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.