Summer Sunday and a Year...

This weekend I drove five hours to hug a friend - two friends actually!  And it was totally worth every mile.  Although it may not feel like it right now... I'm fighting the ache to be at The Glen - less than 20 miles from where I write at this very moment - under this Fat Old Sun on a Summer Sunday in the beautiful Finger Lakes... oh oh driver introductions... jeff gordon looks awesome... cute kids...

So I've psyched myself up for Race Day here at Porcupine Farm, watching it on TV, lovin' up my boys, catching up with my laundry, and ya know what?  I can do this... be here now and not ache to be somewhere else. I am really trying to work on that. Focus on now... not then, not when, no blame, no excuses (except chemobrain... I am totally allowed to use chemobrain!), and no expectations... well maybe low expectations because I like being pleasantly surprised. And my "low expectations" for today (thinking how sad I would be to not be at the race) are nicely waxing into the sights and sounds of ESPN - oh wait - National Anthem... nice flyover... great driver (and CUTE BABY!!!) close ups... engines started... radio chatter... I'll actually be able to see the "bus stop" battles... and I can kinda see our farm when the Goodyear blimp shares its photos! 43 drivers, 90 laps, driving 5 hours - more or less. A lot can happen in 5 hours. (and if Clint Bowyer wins this race, that would be something!)  And a lot can happen in 30 years.

A good friend is going through a tough time, having to make decisions no suddenly-single, ridiculously hard-working, amazingly loving mother should have to make in a world that hurries by so quickly. We've been friends since 1984. We met at summer camp - only 15 miles from where we were able to reconnect just yesterday - along the Delaware River. I'd actually been planning this for months... but planning is such a relative term... so this past Friday, I plugged a Narrowsburg, NY, (or was it Beach Lake, PA?) address into the GPS and started my engine. I made ipod shuffle my Magic 8 Ball and headed off to see my friends... "you and I have memories, longer than the road that stretches out ahead", "people hurry by so quickly, don't they hear the melody", "makes much more sense to live in the present tense", "the queen of light took her bow and then she turned to go", "the closer i am to fine..." - I write all my driving "playlists" down in case you need the script (read: movie rights).

I'm sure there are 1000 ways I could've been better prepared - like getting over my fear of food, considering I plunked myself down right in the middle of a huge food festival - but I didn't think about that.  Sure, my 2002 CR-V (129K) is prepared for the Zombie Apocalypse - bottled water, Luna Bars, sunblock, bug repellent, blankets, tarps, towels, bungees, flashlights, pillows, a tent, hand-me-down copies of New Yorker (great article on Linguistic Forensics last week!), more bungees, some folding chairs, fake flowers, a pink feather boa, The Illustrated Stories of Hans Christian Andersen (great tattoo ideas), and extra wiper fluid.  See, I'm totally prepared.

I just wasn't prepared for the complete overwhelmosis of my own insecurities from the past 48 hours. I felt useless. I got homesick.

And it totally broke my heart to see this just-turned 4 year-old so profoundly - and understandably - sad... confused tears turning her eyelashes into dewy little flower petals that not even my pink feather butterfly fascinator could dry. Helpless, helpless... there was nothing I could do to make Sunny Lemon Tina smile. Even worse, there was little I could do to relieve my friend's pain. I hate that feeling.

Long story short (if you're still here)... in lieu of attending a race, I got to hug Heather. And I got to hug Abby. And those two hugs alone were worth the five hour drive. Sunny Lemon Tina will be okay... and so will I.

You're probably thinking "ummmmmm, where is she going with this?".  To tell you the truth I have no idea... I just know that I will "never spend my guitar or my pen".

Maybe someday I'll write about it.

Bring on the Dog Days of Summer!

So what did I do my Summer Vacation?  I stressed myself into a cotton candy corner worrying about balancing work and play. Work wins. Now that I am a student at PetMeds University, majoring in Freelance Writing, with a minor in Blogging, I eat, sleep, and breath glucosamine for joint health and Omega 3 fatty acids for healthy coat and skin. :) Don't get me wrong - I am floored and supremely flattered. I am also a disorganized procrastinator who is too hard on herself, and being an ADD-saddled perfectionist doesn't help.  I just need to get over it and get back to my commitment to "strive for progress, not perfection" (thank you, Pinterest!)

It's new work, fun work, educational work... but work is work, and anything with a deadline makes me sweat. Like hot flash sweat. So PLEASE just read/subscribe/justify my existence on this planet by diggin' my 1-800_PetMeds blog and pass it around to your friends so that maybe they can be on The Ellen Show someday. 

The Adventures of Skipper & Slouch

The Adventures of Skipper and Slouch Revisited

I've got performance anxiety. Meet the newest member of the 1800PetMeds freelance team... AND... wait for it... PetMeds blogger!  Me... a blogger...on the PetMeds Team ??!?!!!!???  This is so "pawsome" (baaaaad), and I get to create practical, web-smart descriptions for various pet products (I know the specs for the Solvit Waterproof Rear Bench Seat Cover by heart!) and I can be all bloggety (okay, braggety) about my boys through cute photos and more fun product reviewing and stories. Wow...it's like Dodger and Oliver's "Adventures of Skipper and Slouch" is going public - if having more than three followers is "going public" - as I chronicle their crazy adventures. That is so cool... I just hope the boys don't go getting big heads about it. I'll try to keep the "pawpawrazzi" at bay. 

I'm just so nervous... I mean look at my own blog. How terrible of me to leave you all hanging after actually walking the 2-Day AVON Walk for Breast Cancer in DC with my sister - a completely life-changing experience that I am STILL having trouble describing through my keyboard. Got a few hours? Let's take a walk and talk... and watch for Team Cupcake Head to rock the house/sidewalk in NYC 2013.

Right now, though, I'm warming up to go through the doggy door of freelance writing and I don't want it to hit me on the butt on my way in.... so, deep breath...  new moleskine... remember  that "well begun is half done"... and somewhere over some rainbow is a feeling of success. SQUIRRRRREL! 

For pictures worth a million words, click on the photo of the exhausted Winston Sisters to the left (to the left, to the left...)

*Sap Alert* - Thank you to an awesome friend who made this opportunity possible...because that's what friends do... they care, they notice, they applaud, they cheer you on and they open doors you were too afraid to even approach. Thank you so much for encouraging me to "stop saying can't" in more ways than one.

... and, boy, are my arms tired!

There aren't even words to describe... yet.

GOING OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE SALE!

Thank you Natalie Dee for nailing it this morning. You chose a really pretty pink. Which reminds me...

poo poo in a tutu

Only a few days left until the BIG WALK.  Four months of "training"... walking, fundraising, worrying, prepping, and generally trying not to buy anything and everything PINK.

I think my sister may have beat me to it, though... this is like prom/first date/Dana's first date/HS play/Dana's HS play for her...you get the idea. Lisa has cornered the market on PEEEENK. She's even blinged up Mr. Hankey for the Walk (note the awesome tiara!).

So this is my last minute GOING OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE AND ON A REALLY IMPORTANT WALK donation sale/plea.

this is not photoshopped

Just click HERE so you don't miss out!  Every dollar gets used and reused and then used again because for every one breast saved, two more are touched... or something like that. (Sorry, I'm exhausted and I haven't even laced up my awesome PEEEEEENK sneakers yet.)

On your right... this is me at a gym (or some kind of minimalist exercise facility). I know y'all think I have mad Photoshop skills, but this one's for real. If you've already donated, THANK YOU for your support.  If you haven't, WTF are you waiting for???  Our little two-person team Winston Cups: Hope & Diamonds has already raised over $12,000!!!  Every little bit helps... it really really does. CLICK HERE NOW!

If you're just catching on... go to www.winstoncups.com and check out our groovy web site dedicated to the walk.  I'll get caught up on the  Honor Roll page after the walk...

Wellness Village, here we come!!!!!!!

Can I get a "Hell Yeah"??? And then maybe a nice Epsom Salt bath and foot massage....

I Want Her Job

Skirts and Scuffs: NASCAR In Heels: Track Chic: What stands out in this picture...Ingrid's shoes! Credit: Debbie Ross/Skirts and Scuffs Two weekends ago Skirts and Scuffs resident phot...

GOAL!

I got by with a lot of help from my friends!!!

Wooo hoooo awesome swag gym bag on its way to me and many many thank you's to get out to others. 

Wow, I am soooooo blown away. And I don't want to stop. Keep it coming... please... don't let my reaching my fundraising goal keep you from donating... just click here. Every single dollar is appreciated, used, reused, and you've probably lost more than that in the laundry. Just sayin'...

Hello, My Name is Chemobrain!

Nippleless should be recognized by spell-check.  I don't want a hyphen. I want a descriptor.

Just sayin'.

I've been trying to think of a new word for "survivor" in regard to having had breast cancer. Something that underscores early detection (as the miracle discovery of  2 different types of cancer in 7 tumors total was a result of my very first mammogram at 39 (blah blah blah...)

then there was my first double mastectomy (really owie boo boos and lots of decorative gauze... I could've won Project Runway with my tenderly placed adhesive strips),

and my bi-weekly drip trips to the chemo cafe... and of course, my new inflatable boobs...

and early menopause (my 40th birthday present was the not having to ever have a period again) - oh, and for the record, going through chemo and menopause at the same time, in the winter, will have you bald and naked in the snow in the front yard. Making snow angels. I call it ChemoPause.

Then there was the secret delight of losing hair in places I really didn't mind losing it.

I could start peppering my speech with lines like "Was your chemo cocktail that deep fuchsia hue of a Rubellite Tourmaline, too?" and "Wasn't it great to not have to shave you legs for 4 months?" and see what kind of responses I get.

Oh, and "Did you earn that pink ribbon or did it come from Oriental Trading?"

I can't just walk around topless and let the wounds speak for themselves, and you can't really SEE chemobrain... but I am part of some "new normal" group.

I just don't know what to have printed on the name tag.

Can I legally have my name changed to Chemo Brain?

Goodbye Yellow Brick Podunk Road...

I love the Ithaca DMV. The ladies there make a mildly profound administrative task such a pleasure. My driver's license expired on my 46th birthday last week and I waited, of course, until the last possible minute to get it renewed. So I took the gorgeous Finger Lakes afternoon off work, having practiced my next ID smile in the mirror all day, cursing having a birthday in March. March birthdays suck when it comes to photo ID's. I'm never tan. Anymore. And I'm always wearing a scarf.

Strangely, while I was excited to not have to look at the current horrible, little picture of  pre-diagnosed, sick, skinny Stephanie with the stupid black hair and zit-from-nowhere anymore - it's amazing how much can happen in eight years - was officially changing my address. Having left our old house on Podunk Road only three years ago, my driver's license still reads Podunk Road.  I love that. So at the Ithaca DMV, on my 46th birthday, I waved one last good-bye to Podunk Road. My new official identification card will read Arden Road. But can I still be the Podunk Princess?

From Park to Arden...? Meh. Arden doesn't even mean anything, but it sounds pretty. It's often a name of a person or a place. The only Arden I ever knew was the sister of our creepy landlord in back in New Paltz. She was nice, though. So is Arden Road.

In a few weeks I will see my new driver's license and say hello to a post-cancer, salt and pepper (read: gray), short-haired, funkily bifocaled, dangerously make-up-free, middle-aged woman with a HUGE GRIN and Springy PEEEENK scarf..

And a little lip gloss. Like a true Podunk Princess!

Top 5 Products I Wish They'd Bring Baaaack

These WERE a few of my Favorite Things:

1. AVEDA Self Control Hair Wax - I am sadly "waxing poetic" over the cancellation of my favorite hair styling product - the one that was shaped like deodorant and did indeed confuse a few house guests. Aveda Self Control is the Holy Grail of hair styling products. I used to work at an Aveda salon (in the 90's when it was still Aveda). I became a Self Control Junkie, sporting my freshly cut pixie, smelling like Jorst's signature "purefume" goodness, and knowing that my superpowers could be found in a 2 oz. stick of solid hair magic. I never ever dreamed that AVEDA (now Estee Lauder) would pull the plug on this desert-island product.  I recently saw a single (new) stick on ebay for $199.  I offered the woman fifty bucks and she turned me down.  I swear if I ever make a million dollars (or more), I am going to buy every last stick on the planet.  If there are any left. (*end note - that stick went for a grand total of $56.00 - she coulda just taken my $50...)

2. Pacifica Indian Coconut Body Wash.  At Sephora one week. Gone the next. This perfect signature coconut scent exists in every other format, including a solid perfume.  And almost every other scent they produce has a body wash.... so what happened?  I don't want the Indian Coconut perfume (well, maybe the spray of you're wondering what I might want for my birthday).  I want the body wash.... I want so much natural tropical splendor in my suds, that the only thing missing is the Jamaican rum.  And the palm trees. I still scour the shelves at Ricky's when I'm in the city... hoping to find that one last, dusty jug.  *weeps silently*

3. Coconut Flavored YooHoo.  A gift from the gods. Mother's milk from MobilMart.  Oh, how I miss it.

4. Old Navy Cami Tops without the shelf-bra. Newflash!  Post-mastectomy women covet them.  At six bucks apiece, I haven't worn anything else under my clothes since I went through breast cancer in 2005.  They slide on and up like tube skirts (so no arm lifting necessary) and they provide a comfortable, almost necessary, snugness that reconstructive surgery begs for even years after sutures are removed. They came in a myriad fashionably normal colors (so it was okay if a strap showed from time to time) and they lasted (well, the quality declined over the years, but I hung in there). I could wear them all the time, with or without anything over them and they made me feel GOOD.  Well, I recently went to order new ones... at six bucks each, the white ones are worth replacing every few months... and they don't make them anymore.  They put a "shelf bra" back in them - an itchy, jock strappy strip of elastic that just messes with my implants. I beg you, Old Navy, please... I just want my daily "go-to" snug, soft, tank top/bra/nightshirt cami back. In white, black, brown, pink, ocean, berry, slate, hunter, navy, violet, and lime.

5. My old eyeglass frame company Planet I discontinued my favorite style. Ugh. Picking new eyeglass frames is like picking a husband.  You're committed, man.  And I ain't no spring chicken. I'm almost into tri-focal territory!  All the better to see my handsome hubby, though.

Snow Day

Snow Day at Porcupine Farms isn't really a day off.  It's just more time to deal with the snow.  And firewood.  And the wood stove.  And more firewood.  And ashes.  And wet dogs.  In the ashes.  And I get wear my Carhartt and smell like Aspen 'cause everything I own smells like my ass been coddling the wood stove.

Isn't this what husbands do?

In truth, I am spending this snow day writing about that husband because he isn't here right now  hee hee... I devote today to Chris, the husband who has put up with me for over 11 years.

The one who still leaves me love notes in my "regular routine" early morning cabinetry... the one who packs me a healthy lunch (so he doesn't have to deal with my bottomed out sugar levels at the end at the day)... the one who says "honey, you look so sexy sometimes"... the one who still has my PMS programmed on his Palm Pilot even though I haven't menstruated in 6 years.  He still stocks up on chocolate, though.  He rubs my aching feet when his hurt more.  He picks up pizza in blizzards.  And he is the one who reassures me that everything little thing is gonna be alright. Oh, and he lets me love Bobby Labonte.

This is why I want to thank him for his supporting my decision to take part in the Avon Walk with my sister.

There's a part of Chris that cringes when he sees "pink ribbonism"... my new pink iphone cover or a pink ribbon tote bag, or pink pens and paper.  I don't blame him.  It sucked for him too.  And for the last few years I consciously tucked many of my tell-tale apparel and key chains and magnets banners and return address labels and tic-tacs and dog collars and license plate frames and tattoos (well, I can't really hide my tattoo, but that's different) away.  A new beginning for us as a married couple where the "new normal" for us wasn't patient/caregiver.

He helped me through breast cancer.
He helped me bury my father, his best friend.
He is my mirror (I could use a shave).
He is Santa Claus at the SAL in T-Burg.
And he is probably blushing like crazy right now!

So, Chris... thank you for letting my repressed inner "peeeeenk" come back out so that my sister and I can make this happen.

Thank you letting me go down this rabbit hole with my sister as the Mad Hatter.

Evolution of My Knockers

This is a good one to file under "Be careful what you wish for."

...and please get a mammogram if at all applicable.

When Love Comes Knockin' At Your Door

You're gonna see - and probably hear - this phrase (ahem, song title) a lot.

File it under "Couldn't Plan It Any Better".

To understand the journey my sister and I have been on over the last 40-50 years is to realize that as difficult as some of our childhood situations may have been, we do share some happy memories... and on the list of funnest happy memories that haven't disintegrated with aging brain cells is a hazy duet performed at the family piano.  The song? The Monkees' "When Love Comes Knockin' At Your Door".  I don't know if I was even old enough to understand the words. But I love the Monkees. Enough so that my sister - in another grand act of sisterly love - took me to see Dolenz, Jones, Boyce and Hart at The Riverboat in the Empire state Building for my 10th birthday (read: she was 16)... but I digress...

I can't remember if we did it for fun, or for Henrietta, or because our parents "had company over".  Did we even practice?  To this day that song reminds me of bopping my head to my sister's piano chords and sharing a "wow, she really loves me" moment, and it has been on every mix tape we have sent to each other over the years.

And now we really are Knockin'... as in Avon Calling...  and it's gonna be a magic carpet ride, so little girl now don't you run and hide... oh wait... here.  Although THIS is even better! (Lisa... acoustic guitar... hint hint).

Knock Knock

That's a Mezzuzah, Not a Bill Holder.

We live waaaaaaaay out in the country.  So far out in the boondocks that at night the stars look like they're actually on the horizon, and you don't have to squint to see them.  You may get skunked while taking a midnight pee in the yard (my husband did), but otherwise you could feel like you're in Night of the Comet... except for the 80's hair... anymore...

Apparently, though, we do not live far enough out to prevent the Jehovah's Witness boys from knocking on our door. This isn't like taking an elevator to 11-C, ringing a bell, and delivering some Moo Goo Gai Pan for a three dollar tip.  These boys have to walk and walk and walk... or bike... whatever... then they TRESPASS (yes, we have "no trespassing" signs, but they may just be to keep jealous hunters off our fertile land)... and for what???

They walk because they are devoted, to say the least.  Or maybe they just have no where to go, being all dressed up and everything, so they look for events to crash.  No, I think it's the latter. Or, as I find out later, it might be my husband's lemonade because he likes to offer them refreshing drinks and chat about God.  Did I mention my husband is an angel?  More on that later... can't talk about angels or they may send me away...

I, on the other hand, get annoyed when they come around.  The dogs start barking (actually every dog on the road starts barking),  I have to make sure I'm "decent" before I see who trekked up our driveway ('cause I didn't hear a car)... more than not, I do have to add some sort of item of clothing to my homebody self, and I get aggravated that I have to be rude and say "no thanks".  I mean, DID YOU NOT SEE THE MEZZUZAH?  Maybe the fuel delivery people think it's a bill holder, but true religious zealots should know.

So how is what they do different from what I am doing right now for our Avon Breast Cancer Walk team?  Aside from walking AFTER the soliciting, how is asking for support for Winston Cups: Hope & Diamonds any different from walking one's feet off to bring you an important message from our sponsor?  In just 90 days, my sister and I will dress alike (probably something pink and blingy instead of starched and white). We will carry a message of HOPE. We will drink lemonade squeezed from the lemons of strangers (or mixed by fellow lovers of Countrytime). And we will walk and walk and walk and walk and walk and walk to deliver that message.  And hopefully, someone's life will be saved because of it.

I may have just opened a Pandora's Box, but my point is this...  when life hands you lemons, make lemonade slushies.  Add little umbrellas!  Use decorative glasses!  Just don't count on the Jehovah's Witness guys to bring the rum.  Or egg rolls.

Can I offer you some tomato sauce?

Tasted Like Chicken

End note regarding our birds, Tommy and Aja Remastered.  

They drove me bonkers so we gave them to a local Montessori School teacher I know.  Kinda like Paddington Bear, a whole classroom of kids can now look after them. And our house is so much cleaner!

I didn't want you to think we just disposed of them in some horribly unforgiving manner (like at 400 degrees for 30 minutes). Actually I kinda like them. Until they started squawking. Incessantly. With no discernible tunes or prose to admire.  Not even a few notes of 'Tommy'... or those infamous five notes from Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

Tommy and Aja Remastered taught me so many valuable lessons, though... 

1. Own a Dyson.  Especially if you have black carpet/rugs within ten feet of the cage.

2. Relationships are hard. Birds hurt.  The bite, they squeeze, they scratch your delicate hands to shreds.  When all you want to do is pet them.  "Here, birdie birdie birdie... shit!" is not a great way to start a relationship.  

3. Be the last one to leave the house in the morning or my husband will leave the radio turned on for them.  Talk Radio. All day.  No wonder they were so cranky.

4. If you're buying a pet just to name it something cool, get a fish. Or name all the woodland creatures in your back yard.  It's amazing how quickly Mr. Skunk will become a regular and Mama Dear will bring friends.  You can name the whole tribe... after dead rock stars or South Park characters.  They like that.

5. The golden rule... stay the hell out of PetSmart.

So, thank you James and Virginia, and Elizabeth Anne Clune Montessori School in Ithaca, for giving them what I could not... Budgie Love.

45 Days!

While we're on the subject...

Let's take this moment to also honor a real Winston Cup champion and supporter of good causes.  Maybe even mine if I can get the nerve to contact his PR people...

I think you all know his name by now.

If not, it's stitched into his belt.

45 days 'til Daytona.

Yay!

Avon Calling: Hypocrite in a Pink Ribbon?

Okay. I know why I've been stressed. But now I know why I am IN IT.

I've been struggling to rally. To fund raise. To be part of the Crusade ('cause quite frankly Jews shouldn't be crusading anything, especially with a capital C). I hate asking for money (my Dad is laughing his arse off in Heaven right now). I don't even like Trick or Treating!  I'll just buy my own candy, thanks.

I've been "pink ribboning" it for six years now.

IBCA Walkathon 2005

Being a survivor from the Class of 2005, I've supported/been part of YSC (Young Survival Coalition), LBBC (Living Beyond Breast Cancer), Feel Your Boobies (thank you Leigh for being such an inspiration that I am drinking hot cocoa from my now-collector's FYB Bistro Mug at this very moment!), ACS (American Cancer Society) Relay for Life (honored to be the keynote speaker at a kick-off dinner, it is the spark that created my video), and , of course, most dear to my heart, CRCFL (Cancer Resource Center of the Finger Lakes) - formerly the Ithaca Breast Cancer Alliance, I served on their board of directors for three amazing years, and was floored when a photo of my bandana-headed, bald self graced the back cover of their new brochures. (Click photo to enlarge)

I have a fucking pink ribbon tattoo. I opted not to have nipples. I could write a book about making the world a "mastectomy-friendly" place - heavy doors and high shelves suck, and a crammed clothing rack is forbidden fruit.

I've just been having trouble getting around the "finding a cause and a cure" part. Don't get me wrong... I am all about awareness. And access to treatment for those who need it, and of course medical research - I am a poster child for early detection. And I feel horrible for the people who suffer.

But why this Avon Walk? Why now? Why not crusade to find a cause and/or cure for drunk driving, or murder, or suicide, or child abuse, or war, or misread x-rays, or nicotine addiction? What about Fracking? And why oh why didn't we think of The Winston Knockers as a name! (Hellloooooo.... Avon calling!)

I feel like a hypocrite raising money for a non-local, mega-corporate, glossy covered foundation (SPF 15 please)... even if it is a kinda cool brand with some pretty good products. I do like the Skin So Soft line.

Then I realized... This one is not about me. I am IN IT for the person who let me name the team. The one who chose a tear-jerker photo for her fund raising page. The one who introduced me to National Lampoon and NRBQ and pot. The one who is getting ready for this walk like it's her first date.

I am walking for my sister. She has my support to support me.

And I need to let people know that this one is for HER. Her invitation to have me walk my feet off with her made me feel so honored, so appreciated, so "sure!", so cognizant of the fact that I will be walking in the memory of way too many people that aren't here to bore you with a blog.

If someone wants to honor me, cool... but as the "survivor part" of the Winston Cups: Hope & Diamonds team, I really really want to honor her.

For honoring me.

I love you, Lisa! Just please, no pink boas...

Rejected Team Names

1. Does This Pink Ribbon Make My Ass Look Fat? (shortened to DTPRMMALF to fit on bumper sticker, travel mug, mouse pad, and baby bib.)

2. What Curse? (Ha! Take THAT, Hope Diamond!)

3. Who's On Second? (this is about what I was feeling by Day 2 of the Pick a Name Game)

4. Dick's Picks: Washington DC -May, 2012 (two from the vault, you know)

5. Quadroboobia (although two are saline)

6. Which One's Pink? (oh, and by the way...)

7. Yetta Lester's Sugarless Cookies (still the best band name ever)...

Of course, the one we did pick (Winston Cups: Hope & Diamonds) may lead to a lawsuit, but publicity is publicity!  Bring it on...

Winston Cups: Hope & Diamonds

What the heck (read as Vott Dah Hake) did I just get myself into?

My sister asked me if I would be her other half for a team for Avon's major breast cancer awareness walk in DC this May.  Of course I would! What a great way to bond with my sister while raising awareness for breast cancer!

Maybe get a little PR for the whole Hope Diamond / Harry Winston thing... this could be fun!

What curse?  Our father, Richard Winston,
putting the Hope Diamond on a model.  1958?

Well, I am exhausted already.  Just deciding on a team name consumed my every waking  moment for three days.

Of course we have to wink/nod at the Hope Diamond (did I mention we have connections to the Hope Diamond, our great uncle being Harry Winston and all?) and me being the breast cancer survivor, I wanted to get kinda cheeky (refer to my victory flag pink ribbon tattoo post) and suggested The Winston Cups. My sister, the team captain and total-under-appreciator of NASCAR, proposed Hope & Diamonds... but I can't contact a past NASCAR Winston Cup champion (you see where I'm going with this?) for support when I sound like some Park Avenue princess... oh wait....

It's like trying to pick a band name.  We veered into odd territories for a few days... Quadroboobia... pitched possibilities via facebook posts... did I mention my sister is a G cup?  We took a step back, reviewed our goals, and finally decided on.... *drum roll*

Winston Cups: 

Hope & Diamonds

On location: yet another diamond reference...
Support Winston Cups!!!

I can walk 39 miles... I walk that in one race weekend at Watkins Glen.  I will start training tomorrow. When those snow squalls stop.  And if it turns into 36 miles of unstoppable hope and 3 miles of incessant whining, at least we can say we did it!  Did what, I still have yet to learn.  I hope there's a bubble bath at the end of it. And Swedish Fish.

I'm already exhausted and I haven't even opened my first legal document. Or raised a dime.

39 miles. Me and my sister. Hahahahahaaa!!!!

Dear Mr. Labonte...

thank you evelyn...

I've had a disproportionately sad week watching women I know fight breast cancer.  Too many of the contributors to this video are now on the YSC Remembrance Board.  That makes my heart so sad...

When NASCAR calls...

This is an article I started a while ago... the "assignment" was to finish the sentence "I never thought I'd...". So here it is... so far...

I never thought I’d… be a NASCAR fan.

'86 Harry Winston function in PB

For starters, I was born and raised a Manhattan Jew. Even more discerning, an Upper East Side Manhattan Jew. NASCAR was a foreign term, like IHOP or GED.

I gotta admit…Confederate flags kinda scared me, conjuring up images of anti-Semitic mobs looking to throw a Jew down a well Borat-style. A Southern twang was far lower on my Moh’s Scale of Accents than British - but still less abrasive than German - and I was angry at the South for the way they treated my housekeeper‘s ancestors. I had some twisted notion that the South was a steamy, swampy region filled with monster truck driving, Jew hating, whiskey stilling, shotgun hoisting good ol’ boys… and any so-called “sport” born from such an oppressive place would be about as exciting as a spinal tap… and not Rob Reiner’s version.

My own after-private-school activities focused on flirt chasing, not dirt racing. I knew how to select lipsticks, not dipsticks. And the only reason to punch the accelerator in my ‘84 “Bitchin’ Camaro” was to catch up to the hottie at the next light.

Yet…while pickup trucks and muscle cars were veritable anti-status symbols of rural residency, I could still be held spellbound by the pin-striped sports cars strutted in rockin’ TV commercials and tailgating on the Hamptons beaches. I wanted a ‘79 white Camaro with T-tops more than I wanted an “Elsa Peretti” Tiffany bracelet for my Sweet 16. I did like to drive. I mean really drive. Like fast.

Maybe that was because everything I needed to know about driving, I learned from spending 75% of my life in the backseat of taxi cabs. I could strategize that if a city bus was pulling out three blocks ahead, and two people spaced 30 yards apart were waving for cabs on the next block, the trick was to dodge to the left. All the better to get to the country club quicker. And I was rewarded - okay, spoiled - with a sports car in high school (and the insurance and a spot at the garage on East 84th Street and a Mobil Credit Card that caused my dad more grief than my skyrocketing insurance) and spent every weekend using it to rocket myself off of the island of Manhattan. Setting the controls for the heart of the sun, I piled friends into my I-ROC for jaunts to the shore, zoomed country roads like I was in a Mad Max video, and often waited about 20 minutes to call my dad from my final destination as I was afraid he‘d do the math and figure out I had beaten my own best time. Daddy’s little girl wouldn't want to jeopardize her freedom.

At 30 years-old, I just hit HYPERSPACE and landed in Ithaca, New York. (Raise your hand if you don't know what Hyperspace is for.) Centrally isolated yet culturally enriching, Ithaca - I had heard - was a good place to go to “find oneself”. I had left Manhattan many years before, and had comfortably embraced locales with lots of trees and scenic lakes and roadkill, and in 1996 I was ready to find myself again … I just never thought I would “find myself” at a NASCAR race.

An ex-boyfriend once noted that I “had a little redneck in me” when I admired a stately double-wide out loud, but it wasn’t until I literally moved from Park Avenue to Podunk Road (in Trumansburg, NY) that I slowly began to embrace my inner yokel. My new husband was a seventh generation local, and our new house - on Podunk Road - was the “third one past the Jeff Gordon flag”. I recognized Jeff Gordon’s name - or number - as his image graced the front of numerous outdoor soda machines in our region.

I also began a career in marketing. I sold advertising for a radio broadcasting company and was profoundly impressed by the stats on Country Music. Who’d have thought that the number one music format across the boards was Country… it more than doubled its runner up, Classic Rock, in ratings. I quickly learned that the road to selling a Country Music station was paved with NASCAR logos - and I was blown away by the stats on branding and customer loyalty. I eventually moved into print advertising and I am currently the marketing director for a small jewelry store in Ithaca.  I get to be a wordsmith and a graphic designer, and according to my coworkers, the “Queen of Displays”.  

Fast Forward to February 16, 2008. Lunching at our local tavern with my husband , I glanced up at the television mounted over the bar and my jaw dropped. On the screen was hands-down the most handsome man I had ever seen, aside from my husband, of course. Two men were being interviewed as rain poured down behind them. One was tall with dark glasses and wore a freakishly big cowboy hat that looked like a bird had flown into the brim at 90 MPH. The other gentleman was much shorter and wore a brightly colored Cheerios costume, emblazed with the number 43. I asked a fellow bar patron who that 43rd Adonis was and he murmured what sounded like Bobby Lobotomy. I immediately craved a bowl of cereal and asked for the remote control so I could fill all the TV screens with his face.

The last time I was held in such awe by male features was in 1976 when Roger Daltrey’s face filled the screen one quarter of the way into the movie “Tommy“. I was 10 years-old and it was defining heterosexual moment in my life. I became one with The Who, and even today my license plate today reads QDRPHNIA. But on February 16, 2008, I could not stop looking at the TV. And wild horses couldn’t drag that remote out of my hands.

His name is Bobby LABONTE and he was the Winston Cup (now Sprint Cup) champion in 2000. He was chubbier then, and had a really bad haircut. I equated him to a fine wine that has aged more than gracefully. At 44 years-old (in 2008), he was George Clooney meets (a pre-Oksana) Mel Gibson.

Some of the images I found showed Bobby Labonte driving a special pink car with a huge, pink ribbon on the side. I was two years removed from a double mastectomy and chemo, and I felt an immediate attachment to this driver...  and there were few images where he wasn’t sporting a LIVESTRONG bracelet on his perfectly sculpted wrist.

The more I read about Bobby Labonte, the more I learned about NASCAR. And the more I learned about NASCAR, the more I learned that I needed to learn more about NASCAR. I invested in Liz Allison’s Girl’s Guide to NASCAR and it was the best love story I had read in ages! With rules explained and terms defined, this book became my bible... or, um, Torah. I was determined to talk the talk… and it would only be a few months before I would get a chance to walk the walk.

We live 20 miles away from Watkins Glen International, the home of American Road Racing, but a more personal/spiritual affinity for Watkins Glen stems from my past Deadhead Days - FYI the soundcheck tape from The Glen '73 is/was a “must have”. (I still have my copy).  My husband and I decided to go check out a NASCAR race and see what all the fuss was about. I was already hip to the fact that The Glen is a “road race” - as opposed to a short track race (like Dover) or a restrictor plate race (like Talledega) - and I even had a custom t-shirt made that read Bobby Labonte is GORGES, a nod to Ithaca’s ubiquitous slogan "Ithaca is GORGES". And that t-shirt earned us free cold pit passes as the gatekeeper to this semi-restricted area recognized us as locals and granted us entry onto the skid marked, tread-littered pavement leading to the pits. Score! When we found the giant retail hauler with a gigantic image of Bobby Labonte on its side, I knew my pilgrimage hadn’t been in vain, and I begged my husband to take good photos for once.

I immediately posted my beloved photos from our awesome weekend on Facebook, where an old high school friend, Michael, I hadn’t thought about in 25 years sees the photo posts pop up on a mutual friend’s page (now timeline), saw my profile picture of my license plate QDRPHNIA (The Who), and wondered how I was.  He must have noticed my NASCAR photos because he then mentioned he had a good friend who works for a major racing team and that he was thinking about taking a trip to The Glen the following summer. Michael then surprised me with Hot Pit Passes, the golden tickets for any NASCAR fan. The scheduled royal treatment continued with a pre-planned surprise “meet and greet” with Bobby and I made a mental note to refill some valium. It's important here to note that Michael gave up the planned surprise a few days before… he said it was to keep me from driving over an hour to Tioga Downs near Binghamton for an autograph signing - with my 6 foot cardboard cutout of Bobby at my hip... but I think to keep me from fainting in the garage area.

Ahhhhh.... Describing meeting Bobby Labonte is an exercise in futility. Words just ruin it. And what I do remember is a blur. I fumbled my words, I pretended I could actually hear him over the massive engine revving, and I completely forgot to ask for an autograph. But he was as gracious as gracious could be, and when my friend Michael handed me a pen and snapped some photos with his own camera, I just wished time could stand still.

And it wasn’t just Bobby who was gracious. Almost every driver I nervously approached with pit pass and Sharpie in hand happily granted me a moment of acknowledgment. Carl Edwards, Joey Logano, Reed Sorenson, Marcos Ambrose (who won the Nationwide race that weekend)… I came away with a trophy pit pass and a whole new appreciation of the sport. And I rued the day I ever dissed NASCAR.

My lord, I met The King! Spending the weekend with the people behind the NASCAR curtain was an eye-opening, ear-popping, jaw-dropping experience…and I decided then and there that this was a circus I would gladly run away with.  So who was the clown now?  Just call me a redneck and I will happily show you my sunburned neck and red nose... and my credentials!

xxx

Fast forward to 2010.  He remembered me!

Oh God, he probably thinks I'm a stalker...

Try our new angus wraps...

Great, now any 16 year old with a ladder can ASSess the situation and quickly wreak havoc with removable letters. I would that is a marketing FAIL.

Wimpy Wimpy Wimpy

There's been a lot of talk lately about the new middle class. I myself am broke. Really broke. Like brokey-broke broke. I can't quite come to grips with "poor", but it was a sad day when generic facial cleanser (Kinney brand, I believe) replaced my Aveda Cleansing Gel.

Of course there are some necessities I will still forgo food to acquire... Christian Dior waterproof mascara, DKNY black opaque control top tights, and Isle of Eden's Sugar Scrub (and body creme, and hair conditioner, and shaving mousse...), but I have canceled extended cable, sworn off glossy magazines, and stopped coloring my hair (yes, I know it was a shock to find out I'm not a real blond... anymore). And those Vans with winged hearts just screamed my name.

In pondering my predicament, I have chosen Personal Bankruptcy for $20,000, Alex. I'm not ashamed... actually I'm more ashamed of the circumstances that brought me to this brink. Credit cards are evil... they are not an "investment in my future career wardrobe" or loans to decorate the house, or even a panacea for materialismitis... they are blood sucking Icon wallet stuffers and I am now anemic and in debt to my grey. Bankruptcy is like grad school for the financially illiterate. Although right now it feels like a scavenger hunt for paperwork... and where are those damn car titles???

I am the new middle class, and I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.

Carousels of Youth

I could build a wall with the boxes of slides I finally received from the stepmother. They were in my dad's closet for the last 30 years... at least. And now I have been facing the painful (literally when you have Reynauds) task of sorting, scanning, and sharing them. Yes, I could build a wall... but instead I am tearing it down. Tear down the wall!

The metaphorical bricks in my emotional masonry were introduced sometime in-vitro. You can tell by the startlingly stone-faced, drooling, anxious-looking infant rarely seen not trying to shove something in her mouth. My first word may have been "ggaarrrrrrhhhgggrrrr".

Then I got cute. Then I got fat. Then my mother died. Then I got fatter. Then the carousels stopped spinning and life was recorded on Kodak Instamatics, in 24 hour photo huts (note: don't take incriminating pictures in Jamaica and have them developed at a PhotoHut), and through digital media programs.

In the old days, photographs could gratify (or gross out) instantly... but slides are jewels you can't appreciate until you have all the right tools - and lots of patience! Slides are like sunflower seeds - you have to do a lot of work and the reward may be a dud, but the next one calls out to be scanned... and the next... and the next...

Most of these slides I haven't seen since I was very young, so I don't remember any of them. It's like I'm meeting my mother... again. Only I'm 43 and she's 23. And she's in love... and on her honeymoon... and smoking while she's pregnant... and posing like she's actually cooking... and living a good life... and then she doesn't look so good. She looks tired... and in pain... and forcing a smile... and then the pictures of her just stop all together. Now I can see her beautiful again.

My dad was always a handsome man. Even bald at 15, he was a cutie-pie! And he leaves no doubt - from both in front of the camera and behind it - that his family was his world. Through hundreds and hundreds of slides, he epitomizes LOVE in every image - from my mom reading a magazine to his kids just horsing around... I mean, how many shots of potty training does one parent really need??? Regardless, I can't imagine a father ever loving his family more than our dad loved us. Ans this, folks, is where one of those wall just comes tumbling down...

So if your curiosity has been aroused, you might like to know that lots of the photos have made it to Facebook (three albums at least) so that my sister could "enjoy" them too from afar... so much power in my hands, but she trusted me and I haven't abused my power... yet. Although she will hate this photo of us with our dad... but I cried when I saw his face... his love.

Love ya, sistah! And yes, our parents were f*cking awesome!!!

Miami Vices

I am awash in a flood of memories brought about by recent reconnections with old buddies (sorry, still young at heart buddies) on facebook. I only lasted three semesters at U. of Miami, but they were a memorable. At least the parts I CAN remember - fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, daughter - it was Miami after all. If I could only bottle the sun, sand, and rum runners, I would retire in the warmth and reverie. I was a Sigma Chi Little Sister, which means I was not really into the Greek scene... more the Greek guys. We were an infamous class, making national news for our class prank involving a polaroid camera and some notable landmarks... and people... "Have you had your Huebner today?"

If you squint, I look topless.

Wow - we have webcam! A little late in the techno-timeline, but, hey, I got through college on a typewriter, so I'm not complaining. The awards in the background are not props - they are my hubby's.
It was just too hot in my regular office, so I packed up the new laptop and hightailed it down to his office. It was nice. Kinda like a date. We even played footsie under the conference table. Noooooo.... just kidding. We just threw down on the rug. HA HA HA!

You're wondering, though, aren't you?

On Cloud 96 at WGI!

What do you get when you wear a "Bobby Labonte is GORGES" shirt to the Glen in '08? You get to meet Bobby Labonte in '09!

And yes, he is even dreamier in person.

Swivel Head or Double Blade...

When shaving legs on a budget, it is important to not forgo the swivel head option. Revert to double blade if you must, but swivel is the key to not ripping the flesh of of your ankles. If you are going to splurge, splurge at Isle of Eden. My sister turned me onto this independent mail order company - and while I can probably give up my pilgrimages to Sephora in Rochester now, I will scrimp and save for Isle of Eden's "Can't Sleep, Clowns Will Eat Me" Sugar Scrub. And I loooove when my sister sends me vanilla and coconut scrubs and potions - just because she loves me... hint hint... maybe for the fourth anniversary of my mastectomy (snap, that's cold... playing the cancer card!) - I'm down to my last tub of Carousel of Lost Souls Shaving Mousse.

Anyone want to hear my idea about designer band aids?

It's Been a While

Has it really been six months since I last posted?

Well, if you've been on Facebook, you may already know the trials and tribulations of life on Porcupine Farm (or in my four YoVille homes... that's so sad...). I've had my employment hours cut in half (yes, I know, the international sign for little violins) and have learned to live without necessities like People Magazine and brand name body cleanser... I just recently had the epiphany that "paying with a credit card" is an oxymoron... even sadder, I know. I do miss Sephora and Aveda and Kipling.... but my life is richer now with so many more - ummmm... oh yeah, my FRIENDS!!! Thank you, Facebook. And thank you for finally unlocking the tall lattes. So, when can we access the barrel costumes?

BACK TO PODUNK:
We recently received a phone message from our vet, Dr. Richard Orzeck at Trumansburg Veterinary Clinic. (There's an inherent shout out to his wife, Teresa, who is the other 75% of the practice.) There is not a nicer couple on this earth, and listening to his message brought me to tears. Someday I wish I could link to it. Or even transcribe it... but suffice to say he called because he wanted us to just bring the boys in for their shots and he would take care of us because he understands everything we've been through and that we are good people and that things will turn around and everything will be okay... and that he means that from the bottom of his heart.

This is Yin and Yang of life in Podunk... the "Nothing is Everything" farm field that I harvest now. I went through it with breast cancer (in the extreme physical sense) - and now my wallet is no longer a wallet if doesn't have anything in it except my health insurance card which I show more than my driver's license these days. I should just fill my (yes, Icon) wallet with photos of the people who make life richer. And make Dr. Orzeck and Teresa the cover shot.

Well, gotta go hoe!

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

Psyyyych!

This was my gift to myself. A life-size cutout Bobby Labonte.

Dang, he's one good looking cardboard man!

So is my husband of course, but there's something about a man in uniform (even if it is kinda heinous) who's always smiling, never complaining, happy to just not be in a box somewhere. Although I should probably be mindful of the wood stove when he's around...

Chris, don't even think it!

Two in the Bush...?

Why settle for one when you can have two?

Meet Aja Remastered with Bonus Tracks... named after Chris first bird, Aja. So we call him Aja for short. We got Aja to keep Tommy company, and it seems to be working, except for a little aggressive preening on Tommy's part - kind of like Budgie Cell Block H - except they're both males.

I think they quite like each other. Once Tommy learns that he can't stick his beak down every bird's throat - he is a bit like Pepe Le Pieu... but Aja seems to be holding his own. For now.