Lordy Lord

Well, GiG knew alright. I am writing from yet another hospital room. I set my alarm for 6am this morning so I would have plenty of time to prep for a full day back at chemo, and when I went downstairs my mom was sitting straight up on the couch, having been awake for hours with severe pain (and later vomiting). Fifteen minutes later my dad, mom and I were sitting around the kitchen table discussing how she could possibly endure chemo and the hell that would come just from that on top of the pain she was already enduring (and enduring on top of two separate pain meds at that). The last two times my mom wavered about doing chemo, the last two times she had a sense that something was going wrong, indeed something was (first the pulmonary embolism and then the pneumonitis), so my only advice to her to trust was to trust her instincts. (“This is your body, not some work project that needs completing,” I said). When she called the oncology office to say that she wouldn’t be coming, they told her to go to the hospital (which is connected to the cancer center) to be admitted so they could work full-time to alleviate and track down the pain. She’s down getting a CAT scan now with the hope of figuring out what’s going on (and the even bigger hope that it is nothing terribly serious).

So, that’s where we are now; a real-life House episode.

When my mom got the positive PET scan results the other day, most of her loved ones were overjoyed. The fact that this news was delivered while she was in the ER, tempered my reaction as well as my father’s. Regardless of what a test says, if you feel bad, you feel bad so (as my gut told me from the start) until this pain passes, I can’t join in the celebration.

Shortly after we got my mom into her hospital room, IV in place, she recounted a story of how years ago when she injured her knee and was given Dilaudid---the med she is on now---for pain before having it popped it back into place, she had joked, “I want this if I ever get cancer.”

Funny stuff.

There are laughs to be had though.

The hospital she’s in is a Catholic one so a Chaplain just came in (or a Sister...I’m not sure how this ranking system goes; I think she might be the equivalent of a lieutenant to Jesus) to offer my mom prayer and ask her if she wanted a priest to come tomorrow for “the anointing of the sick” (to which---to her cynical daughter’s shock and awe---she said yes. You can take the girl out of Bethlehem...) When the Chaplain left, but with the quiet solemnity of her presence still in the room, my dad said, “And I’m going to sacrifice a goat for you.”

Maybe you had to be there, but there’s nothing like a little sacrilege to lighten the mood. I was grateful he said something because for a second I thought I was in a different family than the religiously ambiguous, if not dubious, one than I was born into. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t go looking a gift-nun in the mouth. Plus, raised Catholic as she was, I think my mom still feels the connection to these roots. Prayer is prayer. I kid, but it’s a nice thing they do here.

So, that’s the story. I know some of you check in here just for her status (and, shockingly, not to hear about my hair) so I’ll give you the facts when I can, provided we get ‘em.

For now, Peace Be With You.

Goodnight Moon

My mom called me into the family room tonight to look at the big fat orange moon over the river. She noticed moons long before she had cancer. She always notices.

Chemo first thing tomorrow. Hopefully she always knows, too.

Goodnight stars,

Goodnight air,

Goodnight noises everywhere.

It's 8:37 and I'm calling it a night!

This doesn't even look good but I'm stumped for a header pic so there it is...I'm tired!

So, how's this, when I can, I'll try to make a real effort to do some serial blogging to make up for my sometimes extended absences? Maybe even twice a day (though I couldn't keep that promise to Dan, either).

This'll be a quickie (insert extension of sex joke here) but because I'm in such a good mood I wanted to get something down (and another here).

First of all, I love that it was a rainy day. I'm not only happy when it rains, but I am pretty much always happy when it rains. (Sort of like how all poodles are dogs but not all dogs are poodles. Does that analogy really fit here? I just try to work that the little token of logic in wherever I can because it blew my eighth grade brain when I heard it.) Rainy days are like forced meditation. They come with a certain calm amid the chaos that I dig and I don't have to chastise myself for not being outside on a beautiful day when I'm pretty much over the sun at this point anyway. I'm totally okay with the fall preview that has been these past few days, though mildly concerned that it will get to 85 degrees overnight. (I don't have any dog analogy for that but it's just plain effed.) As I write I'm watching the wind toss the dark silhouettes of trees around against a barely lit night sky and loving the drama of it. The tree outside my window (my tree outside my window where I write first thing in the morning in the winter months when the floor heater is on underneath my feet) has its late-August scatter of orange leaves, changing before the rest as it does and letting me know that fall is up ahead; nature's flash of high beams. Bring it, I say.

I cooked dinner tonight for the first time in forever. Something about the coolness and a darker sky makes me more eager to head to the kitchen and a hot oven. Nothing crazy, this dinner: GiG's meatloaf (2lbs ground beef, one cup grated Parmesan, one cup Italian seasoned bread crumbs, two eggs, a grated onion and a few fresh shavings of carrot on top to keep the meat moist cooked for about an hour at 425 degrees) that I made with grass-fed beef (and shallots versus a white or yellow onion), broccoli and some local corn. I was going to ask Dan to get a bottle of wine on the way home but my body is still pretty screwed up from yesterday and doesn't need further tampering.

During dinner I said that I wanted to take a bath afterwards (to prepare for an early to bed kind of night) but the fact that the tub is clogged---you know that gnarly residue that circles the tub when the water remains ankle high for the duration of your shower---dissuaded me. Dan, hero that he is, is in there now looking for Nessie and trying to clear things out.

A few minutes ago, he shouted out to me, "I got something! It's just a small one though, I think have to throw it back."



This looks way bigger than it did it real life...like, WAY bigger. Must be something about the angle...

I know it looks disgusting and I'm sorry that I feel so compelled to share it with you. It's a public service I'm providing, really; when was the last time you snaked your drain (insert blah, blah, blah)?

Dan thinks the Tub Monster was just a fluke (ha!), never to be witnessed again.

"I was just a kid then...I got lucky," he said.

I'm getting pretty skeeved out about the state of things in there so let's hope he gets lucky again soon.

(And scene.)

(Driving tomorrow: To chemo (Fri) and beyond! This is my way of telling you I may not be calling these next few days but I'll do the best I can. It's not you, it's me.)

Not Shitty News!

So, I wanted to be sure to fill you on things since obviously there was a lot at stake today.

Good news. I napped.

I kid. But I am only able to kid because we were actually granted good news on the front of GiG. vs. Cancer.

The PET Scan today showed that the tumor in my mom's lung, as well as those in her adrenal glands, have shrunk. Also, there did not seem to be any spread. Good news, indeed. Good, good news.

The intensity of the day coupled with the severe sleep deprivation took its toll on me and there is currently a statewide search for what witnesses describe as a weeping zombie browsing the flat irons at Rite Aid.

For a minute, things looked ugly. My dad had to take my mom to the ER this morning due to severe pain she was experiencing overnight. Unsure how long she would need to stay at the hospital and with my dad having to go to work and my sisters otherwise tied up, there was a brief period of meltdown and panic as I packed up my bags and car and wondered how I was possibly going to stay awake for the drive to RI. Save a 40-minute snooze in the late morning, I had been up straight since 1:15am and by noon my hands were trembling. Fortunately my mom was released, though the cause of the the pain is still a mystery (foreshadowing?) and she is home and safe with smaller tumors inside her than she had before.

Because of the chaos of the ER visit, I don't know much more than this. I don't know how much shrinkage occurred. I don't even know how my mom was affected by the news as I only spoke to her briefly and she was out of it due to the medicine they gave her for the pain. "I skipped drinking," she slurred. "I went right to the drugs." (This, from a woman so resistant to taking medicine that we could not convince her to take even one Vicodin for her pain since her doctor gave her the prescription six months ago.)

But it appears she is responding to the treatment, words I've been waiting to write. Between having surgery taken off the table, the two hospitalizations, the lung inflammation caused from being over-radiated and the early spread of the cancer to her other adrenal gland (it started off just in her left and moved to the right), we had not yet had this moment. We had not yet received any good news.

Tonight, Dan asked me how it felt and while, of course, I am incredibly relieved that the cancer has not progressed, I'm working to allow this victory to penetrate. I am worried about her pain today. Also, they want to start chemo again on Friday. Apparently, the tumor in her lung appears to still be "active" so they want start the treatment immediately. The fact that her adrenal tumors shrank during radiation, which was directed solely at her lung, led her doctor to conclude that the small amount of Taxol (a chemo drug) she received weekly with the radiation (an amount intended only to enhance the radiation versus working systemically as regular chemo doses do) is the drug to which my mom is responding. They hadn't expected her adrenal tumors to shrink at all and the fact that they did (and, of course, that the lung tumor did as well) is apparently really encouraging to her oncologist who wants to act aggressively as a result.

I want to get behind this plan and I absolutely will if it's what my mom wants. It's just hard to see how much better she has felt lately, having had a month and a half off from any treatment, and then ready myself to watch her get weakened and sick again. This is a typical dilemma of chemo though nothing feels typical when it regards a person you love.

Still, my mom's tumors shrank. There is less cancer in her body than there was before. It's important that I allow the good news to have this night.

Then maybe I'll be able to get some sleep.

(Not leaving it to chance though. My word, it's nearly Ambien o'clock.)

(Like mother, like daughter.)

This is really going to screw me up.

It's 4:23am. I'm up. I slept on and off a bit between 11:45 and 1:15 (that is, I fell in and out of sleep while listening to an audio meditation guide...usually a sure thing when trying to get to sleep as the goal is, of course, to stay awake), but have been up straight since then. At 2:30, I got out of bed and cleaned the kitchen. Then I made a cup of green tea and sat on the couch googling flat irons. (WTF is with all the options?) I would have probably cleaned the entire apartment because I had that kind of energy, but I didn't want to wake Dan. I just yawned for the first time in hours.

I've been in an insomniac rough patch for a few weeks now. (Don't you want insomniatic to be a word? It's not.) I thought I was mostly over this business since making big changes last year in an attempt to improve my "sleep hygiene." I was giving my self downtime before bed, trying to hit the sack around the same time every night, rising the same way, but alas, my sleep is messed once more. My biggest struggle with insomnia is this: The less I sleep, the harder it is for me to ever sleep again. My brain gets all kinds of cracked out on no sleep such that I spend nights (and ultimately days) staring out with an aching head, a giant shot nerve of a human. That's where I am now. I could take something but I don't want the dependency or the hangover. (Last night I took an Ambien in an effort to possibly break this sleepless cycle and though I slept, it's not a real, restful slumber when drugs are involved---though it has its perks---and ultimately I felt like I had been up all night anyway.)

The shitty thing is this: Part of what kept me up is thinking about all the things I wanted to accomplish today and this will, no doubt, set me back on all that. Even if I don't crash, a fried brain does not make for good writing (as evidenced here).

Fuck.

The other shitty thing is this: Yesterday (Monday) my mom had a PET Scan so today we will find out the state of things in terms of her cancer; if the tumors have shrunk (not a shitty thing), stayed the same, grown, spread...disappeared. Obviously this is weighing as heavily as all my big plans. (Obviously, all my big plans are a front for this worry entirely.) At some point today---not sure when---my mom's oncology nurse will call with the results and a telephonic family tree will grow (though not in Brooklyn). (Telephonic is totally a word.) I wish I knew what time she was calling. What if I sleep through it? It could, of course, be good news. Between the chemo and the radiation---both of which put my mom on her ass---something had to have been affected. But, say it didn't shrink but it hasn't spread---do you assume it's the chemo holding the cancer back and open your vein to more poison? Say it did shrink but is still there---do you put yourself through hell again in the hopes that it shrinks more? So much hinges on this PET Scan, but in a way it just complicates everything and changes nothing (or complicates nothing but changes everything). If it grew, if it spread---what then? How much of your body can you give to faith in medicine? She did have an MRI the other day and it came back clean, meaning it has not spread to her brain; also a very, very not shitty thing (and a huge relief). Maybe I should just ride this latest good news into the day and curb the worrying. Maybe I should also fly a zebra that shits Skittles to the moon. I prayed yesterday---like actual, hands-folded fucking prayer---several times.

This is why one should not insomnia and blog. I may regret this post at 2pm when I remember writing it. (Maybe there will be news to share by then.) No, this is not nearly as cheerful a subject as slimy, unidentifiable Tub Monsters. (By the way, our tub is clogged---I WAS TOO LATE! I WAS TOO LATE!)

One last thing (and let me be clear that this is not a cry for help): I found this tonight while bouncing around and it made me laugh. Thought I'd share.

That is all. It's almost 5am. No fucking witty ending in sight.

Okay, I did it.

(I didn't really mean to make it a thing of such suspense---and I find it irritating that I did---but I just wasn't near the computer for very long over these last few days.)

I just got all eh, what the fuck about it and armed with my computer printout of Bitchy MTV Girl, I headed for the salon and Lynn chopped the mane:









The cyclops. I did a mock photo shoot with my sister Bec afterwards and though we were laughing the entire time, I couldn't find a picture where I didn't come off looking like a douche (which is sort of what posting incessantly about my hair makes me so...).

Close?

Whatever similarity was achieved that first day was washed down the drain with my shower the next. Unable to recreate the look, my eh, what the fuck thinking had turned to oh, what the fuck was I thinking?! Three days later, I'm still in haircut limbo and feel like I may look a little like Lord Farquaad. I know I love having less hair. And I love the little Donald Duck butt of a ponytail I have after showering. But I'm still working out how to do it myself which, unless Dan is going to give me a blow-out every morning, is pretty important. (I don't know if the fact that I passed up an easy blowjob joke for one about a cartoon ass means I'm growing or regressing.) The bottom line is that it's going to require---and I hate, hate, hate saying this---practice. If I want it to look like it did when Lynn did it, I'm going to have to arm and familiarize myself with her weaponry. The straightening iron will be my go-to gat. I'll have to invest in a good one because for the past couple of days I've been using one from the 80's (really) I found in a cabinet at my parents' house (thankfully I grabbed the straightener and not the crimper) and every time I've used it on the hair closest my face, my eyes burn like they're being exposed to some sort of chemical. This can't be good. Also, I'm supposed to be using a product called "defining whip" which, I learned the hard way, should be applied with some restraint if I don't want to look like I've been washing my hair in a McDonald's frialator.

But I did it. I manned up. And even if I look a little like Toad from Super Mario Brothers,



I'm glad my sack is in tact.

If not my pride.



Still douchy.

I got a haircut today but I don't have the time to upload the pictures so whether or not I manned up will have to remain a mystery.

And that's all I can say right now because I need, need, need to go to sleep.

P.S. When I googled "really bad female haircuts" to find a image for this entry, the previously featured bitchy MTV girl picture came up...huh.

Feet, Gray, Dove and other things that really matter.

So, I have this favorite book. Perhaps you've even heard of it. It's this little sleeper hit that came out in 2006; something about spaghetti, crying on your bathroom floor and bladder infections. You probably aren't familiar with this work---most aren't--- but I'll mention it anyway. It's called Eat, Pray, Love and it was written by my friend Liz. (As I've said, if we were friends, I'm sure author Elizabeth Gilbert would have me call her Liz.) (Also, technically I'm not ready to pick the favorite book of my life---I haven't quit you Sweet Valley High Volume 22---but in my Oprah interview, Eat, Pray, Love will be mentioned as one of key influence and inspiration in my life and writing career...same goes for The Poky Little Puppy.)

In addition to reading it a few times, I keep the audio recording of Eat, Pray, Love (read by my friend Liz) on my iPod such that when I put it on shuffle for my walks, I often hear a track or two and wind up visiting with random chapters every week. I often quote it. (Recently, when explaining how affectionate Dan is---and I'm sure he's gonna love this---I borrowed Liz's words and gave due credit when I said he was "a cross between a golden retriever and a barnacle.") I draw from and take comfort in Liz's validation, or at least articulation, of some of my own spiritual convictions. ("I have always responded with breathless excitement to anyone who has ever said that God does not live in a dogmatic scripture or in a distant throne in the sky, but instead abides very close to us indeed---much closer than we can imagine, breathing right through our own hearts.") I've never written extensively on why and how this book affected me as profoundly as it did and I don't intend to now (saving it for the card I will hand to Liz when we go away together for a girls' weekend) but I will cop here to having a very personal, very possessive sense of this book. I read it shortly before it became what it was to become to the world (at least that's how I remember it...it was long before she Oprahed it up) so as it shifted to the center of the literary/pop culture/female universe, I took a quiet pleasure but also solace in the fact that I had loved Liz when... (It's like how I felt when I would see a high school boy whom I "discovered" just post-puberty breaking into popularity. This is also, by the way, how I feel about Tina Fey. Also, strawberries. That last one was a joke but I feel like I just came up with an obnoxious vegitrendian character for a book. "Nobody even knew what a strawberry was two years ago," Shira said, an RIP Cows button pinned firmly to her "Farm food makes you Phat" t-shirt.)

Still, when I heard Eat, Pray, Love was being made into a movie starring Julia Roberts, I was delightedly curious and, as I said to Dan as we headed to the theater on Saturday, "This is sort of a momentous thing for me." He asked if I was nervous about being disappointed and I wasn't because I thought I had already mentally separated the movie from the book such that they were two utterly disparate creative projects that could not even be compared. Not so, apparently. Turns out I couldn't help myself. First of all, knowing Liz and Felipe (Gilbert's love interest in the book and present day husband) as I do from both Eat, Pray, Love as well as Gilbert's follow-up memoir, Committed, which documents part of their courtship and eventual marriage, they are real people to me. So, it was distracting to see the events changed and the characters (particularly Felipe) manipulated for the purpose of a script. In the Harry Potter movies, the differences from book to screen don't bother me at all; the characters are fictitious in the first place and this is how movie adaptations work. But, as I know the facts of this story (at least Gilbert's presentation of them), these changes troubled me. Also, I couldn't helpt but note whenever a narrative quote was taken from Liz Gilbert's head in the book and put into the mouth of one of the movie's characters whom I knew hadn't spoken it. Again, because the book is a memoir and not a novel, I felt hung up on this. (This is not at all indicative of the quality of the movie, but just something I was surprised to be so caught on, having seen many book-to-movie adaptations.) The most distracting part, however, was probably my echoing these and many other lines into Dan's ear which I'm sure helped very much with his enjoyment of the movie.

(I should also take this time to say that although he was standing in front of me in the movie line, Dan made me talk to the ticket agent because he could not get himself to speak the words, "Two for Eat, Pray, Love."

"Could be worse," I told him. "I could be making you see Eclipse.")

So, despite myself, comparisons were made. And while, of course, I didn't feel coming out of the theater what I felt coming out of the book, I hesitate to use the word disappointed, particularly since I really had no concrete expectations. Honestly, I feel like I have some sort of cinematic amnesia about the whole thing. I can't remember the movie well (and yes, it was this past Saturday; a mere 72-hours ago). See, because I know the book so well, because I know the themes of the book, I have a hard time deciphering what I felt as a result of the actual film from the impressions I projected onto it. It's like a literary/movie mashup in my brain. Basically, I feel like I need to see it at least one more time to know what I really saw. (Does this make sense?) I mean, I know they covered the three countries (four including her trials in the U.S. that sent her abroad), and I know there were voice-over narratives (my cinematic G-spot) that introduced the story, added insight along the way and tied things up for us, but I can't remember what was said. The only things I can recall for sure are as follows:

---The guy who plays Giovanni (there is no Dario in the film) is one of the hottest men I've ever seen in my life. I mean, um, he's a really good actor.

---The film is, of course, aesthetically gorgeous. (Quoting Liz Lemon as they panned the beaches of Bali, I whispered to Dan, "I want to go to there.") (I don't usually whisper all that much during movies.) (Dan might disagree.)

---It was a long movie, although this perception may be somewhat affected by the fact that I had to pee by the time we hit Italy. Partway through India, I found myself thinking, "Jeez, we're not even in Indonesia yet and---SPOILER ALERT---that's where she gets laid!"

In a larger sense, the clearest opinion I have of the film is that it was a Julia Roberts Movie. Now, hear me out. I know people were criticizing the choice of Roberts versus and unknown actress for the lead role and I really was not one of those people. I like Julia Roberts. There aren't many movies starring Julia Roberts that I haven't liked. (However, Flatliners did just pop right into my head. Though, to be fair, the fact that I was maybe 10 when I saw it and it scared the shit out of me may have something to do with the negative review. Also, it was Kiefer who most ruined it for me and I've never really liked him since...even as Jack Bauer...but that could also have to do with his roles in Lost Boys---another movie I was probably too young to see---and let's not forget the toothpick chewing creep he was in Stand By Me...but I digress.)

I wasn't on the anti-Julia bandwagon. I thought, hey, she can do it. Since the Oscar and the old-lady-named babies, she's been pretty much gone anyway. Maybe she'll seem like an unknown...Um, no. It was total JRM.

The key components of a Julia Roberts Movie:

1) The giant laugh. (And plenty of it...but it really is a helluva laugh. I would walk around tickling myself if I had that endearing of a laugh.)

2) The crying scene where her face shifts from that of a knowing beauty into that of a scared, sniffling child, complete with lost eyes and a quivering frown. The self-deprecation and amusement at her own sorry state, which transitions into that giant sunrise of a smile amidst the tears (and is accompanied by weepytalk; half weep/half talk), is also a Julia Roberts signature move and a Julia Roberts Movie staple.

You know the look:



3) The scene where the camera pans a rowdy room of convivial friends engaging in loud conversations and bursts of laughter over goblets of wine and dinner plates full of decadent fare and then narrows in on Roberts who has momentarily pulled herself out of the rowdiness for a moment of smirking reflection as she ingests the scene herself. In real life, this person would be called the buzzkill or, as I've come to realize, the writer (same thing?) which Gilbert is, so it fits.

This may sound awfully snide, but that's not my intention. These are all the things I look for and love in a Julia Roberts Movie. In fact, this is why I'm unsure whether or not I liked the film. Had I not read the book, I'm quite sure I would be raving about this "seductive, empowering, inspirational movie" (while booking my tri-country flights) much the way I adored Julie & Julia, having not read Julie Powell's memoir beforehand. That said, I do think that if they had cast, say, Broadway's Katie Finneran (whom I've never seen act---in anything!---but just have a hunch would do well in the role), or another little-known actress, that I would feel it was more a film based on the book I love and less a Julia Roberts Movie. It was a big, giant movie starring a big, giant actress based on a very intimate story and this, I suppose in the end, did disappoint me. Still, I think it's probably a great movie. Ya dig?

I'll see it again to know for sure...

However, a much bigger issue permeated my psyche and held me tense in dilemma while watching the film. Amidst all the themes of spirituality and independence and seeking and love and the role of satisfaction in one's life, I found I was stuck and gnawing at one thought the entire time; My gawd, look at Julia Roberts' hair and should I really cut mine?

I could not take my eyes off her mane. She just did so many things with it. There were buns and there were ponytails. She wore it down and she wore it half-up. There were hats and there were scarves. I actually had the thought, "I wish I had long hair," while watching everything they did with hers. I've never seen hair like it and while I wouldn't compare my hair to Julia Roberts' (though I seem to be doing just that and this is the second time it's happened so apparently I would...but maybe shouldn't) it got me kind of excited.



Pretty, right?



And funky...(MB, is that not the purse I got for you that you gave to me?)



Pushing it, I know. (Though, you would not believe how many times I find myself in this exact pose, with that exact amount of bra showing.)

You guys, I'm getting cold feet. I'm just thinking what would happen, well, what it would be like, if I just actually did my hair. I'm not talking about running a brush through it (this I do), I'm talking about styling it. Like, what if I used bobby pins in some capacity or those scary clips that look like they could take an ear off if poorly placed? What if I played with it? What if I watched Youtube videos and bought "product" and tools and just became an adult about the whole thing. It may not even take that much. I see lots of messy up-dos these days and they can't all take hours to accomplish.

There are a couple of other things weighing in to this decision, too. First of all, Dan, whom I've been asking for months and months whether or not he dug the locks, chose this week to say, "I do like your long hair." Huh. That alone would not sway me (he likes my hair short too...he mostly just likes my hair best when my shirt is off), but I also may need to postpone the cut as it overlaps with an appointment with my mom's oncologist that I want to attend.

I know what you're thinking: "But, Laura, what about the Hair Monster? What about the frustration? What about the arm fatigue you experience from having to brush it 100 times every night? (Also, did you just play your mom's cancer card to get out of getting a haircut?)

And you're right (though the scheduling conflict is real). It's a total pain in the ass which is why I'm still undecided. As I said, I think I will have to cancel my appointment for this Thursday, but it's not like getting an appointment with Dr. Oz (though close), I can reschedule. I'm shocked at my ambivalence as I always love the change of a new haircut. A dilemma, indeed; I watch a movie about life's deepest questions and catch my shirt on its shallowest.

I really don't think I can go to God with this one. All-loving as She may me be, I think even God would give me a giant, "What the fuck?" on this one.

The God that breathes through my heart talks like that.

Sunrise, Sunset

I caught the sunrise this morning. It's one of those cloudy mornings where the show only lasts a few majestic seconds, but I caught it. When you forget for a minute, a start to the day like this really offers some perspective. (Yeah, let's see what sort of zen take on things I have later when I hit a wall of tiredness.)

Another blessing? Cross your fingers, but I think the fruit flies that had invaded my home (and spirit) may be gone. When I went to the counter to make my coffee this morning, the halo of near-microscopic floaters that I had grown accustomed to was gone. I didn't even see a mass scatter. I have been struggling with them all summer and when I consulted the highest authority on the matter---Facebook---I was given a handful of options for pest control. I tried almost all of them:

Fruit Fly Trap Pageant 2010

When the majority of suggested solutions involved luring the little shits with cider vinegar, I felt like a real ass as I had this exact product sitting on my counter all week since I've been trying cider vinegar sparklers a few times a day in yet another attempt to find the right calibrations to make my body the high-functioning machine that I dream it can be. (Apparently the cider vinegar helps to balance acidity...results pending. Ate gnocchi with pancetta in a pesto alfredo sauce and penne with gorgonzola, sage and mushrooms last night, so I may have counteracted all efforts.) With the cider vinegar sitting mere inches away, our attempt at FF decimation last weekend when we left an inch of Watermelon Schnapps (I have the liquor cabinet of a Playboy Bunny) at the bottom of a water bottle with a hole punched through the plastic cap and left for CT, failed miserably.

When all-out war was waged on Monday, I tried these additional techniques per my Facebook experts.

1) I filled an empty olive oil bottle with the cider vinegar in the hope that they would go in but ultimately be unable to scale the steep incline of the bottle.
Confirmed kills: 0

2) I put CV in a jar which I then covered with saran wrap and poked holes in the top. This looked promising as there was a lot of activity around the jar at the start, but ultimately the FFs got wise to my schemes and stopped even collecting on the jar's edge.
Confirmed kills: 2
Wounded (but broke free): 3

3) Took a juice glass and poured in a bit of CV and then poured a layer of dish detergent over it without mixing the two. (Now that's an odd combination of smells.)

We have a winner!

This picture doesn't even show the real extent of glorious, glorious death that this method provided. I feel as though I've really gotten to the bottom of this household dilemma.

Your welcome.

One last thing before I head off for the day (driving down for a quick GiG visit before heading back here for the weekend):

Last night, Dan and I attended another book reading/discussion, this time with author Gail Caldwell who is promoting her new book Let's Take the Long Way Home. It's a memoir of her friendship with the late writer Caroline Knapp who died in 2002, seven weeks after being diagnosed with lung cancer. I know, I know, what am I trying to do, beat my personal depression best? But the beauty of this book, of Caldwell's language, of their friendship is so powerful even as it renders you so very weak. I'm 70 pages in and so frightened to go on, but eager to hear more of their affection for each other. I hope I am able to write about this more at length because the discussion was very rich as well. Hearing how Caldwell unconsciously postponed finishing the memoir for several months because she knew how the story ended and didn't want to say goodbye to her friend again ("Oh my God! She's back!" Caldwell said to herself when she commenced to writing about her friendship with Knapp, five years after her death.) was heartbreaking even as it provided such insight into her writing process.

I first read an excerpt from the book over a month ago in a magazine and was shaken and compelled. Then, a few weeks later, rather than ignoring the e-mail calendar announcement from a Portsmouth bookstore as I often do when I'm buried, I scrolled the list of featured authors and was shocked to meet upon this book and Caldwell once again. Meant to read this one, I'm sure.

The sun is much higher in the sky now, the day exposed and I've emptied out and recharged.

On the road again...

Happy Thursday, peeps. Have at it.

Call Dan Ishmael

What I am about to tell you is a true story. The photos have not been doctored nor have names been changed to protect the innocent. (The innocent being Dan and me.)

Six months ago, out bathtub drain was clogged. Very, very clogged. I probably shouldn't be admitting/displaying this in a public forum, but after hours of plunging and snaking and pouring napalm down our drain, this was our white whale:

The horror!

We've never been able to explain it and, as in those summer movies where a bunch of teenagers accidentally murder their peer and get rid of the body, we try not to talk about what happened that fateful day.

But neither of us will ever forget, particularly Dan, who loved the whole experience (and who will be so delighted that I finally put these pictures up...I had my reservations for obvious reasons).

I was going to make an Abu Ghraib joke about this photo but, having revisited those photos, I just can't do it.



The purpose of my bringing this up now, so far after the fact, is because as the drain has become increasingly slugglish lately, the situation more dire, there is a certain exigency surrounding the issue of a haircut. I cannot let this situation become another Hair Monster.

My hair is as long as it's been in a while. I've been keeping it this way mainly for one reason: People have told me to. In fact, when I've mentioned cutting it, all those to whom I am close (with the exception of Dan, who maintains a stubborn lack of opinion), have seemed almost disappointed by the idea, as if they personally don't want to return to the days of having to pretend I look okay with a shorter do. Matt actually told me that he would support me in the decision to cut my hair short, as if he's getting my back as I ready to tell my family about my new career as an adult film star.

But I can't take it anymore. I can't take the clogged drain or the nests that have become of my hairbrushes. More than anything, I can't take the shedding. After blowdrying, my bathroom floor looks as though someone's been shucking red-silked corn in there. I feel like I am picking hair off of me all day and I loathe the feel of a solitary strand sliding down my arm or stuck to my just-moisturized leg. Perhaps, most important, were I to kill someone, my DNA would be all over the crime scene.

I have long battled the issue of hair.

As a kid, I had such meltdowns when it came time to have my hair brushed that my mom did this to me:





Yup, that's a toolset I got for Christmas. The tendency towards such toys coupled with the haircut contributed to my being called "Larry" by my sisters and their friends. The childhood scars from that, resulted in this:

My not cutting my hair again for a long, long time and sporting such a straggly do that I looked more like the frontman of an 80's hairband than a fourth grader. (When I tell my children stories of the time that the priest had to come to the house to exorcise the demons out of me, I will pull out this picture as proof.)



Since then, it's been a series of growing out and cutting back but in recent history the longest it's been is just about to my shoulders. But now it's well past that and stretching like the locks of a witch down my back. It has to end now. I may even pull a Britney and have someone just shave it all off. I've always wanted to do this but just haven't had the sack required for such a bold move. I've offered to do it as a show of solidarity if my mom were to lose her hair with the chemo, but she is adamantly opposed. Apparently she takes a mother's pride in her girls' hair. I can't very well get rebellious on her now, can I?

So, I'm trying to decide what the next look will be and how short I should go. Understanding quite fully that no matter the haircut (or the plastic surgery) I will never look like the women in these photographs, I submit the following for your opinion. (I also understand that while my hairdresser Lynn, whom I adore and schlep to RI to see, may be able to recreate such a look, I will under no circumstances be able to do it myself at home.) Still, I'd like your two cents. Here's what I'm looking at so far:



The Hermione (But can I really get myself to bring in a picture of one of the Harry Potter kids? Plus, I'm much more of a Weasley.)



Scary Model



The bitchy girl from MTV (Leaning...)



And because I'm stuck in the 90's and this is still one of my favorite shows:



Joey Potter #1

Joey Potter #2

And her rival for Dawson's affection:

Jen Lindley #1



Jen Lindley #2 (I know I can't really pull this off without looking like the Disney version of Peter Pan or Julia Roberts right before she dies in Steel Magnolias---the only case in which a person can appropriately compare herself to the gorgeous mega-star---but if I ever get diabetes and risk my life to have a child, I'm going for it.)



Axl



I want to try something new with my hair, just as I want to try something new with this blog. If all goes well, there should be a little poll at the top left of the screen where you can vote on which hairstyle you think I should go for. You can choose more than one selection if you really need to and since my appointment is scheduled for August 19th, we'll close the polls at midnight the night before. (Also, if you're one of those people who can figure out cookies or any of that other computer crappola, you can probably vote more than once.) I can't guarantee that I'll go with the winner but I'll certainly think about it when I disregard your opinion.

So, let's give this a shot. Who knows, this could be a new trick I'll employ when faced with terrible indecision. Other such polls could include: Should Dan and I have kids? Am I too old for Zac Efron? And, of course, Where should I bury my neighbor's body?

So, get voting! Or comment here! Just don't tell me to keep my hair long for the sake of my femininity or I'll harpoon yo ass.

I feel like this is a gift from God just for me.

I know I've been a deadbeat but I'm an hour and a half away from departing for a weekend in Connecticut (to be spent poolside with Dan's family) so I don't have time to make it up to you now. (Next time, I promise to show up with a stuffed animal of some sort.) In fact, once again, I'm supposed to be showering and instead I am here.

But, I just needed an outlet for the excitement I feel about Rosie and My Oprah pairing up for Rosie's new show.

I first heard the news from Mattie who left a message on my voicemail exclaiming, "The queens have come together in the night!"

Indeed.

Because I feel it in my bones that I am supposed to get a job writing for this show (which would give me a reason to move to NYC while simultaneously giving my life purpose) there's a good chance that I may start posting weekly letters to Rosie as part of a Make-Me-Your-Writer campaign. (Campaign name pending...I'm open to suggestions.) We'll see.

But I just needed to let out a little Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah (that is really so hard to spell) before going on my way. Thanks for listening.

P.S. My apologies to my in-laws for being late...We hit terrible traffic.

Today is Dan's birthday!

Missing from photo: Fun Williams-Sonoma watermelon-cutting knife (thanks for the idea Sassy Snell!) that I let him open in bed because I knew (per his trash OCD) that he would want to cut the watermelon up (not sexual innuendo) before the trash went out this morning.

My man is 42 today. 42. An age I distinctly remember my mom being which means, by this twenty-something's standards (holding on to this last year of twentydom with all my life), he's practically a white-beard though he looks like he's about 25. (You'll be laughing at the baldies later, all you baby-faced boys!) I don't mind being married to the geriatric though, we just stay away from the Normandy stories and I just have to help him get that second leg up on the bed every night. I kid, obviously, though I've been giving him a little extra shit lately as he's been likening my infatuation with Zac Efron (that boy is a man!) to borderline pedophilia. Efron is 22! You might want to remember, bud, that when I was a young lass of 22, you were 35...pervert. Anyway, my man suffers this fool gladly and I am looking forward to celebrating his being on the planet. He took the day off from work (today and tomorrow actually as tomorrow is our anniversary) and we're planning to tool around Portsmouth, catch a movie (or three) at the theater and just play hooky on life.

He's at an early-morning appointment right now so he'll walk in the door to the stack of presents pictured above. The idea of this was much more fun when he hadn't yet looked in the closet that he never goes in and seen the stack. Last night before falling asleep he decided to get up from bed to get an extension cord for the bed and came back with a power strip and shit-eating grin. Twenty minutes left in the friggin' day and the surprise was blown. Mofo.

At least the cake will still be (somewhat) of a surprise.

This is the recipe I used.

Jeanne's Heath Bar Cake (Jeanne, known as Jeannie Weanie, is Rosie O'Donnell's best friend since childhood and a regular on her radio program. I almost wept when I heard her talking about this. I'm hoping this cake will get me out of giving him that BJ (not, unfortunately, blueberry jam) that I always feel I owe him on his birthday.)

1 Chocolate cake mix
1 can (14 oz.) sweetened condensed milk
1 small jar butterscotch topping
12 oz. whipped topping (i.e., Cool Whip, though I made homemade whip cream...call me Martha.)
4-5 Heath or Skor bars, chopped

Prepare cake according to directions on the package and bake in a 9 x 13 pan.

While still hot, use a wooden spoon handle to poke holes in the top of the cake. Pour condensed milk evenly over the top, then pour butterscotch topping evenly over that. Sprinkle half of chopped Heath bars over the top. Refrigerate at least 3 hours.

Spread whipped topping over cake, then sprinkle with remaining Heath pieces.

You're crying, aren't you? Well, grab the tissues because I'm giving you a walk-through of the cake-making (at least the latter half) process.



This is the cake after refrigerating it overnight. I was salivating at this point.



Stiff peaks?



Readying for the last touch.



Voila.



What Dan will walk into if I'm out of the shower (and get this blog up!) in time. The grocery store was out of twos (do you love it?!) so I had to improvise.



I'll keep you posted on the tasting...of the cake, not the blueberry jam...oh my.

Happy birthday, bud!

Love, your ever-inappropriate wife.