Get a Second Opinion

Working on an article entitled, "Do Aggressive Drivers Make Lousy Husbands?" Got some excellent experts to give me quotes, and I'd like to finish the damn thing except the offspring are about. I can't write three words without one of them interrupting me.

Spoke to Mom this morning. Her voice is even smaller now; it's almost impossible to hear her. To make things worse, my cousin K. called me at 7:28 this morning to report that a needle biopsy reveals that she, at 47 years of age, has cancer. The doctors say it's a secondary tumor, but they can't seem to find the primary source.

I say it's time to find another doctor. Called Dad, who agreed, and offered some other advice, which I left later in the day on K's answering machine. She is convinced she is going to die, but since she's been given virtually no answers, I wouldn't panic just yet.

Our childhood neighbor, J, was diagnosed in November with an "inoperable brain tumor," which was found to be easily operable upon a second opinion. She's since had surgery and is doing just about everything she used to, save driving.

Missed Kept on Thursday and expected to catch a rerun on Sunday evening, but it didn't air. Now what do I do? Hope I have the stamina to stay up for Rescue Me tonight at 10.

Am I Being Paranoid?

Just sent out the newsletter. It's about time; it's been almost two weeks since the last one.

Took the ferry from Bridgeport to Port Jeff on Saturday. Peter and I and the offspring went to A. and M.'s block party in Bethpage. Mike's mother was there, flaming mad at George Pataki for his treatment of the families of 9/11 victims (her sister lost a son). Promised I'd write a letter on behalf of the cause if she sends me information.

Left Peter and offspring at the party and hopped the LIRR into Manhattan to see Mom. She hardly talks at all anymore, and when she does, you have to put your ear to her mouth to hear what she's saying. It's like watching a lightbulb go out.

Sibling One brought her new baby, who is so adorable he makes us forget our mother is dying. He has the most amazing round, peachlike head.

When I arrived home yesterday evening, the in-laws, who'd been visiting off and on for a week, were packing their car for their trip up to Nova Scotia, where they have a summer home. They peeled out of here at 6:10 this morning.

The account from which I send my email newsletter has been bombarded with messages with headings like, "Returned Mail: User Unknown." The thing is, until I sent my newsletter a few minutes ago, I hadn't sent anything from that account in days.

Is it possible somebody is using my email address to send SPAM, or am I just being paranoid?

I'm a Better Mother When My Children Aren't Around

They've been off from school only two days, and they're driving me crazy. It's great being able to sleep late, but after breakfast it's all down hill. One child never stops moving, and the other one never starts. She lives on the couch like mold on bread.

I didn't get the newsletter out this week. Hope to keep offspring quiet long enough to do it Tuesday or Wednesday. Am behind on revising the novel, as well. Can't wait until camp starts, although it will interfere with my late mornings.

Missed Kept last night because the in-laws are up from South Carolina, and I didn't really think they'd appreciate watching Jerry put the fellows through their paces. Hoped to watch David Letterman grill Tom Cruise (who is full of it) after they went to bed, but I passed out during a commercial break.

Neighborhood Pigs Strike Yet Again!

I stepped out to get my mail this afternoon, narrowly missing a steaming pile of dog turd, courtesy of the neighbor who persists in letting her growly animal wander through my yard. This is the same individual who puts out her garbage on Friday afternoons when pick-up isn't until Thursday.

One of her sons (the one who zings through stop signs while she beams with maternal pride in the passenger seat) graduated from high school on Monday, and the deflated balloons testifying to that fact still hang from her mail box. I expect them to be there at Christmas.

Yesterday Was Father's Day

Mick Jagger received cards from all over the globe.

While we're on the subject of the promiscuous Mr. Jagger, I have to make a confession. I'm addicted to his ex-wife Jerry Hall's reality TV show, Kept. I'm not proud of it, but I can't stop watching. I am currently rooting for somebody named Austen (I think he spells it that way), who seems like a nice fellow and boasts big lips like the former Mr. Jerry.

In my defense, I have not watched and will not watch the reality series based on Gilligan's Island. I promise. I also refuse to sit through that dance competition with Rachel Hunter, either. I'm not a complete loser.

12 Things Men Want to Say to You But Don't...

Is one of the cover blurbs from the current issue of Glamour magazine. The idea is to get you, desperate female, to plunk over your hard-earned cash to find out what red-blooded American men (because they're all the same, you know!) think about your looks, your job, your laugh, and your Starbucks coffee habit. Expecting a man to actually say what's on his mind is completely out of the question (don't you know anything, you big ol' nag?).

If you need a magazine article (written by an individual who has never met the guy in question) to tell you what a man thinking, you need a new boyfriend, preferably who knows that his mouth is more than a depository for McDonald's Value Meals.

The Dating Tips Newsletter didn't go out last week because my mother's condition is not getting better, so my trips to Manhattan are becoming increasingly frequent. Please bear with me. Hope to have something out this week.

Mangaged to finish David Sedaris' Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim on MetroNorth back to Connecticut last evening. Fortunately, the train was packed with revelers from the Puerto Rican Day Parade, so my outbursts of shrieking laughter went unnoticed.

You Could Be Better Off Alone

The last batch of emails I've gotten are from women who are bouncing the mattress with guys who are unavailable.

Either the guy is married, or divorced with children he claims to be devoted to (which allows him the dual benefit of looking like Super Daddy and using somebody for sex at the same time), or he suffers from the residual effects of an emotional tragedy that precludes him from committing himself fully to a new relationship.

My correspondents are settling for half men. Too many of us have been brainwashed into believing that scoring half a man is better than no man at all. Others get a twisted sense of superiority from banging another woman's husband (the worst possible karma, by the way). Still others are so afraid of commitment ourselves that we continually attract these sorry relationships; subconsciously we know damn well they're not going anywhere.

But life is much more fun when we don't have to deal with a half man and the drama he thrusts into our lives. It's actually more fun to set a beautiful table, pour a glass of wine, and enjoy a delightful meal on one's own, rather than wait by the phone to find out if the Loser of the Month is going to show up.

If you're involved with a guy who can't commit for whatever reason, or if you're just not sure where your relationship is headed, I suggest you download "Express Yourself" by Madonna and listen to it four hundred times a day. Now, I don't pretend to always understand Madonna; I was utterly bewildered by her gold tooth period, for example, but this song serves as a guide to fulfilling love relationships.

Check out the lyrics if you don't believe me.

You're Lying to Yourself

Dear Terry,
I am in love with a man who does not reveal who he is. This guy does not say he loves me, but whenever I go to his place he makes love to me. He told me he has a baby boy and that this baby and its mother need him for the boy's betterment. I really tried to forget him, but the truth is this guy loves me. He calls me, sends me messages, and he asked me to be his closest friend. Well, I agreed, but now I am drawn to him again.

I love him so much that I can't fall in love with any other man and love him the way I've loved this one. Worst of all he smokes. I believed I could change that; with all my effort and prayer, I will change that. We are happy together but he does not tell me he loves me. He always asks to make love to me. So I don't know what to do. Please help.

Confused

Hello, Confused-

I do not think you are a bit confused. You say you're in love with this man, but he doesn't seem to do very much for you, except make love to you (and I'm sure that's exciting and fun and wonderful, but it's not enough to make you happy when he's not doing it).

He says that he wants you to be his friend. Okay. But is he being your friend? Is he around to listen to you after a bad day? When you need a hand unclogging your sink?

How do you feel when he's not around? Happy and at peace? Or completely freaked out? If you're freaked out, stop seeing him. Do not make love to him, even if it kills you. Then, if he truly loves you, he will follow you. He will be available to you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, not just for making love.

You can't change anybody but yourself, so stop praying that he quits smoking and his many other annoying habits.

You deserve a man who will treat you as well out of bed as he does in bed. Is he up to it? Let him prove it to you. If he's not the right man, dump Mr. Feely and hold out for the guy who fits the bill. He's out there, and you're definitely worth it.

To your happily ever after,

Terry

Shirking John Stamos (and Other Jerks)

Went to see Mom yesterday.

She sleeps most of the time, but when she's awake she's cheerful. She stopped watching Ellen, Judge Judy, and all that other crap she used to fill her day with. She used to be frustrated about not being able to get out of bed, but she's gotten used to it.

By coincidence, on Saturday we discussed her cousin Frank and his wife, who she likes a good deal and hadn't heard from in ages. Lo and behold, a letter arrived from them on Tuesday, saying they were concerned because they hadn't heard from Mom and Dad since Christmas 2003. I wrote to them this morning to tell them of my mother's illness.

Sent this week's ezine today. If I hear about one more woman putting up with a lying, cheating, self-important schmuck I will scream.

Need exercise desperately. I spend entirely too much time reading and writing. Well, not entirely too much time, but it wouldn't hurt to hit the NordicTrack more often.

The offspring are home from school today with colds. They were off on Monday for Memorial Day, too. We are seeing too much of each other. A deep-chested cough hasn't stopped Child Two from cartwheeling off the couch all morning, and nothing stops her or her sister from watching Full House reruns until their eyes fall out.