Happy New Year! Out with the old...in with the new!

I am so excited that we are rolling into 2011. For one thing, my horoscope says I will end a long career draught (putting it mildly) and finally make money by being creative. I'll drink to that! Secondly, I am grateful to enter the New Year a healthier person. Thirdly, I am seriously glad to be 50 years old...really...because at my ripe young age I am less self-conscious and don't give a hoot what people think of me. It's much easier now to say "no" without guilt than it used to be!

To bring in the New Year I am cleaning and decluttering my house, one section or room at a time. For me, starting the year with a clean slate, so to speak, is of the utmost importance. Fortunately, I only have 1100 square feet of house to clean (seriously, this is a SMALL house). Though I love to look at and visit big houses, I have to admit that having a teeny tiny home keeps me from being a hoarder. I begin my weeding out process by picking a particular area of the house. For instance, yesterday I worked on my bookcase in the corner of my living room. I threw out a lot of old books that I never read and that no one else in their right mind would want to read, either. I bagged many children's books that my daughter has outgrown...those in good shape will go to my neighbors across the street who are expecting their first baby. Then I organized what was left and made it fit onto my shelves.

I try not to be too sentimental when I toss stuff. If I'm not using it anymore, and it's gathering dust, it goes out...within reason, of course. There are a few books that my daughter or son wanted me to read over and over again -- those priceless gems of books remain close to my heart and I keep them for my future grandchildren.

I once read in Anne Barone's Chic and Slim books that whenever she found herself eating too much, she noticed that her house was too cluttered or messy. She attributes having a neat, orderly house with having a slender figure. Personally, I can say that when my house is a mess, I feel more inclined to lose track of what I eat. It goes without saying that when most women are frustrated, frazzled and feeling out of control in many ways, they too often turn to food for comfort. Chocolate, anyone?

Another one of my favorite lifestyle writers and gurus, Victoria Moran, advocates a clean, uncluttered abode. Victoria says that it is necessary to clear some space so that new things can come our way. I like her metaphysical spin on materialism! When I go on some of my tossing out tirades, I imagine the beautiful new things I am attracting.

I am not usually one for New Year's resolutions. But this year I have decided that I want to walk more (I'll buy a pedometer to measure my steps), cook more (hopefully, that won't negate all the walking I want to do) and spend/save my money wisely (I've been watching Suze Orman's show: DENIED!). Also, I want to visit more museums (I love museums and haven't had the time to go much these past few years...), hit a concert or two, and take time to smell the roses.

Speaking of roses, today I bought a bouquet of yellow roses. Usually, I go for the traditional pink or red ones, but these bright beauties shouted out "Buy Me!" when I passed by them in the market. I succumbed to their command. I think their cheerful color is the epitome of what I want for the New Year: a happy outlook and lots of sunshine!

A Happy New Year to one and all!

Christmas Eve and My Mom

I dedicate this blog to my mother, Betty Sherman.

First of all, I'd like to wish you a Merry Christmas! I hope you finished your shopping and can now relax by the fire with some hot chocolate and/or spiced eggnog. Although I'm Jewish, I have always loved the festive decorations and the good cheer that Christmas brings. Many of my friends are celebrating the birth of Christ. Ironically, nine years ago on Christmas Eve, my mother passed away at the age of 80 years old. So, in the Jewish tradition, every December 24 I light the Yahrzeit Memorial Candle to honor the anniversary of my mother's passing. The small white candle burns for 24 hours.

I will not sugar coat it: when a parent dies it is hurts like hell. More painful, too, if you are close to that parent, as I was with my mother. It is no exaggeration to say that she was my guardian angel: supportive, kind, generous, gentle...I could go on and on describing her wonderful qualities. I'd also like to believe that she is still watching over me with her protective and loving wings.

There is something poetic, however, in the fact that she died on Christmas Eve. Mom loved the holidays, just as I do, for the beautiful decorations and the opportunity to give presents to those people whom we love and want to show a little extra appreciation. Every X-mas Eve, she would take me and my family to a splendid buffet dinner at the Beverly Hilton Hotel. We would be dressed in our holiday finest, and dine on scrumptious food. After dinner, we would walk around the hotel and check out all the fancy trees with their lights and ornaments. My mom cherished every minute of our time together!

Writing is my main source of self-expression, however, I still miss Mom more than I can ever express in words. One of my favorite pictures of her is when she is at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel restaurant, where she used to dine everyday for breakfast or lunch. She worked at Tiffany & Co. in Beverly Hills for 28 years, and everybody knew her there. In the picture, she is with an attentive waiter. She is elegant in her black coat, bright red scarf and Jackie O sunglasses. I had numerous people say to me after her death, how well dressed and poised she was -- always. I think this picture captures a little of her joie de vivre. When she retired (only after her doctor MADE her retire for health reasons), the Tiffany employees threw her a wonderful party at this same hotel. Many of the hotel staff who had come to know and love her, also attended the retirement party.

My mother endured many hardships in her life including cancer and the loss of three babies to the devasting Tay-Sachs disease (this was before genetic testing). I can honestly say that she didn't complain about her losses. She never wanted to worry or burden her children, or impose her problems on someone else. She was a true paradox: soft and caring, and yet as strong as the proverbial ox. Two weeks before she died, she said to me that she wanted to visit New York in the winter. "I want to see the snow again," she said, wistfully, "and the lights." She was originally from Detroit, Michigan.

I fed her her last meal on December 23. She was at the Sherman Oaks Hospital. She was cheerful but weak. The nurse commented that her skin color looked good. My mom had overcome so many illnesses in those last few years, that I thought she would rebound once more. Unfortunately, I was wrong. I got the phone call from her doctor that she had "expired" at 2:20 am, December 24.

It took me many years to mourn my mother's loss and transcend my pain. Now I see the holidays as a time of celebration -- and I know mom would want me to enjoy this time of year with my family, just as she did when she was alive. I try to instill her appreciation of life on to my son and daughter; my seven year old daughter, especially, loves to decorate for the holidays and "oh and ah" at all the pretty lights. My son loves shopping at this time of year, too!

I realize that as much as I miss my mother, I am just as grateful that I was (and will always be) her daughter. A blessing, indeed.

Ode to New York for the Holidays

A recent article in Oprah, the magazine, talked about the importance of "awe" in a person's life. The physiological benefits of awe are being touted by scientists as truly life enhancing. Awe brings with it strong, indescribable feelings, but for me I think awe is experienced as an overwhelming feeling of fullness and expansion. Like my guts are exploding but in a warm, fuzzy way; how poetic is that? So that leads me to my "Ode to New York." The holidays, especially, make me want to reminisce about The Big Apple and share a short holiday tale of awe.

I lived in New York for five years after I graduated college. I lived in a big brick building in Sunnyside, Queens, behind a fish processing plant and the Long Island Railroad. Sunnyside is a hop, skip and subway train ride away from the daily grind of Manhattan. The importance of this is that it had been my biggest childhood dream to live in NYC, and luckily for me, the stars aligned at that moment in time so that I could fulfill that dream. I had grown up watching Marlo Thomas on the TV show That Girl, (and I know that dates me - the show ran from 1966-1971). As a little girl growing up in West Los Angeles, watching Marlo (playing wannabe actress Ann Marie) swirl around in her umbrella on Broadway made my whole eight year old body swoon. I wanted to BE her. I couldn't help it! One of my favorite all-time movies, too, is West Side Story, the brilliant Romeo-Juliet story told in a modern New York setting. But I would always (and still do) get goosebumps at the beginning of the film as an aerial camera scans the canyons of steel while Leonard Bernstein's amazing score begins. Sigh.

Well, back to the concept of "awe." One night after work, I was walking alone along Park Avenue. The Christmas Season was well underway, so that lights were draped across store fronts en masse, people had shopping bags galore, and even a little snow was underfoot. Hustle and bustle everywhere. This was my first time living away from California, and my first east coast holiday season. I had never seen so many people, so many lights, so much excitement at once. All I can say is that I had as close to an "awe" experience as I have ever had: I vividly remember thinking to myself, "Pinch me!!! I'm really here!!! I'm not dreaming!!!" I wanted to shout out loud to share my sheer joy, but I just walked on soaking in the sights and sounds as if I were a kid again. I felt small in the scheme of things, yet paradoxically, connected to people in a whole new way. Another way to put it, I was high on life. And that is what awe is all about.

No wonder. According to the "Awe" article in Oprah, spending time in large groups -- i.e. concerts, rallies, etc. -- often stirs feelings of awe. For some people, going into nature presses the awe button. Listening to beautiful music, visiting an art gallery, and star gazing on a clear night are also awe worthy. Why is awe so important? For one thing, it is healthy for our bodies. Positive thinking is supposed to be good for our gazillion cells. Being in a state of awe also can give us a new prospective to life's uncertainties, as well as sending out happy karma into the universe (is that New Age enough for you?). But also, the article states that awe "can help a person reflect on how an upsetting event fits into their philosophy of life, or how their personal experience unites them with humanity." This according to an assistant professor of psychology at Arizona State University.

Being awe-struck is soul food without the calories.

To recapture that awe-some evening in holiday time New York, I sometimes listen to Frank Sinatra singing "New York, New York." The rendition I've shared on my blog has Tony Bennett joining in for a duet with ol' blue eyes. As the holidays are upon us in full swing, and everyone is shopping without stopping, I hope that we will have a moment of awe to enhance our lives. Since I can't go to New York this season, I have brought it to my blog.

"I want to be a part of it..."

Oh, Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel! by Guest Blogger, My Husband

Happy Hanukkah!

Tonight I am celebrating the first night of Hanukkah with my family. As it is a special occasion, I am giving this blog to my husband. In it, he gets into some of Hanukkah's history, the significance of oil, and hot things. Please give a warm welcome to my guest blogger:

Tonight the menorah is burning bright as my daughter and I spin a dreidel hoping it lands on the winning Hebrew letters gimmel or hay. She is prevailing in this round since my dreidel keeps landing on the letter nun (which means "no pay out"). In this game of Jewish roulette, we are using actual coins instead of the traditional milk chocolate ones. At least, she can review her arithmetic skills by adding up her winnings, as well as reduce her chances of getting cavities.

You see, the Hebrew letters on the dreidel are abbreviations for the phrase, "nes gadol haya sham" or "a great miracle happened there." "There" refers to Eretz, Israel, our ancestral homeland, when in the 2nd century BC, a zealous group of priests known as the Maccabees, rebelled against Syrian-Greek rule of the country and cleansed the holy temple in Jerusalem of its Greek statues. In the temple, the Maccabees discovered a small jar of super duper olive oil, which instead of lighting the menorah for one night, miraculously kept it lit for eight crazy nights, as Adam Sandler would later describe the holiday. Thus, Hanukkah is a holiday about religious freedom and miracles. The oil in the menorah is the miracle maker.

As our menorah's candles are burning low, my daughter and I take a break to enjoy my hot wife's hot latkes. Even these customary fried potato pancakes symbolize the importance of olive oil in the holiday celebration.

Although there is a great abundance of olive oil produced in Israel today, it would be an even greater miracle if the country discovered black oil beneath its surface. In recent months, a large amount of natural gas was discovered off the Israeli coast. Some Biblical scholars and a Texas-based oil and gas exploration company claim there is actual oil in what was once the land allotted to the Israelite tribes of Asher, Zebulon, and Manasseh (based on passages from Genesis, Chapter 49 and Deuteronomy, Chapter 33). The questions are how much oil and what's the cost to extract it.

Now, I've dabbled in the stock market and there is probably a 1 in 20 chance that some company will turn a profit in this oil-seeking endeavor. I truly hope for the sake of Israel and the Jewish people that a momentous, even miraculous, event like this will take place soon. In the meantime, I'll stick to playing dreidel with my daughter. The odds of winning are better.

On Being Thankful

One of my favorite pictures from childhood shows me at the Thanksgiving table with my dad about to carve the fresh-from-the-oven turkey. My dad is smiling, and I'm leaning over the table in anticipation of the feeding frenzy. My brother is there, too, but his face is cut in half by the photographer (my mom). The picture captures the nostalgic innocence of days gone by. (I also love the 1970s wallpaper in the background!)

Thanksgiving has now become the breath of fresh air sandwiched in between the insanity of Halloween and the onslaught of the holiday season. We all know by now that Christmas decorations are displayed the first week of November! Just the other day I went to Target in search of cute Turkey themed napkins and cups for my daughter's class party. Christmas was everywhere. I had to ask a store worker where the Thanksgiving stuff was; as it turns out, the only Thanksgiving goods were in the back of an out of the way aisle. Gee Whiz!

I must confess, however, that for several years I used to dread Thanksgiving. When I was in my early 30s I had a falling out with my dad (we had a problematic relationship to begin with), and so whenever Thanksgiving rolled around, I felt an undeniable pang of guilt and sadness because we weren't together. And Thanksgiving used to be his favorite holiday. Dad loved being at the head of the table and carving the bird for the family. He felt important.

I know I am not alone. Although everyone loves to eat into oblivion on turkey day, many people have admitted to me that family squabbles always lend an air of drama to the holiday. Who is angry with whom colors the conversation and puts a damper on the big day. Or, there are those people who have lost a loved one and miss them, or even those people who are alone. Holidays are often not the perfect postcard events we dream of.

The other day, in fact, I was watching the news and there was a report that many soup kitchens are short on turkeys for those people in need. Many people could be without a turkey dinner. Suddenly, I felt a deep gratitude for the simple fact that I could afford a turkey dinner with my family. How simple is that? Just to be grateful for food on the table! Back to the basics.

Both of my parents have passed away and now I spend Thanksgiving with my husband's family in Palm Springs. There will be some family drama, I know. :-) However, it is my intention to enjoy the day, eat a lot, take a long walk to help digest my food, and be grateful for making it through a physically challenging year in one piece! We all have obstacles in our lives, and just to take a day to say "thank you" for being alive can't hurt a bit.

The mantle over my fireplace is filled with arts and crafts that both my children have made over the years. My son's paper bag turkey with tattered tail feathers that he made in second grade (over 12 years ago!) is alongside my daughter's pilgrim hat from kindergarten (two years ago). I love the fact that I don't need to buy Thanksgiving decorations...my kids have made them all, and with love! Perhaps I'm recapturing the innocence of that long ago photograph of me and my dad through my own children. And why not?

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

My Ghost Stories -- Happy Halloween

We have all been to places that give us the chills. It could be an old house, a cemetery, or even sitting by an ancient oak tree. Whenever there is a sudden, inexplicable draft, or the feeling that someone is watching you... The most seriously spooky places I have been are ironically those lovely Bed and Breakfast Inns that look so charming and romantic on the outside. For some reason, my experiences with B&Bs have ended up on the hair raising side; that is why I don't stay in them anymore! Give me a blase, generic hotel chain any day!

My first brush with "the other side" as a tourist was long before my son was born -- over twenty years ago! My ex-husband and I were on a mini-getaway to central California and had checked into a lovely rose-colored Victorian B&B that was well over 100 years old. Our hostess was a pretty girl in her 20s, with long red hair, dressed in old-fashioned garb.

There were about six couples staying that night. The hostess wanted to give us a tour of the house. It was a lovely, sunny day as we toured the extensive rose gardens, the gourmet restaurant, the parlor, etc. The Inn had two floors and a cozy sun room up another flight of stairs that was, lo and behold, connected to our room. As the hostess showed us the sun room on the tour, I thought how nice it would be to sit there and relax with a book.

When the tour was finished, the couples were left to their own devices. "I want to go back to the sun room," I said, grabbing a book. I pulled on the door, but it wouldn't open. My ex tried, too, but to no avail. We tried and tried. "I'll tell the hostess it's stuck," I said. I finally found the hostess and told her I couldn't open the door to the sun room. "I'm not surprised," she said. What does THAT mean, I wondered.

She went with me to the sun room and pulled on the door. It opened instantly. Then, she said "SHE is guarding the door." "Umm, who is SHE?" I asked. Nonchalantly, pretty hostess explained that a sick little girl had died in the sun room many, many years ago while waiting for her mommy to come home from a trip up north. She haunted the sun room, and was very particular about whom she let in (her spirit was still waiting for her mother). Nice!

So much for the sun room! Miss hostess also said that the little girl occasionally showed up (guess where?!) in OUR room. Once, the little girl visited a guest who was taking a bath. Apparently, the ghost girl had told the bathing guest that she was "fat." Let me put it this way: I was not looking forward to bathing or sleeping in that room that night!

Later in the evening, a few couples were sitting in the parlor after dinner. Fortunately, the food there had been splendid -- I've never forgotten the mega-sweet strawberries with sour cream and brown sugar I had for dessert! Yum! Anyway, food aside, the guests sat leisurely in the parlor with its lavish, Victorian furnishings, including a gorgeous chandelier.

We shared stories while sipping brandy. One guest said that she had been told by the hostess that a pair of "wandering hands in gloves" could sometimes be seen in her room. I told them about our little girl in the sun room. "Well, we are in a haunted house for sure!" we all laughed nervously. At that moment, and I kid you not, the chandelier started to flicker. We all looked at each other in disbelief.

I didn't sleep well that night; I am simultaneously fascinated yet afraid of ghosts. Fortunately, however, the poor little girl who was still waiting for her mother didn't show up to tell me I was fat or anything.

Another time, my ex and I wanted to celebrate my 30th birthday up north in the wine country. We selected a large, Gothic style B&B -- figuring the bigger the place was, the more people would show up. The more the merrier! It was November, cool and windy. We pulled up to the B&B and it was out of a movie -- one of those dark, eerie places that the hero and heroine find when they've run out of gas in their car and have no other choice...

As we checked in, the hotel clerk said, "You're lucky tonight! You're the only guests staying in the inn." Lucky? Ex and I looked at each other. SCREAM!!!! "November is our slow season," hotel clerk admitted. Okay, we had made the reservations months ago, and didn't want to seem like chickens. We could DO this thing!

As we were the ONLY people staying in this HUGE MANSION for the night, we got to pick our room. We decided on the top floor (there were three floors), so we could have a view of the gardens. There were three rooms at the top. One had a fire place -- it seemed too warm. The next was big with blue walls, and it was very cold. (I know this sounds like Goldilocks and the Three Bears!) Finally, the third room was smaller, but the temperature was moderate, and it had a window facing the garden.

We started unpacking. Within five minutes of being in that room, I heard a strange hissing sound. Then I noticed drops of water coming down from the ceiling. This is not good! We went downstairs and found the hotel clerk, who called a maintenance man. We all went back up the winding staircase to the room. Strange, that in a place that large the ONE room we chosen had sprung a leak! Maintenance man said, "THEY like to play tricks sometimes."

Here we go again. "Who are THEY?" I asked. Hotel clerk flashed maintenance man a dirty look. "Ummm, no one," he said. Our room was declared unlivable for the moment, and we had to find another room. We decided on the warm room with the fireplace.

We finally settled into our second room and took a walk in the gardens. We were nervous about spending the night as the only guests, but figured that the maintenance crew and hotel clerk would be there, so we would be alright.

Again, like the other B&B, the food was amazing. The restaurant was open to the public and another couple was eating nearby. We couldn't help but hear their conversation. "Did you know a woman was murdered in here?" the woman said, loudly. "Really?" the man with her said. "Her husband killed her with an ax. It was gruesome. They say she haunts the first floor." Great! Thanks for sharing the information!

After dinner, we went into the parlor (love those Victorian parlors!) and played checkers. Hotel clerk came by. She was wearing a coat, carrying a purse. "Good night," she said. "We're all leaving. You have the place to yourselves."

WHAT???!!! This was not in the plans. "You mean, you don't stay here?" I asked, my hair on end. "Oh, no. I go home at night." "But what if there's a problem?" I stammered. Calmly, hotel clerk said, "The maintenance man lives down the road. Everything should be fine."

I have never been so scared in all my life. This mansion was totally creepy, and we were literally going to be the only ones in it that night! "We are sleeping with the lights on," I told ex.

We decided to go up to our room, as far away as possible from the roaming murdered woman ghost. I wouldn't let ex go to sleep. I think we played gin rummy until 3 a.m. I did not turn off the lights all night! Our room was sweltering! Were THEY playing tricks on us???

Finally, I woke up that morning (lights still on). It was a lovely, sunny day and birds were chirping! I can't tell you how happy I was that it was morning! We had survived the night alone in a haunted mansion. We had originally booked the room for two nights, but we told the hotel clerk after breakfast that we couldn't stay the second night. "Is everything okay?" she asked. "Oh, yes," I said. "We have to get home for a family emergency," I lied.

We found a wonderful hotel that day that was adjacent to a vineyard. No antiques, no fancy chandeliers, no ghosts. It was clean, modern and had a television (most B&Bs don't have TVs). Best of all, I got a good night's sleep!

Happy Halloween!

Halloween at the Movies

As kids, we think it is fun to be scared. Halloween makes being scared "safe," and for one month a year, taboo topics such as death, dismemberment, and witchcraft become acceptable and the norm. When I was a little girl, I used to love watching scary movies with my two older brothers on the weekends (Fright Night). We would stay up late and wait anxiously for the monster or alien or oozing being to appear; the more gruesome or frightening, the better. For some reason, movies about the Devil scared me the most -- and I know why -- because you couldn't see "it."

Today, I pay homage to some of my favorite terror film classics.

Boris Karloff played Frankenstein with a heart. Who didn't feel a little bit sorry for the big monster oaf when he met his demise? Or when his bride found him repulsive? My favorite line from the film is when Dr. Frankenstein first sees the monster's hand stir with life and says, "It's alive! It's alive!" Awesome!

I also loved Bela Lugosi as "Dracula." I am currently reading the book by Bram Stoker, and the infamous Count says to his visitor, Jonathan Harker, "I bid you welcome." As I read those lines, I couldn't help but hear Lugosi's European accent.

Vincent Price was another classic horror film actor. He was in "The Haunting" which I still think is one of the scariest films ever. The Haunting didn't have all the special effects or the gore factor of current films, but as a kid watching it I got major chills up and down my spine. I remember watching it one night by myself and I had to turn it off, I got so scared! Fun! (Vincent Price is also the deep voice and evil laugh at the end of Michael Jackson's "Thriller" song, by the way.)

When I was a teenager growing up in the 70s, The Exorcist was the BIG deal. I tried reading the book in high school, but got so scared I couldn't finish. Was I a big chicken or what??? Anyway, a few years ago I dared myself to pick up the book again. Well, I was glad I did, because it was amazing! One of my favorite books, ever. Still scary as hell, pun intended. I rented the film (which I had never seen, either, because of the fear factor), and it was not nearly as good as the book. Some nice cinematic touches, though. Love the head spinning and the nuns in white!

Steve McQueen's first movie was The Blob, about an alien "blob" thing that takes over a small town. Slowly but surely, the blob eats everything and everyone in sight. I love when the blob devours an entire movie theater! The theme song has become a Halloween favorite.

As you can tell, I am not big on current horror films. They are too predictable and gory for me. One of the most influential horror films was "Psycho" by Alfred Hitchcock (my all time favorite film director, too; he also directed "The Birds"). If you've never seen Psycho all the way through, I don't want to spoil it for you. But it was revolutionary in its day. I'll never forget the day I saw it for the first time at a New York City film revival theater. I was literally on the edge of my seat the whole time!

The list goes on and on. Do you have a favorite horror film? I would love to hear from my dear readers on their favorite fright night classics.

BC Awareness -- In Conclusion

When Dorothy said "There's no place like home," she wasn't kidding.

When I got home from the hospital, it was like I was seeing the world anew. Santa Clarita looked like Heaven on Earth! My husband had made a cute "bed" for me on the sofa, as I had to sleep sitting up on my back. We also registered our daughter for summer camp, which was the smartest thing we ever did. While I rested during the day, our sweet pea was swimming, playing, making arts and crafts, and going on field trips. My husband was off for his summer vacation (he is an educator), so he could drive her back and forth, etc.

So the chaos and stress of the past weeks turned into quiet summer days. I read, I slept, I took little baby walks in the neighborhood hanging onto my husband's arm. Some mornings we would go to Starbucks for iced tea -- that was a big treat for me! This recovery, however, was unlike anything I've ever endured. I was weak, tired and in pain for over a month. I'd lie in bed some nights and feel as if I were having a heart attack. The biggest pain was in my sternum area. At my first post-op appointment I asked Doc PS about it and he said the pain was normal and would go away. Yeah, right, I would think to myself. Apparently, during the mastectomies the surgeon removed some tissue from my ribs (there's breast tissue there, too!). It felt as if I'd been "kicked in the chest by a cow," as a friend of mine so aptly described it -- she had grown up on a farm! I read a book about another woman's experience with BRCA 1 and breast reconstruction, called "Beauty is What Changes" by Stephanie Queller, and she said the pain was as if "an elephant were sitting on my chest."

I did have major pain killers -- the stuff that drug dealers would have loved to get their slimy hands on. But I was trying to wean myself off of the meds, knowing that I had to be "clean" of the hard drugs in order to drive. My husband only had a couple of weeks off with me, and when he went back to work, I would have to drive my daughter to camp. Some serious anti-drug motivation here! I did get some help from my general doctor, however, who worked out a narcotics-free plan of alternating Tylenol and Motrin. It helped me enough to get back in the driver's seat within my time frame. But I only drove my daughter to camp and back. That was my limit.

Weeks passed. Suddenly, around weeks six or seven, I realized that I felt better. My new breasts, at first hard and swollen, were softening and looking like the real McCoy. By weeks eight and nine, I started to feel AMAZING. My energy suddenly came back with a vengeance, and I was taking my power walks in the neighborhood, driving, shopping and living a normal life once again.

During this time in my life, too, my son also left home for the first time to go to college up north. I was sad that I couldn't help him move (though I did give him money and that accounts for something). When I hit the two month recovery mark, I went up to visit him and his new place. What a victory trip that was!

Paradoxically, an offshoot to this whole experience was a heightened sense of spirituality and appreciation for my Jewish heritage. I learned that the BRCA gene mutations so common among women like me began centuries ago when the Jews left what was then Palestine (around the third or fourth century) and migrated through Europe. For a couple of hundred of years, these Jews lived primarily in Italy (NOW I know why I love pasta!) and intermarried for hundreds of years. Yuck, I know, and marrying cousins is what created the genetic mutation. Eventually, my ancestors moved onwards to Russia (I also like Vodka!). My grandparents had been Orthodox Jews -- strict observers of the law -- and my parents had rebelled against that religious rigidity and raised me with little Jewish education. The tides would turn.

The summer camp we sent our daughter to was a Jewish one -- and both my husband and I felt a kinship with the rabbi and his wife who ran the camp (they are with Chabad -an orthodox religious organization, but you don't have to be orthodox to participate in their events and programs). We decided to send our sweet pea to Hebrew school (run by the same rabbi and wife) and our family began to attend some services. Listening to the rabbi as he recited Hebrew prayers, I felt a deep, healing connection to my ancestors.

On another spiritual level, I will end my saga with this story. Way back in February, before any of this happened, my husband gave me a silver necklace for Valentine's Day. It was a "Hamsa" which is symbolic in Jewish folklore for the hand of G-d. The Hamsa is an amulet that supposedly offers magical protection from the evil eye -- it symbolizes the Creator's protective hand. I wore my Hamsa every day from the moment my husband gave it to me, and as it had a long chain, it fell right over my breasts. Yes, I think that Hamsa offered me protection against the breast cancer that my mother had when she was my age.

After my mastectomies, my breast tissue was sent to the lab to be analyzed. Sure enough, the report came back that the lab had discovered pre-cancerous tissue. Without a doubt, I had done the right thing.

Part 7: Birth and Death

After my surgeries (the big one and the emergency one), there was nothing left for me to do but lie in the hospital and recuperate. That I could handle! I was put on blood thinners to prevent any further problems. I was on patient cruise control.

Naturally, I had a lot of time to think on my hands, as I was not even allowed to get out of bed for five days. A very unusual concept for me, as I am the type that loves to run around and "do" things. I didn't even feel like reading much, either, because I was too tired.

I started thinking about birth. My son had been born in another hospital in Santa Monica, but my daughter had been born in the same hospital where I was now. And what joyous occasions the birth of my children had been! I mean, bringing life into the world is the BOMB! :-)

Suddenly, however, I could relate to babies in a crazy sort of way, too. Lying in my bed, I was completely, utterly helpless and reliant on others for EVERYTHING. The highlights of my days were visitors (thank you dear friends!), meals and baths. No wonder babies cry when they want to be held and fed! That's all they've got going on! A person -- no matter what age -- can go nuts just lying down all day. And I can certainly tell you that warm sponge baths are beyond awesome when you are bed ridden!

I lost track of days and nights, too. I woke up at all hours; sometimes it was on my own account, other times I would be in a nice slumber when my doctor or nurse would wake me for one reason or another. One night I had a terrible nightmare, thanks to all the pain meds. I dreamt that I was at some kind of Mardi Gras, but there were devils and ghouls out to get me. Kind of like Michael Jackson's Thriller video but for real. Fortunately, the night nurse woke me up for something. I felt as if I'd been rescued from a terrible fate. I thanked her and said, half-asleep, "There's evil everywhere!" I'll never forget the look on that poor nurse's face!

Besides birth, I also thought about death. I thought about death, because I was surrounded by it. While I was still in the ICU I noticed a group of visitors going back and forth in the hallway for several hours. Then I noticed they were all leaving, crying. I could just tell...the looks on their faces, the sobbing, their posture...someone they loved had died. So sad!

Two days later, I was finally moved out of the ICU, but to a room that was right next to the ICU unit. Sure enough, I watched a new parade of people going in and out of the ICU. I got to know their faces. This went on for a day or so and then I heard a shriek. Looking out of my door, I saw the familiar faces only this time they were in agony. One woman could barely stand up, she was consumed with grief. Other family members held her up. All the nurse told me (I asked) was that the deceased had been "young." At times like these, you see how vulnerable life can be. I so appreciated being alive. And I wanted to go home desperately!

Finally, on day six I was allowed to get out of bed. I was incredibly dizzy; but sitting in a chair for an hour was a real victory! On day seven, I met a physical therapist who took me for a walk around the halls using a walker. I saw people of all ages in their rooms, with their visitors, their balloons, their flowers. It felt great to be on my feet. Actually, let me take that back. It actually hurt like hell, but I was glad to make progress. If I was lucky, I'd get to go home tomorrow.

Tomorrow came and I went home!

BC Awareness -- Part 6 -- The Recovery

The first post-surgery day I was a blob; I could barely move a muscle. A sweet nurse used a sponge to bathe my dry lips, and let me bite down on a small sponge so I could get a teeny weeny bit of water. I did have a little gadget that I could press with my thumb to administer pain medicine whenever I needed (within 20 minute intervals). My thumb had a field day pressing down on that sucker!

I also had to wear a "bear hug" to keep my newly reconstructed breasts warm, and it was like a super duper heating pad over my entire body. Combined with my instant menopause (minus my ovaries), I was as Doc PS warned me I would be, "warm."

On day two, I hit a snag. My blood pressure was dipping and I was running a fever. I needed a blood transfusion! The transfusion was painful and I heard the nurse say, "this blood is thick." Okay. "Is it time to worry, yet?" I wondered. The room was spinning. Doc PS came in and examined my breasts, or "flaps" as they are called in plastic surgery world. My adopted girls were not covered with any gauze, so I could see them in all their glory. Every hour, 24 hours a day, the ICU nurse had to use a doppler (like the kind used in ultrasounds to hear the baby's heart beat) to "listen" to my breasts -- they made a whooshing sound. The strength of that sound indicated whether or not the transplanted tissue was "taking" to its new home. Yes, indeedy, my new breasts were like little babies!

Unfortunately, on that second day, Doc PS came in to check on me and didn't like what he heard on my right side. He also was concerned with the color. "It's dusky," he told the nurse, adding, "it should be pink." Within minutes, Doc PS and the nurse arranged for emergency surgery. Doc PS said he had to open me up (AGAIN!) and take a look at that "flap." He thought perhaps I had a blood clot there, or one of the veiny, artery thingys was kinked up (not his words, just my interpretation). The nurse called my husband who was on his way down to see me anyway after dropping our daughter off at day camp.

"This isn't life or death, is it?" I asked Doc PS, calmly. "No, it isn't," he said. "I'm hoping I can repair and save the flap." "How often does this happen?" I asked. "About five percent of the time," he said. Lucky me! I had signed a consent form outlining all the dangers and possible complications associated with this surgery, so I knew the risks. Doc PS and I discussed Plan B; if he couldn't save my right flap he would remove the transplanted fat and make room for an implant.

Yes, it did occur to me that I had made a big freakin' mistake opting for this surgery.

Within a short amount of time I was signing a whole new batch of consent forms for further surgery. I was brought to the OR. The anesthesiologist wasted no time and put a mask over my face. I kept batting my eyelashes so everyone would know I was still awake. "Don't start until I'm asleep!!!!" I screamed to myself.

I woke up and my husband and teenage son were there. A sight for sore eyes! Good news, too! Doc PS was able to fix my flap and all was well again. No need for an implant on that side. Whoo-hoo!

A wave of happiness and relief went through me. I was also drugged up. I asked my son how his college math class (summer school) was going. He admitted that he was struggling with it. In a total moment of just-out-of-surgery weakness, I said, "Don't worry about math. Do the best you can and drop it if you have to." Take it from me, never, ever let your guard down with your children! Not even when you are high as a kite on drugs!

Indeed, my son dropped the class.

BC Awareness -- Part 5

I am not going to deny that I had many sleepless nights as doubts and fears loomed in my mind about the impending surgery. Was I making the right decision? Did I think through this enough? But all in all, as I did more and more research, I felt like I was on the right path. If I didn't do this, I would have to be monitored like crazy for the rest of my life. I was also at a good age to be able to handle this kind of procedure. After another week or so of reading and basic self-torture, I stopped obsessing. Enough was enough.

I did order a book on how to prepare for a major surgery, though. I will sum up the basic premise of the book: find a happy place, memorize it in your mind's eye, and call upon this place to relax and find peace. Also, the book emphasized using positive affirmations such as "I am healing beautifully," or "I am strong and well," to help boost the immune system. Definitely a new age take on medicine, but useful in any stressful situation!

My "happy place" was my backyard, even with its squirrels, lizards, weeds and all. As the book suggested, I went to my backyard every day pre-surgery, just to relax, breath deep, and meditate. I use the term "meditate" loosely, however, because whenever I was in the backyard, as much as I tried to relax, I was too distracted. Rather than focusing on the peace and quiet, I kept thinking about all the plants that were in disarray and in need of pruning. Obviously, it was a challenge for me to allow my mind to reach its higher power. My lower powers were calling the shots.

I cleaned closets and drawers. I filed away all my miscellaneous papers, receipts, check stubs, etc., so if anything happened to me, my husband wouldn't find a mess. It was as if I wanted my life to be a blank slate. We took a trip to Legoland so my daughter had one mini trip during her summer vacation.

Finally, the day arrived. Husband and I had to be at the hospital by 5:30 am for the 7:30 surgery. On the ride in, I listened to some music on my MP3 player -- I was into the soundtrack for the musical "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" --and tried to relax as best as I could. But I don't deny that I was terrified. Scared stiff, in fact. My happy place was good for nothing!

After I was admitted, I was brought to the surgical prep area. Anyone who has been in a hospital knows that sinking feeling when you have to take off ALL your clothes, put on the ugly blue gown, lie down on a sterile bed and hope for the best. The nurse had a hard time starting my IV. Scream! The nurse asked if I would like a prayer said by the hospital rabbi. Hell, yeah! I wanted a prayer, I wanted all the help G-d could give me!

In a short amount of time, Rabbi Sarah came to my bed. She had soft brown curls and light blue eyes. She held my hand and asked me a few questions. She asked my mother's name. Then she started the prayer in Hebrew. I don't know Hebrew, but I heard her mention my mother's name and then my name. Looking at her blue eyes and hearing the prayer stirred something deep inside me. I was going through what my mother went through over forty years ago. I could run from my DNA, but I couldn't hide. I tried hard not to cry, really hard, but I couldn't stop myself. I thanked Rabbi Sarah. Sniff, sniff.

Soon, my time came. The surgeon who was removing my ovaries stopped by to say "hello." My husband was with me as I was wheeled to the operating room. We kissed and exchanged "I love yous." Doc PS was already in the OR waiting to "mark me up," which is quite literally what he did with a black marker. I had to be awake for that, as I had to be sitting up. It is quite lovely to be naked while a doctor draws on you as nurses and the anesthesiologist buzz about busily. Doc PS drew lines and dots on my chest and stomach, some for cutting, some for positioning. He said I would have amnesia and not remember the marking! Well, Doc PS, I remember it as clear as day!

The last thing I remember saying to Doc PS was "B-cup." I had my priorities! Over thirteen hours later I woke up to my husband and my best friend forever at my bedside in the ICU. Husband and bff said everything went well. The deed was done. I survived. I went back to sleep.

Breast Cancer Awareness -- Part 4

The next week was crazy. I had an MRI to make sure my breasts were clear of cancer. I also had my first meeting with the plastic surgeon I'll call Doc PS. Doc PS had a nice manner about him. According to what I read about him on the internet (research, people, not stalking!) he was in his early 40s, a perfect age for a surgeon, I think. You want them to have a lot of experience, yet you don't want them to be so old that their hands shake. Seriously. He also went to NYU for med school and UCLA for residency. Not bad.

I appreciated the fact that Doc PS took his time explaining everything to me. I had the option of either implants or the stomach tissue transfer procedure. In fancy surgical terms, it's called a Deep Inferior Epigastric Perforator or DIEP reconstruction. DIEP is now considered the "gold standard" of breast reconstruction because you are using your own tissue, or, I guess I should just come out and say the "f" word here -- fat. The reconstructed breasts, created from my own stomach FAT, would look and feel like real breasts. Implants, though less invasive, require more maintenance and sometimes go awry. The bad thing about DIEP surgery is that it is very long -- usually over ten hours -- and the recovery is notoriously painful. Depending upon a woman's physiology (and surgeons can't tell what you have until they open you up) sometimes stomach muscle as well as fat has to be transferred and that is very, very painful. Ouch city!

After Doc PS discussed the myriad surgical pros and cons he brought in his handy dandy computer to give me a slide show. This "show" included graphic pictures of what happens in surgery, along with many before and after pics. Doc PS was enthusiastic, and I think his intention was to inspire enthusiasim in me, too. Looking at picture after picture of headless, scarred torsos, however, only made me more nervous than ever. A strange sadness overcame me.

After the computer peep show, he examined me. (Now this part is for girls only, so if there are any boys out there, you need to go away now!) Because my breasts were large and had seen some gravitational pulling, i.e. sagging, action over the last (over) forty years, Doc PS said he wasn't sure he could save my nipple area. I knew my skin would be saved, but I had hoped my nipple would be part of the plan. Then he gently pinched my stomach fat. "Whatever I can pinch, I will use," he said.

Finally, for the first time since this whole BRCA 1 business began, I started to cry. Doc PS was very nice and said I needed time to absorb everything and he would meet with me again before the surgery. He left the room. His nurse, who had been there for the examination, gave me a hug. "I've been through this, too," she said. "I know it's scary. If you need to talk to any other women who've been through this, I can arrange that." I thanked her. I felt a little better, I felt a little worse. I felt nothing.

Back at home, I went on the internet and looked at more pictures of breasts in a week than a pervert does in a year! Every now and then I'd see a set of reconstructed girls that impressed me. I even printed out a few pics to show my husband. "I want to look like her," I said, "she must be a B cup." He nodded his head. "As long as you're healthy...But if you want to be smaller, that's okay with me."

Then the epiphany came. My personal moment of truth: I really, truly wanted to be smaller. After a lifelong battle with DD boobs and backaches, I began to embrace the idea of a smaller chest. A flatter stomach would be the icing on the cake. If I was going to go through ALL of this to be cancer-free, I also wanted the cosmetic perks. Vanity won out.

Within a week I revisited Doc B and Doc PS. My MRI came back clear, thank goodness! I made lots of decisions. My ovaries would be removed at the same time as the "big" surgery and I met another surgeon who would take care of that procedure. I also opted to have my nipples removed altogether, and would have them reconstructed at a later date. I told Doc PS emphatically, "I want to be a B cup."

The date was set: July 6th. July 6th, my own independence day.

Breast Cancer Awareness - Part 3

What do breast surgeons want?

In my opinion, they want their patients to live long lives, and they will do whatever it takes to reach that goal. Sometimes, however, to a frightened woman, a breast surgeon might seem scarier than breast cancer itself!

At my first visit to the breast surgeon's office I couldn't help but notice the other women in the crowded waiting room. I wondered what their stories were. A few women wore hats or scarves completely over their heads -- a sure sign that chemotherapy had taken its toll on their tresses. My heart went out to them and my stomach turned. This was life and death we were talking about here!

When breast surgeon (I'll call him Doc B) came into my room, he wasted no time by saying "you owe the doctor that tested you for the BRCA gene a good bottle of wine. He saved your life." I was taken aback by his bluntness, but the message certainly resonated. As he examined me (you know what that feels like, ladies) he talked about all of my options. I could take preventative drugs such as Tamoxifen, have constant monitoring through mammograms and MRIs, or...

Doc B took his finger and drew an imaginary line from my nipple across the side of my breast. He said, "the incision would go from here to here. We will save your skin, possibly the nipple, and take out all of the breast tissue. You'll be a little smaller -- perhaps a B or C cup -- and a plastic surgeon will replace your tissue with fat from your stomach. So you'll get a tummy tuck and you'll be perkier." He smiled.

He made it sound so easy. And what woman who has had babies and c-sections wouldn't jump at the chance to have a tummy tuck! I have also been a DD cup for so many years, that the thought of smaller, more manageable breasts (and less backaches!) was alluring. But what Doc B really wanted to do was give me a bilateral (both breasts) mastectomy with immediate reconstruction.

We are talking some serious, major, kick-ass surgery, here! Ummmm. A little voice inside of me was saying, "Help MEEEEEEE!"

But first, Doc B would have to send me for an MRI to make sure there was no cancer already present. If my MRI was clear, I could be scheduled right away for the surgery. If there was any cancer present, then it would be a whole new ballgame -- chemotherapy first, yada yada yada. A much more involved process.

Doc B was a true salesman. "I have a whole waiting room full of very sick women who would jump to be in your shoes," he said. "In the eighteen years since I have been doing this procedure on BRCA patients, no one has ever gotten breast cancer."

The next step then was to have an MRI and meet with the plastic surgeon Doc B recommended to "reconstruct" me. Again, I was numb, I was scared, I was even slightly terrified. But the seed of survival had been planted. I couldn't ignore the facts. The surgery seemed like the right thing to do.

I would have an MRI and meet with the plastic surgeon. I would come back to Doc B in a week to further discuss the surgery. Deep down I knew there was no turning back.

Breast Cancer Awareness - Part 2

There I was, BRCA 1 positive. That evening I told the news to my husband who got teary eyed and then said, "What does that mean?" It is funny how "informed" we are, yet when it comes to our own well-being, we can be quite ignorant. Actually, earlier in the year my husband had shown me an article about the need for women with an Ashkenazi (Eastern European) Jewish background to get tested for the BRCA genes. I had read the article and somehow forgotten all about it! Oops!

Thank goodness for the internet. My research gave me these facts: I had an almost 90 per cent chance of getting breast cancer, and a 44 per cent chance of getting ovarian cancer in my lifetime. MUCH, MUCH higher odds than the general population. Was I a ticking time bomb? Anyone who has ever had bad news from a doctor usually feels two things afterwards: fear and total confusion.

Within a week or so, husband and I were in soft-spoken doc's office to discuss my test results. As I was nearing 50 years old, doc said it was the perfect time to remove my ovaries. (Yay! No more children! No more birth control! And best of all, drum roll, please, no more period! Whoo-hoo!) Don't get me wrong about the children part, I love them dearly, but I'm so done, if you catch my drift. The surgery is called an "oophorectomy," and is a relatively simple laparoscopic (done through the navel, so not invasive) procedure. The surgery lasts only about 40 minutes and poof, I would be ovary free. I'd go through instant menopause, but I was gearing up for that, anyway. Doc said he would provide treatment for those pesky hot flashes if need be.

That was the good news. Oophorectomy to be scheduled, a no brainer. Now about those breasts of mine...

Very casually, toward the end of our conversation, doc mentioned that he would like me to meet with a prominent breast surgeon, just to learn about my "options." Note to self in the future: beware of any soft-spoken doctor who nonchalantly refers you to a freakin' surgeon!

I must be the most naive person on the block. I made an appointment with the breast surgeon.

In Part 3 I reveal what every breast surgeon wants.

Breast Cancer Awareness -- Part 1

It has been a very, very long time since I have blogged. To be honest, I went through a major medical procedure this past summer, and as much as I wanted to share my experience, a little voice said, "No, not yet." To blog or not to blog. I have waited and waited, and now that it is Breast Cancer Awareness month, the time finally seems right to tell my story. Many of my friends already know about this; many people who know me have no idea. My aim is to make people AWARE; if I can help another woman, then I have accomplished my goal.

A long time ago, when I was an innocent little girl,(yes, that was a LONG time ago), my mother had breast cancer in both breasts. Having radical mastectomies was the only alternative back then, and so I grew up seeing a big scar going from one side of my mom's chest to the other. Her first breast was removed before I was born, and the second was removed when I was about eight years old. I remember her telling me that she had a lump, and allowing me to feel the weird bump underneath her skin. Fortunately, mom lived to the ripe age of 80 years old. Cancer did not get her! Lucky for me to have had her in my life that long!

Flash forward to April, 2010. My new ob/gyn (recommended by friends, and located close to home) asks me about my family history. After I tell him about my late mom's bout with breast cancer, he then asks me if I'm Jewish. Affirmative. Without giving me much of a choice, he says he wants to test me for the BRCA 1 and BRCA 2 breast cancer genes. Yay for modern medicine! Women with a family history of BC and of Ashkenazi Jewish descent are candidates for this test. Doc said insurance would cover most of the cost (it's expensive!). I went for it, without any thought whatsoever about the consequences. To tell the truth, I thought it would be a good idea to know whether or not I was a carrier, and that was it. I had no plans to act on that information.

Little did I know that this test would change my life.

Of course, I got the phone call from Doc with the test results while I was at the market. Somewhere around the ketchup aisle my phone buzzed and Doc wasted no time, "You're positive for BRCA 1." Doc is soft spoken, and I could hardly hear him.

"Positive?" I repeated, in disbelief.

My mind started spinning. Doc mentioned something about removing my ovaries (BRCA 1 women are high risk for both breast and ovarian cancer). There I was in the market discussing surgery. SURGERY! I pulled my cart over to what I thought was the aisle less traveled. Ironically, it was the kosher food section.

My conversation with Doc left me reeling. I finished my shopping in a daze. Time to go home and talk with my husband. I knew I would need to go on the internet and do some research. LOTS of research.

Stay tuned for Part 2.

It's all about the bling

My six year old daughter says to me, "Mommy, you dress blah."

So that's what it has come down to. An 49 year old who dresses "blah." Something has got to give, and that something is me.

This is the year I've gone bling. I've discovered, too, that bling is a good thing. It does seem to give me a psychological lift to see myself in the mirror with a sparkle here and a glittery something there. Mind you, my bling is tame compared to a lot of women...but I've added a sequined t-shirt, a costume ring, a few necklaces, and a somewhat expensive purse to my collection. Actually, when I came home with the new sequined t-shirt, my daughter exclaimed with glee, "Finally, you're thinking like me!"

Bling on a little girl is very different than bling on a mature woman. (That is what I'm considered, isn't it? Mature? Oh well, it is not for me to decide that one.) Little girls look cute in EVERYTHING; I look good in only a handful of things. Clothes glide on my daughter's thin, straight as a stick frame. Clothes on me, however, have a few bumps to navigate over...um, you get the picture.

The bottom line is that when we think about bling, we are really talking about the fairy tale factor. Reality can be harsh. Wrinkles set in. Various body parts sag. Bling is a subtle camouflage for life's flaws. Light and bright cheers us up and deflects small inadequacies. Bring on the fairy dust!

I don't think women ever outgrow our need for fairy tale. My daughter and I are addicted to the TV show "Say Yes to the Dress" on TLC, which is about women selecting their wedding dresses. Nine out of ten women on the show want to feel like a "princess". They want fairy tale and fantasy. On the other end of the spectrum, I have seen cases where a daughter wanted a simple dress, and butted heads with her mother who wanted more sparkle for her little girl grown up.

It is not that I have ever been anti-bling, it is just that for most of my life, I have preferred simple, comfortable clothes with one or two select pieces of understated jewelry. Adding a little oomph to my wardrobe is certainly a conscious decision. As a young girl I wore only t-shirts and jeans. My mother, who worked at Tiffany's jewelry store, was surrounded by Beverly Hills bling all day long, and dressed to the nines every day. She tried to take me shopping in Beverly Hills, tried to get me to wear snazzier outfits, but I always resisted (stupid, stupid me!). I preferred my somewhat sloppy ways instead. I was a teenager, what did I know? It is ironic, then, that now my daughter is taking over where my late mother left off. Bling must be in the genes.

To bling or not to bling, that is the question...isn't that what Shakespeare had in mind when he wrote Hamlet's famous soliloquy? Whatever. Excuse me now, because I'm going to string cute white lights on my porch overhang, because it's looking a tad frumpy out there and I've decided even my backyard needs some, you guessed it, bling.

Where Does the Time Go?

Lately, I have no time.

No matter how hard I try to stay focused and on task, numerous obligations pop up out of nowhere and then the day is gone! Sometimes, I think this is a good thing. Hey, I have a busy life with two kids, a husband and friends, and all these amazing people require love and TIME. Occasionally, I also have to work and clean my house. :-)

I read an article in MORE Magazine recently where a woman (and mom) wrote that she gave up on the infamous "Girls' Night Out" because she'd rather just chill out and enjoy a rare moment of quiet time. Coincidentally, I met another woman recently (a mom, too, surprise!) who said she does not want to spend the money on a GNO -- she'd rather use that money on getting her house professionally cleaned so she had more...you guessed it...time to herself.

I've already touched on the "Just Say Yes to Yourself" theme in a previous blog, so I won't go there. Who am I to talk, anyway...I've been so busy with work and family this month that I haven't had the TIME to write this blog! Right now (a Friday night, mind you, when most people want to go out) my daughter is crashed out on the sofa fast asleep, my husband is out taking a walk, and my son is in his room playing his guitar, waiting to go out with his buddies. Finally, I have down time, and so here I am.

I have also had to make exercise a priority over my blog. (Sad, but true.) So on those mornings when the house is quiet and perfect for concentrated writing time, I have opted to trek up the Summit, sometimes alone, sometimes with company. In addition to my 45 min. to an hour walks, I have added 30 minutes on an exercise bike. This is a major chunk of time...but it is going to a good cause!

This morning I went to a PTA breakfast where a woman was giving a speech about another mom who volunteers her time and takes on tasks wholeheartedly, even to the point of making herself sick. I thought to myself, as I swallowed a major carb item, that this helpful mom is not setting a good example. Her intentions are admirable, but at her own expense. I believe our health and well-being should come first before volunteering. That is not to say a person should obsess or overdo fitness (it can become an addiction, I think) but that priorities should be to get the heart pumping a little bit every day. It is everywhere now: people (especially women nearing a certain age) absolutely NEED at least an hour of exercise a day.

Well, so much for my time. My daughter is stirring, my son is hungry and my husband is about to walk through the door at any moment. The wind is blowing like crazy outside...my "me" time is gone with the wind!

At any rate, I don't have to worry. This morning I took my long walk (thanks, J!) and rode my bike.

Happy Mother's Day!!!

Mother's Day is almost here! I don't know about you, but MD is my absolute favorite holiday, because it is the ONE day in the year I tell my family, "I AM NOT DOING ANYTHING!!! NO COOKING, NO CLEANING, NO LAUNDRY, NO DRIVING HERE AND THERE..." Motherhood is so filled with "stuff" it is hard to describe all that being a mommy encompasses.

The other day I was at the doctor's office and all around me were pregnant women in all their big belly glory. Been there and done that...but I know the excitement, anticipation, and worries that go along with being a new mama. You can always tell the difference between a mom who is having her "first" and a mom who is on her second, or third, or (as is typical in Santa Clarita) her fourth. A first time mom has planned her nursery to every last detail. A mom who is on her second child is just rewashing all the already worn clothes.

Nothing gets women gabbing more than retelling their birth stories. "How long was your labor?" "Mine was so fast, we almost didn't make it to the hospital!" "It was too late for the epidural...(ouch!)" The variations of the magic moment go on into infinity.

Okay, so here are condensed versions of my two stories. My son was born when I was 31years young. Easy pregnancy, difficult birth. He was two weeks late, and when the doctor said "I think your baby is going to be over nine pounds," I almost had a heart attack. My labor was induced, and my baby boy (I didn't know the sex -- wanted my first to be a surprise) was born a day and a half (!) later at 5:30 pm after an emergency C-section. I have always teased my son that he was too comfortable, and didn't want to come out; to this day, in fact, he is a late sleeper, and needs a nudge to get up in the morning! But oh, when I heard his little cry, and got to hold my first born in my shaky arms, now THAT was a thrill beyond compare! (Never mind that his tiny head was a little pointy and one of his eyes was swollen from trying to get out of his cramped quarters all that time!)

My daughter's birth twelve years later was another story entirely. As an older, remarried mom, I had had two miscarriages prior to my daughter's pregnancy. The first miscarriage was shortly after my mother passed away, and the second miscarriage was during my second trimester. For almost two months after the last miscarriage, I was a basket case. I have always prided myself on my strong constitution and demeanor, but suddenly, I couldn't stop crying. My heart had turned into jello. I almost gave up, but decided to try "one more time" to have a baby. So when the ultrasounds all came back showing a health baby girl (then I wanted to know the sex) I was at once ecstatic and terrified.

I think nothing brings with it that odd mix of joy and fear as does being a parent!

Fortunately, the pregnancy went well. When my very healthy daughter was born during a planned C-section at 8:00 am, I looked over and saw the most beautiful girl in the world. I distinctly remember thinking, "All the suffering was worth it." We bonded immediately, total mutual adoration. Even the nurses commented that we were like "two peas in a pod." Funny, too, unlike my son, she has remained an early riser (a little chocolate milk in the morning helps, too).

Whenever I talk with a woman who is pregnant with her first baby, I always reassure her that a healthy baby is what is most important. Don't worry about having a "perfect" birth or breastfeeding "perfectly." Certainly, a baby born the natural way is preferred, but if a C-section is required, then it is what it is. When it comes to breast feeding, I am also a pragmatist. My son HATED breast feeding, (we're talking major red-in-the face screaming action, here) and I was in so much pain after the surgery, I decided to give him the bottle, which he LOVED. He is a healthy 18 year old! My daughter breast fed for a few weeks, but for medical reasons I had to put her on the bottle, also. Now she is a healthy six year old. I say it is good to have intentions and plans, but parenthood is all about being flexible when you have to!

Just as babies are universally adorable, so are baby animals. Just the other day I was coming out of a local Corner Bakery. Right by the water fountain, was a mama duck and her two sweet ducklings. I stopped to watch them waddle around -- so cute! A young teenage girl with crazy-colored hair also stopped, as did an older, very well dressed businessman obviously on his way to work. The three of us, from different ages, backgrounds, etc., could not resist the site of a mother and her babies.

Also of note, on the big Kohl's sign on McBean Blvd. there is a nest over the "h." My daughter first noticed it, and a few times when I have passed by, I have seen big, black crows tidying up their house of twigs. Are they getting ready for the hatching of babies? Or are they straightening up for a worm dinner party? Not sure either way...

A few weeks ago my son, now six feet tall and around 180 pounds, wasn't feeling well for a few days. He rarely gets sick or complains, so when he tells me something is wrong, I take it seriously. I took him to the doctor (just a stubborn virus, it turns out) and later that day he thanked me for taking care of him. I said to him, just as I will say to my daughter when she grows up, "No matter how big you get, you'll always be my baby."

Chores aside, being a mama is all about expressing that bottomless pit reservoir of love for our offspring -- and it is the best job ever!

Happy Mother's Day!

Scents and Scents-ability

My apologies to Jane Austen! I borrowed her famous novel title to introduce today's topic: smell. Smell (our olfactory system) is the sense most closely linked to memory. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that when we smell an old perfume, for example, we will associate that scent with a certain time (or person) in our lives.

Lately, I have been quite inspired by my sojourns through our lovely paseoes. All sorts of glorious plants have been releasing their essences, calling attention to themselves. Jasmine! Roses! Lavender! The bees and I are enjoying every minute of the wafting treasure trove. Of course, on the other side of the sniff spectrum, there is the trash can where all the dog walkers throw out their animal's excrement. I call that scent, "Eau de Poop." Admittedly, I am more of a fall and winter person who loves her hibernation. This year's profuse blossoms, however, (thanks to our abundance of rain!) have almost made me a convert to the glories of spring.

Today I am going to wax nostalgic and indulge in remembering some scents of bygone days -- even eras, if you will. For example, in the old days when I went to school, before xeroxes were prevalent, "dittos" were the gold standard of handouts. A ditto was a blurry, purple mess, but it had that just out of the glue factory smell. One could almost get high off an English worksheet. (Oh boy, homework!) I also dearly miss my prehistoric blue Smith Corona typewriter and its inky metallic aroma. That typewriter and I spent many long nights together in term paper hell! When the perfume, Obsession by Calvin Klein first came out, it was such a big hit one could smell it everywhere ("Ah, the smell of it!" was the infamous, erotic campaign slogan).

Cities bring with them a sensory overload. In my San Francisco college days, I remember the famous Cable Cars and their Barbary Coast burnt iron smell. Fisherman's Wharf with its open stalls for selling freshly caught crabs (need I say more?) and salty, cold ocean breezes. What college student couldn't smell a keg of beer from a mile away?

New York was a cornucopia of sights and smells for me. Some days in summer the smell of garbage on the street was...atrocious, to say the least. Also, before a summer rain storm the air would be heavy with the scent of rain about to burst. I lived in an apartment building that could have represented the United Nations. On my floor alone, I could smell Chinese, French, Indian and many unknown (scary!) foods at any given time. Not to mention the fish factory outside my bedroom window.

Everyone lives for that new car smell! Wine, ground coffee, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies (already mentioned in a previous post as my diet nemesis), the cheap colognes of girlhood (i.e. Charlie, Wind Song, Jean Nate), mom's cooking, our first dog's breath...yes, the list (good and bad!) goes on and on. It is easy to forget what a true pleasure, and a privilege this complex sense of ours is! In Thornton Wilder's play, Our Town, one of the main characters, Emily, has died, and as Emily looks back at her life she recounts the little things that she didn't appreciate while alive. She cites warm baths, food and coffee and says, "Do human beings realize life while they live it --every, every minute?"

Both my parents have passed away. My mother was allergic to perfume, so I cannot associate her with a scent in that way, unfortunately. She loved the smell of freshly cut grass and her favorite flower was a peony, however, and so I think of her always when I smell a newly mowed lawn or bury my nose in a soft peony center. My father used Old Spice shaving lotion...the list goes on and on. Food for thought: What legacy of scent will we leave behind for our children and/or loved ones?

A few years ago I was hospitalized for several days. Hospitals are here to make us better, but my senses were so keen then, that the medicinal smells were making me sick to my stomach. Then one day a physical therapist came to help me and she was wearing a lovely perfume. I remember thanking her over and over for the relief her scent brought me! Now whenever a friend of mine has to have an extended stay in a hospital (fortunately, that rarely happens) I advise them to bring along a favorite sachet.

Even right now, sitting at my dining room table, a gentle breeze is treating my olfactory system to a delightful whiff of orange blossoms. My orange tree is full of the delicious, fragrant flowers! Surely, spring is nature's way of saying "I love you, people!"

Next time I will write about our sense of hearing. I say this in a kind way, because my son has been practicing his electric guitar the whole time I have been writing this blog!

What Women Want From Men

The other day while spring cleaning, I stumbled on a little book a friend had given me a few years ago titled, "Porn For Women." Nice title, eh? It is actually a tongue in cheek look at what women really want from men (and according to the authors, a lot of time it is NOT just hanky panky).

For example, the book has young, attractive men (some without shirts, some fully clothed) posing next to various sayings such as, "You look stressed. Let me make you some tea and we can talk about it. Chamomile OK?" One photo shows a shirtless dude vacuuming with these words, "I love a clean house." One of my favorites shows a young man holding a luscious slice of chocolate cake with this statement, "Have another piece of cake. I don't like you looking so thin." So is this really porn for women?

After much discussion with my women friends, having a man who likes to shop, cook, clean and be sensitive to ALL our needs is definitely porn. Looks have nothing to do with it! My husband will diligently clean, fix things around the house, do laundry, etc. He is the breadwinner, but not the cook. When I hear stories from other women about how their husbands make them a meal, any meal at all, my mouth waters. I would DIE to have home cooked food waiting for me after a long day of work (or a long day of play, for that matter). Is "Porn for Women" saying that women want men who act like wives?

I have always thought though, that the differences between the sexes are what make life interesting, albeit complicated and frustrating at times. But one thing I have learned over the years is how important it is to ask for what I want/need in a polite way. Men don't read minds; sometimes all we need to do is speak up. I have another book called "Mama Gena's Book of Womanly Arts" (yes, that is the title!) and Mama Gena is a definite advocate of gentle assertiveness. Her premise is that women are divine goddesses and men WANT to give them all they desire--with the one caveat that men sometimes need a little prompting. Mama Gena believes that life should be pleasurable, and that too often we stifle our needs because we have been taught to be good girls.

Bad girls unite!

I will close with this little story. One time a coworker was bragging about how he showered his wife with flowers, dinner, etc. for her birthday. I told him how impressed I was with his display of affection. As a joke, I added, "She's trained you well." Boy, oh, boy, did this man blow up at me! His face got red and he said angrily, "Men don't need to be trained! We are not idiots!" Or something like that...at any rate, he took my comment as a deep offense. After that nasty exchange, I kept my distance from this guy. A few years later, I heard that he had gotten a divorce. Go figure. Perhaps all his gifts did not disguise a bad temper.

Perhaps what the book "Porn For Women" is advocating is how acts of kindness and tenderness can go a long way in a relationship. Certainly, that goes both ways, too! What man would want to be married to a drop-dead, gorgeous woman who was mean spirited and self-centered? (Okay, maybe a few men wouldn't mind...)

Indeed, porn is in the eye of the beholder.

Easter...My Jesus Story

I love Easter, even though I am not religious. I love all the little goodies that go with this holiday -- egg hunts, pictures of bunnies and chicks, chocolate bunnies, bunny stuffed animals...you get the idea. But what is wrong with this picture? Is this See's Candies laden holiday really more about spring and little animal babies, perhaps? Today I want to share a personal story. It did not happen on Easter, specifically, but it is about the main character in the Easter story: this is how I first learned about Jesus.

I was a typical junior high school kid growing up in Los Angeles in the 1970s. Sonny and Cher, Love American Style and That Girl were my favorite TV shows. Like many middle schoolers, I was awkward, acne prone, and shy. My best childhood girlfriend had "dumped" me to be with a group of "cool" girls who were more popular with the boys. Sigh!

Meanwhile, one of my older brothers (I'll call him Dan to protect the innocent) had joined the Army. I missed him terribly, as both of my brothers had flown the coop and I, the baby in the family, was alone with my folks. Scary! Luckily, however, my brother, Dan, finished his first two years of the Army and came home for a short visit. I was so happy to see him! Being the thoughtful person he was, he had a small gift for me: a brand new abridged copy of The New Testament.

My family is reform Jewish. Not religious by any means. My grandparents had been Orthodox Jews from Russia; when they migrated to this country, both my parents rebelled and became more atheist than anything. While in the Army, however, Dan had met and spent his days with Christians. Over time he converted to Christianity -- in those days they called people like my brother "Jews for Jesus." And now, he had his sights set on converting me.

I was definitely interested in the ancient world of miraculous healing, loaves of bread and fish, apostles and Romans. I had never read anything like it, and I was mesmerized. I'll never forget the cover with a smiling Jesus, arms outstretched, with a glowing halo around his head. Geez, he looked happy! After I read the book in its entirety, my brother and I sat up late one night talking. He asked me if I could accept the Lord into my heart. I said, "I don't know." We talked about God, and what He might look like, etc., and then suddenly, for some unknown reason, I got scared. I felt as if there was a ghost or something in the room with us. All this talk about God was new to me, and I just freaked. I ran to my mom and told her about our discussion. She was never one to interfere, but she saw that I was distressed, so she told Dan to take it easy on the sermonizing. Something was starting to brew in our house.

The brew boiled over shortly after that strange night. A few days later I took a bad fall at school while playing basketball. I landed pretty hard on the asphalt and my legs were skinned deeply. The school called home and Dan came to pick me up. So there I was at home, legs bumped, bruised and skinned, lying on the sofa in pain, when my dad comes home early from work. Dad took one look at the New Testament I was rereading, and without a blink told me I had to throw it out. "That book is not allowed in our house," dad said. "We are Jewish."

I tried to talk to dad, but if you knew my dad, you'd know how futile it was to try and rationalize with a stubborn mule. Our "discussions" were more like him telling me what to do. There was no way around it, I had to toss out the book. Well, that was one bad day for me! Hobbling in pain, crying, I went to our third floor apartment trash chute and tossed my beloved New Testament. Down it went...clunk, clunk, clunk...I could hear it make its way down to the big trash bin below. Shall I call it hell?

When my brother discovered that my dad had made me throw out the book, he was livid, to say the least. An argument ensued, and my brother stormed into his room and literally put his fist through his door. (No kidding, he put a hole in the darn door!) Somehow, I felt responsible for the whole mess. If only I had hidden the book from my father...if I hadn't really thrown it out, but kept it in a secret place...But it was too late. Or was it? Dan finally came out of the room and whispered to me that he was going to go down to the basement and see if he could find the book in the trash bin. I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say.

Dan and I snuck out of the house to the basement. My poor brother lifted himself up and over into a huge garbage bin (we lived in a large apartment complex) and sifted through tons of garbage. It was dark and stinky down there, and his efforts did not pay off. The book was lost in a sea of trash. We both cried.

Over the years my brother became less religious. He ended up serving in the Army for 20 years -- jumping out of planes, getting his Masters degree in Human Resources, marrying, raising a family, and traveling all over the world. I love him. I rarely see him. I love how he tried to rescue my book. That effort was his small sacrifice for me that spoke volumes about his humanity. I have, in turn, developed a deep respect and pride for my Jewish heritage. But I will also have a place in my heart for the Jesus I read about over thirty years ago. To my dear Christian friends, Happy Easter!

The Not So Secret Garden

Morning!

Spring has certainly sprung in this neck of the woods! Little buds are popping out everywhere, the new grass is starting to fill in those dead winter patches, and I am trying to figure out what to do with my ramshackle garden. One thing I learned about myself when I became a first time home owner: gardening is not my forte. In fact, it is a downright chore. I'd much rather be reading, walking, even doing laundry.

Still, I try to make gardening interesting and fun since I have a little girl I'll call "Sweet Pea". Like most children, Sweet Pea loves digging in dirt, finding worms, chasing lizards, and picking flowers. So every year we plant something new and hope for the best. No science here. No landscape architecture. No magazine worthy floral arrangements. When a seed goes in my dirt, I might as well read it its last rights, "Good luck little seed. See you on the other side." If you take a look at my garden, in fact, you would say to yourself, "Yeah, it sure looks like Cheryl is hoping for the best with this mess."

Mind you, some plants DO thrive here. It is just they tend to either grow insanely wild, or not at all. The happiest of my plants and trees grow without my help at all! Here is a virtual tour of my garden. First, there is my backyard. I love that it is a simple, square shaped grassy area surrounded by peach, plum, orange and kumquat trees. Last year we had hardly any plums or peaches (but that could be because my husband went nuts with trimming branches so that we could fit a bouncer on the grassy area. The bouncer fit, but my trees had a very bad haircut day!)

There is one corner of my backyard I call "Dead Man's Gulch." Nothing grows there. NO-THING! I have tried sun loving plants, shade loving plants, flowers, shrubs, ferns, you name it. Everything croaks a sad, pathetic death. I have both a rose bush and bird of paradise near that haunted corner and neither of them bloom. Itty bitty bugs fly around that corner, too. Obviously, there is bad karma in that area, probably a dead body or something underneath. Next Halloween, perhaps, I will conduct an archaeological dig...

My successes, however, include a lavender plant near my door that started out as a tiny wisp of a thing from the market and has turned into a colasses. I love to cut it and create a sweet smelling bouquet now and then. I also have a rosemary bush that is the happiest plant on earth -- it thinks it owns the place, and could probably star in a science fiction movie titled, "The Rosemary Bush That Ate Santa Clarita." My sweet little lamb's ear plant with leaves as soft as, you guessed it, a lamb's ear, competes for sun and space with the rosemary bush. I could swear I've heard my lamb's ear plant scream in a tiny voice, "Help Meeeee!" I also have iceberg roses -- you know, those white, bushy roses (very popular in Santa Clarita)that grow to reach amazing heights. I have two of those low maintenance rose bushes near my daughter's window and they offer shade in the summer, as well as a prickly protection from any possible intruders.

An aloe vera plant in a pot flanks my side path. The aloe vera came with the house and has come in handy a few times when I needed a sunburn cure (cut a leaf and use the "gel" inside the plant -- it works wonders). The miracle in our garden is a tiny pine tree that took root last year. It is unabashedly adorable, like a puppy that will turn into a monstrous Great Dane. We had to transplant the baby pine last year, and I was afraid we would kill it, but fortunately it made the surgery and is still going strong. I love to imagine that one day it will rise to glorious pine tree heights!

I guess that I actually do love my garden. Just writing about my defeats and victories makes me realize my garden and I have been through a lot together. Just last week, Sweet Pea and I planted sunflowers (the mammoth ones! Yikes!). We have also cleared a large area of some old plants and we are going to attempt our very own pumpkin patch there in the next week or so. By now, you can see there is no rhyme or reason to my gardening methods. It is solely for fun, it is an experiment, it is a work in progress. A little bit like life, in fact!

Alrighty, then. Time's awastin' and I wanna git me some weeds. Now where did I put my shovel?

Okay, here goes my blog on weight loss...

Happy Spring!

We all love the sound of birds chirping, the sight of flowers blooming, the smell of salty sea air at the beach, and the feel of our bathing suits skimming over our slender, toned bodies as we wade in the surf...well, um, maybe the first three, right?

Yes, for me March is always the month to awaken both my inner gardener and my panic stricken "it's going to be pool/beach time soon" weight watcher. Right now I have two strikes going against me: one, my mid-life hormonal shift in full swing and second, my Russian heritage genetic tummy propensity. What the?

A long time ago, my great, great, great grandmothers who had to rough it out in sub-zero Ukrainian winters were HAPPY to have a few extra pounds to help ease the seasonal lack of food. They worked hard on their farms in the spring and summer, but ate like horses in the fall so that they would have enough "storage" to survive the harsh icy spells. Of course, we all know that I am not living in Russia, or on a farm, and food is never scarce (fortunately) in this neck of the woods.

Hence, the problem. America is the land of plenty...and the land of gargantuan portions that are unhealthy and fattening. Did you know that McDonald's is going to have a special this summer: buy any size soda for $1. Righty-o, if your heart desires, you can get a humongous sugary soda for only a buck. Such a deal! But, the cost is what calories you pay in sugar and other additives.

There are a billion books on diets out there so I will not say "eat this, don't eat that." Naturally, our bodies want us to eat as healthy a diet as possible -- whole foods, not too much sugar, smaller portions. This hearkens back to one of my previous posts on moderation, too. Currently, I am reading a book by the Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, called "Savor: Mindful Eating, Mindful Life." I haven't finished it yet, but I read something last night I wanted to share with you wonderful people out there.

I can only speak for myself when I say that often I will eat "just because" the food looks good, is there in front of me, for social reasons...etc, etc, etc. This book is all about making conscious decisions about food and taking the time to feel your body's hunger and satiety clues. One tidbit of advice he gives: breathe.

Just breathe. I will quote from the book: "The essence of mindfulness is to come back to dwell in the present moment and observe what is happening. When body and mind are one, the wounds in our hearts, minds, and bodies begin to heal. Then we can truly begin to transform our weight issues." Breath is the ticket to self-awareness and transformation. Lovely idea, right? But does Hanh have kids to take care of, housework to do, an overabundance of female hormones, or a nine-to-five job? I should say not. However, I do believe he is right.

We do need to slow down. Take a deep breath and appreciate what we are doing with our time, with our hands, with our eating habits. I have started replacing most refined foods for whole grains, for instance, and weening (slowly) my sweet tooth cravings with a bit of dark chocolate. Here is a meditation Hanh suggests when we want to feel "in touch" with our bodies:

"Breathing in, I calm my body.
Breathing out, I calm my body."

The breath is the key to mindfulness. It is important to stop for a few moments and center ourselves before we make decisions we might regret later. Slowing down. Not rushing our food...or our lives, for that matter. Not an easy thing to do nowadays, is it?

The other day I did an experiment at Starbucks. I ordered my usual: tall, decaf latte and then just sat down and drank the darn thing, sip by sip. As I did this, I watched other people come and go. The majority of people grabbed their drinks and quickly ran out the door as if they were trying to catch a plane. Everyone else sat down and drank their coffees and teas while reading a newspaper or working on their computer. No one else besides myself just sat there and drank their beverage. We are definitely a multi-tasking society, indeed!

I love one thing Hanh writes, "Following our breathing, we can collect our mind, body, and breath, and they will become one. We will feel warm and and soothed, like someone sitting indoors by the fire while the wind and rain are raging outside." Such a beautiful metaphor, to feel spiritually calm and safe and warm and fuzzy inside so we aren't influenced by "outside" distractions, disturbances and the usual stormy goings on of daily life.

I will be calm, I will just breathe...okay, now that I've done that, it's time to clean my house!