A day in the life of a bald girl

I was running low on hummus and flat out of avocados here at Casa de Cancer Girl, so I made a Walmart run this afternoon. Don't worry about how I used no less than seven of those antibacterial wipes they provide to decontaminate the shopping cart before I went into the store. (Mostly because chemo has brought out the OCD in me in a way that was heretofore unimaginable, but also because when I tried to pull just one wipe, seven came out in a string.)

I made my way through the aisles:

Ensure (because it qualifies as a legitimate snack/meal in my current world, and the dark chocolate kind is NOT disgusting). Check.

More fake eyelashes (because now that my real lashes are gone, I am all over gluing fake ones on - every day). Check.

Toilet paper and Kleenex with lotion (because one can NEVER have too much of either of these things). Check.

White wheat flour, in case I ever want to make baked goods again. Check.

And then I moseyed on over to the produce aisle, where I swear I bought three of everything. (Except lettuce. Because, I swear to you, if I ever eat salad again, it will be too soon.)

As I was standing over the avocados, I had a clear view of the people walking into the store. So, I watched them. It has been interesting to me to gauge the reactions of people when I'm out in public without anything covering my head. Children generally stare and then smile or start giggling. (I love how honest kids' reactions are to the baldness!) Adults' reactions can usually be split into three different camps: the look away and then look back and then stare off into the distance (rinse and repeat... ad nauseum), the quick glance and then hard stare at anything that's not affixed to the top of my shoulders, and those who look straight into my eyes and smile. (I like the smilers the best, in case you were wondering.)

Watching the incoming traffic for a few moments, I clocked a few looky-loos, a handful of hardcore avoiders, and couple smilers. Grinning from ear to ear (human behavior fascinates me, and one of my favorite things about being bald has been the social experiment of seeing how people react to it), I went back to picking avocados out of the bin. As my head went down, I saw one of the smilers walk past me and into produce section to the right of me. He made it about 15 feet past me, and then, out of the corner of my eye I saw him stop walking. He stopped, turned, and came back towards me, asking, "Ma'am, can I give you a hug?"

Of course I said yes, but I'll be honest and say that I went into that hug wondering if and/or why he'd felt impressed to approach me, a perfect stranger with one hell of a space bubble, and ask for a hug in the middle of the produce section. But as soon as he touched me, I knew it wasn't about me. His arms went around me, and his face went into my neck. Both his shoulders and his voice shook as he held me close and told me about his mom.

Lung cancer. Stage four. She's been gone almost a year, and he misses her every day.

We stood like that for maybe five minutes while he talked about his mom. Then the grown man who had let himself fall apart in public put himself back together again and pulled away. He thanked me, wished me well and told me to keep fighting. I thanked him back, told him I was so sorry for his loss, and assured him that I have every intention of keeping up my end of this fight. And then he walked away.

I don't know his name. He didn't ask mine. Names didn't matter. Heartache and a shared experience of having cancer rip our lives apart bound us together in a way that introductions and small talk never could have.

As much as I miss my hair, I am grateful for the time that I have had without it. I have both seen and been seen differently as a bald girl. Today, I am grateful that I was in the right place, at the right time, with an obvious tell to the battle I am fighting. I never would have imagined that my bald head would be the impetus for making such an unusual, yet strong, connection with someone I had never met, and am unlikely to ever see again.

Cancer sucks, but people don't. And I love that both the universe and the people of the world keep reminding me that people are awesome, and that we have - and share - experiences in mortality for a reason.

Now, there's something you don't see every day!

Right?!

That's a VW convertible. With what looks to be three TRACTOR tires loaded in the backseat.

On the freeway.

With said tractor tires leaning up against nothing more than a rolled up window.

I was so curious about what could be happening here... and so was my chauffeur (Jo)... but the dude driving the car went through a yellow light and we lost him. (It's too bad, too, because I was curious enough to roll down the window and ask the man what was up if we could have met up at a red light, a la the old Grey Poupon commercials.)

My new food rules

As I may or may not have mentioned... my pants don't fit anymore.

It's both hilarious and tragic to me, really, that not six weeks ago, this pair of pants was BAGGY. Not quite too big, but loose enough that a couple people at work (and my beloved Dr. H) had asked me if I'd been losing weight.

Enter the holiday season and my complete and utter lack of control.

No one's asked me if I've lost weight for some time now.

I mean, no has asked me if I'm gaining weight, either... but I'm pretty sure that has more to do with the manners and general kindness of my friends and family than it has to do with me looking svelte and trim.

I was thinking the other night that I could write my very own Twelve Days of Christmas song - entirely about what I ate in December.

One box of peanut brittle
Two dozen tamales
Three frozen pizzas
Four bags of M&M's
Five dozen gingersnaps...
Six pounds of butter
Seven donuts
Eight kinds of fudge

You get the idea.

No wonder my pants don't fit, right?

So I have some new food rules. Until March. (You know that I'm not the kind of girl who can make a totally open-ended change in my life. New Year's Resolutions? For the birds! I can behave myself for a period of time, but there's no part of me that thinks I can - or will - live like this indefinitely, so I set these rules for myself that I have to keep until March. What'll come after that, I'm not sure, but... until March.).

* I am not allowed to buy candy. (Caveat: I am allowed to eat candy that is already in my house, or anything that people bring in to work.)

* I must eat two servings of fruits/vegetables a day.

* I am only allowed to eat out for two meals a week. (I can't tell you how much it's been bumming me out that I'm not allowed to go through the Taco Bell drive-thru on a whim right now. Sad, but true.)

* No fried chicken. (I know. It pained me just to type that. I'd originally thought about cutting both fried chicken and bacon, but I needed a rule that I could actually keep. Banning bacon? I'm sorry, but I can only cut one farm animal at a time - and for a limited time at that.)

That's it.

Four food rules that I really shouldn't have to make, but I just can't make myself count calories like a normal girl would. (Dieting was never in my DNA, but esp post-cancer... Life is short. It should be enjoyed. Of course, I also understand that my pants shouldn't get to be too tight in a matter of six weeks and it's probably good for me to buy more produce than candy.)

Wish me luck! (Note: If anyone reading this would like to make a date to eat one of my two meals a week out with me, I am most definitely game. It makes it easier for me to forgo Taco Bell when I know for sure that I'm having something good later in the week.)

In the wee small hours of the morning

It's well past 1:00 AM and I'm sitting here, singing a song from the Sleepless in Seattle soundtrack to myself. True story.

I'm exhausted, yet I can't asleep. My body's so tired that it hurts, but my brain's too wired to fall asleep. It won't shut down.

So I sit here, in front of the TV, watching an episode of Castle for the I-don't-even-know-how-many-th-time.

This is my thought pattern (besides the singing to myself routine, which should be enough of a sign that I'm a little loo-loo, but since when do I not over share, esp when I'm posting something in the actual middle of the night?):

I'm sure glad that Kathy U. sent me a cake this week.

I'm even more glad that tomorrow's Saturday and I don't have to go to work in the morning. (It's frustrating when I get like this on a weekend night. It's infinitely worse when I can't fall asleep and I know that I have to get up and go to work the next day.)

I've read every post on every blog of everyone I know.

If I look at one more cooking blog, I'm going to have to get up and make something buttery and bacony and delicious. Or maybe a cake. ... Except I still have half a bundt cake to get through, so that's probably not a good idea.

Facebook is at a standstill. (And I'm not someone who generally checks FB over and over again. But still... it's at a standstill, and I know this, because I've checked it three times in the last hour between blog-hopping.)

It's too late to call anyone in the continental US, and it's too early to call England.

Hopefully, February will be an easier (and more restful) month. I figure that getting more info from the doctor on the 30th will only help my restless mind calm the heck down.

The good news is that I'm not a hysterical mess. Usually, this late at night, when I'm this tired, I can't help but cry. But today was a good day without a single breakdown. I'm grateful for that, and glad that even in the middle of the night, stone-cold tired, I'm not sad, scared or upset enough to be crying.

This is my life, people. Thankfully, it's not like this every night. (This week, this is only the second time it's happened. For that, I am grateful.)

Things that make me grateful

You know, how sometimes you don't realize how great life is? ... And don't you dare tell me you don't forget to be grateful, because I won't believe you.

Anyway, sometimes (quite often, really) I forget how great things are in my life. Like, I forget that I need to be grateful that I don't ever crash and burn on the freeway ... until I'm stuck in traffic on the 101 because there have been four (FOUR) major accidents and they have to clear the road, so it becomes a parking lot. And then I'm left sitting there, in complete and utter gridlock faced with the reality that it's not so bad to be stuck in traffic when the alternative is to be stuck in a smashed car. I mean, really. It's shameful that I forget to be grateful every time I get somewhere without incident until I see that someone else... well... had an incident.

I forget to be grateful for good health until I have a runny nose. I go days, weeks - and usually months, even - without a runny nose, and I forget how awesome it is NOT to have one, until suddenly I do. Having a runny nose makes me grumpy. It also makes me aware of all the days of the year that I don't have one, and I vow every time that I'm gonna be more grateful for good health as soon as that runny nose is gone.

Those are only two examples of situations I find myself in that give me clarity and help me realize/remember that I need to look for (and find) the good in my life more often. I could give you a lot more real life examples, but I'm pretty sure you get that gist. The bottom line is that there is a lot of awesomeness in my life - and one the things I've decided to be better about this year is seeing the awesome.

Speaking of which, can I just take a moment and tell you how TOTALLY AWESOME it is that Blue Bell still comes in a half gallon?!



Hello, Awesome, I think I might love you! (And yes, I just referred to the ice cream by Awesome, like it's a proper noun and that's its name. Don't judge.)

I swear, the carton of Moo-llennium Crunch takes up a good third of my freezer space. (Listen, it's a small freezer.) But ya know what? I'm fine with that. Besides, it's not like it's gonna last very long anyway...

And in accordance with my goal to see the blessings in my life, I'd like to say that I'm grateful for a whole half gallon carton of goodness in my freezer. ... And I didn't even have to wade through the 1.75 quarts of all other brands out there to appreciate the half gallon. That's making some progress, folks, and it's not even half way through January!

Five Movies That Remind Me Who I Am

Is anyone else finding themselves a little obsessed with The Pioneer Woman's new entertainment tab? ... Because I sure am.

Probably because I live for movies (and who's kidding who, tv on dvd, too), this section of her site is my new best friend.

And this post especially resonated with me. ... Call me crazy, but I must say that when I see a post titled "When Movies Remind Us Who We Are", it speaks to my very soul. I read this post earlier this week (like, you know, the day it was written, because that's the kind of blog stalker I am), and I've been thinking all week about movies. Specifically, about movies that define periods in my life, and people in my life. Here is my list of five movies that remind me who I am.



Such a surprise that this is the first movie on my list, right? I know, I know. I'm soooo predictable! But listen, this movie is the best! For so very many reasons. It's based on a true story. Real people who stood up for what they believed in and left their homeland in hope of a better life elsewhere. (What's not glorious about that?) Also, Edelweiss is one of the most beautiful songs of all time. Amen.

Ways in which this movie defines my life:

When the Taylor church was condemned (before my boy James bought it and turned it into his studio), the old chapel curtains were left there to rot. When Jamie & Co came in to restore the building, they had no use for drapes that had been left in a semi-open building for YEARS. But I did. I wanted to make play clothes out of them, so my sweet mother went to the church and came back with yards and yards of drapery for just such a dress. (Too bad we had to throw them out because we couldn't figure out how to clean them before we could sew. But still, that I wanted "play clothes" out of drapery leads directly back to a childhood influenced by Fraulein Maria.)

I knew what flibbertigibbet meant at a very young age. (Vocab has always been a big deal to me.)

When Molly Sanchez got married, a bunch of us from BYU 3rd ward rode up to Logan together for the sealing/reception. That night, after the party was over, Julie and I twirled on the hill and then ran skipping down it. One of our friends commented on how I thought life was a musical. Darn tootin, I did! (And I still do.) And this movie is so much of why I think it's important to dance and sing your way through life. Maria was the queen of finding ways to incorporate music into the mundane and make life fun. I heart her (and that goatherd puppet show)!



I love this movie. For oh, so very many reasons.

1) It's one of the most quotable movies of all time. "These mashed potatoes are so creamy." "Do I like jello?" "Caesar Romero wasn't tall!"

2) I soooo relate to Lucy and her unfortunate situation. (No kidding, before I saw this movie myself, I had two different friends tell me that I had to see it, because the train track situation followed by the hospital "I was going to marry him" scene, leading to his family thinking they were engaged and her not being able to tell them the truth because she was afraid she'd kill grandma is EXACTLY the kind of thing that would happen to me.)

3) When this movie came out, one of my best friends was in Chicago on a mission for our church. I hadn't seen him, or even talked to him, in over a year and I missed him like crazy! Watching a movie set in Chicago, seeing the train and Lake Michigan and other touristy spots throughout the movie, things and places that I had seen in the pictures he had sent home, helped me miss him less. I remember walking out of that theater feeling closer to him than I had in months. I still remember that feeling, how I felt more at peace with the distance and knew we were still friends, even if things weren't the same as they had been when we were younger. Cheesy? Maybe. But it was a real sensation. It's been 15 years or so, but I still remember that feeling as I walked out of the theater.



Again, one of the most quotable movies of all time. "That's MY beauty spot!" "Fancy meeting you here, Judith Tremaine." "To think we were against you in the late war..."

I grew up watching this movie. I remember dancing the Tapioca (or trying to, anyway) with my cousins when we were kids. At the time, I had no idea what white slavery was, but I knew that Mrs. Meers and her henchmen were up to no good with that fake soy sauce.

I had a crush on a boy named Jim once and I would sing the "Jimmy, oh Jimmy" song to myself all the livelong day.

Some of my dearest friendships have been made with folk who know (and quote) this movie as well (and often) as I do. ... I'll never forget the day at the bank when I inadvertently quoted TMM (as anyone who knows me - and the movie - know I am wont to do) and two of the tellers surprised me by throwing lines right back at me. I tell you, I learned a long time ago that if someone knows and loves Millie, they're kindred spirits and the sky's the limit as far as friendship goes! (Don't mind me throwing in one more movie reference there. I can't help it, I get it from my mother's side of the family. ... Okay, okay, I'll stop. But just know that I'm cracking myself up over here.)

If I want a guaranteed laugh, all I have to do is throw this movie in the dvd player and I'm good to go!



Oh, how I love this movie! And the beauty is that it takes place over an entire 12 months, and there are songs for every holiday, so I can justify watching it any time of the year. This, my friends, is NOT "just another Christmas movie"!

When I was growing up, I loooooved this movie, but *sigh* we didn't have it. Whenever I was sick, I'd have my mom call Lorraine Solomon to borrow it so I could lie on the couch and veg to Bing and Fred.

I'd make Valentine's Day cookies when I was in high school and sing "Be careful, it's my heart" to myself as I'd frost heart-shaped cookies with pink icing.

For years, I have been looking for a good recording of the 4th of July song that's in this movie. All the time, I sing "On this day of Independence, on this Independence Day" to myself and then giggle at what a fun play on words that is.

This movie was the debut of the song White Christmas, and it's my favorite version/recording of it - ever. When Bing hits the bells on the tree with his pipe, my heart just sings.



Because my mother raised me to love a good con.

It is true. My sweet, angelic mother looooooves a con. The intricacy of the foil. The finding of a mark and the playing of that person (esp if they deserve it, a la Terry Benedict) is a thing of beauty. My mother taught me many things; how to appreciate a con is one of the most fun (and surprising, if you know her) things that I learned from her.

Somewhere in my heart there is a deep dark spot that wishes I could get away with something like a triple casino heist. Or maybe I just wish I knew a guy like Danny Ocean. Tomato/tomahto.

Honorable mentions (because we all know that I could have listed umpteen movies here):

The original Parent Trap (My whole life, I've wanted to cut the back out of some snotty girl's dress).

Random Harvest (What would you do if the person you loved couldn't remember you? Would you walk away, move on? Or would you find a way to be with them, even if you couldn't be "with" them? ... Thank heaven I've never loved an amnesiac, I don't know what I'd do!)

You've Got Mail (Because who loves Joe Fox? I do, even if he does take the caviar that's supposed to be a garnish. I can't help myself.)

Rebecca (Mrs. Danvers is the epitome of all that is deranged and lunatic. When I was a kid, I would get her and Rochester's first wife confused in my head all the time. ... All I knew is that only crazy women burned houses down and I wanted nothing to do with them. Amen.)

GWTW (Rhett Butler. Need I say more?)

Mrs. Miniver (Probably the first WWII movie I saw that really struck a chord with me. I was a teenager the first time I saw it. Every time I even THINK about that movie, I am filled with a sense of loss and an appreciation for everything that generation sacrificed during the war.)

The Fighting Sullivans (I can't even type the name without choking up. What this movie does to me is the equivalent of Mrs. Miniver squared.)

An Ideal Husband (Oscar Wilde was a freaking genius! The language/dialogue in this movie is to die for. Lord Goring makes me laugh OUT LOUD, and I find myself quoting him on a fairly regular basis. "I always pass on good advice. It is the only sensible thing to do with it." HA!)

The Dark Knight (I know, I know. It's super dark, and this is not a movie most people would put on a list of defining movies. But I looooove Batman! I always have, but I esp love how, in this movie, he lets people think he's the bad guy ... because they need to be able to draw a line between good and bad/light and dark, and it would destroy a city if they knew that their white knight had fallen. That he takes the hit for something he didn't do, in order to allow a city full of people to continue to believe in an ideal is beautiful to me.)

Where the Red Fern Grows (I do love a good coming-of-age story, and this is probably the best ever written. I used to ask to rent this movie whenever I'd get free Rent-a-Flik coupons at school. ... And I'm not even a dog person!)

Just call me Lola

Even if I'm not wearing "a dress cut down to there", I do have a feather in my hair.

I figure, if the shoe (song) fits, wear (sing) it.

But I digress. A thing which is, sadly, typical. It seems that as soon as I have what I like to refer to as "song association" (esp if it's Barry-centric), I start singing to myself and the point of a post goes out the window. So sorry about that.

Anyhoo...

I went to an 80's themed birthday party a few months ago and was mocked (can you believe it?!) for my feathered hair-piece.

Mind you, the feathers were coming out of a pink fish that I'd sewn onto a barrette and clipped into my hair. (It was a cat toy. Before you join the throng and mock me, you just think about how many people you know who can fashion an accessory out of a 99 cent cat toy, some beads and elastic. Yeah, that's what I figured. ... From the thrifty/crafty angle, it's a pretty sweet feathered accessory, no?)



Anyway, I was mocked for the feathers. (The flip folder full of cat pictures I was packing around all night long didn't help, I'm sure.) Seriously. Mocked. People laughed out loud at it, and one sweet girl asked me what had made me think to put feathers on a barrette. Because, like, how was that "period"?

Clearly, most of the people at this party weren't alive in 1981. I was. I knew 80's fashion (specifically, about feathers-in-the-hair), because I lived it, baby!



No kidding. This is a circa 1981 pic of me wearing barrettes that I'd made with my very own hands at a Mother/Daughter Homemaking. (And how much do you love that I still have the same pointy chin and smirky look on my face? Hilarious!)

That my mother let me wear pink feathered barrettes with a blue and white polka-dot dress to have professional pictures taken is a testament to how she has always just kind of stood back and let me do my own thing (fashion sense be damned!), bless her.

And there you have it.

Me, with feathers in my hair. Just call me Lola.

116 Days

For those of you who don't already know this, I don't brush my hair.

You read that right. I don't brush my hair. Like, ever. It gets all frizzy. There's too much static electricity going on in that mane of mine if I brush it, so I don't. Ever. ... In my defense, I do comb through it when it's wet at least once a week, so it's not a total tangle-fest in there, but brush it? Never.

So, now you know. I don't brush my hair. Judge me if you want. I'm good with that, it's been going on for years.

In fact, let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, I lived in Provo and there was a boy in my ward that looked an awful lot like Bob Saget. (I mean, an awful lot. I called him Bob, because he looked so much like him. And he called me Rosie, because back in the day when Rosie O'Donnell would do her hair and make-up for her daily talk show, I used to get told that I was a ringer for her.) Anyway, Bob and I were friends. Good friends, as we were both celebrity look-alikes and had a penchant for making fun of the weirdies at ward prayer. In one of our many late-night discussions of things personal, it came out that I don't ever brush my hair. He was fascinated by the non-brushing of the hair. (In all reality, most people are. I have perpetually had long hair, and there's a lot of it. Knowing that I don't ever take a brush to it makes people wonder how it's not a rat's nest.) Well, to Bob it was a thing of mystery. And to me, it was funny that it was so weird to him, so I totally stopped combing it out when it was wet, just to see how long I could go.

Meanwhile, summer turned into fall and Bob's girlfriend came back from wherever it was that she'd gone for the summer. In fact, as I recall, he went to pick her up. He got back into town on a Sunday and brought her to (drum roll, please) ward prayer to introduce her around. He marched her right up to me, all excited for the two of us to meet and become instant best friends and as he said my name, she rolled her eyes and said something along the lines of "So, you're the one who never brushes her hair?" (in a very condescending tone, I might add). I just laughed and said something along the lines of "Yup, that'd be me". She was horrified. She looked right at my head and, sneering a little, asked how long it had been since I'd brushed my hair. (Apparently, Bob had told her not only that I didn't brush my hair, but that I was mid-challenge with him on exactly how long I could go and not even comb it out when it was wet.) I proudly told her it had been just over 30 days. She rolled her eyes and said that was gross.

Challenge. On.

Before, I'd been all over not brushing my hair just to amuse Bob. ... Now that I knew it bothered his girlfriend that I was a non-brusher, I felt strangely compelled to push her over the edge.

I made it over two months, as I recall.

(Meanwhile, Bob and the girl got engaged. He moved out of the ward - and out of my life - just before they got married and I don't know what ever happened to him.)

Every once in a while, I think back to those months of striking on the hair hygiene front and I laugh out loud and how stubborn I could be when I was younger.

... And then I remember how stubborn I can be now.

It's been 116 days since I vacuumed, my friends. 116 days. This time last month, I was tempted to break out the old Dirt Devil, but then I counted the days since my last vacuum and thought, "Why do it now? If I wait another week, I'll hit the 90 day mark." And now I'm looking at the 120 day mark on Thursday of this week.

Is it sick that I enjoy pushing myself against these weird time lines? (Probably. But the good news is that I don't shed as much as I would if I were a hair brusher. From that perspective, I'd like to state for the record that my carpets could be oh, so very much worse.)

I'm a Mormon

I've been asked if I'm going to create one of those "I'm a Mormon" profiles for mormon.org. And, you know, I'm totally cool with that. Because, hi, I am a Mormon. Also, I have no qualms about putting that -- or other personal intel about myself -- online. (Obviously.) My only issue? I can't think of a good line to lead in with. All the commercials are like, "I'm a rocket scientist, an off-road enthusiast, a part-time archaeologist. And I'm a Mormon" or "I'm a race car driver, competed in a bake-off on nationally syndicated television, live to serve others. And I'm a Mormon." ... I have no such claims to fame. (Oh, except the "And I'm a Mormon" thing, as previously discussed.)

I've been trying to think of a little catchphrase. In my head, once I have the beginning, I'll be able to steamroll through this profile writing business. Here are a few ideas that I've come up with.

I am:

a TV addict
a lover of fudgecicles
a stubborn woman
an accomplished maker of sugar cookies
an avid reader
a cancer survivor
a freakishly independent little thing
a girl who does not like to vacuum
an unpublished author (so what if I haven't actually written a book yet?)
a Disneyland annual pass holder
an amateur cake decorator
a big fan of lazy days
a high school graduate
a people watcher extraordinaire
an old school movie buff
a cat person (notice I said "cat person" and not "cat lady")
a professional dater (but does that make me sound like a prostitute?)
a story teller
a super fun aunt
a collector of shoes (specializing in black heels)
a lover of big band music
a grammar nazi
a sap

My friend Jo's suggestion was "My name is Laurie. I grew up in Taylor, I swear like a sailor and I'm a Mormon." ... I'll give that there's a nice Taylor/sailor rhyme there, but I'm pretty sure that I'm not gonna go with that. (Methinks that Judy would not be amused.)

So, what do you think? I'm open to any and all suggestions. What am I? How would you define me? ... How should I spin this Mormon thing, do you think? HELP!

A Comparison/Contrast of Fiber Bars

Here's a little comparison/contrast essay on the difference in fiber bars. I'm going to make this really simple. In fact, I'm just gonna go right ahead and turn it into a photo essay.

These are delicous.



These are not.



Yup, that about sums that up.

An aside: How could Fiber One bars not kick Kelloggs' trash? Hello, chocolate chips are the second item listed in the ingredients. That's right, the second thing listed. There are more chocolate chips than there are oats in those puppies. No wonder I love them!

That is all.

What I do when I'm at work.

This is what I do at work (you know, besides working) - I count weeks on a calendar. Of the last 62 weeks, I’ve worked an accumulative 32. True story.

Here, I’ll show you the breakdown:

22 full weeks out (three surgeries, 9 weeks out, 6 weeks out and 5 weeks out + 2 weeks of vacation time)

16 weeks part time (6 weeks, 7 weeks and then 3 weeks part time for recovery from said surgeries)

That’s 38 weeks out of the last 62 that I haven’t worked full time. Granted 16 of them were part time, which means that my total out has been 30 weeks of the last 62, but I think 38 sounds more impressive so I'm keeping that number.

This is how I cope with working 40 hour weeks, by counting back to figure out how many weeks I haven’t worked this year. As sick as that may sound, it makes me feel better.

Just call me Pollyanna.

My whirlwind week.

I went back to work last Thursday. A week ago. I've been back at work for a week. (Well, kind of. I'm only part-time through the end of the month. Which is a blessing, since I can hardly stand to sit.)

Anyway, I went back to work. And then I proceeded to have one of the busiest weeks of my life. I don't even know how all this stuff came out of the woodwork. I've been swamped, and tired (exhausted, really), but I've also been super happy. It's been a good week.

I'll show you what I did. That'll be fun for everyone, I am sure.

I went and saw this movie:



It was, in a word, brilliant. Seriously, fantastic. (If you haven't read the books, you need to do it now. Because I'm not gonna lie, the book is better. But still, the movie was pretty epic.) Here's a little teaser:



My one complaint was that the Fred thing didn't go down quite right. (C'mon. All I'm asking for is for him to see Percy and to get a good laugh in. That would have added, like, 5 seconds to the film. Is 5 seconds too much to ask? I think not.) Other than missing the Weasely thing by a hair, it was fab. I mean, FAB. I started weeping when McGonagall started the enchantment to protect the school and didn't stop until about 2 days later. (True story. It came up in conversation at Sunday dinner and I started to cry - in a good way - all over again.) One of the most incredible stories of good vs. evil that I've ever read. I'm so sad that it's over, but I'm so glad that the movie was done so well. The ending was exactly perfect.

I weep. (Even now, just remembering.)

The theater was full - I mean, FULL - and people clapped and cheered at all the right parts. It was awesome.

I also saw this movie:



Soooo not a warm & fuzzy, sweet and sappy story about the Mormon pioneers. It was harsh, and it was hard. And that's exactly why I liked it. I liked that they showed that it was hard. It was hard. Really hard. But, with all my heart, I believe that it was worth it. (Also, I want to marry Levi Savage. Too bad I don't look enough like Sandra Bullock.)

I've whipped right through season one of my new favorite show:



Leverage. It's like Ocean's 11 and Burn Notice got married and had 5 criminally-minded con men babies with a Robin Hood complex. I'm in love.

And while I've been waiting for Netflix to send the next Leverage dvd, I've been catching up on one of my all-time favorites:



Sam Axe. I so love him.

One of the best things about the summer of 2010? Surgery took me totally out of commission and before I knew it, I'd missed the first half of Burn Notice Season 4. I opted to not even try to catch up and just buy the dvd's. ... Best. Decision. Ever. Being able to chain-watch 20+ new-to-me episodes of Sam? My version of a good weekend.

I read this book:



And I loved it. So much. So much more than I remember loving it last time. The language is incredible. The imagery is so vivid that the town practically comes to life. The moral lessons (that are taught on so many levels) are life-changing. Ahhhh... Such a good read. If you haven't read it, you must!

And I'm about halfway through this book:



Charles Dickens was the man. I'm so loving this book! (Of course, I'm not allowed to read it at night, because it's a little much for me. But that's ok. I can watch Burn Notice and/or Leverage at night, as they aren't the kind of thing that makes me think about the horrors of being hidden away from the world for 18 years.)

I went to the doctor AND the dentist yesterday on my day off. It was my final follow-up with my surgeon (hopefully, forever). This is how it went down:

The Good Doctor: Do you have your next 90 day scan scheduled? (He cracks me up. Like he thinks I'm ever going to let 90 days go by without being scanned? Hi, I'm the girl who grew a second tumor in less than 100 days. Uh, yeah, I have my next appt scheduled.)

Me: Yup.

Him: *eyebrows raised* (If you've met him, you know this look. It means that he's questioning me. ... I don't know how I know that he's questioning me, mind you, because he has never actually verbally questioned me, but trust me, it was a question.)

Me: My last appt was June 22nd. My next is scheduled for Sept 17th. (Because I am a "bury with proof" communicator, and I felt the need to make sure he knew that I'm taking this 90 day check-up thing seriously.)

Him: Has the oncologist told you what the follow-up will be for the future?

Me: Yup, every 90 days. Forever.

Him: Forever?

Me: That's what I understand. ... Something about how it came back so quickly the first time. They may relax it to every 6 months if I don't have another recurrence in the next 5 years, but for now? ... Every 90 days. Forever.

Him: That's a long time.

Me: I know. (It's the rest of my life in 3 month increments. Seriously - that's a long time.) And it will be expensive. This is why I must always have insurance. ... Or a rich husband. (We've had this talk before, the doctor and I. He knows good and well that the only reason I was willing to go through the abdominal surgery and possible cancer treatments for the second time in 12 months was because I had my own personal fantasy that it was all so I could meet a single oncologist who'd want to take care of me for the rest of my life. ... We all know how that little fantasy played out. Or didn't, rather.)

Him: I know. *smirking*

Me: And you know that I'm not doing a great job of finding a rich husband on my own, so if you could just keep an open eye on the medical community for me, I'd appreciate it.

Him: Sure, sure. (I got half a chuckle out of him. This, btw, is an accomplishment.)

Me: But all you can tell him is that you have this great patient that you think he should meet. You can't tell him that I'm neurotic, or that I make appointments just to come in and ask you questions.

Him: Of course not. *smiling*

Me: Thank you. ... For agreeing to help me find a husband. Oh, and for saving my life. Twice. And for operating on my bum. (Which also saved my life.) And for being a great doctor.

Him: You're welcome.

I love that man. I mean, I love him. If anyone ever needs the name of a surgeon in the greater Phoenix area, you just let me know. I couldn't recommend him or his quirky bedside manner highly enough - and I get compliments all the time (I'm not even kidding) on my scar. (Apparently, he does good work. Every single nurse and/or doctor who's seen my abdominal incision has raved about how clean the lines are.)

So, I've been busy. I've been working, and watching movies and tv shows and doing laundry and eating fudgecicles and getting stuff caught up and put away and taking care of medical and dental needs. I've been a busy little bee, to be sure.

But you want to know what I sure haven't done? You can probably guess.

It's not hard.

I mean, really - it's not a hard guess.

It's basically the easiest guessing game ever played.

Just think of the one thing that we all know that I never, ever do.

That's right. Vacuum. ... Maybe I'll do that next week. (But probably not.)

True, that.

Ah, Arizona!

The devil wanted a place on earth
Sort of a summer home
A place to spend his vacation
Whenever he wanted to roam.

So he picked out Arizona
A place both wretched and rough
Where the climate was to his liking
And the cowboys hardened and tough.

He dried up the streams in the canyons
And ordered no rain to fall
He dried up the lakes in the valleys
Then baked and scorched it all.

Then over his barren country
He transplanted shrubs from hell.
The cactus, thistle and prickly pear
The climate suited them well.

Now the home was much to his liking
But animal life, he had none.
So he created crawling creatures
That all mankind would shun.

First he made the rattlesnake
With it's forked poisonous tongue.
Taught it to strike and rattle
And how to swallow it's young.

Then he made scorpions and lizards
And the ugly old horned toad.
He placed spiders of every description
Under rocks by the side of the road.

Then he ordered the sun to shine hotter,
Hotter and hotter still.
Until even the cactus wilted
And the old horned lizard took ill.

Then he gazed on his earthly kingdom
As any creator would
He chuckled a little up his sleeve
And admitted that it was good.

Twas summer now and Satan lay
By a prickly pear to rest.
The sweat rolled off his swarthy brow
So he took off his coat and vest.

"By Golly, " he finally panted,
"I did my job too well,
I'm going back to where I came from,
Arizona is hotter than Hell. "

The Serenity Prayer

I'm pretty sure we all know it:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.

But does anyone else ever have a day when it is literally the only thing that holds them together? As in, that little prayer is the glue that keeps you from having a high-speed-come-apart?

"God grant me the courage to change the things I can"

This has been my mantra today.

It's been an odd day, comprised of felicitous surprises, conversations with dear friends, plans made for later in the year when (I hope!) I'll be feeling much better - balanced against an accidental sitting down full-force on the couch (insert expletives here), realizing the spaghetti sauce I'd had stored in the fridge had gone South (when all I wanted to eat in all the world was a big plate of spaghetti), digging through literally five different piles of medical forms to research dates of service and insurance pay-outs (again).

At about 2:45 this afternoon, I fell down (onto my side, not my bum this time) into my bed and cried. Some days ... it's just too much. (Also, I'm stepping down from a high powered narcotic to a mid-level drug today. This probably had a lot to do with my emotional runninng of the gamut and subsequent fall apart.) I took a look at the clock on the all, buried my face in my pillow, and gave myself 'til 3:00 to lie there and wallow in my pain, both literal and emotional, and then pick myself up and control what I could control.

And control, I did. Almost everything that came my way after that. (Thank heaven.)

At 10:00 PM, as I take my last dose of pain pills for the day, I am grateful that this particular Thursday is behind me. It wasn't necessarily a bad day. In fact, on a lot of levels, it was fantastic - but it was intense - and there were things that were hard. I'm grateful for the perspective that The Serenity Prayer gives me, for the empowerment that comes with changing those things that I can change.

And I'm grateful for Ativan. Because it helps me let go of the stuff that I can't change.

Amen.

All in a year's time

You may recall that last summer, Jo and I were pregnant at the same time. Oh, wait. She was pregnant. I just looked like I was. (Darn tumor!)



This year? Not so pregnant. (Either of us.) Jo has a stinkin' cute little baby named Sally and I ... well ... I am still wearing this same orange/pink/white tie-dyed style shirt. (Well, I've taken it in about 8 inches and now almost always wear it belted. But still, I am still wearing the same shirt. New clothes cost money. Altering clothes does not.)



You also may recall that, at the time, all of my doctors were under strict instruction not to share pictures, samples or even have conversations with me or my family members regarding said tumor. I knew, going in, that they were figuring it was about 10 lbs, and about the size of a volleyball in diameter. (They, of course, were dead wrong about the size/diameter, but that was the assumption.) Just this week, I sucked it up and asked for a copy of the dvd from the medical imaging company who performed the CT in June 2010. Mom and I looked though all 244 pictures of said tumor. Some of them made sense, some of them made us gag, some of them made us giggle. Almost all of them made us "see" things that weren't there. Here, I will show you.

Check this out. My guess is that this is a pelvic view (they did a chest/abdomen/pelvic CT) and those white arm-looking guys at the bottom are actually my femurs extended for that view.

But the thing is, even KNOWING that this is a pelvic view and the arms/legs are easily explainable, I can't help but think that it looks a little like a weight-lifting championship being held by maniacs. ... Seriously, check out the maniacal grin on Atlas there as he holds up the world. (The world = my 22.5 lb tumor.)



And then there's the balloon tumor, AKA: Pinky and The Brain. (It's wanting to take over the world.)



This was the first picture I saw, and it made my stomach fall right out of me. They'd shaded out all organs, so all you can see is the tumor, free-floating. It looks a little Hiroshima to me.



And, in the spirit of saving the best (or, at least, my favorite) for last. Check out the kitty cat tumor. The split spinal cord at the bottom of the shot looks like a cat, and the tumor looks like balls and balls of gray yarn stacked up in a bowl. Hilarious, no?!



Who knew that CT shots of tumors would be such a fun run down Rorschach Lane? I tell you what, if I am ever in my life given another Rorschach test, I will be thinking that every single ink shot looks like a tumor. Every single one. Hilarious!

It's been a nutty, nutty year. I've had three surgeries in twelve months, lost somewhere between 80 and 90 pounds (I don't believe in owning a scale, for reasons I will not go into here and now), mostly due to having spent months of my life last summer subsisting on crackers and air. (Not a diet I'd recommend.) I've gotten pretty good at altering dresses, skirts and tops to fit the new me. My mom has gotten even better at custom-fitting dresses that I'd shrunk right out of. (What do you think she does when she comes to "take care of me" after all these surgeries? I run quite the little dress-altering-sweat-shop here, folks.) I've modified my diet and my lifestyle. Not grossly (and any of you people who are cracked enough to think a triathlon is on the horizon for me are simply that - cracked - it took me getting cancer (twice) to start walking on a daily basis, I don't even want to consider what might happen in my life to make me start running, swimming and/or biking for miles on end).

I've said it before, and I'm sure that I'll say it again. And again. And again.

This year has been hard. In some ways, unspeakably hard. There are moments, days and nights that I won't ever talk about, because simply remembering those dark hours reduces me to a puddle of tears. But there are other parts, even other hard parts, that have made it all worthwhile. This year isn't something I'd have chosen out of a basket full of fun things to do (we all know I'd rather have a summer fling than a summer cancer treatment program), but I would never - never, not ever - consider giving it back. I have learned things that I don't think I could have learned any other way.

Relationships have been redefined. Friendships and family are the most precious things in my life. Time has new meaning. Risk isn't really risk anymore, it's more like just taking a chance or trying something that I've always wanted to do.

I have been redefined. (Not just my waist and my hips and my sad, old lady bosom and my bum full o' stitches.) I am different. Different in a way that I like to think is better, and stronger. (It's probably all those push-ups I have to do just to get down into and then up out of bed.)

May this year never feel the need to repeat itself so long as we all shall live.

Amen.

I took one for the team today.

What team, I really don't know.

This is what happens when I use sports metaphors - I take them totally out of context (because, let's face it, when we're talking about me + sports, there is no context), and then I start to doubt myself and my ability to speak and/or write effectively.

But still, I'm pretty confident that I'm using the phrase correctly when I say that I took one for the team today.

You know, if "the team" was the whole of the human race. (Or, at the very least, the parts of that human race whom I love and would rather remain cancer-free.)

I went shopping this afternoon for a new steering wheel cover because my car has this weird melty-steering-wheel-oozing-black-goo thing going on. (Okay, okay. Who's kidding who? This has been happening for about 3 years now. There's a hole in the back of my steering wheel and when it gets anywhere near warm - which happens all the freaking time here on the surface of the sun - it oozes. Black goo. Which gets all over my hands when I drive, not to mention what it did to my favorite white skirt last year. But I digress.) I needed a steering wheel cover for the Neon, and lacking a decent boyfriend who'd take care of these things for me, I took myself down to AutoZone this afternoon to pick one up.

I was pretty surprised at all of the steering wheel cover options. I mean, there are options, people. I had about 20 or so to choose from. It was like buying a pair of black heels, but... not nearly as much fun.

So, after a good 5 minutes of looking at different patterns and fabrics and embroidered versus pleather covers, I made a decision. I pulled out the steering wheel cover of my dreams, flipped it over to get the instructions on how to "install" it (shut up - I do, too, need instructions for this... you people know how easy it is for me to hurt myself) and I saw that the rubber contained in the product is known to cause cancer. Oh, and reproduction problems. Awesome. Of course, I dropped that cover like the cancer-causing-hot-potato it was and picked out my second choice. Again, "known to cause cancer". My third choice was also a carcinogenic and child mutator.

I'm not kidding. Check it out.



They were ALL labeled with this warning. What the heck?! ... So I thought about just living with the black goo. And then I remembered that I already have cancer (again), and it's not like I'm going to be growing anything other than tumors in my abdomen any time soon (remember the conspicuous lack of a boyfriend who would take care of this kind of thing for me?). (Also, I'm still bitter about the goo ruining my white skirt.) So I decided to just buy the darn thing and install it myself. I mean, if anyone in my life is going to get exposed to cancer causing elements like unto steering wheel covers, it might as well be me.

So, I bought my little cancer wheel cover and I put it on my steering wheel myself. And then I promptly wiped my hands, the steering wheel and the rest of my car down with Clorox Wipes, because I wanted to kill any and every weird cancer/mutant causing germ that I could. (I don't know that this is even a real threat, but it was worth a shot. Also, I like the citrus smell of the Clorox Wipes a heckuvalot better than I liked the smell of the new steering wheel cover.)

And that is the story of how I took one for the team today.

The End.

*And yes, I am aware that just putting a steering wheel cover on a steering wheel won't actually fix the leaking goo issue. It's the proverbial band-aid. And I couldn't care less. Listen, this car's 11 years old and it's been leaking goo for 3 of them. I'm pretty sure it's not a major mechanical issue. Besides, I found a cute little cover that had flowers embroidered on it. (Which I bought right up, because it was super girly, and so am I.)

And now that I have that little disclaimer out of the way, it's really the end of this post.

The End.

So... I'm a stress eater.

Anyone who knows me, knows this. I have absolutely no guilt reflex associated with food. The calorie count is moot, esp when I'm eating something that is delicious and pleasing to the taste. I'm pretty sure this comes, to quote a favorite movie, "from my mother's side of the family". (Jude's been known to mix a cup of cake batter up and then eat it with a spoon, for a quick chocolate fix. It's true. I come by it honestly.)

I love food, especially food that is based in the Chocolate Food Category. (Yeah, I have my own food pyramid. Don't judge.) But when I'm stressing about something, I eat more than usual. As in, more often and in greater quantities. Sort of like a crazed, mad woman. One could liken it to chain smoking. For example, yesterday I pounded down almost a lb of peanut M&M's in under 12 minutes at work. One after another, before I'd swallowed what I'd chewed, I had another M&M poised and ready to pop into my mouth. And when they were gone, I was a little bit amazed that I'd eaten them so quickly. ... And then I was sad that they were gone. I mean, sad.

See, the thing is that I'm a little stressed by all this talk of The Return of the Tumor. And while I do my best to maintain a positive outlook and a belief that this will all work out (somehow) and I'm sure that I will be fine, there are a lot of questions that I don't have answers to just yet. (It's hard for me not to know what's going on in my life, control freak that I am.) I hate waiting, and there's nothing worse than waiting alone. Which is why, this weekend, I enlisted my friends Ben & Jerry to keep my company while I waited. Great plan, right? Until I wound up staring at the bottom of an ice cream carton and realized that Ben & Jerry would no longer be able to keep me company. Or provide me solace. It was a dark moment, I tell you. Thank heaven for my friend, Microwave Popcorn, (yes, I just capitalized that, like it's a proper noun) or I'd have never made it through the day. Honestly.

Tonight, fresh out of peanut M&M's and my favorite flavor of Ben & Jerry's ice cream, and on the verge of an emotional break, I ransacked my pantry, looking for something edible. Something soothing. Something chocolate.

And this is what I found.

A box Thin Mints? All to myself?! Major win!

I ate 4 cookies shy of one tube in about 20 minutes. It's true. And then my stomach told me that was enough, so I stopped.

Two hours later, I'm hoping my stomach stopped me because it was full, and not that the "must stop now" feeling was a premonition of food-poisoning-to-come. This box of Girl Scout cookies is ... well, was, actually ... over 5 years old. (When I moved here in 2006, I brought this box with me, and just never got around to eating it.) Here's hoping the preservatives those little Girl Scouts use are effective. :-)

*I'm going to the store tomorrow to buy a big bag of peanut M&M's. Oh, and probably some ice cream. As delicious as those darn cookies were, I'm thinking that taking my intestinal life into my hands when I went on a stress-eating-chocolate-binge might not have been such a bright idea, after all. Oh, brother. When will I ever learn?

My afternoon field trip.

I took myself on a field trip this afternoon to the local Asian market, hoping to find some Guarana to take to my brother's birthday party tomorrow.



No such luck. No Guarana to be found. (In fact, the typical Brazilian aisle seemed to be oddly missing. The Indonesian aisle? Check. The Tawain aisle? Double check. The Hispanic aisle? Of course. But no Brazilian cheese puff mix or Guadana to be found. Poor Spencer and Kirk. I had such great intentions, too.)

But I did run across all manner of other interesting (by which I mean: unusual and gag-reflex-inducing) foodstuffs. Like:




Really? Like I wanted to drink grass in the first place? No. No, I did not. (I am not one to add wheat grass juice to my Jamba Juice. Maybe some protein powder, but most definitely NOT the wheat grass.) Add the word "jelly" to the grass juice, and it just takes on a whole new level of horror.

Then there was this can of aloe vera drink:



What the heck? ... Uh, no. Nope, I'm pretty sure you couldn't pay me to drink this. (And I don't care how much honey you added to aloe vera plant, I don't know how you could make it delicious.) There were at least five different brands/versions of aloe vera juice/soda. What the heck?!

On the other hand, I am a big fan of pretty dishes:



Seriously, I spent a good 20 minutes in this aisle, just checking out blue and white faux china patterns. (I heart blue and white china. I really do.)

Look at this bowl:



It was, like, $3.50 or something. I sooo wanted to buy it, but then I remembered that I already have too many serving dishes in my cupboards that I never use, so I made myself leave it at the store. But seriously, I wanted it. Badly.

But what didn't I want? I will show you. Look at this bizarro fruit:



I can't remember what it was called, but the word "fresh" was in the name of it (or was on the sign, anyway). I don't know if that means that they were actually fresh/new whatever-they-were, or if fresh is part of the name of the fruit. (Or maybe it's a vegetable. I don't know. It was in the produce section, so it could go either way.) All I know is, I had never seen anything like it. They were about the size/shape of watermelons, but they were pokey. And more than a little bit scary to me.

Huh.

The Asian market. Always a good time. ... Until you get sick of breathing through your mouth so you don't gag and you have to leave before you lose it. (I tell you, it's the live fish they keep in the back of the store. When I first walk in, it smells a little fishy, but I think I can take it. After 20 minutes or so of walking the store, perusing unusual foodstuffs, I realize I'm about to be done in by the smell of fish and I have to run for the exit like I'm running for my life. Every time.)

Watching water dry

You know that phrase "watching paint dry"? Yeah, I could totally do that. I have done it. I've literally sat and stared at a wall while I waited for paint to dry, so I could do a second (or third, or fourth) coat. Why? Not because I didn't have other stuff to do. Oh, no. Because sometimes I really enjoy having nothing better to do that just sit and stare.

I'm boring.

And maybe just a little bit nutsy.

But you all love me anyway, so it's alright.

Anyhoo. The reason for this post is that I was at work today, and I went into the bathroom just as the janitorial staff was heading out. They'd just barely mopped. I noticed this as I walked into the bathroom, because it had a delightfully Pine-Sol-ish smell going on. (I heart the smell of pine scented cleansers.) Also, the floor was all wet and shiny. I walked into my favorite handicapped stall and... well, you know... sat down and then looked at the floor. (Because what else do you look at when you're in a stall in a public restroom, the art?)

And what did glorious sight did mine eyes behold?



That's right. Water drying. In the space of a couple minutes (or however long it takes me to pee), I was able to actually watch water dissipate.

It was a fine moment.

Watching water dry. It's infinitely more fun that working.

True story.

My kind of mud pie...

A few days ago, I posted something about how it's the little things in life that make me happy. It's true, I think. The little things are actually the big things.

Behold, that which brought me exceeding joy today:



Yeah, that's dried mud. I mean, it's dirt. But once upon a time, it was mud that got baked into little cakes of dirt in the hot Arizona sun, so when I walk on it, I hear the creaking, crackling sound of dirt clods breaking up. I love that sound! I've loved it my whole life. I used to walk home from school as a kid, looking for dirt that had dried in these weird little patterns. It was the most fun thing for me to be able to make dirt crunch when I walked over it.

Today, I went on a walk and saw a patch of dirt that had baked itself into these little mud cakes. You'd better know that I walked right into it and stepped on as many pieces of dried mud/dirt as I possibly could.

My once-white tennis shoes are a little worse for the wear, but my soul is happy.