The lovely Barb had a setback recently because a lump was discovered in her other breast. I guess I could say in her breast because she has but one now, but anyway, another sharp intake of breath that we have all been holding. Barb has refused to lie down and let the cancer take her because, dammit, she's not done yet. And she has survived past any time frames the doctors have given her. (In spite of the time frames, or in order to spite them. She's that kinda girl :)

Anyway, so here's the latest from my girl:

My biopsy came back and it was nonmalignant, so I am very happy about that. I went to my chemo treatment and asked the nurse if Dr. Diaz could call and find out for me. She came back and said that the report wasn't in yet. However, on the way out we ran into Dr. Diaz and he said he would call the pathologist if we could just wait for a few more minutes. Well, it was more that a few minutes and every time he would walk by his face looked bad. I was freaking out. Then, he finally came in and gave me the report and we all kissed and hugged. He told me to go home and enjoy the weekend. That used to mean a drink, but today it meant a bowl of ice cream. I was at one appointment or the other until 1:30. So, by the time I got home and had lunch, I was totally exhausted. But, it was a good tired. I am just going to sleep and not wake up worrying about things. That is a good feeling. Thank you for all of your prayers and good spirits, my peeps. Hope you all will sleep well tonight also. Love me.

cooking up taffy, teach, not heroin

this is the best tale from middle school by far this year:

Okay, one of my daughter's homies lives next door to the establishment pictured here to the left. Lyle is an enterprising young man. Back in sixth grade (two years ago), Lyle had an idea. He began a covert candy delivery service. Call him a candy concierge, if you will.

This little industry has been humming along undetected by the adults at the school for going on its third year. (Imagine the horror for the sixth graders who have grown accustomed to this service, who will be deprived of it once Lyle graduates middle school this May. Next year will be a desolate, sugar-free wasteland unless Lyle hands off the business to an underling willing to kick some $ up to the Godfather). But I digress.

It seems that Lyle was busted this week. The math teacher caught him in the hallway with a list of names and code words next to the names like "pixies" (as in "stix," not fucking PCP), "red" (as in licorice, not downers) and "black" (as in not black beauties, idiot) and of course, the paper sack stuffed with cash, all small bills, was the icing on the cake. Yes, Lyle was busted for dealing drugs. The teachers were convinced. Until they did a raid on his locker and found a huge stock pile of Lemon Heads, Atomic Fireballs, chocolate covered raisins and peanuts, gummie bears, Whoppers, Hot Tamales, Sweet Tarts, Pop Rocks, Airheads, etc.

The candy train has come to a screeching halt. For now. Schmoopie tells me that Lyle is regrouping, he has a new plan for delivery. He has customers, after all, and they need their fixes. He is, after all, The Man.

this is my favorite post on today's postsecret site.

I didn't write it. But I could have.

why I am a bad journalist

I have some ethics.

Okay, not all of them. But some of them...

admit it: you want to eat me

Yes, I do. If this makes me sad, pathetic, weak, a pound heavier this week, so be it. I wish I had some self-discipline, but I don't.

karma. again.

this is what I get for bragging about how our weather is perfect and yours sucks ass. Everyone in my house has come down with a respiratory sludge that meets the criteria for a rocking case of "Captain Trips" ala Stephen King's apocalyptic tome The Stand (which the kid is now plowing through at raging speed). We all are over-producing gallons of mucus and sneezing and aching and feeling generally wretched and wanting to die.

Except that I am not having dreams of the Walking Dude calling me West or the sweet old black lady who is setting on her porch just-a-rockin' away in her rickety chair and telling me to stop by for some sweet potato pie. No, I have chills and a fever that comes and goes and the dog keeps getting into bed to comfort me and I keep waking up with tufts of matted black furballs stuck to the side of my face from where I drooled as I slept while she snuggled.

I swear, I think if I cough any more my throat will just prolapse and fling itself out of my mouth in permanent protest--a new sort of angry auxiliary tongue. I have been wearing the same sweat pants and OJ-stained t-shirt for three days and I don't care. Not pretty.

I did get up for a bit today because I had a (short-lived) burst of energy and thought (delusionally)I wanted to clean and tidy but I ended up with stacks of stuff(really important stuff) and realized I was just walking in circles around my piles and I had no more energy. So now I am sitting and staring at my stacked piles of esoteric shit. What is in these stacks? Me. Little bits and pieces and chunks of me. Stuff that reminds me of days and boys long past. Some of them are good reminders, some stuff I would run over with the car or burn if I cared or had the energy (which I don't anymore because I am old and it's all over for me anyway) and other stuff is just, eh. whatever. Did I mention I'm sick?

Here's what I do know: it's fucking Girl Scout cookie time people and I just may have to bribe the guy in the boxers to put on some pants and and run down to Publix to get me a box of thin mints because I HAVE NO OTHER REASON TO LIVE RIGHT NOW. That is all.

Douchebag of the Month

Meet Mr. February (the flaming asshole judge presiding over last week's Anna Nicole embalming/paternity/cluster fuck hearing). Hands down, no contest. No elaboration needed. No wonder the Europeans think we're a bunch of ignorant horse's asses.

the annual tourist rant

the weather may be sucking ass where you are, but down here in the sweet southern sunbelt, the Blue Jays are hollerin' and the azaleas are in full bloom. Suck on that. The only truly sucky thing about winter and spring in Inferno (Florida) is that we are invaded by gorging locusts--Canadians and Michiganders and dolts from Ohio and Pennsylvania who apparently cannot figure out how to dress themselves or accelerate beyond 25 MPH in the fast lane. They are cheap and tip for shit and are rude to service staff. They clog the restaurants, malls and golf courses and the beaches are awash in white-bellied old farts. God, I wish they would go home. Now.

this is what $3,000 looks like. The kid got her braces off today. Bring on the popcorn and bubble gum.

nothing says "baby, I luv you" like a little clap. Happy VD y'all.

hugs and kisses,

ell

my mailbox yields no news of you. if you (ever) sent me a card, it never found me. i must not be your valentine after all. maybe this is the universe's way of punishing me for burning the one and only (it turns out)other one. The one that was glued shut. so many signs, so much room for interpretation. and rumination. and sitting with my toes in the sand. yes, room for this, as the sand goes on for miles. just like all of this, you and me. now i have a headache.

when I was a kid and my grandfather wanted me to shut up, he would insist that unless we were very quiet, we would not hear the sizzle when the sun slipped into the sea at sunset.

Sometimes I forget the heat and stop bitching about the tourists and traffic and overdevelopment long enough to feel privileged to live here at the edge of the coast, where the sun slides into the sea every evening.

Here at the beach, folks customarily gather just before sunset. Sometimes it's a smattering of people up and down the beach, pausing for a moment. I like that best. Sometimes it's larger groups, arriving purposefully, beach chairs and cameras in hand. I like watching the older folks who casually stroll the sand hand in hand and I wonder if my beloved and I will do that when we are old. They slow and look over their shoulders at the sky as it flows from purple to orange to pink and they smile. Sometimes I tell myself they are smiling sadly or wistfully. But I'm probably reading more into it than there is.

A pod of dolphins is almost always heading southward past the beach at the end of the day and if we're very lucky, they will drift close to the shore for a spell as they feed and play. It's always such a gift, that glimpse of glistening fin silently slipping in and out of the water.

And the sunsets...always so gorgeous, no matter the weather. Once colors recede and darkness has fluttered down over the beach, blanketing it in darkness, the people gathered on the beach always applaud, be they locals or tourists. Schmoopie asked me once why we were clapping. We're thanking, I told her. Who? Who are we thanking? She asked. All of it, I said. All of it.

I think we're gonna have a lot of fun in the pool with this baby this summer.

If it lasts that long. It sure took a beating last night. Um, Yeah.

all my best girlfriends now know where their g-spots are. It was a really good girl's night out.

I just bet he did.....

This just in from the UK pulication the News & Star:

Prince praises community spirit
Published on 02/05/2007

Prince Charles meets Sir Chris Bonington today

PRINCE Charles enjoyed a pint of Great Cockup during a two-hour tour of Hesket Newmarket on a visit to Cumbria today. Bright sunshine and a small crowd greeted the Prince of Wales on his third trip to the village when he toured the Crown Pub and Fellside Stores. The Crown is the only pub in the country owned by a co-operative and the prince heard how the shop could soon be run in the same way.As he unveiled a plaque to commemorate his visit, he said: “I was so impressed last time I came, by all the progress and community sprit.“I do pray that the shop project is a success.”

why she won't win

Three words: She's too angry.

Let's face it--on a man, the hostility factor can be a huge attribute. It can come off as commanding and ballsy. We want a man who takes charge, dammit. I know I do. On a woman, it has serious ick factor. Hillary's hostility will make the penises of men everywhere shrink up into their bodies like frightened little turtles. An angry, scorned woman in power? Yikes. The more she pounds the podium, her upper lip curled in disdain of those evil republicans, the more the shrinkage will spread across the U.S. And we can't have that. A woman who was humiliated on a global scale by a philandering husband becoming president? It's payback time on the scale of Nightmare on Elm Street for every guy who ever even contemplated getting a hummer on the side. Which is 100% of the men in the U.S. Oh, no, it's just too fucking scary for American men.

Hillary's anger will sink her. She will be called a harpy, a ball-buster, worse. She is already coming off like a bitter, shrill shrew on her campaign stops. If I'm already weary of it, where will I be 21 months from now? And I swear, I want a woman to win the White House. I do. But Hillary is going to burn everyone out to the point that the sound of her voice will make us all want to retch come November 2008. I already can't take any more of it. My prediction: she will not be the first woman president. Maybe that's not a bad thing.

A poem for February

for Michael Longley

As a child, they could not keep me from wells
And old pumps with buckets and windlasses.
I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells
Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.

One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.
I savoured the rich crash when a bucket
Plummeted down at the end of a rope.
So deep you saw no reflection in it.

A shallow one under a dry stone ditch
Fructified like any aquarium.
When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch
A white face hovered over the bottom.

Others had echoes, gave back your own call
With a clean new music in it.
And one. Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall
Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.

Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

Seamus Heaney

why writing for a living (and writing well) is a bitch

"Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat."

William Faulkner
Stockholm, December 10, 1950

PS--how timely. and how sad that the mental state we were in at the height of the Cold War persists today, albeit in a different form but no less foreboding and oppressive. Yes, William Faulkner was a crazy bastard. But aren't we all?

vengeance is mine, sayeth the ell (or: I am your karma, asshole)

I have never claimed to be a mature, fully evolved adult and at this late-stage, I know I never will be. And that's okay by me. I embrace the truth that I'm a bit of a perpetual rebellious teen with an over-developed sense of justice. It's an odd dichotomy, I know, but there you are.

One of the delightful things about living in a warm climate is growing lovely citrus in your yard. I have two orange trees, a grapefruit tree, an avocado tree and my favorite: a Ponderosa lemon tree. The lemon tree was a gift from a dear friend who has since passed away. In fact, one of the last things he and I did together was plant the lemon tree in my yard, situating it so that the aroma of the blossoms wafts into my bedroom window at night, sweet, clean, pure. As we packed the soil, I sang "Lemon tree, very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet..." as he sambaed around the yard, ala Carmen Miranda. Sweet memories, indeed. This is the second year the tree has borne fruit since it came to live with me. Last year the two sole pieces of fruit it birthed disappeared one night just as they became fully ripened and almost ready for picking. I consoled myself that this year, I would water and fertilize better, talk to it more and guard it from what I was sure were fruit rats (until the Guy in the Boxers noticed tennis shoe prints in our yard under the tree).

But, still, I figured it was a fluke thing. This year I planned to make lemon squares with Schmoopie and squeeze the lemon juice to store in the freezer to make lemonade this summer. I tended and lovingly watched over my lemon tree, delighted as the fruit grew larger, the yellow hue deepening, the sweet citrus smell intensifying with each passing day, nudging me as I walked by it.

Last Saturday night, after Schmoopie had been tucked into bed with her iPod and a copy of "The Uglies," the Guy in the Boxers and I retired to the deck off of our bedroom to look at the moon, sip some wine and enjoy the crackling fire in the chiminea.

Round about 11:45 PM we heard a ruckus growing louder, approaching from about a block away. It was a cacophony of the loud singing and cussing and talking and shouting of a roving group of teenagers cutting a swath through our neighborhood, led, per usual, by the resident ruffian of our neighborhood, Mike, who lives kitty-corner from us. Our dog raised her head from the planks of the deck and cocked her ear, listening as the din of the approaching marauders grew louder. She stood, her tail at attention. She leapt off the deck and ran to the corner of our fenced yard and let out a ferocious volley of barks.

"Dude, hurry up," I heard a young male voice, which was so close I was startled. They were just on the other side of the fence--a few feet from where we sat, concealed by our fenced, covered deck. The Guy in the Boxers and I stared at one another, silent, straining to hear, not wanting to give away our nearness to the teens who had invaded our yard. Then, to my horror, I saw a yellow missile soaring in a perfect, beautiful arch over the streetlight on the corner, heard the unmistakable splattering of ripe fruit against concrete. I leapt to my feet and stood on the seat of the Adirondack chair I had been lounging in. The little bastards had stripped the fruit from the lemon tree and were pelting one another as they ran down the street, each dense thud and splitting sound more heart-rending to me than the next. A rage filled me as their high-pitched adolescent cackles filled the air. I stepped off the deck and started toward the gate, adrenalin propelling me forward. I wanted to kill the little pricks.

"Don't." the Guy in the Boxers said quietly, "Let it go."

"Those shits just destroyed all my lemons! And for what? For 'fun'?" I choked out. "Those gutless little fuckers!"

My rage grew hotter as their cackles intensified. I crept to the fence and squinted through the slats, watching as two punks jumped on the hood of Mike's car and rode it as if they were in a parade as he drove, zig-zagging down the street toward the beach. The thuds of fruit being whipped at cars as they passed dully audible. I walked out to the yard to survey my tree. Some of it's young branches had been snapped. The ground around it was littered with leaves, trampled green confetti. It looked forlorn and battered. I seethed with anger.

The next day I seethed more. I thought of knocking on Mike's front door and confronting him. I had discarded the idea of calling the police the night before. No sense in getting into it, I decided. And talking to Mike or his parents would be a waste of time. Their ineptness at teaching him respect for the property of others speaks volumes. He's an asshole kid and they have a lot to do with that. No, I thought, I will let it go. But I couldn't. It ate at me.

So last night, I was working late. I decided to take the dog for a quick stroll around our small block before I retired. It was 3 AM. As I pulled a sweatshirt over my head, I found myself in the kitchen. Without any forethought (honest), I opened the fridge and grabbed two eggs. I slipped them into the front of my hoodie and the dog and I headed off. It was unusually dark and windy last night. No moon. Low temperatures have prompted everyone to close up their windows. Lots of leaves and acorns were being blown from the trees as the gusts shook branches and palm fronds shimmied. It was a bit of a raucous night, weather-wise. I walked the dog down the street and back, thinking. I paused in front of Mike's house. It was dark, quiet. I reached into my pocket with my right hand, drew out an egg, and in one neat, overhanded swoop, I lobbed the egg over my head, it arched in a beautiful white streak and landed with a muffled plop and exploded on the rear window of Mike's little shit-box car that was parked in the driveway next to his daddy's Lexus. I was filled with satisfaction. I quickly drew the second egg and repeated the overhanded lob. It was a thing of beauty. I stood and admired my work for a moment. The dog looked, sniffed the air, looked back at me. The wind lifted my hair and tickled the back of my neck. I turned and headed for home, went to bed and slept the deep sleep of the righteous.

This morning over coffee I confessed myself to the Guy in the Boxers. He was quiet for a long moment and said, "You know, honey, sometimes I have NO idea who you are." Then he high-fived me.

Sure, it was a futile gesture, an act of incredible immaturity, pettiness and all that. But I would do it again. It was healing for me. I have moved on. We agreed that Mike is such an asshole, the phantom egger could be any one of at least a dozen people who are pissed off at him. And who, I ask you, is going to suspect a middle-aged, housewife and mother, respected dog-walking member of the community? Hm?

body double

I always secretly and judgementally snicker to myself when anyone I know proclaims that they've been told that they resemble a celebrity. How sad, I think to myself. And then you feel like you're supposed to say: "Oh, yes, I can see that--you DO look like Angelina Jolie!" even when they look more like Dougie Howser. It's just sad. But lately, some of my homies think I could pass for a relative of MLP. And people I don't know (okay and Amber-the-poetess extraordinaire--she too thinks I look like "that chick on 'Weeds'." People I don't know come up to me and say: "Hey! You look like that chick on Weeds!" And for the longest time I was like, WTF? Whom are they talking about? Because I do not get Showtime--I am an HBO girl. And now that I know that they mean MLP, I say: "Maybe she looks like me, asshole." Not really, but I think it. Here's the goofy thing--I was looking at this photo you see here (which was jacked from an I heart MLP site) with a friend of mine the other day when my spouse cruised through the room, glanced at the monitor and asked as he sailed by: "Who Photoshopped your head onto that body?" He can kiss my ass.

Dear MLP, we do look creepily similar in some areas. Between the nose and eyebrows. And I do so love how you say: "Idgie Threadgood, let's wrestle in some raspberry Jell-o and then fry us up some tomatoes once we're done dismembering and bar-b-q-ing my drunken oaf of a husband!" Yum!

oh, no, she di-ent!!!!!!

Oh, yeah, she did. check out the latest installation of the many moods of eb. I personally love the final selection of her musical collage, which I suspect may be a jab at moi due to my tirade last year against this putrid girly anthem. cause it's always about moi.

this cutie is my brother, (the Sammy Hagar-looking wild man, not the fish) the ultimate sports fisherman, he-man and super-cool big brother. He taught me to swim, fish, skimboard, water-ski, surf, tap a keg and all the other super-cool skills I needed to be a Florida girl. I hate fishing but still do all the other stuff on occasion. Love ya, bro!

more than just douchebags...

...so here are my two (and only remotely achievable) resolutions for 2007:

I will identify an individual or entity worthy of the dubious Douchebag-of-the-Month designation (Check. See below.) and I will also, to redeem the former, run a poem once per month.

This month's poem is by one of my favorites, e.e. cummings, who I always pictured (when I was a junior high school girl plowing through every bit of poetry in the library, yes, Amber, it's true, I hope you're happy now) as a short, bespectacled, sadly unattractive bald man. He was actually sort of sexy as you can see here. I'd do him. So here's January's poem of the month:

i love you much(most beautiful darling)

i love you much(most beautiful darling)
more than anyone on the earth and i
like you better than everything in the sky
-sunlight and singing welcome your coming
although winter may be everywhere
with such a silence and such a darkness
noone can quite begin to guess
(except my life)the true time of year-
and if what calls itself a world should have
the luck to hear such singing(or glimpse such
sunlight as will leap higher than high
through gayer than gayest someone's heart at your each
nearness)everyone certainly would(my
most beautiful darling)believe in nothing but love

Douchebag of the Month: Miss January

nuff said.

the heartbreak kid

my child somehow morphed from a freckle-nosed gangly little muppet to a femme fatale overnight. How did this happen? I know not. But she is light-years ahead of me in sophistication and just knowing stuff at the age of 13.

At 13 I was still trying to figure out how to ride my bike to school without getting the leg of my corn-flower blue Levis cords jammed into the bike's chain, resulting in spending yet another day of 8th grade with the crinkled bottom of my pant leg looking like it was run through a greasy meat grinder as my brother pointed and hooted in the hallway between classes, shouting "Dumbass!" There was not a thing femme nor fatale about me. Nada.

She is pondering existentialism and permanent hair removal, the laws of karma and eye liner and veganism. At 13 I relaxed in the lemon yellow bean bag chair in the avocado green and harvest gold family room reading 'Teen magazine and fantasized about Peter Frampton. She is reading the editorial page of the New York Times and asking me about Art Buchwald, The Nation, abortion, reincarnation. I was rumpled and frizzy, metal braces on my teeth, boyish. She has huge green eyes and perfect skin and beautiful, golden-streaked hair that wanders down her narrow back to her waist. She wears a 34-D for chrissake. Help me.

Last night, after a week of total feces at work and other arena's of my life, I logged off work early, put on my crappiest sweat pants and stained 15-year-old t-shirt and crawled into bed with a copy of Bob Dylan's Chronicles, declaring to all that Mommy was officially offline until Saturday morning, please pretend I am not here. About 10 minutes into my restful bliss (I was in New York with Bob, it was winter, 1957, Bob's lips were in my ear and I listened to his low, mumbling words of incoherent yet poetic memoir..."Outside the wind was blowing, straggling cloud wisps, snow whirling in the red-lanterned streets, city types scuffling around, bundled up -- salesmen in rabbit fur earmuffs hawking gimmicks, chestnut vendors, steam rising out of manholes..." when suddenly I realized I was on the schedule to open the theatre (the community theatre two towns away where I volunteer) at 7 PM and serve as house manager for the evening's performance. Shit.

So I leapt out of bed, got dressed and jumped in the car. My daughter accompanied me. She likes to spook around the backstage area, find hiding places in the lofts, hang out with the sound and light guys and forage through the costume room for new finds. On the way there, she got me up to speed on the latest social machinations at school.

"Max asked me to go out with him," she said.

"Go where?" I asked.

"You know, Mommy, be his girlfriend."

"Well, what exactly does that mean?" I asked, and went on to remind her that there is no driving at this age, I will not drop her off at the mall so that she can roam and socialize with her pack of friends, no way. So where, exactly do teens who "go together" "go"?

She rolled her yes and said it was not an issue because she turned him down "but in a nice way." I explained to her for the 100th time that boys have feelings too and it must have been pretty tough for Max to screw up the courage to tell her that he "likes" her and ask her to be his girlfriend. His feelings must be a bit bruised and so she should be aware of that and treat him with kindness. She said it was cool, no problem. Fine.

Halfway through last night's performance, I stood in the lobby chatting with the 70-year-old concession stand volunteer when I saw Schmoopie staggering toward me, a stricken look on her sweet little face. She motioned at me violently to break away from Walter, who was filling me in on his latest Medicare hassles. She grabbed my hand and skittered into the theatre office, dragging me.

"Mommy, he hates me!" She said, pointing at the computer screen on the desk. I took off my glasses and leaned over for a closer look.

"Honey, what am I looking at?" I asked.

"It's his friends list on myspace. I was number one yesterday. Now I'm number 15!" she said, looking at me with disbelief, the pitch of her voice ratcheting up.

I guess this is how kids telegraph their pleasure or displeaure to one another these days.

When I was 13, if a boy didn't like you anymore or wanted to hurt you in some way he ignored you or, worse, did something shitty like knocked your books off your desk, a sort of public rebuke that all the other kids witnessed.

This is sort of the same thing, a public "you broke my heart and therefore you no longer rate with me as a person of importance" kind of thing. Only this seems more intense. What was once a painful but fleeting moment of rejection -- the feelings flying around in spastic trajectories that manifested in a passed note or a dirty look flashed in the hallway, this is much more of a public calling out that the whole world (if they wish to) can see. And it seems to matter so much to her.

Help me.

all in all this week has sucked total ass but at least my homo boyfriends think I look like this (see left).

Thank god for the gay men in our lives who keep us girls going with their delusional yet well-intentioned pumping up of our self images.

PS: my tits have never looked like this. Okay, maybe when I was nine. For about 10 minutes.

And my eyebrows looked like this chick's (the hooker on the half-shell) when I was on a bender in the '80s of plucking the shit out of them until one day Phillip (yes, yet another homo boyfriend) did an intervention by telling me I was careening dangerously close to Lucy Ricardo eyebrows. I stopped immediately. I mean, come on. I did have some taste.

I try to take Schmoopie to New York twice a year whether she needs it or not. It's important to me that she is exposed to as much of the real world as she can. Quiet weekends at the beach exploring tide pools and chasing horseshoe crabs is great, but she needs to walk through Times Square and be one with the steaming sewer grates, the rumble of the trains under her feet, the smell of peanuts roasting mingled with urine and cigarette smoke and the wonders of the Stage Door deli, the gloriously sexy Latina girls clustered around tables of knock-off bags, yadda, yadda, yadda.

She saw her first condom last spring when we were traipsing a little-worn trail in Central Park. It was dangling forlornly from the branch of a shrub, looking like overlooked tinsel from a long-forgotten holiday... we had a giggle over it and I explained the reasons why folks might be copulating among the greenery and anonymity of the park. We exited the path immediately, by the way.

Enywho, here's a photo she snapped as we strolled hand-in-hand the evening before Thanksgiving. I love that she still wants to hold my hand and as we walked I rolled her tiny mittened fingers between mine and wished you knew her and composed a postcard to you that I knew I would never actually write or send. But in my heart, I send you one every day.

I picked my kid up from school wearing slippers

Okay, they're cobalt blue fleecy clogs, but she knows they're slippers. And so do the good folks at Lands End. That's what they call them in the catalogue.

She is 13, therefore she died a thousand deaths when I walked into school to pick her up (it's our one extravagance--a pretentiously expensive private school with uber security--we have to sign kids out) with them on me feet.

She will never forgive me.

I don't care.

losing my shit

Yesterday I had my first-ever melt down at work.

I work from home mostly but am required to attend twice-monthly staff (I like to refer to them as "staph") meetings. These meetings are a 9 a.m. to 12 p.m free-for-all of anxiety, loathing, and various and sundry pathos on parade.

Long story short, my boss, who is a colossal horse's ass and the true definition of the word "clueless" was gyrating as usual but for some reason, his assholish-ness reached new heights of flaming assholishness and I snapped. Lost my shit. I gathered my stack of files and announced "This is fucking ridiculous. I'm out of here." Then I walked out, got on the elevator and made my exit. The number two guy in the organization made haste to run after me and trotted behind me as I sailed through the parking lot, puffing and begging me to allow him to explain, that it was all really his fault. Which it wasn't. He feels responsible for failing to control our asshole boss. It's not his job. He hasn't figured that out yet. He's a nice guy, but too nice.

I told him to fuck off too (but in a nice way) and drove to 7-11 where I purchased cigarettes, then parked at a nearby dog park and smoked and fumed until my co-worker/girlfriend, who knows me too well, pulled up and strolled over to the bench and asked "Wanna talk about it?" I really didn't, so we sat and I smoked and she and I watched a pit bull take a dump and then I went home to find 7 messages on my voicemail. Two from asshole boss. Two from too-nice number two guy and three from co-workers saying "YOU GO, GIRL, THAT WAS FUCKING GREAT!"

My boss called me again and asked me the one question I was most hoping to hear:

"What's wrong? Are you hormonal? Because you acted just like my wife does when she's really feeling hormonal." The rest of the conversation is not fit for even this, my pathetic blog. But I think I'm getting a raise. A big one.

amber!

My boob is sore from where Riley was leaning against it when he sat on the bench to chat with us. I was right there until he mentioned the DUI and having his mama pick him up. Ugh. Bring us some salsa and keep it moving. AND we missed the bar brawl. Damn. Have a safe trip home. Write me a poem that actually rhymes and includes "fuck."

Love ya!

ah, sweet relief

Barb's letter regarding the PET scan:


Allelulia!

I tested clean. My PET scan is clear. I went through a whole day of hell, but at 7:30 the doctor called and said I had a clear scan. What wonderful words. John and I were beside ourselves and Josh was right behind us.

I found out that I now go for radiation in three weeks. It will take that to get the chemo clear and not interfering. Then I start radiation for five weeks. Then it should be over. I think I will have to go through this every six months, but just to be normal again is worth everything.

My peeps, how can I say thank you enough? I was so scared. When he called I was so afraid of what he was going to say.

You have stood by me through it all and I am so very thankful. Thank God for all of you and what your prayers have done. It is amazing.

Love, me.

So we can breathe. Barb is looking forward to being "normal," painting the new French doors in her dining room, lounging with the girls by the pool, growing her hair out. She knows it's a reprieve, one that may not last forever but for the moment, there is nothing but joy.

I feel everything--every part of me--unclench for for the first time in what feels like months.

I am abandoning hearth and home Saturday for the wilds of North Carolina--heading up for my 8-day winter residency at grad school. My manuscript is as polished as it will get, so bring it on, brutal givers of workshopping feedback. I can take it. I revel in the retreat into academia, into reconnecting with my brain and literature and the staggering talent and passion of so many of my schoolmates. I'm looking forward to the next two weeks. Life is good. Hope you're feeling good too.

PS:

Dear Pat Robertson,

Shut your piehole and stop scaring the little old ladies. My poor sweet little 75-year-old neighbor, Bonnie, is now convinced we will soon be nuked into oblivion and she cannot function. Thanks a lot, asshole.

2007...

My fondest wish for the New Year is that the lovely Barb kicks cancer's evil ass. Here's the latest from her (she's doing okay).

Hooray, I am finished. My chemo is over and the next phase begins right away. I will have my PET scan Jan. 2, I will need all of your prayers. Then I set up my radiation on the same day. I then see the doctor and have my blood work read on Friday Jan 5. Mixed in with this are my usual booster shots. But, if things go well, I will be on radiation and Herceptin then back at work in five weeks. I can't wait. I am trying not to get my hopes up, but it is hard not to. We will be holding our breath. Kip went with me today and we enjoyed talking and gossiping. She was a great companion. There is a lot of sickness there though. It is sad.

Well so much for now. Good night everyone, you know I will sleep tight tonight.

Love me.

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?