Less Ativan

For the three weeks leading up to the great news in the shitty news department (GNISND), I was almost never alone. I had cancer tinnitus and the only thing that lowered the volume was chatter and Ativan.

After my brother got tinnitus on a flight home from the Soviet Union, decades (obviously) ago, he carried around a radio and could only fall asleep to the static between stations.

Totally Rad

I have a bucket list of fears I’m looking to empty. I don’t have room for them all right now. I probably wasn’t meant to use the bucket this way, but it is my bucket. One of the fears that up until recently lay glowing at the bottom of the pile, was radiation. Hypochondriacs should never work on radiation protocol taskforces.

Lymphoma is the new good news

It’s CANCER. I can’t tell the whole story now. It will come out in bits, as I piece together the space junk (think Bullock and Clooney in Gravity) that was the last four weeks of my (really?) life. Spoiler – I have indolent cancer.  Lazy. The kind, my friend Bob says, lies around on the couch watching TV all day. No. Don’t get up. Just hold onto that remote. I’ll get you some chips.

Moving “house”: The summer of doing things differently

I’m at my parents’ cottage alone. I came for a little solitary writing time while my kids are still away at camp. Parental life – breakfasts, lunches, dinners, backpacks damp with yesterday’s wet bathing suit, compulsory laundry, homework, missing shoes, missing forms, Lego underfoot, random complaints, yelling, disrespect, disregard, perpetual feelings of failure and filial love that mutates by the minute, will resume within days.

Aviva: Welcome to LinkedIn!

Aside from Banana Republic e-mails, which I like to keep because they are so touching, a plethora of LinkedIn communication is swelling my already bloated inbox (9,736 messages – everyone files things differently).

Can't get it up

I’ve been trying to get it up for anxiety lately. If there’s anyone that has a perpetual hard-on for stress it’s me. I seem to be in the mood all the time. No matter how many exciting distractions or calming influences fill my day, there’s always time to get naked for a little freak out. Lack of creative productivity is one of my favourite anxiety aphrodisiacs. It’s like my missionary position – comfortable, familiar, and moderately satisfying.

Writer’s block or life block?

Not that I thought I was above it, or immune, but I long-ago (ok, a couple of years, which for me constitutes the bulk of my writing life) determined that my self-diagnosed adult-onset ADD was protection against writer’s block – that firing off in all directions, while it might delay movement forward on any given final product, would at least have writing be my distraction from writing – a win-win(ish) situation.

Seeking apt gardening metaphors

War is the first thing that comes to mind. All you pacifists who head out there with your floppy hats, flowered gloves and Martha Stewart attitude to greet the garden like a pal with whom you’ll create a thing of beauty – can piss off.


I should take a writing hiatus (to accompany the sugar hiatus I keep starting) and with the exception of the speech I have to write before my kid’s bar-mitzvah (which it turns out, is only a few weeks away), focus exclusively on getting my shit together. (my tax and bar-mitzvah shit that is)

For most of the year, May is a few months off, but in April, it is not. Until now I had never given that calendaric fact much thought.

That magic in your pants, it’s making me blush

Who says that? When was the last time you were hot for someone and made reference to that magic in their pants? Or even thought it? Well Kesha did and millions sang along.