New Year’s Eve Eve -by Sam

As I find myself looking back on the past year, I can’t help but think, “It’s been a rough one;” and the thing is, I’ve been here before. It’s starting to feel like I say this to myself at the end of a lot of years. You might be thinking, Oh, that must be a chronic illness thing. Some of you might be thinking (and some might be irritated about it), Is this about all of the famous people who have died this year? Is it about politics?

You know what, it’s not.

Well, or, maybe…maybe those things are all a little bit harder to take because everything is a little harder to take because there’s just always this underlying…well. Things have been difficult for our little family, dear friends and readers. The thing is, see, I don’t…well, this goes back to that complicated part of my last post, in which I talked about how I don’t talk about all of my business, because it’s not solely my business. So, I can’t just put it all out here for the world to see. In fact, I can’t put it all out anywhere, so, I am just kind of alone with it, and that’s very, very difficult for me. But I guess it’s normal, too.

What I mean is, you know, life’s not always a bowl of cherries. Or, well, maybe it is. But, maybe, sometimes, it’s not just a bowl. Maybe, sometimes, it’s a huge, steamy, rotten, mess of moldy cherries somebody bought a really long time ago, and no one ate, and they’ve been fucking sitting in your favourite chair for so long that they’ve started to decompose. Then, one day, you come home, sick and exhausted, and overwhelmed, unable to work, and in debt, and thinking, good god, if one more thing happens, it will put me over the edge!…and you flop down in that chair just as the phone rings to tell you that someone, somewhere needs you to come, immediately, to do something, or else the world will collapse, because, really, you’re supposed to be a superhero. And your coffee spills all over your lap, causing a chemical reaction with the rotten, moldy cherries, making their effect seemingly permanent.

So, now, everywhere you go, for the next two or three years (at least ~ jury’s out. This could be permanent) the rotten cherry funk is in your clothes, your skin, the very fiber of your being, maybe even your soul. It’s still in the chair, too, so other people in the household are going to be exposed, and there’s nothing you can do. It’s terrible stuff. It makes everyone miserable, and no one knows why, and no one knows how to talk about it, because no one even really knows what it is.  It is just so incredibly awful, so unexpected, so utterly preposterous.

And people can tell something is wrong, so they ask.

They keep asking.
“How are you?”
“Are you okay?”
“How’s the family?”

And, you know, society has these conventions, so you have to say,
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine.”
“We’re fine. “
“We’re great.”
“Everything’s good.”

But you know you’re not fooling anyone. You’re a lousy liar. You always have been, and you always will be.

To further complicate things, in the meantime, all of the normal, everyday things that happen in life keep happening around you and your moldy-ass cherries; and, you know, they’re totally normal things. Things that involve other people, but actually aren’t a huge problem. They’re little things, normal things, easy things that might be sort of challenging or, you know, require an adjustment in the way you think or do things; but they aren’t a big deal. They aren’t bad. They aren’t cause for strife or anguish or concern. It’s just that, sometimes, these people, who don’t know about your moldy cherry situation, they just don’t get that, and they think it’s all about them. Maybe we all think it’s all about us, all of the time. I guess that’s just the way humans are made.

And then, if you’re super lucky, you get not-a-diagnosis (which has nothing to do with the cherry situation, by the way, but conveniently occurs right on top of it), and they say to you, “Just keep on this band-aid*, and don’t take it off! I mean…we really don’t think you’ll bleed* profusely if you do, but DON’T TAKE IT OFF….just in case.” So you tell them, “Hey, you know, that’s…um…great and all, but…uh…I’d really like to know why I am having these symptoms.” And they tell you that what you can do, if you really want a diagnosis, is take off the band-aid, hook yourself up to a monitor for a few days that will cost roughly 8-gazillion bucks* and hope you bleed a lot during that time, so they can record it and figure out what’s happening. “Uh…” you say, “That sounds sort of…um…expensive…and dangerous…” They confirm that this is true, and so, you decide to keep your band-aid and lack of diagnosis, so, when people ask you what particular health problem you are having, you can now, officially, say, “Fuck if I know, man.”


When I say it has been a hard year, I mean it has been a hard year. I mean it on a very personal level. I can’t say I don’t want to talk about it. I want so very much to talk about it. I mean, come on, guys, I’m a talker. It’s just, well, I can’t, because you’re not my therapist. I say I am alone with my problems, but the truth is I can go talk to a therapist, and so, at least there is a place where I can unload all of this bullshit, so I don’t have to unload it all on my family and friends, and that is good, I guess.   I mean, it’s expensive, and I will always have trouble spending money, because, no matter how much money we make, and no matter how many times I am told not to feel guilty about my current inability to work outside the home, I will always be made the way I am. It’s hard for me to spend money ~ especially money I did not earn. Also, I would rather talk to friends. Or even strangers that, you know, I’m not paying to listen to me. It just feels more natural, somehow. Therapy has never felt natural to me. I guess that’s just me. Also, it’s expensive. Did I mention that it is expensive? I’m kind of a cheapskate, in case you have forgotten.


I sat down and wrote this up today for two reasons:

One) I plan this year to get back to writing, and this seemed like a logical place to start. I can start journaling. Honestly, as I sit here writing, I don’t even know if I plan to share this with the world. I am writing this in a Word doc on my MacBook Air, and it may never see the light of day. If you are reading it, we will know what decision I made. Hopefully, writing this way will lead to other writing. Who knows? Maybe I will take a class. God knows I could use a little more class. (Ha. See? I’m funny)

Two) I need to get back to being me this year. I am not able to carry the weight of knowing I have this secret funk lurking in my life; and, even ‘though I cannot share details about it, I think just sharing the fact that there was a Thing, and it was Bad, might help. Just so people know that I actually have been dealing with something. You know, because I know people must have been wondering. I feel like I haven’t been true to myself. Like I have been presenting a façade to the world, and I don’t do that well. So, I guess this is me, very vaguely, coming clean. ish. sorta.

I know that, if I share this, people will, most likely, start all kinds of wild speculations about what The Thing was. Can I ask you a huge favour? Don’t. Please. Just…stop it. If it was your business, it would have happened to you. I know that’s a tall order. But, you know, it’s also a respect for privacy thing. I’m asking. I would do the same for you.

So, I guess, in a way, this is me, getting a jump on my New Year’s Resolutions.

I’m off to a decent start, really, if you count yesterday. I talked to my mom and dad, and my cousin, Alice, very briefly, on the phone. Left a message for one of my very best friends (will call another today). Texted back and forth with my big brother (because we are just so cool and modern like that), and set up a time to call and talk (we penciled each other in ~ I’m having my people call his people ~ we are ever so Important). Talked on the phone with my big sister, while going for a walk around the neighbourhood, thereby killing two birds with one stone (my least favourite idiom ~ so gruesome!). I also cleaned the bathrooms, dust-mopped all the hard floors, did some laundry, tidied up the house, worked in the yard a little, emptied the rain barrel (just in time for today’s rain), made a nice dinner, did my physical therapy, practiced banjo, and baked the last of the froggers. Then, I took a hot bath with Epsom salts, because some of that was a lot of work, and sat down to watch an episode of Major Crimes with Shane. I even worked a little bit on a ruffle scarf while watching.

This morning, I awoke to find the rain has come to wash away the dregs of 2016, and not a second too soon. So, today, I’ll balance the checkbook, and make sure all of the bills are paid. I might even make a pot of soup. Seems appropriate for a rainy Southern California day.

Wishing you all peace at the end of this year, whether or not it has been a rough one for you; and wishing us all a bright and beautiful New Year. I think we all deserve it.


*For clarification purposes: the terms “bleeding,” “band-aid,” and “8-gazillion dollars” are as analogous in this piece as cherries. I am not bleeding. Well, not at the moment. Give me time. I am very accident-prone. I do have a chronic health problem that requires constant medication. I would rather not be specific.  It’s a thing I do.

Carrie Fisher – by Sam

I was so not ready for this that I don’t even know how to talk about it. I am currently reading The Princess Diarist. I follow Carrie Fisher on Twitter, and look forward to her “tweets,” even ‘though she writes almost exclusively in emoji, and I can barely decipher them, because, a) I’m not as hip as she, and b) I need new glasses. Once, I posted to Twitter that I had just read all of her book Wishful Drinking in one sitting, and had expected to look up and find her standing there next to me. She liked that. I swooned a little. I thought, maybe, someday, I would meet her. I mean, not that we’d hang out and be friends or anything, you know, but maybe I could have run in to her somewhere. Maybe she’d do a book signing, or I’d just happen to run in to her somewhere. I mean, I live in L.A., it could happen. Only, now, it can’t. And I know that I am not the only one feeling this way. I am one of thousands ~ no, millions. There have to be millions of us. Because I was that 19-year-old girl, too. And everything was so intense…

That’s how I began my first comment on Carrie Fisher’s death, on a post I made on Facebook, immediately after I heard the news.  Now, several days later, I thought I would revisit it here, and see if I can write a little bit more ~ if I can make a little more sense of how I am feeling, of why this one has hit me so very hard.  I mean, there’s the obvious fact that I grew up watching her.  I was a big Star Wars fan, from the time that I was a little kid.  Leia was the first “princess” character that challenged the Princess norms for me, I guess…except that I was never a princessy girl.  I was a tree-climbing, bicycle-ramp-jumping, mud-stomping, creek-wading, tagging along with her big brother and sister and all of the neighbourhood kids kind of girl.  Is that a thing?  Well, it is now; because I made it one.  Actually, I wasn’t the only one.  There was a whole pack of us.  Jumping down the slide, yelling, “Into the garbage shoot, flyboy!” at each other and fighting off the bad guys with the best of them (although, to be fair, I played Han Solo as often as I played Princess Leia…and probably Chewbacca, too…I had really long hair).  But…well, that wasn’t it. I mean, that wasn’t all of it.  There was more.  Because there was so much more to Carrie Fisher than just Princess Leia.

She was a writer.  I’ve read most of her books, and I am kicking myself for not having read all of them yet, but I guess that just gives me something to do with all of my free time.  (Free time.  Ha.  What in the hell is that?)  I never felt like I had to listen to her read her books on tape.  I heard that was a thing I could do, but, Honest-to-God, when I read anything she has written, I hear her voice in my head, just as though she is reading it to me. Is that too weird?  I think it’s kind of great.  Especially now; but I suspect, when I pick up that book I am currently reading, the Princess Diarist, it will probably make me cry, no matter what she is saying.

She was an advocate for mental health.  She was, I think, a bold example to women everywhere to not be afraid to age, to say what we want, to be loud, outspoken, and fabulous.  To say things that may take people aback.  To speak up for ourselves and for others.  To not just roll over and take it.  To hold people accountable.  She wasn’t afraid to tell people how she felt, even when how she felt was, frankly, pretty crappy; and I think that’s bold.  I think a lot of people ~ even people who do not spend their lives under the watchful eye of public scrutiny ~ worry about what image they are projecting to the world.  In response to critics of her appearance in the Force Awakens, she said, “Please stop debating about whether or not I aged well. Unfortunately it hurts all three of my feelings.”  She didn’t get angry.  She didn’t make excuses.  She didn’t tell them they were assholes ~ which, by the way, they were, and I probably told some of them that ~ she told them the truth: they hurt her feelings.  That’s a lot harder to say than, “You’re an asshole!”  Raw.  That’s how she was.  She aged the way people age, for god’s sake.  For the record, I thought she was beautiful, in every sense of the word.

Photograph: Robert Deutsch, USA Today, December 2015

She had overcome addiction.  She was living with bipolar disorder.  She was immensely talented, witty, intelligent, insightful, and incredibly strong.  She was so strong, in fact, that, when I heard what had happened on that flight from London to Los Angeles on December 23rd, I thought, “She’ll be okay.”  I mean, she had to be okay, right?  I thought she was titanium.  I thought nothing could beat her.  Like so many of the rest of us, I sent well-wishes, thoughts and prayers, and I waited for news.

And people who knew me wondered why it mattered so much to me, I’m sure.  So, maybe that’s part of the reason I am writing this.  I have seen a few of my friends trying to explain this to other people.  No, she wasn’t just “Princess Leia.”  For some of us, she was more.  Some of us connected with her on a different level than that.  If you haven’t read any of her books, I recommend you give them a shot.  Wishful Drinking is my favourite, so far, but maybe it depends where you, personally, are…or where you are coming from… I don’t know.  Is it bad or weird that I could relate?  I don’t know.  There are ways in which we are similar, and ways in which we are not.  I am, in some ways, a very private person.  I don’t tell all of my business, and I probably won’t ever do that, because I guess my attitude is that some of my business is other people’s business, too, so that’s not really my decision to make for the whole world.  Maybe she was like that, too, to a degree.  I mean, it took her 40 years to reveal that she’d had a 3-month on-set fling with a co-star.  That’s hardly what I would call running around telling everyone all your business.  But, in other ways, I am right out here in the open, all of the time.  I do kind of talk a lot (sometimes, even before I realize what I have said); and I definitely wear my heart on my sleeve.  There is seldom any mistaking how I feel.  I have always been that way.  And, yes, when I was 19, everything was so intense.  Ha.  Well.  Some things more than others.  Some of you were there.  You know that of which I speak (or you think you do, and so, for you, those were the intense things ~ see? we all did it).  I joke (but only really half-joke) that I have spent most of my life thinking of myself as perpetually 19.  So, when Carrie (can I call her “Carrie,” as if I know her?) made that statement about everything being so intense when you’re 19, it was like, “Well…so much of my life makes so much more sense now…” You know…except that I am actually 46… But, well, that’s a story for another time, and who knows if I will ever actually tell it.

I didn’t know Carrie Fisher.  But, well… maybe I did, in a sense, because, we all did.  Those of us who read her, followed her on Twitter (oh, that sounds silly, to those who don’t, I know, but those who do…well…we know), to anyone who ever listened to her.  We knew her, because she let us.  Mark Hamill, in his incredibly moving and heartfelt tribute to her, called her “OUR princess, damn it,” saying she “belonged to us all – whether she liked it not.”  I think, at least, she tolerated it very well.  She was kind to her fans, from what I saw, and supportive to those reached out to her for support. She was so much more than I have touched upon here.  She was inspiring.  She was genuine, brazen, unguarded.  She was, unabashedly herself; and, I think, on some level, we all wanted to be her, at least just a little bit.

Since her death, Harrison Ford has said, “Carrie was one-of-a-kind… brilliant, original. Funny and emotionally fearless. She lived her life, bravely…” ~ did he say those thing to her while she was alive?  I hope he did.  I mean, man, I hope someone did.  Everyone deserves to know, in life, what the people who care for them think of them.

Maybe there’s something we can all take away from this.  Maybe we can all walk away a little bit emboldened, a little bit stronger and little more willing to put ourselves ~ and I mean our true selves, the ones that might get hurt and look foolish ~ on the line.  Maybe we can allow ourselves to be vulnerable, and we can start to recognize that there is  strength in that.  Maybe we can be more real, more genuine.  Maybe we can take the risk of actually telling people how we feel, even if it’s not always pretty or easy, or socially acceptable.  Maybe we can be strong enough to admit that we are who we are, and that, sometimes, even though we aren’t 19 anymore, everything is so intense; and maybe, just maybe, we can have the courage to be as fabulously fierce as only we can be.

Rest in peace, Carrie Fisher.  I feel, selfishly, like the world didn’t get to bask in your glow nearly long enough.  I hope you know how very honoured we all are to have had you, even for just a short while.

I Ate a Sandwich – by Sam

The other day, I was out shopping, running some errands, picking up dry-cleaning, and I realized, at about 11-ish, that I hadn’t eaten more than the sample of cranberry bread and coffee at the grocery store.  So, I decided to stop and grab a sandwich at a nearby sandwich shop.  It’s funny, I think, that it was a sandwich.  By “funny” I mean, “coincidental,” or, perhaps, “unintentionally ironic,” because, you see, I am periodically told that I need to “eat a sandwich.”  Really.  This comment usually comes from rude strangers who have decided that, for some reason, it’s okay to make comments about my weight or my body because I am thin.  It’s okay, they think, to tell me that I “look anorexic,” that I need to “get a little meat on my bones,” that they “prefer women with curves” or even to ask me if I think I look attractive like that, or what example I think I am setting for my children.  Yes, these are all comments that have actually been made directly to me by strangers.  Once, a few years ago, I had a guy at a bar tell me that I was so skinny I looked like a Cancer patient, after I turned down an advance from him.  At that point, I was probably actually sick, but really?  Because, a second ago, you were interested.

What’s even weirder to me is when friends say things like this to me.  It happens.  I understand when they express concern.  They tell me I am getting too thin. They ask if I am okay.  I get that.  I mean, that’s cause for concern.  Some of them know my history.  I’m an eating disorder survivor.  So, yeah, okay, that’s reasonable.   Even if I they didn’t know that, seeing someone lose weight…well, I guess it can look unhealthy at a certain point.  They know my health, in general, is an issue.  I can see why it would worry them.  It’s still hard, when it happens, but it’s reasonable.  But that “sandwich” line?  That’s gotta go.

The problem is, right now ~ and, as it turns out, maybe for a long time ~ I have to be on a particular medication.  I have to be on it. I don’t really want to go in to detail about what’s going on, but it’s nothing terribly earth-shattering.  The end result is that I have to take medication daily, which solves the problem, and the only caveat is it affects my weight.  It has caused me to lose weight.  It increases my appetite, which is awesome, but it does make it difficult for me to gain weight, which is not great.  However, under the circumstances, I can’t worry about that.  So, I guess I should take this opportunity to assure those close to me that I am not relapsing into my eating disorder.  I’m actually doing quite well, and eating better than I have in years.  I feel pretty great.  But I am very thin.  I’m sorry.  I know that might look frightening to some of you, particularly those who have known me for a long time.  I know it might be hard to understand.  I am going to ask you to try.  To trust me.  I’m doing okay.

I will ask my friends to please avoid the “eat a sandwich” line.  Maybe you think, by saying something like that, you are keeping it light, but still addressing the issue?  It’s really just kind of mean.  That just doesn’t need to be said.  Frankly, sandwiches aren’t my favourite, food is a bit of an issue for me, my weight is always going to be a sensitive subject, and I am very self-conscious about it.  Besides which, it’s just not the kind of thing on which people need to comment.  Aren’t people taught not to make personal comments anymore?

As for the strangers who make those kinds of comments to anyone: stop.  Just stop.  Whether you are saying these things in person or online: stop it.  Why do you think you get to do this?  Who cares what you like?  Keep it to yourself.  You’ll tell me you have a right to your opinion, and sure you do, but here’s the thing: that person you’re talking about might be very thin for any number of reasons.  Maybe they actually are anorexic.  Did you ever stop to consider that?  Why is that term thrown around like an insult?  You know, its an actual illness.  It’s not a choice people make because they are trying to be cool, or they think it’s beautiful.  Maybe they’re just naturally thin, in which case, who do you think you are telling them how they should look, and that they are setting a bad example, or that they are unattractive, just because they look the way they do?  Maybe they have some kind of health problem that causes them to be very thin.  What if that person you just said looks like a Cancer patient actually IS a Cancer patient?  Aren’t you a freakin’ rockstar, now?  I mean, whatever happened to “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all?”

This brings me back to the sandwich shop.  I was really very hungry, so I ordered my sandwich, with all the toppings I wanted, and the guy behind the counter asked me what size I wanted.  I had no idea.  I just thought they had the one size.  He explained that they had three sizes: 7″, 10.5″ and 14″.  I chose the 10.5″ sandwich.  He paused.  I waited for him to ring up my order.

“Um,” he said, finally, “Are you sure?  That’s about as big as this bag.”

He was looking down at me from behind the counter, showing me the bag, so I could fully  understand the gravity of my decision.  I was sure.  I wanted a really big sandwich.  For godssake, I can measure.  I mean, I’ve been using standard 12″ rulers since grammar school.  I buy 12″ subs all the time.  I can guess roughly how large a 10.5″ sandwich is! Now, I’ll be honest, I had a lot of errands to run, and I didn’t really plan to eat the whole thing all in one sitting, but, while he stood there judging me and my sandwich, I didn’t see any reason to explain that to him, so I just said, “Yes.  Ten and a half inches.  Please.”

“Okay,” he said, still sounding skeptical.  It kind of pissed me off.

You guys, I can’t win for losing.  I’ve got people telling me to “eat a sandwich,” and people telling me I couldn’t possibly eat THAT sandwich.  If a larger person comes in and orders the small sandwich, does he say, “Oh, I think you’re gonna need a bigger sandwich, buddy,” or does he judge them in another way, and offer them the lettuce wrap?

I guess I’ll never know.  I sat outside and unwrapped my sandwich.  A guy who looked exactly like George Lucas walked by.  I like to think it was George Lucas.  I mean, not many guys look exactly like George Lucas.  I ate 5.25″ of sandwich, then wrapped up the rest to eat during my errands.  It was a very good sandwich.  A very large, very good sandwich, even though I was a little pissed off about the guy’s attitude.  I ate it.  And I am still thin.  I still have only very minimal curves.  And I still don’t give a rat’s ass what some stranger prefers.