doesn't involve something embarrassing you did in the past tense. With one or two words, he can heave ho a random skeleton out your closet.

He started referring to Chrissy as "Corrupt Chrissy" in 1994 when he learned, after a series of weekends in Brighton, that she was not as buttoned up as she carried herself to be. He picked up where he left off 15 years ago. After sparring with Dave for more than 30 minutes over a plate of congealed buffalo wings, Chrissy'd had enough, "Somebody please get fucking Dave away from me."

It took all of 30 minutes for Dave to become "Fucking Dave" all over again.

From his house of cards, where he lives as the guy he used to make fun of 15 years ago, he unleashed his reign of terror (his memory) on everyone at the table.

Clarky pondered: "Seriously, what's wrong with him?"

That's a question for the ages. The dichotomy of Dave. For instance, one minute, he's a dear friend who's got your back: "I'd do anything for you, pal." The next thing you know, he's sending abusive text messages to a mutual friend from YOUR phone.

Which I have yet to explain. Fucking Dave.

We left the Port Tavern and rambled over to the Mission Oak Grill, which used to be a church, to blow our $50 GC on a final round of drinks before heading back.

Goy being Goy, brought a fifth guest into our rooms at the Essex. She abducted a creepy-looking china doll (dubbed Veronica) from the Inn's lobby and took numerous pictures of it in and around the rooms. Chrissy opened a box of Kashi crackers. I almost fell asleep in my wig.

Amy zipped herself into her sleeping bag.

And we called it a night.

Hopefully the first annual!

***********************************************************
Seven Songs of the Day -- 4/1/2009

An Ode to the Mid-90s

1. Mr. Wendell - Arrested Development
2. Any Little Town - Push Stars
3. Shy - Push Stars
4. She's Electric - Oasis
5. Not An Addict - K's Choice
6. Nearly Lost You - Screaming Trees
7. Ridiculous Thoughts - Cranberries

Saints & Camels

2009-03-24T16:51:00.005-04:00

Last year when my friend Dr. Nic had a scare in the bosom, she gathered us around a Suppah Club table and told us -- in no uncertain terms – that if she had cancer she would not (repeat NOT) become one of those positive, inspirationally-gooey people who goes around calling her disease a gift and praising God as if he hadn’t been there all along. She'd be on her knees, shaking her fists at fate: “Bloody hell. Why ME? Why the fuck did it have to be ME?”

We nearly passed out laughing and thankfully, she was fine. Still, I knew where she was coming from. She wasn't talking about having a negative attitude. She was talking about the human tendency to go all evangelical and claim to live on a deeper plane than everyone else when faced with a health crisis. She thinks that's horse shit and so do I. Like former smokers who proselytize and wag their fingers in your face, it's a form of self preservation through sanctimony. Your life doesn't have any more meaning than it did before, it just becomes much more evident that you should be paying attention.

Whatever gets you through the night. Prayer is awesome, and so is red wine.

Positively Horrified
My worst nightmare is to become maudlin, but I was shocked when I was recently asked: "How can you be so positive?" What? I'm certainly not in the bell jar 24/7 but I'm not some shitfaced cheerleader in denial, am I? There isn't a day I don't wake up and think: "Oh SHIT, I could die." But then, so could anyone. Look at poor Natasha Richardson.

I guess it's not the notion of "being positive" that irked me so much as the way the question was posed: "How can you be so positive" -- accusatory --- like I was the man who got arrested for sticking a cucumber in his ass at Shaw's.

Don't get me wrong, I want this blog to have a positive vibe, just not a "Chicken Soup for the Soul-y" vibe. I'm striving for a "Dirty (Filthy!) Martinis for the Soul" vibe (or in my case, "Liquid Perc on the Rocks for the Soul.")

Back from the Wasteland (where I was negative)
Everyone has bad days -- even bad months. T.S Eliot said April is the cruelest month. For me, February is the cruelest and March the most sadistic. A couple of bad days this past week/weekend bloomed into a full-on episode -- and I don't believe it was cancer-related, certainly not entirely. I could feel my serotonin levels plummeting, my mood not far behind.

I've had episodes like this before, always around this time of year: A crop of cartoonish thunderclouds move in right over your head and you can't dispel them. Then, the inner hag, sensing your vulnerability, takes up residence in your soul and turns you into a recluse. For several days, you want to jump out of your skin. You have no energy. You find pleasure in nothing. You can't read or respond to emails. You can't listen to music or write. You can't even make a playlist and go for a five mile walk (an oft-proven remedy for such bouts). You can't stand being awake. All you want to do is go to sleep and wake up when the thunderclouds have passed.

Aside: BTW, I'm completely aware this reads like a bad TV ad for Wellbutrin. I probably have Seasonal Affective Disorder, but that's a blog for another day.

This time around, my physical appearance added to my angst. My baldness. Craving nothing, inside or out. I felt completely inhuman. I was talking to James about how the Nazis dehumanized their concentration camp prisoners by shaving the heads and how effective that probably was for everyone involved.

Aside II: James is thrilled that I’ve now managed to involve the Nazis in this week’s existential crisis.

Thankfully my wee brown ones were wrapped up in school and activities and fun with my sainted sister-in-laws who took them out for many an hour. The kids definitely sensed my bad energy. Caroline even said, "Mommy, your face looks funny." I looked in the mirror and sure enough, my face was contorted. I resembled a sour girl from high school who overplucked her eyebrows to the point of nonrecognition. (Just an FYI: Mine have thinned out from the chemo, I have not pruned them into oblivion. My eyelashes have thinned too, hence the clumpy mascara).

Still, my poor kids:

KIDS: Mommy, can you watch me draw a picture? Can you play this game with me?

ME: Mommy just needs to spend a few more minutes under the sink with these inhalants.

Saints in the Inbox
Over the past nine weeks (it's only been nine weeks!!!), I've met and spoken to so many people who are going through breast cancer or have been there. The majority have been unbelievably helpful and I'm thankful to count them as friends. There's Julie who I broke bread and drank wine with at Rustic Kitchen. She speaks of her BC as "a blip on the radar" nine years ago. I love the sound of that. When she entered the land of NED, she renewed her vows and threw a huge bash. I love the sound of that even more. She turns 50 next month and takes her good times seriously. Fuck cancer, it has nothing to do with it!

There's my friend Doreen who I've mentioned many times here.

There are people I've met through the PU and through friends of friends.

I talked to Kelly Tuthill, whose fight with BC I closely followed three years ago. We have identical diagnoses and she's doing awesome these days. She's also a philanthropist with her time. During our conversation, she mentioned that so many people out there are "counting on her to stay healthy." And I thought that is such a blessing and a curse. It's probably hard enough dealing with grabby, newly-diagnosed people like me who are trying to clamor out of the cluelessness, but she said she enjoys talking to people who are going through the war. It's a sentiment I want to pay forward once I reach the land of NED, but you really have to be self-possessed and have a sense of boundaries so you don't become consumed. I'm wondering if I have them.

Camel Crossing!
Because, based on my interaction with a handful of people, I can see how easy it would be to become consumed. (Let's just say I will never attend another support group). I'll mention three examples: The first woman was a stage 1 and recovering from surgery with an excellent prognosis. The second has been cancer free for almost two years and the third one should, at the very least, be out interviewing bands for her NED celebration. Each of them was dour and negative, seemingly hanging around on hooks waiting for their cancer to advance, recur and take them out once and for all. Together, however, they were a united front: "How can you be so positive?" I felt obligated to try to talk these people off the ledge. Mistake. I should've recognized these types a mile away.

My friend Dave would call these people “camels.”

Camel (n.): One who makes misery for the sake of making misery. Name inspired by the melancholic facial expression of the common camel.

ME: Dave, don't be so judgmental, maybe he/she is just having a bad day.

DAVE: Maybe people he/she is just being a camel. Being a camel because they can be.

Dave's banal, often stereotypical labels for people used to get on my nerves, but man, he was right on with this one. Because, every single time, the "camel" in question was not just having a bad day. It was always something. It was a lifestyle choice.

Example of a common camel: If it's someone's birthday, a holiday party, a wedding, a bridal shower, any reason to celebrate outside the house, the camel will manufacture a crisis. They will either get sick beforehand or find a reason to be offended and leave once they've arrived. Your 40th birthday will coincidentally turn out to be the 14th anniversary of of the camel's grandmother's death. The night of your holiday party, the camel will come down with a crushing migraine and throw up in the hotel lobby (or tell you they did).

Camels.

So went the conversations with current and former cancer patients: Graphic bowel issues. Leg pain. It's only a matter of time. Always looking over your shoulder. How can you be so positive?

MF camels. If it wasn't cancer, it'd be something else. It's always something.

Ten years from now, these same women will be attending support groups, hell bent on spooking other "positive" assholes like me.

Ask T.S. Eliot
I was looking for a quote from one of his poems because I was thinking about an essay my niece Sarah wrote about her mother, my sister-in-law Paula, who has ovarian cancer. She wrote about "the seasons" and how during the winter months, her mother was sick and bald and was in and out of treatment. Then, springtime came and her mother's hair was growing back. She knew she was getting better when she saw Paula on her hands and knees digging out flower beds and planting annuals. Her essay conveyed a genuine love of life and an appreciation for the turn of the seasons -- something I've always felt deeply connected to as well, particularly this year.

"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish?"
-T.S.

This past week, Paula and Sarah flew off to Florida with family and friends to celebrate Jon's cancer-free scans (Yahoo!) Because that's what they do: they celebrate the present. They also know that 38 degrees in March is complete bullshit and unworthy of their presence.

"We should be on Ellen!"
- Paula, on the amount of family members currently undergoing treatment at DF.

Anyway...
Their attitudes strike such a sharp contrast to those of the camels' who -- as camels tend to -- have an inherent distaste for life.

But I give thanks to the camels because they pissed me off! In anger there is adrenaline! And adrenaline is a natural serotonin booster. I'm back on my game.

The "readers guide" for that T.S. poem said "living a life devoid of meaning is death.” That's pretty bad, but it's even worse, I think, to manufacture misery or aspire to have a shitty day.
Don't be a camel.

That said, the thunderclouds have lifted and I’m pre-ordering a case of champagne to be uncorked upon my arrival in the land of NED.

**********************************************
Seven Songs of the Day -- 3/23/2009

Here I Come - Luscious Jackson
In the Journey - Martin Sexton
Stronger - Kanye West
Support System - Liz Phair
Dreams - The Cranberries
You Are the Best Thing - Ray LaMontagne
I Won't Back Down - Tom Petty

Courtesy of Michelle X. Curran (aka Singuloso)

(p.s. Congratulations on your new baby boy, Michelle!)

The Last Drip (on the really crap stuff)

2009-03-17T12:25:00.005-04:00

At the Southie parade yesterday, I stood under the sun at the corner of A & Broadway, sweating and itching in my wig for a couple of hours. But I didn't care: I was drinking red wine out of a giant red keg cup, the mood was far too celebratory and the weather far too beautiful to let a little sweating and itching get in the way. My brother kept yelling out, at random, "Itching powder in the sleeping bags!" Mikey Carter careened down Broadway as part of the Chinese Dragon again -- all business, swirling his piece of the dragon into colorful, dancing loops.

Mar. 16, Home, 7:30 a.m.
I'm thinking about what a great day we had yesterday as I ready my wig to head into the DF. I usually wear a wig or skull cap into treatment and then suddenly realize how silly this is. There is no need to itch and sweat beneath a wig at the Dana Farber Cancer Center. Clearly, I'm one of their people. It's no secret. I've seen plenty of baldies coming and going.

So, I decide I will go to my last AC treatment bald. But then I look in the mirror at my tiny bald alien head -- and I just can't do it. Probably for the same reason I haven’t posted a bald photo of myself on the blog. It's mostly vanity, but I also tend to forget all about the temporary tattoos the kids have posted all over my glossy dome – Shamrocks, Easter eggs, hearts, the Backyardigans, a couple of Spidermans, etc.

Aside: I’m also afraid to post a bald photo on this blog because somewhere down the road, someone may search my name for or a job interview or something more important, hit on the Google image and think I’m some kind of violent anarchist (Backyardigans tatoos notwithstanding).

Maybe when I make peace with the baldness, I'll post a pic. I'm not ready yet.

Aside II: I don't know why I even bother hiding under the wigs. Whenever we're out and about , Caroline loves to announce to anyone within earshot: “See my mom?! She’s wearing a wig! And she has tattoos on her head!!!" Both kids also refer to me as "baldy."

So, I compromise. Instead of the wig or skull cap, I opt for a silk scarf. My friend CK recently suggested I get a Hermes scarf and really turn this MF out. I don’t have a Hermes scarf, but I do have one that aspires to be - we'll call it my “Fermes” scarf. I wrap it around my head, tie a couple of funky knots in the back and let it hang over my left shoulder (just grazing the top of Lefty). I kind of look like a fortune teller but I like it; it looks and feels more feminine and celebratory than a skull cap.

Aside III: I’ve always wanted to wear my "Fuck Cancer" skull cap into the DF, but did not want to offend any patients who may not appreciate the word "fuck" quite as much as I do.

DF 9, 8:40 a.m.
Our appointment is at 8:45 and everything seems to be running very quickly this morning. I’m trying to wolf down a green apple but keep getting called in for prep work. "Kathryn!" Come and get your vitals.

Back to the waiting room. Two more bites of apple. "Kathryn!" Come and get your Blood work.

Back to waiting room. Not even one more bite. "Kathryn!" Come and get your IV.

For whatever reason, my veins are not cooperating today. After three tries, the nurse sends me back into the waiting room until another nurse can give it a go.

Back to the waiting room. Green apple is turning brown so I ditch it. My right arms looks like that of a heroin addict (in perfect keeping with the degenerate fantasy of last week).

Finally, I get called back again and this nurse gets the IV on her second try, this time on my left arm. She said "It's like your veins are running away from us today."

I'm thinking, "Of course they are, they probably know the red death awaits them. I'd run too."

James and I head off down the corridor to meet with our doctors Ann & Katie.

ANN: So, another patient of mine told me that I have a patient named Kate with this great blog I have to check out. She kept saying 'Kate' and I couldn't place you, but then I got the link and saw your picture and instantly knew: Kathryn Jackson. How could we not been calling you "Kate Jackson" this whole time.

We realized it's because we've been all business, all about the tumor and treatment. "Call me Kate" never even crossed my mind.

ANN: Anyway, my other patient said she’s hooked on your blog and that you’re a great writer. I can’t wait to read some more of this.

Now it's only a matter of time before Ann refers to me as KJ. At least I hope so.

[POINTY NOTE: To this “other patient of Ann':" Thank you very much for your kind words. For a few moments there, I was so flattered that I forgot I was sitting topless in a hospital johnny. Feel free to email me anytime. Thank you, again!]

Ann tells me she’ll definitely check out the PU, but now it’s time to check out Lefty.

Katie tells Ann my tumor feels much softer and smaller, almost like it was detaching from the chest wall. This sounds just GREAT to James and me as we remember the first words used to describe the tumor were: “Hard and massive.” “Undifferentiated.” “Can’t tell where tumor ends and normal tissue begins.”

ANN: (feeling me up). If I didn’t know you had a cancer in here, I wouldn’t even be able to tell by feeling it. Of course, you have really dense breasts, but still, I wouldn't be able to pinpoint it. And that's just after two months of AC. That's great.

Aside IV: “Dense breasts” – Now there are two words placed side-by- side that make me shudder a bit. Kind of like LPD’s reaction to the words: moist pork stain.

This whole appointment puts me in a good mood as we fly off to our final AC infusion. My scarf tails are flying out being me like I have a kite on my head.

***
DF 10, 9:45 a.m.
The chemo nurse is an enigma but we’re up for the challenge.

Not North Shore.
Not Metro West
Not the City, but maybe at some point in her life.

She lies the IV bags on my arm rest. Some nauseu meds, some hydration, the Cytoxan (the “C” in the “AC”) and the three red vials of Adriamycin (the “A” in the “AC”…or shall I say the “ASS”).

"This is your last AC," she says. "You must be happy."

No hint of a Boston accent, still James and I are focused on South of Boston. Still, we can tell she's going to be a challenge because she's not much for the small talk and shit-shat (while this is a quality I would probably revere in a chemo nurse, it doesn't bode well for our silly little "guess where the nurse is from" game.)

The nurse hooks up the hydration and nauseau meds, puts on her hazmat gear and places the three vials of red death on the arm rest. Suddenly, I have to use the loo. "I'll be right back."

I glide over to the restrooms with my IV caddy and find there is a line for one of the two bathrooms (the other is being cleaned). Another young woman with an IV caddy glides up behind me. She's looks a little younger than me and has some cute peach fuzz growing back on her head.

YOUNG WOMAN: Oh, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a line here.

ME: Me neither, just one stall open. I think I'm avoiding my treatment.

YW: Have to get in before the drugs kick in! I love your scarf. How did you tie it in the back here?

ME: I don’t know. I couldn’t see what I was doing. Are you sure it doesn’t make me look like a fortune teller?

YW: (shakes her head). No no.

ME: I am too self conscious to go completely bald.

YW. I was too, but now I have some hair back so it's not as bad. You're just happy to have some hair.

Just then, the bathroom door opens and some guy with a goatee, a full head of hair and no IV caddy emerges from the restroom with a Boston Herald tucked under his arm. A foul cloud of stink emerges right behind him.

Me: (under my breath) Oh no.

GOATEE: Oh! Sorry ladies. I didn’t know there was a line. Woops!

YW: You're sorry!?

We both laugh and simultaneously agree : The stench is NOT good for the tumor! We decide to hold it and glide back to our respective chemo stalls.

James is staring at the nurse, his mind working over time.

ME: “I’m back.”

JAMES (mouthing)' "Scituate? Braintree?"

I nod in agreement and mouth “Marshfield?”

Maybe.

But then our brother-in-law Jon stops by (he also had an appointment at the DF today). He mentions how he's heading off to "slumlord his property in Weymouth" and the nurse doesn’t bite. Damnit. Again, she's not talkative so maybe she wouldn't have been so easily-lured to the typical South Shore small talk.

The nurse starts administering the red death and that familiar feeling of ill-being invades. It’s the Anti-Roxicet. But unlike the Roxicet, this invasion is crappy and hangs around for an entire week.

But, just knowing this is the last time makes it so much more palatable.

Again, my veins aren’t cooperating.

NURSE: (twisting tubes, rooting around with my IV) Your veins are really making me work for it today. It’s like they’ve had enough of this stuff.

ME: (watching the red death trying to weasle its way into my veins) They sure have.

The Replacements take over:

“Hurry up! Hurry up! Ain’t you had enough of this stuff!”

Now I’m focused less on where our nurse is from and more on what makes this Adriamycin – RED! I can’t believe I hadn’t asked (or Googled it) before.

ME: “So, what makes this stuff red anyway.?

[I can tell nurse either doesn’t really know or doesn’t really want me to know.]

NURSE: Hmm..Maybe some kind of dye?

The Replacements take over again, replacing "Red, Red Wine on Sundays, always feels so good" with:

“Red Red Dye on Mondays, always feels like ass."

The nurse finally gets the stew flowing and finishes the first, second and finally the third and final vial of the red death. James and I give each other a little ceremonial dap as the nurse starts hooking up the bag of Cytoxan to my IV. Now it’s just one more hour sitting on the drip.

I’m about to Google “What makes Adriamycin red” when another nurse passes by with a ginormous – we’re talking really huge -- gift basket of treats.

JAMES: (joking) “Oh, I see my basket has arrived. They must be delivering it to the wrong stall.”

But seconds later, the nurse backtracks, “Are you Kate?”

ME: Yes?

I look at James incredulously who is looking at the nurse the same way.

NURSE: Well, This beautiful basket here is for you? Is it your birthday?

ME; (tearing up) NO, no. It’s just my last day of treatment, well of the AC at least.

NURSE: That's definitely reason to celebrate! Enjoy!

It’s from my old college friends Mary, Gail and Julie, whom I’ve reconnected with, thanks to the upside of Facebook. They always have the most uplifting wall posts but this unbelievable. Just an amazing booty of treats!

[To Mary, Gail, Julie: Thanks so much, guys. I don’t even know what to say. People are walking up and down the corridor just to get a peek.]

The last of the Cytoxan drips into my arm and we're out of here. We head for the elevators with many big basket gawkers in our wake. We pick up my prescriptions and roll out the front doors of the DF, free for the next two weeks.

The next phase, starting March 30 and continuing every Monday for three months, is supposed to be far less taxing with fewer side effects and manageable fatique. The "TH" phase contains only one chemo drug called Taxol and a magical antibody called Herceptin that's been known to kick the living shit out of HER2+ tumors.

As we wait for the valet to bring our car around, the drugs are starting to make me feel tired and I lean into James a bit. But over his shoulder, I see what has become an all too familiar site at the DF the past few weeks.

A young child, a girl, in an umbrella stroller, not more than 18 months, bald and smiling.

When you see this, it really puts everything into perspective. (We think of Aoife’s and John’s Naimh, as we often do.)

And we think: Breast cancer, we can do. We could NEVER do that. I don’t know how those who are forced to, do.

P.S. The nurse was from EASTON. Technically, south of Boston, but we could've done much better!

************************************************
Seven Songs of the Day --- 3/17/09

Some Irish songs for St. Paddy's Day! Courtesy of Susan Sullivan.

1. The Unicorn (The Irish Rovers)
2. Wild Rover (The Jolly Beggerman)
3. When Irish Eyes Are Smiling (Bing Crosby)
4. Molly Malone (The Clancy Brothers)
5. Fields of Athenry (Dropkick Murphys)
6. Irish Rover (The Pouges)
7. Auld Lang Syne (Mairi Campbell)

And..some Irish artists

1. Tuesday Morning -- Pogues
2. Precious Little -- Eleanor McEvoy
3. My Wild Irish Rose -- The Pushstars (ok, not Irish, but Boston Irish)
4. Ridiculous Thoughts -- Cranberries
5. So Young -- Corrs
6. Isn't it Amazing -- Hothouse Flowers
7. Moment of Surrender -- U2

-- KJ

"On" Weekend #4 - Just the JPEGs (and some wigs)

2009-03-16T11:03:00.001-04:00

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Bragging Rights

2009-03-13T08:24:00.006-04:00

(Eating down the fridge)

My friend Nancy has been chronicling her culinary adventures Down Under on her blog The Roving Lemon since last fall. But this week, she's bringing it back to the States. The Washington Post asked Nancy to guest blog for their popular food site, "A Mighty Appetite," this week (alongside other food writers of gastronomic proportions). Right where she should be. Check it out here, but not before checking the produce drawer of your fridge for a bag of rotting carrots. Way to go, N! I can't wait to try your new creation.

Damn, It Feels Good to be a

2009-03-11T10:46:00.002-04:00

"An emergency prescription for Roxicet" -- music to my ears after my doctor told me my sore throat was likely being caused by lesions on my esophagus. Nasty! But I have to admit it made me feel like less of a wimp for letting a sore throat bring me down so hard and fast. Lesions, man!

Roxicet, which is as fun as it sounds, is basically liquid percocet -- and it's like butter. A half a teaspoon of this stuff and it's all rainbows and unicorns and Turtles' songs. It's an overwhelming sense of well being. It's Happy Time. I sat slack jawed on the couch, staring at the TV with my tongue hanging out for about 20 minutes before I realized I was stoned out of my mind. Why the hell am I watching Walker, Texas Ranger? I turned off the TV, put on the new U2, and passed out on my yoga mat next to Vito after a brief stare down contest. I woke up a few minutes later and played Star Wars sound effects on my iPhone, cracking up -- every single time -- at C-3P0's voice: "We're doomed!" Usually, it's Chewie who cracks me up. While on drugs, it's C-3P0 apparently.

It's a good thing that I have roots because I could so easily become a drug addict or a transient. I had an epiphany similar to Cameo's from the 1990s about the path of least resistance. One morning, Cam spotted a pretty rancid guy on the Red Line on her way into work. It was not yet 8 a.m. and the man was clearly wasted. He was talking to an equally rancid friend, his partner in crime (or in this case, his partner in stanking up the train.) The man smiled at his friend, patted his filthy front jacket pocket that contained a bottle of Captain Morgan's, and in a gravelly voice said: "El Captain! El Captain!"

"He just seemed so carefree," Cameo thought, sitting there stressed out in her nylons, heels and business suit, wanting to be dropped off anywhere but her corporate job. "Lead us not into South Station." This guy is onto something, she thought. The early morning grooming is exhausting enough, not to mention the workplace anxiety under 'the man.' It would be so much easier to just be dirty and drunk on the T all day without a care in the world.

On my "off" weeks, I already feel like Nick Nolte's mug shot (except bald.) I thought about Scary Mary, another AM drunk who used to hang out at the Wood Island T station. Whenever you walked by her, she may or may not have swung her plastic bag of dishtowels and limes at you and tell you to go fuck yourself. You just never knew if it was going to be you or the guy behind you. So I thought about putting some Roxicet in my front jacket pocket and heading down to the West Hingham Commuter Rail station -- and whatever happens happens. But then I sobered up. It's time to get off the junk.

***********************
Seven Songs of the Day -- 3/10/09

1. “The Underdog” Spoon (Love this song. It’s a good “fuck you” to any entity that thinks its indestructible)

2. “Hospital Food” David Gray

3. “Missed the Boat” Modest Mouse

4. “The Painter” Neil Young

5. “All for One” from High School Musical Cast (Olivia suggested this one)

6. “Take Me Out” Franz Ferdinand

--Courtesy of M. Draper

The Inevitable Beat Down

2009-03-10T09:11:00.002-04:00

It’s official. Just when I thought we were getting away with it, the AC chemo is rearing its MF “cumulative” effects. Even though we never jinxed it by saying it out loud, the sentiment was there and that was enough.

The sneaky little fucker has slowly but surely started robbing me of days on my “on” week. Right now, it’s beating me down in the form of a narcotic-worthy sore throat. It’s been two days of Nyquil comas and strange dreams with 1970s imagery (which I’m sure are Lost-related, but nevertheless strange.) In one, I was bald with sideburns. In another, James was wearing a denim vest and we lived in a tent in Sacramento.

The sore throat is ungodly. I don’t think I have felt this level of pain since the failed epidurals of 2003. But now -- just like then -- I am no hero. When the OTC drugs fail to get the job done, it’s time to call in the big guns and go on a wee pharmaceutical vacation.

In the meantime, the side effects are making me angry and antsy. But I am forcing myself to acknowledge how unbelievably fortunate I have been to make it this far into the Red Death treatment with more "on" days than "off" ones. I'm lucky that I only have one of these treatments left and can move on to the second, less aggressive phase. The "off" days are numbered.

I'm lucky to have plans on the calendar this week to look forward to. I’ve been preparing my wig for a Thursday night Suppah Club at Jess’s and a Friday night dinner at Ivy. (The last time this particular crowd got together, the night ended with me falling into a planter outside the Warren Tavern.) I can't wait to see everyone and refuse to be sidelined. I'll be there. I may be on drugs, but I'll be there.

*************************************

Seven Songs of the Day -- 3/10/09

On the TimTams

1. It's a Beautiful Morning - The Rascals

2. Barefootin' - Robert Parker

3. California Soul - Marlena Shaw

4. Don't You Worry 'Bout a Thing - Stevie Wonder

5. Do You Know the Way to San Jose? - Dionne Warwick

6. Wouldn't It Be Nice - The Beach Boys

7. I Can See Clearly Now - Johnny Nash

- Courtesy of The Roving Lemon

"Celebrating the Moments" with Chrissy D.

2009-03-04T06:37:00.000-05:00

Last week, I received a card in the mail. On the cover was an obese man in a thong, mid golf swing, on a beach. I laughed out loud, as anticipated by the return address, but was flabbergasted to find a full page letter inside.

It was from my friend and college roommate, Chrissy D. H. (henceforth, CDH) She loathes writing as much as I loathe the phone. She not only dislikes letters, but emails, IMs and Facebooks too. So, it's really no surprise we've been in and out (mostly out) of touch over the last 17 years or so.

Aside: She was, however, featured on this blog a few years ago after she passed along some camera pics of her approaching Snoop Dog in Vegas. He actually said to her, "What's crack-a-lackin', baby?"

Needless to say, her letter was a gem, chock full of updates and tid bits of nostalgia:

Remember when we'd be hungover and panting outside of Papa Gino's at 10:30 a.m. begging for them to open?

Yes! Yes! Of course I remember! I've been digging through a lot of old journals lately too, working my way back. CDH is in a lot of them so I have to tell some of the stories.

She and I couldn't have been two more different creatures, but for some reason it worked. We just clicked, not only as roommates but as friends as well.

1990, Lammers Hall, WSC

On one side of the dorm room: Ceiling-to-floor Top Gun and Doug Flutie posters. On the other: U2, the Beatles, REM. On CDH's nightstand: novels, a hummel, a massive jug of white zinfandel and Marlboro Lights. On mine: A broken alarm clock, door knocker earrings, a three-year old lipgloss, and a ragged journal. And Marlboro Lights and a broken lighter. On our radio/cassette player: Barry Manilow and the Replacements were constantly going head-to-head.

Over our front door, CDH hung her Xeroxed statement on the status quo: "If assholes could fly, this place would be an airport" -- which was true at least 40 percent of the time. During the holidays, she hung up a red pillow, only the first in the trio, that said "Ho." Which was also true at least 40 percent of the time.

Still, for someone so opinionated and bold, she was also the most easily-embarrassed person I'd ever met.

1989, Freshman Year, Dining Commons (before we were roommates)
CDH, our friend Amy and I headed to the caf for dinner. We were all making enormous salads that night. When CDH reached for some pita bread, she somehow dropped her entire tray on the floor. The whole incident took less than 8 seconds and the caf was so loud and crowded that few people even saw it happen. As we went to help her clean it up, we noticed CDH was already gone. We spotted her outside of the caf windows walking briskly back toward the dorm, head hung in shame.

The following night, Amy and I went to get CDH for dinner and found her huddled over, stirring some Oodles of Noodles in a hot pot.

ME: What's going on, Yoda?
CDH: Oh, I am never ever going back in there again after what happened. Can you just smuggle me out some bagels?

We could tell by her eyes that it was futile to convince her otherwise, so we just lined our pockets with sesame bagels and low-fat cream cheese for a few weeks until she relented.

Aside II: Once, when she was in high school, she was completely mortified when her mother fell down at the grocery store. After whispering frantically to no avail -- "Get up. Get UP -- she walked away, not realizing that her mother had actually broken both her arms.

1991, Lammers Hall, The Avoidance Factor of Love

(Amy, me and CDH and the massive jug of White Z, 1991)

Those campus romantic dramas -- some instigated, some unavoidable, all inevitable when you're all squished together in a world smaller than a city block. While I was embroiled in a particularly heinous one, CDH left me a card on my bed. On the cover was a brick wall. Inside she wrote, "The next time you think it's a good idea to talk to boys -- any boys -- bang your head against this brick wall until the feeling goes away." I still have the card.

When she was similarly afflicted, we would sit in the common area and play Boggle (or cards, I can't remember). She'd have the mammoth jug of white z and I'd have Keystone Light or some other cheap swill on hand. The whole idea was to screen incoming calls on the common phone. When it inevitably rang, I would rush to pick it up before anyone else: "No, Chrissy's not here. I think she went to El Italia."

Aside III: Perhaps a strange foreshadowing of the "I think she's at the Egg & I" incident circa mid-90s on Cape Cod?

Later, we'd chain smoke and "Celebrate the Moments of our Lives" with some General Foods International coffees -- toasting to "the avoidance factor of love."

Well-Pressed & Coiffed, Curled Bangs
Most moved among campus in baggy sweats and baseball hats. This was unheard of for CDH. First, showering was not optional. Regardless of a prior late night, she'd barrel down the hallway, shower caddy in one hand, middle finger up on the other should anyone dare to address her in the AM. Second, she always had perfectly pressed slacks and blouses with matching belts, purses and shoes. Make up was always on, her hair perfectly coiffed into cascading mushroom curls with bangs curled under with a curling brush.

Aside IV: One of the first times she actually wore jeans, we all went out to Kelleher's. The night quickly devolved and we ended up back in our apartment dancing to Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. Then, for whatever reason (alcohol), five of us (CDH not included of course) decided to strip down and crack each other up by posing like underwear models in a Bradlees circular. Hearing the commotion, some of the boys from next door walked in, which sent several of us diving into the corner, turning our Pier One Papasan chair into an instant bunker.

So, the stories could go on and on.

Since CDH shocked the hell out of me by writing a letter, I shocked her right back by picking up the phone and calling her at work: "I can't believe you called!" "I can't believe you wrote!"

(Goy, Amy, CDH, Cherelle and me @ Amy's bachelorette, 1996)

So, we've made plans to get together for an overnight. CDH, Amy, Goy and I. She still doesn't drive long distances (she's out of state)..some things never change..and for some if it I'm grateful. If we have to put her on a Peter Pan bus or yellow moped, we'll meet her somewhere in the middle.

***********

So, today, in lieu of a playlist, I'd like to dedicate the entire "About Last Night Soundtrack" to CDH. Rock on with your bad self!

Get on your (MF) Boots (again)

2009-03-02T13:43:00.004-05:00

Live, On the Drip, DF 10
I'm here mainlining my poison, curtain drawn, no window seat. A new chemo nurse proving to be our biggest challenge yet just blew our game by offering up, unsolicited: "Westwood cancelled school last night at 8 p.m." *Westwood.* Damnit. We would've gotten there. My first impression was JP but my intuition said go west. Now we'll never know.

James is off on a mission to find some top secret (not anymore) list that DF patients can put their names on for free Sox tickets. In the meantime, I thought I'd post a quick playlist. I Shazam-ed a couple of these songs from WERS on the drive in as we dodged caravans of snowplows.

7 Songs of the Day -- 3/2/2009
1) Get on Your Boots -- U2
2) Sawdust Man -- Ben Kweller
3) Inni Mer Syng...Vitleysingur (Inside me a lunatic sings) -- Sigur Ros
4) Linger -- Jonatha Brooke
5) Troubled Mind -- Everything but the Girl
6) Overkill (acoustic) -- Colin Hay/Men at Work
7) Shake your Body Down to the Ground -- Michael Jackson

Red death: 3 down, 1 to go

Accumulations and the Inner Hag

2009-02-26T14:35:00.005-05:00

I'm so glad February is just about over. The month has always been notorious for bringing out one's inner hag but this year I found it impossible to keep mine (back, hag, back!) at bay. The paleness alone was bad enough but the baldness really pushed me into the red. Whenever I look in the mirror, I see a bald pale hag who has spent too many months cringing in an icy head wind. That fresh accumulation of crow's feet!

This winter has been long and brutal for even the most resilient New Englander, enough to turn a bald pale hag into an angry bald pale hag. But that would NOT be good for the tumor, so I won't go there.

Still, I always need something to rally against and earlier this week I declared war on all forms of the word "accumulate."

Accumulating snow. The accumulation of AC chemo poison inside my body. See how the grocery bills accumulate in the form of super vitamins and Whole Foods transactions.

But then I was rifling around in my kitchen cabinets for a soup bowl and a little envelope with some painted irises on it fell onto the counter top. Inside were a bunch of GCs for Bella Sante -- an accumulation of GCs -- worth numerous spa treatments yet to be scheduled. Two of the cards were Christmas gifts from old clients from 2005 and 2006 and one was a Mother's Day present from James from 2004. They all had messages like "Pamper yourself in 2006" and "A spa day for you," etc. To be honest, I am slightly horrified that I haven't properly pampered myself since 2004. I'm not a martyr: "Oh, you know, it's all about the kids now. I could never take a day for myself. Selfish things. Woe is mama." No, I like my facials and pedicures very much. If anything, they make for a more coherent, patient mama and keep the inner hag in her place.

So on Monday afternoon, I'd already shelved what I now perceive as my silly war on the word accumulate (I kept hearing Dr. Nic's voice in my head: "It's a word for fuck's sake. Have a drink.") and dialed up Bella Sante. I was expecting to get in there sometime in March but the shitty economy offered me next day appointments starting at 9:30 a.m: Head-to-Toe Body Ritual, Blueberry Smoothie Facial, Pomegranate Peel. And since I'm pretty much back to my high energy self this week, I booked them on the spot.

Aside: "High energy" these days means not having to take a disco nap to stay up past 8 p.m.

Tues. Feb. 24, Bella Sante
For all my railing against the crappy winter, I'm thankful to be able to walk around undetected in my baldness with my fierce wig and raspberry beret. The wig just fits my pin-sized head better with a hat over it. If this were the summer, I couldn't get away with this look.

I'm so unselfconscious about my appearance that I don't even consider my baldness until I step off the elevator into Bella Sante. Shit. I can't possibly get a facial with a wig on, that would be freakish.

I sign in, go to the locker room and put on a velvet robe. I leave the wig on as I sip some cucumber-ginger water in the lounge and wait to be called for my first appointment.

A petite dark-haired woman appears in the room, "Kate?" I'm clearly the only person in the lounge. "I'm Joss. Come on back." She shakes my hand and kind of walks a few steps ahead of me.

ME: "Hey, um, psst."

(Yes, I actually said "Psst." I am becoming more freakish by the second.)

JOSS: (turns around) Mmhmm?

KATE: "Listen, I am wearing a wig. I am bald as an egg. I just wanted to let you know that so you wouldn't be freaked out when I took it off in there."

JOSS: (unfazed) That's OK.

(I have a feeling, though, that Joss would've been unfazed if I'd just told her that I had an extra leg.)

As we walk into the room. I realize I never mentioned cancer as the reason for my baldness. As far as Joss knows, I'm just some crazy bald woman in an ill-fitting wig. When we get into the room, I casually mention breast cancer and de-wig myself.

JOSS: "You can totally pull off baldness, you should just walk around like that."

(Let's not get carried away.)

I like Joss. I'm completely at ease, even when she exfoliates my bald head with some sea salt. Also, she isn't an aesthetician who peppers you with questions throughout what's supposed to be a relaxing spa treatment. There is nothing more stressful than feeling like you have to keep a conversation going when you just want to zone out. Not to mention, a full frontal exfoliation is no time for idle chit chat. I don't even like talking during manicures, though, which is why I go to the Vietnamese nail salon where nobody speaks English.

I go back and forth between the locker room and treatment room a few times in between services. Sometimes I walk out to the lounge with my wig on, other times with a turban on my head, my wig wrapped in a hand towel and stuffed into my robe pocket. This proves to be very confusing to Joss. For instance, when I'm in the turban, she walks right past me, opens the locker room door, and calls out: "Kate?"

ME: (behind her) I'm right here.

JOSS: Oh, I didn't even see you there, little towel head.

(I am certain Joss does not intentionally address me with an ethnic slur against Arabs.)

During my facial -- out of nowhere -- my appetite that has been nonexistent for several weeks returns with a vengeance. I am suddenly so starving that I am tempted to lick some of the blueberry smoothie facial mask off my face. Apparently, my appetite has accumulated over the past week as well because I can't wait to get the hell out of there and sprint to the nearest food court. On the way out, I grab a granny smith apple from the fruit bowl in the lounge and maul it in the elevator, wishing it were a rotisserie chicken. I'm still famished. A few moments later, I notice little green pieces of apple skin on the front of my scarf and coat. I pick the pieces off and eat them, one by one, as I speedwalk through the Public Garden.

*************
Seven Songs of the Day -- 2/25/2009

Today's playlist comes courtesy of Colleen W. in Washington, DC. In her trademark fashion, Colleen never includes the what without the why. That's why we love her. If you can, try to enjoy some Positive K today. I know I did.

1. Get Up, Stand Up — Bob Marley (No iPod is complete without Bob Marley. The populist anthem of many generations.)
2. Dirt Off Your Shoulder — Jay-Z (Jigga man — this song is on President Obama’s iPod—need I say more?!)
3. I Got a Man — Positive K (Just because, I mean, whatever happened to “Positive K?” This is classic early 90’s hip hop. Up there with “Monie in the Middle.”)
4. Ain’t Nobody — Chaka Khan (Her name is Chaka — gotta love that and the double negative in the song title! Feel good, uplifting, don’t-mess-with-me soundtrack of many, many movies.)
5. Forever Young — Bob Dylan (I’m not a big Dylan fan, but the message in this one is really good. Good song for a lazy spring afternoon drive. Definitely a Sagittarius song.)
6. A Sorta Fairytale —Tori Amos (I’m a fan of any person who can play the piano like that and start a national advocacy organization for rape victims.)
7. Thunder Road — Bruce Springsteen (Favorite Bruce Springsteen song)

Chemo Buddies, Substitutes and Sandwiches

2009-02-23T06:03:00.001-05:00

9 a.m. Mon. Feb. 16, DF 10
For round 2 of the red death, we scored a window seat away from the main row; a safe haven from front desk gawkers and wandering, spaced-out chaplains. Instead of viewing patients filling out forms, we look upon blue skies and the interconnecting rooftops of JP and Brookline. It's like a Lisa Daria painting.

James and I are setting up shop with our laptops, books, mags and other articles of distraction when our chemo "neighbors" show up. They are an older couple who move in ways that suggest they've been doing this for a while. They immediately -- and mercifully -- draw the curtain. "Not that we don't like you guys," the gentlemen says from his side. "That's fine," we say from ours.

We're just glad someone took the initiative. We're still unsure of the protocol on who draws the curtain first. There are people from all over the world at the DF, and you can never be sure if hasty curtain drawing could be viewed as a sign of disrespect, like the throwing of one's shoes, for instance.

Before our neighbor's nurse can even hook the gentleman's wife up to her IV, their mini TV goes on -- it's an auditory invasion -- gameshow ding-ding-dings, the over-elocution of some Tom Bergeron-style svengali. Shit.

Happy President's Day!
It's desolate at the DF today because it's a holiday. Caroline came bounding down the stairs this morning and shouted to Paul (who was deeply involved in a granola bar and juicebox on the couch), "Happy President's Day, Paulie!"

"There's no candy or egg hunt, Caroline," Paulie responded, already jaded by the uneventfulness of this particular holiday.

I used to love President's Day. It was always the perfect long weekend to go to NYC -- inexpensive, not too crowded, Sat. afternoon cocktails at the SoHo Grande. We'd take the train down on a Friday after work, fly home on the $60 Sunday morning shuttle and then have all day Monday to recover.

But this President's Day will obviously be spent on the mainline surrounded by a bare bones hospital shift. It's almost surreal. The 10th floor is usually a beehive of activity with scurrying nurses and patients being paged, processed and prodded. The cafeteria is closed for the entire day. The pharmacy is operating on a Sunday schedule. My doctors have the day off. Even Judy, our chemo nurse isn't here today. What's even odder is the elevators are being manually operated by random security personnel because certain floors* are closed. If you don't ask someone to turn the key for your floor, the doors won't open there.

Aside: This* threw a wrench into my plan to purchase a gauzy headscarf from the Friend's Boutique on the 9th floor. But then again, a headscarf has nothing on this fantastic head piece that Gena D. sent me. I can't wait to wear it out some night soon.

Anyway, as I pointed out the inactivity around us, James wondered if I was expecting a President's Day ice cream sundae cart and puppet parade ala Caroline. Actually, I just want a banana and a Poland Spring, which luckily are on hand. And someone said they were planning on bringing in sandwiches soon. And anyone who knows James knows all he needs is a good sandwich to feel well taken care of. I'm starting to feel that way too.

The Substitute Nurse
My substitute nurse (the sub) hooks up my IV and hydration while I wait for my blood work to come back. I have to say, I'm becoming pretty agile with my chemo caddy. I take off my shoes and sort of glide around in my fleece socks -- pushing the caddy to the loo, to the kitchen area, up and down the hall -- all without causing a ruckus. I'd much rather move around than sit idle on a saline drip.

We are still waiting for my toxic stew to be mixed when my chemo buddy, Cameo, breezes into our cubby up with a pack of pink (MF pink!) playing cards and a game of UNO. She said she'd loitered a bit by the desk before some security person told her to just go on in. Apparently, she'd texted James but he was deep into a game of darts on my iPhone. This happens a lot. Either I'm zoned out on my computer or James is zoned on the iPhone. He is no doubt the rock of my shituation but I have to admit it's nice to have a pal along this morning for a good chinwag over some saltines. And it didn't take long before we were all laughing too loud and being made to feel like we were goofing off in church. It was just what I needed, though.

Aside II: Besides, someone had to drown out those MF game show sound effects. There's nothing like a game show to remind you of being home sick from school as a child. The sounds of a game show only reinforce that feeling of being sidelined.

..On the '45'
After a 10:45 a.m. turkey sandwich, we all simmer down a bit and try to remember the fundamentals of 45s, a card game we all became addicted to more than 10 years ago (and abruptly had to quit lest friendships and marriages be torn asunder.) CK first taught us how to play on a ski trip to Killington in 1997. Then Draper and Golen re-taught us a year later on the Nantucket trip. At that point, the only people we knew that had ever heard of and/or knew how to play this game were from the Merrimack Valley. Apparently, the card game was created on a Commuter Rail ride between Lowell and North Station. It was aptly named 45s because -- station to station -- it took about 45 minutes to play one full game. It was a perfect time killer, not to mention addicting and fun. I don't even like playing cards but I remember becoming a lunatic over this game. We were up in the Nantucket kitchen almost every night until 4 or 5 a.m. It got loud, it got competitive. There were cheat sheets, allegations and betrayals, all culminating with a hostile steak tip found floating in the hot tub.

James, Cam and I decide to shelve the game for today. You really need four people to play anyway.

Guess the Nurse's Hometown, Round 2
James has already begun engaging the sub in the kind of effortless banter that I could never get away: "So, do you get to take another holiday because you worked this one?"

SUB: "Yes. Time and half for the holiday plus another day off with full pay."

She is wearing Nantucket Red-colored corduroys, a white Oxford Cloth shirt and penny loafers. She has no hint of a Boston accent, though she mentions she grew up in the city. (We soon learn she means the city of Brookline). She has a 20-year-old son in private school. When we said we lived on the South Shore, she didn't say anything which not only rules out the South Shore, but the North Shore as well as there'd undoubtedly have been some "ne'er the twain shall meet" kind of comment.

When the sub leaves, I generalize: "Metro West."
JAMES: "Medfield."
CAM: "Hopkinton."

We're all on the same page. I get more specific and go with "Wellesley."

The sub returns wearing a flourescent Hazmat cape, chemical-resistant gloves and a mask. I ask who unleashed the Ebola virus. She's is unamused and tells me I've lost six pounds and need to bulk up. I mention that I've also lost two inches of height according to their measurements. And where is the damn President's Day ice cream sundae cart?

Chemo administered and completed, James starts small-talking her up again.

JAMES: "So, will you get out a little early today? Beat the traffic going home?

SUB: "I am just in Natick. There shouldn't be too much traffic on the Pike today because of the holiday."

Natick!!!!
Well, pinch my toes and call me a chimp named Travis.
We are good.

We bid the sub goodbye and stride with pride onto the elevator. We stand in smug silence for a few moments, waiting for security to turn the key so the elevator doors will open once we hit the Lobby.

Red Death: 2 down, 2 to go!

*********************
Seven Songs of the Day 2/23/2009

1. big bad world, the plain white ts
2. losing you, john butler trio
3. all at once, jack johnson
4. island in the sun, weezer
5. what would you say, dave matthews band
6. everybody’s changing, keane
7. saved, the spilled canvas

Courtesy of LK Boylan

Tangled up in...

2009-02-21T19:05:00.006-05:00

8:55 a.m. Feb. 21
My hair started coming out in massive clumps to the tune of Joe Jackson's "Different for Girls" on the radio.

The doctors told me when my hair started to hurt then I'd know it was about to fall out. I never knew hair could actually hurt, but it started to a couple of days ago. It's a strange sensation -- not "pain" so much as that dull ache you get when a ponytail's been in too tightly. I learned that it's not the hair per se that hurts but the hair follicles deep inside my insanely small head. Apparently, normal hair follicles divide every 23 to 72 hours but the Adriamycin chemo (a.k.a the red stew of death) lays waste to this natural process (among others). This junk is so toxic to your cells that your hair falls right out at the follicle. And it stings a little.

Still, short of wearing a frozen bathing cap around 24/7, or sleeping sitting up, there isn't much you can do about it. Thank God for Xanax (Mother's Little Helper, indeed.)

So, my hair has been aching for awhile now. I knew the fallout was imminent, but I was woefully unprepared for the sheer drama of it. I cut off a ll my hair on Monday. It was well-documented. I still can't believe how much hair came out of my head. I still can't believe there is some left in random patches on my head.

Seriously, it looked like a huge gorilla took a shower in my bathroom earlier.

One second, I'm lathering up my hair, singing along to Bob Dylan; the next, Joe Jackson's song is on and my hands and arms are like the Wolfman's. It was absolutely horrifying.

I got out of the shower, opened the bathroom door and in my best "don't panic" voice, said, "FYI, do NOT be alarmed when I come downstairs. My hair is coming out." I jumped back into the shower to get back to work. Luckily, James was able to contain the kids downstairs.

I spent at least 15 minutes pulling my hair out; it just kept coming and coming like some shitty magician's scarf. I don't think I'll ever hear Joe Jackson's voice the same again.

I spent another 15 minutes meticulously cleaning the bathroom like it was the scene of some heinous crime.

Then a radio intervention: Beth Orton's "Thinking about Tomorrow" came on. I love this song and it was perfect timing. A "so long" to my hair.

I spent another 15 minutes sitting on the floor in Caroline's Tinkerbell towel staring at my patchwork head in a shaving mirror, just breathing and looking like I have cancer.

For a moment, I was less horrified that I look like I have cancer than I was by the fact that I've gotten away with being a blonde for 16 years. My hair is very, very DARK. Holy crap.

But, as evidenced by the past six weeks on this Great Shit Coaster, things turn around quickly. My sister-in-law Paula took the kids bowling and to Friendly's. James took me to the Square Cafe for burgers and wine. In my wig. Then I was OK.

Seven Songs of the Day

2009-02-21T14:44:00.001-05:00

2/21/2009

1. Long Day - Matchbox 20
2. So Much to Say - Dave Matthews
3. Don't Give Up - Kate Bush & Peter Gabriel
4. Fragile - Sting
5. Green Light - John Legend
6. Just Fine - Mary J. Blige
7. It's a New Day - Wil.i.am

Courtesy of JoAnne K.

War & Beast: The Irony and The WTFery

2009-02-20T09:55:00.002-05:00

Wed. Feb. 11, Legal Seafoods
I'm sipping some Pinot Noir with Doreen, my good friend and former editor at the Globe. We're having lunch at the bar at Legal Seafoods in Braintree pondering the irony and general what-the-fuckery of this particular meeting. We haven't stopped talking long enough to order; our hands move in non-stop Italian gestures, something EB people tend to slip into involuntarily when in each other's presence. We can sense our waitress' heightening impatience but think -- especially in this case -- that horses should be held regardless of the lunch rush.

Doreen is a survivah. She gave a MF DCIS (that's "Mother Fucking Ductal Carcinoma In Situ" for the rookies) a cold hard beat down a few years ago. While her cancer was technically a Stage 0, it was no less a spooky ordeal. We talked a lot while she was undergoing radiation treatment and how she was certain her right boob was going to burn to a crisp and fall off like a piece of charred meat between the racks of a gas grill. She dealt with the bitch in the boob with her trademark humor (which I try to channel daily) and has emerged a healthier, stronger person, determined to give herself the best possible chance of never having the beast rear a single filthy cell in Righty ever again. After leaving the Globe, Doreen went to work as a VP at NECN and headed up their team for last year's Pan Mass Challenge.

Flashback: Jul. 10: Rooftop at the Colonnade
Of course, Nic, Cameo, Code Red and I rallied around Doreen's cause and attended NECN's Pan Mass Challenge fundraiser last July.

(Up on the roof: Hmmm, upon close inspection, I think I can see a little tumor sag going on in Lefty in this photo. Or it could just be very poor posture).

Anyway, it was a beautiful summer night in the city. Beneath the stars, we bought buckets of raffle tickets ---- and fetched quite a booty. Nic won a night's stay at the Parker House. I had back-to-back winnings, scoring some Red Sox tickets and a couple of GCs to Legal Seafoods. Retrieving my winnings led to some tipsy, touch-and-go maneuvering around the roof: Glass of vino in one hand, plate of appetizers in the other, I came dangerously close to knocking Billy Costa (he's very wee) into the swimming pool. Doreen stood on stage, handing out the prizes. As she handed me my GCs, she yelled into the mic: "We're going to lunch!"

Feb. 11, Legal Seafoods
So here we are having lunch 7 months later. Lunch on the GC that I won in the PMC raffle. Two Eastie girls bellying up to the bar, one Righty in remission, one Lefty with a Stage III IDC (invasive ductal carcinoma.)

But we still laugh about it and heartily. We share our MRI-freak out stories over some jasmine rice and salmon (we finally order lest we be bounced). For those unfamiliar, the "breast" MRI is worse than a regular one because you have to go into the machine face down. Then you have to ease your boobs through these giant holes (relative, of course, to one's cleavage) and smash your face into what appears to be one of those donuts you place your face in during a massage. Except you're all too aware that it's no massage.

Doreen's "freak out" came with her sudden (and irrational) realization that she was being "overtreated." She sat up and told the technician point blank, "I don't need an MRI! You people are overtreating me! I am fine! I was a stage o, etc, etc."

The technician walks out of the room. Tough Dorchester nurse walks in, which Doreen realizes is exactly what she needs right now:

NURSE: What's going on, honey?
DOREEN: (palms up in adversary) I'm being overtreated here. I don't want the MRI, I don't need the MRI, I...
NURSE: (interrupting) Honey, if Dr. K says you need it, you need it. Get in the machine.

Doreen reluctantly rolls in but not without hollering her mantra amid the banging and clanging and hammering of the MRI:

“I AM NOT IN A COFFIN UNDERNEATH THE GROUND!"

"I AM NOT IN A PLASTIC CONTAINER AT THE BACK OF A STORAGE UNIT!"

We reassure each other that these MRI people have to have seen it all. I tell Doreen about my Viking Funeral with the iPod and then of my similar freak out: The technicians had told me I couldn't use my iPod during my MRI but could avail myself of their satellite radio and headphones. Great! I suggested a little "coffee house" acoustic to calm the claustrophobic nerves. This lasted about 10 seconds. I lay face down on the table, eased Lefty and Righty into the holes and placed my head into the massage thing that's not a massage thing. Then one of the technicians snapped these massive old school donut headphones around my head like a puffy vice. Seriously, these headphones had to have been from the dawn of headphone time. In one full swoop, I jerked my left arm back and knocked the donut phones clear across the room, nearly taking out the other technician: "That's not helping."

Before we left lunch, Doreen picked up the tab and told me to put my GC away for another day. She also gave me a little box of Godiva chocolates with a heart charm on it. Of course, the heart was Valentines Day-related swag but I plopped it right into my bag of talismen. The chocolates, however, never made it out of the parking garage.

*****************
The Seven Songs of the Day -- 2/20/2009

1-Mama said Knock you Out – LL Cool J
2-Gamma Ray -- Beck
3-Anytime at all – Beatles
4-Mother’s Little Helper – Rolling Stones
5-Fix it – Ryan Adams
6-Time After Time (Annelise) – REM
7-Tonight, Tonight – Smashing Pumpkins

Courtesy of John Larroquette (presumably not this one)

I Do Not Want What I Have Not Got (Except a few wigs)

2009-02-18T13:09:00.000-05:00

My chemo brain is in full effect this week so today's post will be very light on the text and heavy on the wiggy images. Maria, Caroline and Paulie gave me the "Sinead O'Connor" the other day, chopping off all my hair and heading off chemo-induced alopecia (take THAT!) We've documented it all here in a crappy low-res slideshow along with some new looks -- some smashing, some frightening -- made possible by impending baldness. Enjoy! ( p.s. the seven songs of the day appear immediately below the slideshow)

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

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Seven Songs of the Day 2/18/09

1. The Greatest - Cat Power
2. Gimme Shelter - the Rolling Stones
3. Wiser Time - Black Crowes
4. Stand Alone - the Cult
5. Before Tomorrow Comes - Alter Bridge
6. Raindrops + Sunshowers - Smashing Pumpkins
7. Get Free - the Vines

Courtesy of Chris Seremetis

An "On Weekend" with Dining out, Wigs, Wii & and MF Chicken Vesuvio

2009-02-17T07:23:00.004-05:00

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com

This weekend was still very much "ON" and we took full advantage of the high energy and spirits to make four fun-filled stops on our "Fuck Cancer Tour 2009." 1. Friday night, with P, Maria, the Taylors and the always hilarious John-Paul, we headed to the new Franklin Cafe in Southie where we planted ourselves in a booth by the window and didn't move from for many, many hours. Over some comfort food and booze, we watched the crowds around us morph from "after work," to "on the prowl," to "booting on Dorchester Ave." 2. On Sat, Nic and I took the girls to Dorothy's Boutique for some serious wig shopping (there will be a longer post about that this week) and then met Cameo and BG for lunch at Amhreins. The second leg of the tour landed us back in the burbs for back-to-back early dinners with friends and kids. First stop, the Rowlette's for some quesadillas, many laughs, and Wii (and racing around on child-sized ride-on toys). James even headed out to the Banshee the next AM with Mark -- at 9 a.m.-- to watch the Italian-Irish soccer match. Sunday, we were treated to some MF Chicken Vesuvio at the Higgin's house, which we half-Italians had never heard of and will never forget again. Yum. It was nice -- as always -- to sit with Gwen in the kitchen and catch up as the kids ran amok dressed up in princess garb. Paulie refused to be pulled into that this time and was on a mission to scare up some trucks and ways to scare with dinosaur parts.

It was definitely a full weekend, a positive springboard into the treatment number two of toxic stew at the Dana today. (a longer post coming on that this week too). Maria watched the kids all day while I was at treatment and when we got back she and the kids gave me the "Sinead O'Connor" haircut. Take that chemo-induced propecia! We beat you to punch or baldness, whatever the case may be (pics coming on that). My tiny head, for whatever reason, yielded the 10+ inches for Locks of Love so that'll be shipped off today in several peoples' names.

My second chemo is hitting me a little harder just like they said it would. Just pure exhaustion. As soon as I finishing typing this, I expect to go all dog tired. But much more later. In the meantime, enjoy my crappy low res slideshow of this fantastic "ON" weekend.

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The Seven Songs of the Day (appropriate ones at that)

Toxic – Brittney Spears
Smokin – Boston
Radiation Vibe – Fountains of Wayne
Born to Fight – Tracy Chapman
Mad World – Tears for Fears
Feel Good Inc. – Gorillaz
Fix You – Cold Play

Courtesy of BJ Burke (my cuz)