Skipping Christmas

Four years ago, when I observed my best friend "skipping Christmas," it saddened me. That's because I knew that Pam was still mourning the loss of her beloved father, who had passed away that previous March.

But I know now that there is no such thing as "still mourning." Over time the mourning may lessen, subside, but it never stops.
And four years ago, I couldn't have ever imagined how difficult it was for anyone who has lost a loved one to experience that year of "firsts," such as the first birthday. Mom's was last Sunday. We have a family tradition that the birthday person gets to select their favorite meal and my sister prepares it at a joyous family celebration. Mom always chose tostadas. And so, last Sunday we invited her best friend to join our family tradition over a tostada dinner, and we spent the evening exchanging funny stories and memories. What could have been a difficult time ended up warming our hearts. It felt good. Right.
But no matter how I try to spin it, Christmas this year isn't good or right. Every Christmas carol, every twinkling light, reminds me that last year at this time our family was healthy, whole and happy. I now understand Pam's decision four years ago when she chose to skip Christmas. No cards. No gifts. No decorations or parties or carols.
"Your mother wouldn't want that!" my friend, Patt, chided me. And she's absolutely right. Mom would be the first to tell us to whip out her favorite Christmas album by Andy Williams and spin it on the turntable.
But the brain can't force the heart. And my heart just isn't in it.
Friends who have experienced this type of loss promise that with each passing "first" it gets easier, and one day joy will return to my heart. I believe them. Just last night Pam called to tell me how pretty her Christmas tree looks.
And while my family may never again feel whole, in time I'll learn to be happy, and future Christmases will be good and right.

One Year Ago: the Infamous Finger

It was the day after Thanksgiving and mom and I had made plans to go window shopping at a nearby outdoor mall. Walk off those pumpkin pie calories, admire the decorations, maybe do a little shopping, and enjoy a light lunch afterwards. So I wasn't surprised when she called at 9 a.m. to tell me she was on her way to pick me up. Ready to go shopping? You betcha!

But then she oh, so casually mentioned that her finger hurt. Just a little.

"What do you mean it hurts?" I asked. "What happened?"

"Oh, I tripped over one of the dogs last night before I went to bed and I must have sprained it a little," she replied. "It's no big deal."

My antennas went up. If it wasn't a big deal, why had she mentioned it? "Do you need to see a doctor?" I asked. "Should I take you to Emergency?"

"Naaaaaw," she snorted, "it's nothing, really. Let's go shopping."

Okeefine.

But when she picked me up 15 minutes later and I saw her middle finger, I had a slightly different take on the matter.

"OH MY GAWD WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?"

Because THAT was her middle finger, completely popped out of the second knuckle and bent at a 45 degree angle. It was in complete alignment with her palm, crossing her index finger like a "t" and pointing towards her thumb. I was trying not to gag.

"You're exaggerating," she insisted. "It feels fine!"

Yeah, right sister. Off to emergency we went.

When we checked in and mom displayed her hand with the finger bent like Gumby on crack, I got to say "I told you so" because the response was universal. Everywhere we went throughout the hospital, jaws dropped, eyes popped and stomachs turned. "OH MY GAWD!" the man at check-in exclaimed. As did the woman in the X-Ray department, the emergency technician and the doctor who treated her.

"See?" I told her. "You've even grossed out the people in Emergency and they've seen it all!"

She shrugged. And after the doctor gave her a painful anesthesia shot in the knuckle, snapped her finger back in the socket, taped it to a splint and swathed her hand like an oven mitt, she had but one thing to say.

"So are you happy now? Let's go shopping!" And we did.

Soytini, Anyone?

You might call me a quasi-vegetarian. It's not that I have any particular ethics about eating things with a face, although once I begin reading Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer, I may start singing a different tune. Just the book review had me gagging.

Mainly, I stick to a veggie diet because veggies are quick and easy and I'm impatient and lazy. Plus, I have to confess I do feel better without all that cholesterol and whatnot churning through my body.

But I'll be the first to admit that some foods aren't meant to be healthy, no matter how you spin it. Such as the brownie I once impulsively purchased at the Whole Foods checkout stand. Thick, chewy, creamy, it looked like a slice of heaven and I couldn't wait to sink my fangs into it.

Eeeeuuuu, eeuuuuu euuuuuu! I promptly spat it out and scrambled for a napkin to scrape my tongue of any offending brownie residue. What the hell? Perplexed, I retrieved the wrapper from the trash can and discovered that this wasn't just any ordinary brownie, no sirree. This was a "vegan" brownie and the major ingredient was - sacrebleu - tofu!

Now, I love tofu. Eat it almost every day. But nowhere in my world do the words "chocolate" and "tofu" belong together in the same sentence. Nor, as I discovered last week, do the words "martini" and "soymilk."

This I learned when I was preparing for my weekly guilty pleasure triple threat: indulging in a chocolate martini while watching "Ghost Whisperer" followed by my Netflix rental of the week. I know, pathetic, but I love it. On this evening however, I discovered I was out of the cream used to dilute my martini. Darn. But wait: I did have a carton of vanilla soymilk. And milk is milk, right? Heck, maybe I was on the verge of discovering a healthy martini!

Au contraire mon frere. Martinis aren't supposed to be foamy. Nor should they smell like socks, look like mud or taste like battery acid.

But I may be on to something just the same. Whole Foods, if you're reading this, give me a jingle. I have a recipe for the perfect drink to wash down your vegan brownies.

Skip it, You Say? REALLY?

Of course, I'm absolutely, unequivocally and undoubtedly certain that the new, more relaxed guidelines announced this week for breast and cervical cancer screenings were in no way, shape or form introduced, influenced or initiated by insurance companies.

I mean, really. Such a cynical and totally unfounded suspicion. Really.

Because really, I'm sure that insurance companies have absolutely no say in matters such as these, and the new cost-effective guidelines are purely for the good of all women and in our best interest, and there are no ulterior motives whatsoever.

I mean, really.

One Day at a Time

Yesterday, I received a thoughtful email from Tia, a former contributor to my Pet Tales column that runs weekly in the San Francisco Chronicle. She reads my Blog and noticed I haven’t been writing much lately. She also shared that she lost her own mother 12 years ago and her father 16 years ago, and to this day she's still not quite over it.

"I've given up thinking that it will ever change," Tia said. "So I just live with it." But she understands how losing a parent feels, and was just checking in to say hi, see how I'm doing. I appreciate that, I really do.

Here’s the thing: writing is cathartic. I usually address what’s on my mind and in my heart. And these days, both are so heavy with grief that I can hardly motivate myself to do anything other than the bare essentials to keep me going.

How am I doing?

Well, my sister (second from left in the above photo) and I tried grief counseling, but dropped it after a couple sessions when we noticed that the counselor was fishing for family skeletons. Really lady, there aren’t any, we wanted to say. We’re just two daughters mourning the loss of our mom. We didn’t tell her that, but afterwards, we agreed to save the $165 per hour she was charging and spend it on something more therapeutic, like massages. Come January, we’re going to need to unwind after we start cleaning and emptying mom’s beloved home of 40 years. It's a task we're truly dreading.

In lieu of grief therapy, I’m turning to recommended books. One is “When Parents Die: A Guide for Adults" by Edward Myers. It's comforting to read that my emotions and reactions are typical and that I'm not alone. Or crazy, like it sometimes feels. Sudden death is especially difficult to deal with, the author notes. He also cautions that the grieving process typically lasts up to two years. It's been just two months. I can't imagine two years of living with this ache in my heart. And yet I can't imagine ever feeling normal again. Ever NOT missing mom.

Yesterday morning at Starbucks, I saw an older woman with short curly gray hair and wearing the same type of sweatshirt and jeans that mom was so fond of. And I remembered one of her simple pleasures: every single morning, she piled the dogs, Lucy and Holden, into the back seat of her Corolla, and with their happy heads wagging out the window, she took them for a drive, much to the amused delight of all her neighbors who witnessed this daily trek. Then she wrapped up their field trip with a stop at Starbucks for a Chai Tea latte.

For just the briefest of seconds, I wanted to call mom and tell her I'd seen her twin. And then I remembered. The pain washed anew, like it just happened yesterday, and in the Starbucks parking lot I fought back the tears.

It will take time, I know. And I'm trying, really I am. Thank you for asking.

And that's how I'm doing.

The One About the Rabbi, the Monk and the Pastor

Well, I'm not Jewish or Buddhist, so I'm cutting straight to the pastor.

To say that my pastor and church failed me during the darkest period of my entire life is like saying Hitler had issues. Friends who have heard the story are appalled, which validates that I wasn't simply crazy with grief. At a time when I desperately needed spiritual comfort, my church of ten years forgot me.

Oh, but the signs were there.

Such as the day before Mom's surgery, when the wife of the assistant pastor emailed me, asking if I'd like to join a brainstorming session for future church services. I wrote back, explaining that I'd have to decline because my mother had just been diagnosed with stage 3 cancer and I would be her primary caretaker. I also said she was entering the hospital the next day for surgery and asked that prayers be said for her.

How did the pastor's wife respond? She didn't. Nada, zip, zilch. Like I'd mentioned my mom was suffering from the heartbreak of psoriasis or chronic dandruff.

And it gets better, folks.

Days after Mom died, I made an appointment to see my pastor and told his administrative assistant the reason why. I was grief-stricken and in total despair. Angry at God and confused at why He let this happen. I desperately needed spiritual counseling.

So there I was, sitting in the lobby and struggling to hold back the tears while my pastor kept me waiting ten minutes because hey, it was a hot day and he had gone out to get an ice-coffee.

Okay, fine.

As I sat in his office, barely able to speak because I was sobbing so hard, he simply sat there. Slurping his ice-coffee and nodding, occasionally saying things like, "Hmmm," or "That's too bad," or "I'm so sorry." Then, when I couldn't utter another word, he finally spoke. Did he quote the Bible? Recite scripture or say anything to help me make sense of what had transpired?

Not quite.

"You know what's really bad?" he asked. "The death of a child."

I was speechless. Was I suppose to feel better that it was JUST my old mother that had died and not some adorable little tyke? I left his office still grief-stricken and also newly befuddled.

What the hell had just taken place?

This appointment was seven weeks ago. Since that time, neither my pastor nor anyone from his staff has reached out to me even once to see how I'm doing. No emails, no phone calls, no "Hope you're hanging in there, God loves you." Nothing. Despite greeting me in the lobby every Sunday morning for over ten years, my sudden absence hasn't made a dent on their radar.

In a previous posting I wrote that a crisis reveals the worst in people as well as the best. I'm saddened to learn that this idiom applies to churches as well, which is why I won't be returning to my former house of worship.

Not that I'm done with God just yet. There's always still the Rabbi and the Monk.

Starbucked for the Last Time

Are you kidding me? Almost five bucks for a large latte? Clearly Starbucks expects their exisiting customers (all four of us, judging from the empty lines of late) to compensate for those who bolted after their last price increase.

Well guess what, Starbucks? I know how to make one kick-ass latte using the still-working Krups Expresso machine my parents gave me as a Christmas present in 1987. It'll just mean getting up ten minutes earlier each morning, but I'll do it.

Yes sirree, I'm boycotting Starbucks. I won't darken their doorstep one minute more. Well, as soon as they stop selling those tasty Pumpkin Spice lattes, that is.

A Light in the Dark

Since Mom passed away seven weeks ago, my sister and I have been drifting through some sort of Stephen Kingish-type fog, trying to wrap our minds around all that happened. It still doesn't make sense and never will. How someone who was so vibrant and alive, someone so proactive about her health, so diligent about check-ups and annual exams, could harbor such a deadly illness without any symptoms.

And then, without even a fighting chance, die less than a month from her time of diagnosis.

To say we miss Mom sounds trite. Those words don't even begin to capture the gaping holes in our hearts. She wasn't just a parent but our best friend, our confidant, our cheerleader. We know that time will lessen our grief, but right now we can't foresee that day. The ache is too deep, the pain too searing.

On top of everything else, one week after Mom's service, I had to put her elderly and beloved dog, Holden to sleep, and then close my childhood home. Talk about an emotional tsunami.

But there has been one ray of light over these past seven weeks.

I have found myself surrounded by friends, co-workers and neighbors whose gestures of support have truly sustained me during this dark period. I really had no idea that people cared so much. And from their thoughtfulness I've garnered more comfort than they'll ever know.

Such as my best friend who never left my side during those first few days. I would have collapsed, figuratively and literally, had she not been there to hold me up. Or my brother-in-law, who has treated me with no less concern than he has his own wife. I have always suspected that my sister married a prince and now I know for sure.

My long-time friend from high school has phoned repeatedly, leaving voicemails that promise he's not a stalker, he just wants to make sure I'm okay. Friends that I haven't seen in ten and twenty years were kind enough to send thoughtful cards or make donations in my mom's name when they heard the news.

Others simply provided a shoulder to cry on. Like the day I was quietly sobbing at my desk and a co-worker came up behind me, put her arms around my shoulders, kissed the top of my head and without a word returned to her desk. On another emotional day, I opened my front door and found a gift bag. It contained a candle with a card from a neighbor I don't really know that well. She had heard the news and was offering her condolences with the hope that the blackberry scent might help me relax.

One painful revelation concerns two people whose total indifference has made me reconsider our relationships. One is someone I thought was a close friend and the other is my pastor. My pastor, for God's sake! Both know what transpired, yet haven't reached out even once, which hurts. Like it was a goldfish that died and not worth acknowledging. Their silence is as toxic as a cancer itself.

But just as a crisis reveals the worst in people, it also brings out the best. And I'm grateful for the kindness of those who have been there for me at a time when I didn't know I needed them.

I've learned that my life is, indeed, rich with those who are the best.

A Dreaded Day Comes to Pass

My mother died on Saturday, exactly three weeks and three days after being diagnosed with stage 3c ovarian cancer. I can't begin to describe how it pains me to even write those words, let alone accept that they are real.

Mom was in the hospital last week, recovering beautifully from a hysterectomy and the removal of tumors in her abdomen where the cancer had spread. She was scheduled to come home Saturday morning and I was preparing to leave the house to pick her up when the phone rang. I thought it was the hospital confirming she was being released. Instead, it was a doctor informing me that early that morning a blood clot had traveled to her lungs and despite an hour of CPR, they could not revive her. She remained on life support until family and friends could arrive to hold her hands and say goodbye.

Our hearts are broken beyond repair. My sister and I have lost not just a wonderful human being, but our beloved mother and our best friend.

Have a Nice Day

Ever notice how often people say, "Have a nice day" instead of extending a simple "thanks" or "goodbye?" I never noticed. Until Wednesday, that is.

On that day it seemed that's all I heard : from the receptionist, "Have a nice day!" From the pharmacist, "Have a nice day!" From the gas station attendant and bank clerk and grocery attendant, "Have a nice day!"

And I wanted to slap each and every one of them and tell them to shut the hell up because no, as a matter of fact I won't be having a nice day since my mother was just diagnosed with stage 3 Ovarian cancer and I'm sick to my stomach and stressed and scared, and until every single cancerous cell is eradicated from her body and I know that she's going to be around to celebrate my sister's "zero-birthday" in two years, be with us to enjoy Christmas 2013, or attend her granddaughter's graduation ceremony from veterinary school in eight years, I don't know when any of us might ever have a nice day again so please, keep your damn "have a nice day" to yourself.

That's what I wanted to say.

But I bit my tongue. There's no sense wasting energy on someone's misguided attempt at civility.

We have bigger battles in store.

And the Wait Continues

In the Mitchell clan, mom has long been known for saying, "Boy, when you wake up in the morning, you just never know how your day is going to end."

And she doesn't mean in a "whoohoo, I just won the Lottery!" kind of way. She's always been a bit ominious, my mom.

But her words came back to me late Friday afternoon when I finally got the call from Dr. Sidhu. The call that I'd been waiting for all week. The call to tell me that mom's biopsy results came back negative, all she has is a little infection, but is otherwise fine, and here's a prescription for some magic pills to make her all better.

That's not quite how it went.

"...bladdy-blahblahblah," Dr. Sidhu said. "...abnormal cells... blahblahblah.... appointment with an Oncologist... bladdy-blahblah."

That's about all I heard. When our call wrapped up, I swear I could hear my brain buzzing like it had just been through a power surge. I was expecting this call, but wasn't expecting this call.

The brain. Fried.

But I did hear Dr. Sidhu say that the biopsy results were inconclusive. Additional blood work, which was done yesterday, may yield more answers. And so on Wednesday my mom, sister and I have a follow-up appointment with a new doctor, an Oncologist named Dr. Simmons. Hopefully, he'll be able to explain the origin and significance of these "abnormal cells."

In the meantime, all we can do is take the advice admonished by Dr. Sidhu: "Hope for the best," she told me on Friday, "and prepare for the worst." Advice that I've tweaked just a bit.

Prepare for the worst and pray for the best.

A Turn of Events

So here I was, taking my dog, Elvis, for a pleasant afternoon walk. I was gone just 30 minutes, but when I returned, there were six, count 'em, six urgent voicemails on my cell phone.

"Eileen, this is your mother's doctor. You need to take her to emergency."

"Eileen, my doctor is trying to reach you. Call her back."

"Eileen, it's your mother's doctor again. Call me."

And so on. Try not freaking out with those types of messages.

I called Dr. Sidhu and learned Mom indeed needed to go to emergency. Earlier that day, for some mysterious reason, her stomach had bloated to three times its normal size and and her doctor had ordered a Cat Scan. The results just came in; her stomach was filled with water and needed to be drained right away.

I picked Mom up . She looked 12 months pregnant and was in obvious distress. She could hardly walk with her suddenly huge extended belly. We arrived at emergency and signed in at 4:00 pm.

Waited 30 minutes. Moved to a room. Waited 30 minutes. Met with the doctor. Waited 30 minutes. Prepped for the procedure. Waited 30 minutes. Waited for the procedure. Waited 30 minutes. Waited 30 minutes. Waited 30 minutes.

And so on.

Finally, at 8:30 pm the seas parted, the angles sang, and the great almighty doctor appeared. A decent guy, actually. I was just tired and stressed to capacity by then, watching my poor mother writhing with discomfort. He punctured her abdomen with some horrendous midieval apparatus that resembled a knitting needle and began draining the water from her stomach.

And in the process, filled THREE liter-sized bottles. Mom's bloated belly collapsed to its normal size and the result was instantaneous. The poor thing sighed in relief... ahhhhhh.....

But what caused this water build-up to begin with? The doctor discussed three possibilities.

1. an infection
2. liver problems OR
3. a word I can't bear to mention. A word I hope doesn't rear its ugly head again, now or ever.

So when the pathology report comes in next week, I'm expecting one more call from Dr. Sidhu. One in which I'm hoping she says that Mom just has some weird infection and a good ol' dose of antibiotics will do the trick.

Fingers crossed.

40th Anniversary Moon Landing

Ah, 40 years ago today. Man lands on the moon. And what do I remember?

It was a muggy summer night, dusk actually. I was 11 years old and playing a very rough version of what might be called badminton on the street in front of my house with my friend, Isa Campinile. Missing the birdie more often than not, but we were having fun and that's all that mattered.

Suddenly, my mom appeared on the front porch. "Hurry girls!" she cried out. "Man is about to land on the moon!"

Uh, okay. Sure. Maybe later, mom. We're playing badminton here, can't you see?

That wasn't quite the answer she was expecting to hear. Or would accept, for that matter.

"GET IN HERE NOW!" she screeched at the top of her lungs. "History is being made and you're going to watch WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT!"

And in the house we went. Meekly. Obediently. To watch Alan Shepard take one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind".

Whether we liked it or not.

A Week of Pins and Needles

The other night I stuck a safety pin through my tongue, just to see if I could feel it. I've accepted the fact that the lower half of my face is permanently numb thanks to nerve damage from my jaw surgery 16 months ago. Still, I remain hopeful that one day some feeling will return. And that Johnny Depp might call.

But I didn't feel a thing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. All I got was grossed out seeing a safety pin in my tongue. So Sid and Nancy-ish. I would have definitely flunked as a punk fashionista.

Later in the week I experienced a jab of another kind: my first bee sting. Now that I DID feel. Having never been stung before, I was concerned about a potential allergic reaction, especially since my heart started race-race-racing. I called my HMO's medical advice line.

"Can you breathe? the nurse asked.

"Uh yes, bu...."

"Please hold."

When she returned 15 minutes later, I snapped that my concern about an allergic reaction had pretty much been addressed because after waiting one quarter of an hour, I was still alive, thank you very much. I swear, for an organization that claims they want me to thrive, they sure are getting on my last intact nerve.

How fitting that the week ended with another unnerving experience: Layoffs. A subject scary enough to get anyone gasping for air. When my manager called me into his office to discuss a brochure I was writing, I thought it safe to deviate from my usual policy of avoiding management when rumors of layoffs are afloat.

After all, they can't fire me if they can't catch me.

But then he shut the door and launched our conversation with the subject of layoffs and my heart leaped to my throat. Duped by the old "bait and switch" routine! And clever man that he is, he stood between me and the door--there was no escape.

However, he just wanted to repeat what had already been shared during an impromptu meeting earlier that day: our organization's current state of affairs, which are actually quite good in light of the economy, and the fact that the whispered rumors were indeed just that - rumors that resulted from the elimination of one position.

Whew.

All things considered, I can live with a tongue as a pin cushion. There's so much worse to worry about...like wondering why Johnny hasn't called.

The Best (snort) Year Ever

So the year is already half over. Thank God, I say. Not that I've held any particularly high expectations for 2009, although I have to confess I was just a wee bit hopeful it might be better than previous years. But I’ve discovered that harboring such a desire is akin to wanting a new hairdo and trading in your blow dryer for a blow torch.

Both leave you burned and wondering what the hell just happened.

The economy's still tanking, the unemployment rate is at an all time high, and inflation is going through the roof. Now, to add fuel to the fire, people all around me are dying. Especially unsettling are the ones my age that are dropping dead from undiagnosed heart disease. This leaves me paranoid every time I so much as burp after gulping a Pepsi.

Besides, I can't afford to die just yet. There are still six months left in which to make 2009 my Best Year Ever. It has to be.

My horoscope said so.

Yeah, I scan my horoscope every Sunday, but with my usual horoscope attitude: If it's bad, I ignore it and if it's good, I believe it. Fair enough, dontcha think?

So here's the thing - every single Aquarian horoscope in 2008 predicted things like:

• "...if you ever wanted to make changes in your life, this is the time."
• "...your already well-known communication skills will be showcased..."
• "...the best year of the rest of your life takes off..."
• "...something wonderful is going to happen, but you don't know what."
• "...Better believe that you'll be in a very difference place come 2010."
• "...the next 10 months are a cosmic gift."

So far the first six of these ten months have been less a "cosmic gift" and more a cosmic kick in the pants. Like discovering Ex-Lax in the brownies.

But I remain hopeful that 2009 will redeem itself. This might explain why one friend always refers to me as Pollyanna. I'm an eternal optimist, she says, always seeing the good in things. I wish that were so, but know better. I'm really a closet pessimist who is always expecting the worst, like a burp turning into a heart attack.

Still, I can hope that the second half of 2009 holds something bright and happy. After all, "the new moon is shedding a light of opportunity...."

My horoscope said so.

On Hiatus

Brain is recharging. Be back soon.

If You Say So

"Live every day as if it's your last. ... One day you'll be right."

~Herb Caen

Happy Star Wars Day

May the Forth be with you.

Oh c'mon...who doesn't love a bad pun?

Does Anybody Really Care?

So while I've been busy blogging my little fingers out, blogging has been upstaged by this new kid on the block. Something called "Facebook."

"Be my friend!" I kept hearing.

"You dork, I'm already your friend," I'd respond.

And then I'd get "the look," the one that told me who the dork really was. Because obviously, they were referring to the Facebook-type-of-friend and could I possibly be any more of a Luddite?

Uh, yeah. Have I mentioned my turntable lately?

But I finally caved in and opened a Facebook account to see what the fuss was all about, and suddenly started getting all these "friend" requests. Okay, sure. I'll be your friend. And yours. And yours. Oh, but good gawd, not yours.I believe that restraining order is still in effect, dude. Go away.

Okay. So now I've got friends.

And in the process I've learned that while Facebook is great for reconnecting with old friends, it's also a euphanism for exponential minutia. Because now that I'm on Facebook, I'm privy to fascinating, fun-filled facts about how other people spend their days, such as:

9:45 am: "Going for a cup of coffee."
10:08 am: "Ordered a soy latte, extra hot. Burned my tongue."
10:29 am: "Return home. Watching The View. Wassup with Whoopi's eyebrows?"

And so on. Ah, but now even Facebook is passe. This doesn't surprise me because I do seem to have that Midas touch. If only I'd stayed away from Facebook, it would still be the hottest thing since my friend's soy latte. Facebook comments are too long, trend-seekers say. Too lengthy. Too verbose.

Now, it's all about Twitter.

Twitter this. Twitter that. Tweet me, bro. Limited to something like 143 characters, "tweets" are brief little postings meant to capture the immediacy of life. And, perhaps, the mundane?

5:05 pm: "Blink."
5:06 pm: "Blink."
5:08 pm: "Blink, blink" (dust in eye)
5:09 pm: "Kink (owowow cramp in leg!)"
5:10 pm: "Wink" (hey there, cutie!)
5:12 pm: Blink

Gripping commentary, indeed. Tweets make a Facebook posting sound like an excerpt from Les Miserables.

So don't bother looking for my Twitter account anytime soon. I'm not even sure I'll maintain my Facebook site because if my life bores me, I can only imagine what it might do to you. Can we say narcolepsy?

At least blogging allows me to construct complete sentences, convey an occasional opinion and get things off my chest. Like ranting about sites that capture the microscopic details of life. Or maybe announcing to everyone that I'm about to pull a Whoopi and go pluck my eyebrows.

Wink.

Amen, Sister

"I believe that computers have taken over the world. I believe that they have in many ways ruined our children. I believe that kids used to love to go out and play.

"I believe that social graces are gone because manners are gone because all people do is sit around and text. I think it's obnoxious."

~Stevie Nicks

There Goes My Vacation

Read in today's San Francisco Chronicle that the citizens of Appenzell, a tiny town situated in the heart of Switzerland, voted to pass legislation that will ban nude hiking in the Swiss Alps.

Great. Now what am I supposed to do?

Just Like Your Aunt Ruth

Ever since my San Francisco Chronicle pet column was bumped up to weekly (versus monthly), I get tons of reader feedback, which I really enjoy. Even the negative ones...heck, at least they're reading a newspaper, I say.

Coupled with my personal email, I usually have a lengthy stack to answer. However, I've found I can get through all of them pretty quickly if I first scan all emails in "preview mode" and return to each one later for responding. And that's what I was doing late Sunday evening.

"Loved your last tale about Elvis..."
"This is to confirm your Amazon order..."
"Chris Slattery has added you as a friend on Facebook..."
"Mom passed away today..."
"Here's your DHS alumni newsletter..."

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up here.

I returned to the email from my cousin Brent. What the heck--his mom passed away? But wait. His mother was my beloved Aunt Ruth. Did that mean... honest to God, it took a second to register.

Aunt Ruth died today?

That couldn't be. Although 89, Aunt Ruth was ageless, vibrant, a fiery redhead that I always described as "Julie Roberts as a senior." I had to admire her from afar since she never lived nearby, but distance didn't matter. In fact, it added to her allure. I felt like I knew the mysterious and glamourous Aunt Ruth, thanks to Dad's countless stories about his older sister. Her modeling and acting days in New York. Her television talk show in Texas. A recognized artist who was commissioned to paint for celebrities such as Pavarotti, Ann Margaret, Cesar Romero, Ginger Rogers and Charlton Heston.

Well into her late eighties, Aunt Ruth was still teaching art at a local community college and active in her Christian Science faith. Only recently, she had moved to New Mexico to be near her son, my cousin Brent. But she was still living independently, still enthusiastic about exploring yet another phase in her life, and still chuckling that deep, throaty chuckle that belied her age.

Only after her death did I learn she had been in declining health for several weeks. She never once complained, never once dropped even the slightest hint that life was anything but wonderful. That's why her passing came as such a shock.

Dad often groused that his big sister was stubborn. Too much a "woman's libber," he complained. Too independent. Too determined. Too feisty and free-spirited and spunky. And many times, when I'd rub him the wrong way as I so often did, maybe vote for the wrong candidate or support the wrong initiative, he'd look at me and bellow, "You're just like your Aunt Ruth!"

And when I'd respond with a heartfelt "thank you!" he would simply shake his head and mutter again, under his breath and honestly perplexed, "Just like your Aunt Ruth."

Indeed. I should be so lucky.

When You Least Expect It

I'll admit, I've been down in the dumps after learning that parts of my lower face and mouth are permanently numb. Still, I'm trying to keep my situation in perspective: things could be much worse. Just scan the front page of any newspaper (hey, support your local newspaper!) and you know what I mean. If a numb face is all I can complain about, well, I'm pretty darned lucky.

So I was sitting in church this morning, enjoying the uplifting Easter message made all the more poignant after a week of such negativity. When the service was over, I got up to leave, but the person sitting next to me tapped my arm.

"Excuse me," she asked. "Do you have a minute?"

I'd never seen this woman before and looked at her just a tad suspiciously. As we were sadly reminded this week, going to church doesn't automatically make someone a decent person. The woman, in her mid sixties, maybe early seventies, was a striking, attractive, well-dressed redhead. And she was tall...she looked me square in the eye and I'm 5'9.

"You don't know that you and I are part of a very exclusive club," she began.

Uh oh, crackpot. I prepared to bolt.

"When my grandmother was a little girl, she was ridiculed relentlessly for being so tall," she explained. "And so as an adult, she formed the Long Stemmed American Beauty Rose Club for all the tall, beautiful, slender women of the world."

Had she said "slender?" Go on.

She reached in her purse and gave me a business card. It simply read, Long Stemmed American Beauty Rose Club - lifetime member, with an etching of a rose and nothing else.

"Welcome to the club," she smiled. "And Happy Easter." Then she turned around and left.

Okay, so maybe I have no feeling in my lower face. Bummer, right. But I can emote, thank goodness. I can still grimace, pucker, smirk, scowl. And smile.

Just witness the big one that crossed my face on this fine Easter morning.

Deep Thoughts

My IRA is down 60%. I know what you're thinking: welcome to the club. Ah, but Grasshopper, this is one bullet I could have dodged. There's no one to blame, but me.

Because if I followed and monitored and discussed and dissected and juggled and balanced and inspected and studied and scrutinized and analyzed my stock portfolio as carefully as I do my Netflix queue, I'd be a freakin' rock star millionaire.

Seriously.

Priorities, folks. Priorities. And if you need a movie recommendation, hey, I'm your gal.

As the Jaw Turns: the Final Chapter

So it's been 14 months since my maxillofacial (jaw) surgery. Not that I'm counting. But I have sort of been conscious of time since I've been anxiously waiting for the feeling to return to the lower half of my face.

Lips? Dead.
Jawline? Dead.
Upper and lower gums, roof of mouth, tongue?

Dead. Dead. Dead.

Tests show that my motory nerves are fine, which means everything moves perfectly normal. Thank goodness for that. Only the sensory nerves are affected. I finally saw a nerve specialist yesterday (out of pocket, mind you) to learn if this is typical 14 months after surgery. And most important: is it permanent?

His $17 a minute response? Yes. And yes.

This surgery is fraught with potential nerve damage, he said. Most patients regain all the feeling they're going to recoup by month 9. And for patients over the age of 40, it's a very high-risk procedure. 85% of all patients over age 40 suffer some type of permanent nerve damage. Mine just happens to be worse than most.

So sorry, he said. That'll be $250 please.

Talk about pouring salt in the wound.

As I forked over my credit card, I was thinking, golly gee whiz, wouldn't it had been nice if Kaiser had thought to share this minor tidbit of information with me during our initial consultation three years ago? Before I got the braces. Before I embarked on the three-year journey to correct my open-bite and misaligned jaw. Because once the braces were in place, I was committed to the surgery: the two went hand-in-hand. There was no going back.

If just once, during our consultation, Dr. Hottie had mentioned, "Oh by the way, since you're over 40, there's a strong chance this surgery will leave your face feeling like a totem pole," I'm pretty darn sure I would have reconsidered. Yeah, my open-bite made chewing difficult, but let me tell you: a dead-as-a-doornail mug ain't no day at the beach, either.

This is my new reality.

Now believe me, I know there are much worse things in life to bear, like the poor woman whose face was chewed off during a chimp attack. Now she's got problems. All things considered, I know I'm very blessed. And so, you want to slap some sense into me, please, go right ahead.

Because I won't feel a thing.

Someone's been sipping the Kool-aid

"I never look at my watch because the time is always now."
~Carlos Santana

A Saturday of Surprises

Enjoying a sunny spring day with your best friend, shopping for shoes (on sale!) and afterwards, relishing a late lunch at a rustic outdoor bistro:
$95.

Taking an unexpected evening trek to Animal Emergency with your injured greyhound:
$535.

Bringing home, hours later, your still-injured, but otherwise treated and going-to-be-okay beloved dog:
Priceless.

Denial - Probably Not a River in Egypt

Ah, denial. Nobody wants to think they look their age. After all, how many times have you heard someone observe how old everybody else looked at their high school reunion? Yeah, right.

And I'm no exception. I like to think that, at the very least, I look my age, give or take a year. But I wasn't quite prepared for the comment tossed my way this week.

I was performing a community service errand at a retirement center with two acquaintances, older women who are most definitely older than me. I mean, nobody would look at the three of us and think that we ever hung out together at an Osmond Brother concert in the '70's. One I might guess to be in her early-sixties, and the other hovers somewhere around my mother's age, which is 73. Both are nice looking ladies who take pride in their appearances; styled, highlighted hair, tasteful make-up, fashionable clothes.

But there is no mistaking either one for Britney Spears, know what I mean?

So there we were in the car, on our way back from the retirement center, making casual chit-chat about the residents we had met and the whole aging process. Then the older woman turns to me and without batting a carefully mascaraed-eye, casually quips, "You know, I'm probably older than you."

Excuse me? Probably? PROBABLY?

Is the sun probably hot? Are Siegfried & Roy probably more than just friends? Is somebody in this car probably in denial?

Which then begets the question (gulp): who?

This reminded me of an incident a couple years ago, when I was buying a bottle of wine at Cost Plus and was carded. Me, a 40-something year old woman carded! Chuckle, chuckle. I flashed my driver's license while inwardly relishing the moment and sending silent words of thanks to Oil of Olay.

Fast forward a few weeks later. I'm again at Cost Plus and see the same youthful checker at a different checkout stand. I'm about to bedazzle her with my oh-so youthful grin ("Hey peep, remember me? Isn't Justin Timberlake the bomb!") when I see that she's carding her current customer: a woman who I'm guessing first showed her ID when she cast her presidential vote...for Herbert friggin' Hoover.

Sigh.

Am I tossing the Oil of Olay? Probably.

Solicitors Not Welcome - Well, Maybe

The message is pretty clear, judging from all those "no soliciting signs" plastered across front doors; nobody likes door-to-door solicitors. Not that the signs make any difference. Persistent sales people still knock -knock-knock away, trying to sell everything from cookies and Christ to magazine subscriptions and gift wrapping paper.

I was prepared to say "no thanks" the minute I opened the door this morning and saw the young college student standing on my doorstep. Before she could even finish her sentence about getting scholarship points for each magazine sold, I told her I wasn't interested. Her face fell, but only briefly.

"Can I practice my speech anyway?" she asked hopefully. "We also get points on presentation and the more I practice, the better."

I could spare a few minutes, I figured. Besides, I felt sorry for the kid. It can't be easy spending a beautiful spring weekend getting the door repeatedly slammed in your face .

"Sure," I yawned.

So she rattled off her 3-minute spiel: how she was from Southern California, the cities this job was taking her to, and how her goal was to study Graphic Design at UCLA. I told her as a marketing writer, I work closely with graphic designers and rely on their talents to visually bring my words to life. Her eyes popped open and her jaw dropped to the ground.

"WOW!" she exclaimed. She responded as though I'd just said I partner with Monet or Van Gogh.

Then my oven buzzer went off and I excused myself for a minute. When I returned, I came back with a napkin holding a freshly baked, ooey-gooey chocolate chip cookie. "Take one for the road," I offered, "and good luck with your schooling."

Once again her jaw dropped open in utter amazement. As she eagerly took the cookie, she gushed, "You are SO like the nicest person I have ever met. Thank you!" Then we said goodbye and I closed the door.

What started out as a bothersome solicitor turned out to be a heart-warming encounter. Which just goes to show...you never know what might be knocking at your door.

Happy Square Root Day

In case you missed it, today is 3/3/9 ,which translates into 3x3=9. Whatever, you might say.

But these days, I think just about anything that doesn’t include sinking stocks is worth celebrating, dontcha think? So there you go…

Happy Square Root Day!

My New Favorite Saying

"When all is said and done,

much more is said than done."

How true is that? Borrowed from one my new favorite TV shows, the clever "Trust Me," Tuesday nights on TNT. If you haven't seen it yet, give it a try. Trust me.

Valentine Post-Mortem

I plumb forgot about Valentine's Day. Didn't even make a blip on my radar. I was reminded of the date only after getting a couple valentines in the mail; one from my favorite couple in the world, Deb and Richard, and the other from my dog. Such a thoughtful dog, no? Even if the envelope was a bit soggy with saliva.

But forgetting this date was a personal milestone. Because really, for single people Valentine's Day has the potential to be toxic, like sugar to a diabetic. In my younger, more naive days, I always felt such pressure: Gotta have a mate, gotta be in love, gotta have plans for romantic getaways and candle-lit dinners followed by oodles and oodles of hot n' heavy sex. With a George Clooney look-alike, of course.

Today, I'm not so picky. Cover me under your health insurance plan and baby, I'm yours.

But these two thoughtful cards did remind me of the date. Oh yeah, it's Valentine's Day. Hmmm, whaddya know.

That evening, I was invited to my best friend's home to join two other friends for a wonderful gourmet meal. Over a candle-lit dinner, our foursome shared concerns about the economy, critiqued Oscar-nominated movies, discussed problems at work and dreams for travel. We laughed, ate crab, drank wine and capped the evening with a decadent chocolate cake swimming in berries and whip creme.

And despite the absence of oodles of sex and with nary a glimpse of George Clooney, it was indeed a very fine evening. On Valentine's Day, no less. How'd ya like that?

But about that health insurance. If you have a plan, you may have my heart. Let's talk, shall we? Over a candle-lit dinner, of course.

The Most Pathetic Birthday Poem Ever

Happy Birthday to me!
Still sick as can be.
I've coughed up a lung
which (trust me) ain't fun.

My day will be lacking
thanks to this darn hacking.
I'm chasing down pills,
with shots of NyQuil,
and wondering when
this "party" will end?

I still plan to eat
my Birthday Cake treat.
My lungs may be ill,
but my sweet tooth is swell.

I have just one wish
of the chef who will make
that yummy dish known
as the Birthday Cake.

It would be such a help
and serve as a plus
if the frosting is made
with Halls Mentho-Lyptus.

CSI: Cootie Source Investigation

I am sick.

Stuffy head, aching body, hacking-out-my-lungs-till-I-break-a-rib sick. And in the midst of my coughing and sneezing and wading through a tsunami of tissues, I want to know just one thing:

WHO GAVE ME THEIR COOTIES?

Was it my co-worker, Terri? She came to work diligently every day in spite of admitting that she felt like death warmed over. But Terri was pretty good about lying low and keeping her distance, therefore she ranks low on my list of cootie suspects.

However, there was that incident last week when she overheard me complain about my dry sandpaper hands and shared her bottle of Aloe Vera hand lotion. I should have just thanked her and declined, but didn’t, which makes me a co-conspirator. Only an analysis of the hazmat (aka lotion dispenser) can confirm it as the site of the cootie transfer.

Or how about Pam? Could my best friend of over 30 years really be a part of the cootie conspiracy? When I said that her delicious cheese enchilada dinner was to die for, I didn’t mean it in the literal sense. But her dinner was almost two weeks ago and by then, Pam was in the final stages of The Bug and probably not contagious…or WAS she?

Only by obtaining a leftover enchilada and using a light-producing forensic tool such as luminol to reveal cootie traces would I be able to identify the source and confirm that my best friend was indeed the cootie culprit. But clever girl that she is, Pam has no doubt already consumed the evidence.

Then there’s Pat, my sister’s best friend and my surrogate sibling. Christmas Eve found Pat fighting The Bug when our family drove around town to admire holiday decorations. She sat next to me inside the crime scene (aka the SUV). Closed windows. Recycled air. Cootie breath. I don’t think I need to swab the inside of Pat’s mouth to place her high on my list of suspects. Sure, she’s sweet, kind, and thoughtful, but hey, isn’t it always the innocent ones that are most guilty?

And finally, there’s Deb. My “there-there” friend, I call her. Because no matter how distraught I may be over any given subject, Deb’s reassuring manner is like hot chicken soup on a cold winter day. But really, how well do we ever truly know a person? When I talked to Deb on the phone last week, she still had a hoarse, raspy voice, evidence of The Bug she’d been battling all month.

Here’s my theory.

What if my “there-there” friend somehow learned how to transmit cooties over fiber-optic cables? What if she wants to contaminate not just me, but eventually the entire world in her undying quest for world domination? What if the devious Deb is --OH MY GAWD -- ground zero for THE BUG?

I may be slightly feverish.

And just maybe imbibing in too much NyQuil.