I never signed up for this...

the party's not at my house

I attended two parties today which is really a rare occasion lately.  Even one party is rare these days.  If I'm not mistaken, less people are having parties right now.  Or else I'm invited to less parties right now, and I don't want to think about what that might mean.

Anyway I feel very admiring and thankful for the people who held these parties.  I love going to parties; and I think anyone who volunteers to have one is heroic.  Especially anyone who has a party during the holiday season.  As someone who feels pressure just getting through the holidays, having a party on top of that would put me over the edge.

In fact, having  a party anytime puts me over the edge.

Without intending to be sexist and despite all the progress made;  unless you are watching the Super Bowl, organizing a party still seems to be a woman's problem.  And  I think there are basically two kinds of women in the world.   In the first group are people like me and the hostess of the party i went to tonight.  Those are the people who I think have a normal attitude towards giving a party:  terror.

I have known this woman for maybe 15 years and never been to a party at her house.  For a good reason.  She admitted tonight to me privately that she dreads entertaining.  During the preparation and up until the time the guests arrive,  she is nearly catatonic with stress and worry, even when she has help with the work.   Once the party gets going, she enjoys herself and you'd never know.  I felt much better about myself after hearing this, since I am also in this first group of women, somewhere in the deep end.

Then there's the second group.  In this group are women who love having parties and entertain often. Everything looks beautiful and the food is delicious and they do all the cooking themselves and they genuinely enjoy doing this.  Out of all the people in the world I think the only women who fall into this category are my friend Jane and Martha Stewart.  I adore Jane; otherwise I would feel the same way about her that I feel about Martha. 

Beach Walk

Today is my friend Myra's birthday.  I'm not planning to make a habit of announcing birthdays.  It was embarrassing enough on mine.  But today is meaningful because Myra and I are taking a walk on the beach.  And I feel really lucky about that.

Not just lucky that we're walking on a beach in California while some people are shoveling snow.  I feel really lucky about Myra.

We always meet at our regular spot--which is a few yards from a little stone bench. 

Myra and I never sit there, as these people are.  We're always so busy walking and talking, we pass by without noticing it.  Myra would never guess the bench once mattered to me.

I sat on that bench every day for months.  I sat there because I grew up by a beach and I remember my mother telling me she believed in the healing power of the ocean.  So I would put on my wig and a hat over the wig, and walk to the beach, hoping somehow the healing powers of the ocean would heal me from cancer.

But what I noticed most at the beach was that everyone seemed to be with someone else. 

Every single person had someone to be with.

Except me.

My husband was at work; my kids were at school.  I had been too busy working to make friends in my new community, and now for the first time in my life, I did not have a single friend I could ask to join me for a walk on the beach.  

People who know me now, like Myra, find it hard to imagine this.  Even I find it hard to imagine.  My life is so full.  But back then,  friends were far away when I needed them most.  I had never felt so profoundly alone.

I tried to let the ocean heal me.  I tried to summon the memory of my mother.  I sat on my bench and wrote in my journal, trying to learn something from the nightmare that was happening to me. 

It was good to get some fresh air and exercise.  But the only thing I remember learning was that the beach is a bad place to be on a windy day when you're wearing a wig.

13 years later, I still come to the beach.  I still want the fresh air and exercise.  But the beach never did help me heal.  Because its beauty could not reach inside my soul.  What I needed most, what helped me heal--were people.  The people I met in my new community.  People like Myra.  People who became treasured friends and who make me feel lucky--that they're in my life.

So although today is Myra's birthday, I'm the one who gets the gift: friendship. 

How to Eat an Elephant

I went out for coffee with the Republican football mom I wrote about yesterday.  Turns out that do we have some things in common.  And it turns out that the biggest difference between us is not politics--it's clutter.

Juley is a clutter-phobe.  She loves throwing stuff out.  Whereas I am a clutter magnet.  

I'm deep in debris.  But I'm also deep in denial.  With the best of intentions, I open the door to clean up a closet and what I see is SO overwhelming that I slam the door shut. (If that's even possible with all the stuff in the way.)

So who would have imagined that this unlikely encounter over politics might help me clean up my act?

Juley has to live with the results of the election---for at least four years.  Whereas I don't have to live with my clutter--and she gave me a simple solution.  (She generously offered to come over and help me--but I refused.  I might spill my guts on this blog, but I do have some dignity.  Even my closest friends are not welcome to view my closet.  In fact, if his clothes were not there, I would keep V out of it. )

To clear out clutter, advised Juley, don't look at the big picture.  Way too scary.  Just start with one corner--and go from there.  She even gave me a way to remember her advice, with an old line.  How do you eat an elephant?  she asked.  One bite at a time.  (I had the decency not to remind her that an elephant is the symbol of the Republican party.)

I come home from our coffee date, ready to take my first bite of elephant.  I check my computer (which is now functional) and here is the first thing I see:  A headline on a new study reported by Scientific American, titled:  What Being Neat or Messy Says About Political Leanings.

First paragraph:  Researchers insist they can tell someone's political affiliation by looking at the condition of their offices and bedrooms.  Messy?  You're a lefty.  A neatnik?  Welcome to the Right.

Does the universe have a great sense of humor, or what?

PS:  Although this theory might apply to me and Juley,  I'm not so sure it holds up.  What do you think?

Crazy quilt

It's a mystery that I ever chose a profession like TV news with constant pressure and air-tight deadlines, and a minor miracle that I ever managed to meet those deadlines and get my stories on the air.  Because left to my own devices without outside deadlines, I'm hopeless.  Always running behind.  Behind in paying bills.  In remembering birthdays.  Meeting someone for lunch.  Making airline reservations.  And now...I'm starting to fall behind in my blog.  Not on the deadlines, but on the lag between blog time and real life.

If you're following, you might expect to be reading something about the healing retreat last weekend.  Carol stayed, but I actually I left the retreat a day early to go away overnight with 3 friends.  This getaway was planned months ago (obviously not by me) as a 50th birthday celebration.

                                                                

Happy 50th Birthday, Trudy!

Anytime friends take the time to slow down and get away from the world and savor incredibly delicious food and take in the physical beauty of the planet and enjoy each other's company---has to be considered healing-- so, in a sense, I attended two healing retreats this weekend.

But you can see what I mean about the time lag.  The first retreat stimulated a lot of thinking and ideas which will come out in this blog in a random way when I circle back to them sometime later....which is an example of how things don't neatly fall into place...which is the story of my life....which means that this blog will not always follow along a neat track with my real life. 

Although I've tried to keep them on parallel lines, nothing about me is linear.  Or orderly.    I think my brain must be missing a few pieces-- cells that are normally used to line things up in organized ways. 

V has a normal orderly mind.  He does strategic planning and I see him sit down with a yellow pad and magically,  right out of his brain comes a logically organized list or chart.  Nothing like that has ever come out of my brain.  I haven't made an outline or chart since high school.  Even my shopping lists have crossouts and inserts and stuff in the margins and look something like the first draft of some wierd rap song. 

It's no accident that my mosaics look like crazy quilts. Or that this crazy quilt is hanging in our bedroom.  Because a crazy quilt is a perfect metaphor for me.  And probably, predictably, for my blog.

So to anyone with a linear brain who expects followup from one day to the next--the phone book will be far more orderly than my blog.  On the other hand, V  has stuck by me, and after all these years, he thinks there are some advantages to a crazy quilt wife.   V has learned to enjoy the random, dramatic and unexpected.  He said the house was too quiet while I was gone.  And even though within 5 minutes of arriving home, I left the water running in the sink while I was in the shower, and managed to flood the bathroom, V said he was really happy I'm back home.  And even though I loved being at both of my retreats, so am I. 

Breast Friends: Part 2

Breast awareness month is the perfect time to remember that women with breast cancer need more than research and pink ribbons.  They need people.  In a time of crisis, it helps to reach out to others, especially to someone who has been there.  Which is partly why support groups exist.  I had no support group during cancer.  But I had Judy.

We met during my early years in Los Angeles, and she was the only person I knew well who had breast cancer.  Even though Judy was 12 years past her own diagnosis, I felt comforted by just talking to another mother who had lived through the nightmare that was tormenting every second of my life.

After my mastectomy, Judy left her own home in Palm Springs and came home with me.  She helped with everything from my bandages to fielding phone calls from people I didn't want to talk to.  Which was pretty much everyone.  Everyone except Judy.  Because she was there.  And because she understood. 

Not every friend can---or will---drop everything in her own life to come into yours when you need it.  Judy did this not just once, but several times.  She would come up and stay with my kids whenever I needed to go someplace else for treatment.  She gave them not only love, but hope---because Judy had survived, they believed Mommy would survive, too.

I wish Judy lived nearby so we could have done the things we enjoy together---healing activities, of course, like shopping and laughing.  I could have used more of both.  I had the least support at the time in my life when I needed the most.

Just as I was starting chemo, both of my kids were starting new schools, and I didn't know any of the parents.  Usually I love meeting new people.  But not then.  I was losing my hair, and I thought I was losing my life.  Although during this time, V was an exceptional husband, he was a poor substitute for a girlfriend. 

Before I got cancer, V and I had gone out to dinner once with a couple he knew.  Carol, the wife, happened to work at the school where Daniel was starting first grade.  One morning during the first week, after I dropped off Daniel, I peeked into her office.  I wasn't even sure she'd remember me.

She did.  At least she said she did.  Back when we met a few weeks earlier, I had been a different person.  A person with more hair and more smiles.  Now I was depressed and desperate.

"I don't know anyone here and I have breast cancer and I just started chemo and pretty soon I'll be wearing a wig and I'm really lonely.  Will you be my friend?"

Carol came around from her desk and gave me a hug.  "Of course I'll be your friend.  Not only will I be your friend, but you can meet my friend Joanie and she'll be your friend, too."

And that afternoon, when I came to pick up Daniel after school, Carol was waiting to meet me and to introduce me to Joanie.  It turned out that Joanie's 8th grade son had been randomly assigned to be Daniel's big brother at school.  They are still friends.  And so are we.

Carol was the first friend I made thanks to breast cancer.  Our friendship deepened in a way we couldn't have imagined when she was diagnosed  herself a few years after me.  My initial prognosis was worse than Carol's; but cancer is capricious and often throws a curve.  My cancer never returned while Carol is battling stage IV metastatic cancer, and starting yet another round of chemo. Which she is handling the same way she has faced everything else---with class and courage. 

Neither of us signed up for this, but we did sign up together for the Creative Healing retreat organized by my friend Shoosh, which is where Carol and I are right now.  We're both eager to expand our creativity through art, music and yoga.  And being around other survivors offers something equally important:  connecting with others.  My "breast friends" played a central role in helping me heal from cancer---because those connections are what life is all about.  

Breast Friends: Part 1

I'm back to breasts.  After all, it's still Breast Awareness Month. 

Other than teenage boys or nursing babies, nothing makes you more aware of your breasts than getting cancer in one of them.  When that happened, it made me aware of many other things---such as learning who my friends were.  And making new ones.

I need friends.  For many reasons.  Decisions require friendly feedback.  Stories appreciate an audience.  Good news demands to be shared.  Bad news needs a sympathetic ear.  And I have no idea what it means to suffer in silence.

But cancer was different.  It left me so stunned that for the first time, I could not bear to share.  I withdrew.  Alone with my brand new husband, I tried to absorb the shock and called very few people after my diagnosis.  One of them was my friend Shoosh, who had known me since I was 18, when her older brother first became my college boyfriend.  We had become friendly after I moved to California.  She lived 3 hours away when I lived in Los Angeles, and 3 hours from where I was now.  It was a Sunday morning; she could hear over the phone that the bottom had dropped out of my world.

I never know the right words to console a friend who delivers such grim news---even though I've been there myself.  What can you say in a moment like that?  So I don't remember what Shoosh said over the phone.  But I do remember that 3 hours later, she was at my front door.  She must have jumped into her car the instant she hung up.

I was living in a new community.  My family and friends were all on the east coast or in Los Angeles.  So they were far away at the moment I needed them most.  Until I saw Shoosh standing on my doorstep, I had no idea how starved I was for a familiar face.  For support from a trusted friend.  I needed to see my own worries reflected in someone else's eyes.  I needed someone who could see in my eyes how tortured I was.

For those few hours I had with Shoosh, I felt safe.  And I will never forget her mission of mercy.  It's one of those cliches we say often--but at this moment it was true.  Shoosh was there when I needed her.

Sometimes we're lucky in life to stumble across people who seem to be placed in our path--who don't judge, who don't ask for something, who just give.  I am not one of those rare people, but Shoosh is.

So it's not surprising that she started a non-profit called Enhancement, Inc., to promote health and wellness, mainly quality of life for breast cancer survivors.  Last year Shoosh began offering  "Creative Healing" retreats, designed to help survivors reduce stress, fear and anxiety through art, music, yoga and other healing techniques. 

I believe there is nothing more healing than creativity---and I wish there had been something like this when I had cancer.  Although it's never too late.  I'm 13 years down the road from my own diagnosis---but only 3 hours down the road from the retreat, which is where I'll be heading this weekend.

Girl Talk

The older I get, the more I crave the company of the people who have known me longest--who knew who I was before I became who I am.  Living in California means being thousands of miles away from my roots--so I love it when my roots come to me, as they did this week when my friend Carol and her husband came to visit.

I feel really blessed by the lifetime bonds I have with childhood friends.  Even though I rarely see them, our shared history gives the friendships a texture and richness that's impossible to duplicate or describe.  There can be no pretense with someone who knows where you came from.  I know which boys Carol had crushes on in junior high, and she knows I was responsible for a school prank that no one would have suspected since I was such a goody two-shoes.

It was a huge treat to hang out, talk from the heart, and go right to the heart of things that matter.  On the last night of their visit, after a dinner filled with wine and laughs, our husbands both went off to sleep.  Since Carol and I are both night owls, we settled down on the couch for our last face-to-face girl talk. 

We barely scratched the surface of whether or not we should cave in and have plastic surgery---when we were rudely interrupted by an univited guest.  She managed to intrude on our conversation and our mood and the precious time I had left with Carol.  It was you-know-who.  Settling down for her own little chat--on TV.  The one with Charlie Gibson.  It felt as if she had just plunked herself right between us on the couch.  And once she injected herself into the conversation, she was impossible to ignore.

Carol and her husband left the next morning.  And even though they left plenty of chocolate behind to keep me company, I still miss them.  So today being Sunday, the day I often catch up with family and friends--I called my treasured friend Deborah, also from childhood (a different  "Deborah" than the friend who often comments on my blog).  And after abbreviated updates on our lives, Sarah butted into this conversation, too.  Mostly Deborah and I discussed what we could actually DO to keep Sarah from butting into our conversations for the next four years.  Deborah's spending time in her neighboring state of New Hampshire, talking to undecided voters.  I can't decide whether I want to fly to Ohio for a month and shake people by the shoulders---or buy a one-way ticket to Australia.

I felt pretty discouraged when Deborah and I hung up.  As another friend put it,"Too much of Sarah is sucking the joy out of everyday life."  She's turned the election upside down, monopolizes the media, distracts from the issues, and now she's intruding into the inner sanctum--the safe and secure zone established between me and my girlfriends.  Suddenly she's part of a secret society no one invited her to join. 

So I decided to blackball her from my sorority.  I swore off Sarah, promising to finish out this day without reading  a single thing about her or allowing her name to escape my lips.

And when Judy called, I knew I'd be safe.  Judy is my first friend from my earliest days in California.  Politics has never been part of our relationship, and I was sure the conversation would cover completely safe territory.  Because Judy's life at the moment has plenty of drama.  She has not one, but TWO daughters who are about to deliver babies, and Judy left a message earlier that one of them is already dilated.  One daughter is in New York; one is in Los Angeles.  One is having a girl; one is having a boy.  Just the topic of the potential names for her grandchildren could easily have occupied us for a half hour. 

After the headlines, telling me the name of her about-to-be-born granddaughter took approximately .005 of a second--and we never even got to the name of her soon-to-be grandson, and Judy was ready to move on....to Alaska.

And I gave up.  After I hung up with Judy I read every word about Sarah in the New York Times; and every email that was waiting for me; and way too many blogs about her, even the really snarky ones; and even started writing another one, about how we should forget about Sarah and instead just vote for Tina Fey.

Yes, we're all sick of Sarah.  Her superstar status is bad for the Democrats and bad for the country.  Because we need to move on to the issues.  And though I couldn't make it through a day without talking about her, I sure hope Barack Obama has more success than I did.

  

Finding new friends....and finding my Rabbi on Facebook

Labor Day means the start of the school year, so just this once I'd like to assign some reading: the comments on "Getting the Last Laugh."    For those who don't do homework, here are the headlines:  "Ron" wrote an amazing piece on how he has not voted since 1972, but due to that blog he will register to vote tomorrow.  Then "Jody" congratulated him for his decision.  (Just remember--the Cliff Notes were never as good as the real thing. )

I'm flattered that Ron says my blog inspired his decision and I'm thrilled that he will vote (although he lives in safe, blue New York).  Yet another part of Ron's comment also struck me--when he refers to "my friend Darryle."  If Ron and I happened to pass on the street, we would probably walk right by each other.  We were in the same high school class, but were completely off each other's radar--until he found my blog a few weeks ago.  Now Ron is absolutely accurate in describing me as a friend--because that is what we have become, ever since we began communicating privately--by email--and publicly--by blog.  On the blog, anyone can read Ron's comments; including Jody, who I also would pass by on the street, but also consider a new friend, since we've communicated through each other's blogs, based on the recommendation of a mutual friend.

In the blog world this is considered forming a community.  Making comments is not necessary--- it's the feeling of becoming part of a group with common interests or common sensibilities.  I'm mindful of the potential dangers of anything that goes out over the internet--and I've already had a few bizarre experiences.  But although cyberspace is not considered secure, I somehow feel safe sharing things on my blog.  And I think the reason I feel safe is that I feel I'm among friends.

I could have stopped here-- with a warm and fuzzy summary of how being a "friend" includes Ron and Jody even though they aren't friends in the same way as my friend Judy, who took care of me for a week after cancer surgery.  But thinking about friends today led me to the place responsible for making "friend" into a verb---Facebook.

To me Facebook is a place where college kids spend most of their time when they're not sleeping or drinking beer.  Where they post pictures of themselves and their friends doing things...such as sleeping or drinking beer.  However, more people of all ages are on Facebook--and when a friend urged me, I joined a few months ago, even though I never used it.  Recently I got a few requests from people asking me to confirm them as a "friend"--so today I decided to look a little more closely at Facebook. 

For the first time, I checked out my own profile--what someone would see on my Facebook page.  My name, and whatever I chose to tell the world: religion, political beliefs, relationship status, hobbies, birthday.  I am NOT telling my birthday in public again--but I did update my page, and Facebook asked me if I wanted to put in my contact list.  That way I could find out who I already know on Facebook--and then I could "friend" them.  When you "friend" someone, you can see their profile page: including who their Facebook friends are and any pictures they want to display.  So I tried it.

From my random email list, all kinds of stuff popped up.  Confirming that there are no secrets anymore.  Without "friending" anyone, or going on anyone's personal profile, lots of information was available to me--about people I previously knew only through email.  Pictures, where they live, where they went to school and what year they graduated.  Pretty scary.

The scariest part came when I scrolled down towards the end.  When I saw that one of the people on my contact list who is a member on Facebook is....my rabbi.   He even has a picture.

Oy vey.  Should I "friend" my rabbi?   

I have to admit, I was curious.  What would he write under "religious beliefs"?  Is he a fan of Keith Urban--or Keith Richards?  Would he have posted pictures?  Did I want to see my rabbi in a bathing suit on a beach in Hawaii?  It was definitely a dilemma; if not religious, then at least a confounding question.  And not with an answer I would find in the Talmud.

I decided that between real life and people like Ron and Jody on my blog, I have more than enough friends, without adding my rabbi to the mix.  And I hope that my rabbi doesn't put HIS email contact list on Facebook, and decide to "friend" me.

Embarrassing Confessions

This is embarrassing.  What was I thinking?  Announcing my birthday on the internet?  How tacky.  Even as I wrote those words just now, the phone rang yet again.  I'm surprised Bob Costas didn't wish me Happy Birthday from Beijing.  Honestly, soliciting attention was never my intention.  Which is a funny thing to say when you're writing a blog.  But outside my family, I never cared if anyone remembered my birthday or even knew when it was.  I forget other people's birthdays all the time.  Now that so many people made the effort to wish me a happy birthday, I'm left with 3 things:  A--Enormous embarrassment.  B: Enormous appreciation.  C: Enormous pressure to reciprocate.

This birthday incident points out something else.  Since I started the blog, friends aren't sure how to communicate with me.  Should they call, text, write on Facebook (which I don't use), email, or post a comment on my blog?  When I started blogging, I was advised to encourage comments.  Then I didn't know if I was getting enough or if people read them or if people even knew comments are there.  I did something I wish I could bring myself to do more often in real life when I want something:  I asked.  And on the post specifically asking for comments, here's how many I got: 0.

So I thought to myself, "Getting comments doesn't matter as long as people are reading."  But being a little neurotic (you've noticed?) I did worry a little bit until I happened to speak to a blogging expert.  She told me: "Getting comments doesn't matter as long as people are reading."

I felt better.  And I stopped thinking about comments.  For 24 hours.  Then I started thinking about comments again.  Because I got one that demanded to be shared.

I had no idea what to do with it.  And neither did the person who wrote it.  His comment is about the Keira Knightley piece--but he posted it to a different blog, "I have to confess..." If I left his comment where he put it, no one would ever find it.  As I said, it deserves to be shared.  So I will.

My blog was about what Keira Knightley and I have in common: flat chests.  The difference is that she never had any more than that, but I did. 

I recognized the name on the comment, although I hadn't heard his name since maybe junior high.  Until his message came out of the blue--which is one of the great things about having a blog.  And getting comments. 

I have to confess...that after reading your blog about Keira and your breast cancer and subsequent operations I shed a tear.

And then I laughed.  For some 53 years (oops, am I giving away your age?) I have thought about those breasts.  Funny, really, since you and your cousin Jill walked into the Kindergarten class at North Beach Elementary in matching outfits; then later in Nautilus Junior High, was it Resnikoff's or Mack's class?, and later in high school.

Even when you became the face of news on the local TV.

I received a copy of your blog  in an e-mail from Gail Sandler a few weeks ago.  Many a young boy fell for Gail, the Queen of the class.  But not me.  I always had the desire for you.  And them.

My wife and love of 33 years, Susie, has had two small battles with breast cancer, but has been very fortunate not to have suffered as you.

So now, after almost a lifetime of wondering what it would have been like, we learn, like so many other things God gives and takes from us, that they weren't as good as we had anticipated.

Is confession good for the soul, or only embarrassing?

Jay Luck

Dear Jay (to me you are still "Joey"):  Your confession sure was good for MY soul.  And it sounds like your wife is a lucky woman in many ways.  Thanks for letting me share your comment.  Between your confession and my birthday, could be we're both a little embarrassed right now. 

Just Say Yes--It's Far Less Stress

Lately I've blogged about making progress in overcoming certain fears.  Although I've barely scratched the surface of the list of things I've been afraid of, I realize that I can add a new item to the list of fears I have overcome---possibly the fear where I've made the most progress--entertaining people in my home.

The reason I'm thinking of this right now is that I am having people here tonight.  This is a simple gathering for a worthy cause--and involves serving only drinks and dessert.  Dessert falls right into my sweet spot-- automatically making entertaining easier.  Still, just the idea of having people in my home used to make me nervous.  And right now, I'm relaxed.  I'm so relaxed that my friend Laurie told me I'm her role model for having people over without stressing.  Which is pretty ironic considering how stressed I got about this in the years before I knew Laurie.

I have to confess there is a good reason I am not stressed about tonight.  If you read my blog "Loaded Questions", you remember I complained about being invited somewhere, asking "Can I bring anything?" and actually getting an assignment.  The only answer I really want to hear is : "No, thank you." 

Tonight the tables have turned.  A few days ago, Laurie asked me this question:  "Can I bring anything?"   I did hesitate-- at first.  Because I know Laurie reads my blog.  And I didn't want to feel like a hypocrite.  But  instead of salvaging my integrity by saying, "No, thank you," I immediately accepted her offer to bring a large thermos that holds coffee.  Anything to relieve me of responsibility and allow me to think about one less thing.

My friend Dana also asked that question. And since she is co-hosting tonight's party, she took on the job of bringing most of the desserts.

I did not hear the same question from my friend Jane. I knew she would say, "Can I bring anything?"--so I gave her an assignment before she even had a chance to ask.  Which is something you can do with a really close friend, especially one who has (in addition to the jar of chocolate candy) a fabulous garden filled with fresh flowers and real talent for arranging them. 

So Jane is handling the flowers.  Which is why...only one hour before 20 people are due to arrive at my home, rather than stressing about it, I am sitting here at the computer---feeling a little bit hypocritical, but completely relaxed.