I Can't Believe We Still Have to Protest this Crap

So here it is, just three short years since I last blogged here. Today someone emailed me to ask if I stopped blogging because I was dead. I told her yes. But she really wanted to know if I was okay, if breast cancer was just a dim memory, or if I was in the throes of it again.

I'm fine--it's coming up on eight years since I got the diagnosis of a little bit o' cancer, and sometimes I can't believe it ever happened. And then I look at my right breast, with the divot and the crooked nipple that kind has a snarl along the scar line, and I remember that yes, oh yes, I sure did really go through all that shite.

When I found out I had the BC, I had just launched (along with many others of course) Air America Radio. It was 2004 and we thought that we could help throw the evil empire that was the Bush administration out. It was just one of many delusions. Others included getting paid on time and being told the truth by our CEO.

Now, eight years later, I feel a little bit as if I am getting the band back together. I'm at Current TV, heading up the programming department. And yes, once again I'm hoping to help beat back the forces of Republicanism, although this crowd makes the Bush gang look like sane people by comparison. The war on women, the attempt to turn back the clock to those Leave it To Beaver days when the men were men and the women were girls, the assault on women's rights and privacy and bodies--well, as we say every day, I can't believe I still have to protest this crap. But we do, and every day I go to work glad that at Current TV we have the freedom to say what we know is true, to call a bigot a bigot and to try to make sure that younger women--our daughters and sisters and friends--join us in fighting the yahoos trying to invade our lives. The Jennifer Granholm show, The War Room, hammers this topic home almost every night, and of course, my dear pal and Air America co-conspirator Ms Maddow has been brilliant on the topic.

And don't get me started on Susan G Komen and the hateful attack on Planned Parenthood.

Anyhoo, ladies who find this blog, let me say that I still don't walk or race for the Cure, though I remain willing to skip, skateboard, hopscotch, or bungee jump for the Prevention of breast cancer. And I will march, rally, blog, broadcast and most of all vote to turn back the attempts at assaulting my body in ways far more psychologically damaging that breast cancer ever was.

Can I Let a Republican Touch My Lady Parts?

Did I really need to know that my gynecologist, a woman I love and respect, a woman who got me through loss of all sorts of lady bits, and held my hand through breast cancer, contributed to Rudy freaking Guiliani's presidential campaign?

No, I didn't. I discovered it by accident. I was simply looking for her phone number on Google, and up popped a link to one of those websites that tells you who contributed money to which candidate. And there she was...twice...as a contributor to Guiliani. It was almost as shocking as finding out I had breast cancer. And only a little less disheartening.

It can't be someone else with her name. And there can't be a good explanation. There is NO good explanation for supporting America's weaselly Mayor 9/11.

So what do I do? Do I pretend I never saw it, and never speak of it, like the time I accidentally walked in on a male housemate at the beach who was naked? (We were both going to weigh ourselves on the doctor's scale in a dressing room area). Or do I wait until she's about to dive in with her cotton swab to Pap smear me and say, "Hey, speaking of smears..."

I've got three months to figure this out before I see her again. And I will be seeing her again. Like I said, she's a great gynecologist and I couldn't imagine seeing anybody else. Even though I may need therapy to get over the notion that hands that uh, examine me internally--way internally--also may have flipped the lever for McCain, and before that, Bush and before that...ack. Must. stop. thinking.

God, I hope she was wearing latex gloves when she wrote those checks.

Putting the Sin in Aromasin

This is a doggy coat that you can buy at Etsy.com. It has nothing to do with anything except that I like it, and wish there was one in my size.



When my computer comes on, a robotic voice says "where the fuck have you been?" It's what I programmed my Ichat notification to say. And while it makes me smile every time, it also makes me feel a little guilty when I think about this blog I have neglected.

Not a day goes by that I don't have at least a twinge of guilt for not blogging. Obviously, I've managed to deal with my guilt, since it's been months since I blogged here (although I do post more frequently at Howdini.com).

I have had so many great emails from readers, and nice response from reviewers. Honestly, I never thought I'd see my name in Vogue, at least not without massive airbrushing, but there it was, with a great little mention in an article about breast cancer resources, in the October issue. The writer only recommended MY book, and God knows there are so many she could have, so it was cool, right?

Plus, the writer called Five Lessons "refreshingly spiky." I don't even know what that means, but I loved it.

Mostly, though, I've been obsessing about my weight. Long after you're done with breast cancer (as far as you know), there are certain gifts that keep on giving. Your body is obviously scarred, but not just by what has been removed. For me at least, it's also what has been added, as in, many pounds of flesh in places I never had it and certainly never wanted it.

The truly annoying thing about taking an aromatase inhibitor like Aromasin is that it has certain obnoxious side effects, which include bone loss (I have osteoporosis now, thank you), joint pain (weird aching in my joints, check) and belly fat (yes, that too, goddammit).

In the six months since I switched from tamoxifen to Aromasin, I had gotten so porky I didn't dare get on a scale, until months of therapy and about a drum-full of antidepressants helped me summon up the courage. And then, to my horror, to my astonishment, I weighed....way more than I thought. (Forget it, there is no way I will ever ever ever tell you the actual number).

I was astonished yes, and very disheartened, but, oddly, what I was not was ashamed. Nor full of self-loathing. I didn't hate myself. Actually, and maybe it was just the Zoloft talking, I felt okay about myself. Like, it sucked that I was fat again after 15 years of not being fat, but I didn't judge myself, for once.

And lo and behold, I think that was the secret. I had a positively sanguine attitude about the horrific situation I found my butt and belly and thighs and upper arms and all the rest in. And that allowed me to embark on a diet, full of optimism and confidence, not the usual grim determination that sometimes leads to success but just as often to failure. What's the opposite of grim determination? Giddy resolve?

Since January 15 I have been on an unfortunately named diet called Fat Loss 4 Idiots. I was determined to drop 10 pounds by my birthday, which is February 18. And as of tonight, February 15, I am just half a pound shy of my goal. I eat very little, but what I do eat is healthy and balanced between proteins and low carb foods, fruits and veggies, four tiny meals a day. I don't recommend the diet if you can't stand feeling hungry, but if you can, it works.

I'll keep you posted.

Can We Dispense With The Pinkapalooza, Please?

There are a million reasons why I hate the pinkapalooza that is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. First of all, when I was writing my book I learned that BCAM was originally funded by Astra Zeneca, the makes of Tamoxifen. Now, I’m sure they had nothing but our best interests at heart, but one way you might look at their involvement is this: telling women to get annual mammograms means finding more breast cancer. And finding women with breast cancer means finding new customers for Tamoxifen.

I say this as a woman who believes I am alive today because a mammogram detected a tumor, an aggressive tumor, that was not detectable by self-exam or even by a doctor’s exam. So I’m not arguing against mammograms. I’m just saying Astra Zeneca has a vested interest in Breast Cancer Awareness Month and for many years, they had final say on how it was promoted.

Now, of course, some 22 years later, it’s completely out of control. We Shop, Therefore we Cure is the clear message. Buy some pink crap, a blender or a dirt devil or a condom, and a tiny fraction of that money will go to breast cancer research.

One of my personal favorites is Breast Cancer Barbie. (Ok, technically, it’s Pink Ribbon Barbie.) What I love most is that Mattel, in announcing that Pink Ribbon Barbie would be working the toy shelves, if not the streets, for breast cancer, they said that the doll would help open a dialogue between kids and their cancer stricken moms.

Really?

How does that go?

“Hey kids, see this pretty Barbie? This is what Mommy never looked like. And now that she’s got breast cancer, she doesn’t look like Barbie even more!”

Most of all, I hate how much the pink ribbons prettify an ugly, tragic, awful thing. We should not be wrapping up this epidemic in pink ribbons. It gives the rest of the world the false sense that it’s all okay, and it gives the women who are victims (yes, victims) the sense that if they complain, if they’re angry, there’s something wrong with them. They should simply smile and be grateful for all the people buying all that pink crap.

As for me, I don’t buy pink in October (although once I filled my pocket with pink M and M’s that were in a big bowl in a shop in Soho—does that count?)

I love that the anti-pinkapalooza is no longer much of a contrarian point of view. Now, if we could just banish those yellow Live Strong bracelets…..

Sometimes, It IS about the Breasts

I have always said that in the television world, in politics, in all forms of public life, pretty beats smart every time. Not that it should be that way--but that it is. Studies have proven the existence of lookism, if you need any proof.

And while there are many reasons, none of them to my liking, why Sarah Palin was chosen by John McCain, I just don't think you can deny that her attractiveness and youth were part of the equation. I'm not saying she isn't smart--I don't know if she is or not, although I think she's wrong on every issue that matters--just that, if it was strictly for her political positions, and ability to attract evangelical Christians, Mike Huckabee, that anti-abortion, pro-creationism, evangelical, regular guy who actually has some experience, would have fit the bill. Also, while I have seen her described many times as a GILF (governor-I'd-like to-F**K) has anybody ever seen Governor Huckabee described that way, except maybe by his wife Janet?

As additional evidence, I offer this hilarious (and yes, edited) video of John McCain, not only checking Sarah Palin out during her speech, but also twisting his wedding ring as he does it.



Enjoy.

Don't Shoot the Messenger

I had the best time this week—the Ta Ta s book club, of which I am a proud member, made Five Lessons their book of the month, and we had a great fun evening talking about it, and many other issues, at the home of one of the members.

One of the things I found most interesting was that, when asked whether they had feared for their lives when they had breast cancer, the majority of women in that room, women whose histories ran the gamut of cancer staging, said no.

“I thought the chemo might,” one joked.
“I wished it would,” another added.

This came as a shock to the group’s ringleader, founder, and icon of love and hope and health, Dr. Bonni Gearhart. If you’ve read Five Lessons you know she was my oncology consultant for the medical facts in the book, and saved me from several dumb mistakes I would have made.

Bonni is one of my favorite people in the world, it must be said. Because her practice is in New Jersey and my boobs, and the rest of me, are in Manhattan, she couldn’t be my oncologist, if GOD FORBID...well, you know. But she is my model of how to be a smart, supportive, funny, beautiful person, who also happens to save lives.

Speaking of boobs, I’ll be speaking of boobs, both literal and figurative, Monday night at my pal Lizz Winstead’s Shoot the Messenger live sketch comedy show, which is hilarious. Probably because it’s August and she couldn’t get anybody really famous, she’s asked me to be the guest in the second half of the show, when she interviews journalists and writers about media. We will be talking about both Five Lessons and my first book, Naked Republicans.

Shoot the Messenger is Monday night at 8pm at The Green Room, 45 Bleecker street, just east of Lafayette. It costs $12.50.

You'll laugh, I promise.

Sheena and The Breast Cancer Witch

Finally had the mammogram this week, and everything was fine. But man, I was a nervous wreck, much worse than usual, due to the fact that a couple of days earlier, a Cancer Witch tried to put a spell on me.

I was doing a reading for my book in Manhattan. We were standing around eating and drinking before the reading began, and an older woman came up to me and asked how long it had been since I'd finished treatment. I told her it was four years, that I'd waited to get some perspective and also to make sure nothing untoward happened to change the ending, as it were.

“Oh well, four years is when I had my recurrence,” this woman cackled. "I had to have a second mastectomy."

Ok, maybe it wasn't really a cackle, but I felt as though I'd been slugged in the stomach. Who was this woman, some kind of Cancer Witch, casting a spell on me out of jealousy for my better health, my relative youth and my new book?

I am a fact-based, not a faith-based person. I don’t believe in Hope Angels, fairies or the power of positive thinking. But she got to me. Oh yes, she did. And how did I respond?

I just backed away from her before she could offer me a poison apple or who knows what.

I did NOT say to her, “Wow, that was thoughtless. Were you that thoughtless before your two bouts of breast cancer?”

To tell the truth, I didn’t think of saying that until later. All I could think of at that moment was Must. Get. Away.

Actually, I suspect she did put a spell on me. Ever since the encounter, I've been unable to speak up and defend myself. My usual snarky voice is gone. And I'm not referring just to my inability to respond during the spell-casting moment.

The day after my all-is-normal mammogram, I was having my hair washed and blown out at a salon by my office, and I watched, mute, as the "stylist" poufed and teased my hair into a Sheena Easton style, circa "My Baby Takes The Morning Train."

That's right--this guy was actually teasing my hair, and I couldn't bring myself to say, "Dude--where'd you park the Wayback Machine?"

Instead I over-tipped him, bolted from the salon, and then undid the 'do as best I could while gazing at my freakish reflection in a nearby store window. Clawing at the back-combed bangs that made me look like a refugee from an "I Love the '80s" episode, I managed to make my hair look simply odd, which was a big improvement.

People say really stupid shit sometimes. Even those who should absolutely know better. So, if you’re reading this and you know someone with a serious disease in their past or present, be careful, ok? I will accept that you really don't mean to be hurtful and frightening, that in fact you may not be a Cancer Witch, if you will accept that if you do insist on sharing your unrequested advice, your scary story about your own experience or that of someone you know, you will be thought of as a thoughtless boob. Pun intended.

I just hope this spell wears off before I have to get my hair blown out again.