Reality. Drama. Talk. Variety. Comedy.
Take your pick. It’s everywhere— lately cancer seems like the hottest subject on TV.
George Clooney. Gwyneth Paltrow. Will Smith. Jane Lynch. Just the latest stars to join the lineup for the upcoming Stand Up to Cancer TV fundraiser airing September 10. So many Hollywood names are signed up, it might be easier to list the stars who are NOT appearing.
Last night. actor Michael Douglas— looking very dapper— calmly told David Letterman the kind of personal information most people might hesitate before sharing at a dinner party—all the details about his recent diagnosis with Stage IV throat cancer—openly discussing his first week of chemo and radiation, his symptoms, his prognosis, even his odds of survival. (80%)
Maybe not as personal as Katie Couric’s colonoscopy….but very real.
As fiction, cancer’s been fodder for medical shows, dramas, comedies —the latest being the new comedy series on Showtime starring Laura Linney—The Big C. Cancer is the focus for the whole season—which starts with the recent diagnosis of the main character, Kathy— who has Stage IV melanoma. ( I did say it’s a comedy.)
I’m a big believer in the relationship between cancer, humor and healing. And people have been asking me what I think of the show.
Spoiler alert. (Isn’t a story about terminal cancer already kind of a spoiler?) I’ve watched all 3 episodes so far; and Kathy has not only refused treatment, but has still not told her husband or family that she has cancer.
This plot line kind of shocked me at first; although if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that attitudes towards cancer are as unpredictable as cancer itself.
So although I wouldn’t make the same choices, my reaction to the show is all positive. Anything Laura Linney does is positive, anyway. And I feel the same way about anything that increases awareness of cancer.
I’m old enough to remember when the word was spoken only in whispers. When I did a documentary on breast cancer years ago, people were shocked that I could get women with breast cancer to show their faces.
Today cancer is everywhere on television; we could practically have a whole network devoted to The Big C— call it: TBC-TV.
I only wish cancer researchers in the labs had come as far as attitudes and openness on television.
Stay tuned.
For once it wasn’t about the clothes.
With all the stylists dressing everyone in Hollywood, these award shows might never again bring us a star wearing a gasp-worthy outfit. Unless you include the attire worn by Temple Grandin– who was the real star of the show.
Temple Grandin with Claire Danes, who played her
Her life story won a well-deserved Emmy, and her authentic exuberance last night added to her contribution in shining a light on the issue of autism.
For me the other star of the show was more personal.
It was something to nourish all the parents of 20-something kids we’re reading about so much lately— the boomerang kids back in the nest and the checkbook; the ones confused about careers and delaying the onset of real life.
I hear many stories about families in this situation lately— these are the children of my generation.
The first friend of mine to have kids was a college friend and his wife. I remember going to their apartment in Los Angeles to celebrate the birth of their son; and then a few years later, their daughter.
Last night, she won an Emmy for writing Mad Men. Congratulations Erin Levy—and thank you for giving hope to parents of 20-somethings everywhere.
I love the beginning of the school year — even though I have no direct involvement anymore. No back-to- school clothes; no school supplies to buy; nothing to do…….
except this—re-post one of my favorites:
I don’t do back-to school shopping any more—but I still sense the educational expectations and emotions that arise every September. The start of a school year summons up strong feelings. The first day photo op. Proud parents, sweet smiles, sharp pencils. (Do they still USE pencils?)
For most parents, the feelings are positive:—Pride. Hope. Freedom. Sometimes the feelings are not as positive: If you just sent your kid off to school or college for the first time and you’re worried. If your kid has a teacher you don’t like– or is in a school you don’t like– or is put into the wrong reading group.
I feel your pain. I wish I could spare you the emotional wear and tear and just say it will all work out in the end—because probably it will.
I also wish I could go back and spare my former self some of the drama.
It started from the moment my first child was born when my dad started discussing where she’d someday go to college. I didn’t buy into this ridiculousness. (But I was thinking Yale.)
Alli’s education started at 6 weeks. ( I would have started sooner but I had a very rough delivery). I started her in a mommy and me class nearby—to check out the school’s potential as a learning institution. That was the first of many schools she attended— we’re talking double digit numbers. And that was before kindergarten—when the real nightmare started (a.k.a. private school applications).
At the time we lived in Los Angeles. Problem one is that we weren’t in a position to donate a building. Problem two is that there were way too many kids and way too many schools and way too many choices for someone like me—-who felt I had to do it absolutely right. I was so intense and so invested in this process, I felt as if my entire life—and hers—-depended on her getting into the “right” school.
Only she didn’t. She didn’t get into a single school we applied to. I could hear the gate to Yale slam shut.
I won’t even get into how a parent feels when your kid is rejected from anything, much less at such a tender age. Alli was 5, happily oblivious that her future success was swirling down the drain. The grownup was the one who cried.
At the one school I desperately wanted her to attend, Alli was on the waiting list—along with several other kids we knew. This was a tiny school—with space for 11 girls in kindergarten. Several siblings were automatically admitted, so god knows how many desperate parents wanted those remaining few spaces. I hate to make light of something serious—but it was a little like waiting for someone to get hurt so you could get their donated organs.
I grasped onto that one sliver of hope, pulled myself together and went into the school . I demanded begged requested to speak to the director to convince her that in the event one of the lucky little girls holding the brass ring decided to let go, the very first child to come off the waiting list should be mine.
Sitting in the director’s office pleading my case, I did something I would not recommend to parents in the same situation. Maybe I shouldn’t even mention it—this is not one of my prouder moments.
I cried.
Yeah. I said I wasn’t proud of it.
I spent the next couple months checking out every public and private school within the Los Angeles county limits. And then over the summer we got a call and Alli did end up at that very school where fortunately the administration had the vision not to punish a child because of the lunacy of a parent.
Years later, the same experience was repeated— different school, different city, different ending. (That time I didn’t use the water works.) I have to admit it hurt a little less in the second go-around. Time—and cancer—-helped put things in perspective.
For the schools it was always a numbers game . For me it was always emotional. It took a lot of years and lot of tears until I finally shut down the drama department. I’m over the angst. Both my kids’ educations are ongoing—and I’ve been educated, too. I’ve learned to go with the flow and not to get all emotional about it.
Even though Alli never did go to Yale.
I wish life came with a lesson plan. I wish 5 year olds never had to be rejected from anything. I wish all kids could get the education their parents hope they will get. But even when they don’t, there is something to be learned—if not in school, then from the experience. Mostly to enjoy those precious moments in September and every moment possible the rest of the year. And keep tissues handy.
Also posted on the Huffington Post
1. What uses more water—hand-washing or a dishwasher?
2. Is it better for the environment to use a garbage disposal or throw food scraps in the garbage?
3. When you’re confronted with choices from free range to cage free to fertile to certified organic—how do you know eggs-actly what the labels mean?
(For the answers, see below)
You wouldn’t find this information in an ordinary cookbook—but this is also a guide packed with tips for a green kitchen.
I’ve already started eating my way through 250 wonderful recipes.
So I can personally testify that this cookbook has not only calories (and chocolate!) but also a conscience.
Which leads me to the best part.
You can click here and buy it on Amazon—
or you can leave a comment below—to win one of TWO copies I’m giving away—autographed by author Myra Goodman.
No rules on the comments—feel free to mention how gorgeous Myra looks on the cover. Did I mention she’s a very close friend??
I’ve never done a giveaway before on this blog—and I might never do one again—but this is a giveaway I couldn’t resist….a sneak preview for FOM (friends of Myra).
The cookbook officially launches this weekend with a party at the famous Earthbound Farm Farmstand in Carmel Valley– if you happen to be in the neighborhood.
P.S. Deadline for comments is September 1, when I’ll draw 2 winners.
For the answers to the questions above—see page 9, page 249, and page 376.
I’m still continuing to honor my commitment to Daniel, to take better care of myself— and I’m still blogging about it for the American Cancer Society.
Although this was a tough week to stick to my promise about eating less sugar.
And it’s pretty clear from the title where this is heading…..
Possibly my favorite Bob Dylan song.
So I was ecstatic that it was one of the songs he sang at his concert in Monterey tonight.
Actually he talked the song—-but who cares?
I had never seen him perform.
And all I cared about was seeing a legend, a gigantic talent, a man who was a huge part of my youth.
Seeing him was a memory I’ll treasure forever. ….. the second best part of the night.
The best part was when the guy next to me asked why someone so young had any interest in Bob Dylan.
I’m visiting friends who live a few hours away—which brings back the sights and smells of other summers when my kids were small.
Before I knew we’d ever relocate to Carmel, my kids and I spent a couple summers down the coast near San Luis Obispo. For city folks, this was our first introduction to small town living. There wasn’t much traffic; or anything else we were used to—and as a mom, I discovered small towns can be a window into the simpler pleasures of life.
We spent so much time (and money) at the House of Bread I wanted to start a franchise when we went back to Los Angeles.
15 years later, there are some franchises—in places as far as Wasilla, Alaska. (don’t get me started)
Besides expanding locations, they’ve also expanded the varieties of bread—and they even give free samples.
I’ll just say in 15 years I never met a bread I didn’t like.
But the best bang for the buck can be bought for the price of a pack of gum.
Especially when you’re the mom of a 4-year- old and an 8- year- old who can be entertained just looking at a wall.
By the way, this isn’t wallpaper.
The walls of this entire alleyway—-both sides—are completely covered in gum….that’s been chewed and left for posterity.
I have no idea how this local attraction got started–or why—-or why I decided to post this. Maybe I’m stuck in the past.
It’s the most precious of our resources.
It’s ephemeral and everlasting; measurable and mercurial; immediate and infinite.
We all get our share; we all want more.
More people say they value it more than money.
It’s time.
And lately I’m hyper–aware that it flies.
This week I get a double whammy–
A birthday is a not-so-subtle reminder…
And an empty nest—briefly filled between Daniel’s 6 months abroad and imminent return to college.
I’m not counting the hours…. but I’m treasuring them.
At this moment, somewhere in upstate New York and Maine and Pennsylvania, kids are deeply invested in a battle of skills and wills, in one of the rituals of childhood summers.
How will it break? What color will they be? Will they be pitted against a best friend or a brother or sister? Will they be chosen a camper captain? Will they buckle under pressure or will they rise to the occasion?
If you have no idea what I mean, click here to read today’s New York Times, describing the experience and origins of Color War. This tradition— almost a hundred years old—is often the climax of summer camp. For many kids, it’s not only the high point of the summer, it’s the high point of the year.
Reading this article brought memories flooding back. What I remember most about Color War: lining up to march with our team to meals and activities while singing fight songs. Hours of rehearsal to memorize several songs written by counselors that we’d perform on the last night at the Camp Sing. The Apache Relay, passing a baton after racing or doing a stunt like you’d see on Minute to Win it-–involving the participation of every camper in the whole camp. I also remember it seemed as if the Green Team always won.
Those four days of Color War every summer are embedded so deeply in my brain that to this day, I remember Color War songs I learned at age 8 — that I sang ONCE—better than I remember most of my college courses.
I went to camp every summer for 8 weeks—from age 8 through age 18—including two years as a counselor. I waited 10 months every year for the chance to sleep on a sagging mattress and swim twice a day in a freezing cold lake and sweep the floor and clean the bathrooms…and love every minute.
It’s where experiences and attachments can help form a future. Where kids both grow and get to be kids—learning about sports and sharing and life and love. Where romances often bloom—including my own parents, who met at the same camp I attended in upstate New York. I didn’t meet a mate at camp—but I was lucky to make friends—and bonds—and memories—-that have lasted a lifetime. If you went to camp, maybe you did, too.
This year I managed to avoid the drive of shame. But I didn’t manage to avoid being in town the weekend of the Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance, the world’s most exclusive car show.
The whole area is swarming— people + cars = traffic.
Since cars aren’t my thing, I went someplace without them. Just a mile down the road is Point Lobos-–called “the greatest meeting of land and water in the world”—even on a cloudy day, the perfect place to point—and shoot.
