It Ain't Me Babe

I did not write yesterdays blog. Yes, it came through my fingers but it was out of my control. You know how Bob Dylan always says that his great songs were not really written by him, they sort of came "through" him? Well, that is what happened to me. Of course, what came through me was not, "She's wears an Egyptian ring, sparkles before she speaks...". No. What came through me was stuff about necks and turkey burgers. Not the most profound of subjects. So I sat down today and I tried to conjure up the feeling that passed through me yesterday, and it wasn't there. Because maybe, I was thinking, maybe some amazing writing could come through me. Not just mundane thoughts like shoes and bodies and what to have for dinner. But maybe some people are here just to write about the mundane because truly, how many people are going to come up with Plato's Republic or the answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind? And yet, the fact that the answer may be blowing in the wind is really quite simple, isn't it? Of course! It's in the wind. Anyone could have thought of that but only one person wrote it down. It's not that complicated and that's what makes it so profound. But for most people, the answer to the question, "What should we have for dinner?" is much more complicated and yet the person who comes up with the answer is not often given the credit that person is due.

Does that make any sense?

Okay, here is what I'm stuck on today. I am reading the obits of Tom Snyder and Ingmar Bergman and I am feeling like a tiny insignificant spit ball. What lives. What accomplishments. Now I know it's ridiculous in any way to think...Ingmar...Trish...Trish...Ingmar. Although always, when I saw his movies I had to wonder if I was part Swedish. Because first of all I really liked the darkness and drabness of Sweden. I could live there. Second, I was blond. (Still am, with help.) Third, those movies made me happy which was a very strange reaction because most people who saw them wanted to kill themselves. I think I always thought, oh good, someones life is actually worse than mine. (Some of you know I did not have a rosy childhood, even though I looked rosy. That mother thing. It's a very long story.) If I think about it, my biggest accomplishment may actually be that I learned how to cook something decent. But, come on, it's not Persona or interviewing the Dalai Lama. Will my last thought as I leave this planet be, "Wow, I figured out meatloaf." Maybe Ingmar's last thought was, "Wow, I figured out lutefisk." Stranger things have happened.

Wait. I think something is coming through me...Some thoughts...The voice is saying...
Shut the fuck up already!

No, that was just me talking to myself.

Oh well, on to another mundane thought that has been bothering me...I have changed my mind about the Cubs. (I can do that! There are no rules here.) I said I wanted to live until the Cubs won the World Series. And they are still in second place in their division. Sooooo, I am changing my wish to the following...I want to live until the Cubs win the World Series...

Twice.

In a row.

Okay, that'll get me to about one hundred and twenty. At least. I feel much safer now.

The answer is blowing in the wind. Anyone could have written that, right? What a lucky Zimmerman he was. All right, he has a little talent.....................

Can We Talk?

May I please say something?

(Yes, of course I can. This is my blog. See, that is how guilt ridden I am. I have to ask permission to talk because I think I will say something that might offend somebody and that would be awful. I'm sorry. Honestly, I am not talking about you.)

There are people out there (not you) who seem quite goulish about other people's woes. And they (not you) seem to be a bit put off when you (me) seem to be handling things with aplomb. (Or a plum.) They think I am in denial. They think I am not talking about my "real" feelings. I've thought about this a lot. And this is what I've decided...My real feelings are beyond boring. Hmmm, should I grill a turkey burger tonight? With onions? Should I do my laundry today or tomorrow? Should I watch The Seventh Seal tonight in honor of Ingmar?...So those are my real feelings, as much as I can connect with them. And the cancer part...there's really nothing to talk about. It's there and then hopefully it won't be there. I am not scared and I am not really concerned. Because I am alive right now, today, and what else is there?

And don't get me wrong, I am so glad I am alive today but there was this guy on a motocycle next to me who put his greasy hand on my car door to steady himself at a stoplight and I cannot get his stupid glove print off the door! Pisses me off. But I'm alive. Even though I went to buy a ceiling fan and this guy loaded it into my car and when I took it out it of the car the box seemed awfully light and when I opened it, it was empty. So I had to drive back to the store and blahblahblah. But I'm alive. Today, I am alive. And I am really going to try not to complain.

So the Iraqis won the European soccer tournament and that was wonderful for them. They needed some good news. And what was the first thing the captain of the team said when he won? That he couldn't wait for the Americans to leave and that he was afraid to go home. Wow. I am waiting for someone to suggest a brilliant way we can help these people get their country back in order.

I was thinking about Nora Ephron and her neck. I think that after a certain age, if you look in the mirror more than two minutes in the morning and two at night, you are obsessing. I have no idea what my neck actually looks like. I wash my face in the morning and in the night and when I do that I am not wearing my glasses so I am but a blur in the mirror. Kind of like that vaseline on the lens look directors used to give Marlena Deitrich. (Did I completely misspell her name? Did I misspell misspell?) Everyone I know looks great. I don't think when I was growing up I ever heard a single man or woman talk about how they looked? That their neck was sagging. They were just glad they weren't dead or sick or something. Now, of course, the next time you see me your eyes are going straight to my neck. "Oh my gosh, she's sort of jowelly looking, isn't she? (Did I missssspellll jowelly?) She should think about a neck job."

Maybe Ms. Ephron is right. Maybe I should wear my glasses when I wash my face. Please don't look at my neck. I'm going out now to buy a turtle neck sweater.

But I am alive, neck and all. And that's the good news. Except for this guy who......................

Not So Sicko

Before I impart my good news of the day, which I am afraid to say out loud for fear of it all being taken away (can you say "extremely neurotic"), I have to quote from my favorite movie review of the day. Regarding the movie No Reservations, Carina Chocano writes that Catherine "Zeta-Jones is entirely unconvincing as a chef, an American and a human being." I have always felt that about Catherine Zeta-Jones, except maybe in Zorro. In "Chicago" I thought her head was going to explode every time she sang.

And now, on to the frighteningly good news. I had two scans yesterday, the radioactive injection one and the drink this awful stuff and then we'll inject you with something that heats up your throat and insides and makes you feel like you have to go the bathroom one. Took two hours. The hardest part was sitting in a room alone for half an hour and not doing anything while the stuff goes through your system. I couldn't read, I couldn't talk on the phone, so I just wiggled my toes and talked to myself. We had a nice conversation. Same old same old. But...the good news is that the chemo is working. The doctor told me that my lymph nodes do not even show up on the scan so the cancer is barely there anymore and the tumor, or mass as she calls it, has shrunk to almost fifty percent of what it was. I, of course, thought she was looking at the wrong chart or that I was going to have to do the scan again. It has been so long since I've had good news I am not even sure how to process it. But there you have it. So now she and the surgeon decide if I have one more chemo (probably) and then surgery or just go straight to cutting me open. So then my mind goes directly to the fact that I have been eating a lot and gaining weight and now they won't have to take as much of my stomach as they had thought and so I won't be as thin as I thought and what if I'm just this big fatty with a big scar down my middle? And once they cut you your stomach just turns into a big jelly ball. And what if I meet someone? I can't take my clothes off in front of him with a big jelly ball stomach with a big scar down the middle. Yuck. Maybe I could meet a blind man. No, I should just try and relax and enjoy good news. Jews are not taught to accept good news without a qualification. "Wonderful, you lost ten pounds. Just twenty more to go." Or, "Yes, Israel is yours, but you have to share." Anyway, today, this day, there is good news and I am going to jump in the ocean and shout hallelujah... And hopefully I won't drown. (See, as a Jew it's really hard to just be happy because you always feel that you are not worthy of happiness. It's nothing anyone did to us. It's just in the DNA. My son is only half Jewish so maybe can break the cycle. I often think that his DNA consists of guilt and a martini.)

While in the clinic yesterday I was reading the business section of the Times and one article struck me as insane. Disney is going to ban smoking in their movies so they will not influence young people. Are you kidding me? Curella Deville not smoking? That is ridiculous. Are the tobacco companies going to stop selling millions of cigarettes to the Japanese? I don't think so. As far as I can tell, everything we eat, smell or see is linked to death. Don't eat this, don't drink that, yikes yikes yikes. I think my dad's entire caloric intake consisted of trans fats. An all trans fat diet. Meat, meat and more meat. Lived 'til 91. And he was never afraid of eating this or breathing that. I mean, yes, be careful, but also...Be crazy. If not now, when?

Unconvincing as a human being. Could that review possibly apply to our vice president?

Bip

Today I woke up and decided that I hated everyone I've ever known. Even some little children. Even you. One can't be happy and loving all the time. That's just not natural. So in my mind I put everyone I've ever known in a row and I slapped them one by one. Bip bip bip. And then I decided to divide everyone into two groups...Those that were having fairly stress free lives and those that weren't. I slapped the ones whose lives were going well. Bip bip bip. It felt good. I can't slap the little children. Well, one of them deserves a little slap. Tiny bip. And then I picked out the whiners. The complainers. And some of them were also in the stress free group. Stop whining. Bip bip bip. And then I slapped myself for being so mean. Take that. Take that, you brute. And then I wondered if I was losing my mind. Or maybe I'm just angry and maybe I should buy a punching bag. I'd probably break my hand. I should probably be in therapy but I do not want to talk about my mother anymore. And whenever I've tried therapy all roads lead to that. The mother. The absolutely insane mother. But I surely (yes, don't call me Shirley) do not want to be on my deathbed thinking...Hmmm, just how much did my mother fuck me up? I've gone over it a million times and at this point in my life any choice I have made is my choice! Yes, I made all the wrong choices all by myself and I am very proud of that. She had nothing to do with it. Bip bip bip. That was me punching my computer. I do feel better now. I must think evil thoughts more often.

One thing I've decided to teach myself as a single woman is how to grill. Being an apartment dweller growing up in Chicago I did not know things such as backyards or grills. I did not know avocados or artichokes either. Very exotic. My friend told me what grilling book to buy, which I did, and I've got the tools and the grill and I make occasional attempts at lighting coals and not dropping food through the grate. My son has given me a nickname...GrillMaster T.

Yoyoyo. Wasssup? GrillMaster T here cooking up a storm. Actually the turkey burgers I marinated are almost done. They've been on the grill, oh I don't know...two days. I think they're going to be quite...well done. Yoyoyo.

Tomorrow I become radioactive. I've been so once before. It's very exciting. They inject you with radioactive isotopes and put you in a machine and your cancer glows. Kind of like a radioactive Christmas tree. Oh, it's all so exciting. We shall see if anything I am doing is working. That will determine how many more chemos I have before surgery. I've been thinking a lot about Superman lately and about kryptonite. That's sort of how I feel when I take my pills. Can Superman live surrounded by all that kryptonite? Yes! He's getting up, slowly, slowly. Come on Superman. You can do it! Damn that Lex Luther. F that kryptonite. Get up, Superman. You must save the world!!

Or...Grill something. I am pretty sure those turkey burgers are almost done. Tomorrow...Weiners!!

When Doves Fly

First of all, I said I wanted to live until the Cubs won the World Series. The suckers are in second place! Does that mean I have until October? They haven't won for two centuries and now, all of sudden, they could win?! But it's early, I know. They have a long way to go. Now, of course, I'm going to have to follow every game. What was I thinking? The minute you say something out loud, everything changes. Like when you tell someone how healthy you are and the next day you get sick. "Oh, I've never had the flu." And SPLAT, you've got the flu. Someone somewhere is laughing very hard. And rooting for the Cubs.

Yesterday I was in yet another yoga class and the teacher told us to turn and face the window. I obeyed and as I glanced out the window onto a beautiful day I saw six doves on a lamp post, sitting there peacefully as doves are wont to do. They looked so calm and serene as I began my tree pose...Until one of the doves started pecking the shit out of another dove. It was awful. Two of them flew away immediately. But the others joined in the peck, taking sides until there were four doves in a horrific fight. And they didn't make a sound as feathers flew all over the street. I wondered if anyone else was seeing this but I couldn't look around because I was trying to maintain my balance pose which was not easy. My focus point was to have been the doves but they were having some kind of gang war and I could not possibly do a balance pose while looking at a feathered version of West Side Story. So I just stood on two legs for the entire asana and watched as all of the birds flew away, except one. And she (he) sat there calmly, as two other doves doves joined her (him). I'm telling you, it is very hard to keep calm on the westside. You do all these things, you meditate, you do acupuncture and you walk out the door and a dog bites your leg. I am not complaining.

Yes I am. And I am ashamed of myself. And I have decided not to even try to be calm. Because what's the point? I think it's much better to be expecting something awful to happen because it's going to! You can count on it. So if you're expecting something horrendous to occur at any moment you can never be disappointed. I'm telling you, this tension is making me much more relaxed.

Now here's a tease...I slept with Bobby D. for an entire year. (And yes, I am Caucasian.) Not every night. But now and then. I lived on the Venice canals when they were cheap and I lived next door to three strange looking women from Appalachia. They made quilts. And whenever Bobby came over he would always point to the bougainvillea and say, "What the fuck is that?" I think I told him fifty thousand times that it was a plant. He was very much a New Yorker.

Go Cubs? What was I thinking?

ME ME ME

I am a very messy person. The inside of my car looks like Hurricane Katrina has made a permanent home in my back seat. So I decided to remove some of the sticky papers and clothes and parking tickets and I found, buried under what I think was an old sandwich, my wedding band. It was covered with raisons and string cheese and whatever else I had eaten last September and I tried to shine it up with my tee shirt. Hmmmm. My wedding band. So I went into the house and for some reason I had saved the receipt after all these years. It cost, with tax, $950.00. That's a lot of money. What to do, what to do. And then I remembered this funny pawn shop in Santa Monica. Now I am sure there are a lot more pawn shops downtown and in all of the other interesting areas of LA, but here I am on the Westside and all I really know about is the shop that I've passed a million times. So armed with my receipt and my ring I went off to get me some cash.

The pawnbroker was not like I had imagined. Of course I was picturing Rod Steiger. (For those of you too young to have seen the movie The Pawnbroker, rent it. It's one of the really good ones.) This guy was more of a scary robber looking kind of guy with a big frightening smile on his face. He looked at the tiny ring, turned it round and round. "I'll give you fifty bucks." "Are you kidding?! This ring is from Tiffanys. I've got the receipt. That's real silver." Then he told me that the most expensive thing he'd ever sold in the shop was one hundred and fifty dollars. And he was certainly not going to sell a silver ring for more than fifty bucks. If he sells it at all. So I decided to keep the ring and on a day when I felt like having an adventure I would drive around LA and look for a better deal.

But I walked outside and there was a homeless woman I'd seen around town for years. She asked for a dollar. I gave her the ring and told her to go into the pawn shop. Fifty dollars for her would be a windfall. She went in and I stood out of sight by the door and heard the guy offer her five bucks. I knew he was a shmuck. So I walked just slightly inside and he saw me and he offered her the fifty bucks. She thought about it. But she decided she'd rather keep the ring. She walked past me, forgetting who I was or just not caring. And she put my wedding band on her finger. I certainly hope she has more luck with it than I did.

Yesterday there was an article in the Calendar section about Blogs. How gratuitous they are and who cares if you think your life is interesting. No one else does!! Personal stories, one person shows. How many people are actually that interesting? That's what the article put forth. And I say, aren't we all interesting? Are you who wrote the article interesting? Should we really care about what you're thinking? Mr. Edward Champion! Now, the article is not all negative. But it does give one pause. (paws) Am I writing for me? Am I writing for you? Why the hell am I writing? And the answer is... I have no idea. I just do it. I think about it and then I write it down. I guess in another age I would be writing this in a journal and hoping that when I die the journals would be discovered and published to great aclaim and I'd be right up there with Mr. Peyps. (I think that's how you spell his name. Or Mr. Peeps. Or Mr. Peepers.) I know I started out writing about having cancer but really, how much is there to say about that. You've got it, you deal with it. And then there's the rest of life which, truthfully, is much more interesting than needles and pills.

I wonder if she's still wearing the ring? I think it's time I threw out the receipt. Yes, it's time.

You're Going To Put That Where?

I'm not much of a TV watcher. I saw the last two seasons of The Sopranos because I watched it with friends and it was a fun event. But mostly I sit down after dinner to empty my mind for a half an hour or so and surf the channels. I have no idea when anything is actually on, except last night's feed of The Daily Show. For some reason I am fascinated by infomercials. And yesterday, I think I saw my all time favorite. There were three people sitting around a table, looking very doctorly and taking calls from very happy men who had used their "product". Tom from Tallahasee, Paul from Peoria, all very, very satisfied customers. What some insane looking guy had invented was something called a Pos-T-Vac. I wasn't quite sure what it was but the syllable "vac" indicated to me that it had something to do with a vacuum. And then Tallahasee Tom and Peoria Paul started talking about how they felt like young men again and were having the time of their lives. Oh, they were happy. And I started sort of imagining just what the Pos-T-Vac might be when they went to a portion of the infomercial that was both frightening and fascinating. What was frightening was the acting. A woman with, I swear, baby powder in her hair to make her look older! was in the kitchen in her nightie talking about how wondeful last night had been. Her husband, wearing an apron and obviously hen-pecked, had a slightly embarrassed smile on face as she talked and talked and the little film cut from breakfast to lunch to dinner and all the while the man wore his apron and cooked as she went on and on and on and on about how fantastic last night had been. "I don't know what we would have done without that Pos-T-Vac you got, Jim." And they showed them hugging in the kitchen (obviously they could not afford another set) and it was all pretty sickening because I tell you, this woman would not stop talking and I thought the guy might actually end up beating her over the head with his Pos-T-Vac and I wouldn't have blamed him. But finally, after they had gotten you all excited about all the possibilities this Pos-T-Vac could bring you and your loved one, they flashed it on the screen. It was horrifying. First, you got a little bottle of (yuck) some kind of lubrication product (yuck again) to put on before you actually started with "the process". The actual product was a rather large plastic tube that you PLUGGED IN and TURNED ON after you had put your...thing...into it and apparently it sucked you into some very large very long...position...and then you, I don't know, you do whatever you want with it. If Osama is watching this infomercial, I can see why he thinks we are all going to hell. Are you kidding me? "Just a minute, honey, I've got to Hoover my thing for a moment but I'll be right with you." Do we not have better things to do with our money? Do I not have better things to do with my time? What if THAT was the last moment of my life? I want that time back!! Poor Paul from Peoria. That has got to make you sore. I think I'm going to get rid of my remote.

Here's a safe bet...I was thinking that I would like to live until the Cubs win the World Series. If they win next year, you Cub fans have me to thank.

Paul from Peoria is going to haunt me for a very long time. He was way too happy. Tonight I'm going to wear black and read Emily Dickinson. It's the only way I can get that Pos-T-Vac out of my mind.