Lucky

So it’s long been the case that when I have an idea for a blog post, I am too lazy to write it down, forget the idea completely and then never write about it. I know why. It’s because I am in a different place, mentally (well, physically too if I want to be accurate) than I was during my peak blog posting days on ole killingitblog.

I do not feel the same sense of urgency and don’t have the same adrenaline rush that I used to experience when an idea bubbled to the surface — bursting to come forth. Which isn’t surprising when you consider that during treatment I was engaged in battle and was determined, single-minded and focused (almost entirely) on one thing. This is something I have written about before.

A little time and distance change a person and change the way one thinks and reacts. The question is, am I even capable of producing a good blog post now that my focus isn’t so focused? Maybe not. That quick wit or ability to tell a good story that seemed to flow effortlessly from my fingertips might have gone the way of the dodo.

If I’m honest with myself (this is an expression the English use constantly — “if I’m honest” — which I find irritating but when in Rome, so…), I find that most of the things I want to write about now have nothing to do with the reason I started this blog in the first place. I want to write about design and fashion, for instance. And I think that I will once I get off my ass and start a different blog, considering that the title and tag (and the honey badger, of course) of this one mightn’t draw in the readership I’m hoping for.

So is there still a place for killingitblog? Or should I consider it killed? Done and dusted? Ready for the file? I think not. For two main reasons:

1) A relevant thought still crops up from time to time. And with time, distance and perspective, I see things through a different lens. There is value to be had in that, I think. And analysis to be done.

2) There are plenty of times when I wrote about something that really had nothing to do with cancer anyway. When I think about the heart of this blog I think about it more as a blog about life seen through the eyes of someone who happened to be dealing with cancer treatment than as about cancer per se.

And, things happen to me occasionally that make me realise that there is always another story to be told. Because although there is time and distance and perspective and dare I say a certain “wisdom,” about this topic, at least, one thing will remain the same and that is the fact that I had cancer and that experience will always be a part of who I am. Like it or not.

Cue the inadvertently insensitive comment.

The other evening I was out with some friends and one lady remarked, out of the blue: “oh you are SO lucky you don’t have to wear a bra.” I responded “really?” But she didn’t hear me, perhaps because she had just made the comment in passing and wasn’t really thinking about what she said.

Here is what I would have liked to say to her in response:

I am lucky in many things and for many reasons but I am not lucky that I got cancer and had to have both of my breasts removed.

My cosmetic result is “fine” and you wouldn’t ever know, probably, even in a bra, what I have been through, but sister, you don’t know what I would give to have my real tits back. Even if they got a little deflated with age, even if it meant I couldn’t fit into the bikini tops and sports bras that I have fairly recently acquired. Even if it really hurt when someone elbowed me there.

I can be lying in a bathtub in pretty hot water and if my boobs are sticking out (which they always are since they never move) and I touch them they are cold. They are NOT REAL BOOBS. They are glorified plastic bags filled with cohesive silicone gel and they are masquerading as tits.

I have very little sensation there because all that is left of my own tissue is the skin and even that doesn’t feel much because of all the surgery.

I do not feel comfortable changing in a women’s locker room, not that I have any issue with my own body, but because I just don’t want to deal with the looks I will get because it is obvious that I had breast cancer.

On the up side, they do look pretty good in clothes. I can jog and do jumping jacks without hitting myself in the face. And I can make them dance — even one at a time — since my pecks are on the outside and am blessed with good muscle isolation, which is a fun party trick and a good way to end an awkward conversation with someone. And I don’t suffer from, as my seven-year-old so aptly coined it, “chilly boobs” which is when your nipples get hard when the temperature drops.

I am not whining. I do not feel sorry for myself. These are all things that I can live with. I even think that it is funny, to some extent. But I would still prefer to have real, human flesh on that softest of female areas. Warm semicircles that flatten out when one is reclined on one’s back, or that can be pushed together and form a single line of cleavage in a corset (if one is into corset-wearing).

I don’t hold the comment against the nice lady. I even like her. It just revealed that lack of awareness that exists in so many of us. Or perhaps that failure to look before you leap.

This is not the last comment of this kind I will field. And that is okay. I can take it. I can laugh about it. I may even invite such things because I am so loquacious (that’s a fancy word for “never shut the fuck up”), because I do not consider the topic remotely taboo and have made a lot of jokes about it — so people feel they can say anything to me. (As an aside, a comment I totally would have appreciated would have been “how are your tits? Firm and high?” Now see that’s actually funny and would have made me smile. Though I wouldn’t recommend you try it out on someone else.

The thing is, there is nothing lucky about getting cancer. Even if with it have come some unexpected gifts. At the end of the day it is still cancer. And it still sucks. And no one wants to have it.

By the way, if you are reading this and you are the one who said this to me, I want you to know that the last time I saw you you had spinach between your two front teeth and I didn’t tell you.  Ha ha.

Photo on 11-10-2014 at 16.31

 

 

 

 

 

Breakdown at the Local Branch

It is Saturday. My husband is away traveling in the United States (San Francisco). The kids and I are living the London life. Unfortunately, that involves the occasional trip to our local branch of *%$@, festering turd of a bank that finds itself acceptable.

Have you been to a bank in America?  You get in line, go to the teller (that’s “counter service” here) and get your shit done, whatever that may be.  It’s pretty straightforward.  Generally. If you need something more complicated done, you see someone and sort it out. I have never had a big complicated problem. Never.

So why is it that every time I go to the local branch of our UK bank there is some problem?  I mean every time.  I am not exaggerating even though I am, admittedly, prone to hyperbole.

The first time I went there to pay our UK taxes and was sent elsewhere because my husband was not physically present and they needed him even though I am on the account too. Perhaps they were concerned that I was some crazed vindictive bitch who wanted to pay lots of money to her majesty’s revenue just for the fun of it, against my husband’s will. So they had better have him present.

The second time, I went to open a bank account for my seven-year-old daughter. So that we could put her modest 4 GBP/week allowance in there via direct deposit and start teaching her some financial responsibility. I had filled out the application, vetted such for what would be required, shown up with passport in hand, all pleased with myself for thwarting, in advance, any stupid English bullshit likely to ensue. But wait.

I got there and they said I “needed an appointment.” I had a mini hissy fit and then they finally talked to me and said that I could not open the account anyhow because my 7-year-old needed to be physically present in case I was trying to open an account for money laundering purposes by creating a fraudulent child.

Um, are you fucking kidding me?  I informed them that I had opened just such an account for my other minor child only months before without her physical presence. “Yes, the rules have changed, madame,” I was informed.

I then asked them if they thought it would be particularly fruitful in my criminal career if I were planning to launder a mere 4 GBP per week, at which the woman allowed herself at least a somewhat sympathetic look.

I mean SERIOUSLY.

Plus it would have been an awful lot of trouble for me to get a fake passport for said child. I demanded to open the account. “I am supposed to be a premier customer,” I said.  “You know us; you have all of our information. I have an account here. It isn’t like I just wandered in off the street with my fake kid’s passport.”

The woman finally agreed to help me. But I had to queue (of course).

Finally some lady beckoned me over.  We got pretty far into the process and then she asked for my kid’s visa, which of course is no longer in her passport but in the form of a super convenient separate biometrics card that I did not have on me because it did not occur to me that I would need THAT to open the damn account.

So there I was, foiled again, and ended up leaving without having opened the account.  I had to go back on Monday with the biometrics card to do it. At which time, of course, there was a computer “fault” and the woman had to call the help line, which didn’t appear to be a different number or procedure than had she not been internal to the bank. I sat there, dumbfounded, wondering whether Lord Nelson was at that very moment turning in his grave at the complete incompetence and breakdown that has ensued in this country since the English beat the French at the Battle of Trafalgar. And finally, finally, the damn paperwork was done and I walked — no, practically ran — out, hoping that the account would eventually be activated and that I would receive notice of such in the post.

So after a couple of weeks the damn thing did show up. Yippee doodle.

Today, said kid’s soccer match was canceled on account of rain, so I said “not to worry, dearie, we will head to the local bank branch and deposit some money for you.” Figured I would teach her a little about how it works.

I checked the hours and confirmed that the bank was indeed open until 2pm. So we counted coins (yes got a good math lesson in there to boot), put them in the correct plastic baggies which I had obtained in advance, and headed up there.

When I opened the door I knew right away that my luck with this branch was not about to change. The shades on both tellers’ windows were drawn, and there was a tired, lazy, sorry-looking bunch of people slumped in the handful of chairs against the wall, waiting to be “helped.”

I managed to get some lady’s attention and said “excuse me, but isn’t there any counter service? We have just come to deposit some cash and do a transfer for my daughter here.”

“Oh there is no counter service on Saturdays. You can’t deposit the cash today.”

I blinked, maybe a few times, and then I forget what I even said. But the response was that there had not been “counter service here for eight years, madame. Because it isn’t a working day.”

I bit my tongue when the desire to remark “well YOU are working today” rose up in my throat in a bilious gurgle. And then we walked out the door.

You know, I have lived here for over three years. And yes, I am not English, and still don’t “get” certain things. But damnation these people are ridiculous.

I can’t even fully do it justice by describing the episodes in this blog. I cannot. You would simply have to come experience it for yourselves.

And if you English readers are clucking and shaking your head and thinking “oh you just don’t understand about how things work here,” well I’ve got news for you, lads and lasses, you are RIGHT. I don’t get it. I don’t get it at all because THEY DON’T fucking work. It’s a miracle that anything ever ends up getting done here at all.

So we headed out to run other errands and have a nice lunch, plastic baggies of coins still in hand.

And to think I had that fake passport made all for nothing. Sheeyit.

Until we meet again

Here I am staring down at your onion with a 10-inch blade in my right hand. I’m going to cut into it but then I stop and think — maybe I shouldn’t. I consider not using it. Then it will be gone and I won’t have it to remember you by. But that doesn’t seem right, either. Better that it become part of this marinara than it dry out slowly, becoming too wizened to use and ending up in the rubbish. My choice in this matter will not affect the outcome, which is that you are on a plane heading to the United States, leaving your London life and me, and us, behind.

Last night when we said good-bye after a somewhat raucous family dinner atop the dog-eared astroturf-floored dining room of a Primrose Hill pub, where the lamb was cooked medium-well even though it was ordered medium-rare, but we didn’t care and ate it anyway, I was steady and cheerful. We were silly and the evening culminated in a strange assortment of “party tricks.” Who can wiggle their ears? Pick his nose with his tongue (I’m not mentioning names here), make her pecks dance like a male body builder, raise an eyebrow one at a time? But then today it hit me. You really are gone.

It hit Bill at the same time, What’s App’ing me from the high street when he passed some Ibérico jamón and it dawned on him that you were really leaving. So I stood here in the kitchen, making a simple dinner for the kids, blubbering before I had even cut the onion. It’s in the sauce now, bubbling away. I can see you choosing it, maybe from the little grocery store around the corner or the small food shoppe around the other corner, a lock of jet hair falling in front of your eyes as you stoop to pick it up.

And I will just miss you so much. Your enormous, kind, intelligent eyes, your doll-like forearms, the way you stand with your toes pointed slightly inward, hands in pockets, smiling. A subtle waft of Byredo Blanche perfuming the air.

Your charming omission of articles, of which I am reminded constantly because I am reading The Goldfinch and there are Russian characters who do the same thing.

Long walks during which I had to slow down so that you could keep up, chance meetings on our street or in the neighborhood during which you would always smile when you saw that it was I, walking toward you. Your bemused, nonjudgmental air as you observed that I was heading down the street on my way from the gym, headphones in, lip-sinking something frivolous and aimed at a much younger audience.

Patience and tolerance as I flopped unapologetically on your sectional, bald, un-made up, haggard and irritable, suffering from (or I should say inflicting) the latest ‘roid rage from the steroids I had to take after chemo. I would wait for the second week during which I always felt better and then dive into something spicy, delicious and nourishing that you had cooked, without a recipe, savoring every bite. Blissful relief from the bland week of baked chicken breasts and steamed broccoli that had preceded this delicacy.

Throwing out your two-year-old baking soda, shaking my head, as I helped you make a cake in the Cuisinart, of all things (which actually turned out pretty well!). Remembering your welcome intervention at Thanksgiving when I tried for the first time to make gravy.

Standing on the sidewalk as my older daughter bounded down the street, beaming in anticipation of a play date with your daughter. Fighting a wave of sadness as I realized it would be the last time I watched her do this.

Passing your house, knowing I might never again set foot in it. Knowing that its contents are all packaged up — either already gone or waiting to be taken. That the house is sanitized, devoid of your presence. Meaningless.

Allowing myself to feel this pain, I who am not very nostalgic, I who can adapt to anything. Fallible me. Wondering where you will land and when I will see you again.

It was a gift. These last years. Having you all on the same street where we live. Your family. Your dinners. Chris, his epic barbecues, his ruthless yet surreptitious topping up of wine glasses. His unnecessary yet much appreciated comments on our strength. Your whole family and their loveliness. Your beautiful children. Your son happily playing legos with our daughter almost three years his junior.

Oh, my friend. I miss you so. To think I will not be able to text and then magically cause you to appear minutes later. To think that you are thousands of miles away.

I long to hijack you, a girls’ weekend… a getaway. Something. Something that will make it be “till we meet again” and not “good-bye.” Anything but that.

 

Purgatory

I haven’t written since January 4th. Since Dryanuary. I cannot believe how fast time has flown this year but it has been four whole months and I haven’t written a single post. It isn’t due to lack of wanting to write or even lack of having anything about which to write. So why?

That is a very good question. And now I will try to figure it out. I think I know the reasons. More or less. You see, I kind of feel like I’m in purgatory. I’m between worlds. As time has passed I must admit that although — in some shape or form — I think about “the cancer” every day, I don’t think about it the way I used to and I really don’t dwell. It’s more like I catch a glimpse of myself naked or something and think oh yeah, cancer happened and shit. And then I move on. The passage of time has caused me to think about it less, pure and simple.

Sometimes I worry that this failure on my part to obsess on what was such a life-altering event is arrogant. That for such I might be punished. I mean, who am I to say there isn’t some nasty little cell taking hold in my liver as I type. I sit here in bed trying to block out the idiot outdoors who is drunk and having an altogether too loud conversation with his comrades and what I really ought to be doing is freaking out that hey — this thing could still kill me.

But I won’t do that. I am a realist, not a masochist. And there really isn’t any point to doing that. For now, I’m done with cancer. I’m not ever going to be done thinking about it or indeed talking or writing about it, I don’t think (although never say never). But for the most part I have moved on. And I should not feel guilty about that. I can still write about it — now with some distance and perspective, I like to think.

I consider turning this blog into a book. Something I would very much like to do at some point. And I consider that I never bothered to input SEO into this puppy (search engine optimisation) so that people would actually find and read my GD blog. This I do regret. Although I can and will do it retroactively, at some point, once I figure it out (what? It’s on my list…).

So why is the title of this post “purgatory” (which incidentally I didn’t know how to spell since the first time I wrote it I used an “e” rather than a “u”)? Duh. Well see it is because I have now begun the third and final term of my interior design course. And when I get my certificate I would like to start a design blog. I want to write. Desperately. Just it’s going to be about — as Monty Python would put it — something completely different. But I don’t know what that means. Does that mean I cannot still write killingitblog? Does it mean I do both? What do I do? Quel conundrum.

At the end of the day, I think that my voice is my voice. Irrespective of whether I write a blog about cancer or about design. Because either way I will probably write about more than either of those things. Either way I will be writing about life. Either way it will be me (yes I am being agrammatical on purpose) and you get what you get. I will not pretend to be cute. I will just be myself and, as usual, will let it all hang out. Like it or not.

The hard part is to know how to make the transition and when. And whether it will be weird that if people Google my name this funky cancer blog pops up in addition to whatever design thing I eventually have going on. But then I think, “oh who cares.” Why shouldn’t they know. It’s amazing what you can tell people that might shock the hell out of them and what they will forget — or at least won’t focus on for long.

And speaking of letting it all hang out… Today I went to work out at my gym with Anna, my personal trainer. Anna has helped take me from a pathetically skinny figment of my former self (I was pretty much skin and bones after chemo, let’s face it, not to mention bald and pale so generally looking pretty hot) to my current fit self.

After my workout this weirdo who likes to strut around the gym wearing a Richard Simmons outfit (if you don’t know who that is Google him for crying out loud), generally all red or all blue, with shorts soooo short that at any minute you could have a loose ball situation, came up and told me that I work out too hard. “What?” I asked him, incredulous. “You don’t need to do all that with the trainer. You are already fit. She pushes you to the limit.” I blinked and for a moment thought I would just smile and get on with my stretching, but then I let him have it. “You have no idea where I’m coming from,” I said. I told him I had cancer two years ago and I was skin and bones. All this muscle we have put on since my treatment. It didn’t just happen by itself. And furthermore I am not being pushed “to the limit” because it isn’t like I am throwing up. He looked pretty surprised and was speechless for a moment. And feeling rather satisfied for having shocked him, I threw in “bet you didn’t know that, didja?” “No,” he said.

But before I could feel all self-righteous he started babbling about how I shouldn’t eat dairy because “it’s a killer” and how soy is okay and how he only drinks goat’s milk. Then he went on about some Japanese mushrooms that will keep cancer away for sure and some weird salt that I have to go to Croydon to get. “Cancer won’t touch you then,” he said. Well gee, great. If only he and his too-close-to-being-loose balls had been readily available when I moved here I could have dosed up on shrooms and designer salt and cancer would not have touched me. Alas. No such luck.

So of course I immediately regretted having spilled the beans, which I almost always do. Because people don’t know what the hell to say to you so they fill the void with nonsense or just irritating bullshit — wait is that redundant? Rather than just saying, wow, that’s something else. Right on, motherfucker, keep killing it at the gym. Serves me right. When I left I said goodbye to him and he looked thoughtful for a moment and then offered up another turd — ahem — kernel of wisdom: “you know, sometimes people’s stressful careers can cause it too.” “Yes,” I agreed. Wondering why on earth this person decided to take it upon himself to try and figure out why I got cancer, when the top doctors in London and Boston cannot answer this question. “I guess I was just lucky,” I said.

But really I do feel lucky. I feel like Andy Dufresne, who crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side. And I feel particularly lucky that I haven’t been assaulted (yet) by a loose ball from my pal at the gym. But there’s always tomorrow. Anyhow, I got pretty off topic there, didn’t I? But that’s okay. Let me know your thoughts about creating a new blog and what to do with this one. I’m all ears. And meanwhile I will be hanging here in purgatory, just trying to figure out how to get to the place I need to be.

Dryanuary

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Well here we are and it’s 2014. And of course with another new year comes another list of new year’s resolutions. I was reading the paper today and — say this with a heavy Boston accent — as per (that’s “pah”) usual, persons trying to be funny have written all about new year’s resolutions and their utility/futility depending on his or her particular point of view.

I haven’t made any. Unless you count the typical half-hearted pledge I always make to myself to try and get my shit together (for real) this year. After my somewhat less than absolutely fantastic 2012 and my slightly better but still not all wonderful 2013, however, I see no reason to write a laundry list of resolutions. Holy crap — you know what? It just occurred to me that the second anniversary of my diagnosis just came and went and I didn’t think about it at all. Hot damn. Anyhow, as I was saying, I don’t need a new year to resolve to do shit. I just get it done when I set my mind to it if it means that much to me.

But there is something cleansing about that flip of the calendar that makes me want to purge, cleanse and sanitize. Except for my own person, I guess, since I am sitting here at 18:18 GMT still unshowered in my pyjamas while my children, also still in pyjamas (and not the freshest), sit at the dining table addressing notes. We are jet lagged and have failed to avail ourselves of fresh air and exercise, two things which are sure-fire ways to get over jet lag quicker, or so the experts say. Well oops. See, I’m failing already to be all that I can be.

So rather than draft a list of my inadequacies or come up with a brilliant haiku summarising my goals for the year, I thought I would find new uses for January and all it has to offer.

For starters, my husband announced in December that he was going to have a dry January, meaning that he would not drink any alcoholic beverages for the entire month. I heckled him and rolled my eyes and pronounced such to be stupid. Until the night I had a few drinks and vowed, in front of other people, to do it with him myself. Oops again. So around 22:15 on 31 December 2013, I sipped my last bit of Cabernet and ushered in the New Year, without even raising a glass at midnight. Might as well get started, I figured. The next day at the BA airport lounge I looked longingly at the wine offered at the drinks bar and thought: “Why the hell am I doing this? I don’t have to do this. I said I would but really what’s to stop me from just changing my mind? And not going through with it.” But I pushed these thoughts aside and got on the plane, having consumed only sparkling water with my chicken curry. The English are into curry and things that are like curry — no doubt due to all their colonising of India and other places where curries and such abound. But I digress.

Anyhow I got on the plane and sat down and waited for them to pass the pre-take-off champagne, which I have never, and I mean never refused. Even if I have a raging head cold and it is 10:00am I take the champagne. Because, like, it’s champagne and shit. You know? But I asked for a glass of water and told the flight attendant I was doing the Dryathlon. He seemed slightly irritated and furrowed his brow in a sort of “who farted” look coupled with a good dose of “you dumb asshole why do I need to know this or indeed care?” However, he did remember not to offer me any wine or booze for the rest of the flight, so that was a bonus.

After I turned down the champagne and while we were still sitting on the runway, waiting for some dumbass passenger whose luggage was aboard but whose person had gone MIA (not cool to do that – especially post 9-11), I pondered again the stupidity of agreeing to this self-inflicted deprivation of something that I enjoy and for no good reason. And that’s when it dawned on me — I needed a reason. It would be one thing if I had a drinking problem or needed to lose a lot of weight or something but I do not, so there really wasn’t that much in it for me, except pain and agony and the knowledge that my friends wouldn’t invite me to any dinner parties for a month once they found out. So while I casually noodled about whether there was a bomb on the abandoned suitcase aboard our 777 and why I had committed myself to a month of no fun at all, I googled “Dryathlon” and came up with a goal. And instantly I felt better.

We will raise money for Cancer Research UK, which is a charitable organisation (I won’t tell you what the charity does because if the name doesn’t spell it out for you then you have serious problems). So using my iPhone, moments before the technology ban, I formed a team — with Bill as team leader — called the boozeless billionaires. Yeah, I know, it doesn’t really make sense, but my nine-year-old came up with it and it has nice alliteration so we went with it. I just wish the second part of it were true. Anyhow you can donate to a good cause and watch us pretend to enjoy nonalcoholic beer and become fat gorging ourselves on chocolate as a substitute for what we really want. No pressure at all but here is the link in case you are interested: http://www.justgiving.com/teams/the-boozeless-billionaires

I’ve already had one friend offer to send money if we agree to stop doing it. But at this point I’ve gone too far and I’m sticking to it. We are four days in and after my initial doubts and shakiness on January 1, I am going long and strong. People do a lot of things to raise money for charity, generally involving racing either on foot or by bike. That requires training and a lot of self-discipline. It is undoubtedly different from what we are doing, which although it involves self-discipline does not involve a physical challenge other than stopping that motion of tipping that glass back and repouring. But what the hell, it’s for a good cause and it has led to some interesting benefits.

It will give our livers a rest, which is good. Might it make us look younger? I don’t know. Time will tell (plus I plan to do one of those before and after deals where I deliberately look crap in the first pic by being all hunched over and pale and wrinkly plus bad hair and then slathering myself with self-tanner and make-up and use a soft lens on the after pic so people will ooh and aah at the results and ask what face cream I’ve been using). But more interesting and perhaps less obvious, it makes you think about when you want a drink and what happens when you just don’t have it. And all the things that are associated with it, such as going out, socializing, unwinding, partying, overeating, dealing with stress, doing what’s easy, giving in, I could go on… I mean there are a lot of times when the natural thing has become to have a glass of wine or a beer, and then another. And another. And I do enjoy it — I really do. But this month I will enjoy just not doing it. And exploring how not doing it makes me feel.

For all you naysayers out there who think it is lame — I hear you. I remember last year one of our friends did it (not even for charity but just because) and I thought that is sooooo stuuupid. But why is it stupid? Especially given that I am prone to wild dancing, weirdness, fits of song and being obnoxious, catty and overly critical of myself and others (behind their backs, usually, but not always) even without having a single drink. Oh did I mention, foul language, odd dressing and general irreverence? Yes well I will still be me. I will just see everything more clearly as I sip my fizzy water and lime (out of a stemmed wine glass, so I can feel glamorous). I may have to draw the line, however, at the mocktail. Why even pretend, really? Because perhaps the only thing lamer than not drinking is drinking a fruit cocktail made with tropical juice at a party and pretending to have a good time.

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In case you are wondering about the photo of my husband pouring beer down the sink, no we did not go through the house and pour out all of our alcoholic beverages. That would be a time-consuming, idiotic, expensive proposition. No, instead he cleaned out the basement and discovered some expired beers, and he is a purist and refuses to drink other-than-superfresh brew. He also needs more empty bottles because tomorrow he plans to bottle a batch of beer he brewed a couple of months ago. Hey, the ban is on drinking not brewing or bottling. Out with the old in with the new — goes for years and beers. And it is for one month only. Four days down and 27 to go. If I falter I can always remind myself: sure beats chemo.

Hallowe’en

I started writing this the day before Hallowe’en but now of course Hallowe’en has passed and I am not as timely as I would have liked to be. Oh well. Give a girl a break. Just roll with it and if you please transport yourself back to October 30, 2013…

It’s that time of year again, folks. Sneaks up on me every year and used to be my favorite — wait why is that red-underlined?  STOP IT!!!! — holiday as a child. Because we are talking Hallowe’en I am doing American spelling in this post and my British spellcheck will just have to chillax. Anyhow, as I was saying, Hallow’s Eve is upon us. Like, tomorrow.

And naturally I don’t have my act together, haven’t finalized costumes, haven’t decorated the house, haven’t bought pumpkins. Typical. But at least this year it is because I have been flat out for the past two weeks doing a project for my interior design course and not because I was schlepping around to doctors appointments undergoing unpleasant draconian treatments to stay on this side of the dirt. So that’s an improvement.

Luckily my children are classy and have not asked whether I will buy them some slut outfit that isn’t even appropriate for much older kids. I mean, seriously, one year my husband’s friend’s daughter asked him if he would purchase, online, a costume called “Pocahottie.” WTF. And um, NO.

Yes we have a black cat for the nine-year-old (she likes classic, old-school costumes.  Last year she was pleased as punch being a red devil and the prior year a ghost with a simple white sheet with holes for eyes) and we have the six-year-old in a Red Riding Hood get-up. I was thinking that because we have our nanny, my husband and myself kicking around we should all get into the fairy tale spirit. So I am going to be the wolf, and we are planning to dress Agnieszka up as the grandmother. But we are having a hard time finding a granny nightie (Marks & Spencers didn’t even have one) so we are hitting the thrift shops today to deal with that situation. My husband can be the hunter although it would probably be ill-advised for him to walk around northwest London armed — I mean not even the cops here carry guns much less an axe (though some of the rioters reportedly had machetes) — so we are still working on that one.

But let me get to the point, which is, that one of the things I enjoy so about Hallowe’en, aside from the occasional mini Twix (but where oh WHERE are my Reese’s?), is the memories it stirs up of Hallowe’ens past.  Like the time we dressed our infant (Isabel) up as  peas in a pod even though she was clearly pissed to be zipped into what probably felt like a green polyester straight jacket.

Or the time I decided to dress myself up as a ballerina and wore a leotard and tutu even though I was about five months pregnant. It really is hard to embarrass me, I guess.

But my most favorite Hallowe’en memory is from four years ago. We were living in Wellesley, MA at the time and it was October (duh). Bill and I found ourselves out shopping on Route 9 (think long, unattractive strip mall in suburbia, if you aren’t familiar with that neck of the woods) with the girls, then five and two-and-a-half.

We wandered into Sleepy’s to look at mattresses. There is always some fucking weirdo working at Sleepy’s. I am sorry, but in my experience it’s the truth. If you work at Sleepy’s and are offended then I am sorry but send me a selfie and I will decide whether you have a leg to stand on. Chances are you don’t and therefore you won’t. Once we went into a Sleepy’s in a basement shop in Manhattan and the salesman (who was alone in there, underground and breathing heavily) scared us so much we hightailed it right out of there. And we didn’t even have kids at the time.

Well anyhow this Sleepy’s was manned by a very tall, very big man with a mustache. And when I say big, I mean VERY big. Like 400 pounds at least. And I am not exaggerating. That he could walk was impressive. So we entered the shop and the girls were thrilled because of course it was a large square room full of mattresses. They immediately went mental and started running around and jumping on all the mattresses to test them out. The man said this was fine, which was pretty cool of him, and didn’t seem phased by it at all.

So, while the kids tried to break their necks, Bill and I tried out various mattresses. We even underwent some stupid test where you lie on this thing and it tells you what kind of firmness you need and such. Of course we were told we each needed different support. And I was not about to leave and order a Sleep by Numbers or a Craftmatic Adjustable Bed for crying out loud. So we started arguing (albeit not heatedly) about which kind of mattress could work for both of us. Meanwhile the kids engaged the very big man in conversation. Or was it vice versa. I don’t remember. The gist is that he asked Isabel what she was going to be for Hallowe’en and confessed that he, himself had not yet decided what his costume would be.

Isabel ran off and explored more mattresses with her younger sister, who ran around yelling “hoissss!” (that’s hoist, if you didn’t figure that one out), because she still had trouble climbing up onto some of the higher ones. Then Isabel did a 180 and ran back to the man, stopped in front of him, looked up at him, eyes wide and brimming with excitement and said, “I know what you can be for Hallowe’en!” The man listened intently. “A pumpkin! A BIG. FAT. PUMPKIN!” She looked at him with a completely earnest expression.

At this point I was grateful that I wasn’t eating or drinking anything because I would have either choked to death or spewed it all over the Tempurpedic mattress I was rolling around on. Bill and I looked at each other, clearly at a loss for words in trying to mitigate this innocent yet potentially highly offensive suggestion from our child.

We didn’t want to scold her too badly and make it even worse, plus because she didn’t mean anything by it, it would not have been fair. Also, it was absotively fucking hilarious. There was just no denying that. But there was no way we could allow ourselves to burst into laughter either.

So we did what any good parents would do, and we purchased the Tempurpedic mattress and a Tempurpedic pillow to boot. You might think we were just trying to make the best of a bad situation but we really did like the mattress (we still have it today).

And you know what, the very big man was a totally excellent sport. He did not appear in the least offended. He laughed and poked some fun at himself, and mentioned that his size had certainly turned quite a few heads and elicited a number of comments in his day. But still, we did feel bad about it and were relieved that it had blown over rather painlessly.

After we’d wrapped up our purchase and were ambling toward the door, kids and new pillow in tow, Isabel turned to waive and exclaimed, loudly, “BYE, MR. BIG FAT PUMPKIN MAN!”

Ah, well.

Happy (belated) Hallowe’en to all you pumpkins out there, whatever shape or size you may be. xoxo

 

 

Attack of the Killer Tits

It isn’t what you think. I am not talking about mine here, people. You see I was on the tube the other day contemplating the meaning of life (which is what I almost always do when I ride the tube alone for any period of time) when a big — very big — middle-aged woman dressed in a large-print floral blouse and tan trousers bustled into my car and grabbed the pole just above my seat.

I looked up at her. She was about six feet tall and had an enormous bosom. In fact, her boobs resembled loaded weapons and they were pointed right at me. That’s right, classic torpedo tits. It was somewhat disconcerting and then the thought popped into my mind that it would be funny to take a picture of the enormous pointy bosoms with my iPhone.

I spent a short amount of time trying to position the phone so that it would not be obvious that I was attempting to capture an image of this lady’s gazongas and then, naturally, I came to my senses and didn’t do it. I mean it would have been pretty hard to pull it off and make it look like I was just fucking around with my email or something. I was worried that if she noticed she might sit on me or knock me over with one of those mamas.

Then I had a second thought (I often have two or more in the same day!) and that was how I wished to hell all the people who have ever told me to just not think about boobs, cancer or boob cancer could have been there to see these suckers bearing down on me. Oh sure, I thought. I just won’t think about tits, even when there are two boulders hanging over me that would have impressed even Sisyphus.

I thought again about taking a picture just so I could post it (with the face hidden of course, I am not a mean person — well I am not that mean and I don’t want to get sued or beaten up) just so I could post it on my blog and show people why it is sometimes hard not to be reminded of breast-related issues. But then a seat opened up across the way and she heaved herself, along with her bosoms, into it. And that was that, so…

I have many times revisited the question whether I miss my old boobs. When I wrote Boob Retrospective over one year ago, the honest and immediate answer was that no, I did not. This, because foremost in my mind was that my old boobs were planning to kill me off and they had therefore ventured over to the Dark Side.

But now that I have more perspective on my retrospective, I must admit that I have been missing them quite a bit (well, their precancerous iterations, anyhow) indeed. Sometimes I look at old pictures of myself and focus longingly on the more generous, soft shape that once graced my torso. And I admire bosoms on other people, for instance when they are bouncing around in the gym or jiggling down the street.

These are not thoughts that keep me up at night. I will get on without them. (What choice do I have anyway?) But it is too bad that they were taken away so soon. It has caused me to see myself differently. Angelina Jolie may have written that she doesn’t feel like any less of a woman with her new bionic tits. But I don’t know. Boobs are so symbolic of both motherhood and sexuality. And I definitely feel like less of myself to some extent. Perhaps this is because I never was and am still not an A-list Hollywood movie star married to another A-list Hollywood movie star and didn’t have the luxury, if you can call it that, of sparing the bits on the outside that make boobs look like real boobs.

I think I have noticed that men don’t check me out as much as they used to. And it does make it easier to deal with that I am not on the market and that my long-suffering husband is both present and understanding. But it must be hard for him, as well. I am sure he misses the things that I miss.

Perhaps some day they will figure out how to grow fat cells in a petri dish and can cultivate a couple of real doozies for me. Or I could eat a lot of chips and get a fat tummy so that we can upgrade with an autologous tissue procedure (which is where they make a boob out of a chunk of fat and/or muscle taken from elsewhere on your body).

But I figure I’ll just settle for the memories. It’s like being forty and longing for your twenties. You can look back and remember fondly, but you will never be twenty again, no matter what. That’s life.