Though it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, I think this is V’s least favorite thing about me: not only being indecisive, but also revisiting decisions I already supposedly made. ( Somehow this isn’t a problem when it comes to making decisions for everyone else–that’s easy.)
And now my indecisiveness can extend into cyberspace: Facebook, Twitter, blogs, email–when and where and why and how to comment and connect—can all be completely confounding and confusing.
Even my own blog can be confusing.
I started out with one decision: to blog every day. Since I revised that decision, it’s a constant series of new decisions– subject matter, quality vs. quantity, how long, how often, how personal.
After a year and a half, my blog looks like one of my mosaics— with pieces of all sizes and colors and shapes—which is fine. Until I skip a few days like I just did. People wonder where I’ve been. …and then I wonder, who am I blogging for—me or you?
I can’t decide.
People were so taken by those Carmel cottages I posted about recently— I have to share my favorite.
If you’re in Carmel, don’t miss it— it’s so tiny, you easily could.
There it is, tucked away on the main street in town….a scene right out of a storybook….
Like many local cottages, there’s a quaint little sign with the name: which fits perfectly.:
As a frequent visitor, I can testity that the Cottage of Sweets is equally perfect inside…..
The decor is in my favorite color….chocolate brown…. and in excellent taste.
… .. faded from the headlines—from the hearts and minds of many Americans occupied with pressing problems in Haiti and closer to home.
For other Americans it’s still far but not forgotten. Never for an instant can they forget the people they love, separated by continents and conflicts far from home….held close to their hearts.
Today I said goodbye to our soldier. After a short visit home he’s begun his long trip back to a place I will never see, on the other side of the world in the middle of a desert.
Right now he’s on a plane or walking through an airport. If you’re traveling someplace, you might see him, my son-in-law. He’s any soldier. He’s every soldier— somebody’s son or daughter, brother or sister, father or mother. He’s somebody’s friend.
How easy it is for most of us at home to forget. Sometimes I forget. That all of us can only be safe if some of us are willing to sacrifice.
They consider that a duty and an honor. Our duty is to honor that….and not to forget them.
They never forget us.
The groundhog has barely crawled back underground—- and now I find out there’s already another day in early February that demands attention.
Today is World Cancer Day. So, um…….Best Wishes Have a Happy Merry Congratulations FUCK Cancer? That last one sounds about right.
As a cancer activist I can’t write about anything else and I can’t let this day pass unmentioned….and I’m not sure how to commemorate this day designated by the World Health Organization— that feels like so many other days when cancer is on my radar and on my mind.
So…I hope everyone will remind the people you love to quit smoking and wear sunblock and do the things that promote good health.
I’m going to think about all the people cancer has taken away….. those fighting it with all they have…..and work on helping create a world without Cancer Day…..a world with more birthdays. That I know how to celebrate.
…..and often it seems as if people talk about nothing else. For good reason:
44% of American families spend more than they earn
The average American household carries over $8000 in credit card debt
Money is the #1 cause of divorce
And these figures were BEFORE the current crisis.
It’s scary—not only the economy; but the issues around our unhealthy relationships with money—as a society and as individuals. When it comes to money, otherwise smart people can do some very dumb things.
I’m not pointing fingers or naming names (though the name Madoff leaps to mind). I’m as fiscally challenged as anyone else. Probably worse. My parents were big believers in education but not on this subject— and I didn’t teach my kids any more than I was taught about financial management.
I was surprised to learn most parents make the same mistake—-according to the financial expert I heard recently, on a conference call about money and teenagers.
I can hear parents groaning from here. Teenagers and money go together about as well as ….Tiger Woods and cell phones. Studies indicate most parents would rather talk to their teens about drugs or sex. But even if you don’t talk about it, our values about money are passed on to the kids anyway—by our actions.
And problems can continue indefinitely, after the kids leave home, when many parents still struggle with this issue. They’re blindsided when their kids are blindsided. And it’s no surprise. Though almost all college kids carry credit cards, only 15% of them have any formal training managing finances. Even if you’re not good with numbers, you know what that adds up to: trouble.
It seems logical that the more financial savvy we give the next generation, the less likely that they will create a mess like we’re in right now. Since parents have varying competence, I’ve always thought schools should teach kids more real life skills so they don’t hit the wall in real life. H & R Block is doing that, with its program to fund financial education ( apply for your school before February 15.) Their site also has tips for parents from financial psychologist Dr. Brad Klontz, whose book I’m giving away on Cluttercast.
Fortunately I don’t need to read the book myself. Thanks to a financially astute ex-husband miracle, both of my kids magically turned into young adults who manage money responsibly. I’m counting on them to teach me.
For modern money talk (and a creative way to reach– and teach—their generation) you have to check this out:
I don’t remember the day itself; but I have a record of what I did.
It’s in this little journal I kept through my first pregnancy. It was meant for food—-but I’d be horrified to record what I consumed every day— so I kept track of everything else.
Across the top of the page I wrote a status report: February 1, 42 weeks, 10th month.
More than 2 weeks overdue, by now I was jumping rope trying to get labor started.
Here’s some of what I wrote:
I saw the doctor. He’s checking me in tomorrow morning at 7:30 a.m. to induce labor.
I’m 90% effaced and 4 cm. dilated. Technically I’m already through most of early labor and I shouldn’t have much trouble tomorrow. ( Ha! Famous last words…)
I’ve practically given up on nutrition and have been eating way too many Mrs. Fields’ cookies— though in honor of the baby’s health, I switched from chocolate chip to oatmeal raisin.
I’m relieved, excited and just a little nervous. It still feels so unreal…
We have a pool going for the baby’s weight. H picked 7 lbs. 12 oz and I picked 8 lbs. 3 oz. (neither of us were close; she weighed 9 lbs. 8 oz.)
I still can’t quite believe another person is going to come out of me. I’m so much calmer than I would have expected…. After all this time it’s hard to realize it’s going to happen.
Tomorrow is Groundhog’s Day. Larry says she’ll come out, see her shadow, and go back in for another 6 weeks.
A few hours later I was walking into the hospital….already in labor…..which started 2 hours before I was due to be induced.
Who knew the timing could have given me clues to my baby’s personality even before she emerged ; her fierce independence and iron will to do things herself—in her own way.
As I look back on the words I wrote that day, I wonder what I would say now—how I could prepare my former self for the most responsibility and the most precious treasure I would ever receive.
How would I put into words the magnitude of the exquisite pride and pain and pleasure; the hope and sometimes heartbreak that means mothering a human being.
From the top: where you have no idea what’s going on inside the brain of your newborn to make her cry…..and decades later when you’re still wondering what’s going on inside your kids’ heads…..
To the bottom: the feet so tiny I used to put them in my mouth…. are the same feet they use to walk out the door when they’re on their own.
I’m sure I would write different words than the ones that spilled over the page 26 years ago today.
Most importantly, some words I thought I knew would be redefined a few hours later:
Love. Commitment. Gratitude.
And one more word: that I heard first from the person I was about to meet; that expresses maybe more than any other word how I would come to define myself: Mom.
Also posted on 50-Something Moms blog
What else can you possible call it?
With respect to Theodore Dreiser, no fiction writer could dream up this mess. It would be a great story, if only it weren’t real.
I didn’t intend to write about it…but I also didn’t think John Edwards could sink any lower than he already had. I love words but I don’t have any to describe him. Watching 20/ 20 hit me wherever is below below the belt. And maybe I feel this personally because I know the fragility of someone with cancer.
Yet even the cancer card isn’t protecting Elizabeth Edwards; her nasty phone message is being played as just another scene in the story. And though I feel protective toward her myself, many blame her for continuing to support his candidacy.
Everyone involved was manipulated by something or someone bigger than themselves. From Andrew Young who bought into the charisma to his wife, willing to shield the secret so Elizabeth wouldn’t die knowing about Rielle Hunter.
Every one of them drank the Kool-Aid. Sickening. Sordid. Sad.
Yet this is just another story in a list as long as Tiger’s list of mistresses.
The only surprise is that anyone is surprised anymore —the public, or the people who get caught. Though maybe John Edwards’ story outweighs Tiger’s in hubris, you have to believe the only worse stories are the ones we haven’t heard yet…..till the revolving door spins and the next deer gets caught in the headlights.
They’re victims of the most potent and pernicious elixir on the planet : power.
Power of money. Position. Fame. Any or all of the above.
It’s like cancer itself, eating into values and religion and morality—which are all at risk no matter who you are and what you hold dear.
The poison of power can puncture holes in character; strip away sense and sensitivity; remove reason and rationality.
And the public plays its part. . We build up our heroes and fall under their spell–letting them sell us everything from pet food to politicians. We buy into the image just like they do. We hand them the keys to the kingdom and then we wonder why they believe they really are kings…..and emperors.
Sometimes we all forget to remember: the emperor has no clothes.
Especially when we’re living in a time of transparency…. when anyone with a cellphone is carrying a loaded weapon and 140 characters on a screen can change the world.
So we can clearly see through the hubris to the human being…….time and time again. They never seem to learn the lesson here. And neither do we.
I realize you can’t really equate having cancer with having a baby (although they both cause you to end up sleepless)… but stick with me before you dismiss this as just a bad analogy.
Breast cancer survivors compare stories like mothers compare stories of childbirth. Instead of centimeters dilated, we talk centimeters of tumors. If you have a rough delivery, you can’t help feeling a tiny bit jealous of women who pop out the baby with no drugs and go home from the hospital in their non-maternity jeans. If you’re a woman with advanced breast cancer facing months of torturous treatment, you feel the same way about women who have a tiny microscopic tumor and a little surgery and a 99% prognosis of survival.
Cancer isn’t one size fits all.
Not to deny that cancer is scary no matter what. Not to deny that all women with breast cancer are at risk. And not that you wish anyone ill; you just don’t want to be the one at the other end of the spectrum. Only someone has to be there— or it isn’t a spectrum.
When you draw the short straw, it helps to know someone who’s drawn a straw that’s even shorter—who’s here to tell about it.
My friend Laurie is convinced that’s what I’m meant to do…..to be here as living inspiration that I survived. And today is one of those times I think maybe Laurie is right.
Today I was going to meet Christine, a young mom beginning her cancer journey, who lives nearby and is the friend of a friend. We’ve talked and emailed but were both eager to meet in person. I was a couple minutes late for our lunch because I wanted to bring this.
These are from the collection of scarves I used to cover my baldness during chemo. As I took them out I could almost forget their original purpose. The blast of color brightened the day—as color always does. Color in any shape, form or combination inspires me— and helps me see the world in a more beautiful way.
I didn’t realize how appropriate that would be at lunch.
Like me, Christine drew a shorter straw. We’re amazed at how many aspects of our stories are exactly the same. I also feel the differences. I never let V or my kids see me when I was completely bald—- and I almost gasp when Christine casually pulls off her own scarf at the restaurant and tries on one of mine.
Two months into cancer, Christine is bald—and she is beautiful. I don’t know if I’m reacting to her features or the sweetness of her smile or the serenity of her soul.
Waiting when I get home is an email from another sorority sister with a shorter straw. Also a young mother, about Christine’s age, Angela is a soldier stationed overseas, a friend of a friend. She’s ahead of Christine by a year—a year filled with everything Christine is facing right now. Ironic that part of Angela’s email expressed something Christine and I discussed; something I urge all cancer patients: trust your own gut. With Angela’s gracious permission, I’m posting part of her email:
I have tried to be my own best advocate throughout this ordeal and I take great pride in being unafraid to express my concerns and desires to my medical team…after all, what’s the worst thing that can happen? I am willing to do all that I can to ensure the worst does not happen and if it does, it will not be because I was afraid to ask questions or challenge my medical team. … Part of the battle is an emotional/mental battle and I know that there will “battles” that I will not always win BUT I WILL WIN THE WAR.
Two women warriors—-across thousands of miles, across the table at lunch—I take in their strength, I take in their spirit. And I think Laurie is wrong. I’m not here to inspire them; they’re meant to inspire me.
I’m feeling the love--even though I didn’t love living here for the first few years—-I’m officially starting the Carmel California Fan Club……to share some of what creates Carmel’s character.
Since I’m not much of a photographer…and since today it was raining…. and since I’m way too spoiled to shoot in the rain, these are some shots I took over the last few months.
A house by Frank Lloyd Wright right on Carmel Beach
Not sure of the architect---fairly sure it's not Frank Lloyd Wright
Not only unusual HOUSES; we have unusual BIRDHOUSES.
Carmel is the most dog-friendly town in America---only we have a cat
The classic Carmel shot...and I think this post is starting to sound like an ad
Some of the houses have clever names....
...some have names AND addresses (only in certain parts of town)
One of the best things about Carmel--- the trees
...you just don't expect to find them in the middle of the street
And if I keep this up, I have a feeling there’s going to be a lot of traffic in our guest room ….
Answer to the most frequently asked question around here: No, Clint Eastwood is no longer the mayor; but he’s still Carmel’s most famous citizen.
Among other local oddities like no streetlights, no high heels and no eating ice cream on the street ( NOT urban legends but actual city ordinances) my biggest surprise 15 years ago, when I moved to the otherwise charming Carmel-by-the-Sea is that there are no addresses.
Seriously. And thankfully we don’t live in that part of town anymore.
Having no address was a monumental pain in the ass inconvenience—beginning with the fact that mail is not delivered, but has to be picked up at the post office. We were leasing a house for what we thought would be 6 months— but when I got cancer, it turned into 3 years that we had this official address: Dolores, sixth house southwest of Thirteenth.
Try telling that to UPS. Try finding it.
This gave me some insight into another Carmel eccentricity—why so many people name their houses.
In my former world, you name a house if you’re Donald Trump and you own Mar-a-Lago.
In Carmel, people name cottages. And not what they call “cottages” in Newport, Rhode Island.
I mean real cottages….
…… where you could find Hansel and Gretel.
We haven’t named OUR house, but I no longer think it’s pretentious…..I think it’s cute…just like Carmel.
