Good advice for any situation

'Member when I was all happy earth child in my approach to this new year? Promise yourself gifts, make Mondays fun, bed the paperboy, etc.? Well, that was before I knew that 2010 was going to be such a mother fucking mother fucker. (Literally? Sort of?) After spending the day in Boston for my mom's adrenal gland biopsy on Thursday, Dan and I then got a call at 6am Friday morning that his mom---who had been recovering suspiciously slowly from gall bladder surgery---had called 911 and gone to the ER in the middle of the night. By the time we got down to Connecticut at 11am, she was going in for a further procedure due to complications from the initial surgery. My mother-in-law is 78-years-old; complications are scary. She's still in the hospital and will be there for a bit longer before moving to a rehabilitative center where she'll stay until she has completely recovered. The doctor said she's "out of the woods" (to which MB, my sister-in-law who got on a plane from London as soon as she heard her mom was in the ER, said, "She was in the woods?")

We stayed down there through the weekend and slept in Dan's old bedroom. I love this room with the trophies still on the shelves and sports pennants on the wall. I like picturing boy Danny in there jumping on the bed (which never could have happened because the ceilings are so low that as a teenager he stuck a tag on the wall from one of those old-school label makers that said, "WATCH YOUR HEAD" that is still there today). It's neat to scan the bindings of all the old high school reading list books that are still in their place and see his high school diploma (Class of '86!) mounted on the wall.

We didn't get back home to NH until after eight last night (thus my blogging absence) at which point I crawled directly into bed with my Oprah magazine. Dan is worried about his mom but glad to know she's in the best place for the care she needs right now and also on the mend. While we were down there he washed and folded all the clothes in her laundry basket, made up her bed with fresh sheets, had copies of her house key made for himself and his siblings, made lemon jello---her favorite kind---to bring to the hospital since she's barely eaten anything since the surgery and stocked her house up with some non-perishables so there will be food in when she eventually gets home. If I ever decided to shoot out a kid, I hope it has some Dan in it (and not the paperboy). (I think I'm too old to make schtupping the paperboy jokes...please take comfort in the fact that we don't even have a paperboy.)

Despite all the seriousness in the air these days, we did have a bunch of laughs with MB and Dan's brother and sister-in-law and niece and nephew who also came into town. If you're doing these things right---celebrating life even at its most frightening moments---then I think there should be a lot of laughs.

Not that I'm feeling especially light-hearted about tomorrow's appointment with the thoracic surgeon when we will find out the results of my mom's biopsies and learn exactly what type of lung cancer we are up against. We could have probably gotten the results of the first biopsy (of the lymph nodes around the lung) already but my parents decided that they wanted to get all information at one time; a decision which was initially hard for me to understand but not in any way up to me. My brain, which in a world of vast unknowns would like to squirrel away as many knowns as possible, wanted the results as soon as they were available. My mom and dad figured they would find it out all at once during tomorrow's appointment because what would they be able to do with the information in those few interim days anyway?

And this is where I realized they were probably right. Because the fact is, even though I will be able to come home tomorrow and narrow my research and thus dig deeper, there's really nothing more I will be able to do. Then we will just be waiting until the chemo starts. And then once the chemo starts there is still nothing to be done. Then we will just be waiting for the next appointment to find out of it's working and then the appointment after that and so on. I can busy myself with studying this subject for a while (and am still determined to do so) but I will be no closer to knowing about the specific cancer that is lurking inside my mom---it is uniquely hers---or how it will behave or respond to treatment. There is no way to know this.

That blows.

But I will have to learn to find comfort---or at least the ability to get through the day---in a state of unknowing. Not exactly, as Dan would tell you, my strength. Though, even as I write these words I find myself dreading tomorrow's appointment and it is ignorance-is-bliss-flavored dread. Hungry as I think I am for information, all of it seems too much to swallow. Sometimes, despite my knowing about the benefits of earlier intervention, I find myself wishing we didn't even know about the cancer; that we could go back to the complete unknowing. And ridiculous as this sounds, I also find myself feeling guilty for the fact that we do know. The only reason my mom had the CAT Scan which showed the cancer is because her Ear, Nose and Throat doctor ordered it after seeing something suspect on her chest x-ray. The only reason she went to the Ear, Nose and Throat doctor is because I pushed her to do so. My brain knows that this logic is off, that we are better off knowing, but I can't help but think of the peaceful ignorance before the knowledge of this cancer came into our lives. (Other than back pain which may be caused by the adrenal tumor, my mom had no symptoms of lung cancer. In fact, she cracked herself up as she said, "I'm too chubby to have cancer!" I wonder if she ever feels similarly about unknowing about this cancer.)

But we do know and on we go. Barring bad weather (FU wintry mix), I will be heading down for the appointment before morning traffic hits; another 5am morn. Then on Wednesday I'll shoot to RI, picking up Memphis-dwelling sister, Katie, at airport on the way. After that, well, we'll see where life takes us. We'll want to get to Connecticut at some point soon to check in with Dan's mom who, since I started writing this entry, has started eating more which is what we had hoped. Between my sister (and chunky eight-month-old niece) visiting, Dan's mom, my mom, trips to Boston, etc. I don't really know how long I'll be away from our apartment (though I should always be within range of a wireless signal).

Last night as Dan and I drove home, we discussed our schedules for the upcoming week. Next Sunday he'll be running a company ski trip about two hours north of us in Maine. Usually I attend this annual trip---if only to hide out in the hotel room and play traveling writer---but I'm thinking, in light of Katie's visit, that I'll sit this one out (unless I decide by that point that I really need the getaway). Dan will be driving from New Hampshire to Rhode Island to Connecticut and then all the way up to Maine between Friday and Sunday. The week after that, who knows?

"The next few months are going to be hard," Dan said in the car last night, regarding all the hometown traveling we'll be doing as his mom leaves the hospital and enters the rehab center and my mom's chemo starts up. "Let's just remember that we love each other."

I will forget many things in these coming months, I am sure---phone calls, birthdays, dentist appointments---but I will never forget that. (Though I did just pick a fight...I'll never forget how to do that, either.)

P.S. Keep your fingers crossed that we hear some promising news tomorrow. (Something along the lines of, "Those weren't tumors...they were masses of gold that somehow materialized inside your body. You're healthy and rich!")

Six of one, half dozen of Ativan

If it's above 30 degrees, I try to walk along this river every day. I am desperate to make friends with the men who sit in these little fishing shacks so that I can try it, but they never show themselves. I am fascinated by this world and vow to try it as soon as I figure out what permits are required and how to build a mini house.

The world is white today. We finally got a good snow yesterday after the mildest winter I've experienced in 10 years of living in New Hampshire. I fully recognize that my saying this in the middle of February will ensure that a mammoth blizzard will soon be at my doorstep, dropping enough snow to trap me inside my apartment where I'll live solely on the frozen zucchini bread that's still in my refrigerator from two Christmases ago. But, whatever. Bring it.

Just not tonight.

7am call time tomorrow for the adrenal biopsy. I hope to be on the road by 5:45 with the Broadway channel playing and a Dunkin' Donuts medium extra skim. The procedure should be relatively simple; well, as simple as a needle through one's back during a CAT Scan can be. My mom is not medically squeamish in any capacity...except for about these types of scans. She gets claustrophobic and the idea of it panics her a bit. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I have never seen my mom show even the slightest hint of panic in any situation whatsoever in my 28 years of life. Never. Panic is not how her anxiety manifests. She would probably make a joke here about how that's because of smoking and there's probably truth to that. (Though, she has, of course, quit smoking.) Still, she is just not the panic-y type. It was a moment of high comedy last week when, after recommending that my mom take an Ativan, an anti-anxiety med, before an MRI, the doctor offered to write a prescription for it and I (the sometimes panic-y type) practically raised my hand before blurting out, "I have an Ativan!" It was my pharmaceutical coming-out. I only take them when I really need them and not on a daily basis (at least not yet), not unlike how some people smoke. (And let's be real clear: I haven't smoked a cigarette in over four years and even I could light up right now.)

I wasn't going to post this entry because though I said I was going to write about this, my point was that I wasn't going to hide it, not that I was going to document every single step along the way or cross the lines of privacy. But, at this particular moment there's simply nothing else I'm thinking about. So much so, in fact, that yesterday an Oprah episode on pedophiles served as my escape...maybe even my pick-me-up.

Sounds like someone needs a daily Ativan habit.

Missin' the nugget.

God. Windows. Closes one. Opens another. That’s the story, right? That’s how I learned it from The Sound of Music, anyway.

I will no longer be watching my little Molly Moo after school. This officially marks the beginning of life as a full-time writer. (I suppose you glass half-empty folk might call it the beginning of unemployment, but you should really get yourselves a better outlook.) While it’s sad to feel this chapter closing, I can’t help but see that there is purpose in its coinciding with my mom’s illness. The freedom in my schedule that this allows will enable me to help my dad to get my mom to all her hospital appointments and also to spend more time in RI once her chemotherapy starts. The truth is that I would have wanted to do this with my mom no matter what my schedule dictated. I wouldn’t have been able to fit this into my spare time; I need to live this and I want to be there. This is, of course, not a judgment of how anyone else deals with such things, it is just how I do it. It is important to me that I be there, in presence, with my mom during this time.

I can write anywhere and have always thought I would Spew something out at the desk in my childhood bedroom surrounded by all that familiarity and the memories and nostalgia it evokes. My mom and I have talked about me coming down from NH the night before her chemo treatments for dinner and chatting (I’ll cook, I told her) and then I could bring her in for her treatments if my dad is working and stay down for chunks of time. Dan and I will, of course, have to work things out in our financial lives but we have both adopted a philosophy that says that making money---particularly while it’s just the two of us and our food and shelter requirements are minimal---should not get in the way of living. Paying down a little credit card debt is hardly worth missing the opportunity to do this with my mom. Once I have a better idea of what her treatment will entail I may grab something part-time if possible. (“This is the real fly in the ointment if you are crazy enough to want to be an artist---you have to give up your dreams of swimming pools and fish forks, and take any old job.”- Anne Lamott) I feel fortunate to be able to do it.

But I will certainly miss seeing that Molly kid every day. Watching her as I have over the last six years (with a chunk off during my time in NYC and the extended leave Bec took from work) has been the greatest joy and most rewarding venture of my life so far. (This is all sounding very Conan O’Brien, isn’t it?)

I love this kid in ways that I didn’t realize I was capable. I love this kid from places to which I didn’t know I had access. I love this kid completely and eternally and I love her for teaching me how to love like this; and that I can survive that kind of love. I am moved to tears at how much I will miss her every day but she’s the one who taught me I can survive that, too.

And, oh, will there be writing...

So, to honor the beginning of life as a full-time writer (‘til I get up enough money to buy that ice cream truck) and the ending of my nanny days, I would like to dedicate this post to my favorite seven-year-old niece and list my top 10 favorite Molly memories.

1) Age 18-months(ish): I am accompanying Molly to the bathroom during one of her early excursions on the toilet by herself and in a plea for privacy (but with the language limits that being 18-months-old involves) she says, “Don’t see me.” (I’ve mentioned this one on here before ‘cuz it’s a fave and also because it will be the name of my future memoir.)

2) Age 20-months(ish): After building forts and dancing to Salt-N-Peppa’s “Shoop” together, I bring Molly up to her bedroom to read some books before her daily nap. As I read, her head drops against my chest and she falls asleep...often, so do I.

3) Age two-years: At under three-feet tall she gives me a hug, grabbing me around my legs and says, “Mine.” This happens shortly before I move away to NYC---a heartbreaking move in this regard---and while there, the memory of it makes me well up with tears (as do the sweet “hi yola” voicemail messages that I listen to every night before I go to bed).

4) Age three-years: Lost in the car on our way to some destination, she says from the backseat, “Where the F&@! are we going, Lola?”

5) Age three and half-years: We go to the movie theater to see Ice Age and though we are the only two people in the theater, she sits on my lap for most of the movie. Some line makes us both laugh hysterically and then I start to laugh harder watching Molly laugh; she laughs harder because I’m laughing so hard and the two of us continue to crack up together until we’re crying and tired and sighing. She gets back on my lap then.

6) Age four-years: Driving in Dan’s convertible with the top down on a summer day (on the road where she lives; safety first) we blast “Huckleberry Pie” from The Color Purple Broadway soundtrack and have a “dance party” in the car. (She also knows the words to “African Homeland” from the same soundtrack. “Celie is sad because she misses Adam and Olivia?” Molly asks. Mission. Accomplished.)

7) Age four-years: She is the flower girl at my wedding and though she is supposed to walk down the yard right before me, she freezes (and later admits to being “embarrassed” by all the people looking at her), so I loop arms with her and proceed to be walked down the aisle by Molly and my dad.

8) Age six-years: On our walk home from the bus stop through the wooded path, we see a fallen white birch tree. I peel at the bark showing her how it’s like paper and she runs into the house, grabs some markers, and starts drawing on it. After that we play “baseball” using sticks and pine cones.

9) Age seven: The two of us are timing each other as we complete an obstacle course which runs around Molly’s bedroom; off the bed, around the pillows, onto the beanbag, etc. Molly wants the course to start with a forward roll.

“I don’t know if I can do a forward roll, Mol,” I say. “Man, I always told myself I wanted to stay young enough to be able to do a forward roll.”

“So do it,” Molly says.

“But I’m afraid,” I say.

“So, don’t be afraid, Lola.”

10) The final memory on this list is one that’s happened many times over the years and though it’s relatively simple, I’m sure this will be the mental snap shot I will revisit at her high school graduation, wedding day and when I see her snuggling up to her first little baby someday: We are on her swing set in the golden sun of an early summer evening. In the oldest memories, she is sitting on my lap. Then, of course, she’s on her own swing and I’m pushing her. Later still, we are side-by-side pumping and swishing by each other while she tries to show me how high she can go even though I’d rather she stay lower to the ground. Some days I bring a cup of coffee out and the two of us just sit chatting as the summer day comes to a close.

Thanks for all of it, kiddo. Love your guts.

La vita è bella

This is a surprise to me; as soon as I declare that I will be writing my way through my mom's illness, I find myself not actually wanting to. I can't even speak most of my worries, never mind see them in print. Every feeling seems too fleeting to nail down on a page. Highs and lows switch spots before I even know which is where; or even where I am with all of this.

This morning I woke up a couple of hours before Dan and spent the time googling and wikipediaing my way through lung cancer facts. I wear facts like a blanket in times of strife; they insulate me from cold sorrow or searing fear. I read statistics that sank like boulders in my stomach but still I hopped from page to page looking up words I didn't understand and then looking up the words of their definitions until I was back where I began: lung cancer that has metastasized to the adrenal gland. (Note to siblings: Don't do this unless you really think you want to know the things you're pretty sure you don't want to know right now. Wait until you feel ready...or at least until we get the biopsy results.)

Needless to say, it was all a bit of a downer. Dan came out in the middle of my research and told me he was in bed reading if I wanted to join him. I didn't leave my spot for at least another hour, rapt as I was in learning about the different types of cancers and their corresponding treatments. When I finally went into the bedroom he had a heart-shaped box of chocolates sitting on my pillow with a card that said, "My Lola."

Valentine's Day. (Before you get judgy about my ever-creative and brilliant gift-giving Dan going the box of chocolate route, you should know that I told him early on that I love this particular Valentine's cliche; it's like tapas for chocolate. Plus, we're not the VD gift type.) I felt like a shit. Here he was waiting for me to join him all morning and when I finally did I was too bummed out to sincerely enjoy the gesture. Laptop in tow since I had been planning to to do some blogging along side him, I lay down in our bed. And then he gave me another gift; he started asking questions about what I had learned so far. He wanted to know everything I knew which was great because there was nothing I wanted more in that moment than to talk about it, even just to say some of the stuff out loud.

We spent the rest of Valentine's Day morning in bed together, wrapped in our blankets and each other, educating ourselves on the subject of lung cancer. We studied its stages, learned about the side effects of chemotherapy, looked up words we'd never heard of like "oncogenes" and also those with which we were more familiar like "malignant," just to understand its properties on a cellular level. Dan asked me to explain things to him and when I couldn't answer we typed the question into a Google search box and sought out the answers together. He put his head on my chest and I used one hand to stroke his hair while the other navigated through medical websites. It was, in its way, one of the most romantic morning we've ever shared.

In the early days of witnessing this technique of informational immersion, Dan would try to talk me out of it, saying I was just making myself crazy. (In some ways I was; I've lost entire overnights to winding and seemingly infinite Google trails.) But now he understands that this is what I do. It gives me a sense of control, however false. I'm trying to stay at least one step ahead of this cancer. This week we will get the results of my mom's lung biopsy. (This was a "minor" surgery that involved cutting her neck and putting a scope down it---just to give some context of how "minor" any of this. Fortunately, she did fine and is recovering nicely. And, of course, she made all the nurses whose paths she crossed laugh the whole day through. Post-surgery when one nurse---a native Bostonian---asked my mom where the "caaaaa was paaaaked" my still-drugged mom answered, "In Haaaaavad Yaaaad.")

Since we'll soon know exactly what sort of cancer we are dealing with---either small-cell or non-small cell (WTF? on the labeling system, I know)--- it is important that I understand what these terms mean before I even hear the results. Nothing will frustrate and upset (perhaps even panic) me more than to listen to a doctor speak about my mom's health in a language that I can't understand.

Thus, it is imperative that I become fluent in cancer. Dan seems up for learning it too. Some couples learn Italian.

Our Valentine's Day plans are nothing special, just watching a movie at some point as it's our favorite thing to do together. The romantic comedy du jour? "Swimming in Auschwitz." (Another thing I do at times like this is lose myself to hardships that are far worse than that which I'm enduring...)

Candlelight dinners are so overrated.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone.

Here's an entry I never wanted to write.

1, 3 and 5, I believe.

I was going to write about Dan and the superhuman that he is for spending an entire week with his mom as she recovered from gall bladder surgery, cooking her meals, doing the laundry, cleaning her bathroom, etc. (She seems to be doing better now, by the way.)

I was going to write about roasting a chicken.

I was going to dedicate an entire pictorial post to the massive hair wad---the Red Whale--- that Dan fished out of our tub drain last weekend.

I was going to write about watching Julie and Julia again and what Nora Ephron had to say about housework and blogs.

There were lots of things I was going to write about these past few days, but none of them was going to speak to the most significant and jarring aspect of recent life which is the fact that my mom has cancer.

Lung cancer that has metastasized to her adrenal gland, we learned this week.

My mom has cancer.

This is a very difficult sentence to write.

And it’s a line I wouldn’t have written here had she not given me express permission to do so. Though this blog may seem a contradiction to what I am about to say, I do understand a lot about privacy.

And I understood this long before I heard Nora Ephron say (in reference to the movie which is based, in part, on a beginning writer’s blog), “...There’s no question that people who are involved with people who blog every day often feel as if their privacy is totally invaded by this process, which starts out as a kind of harmless, charming thing and then feels very different after a while.”

I work very hard to avoid crossing the lines of others’ privacy (sometimes at the cost of my own truth, even) so I was certainly not going to discuss on here my mom’s cancer diagnosis in real time, as it was unfolding this past week; at least not right from the start when even broaching the topic of her comfort level on my writing about this in a public way felt premature and even wrong.

But she brought it up.

On Tuesday morning, as we waited for her 8:30 appointment with a Thoracic Surgeon at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, my mom brought up the subject of her grandfather’s death. In his mid-seventies he was diagnosed with liver cancer, given a year to live and met his deadline. (That could have been the most terrible pun I’ve ever made and was so not intended.) At the time, my mom, who had long-since finished nursing school, was taking classes towards her bachelor’s degree (and was also managing the minor workload of being a mother of two children under the age of four and pregnant with a third; a feat I truly can’t even fathom). As part of her course-work, she explained to me, she interviewed her grandfather regularly throughout that year and wrote all about his illness. She said how helpful and interesting it was for her to look at his death through that lens. Though my mom and her grandfather were very close (it was, in fact, my father whom my great-grandfather chose to be his bedside physician), as a nurse, she sees death differently than most; she understands its inevitability and thus is able to see it with the same sense of eager observation and curiosity that prompted her to enter the medical field in the first place.

“It was such a learning experience,” she said. “I was documenting the dying process.”

(Let me be very clear: I am not documenting my mom’s “dying process.” I have no such intention and, in fact, refuse to do so. I am writing about how my mom has cancer and her road to wellness. That’s how I’ve decided this story will end.)

Hearing my mom explain this about her grandfather though, realizing how writing had served her, it seemed only natural that I ask about writing about her illness. So I did.

My dad, who brought my mom to Boston for the appointment (I met my parents there), at first said that he did not want me to do it.

“Why not?” my mom said. “I did it.”

(For the record, I understand my dad’s hesitancy on every level. Who wants to read about how the person he loves most in this world is very sick? Who, while living through something such as this, wants to also hear the narration?)

But my mom got it. She got it from the perspective of the writer who often processes life through ink on a page and she got it from the perspective of the reader who so often is looking to see his/her pain reflected in someone’s else’s story-telling.

“It helps people to overcome fear,” she said of stories of sorrow and hardship. “It gives people hope. It educates.”

My mom reminded me then about how it had been the “Little House” books that had inspired such hope in her as a child. (It is after Laura Ingalls Wilder, incidentally, that I am named. However, it is the long red braids and freckles of a young Melissa Gilbert who often comes to mind when I am imagining my mom as a child, seeking refuge in these books.)

I cannot adequately express my relief and the gratitude I feel toward my mom for understanding this and granting me permission to write what I need to. Leave it to a mother to facilitate, during her own time of hardship, her child’s journey through it. Writing will keep me well during this time. I would have documented things privately in my journals (and will probably write more than what I will feel able to post here; though I will always strive for as much honesty as possible) but had I not been able to write about this---at least to some extent--- here, I think I would have had to quit blogging completely. How could I have possibly kept up a day-to-day account without mentioning the only thing I can think about? (This is, of course, why I couldn’t write all week.)

But then, it is more than my mom’s unceasing mothering that made her understand this; it is that she is a writer, herself. Like the long red braids she had as a kid, she passed this other thing on to me as well. My mom could never allow herself (or maybe endure) the sense of indulgence (or even the freedom) that choosing a life of writing sometimes evokes but, make no mistake, she is a writer. It’s why her letters to me have always been so lovely. It’s why she notices the Catbird that follows her around her yard as she digs holes and plants her bulbs and flowers; and why she has her own story surrounding it: that this bird is in some way the reincarnation of the man who taught her how to garden---her grandfather---overseeing her work. It’s why she understands that the emotional complexities that have already surfaced surrounding her cancer---the nature of a family coping, the bonds between mothers and daughters and husbands and wives, the sharp focus into which all of our lives have been thrust---is the stuff of the richest writing material.

It feels terrible and disgustingly opportunistic to even apply the term “material” to my mother being diagnosed with cancer, but I am comforted by the fact that she understands it more than anyone. In fact, she was the one who first used this word when telling me that I should write about. And while I can only wish that my mom’s sentiments that the dissolution of fear, illumination of some unknown, and the uncovering of a sense of hope will come of this for those who read it, I can’t honestly say that this is my intention in writing it. I am mostly just hoping for these things for myself.

In short, from here on out, sometimes this blog is going to be about cancer. I figured I should let you know before I got right into it. (Though right into it we are. Tomorrow, I will be heading to Boston again where my mom will be undergoing a cervical mediastinoscopy---a biopsy of the lymph nodes around the lung.) I’m sure some days will feel light enough that I will be able to continue to write about masseuses copping a feel and plenty of that’s what she said...but other days I simply won’t.

I already feel different now about things than when I started this entry. Hope fades into fear so fast.

Still, I can guarantee you this: There will be an entry on the Red Whale. Ahab is way too proud of that thing for me to not write about it.

I'll have what she's having

Dan and I were supposed to go to this today (I'm aware that I'm opening myself---but, more likely Dan---up to some intense ball-busting here) but he'll be staying in CT for at least a few more days to care for his mom post-surgery, which is exactly where he should be. I really couldn't be more proud of him for the son he is being to his mom (but it doesn't mean I don't miss him a heckuva lot right this minute).

Today I went for an 80-minute massage because I was feeling lonely and sometimes you just need to give yourself a gift. I love massages but can rarely justify the expense. However, since we weren't spending the $50 to "awaken our connection" and I also returned my recently purchased $40 Bluetooth ear piece (which I abhorred as much as I thought I would) I felt it would leave no new hole in our finances and went for it.

It was one of the best massages I've ever had and a wise choice given the week's shitty (see yesterday's entry) circumstances. I have to admit that part of the reason it was so great had to do with an improved ability---due to recent practice---to stay there rather than traveling far away into tunnels of thought and thus missing the whole massage (as I've done many, many times before). Oh sure, my brain scampered off for a bit to nose around some unexamined corners and she even tried to traverse some dangerous landscape once while I wasn't looking, but I was able to rein 'er in before she got us both into any trouble.

But a larger part of why I liked the massage so much was that it was a really good massage. And I've had bad ones. I've endured a handful of chatty masseuses; one who even went into gory detail during my entire "relaxation massage" about an incidence of food poisoning that I had no business knowing anything about. Further frustrating, was another masseuse who kept placing her hands on my back or legs---but not moving them or even applying any pressure---as if her energy current alone was going to get the knots out.

I liked my masseuse today.

I liked her despite the fact that she had sort of a stressed-out energy about her instead of that pothead calmness I generally prefer in such situations.

I liked her despite the fact that she sucked back her post-nasal drip the whole time and even had to excuse herself to get a drink of water because the tickle in her throat that she kept fighting back would not relent. (This endeared me to her quite a bit, in fact. Who doesn't know that feeling of trying to hold back a cough, letting the slightest bit out, praying that it's over and then feeling the ominous nagging in your throat once more? Plus, this was way less disturbing to me than the time that, in addition to the dolphin music that they play during massages, I had the soundtrack of the massage therapist's incessant grumbling stomach to ease me into nirvana.)

I liked her despite the fact that, marking a massage first, her hands embarked on a journey that went well below my love handles (tucking the blanket into my drawers and thereby exposing my ass crack; a peculiar discomfort I decided instantly I had to accept)and then ventured into a region that can only be described as northern to central butt cheek. I'm not gonna lie, I think I liked her because of this. When she started rubbing around my clavicle, I thought for a minute that this was going to be a full body massage and I told myself I'd wait a full five seconds---fiiiiiiive miiiiiiissssssiiiiiisssssiiiiippppppiiiii---before objecting. (Kidding...though Dan may be gone for over a week...)

Anyway, not only were her hands bold, but they were strong. She was around my age so I expected her to be somewhat inexperienced (a bias I need to let go of; I'm old now) but she knew what she was doing. I kept thinking---I have to remember her name...shit, what's her name...I know she told me...what was it...oh yeah...it's Laura...dumbass.

Despite walking out of there with, what can only be described as, sex-head---my hair was a lion's mane from having been flipped over my head and streaked with massage oil---I stopped by Blockbuster on the way home and picked up a couple of movies. One is a documentary about the business of crystal meth (I really admire the resourcefulness and entrepreneurial spirit it espouses) and the other is Julie and Julia. I chose that because I knew Dan would never want to rent it (since we already saw it in the theater) and, in addition to wanting to see it again, I'm interested in the the extra features as well as Writer and Director Nora Ephron's commentary.

Have you ever listened to the commentary of a movie? It involves watching the entire movie again but this time you're listening to the director's voice play over the film as s/he provides insight into some of the details of the making of the movie. "In that shot I really wanted her to be eating a hot dog but we tried it with a salami 'cuz that was all the deli had left and that's how the famous salami scene was born!" (One-track mind much?) You really have to like a movie (or be seeking distraction in any form) to sit through it.

The only other time I listened to the entire director's commentary was shortly after I moved to NYC and was feeling so heartbroken and confused about the distance that I had put between Dan and me that I was too distraught to even explore the city and instead stayed in bed all day watching When Harry Met Sally (I'll see NYC through my TV, I thought) and listened to Director Rob Reiner. Now that I think about it, Nora Ephron wrote that movie too.

Weird. Or not that weird but the sort of coincidence that you think is interesting when you've been spending far too much time indoors and alone.

Too late to turn back now; the wine is poured.

Cheers.

"To ass play!"

(Line. Crossed.)

Not so.

"Feelin'" far from this last night, I happened to pause the TV while Jeopardy was displaying this category heading. (I was only made grumpier by the fact that I was off my game and didn't fare well in my at-home competition. To make matters worse, it was College Jeopardy and I'm supposed to be smarter than those kids. Fuckers.)

I'm not trying to be overly negative, but on a scale of one to 10, I'd have to give this week a negative 70. (The "Potent Potable" in the foreground---and the fuzziness of the screen---is representative of how I dealt with said badness.)

You know how sometimes things seem so shitty that the only words of solace you can tell yourself is that "some day you'll laugh about this"? Well, that's a stupid expression. (Though it should be said, I've already been able to laugh---quite a bit and inappropriately, in fact---about some of it already.)

Sorry to be so cryptic but I couldn't very well write that I've been singing around my apartment with a halo of whistling birds fluttering around me when really I would shoot a bluebird (or any other whistling creature or person) and mount it on my wall right about now.

Fun, aren't I? I'll end here so as to limit by cyber-tantrum, but I just didn't want to give y'all the silent treatment.

P.S. See how that glass above has an "L" on it? We got a dozen of these lovely glasses as a wedding gift. Because I didn't take Dan's last name---and clearly didn't quite grasp the magnitude of people's perception of our merging lives (or, for that matter, the magnitude of marriage in general)---it didn't occur to me that "L" was for "Lederer"; Dan's last name. When I opened the box, I said aloud, "I wonder why they didn't put a "D" on any of them?" These words have haunted me---in the form of Dan's mockery---ever since.

Fucker.

Night two of bachelorhood

Dinner for one.

Can you even tell what that is?

I had enough extra sauce, noodles, cheese, and energy to make a second lasagna tonight after sending Dan down to his mom's last night with a first. I still had a ton of extra noodles even after that though, so I went through the cabinets to see what else I could build into lasagna form. (I didn't have any bacon but I'm sure some form of bacon-sagna would be every bit right.) Instead, I pulled out a couple of small jars of chocolate sauce, a bag of mini-marshmallows, some shredded coconut and began to build. The layering went as follows:

chocolate
noodles
chocolate
marshmallows
noodles
chocolate
coconut

It got messy.



I baked it at 300-degrees for about 10 minutes and voila:




Looks kinda good doesn't it?



It wasn't.

(Well, let's not dismiss the fact that it was a medley of pasta, two sugar forms and shredded coconut; even if you get it wrong, you're licking the plate.) The lasagna noodles were done al dente which is fine for a large lasagna in which the noodles will continue cooking for at least 45 minutes in the oven. This same effect was not achieved in the 10 minutes I baked the chochsagna so the noodles were too hard (not a usual complaint of mine). If I were to do it again---and I will (you think Hostess got it right on his first try?)---I'd add way more marshmallows such that there was a thick sponge effect for the middle layer. This time around the marshmallows just melted, their whitness leaking into the chocolate. (There's either a dirty joke to be made here or a food metaphor in there relating to race relations, but I'm not reaching for either.)

A night well spent (and yes, Dan, I did the dishes).

Getting ready for bed now which is the only lame part of having the place to myself. While I enjoy a fine diagonal cross-bed recline, my fear of the dark limits this enjoyment. For this reason, I've (temporarily) moved the TV back into the bedroom...I need to be distracted from the silence.

I also leave the bathroom light on.

And Mr. Puppy guards the door.

Shut up.

Time for some Debauchery!

I'm home alone!

100! 100! 100 blog entries! I wish I could give you all a prize. Want me to send you cookies? (I think peanut butter balls would be better suited mascots for this blog.)

I was sure I would have the technological savvy by the 100th blog to be able to make cyber-fire works appear, but I still can't seem to change the header so here we are; just more plain text.

Dan left tonight for his mom's house in Connecticut. She's having gall bladder surgery tomorrow and he'll see her through it and stay down there with her until Friday. He's a good guy, that Dan. I sent him down with a lasagna, meatloaf and potatoes (for my Irish M-I-L...one of Dan's favorite meals, too) and some homemade soup (homemade by him, of course), deciding it would be best to stay behind. The surgery is supposed to be relatively simple so I'm sure all will be well.

So, I'm a bachelor for the next few days. I think I'm going to call the pizza boy and make a movie...after 100 entries, I've earned it.

Thanks for sticking around, peeps. Next 100 will be way more betterer writing!

(And I'll fix the header...)

You're not the boss of me, shitty Monday.

It is sofuckingcold. Dan took this picture of me retreating into my turtle shell while we were in the car. Sofuckingcold.

I've decided that for the rest of my life I'm going to do whatever I can to make Mondays the most fun day of the week so that I can stop dreading it. For me, it's not the actual events of the day that I dread. (There's certainly a difference between showing up to a poorly lit office full of assholes---my apologies to all whom have to do this today---and showing up to a desk in my colorful spoffice and later to see a freckle-nosed niece whom I adore.) But it's the pressure that smothers me. Every Monday feels like it is supposed to be the start of my life becoming whatever it is I want it to be and then by the day's end I am somehow disappointed that I wasn't able to make all that happen by dinnertime.

(Never mind the fact that I am unable to digest the fact that much of what I really want my life "to be" is the ability to write all day and also to have the flexibility to see my friends and loved ones when I want to; which is pretty much how things are now. I am perfectly aware of how profoundly stupid it is to know that I already have most of what I want and still be consumed by the search...It's like looking for your sunglasses when they're on top of your head (and, as in this case, you know they're on top of your head). I'm sure some day I will have this realization (yes, a realization about something I've already realized...something I've already realized I've realized, in fact) and will chastise myself: You wasted all that time! You looked everywhere! And they were on your head the whole time! And you knew it! And you knew you knew it! Idiot!)

So, in order to make things a little more fun, I am going to engage in one or even all of the following activities every Monday for the rest of my life.

1. Play Ring Around the Rosy with Dan when he wakes up.

2. Make prank phone calls to stay-at-home moms.

Example.
Me: "Hi. Is John there?"
Caller: "No, he's at work."
Me: "Oh...Well, did he tell you what time I was supposed to meet him at the hotel?"

3. Today Show drinking games.

4. Bone cruises.

5. Call in a bomb threat to an elementary school.

6. Replace Dan's windshield wiper fluid with ink.

7. Throw rocks at the neighbor's dog (or the neighbors).

8. Contact old boyfriends.

9. Call Dan every hour on the hour.

10. Write a list of everything my parents did wrong while raising me and read it to them over the phone.

Obviously I have a busy day ahead of me, so I better be going.

But first, a weekend review:

Friday night:

Best Date Night Ever
-Met Dan for dinner at Chipotle after work
-Went to the Movies ("Up In the Air"...good movie that would have been great were it not for the hype)
-Went to Barnes and Noble for hot cocoa, a gooey cookie and chatting; eavesdropped on a man telling whomever was on the other end of his cell phone that he was cancer free (our interest was piqued when we heard him say "Are you sitting down?"); spent an hour browsing books until the store made the "we're closing, get the fuck out" announcement.

Saturday:

8:30am My first official yoga class. A yoga studio, which is, literally, a three-minute drive from my house, held a free open house so I decided to check it out. Loved it (and am embarrassed it took me this long to get there). At the beginning of class the teacher asked what words we think of when we hear the word "enlightened." At random, my classmates offered their answers: "Tranquil...Present...Loving...Grateful...Able to breath" It took even the stores of resistance I keep between my toes to keep from shouting out, "White power."

Saturday night:

Watched Outfoxed: Rupert Murdoch's War on Journalism and got the shit scared out of us. It's not so much that I was shocked to find out how skewed their "news" is---I know this about Fox, as I know to question every news channel and outlet---it was hearing people speak (many with their voices distorted by their own request and for their own protection) about the ways in which they were told---by corporate memo---what information to provide the public...or exclude. Of course, the worst part about Fox is that they sell themselves as the "Fair and Balanced" network and people buy it. I'm not saying their aren't agendas everywhere but this is just sickening.

Sunday:

Noon: My second official yoga class. This was actually a two-hour long "Restorative Yoga" class and was more focused on meditation than the more physical yoga I had done the day before. It was totally new and surprisingly challenging. My five minutes of meditating most mornings did nothing to prepare me for two hours of it. Dan and I took the class together and as I glanced over at him, his feet up on the wall as he balanced on a bolster, the blood flowing down to his heart, the peace of the room between us, I thought about how I can't fucking believe I'm fucking married to a man who will take a fucking yoga class with me. (For the record, he had already tried the class before and brought me along this time...guess which one of us used the new yoga mat that I bought him for Christmas?)

2:30 Lunch at Panera

3:30 "More Yoga"

Sunday night:

Ate leftover Chinese food and watched some of the Grammys (never watch the Grammys despite my status as awards' show junkie but was looking for the MJ tribute) and was amazed by the magnitude of the performances. More amazing? The Friendly's sundae that Dan brought home, made with---get this---Hunka Chunka PB Fudge ice cream. Do yourself a favah and try that ice cream. It's better than "More Yoga."

10pm: Read myself to sleep, grateful for a five-star weekend.

And now it is a great Monday and I'm not going to spend it beating myself up for not making it on the best seller's list with a book I've not yet written.

Besides, it's 12 o'clock. Time to call Dan.

P.S. I sent Dan a copy of this before I posted it, asking him if "white power" was too much (since sometimes I can't see that line for myself).

His response:

"I like it, sweetie. White Power is always funny. Well, when it’s meant to be funny."