Beanie Baby

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Beanie BabyOh, how sad!” I inwardly gasped, brought up short on my daily walk.

There at my feet was a bit of dirty orange plush. It looked like it had been run over by a truck. One leg was missing entirely; white fluff spilled out from what was left of an arm: A beanie baby bear, lying face down on the asphalt.

Briefly, my empathy flitted to the forlorn child, the parents desperate to soothe, placate, substitute, bribe—anything to stop the wailing. I remembered the sleepless nights of misplaced lovies, the routes retraced until we found Sock Monkey or Pink Doggy, or whoever else had escaped unnoticed from my daughters’ clutches.

Mostly, though, I was horrified by how far this particular orange bear had fallen from its original pristine condition. Back in the late 1990s, Beanie Babies were not supposed to be the victims of botched surgeries performed by aspiring veterinarians, or sacrificed in the service of sibling torment. They were not supposed to lie on the ground getting dirty. In many families, they were not even supposed to be played with at all!

It didn’t start out this way. When Beanie Babies first appeared, they were just cute plush toys that cost five bucks. I didn’t care what my daughters did with theirs, as long as I didn’t break my neck tripping over them on the stairs.

Then things went a little crazy.

Thanks to a clever marketing strategy of “retiring” beloved characters, scarcity drove up demand. People willing to pay anything spent hours tracking down the elusive creatures, convinced their value would skyrocket. One man made national news when he bought $100,000 worth of Beanie Babies, gambling that their ever-increasing value would put his kids through college.

Suddenly, Beanie Babies became not a child’s favorite cuddle buddy, but investments. To protect their assets, people bought heart-shaped plastic covers to place over the manufacturer’s label (the very same label that in saner times would have been removed as a choking hazard). Truly zealous collectors entombed each Beanie Baby in a special acrylic box. Kids could forget about playing with their Beanies, since they couldn’t be trusted to keep them in mint condition.

Skepticism and a reputation as a tightwad inoculated me (and thus my kids) from all but the mildest case of Beanie Baby fever. Still, we occasionally were part of the grapevine of kids and mothers alerting one another to a rare Beanie sighting at some far-flung store. I confess to rushing out and paying $13.00 for a floppy-eared bunny rumored to be worth more because its tag had a misprint. During the Princess Di craze, when all the shelves were stripped bare of royal purple bears, my girls and I were overjoyed when the clerk dug out an overlooked one from the storeroom. (I was even more overjoyed when she didn’t jack up the price beyond the $20 retail “value.”)

Eventually, the bubble burst and my daughters grew up. Now there is a giant box of gently used Beanie Babies stowed high on a closet shelf. They’re awaiting future grandchildren, not a market rebound. Sadly, the Beanies were useless for college tuition, possibly because the unprotected but still-affixed labels showed a little too much wear and tear.

Not as much wear and tear, however, as the bedraggled orange bear I’d stumbled across on my recent walk. As I looked down at the heap of soiled plush at my feet, I thought of The Velveteen Rabbit, whose shabbiness was an emblem of how well-loved he was.

I imagined again the bereft child whose beloved orange friend had gone missing.

Then I pondered further on the time when kids were deprived of the chance to love someone to decrepitude because we encased their Beanies in plastic and put them out of reach.

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Were you or your kids afflicted with Beanie Baby Fever?.Memories from that time?

Talking Cure

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Conversation

Sherry Turkle, a sociologist and psychologist who studies the impact of technology on relationships, wrote recently about the need for face-to-face conversation in a world increasingly dominated by texting and smartphones. It is through this “talking cure” that we build empathy, intimacy, and self-reflection, coming to know ourselves and others deeply.

Turkle wasn’t talking about Freud, but she was describing the mainstay of psychotherapy.

Soon after Turkle’s essay appeared, new research questioning the efficacy of talk therapy in treating depression made headlines. That same day, I listened to a podcast about Dr. James O’Connell, who has been providing healthcare to Boston’s homeless population since 1985.

O’Connell’s approach is more art than science.  He described having to unlearn the techniques and arrogance he’d perfected as an ER doctor when he took a job at a homeless shelter. The nurses, unimpressed with his skills, advised him to keep quiet about his medical expertise. They instructed O’Connell to spend his first two months doing nothing but soaking the feet of those living on the street.

“Don’t judge, these people have been through hell,” the nurses told him. “You will not gain anyone’s trust without being present.”

O’Connell spoke of the profound isolation and loneliness as well as the tremendous courage and resourcefulness of the men and women he came to know in his decades on the street. He believes the adversity they experienced would have broken him. This knowledge is fundamental to engaging in such hard work:

“We’re all broken in our own way,” O’Connell says. “It’s a connection with that brokenness that actually keeps us going.”

O’Connell’s words took me back to what inspired me to become a therapist: volunteering at a crisis hotline.

I had never before encountered the level of adversity our callers faced—poverty, abuse, addiction, chronic mental illness. Like O’Connell, I was awed by the courage and dignity of those whose lives were unimaginably precarious. The work was hard, but I loved it—the listening, the immediacy of the connection, feeling that my presence made a difference. Nothing much changed in anyone’s life, mine or theirs. Yet everything changed because we mattered to one another.

This is the essence of therapy. Our work is a modest endeavor–a conversation, a space of undivided, unhurried attention and exploration. The talking cure depends on humility and presence. These are the ineffable, unmeasurable things that matter—on the streets, in conversation, and in psychotherapy.

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 How do you preserve conversation in a technology-obsessed world? What is the essence of presence for you?

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(Originally published in Impulse, the electronic newsletter of the Northern California Society for Psychoanalytic Psychology)

The Pull to Be Positive

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happy and sad face“Fake it till you make it.”

I thought of this adage when I took a friend who had never been backpacking into the wilderness years ago. We encountered a stream crossing that involved balancing on a log high above the roiling waters below.  I was terrified, but I never let on. My confidence was key in helping my friend safely across. It also helped me become as light-hearted as I had pretended to be.

Three years ago a cancer diagnosis thrust me again into the territory of needing to go on despite my fear. I wanted to lead everyone who cared about and depended on me, especially my children, through the treacherous waters without raising undue alarm that I’d go under, taking them with me. My darkest feelings were confined to my journal, my therapist, my husband, and a couple of trusted friends. For public consumption, I presented a sunnier side, writing breezy blog posts about wigs and Chinese medicine, stressing my gratitude and good fortune. It wasn’t a stretch: I was tolerating chemotherapy well, and felt truly lucky about early detection, great health insurance, an excellent prognosis, and lots of support.

The plaudits poured in.

“You’re so strong!” I was told all the time. “You’ll be fine because of your positive attitude.”

The implication that it would be my fault if things didn’t turn out fine always brought me up short. But being strong for others helped me be strong. Inspiring others kept their and my own spirits from flagging. I loved and needed the admiration.

I also hated it. For what if my spirits sagged? If I expressed too much doubt and fear, would I be letting down my fan base?

More important, would people desert me?

No one means to withdraw, but it happens: the involuntary recoil, the averted gaze, not knowing what to say, so saying nothing. I couldn’t bear the burden of people’s fear and helplessness. I couldn’t bear my own. So I tried not to add to it. Besides, who doesn’t want to flee the quicksand of negativity? Emphasizing the positive truth, even if it wasn’t the whole truth, was an act of self-preservation.

Only much later, long after treatment had ended and I knew I was fine, could I fully let in the darker side. It reminded me of the time years ago when I tripped and fell carrying my newborn daughter, asleep in her car seat. The seat, with Ally in it, landed hard on the concrete walkway. Fortunately, it remained upright, my baby safe and unperturbed.

“Oh, thank God,” I’d silently gasped, brushing myself off, scooping up Ally in her car seat, and continuing on, barely registering the close call.

It was only later that I could allow in the terror, all the What ifs? Ally is 24 now, and I am still overcome with dread whenever I think back to that moment.

Cancer is never over in a moment. Even when it’s gone, the possibility of its return menaces. Of course I celebrated leaving treatment behind. Yet the more chemotherapy’s protective shield of poison withdrew from my body and faded into the past, the more vulnerable I felt.

As previously disavowed feelings of fear and sadness bubbled up to the surface recently, I happened to tune into a TED Radio Hour about fighting cancer. A hospital chaplain who herself had gone through the ordeal stressed that only well after treatment has ended can survivors even begin to process their cancer experience.

Finally! Someone willing to challenge the platitudes about looking forward, not backward, the claptrap about cancer’s gifts. I listened eagerly as the chaplain described meeting with a woman a year after the latter had been declared cancer-free.

Revealing the suffering and fear she’d repressed during treatment, the woman remarks, “I felt like I was crucified on the cross.”

I waited expectantly for the chaplain to enlighten the TED audience about the isolation of cancer; the need to express what it’s really like; how crucial it is to listen to what’s hard to hear.  Instead, the chaplain recounts what she said to the woman:

“Get down off your cross.”

My worst fears were confirmed: Fake it till you make it, or you may find yourself having to make your way alone.

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What’s your experience with the pull to be positive? Upsides and downsides? What’s your best (or worst) “Fake it till you make it” story?

Martian Plateau

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Source: www.latino-review.com
Source: 123rf.com

The Martian continues in the great astronaut film tradition of reminding us that although we live in a broken world, duct tape can repair just about anything. Even better, as far as fixing human nature is concerned, the movie provides an antidote to racism, sexism, despair, global violence, and science denialism by celebrating human ingenuity, diversity, teamwork, and international cooperation. And, of course,  science. This nerd’s delight is winning plaudits for its scientific accuracy.

The Martian is accurate on another count as well: how incredibly difficult it is to lose weight! As a lifetime member of Weight Watchers, I know it’s a scientific fact that the body will not relinquish one ounce no matter how much you exercise and how little you eat.

An uninformed person might think, for example, that a guy who has to stretch 60 days of NASA rations to last four years might quickly drop a few pounds, even if said rations are calorie-dense (or “high in points” as we Weight Watchers say) and supplemented by a bumper crop of potatoes. Weight loss might occur even faster if the guy is laboring to set up a Martian greenhouse, hydration system, night-soil composting facility, and solar panels. Even without a lot of gravitational pull, such physical exertion burns a lot of calories, particularly when wearing a heavy space suit.

Yet Matt Damon, who looks pretty hefty at the beginning of the film, looks exactly the same several dozen food-restricted sols later. Talk about plateaus!

I blame the potatoes. Sure, they save Matt Damon’s life and are listed as a Weight Watcher’s Power Food when eaten plain (or with Vicodin powder as a zero-point flavor enhancement). But you have to be careful with potatoes. I, for example, just spent a weekend hiking in the mountains. I also spent a whole bunch of points on a half batch of delicious French fries. Despite vigorous exercise, I gained three pounds.

We weak-willed earthlings usually throw in the towel at this point. But Matt Damon is a man of science and discipline for whom throwing in the towel is never an option. Also, even if he wanted, understandably, to indulge in a little stress-eating by binging on yummy carbohydrates, he can’t: all his potatoes are nuked into oblivion by a sudden deep freeze.  So it’s back to extreme-portion-controlled MREs.

Still, Matt’s weight stubbornly refuses to budge. At Weight Watchers, we have a saying for this: “It’s in the bank!” This promise of earned weight loss yet to be realized keeps hope alive despite the unfairness of the laws of physics. Just refrain from self-sabotage and remember: Your weight loss is in the bank, and those pounds will eventually roll right off!

And lo! That’s exactly what happens in The Martian! Matt Damon goes from endlessly looking cute but downright plump to a screen shot labeled “Seven Months Later,” in which a gaunt body double emerges naked save for a long scruffy beard and wild hair. Apparently, facial hair is also in the bank, as we have seen nary a trace of stubble in the considerable time we spend with Matt before seven months suddenly pass. Then, in another tribute to reality, Matt is back to his full-figured self soon after the camera turns away from his anorexic body double.

I love The Martian  for illuminating the reality and perils of yo-yo dieting. It also shows that confidence, competence, and good cheer have nothing to do with weight. For which we Weight Watchers are grateful.

We are also grateful for the incredible hope the movie conveys. Sure, a post-racial, post-sexist, science-loving era of international cooperation to solve big problems is nice. But here’s the real hope: When all else fails with your weight-loss mission, and you just can’t break that plateau, head to Mars. You’ll find that no matter what your lying (or depressingly truth-telling) scale says on Earth, you’ll cut that number by about two-thirds on the Red Planet.

If you don’t believe me, just check out this science-based handy conversion calculator.

And whatever you do, stay away from Jupiter.

 

Pure Gold

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Mono Lake and White Mountains
Lundy Canyon
Parker Lake
Green Creek Trail
Parker Lake Trail
Green Creek
Green Creek Trail
Fern Lake
Fern Lake

I’ve been playing hooky from my blog lately, and here’s one of the reasons why: a fall foliage and hiking trip to the eastern Sierra. We stayed in Lee Vining and dined out at the overrated Mobil Gas Station every night. Best dessert: sharing a pint of dark chocolate chip Haagen Dazs gelato. Yum.

The landscape was blanched of color by drought and a season headed into dormancy. This subdued palette of tans and grays that hung from a sapphire sky made the brilliant yellow of the aspens even more striking. Double yum.

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Favorite fall foliage outings?

Emissions Fraud

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climate change gopheads-1125x635

The news that Volkswagen intentionally faked emissions testing for years has sparked international outrage and demands for accountability.

But there is an even bigger fraud under way, one with far graver consequences than 11 million diesel cars spewing emissions well above their advertised levels. It’s the false notion that climate change is unrelated to manmade greenhouse gases. This deception is not hidden in a software design. It’s openly proclaimed by power brokers like Oklahoma’s Senator Inhofe, who calls global warming a hoax, and Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell, who has declared war on the EPA’s attempts to curtail coal-fired-plant emissions. Too many other politicians also fall in line with the vested interests of big donors like the Koch brothers and major oil corporations. Only a few of the Republican presidential contenders even admit that manmade emissions contribute to climate change. Besides denial, their favored response to the biggest challenge facing our planet is to duck the issue altogether.

Meanwhile, more than 97 percent of climate scientists agree that human activities are driving climate change. Only in America is such well-established science routinely open to debate.  Residents and leaders of most other countries may disagree on what to do about the threat, but at least they acknowledge it exists.

Rising sea levels, more intense storms and droughts, the spread of tropical diseases, famine, and global unrest may escalate beyond control if we don’t act quickly.

Unlike the Volkswagon deception, climate fraud is obvious to all who bother to look. If we reward the deniers with our silence or our votes, we help perpetrate the fraud.

Fortunately, awareness of the danger is finally taking hold in the consciousness of most Americans, if not the leaders of the Republican Party. Let’s harness the outrage and demand for accountability VW so richly deserves, and apply it equally to those who fiddle while our planet burns.

 

 

Up in the Air

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hot air balloonsLike many recent college graduates, I spent the summer of 1977 moping in my parents’ basement.  My college roommate, Sharon, was doing the same, 3,000 miles away in Berkeley. We had no jobs and no prospects, so we spent a lot of time on the phone.

“Why don’t you come out to California?” Sharon proposed one day.

Since it was the first idea all summer that made me smile, I thought, “Why not?”

A couple of weeks later, I waved goodbye to my stunned parents, then boarded a Greyhound bus that would take me across the country.

First, though, it would take me to St. Louis, where two college friends had just started medical school at Washington University.

It was great to see them. It was even greater taking a shower and sleeping in a bed—my last taste of such comforts until I’d arrive days later in Berkeley.

Before my friends put me on the bus the next morning for the second half of my westward adventure, we wandered through Forest Park. There people swarmed among hot air balloons, most just flat or half-filled expanses of brightly colored nylon on the lawn. A few were fully inflated into majestic orbs poised for flight.

We watched as the balloonists adjusted ropes and burners, then took off to land wherever the wind (combined with skill and a little luck) would blow them. It was the Great Forest Park Balloon Race, founded just four short years earlier—the same September we had entered college.

This weekend marks the 43rd anniversary of the Great Forest Park Balloon Race. Which means I’m marking my 39th anniversary of coming to California. I had no idea back then how long I’d stay, or what I’d do, or how I’d survive.

But when Sharon picked me up dirty and exhausted late at night from the Greyhound bus station, she drove twisting, up and up, through the Berkeley hills, stopping finally at the Lawrence Hall of Science.

“Look!” she said.

There stretched out before us was the fathomless black of the bay, the twinkling lights of Berkeley and Oakland below, San Francisco a shimmering faraway specter, the night sky shot through with billions of  stars.

I had arrived home.

Decades later, my husband and I sometimes say, “We should take a hot air balloon ride over Napa Valley someday.”

We haven’t yet, and I suspect we never will. We’re too cheap, and besides, I’m really not all that adventurous. It still amazes me that I ventured away from home and onto that Greyhound bus so long ago.

But I’m glad I did, glad I let myself land wherever the winds blew me.

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Have you ever been adrift and let the winds blow you wherever they take you? Where have you landed? 

 

 

 

Remembering 9/11

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Candle in the darkI wrote this post on the tenth anniversary of 9/11, and offer it again today in commemoration

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As usual, I went to yoga Sunday morning, the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. Mostly I go for the effect on my muscles, not my spirit. But on this solemn day my yoga teacher lit a candle in remembrance, and invited us to practice Tonglen, breathing in all that is troublesome in the world, acknowledging it, then transforming it into compassion and peace on the exhale. After a few minutes, the class continued with its typical focus on backs, necks, and hips, or, as one member put it, “the usual overall soreness.”

At the end of the class, after the stretching and the Namaste, another member shared what happened to her Turkish and Egyptian friends ten years ago. They owned a restaurant in Manhattan, which they managed to keep open after the towers fell despite the chaos and lack of customers. Late at night three white men came in. They trashed the place. One of the owner’s friends managed to slip away and call the police. Soon the men who had destroyed the restaurant were apprehended and brought back to be identified before they could be charged.

“Yes, those are the men,” the owners told the police, who were eager to throw the book at them.

But the owners refused to press charges.

“This is a difficult day,” they said. “We understand their grief and rage. Let them go.”

Incredulous, the police did so reluctantly.

A few hours later, the three men came back with some of their friends, pressing upon the owners fistfuls of cash for the damage. The men helped clean up as best they could, and continued to come for the next several weeks until things were put right again.

Sometimes forgiveness is the most effective kind of justice. It is much more likely than hatred or revenge to spawn atonement. This is the lesson so often lost in our decade of fear and grief and war. But it is one worth remembering as we light a candle; breathe in trouble and sorrow; breathe out compassion and peace; and seek to ease the overall soreness of the world.

Moment

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MomentI hear my iPhone vibrate just before the end of the therapy session. By the time my client dries her tears, writes a check, and takes a few Kleenex for the road, it’s 12:55–five minutes before my next client.

I punch in the voicemail code and listen. It’s the doctor, the one who removed a polyp from my uterus the week before.

“It’s likely nothing,” she had assured me. “Ninety-nine percent of the time everything’s fine.”

Now I hear her voice: “I need to talk with you, so call me. They can come and get me even if I’m with someone.”

Because I must be with someone and their troubles in less than five minutes, I don’t call then. But in that moment I know I have cancer.

I pretend I don’t know so I can make it through the session.  Then I usher my client out the door and prepare myself to return the call I don’t want to return. I’m supposed to meet my friend Deb for a walk—a walk I’ll need now more than ever, which is why I do not cancel it. I can count on Deb. I can also count on her to be late, so I hit “Call back” on the doctor’s message en route to our rendezvous spot.

The doctor says she’s sorry to have to tell me this, but the biopsy turned out to be cancerous.

“We were all so surprised!” she blurts out, apologizing for how light-hearted everyone had been during the outpatient procedure.

It’s true—she, the nurses, and I had treated it like a lark, laughing and telling raunchy jokes as I, woozy with painkillers, lay on my back with my feet in the stirrups while they dug out the suspect tissue.

The doctor tells me she doesn’t yet know much, but wanted to call right away so I could begin to wrap my mind around this. She utters the words “uterine papillary serous carcinoma,” which I gather is the technical term for uterine cancer. I write it down so I can look it up at the end of my long, busy day. The doctor quickly mentions next steps, adding that early detection is on our side. I can tell she wants to get off the phone even more than I do.

Luckily, Deb arrives just then, so I release the doctor and turn to my friend.

“Guess what? I just found out I have cancer,” I say matter-of-factly.

Deb is full of hugs and sympathy, even though she cannot keep from pointing out the house where her friend who died of melanoma lived.

“Don’t tell Jonathan,” she says, meaning my husband, who was diagnosed with melanoma two years ago. He’s completely fine now.

I’m not sure if Deb means I shouldn’t tell Jonathan some people die of what didn’t kill him, or if I shouldn’t tell him I have cancer.

But I do tell him, when we are both home from work. Jonathan is shocked, as am I, which must be why I’ve so blithely been able to carry on with my day even though my life has been upended.

Jonathan and I both assume that, like him, I’ll be fine, too. Uterine cancer, after all, is the one everyone says is the kind to have if you must have cancer. Even my mother, a hypochondriac given to fits of hysteria, sailed through hers with barely a whimper.

After a brief interlude of hugs and tears, Jonathan and I sail through the rest of our evening as if nothing, not even cancer, can interfere with our plans. We are determined to watch President Obama accept the nomination for a second term at the Democratic Convention. We are even more determined to present a good face to our 21-year-old daughter, Ally, who returns later that night brimming with stories from a backpacking trip.  We lap up her enthusiasm as if our lives depend on it. Perhaps they do.

After everyone has gone to bed, I sit down at the computer a few minutes before midnight and google the fancy term the doctor used: “Uterine papillary serous carcinoma.”

Rare and aggressive.

Highly malignant.

This is not my mother’s uterine cancer. I read on, fear choking me like ash. Even women with Stage 1 UPSC have an iffy prognosis. Will I make it to Ally’s college graduation next year?

For six months between that moment at 12:55 and the first day of spring, when treatment ends, my life is measured out in precisely timed appointments: CT scans; a complete hysterectomy sandwiched between pre-op and post-op meetings; oncology and Chinese medicine consults; chemo and nutrition classes; bloodwork; wig fittings; three rounds of internal radiation; acupuncture; six infusions of poison into my veins. I imagine the invisible cancer mushrooming inside me. Not knowing how many moments I have left, each moment is etched in my brain.

Then it is over, and I am fine. At least for the time being. I make it to my daughter’s college graduation. In the pictures of me standing next to her in cap and gown, my smile is wide, my wig slightly askew.

When I was a teenager I read a short story about people who are granted the power to learn the exact hour and manner of their deaths. Initially grateful, they spend all their time trying to outfox fate, to no avail. They die anyway, having spent their entire lives obsessed, anxious, and miserable.

The last thing I want is a crystal ball. Time already stopped once, at 12:55 on a September afternoon.  I do not want to know when it will stop for good.

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Today is the third anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. I am fine. What moments–for better and for worse–are etched in your memory?

Discovering Blogs: The Liebster Award

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liebster-award-logo

My lovely fellow blogger, Heidi BK Sloss of The Art of Living Fully, nominated me for the Liebster Award, which was developed to recognize bloggers and help others get to know them. I really appreciate the honor. Be sure to check the end of this post for the bloggers I’m nominating!

Part of the Liebster Award is the opportunity to answer some questions. So here goes!

What makes you happy?

A really great walk—with my husband, with friends, or with a podcast (This American Life, Fresh Air, The Moth, and Snap Judgment are my favorites); sipping a latte while reading the paper at Comforts, my favorite café, every morning; watching a good DVD series with my husband (Season 6 of The Good Wife just arrived via Netflix–Yippee!); movies and our movie group; fresh flowers; favorable political trends (not a lot of happiness there right now); my kids feeling happy and engaged with what they’re doing; being on track with my eating and my writing; getting published.

Why did you start blogging?

I resisted blogging for a long time because I am very technophobic and because I was afraid my blog would be really lame, petering out after a few posts. Then in 2012, I was one of only two Listen to Your Mother SF cast members without a blog. The other outlier had no interest in blogging, but I did. In fact, I had the usual fantasies of being discovered and going viral and getting a MacArthur Genius Grant, or at least a book deal. Since my grandiosity is tamed by equal doses of self-doubt and procrastination, I had not yet been able to implement this strategy. Finally, the shame of seeing no hyperlink under my name in the LTYM program spurred me to overcome my fear of lame. After that, I began the slow process of reinforcing overcoming technophobia by tackling WordPress.

At the same time, I had also begun serious work on my one good book idea, “Ruptures in Women’s Friendships.” I saw my blog as a way of conducting research—crowd-sourcing stories people would share in response to my posts on the topic.

Then I got cancer. (Did you know that WordPress causes cancer?)  My plans were derailed by six months of surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation. But cancer has a way of focusing the mind on what matters, so with new resolve (plus new access to a great online WordPress tutorial), I launched my blog in July 2013. Interestingly, everything in my life is back on track except my Ruptures project. Instead, I have written a lot about cancer, that unwelcome but excellent muse. I still am pretty technophobic (Twitter? What’s that?) And I still fear my blog is lame, but at least I post on a fairly regular basis.

What is the best thing anyone has ever said about your blog?

Honestly, anytime anyone says anything about my blog, I’m ecstatic. I particularly love when what I’ve written inspires readers to share their experiences. But the comment that’s meant the most to me came from a blog post I put on a group blog, long before I had Shrinkrapped up and running. I’d written about my own evolution on the topic of gay marriage–from a straight person’s total oblivion to full embrace. Months later, a gay father came across the post and emailed me about how much it meant to him. He told me about how traumatized his eight-year-old daughter was when planes carrying banners denouncing gay marriage flew over their house (this was in the bad old days when Proposition 8 was riding high in California). He said it was the first time she had experienced hate for her family. “Thanks for writing your piece,’ he wrote. “Maybe it will shift a mind or two.” Comments like his remind me that connecting through writing matters. This keeps me going when I lose heart.

What is one piece of advice you would offer or one saying you live by?

My favorite saying comes from something I first heard from a fellow Weight Watcher: “Set the intent.” (Meaning, “Ponder how differently your day might go if for breakfast you scarf down a dozen jelly doughnuts versus an egg-white omelet.”)

There’s a more widely applicable meaning, too, and it’s the one piece of advice I’ve given my daughters that they’ve most cottoned to: “Find something small you can do every day no matter what that will help you feel on track—for me it’s making the bed.” Lo and behold! I have raised two bed-makers, though I would not have placed money on this during their childhoods.

What are your top three bucket list items?

For a better answer, read my old post, “Bucket List.” But here’s the list:

  1. To be published in “Modern Love” in the New York Times
  2. To live long enough to know my grandchildren (their existence is entirely hypothetical at this point)
  3. To attend my own memorial service, meaning to be in good enough shape and have enough time and enough people who think well of me to hear before I die what they’ll say about me after I die. And to have a chance to say what they’ve meant to me as we say goodbye.

 What is your ultimate guilty pleasure?

Devouring a pint of Three Twins Chocolate Orange Confetti ice cream. Since the near-total demise of Swensen’s, with its Swiss Orange Chip, it’s been hard to come by my favorite flavor. Luckily, Orange is the New Black inspired Three Twins (my Weight Watcher leader calls it “Three Ass”) to launch this fantastic new flavor. More luckily still, I only buy premium pints on sale, and it goes on sale very rarely.

What is one product or service you cannot live without?

National Public Radio. No hyperlink necessary.

What is your favorite U.S. destination? What two countries make you the happiest to visit? What is your dream destination?

Honestly, I don’t have much of a travel bug, so I’ve lumped these questions together. I live just north of San Francisco in beautiful Marin County, so my favorite destination is only a short drive away: Point Reyes National Seashore. My favorite vacations feature hiking in beautiful places. I actually find long weekend B&B getaways more refreshing than bigger trips. But this summer I was happy in the French Pyrenees and hiking the Tour du Mont Blanc through France, Switzerland, and Italy. Before that I’ve loved the Dolomites, the Canadian Rockies, Bryce Canyon, Sawtooth Mountains, and the many trips I’ve taken to the Sierra Nevada. I dream of future hikes in the U.S. Rockies and Mount Ranier, and of taking a walking tour of the English countryside with its cottage gardens. But I’m just as happy with my daily walks out my front door.

But Enough About Me! Paying the Liebster Forward

I’m embarrassed to admit that I barely have a pinky toe dipped in the blogosphere—how do people find the time? But check out these worthy bloggers in addition to the aforementioned The Art of Living Fully. And remember, there’s nothing worse for a writer than sending words into a black hole. So feel free to comment, tweet, share, and give a shout-out to your own favorites!

Jessica O’Dwyer, who has written a memoir, Mamalita about adopting her daughter from Guatemala. Check out her blog, Mamalitathebook, for more exquisitely observed and felt writing about international adoption and related topics.

Dorothy O’Donnell, who writes beautifully about everything, including raising a child with pediatric bipolar disorder.

Rhea St. Julien, who reaches into her heart and soul to write about race and other things that matter at thirty threadbare mercies

Jenny Marshall, who writes about culture, language, and travel at A Thing for Wor(l)ds

You can find a lot of wonderful writerly stuff at Write On Mamas and a lot of talent on WOM’s blog. Check out the blogroll on the Home page for individual members’ sites.

And here are my favorite buddies I met on this year’s A to Z Blogging Challenge:

Dyanne at Backsies is What There is Not (Fans of the Frances books, unite!). Dyanne is very funny and very positive in her outlook. I have a bit of an allergy to positive thinking, so the fact that I find her so engaging is a testament to how skillfully she handles the balance of the good, the bad, and the ugly in all aspects of life.

Wendy at Wendy’s Waffle. I love that Wendy writes about a wide range of topics, from politics to the personal. Plus, she’s someone who lists “chocolate” as one of her interests, and like me, is an empty nester. Wendy lives in London, so it’s great to get a perspective from beyond my own shores.

Paula at Mpls Transplant. Paula, who moved from the San Francisco Bay Area to Minneapolis, asks, “Is Minnesota Nice contagious? God, I hope so . . .” I happen to know she was plenty nice already, at least by Bay Area standards! Here she’s funny, inventive, and great at incorporating photography into her writing.

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Answer a question or two yourself–like what’s YOUR ultimate guilty pleasure or what’s on your bucket list? Also, what are your favorite blogs?