Just Not Quite as Popular as Me

I don't do it often, but I have been known to walk out of a movie now and again.  A short list:

• "As Good as It Gets"--did not distract me AT ALL from the upcoming California bar exam.
• "The Mirror Has Two Faces"--Can Barbra be any more vain?
• "Baby Mama"--Only saw that to get out of the house during maternity leave.  J nursed throughout; I cringed and bolted.
• "The Artist"  Actually, that was a mental walkout.  I stayed because it was at the Columbian and I wasn't done with my IPA.

I should point out that this list does NOT include many, many children's movies I would have walked out of but for my shorties.  I'm talking to you, "The Lorax." You, too, "Chipwrecked."

To that list, I can now add "The Avengers."  I only watched the first hour, so maybe the second hour tied it together, but this is a movie without any real plot.  A fine exemplar of pop culture, it involves a bunch of superheroes and Norse gods (or maybe a god and a jotunn) brought together, as far as I can tell, to continue their branding and maybe sell some Happy Meals along the way. There were lots of references to their previous movies, none of which I had seen, but that didn't impair my understanding. The actors seemed to be phoning in their roles, or maybe they were mentally spending their paychecks.  Just an all-around waste of money, time and resources.  

WTF?

Which is fine, if you like that kind of thing. 

Of course, this isn't really my kind of movie.  I'm not highbrow in my cinematic taste, but I am not big on adventure films.  So why was I there?  Honestly, because I was craving Sour Patch Kids and movie-theater popcorn.  Once I had slaked that desire, I was free to leave the theater.  And so I did.

Oh, and also? Captain America has a mighty fine ass.  Just saying.

Yummy!

On to other things. 

The Fab Five

It's May, so I am actively engaged in cramming playing pop radio to hide my un-cool, super-embarrassing, over-40-ness when C comes for the summer.  Of course I know "We Are Young," "What Makes You Beautiful" and "Part of Me."  Who doesn't?  I'm hip! I'm the coolest step-MILF evah, right?  Right!

But it's hard for me.  Save for my first couple of years of college, I've never really known the cool songs.  In high school, I had my showtunes.  At U of I, the amazing LeighAnn introduced me to alternative music (New Trier/John Hughes version).  It all went downhill after graduation.  And now?  I get no help at home, either, since G is stuck in the 80s.  Big Head Todd--really?  

So when C comes, I have to fake it.  I wish I had Sirius or XM in the car so I could figure out who was singing and what the name of the song was.  It seems to me that DJs used to announce that, but they don't anymore.  So I have to go home and Google a couple of lyrics.  And so I learned that Rihanna--sweet Rihanna of "Under My Umbrella" fame--now sings (in the classic "S&M") that "chains and whips excite" her.  Not really where I want my 11-year-old to go, you know?  And that song is 2 years old.  See how out of touch I am?

But there is one place even I won't go.

I'm talking to you, Maroon 5.

You're no Mick Jagger.

How do I hate you?  Let me count the ways.  Oops!  Infinity already!  My dislike isn't founded on anything objective.  I'm just a Maroon 5 hater.  And hater gonna hate, KWIM?  It's my job.

Which brings me to My Little Pony.

I repeat, WTF?

Taking pop culture down to the pre-school set, why do four-year olds love these things?  Can it really be that soothing to brush and braid some pony ass hair?  Yes, they smell good (in a Glade air freshener kind of way), and yes, they have magnetic feet so you can hang them off the refrigerator in death-defying poses.  (Ask me how I know.)  If there's more to it than that, it's a mystery to me.

Edited December 2012--turns out, only the old ponies (of which we have far too many thanks to C's bestie, M) are scented and magnetic.  Christmas brought us some updated ponies.  No smell!  No magnets! I'm old-school Pony all the way.

So, yes, I hate My Little Pony, too.  Almost as much as I hate Strawberry Shortcake.

Bitch makes my teeth hurt.

And don't get me started on Mr. Noodle.

Once more, with feeling...WTF?

However.  My feelings about ponies, berries and pedophiles pale in comparison to my hatred for those fuzzy, hillbilly-esque, goody-two-shoes known as The Berenstain Bears.

Do kids really like books about how

• Junk food is bad
• Too much TV is bad
• Bad grades are bad
• Bullying is bad
• Lying is bad

On a positive note, praying appears to be good.

These are probably the only books of C's that I did not save for J. They make my skin crawl. Too many morals, too many lessons. I try to teach my girls that, sometimes, it's good to be bad. Or at least it's not the end of the world if you are. They sleep easy knowing that I will never commit their exploits to insipid, mass-marketed paperbacks or TV shows. And, yes, it is ironic that these bears have their own TV show.

J's favorite book?  This week anyway...

My favorite book when I was four?

I guess my lack of cool started early.  I've had years decades to manufacture the hot mess of dorkiness that I am today.  But my mission, which I choose to accept, is to reverse that in 17 short days.  Join me!

Si, se puede!

Thank you, Mr. President.  
Thank you for saying what I know you've long believed.  
Thank you for helping to ensure basic rights for millions of decent men and women.
Thank you, from my future self, that I won't have to tell J, if she turns out gay, that she can't marry her true love because no one would take a stand.
And thank you most of all for having the courage to tell the Christian Right to go fuck themselves, and that they and their god don't get to change the "self-evident" fact that "all men [and women] are created equal."
I know this wasn't an easy choice for your politically, but at least you can take comfort in being on the right side of history.


Sincerely,
Secunda


PS...I pretty much love you.  XOXO

In the Weeds

We've lived in our house for more than five years--this will be our sixth summer here--and I finally planted flowers.  Yes, partly I am lazy, but let's see...first summer, pregnant; second summer, new baby; third, fourth and fifth...crickets chirping.


I had no idea how complicated this process was.  First, I had to weed the beds. Then J and I went to Home Depot to pick out the flowers.  She had some definite opinions:  "Pink!  Lots of pink!  Everyone knows I love pink! And yellow! And purple, because that's YOUR favorite, Mama!"  


Indeed. 


We had to go back the next day with my husband because J and I couldn't lift the 50-pound bags of compost.  Then I had to spread the compost and plant the flowers.  All my lovely design plans went to hell in a hand basket because J decided that all the pink flowers should be together, because they're friends, and all the purples should go together because they're friends, and all the yellow should go together because they're her flowers.  And then she poured about 50 sunflower seeds into a six-inch hole.


I think this is going to be one of my better home denigration improvement projects.  At least we still have the view.

My Amazing Scientific Discovery

Who would have thought that a hillbilly tramp stamp would be the cure for what ails me?  I?  Am a genius!


I pulled weeds in the backyard for four hours on Sunday afternoon, when it was unusually warm and sunny for the Oregon coast.  As always, I slathered on J's SPF 60 sunscreen, and I wore long sleeves, long pants and a hat.  I didn't think to cover the area under my clothes.  Which I should have, because like many of my newly too-small clothes, my shirt did not stay put.  So I now have a truly evil sunburn right where I should would rather have a tramp stamp. And it hurts.  Like hell.  Though probably less than this did:

I have a shoebox full of leftover opiate-based drugs at home, as well as any number of other fanciful pharmaceuticals.  But I am not at home, and, alas, you cannot procure Oxycontin at the airport anymore, what with the sniffing dogs and all.  You can, however, buy Tylenol.  And it even comes with this super cute folded paper cup!  For free!  The cup was free, I mean. The Tylenol was crazy-spendy.

It was basically useless on the sunburn, but it did wonders for my letrozole-induced leg and knee pain.  Who knew?  OK, my oncologist did tell me I could take acetaminophen, but I forgot that almost as soon as he said it.  I just don't have the pain-reliever mindset.  I mean, I almost never get headaches, but when I do, I walk around all day like, wow, bummer headache, dude.  And it never crosses my mind to do anything like take an aspirin.  I have been drowning in pain for almost a year and now...wow!  If I had figured this out a couple of weeks ago, I probably would never have written my last post (props to anyone who sensed the depression/desperation).  So I took another Tylenol today.  And yeah!  The pain tremendously diminished, although it's still there, and clearly I can't take this stuff every single day for the next four years, but it's so very nice to know it's there when I need it.

I'll take one of these, please:

Wild Abandon

Three car "incidents" in 15 days.  You say accident, I say incident.  Semantics!

BEFORE

(No "after" picture because I don't know where my camera is.)

I'm just an idiot?  I'm just distracted? I'm just a menace?  I just don't know.

Next topic.

J and I went to Portland to take Uncle C and Aunt J out for brunch to celebrate UC's birthday, which I spaced out last week.  (I am sensing a theme.)  We had a lovely meal at Wild Abandon in Southeast, and then J and I saw a puppet-show version of "Stellaluna."  She liked it well enough; I was bored, distracted, hot flashing and wishing I hadn't spent the money.  And I have concluded that puppeteers are their own special breed.

And the name for that breed is "creepily and aggressively enthusiastic."  I don't deny their obvious talent.  I just think they are a little...much.

There's really no logical segue to the other thing that's been weighing on my mind lately:

Cancer.  

Or more specifically, the aftermath of cancer.

In the last 18 months, I:

• Found a lump (September 2010)
• Had a negative mammogram and ultrasound (9/29/10)
• Had a lumpectomy (10/19/10)
• Was diagnosed with ER+ breast cancer (10/27/10)
• Had a positive MRI with an enlarged lymph node (2 actually)
• Had a core needle biopsy of an enlarged lymph node (11/12/10)--negative, so I got to avoid the full axial dissection
• Had a sentinel node biopsy (negative!) and a port placed (11/16/10)
• Had chemotherapy (11/23/10, 12/14/10, 1/3/11 and 1/24/11)
• Had a bilateral mastectomy (2/18/11)
• Started aromatase inhibitors (3/1/11)
• Had my ovaries, tubes and uterus removed (4/28/11)
• Had my implant exchange (8/18/11)
• Had nipple reconstruction, with areolae made from abdominal skin grafts, and fat grafting (12/8/11)  

The only thing I have left is the nipple tattoos.  And the rest of my life.

My health is good, as far as I know, and I only hope that I am not jinxing it by writing that here.  But cancer never really goes away, at least psychologically speaking.  If you are very lucky and your cancer doesn't come back, you are in remission.  That means it can still come back any time, though the risk does decrease over time.  And if it does come back, in my case (since I have no more breast tissue) it's almost certainly going to be metastatic, and that's incurable.  Some nights it keeps me up; some days, thinking about it causes car incidents.  

I used to be afraid of death, and I used to want to live forever.  Now I am accepting of death, though I will fight hard if I have to.  All I want now is enough time to raise J into the woman she will be.  And to be there for her when she faces her own risks and fears.  And, hell, while I'm at it, to dance at her wedding and see my grandchildren.  Each day farther from the paralyzing terror of diagnosis, I want to live just a little longer.  Tempting fate? Ordinary hubris?  Or just a healthy recovery?

The thought of recurrence is scary.  I think of it every time I stand up and my knees and ankles cry in protest from the AI.  I think of it every time I get on the scale, for being heavy increases your risk.  I think of it every time I pour a glass of wine, for drinking increases your risk.  The only thing that doesn't increase risk, as far as I can deduce, is smoking, the one vice I have never had.

When I lie in bed at night, I think of all I have lost, and it goes well beyond hair and body parts. I have lost my innocence, my sense of "it can't happen to me." I have lost my place in the universe.  I have gained a new one, of course, but it's a different place on a distant shore.  Cancer has been bad for my marriage, bad for my family, bad for just about everything.  But I am alive, and to borrow a line from John Irving, cancer can't "get the me in me."  

Love in the Time of Pertussis

J got three shots today...varicella, MMR and DTaP.  And for the first time since her first H1N1 (no one knew when the health department would get them in, so we had very little notice), I wasn't there.  What a crap mom I am!  She was supposed to get her immunizations last week, at her well-child exam, which I took her to! She'd been sick, however, and we were headed to Oaks Park and then Busytown, so her doctor let us put them off a week.  I had somehow thought she was supposed to get them before starting kindergarten, but I guess they have moved this back to the four-year-old check-up, so I wasn't expecting it. G took her this morning, and of course he was more than capable.  J took it like the champ she is, and a shout out to Ally at PMG for giving shots so quickly and expertly.

But I still feel like crap.  

I feel bad, I hasten to assure you, because I wasn't there.  I do not feel bad because I think vaccines are dangerous/cause autism/make you gay.  I don't.  I fully support immunization, and people who argue that "herd immunity" protects children piss me off.  If you want to be part of this society, there are some things you have to do.  You pay taxes, you keep your stereo at a reasonable volume, and you vaccinate your kids.  Sure, your kid might handle measles swimmingly, but what about the kid down the block--the one who can't get vaccinated because he has cancer and a compromised immune system?  He sure as hell isn't going to handle measles.  And what about all the babies who are too young for the vaccines but not too young to die of the disease?  I guess that's OK as long as it's not your kid.

Don't get me started.

Anyway, the verdict is in that I am a crap mom.  Am I also a crap wife? 

It's possible I am not the best wife.  I mean, I can't rule it out.  But I have done more than 50% of the heavy lifting, and I'm tired.  Really, really tired.  


Just sayin'.

Busytown Rocks! Papillons...Don't

We loved "Busytown."  J loves Lowly.  There was plenty of Lowly.  Enough said.

And now I have J in Seattle with me.  My manager desperately needed coverage, and I offered to work over my vacation if I could bring J with me, since I had, after all, taken the week off to spend time with her.

Three viewings of "Dumbo" later, she had had enough.  So had I.  For extra fun, the hotel is hosting a Papillon PCA National Specialty (and no, I do not know what that means--other than thousands of Papillons in a not-very-large hotel).  Today's scheduled consisted of:

Wednesday
 6:30am – 8:00am Hospitality Suite open  (NOTE--RIGHT NEXT DOOR TO OUR MEETING ROOM!)
 9:00am – 12:00pm Sweepstakes  (lunch break at the Judge's discretion)
  2:00pm – 4:00pm Open Board meeting 
 4:00pm – 5:00pm Phalene fun match 
 5:30pm – 7:00pm Phalene banquet 
 7:00pm – 9:00pm Genetics seminar

I was not familiar with Papillons, let alone Phalenes, but I am now.  Papillons are small, hairy dogs that all look exactly alike (and nothing like butterflies):  

The little beasts are everywhere, as is their fur, their pee and tables upon tables of Papillon-themed merchandise.  As my brother would say, there's a sub-culture for everyone. 

The staff is hating it.  And we're hating the yapping that penetrates the thin hotel walls during normal sleeping hours as well as during work hours, not to mention the overload on the elevators, the gift shop (out of Diet Coke!) and the bar.  But crueler blow, the pool, which had been the bribe I'd used to keep J going through my work day, was closed due to a broken pump. 

Instead, I took J to the play area at Southcenter Mall, conveniently located across the street.  Who, and by that I mean, who the hell, puts a candy store right next to a play area?  And calls it Candy Tyme.  A misspelling of time and thyme, which must have taken some thought.  So my plan for J to run off her pent-up energy was lost to the siren song of gummy sharks:  

Which she wouldn't eat after deciding, quite rightly, that they didn't taste good.  I could have told her so, but I am not that mother.  I'm better.  I told her they would probably taste better tomorrow, during the seventh showing of "Dumbo," while Mama and her friends negotiated furlough and recall rights.