Before I launch back into writing about our (first) bathroom makeover (which is FINALLY finished, and oh my god that took forever) and the best ballet flats out there and, I don't know, chicken, or whatever...I figured I should probably address the elephant in the room.
I don't know if we're going to stay in this house. Or even in this city.
I don't know anything.
A few years ago - shortly before my daughter was born - a friend of mine told me that she had cancer.
When I say “a friend of mine,” I mean someone I cared about; someone I had special, beautiful memories with. Someone who I thought was smart, and interesting. Someone who’d just had a baby a couple of months earlier, making her diagnosis worse than the worst thing imaginable.
But by then, we weren’t especially tied into each others’ lives. In the old days we’d mostly been casual, going-out-type friends, and in the years since we’d grown up and out of bars and parties and late nights in the company of dartboards, and we’d emailed only occasionally. When the dust settled it turned out we didn't really have much in common at all, and we lost touch. I didn’t even know what she did for a living, or her partner’s name.
I have a lipoma. This sounds worse than it is - it's technically a tumor, yes, but it's not cancer; it's just a "fatty globule" (hot) the size of a walnut. It's tucked underneath my left armpit, sort of towards my back. I can get it removed, but there's really no reason to other than vanity.
David Sedaris has a lipoma. So does my father-in-law. A couple of weeks ago I had an extended conversation about lipomas with a friend who runs a tattoo parlor in Los Angeles. He has one, too.
All of a sudden, lipomas are popping up everywhere in my life. According to my doctor, they're pretty common in middle age.
I may need more than one.
Francesca has, as of late, been using the word "manifest" in casual conversation more than I'm reasonably able to handle. (And I have told her as much, e.g. "I love you very much, but if you keep telling me to manifest I will put you on mute.")
Look, I had a meditation coach for awhile. I spent my high school years practicing Wicca, and really wanted to buy a massive, perfectly round crystal I saw in a store the other day. I am, in other words, not completely sans woo elements in my own personality. (And please be aware that I use the term "woo" - as in "woo-woo" - with a big spoonful of affection; I respect and appreciate that people explore their inner selves in various ways that sure, may appear a little odd to others, but that work for them. Yay for spirituality and self-exploration. Yay for crystals and meditation. Just please don't make me manifest.)
Witness the work-from-home mother in the wild.
She parents! And makes a living! AT THE SAME TIME.
Alriiiiight, it happened. A troll made me mad. I know I said a few weeks ago that troll comments rarely get to me anymore - and really only do when they feel like they contain a little nugget of truth - but the other day someone asked who was watching my kids while I was in New York City shooting a pilot for a show, and I got all riled up.
