Head Trip

Posted on by
Reply

wig heads

In September 2012, I was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of uterine cancer. Treatment was successful, and I am happy to report that I am cancer-free and doing well. I wrote for a private circle of friends and family about my experiences at the time, and am now sharing some of my musings here. 

*

My husband and I spent the first night of our honeymoon 27 years ago in a beautiful bed and breakfast overlooking Napa Valley. It was high on a hill, had a fabulous hot tub, and served scrumptious banana bread for breakfast. The owners, however, made us very nervous—their bookshelves were filled with far-right Christian literature and books favorable to the Third Reich. When we opened the closet in our room, a Styrofoam lady’s head jabbed with a hat pin fell out.

I thought of that head when I went to check out the free wig program at the American Cancer Society. The office was abrim with white Styrofoam heads, all with blank eyes and wigs that looked like wigs. Another layer of pretending to have the same life I’ve always had fell away as I surveyed my options. Exactly one wig matched my hair color, even sort of resembling its texture and style.

Everything I’ve read since googling “Chemo hair loss” has advised not to wait till my hair starts to fall out. One site was especially helpful in propelling me into action. It essentially said, “You will lose your hair. Don’t waste any time in denial, hoping you won’t.” Being proactive gives you a sense of control, not to mention an actual hair color and style to approximate. At least I hoped to match my current look—the photos of henna’d scalps or jaunty stories about women with cancer trying out fun new colors and styles left me cold, even with my still-full head of hair.

Before my Google search, my research had consisted of reading strong, sexy, savvy stories in More Magazine. Fortuitously, given my recent initiation into the cancer club, there was a personal essay by Jenny Allen called The Cat on My Head, about her headgear choices during chemo.

Allen’s tale was truly hair-raising. First, there were the prices–$5,000-$6,000 for a human hair wig, though she guiltily settled for one that cost only $900, made from the hair of exploited women from India. In Allen’s world, synthetic wigs didn’t even merit consideration. Although the wig looked great, Allen didn’t like it. Instead she proudly chose fabulous scarves after stashing her wig in the back of a dresser drawer.

This story depressed me more than my diagnosis, more than leaving the hospital after surgery with a catheter. Luckily, my friend who was a few months ahead of me in the chemo circuit told me that her wig cost $150, and that synthetic wigs are now considered preferable and easier to manage than those made from human hair.

So that’s how I ended up at the Cancer Society, where cheerful volunteers stood ready to hand out free wigs without so much as demanding a doctor’s note to verify that I did indeed have cancer rather than a Halloween party to attend!

The volunteer and I quickly agreed on the one wig that sort of matched my hair color and style. As a person who has always been hair-illiterate—I sleep on it wet and barely know how to use a blow dryer—I didn’t even realize I had a style. But I quickly saw that even a bad hair day on a person who favors $20 cuts from non-English-speakers is more stylish than what awaited me. I stuffed my real hair into what looked like a very short stocking, joking that I could use the hairnet for bank robberies, too.

“Everyone says that,” remarked the Cancer Society volunteer.

Great. I am not just losing my reproductive organs and my hair, but apparently all claims to cleverness and originality.

My wig, despite More Magazine’s clever title, did not look like a cat on my head. It looked like a rabid squirrel pelt, if the squirrel happened to be dirty blonde going gray right before meeting its demise. The wig sat awkwardly and hung limply. Worse, I realized that I would soon have bangs, because that’s what hides the mesh nylon edges. I don’t want bangs—it reminds me of a childhood under my mother’s sewing shears as she tried to turn me into Julie Andrews. I don’t want cancer, either. But I don’t have a choice. I guess I’ll give this pelt a try.

The volunteer gave me a wire stand instead of one of the Styrofoam heads. She must have heard about my honeymoon.

*

After a visit to a stylist and lots of practice, I became quite fond of my wig. As one friend put it, “It just looks like you finally learned to use a blow dryer.” Here I am in my wig,  three months after completing chemo: 

wig

And here I am back in my own hair now, a mass of grey curls:

post chemo hair

 

 

 

Losing the Crazy

Posted on by
6

bathroom scaleCancer has touched a lot of things in my life, but not my obsession with food and weight. I used to keep a lid on these neuroses more, trying hard not to ruin my daughters. But when the girls reached the truly crucial ages of 10 and 13, I blew it all up by joining Weight Watchers, sacrificing their health for my own as I tracked points and talked incessantly about food and weight. I managed to lose 25 pounds and have kept most of it off most of the past 11 years. Every New Year’s our family has a ritual of writing out our hopes for the coming year and the high and low points of the year just passed. For years my daughters’ “Low” lists were topped by “Mommy talking about points,” until they grew old enough to rebel against the ritual altogether.

But inadvertent ruination of one’s children is not my focus here. I just want to set the scene for my first reaction upon learning I had uterine cancer. Thinking initially it was the “No big deal” kind requiring just a hysterectomy with maybe a dollop of radiation, my only concern was how long I’d be laid low by surgery. “Three weeks’ recovery from a hysterectomy,” replied the doctor.

“Oh, shit! I won’t be able to hike for three weeks! I’ll gain weight!” was my only thought. (I had just spent the entire summer losing 9 pounds acquired during a month-long vacation and several late-night, at-home rendezvous with open bags of chocolate chips.)

By the next day, I knew I had the bigger-deal kind of uterine cancer. As I shared my diagnosis and crazy initial reaction with my friend Ruth, she said, “No, you’ll be getting chemo—you’ll lose weight.”

“Oh, good!” I thought.

You need to fast 24 hours before surgery, so when I stepped on the Kaiser scale the morning of my hysterectomy, the number for once did not lead me to ponder how much heavier street clothes are than nightgowns. Or whether that second helping of cake was really such a good idea. In fact, the surgeon told my husband that the procedure had taken longer than usual because it was difficult to maneuver given that “she’s so thin.”

So thin! Could I get that in writing? Could cancer be worth the steep admission price?

It’s one thing to lose the weight, quite another to lose the crazy.

*

In September 2012, I was diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of uterine cancer. Treatment was successful, and I am happy to report that I am cancer-free and doing well. By the way, I gained five pounds during the course of chemo . . . 

 

All Aboard!

Posted on by
1

High speed train

According to congressional Republicans and right-wing media, the Affordable Care Act, aka Obamacare, is a “train wreck.” Nonsense. What’s really going on is that hyper-partisans determined to thwart President Obama have been busy since the law’s inception laying dynamite on the tracks. Now they’re even threatening to blow up the government and the economy if they don’t get their way! These saboteurs hope to derail a reform that will make better and more affordable health care insurance available to almost all Americans, including 25-30 million who are currently uninsured.

So don’t trust the wannabe train wreckers for accurate information. Here are some highlights of what Obamacare actually provides:

  • Young adults can stay on their parents’ plans until age 26
  • Insurers can no longer deny coverage for pre-existing conditions, dump patients, or charge women higher premiums than men
  • Free screening tests, immunizations, and preventive care
  • Elimination of yearly caps and lifetime limits on insurance coverage
  • Closing the “doughnut hole” that leaves seniors on the hook for prescription drug costs
  • Making sure at least four out of five of your healthcare dollars go to ensuring your health, not insurance companies’ administrative costs or profits
  • Tax credits for small businesses providing coverage for their employees
  • Expansion of Medicaid for people making up to 133% more than the poverty level
  • Subsidies to make healthcare insurance affordable for low- and middle-income earners
  • Health exchanges in each state to make comparison shopping easier and to create large risk pools, thereby lowering the cost for those now at the mercy of buying individual or family plans on the open market

Obamacare will NOT force you to give up your current insurance policy, drive up medical costs, increase the deficit, put bureaucrats in charge of your healthcare decisions, or take away your freedom.

It WILL, however, make you free from anxiety should you get sick, have an accident, or lose or change jobs. Because Obamacare brings almost everyone under the protection of insurance, it also eliminates exorbitant costs of sole-resort, emergency-room care for the uninsured.

Let’s stop in their tracks those laying dynamite on the tracks. All aboard for affordable healthcare for all!

*

Obamacare goes into effect January 1, 2014. (Some key provisions are already bringing relief to millions!) Health care exchanges open October 1, 2013, with the enrollment period lasting through March 31, 2014. 

For more information about Obamacare, the exchanges, how to sign up, costs, and your eligibility for subsidies, go to:

Contact your elective representatives to urge them to support Obamacare: http://www.usa.gov/Contact/Elected.shtml

Suggested reading for more in-depth understanding:

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/09/28/your-money/health-insurance/a-guide-to-the-new-health-insurance-exchanges.html?_r=0&hp=&adxnnl=1&adxnnlx=1380564316-6/3NmZyBAPPxs2/tTVLb/w

http://www.scholarsstrategynetwork.org/node/3747

http://www.newrepublic.com/article/114870/obamacare-exchanges-start-tuesday-oct-1-heres-why-theyre-worth-it

 

Bucket List

Posted on by
4

Bucket

A speaker I once heard said, “The key to happiness is wanting what you have, not having what you want.”

I thought about this a lot after I was diagnosed last year with a rare and aggressive form of uterine cancer. Suddenly I knew I wanted the life I already have–just more of it.

Right before they wheeled me away for a full hysterectomy, I turned to my husband, Jonathan. I expected to wake up from surgery, but you never know.

“I don’t really have a bucket list,” I told Jonathan, “Because I’ve already had everything I’ve ever wanted—this great life with you, our girls. . . ” I did not add that the things I still longed for were beyond my control—seeing our daughters settle into adulthood, spoiling our future grandchildren with too much chocolate.

Almost a year before my cancer diagnosis, Jonathan and I had stood in line at the Marsh Theater Box Office to pick up our tickets for Marga Gomez’s solo comedy show, “Not Getting Any Younger.” The woman in front of us had the bloat and stubbled hair of someone for whom chemo has nothing left to offer. She lived in the neighborhood, and had just spontaneously dropped by to see if she could catch the show.

“I’m afraid we’re all sold out,” the man behind the ticket counter told her. “But our run has been extended, so you should come back!”

“I’m not sure my run will be extended,” the woman replied.

“Hang on,” said the man, waving her to the side, then disappearing for a moment. He came back and fetched our tickets from the Will Call box, and we went to find our seats in the tiny, crammed theater.

Just before the show began, someone came in and set up a folding chair on the edge of the stage. The woman whose run was up sat down.

I watched her almost as much as I watched the show. She, like all of us, nearly fell out of her chair laughing as Marga Gomez switched from character to character chronicling the vagaries of aging.

Sometimes it seems unimaginative how little I thirst after adventure. But looking at the woman whose bloated face was beaming, I realized that I’d want to be like her if I knew I had limited time. Not off climbing peaks or having peak experiences in foreign lands. But to be right in my own neighborhood, among friends and loved ones, laughing my ass off.

*

I’m fine now, no longer contemplating a limited engagement. What would you want if you knew time was running out?

 

 

 

 

Ending Summer

Posted on by
17

Ally and Me

“This has been the summer of my dreams,” I say to my daughter Ally.

“That’s pathetic,” she replies.

Maybe. But it’s true. In the three months Ally’s been home between graduating from college and leaving for a job teaching English in Spain, we’ve been each other’s best companion. Long walks, picking blackberries, lattes, massages, cooking side by side, a mani-pedi to mark the dwindling days of flip-flops and of our time together. We’ve even managed some good conversations until I inevitably mess up with questions like, “What if you fall in love and decide to stay in Spain forever?“

I dreamed of such a summer four years earlier, in the fleeting weeks between high school and college. But back then my dream was Ally’s nightmare. So she stayed out late with friends, sleeping in till the coast was clear from my incessant offers of ensnaring lattes.

Four years away have allowed Ally to come back not only with a college degree, but with an independent identity that makes our bond less threatening. Free lattes? Bring them on!

Our first separation was a dress rehearsal. This time’s for real. Ally’s going off to adulthood, not college.

Songs from Fiddler on the Roof keep coursing through my mind:

“Is this the little girl I carried?”

”May the Lord protect and defend you.”

Mostly I feel like Tevye on the station platform, seeing Hodel off to Siberia. I know it’s not as dramatic as “God alone knows when we shall see each other again.”  For one thing, the shtetl lacked Skype. But the pang still runs deep.

The day of Ally’s departure arrives. She navigates the ticket counter, hoping the agent will turn a blind eye to her bag’s extra weight. It’s hard to move abroad for under 50 pounds. The agent waves Ally through, and we sit awhile, steeling ourselves for goodbye. I repeat something I heard on the radio, about imagining someone you sorely miss in the next room. “I’m going to think of you in the next room,” I say as we hug. To distract ourselves, we search out one last latte. It helps wash away the lump in my throat.

Last free latte!

Last free latte–at least for awhile!

I watch as Ally goes through security. It’s hard to see through the plate glass that separates us. Between the throng of travelers and the reflections of people waving goodbye, I soon lose track of her. Suddenly I feel the same panic that overwhelmed me when Ally was three, and we lost her in a museum. As my husband and I frantically searched the nearby exhibits, I glanced from the balcony into the lobby. There was Ally, calmly talking to a guard, unaware that she was lost.

She’ll be fine now, too.

I hope I can say the same for myself.

 

 

Commemoration

Posted on by
2

I wrote this two years ago, on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, and offer it again today. 

Candle in the dark

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.

 

Greenwashing

Posted on by
4

Laundry

I have a hunch why climate change denial still holds sway, and it’s not just because of the oil and gas industry’s lock on politicians.

It’s because of laundry’s lock on me.

Take, for example, one easy step I can take to save the planet: hanging my laundry out to dry. Since I work only part-time, live in a dry climate, and no longer have children at home, this should be a no-brainer. Especially since years ago young and enthusiastic energy auditors installed a retractable clothesline for free when they switched out all our light bulbs for fluorescents.

They did not, however, stick around long enough to do any laundry. Which is how I learned that wet clothes are extremely heavy. But hey, I’m game for a little upper-arm workout if it will keep me on the good side of Al Gore. Unfortunately, keeping the ton-of-bricks laundry basket on my good side as I navigate the stairs throws me out of alignment. Pausing to rub my sore back, I balance the load on a step. It tumbles down the stairs, landing on surfaces that are not, shall we say, as pristine as they might be. (Who can see to clean in my now-dim house? On the bright side, who can see the mess?) Since I’ve switched to washing everything in cold water, the damp clothes aren’t that clean to begin with, so what’s an extra patina of fine grit?

Plus, now I get to enjoy the fresh air! For a really long time! Seriously, what would have taken 30 seconds, including cleaning the lint screen before tossing the load into the dryer, now takes a good 20 minutes. And that’s if I’m lucky, with enough clothespins and line space to hang everything properly. More often I’m draping underwear over the patio furniture and hoping it doesn’t blow into the neighbor’s yard.

The slow-clothes movement continues, especially when I forget to fetch the lot in and leave it overnight. In the morning, the laundry is limp with dew. Nothing another hour or two of solar power won’t handle.

Voila! Limpness eliminated! In fact, my laundry is now as stiff as RyKrisp. This is fine for my husband’s underwear if I’m mad at him, but makes it hard to bend the towels over the towel racks.

So I unpin the RyKrisp and crunch it into the basket in preparation for the penultimate step of playing Green Goddess Laundress—lugging everything up all those stairs again, and slipping the load into the dryer for 10 minutes on Air Fluff (no heat, but alas, no more nice fresh air scent either). Then the grand finale: Sorting. Folding. Putting everything away. (This step is the same whether you’re green with virtue, or green with envy at those wasting away happily in their bubbles of denial.)

And that is just the first load of laundry.

How much have I saved? According to a Terrapass report from 2006 (presumably data collection discontinued thereafter because too many research subjects threw themselves down the stairs), air-drying 183 loads of laundry a year saves 1,016 pounds of carbon dioxide emissions and $63.88, not counting the trips to the chiropractor. But good news–it does factor in the cost of what the report refers to as the “clothes horse!”

Which you definitely will not be if you insist on wearing RyKrisp.

*

What greenery have you tried, for better or for worse?

 

March

Posted on by
4

http://www.archives.gov/exhibits/documented-rights/exhibit/section4/detail/washington-march1.html

Heartsick. That’s how I feel on the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington, where Martin Luther King, Jr., proclaimed, “I have a dream.”

My dreams are less inspiring. Last night I dreamed that my husband, his parents, and I were hiking in the remote countryside. Amid the beauty, we chanced upon secret military preparations for an airstrike against Syria, planes and boats amassed for war. Even though we had not come to this pastoral setting as intruders or to make trouble, we realized that we were likely to get arrested. My husband and his parents were unafraid, wanting to make a stand against armed conflict. I just wanted to get away.

My bedtime reading before falling into the sleep that produced this dream consisted of two fine articles: Rhea St. Julien’s, a writing acquaintance whose work I admire, and Patricia Williams’, a legal scholar and Nation contributor. St. Julien writes about what it is like to field constant compliments about her young bi-racial daughter’s mocha skin and gold-flecked afro, the bright happy-talk obscuring penetrating issues about race that nobody wants to address. Williams writes about how Trayvon Martin, the unarmed teenager shot to death by George Zimmerman, somehow became the one on trial in a courtroom saturated by tropes about gallant white men guarding against presumed-to-be-dangerous black men.

George Zimmerman sought trouble, and got away with murder. Trayvon Martin stood his ground, and paid with his life. In my dream, we also stumble into trouble not of our making, and are seen as intruders who must be gotten rid of. Standing our ground, or fleeing—which is the wiser course? I’m lucky that I can escape, in my white skin, facing down the menace that dreams are made of simply by waking up.

As I write this, President Obama, the man who embodies my highest aspirations and hopes and who now looks to be leading us into another foolhardy Middle East conflict, is speaking on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial to commemorate King’s speech.

I want to stand with the President, but can’t, because of Syria and the whole mess of dashed dreams. I want to stand against his foreign policy, but won’t. I do not wish to abet those who have not literally castrated and strung up this black man, but who have conducted a political lynching by delegitimizing him, hamstringing his vision and policies, rendering him impotent through sheer vitriol and obstruction. Just as an unarmed black teenager was somehow transmogrified into someone who deserved to die, our mild-mannered, thoughtful, centrist president has been contorted into the dangerous, dark other who must be thwarted.

My parents were lifelong civil-rights activists who moved away from the South before my older brothers became infected by overt racism. They worked tirelessly in the North to end housing discrimination that was every bit as hateful as the commonplace usage of the N-word they’d fled.

My parents also staunchly opposed the Vietnam War. They knew what it was like to revere their President for his domestic vision, and to break with him on foreign policy. I wish they were here now, not only to see a man they would have loved become President, but also to teach me how to carry on when faith flags.

I suppose it is something—quite a lot, really—that an African-American man has been elected twice as President of these riven United States. Just as it is something that many people at least delight in rather than revile a little girl with brown skin and golden curls. But there is so much more that lurks beneath the surface—war in the bucolic landscape of my dream; disillusionment in my reverence for my President; deep undercurrents of white-hot hatred despite real progress on race.

I would like to march, to take a stand, but I do not. I would like to embrace the progress we’ve made, and work hard to fulfill promises not yet met. Instead I lament, I mourn, I turn away from the world in crisis to the bright, happy-talk world of hair care and inconsequential blogging. In doing so, I turn away from despair, but also from hope, from determination.

I need a rally, a March on My Dispirited Soul.

Vocabulary Lesson

Posted on by
4

GRE for DummiesMy daughter Ally is studying for the GREs. Despite graduating with a BA in Linguistics and a near-perfect GPA, her vocabulary is:

  • a. wanting
  • b. wanton
  • c. wonton
  • d. pathetic

So I’ve been helping.

Or maybe not. It depends on whether you consider it helpful to reel off synonyms whose meanings are equally obscure.

“Perfunctory,” I coach Ally. “You know, pro forma.”

She rolls her eyes before returning to GRE for Dummies. “How about diffident?” she asks.

“You know, it’s like . . . reticent ,” I stammer. “I know what it means, I just don’t know how to explain it.”

“How do you even pronounce p-h-l-e-g-m-a-t-i-c?” Ally sighs.

“Phlegmatic,” I boast. “It either means calm or its opposite. I can never remember which. But isn’t phlegm related to bile, one of the dark humors? Oh, yeah, I think it means angry.”

For the record, it does not. Nor is Ally remaining phlegmatic.

“How about effete?” she asks, agitation rising in her voice.

“Hmmm. Like ‘Effete intellectual.’ Maybe elitist or snobby?” I venture.

Wrong again. Apparently Vice President Spiro Agnew was not back-hand-complimenting people of a certain persuasion on their braininess, but accusing them of “lacking in wholesome vigor; worn out.”

It occurs to me that not only am I a vocabulary snob: I am a vocabulary fraud. Like a smart person who passes for literate, I’ve been pretending all these years.

What new fad did I fall victim to during my formative years in the 60s? My ability to ferret out close-but-no-cigar meaning from the context suggests a whole-language approach. Probably some hippie-dippy, out-of-the-box, newfangled pedagogy. What I remember, though, is literally learning out of the box—pulling those self-paced, color-coded flashcards from the big Scholastics box on the low tables of grade school. Kill-and-drill. But I loved it! I was a straight-A student, adept at that quintessential secret of success—faking it.

Now, as I help Ally with her own kill-and-drill cramming, even the words I’m sure of turn out to be wrong. Take tenuous, for example, as in, “She has a tenuous grasp on reality.”

But the only definition GRE for Dummies offers up is: “thin; slim.” As in, “I wish I were tenuous.”

Hmmm . . . maybe not. But I’m excited to have learned new and proper usage. Now I can say with full confidence that my vocabulary is pretty:

  • a. tenuous
  • b. slim
  • c. effete
  • d. pathetic

 

Subversive

Posted on by
1

Peaches

In honor of today’s news that the California Supreme Court has rejected another last-ditch attempt to revive Proposition 8, I’m running something I wrote years ago paying tribute to an unlikely pioneer in gay rights.

*

My bathroom houses a miniature library of periodicals, from the literary to the political to the lifestyle-you-wish-you-had-but-don’t. Sunset magazine is my favorite leisure reading for those private moments behind closed doors.

But not for the usual reasons.

My home improvement skills end with changing light bulbs.

I use the water shortage as an excuse to let my garden go to seed.

I am too poor for a kitchen makeover of $50,000.

And who has time to cook?

What I really love about Sunset is that it’s been quietly on the vanguard of gay rights for years.

Readers are just as likely to find Craig and Jeff and their golden retriever in the sun-washed kitchen of their lovingly restored farmhouse as they are Tom and Judy sipping chardonnay with guests on their new deck.

A recent issue features Janie and Virginia and their eco-friendly paint company.

As the reader drinks in room after room of sumptuous color in the photo spread of their Portland digs, it’s clear that these women are not just business partners.

While some fan the flames of bigotry and fear, Sunset quietly broadcasts that we are all the same.

Well, almost the same.

The couples in the glossy pictures just have more disposable income and fewer dust bunnies on their gleaming hardwood floors than the rest of us.

As I read in the privacy of my own bathroom, I think of how irrelevant it is what others do in the privacy of their own bedrooms.

Besides, Craig and Jeff, Janie and Virginia, Tom and Judy probably aren’t doing much of anything. Like everybody else, they’re too exhausted from hauling dirt and lumber around, not to mention cleaning up after all those fabulous dinner parties.

Let’s hope the sun is setting on ignorance and intolerance.

Meanwhile, I’m going to grab my magazine and fantasize about a better life to come–new kitchen cabinets, the perfect peach, and love and justice for all.