Heading for a Fall

Why are the short weeks so mean?  Seriously.  It's like the holiday weekend flips you the bird.  "Hope you enjoyed those three days off," it seems to say, "because that four-day work week is gonna be a futhermucker."

Last week was a tad brutal, I must say.  Just a tad.

The week started off with discovering on that holiday Monday, that my debit card had been frauded to the tune of $600.  Now, I'm not the type to regularly (or ever) check my bank activity online.  But, on that day, I did.  So I called my financial institution and found that, yeah, I would have to cancel and get a new debit card...which would take up to 10 business days to receive.  I use that card for ev-er-y-thing, so the bonus to being frauded was the added inconvenience of going Visa debit card free.  Um, yeah, boo.

Next, I was met with an unhappy client, which is one of the better ways to begin the workweek, no?  The upset occurred over simple math.  We have an agreement to pay me a specific amount per week.  That weekly rate was rounded to a monthly by the client.  My invoices are still for the week, he just pays me for the month, which is really and truly nice.  However...there aren't always four weeks in a month.  There just isn't.  We have 52 weeks in a year.  Divide that by 4 and you get 13.  We don't have a Decenuary on the calendar.  So, any genius that builds a budget based on a 48-week year is doomed for financial failure.  Because, occasionally, say about four times a year, we have a five week month.  July happens to be one of them.  So, when I sent my invoice reflecting this, I got a lecture on my math skills and a hint that I was being greedy.

Suffice it to say, I'm just working less this month.  And, future monthly invoices will reflect 4.33 weeks.

The next hiccup came when the long-awaited meeting I've had calendared and re-calendard, then re-set again got moved.  I really do ink things in my calendar, and I am never thrilled to cross anything out.  This is kind of a big meeting.  Well, not kind of, it is.  And, while I'm a pretty laid-back gal, and understood the reasons why all the moves were occurring, the anticipation (and preparation) that went into it, only to be met again with a resched, left me a bit letdown.  At least it wasn't a cancellation.  That was the upside.  But I was simply exhausted from holding my breath, and wasn't really looking forward to holding it again.

But the week would only get better when a good friend went this side of apeshit on me over nothing, and made it all my fault.  That is just nothing but good times, people.  All I could do, while sitting through the email exchange -- yes, emails, which made it all the more sad -- was inhale and edit, re-edit and edit again my replies.  When someone just decides that they are going to be pissed and that they are just going to be pissed at you, there's not a whole lot you can do but ride it out.  And it was a very, very, very long ride.   I was called aggressive, passive-aggressive, accused of not telling the truth, of suffering from the endless need to be right, of hidden motives and not being a good listener.  Oh, and I complain about my life.

Yeah, I know.

I love my friend immeasurably. I know that there's other stuff going on and sometimes shit (even of the ape variety) happens. Still, when faced with a situation like that, in a friendship where you've shared laughter and tears and secrets and joys, it's a little unnerving to be attacked for something so inconsequential that it doesn't even warrant mentioning here (and I don't want to piss my friend off again, thankyouverymuch).  I had to stop myself from going to that place where you look at the friendship as a whole (and, yes, all the things I've done for said friend), and think, point-wise, I've earned a bit more credit that what I've been given. But, I didn't.  You can't go there because friendships aren't tit-for-tat, let's tally up the scoreboard. You just kind of hope to get, I don't know, the benefit of the doubt, or at least a phone call.

So, by Friday, I was in desperate need for something relaxing and fun.  But, first, I had to go over to the LAPD Pacific Division to fill out my identity theft report.  After that, I texted a nearby friend to see if a last minute walk to one of our favorite spots could be arranged.  She was kind enough to comply.  And that was exactly what I needed: a good laugh with a good friend, and a turkey burger to go.

Now, I feel completely safe in my neighborhood, even though it's not completely safe.  I feel comfortable walking home at night, but I am mindful of the routes I take.  I should also be mindful of the moon cycles.  Not so much to keep an eye out for the full moon shenanigans, but to be reminded of how dark a moonless night can be, especially when I take the shortcut-I-never-take-at-night-on-a-back-street-with-no-street-lamps home.

I caught my left big toe on a piece of uneven sidewalk. The surprise of the pain this caused was more shocking than the unexpected halt.  And, being somewhat graceful (or at least not a total klutz), I thought that I could catch my balance.  In order to do this, one has to take up speed, and I was already walking at a pretty good clip.  Unfortunately, I never caught up to myself.  I went down and hard.

I was carrying my wallet and BlackBerry in my left hand, my handled paper bag of dinner in my right.  I kept my left hand clutched as I went down, taking the skin off the back of that.  I let go of dinner, but my right hand alone wasn't enough to brace this fall.  I came down on my right knee and chin.  And, once I met the ground, I sort of just rested there for a moment, collecting my thoughts.  The one that kept floating through my brain was, "WTF?!?"  I slowly got up, happy that the contents of my left hand were still intact.  I found my bag of dinner a few feet away, and it was in respectable shape.  I still had four blocks to go before I got home, with a toes that was bleeding profusely.

Here's what's sort of spectacular:  I had skinned my right knee, but didn't tear a hole in my pant leg.  I had a scrape on my right shoulder, but didn't tear my shirt either.  I had a deep purple bruise on my chin, but didn't chip a tooth or bite my lip or tongue.  And, FYI, OxyClean really does get blood out, because the bottom of my beloved near-bell-bottom khakis were soaked in it from the rest of the walk home.

Here's what's sort of sad (besides the above):  When I fell, I shattered one of my favorite Buddha necklaces.  And that's what made me cry.  Not the fact that I was literally bleeding and bruised from head to toe, and that's kind of painful, but that my lovely necklace was destroyed.

I can't imagine ending such a week on a more perfect note.  I mean, really.  I sort of had to laugh, because the lyrics to "Hurt" were running through my head as I tended to my wounds:  I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel.  And, it's almost as if that's what I had to do.  I've been just going and going for the past few months, pushing to get things done.  Then, on that short week, others started pushing me, too. And the pace that I was keeping was like the shove that brought me down, even though, technically, it was an uplifted piece of cement.  Don't even get me started on breaking my Buddha.  Inner peace has not been mine of late.

I can't even describe the crippling exhaustion I feel.  (Though, I'm sure you're feeling something similar, too.)  Not only did I hit that sidewalk, I hit the wall.  I've got nothing.  Zero.  Zilch.  And there's still so much to do.  But, sometimes what's going on inside has to manifest outside.  And when that happens, embrace the Arnica.

Dear Facebook, We're Through...Kind Of

I'm breaking up with Facebook. For a week. I know. It's a trial separation leading up to what will be the inevitable divorce.

I'm sure everyone online is aware of the kerfuffle over Facebook's privacy policy. There's a movement to delete profiles on May 31st, another to not sign in on June 6th. Of course, the changes to the privacy policy to make them "simpler" have come through just in time to make those deadlines. By that, the deletion movement has lost some of its wind, as I'm sure has the June 6th protest. But, back in mid-May, I decided that, while I was too lazy to delete my account at this time, I would not sign in for a week to let Facebook (and my friends) know that I could indeed live without it. Facebook's advertisers would not get any hits or views from me in that time, making only a slight dent in FB's back pocket. Even though Facebook admitted to making some mistakes and have clarified the privacy policy, I'm not one to walk away from a commitment. So, I'll be signing off before midnight on the 30th and won't sign back in until the 7th. I'll also be deleting my BlackBerry Facebook app as well so there's no unintentional connection.

Why go to all of this bother, especially when it's only me doing it?

Well, for one, I think Mark Zuckerberg is the ultimate douche. He believes Facebook is too big to fail and that he can get away with just about anything because where else will people go? Back to MySpace? And, for the most part, he's right. Where would we move to if we made a mass exodus? (I say to a bar. Actually have real contact with real friends. But that's just me.) There are other social networks in development, most excitingly Diaspora. But, for now, there's no real, new alternative. So, maybe Mark is right. For now. Without a doubt, what happened to MySpace will happen to Facebook. Eventually. Everything changes. Nothing lasts forever. And, once you've reached the top, the only place to go is down.

Zuckerberg ought to tattoo that somewhere.

For the past two weeks, there were many interesting conversations and rants on the subject of To Delete or Not to Delete as well as Who Cares? I created a Facebook event and invited friends to join me in a week away. It was an underwhelming response with four yeses, 11 maybes and 33 noes. I wasn't surprised. We tend to be such good corporate lambs willing sacrifice privacy, among other things, for convenience or fun or to be part of the crowd.

But that's not what I signed up for.

I'm not so naïve to believe there's such a thing as actual privacy on the internet, or life in general, these days. I use a rewards card knowing they are keeping track of what I purchase. But, at least I'm getting money back for that. Not to mention I've been blogging for nearly a decade, and have been known to overshare. But, I'm not one to post photos or videos, or anything more compromising that an opinion on the internet. Yes, I blab on Twitter on a daily basis and tell people where I'm at via Foursquare. Obviously, I'm not *that* concerned with privacy. I just like to have a say in where what I post is going.

It's a fine line.

The Library of Congress is collecting my tweets. Google me and you'll know some of my innermost thoughts. But, I don't want to be on CNN.com and see what my friends have been reading. I find that incredibly creepy and assumptive. Like I need to be led by my friends' opinions as to what is relevant or cool.

No. I don't.

And, if it is something that's truly relevant to me, or super cool, my real friends will contact me directly.

*********

I will give Facebook its due credit. I've reconnected with countless people through it. Friends I hadn't talked to for ten or twenty years. That's an incredible thing. I also connected with total strangers who have become friends of sorts. And, in the beginning, I friended people I didn't know just to be polite, accepted requests from a friends' friends in order to not look like a jerk. I ended up with 160+ people connected to me who may or may not have the same views of privacy I do, and I started to ask, Why?

So, on Thursday, I did a mass deletion. I removed about 20 "friends". It felt kind of heartless at first. It's not like you have the option when you delete to send a note saying, "Hey, nothing personal, but I'm removing you from my list. No hard feelings, okay?" (And I didn't have the time to send out personal messages.) Half of the people I was deleting I had already hidden from my news feed, so what was the point of having them linked to me if I wasn't paying attention to what they said? The others removed were courtesy friends that I never really connected with, or actual friends who use Facebook as a promotion tool or their center stage. At the end of the day, I'm sure people won't notice or care that I am no longer their "friend", and, if they do, hopefully, they will find this and accept my apology, or will pick up the phone to ask why. Seriously. Facebook isn't the only form of communication left on the planet, you know?

*********

When I first joined Facebook, it was fun. I will admit that I was that annoying user whose zombie would attack your zombie with zeal, and would send you karma regularly. But, soon, I grew bored with that. I never got into mobs or farms or the like. Never played any games or IM-ed. Facebook, for me, was about connection and conversation, and the occasional pleasant surprise of catching up with a ghost from the past.

But now? Well, now, I've just about caught up with everyone I want to. I don't need a four-digit friend count to feel a sense of self. And I really couldn't give a rat's backside about what anyone "likes". Facebook has become a bit of a yawn, sort of like a dinner party that's gone on too long and the conversation is dying out.

Still, no one seems ready to leave. Yet. But, I do believe that Facebook has jumped the shark. With competition brewing, the next year of social media is sure to be interesting. It's time for something new. A new group of people. New conversations. A different way to connect. Like, perhaps, in person.

So, a week without Facebook is soon to begin. I'm sure it will be a bit awkward at first. A habit to be broken. But, I'll still be on Twitter. I still have email, and three phone numbers for friends to call or be called. This isn't a way of disconnecting from friends but perhaps connecting with them better. Yet, what I'm most curious to find is how often I will be back on Facebook once the week is through? Or if I will at all.

Any word on when Diaspora will launch?

Nine

Hello. Remember me? Yes, I know it's been a while. I needed a little break. Some time to sort things out. Replenish the well. And, truth be told, I was a little cranky. Unemployment seems to have the effect on me. And, fortunately for you, my misery does not love company. You're welcome.

This happens to me (and I'm sure all writers) every once in a while, where I have so much to express but absolutely nothing to say. As bitchy as my blog can be, I don't like to rant all the time. Who wants to hear me moan about the job market and mounting debt? Aren't we all dealing with that in one way or another? I kept hoping that I would have something more interesting to say. Turns out I didn't. It's hard to have adventures when you don't leave your house so as to not to spend a dime and you're conjoined to Craigslist hoping there will be a job that you'll be right for...and pays more than $9/hour. When you don't have enough money for booze or chocolate, it's best to just keep to yourself. And, so, for the most part, I did.

By the time October arrived, the toll hit me physically. I suffered the worst bout of gastritis I'd had since I was diagnosed three years ago. I couldn't eat for four days, and became quite impressed with functioning self-starvers. Really. I couldn't stand up to brush my teeth by day two and needed a nap after showering. Being dizzy isn't much fun when it's not cocktail induced. Also, having to buy easy-on-the-tummy foods isn't as inexpensive as one might think. But, in case you didn't know, if you eat organic cinnamon apple sauce with organic saltines, it tastes kind of like really cheap apple pie. I became a connoisseur of the bland. Do NOT buy low sodium chicken broth. You can't add enough salt to make it palatable. Ginger ale should be served in a champagne flute. And you should only get rotisserie chicken from Rainbow Acres. I was deeply disappointed to find that the chicken from my Whole Foods as dry as Death Valley. After a couple of weeks of that diet, and a new addiction to Reed's Ginger Candies, I was a few pounds lighter, leaving me with an ill-fitting wardrobe. My curvy 6's too loose, my 4's too snug...not to mention a little out of style. I haven't been a 4 in five years. And I will never forgive Seasonale for that.

Fortunately, the day before Thanksgiving, I was offered a job, making my stint of un- or under-employment just two weeks shy of eight months. I survived that time only because of my incredible friends, who rallied around me, supported me (at times literally) and wouldn't let me give up or give in. They are as stubborn as I am. The hole I have to dig myself out of ends somewhere near Shanghai. And, so what? I'll get out of it one day. I've learned a little about patience during this time and the art of going with the flow. Which, for an A-type Aries, borders on alchemy. By the end of the year, I was so exhausted that I spent New Year's Eve with Netflix watching Bogie and Bacall (The Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep), Cary Grant (Arsenic and Old Lace) and Grace Kelly (Dial M for Murder). I fell asleep about 10:30. New Year's Eve is one of my favorite events, but after the way it treated me, I didn't even feel the need to show 2009 to the door.

2009 was much like my last boyfriend -- coming in with so much promise and beauty, but ending up a cloying, annoying, utter disappointment. Last year was almost arrogant in its cruelty. Let's just say it: Last year was an asshole. And, like my last boyfriend, I'm not looking back to wonder, "What happened?" No. I've got better things to do. Top on my list: I am going to fall in love with this year.

I've been looking forward to 2010 like meeting the hot guy at the gym whose 6-pack remains on his abs, not sitting in his fridge; the only spare tire he's got is in the trunk of his car; and 'tight ass' refers to his bum not his wallet. Yes, I expect this year to be a perfect '10. And I am going to seduce it.

I realize I'm going in to the New Year with the same level of optimism and hope I did for '09, except, this year, I'm stronger and wiser, and have even less of a tolerance for bullshit. And that kind of feels fabulous. There's a level of fear that falls away once you have lost your illusion of security. I find myself walking into situations like, "Bring it!" Any minute shred of doubt about who I am, what I want, what I am capable of has been obliterated. Now I probably sound pretty arrogant. But I simply lost tolerance for even my own bullshit. You kind of have to at some point, if you are really going to survive.

And while we are celebrating '10 (which, by the way, I will say as two-thousand-ten because it just sounds better), today is a 9...the 9th anniversary of RUAWAKE. I know. Crazy, right? And I'm pretty sure this will be the last year for it. It's time to wrap it up. It's time to start moving on.

There are sure to be lots of adventures this year, including revealing some secrets I haven't yet shared. Which should seem shocking. What haven't I talked about here over these last nine years? You might be surprised. It's time for some light and laugher and some bloody effing fun.

Thanks so much for staying tuned even when I tune out. Thanks so much for your emails and comments and friendships. You make me laugh and think, and realize that I'm not just shouting into the abyss. So, happy damn New Year, friends. Let's show this one who's boss. xo

Coming Home

First, there's the rush of getting everything done. Not just packing, but dealing with a client, then another client, the errands across town. Don't forget to eat something. Stop by CVS, the mail box, inhale lunch, and fill your suitcase. Get gas. Get the car washed (I know, it's kind of silly, but it brings me luck), then put everything in the car and go.

Even with traffic, it's the quickest six hours I know. I went a new musical route this time and listened to an old playlist. I'm one hell of a DJ, I must say. It was two-and-a-half-hours long. I listened to it twice.

I ate dinner at 85. Miles-per-hour, that is. I drank 64 ounces of water in less than five hours, and only peed once. I made it all the way to Santa Nella for that. I sped through the gusty winds that blew as the 5 was about the meet the 580. I was surprised how cold it was in Dublin. No, not *that* Dublin.

I've learned to compact my luggage over these visits. Even though this is only for a weekend, it's still a tad cumbersome; I have part of a birthday gift to bring. It's rather oversized for something so temporary. I made it all in, gracefully, in one trip.

Immediately there was laughter. Even a snort. And hugs. The adorable alarm-clock was already asleep. The magic coffee maker poured me a beer, then told a joke. We stood in the kitchen laughing, excited for the weekend and all that it holds. And now it's off to bed. A big day tomorrow. A bigger day the day after that. On Sunday, I'll pack it all back up and make the drive again, only heading South instead. Right now, it just feels good to be home.

I Am Not A Good Friend

I kind of feel that I need to set the record straight. I haven't been sharing what Joy has been going through, and my visits up there, to tout my good deeds. I actually don't see what I did as above or beyond the call of duty. I don't feel like I've done anything special. I did what any friends would do...if they could. And one of the reasons I could do it is because I don't have a pesky job getting in the way. The upside of unemployment. It was easy for me to go up there for a week to help out. As a matter of fact, I looked forward to it like a vacation.

Also, for the record, I was not the only one helping out. There are many others pitching in, and doing even more. Some of them even have jobs or families of their own to take care of. We're simply doing what friends do: Help out as much as we can when we can. Isn't that the basic definition of friendship?

And it's not like it's a chore to be with Joy and her family. They are great people. And it's not like they were asking me to milk cows or churn butter. I was doing what I would do at home anyway: cook and clean and run a few errands. Except at Joy's there's a washer and dryer *in* the house (I go to the laundromat), and they have a real, live dishwasher (while I have dishpan hands). So, in actuality, I get to have a bit of a vacation by indulging in those modern conveniences and fantasizing about the day I actually live like a grown up.

I also had the added bonuses of the world's more adorable alarm clock and a magical coffee maker. Pancakes and waffles were served on the weekends, and I got to hang out with people I truly adore in a lovely community. Yeah, hand me the martyr crown.

Joy looked at me with concern one day. "I don't know how I am ever going to repay you for this," she said. My eyebrows came together. "You bought my lunch today. I think that makes us even." She shook her head. "I'll come up with something." And then she did a bit of performance art that still brings a tear to my eye...because I laugh so hard thinking about it.

In full disclosure, Joy insists on paying me gas money. It's absolutely ridiculous, but I've learned not to argue. You really shouldn't argue with a friend going through chemo. It kind of makes you look like an asshole. So, I smile and take it, then use it to buy Guinness and wine for my next trip up there. It's my way of getting her back, though it's me and her husband who really get the benefit. I do make sure the wine is organic, in case she decides to have a glass (or two).

I have another friend going through a lawsuit. She lives out of state, so we will have lengthy chats via telephone. She, too, thanked me for being a good friend the other day, and it sort of pissed me off. "Do you not listen to my shit?" I asked her point blank. "Yeah," she answered, somewhat taken aback. "Well, it's give and take, dear. It's all just give and take." And then I said, "Look, it takes a good friend to let someone be a good friend. So, mirror, mirror, my friend."

I really want to be clear about this: I am not a good friend. I am just someone who has a lot of good people in her life. And I love them dearly. Anything I give, it's miniscule in comparison to what I get from them.

Cancer Is Fattening

There's just no way around it: Cancer is fattening. Or chemo is. Well, mostly spending a week with a friend going through chemo and trying to keep her weight up is thigh-widening. Fabulous, but fattening nonetheless.

It's really not Joy's fault. I mean, she didn't force me to eat the (organic) cookies or the soy/flax chips (with guacamole) or the shrimp burrito or to choose pasta for every dinner...but the one that involved fish and chips. At least she and I split that. It's not her fault I couldn't say no. No. But it's not like it was a level playing field. She gets the bonus of having a tiny appetite (chemo bonus?). I have the appetite of an Olympic athlete. If only I trained like one. Which is the other problem: Chemo and cardio don't really go together. Throw in a shot of Neulasta (to help her build T-cells) and you have bone pain on top of fatigue. So, a few laps around the block weren't really going to happen. Not like I couldn't go on a walk by myself. But that's so not the point. The point was to spend quality time with my friend going through the cure. And so I stayed by her side...and went toe to toe as we snacked my butt into oblivion.

Laughter might well be the best medicine, but it is total crap at burning calories. Seriously. Because we laughed a lot. A lot a lot. Not even Percocet could dull Joy's sharp wit. We were doubled over, catching our breath. And that requires a good deal of ab work. Shoulders, too. But I saw no results, other than laugh lines.

You would think that waking up at seven each day to help with Laddy's breakfast and make his lunch would help burn some calories, too. Nope. But I suppose I didn't have to eat the cut off crusts on top of my toast. Not literally on top. You know what I mean. The way-too-basically-simply idea of putting them into the trash didn't sit well with me. Thanks, mom, for tattooing all those starving kids in China onto my brain. Food guilt is child abuse, people. Piggyback rides and park playing aren't calorie busting either, FYI. But, it is fun.

My dieting discipline was something I seemed to forget to pack. Breakfast consisted of carbs. Lunch consisted of carbs. Dinner consisted of carbs. Dessert, well, that was chocolate, and that is God's gift to us. But it's full of carbs. And a bit of fat, too. That's not to say we didn't eat healthy. We did. But Joy can't have too much fruits or vegetables because her digestion is a bit sensitive. Sure, I could have gone to the store and bought some, whipped them up on my own. As a matter of fact, I did go to the store. A few times. And I made dinner every night. But that extra effort of chopping and washing and steaming...what was the point? I was only going to be there a week. We all deserve a little break, right?

Justifications must be full of carbs and calories, too, because when I got on the scale after returning home, I found four (FOUR!) extra pounds. Feck. Okay, I've already lost two, but I'm grounded until the rest are off. No more cookies or chips, and chocolate is to be used for medicinal PMS purposes only...and only in moderation. Control, people. It's a choice.

In spite of the pounds, I wouldn't trade an ounce for a moment with Joy, her hubster or adorable son. And let me tell you about how great my friend is:

A week after what we hope is her last chemo treatment, her hair is starting to grow back. You heard me. This after two IP chemo treatments as well. This coming from a woman who was moved to Stage IV. By the way, once they mark you at a stage level, they don't downgrade you. Sure, we know the statistics of ovarian you-know-what (that's the only C word I truly hate), but Joy is the fluke. Statistically, she shouldn't have gotten it. So, screw statistics. She is already thriving. She's one of the healthiest people I know. And I'm looking forward to the days when we are old ladies, doubling over laughing and wetting our Depends.

At Least We Can Laugh

I don't know where I am right now. I don't know if it's denial, acceptance or certainty. It doesn't matter, really. There's only one place I can be and that's here, in the moment. Dealing with it. That's all anyone can do.

And we are all dealing with it, no matter what our it might be. Everyone has something going on. It's part of the human condition. The trick is not to do it alone. That's what friends are for.

Thank God for my friends. They are a fabulous group of wonderful nuts. You won't find better people anywhere. Except maybe in your tribe. I hope you've collected some wonderful nuts along your way. My friends and I are all dealing with a little merde right now. But, at least we are dealing with it together. And, at least we can laugh about it.

I'm going back up to see Joy next week. T-cells willing, she will have her last chemo treatment tomorrow. Hurrah! I can't wait to get back up there and spend some quality time with three of my favorite people. I think what I adore most about Joy is that, through this whole ordeal, we have laughed more than we've cried. A lot more. The last time I was up there, we spent most of our time together doubled-over laughing. If you were in California after Easter, you'll remember the winds that kicked up. They were Dorothy/We-aren't-in-Kansas-anymore wicked. I had to pop outside to pick up some errant socks (her three year-old at least brought in his shoes), and in those twenty-seconds, I couldn't believe how my hair was whipped around. We were going to be leaving in a few minutes to go to her doctor's appointment and when I came in, I said, "Hey, you'd better tighten up your wig, sister. It's a blustery day." She bent into a ninety-degree angle, laughing. When she came up for air, she said, "I'm so glad I can laugh about stuff like that." To which I replied, "Shit, so am I."

I have another friend who was slammed by the housing market. Another who is considering bankruptcy. Another dealing with family issues. Another juggling three jobs. Another hoping to find a job. But, we are just as concerned about what the other is dealing with as we are with our own load. And, in the midst of our merde, we are laughing. Hard. At each other. At ourselves. At the absurdity of it all. We are laughing more than we are crying. Maybe it is a form of denial. Perhaps it is acceptance. More than likely, though, it is the certainty of our friendships. We have each other's backs. And we have each other in stitches. And I can't think of a better place to be.

Bucolic Fever

The day after my birthday (which only sucked for part of the day; good friends rescued the rest), I woke up early. Earlier than intended. I woke up with an asthma attack, and I can't recall the last time that happened. I suppose it was one way to revisit my youth. I suspect the wine I ordered was not the wine that I drank. Or there was much more butter in the sauce on my cod than I tasted. Either way, I had to suck on my inhaler twice, then shake my way through a shower and packing before heading up the 405 to the 5 to the 580 to the 101 to Novato to see my friend, Joy, her amazing hubster, Dude, and their incredible son, Laddy.

The last time I made this journey, I had a little car trouble. This time, I knew it would be a smooth sail. And, outside of the asthma attack, it was. The only other hiccup was that Joy's chemo was postponed due to low T-cells, which wasn't unexpected. So, instead of her recovering from that over Easter weekend, we got to hang out and O.D. on Bravo marathons, Easter chocolate, and marvel at the energy packed into a three-year-old. He and I got to go to the park and blow bubbles into the breeze. Do you remember how much fun that is? I had forgotten until that weekend.

With her energy still low, I took over the chores and errands, which are actually enjoyable here. I had the distinct pleasure of taking Laddy to and from preschool. That necessitated having a booster seat installed in my car. Someone should alert Guinness to that. On Monday morning, out to my car we went and found an ugly clicking where the sound of the ignition engagement should've been. Being the stubborn broad I am, I kept trying, turning the key over and over, certain that "just once more" would get it to go. But, no. The battery finally expired. I turned to the young gent sitting in the back and broke the news. "That's okay. Let's just walk," Laddy said. And so we did. Which turned out to be rather scandalous, because every pre-K kid on the playground asked why he was walking to school. "BECAUSE SANDRA'S BATTERIES ARE BROKEN!" he explained at volume eleven. Awesome.

Did you know that AAA will sell and install a battery for you...and for less than the local mechanic? Neither did I. Love them. I told the two men (one who came to jump me and the other who delivered my new juice box) that they should be wearing capes.

The other reason I came up was that Joy was having pain from a previous procedure, which was going to be addressed on Wednesday. Dude took her in and I manned the home front. There, I did laundry. Four loads of it. I actually enjoy doing laundry (and dishes) when one's own, in-house machinery is involved. I was having quite a good time with it, I must say. At one point, probably during yet another episode of "real" housewives from somewhere, I got a little frightened when I realized that not once have I been bored. Not once did I itch to go home. Not once did my skin crawl at the sight of a minivan (which neither Joy nor Dude owns...we comprise a squadron of Jettas). I had found myself in a suburban town that does not nauseate me. Seriously. someone should alert Guinness on that.

I'm sure some of it has to do with the company I keep. And the fact that this town is not manufactured or "planned". Houses are not encrusted with beige stucco. This suburb has a touch of the bucolic to it. It's quietness does not creep me out, but calms me. I know that I am still somewhat "normal" because we have gone into establishments that housed screaming children and I did want to throttle them, so I'm not too far gone. But, the strangest thing is that I feel like I've always been here, and I have no desire to go back home. A place that I love. Again, that could be due to the company I keep here. But, as I head off to unload the dishwasher, having fully embraced my domestic diva, I think I'm going to have a hard time adjusting back to my life. A lot of that will have to do with missing my own washer, dryer and dishwasher. But, even more of it will be having my friends at such a distance. It would be nice to have them right next door. And, while I'm not sure I'm ready to be a "real" housewife of any sort, at least I know I won't have an allergic reaction to it. (And if I do, I'm armed with Claritin and an inhaler.)

In Consistency

So, obviously my March NaBloPoMo was a total fail. I was hoping to pull it off. I'm one for discipline. I don't usually sign myself up for something and not follow through, no matter how painful it is to finish. I've done the Master Cleanse three times. However, life just took over here. C'est ma vie. But, I think this post will be the equivalent of what I failed to write.

It's been a while since I've taken a road trip. Fuel had been so expensive for so long that it made one question a superfluous drive across town let alone upstate. But, now that it floats around two-bucks a gallon (and when did we ever think that would be a deal?), it was time to hit the road. Two and a half weeks ago, I did just that.

I'd been planning a trip up North to visit a friend and meet her husband and son before moving in for a week to help out during one of her chemo treatments. I thought it might be a good idea to find out if her kid would totally hate me, or her hubby for that matter, before showing up to give care. I'm kind of courteous that way. Besides, I couldn't wait another month to see her.

I should probably note that I haven't seen this friend in two decades, although we have been in touch for the last year. She found me on Facebook. Since then, we have emailed and pinged and had phone dates with wine. We spent election night together (telephonically speaking), and the Inauguration, too. We have known each other since the seventh grade, growing up surrounded by the same beige stucco. We sort of picked up like it had only been a week since we talked. There are just friends that are like that. And she's one.

As I do with all long drives, I took my car to a full-serve station and had my tires, oil and fluid checked before I rolled. I am also one who is extremely diligent in taking my beloved Ghetta in for scheduled maintenance. While she may not look it, I love my car. She is awesomely reliable. So, imagine my surprise when I saw a huge plume of white smoke trailing behind her.

"That can't be from me," I told myself. It just couldn't be, so I just carried along playing the new Lily Allen on my new iPod Touch. Ah, life was good...until I saw another plume of smoke definitely trailing from my car. I had just passed the point where the 5 and the 14 split, which is uphill. Not only was my car smoking, she was losing power.

"No, effing way am I pulling over here," I said to myself as I eyed the shoulder. I was mere miles away from our hometown. It would only be poetic for me to crap out there.

I threw on my hazard lights, made my way over to the far right lane and said little prayers in between cursing the fates. I had a frozen, homemade (by my chef friend, Cookie) chicken pot pie and two packs of Guinness in a cooler in my backseat. The pot pie was for my friend, whom I'll call Joy here; it's all she's been craving. The Guinness was for me and the hubster, whom I'll call Dude, because he is a super cool dude as it turns out, and that's all I've been craving.

You know, it's shocking the amount of people who seem oblivious to what flashing hazard lights imply. Tailgating isn't going to help. Zipping around me, like I'm in the way, isn't proving a point. I'm in the slow lane with my flipping hazard lights on. SHIT'S GOING WRONG! DEAL WITH IT!!!

I made it to Lyons Avenue, the portal to my personal hell, and opted to turn right because it's downhill. My car was barely hanging on.

Now, if you are in a "planned community", like the whole of the Santa Clarita Valley is, you might expect them to plan enough to have a service station offering repairs available off the freeway, don't you think? Oh, sure, you can get gas, you can even get a boatload of Doritos from any one of the attached Food Mart/Circle K/Seven-Elevens, but good effing luck finding a grease monkey.

I continued further in to town to a gas station that had previously serviced my car (and by "previously", I mean more than fifteen years ago), only to find a 7/11 where the repair station used to be. Beyond frustrated, I parked, turned off my failing engine, Googled "Volkswagon Valencia" and dialed.

"Good afternoon, Valencia Nissan," she sang. I asked if they were also the VW dealership. "Oh, no. That closed. But I hear it might be coming back in April or May. But I think it's going to be at the Infiniti dealer. The closest VW dealership is in Palmdale." I politely told the sing-song lady voice that I was broken down in Valencia. Palmdale would not be an option. Would she know of any place in the area that might be able to look under my hood? "Oh, no." Were there any repair places on auto row. "Oh, gee, not that I know of." It was like being trapped in Fargo.

I'm not one to just sit and wait. I need to keep moving. I started my car and, miraculously, she was behaving better already. I figured it must be a hose or a belt. And doesn't white smoke mean oil? Maybe they just overfilled the oil? This was going to be an easy, quick, cheap fix. I was certain of it. Still on the phone with Nissan Fargo, I asked her again if she knew of any mechanic anywhere in Valencia. "For a Volkswagon, I think you'll have to go to Palmdale."

Do you see why I couldn't wait to move out of those beige, stucco walls?

I hung up with her and called my old pal, Nerf. I call him Nerf because he is made of Nerf. I've also known him since seventh grade (all the elementary schools poured into one middle school back then). Amazing that some people can put up with me for so long, no? Anyway, I got Nerf's voicemail, but, true to form, he called me right back and helped walk me through the possibilities. He still lives in my personal hell.

"There's a Shell station up at the top of Lyons that has a service station, and there's a Jiffy Lube near that," he told me, though, giving me the disclaimer that, since he lives in another part of town, he's not really up-to-date with that section of Stepford. I was in auto row by that point, so I turned around and headed back up the hill, catching up with Nerf as I drove. I pulled onto the side street that would take me to the Shell repair shop, and found it shuttered.

I won't list the litany of curse words Nerf had to hear.

I turned around again and went to the Jiffy Lube. Before Nerf and I hung up he said, "You know, I just Googled repair shops for you and there's a place on 9th." Then, we said it together, "German Autohaus." Praise God.

The Jiffy Lubers were really nice. I popped the hood and they showed me that my oil funnel was broken. That had to be it! I called German Autohaus and asked if they has the part. "Yes," said the accented voice. I asked how much. "Eight dollars," he said. Always the skeptic, I asked if he was sure it was only eight dollars. "It's just plastic," he told me. I told him I'd be right there.

When I explained my Ghetta's symptoms, he told me, "A broken funnel would not cause you to lose power." Can't a girl have her fantasies? He, who I will call Hero, went into his office and came back with a little computer he plugged into my car. The Ghetta found a shoulder to cry on there and spilled her guts. Hero came out shaking his head. "You have two cylinders misfiring and two sensors that are bad," he said.

I won't list the litany of curse words that went through my head.

I told him I should probably head back to Santa Monica and deal with my dealership. "Why?" he asked me. He called to verify that nothing was under warranty (my Ghetta just turned nine), so I said, "How much?"

Three hundred and thirty-eight dollars.

You can imagine the litany of curse words I swallowed.

All I wanted to know was that he could fix it that day. "Sure," he said. "Once I get the parts, it will take about two hours."

I had been pinging Joy to let her know the situation. I had been so proud of myself for having left ten minutes ahead of schedule, and was so happy that I hadn't hit any traffic...and now this major delay. She was more concerned that I would have to drive in the dark. "I may not be awake," she said, "but Dude will wait up for you." I ate my lunch, drank my water, and peed eighy-three times. It felt like hours had passed, but I wasn't watching the clock. No. I was being Zen and reading a really bad book.

Hero finally came up to me and said, "Okay, Sandra," and I lit up. Then he finished with, "We just got the parts." Fuck. Another two hours. This was cutting into precious visit time. Bummer.

I read. I texted. I emailed. I Facebooked. I Twittered. I peed some more. Finally, Hero came back out and said, "We're all set." I handed him my debit card and stared at my new iPod. Ironically, it cost as much as my car repair. [Litany of curse words redacted.]

At 4:55 PM, I hit the highway at 80 MPH. I was fortunate to miss any traffic and got to Novato at 10:20 PM. The Guinness was still cool. The pot pie pretty much frozen. Dude and I settled onto the sofa with some pints, keeping our voices down while Joy and the boy slept, and had a good laugh about my wild ride.

Some people are just going to be beautiful no matter what. Joy is one of those people. She and Sinead O'Connor can rock the no-hair look. It was so good to see her. Of course, I would have felt better about it if I hadn't just rolled out of bed. But the pitter-patter of little feet was just too irresistible to sleep through.

"You have a present for me?" Laddy asked me (yeah, that's the name I'm giving their three year-old). "I do," I said. "But, would it be okay if I brushed my teeth first?" He looked at me for a moment, then nodded. After good oral hygiene (he joined me in the teeth brushing), we went back into mom and dad's room to hang out.

Joy and Dude had given me the "Chick" car from Cars to give him. I had also brought two Beenie Babies along that my chef friend passed on to me: a dragon and a bear. Joy had told me he was into dragons. I brought the bear, too, because it was so soft I just couldn't put it down. "I was wondering if you would like to take care of this dragon," I asked Laddy. "No," he said shaking his head. His parents were mortified. I thought it was the coolest thing. He wasn't copping a 'tude, he was being honest, something I totally adore. "How about this bear? Would you or mommy like to take care of that?" I asked. "No," he said. "Not even mommy?" I inquired. "No," he said. It was all I could do not to laugh. I told him I had one more thing I thought me might like and asked him to shut his eyes and hold out his hands. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the car, and placed it into his hands. Totally matter-of-fact-ly he said, "Chick," and crawled into bed with his parents. They weren't too happy about how he had accepted his gifts, but I told them I thought it was perfect. We were bonding in our own special way.

I won't bore you with our perfect weekend. I will just say that I couldn't love or be more proud of my friend. If any husband should be cloned, it's hers. And Laddy is just too much fun. I'm in love. The cutest thing was, after his nap on Saturday, he came stumbling out all red-faced and sweaty-headed from a three year-old's sleep, and had a Beanie Baby tucked under each arm. Yeah, I melted.

I came home, three-hundred-bucks overbudget, to find that the job I was told I had through May, would end mid-April. Perfect. I looked again at my iPod. It seems every time I treat myself there's a repercussion. But, I can't look at it that way. The way I have to see it is that everything happens for the best. Sure the bill for the car repair sucked, but Hero surprised me by fixing my front end. That's a bonus. There's no way my old iPod would have lasted that trip, or an hour into it. The new iPod was not just a treat but a necessity, because there are going to be many more long drives in my future. And, while these little setbacks keep happening, I'm still moving forward. It's consistent, even if it doesn't always feel that way.

Cotton

While it might not be the sexiest statement, and I do adore cashmere, my favorite fabric is cotton. I am my most comfortable, my happiest self in a t-shirt and jeans. I sleep soundly on cotton jersey sheets. Would anyone dispute the comfort of a plush cotton robe? I think not. We are swaddled in it from infancy. It warms us, allows us to stay cool, keeps us cozy. It is protective and makes almost everything better.

I think friendship are made of cotton. The are soft and strong. They can shrink or stretch or fade or, if cared for properly, get better with age.

I cotton to my friends. Some are new, some are quite vintage. Some fit better than others, sure. But with them, I am my most comfortable. Even in the worst of times, I can surround myself with them and instantly feel better. They are a durable lot. As soft and gentle as they are strong. They help me to be my best. And I can just throw them in the wash to freshen them up. They are low-maintenance. And how can you not love that?

She Said He Said

I've always been the chick who has more guy friends than girl friends. I didn't plan it that way. It just sort of happened. Perhaps because I preferred kickball to jumping rope. Not that I'm particularly sporty; I just liked the friendly competition the boys had going. I preferred it to the rather catty competition happening in the girls' corner. Come on, sisters, you know what I mean. Little girls can be big bitches.

As I grew older, I still found myself hanging out with the lads more than the lasses. Guys didn't mind that I was opinionated and prone to use language that would make sailors blush. With guys, I didn't have to mind my Ps and Qs. And the conversations weren't about clothes or hair or boys. Come on, sisters, you know what I mean. In high school, conversations ran about as deep as puddles in most cliques, no? [And I should really qualify all this by saying I grew up in a stucco-encrusted suburb I fondly refer to as Stepford.]

By the time college rolled around, I was used to palling around with the guys and usually being the only girl in the lot. That's when I noticed the whispers. Slut was a common slur. Because *obviously* I was sleeping with all of them. These guys wouldn't just be my friend if there weren't *benefits*, right? A girl couldn't be close friends with a guy unless they were very close indeed. This happened with more frequency and fervor if I was friends with a guy another girl liked but he didn't like her back. That suddenly became my fault. Because, at that age, it's always another woman in your way...right, sisters? It can never be that he isn't the right guy for you. No. It's the slutty girl "friend" re-routing the rooster.

I've come to find that there are some people who absolutely don't believe a man and a woman can have a truly platonic relationship. This is usually the thought pattern of those who sleep with their friends. I don't sleep with friends. I sleep with my boyfriend or lover, not a buddy. I'm not judging a buckfuddy situation. But, that's not what I consider a friendship. That's a quasi-relationship, ill-defined and prone to heartbreak or a bitter end. Most likely, you would not be able to sit across from that "friend's" spouse and have a pleasant conversation about all the fun times you two had without a few hesitations and awkward edits.

College is a heady time. Young adults and sexuality are much like baby rattlesnakes and venom -- we don't yet know how to control it. How much to give off. When to stop it before it goes further than planned. That's all part of growing up. And while I wasn't chaste, I was far from the hose-hound whore a some sorority sisters seemed to believe...and spread about. I can count my college conquests on one hand. And no, I don't have additional digits like Anne Bolin. I bring this up because, nearly two decades after the fact, I recently had to do a reality check. It seems that rumor and innuendo can fester into legend then harden into "fact". Which I found utterly baffling. So much so, emergency text messages were sent to two of my guy friends and a panicked after-midnight call was placed to a girl friend who, too, has her fair share of platonic male mates. Each of the communiques began with WTF?!?

It came in the form of an email in which she said he said, to which I said horseshit. At first, I really didn't care. I mean, seriously, WTF. But it was so outlandish that it began to bug me. What if all this time people were under the impression that actually happened? Now, I'm not one that feels the need to defend myself, nor do I really care what some people think of me, but I do care about the truth. I found myself going right back to sophomore year when I wanted to shout from a bullhorn at every kegger: Seriously, I'm not a slut! Just because we are hanging out does not mean we are making out...or anything else!

Sigh. Trust me, there are plenty of things I actually do that people can judge me on. That I welcome. Have at it. Spread it like wildfire. Whatever. But if I didn't do it...then I get a little pissy.

Rumormongering isn't just a girl thing. Guys were equally guilty of it. I remember one occasion where a dude in our crowd told the world I went home with a certain bloke. This, after I was nice enough to give him a ride home. Because I dropped him off first, I must have gone back to my dorm room with the other guy. When I heard about this, I was furious. The look on his face when I called him out on it -- in public -- was priceless.

"Why would you start a rumor like that?" I demanded. "Uh..." was all he could come up with. "Did you see us go into my dorm together?" I questioned. "Uh, no," he admitted. "Were we making out in front of you or flirting even?" He answered, "No." "Well, then what made you think he ended up spending the night with me?" I huffed. "I just...I...I don't know," he stuttered. "So you just made the whole thing up and spread it around? Kind of an asshole thing to do, isn't it?" He hung his head, muttered that he was sorry and couldn't look me in the eye for a month.

Now, if you'll notice, in my line of questioning I never denied going home with the guy. The truth was, I did. But, that wasn't for gossip guy to say. That was my private affair and none of his or anyone else's business. When the bloke and I later showed up as a couple, the gossiper called me on it. I explained that he assumed what happened and went about spreading the news like a twelve-year-old without asking me if anything had gone on before he did so. That's not what a friend does. But, like I said, some people don't think guys and gals can be friends. And, after that, he and I weren't.

Over the years, the ratio has shifted and I have a larger network of girl friends today. I still have a lot of guy friends, though. And, for the record, I can look every one of their wives in the eye. It's nice that we can all be friends. But it's sad when you stumble upon someone who's still sitting in the quad.

Something Old, Something New

You can run from your past, if you so choose. However, you can't hide from it if you are on Facebook.

In many ways, Facebook is wonderful. Extraordinary, actually. The way you can find old friends and reconnect is utterly fantastic. Last week alone I had dinner with one friend I hadn't seen in twenty years and saw two more I hadn't seen in over ten. You can always tell a true friendship by the ability to pick up right where you left off, as if it were only a week that had past since your last visit. These are people you were meant to know. Meant to have in your life, even though they were misplaced for a spell. Even those I haven't been able to meet up with, I enjoy our communications. Phone dates. Endless emails and electronic drink sending. Bad pennies, we are told, always turn up. On the flip side of that coin, so do dear friends.

Eventually, you befriend other long-lost classmates and, eventually, you will suspect a few might have "peaked" in high school, because, in spite of having careers and spouses and offspring, they somehow have the time to upload every picture from that time and tag the people in them. W. T. F? If I had that kind of time, I would be ruling the world right now.

I don't mind a stroll down memory lane every now and then. I like to hear what old chums are doing today, who is up to what. But, I don't expect them to be the same as they were when we were in grade whatever. Hopefully, we all evolve. Maybe it's a side-effect of getting older for some, this need to keep the past alive and well and part of the present. I don't know. I just prefer to move forward and take something old and turn it into something new.

A Little Bit of Me

For someone with a blog, I am intensely private. For as opinionated and "expressive" as I may be, I'm incredibly shy. As clever as I may come off, I've enough Dsylexia to make me hesitate. For as liberated as I am, I am a failure at one-night stands. They all turned into relationships. I've realized that monogamy is all I am built for. Not that it's a bad thing. I'm just always perplexed by the simple things I cannot do.

With an admission like that, I shouldn't be surprised that people think they know me. After all, isn't that the point of blogging? A literary exhibitionism of self and soul? I don't know. Is it? Sure, people know parts of me from my words. But even those parts exposed are only surface. It's not that I'm hiding anything, or bending the truth one way or another. No. I suspect that I also have a form of Tourette's which renders me brutally honest. It's cost me more than a few invitations to dinner parties. That's actually for the best since I'm allergic to smalltalk.

Persona. It's a queer conundrum. Even if you don't intentionally create one, one can be constructed for you. Without your consent let alone your input. Assumption is an uncomfortable fabric to be draped in, especially in front of people who believe they understand you. Instead of bringing forth commonalities, it can make me feel that much more isolated. How can a friend stop at a blog post and think they've got me all figured out? How should I react when I am greeted with, "Oh, you're that Sandra." It's kind of creepy. And, up goes my guard.

No one gets me. Well, not all of me. There are certain people I share most everything with -- a couple of BFFs and whomever my significant other might be at the time because I am a serial monogamist of sorts (cursed with high standards and low tolerance) -- but, even they miss some things, simply because it lived in a moment, and now that moment's gone.

As unsettling as it might be for people to think they know everything from the little bits I share, it serves as a good reminder for me not to assume I know anyone, no matter how close we might be. I should be continually surprised by the people I cherish. What the hell's the fun of knowing every move or punchline?

While the core of me might not change, I will continue to evolve as a person, as a writer, an artist, a friend, as a lover, as a part-time philosopher and a total goof ball. It's that whole enigma wrapped in a riddle thing. Though, I think I'm more of a pun.

Just Sitting Here

Just sitting here in the peaceful morning. The air is crisp, but I would rather wrap myself up in my sweater than turn the heat on. The sun is diffused by the fog and it makes the morning seem younger than it really is. I want to savor the early day without caffeine or rushing to the gym. Today, I can take my time.

I've stepped off the roller coaster and the merry-go-round that has been the past two weeks. I stand steady again. No longer unsettled by the twists and turns. No longer feeling the need to scream as the cart goes sliding down the hill. I'm on solid ground. I keep tapping it with my feet. A subtle dance of calm.

They say laughter is the best medicine. It is so true. Hearing my friend's strength and humor and gorgeous laughter was exactly the elixir I needed. I knew she was fine. Sure she would beat this. But it took me a moment to realize it was her on the phone. It was such a sweet surprise.

"Do you have a moment?" she asked. "I have many," I returned. Then, I listened for an hour, mouth pinned in an ear-to-ear grin before the laughter took over. I kept mine as quiet as I could, not wanting to miss a word. At one point, she asked me to promise not to say anything else funny; she almost ripped a stitch. She said that as she was laughing. And I don't think we stopped until we said goodbye.

Shortly after we hung up, she sent a text that they were sending her home. We can forget how precious that four-letter word is until you are kept from it. Home now contains her family, her friends, her neighbors, her fans. We have all moved in, even if we are still far away. Crowding her in the best possible way. We are in this together. In it to win it.

She is not the same woman she was twelve days ago. Neither am I. I stand in awe of her strength, her courage, her determination, her positivity and grace. They say something like this changes you at your core. That is also so true. I suggest, however, that you don't wait for an awful diagnosis before you decide that life is too precious for bullshit and negativity. That you can truly overcome anything when you decide to and you ask your loved ones to support you. And the unexpected side effect is that, when you give that love out, it comes back to you in the most beautiful and peculiar ways.

There are more steps to be taken before this journey is through, but we are going to take each one with a great deal of joy. Who said chemo can't be fun? Deep down, who hasn't wanted to wear a wig? With that attitude, she has already won. Now do you see why we are all madly in love with her?

We are going forward with our eyes and hearts open, and our arms wrapped around each other tightly. Humbly moving forward, willing to do whatever needs to be done. Here's one thing you can do for her: Please encourage every woman you know to take the blood test for ovarian you-know-what (she and I don't like to use that C-word). She is young. She had no family history. Don't let age or genetic background be diversions. Don't wait for symptoms. Take the test. Demand it if you have to. They are seeing this in younger and younger women. This is something you can beat.

I am sitting here thinking of all the things I am grateful for. I have always counted my friendships as my deepest blessings. This one is truly frosting on my cake. And, here's the thing: Just because time has crept between you, even though there might be distance of many miles from door to door, that doesn't keep you from being as close as blood, in spirit or soul. The connection is there. They say friendships come to you for a reason, a season or a lifetime (we've all gotten that group email, right?). Well, I think it's all of the above. We see the reason, and know that there will be a somewhat challenging season coming up, but we so look forward to the lifetime of friendship -- one that is long and healthy -- full of laughter and stories that start with, "Remember the time..."

From Darkness Into Light

I woke up this morning feeling kind of numb. But as I thawed, a dark mood washed over me. I was full of anger and rage. And, to top it off, my internet was down. Not the best thing when you need to communicate. A cube of Post-Its was a casualty of this when I hurled it at the bookshelf. I'm not prone to fits like this. It's not generally the way I like to start my day. But, today, my friend is having surgery. And I am pissed.

Like they say, first you cry. Last Tuesday was spent in a flood of tears. But that's not what my friend needed or wanted. She simply asked us for our positive energy, good thoughts and love. To picture her happy and healthy and full of life. And that is so easy to do. She is the kind of person you can't help but smile when you think of. So, I have been smiling and focusing on her speedy recovery with great joy every minute of every day. We are in it to win it. Not a tear was shed from then, until today.

She and I have known each other since the 7th grade, but only got back in touch this spring. A mere twenty years had slipped by, but we made up for lost time with "wine dates" shared over the phone. And emails. We spent election night "together", breathing sighs of relief, talking about how hot Obama is, and what a gorgeous family they are. We felt so proud that we got such a good man in office, and by such a margin. Then we talked about what was going on with us. How well her three year-old son's doing. How she looked forward to her husband coming back from his trip. My nutty job. Our writing.

She and I marvel over the similarities we share. Obviously, I don't have an adorable son or a hot husband, but there are other things. Little coincidences. Uncanny duplications. We are connected in a fantastically peculiar way. We joke that we were separated at birth. I call her my soul sister. I love her that dearly.

I wouldn't think that three weeks later we would get such hard news. I'm not even going to write what she was diagnosed with. I don't want to give it the energy or make it any more real. Sorry if that seems wimpy or odd. I don't care. I can't even speak it. It makes me too mad. This is unfair. This is wrong. It has to be a mistake. But, right now, she is on her way to the hospital. She is hugging her son. She is putting on her gown. They are putting in IVs. She is kissing her husband. And at 3:30 PM (PST) she will be in the hands of the surgical team and the oncologist and God. I hope that you will think of her then with goodness and light. Thank you.

I've done well up until today. It has been easy to be positive and to know that she is just fine. This is merely a blip. And I do believe that. But today, I am so pissed off this is happening to her. I am so angry that she has to go through this. But, she's not. She has been nothing but graceful. She has been funny and open and full of life, just like she always is. Her husband is equally amazing. I am so proud of the way they have taken this on. And embarrassed that I am falling apart.

Another friend called to let me know she was thinking of my friend. She asked me how I was. I broke down, talking in broken sentences, red-faced like a two year-old having a tantrum because I couldn't express what I am feeling and why. It's just rage. Utter rage that this is happening. And it is the most useless, pathetic feeling I've ever experienced. As any good friend would, she tried to console me. But there's nothing quelling this ire. You don't need to tell me everything will be okay. I know it is okay. You don't need to tell me the best thing I can do for her is to be strong and be there for her. I am. Just let me have these couple of hours yell and cry and be so mad at it. Because soon, it will be gone. And I want it to be damn sure of the fact it is not welcomed back here. Stay away from my friend. Don't even think of coming near us again. Because when we said we were all in this fight with her, we meant it. We won't back down. So it might as well understand, it doesn't stand a chance.

I'm trying to take deep breaths and get my shit together. But I want to punch something. I want to kick it and break it and smash it to bits. So much for my Buddha nature, huh? Well, fuck it. I'm human and prone to flaws. Of course, all of this isn't going to help her. I've got to focus back on the good.

At 3:30 today, I will be on my knees, chanting and praying and smiling and sending her all the love and goodness in the world. Soon, we will be clinking cocktails in person, celebrating her recovery and laughing at the dented Post-It cube.

To Morro, Part II

Things I learned about myself during my weekend at Morro Bay:

1. It's better if I pack the night before rather than the day of.
2. If I'm not going to pack the night before, it's a good thing for me to forget to wash my makeup brushes so that I can use the residue on the eyeshadow brush in place of the shade I forgot to bring.
3. No matter how tired I am, there's always time for good conversation.
4. No matter how much coffee there is, that's no replacement for sleep.
5. I can drink a lot of wine and still not have a hangover (though that may be due to the phenomenal amount of bread I consumed over the course of the weekend).
6. I can actually function without internet access (but there's a hell of a lot of Twitter to read when I get home).
7. I can easily fall asleep without the TV on to lull me (that could also be due to the wine/bread/late-night-convo combination).
8. I can be around 7 kids at once and my head won't explode (again, the wine and bread may have assisted here as well, but the kids were pretty close to angelic).
9. I can almost not swear at all in front of said children, and can pretty much refrain from inappropriate comments or conversation topics...or at least I can keep a low voice when I do slip.
10. I don't care about the rock.
11. I don't carry the soccer mom gene.
12. Fudge gives me a headache (which causes me heartache).
13. I tend to forget to pack my motivation when I go on vacation.
14. I tend to forget to eat my vegetables on vacation (unless salsa counts as a vegetable).
15. No matter how utterly adorable a child might be, it's still not enough to rouse my maternal urges to consider actually having one myself.

This is my second time going to Morro Bay. The first time I went, I was really tired. I kind of slept through most of it. It's sort of a sleepy town anyway. I was there for two days before I noticed the rock. As we were walking toward the ocean, I stopped dead in my tracks and said, "Holy mother! Look at that rock!" The whole street stopped to look at the "special" girl pointing at the obvious. My friends just shook there heads. "You are just now noticing it?" one asked. I reminded her how tired I was.

This time, the rock was fogged in. Seen it once, seen it a thousand times anyway. And after a hellish heatwave, I was happy to don a sweater and shiver. After a hellish work week, I was happy to do nothing more than meander through the day with chit-chat and snacks. This is really what life is about. I felt kind of bad, like I was a terrible guest when they would ask me, "Do you want to walk down to the beach?" Nah. "Do you want to go out for breakfast?" Eh. Maybe tomorrow.

Then I realized, maybe this wasn't all about me. So I asked, "Do you want to go to the beach?" After a pause, the answer was, "Nah."

We did venture out to lunch and took a stroll around the village. More friends (and their offspring) came over for dinner. We learned that you should read the poundage and do the cooking math before you go to bed, in case it's supposed to cook for sixteen hours (but that you can adjust the heat and get it done in ten). We also learned that an excited young man in new, dark-rinse jeans will stain cream-colored walls when he bounces off of them. And that Clorox wipes will only take you so far before you actually rub through to the paint you painted over. And, sometimes a person just needs to go to sleep without saying good night. Which is okay. That's just how we roll.

Mornings do come dreadfully early, especially on the last day. But, let me just say that on neither morning did I wake to a baby crying. No. Not this perfect child. Not even when Aunt SAM emerged from her room with glasses on, blemishes blazing and rocking a faux ponytail. Though he and I seemed to perfect the art of the headbutt on day one, on day two, he confused it for a kiss. Or maybe he's all about love and not war. Either way, I only want spawn if I can have one as good as him. But, that's a tall order, and since my friends already have one that good, I'll just bogart him from time to time. I can't wait for him to start talking. I know it will be profound. Probably something along the lines of, "Lady, back off!"

I'm not good with goodbyes, so I just sort of pack up and go. I had to hit the road a bit early in the day so I could avoid Sunday traffic back in L.A. I thought about stopping for gas before getting on the freeway, but didn't. That would be smart, and we know how I like to make things difficult. On my way down to the 101, the hawks soared overhead. Had I even thought about this possibility, we would have been picnicking on the hills, watching them sail above us. Instead, I swerved on the road as I watched them circle and swoop. I took them as a good omen.

I paid $2.97 for gas in Carpinteria. The drive home was only three-and-a-half hours long...without speeding. The hawks were indeed a good sign. And, even after stopping for a burrito, I was home in time for True Blood. It couldn't have been a more perfect weekend. Well, if I would have remembered my eyeshadow, that would have been a bonus.

To Morro, Part I

Beginning a weekend getaway on only four hours of sleep is not a good plan. Thought I might go on record with that, just in case you were thinking of doing something similarly stupid. Don't. It can be a little dangerous. Also, don't get cocky and think you can manage without caffeine on that tiny amount of sleep. That's just asinine.

It's not often I get the chance to sneak out of town. Vacations this year? Deux (and both were weekend-sized...sigh). So, when friends call to say, Let's get away, I do my best to comply. Inevitably, my schedule leading up to the break is always a fustercluck. Last week was no exception. But I was so looking forward to my weekend away at Morro Bay, I could hardly wait for Friday to arrive. Of course, I was well into Friday before I got to bed. Blogs take up a lot of time.

My lack of sleep made Friday a harried morning. I barely had time to get dressed. There was no time to run by Starbucks for fuel on my way to Client #2. Surprisingly, I had energy. I was alert. I didn't even yawn. All without a hint of caffeine. No green tea, nor chocolate covered espresso beans. I almost called Guinness.

After work, there was the scurry to get errands done. Run to the store, get gas, check tires and oil, and...oh, yeah...pack. Packing in a rush can lead to disaster. Fortunately, it only made me late, and I only forgot my eyeshadow. At least I remembered my feminine supplies, because it's only really a vacation if Aunt Flo tags along. Jeebus. Of all the luck.

Because I was running late, I had to skip the much needed car wash. I also didn't have time to make a medicinal stop at the Bucks. I was high on Midol, so I didn't care. Besides, I was hoping to make it to Morro Bay before the crash set in. Because the crash was inevitable. And it would be a bitch. I could feel it in my bones.

In order to distract myself from the impending doom of exhaustion and the bummer of traffic, I chatted with a friend for over an hour. She got me to Ventura. NIN took me the rest of the way. Once the sun fully set, the yawn-fest hit. And I was only a third of the way there. I never realized how far away Morro Bay actually is. I wasn't sure I would make it, and even considered going back home to get some sleep and drive back out the next morning. But, only a total wuss would do that. An idiot would just keep on going.

I suppose I should have paid more attention to the Google Map, because the occasional glance in the dark was not sufficient. I am a competent driver, and even a competent directions reader. But the first time I drive a new route in the dark -- especially after inadequate sleep -- can spell disaster. Or something equally annoying. All I knew was that I would take the 405 to the 101 to the 1 and -- boom -- four-plus hours later, I'd be in Morro Bay. Of course, there's more that one 1 off the 101. And, of course, I took the first one that came along.

Fifteen minutes on the darkest, single-lane highway in America, I began to draft law requiring that the highway/route/freeway number and direction it's headed be posted every so many miles (five would be my suggestion), so that when someone as exhausted as myself gets the feeling the vertigo from the winding road and begins to question if she's actually going in the right direction could look at a road sign figure that out. Instead, seeing one too many signs for Lompoc and none or Morro Bay, and worried that I might actually be headed toward Malibu instead of the Central Coast, I turned around and went back to the 101. An hour later, there was a second sign for the 1, and this one lead to Morro Bay.

Do you pay attention to all the tiny street names of the sharp turns to you take off the off-ramp to get you onto the main drag? Me neither. So, why does Google Maps add those, only to confuse me later? I don't have time while I am driving in the dark with dry contacts to note how many inches I would be driving on those streets. I'm easily distracted by places with names such as "Taco de Mexico", which leads my brain to wonder if "Taco de Ireland" would actually be a choice. So when I see street names on internet directions, I actually think they matter. Once again, I pulled off the road and called my friends to give me guidance. Five hours after I left Venice, I pulled into their driveway and, thirty seconds later, had a glass of wine in my hands. Did I tell you they are good friends?

Tune in for To Morro, Part II tomorrow.

Boo Who?

I started to cry this morning. Me, of all people. I had to do a check. Figure out what was going on. I'm not a weepy person. I generally cry through laughter or when Huckleberry Fox leaves the room after Debra Winger tells them she's dying; when he turns around and nods after she says she thinks that went okay -- ugh -- that always gets me. Of course, if something really sad happens, tears will flow. But outside of that, I don't cry much.

Please don't get me wrong. I haven't Botoxed my heart or anything. And I don't find anything wrong with crying. I think it's a great release. But it takes too much energy. When I cry, I cry. It comes from deep within. Eyes swell, nose runs, face gets red and puffy. It's pretty attractive. I'm not one of those dainty weepers whose tears flow gently down with nary a sniffle, easily blotted away with the corner of a hankie and can be camera ready thirty seconds after. Nope. Ice packs, cucumbers, cortisone shots -- that's what would be warranted to make me presentable after a bawl. Even then, I need a nap. Crying is draining. It's best to get it out on a Sunday afternoon, I think, then have a little nap and go out to dinner later. Kind of work your day around it. If only. Could you imagine: "What are you doing this weekend?" "Oh, you know the usual. Errands on Saturday morning, hair appointment then dinner and a movie. Sunday I'll be crying. Should be done by four. Want to grab an early dinner and try that new wine bar?"

The tears that came over me this morning weren't sad tears. They were sappy tears. I was simply sitting here, thinking about my friends. How wonderful they are. How much I adore them. And that's when I started welling up. Whaddafug?

(Seriously, I can hear tissues being pulled from the box by some of you, and vomit buckets pulled out by the rest.)

My first thought was, "Is this hormonal?" My second thought was, "Shit. This better not be peri-menopausal." But then I realized that I'm a little tired, had an up and down week, and my friends have been phenomenal. They've really rallied their support around me. And, see, here come the tears again.

They say you can't pick your family (well, Buddhists say you do pick your family, but that's a discussion for another day, because I still think my paperwork got effed up in that process), but you can pick your friends. I've picked some winners.

Oh. My. God. Here they come again! Jeebus!