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Just finished my first week back at work after a relatively short recovery. It feels good returning to the ol' routine, though I'm hampered by frustration over things I still have trouble doing (exercising, sleeping comfortably, etc.). Luckily, there have been no complications (knock wood) and I'm healing like a champ, which I attribute to overall good health and good genes. As well as good jeans. One can never have enough of those.
My closet is in need of major overhaul, as most of my shirts and sweaters now make me look like a schoolgirl playing dress-up in her mother's clothes. To say nothing of my drawerful of now-useless DD boob-smoosher-downers (aka bras). I'm taking bets on the number of Victoria's Secret gift certificates I will garner for my upcoming birthday.
Seriously, I couldn't have imagined what an effect losing a few cup sizes has on the way clothes fit. Not only are shirts and sweaters far too big, but they fall much lower on my waist and hips than before, minus the "tent effect" they had because of the big ol' boobs. Even more unexpected, the sleeves on most of my garments are now too long! Perhaps it's time to take those sewing classes I skipped in junior high in favor of woodshop?
As glad as I am to be back at work, I enjoyed my leisure time immensely, finishing several great books and catching up on letter-writing. I'm not big on fiction lately, but amidst my non-fiction extravaganza, I finally finished Nick Hornby's How to Be Good. After years of enjoying and learning from his brilliant columns, I finally got around to one of Thomas Friedman's books: Longitudes and Attitudes. Based on suggestions from friends, I devoured Freakonomics, the hilarious Candyfreak and Augusten Burroughs' twisted Running with Scissors (I'd read Dry a while back and loved it). I also returned to a book I'd started a few months back: Blind Ambition, John Dean's fascinating insider account of the Watergate scandal.
But the recent read that had the greatest impact was the positively riveting Under the Banner of Heaven, Jon Krakauer's frightening expose of the violent record of Mormon fundamentalists. The history of the Mormon church is fascinating enough in itself, but Krakauer uncovered some truly horrifying facts about their past (and present) and provides them in chilling detail, making for a very hard-to-put-down book. Any remaining doubts I had about the pros of organized religion have been effectively stripped after reading this! Weeks later, it still has me thinking almost daily about the horrors going on in this country in the name of religion. And to think, most Americans believe Muslims are the ones who are backwards. Fucking hell.
It is unlike me and my big mouth not to comment on the follies of our government and what's happening in the world in general, but I've been busy. So, in short, let's just say I've been grinning like a smug bitch at the news that the despicable Tom DeLay is finished. But I'll let someone else do the talking this time. Nancy Pelosi (as she often does) summed it up perfectly in her statement:
"The criminal indictment of... Tom Delay is the latest example that Republicans in Congress are plagued by a culture of corruption at the expense of the American people."Amen and good night!
P.S. My friend Jay works in a fabulous bookstore here in town, shares my musical and literary tastes and guess what? Dude has a blog! Check it out, wouldya?
Does anyone know what John Lennon mumbles at the beginning of the song "Woman?" Or is it just one of those intentionally unintelligible unsung pop song mutterings?
I tend to look for patterns in everything. I'm comforted by symmetry. Perhaps that's why the grid of Manhattan's streets was so easy for me to learn and fall in love with. And perhaps that's also why I gravitated so much more toward those gridlike city streets than the endlessly winding canyons of L.A.
When my mind insists on racing, keeping sleep at bay, I employ a few personal "insomnia busters." Most have to do with patterns. Or lists. I'll list state and national capitals in my head. Or try recalling Best Picture Oscar winners by year. Or try to remember the names of all my teachers, starting with kindergarten. (Interesting how easy it is to remember elementary school teachers but harder to recall names of teachers once I hit jr. high and had 6 each semester.) Sometimes I'll visualize cities I've visited and try recalling street names and subway stations. Hey, it beats stressing over things I can't control and most times, I'm unconscious before I can complete my list.
Patterns are soothing. There is beauty in symmetry, right down to the tiniest objects found in nature. The shell of the nautilus is symmetrical to the point where mathematicians have studied it. Animals with more symmetrical markings attract mates more easily. In just about every aspect of nature, there is symmetry humans can't possibly detect but appreciate on levels on we're not even aware of. And it's all about patterns.
When my parents moved us from NYC in 1978, we settled in an L.A. suburb called Granada Hills. Our house was on Tennyson Place. The surrounding streets were also named for writers: Bronte, Boswell, Byron.
There, I returned to first grade (we'd moved mid-school year) at a school called Van Gogh Elementary. It wasn't long before I noticed that Van Gogh was the name of the school's street and that the surrounding streets were also named for artists: Goya, Titian, Whistler. Before I could even comprehend why (I suppose I still can't), this type of patterning soothed me.
Years later, my sister would live in Santa Monica, where east-west streets are named for U.S. states and north-south streets for universities (Princeton, Yale, Stanford). Of course, New York's numbered streets provided the most comfort to me, as well as ease of finding my way around. I developed mnemonic devices for remembering the order of Madison-Park-Lexington and the twisted, truncated streets of the Village. I did the same in memorizing the periodic table of elements in high school. Recognizing patterns in just about every facet of daily life not only got me through school and helped me learn my way around new cities more quickly. As long as I can remember, it has provided a calming effect understood best by those, like myself, teetering on the edge of the OCD precipice.
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On another note: I have 4 family members who live in Houston. Beginning Wednesday night, they spent 10 hours on the highway, headed for Fort Worth. Instead, those 10 hours got them only 50 miles outside of Houston, where they (along with another family) are staying with friends. My thoughts are with them and with the millions of others whose lives are being turning upside down by the forces of nature while the rest of us are safe and dry.
Getting stitches removed from around nipple and areola (which I did Monday) = very unpleasant
Buying new fall sweaters in size M instead of L/XL (which I did Sunday) = very pleasant, indeed!
And a quick RIP, Simon Wiesenthal. He survived FIVE different Nazi death camps during the Holocaust and spent the rest of his life raising awareness about what happened during those horrible years, in part by hunting down a few Nazis himself. Families like mine surely owe him a debt of gratitude, but then again, so does the rest of the world.
A week ago today, at this very hour, a talented surgeon named Dr. Green was stepping back to admire his handiwork on my formerly floppy DDs. In the three hours since he first sliced through my breast tissue, he had transformed them into much smaller, rounder, more transportable little bundles of joy, removing three pounds of excess boobage in the process.
I cannot believe it's been a week. This has truly been a remarkable journey for me, moreso than I expected it to be, even with my careful and thorough (read: obsessive) preparation. The emotional transformation has begun and I'm certain will be as significant as the physical. I just need to sit down and collect my thoughts on what has been my own version of a fantastic voyage.
I’m doing better each day. I am exceedingly lucky to have had the best of care following my overnight stay in the hospital. Few people are fortunate enough to have such loving care (and for so long!), which I'm positively certain has made all the difference in my recovery. (Being waited on hand and foot is never a bad thing. If you can arrange it for yourself, I highly recommend it.)
Yesterday I was able to drive my car, looking ridiculous driving around town with a pillow stuffed between my seatbelt and my tender new boobs, but feeling great about being mobile again. Don't worry, I was off the pain meds by then, otherwise you'd have heard about my jaunt on the evening news, something to the effect of "Doped dope dodges dog, drives into ditch".
It has been an extraordinary transformation and it’s only the beginning. I've learned a ton about my own capacity for pain, my heretofore untapped bravery and my willingness to face enormous changes head-on. I've learned it's OK to feel faint at the sight of my own blood. I've learned more about myself in the past week than I could have possibly imagined.
Best of all, I'm still learning. Every damn day, I'm learning more. And I’m so very glad I did it.
Home. Feeling fantastic. Minimal pain. Minimal nausea. Minimal bruising and swelling. Slightly sore. Get tired easily.
Got bandages removed today. New boobs look great. Thrilled I finally did this.
Thanks to everyone for all their well-wishes and support. More to come, when forming complete sentences is less challenging.
Tomorrow, my life will change dramatically. I will be lying unconscious on an operating table, my porcelain flesh exposed to a handsome surgeon from New York who will alter my appearance (and my life) with a quick flick of his scalpel.
Tomorrow I will do something I have fantasized about since high school: I will undergo breast reduction surgery. I will bid farewell to my oversized cans and then return home to fling open my lingerie drawer, drag out my size DD boulder-holders, hand them over to Goodwill and replace them with considerably smaller, prettier unmentionables.
The first time I heard a professional utter the words "breast reduction" was in 1995. At 24, I had finally decided to see a chiropractor about my backaches. My chiropractor was the older brother of my best friend Michele and had known me since I was 12. Jeff was quick to point out that my back problems were likely a result of my generous bosom (no, he didn’t use those words… I’m embellishing, it’s allowed). The fact that Jeff had been like my own brother since my pre-pubescent days caused some embarrassment and I took my diagnosis and fled.
Over the years, other chiropractors would make the same recommendation: “Honey, it’s your tits. Lop ‘em off.” (Again, embellishing.) The truth is, although I'm curvy and have never been called "thin," my frame is actually rather small to be carrying such heavy mounds of flesh. My narrow shoulders are simply exhausted from shouldering (how's that for wordplay?) the weight and my back and neck have paid the price. Being in the fine shape I am these days has not eased the discomfort, regrettably.
I consulted a plastic surgeon back in NYC and, for about five seconds, considered paying his exorbitant Fifth Avenue fee. It took moving to my small coastal town to finally find a surgeon I trust, along with an insurance company that will pick up the tab. My chiropractor calls the surgery preventive, seeing as how my back problems would only become worse as I hunch further and further over until, eventually, I’m able to sweep the kitchen floor with my boobs.
So, after considerable thought, I decided it's time. I'm in the best physical shape of my life, healthy as hell and ready to submit to my surgeon's skilled hands. The decision has been an emotional one, as I've always been fond of my soft, round, womanly endowments (as have others over the years... no embellishment there. One ex-boyfriend had this to say: "Why was I not consulted about this? I say, no. Please, no.") But, as I've gotten older and more active, they've been more an impediment than asset. So, off they go!
I'd consider posting "before and after" photos, but then this website would start showing up on all kinds of questionable site listings and shit if I want to expose myself to all measure of online scoundrels and randy old men asking why I’d go and mess with the gorgeous gifts bestowed upon me.
Once I emerge from my drug-induced haze, I'll write a detailed description of what my feet look like, as I'll see them for the first time since puberty. Meanwhile, think good thoughts for your soon-to-be happier-chested friend on Wednesday, when the big ol' boobs will see the light of day for the last time and be magically transformed into something far more portable. Since you all know I prefer to travel light!
My friend Brett is selling copies of his book of humorous essays, Men My Mother Dated and Other Mostly True Tales (a finalist for the 2001 Thurber Prize for American humor), with all proceeds going to the Red Cross for Hurricane Katrina relief. He will even inscribe the book to you--a nice touch! I've read the book and enjoyed it immensely, which I'm sure you will, too.
Click here to read more about Brett's offer.
Oh, and FEMA chief Michael Brown saying he didn't know about the conditions at Louisiana's Superdome until Thursday is the biggest load of bullshit ever fed the people of this country. Why are these people allowed to govern when they clearly do nothing of the sort? One can only imagine the bungling that will occur when (not if) the next terrorist attack occurs. The lies will be swift and thick as molasses.
Our vice president is M.I.A., as usual, but in case you're wondering where our dutiful Secretary of State was all last week, prepare to lose your lunch, courtesy of the NY Daily News:
"On Wednesday night, Secretary Rice was booed by some audience members at Spamalot!, the Monty Python musical at the Shubert, when the lights went up after the performance.Yesterday, Rice went shopping at Ferragamo on Fifth Ave. According to... www.Gawker.com, she bought "several thousand dollars' worth of shoes" at the pricey leather-goods boutique.
A fellow shopper shouted, "How dare you shop for shoes while thousands are dying and homeless!" - presumably referring to Louisiana and Mississippi."
Naturally, that shopper was promptly removed from the store by security because we all know what happens when anyone dares criticize this administration. Besides, couldn't she see Condi had important purchases to make? Someone as important as the freaking Secretary of State can't possibly be expected to concern herself with catastrophic natural disasters when there are shoes that need buying!
If that wasn't enough, the NY Post reported Condi spent Thursday morning playing some tennis with Monica Seles. "La-di-da, Monica, let's lob a few while people are dying under my watch! Won't that be a hoot?"
When spokesman Sean McCormack was asked by a journalist whether Rice was involved with hurricane relief efforts, he responded, "She's in contact with the department as appropriate." Hmm... I see. To this administration, "appropriate" behavior apparently means not allowing a goddamn thing to interrupt your vacation, well-earned or not.
Still, as slow as our government has been to respond, it's heartwarming to see the outpouring of support and assistance from Americans and others. Cynical as I am, I do believe the vast majority of humans are compassionate and charitable at their core and that's what keeps us all moving ahead.
Unlike any member of our current administration, I am fully capable and willing to admit when I am wrong. That Chicago Tribune quote I posted yesterday (about the Bush administration denying funding for hurricane preparation and flood control) was entirely correct. However, what I learned from NPR this morning is that every president since the 1960s has largely ignored the warnings from experts regarding storm preparation. (Still, according to Salon.com: "In 2001, FEMA warned that a hurricane striking New Orleans was one of the three most likely disasters in the U.S. But the Bush administration cut... flood control funding by 44% to pay for the Iraq war.")
While NPR's report doesn't absolve Bush of his neglect, it does acknowledge that he's not alone in his failure to safeguard the region. Of course, his utter failure to provide adequate assistance to them in their desperate hours since Monday is completely inexcusable. Click here to read a piece which addresses this incompetence with more humor than I could muster.
Meanwhile, here's an excerpt of an email from my cousin Lilah, currently exploring our family's roots in eastern Europe:
"Being an american in Europe is quite interesting, as we have a serious public image problem here. Europeans see Bush as an idiot and his war being illegal, based on resource exploitation and political motivations. They feel his war has made the world a more dangerous place. Perhaps one of these days I will meet a european that has a positive image about us."
I do hope that's possible, Lilah. For now, I wonder how the Bush administration is treating France's offer of assistance to hurricane victims? Think the White House cafeteria menu will finally return "Freedom Fries" to their original name? Think those idiots who boycotted French goods a few years back will decline their generous offer of help now? Somehow I doubt it.
With the weekend upon us, I'll be thinking of those who are suffering along the Gulf Coast, trying to imagine their pain and hoping our government comes through for them the way we have for other nations in need over the decades.
Photo taken from the Noah's Wish website
Reading and listening to news reports out of Louisiana and Mississippi, it's not easy for those of us across the country in our dry homes with electricity and stocked refrigerators to truly sympathize. Especially when, however compassionate, most of us (thankfully) have no clue what Katrina's survivors are dealing with. Helplessness, though, is something I tend to feel quite powerfully at times like this.
Since humans are capable of asking for the help they need and will hopefully receive it (at least in terms of food and shelter), I'm usually more inclined to help those who have no voice and are too often left behind: the animals.
I've been acquainted with Noah's Wish for a while now--they're a non-profit organization whose primary focus is to help rescue animals and keep them safe during disasters. Their work is so commendable, and not just to unabashed animal fanatics like myself. Please check out their site and, if you can, make a donation to help feed, care for and find new homes for the thousands of animals suffering in Katrina's wake.
Meanwhile, our miserable excuse for a president has done everything in his power to show the rest of the country he just doesn't give a shit. ("Hey, as long as Crawford's not underwater, I'm peachy keen!")
And, from the Chicago Tribune (via Vidiot):
"Despite continuous warnings that a catastrophic hurricane could hit New Orleans, the Bush administration and Congress in recent years have repeatedly denied full funding for hurricane preparation and flood control."
Will this despicable government ever have to answer for anything?