Halloween? Boo!

Yesterday I got my first "hate comment". Actually it wasn't hate so much as generally critical. It came from someone who called him/herself "The Crap Blog Detective" and having read (apparently) only my most recent post, believed that I was actually enjoying unemployment and therefore told me that I was a "useless member of society". I imagine too that he didn't like my writing. He didn't say that specifically but you gotta figure. I deleted it but I also laughed because if this person really is who he claims to be (his photo was dressed as Sherlock Holmes), I can't think of anything more useless than spending time trolling blog sites in search of those he can deem "crap". BUT, he claims his residence to be "United Kingdom". If that's not a ruse to go along with the Sherlock costume, how cool! Someone from another country has read this! He may hate it but it's getting around I guess.

Anyway, today is Halloween. Ugh!!!! It begins when Grace (as her sisters before her) goes out with a pillow case to collect 10 pounds of candy that unless carefully monitored, can magically turn into 20 pounds of fat on me. I hate Halloween. The Kish's have always hosted a Halloween party that begins with a pot luck that has, for some reason, always turned into a festival of cheese. Cheese pizza, Mac 'n Cheese (gourmet, no less), cheese doodles, lasagne and cheese... I would go on but what's the point? I'm a slave to melted mozzerella. And I really want to know how is it that a teeny little Snickers piece can do so much damage? It defies science, doesn't it?

Truth is, even as a kid I didn't care that much about it. And as an adult? Well I'm just not "into" dress up. It's a lot of effort for what? Maybe its because I have a background in the theatre and I got all that "costume stuff" out of my system. I'd rather just throw a dinner party.

Also, since we live up a rather steep hill, we have never had a single trick-or-treator in all the years we've lived here. And the first few years, I was really disappointed by that. Back then I really did want to open the door to little fairies and Power Rangers, but they only travel in the flats. Which meant that we had to drive our kids out of our neighborhood to trick-or-treat and that took all the fun out of it. We didn't get to go to the neighbors. No one up here even buys candy.

Halloween has changed considerably since I was a kid too. When I was a kid, you went as a hobo or a gypsy (although in the 5th grade my girlfriend Becky Boyle and I went as a pair of dice) and you took a grocery bag and ran around the neighborhood - unescorted - collecting candy and homemade stuff like popcorn balls, candy apples, and rice krispy treats. And if you went out after the 6th grade you were a registered weirdo.

Now, of course, I have to look through an entire pillow case full of candy and throw out anything that might possibly look tampered with - and all kids get chaperoned regardless of age. I just throw Bob in a wig and a tutu - but even he didn't bother this year. And now, you're still "going out" through high school. (Truly, my girls came home with candy when they were sophomores!) But the idea of "costume" is just an excuse for girls to get all sexed up. Eager to wear micro minis, lots of makeup and Victoria Secret push-up bras, they say they are going as "the 80's" or "catholic schoolgirls" - euphemisms for going as what my mother would have called "tarts". And of course there are no end to the "parties" they can drop in on. Ones they hope parent won't be at. Being sexy to the extreme at 13 is a bit off-putting to say the least, and sadly they don't grow out of it until sometime after college where guys can show up to parties in a cowboy hat holding a water pistol but girls still go as Playboy Bunnies or sexy kittens and drink a lot of jello shots. It's just icky.

But in spite of it all, this year Grace told me what she wanted to go as and I made her costume and I am so excited about it that I have to post the picture because not only did it turn out well, it made me feel a little bit like a "Suzy Homemaker" and boy, is that a foreign feeling. And it is exciting because I hope I am making some kind of memory for her so that that when she gets

old and resentful (as we all can do occasionally with our parents), and she claims "You never did anything for me", I can say in a feeble old voice: "Remember the Queen of Hearts costume".

So here is is - not bad for a "useless member of society".

Picture Perfect

Today I went for another test at the doctor. My ultra sound showed some mildly unusual results so I was scheduled for a endometrial biopsy - strictly precautionary. But after all that, the test couldn't be done. At the risk of indelicacy and "too much information", my doctor couldn't open my cervix. It seems that "door" that opens to allow a baby to be born can, in older age (like, apparently, 52), get locked up. Like my body was telling me that I better not try to open it again. Like I would ever try to open it again. Since I did this at my family doctor, she didn't have all the equipment my gynecologist has, so we're going to do another ultra-sound in a month and if it warrants it, I'll go see him as he has what amounts to a gynecological crowbar at his disposal. Being a woman is so glamorous.

But I got out of my appointment in time to get Grace from school. She goes to a school on top of a hill here in Thousand Oaks. As it happens today offered crisp, fall weather, crystal blue skies, white puffy clouds and the school sits on a huge lawn of lush green grass and mature trees. I got there about 5 minutes before the school bell rang so I, along with about 40 other mothers sat in my car and waited. I put on the theme from "On Golden Pond" (I can listen to it again - you'll still hear it at my funeral), and watched as elementary aged school children, dressed in red and khaki and navy walked, ran, or skipped out from their classrooms to their waiting parents, backpacks in tow, stopping to wrestle, swing from a tree branch, chase each other, hug a teacher, throw a ball, do a cartwheel, share a secret, laugh or be silent. And life just started happening on this lawn - organized chaos - play in a perfect day. And then I saw my little blond girl, walking alone over the slight hill, dragging her backpack and carrying her knitting (a new skill she has learned) in a shoulder bag, toward my car. And tears started to spill from my eyes and I was so grateful that I was not at work - that I was here instead, able to take this mental photograph.

There are truly blessings in unemployment for me.

CareNow

Guess what? I came to the end of my unemployment benefit. Oh my gosh - how is that possible? I was supposed to have a new job in two weeks time - one month tops. Fortunately, I suppose, they have extended the benefits for another 5 months. But this is so crazy wrong.

My friend Valerie who was laid off from Disney with me (only she lived in Florida) moved to Virginia where (she has just announced), she has found 3 jobs! So they do exist - just not here apparently.

Here in California, I am starting to do some consulting work. I will be working for my friends Ed and Wendy Bjurstrom who are the founders of a non-profit organization called CareNow. Their mission is to provide basic health care to the least served peoples in the world. Those people live in remote areas of Africa where AIDS is pandemic but where something as simple as a band-aid might never have been seen before. Ed tells me that in his travels, he has witnessed such poverty and lack of service or education that there is no knowledge whatsoever of germs and that in all actuality a mother, with no idea of how to treat what you and I would consider a child's minor wound, might as easily put dirt on it to stop the bleeding as wash it with water. If someone breaks a limb, they are destined to become a cripple because no one knows how to set a bone. These are villages where serous medical issues are treated by witch doctors. In fact, Ed and Wendy are in Africa right now, visiting some of the remote medical "clinics" that CareNow helps fund. It is important work.

I will be helping them to raise awareness through advertising and marketing but primarily by corporate sponsor development. This is new for me but it is, essentially, "sales" in that I will be meeting with corporations to educate them about this organization and its work and hopefully secure some of their philanthropic dollars to keep the operation running.

I used to sell advertising pages in a kids magazine to video game companies. What a shift.

Not that what I did before wasn't important. It was important to my company and to me. But imagine what it means if I am successful in getting Company XYZ to fund a shipment of supplies to a remote village in Africa, and that as a direct result of that shipment, a mother is taught that a little soap, water and rubbing alcohol can clean and disinfect a minor injury that left unattended can infect and kill her young child, and ultimately, a life is saved. That is a "6 degrees of separation" game that is interesting to me.

So I am keeping busy - finding my way around this new life. Unexpected. And interesting. Very interesting.

Pet Update

We did, as I insisted, take the hamster back and instead got two fish to replace the one dead one. Grace had a male "Beta" fish and she could only have one because they kill each other. So this time, she got two female Beta fish because the Petco guy said females wouldn't attack each other.

Last night Grace came running in to the family room in a panic. One of the two fish had been hiding and when she found it, half of one of her fins was gone!

Girls are so mean.

Possum Meatloaf

I spoke to a friend of mine today who, while grateful for employment, is burnt out on the job. After years of working at her company, she is being asked to do much more for less. She is tired and discouraged - with no end in sight. She is making a good salary with all the benefits I am so wanting to recapture, yet I felt very badly for her.

I know that dreams are only really interesting to the person having them. I try to tell my husband my dreams and after 18 years of this he sits patiently and nods his head but I know his mind is in search of a hiding place. Still, I am going to share the dream I had last night - in a nutshell.

Typical of most dreams, I was in and out of different and unrelated environments but the theme was my job. Or my former job. I was smoking again - a lot. I worried about running out of matches. In my office building, the elevators only moved sideways or down. I'm not a professional, but the meaning behind those images is fairly textbook, I think.

I knew I was in trouble of losing my job and felt fairly helpless about it. I was trying to close business but things out of my control kept happening to it and while I worked hard to save whatever I could, I did not believe I would be successful. My boss (whom I didn't recognize) came in to see me.

Okay now, hold the thought because the next part doesn't really have anything to do with the story - but it was my favorite part of the dream: my boss arrogantly walked into my office and sat himself down in the chair across from my desk. He was eating frozen possum meatloaf straight from the microwave and commented what excellent possum it was considering it was a frozen dinner. He offered me some. I declined stating that I was not a fan of marsupials, but at the same time I realized that the possum meatloaf he was eating had been given to me as a gift and what was he doing eating it without even asking me? I mean really, what a pig! Don't you just love dreams??

Anyway, during the course of this meeting I learned that my boss didn't like me, that he never had, that he thought I was untalented, that he had been giving my good accounts to a rep he had hired without my knowledge and that I was being let go the following week. I felt panicked, insecure, and ashamed. And my feelings were hurt.

When I woke up, I was so relieved to already be unemployed!

There are over 14 million unemployed people in this country today. We NEVER WERE our jobs. Our value is not based on how much money we do or don't make, our benefit packages, the perks we get, or even our ability to support our families. Our value is in who we are as individuals. And in a world that has shifted from "living to work" to "working to live", where multi-multi-tasking is not a skill but a way of life, where companies offer virtual "cities" on their campuses - grocery stores, gyms, day care, dry cleaners and more to make staying at the office late more convenient, where office/residential buildings are springing up everywhere so that you can literally live where you work, we have systematically been transformed to believe that we are our jobs. And you know what? I was right there living it. I loved my job but it I know that over time, I had allowed it to defined me. It made me "valuable". And that is a crock.

Losing a job is difficult (and in many cases catastrophic). But equally devastating to many of us has been the loss of our identity. The feeling after months of looking for work that we are not viable. That we are not valuable. That we do not belong. In my dream, the stress I felt was not just about the loss of the paycheck - it was how losing my job made me feel about myself. And in what they are now calling a "jobless economic recovery" (whatever that means), we need to be mindful of that.

Gratefully, while we have tightened our belts and altered our lifestyle considerably, we are not facing financial catastrophe. So with that said, I am feeling that I have been given a terrific opportunity. To have continued to feel, as I did when I was initially laid off, that after 15 years I was "disposable" would have done me in. I have, instead, learned that I have much more to offer the world and my family than a 40+ hour work week. I bring more to the table than a big annual summer vacation and lots of expensive presents under the tree to my family. And while I continue to search for a job, I have gained patience, compassion, insight during this season. My faith in God has grown. My faith in job diminished. So when I do find new work, I will enter the job with a clear mind. Who I am will never again be what I do or who I work for. The culture of "live to work" will not be adopted. I can be successful but I do not have to drink the Kool-aid.

Or in my case, eat the frozen possum meatloaf.

My View on Pets

Grace's fish died this morning. Ah well, one less thing to look after. Not that fish are difficult but there is always a reminder that a fish tank, even a small one, needs to be cleaned. And that is something you have to "schedule". I may as well just say it. I am not an "animal person".

I probably just lost 99% of my readers.

Its true though. It isn't that I don't appreciate animals, or think that they are beautiful, or that they have a place - somewhere, it is simply that I have no desire to be cleaning up after a living thing that will be nothing more than an infant forever and ever more. No matter how old they are, they will always need you to do everything for them. They can be very sweet (when I am sad, our dogs are always very sympathetic no matter how much I ignore them the rest of the time) but when you weigh the pros and cons on my scale, it invariably tips to "forget it".

My first dog was Princess Jeannie. I was about 3 or 4 and the only thing I remember at all about her is her name. Big dog? Small dog? Nice dog? No idea. My mother was a sucker for baby anythings and we got a mutt once we named Mugsy. I don't remember much about him either. He was a small dog I think and we had him for a long time but I couldn't tell you what he looked like. My mom once let a stray dog in. He was huge. We had him one day. We left him in the house and when we got home from school he had torn everything up and pulled off the front door frame. I remember him. Then there was Lottie - a fluff ball of a puppy who dug a hole under the fence and ran away. Lincoln was a black cat we had - he got distemper and became mean and nasty. It took us three days to put him down. My little sister Lisa had a big some-kind-of-dog named Boy. He was a good dog I seem to recall. But we had to give him away when we moved to an apartment. In all, my animal experience growing up was "eh".

When Bob and I got married, I inherited a cat that Anne had adopted and named Emily. We had her for a long time. My strongest memory of her was just after we moved to Thousand Oaks. We had hired the neighbor girls to take care of our animals for a few days while we spent Christmas at my Aunt Barbara's in Arizona. They left cat food out for Emily but never saw her. When we got home, we found her hiding in our closet. Fast forward to SuperBowl Sunday in January. Bob is glued to the set and I decide to go to the mall to buy some towels or something. I slipped on an old pair of comfy shoes and off I went. I was at Macy's and I noticed they were having a shoe sale. "Ah!", I thought. "I need some new shoes". So I picked out a shoe, the sales guy went and got it, came back, sat down at his little bench, and proceeded to help me try it on. He took off my shoe and immediately flew back as if someone from across the mall had a bungee cord tied to his waist and had pulled it back at full force. My foot smelled like something had died twice. Never in my life had I wanted to have the earth swallow me up so badly. (I imagine that sales guy is still telling that story.) Apparently, Emily the cat, while hiding in my closet during Christmas, had peed in my shoe. Clearly more than once. It had dried but the warmth of my foot set the aroma alight again. Emily would also often leave us "gifts" of bloody birds and mice. I could not be cajoled into thinking of it as an offering of love from the cat. I saw it as an offering of a legitimate reason to not have a cat.

When my older girls were really little, in a moment of intense insanity (remember I had three babies)I had bought the cutest beagle puppy that ever lived and we named him Winston. I bought him full price at a pet store. He was a full breed and he cost a fortune. I loved him as a puppy but then he grew up to be a dog. A hunting howling dog. And the only thing worse than a hunting howling dog is a hunting howling dog that thinks he is a person. And he was strong. And when we moved to Thousand Oaks where there are uncountable rabbits and rattle snakes and possums and coyote and general vermin, he lost his mind. Because we are still a residential neighborhood and a beagle running like a mad man through flowers and bushes and shrubs and swimming pools - howling all the while - to catch a thing - is not okay. So we had to keep him indoors and so Winston howled constantly. The neighbors complained. We had to lock him in a room in order for us to leave the house. If he was around and you opened the front door one inch - he would find a way to get out and then there was no telling when we'd see him again, or in what kind of shape. Or what damage had been done. Or what neighbor would be calling. The final straw came one day when I had ventured across the street to ask my neighbor's housekeeper if she was available to take us on as well. The housekeeper and I were having a conversation at the neighbor's front door when somehow Winston got out and bolted down our hill, across the street and into the neighbor's house at lightening speed - to chase their cat. The neighbors had white furniture and Winston was all over it with his dirty paw prints and the housekeeper and I had to chase him all over the house before we finally caught him. The next weekend, he went to a beagle rescue center (where he was adopted two weeks later) but my kids never forgave me.

So that was that until after much whining and begging and puppy eyes from my animal adoring family, I conceded to getting a bishon frise - because they don't shed. And they don't slobber and they are too short to jump up and sniff your crotch. But they do pee. A lot. And they need to be coddled and held and petted and loved on and pampered like a two week old infant until the day they die about 20 years from now. And in an attempt to get our little Toby to be a little less reliant on us, two years later I bought him a friend - another little bishon we

named Jack and now we have two little dogs who share a bed and play with each other but still pee a lot and need to be coddled and held and petted and loved on and pampered like two week old infant twins. And everyone in our house loves those dogs. Except me. Because I don't see the dogs. I see the carpets. And the shredded blankets and pillows. And the chewed on furniture. And an indoor dog gate I have to climb over several times everyday. And a family who will never train them. The dogs get very excited and animated when anyone comes home. Except me. When I come home, they lift their heads and put them back down. Because they know. I am not a fan.

Grace wanted her own pet so against my better judgement, about 4 years ago we got her a guinea pig once who did absolutely nothing but hide behind a small rock in its cage for a year and a half. If we put him in one of those plastic walking balls, he just sat there. He did no damage but he stunk - and I mean insufferably. I would nearly gag each time I went into her room and all anyone said was: "well, guinea pigs do stink". I wept with joy when he died. I'm sorry, but I did.

Today, when the fish died, I was relieved. One less thing in my house that needs to be fed. So when Jennifer, feeling sorry for Grace for having lost her fish, came home with a hamster and a cage and food and sawdust this afternoon - I completely went insane. Because I am done with pets. I have one husband, four kids and two dogs left and I'm not taking on an ant. And so, now at 6:14 p.m., that cute-little-soft-teeny-white-and-gold rodent is sitting in its carry box on the table in the foyer because it is going back. TONIGHT.

But it is cute.

Girls' Night Out

So last week, out of the blue, I get a Facebook notification from Jane that Leslie is going to host a Girls' Night Out. She invited a smallish group of us who were all, at one time, connected through Theatre West.

Uh. Okay. I'm in.

Theatre West is the oldest membership theatre in Los Angeles, if I am correct, and it was founded years ago by Betty Garrett and several other renown actors back in the 60's. At various times its membership roster has boasted such names as Richard Dreyfuss, Paul Winfield, Sally Fields before their careers took off. I think even Jack Nicholson was there for a second. More recently, Chazz Palminteri wrote and produced "A Bronx Tale" there - and it gave him his career. I was there at the time and it was exciting to see it unfold. And Leslie jump-started her career there with an hilarious play called "Love of a Pig". I will never forget seeing it the very first time they put it upon its feet. I did not have any major expectations before it started but it was clear she had a hit and it met with a standing ovation by the entire company that night. (A sidebar - I stepped into one of the roles of that show for a couple of performances when one of the actresses got ill. I was dating a bit of a pig myself at the time and he came to see me in it. After the show he told me that I was not good in the play and that he thought I was untalented. I broke up with him immediately but the happy ending was that I got cast as a "guest" on two episodes of the sitcom "Wings" as a result of that performance. So there, you sh-thead. Wherever you are.)

We were all performing in plays and musicals during those years - going to L'Express at 12:00 a.m. after rehearsals for wine and baked brie and cigarettes. We all fell in love a few times back then. And we all had our hearts broken too. And all the while, we kept pursuing a dream and it was, for the most part, fulfilling. You never really feel it when its happening, but retrospectively, it was a very exciting time.

Anyway, this was back in the 80's and 90's and it has been years since we were together. I have only recently reconnected with Jane and Sheila and I hadn't seen Leslie or Anne in nearly 20 years. I wondered if we would have anything to really talk about after all this time.

Apparently, yes we did.

Six were invited but one (Elise) had to bail because she had a table read of a movie she is doing. I thought that was exciting. The remaining five of us assembled at Leslie's "groovy chic" house in the valley - one she recently remodeled. I loved her aesthetic; both design and color. (The bathroom is spectacular - who knew that lighting could set a mood in that room?) There was way too much food (which I politely consumed all night long). There were mojitos as well as wine and me with my cranberry juice and sparkling water. Jane brought her iPod with an eclectic mix of everything wonderful. After many hugs and kisses and "you-look-exactly-the-same's" (on second thought, I didn't hear that...), we moved on to the deck and commenced pow-wowing. And it was SO FUN!!!

Sheila and I met 31 years ago when we were both 21, in the restaurant in the Travelers building in the mid-Wilshire district of Los Angeles. We had both just come to L.A. to be actresses and had jobs that paid the bills in that building. We were two of the four founding members of a kitchy singing group called "The Custom Cakes" and performed together for a few years, developing a small but loyal mostly gay following. We were bridesmaids at each other's first weddings. Our friendship was up and down and we just sort of drifted, with some hurt feelings I seem to remember, about 20 years ago. We reconnected about a year ago at a "Cakes" reunion party and picked up where we left off - but without the drama. She has had a successful career as an actress - you may not know her name but you've no doubt seen her on TV and on film. Most recently she has had a recurring role on Mad Men.

Jane I've written about before. She is the southern beauty renaissance woman: actor, musician, writer, doctor, activist, eternal hippie (but the cool kind). I think she was probably the initiator of this get-together. Jane loves a party. She kept sending emails that reminded us of the event. She phrased them as a "places call" you get when you are waiting backstage to know when the show is about to start: "51 hours to places. Thank you." "26 hours to places. Places in 26 hours. Thank you." Very funny.

Anne I hadn't known well at the time. We were friendly with one another but our circles didn't connect at the same time. She was highly regarded as a fine actress though, and as I knew that I was just this side of being a real talent, I was a little intimidated and so I kept a self-imposed, respectful distance. She married anther actor from Theatre West and 20 years, three sons and home school later, she is still deliriously in love with him. Either that or she is highly medicated. But I rather think that is not the case. She tears when she talks of him. Wow. She also had an amazing story of how her sister miraculously recovered from stage 4 cancer. The doctors can't explain it. I loved that Anne could. We share that kind of faith. Who knew.

And Leslie - I was the most excited to see her after all this time. Leslie has had a fairly awesome career. She has worked as a writer for a number of televisions shows. She was a co-producer on "Everybody Loves Raymond" and she wrote the wonderful film "Penelope". We were "apprentices" together at Theatre West, before becoming full fledged members. She was about 23 I think. Leslie is a very unique personality - extremely funny - with a memorable speaking voice. There was never anything dishonest or disingenuous about Leslie. She tells it like she sees it. But what I remembered most about Leslie was her unassuming manner and her true kindness. Her whole body telegraphs what's in her head and if she was concerned or empathetic you could see it in her stance. Because our paths took us to different places within the theatre, Leslie and I never got to be close friends but she was - and is - the real deal.

So imagine this group of interesting people as we sat on the deck for 7 hours (at one point, wrapped in quilts) and shared stories and ate dinner and revealed secrets and reminisced and confessed our frailties and laughed and laughed and laughed and - at the risk of sounding sentimental and hokey - loved each other. (I sound like Jane.) But I really truly did feel a full circle kind of connection - very cool.

I am struck by how we, as women, truly start coming into our own at about this age. We've still got a lot of time ahead of us but more than enough years and experience behind us to offer perspective and confidence about who we are - regardless of whether or not we are exactly where we dreamed we'd be - where it seemed so important to be back then. There was no competition in this group - as there may have easily been 20 years ago. Instead, there was camaraderie of truly wonderful, interesting people.

Sometimes its absolutely wonderful to be 52.

Thanks

I just have to say how incredibly wonderful it is to know that there are people who pray for me. With all my heart - thanks!

The Best Cleaning Solution I Have Ever Found

Three days of Celexa later I am beginning to find my old self, pull my shoulders down from up around my ears where they have been hanging out, and relax a little bit. Which means, its time to clean the house.

Yesterday, I had lunch with an old friend whom I had not seen for 16 years when we were in a terrific show together. She is great fun but that is not the point. She is fun and organized, which proves you can be both. She has a lovely home in Burbank, which she says she always keeps clean and comfortable. I was there once or twice all those years ago and I remember it. It was very neat and comfy. And she was fun back then too. So I asked her about it and she said that she can't be in a messy home because it makes her head crazy too. Which is exactly how I feel - so judging by the condition of my house, I have been crazy for a while.

My husband, Prince Bob, has been so good and he has kept the insufferable kitchen very clean and things generally picked up. And Jenny too - she is turning into something of a housekeeper. But there is dust. And laundry. And bathrooms. And linens need to be changed. And days and days and days of junk mail to be sorted through and tossed. Which means there is garbage too. And vacuuming. And probably three large bins of things left hanging around - like shoes and sweaters and tweezers - that need to find their way back to their proper places. Not that I remember what their proper places are anymore. And the absolute worst room in the entire house is my bedroom - where a week ago I pried my fake acrylic french-tip nails off and left them - ghoulishly - on my night stand. Gross. Truly.

So it appears, I have been off my game for a long while. Because while I knew my house was a mess, I didn't know it was this big of a mess. And I can tell you that I have not been fun.

So tomorrow, I have to get up early and focus on one room at a time. And hopefully, when I am finished, my house will reflect my newly re-organized mind - the one that is getting less obsessive on every tiny twinge I feel internally.

Who knew that Celexa was such a great cleaning agent? I think I'll put it right next to the Windex.

She Lives!

So I had the doctor appointment this morning. I have to say I really like my doctor. She's new but I have a lot of confidence in her. And the whole staff is so friendly and they actually seem to enjoy their work - from the doctors to the receptionists. For those in the Conejo Valley - they are the Arroyo Oaks Medical Associates. (There's my first plug!)

Anyway, blood tests, and x-rays, and EKG and lab work later, it appears I am going to see tomorrow. I do have another appointment for an ultrasound in a couple of weeks but I am reasonably assured. And beyond that: she gave me another prescription for Celexa!!!

Now I am going to tell you why I am harping on my health for the second day in a row and then I'll walk away from the subject - but I do think it is important because I know many people who suffer from depression or anxiety.

There are a gazillion reasons why people get depressed or feel anxious (and anxiety is a form of depression) and some of them are completely legitimate. But when it takes you over, as it has done with me in the past, as it was threatening to do again recently, and it interferes with your living and your behavior changes and you struggle to get through a day, attention must be paid.

I started having depression as a teenager and it took all sorts of different forms. Initially, it was paranoia and I spent a crazy amount of time worrying about being followed or watched. Or doomed. (????) I knew it was nuts but I felt it none the less. Later, I just had a general black cloud thing happening and I could sort of get stuck there. With kids, this depression turned into irrational anger (I could go from laughing to yelling in a New York minute). I had counseling for - EVER - spent a load of bucks and nothing really changed for me. My faith helped me more than I can say as I began to practice it more and more and "listen" to what I felt God was telling me. But I could not altogether shake the dark pit.

Eight years ago, at a routine appointment, my doctor found a small lump in my left breast. A mammogram and ultrasound later I was assured that this was not a cancer but I wanted it OUT! I insisted on surgery and they removed a small mass of "fatty tissue" (a bit of humiliation but it was worth it). However, all my anxiety, all my depression, all my anger (well most), was redirected to my health and I became something I had never been in my life. A full blown hypochondriac. For years and years I was certain I had breast cancer. After my dad had colon cancer, that became my focus and for the last year, it has been ovarian cancer. In addition to MS or other degenerative illnesses. Again, I know its is nuts - but when you are a hypochondriac you can know that you are fine but the grip of sheer panic (and that is the word that best describes it) never leaves you.

Doctor appointments are a horror. You are so terrified to get test results. And if they tell you you are fine, you believe they missed something.

The truth is, hypochondria is a mental illness.

I won't write a book about my experience here but I will say that I lived in fear that I was dying each day and whatever strength I had was set upon acting as normal as possible. It was exhausting. And it was worse during the times when I was alone. It is a cancer of the mind. That is the best way to describe it. And it is painful and it took its toll. There was literally nothing that happened - a little twitch, a tiny pinch or pain - that that I didn't turn into stage 4 cancer or heart failure or some sort of degenerative disease. It was all consuming and eventually I didn't have the energy to find happiness. So I would go to work and routinely come home, go to my room, shut the door and shut down. For days and days on end. I cannot remember this but my family tells me I missed an entire Thanksgiving one year - never coming to the table at all. Over the years, I tried many medications but none of them worked for long or at all. And the side effects could be intense.

Finally, in 2007, my dear friend Candace gave me a miracle - a referral to a top psychiatrist at UCLA who could not take me on but, as a favor to her whom he knew professionally, agreed to meet me for two or three visits. The first time I was in his office he spent two hours asking me questions and making notes. I did not fill out any questionnaires, which is all I ever did with previous doctors for them to determine what to prescribe. His questions were led by my answers. After a very revealing first visit, he told me what he thought and told me he would give me a prescription for Celexa - something I had not tried. He was a good doctor who knew his business. It changed my life.

I thank God for it - I really do. If my story sounds familiar - get a good doctor and get better. For real.

Consider this a public service announcement.

Dead Woman Walking

I have a doctor appointment in the morning. It is a physical. Which means, of course, I am dying.

As I have mentioned before, I am a practicing hypochondriac and this is what I do before any and all doctor appointments. But I am going because at the end of December, the government assistance program for COBRA will run out and if I remain unemployed I will have to move over to a catastrophic plan - one that carries a $5,000 deductible. So if I am going to require any life-saving surgeries or treatments, I need to have it over by Christmas.

So I am preparing myself. I have to say that it used to be much worse. I would work myself up into a non-functional frenzy a full month before any doctor appointment. The hair would stand on the back of my neck and I would obsess and pray like mad. It is a horrible and impossible way to live. And I did it for many years until a wonderful psychiatrist gave me a prescription for Celexa. I got on that miracle drug and returned to the world of the rational and sane. But I took myself off it a year ago and now I am thinking that at this doctor appointment, I should probably ask her to prescribe it to me again because I am feeling a little too afraid of what could be going on inside of me.

I suppose that there is some rationale for believing they could find something to be concerned about - in spite of the fact that I had to do a series of tests to change life insurance companies a couple of months ago and they accepted me. But currently, in addition to any form of female cancer, I expect to find heart disease and brain anyerism. Of course I know that while they may find something, it is unlikely that they will find all of it. In fact, while the possibility exists that I could have any number of things, what is more likely is that they will tell me to lose weight and exercise or I will get something. Still, I am idling in "the world of what if" and it is not a pleasant place to be.

By the way, in case you can't imagine it, "the world of what if" is the world where I die and somehow life goes on without me. And its been done. Just not by me. Yet. And in spite of the fact that I believe in heaven, I'm not in a hurry to leave this life just yet. And of course I have little control of the inevitable. And as a control freak...you get the idea.

So my head keeps telling me I'm okay. And it is also telling me that if I ever do have some problem it is better to know sooner than later. And it is also telling me that most things have treatments, and medicines, and cures even. And God keeps telling me that He is enough. For anything.

I sincerely hope that you don't stop reading this blog because you have decided that I am highly unstable. The fact is, there are many of us out there in your midst. Anxiety is a horrible disease. I am saying a blanket prayer for anyone who suffers from it. And perhaps you'll return the favor.

Note to self: Celexa.

What I Am Learning. Huh.

Periodically, I go back and randomly read some of what I have posted previously. Today, I read them all (yes, I certainly do have a lot of time on my hands!) and I am beginning to see a picture.

Early on, I did a lot of talking about what is next, fear of change, needing a purpose, leaps of faith and what I really wanted for the next (hopefully many) years. Back in July, I wrote something I called "Fear of Jumping". I wrote about having known the life of being served but now,I felt I probably needed to learn about serving someone to find some fulfillment. And then, as is my special way, I forgot all about it.

However, my very dear friend upstairs did not. And in fact, I am looking back and can see where He has subtly been putting "service opportunities" in front of me for a while now. And, because I have the time - endless amounts of it - I have stepped in, if for no other reason than I have no excuse not to.

Now look, I'm no hero. But I have been praying for a "heart transplant" for some time. My internal "empathy switch" has never worked so well; compassion often seemed to elude me. And this has been a secret a shame for a long time - something I could never really admit to - except to the few who sort of figured it out on their own. It wasn't that I was a bad person. But my focus, for whatever reason, was always on myself - I always operated on survival mode. I could certainly "be there" for someone, but unless their problem involved me personally, I didn't carry it. Not that I want to. I have enough things to worry about - but understanding is what I think I am really talking about here. I couldn't understand. As such, it was kind of hard to feel what I think most people feel.

In walks unemployment. And I have months to consider all this stuff. And low an behold, I am needed by someone: an acquaintance who I ordinarily would have made promises to that were nothing more than gestures. Someone whose challenges would have scared me to even be around. Someone whose life was really turned upside down. She is recovering from a massive stroke. Without much thought, I made a commitment to her. I see her every week. I listen and try to encourage and take her out. And surprisingly, I think I'm getting as much out of it as she is. I don't get scared when I get a phone call from her. I know she needs assurances, and I don't feel at all that I am going to suffocate. I like her. I really do. And I really look forward to spending time with her - even though communication takes a bit of effort. She is a gift. To me. She is a new friend of mine. And in addition to friendship, I feel I understand. Huh.

Similarly, I find I am going a little further with the kind of help I would normally offer. When a another friend of mine came home for the hospital after a really major surgery, instead of dropping by the market to pick up ready-made food to bring on my way to visit, I contacted my ex-husband (oh yes, there is an ex and he'll show up in these posts eventually), and asked him for his chicken split pea soup recipe. I went to the store and bought all the stuff and made my own stock and made this soup from scratch. For her. And the only reason I am telling you this is because I had to stop in the middle of it and say to myself: "Wait a minute. I don't do this." But I want to do it because I know this is scary and difficult for her and I understand. Huh.

I have been asked if I could volunteer my time and services for some non-profits I have peripheral involvement with. I immediately said yes. Because right now, philanthropies are in real need of help. And I do understand. Huh.

It seems that every time I turn around, I am getting a call or an email - asking me to help or talk or do - and I am totally not freaking out! Huh!!!

Okay the point here is not to boast about how wonderful I am. In fact, many of you are probably thinking: "what in hell is she talking about?" What I am trying to say is that this is, for the most part, new for me. New in that I'm not thinking about any of it first. New in that I'm not weighing the consequences of getting involved before the decision to jump in. New in that I'm not frightened to be needed more than I might need. Good God! (Literally!) I'm 52 and I think I'm - can I say it? - growing!!

And I have to say - I have nothing to do with it. It is happening to me and I think I am supposed to be getting this in the grand scheme of things. And I find this oddly encouraging in that it makes me think that I am on a path that will, in fact, take me somewhere new. My friend who is recovering from the stroke seems to think so too. She makes a circle gesture to her heart, points to me and says: "Big things coming". I believe her.

Huh.

The Insidious Black Hole

We all know of the mysterious black hole that sucks one of each pair of socks we throw into the dryer into the abyss. I do not know who or what is responsible for this phenomenon but apparently these holes are multiplying because something in this house is sucking up keys and cell phones and nail clippers and stuff like that. Oh my lord - and glasses!!!!! It is maddening!

I just set my glasses down. 15 minutes ago when I got home from taking Grace to school. Black hole sucked them straight up. Gone. I don't know if they got sent to some parallel universe where the other "me" (am I employed there?) is in need of them for a while or what, but I know I will be spending the next several hours looking for them until they magically turn up in a suspiciously obvious place.

I occurs to me that maybe they got sucked up and randomly dropped off at someone else's house. Have any of you seen my glasses?!?!? If you find them, please let me know. And check around for my husband's cell phone while you're at it. We're losing our minds over here.