It’s been only recently, exactly a year after I finished radiation therapy, that I have been able to touch my right breast as if nothing had happened, as if nothing was going to break, as it if it weren’t a combustible part of me that could explode at any moment.
Yes. The weekend again! One I can enjoy in full, assuming the plumber restores water to my abode. I have a long hike planned, and a peek into a Trisha Brown performance on Sunday. To satisfy both the bucolic and the city girls who reside in me. My week was punctuated by a few chuckles here and there and some mindless tv enjoyed in my pjs (having a proper excuse for not washing). I am passing it all along.
Until she divorced, when I was already in my 20s, my mother was a homemaker. Being the disgruntled teenager that I was, I criticized her to martyrdom for her choice not to work, as I saw it, and spend her time cooking two meals a day, shuttling my sister and I all over town and, the worst offense of all in my book, waiting on my father hand and foot.
The recurring theme that kept on popping up this week is women: the women in my life, friendships restored, the women who read this blog and the ones I am yet to meet. To honor them all, I have a bit of a feminist thread going on.
Enjoy your weekend: mine has a door that needs to be sanded and restored and a botanical garden in its sights.
I caught myself staring at a naked picture of Kim Kardashian. Ok, maybe hard to avoid but, even worse, I got tangled into reading celebrities’ and commoners’ tweets in response to the picture (that old fox of Bette Midler was the funniest: “Kim Kardashian tweeted a nude selfie today. If Kim wants us to see a part of her we’ve never seen, she’s gonna have to swallow the camera).