Monday, December 31, 2012
Organizing the sock drawer
Want to go to the movies?
Sorry, I'm just in the middle of organizing my sock drawer.
No, you will never hear this conversation from me, but here on the last day of 2012, I thought it would be significant to take on this task.
Why? I'm not a terribly organized person, but while Christmas shopping this year, I stopped at the Container Store and was amazed at all the things you can buy to keep your things organized and reduce the hassle and rummaging that eats up a lot of time. Of course you have to factor in the organizing and maintenance time, which I've always thought would equal out the equation, but it would save on the frustration factor--hand me my scientific calculator while I work this out.
Apparently a new trend with teenagers is to wear colorfully mismatched socks. You actually buy them that way, but it's a statement, not an embarrassing mistake, like inadvertently wearing one black and one blue sock or one lowcut white sock and one mid ankle.
I have to admit I found over 50 pairs of socks, some of which hadn't been worn in the last 5 years. I immediately threw out half because I would never wear them now--too tight, too gray looking, stained from various creams and concoctions I put on my feet from henna to Bag Balm (thick petroleum jelly developed in Vermont to prevent cow udders from chafing-great for hot, swollen feet.) I then whittled down the 'maybe' pile, which included dress socks from my working days. Once you started tossing them out, it quickly accelerated to a sock frenzy.
I now have a very lean sock drawer and either need to restock or do laundry every 5 days. I know you're impressed because, after all, if someone bothers organizing their socks, they couldn't possibly be the same person that shoves credit card slips into zip loc bags or throws bills into one file cabinet drawer labeled 2012 or stuffs Christmas decorations in black garbage bags.
Well, tomorrow is for resolutions, but today, socks or not, I'm going to the movies.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Texas Time
 |
| Yee-ha! breakfast |
My colleague, Shirley, and I were at the San Antonio Breast Cancer Symposium (SABCS) for four days this past week. SABCS is the premier breast cancer conference for oncologists and attracts over 7,000 attendees--oncology clinicians, surgeons, researchers, pharmas, and advocates.
It was my first time there, but Shirley is a veteran with five previous conferences under her belt. We manned an advocate table during the day for the Metastatic Breast Cancer Network (MBCN) and took turns attending some of the sessions. I particularly liked the end of day Hot Topics for Advocates (aka the Cliff Notes version), which featured a panel of oncologists who summarized the main proceedings of the day in layman language. (h'ors d'oeuvres included)
 |
| Remember the Alamo |
I took in the beautifully lit, tree-lined Riverwalk in San Antonio, the other 'must-see', every day as it meandered along my walking route past the hotels and the convention center.
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| Shirley and I at SABCS |
If you ever want to read a fascinating and inspirational story, pick up HER-2: The Making of Herceptin, a Revolutionary Treatment for Breast Cancer by respected science correspondent Robert Bazell. The book came out in 1998 and reads like a novel with intrigue, politics, love, sorrow, good guys and bad, as well as the science and frustration of bc research. It was followed by a Lifetime movie, Living Proof, in which Harry Connick, Jr plays Dr. Slamon.
When I shook hands with Dr. Slamon on Thursday night, I thanked him for all he's done for metastatic bc and said, "I hope there's someone with your perseverance and dedication out there, working on TNBC - Triple Negative Breast Cancer." (my subtype). "Oh, there is, " he replied. "There definitely is."
I pin my hopes on that and see myself as the long time survivor, the role that Bernadette Peters had in the movie. The only real question then becomes who will play me in the TNBC movie?
Monday, December 3, 2012
Wyckoff Woman Debuts on Broadway
Now here's a story worthy of Wyckoff Patch breaking news--far more interesting than the usual reports that the mayor has a toothache or snow is predicted in the weather forecast.
Yes, it's true. An ordinary middle-aged Wyckoff Woman (WW) was sitting in the audience, enjoying the Alvin Ailey Dance Company performance at New York City Center, when she was invited up on stage for the rousing, final number. Was it the way she was nodding her head or tapping her foot to the music that caught the attention of one of the dancers in a troupe of about 16 who fanned across the theatre in search of talent? Dressed in black suits with gangster type fedoras, the company escorted the chosen participants up on stage and the wildness began. Ordinary, mild mannered people were suddenly strutting their stuff and attempting to keep up with their new partners. Who was that heavyset woman flapping her arms like a rooster or that bleach blonde who immediately shed her shoes and pranced around like a demented reindeer? No one knew.
Meanwhile, WW had the audience holding their breath, as she twisted slowly downward, faltered and swayed, but did not tip over, rebounding with a glorious jump into the air. The Ailey dancers kept in character, serious and unsmiling. The first exuberant dance was followed by a tango number and ended with the tallest dancer carrying his partner around the stage. The stocky woman in a festive red suit was a crowd favorite and their seductive stroll through the honor guard of their fellow dancers brought down the house.
It ended as politely and formally as it began with the dancers holding their partners' hands and thanking them. Slowly the participants walked into the footlights and down the stairs. WW, temporarily blinded, almost tripped. Wellwishers from the audience applauded and yelled, "You were great" to perfect strangers, as if they were teammates returning to the bench.
When asked if she would be sitting by the phone waiting for a casting call, WW smiled and said her brief flirtation with the big stage was "exhausting, exhilarating and extraordinary."
Yes, it's true. An ordinary middle-aged Wyckoff Woman (WW) was sitting in the audience, enjoying the Alvin Ailey Dance Company performance at New York City Center, when she was invited up on stage for the rousing, final number. Was it the way she was nodding her head or tapping her foot to the music that caught the attention of one of the dancers in a troupe of about 16 who fanned across the theatre in search of talent? Dressed in black suits with gangster type fedoras, the company escorted the chosen participants up on stage and the wildness began. Ordinary, mild mannered people were suddenly strutting their stuff and attempting to keep up with their new partners. Who was that heavyset woman flapping her arms like a rooster or that bleach blonde who immediately shed her shoes and pranced around like a demented reindeer? No one knew.
Meanwhile, WW had the audience holding their breath, as she twisted slowly downward, faltered and swayed, but did not tip over, rebounding with a glorious jump into the air. The Ailey dancers kept in character, serious and unsmiling. The first exuberant dance was followed by a tango number and ended with the tallest dancer carrying his partner around the stage. The stocky woman in a festive red suit was a crowd favorite and their seductive stroll through the honor guard of their fellow dancers brought down the house.
It ended as politely and formally as it began with the dancers holding their partners' hands and thanking them. Slowly the participants walked into the footlights and down the stairs. WW, temporarily blinded, almost tripped. Wellwishers from the audience applauded and yelled, "You were great" to perfect strangers, as if they were teammates returning to the bench.
When asked if she would be sitting by the phone waiting for a casting call, WW smiled and said her brief flirtation with the big stage was "exhausting, exhilarating and extraordinary."
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
I got stuck in the car wash today
Wow! I can't believe I haven't posted anything in the last two months! I've got to get my priorities straight--too much time on breast cancer advocacy and not enough on fun, quirky observations.
Today, armed with my list of the 99 things that I still must do for the Thanksgiving holiday, I ran into a roadblock. I got stuck in the car wash. It was one of those drive-throughs where you sit with the car in neutral as spongy tentacles of a soapy octopus apparatus envelop your car and a track slowly pulls you along from spraying to sponging to brushing to the final phase of an air jetted wind tunnel. Many years ago, vying for parent of the year award, I remember being quite oblivious to the potential fright this could engender in a small child and being rewarded by the screams of a terrified toddler, as if this was indeed the attack of a giant octopus.
As I drove around behind the gas station to the car wash entrance, I had a bad feeling. The distracted attendant was in a side lot, busy cleaning the windows on his own car and clearly annoyed that I interrupted his paper toweling ritual. He took my $5 dollar bill, hosed off the car and hit the conveyor belt buttons, returning to his post of wiping water marks from his car. I sat there a minute and then blew the horn. Lots of machinery clanging and moving but I was still sitting in my car going nowhere.
He shuffled over and hit a few more buttons and then I was off and running, embracing the monster. A few feet into the tunnel and I stopped again. I assumed a vigilant employee would have been monitoring my progress, but--- No. He had returned to his own work. I blew the horn again and this time he returned with a large mallet and proceeded to bang around the general area of the tires. I was hoping two things: One that he was actually hitting the conveyor track and not my tires or hubcaps and two that he would not slip and be crushed by the rotating brushes. Perhaps, too many episodes of Dexter, but I watched closely for spurts of red instead of soapy residue. I'm not claustrophobic, but I was starting to sweat and plotted my own escape. What if the car suddenly popped a tire, jammed the machinery and the entire track twisted and threatened to crush me?
He managed to get the car moving again and the yellow mallet disappeared from sight. Wildly, I was checking my side mirrors which had already retracted and swiveling my head around to see where he had disappeared. For a rather tall, lumpy youth, he slid easily back out of the narrow confines. I'd be lying if I didn't point out that the entire car wash ride normally traverses the distance of about three car lengths, but I viewed the light at the end as a beacon of salvation. I was so close... Then the car jolted to a stop again, I beeped the horn several times and the mallet wielding attendant mysteriously re-appeared. Was this the twilight zone? Was I doomed to travel forever in a small car with the enormous black rolling brushes thwacking against the trunk of the car. I imagined the paint slowly chipping off, worn down by the incessant scraping. "Shut down the line!"
The mallet didn't work this time and he slouched past my window in search of help. The other attendant then proceeded to gesture to me in an absurd game of charades. He motioned to move the wheel left and right. I hesitated. The sign had been quite clear: foot off the brake; hands off the wheel, put it in neutral. I was suddenly an overexcited child driving my imaginary car on the kiddie rides, turning the wheel, beeping the horn, waving to Mom and Dad. I was so close to the end, the exasperated senior attendant finally gestured to put it in gear. With visions of my tires shredding, I eased into drive and tentatively lurched forward.
Freedom at last. I inspected the hubcaps and yelled to attendant #1--"Look what happened." He looked, I looked, but on closer examination most of the hubcaps had a few scrapes, as did the car in general. he shrugged and said,
"I hate this car wash."
"Roger that, buddy."
Attendant #2 asked if I had paid.
"Yes, can I have my $5 back?"
"Well, you did get your car wash," he said as he handed me the owner's number to call if I wanted to complain.
"They don't listen to us," he said. "We've been having a lot of trouble."
But two other cars were parked by the vacuum machines, their owners whistling while they busily cleaned the interior. The sun was shining, their cars gleamed.
I hurried home, satisfied at least that the attendant never would get the water drop marks off his car. And, oh yeah, completing that list of the 99 things to guarantee a successful Thanksgiving?--not even close.
Today, armed with my list of the 99 things that I still must do for the Thanksgiving holiday, I ran into a roadblock. I got stuck in the car wash. It was one of those drive-throughs where you sit with the car in neutral as spongy tentacles of a soapy octopus apparatus envelop your car and a track slowly pulls you along from spraying to sponging to brushing to the final phase of an air jetted wind tunnel. Many years ago, vying for parent of the year award, I remember being quite oblivious to the potential fright this could engender in a small child and being rewarded by the screams of a terrified toddler, as if this was indeed the attack of a giant octopus.
As I drove around behind the gas station to the car wash entrance, I had a bad feeling. The distracted attendant was in a side lot, busy cleaning the windows on his own car and clearly annoyed that I interrupted his paper toweling ritual. He took my $5 dollar bill, hosed off the car and hit the conveyor belt buttons, returning to his post of wiping water marks from his car. I sat there a minute and then blew the horn. Lots of machinery clanging and moving but I was still sitting in my car going nowhere.
He shuffled over and hit a few more buttons and then I was off and running, embracing the monster. A few feet into the tunnel and I stopped again. I assumed a vigilant employee would have been monitoring my progress, but--- No. He had returned to his own work. I blew the horn again and this time he returned with a large mallet and proceeded to bang around the general area of the tires. I was hoping two things: One that he was actually hitting the conveyor track and not my tires or hubcaps and two that he would not slip and be crushed by the rotating brushes. Perhaps, too many episodes of Dexter, but I watched closely for spurts of red instead of soapy residue. I'm not claustrophobic, but I was starting to sweat and plotted my own escape. What if the car suddenly popped a tire, jammed the machinery and the entire track twisted and threatened to crush me?
He managed to get the car moving again and the yellow mallet disappeared from sight. Wildly, I was checking my side mirrors which had already retracted and swiveling my head around to see where he had disappeared. For a rather tall, lumpy youth, he slid easily back out of the narrow confines. I'd be lying if I didn't point out that the entire car wash ride normally traverses the distance of about three car lengths, but I viewed the light at the end as a beacon of salvation. I was so close... Then the car jolted to a stop again, I beeped the horn several times and the mallet wielding attendant mysteriously re-appeared. Was this the twilight zone? Was I doomed to travel forever in a small car with the enormous black rolling brushes thwacking against the trunk of the car. I imagined the paint slowly chipping off, worn down by the incessant scraping. "Shut down the line!"
The mallet didn't work this time and he slouched past my window in search of help. The other attendant then proceeded to gesture to me in an absurd game of charades. He motioned to move the wheel left and right. I hesitated. The sign had been quite clear: foot off the brake; hands off the wheel, put it in neutral. I was suddenly an overexcited child driving my imaginary car on the kiddie rides, turning the wheel, beeping the horn, waving to Mom and Dad. I was so close to the end, the exasperated senior attendant finally gestured to put it in gear. With visions of my tires shredding, I eased into drive and tentatively lurched forward.
Freedom at last. I inspected the hubcaps and yelled to attendant #1--"Look what happened." He looked, I looked, but on closer examination most of the hubcaps had a few scrapes, as did the car in general. he shrugged and said,
"I hate this car wash."
"Roger that, buddy."
Attendant #2 asked if I had paid.
"Yes, can I have my $5 back?"
"Well, you did get your car wash," he said as he handed me the owner's number to call if I wanted to complain.
"They don't listen to us," he said. "We've been having a lot of trouble."
But two other cars were parked by the vacuum machines, their owners whistling while they busily cleaned the interior. The sun was shining, their cars gleamed.
I hurried home, satisfied at least that the attendant never would get the water drop marks off his car. And, oh yeah, completing that list of the 99 things to guarantee a successful Thanksgiving?--not even close.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Fantasy Football
Never thought I would see the day when I was in a Fantasy Football League--The Jersey Bowl. Son Eric decided it would be great for Thanksgiving dinner conversation (and now he's not coming home), but the game has taken on a life of its own.
I was worried about how the draft would work and then I discovered Auto Pick. I already had my team name--Ginny's Giants, but the computer did not pick even one Giant, so reshuffling of plans. We are a league skewed toward Giants-Jets fans, so the favorite quarterback was passed over until it came to me. Tom Brady of the New England Patriots--boo, hiss--I got a lot of smack talk for that, changed the team name to The Brady Bunch and now must (secretly) check the Patriots game score to see how I'm doing.
This is week 3 and I finally printed out my team roster. I knew I had Brady and Mike Wallace (not the newsman), but couldn't remember anyone else. I even made a few switches in the lineup since my RB was injured.Also put in a WR from the bench and contemplated changing my W/R/T. What am I talking about? By end of season I may know what these all stand for and at least I'll recognize a lot of player names.
My favorite part so far has been the creative team names and the smack talk.
Rough Riders (can you guess the Teddy R fan?)
Gangrene (the perfect blend of Gang Green and Infectious Disease)
Flux Capacitors (back to the future)
Stella Flippers (high school team name)
Clint Eastwood (who invited the Republican?)
The Big Blue Sack (who invited the pervert?)
and
H.A.G.S (have a good summer)
See if you can match these quotes to the correct team:
1. oh no--they play on Thursdays, too?
2. having two fantasy football teams basically makes every NFL game important to you. Should be a fun season!
3. I hate this. My team sucks.
4. Giants rule!
5. Are there really 15 more weeks to go?
6. Auto pick rules!
7. HAGA- have a good autumn?
8. My team needs antibiotics-stat.
I am labelled the "underdog" this week against H.A.G.S. but I'm hoping he doesn't update his roster before tonight. I know he doesn't read this blog right away, so here's hoping he misses the potential injury problems he has--players recovering from ruptured spleens and bad knees. Don't tell him!
I'm still betting on Brady and Auto Pick to take my team to the FF Super Bowl. (I hear Bruce might appear along with Toby Keith)
 | ||
| The two football newbies fought over the sports page a few days before the draft. |
I was worried about how the draft would work and then I discovered Auto Pick. I already had my team name--Ginny's Giants, but the computer did not pick even one Giant, so reshuffling of plans. We are a league skewed toward Giants-Jets fans, so the favorite quarterback was passed over until it came to me. Tom Brady of the New England Patriots--boo, hiss--I got a lot of smack talk for that, changed the team name to The Brady Bunch and now must (secretly) check the Patriots game score to see how I'm doing.
This is week 3 and I finally printed out my team roster. I knew I had Brady and Mike Wallace (not the newsman), but couldn't remember anyone else. I even made a few switches in the lineup since my RB was injured.Also put in a WR from the bench and contemplated changing my W/R/T. What am I talking about? By end of season I may know what these all stand for and at least I'll recognize a lot of player names.
My favorite part so far has been the creative team names and the smack talk.
Rough Riders (can you guess the Teddy R fan?)
Gangrene (the perfect blend of Gang Green and Infectious Disease)
Flux Capacitors (back to the future)
Stella Flippers (high school team name)
Clint Eastwood (who invited the Republican?)
The Big Blue Sack (who invited the pervert?)
and
H.A.G.S (have a good summer)
See if you can match these quotes to the correct team:
1. oh no--they play on Thursdays, too?
2. having two fantasy football teams basically makes every NFL game important to you. Should be a fun season!
3. I hate this. My team sucks.
4. Giants rule!
5. Are there really 15 more weeks to go?
6. Auto pick rules!
7. HAGA- have a good autumn?
8. My team needs antibiotics-stat.
I am labelled the "underdog" this week against H.A.G.S. but I'm hoping he doesn't update his roster before tonight. I know he doesn't read this blog right away, so here's hoping he misses the potential injury problems he has--players recovering from ruptured spleens and bad knees. Don't tell him!
I'm still betting on Brady and Auto Pick to take my team to the FF Super Bowl. (I hear Bruce might appear along with Toby Keith)
Friday, September 14, 2012
Happy Birthday Gary!
Best wishes from a few of your friends:
 |
| relax and read a book today---Abe |
 |
| have some rip roaring fun---the cowboys |
 |
| wear your cowboy hat and get outside!- Ron |
 |
| remember the buck stops here--Harry |
 |
| watch out for the raven-- Ed |
 |
| fight for freedom ---Fred |
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Stage IV ad for Komen - Is this a crack in the pink wall?
I copied below a blog entry I wrote this week for the MBCN blog.
I was absolutely shocked to see this ad in the October issue of Prevention magazine:
This has to be the first time that Komen has publicly acknowledged Stage IV as part of their marketing campaign. Hopefully, Komen will have more ads about Stage IV in October.
Organizations are slow to change and whether this is partly due to the Komen organizational shakeup or the Metastatic Roundtable Komen hosted last February to seek information from 10 metastatic breast cancer patients, it is a welcome, small step forward and one that many of us would never have anticipated.
The ad, of course, is certainly not perfect, as it seems to imply that Bridget would not be surviving 7 years without her active, hopeful personality or her doctor’s ‘fighting’ for her. Does that mean that those who died sooner had the wrong medical team or the wrong personal attitude? Certainly not.
Call me crazy, but maybe some day we’ll actually see a Komen ad that says this:
What should be our reaction now? I think we should be open and
supportive of the change at Komen. Contact your local Komen organization
and let them know you are metastatic (or Stage IV) and appreciate the
metastatic support cited in the ads and hope Komen will be increasing
funds for research into the causes and process of metastasis.
I know this will be particularly difficult for many of us who have deep feelings of estrangement and resentment toward Komen and the pink ribbon culture. But some within the Komen organization are trying to change things and that needs to be encouraged and supported.
“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
(Lao-tzu, Chinese philosopher)
Ginny Knackmuhs MBCN Board member
I was absolutely shocked to see this ad in the October issue of Prevention magazine:
This has to be the first time that Komen has publicly acknowledged Stage IV as part of their marketing campaign. Hopefully, Komen will have more ads about Stage IV in October.
Organizations are slow to change and whether this is partly due to the Komen organizational shakeup or the Metastatic Roundtable Komen hosted last February to seek information from 10 metastatic breast cancer patients, it is a welcome, small step forward and one that many of us would never have anticipated.
The ad, of course, is certainly not perfect, as it seems to imply that Bridget would not be surviving 7 years without her active, hopeful personality or her doctor’s ‘fighting’ for her. Does that mean that those who died sooner had the wrong medical team or the wrong personal attitude? Certainly not.
Call me crazy, but maybe some day we’ll actually see a Komen ad that says this:
“The true source of HOPE for metastatic
disease is research. That’s why we at Komen are dramatically increasing
funding for research into the cause of metastases (the spread of cancer)
to stop it in its tracks and save the lives of the estimated 155,000
women and men living with metastatic or stage IV breast cancer in the
US, as well as the lives of 30% of early stage survivors who will have
metastatic recurrences in the future.”
I know this will be particularly difficult for many of us who have deep feelings of estrangement and resentment toward Komen and the pink ribbon culture. But some within the Komen organization are trying to change things and that needs to be encouraged and supported.
“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
(Lao-tzu, Chinese philosopher)
Ginny Knackmuhs MBCN Board member
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