happy christmas

hope it's a good one, y'all.

my girls keep me sane and help me remember it's just not that big of a deal (whatever it is that's driving me crazy at any given moment).

PS--
Do the chicks in my tribe have great hair, or what?

In memoriam

My beloved friend, Syd, passed away Tuesday.

He was one of the most chivalrous, brilliant, witty, honorable, adorable men I have ever known, and the best damn set designer in the world. He didn't design sets as much as he created worlds, and I always felt like I was passing through a magic glass that transcended space and time whenever I stepped out onto a set dreamed up by Syd.

He was a World War II veteran, one of the quiet heroes who saved the world, then went home to marry the prettiest girl in the village and raise a family. We are all diminished by the passing of his generation. Syd was the heart and soul of our theatre and one of the loves of my life.

Dear Santa Baby,

I want the fireman on the left. I think he can fit into your sack just fine, no problem, since it's a magic sack and all.

I expect him under the tree this year because I have been a good girl.

Well, mostly.

There's a few cool things about living in Inferno (Florida) -- when the guys on the east coast of the state shoot things up into space, we can go out in the back yard and oooh and ahhh over it about 15 seconds later.

Here's what the shuttle launch looked like tonight from our beach as it streaked over the Gulf of Mexico. Pix snapped by my esteemed friend, Michael.

the lovely Barb is hanging in

here's a short letter from Barb for those of you who have been wondering. She's finishing the latest round of chemo soon and reveling in the holidays.


Monday, November 27

I didn't feel good at all when I woke up, but as the day progressed I felt good. I just went on decorating and have it all finished except for a few things. We aren't doing the tree until this weekend.

I go to get my booster shot today. Then I will come home and do some wrapping. My hair is kind of growing in (not really), it looks like peach fuzz and it is white. I told Josh I look like the guy in Back to the Future. God there is no such thing as having sex appeal when you have cancer.

Well, I don't have that much to tell you. Take it easy and here's hoping that you had a stress free Monday. Love me

I have to interview Santa this evening. That would be the fake Santa at the mall. The one, who in the words of Buddy the Elf, (loosely paraphrased), "smells like beef and cheese and sits on a throne of lies..."

I whine to the Guy in the Boxers about how my career as a journalist is so pathetic. I mean, interviewing the Santa at the mall for chrissake?

The GITB says I should do an x-rated version of the Actor's Studio:

"Santa, How often do you slip the yule log to Mrs. Claus?"

"How big is your yule log?"

"Do you ever get really plotzed and stagger out to the barn, kick down the door, weave meanacingly in the the dim light of the broken threshold, swinging your whisky bottle for emphasis as you scream: 'Okay, Rudolph, you cheeky little publicity whore, won't you guide my sleigh tonight? Heh, heh, heh...'?"

Yeah, my editor will LOVE that. At least I get to interview firemen next week. An evening at the firehouse with real live firemen. Ooooooh, I can't wait to ask: "Can I slide down your pole?" I guess I should make sure they have one. Wait, I think the firehouse is one-story. Damn it.

books r fun

Now that my kid has entered teenage-dom, I miss the hours we spent all cuddled up reading books together.

Two years ago she tore through everything Judy Blume has written and now she is on a Robert Cormier binge--he writes some pretty wild stuff -- a lot of dark existential content. So she spends a lot of time draped over the living room furniture reading quietly. Which is cool. We have no Playstation or other video crapola in our house -- we have a den lined with bookcases and so she has plenty to read. But I do miss the days of reading "Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?" for the millionth time.

But do I despair? No, because I still have nieces with whom I can cuddle and read books with more pictures than words.

My youngest niece, who is named after me (she was really named after my mom, but since I too am named after my mom, it really isn't a total lie to tell the sweet little pooh that she was named after favortie Auntie ell, now is it?). Now that my namesake is learning to use the potty, Auntie ell popped in for a visit this weekend with lots of new books: "Once Upon a Potty," "Everybody Poops," and "The Gas we Pass." Of course, my brother wasn't thrilled, but you know what? Payback's a bitch. Love ya, bro!

shit and other stuff

I am avoiding writing right now because it just seems completely impossible. I can write any hard news story thrown at me by my editor with a deadline of an hour ago -- in fact I have four digest pieces due by 7 a.m. that I really haven't even started yet but I know once I make sure the teenager has gone to bed, the dog is in from her final evening's rampage around the yard and I have shuffled to the kitchen for a cup of tea and finally turned on a lamp in here and sat my ass down, I will bang it out in no time.

But this creative stuff that demands imagination? I got nothing. And I am waaaay past deadline. I have done some research, yes, but it perches in a box on the corner of my desk accusingly. I can't bring myself to open it and sift through it. In case Scout stops by anytime soon: Hey chick, the only thing worse than not getting accepted to grad school is getting accepted to grad school. On demand/deadline writing that is news is one thing, on demand deadline writing that actually needs to be good is fucking insane. Who does that and does it well?

I was listening to NPR today on my way to the middle school to pick up Schmoopie, who, much to my chagrin, is the captain of the cheerleading squad, and as I wondered if the cheerleading practice would be over by the time I got there or if I would be forced to sit in the bleachers for a time and and smile artificially as the 13 and 14 year-olds do booty-shaking cheers for my approval, a woman who has recently written a book about a 16th-century female conquistador was being interviewed on the show. The interviewer asked her (the author) where the voice of her novel's heroine came from. Hm? From whence did this lusty, passionate, female conquistador --I think her name is "Inez" spring? The author said "From my womb."

Well, that's it, I thought, I give up. I do feel something flowing from a part of my body into what I should be writing for grad school, but it ain't my womb, okay? Oy.

PS--my boss is a dickless coward. I despise cowardice in men especially. If that makes me a sexist bitch, oh well.

I don't need a nametag

one of the more interesting things about my job is that a few times a year I share close quarters for a weekend with famous people.

A company I do some writing for hosts a literary event each fall and invites writers who are about to or have recently published a book to attend and meet their adoring readers, do some readings, sell some books, blah, blah, blah.

Some of the authors are not known so much for their writerly skill, but are invited because they have name recognition--because they are famous for something else and they happened to publish a book. The genres range from fiction to nonfiction, poetry, memoir, cookbooks, books on sports, books on war, books on death, etc. Some of the authors are respected journalists or accomplished novelists. Often, the books are "all about me" whines like Howell Raines' book (former editor of the New York Times. Jayson Blair. Crash and burn. Yeah, that guy).

The authors who attend are feted and fussed over all weekend by bibliophiles and grasping corporate wonks who fancy themselves players, and celebrity whores and the whole thing just fucking fascinates me, especially the VIP crap.

As I mused over the alphabetical order of the bags of swag assembled for the VIPs at 6 AM last Saturday it occurred to me for the 100th time in the previous 24 hours that the people whose names were so carefully printed on tags pasted to the black handles of each bag didn't need any of the crap in those bags, and further, why the hell does everyone seem to think that they do? I mean, does Arianna Huffington ("all about me" book) really need or want a bookmark, specially commissioned chocolates, an embossed journal, watercolor notecards, on and on and on? And who decided Arianna was deserving of living a charmed, limousined life? Huh? Who? How the hell does this happen?

How is it that celebrities/famous people/people of note/people whose names and faces we know/rate this sycophantic "special" treatment? To the observer(me) the weekend was the most absurd circus of bullshit gyrations and ass-kissing-as-an-art-form I have ever seen in my life. And God help you if you fail to deliver a free event t-shirt to the celebrity. They love that free stuff and they will climb over you to make sure they get it on their way out the door to go schmooze in the VIP suite someone else paid for.

During the weekend I observed Martina Navratilova (just wrote a fitness/"all about me"/ book) sitting in the VIP dining room munching on a tuna sandwich specially ordered from a nearby deli for her and delivered by a runner because she didn't like the spread the caterers put on while Lynn Sherr (20/20 correspondent, just wrote a "all about me" memoir) signed books and sipped a double vodka martini. The people she personally inscribed her books to did not know her, but they had paid a lot of money to attend an elbow-rubbing reception and meet her and have their books signed. She arrived late and the fans never got to meet her but she did sign their books as she sipped.

Actress Meg Tilly (just wrote a novel/sorta all about me) sat quietly in a corner and made notes on white index cards before she did a reading from her book "Gemma." Tilly was a huge draw partly, I think, because she recently acknowledged that a previous work of fiction she published which detailed profound child abuse was largely autobiographical. A recent interview with Rosie O'Donnell didn't hurt the attendance at her reading, I'm sure. She sat away from all the literati and jotted notes, oblivious to the hustle of limo drivers and event coordinators rushing back and forth past her chair. Her husband, who refused to tell anyone his last name all weekend (I don't think anyone ever even asked him or really wanted to know, but okay, shh, it's a secret) sat beside her, fiddling with his Blackberry, oblivious as well.

By the way, Tilly looks exactly like she did in "The Big Chill" except for some distinct Susan Sontag-ish silver streaks in her dark bobbed hair.

Why is it that none of my male friends know who she is until I say: "You know, the chick who could put her ankle behind her ear in 'The Big Chill'--the one Jeff Golblum's character was leering at and drooling over..."

..."Oh...THAT chick, yeah..." they say, smiling wistfully.

The chicks all say: "Meg Tilly? Oh yeah, the post-partum crazy nun in that 'Agnes of God' flik." Yeah.

Meg seemed decent, real, gracious, normal. I never spoke to her, but she seemed pretty okay, like she could hang with my group of girlfriends.

Most of the others were living their press releases. They really believe they should be VIPs. They are elite and special (not like me or you) and they don't expect to be treated any other way. What a fascinating way to go through life. Handled.

The VIP thing. It's such bullshit. Phony, calculated, cynical bullshit. It all reminded me of The Emperor's New Clothes. We must all drink the Kool Aid. You are important and special and I will tie my ass in a knot to make you happy and feel special because you are SO. FUCKING. SPECIAL.

The thing is, I have friends who write brilliant, beautiful prose but they will never be read or published or elevated to the same stature as the folks I spent last weekend with and so as I observed all the schmoozing and hob-nobbing and air-kissing I wondered: "what's the difference?" Luck? Pathology? Fate? Karma?

As the VIPs greeted one another and smiled their big publicity-shot smiles and traded stories of their big lives, I observed the wait staff buzzing in and out unnoticed. The festival coordinators who had worked their asses off for months to put together a seamless event were ignored, hands extended were brushed aside because a fellow VIP was just beyond the hand of the regular Joe and had to be gotten to. The VIPs must connect and embrace in a ritual that keeps their secret power from seeping out to the poor, regular people.

As Meg and her husband dodged through the crowd on their way to the dessert table I overheard a wealthy turkey-necked patron remark to her equally turkey-necked and bejeweled companion: "...it's such a disappointment--I remember her as being a young girl in those movies..."

I don't know. But I think being invisible is probably not such a bad thing.

why I am a bad journalist

I got a call today from one of my readers insisting that I write a story about his friend's $80,000 hyperbaric chamber which will cure anyone of any disease if they are placed in it and the pressure is set correctly. His friend and all his fez-wearing lodge buddies were on Oprah with their chamber, my nuts-o reader said, so my paper should cover it. Further, he said that if I don't write this story he will complain to the editor about the fact that I passed on his pitch to cover him sawing the mayor in half and running a sword through her head to celebrate the town's anniversary. He is a retired magician.

As we were saying our goodbyes he said: "Hey, wanna know a secret?" to which I foolishly replied "Sure" (damn my reporterly curiosity).

He drew in a dramatic breath and whispered sexily: "I love you."

for Bob

Bob really dug this song:

All My Life's a Circle
Harry Chapin

All my life's a circle;
Sunrise and sundown;
Moon rolls thru the nighttime;
Till the daybreak comes around.

All my life's a circle;
But I can't tell you why;
Season's spinning round again;
The years keep rollin' by.

It seems like I've been here before;
I can't remember when;
But I have this funny feeling;
That we'll all be together again.
No straight lines make up my life;
And all my roads have bends;
There's no clear-cut beginnings;
And so far no dead-ends.

I found you a thousand times;
I guess you done the same;
But then we lose each other;
It's like a children's game;
As I find you here again;
A thought runs through my mind;
Our love is like a circle;
Let's go 'round one more time.

this is exactly what my ass needs, don'cha think?

when Amy arrived with the two main food groups -- beer and brownies -- well, shit, ya'll, I just knew the afternoon would be a good one. And I was correct. There was much jaw-jackin' and winkin' and smokin' and cussin' and huggin' and kissin'. Damn, it was good to have all my girlfriends in one place (and have it not be a hospital waiting room), if only for a little while. As we sat on the deck and soaked in the sun, I closed my eyes and listened to their voices tumbling over each other's mixed with the noises of Kip bustling around cooking and cell phones jingling and Warren Zevon on the stereo and the dog tearing around the house. Chaos. Heaven.

Later on, we piled into my car and drove across the bay to see Julian. We sat in his back yard between the koi pond and his 100s of exotic orchids, candles flickering, him telling us about his latest boyfriend drama.

I then discovered, while rummaging in my purse for my camera, that I had accidentally picked up Kip's camera when leaving her place that afternoon, so we commenced snapping a bunch of really inappropriate photos with Julian as a willing model and accomplice. Julian's neighbor, Mike, stopped by in the middle of it all and happily took some group shots. Kip has never met Julian, so she will be totally mystified by the photos of the bald black man with his face dangerously close to my cleavage. We have bets on whether or not she will actually say something to me.

Close to midnight we sat in the living room as Caroline crooned and Julian played and they argued about how she can't turn the pages fast enough to suit his tempos. She sang "Will You Still Love me Tomorrow?" while Jen and Regina and I provided back-up. I sang "I'll Fly Away" as Julian clucked and shrieked "Faster girl! Watch your pitch, girl!" I swear, no matter how gay a man can be, you cannot get the Baptist choir director in him to shut the hell up. The highlight of the evening for me: the merlot and Julian's rich bass doing a wistful rendition of "The Nearness of You." That man can sing, amen.

"...She had only to stand in the orchard, to put her hand on a little crab tree and look up at the apples, to make you feel the goodness of planting and tending and harvesting at last."
~Willa Cather

Fall has arrived and even sort of here in Inferno (Florida). I take Miss Daisy for long, long walks at night, usually around 10 PM because it allows me to stroll unencumbered by the forced socialization that comes with walking the dog between the hours of, say, 5 PM and 9 PM. I don't want to engage in pointless, meaningless polite chatter with people just because our dogs choose to sniff the same mailbox pole or each other.

I want to pop my iPod into my ears and listen to the Moody Blues. Or listen to the song birds chirping because they do that here at night, which is lovely and eerie all at the same time.

Autumn is here and there is much to do and think about it and I do my best thinking while examining a flattened lizard in the street with Miss Daisy. We marvel at how it has smooshed into the contours of the shell-rock road, baked in by the sun so that is looks like a Jurrasic specimen just unearthed by breathless archaeologists with toothbrushes.

Laura is here from Alabama and we will all gather at Kip's this afternoon. I am so excited about nestling into the collective bosom of my pack of she-devil home-girls I feel like crying with relief. The word that best describes it: release.

Tonight we will drive over the bridge to visit with Julian and sip sangria in his back yard festooned with twinkly white lights and candles the size of third grade children. He has promised to wear clogs and a red caftan and sing me an Elton John song or two.

The blonde cutie on the left is Dante. He was diagnosed with cancer a few weeks after the lovely Barb was diagnosed. Like Barb and her inflammatory breast cancer, he has a form of cancer I had not heard about until this summer--germ cell cancer.

Dante's mom, Jen, works at the same elementary school where several of my girlfriends teach. She just had a baby girl, Dante's little sister. They had one month of bliss before Dante was diagnosed after a fall on the playground and a trip to the pediatrician who noticed lumps in his pelvic region.

As much as this latest cancer diagnosis to hit close to home has rocked and horrified me, I had no intention of blogging about it ever because it felt so intrusive and so not my place. But Dante's family could use some help, and so if you stumble across this and you feel so inclined. send up a prayer or send a donation. Here is a link to a site that Dante's dad, Chris, started to keep friends and family updated on what's happening. We had a fund-raiser two weeks ago and raised almost $4,000, but every little bit helps, especially since they are practically living at the hospital these days.

There are no whys or wherefores that make sense here. This is not the will of any God I can think of. It just plain sucks and that's all I have to say about it.

It's been a tough, shitty week for my girlfriends. Here is an update from Barb (an excerpt from an e-mail she sent to let us all know about the pathology report)

"...They did find a cancerous mass in my breast even though it did not show up in the PET scan or the MRI, they also found cancer metastasized to one of my lymph nodes. Even though we saw none of this on these reports, microscopically they found it during my pathology from surgery. What does it mean? Well, it means I still have cancer in my body and lymphatic system. The very best news was that the surgeon got the mass from my breast out with all clean margins. The surgeon said that surgery went well, but we are at the point I was when diagnosed. I have a bad form of cancer that grows and spreads rapidly...so now it is up to the next chemo and radiation to see what happens.

I think I had fooled myself into thinking that the cancer had been eradicated, but now I know I am back to the fight I was originally at diagnosis. I can do it, but it does take its toll. When you start losing body parts and have things change on your body, you are not the fully formed fighter you started out as. I am not feeling sorry for myself, I am just very depleted at this point."


We are all feeling a tad blown out. But that's okay, we're resilient. If we can put up with men our whole lives, we can manage cancer, damn it. We have a girl gang party set for next week. Laura will be visiting from Alabama. The alcohol will flow, the expletives will fly and we will all feel better because we are together in one place and that seems to matter a lot right now.

rock the vote, peeps

I am a blue girl in a red state that looks to be getting redder yet, Lord, save us from Katherine Harris. Sheeesh. But maybe the thing with Foley going down (pun not intended) in flaming (again, not intended) disgrace will help...who knows...

We Floridians are so proud.

The point is we all need to get up off our asses and vote. The deadline to register is very soon (like October 8th in some states) so if you're not registered get thee to a Post Office or DMV pronto and rock the vote.

the evils of the red bull and the bull's eye

The Target just put in a Starbucks. Target and Starbucks (my two favorite drugs of choice)under one roof!! Be still my heart. And even though I feel like a spoiled stupid java whore when I pay $4 for a venti nonfat latte, I can't stop myself. And when Randy (AKA "Miss Otis") and I have too much caffeine thanks to Starbucks, we try on every ill-advised trampy item of clothing in the junior section and think we're all cute and stuff. Then we get kicked out of the dressing room. But are we embarrassed? Hells no, sista! Get me a shot of pumpkin spicy espresso!!! It's fall, y'all and my best girlfriend and I gots some shoppin' to do!

okay, yes, another bit of petty thievery from the wonderful Frank, however, I have convinced myself that being the humanist he is, Frank will not mind. This is my fav postcard of the week. I also liked the one from the girl who slept with her best friend's boyfriend and now has remorse, but that is so pedestrian, really. I mean, who among us has not had at least one flamingly whorish moment?

Barb is doing quite well and is home. Here is her note from today:

There's no place like home, Dorothy!!

I actually cried on the ride home. You know things could not have gone better for me during and after surgery, but I will not lie to you that the two weeks leading up to it were the worst nightmare I have ever been through. Just the not knowing and waiting have been the most horrible part of this all. Anyway, I am home right now and have just devoured a Casual Clam Greek Salad. I hope I don't live to regret that. I have had nothing but a liquid diet since the night before surgery. I just wanted a salad and no meat.

Now, all of the weird info and questions. They already took off all of my dressings. I have a caved in hole in my right chest. However, I do have cleavage. The cleavage is from the top part of my chest and the hole is from the mastectomy. I have two drainage tubes coming out, one of which they will remove already on Tuesday. This is way soon according to all of the earlier information I had. I am glued together, they don't really do stitches. I have on my new camisole, so from outward appearances, I look the same. It is comfortable to wear. I can't do any showering or water until Tuesday, so I just wear my camisole and house dresses. My pain is like someone hit me or if I worked out too hard at the gym. I am taking a Vicodin every six hours, when needed. Nothing at all compared to the broken back. I can use the computer and do anything where my arm goes no higher than a 90 degree angle, this week. Next week, I am to do exercises to raise my arm at or above my head level. After that, it is up to occupational therapy. I have home health care and occupational therapy starting tomorrow.

The hospital experience was as good as it can get while being in the hospital. My poor roommate was a young girl with a 7-year-old daughter. She was sick the whole time we were there. She had surgery the same time as I did and she is not able to go home tonight as she is running a fever. She is not doing that well. She was there with her husband and mother-in-law. She has had a rough time of it during chemo also. I can't imagine going through all of this with a young child at home too.

So, for the next few days, I am taking a rest and nursing myself into a strong and healed person. Home health care will be here. Starting Monday, John will go back to work and I have a group of nurses (girlfriends) who have offered to come and help if I need it. I am thinking I won't. It sure is nice having my peeps. I feel as if I have been on a long and tiring trip and now I just want peace and quiet and time to collect my thoughts and heal my body.

So, it will be an early good night, but I just wanted to write my letter and let you know how everything went. "Barb's Law of Inverse Proportions": The amount of worry and stress that a person puts into fear of the unknown is inversely proportional to the amount of time that should have been spent in worry and doubt. I would have been much better off spending all of that time on some other thing that could have used all of that wasted time and energy. Just repeat this to me at the next crisis I have.

Love you all and thank you for all of your answered prayers.

Love, me

And thanks to all of you guys who have added Barb to your prayers and kind thoughts. I may be an organized religion drop-out and a cranky cynic, but I will never argue about the power of prayer, positive thinking, and of course, (most of all) love.

~ell

The Lovely Barb goes in for her mastectomy today. Here is part of a note she wrote this morning:

I got up and worked around doing some last minute things. I am making sure I have the right clothes when I come home. I have received about four letters from women that just have had mastectomies and they counsel me to make sure I have large mens' button down shirts. I guess there is a lot of manipulation of the drain tubes for the first few weeks. Nothing stops, the world just goes on.

I hope that the week is going well for all of you. I am almost to half-way done. I count chemo I and mastectomy as half, then chemo II and radiation as the other half. So, we are really celebrating "over the hump" on Wednesday. Just enjoy each day, that is the key.

I took my sleeping pill last night, so slept until 5:30 this morning. I am up now just getting things ready. I have no fear in my heart, just anxiety about getting it over. I know that God is sitting here and probably impatient himself because I am so hyper. It is hard to let go sometimes. Anyway, onward and upward. Next time we talk I will tell you all of the funny hospital stories. Let's hope they don't include anything about cutting off the wrong boob. LOL Love me.

Dearest Person from Milton Keynes:

How are you?

Are you a good witch or a bad witch?

Just wondering.

~ell

damn the soccer moms in their mini-vans
damn thee, carload of brown boisterous boys
who threw fast food bags all over the road, laughing
damn you assholes on your cell phones (it's so important)
as you steer your box on wheels toward me, oblivious
get off the god damned road

it's still summer here. Hot as hell, but so pretty.

The lovely Barb is housebound until her surgery on the 27th due to her lowered resistance to germs and general ickyness that we may spread to her. Send good thoughts her way.

not family friendly, nope

except for the c-word. I only use that maybe once a year and then only under the most extreme of circumstances and I never put it in writing. But hell, shit, ass, bitch and fuck are regulars. And yes, I went to college and am aware that there are other ways by which to express myself but I guess I am a crude simpleton at heart. Must have been all those Partridge Family episodes that did something to my brain.

PS--Amber--did you notice they added CSB? They most have tapped our phones. Fuck. But in a good way, since it landed us CSB.

dropping eaves

overheard in the check-out line at Publix:

Woman on cell phone: "I was married to Jerry for 18 years and we had three kids but I cannot remember one single conversation we had..."

Joe's 9/11 memoir

If you get a chance, read Joe's first-person account of what he witnessed in NYC on 9/11. Thanks, Joe.

In memory of Cecile Caguicla, 9-11-2001

For Cecile:

Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost,
No birth, identity, form -- no object of the world.

Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing;
Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere confuse thy brain.

Ample are time and space -- ample the fields of Nature.

The body, sluggish, aged, cold -- the embers left from earlier fires,
The light in the eye grown dim, shall duly flame again;
The sun now low in the west rises for mornings and for noons continual;
To frozen clods ever the spring's invisible law returns,
With grass and flowers and summer fruits and corn.

~Walt Whitman

This post is a tribute to one victim of the inexplicable horror that altered all of our lives forever five years ago today.

Cecile Caguicla, 55 years old, of Boonton, New Jersey, was an assistant vice president of finance at Marsh & McLennan, Inc. She worked on the 98th floor of the World Trade Center tower one, where she perished along with 20 of her co-workers and 2,749 other innocents on September 11th, 2001.

That morning, Cecile attended mass--as she did every day--and walked to work with a friend. She was last seen that morning by her friend, Maria, stopping to buy a blueberry muffin in front of the building on her way in to work.

Cecile came to America in 1975 from her native Philippines. She was a lover of the arts and celebrated and embraced beauty in whatever form she found.

In its series to honor each victim of 9/11, (Portaits of Grief), the New York Times profile of Ceclie described a generous woman content in her life and strong in her faith who loved and was loved in return by many.

Cecile is survived by five sisters, 18 nieces and nephews and innumerable extended family and friends. Her family's tribute to Cecile can be read here.

To read personal tributes to other 9/11 victims, visit the blogger memorial project to honor the 2,996 here.

kitty contemplates eating Jesus, or maybe it's just an affectionate moment

I stole this shot from Stuff on my Cat, one of my favorite blogs. Go check them out and please, do not leave an indignant cat-abuse comment. Please.

Enyhoo, this pic pretty much sums up where I am at the moment.

I'm genuinely sad about the death of Steve "The Crocodile Hunter" Irwin because the guy was so filled with wonder and awe and a ravenous lust for life that dammit, he deserved to live to be a very old man. The self-described "Wildlife Warrior" got royally screwed and so did his family. What a bummer.

I don't give a rat's ass about Katie Couric anchoring the national evening news because as we have already established, she is NOT a journalist and frankly, her studied "I am so serious and studious and concerned" affectation makes me want to puke. So can the endless "Katie is reading the news starting real soon!" ads please stop? Jesus.

When, oh when, please sweet baby Jesus, will the political campaign end already? I am so over the political ads on TV and the radio and the litter (campaign signs) choking all the roadways and the bullshit ads in the papers. I think something is seriously wrong with anyone who runs for public office.

New Orleans is still a bloody catastrophe. Does anyone give a shit?

My boss is a drooling cretin. How much longer can I stand to work for someone I do not respect and do not believe?

My manuscript got brutally panned by one of my professors (grad school seemed like a good idea). Said professor is a New York Times best seller's list author, so, yeah, she kinda knows what she's talking about. It sucked.

I am obviously watching too much TV.

I need a vacation.

The end.

when you get cancer and lots of people love you, you are sometimes so bombarded with all that love and concern that eventually you can't handle it. Barb has been so overwhelmed with phone calls and e-mails and notes and pop-ins and pot roasts and casseroles that she is freaking out and really sick of repeating the same story again and who can blame her? I say she needs to get better at throwing people out of her house. So she decided to start sending an e-mail update to all her "peeps" and Kipster set her up with a listserve thingy. Here's a bit of the latest:

"I go for my blood work on Friday. Maggie is my keeper for this one. We are going to mass and breakfast first, then blood work and on to school for a half day. We have a long Labor Day weekend. I am sooooooooo looking forward to it. I need to give my body a rest.

John needs a rest too. He is very tired and worn out. I hate to see him like this, but the statement "cancer strikes the whole family" is really true. He said his teeth hurt from gritting them so much. He is a quiet worrier and that is how he reacts. So, peeps, throw in a good prayer for John too while you are at it.

Love me."

My mom just got back from a trip to Ohio to attend her 50th high school reunion (the only reason, really, why one would travel to Ohio, let's be honest).

I asked her how it was and she said the biggest shock was when she arrived at the swanky hotel where the reunion was held.

She said: "You know, honestly, I got off the elevator and thought I was in the wrong place at first because----well, there were all these old people! Sometimes you forget that you're old."

That made me think of Maggie--a lovely woman I worked with years ago. When she turned 60 we took her to the Olive Garden for lunch. One of our co-workers remarked about how lovely Maggie was for 60. Maggie smiled and got a wistful look on her face and said: "I feel like I felt when I was 20, you know? Sometimes when I look in the mirror in the morning I'm so surprised."

One more thing: Mom said that a woman named Mary sought her out at the reunion and said: "You were the only friend I ever had in high school and I'll never forget you for being so kind to me. Thank you."

Mom barely remembers spending time with Mary. She does remember Mary being picked on by the other kids at school. And she said a guy at the reunion seemed to be dodging Mary and finally he sheepishly admitted to Mom that he had been a huge asshole in high school and had treated Mary like shit and how embarrassed and ashamed he felt seeing her at the reunion. Mom encouraged him to go have a chat with Mary and cop to his asshole behavior. He did. How cool is that?

I turned to Schmoopie and wagged my finger and said: "You listen up. Weigh your words and your deeds carefully. You never know what people will carry with them the rest of their lives." I really didn't need to say that because my kid is the epitome of kindness and compassion. But it was a great reinforcement opportunity too good to pass up.

"Yep," Grandma said. "Kindness costs you nothing but it can mean so much to someone. You just don't know."

I was driving the 13-year-old home from school today and she said: "You know what, Mom? The average human being sheds 40 pounds of skin in a lifetime."

I said: "Wow, I am so glad you are back in school. There is just nothing like the awe of the discoveries of middle school science." Seriously. That bit of esoteric trivia made my day. I hope you enjoyed it too.

is the cooler ready?

we are in the strike zone again and that means one thing to us salty hurricane vets: beer run.

so we did the wig shopping.

Will the old ladies at the wig shop ever recover? Not likely, no.

PS--Barb really loves her new temporary hair.

surprise! mental illness really can cost you your job

so here's my theory on the whole firing thing and the cult thing: I am 99.9% convinced that TC is probably bipolar. No, I am not a psychiatrist but I've spent enough time among the mentally ill that I usually recognize the symptoms. So TC is mood swinging, manic one minute (see: Jerry Maguire), unbelievably boring and dull the next (see: Vanilla Sky).

The good folks of science fiction cult-land tell him to skip the standard mental health treatment and meds, he can cure himself with their version of Star Trek-esgue religion. Why else would he cling to his misguided and ill-informed beliefs so vehemently and attack poor depressed Brookie like he did? Because it's all about him,(he is a GUY after all) not depressed Brook.

And now finally peeps in Hollywood are starting to look at one another and say "Dude, TC, he isn't the greatest actor of his generation, no, he's just fucking nuts!!! Plus he's short. And not very smart and uneducated. And sort of a pedophile. Ew. Cancel his contract pronto and somebody get me Ashton on the horn..."

Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
~ Edgar Allen Poe

Our friend, the lovely Barbara, is doing well. The chemo and the steroids are a bitch but she is approaching every day with grace and humor and determination. She decided the other night to up and shave her head. Here's an e-mail she sent about it:


I did the deed.

Picture this, unable to touch your hair or wash it, being hot and tired. Trying to go to bed and your bed is filled with hair, it is itching your nose and in the back of your throat. So, I just went in by myself (sorry Mary) and shaved it bald as can be. I then took a full, long shower and feel like healthy Barb again. I can sleep now. It was freeing and it makes me feel so much, much, much better. When your hair is dead on your head and you can't touch it. Outta here! I look like a Sumo wrestler, but I can work on that too.

I guess what I am telling you is that there are no right answers, you just constantly have to ask yourself and whoever your support people are (Mary and I have deliberated over this for days) you have to figure out what will really make you feel better. If you can get past the looks of the deal, it is so easy. I feel 500% better than when I came in here to sleep tonight. I feel like I crossed a threshold and now I am waiting for the hair to grow back. Very positive. B

we went to the ball game today and of course, our team received a severe spanking, although, like the collaborates-with-the-enemy kind of gal I am, I wore a shirt supporting the out of town (spankers) team which was an homage to where my mom was born. Did she appreciate it? She did not wear a shirt supporting her place of birth team. She wore a where she lives now (spankees) shirt. So did my child. We are a mixed family.

I went to the ladies room by myself and as I exited a guy walking past with a big group of what looked like his family sort of leaned toward me and said in a low hissy whisper only I could hear, "Well, why don't you go back to ______ (name of the out of towner's town)?" as he passed."Oh, go fuck yourself, schmo," I thought, though I did not say it out loud. Just thinking it pleased me and so that was enough.

When it was time for the Star Spangled Banner we all shuffled to our feet.I was intrigued by the honor guard presenting the colors. They were from a local fire house and one of the firemen carried a huge, shiny silver axe at the ready. It looked just like the one my uncle received enshrined in a walnut display case when he retired as the state fire chief of a Midwestern state many years ago. (This is the association of all the chief's in one state. They too have a chief. It's a big deal to be the state chief). It is hanging in his den in a place called "The Villages" in Florida, which is kind of a surreal Stepford-ish town for old geezers. A lot of good the axe does up there on the "wall of me" collecting dust.

Anyway, I wondered why one would need such an axe to carry next to a young man brandishing the stars and stripes with much pomp and circumstance. It's not like the axe is necessary. Not like it would/could be used in the event of a fire at the ball game. Would it be used to beat the fire out of the flag were it to catch fire? These things are a mystery to me. But there is something about a guy wielding an axe that makes me all gushy inside. And the SSB, which was sung in four-part harmony by four old gals in matching red, white and blue denim outfits made me misty. This took me by surprise. I thought about how Randy would have hated what they were wearing. They sang lustily.

I was wondering if the four older singing gals were lesbians when a kid started running up the stairs next to where I was standing. He had a ball glove in his hand and was obviously on a mission to find the best possible position in the ball park from which to catch fly balls.

But not yet."Hold it!" An usher stuck his arm out and stopped the kid who would have been clothes-lined had he not stopped in his tracks.

"Turn around and put your hand over your heart. Have some respect, kid," the old guy commanded. (Our ushers are retirees. They demand R-E-S-P-E-C-T). The kid did as he was told. He stood motionless. I am a statue.

The ladies wrapped up their warbling, beaming at one another as their voices blended perfectly, smooth and fluid. I thought of my friend in Paris who is struggling to communicate with her neighbors and says she will weigh 600 pounds when she gets back here in two years because she is living on sausage and baguettes. I thought of how much she loves baseball. I missed her. I was glad I was at the game. I wished she was too.

I watched the usher watch the kid like a hawk, moving his lips to the words. I inhaled the smell of the peanuts and the beer and yes, even the disgusting nachos smelled like baseball, and then I got a lump in my throat and felt all sentimental.

When the ump yelled "Play ball!" I thought, "Shucks it's good to be alive."

happy birthday, schmoopie!

Angel girl,
Whom we adore,
In praise of you we sing.
Each day we love you
More and more,
Such happiness you bring.

(second sweetie from the right).

tell me you don't want to eat Joe up with a spoon. And a cherry on top.

I'm not sure what these images say about my neighbor.

One could deduce that folks around here walk out the front door with Fido and make a beeline to her yard in order to leave a steaming pile of doggie poo.

But in 10 years I have not ever seen a dog in her yard and I am a daily dog stroller. But for some reason, Miss Daisy has a powerful urge to want to pee in this--and only this yard in the whole 'hood. Okay, one time I let her. But she only poops at home. Like me.

But anyway, one could also deduce that folks in this neighborhood are thieves. But I can tell you that everyone has fruit trees out the wazoo in my little 'hood. Who wants her fucking oranges anyway? They never look ripe and full and brilliantly colored like mine, which scream to passers-by: "See my deep, pretty colors? Want to take me home and juice me? I'm so ripe I'm about to tumble off this tree limb. Go ahead, reach out and give me a squeeze...I know you want to eat me..."

My neighbor seems to be a pill. And she always turns her lights off on Halloween and pretends not to be home. The dead give-away is that every other night of the year the place is lit up like a maximum security prison.

This is just a guess, but I think my neighbor has probably not gotten laid in a long time. Or maybe ever. Which would be sad. Maybe not getting laid and having no hope of ever getting laid makes one so bitter and pinched that one places asinine signs in one's yard that really seem to say: "I am incredibly unhappy..."

I have always missed you more than you missed me and this is the explanation for all of it.

as my friend, one of the Judys, exclaimed when she sent me this one: "What's the point?" Indeed.

(But to be fair, I think maybe this was Photo-Shopped. Who knows).

Hiking in August in Inferno (I mean Florida) is not advised for the under-hydrated nor those who do not appreciate insects large enough to mate with turkeys. And the thing is, we really get no relief from the heat and humidity until about October. Bitch, bitch, bitch...

I dropped Schmoopie off at the grandparents' house at the crack of dawn today. Actually, it was the crack before dawn. The GITB had already left for his own weekly before-dawn rendevous with his golfing commando buddies. Once the kid was dropped off for her weekend sojourn to the World of Rat in Orlando with the two people who made me crazy at her age, but for some reason have become incredibly cool since they became grandparents, the dog and I sat on the beach to witness the actual dawn. She snuggled next to me in the sand and sniffed the air as I sipped coffee and enjoyed the quiet and the view. And it was good.

the best bumper sticker I saw this week:

my friend's cancer has apparently spread rapidly and her oncologist changed her status from Stage 3 to Stage 4. They are doing a full-out bombardment of chemo for two weeks that will amount to double the chemicals, then surgery. We are all wide-eyed and very quiet. We love her. She knows it. What more is there to say? It will be okay? I want to say this. But I can't force it out of my mouth because I can't be sure it will sound like me forming the words because right now I don't think it will be okay.

Call someone up today and tell them how much you love them.

uber asshole

Welcome to August.

I borrowed this image from Frank at PostSecret. Hope he doesn't get all huffy about it. But I loved this and with all the shit hitting the fan with my friends lately, it spoke to me in a loud and insistent manner. Go visit Frank, by the way. He is the keeper of our deepest, longest held secrets and he treats them with humanity, love and respect. He posts new secrets every Sunday. Make him part of your weekend wind-down.

Hope August is a good month, my homies. Here are your assignments: Grace, pull yourself up by your bra straps and get off the couch. No man is worth it. Hey, eb, draw me a pretty picture. Judy, stop lurking and post a comment, girl, no one will know it's you. Mel, keep hammering that treadmill, baby. And BHD, make at least one new girlfriend this month who is worthy of sharing a bottle of wine and reminds you of your gal pals you miss so much. And BJ--glad you stopped by. You should do it more often.

for the 10 millionth time, I do not look like her. "Well then, who do you think you look like, honey?" You ask.

Me. I look like me. Okay?

Why do the old people in our families insist we look like someone we are related to, even when we bear no resemblance whatsoever??? This is a rhetorical question that requires no response, by the way. Just thinking aloud.

Sheeesh.

yep. the garbage dudes saw me naked

So I was caught naked by the garbage dudes this morning. Sigh.

I am house/doggie-sitting for Kip who is in Atlanta at a fucking scrapbooking convention (we just won't go there). We had a helluva thunder storm last night and sometime in the middle of the night I guess that the power must have surged which kicked the A/C off. I awoke at 6 a.m. all sweaty and disoriented. Maybe the fact that my buddy Jenn came over last night and we floated in the pool and killed two bottles of wine (1 red - 1 white) helped with the dehydration. Anyway, I went out onto the deck to let the dog out and feed the iguana (romaine lettuce and shredded carrots = yum!) and it was so humid and sticky that on impulse I whipped off my nightshirt and slipped into the pool. What the hell--I was alone and the yard is completely fenced. Why not? Ah, heaven. So as the iguana ate breakfast and the crazed corgy wandered around the yard nibbling grass, I glided about in the pool.

I swam a few quiet laps and floated for a bit, enjoying the sunrise and the seagulls flying overhead and because my ears were below the surface, I heard nothing. But I did notice the dog's ears and tail suddenly stand at attention. I glanced over to the 6-foot privacy fence and to my horror saw the enormous chrome exhaust pipe and the roof of a garbage truck pulling to a stop in the alley behind Kip's house. And the two guys hanging from the ladder on the back of the truck clearly saw me. At this instant I stopped floating and did a duck and cover underwater maneuver that consisted of bringing my knees to my chin and bending at the waist, trying to cover my boobs. But too late. The grins on the dudes made it clear they had seen me and my boobs which sure are buoyant in the water. Like two flotation devices with minds of their own. Fuck.

next

I am officially over the month of July.

July may now go fuck itself, thank you very much.

On to August...

damn it all anyway

One of my girlfriends learned this week that she has one of the rarest and most lethal forms of breast cancer, one I had never heard of until a few days ago.

The Lovely Barb (seated in the chair in the white cover-up)has inflammatory breast cancer. And I hope to god she stays off the internet (though I know she won't) because some of the words swimming in front of me when I have done some online reading the past few nights are "aggressive" "rapid metastisis" and "slim survival rates." I am so angry and frightened and nauseous. This is my third girlfriend in a year diagnosed with breast cancer. We lost Karen last summer, Polly has a clean bill of health so far, but this just feels so terrifying, this news of Barb's. I am ill about it. I layed in bed last night with my hands on my own breasts wondering if there are evil little time bombs lurking in my tissue waiting to unleash and destroy me. I am just beside myself over this news and have little tolerance for any other petty bullshit that may come my way. Which probably explains the previous blog entry.

Dear Diary,

WTF is wrong with men? Why can't they just shut up already and worship us for the goddesses we are and be grateful we put up with their shit and allow them to bask in our loveliness? And will the day ever come that I no longer give a shit? One can only hope. But right now, I think they are just a bunch of dicks and I am so annoyed.

Dicks.

so Oprah is N-O-T a sister of sappho--whew!

I don't know about you guys, but gosh, I'm just ever so relieved to hear that Oprah and Gay-le are not in fact, rummaging around in one another's Louis Vuitton leather panties. Maybe now I can finally get a decent night's sleep because this question was right up there with the "is there life after death?" and "why are we here?" ruminations for me...

If you really wanna know what I think, here it is: For a while there I had suspected that Oprah and Gayle were the same person, you know, ala Michael/LaToya, 'cause, well, you know, if you have ever heard Gay-le speak, her tone, timber and intonation is exactly like the Big O's. And so I began to think of "them" as "shem" or "Opayle." And they are never seen in the same place at the same time. Okay, not true, but I'm just sayin'...

And let's face it, would Gay-le really have a 7-figure job or a real reason to live were it not for her girlfriend, er, I mean "best friend" (at least it's not the lame-o "roommate") employing her? Girl, please. She'd be a goldenrod blazer-wearing Century-21 realtor or maybe the Channel 9 weather girl in Hackensack. If she were lucky.

I don't care what anybody does when they wanna get their freak on, I really, really don't. Go ahead, Oprah, tie Gayle up and hang her from the bathroom door and have your nasty way with her. And make Steadman watch (can you just see poor Steadman all curled up fetal in the corner weeping and wringing his hands? I can). But please, bitches, don't be calling news conferences to tell us about it one way or the other. Because, really, in spite of your megalomanical narcissism-driven sincere belief to the contrary, truly, no one gives a shit.

Hugs and (so not gay) kisses,
ell

winky

I work with a winker. Which is really not a problem because I only have to actually show up at work twice a month so it's not like I have to deal with Winky five days a week for 8 hours at a pop. Because that would drive me over the edge. And, you know, Winky is nice - I just can't figure out any rhyme or reason to the winks. And no, they do not appear to be nervous tics. But Winky gets to winking for emphasis when saying smart ass things AND saying things that seem pretty serious to me. Like they are periods at the ends of sentences. I don't know. The winking is not keeping me up at night, but I admit I'm a little precoccupied with it. I have a meeting tomorrow. I will faithfully count the winks and report back. Yeah, I know, like you give a shit. Sigh.

et tu, shoppers?

what the hell is wrong with people?

I ask this as part of my monthly misanthropic moment, usually brought on not by PMS but by the bone-headed, self-absorbed, shallow and otherwise, thoughtless, inconsiderate, lazy-ass behavior of others.

So what is the big problem with returning the grocery cart to the store or to the corral in the parking lot? Why do people unload their groceries, then blithely climb into their cars and motor off, leaving the carts sitting exactly where they left them, or better yet, to drift about the parking lot aimlessly until they are picked up by a nice little breeze that sends them careening into the quarter-panel of my nicely maintained older non-gas-guzzling sedan?

Last night Schmoopie and I came out of Publix with our groceries in our hands, only to find both passenger and driver's doors of the car blocked by carts left by previous lazy asshole shoppers. We, of course, guided them to the cart corral, which took us a whole 30 seconds. But still, why? What the hell is wrong with people? Sometimes I think Ted Kazinsky had the right idea. People suck.

Okay, greasy popcorn lovers and women who dig guys with muscles: Superman Returns is worth the trip to the movie plex.

I was totally prepared to not like this one and was dragged by Schmoopie and the GITB but the kid playing Clark Kent is indeed charming while avoiding becoming smarmy and he is as sweet and engaging as Christopher Reeve. Still cannot believe he and his lovely wife are gone. Sigh. I digress. It's an entertainig flick and I also enjoyed Kevin (gay) Spacey as the evil Lex and Marlon (dead) Brando's cameo. I mean, it would have to be a cameo, because, you know, he's dead.

The GITB couldn't help pointing out that Lois Lane and I have a few things in common including the occasional anxiety-induced closet smoking and harboring a secret thing for guys who wear their underpants on the outside. All I need now is the Pulitzer.

Go see it. It's charming. Really. And no curse words, Mel. Nota-one.

Ho-hum, another shitty day in paradise. Okay, it was hot as hell, but who's complaining? So how was your Fourth?

sweetness

Happy Fourth, ya'll

dear jack: you need better writers...

I love Jack.

I would probably love to have wild, crazy monkey sex with Jack were I not otherwise occupied.

I love how uninhibited and goofy Jack is, that he has no problem parading around in his tightie whities, beer gut hanging in the breeze for all to see. I love that he seems to know how to have fun and obviously does not take himself seriously. There is way too much of that tired BS going on...Angelina and Brad, are you listening? Back to Jack--the dude is funny and he deserves some decent writing.

Envy was not much of a movie, made worse by the presence of Ben Stiller who I think is a tiny little tight-ass no-talent jerk. And the writing was lame.

Sadly, ditto, my friends, with Nacho Libre. It has so much potential but falls flat in a lot of instances. The wrestling scenes aside, there is not much fun here. The laughs are too few and far between and stuff that could have been hilarious was stale or just went nowhere. Jack is a truly funny guy, yes, but with a script as weak as this, even Jack started to seem like he was flailing around in a desperate attempt to be as entertaining as possible. I did dig his accent and his skinny feral sidekick. And I hope Jack gets a really good, funny script next time. He deserves it.

Nacho Libre is nacho best bet if you expect the same level of humor Shallow Hal delivered or even School of Rock. Bummer. But loved the tights.