My Own Skin

MY OWN SKIN
I moved into my own skin today;
my own rebirth.
24 hours after what would have been
my Father’s birthday.

Looking in the mirror I realize
I have to embrace what I see.
Thinking of people who are
“comfortable in their skin”
I decide--today is the day!

I am moving into my own skin.

I’ve done this once before,
In 2002 after they amputated my breasts,
in trying to save my life.
It took me five years
and a thousand rounds of chemo
to get comfortable in that skin.

Today I am certain the move will be shorter.
I don’t have five years to waste.
And I am so ready to live in my own skin.

I think by the time the sun sets,
I will be moved in and fully unpacked.

Yesterday was my father’s birthday.
He’s been gone since 2004.
But I’ve kept his voice alive;
especially the critical parent.
The “go brush your hair
and put on some lipstick” voice.

Lipstick will not help, Dad,
I said in 1994
on the way home
from burying my mother.

For this past year,
I have not been living in my skin.
I’ve been waiting for Covid to end
So I can get back to my old skin.

But you can’t get anything in the past back.
You can only take what you have and move forward.

And you know what?
My skin feels fine.
It’s actually quite comfortable.

I don’t mind the gray hair…this is my look now.
I don’t mind the eyeglasses…this is my look now.
I don’t mind the extra pounds…this is my look now.

The curves. The soft, the rough.
The wrinkles and stretch marks.
The cracks.
The asymmetricals.
The age spots and dots.

I’ve moved into it all.
Head to toe
Inside and out,

Every place has been kissed or caressed
by someone
at some time
but lately,
not by me.

I moved in to my own skin today.
I inspected it and decided
Today’s the day.
It’s time to get comfortable.

All the life I’ve lived. All the sights I’ve seen.
All the wisdom And all the wisecracks.
What better company?

My skin feels so good.
Like rich silk.
63 year’s worth of texture.
I am all moved in and I’m here to stay.

Flori Hendron
3/26/21

DESIRE

Palm Springs, CA 1974

I Desire Life

Life, I desire you so strongly it’s all I can think about. How to entice you. How to get you. How to get more of you. How to hold onto you. And I pray every night that I will see you in the morning.

Life, I want you so badly that I will go through just about anything to have you. I will cut off my breasts, lose all my hair, hand over my lymph-nodes, take endless rounds of chemotherapy, radiation, surgeries. I’ll suffer pain, upset, fear. I’ll learn new skills, do tons of research, whatever it takes to have you I will do. I want you.

I will give up alcohol and gluten and dairy. I will consider kale. I will exercise religiously and speaking of religion I will paint every day because that is my way of praying. I’m doing this all for you Life, because of my strong desire for you. Don't you want me baby? Don't you want me, ohhhhhh?

Hey, Life, I am the first to admit that for at least 30 years I took you for granted. I assumed you’d always be there for me. And I assumed my desire was mutual. In hindsight I can see I was a jackass, a little too immature to understand you. I took wild risks, taking off for Palm Springs with just my yellow bikini under a pair of cut-offs, some cash wadded up in my pocket. Boy was I living freely in those days. No fear or worry. Just long legs, long hair, long nails and my hazel-green eyes on the lookout for a cute guy with a convertible and some pot and a place to stay. Life, I didn’t value you like I do now, but I did enjoy you fully. And I learned some lessons.

As I matured I realized our desire was not mutual. In fact, I realize that you are so Zen, that you don’t even have desire. You have no attachments. Nothing is personal. You dole out luck on a random basis. You hold nothing too tightly except you hold everything. Pain suffering life death births murders, fortune and misfortune, all the people, all the animals, everything we know or see on Earth---and nothing is too big or too small for your acceptance. LIFE I WANT YOU!!!

That’s what makes you so attractive to me. Your Absolute Zen indifference. I want you Life, even if you don’t want me in the same way I want you.

I’ve tried to embrace your ways; the detachment; the nonchalance but I’m too passionate in my creation. Sometimes I desire the gifts you send me; humans, healers, even the assholes. Sometimes I even desire the assholes. Usually I desire them in my bed. But it’s you I want every day all day.

I want you Life. I want you in all your messy madness, your chaos, your seductive delicacies, your avalanche of good and bad news, and your tremendous indifference. Life, it is you and has always been you that I am after.

LARRY DAVID

LARRY DAVID
January 5, 2021

I walked till I wasn’t angry. It took me close to 3000 steps. Mini was with me the whole time. My hot breath stuck in my hot mask. My whirling brain stuck in an angry loop of relentless mind chatter. 

Why didn’t I bring a power bar? Why didn’t I bring water? Why didn’t I bring gum? All that chatter from the Inner Critic. 

Then 3 words from my Inner Wisdom: KEEP WALKING FLORI. 

Inner Wisdom. 
Being wise is not the same as being Smart. And being a smart-ass is certainly not the same as being wise or smart.

And so, I WALK.  Weaving up and down the streets little Mini trotting at my side. I have so much anger it’s going to take a lot of steps to walk it out. Of all the horrible things this past year, the thing I’m the angriest about is the isolation. I hate it. My Mini dog needs about 13 steps for my every one step, her little head held high above her short little legs and that mini tail curved up like a furry flag. 

I love her but today, everything about her is annoying me. The amount of poop that can come out of one Chihuahua! The number of times she dilly-dallies and stops to smell a blade of grass or worse, and I have to remind her, MINI! we’re getting our cardio, let’s go! Walking in the neighborhood, the workers without masks infuriate me. All the people talking loudly on their cell phones, including myself, insufferable!

Walking and muttering to myself like an old curmudgeon, I’m a real-life Larry David. 
My Inner Wisdom pipes up again. Three words.  
KEEP WALKING FLORI

Riiiiight. 

I’m walking and all the while, my Instacart shopper keeps texting. She’s like a used car salesman. We don’t have the advertised model but we do have this lovely replacement model on special. She’s relentless in her support of things I didn’t order.

“Hi Flori, they are out of So Delicious yogurt, but they have a new one same harmless harvest coconut alternative vanilla flavored...I replaced it with it, and if you would like to try it let me know. It's an amazing one!” 

Huh? Is she tasting food while shopping for me? I’m annoyed and disgusted. 

Text after text. Instacart is giving me a heart attack. Click here if you approve avocados instead of asparagus. May we substitute everything in your fucking cart to suit ourselves? Would you like to chat with your shopper?  I am nearly in tears from this NON-STOP interruption of my Angry Walk.  NO. NO. NO Substitutions!  And thank you for your help today, Nicolette.  My shopper has the name of a 20-year-old vixen. This is clearly not her wheelhouse. 

I keep walking.  And my head chatter continues….
I’m worrying that my step counter isn’t counting all my steps. I want retroactive credit for every single step of my whole fucking life. 

I want double credit for taking the steps to get treatment yesterday. And I want extra credit for going, for staying and for getting home safely. All by myself. Like a big girl. 

Now that I’m thinking about it, I want triple credit for every step I’ve taken for the past 24 years to “beat breast cancer” an unbeatable opponent.  And I want credit plus $13,500 in Nordstrom Notes for the 13.5 years I’ve been on treatment for Metastatic Breast Cancer.  The Unbeatable Beast.  

I am breathing so loudly now, I fear I might burst into tears.  Would Larry David cry?  I don’t think so.  My inner chitter-chatter is off the chitter-chatter-chart.  

I’m trying to walk my anger out. But I have way more anger than I have energy. I may have to take it to the garden or take it to my canvas. I’ve definitely got to take it somewhere. 

Again, I call on my Inner Wisdom.  I’m nearly screaming inside my head. Walking, panting, thinking, begging, breathing and crying.  WELL FUCK YOU LARRY DAVID!

And as if those were the magic words, Wisdom finally descends and I fully understand the Chaos of Life. Message: It’s just not personal. Life is random. Some people have all the luck. And most of us have a mix of luck and un-luck.

The wisdom I bring from 24 years of breast cancer survival is pretty simple. Be Present. Control what you can and let go of the rest. Forgive yourself often; every day if need be. Do not waste time and do not allow others to waste your precious time. Seek your passion and engage with it fully. Process over Product. 

And the whole point of life is love. Love yourself, your family, your friends, your home, your animals. Love what you see, love what you hear, what you eat and love what you do.

Above all, be kind and love one another.

The Dishwasher Part 2

The Dishwasher Part 2 
January 1, 2021

For most of my adult life, I’ve struggled with competitive dishwasher loading, competing only with myself and my kitchen. Ranting silently about the poor design, the lack of flexibility and how disgusting it is to touch that slimy pillow soap guy who is often stuck to his friends. Basically, I dump a lot of my daily rage on the dishwasher each night as I tidy up before bed. 

Determined to make 2021 the Year of Normal Dishwasher Loading, after a mere two days of dirty dishes, locked and loaded, I pressed “start”.  

Look at me! I said to my Chihuahua, one day before New Year’s Eve. This is how it’s done! My energy was so overexcited that she promptly looked at me with those big bug eyes and ran out the doggie door. On New Year’s Eve morning I turned off the blinking “sanitized/done” light while I waited for my coffee to brew. 

Fast forward to last night, New Year’s Eve. I began to clean up before heading to bed-- because, like having clean underwear in case you get hit by a bus, you must have a clean house in case you die in your sleep. 

No one wants to be judged after death. Least of all me. 

Adding to my “getting ready for bed” list is a whole new behavior of seeing my home through the eyes of my bereft family and friends. Imagining their (suddenly) unkind and judge-y comments. 

“I had no idea she had this many sets of dishes. How much dinnerware does one girl need? And silver service for (36)! Who polished all that silverware? Forget the dishes, did you see her clothes? All those tank tops? Why would anyone need so many black tank tops? And black sweaters? And black shoes! Did she have a secret career as a mourner for hire?”

“What about all those lightbulbs? Did she have an Etsy store for 20-year-old lightbulbs? Why so many batteries? Also, the LED lanterns, you know she never went camping.  Those lanterns could light the block.  Why did she need such bright light? Look in here--look at all these winter coats? I don’t recall ever seeing her wear a winter coat. Look, this one still has its tag on!” 

My ghost would be going crazy, trying to justify and explain all my “stuff”.  Stop judging me! That coat was for Boston, but travel got cancelled, remember?  And the beautiful dishware was my mother’s and grandmothers’…family heirlooms, I could not part with it.  And the tank tops were on sale. And the black sweaters were cashmere, try one on. They feel like a luxurious warm hug.  And the lanterns were in case of a power failure, or an earthquake.  I had no idea they were so bright but I’m glad they were. They took my whole house out of darkness. And they outlasted me. Just as promised, a lifetime of light. 

The judges continued, eyebrows raised high. “Why so many vacuum cleaners? A Miele, a Black & Decker dust buster from 1990 AND a new cordless state of the art vacuum cleaner, with a million fucking attachments.” 

Yes! My ghost whispers loudly, I could vacuum my whole house, including every kind of flooring surface, and the long attachment slides under the refrigerator, soft attachment on a long attachment arm dusts the ceiling. HEPA filter keeps it all contained. Plus, an extra battery. It was so light and portable. From my friends at Amazon!

The Judging continues. “Did you see all her linens? Was she running an Airbnb?  I thought she cleaned out the place in 2019? Look at all the purses still here.  And the shoes.  And the scarves. Her poor children will have so much work to clean this out.”  

My ghost is flipping out.  Poor children? No, they are far from poor!  And you are all supposed to take something.  A sweater, a scarf, a purse, a vase, a candy dish. Some art. Make a donation in my name to MBC Research. My ghost flies around and around, creating a tornado of chaos!  Trying to get their attention and remind them my wishes. It’s hard to break through to all the bereft.

So, last night, the last night of 2020, in getting ready to be judged in case I accidently die in my sleep, I began to tidy up the kitchen. Rinsing dishes from the day. I open the dishwasher, which by my (old) standards was practically empty, and without much thought I began loading dishes. And then much to my horror, I realized that I just loaded dirty dishes on top of clean dishes!

But it’s not really my fault, although my inner critic circle is sure chatty, laughing and saying that’s what you get for trying to change a perfectly good obsession.  Why’d you run the dishwasher after just two days of dishes, it was at least 1/3 empty? My inner critics circle was harsh. And laughing at me! Those meanies.  And I’m feeling so stupid, right after I was so proud of myself. 

Hey Inner Critic Committee, I silently shout, leave me alone, go away.  I don’t need your voice on this.  So what if I loaded dirty dishes on top of clean dishes?  I will just run it again.  No one will ever know. And even if I do accidently die in my sleep, the Post-Death Judges will be so impressed with the Jenga-style dish loading they will have no reason to judge me poorly!

Here’s to 2021, may we be less judgey and more kind, to ourselves and to one another.

DISHWASHER RITUALS; AN EPIPHANY

DISHWASHER RITUALS
December 7, 2020

Epiphany:
I need help.

I’ve got to stop this weird dishwasher loading obsession. I’ve been aware of this
problem for a long time, but it’s been amplified during the pandemic when I don’t have my housekeeper on a regular basis. And I don’t have a boyfriend on a regular basis.

Guys love tasks. Loading or unloading the dishwasher, taking out the trash, getting the cars gassed and washed; these are all easy tasks that a man can do to please his honey. I despise tasks; they are a waste of time, they are too tasky, too taskish. They take up my precious time, and none of the tasks are forever accomplishments. They are ongoing which takes away any feelings of accomplishment.

Celebrations and Rituals - I love to celebrate but I’m not great at planning rituals in advance. I mean, that’s how it becomes a ritual, you do it again and again.

Well here it is, another 3 weeks have passed and once again I’m spending the day getting my Herceptin infusion. Every three weeks this is my ritual. For the past 13 years. It’s a celebration of sorts because I am still alive to have the ritual. The average lifespan for MBC (metastatic breast cancer) is 3 years. I’ve overstayed my welcome. It takes 6 hours for my infusion because I’m allergic to the drug that keeps me alive, so we run the IV super slow so it doesn’t kill me. And when it runs slow, I don’t have to take premeds such as my be-hated Benadryl or the Fat-Faced Steroid Sisters.

Celebrations and Rituals - I’m just not great at planning in advance. I mean, that’s the whole premise of the bit. That’s how things become a ritual, you do them again and again.

I come by my lack of ritual planning in an honest way. And not to blame my parents for everything even though everything is ultimately their fault. I could have certainly decided upon a more planny behavior. Like my sister who is very planny.

I do have one weird secret ritual - it has to do with my dishes. Actually, just my dirty dishes. I am a secret competitive dishwasher loader. A dishwasher contortionist. I spend more than a normal amount of time (which would be zero) wondering who the fuck designed the inside of my dishwasher? Wondering why all the racks don’t adjust and bend and move and become customizable? Why isn’t the inside solid gumby?

Have the Bosch people ever loaded a dishwasher I wonder? I am a dish-loader-aholic. Every week I swear to myself - I PROMISE myself, for sure I’m going to load AND run the dishwasher every 2 days. MAXIMUM by the third morning latest.

And every week I load and load and load. 5 days and sometimes 6 days and as many as 7 days of assorted rinsed dishes, rearranging and re-imagining ways to fit one more dish, just one more bowl over here, a Tupperware lid snuck in there, oh if I move this plate here and that plate there I could fit one small glass over there.

My dish loading ritual lasts until my dishwasher simply cannot hold one more utensil, not even a tiny butter knife and then I’m finally satisfied. I spin the top spinner, as you’re supposed to do before closing the door. I tuck in the little dish soap Pillow Guy, his belly puffy with detergent and rinse aid. It’s a beautiful sight.

I imagine sharing my fully loaded dishwasher photos on Instagram and Twitter, hashtag Bosch, hashtag ThisIsHowItsDoneSuckers, hashtag MarthaStewart look at me! Hashtag
Flori Knows Best.

Unfortunately, once I’m no longer high on my dish-loading endorphins I crash with the realization that I will have to unload all those platey things and put them away. ANOTHER TASK FOR MY INVISISBLE BOYFRIEND. Honey, COULD YOU PLEASE EMPTY THE DISHWASHER for me? Sure, he answers, and I quickly remind him to wash his hands first, AND I smile, hug him, mouth plant a good kiss along with an ass squeeze. I do have some kitchen skills.

Boyfriend-less, unloading the dishwasher is exactly the opposite of loading for me—I hate it. I will procrastinate and avoid it. I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve used paper plates rather than open that dishwasher door. It’s just so happy being tightly closed at the end of the cycle, its little red light proudly stating SANITIZED!

MY DISHWASHER IS EMPTY RIGHT NOW, and again, like the dish-loader-aholic that I am, I swear I won’t do it again. I promise myself and my tiny dish soap Pillow Guy that I will load the dishes every two or three days max and then run the dishwasher like a normal girl. I PROMISE!!

Last Time I Hugged

APRIL 16, 2020

I don’t remember the last time I hugged someone. Normally I’m a very physical person.  I hug my friends and family hello and do a lot of cheek kissing.

At social dance, we all hugged hello.  Yes, I also washed my hands a lot. But I focused mainly on dancing, enjoying myself and doing the best I could to practice good hygiene as far as germs were concerned. So many of the dancers were oblivious to germs and would come off the dance floor from multiple partners and put their hand into the jumbo potato chip bowl and munch away. I’ve never even eaten at a potluck. I definitely have never put my hand in a communal potato chip bowl.

I would love to be a more carefree person who didn’t feel threatened by dirt and germs. I would love to be the kind of person who didn’t feel the need to wash my hands, moisturize, freshen up, check my breath, check my teeth, powder my nose and make sure I looked presentable.

There were also some dudes at dance who would come back from the men’s restroom and bee line to me, asking for a dance. I would actually ask if they had washed their hands!  I figured the inappropriateness of that question could be more easily forgiven than me risking getting sick and having to delay treatment. Back in those days, I didn’t share my metastatic breast cancer status. I kept it a secret. It was something I dealt with every three weeks at treatment, neatly compartmentalized. 

Those were the early days of dancing at the Hacienda.  I was brand new to social dancing and West Coast Swing. I had just been though a break-up, and was trying to get back my footing, I guess pun intended.  I was also getting certified at Social Emotional Arts (SEA) thru UCLArts, so I had a lot going on to keep my mind in a good place.  Back then I was still teaching my art program to cancer survivors at Cedars.  The hospital wanted me to have a related degree, which is what spurred my SEA training.  In between breakup healing and SEA learning, I would show up at The Hacienda, to the beginner class every week, somewhere between terrified and thrilled. 

For someone who has spent most of her life in West LA in a 5-mile radius, driving alone to the Hacienda hotel near LAX was out of my comfort zone.  In those early days, I couldn’t get the lay of the land.  It was kind of a seedy vibe.  The lights were always dim as you’d expect in a hotel bar.  I wondered--WHO were all these people? Transients? Drunks? Was it a hook up place or worse?  I was out of my element.  I was also worried that someone was going to take my purse. The dancefloor was adjacent to the bar, and I didn’t know if everyone was drunk. I just never felt safe.

For the first several weeks I thought Asya and Tambre were the same person, this still makes me laugh.  Back then, many other dancers seemed like professionals, but now I know the difference! 

Our teachers, Phil and Mindia, could not have been nicer.  They were funny, always teasing each other.  Beginning class was very challenging and my head would feel like it was going to explode by the end of every class. I was so overwhelmed and so confused. Still, I loved the music and I loved the weird vibe.

There was so much camaraderie and general good spirits that gradually over time I realized, no, the people were not drunk. And they were nice. And Aysa and Tambre were completely different people.  And I didn’t need to walk to my car with my handheld mace at the ready. El Segundo was pretty safe.

I remember early on many of the women in the class were so kind and helpful to me. Right away I wanted to be friends with Jennifer.  She was tall and was such a good dancer.  A week later Eni and I fell in love while washing our hands in the bathroom.  Soon thereafter I met Isabell. Then Cheryl. My table of friends was growing. Frank, Alan, Barry, Fritz, Rami. Jane and Steve. I was starting to put names and faces together.  I asked every single partner how long they’d been dancing, something that must have been quite annoying but I was obsessed. Ha! And I was trying so hard to get the lay of the land.

Each week I learned a few more names and made a few more friends. Still, it was such a bizarre way for me to suddenly spend time. I was obsessed with learning West Coast swing and the more I wanted to learn the more I realized what a difficult dance it was. There was so much minutia, terminology I’d never heard of, plus I had never before danced.

After a few months, I signed up for privates with Phil. Each week he would pretty much tell me the same three things not to do and each week I would practice and then I would repeat the things I was not supposed to do.  He seemed to have endless patience, breaking down moves, rolls, and the count.  Eventually I started to learn and grow as a dancer. I also started going to Debbie D’Aquino’s Sunday classes in El Segundo.  There I met Helen and Terry.  Practice was paying off and I finally started to learn the basics.  By that first summer I was dancing at least twice a week plus privates once a week with Phil.

Phil and Mindia’s monthly dances in Lomita were amazing, and it took me months to be brave enough to go. I was so overwhelmed I could barely breathe. Suddenly the dance floor went from 50 familiar faces to 200 people and most of whom I did not know.  Plus the communal potato chip bowl was there, with other snacks, all which scared me.

Soon enough I found my friends, and I found my table, and I started seeing the same people again and again. I realized we were all there for the same reason. No one was overly judgmental. It was only a dance--if you picked the wrong partner how bad could it be? One song, a few minutes.  I started to relax and just dance. 

Month after month I would enjoy these dances at Lomita. Eventually I settled into a carpool routine with Jennifer. Some of my best dance memories are Jen and I talking about our highlight dances, laughing and car-snacking on our drive home.

When the Hacienda closed its doors, our dance community went through a lot of changes. It marked the end of an era, and for many it was an era of many decades. I had only been there a couple years. The Hacienda community moved to Westchester Elks club, and we continued dancing and making the best of it, even though as many pointed out, it was not “The Hacienda”. 

Over time social dancing expanded to socializing. And my dance friends would get together for summer concerts, or to take other dance classes, for parties, for potlucks and just to hang out.

What started as a room full of strangers, outside my comfort zone, has grown into a community of friends and a zone full of comfort.

I know all dancers are suffering right now. Dancing is what keeps us sane, grounded, connected, feeling happy, and feeling loved. And hugged. Hugged!

The physical distance has been so hard for a community used to literal connection.  We work on our connection, to always know where our partner is takes practice.  Sometimes we are required to reset the physical distance with our partner after a certain move is completed.  This keeps the dance looking elegant, stretched and elongated.

We are all being asked to set a very difficult distance.  It is anything but elegant, although it is forcing us to emotionally stretch.  I cannot wait until we resolve our pandemic so we can safely get back to our relaxed atmosphere of social dancing filled with big bowls of potato chips and hardly a concern.  

Romaine Hearts

MARCH 27, 2020

There is a package of romaine lettuce on my spare bathroom sink counter. It was delivered yesterday, or the day before.  I was too exhausted to wipe everything.  Wrapped in plastic, I thought it possible to have “the virus”.  I couldn’t take the chance.  So, I put it in quarantine, in the extra bathroom, along with other items I did not immediately need. 

In the shower, I have quarantined the extra bags of dog food. Three cans of black beans now stand on the ledge that once held soap and shampoo, razors and shaving cream.  Next to the beans is Soy Sauce, some boxed Almond milk. Pantry items I was too exhausted to wipe, so they are locked in the kids’ tub for safety sake.  

There is a package of romaine lettuce on my spare bathroom sink counter.  I can see it from the dining room and I glance nervously in its direction, each time I pass by.  Does this fucking Corona crawl around, looking for a host? Will it hitch a ride on one of the dogs and find its way to me and into my lungs?  I pull the bathroom door shut.  And wipe the handle.  And wash my hands, again.  For safety sake.

My friend Carol is a scientist. Even though I only know her online, I’ve internalized a kind of “what would Carol say” dialogue with myself.  Her two most popular replies of late, “highly unlikely” and “just wash your hands”.  Sometimes, in my mind, she takes liberties and says, “Flori! get ahold of yourself” and other such dramatic statements.  I doubt in real life she’d ever shout that at me. 

]There is a package of romaine lettuce on my spare bathroom sink counter. It is a place holder for all the bad things that I fight in my life.  Cancer.  Anxiety.  My shitty neighbor.  I keep washing and wiping things down.  Staying calm.  Determined.  My mother’s voice, “This too shall pass. This too shall pass, this too shall pass”.  I can’t chant it enough. 

It is nine days since my last infusion and I feel wiped. This cycle came with added waves of anxiety that I can only attribute to the pandemic. By the end of every day I fall apart.  Exhausted and weary.  It’s too much for me to handle on my own.  The cooking, the cleaning, the washing, the laundry, the housekeeping. Despite my carefully culled TV and video playlists, some headlines sneak through.  I feel a sense of dread, for everyone suffering and especially those suffering alone, in isolation, in ICU, away from their loved ones.     

There is a package of romaine lettuce on my spare bathroom sink counter.  And there are parents who are glad their kids are staying at college.  They share no sense of social or moral obligation.  These are the kids who will ruin our world.  Their parents forgot to teach them the tough lessons.  How to sacrifice. How to be resilient.  They will cause others to suffer and probably not be aware of that either.  They lack situational awareness.  I detest lazy parenting and parents who don’t take their responsibilities to heart.

At the same time, there are so many selfless people who continue to keep our services running.  Health care workers, therapists, engineers, pilots, grocers, scientists, physicians, drivers, shoppers, writers, broadcasters, rabbis, priests, mentors, friends---the list of selfless people is remarkable and endless.  The best of humanity.  They are our heroes and who knows if they will be properly celebrated?  I hope so.

I want to sing them a party every day.

There is a package of romaine lettuce on my spare bathroom sink counter.  I may leave it there all year.  A small reminder that nothing lasts forever and my proof, that this too, shall pass.    

Pandemic Dining - Day 162

AUGUST 30, 2020

I eat all of my meals out of a bowl; same as my dog.

It started with this pandemic dining, me eating alone, quarantine style, in front of the tv. One large serving bowl is quite convenient. It holds a lot of food. Nothing runs off the side.

I also started cutting up my food ahead of time, similar to how I fed my kids when they were little. Easier that way. Now all I need to eat a meal is one bowl, one fork and a napkin.

Over time, I realized that using a dish towel was better than a cloth napkin. Since I’m eating on the couch, in front of the tv, out of a jumbo bowl, my food already cut up - it’s safer to have a dish towel in my lap. In case of spills.

I feel like a toddler as I load up my bowl. I no longer bother to pour my water into a glass with ice. Too risky, to have a full glass while I’m hardly paying attention to my meal, my eyes fixed on reality TV. So, in my efforts to keep order, and mitigate waterfalls in my living room, I now drink my water out of a water bottle. All that’s missing is a bib.

 This week, after chemo and feeling nauseous, I noticed that it turned my stomach to have my food touch. And a deeper weirder level in pandemic eating was reached.

Larger bowl, smaller portions. No food touching another category of food. Same dish towel but drinking bottle was swapped for jumbo red plastic beer-pong cup filled with crushed ice, water and topped with a bendy-straw.

I’m my own Assisted Living Director in my own Assisted Living Room.

When I was a little girl, it was a huge treat to eat a Swanson TV dinner (fried chicken was my favorite) in front of the television on a TV tray. Which we called a Snack Table.

I still remember the rickety metal tray and the way it snapped down on the simple frame. This TV dinner dining treat was reserved for the rare occasion when my parents were going out for dinner and we had a babysitter coming to watch me and my little sister. 

Swanson’s tv dinners; the cute compartments of food, the greasy and delicious fried chicken, the triangle of oddly-smoothed mashed potatoes, the little compartment of corn and the scorching apple cake in the upper right corner. Food lover’s heaven, if you’re eight years old!   Still, eating out of a tray, on a tray seems more civilized than eating out of a jumbo bowl, balanced in my lap. 

And until I was unloading my dishwasher just now, these past 162 days of plate-less eating almost went unnoticed!  If a bowl falls in the sink...

Tonight, I cooked a yummy dinner. Comfort food. Skillet-style cooking. Real Mashed potatoes with browned onion, ground turkey, peas and corn. Seasoning. And of course, topped with ketchup.

I decided enough was enough. It was Saturday night, time to be fancy. I took down a plate to serve myself, nicely arranging the food. Scoop of potatoes, topped with a spoonful of skillet turkey, peas and corn. Salt and freshly ground pepper. Voila! Filled a glass with crushed ice and water. Got out silverware; fork, knife, spoon. Walked halfway to the dining table and then thought to myself - uh, nope. Don’t want to sit there. Never mind.

Grabbed a big bowl, scraped the pretty food from my plate into the bowl. Grabbed my dish towel and a straw. Found the TV clicker and got comfy on the sofa.

Well, I thought to myself, at least I’ll have one plate in the dishwasher this week.  Hard not to self-judge my digression in dining habits. Hard not to self-judge period.

Maybe from now on, whether I eat out of bowls or serve myself food on a plate, I’ll stop the inner-critic-bitch from giving me such a hard time.  It’s my picnic after all.  A plate of food; a bowl of ice cream. A glass of ice-water, a bendy straw and thou. 

Just eat, drink, and enjoy!

Handicap Parking & Cheaters

AUGUST 28, 2020

My dad was a seasoned worrier.  My mom, who had a physical handicap, was less of an outward worrier.  Her big thing was “the lay of the land”.  As in she liked to check out any new place with a drive by in the days before, to get the lay of the land. Were there steps? And if so, was there a handrail?

Years before the ADA was formed, these were real issues for people with a physical handicap. When you still said handicapped people.  Actually, once my mom asked me if I was upset because other kids made fun of her or called her crippled? I was in first grade at the time and can remember a sinking feeling at hearing her use that word.  No mommy, I said, no one has ever said anything bad about you.  And from that moment on, my ear was tuned to listen for CRIPPLE. 

Now, every other car in my neighborhood carelessly displays their blue handicapped parking pass.  I hate these cheaters.  They have no idea what it is like to be truly disabled.  To have such pain and physical difficulties walking that you can barely make it from the car to the trunk. 

I’ve had some fights with entitlers who take handicap parking spots, and they can walk.  Oh, you have a heart condition so you need to park near the mall entrance to shop? Don’t you see the irony in this? Let me take your picture for my wall of shame.  SHAME on you. 

Handicap Parking Cheaters, I’ve seen you walk your dog.  I’ve seen you on the dance floor.  LIAR LIAR LIARS.  I will call you out as the wild woman in me emerges.  I see my mom, and her physical struggles, getting out of the car, holding on to the car, making her way to her trunk, using the lift to get her motorized cart out. Using the lift to guide and attach the seat.  And then trying to find a safe path to drive into the mall.  Or the grocery store.  Before ADA and safe paths.  Before ADA and the demand for equal experience in public spaces for people with disabilities.

My mom was lovely.  Not wild. My wild anger it is always just below the surface. 

In 2005, I caught my ex-husband cheating. Lying.  I was devastated.  Crushed.  That summer when my kids went away to camp, and I realized that his begging to make things right were more lies, I filed for divorce.  He was not living at home, he was not sending money to help take care of me and the kids.  He was living with his smug lying sex whore.  They were perfect for one another. Two worthless pieces of shit liars. 

I was so broken, so scared, so surprised.  The ground was not level, there was nothing I could count on.  And everything in my house was a chorus of lies.  Our dinner dishes, lovingly purchased. Lies.  I threw them outside, watched as they shattered! And I felt a tiny bit of relief.  Yes, makes sense, they should be broken like us.  Next came the bowls.  The cups. The glasses.  Lies.  All of them. Lies.  I threw and threw.  Smashed.  Chatchkies; beautiful blown glass, ceramics, collected over the years of our marriage, collected in LOVE.  During our travels. Souvenirs. LIES.  How could I ever look at them again? CRASH! SMASH! Oh, I was feeling way better.  A cleansing. Of him and of all the lies living on my shelves. 

His lying clothes, still hanging in my closet.  I take my carpet shears and slash the backs of his shirts.  Worthless liar! This is how you stabbed your family in the back.  This is me stabbing you in the back. WILD IN MY RAGE, MY HURT, MY TEARS and mostly my FEAR.  HOW COULD HE DO THIS TO US? More crashing, more trashing. It felt good to clear out the evidence of my shattered marriage. 

And then weeks later, he finally slinks back, to empty his half of the closet.  And after packing up, he changes his shirt, and I hold my breath.  He doesn’t even notice the slashes in the back.  And I think good, you lying piece of shit - you deserve to wear slashed shirts.  A sign of how you slashed your family.  I should have cut your pockets.  To represent your bounced checks.  How you walked out of our lives and never once looked back or sent financial support to the kids. 

I find the box of Christmas ornaments.  Chanukah décor.  I keep all the Chanukah memories for my kids.  And I pack all the Christmas shit in his box.  Except anything having to do with us.  Those I throw out.  By the end of the day I am broken.  I want to climb into the garbage can with all the shattered glass. I am God’s garbage.  That one thought runs through my head over and over.  Why did he fight so hard to save me, only to throw me out in the end?  And if the man I gave beautiful children to, and a beautiful life to, didn’t want me, then no one would ever want me.  I was shattered.

I was out of control and wished I hadn’t sent the kids to camp.  Home alone.  Really alone.  The alonest.  I just wanted to die.  WHEN did it all happen? And how did I miss every sign? When did he turn into such a liar? I know that men leave their wives all the time, but how could a father leave his children?  HE FUCKED US ALL.  We will never be okay. I started going wild again, pacing through the house, looking for things to break.  I understand how cutters cut themselves.  I felt relief with every crash. 

Laying in the dark, on my closet floor, alone, terrified and confused, all I could do was sob. And wait and hope for morning to come. 

 The next day, Sunday, I head to whole foods.  There I run into a man I knew in high school.  He says the magic words, “I used to have such a crush on you in High School” and then asks if I remember him.  He was also going through a divorce. We slowly began a love affair. Maybe I’m not garbage after all. I learn about love and sex and how being whole has nothing to do with body parts.  The wild woman in me has become wild in the best way possible, wild in love. 

Mating

JULY 14, 2020

Everything comes in pairs; Shoes, gloves, pants. And People. Especially people. Days before my 3rd birthday, I asked my parents where my person was.

“Everybody has a person, I said to my mom. Grandma has Poppy. Uncle Billy has Aunt Jane and you have daddy.” Where’s MY person?

My mother was very pregnant with my sister at the time. Everyone was excited and talking about “the baby” and how I was going to be a big sister.  I was already a little mother; how would I be a big sister? I needed a person!

Days before my 3rd birthday, a great big box was brought into the house. My grandparents and parents gathered to watch me open it. It was a giant doll! My mother excitedly said, here’s your person! It’s Chatty Cathy! I pulled the string from the side of her neck. And immediately I hated her. I mean, c’mon…a 3-year-old who wanted a person was not going to be appeased by a fucking giant plastic doll with scary blue blinky-eyes and a pull string coming out of her neck!

Nearly 60 years later, I find myself again wondering, where’s my person?

I’ve been part of a couple for more years than not. Starting very young, my parents always liked to remind me how I was accused of being “the only married student” in junior high school, according to the guidance counselor. Fine. Yes, I had the same boyfriend for many years starting in Junior high school. If that made me married I was OK with it. 

In Mate-Seeking, my subconscious plays a bigger role than I’d like. More times than not, I’m drawn again and again to a certain type of screwed up man, matching screw for screw to my father’s screws.  In fact, I even knew that my intense attraction to my last mate was also an intense measure of his emotional damage. He best matched my dad, and in hindsight he exceeded the number of screws.  If my screwed up subconscious could write an in-search-of ad, it would read like this: 

MAN WANTED: Must be metrosexual, meticulous in your own hygiene, meticulous in your critique of mine; meticulous about everything.  Should be smart, strong, yet silent type. Must smell good. No weird fetishes.  Must not be overweight or (God forbid) a slob. If you make him tall and thin, with a great smile, and if he’s funny, I am sure to be smitten. Stars in my eyes, he’s my guy.

“Where is my person” was easier to answer when I wasn’t dealing with an illness.  And when I was a decade younger. And a decade funnier.

Adam & Eve, Kanye & Kim, Sonny & Cher. The world is filled with couples. I’ve always felt that I’m not meant to live my life alone. I am happier with a mate. More fulfilled sexually, emotionally, mentally and whatever other alleys are filled by the presence of a mate sharing my life.  Like the Albatross, I meant to mate for life.  Also, like the Albatross, my girlfriends fill most of my needs.  Every now and then, they have to step aside if the right man comes along.

I tend not to dwell in the past or the future. What serves me best is to deal one day at a time. I know it’s cliché, but it truly works. I don’t know if I’ll be without a mate for the rest of my life, or if an unexpected pairing will penetrate my world. Maybe some random dragonfly of a dude will hook up with me mid-flight!