Back to the Future-The expression refers to the time when one has to stop (over) thinking about the things they could, or not, have done in the past so that what happened wouldn’t have happened.

We took a stroll back in time to our beloved Rhinebeck. Flowers, food, art shops, cheese shops, kitchenware, knives sharpened, Bread Alone pastries and anything and everything at Adam’s Fairacre Farm. Attitudes of “disarming stress” was the common denominator. The paradigm in a soundtrack would be “let’s get it on,”- “ girls just wanna have fun,” celebrate good times come on- thank you Kool and the Gang. The familiar turns on the drive up the Taconic imprinted in our memory as if it were yesterday. Deja vu in full gear as we set out to exhume a long lived, feel good moment in time. We sprinted back to a community where our collection of play things unfolded like the adage about bike riding. Our emotional vision autocorrected as it’s been many years and a deleterious pandemic in between our then and our now. We had a group of peeps that shared an attitude of playful wonder. “Come eat by me.” Or, we are going to the neighbors for their signature dinners and warm embraces. This encapsulated chapter in our playbook is medicinal and holds a woven spot, likened to a puppy nestled in our laps. Sometimes you Can pick up where you left off. Especially now more than ever pick up where you left off, eat the dish you loved in the corner table at your favorite bistro- don’t miss the sale on lavender scented candles at the shop local boutiques. Knock on your door number one, win a -Trip Back to the Future. “Just a passing breeze filled with memories. Of the golden smile that introduced me to-The Days of Wine and Roses and you.”Make it a great Sunday.



Living without mommy- and then it happened. The fear, the devastation and the ultimate in never mores- Square in the face, the pain sits quivering. Hey, mom we need you now more than ever. Waves of emotional pain storm in, no tap on the shoulder, no heads up. The freshness of the loss severes a piece of our hearts. You are still our center stage. The compass for our actions. We talk about the days in Rhinebeck when Robo rubbed your feet, coddled your soul. We read aloud to you, you are the only face staring back in the dark. Yes, we hear you now. Wow, really? thank you Mamala. Focusing on your words gets us through on not just the murky days. Looking forward in the “just have fun” ways is our biggest take away from our life long dialogue. Ok, hold on mommy – yes, we will make it a good Monday BH

How to Win Friend’s and Influence People-with a much needed Twist.

“Understand people’s anxiety- Always have a suntan-” Aristotle Onassis- Dale Carnegie-kind and ever so real. He won friends and influenced people he never met. His basic principle to aim for cheerful friendliness and approach things with zero ambiguity. Antiquated?- we think Not. Pushy tactics are not necessary when you carry your own concept of yourself. His motto “Don’t criticize, condemn or complain.“ Hmmmm! His book has gone the distance on the daily, like our morning coffee, Al Rokers weather report and scrolling through Instagram. Eliminating gossip and pointing fingers, leaves time for forwarding junk emails to 10 people as an opportunity to win the lottery. Loling. His suggestions served as the prototype for all The Chicken Soup for the Soul publications. Helen Gurley Brown in her Cosmopolitan style, told it like it was as career and love life merged, through red lipstick and panty hose and we listened- well maybe some of the time. We watched, we must confess, early on when Phil Donahue met “That Girl” and interviewed Jean Nidetch (founder of Weight Watchers.) We learned the value of zero point foods and loosing some lbs.

Back to -Oh Dale, how your words resonated loud and clear upon first read and today when we need a reminder or two. That unpleasant look from so and so the other day had everything to do with them and very little to do with us. People project their feelings and own bias when their defending the one side of the story they didn’t hear.

We long for the days when we walked into the candy store and put the new Betty and Veronica, Little Dot and Dennis the Menace comics on the counter next to our bazooka and red licorice treats. How bout the primordial smells of the gum in the pack of baseball cards that one of the kids on your block shared with you? The very familiar smell of a brand new spalding ball lingers on in our bag of childhood treasures. Exhuming those scents easier than remembering, well a-lot these days. We believe our first art lesson was on Etch a Sketch, and early writing lessons happened through creating stories of where Barbie and Ken will go on their honeymoon. We thought Bermuda would be nice. One guilty pleasure we recall was chewing double bubble, piece after piece (not knowing we were helping our dentist enjoy his summer home with each bubble that landed smack across our faces.) Oh the 60’s where art thou now? Our world is bleeding out of control. We had what seemed was like 5 minutes in between the pandemic and the attack on Ukraine. Worry, insomnia and zapped energy a deleterious trifecta too common in our everyday. So hit it Dale-“ Get busy. Keep busy. it’s the cheapest kind of medicine there is on earth- and one of the best.” Thanks, Mr. Carnegie we’re in.

Got a call yesss!!! A boutique museum rep. was letting me know they are doing an exhibit and including Judith Leiber. A blog I had written several years ago was brought to their attention. They asked if they had my permission to include it in the display. Fun and then some. Reposting!

Notorious for her handcrafted, crystal clutches, bag designer Judith Leiber died over the weekend at the age of 97. The accessories designer whose work was favored by multiple First Ladies, was known for her tongue-in-cheek approach to bag design.

Her husband of 72 years Gerson Leiber died a few hours later. She was a holocaust survivor, married Gerson, an American soldier during World War II and moved to New York. She lived a “jeweled” life and entertained our eye through the fanciest of the fanciest hand bags. The cafe society ladies could be seen sporting them on the tables of Grenouille and Cote Basque during the Jackie O year’s. In random episodes of Sex in the City they were highlighted as arm candy to exemplify deliberate signs of wealth and wonder. Our take away was “wondering” how they came up with the thousands of spare change dollars to purchase one, or more. What a life, from the outside in. What a blessing head on. A Survivor who was blessed with an amazing eye for detail displayed through her artistry and  a 72 year marriage that lasted till the last day they both passed away. Cut to…

There are some locations that never make it. The corner of 1st and 79th Street has housed one restaurant after another. Every time we think the new sign that went up, looked promising we pass again and the lights are dimmed, sign down.

And then the Jim McMullen (no credit cards taken) on to Atlantic Grill spot on 3rd Avenue flourished until now as the building is being torn down to build condos.

So the take away question of the day—is the success of the Judith Lieber cocktail a mixture of overcoming the fallout of devastating-beginnings, hard work and extreme talent with Lady Luck poured on top or is it that she made the very best of her “location” whether it was in the ghetto basement with 60 other holocaust survivors or the front room at La Grenouille, where her hand bags are perched on tables in statue-like fashion? If you find yourself in a paper bag today, make your way out, put up a new sign and put a cherry on top!

We walked into our building the other day and one of our doormen, whose name happens to be David, called us over to let us know he has been meaning to tell us something. We listened as he proudly shared the wonderful news that his son had recently become a Bar Mitzvah. He told us we could watch the service on You Tube and the theme for the party was all Baseball. We stopped in our tracks, wished him a big Mazel Tov and went upstairs to our apt.
We were thrilled for him and confused as we didn’t know he had children or much else about him. He always greeted us with a smile and we exchanged pleasantries as he handed us our Amazon packages.
A few days have gone by, the covid related numbers for the known variants have dropped significantly and the President’s State of the Union Address opened with what his plans are for the Russian large scale military invasion on Ukraine.
Fast forward to yesterday at days end when David called up to let us know our dinner, that we ordered was here. Ah, the Bar Mitzvah. So we ate dinner and sat down to watch David’s son Eric become a Bar Mitzvah. Can’t make the names up for those in the know. We kvelled as Eric read from the Torah, sang along, silently prayed and sent a shout out upon request from the Rabbi to Hashem to help our dear friend who lingers on in poor health. We listened as David’s wife spoke about their son and we cried for their pride in him.
Moral of stories, bottom lines, grab moments of pleasure, now more than ever come in droves, especially in these precarious days with so much uncertainty.
So we got some paper, wrote a mazel message, put some gelt into an envelope for Eric and went downstairs to have a “Minchin by you Moment.”This time the blessing in disguise came with a shout out in the lobby from a very familiar face, albeit in concept a stranger. Make it a schepp nachas for no longer a stranger kind of day. We are all a community and hashtag stronger together. Now more than ever. Bh

Hamantaschen, Hamantaschen,
Where art the best?
We are on an adventure,
Through a taste test.
The flavors and textures,
In one bite or two.
The crust and the filling baked like our Bubby would do.
Seeking the memories, we are hitting the ground.
We’ll go store to store,
The streets we will pound.
Add the sugar, the butter, the vanilla extract?
Measure the amounts don’t mix them in blind.
The hammantaschen we knew,
Was one of a kind.
We’ll tap into Amy Rosen,
We are thinking she’ll know.
Her cooking and baking- a win, place and show.
We favor the prune, but appreciate the rest.
Hey, we will taste it all,
In our search for the best.

Dear Jamesy Gom,
We watch your strides so long.
Your hair “flows” out of its helmet,
Your “A” game far and long.
Your “cycling” of the “biscuit” as you “Bar Down” into the net.
A cause for a “celly” we are busting from the get.
You got the rink covered,
The opponents can surely tell.
While everyone was playing checkers in theory,
Your chess game very strong.
You are such a talented hockey dude.
Center rink is where you belong.

Pay it Forward. Reposting this story. Shout out to Vinnies Tattoos.

After a Mastectomy, Moving Between Gratitude and Grief

Getting diagnosed with a breast cancer gene mutation at 32 was a gift, but left room for disappointment too.

Credit…Michelle Mildenberg

By Taylor Harris

Jan. 25, 2022

I lay on my back and opened my robe, just as I’d done for every other appointment. But when the doctor prodded my new breasts with her fingertips, I felt naked for the first time. Thin, sloping scars were exposed on my chest, where a surgeon had removed my nipples, but left a smaller version of my areolas.

“If you ever want tattoos, I know a guy named Vinnie in Baltimore. He’s good,” my gynecologic oncologist said as she helped me sit up on the exam table.

“Thanks, but I think I’m good,” I said. My answer was a reflex. I’d had a preventive double mastectomy with reconstruction — two surgeries five months apart — during a pandemic, with three kids at home. I couldn’t fathom driving to Baltimore for 3-D nipple tattoos.

My middle child, Tophs, had helped us discover the BRCA mutation. His puzzling medical symptoms, including dangerously low blood sugar and growth failure, led doctors to order a genetic test of more than 20,000 of his genes. I never expected that my 4-year-old son carried a BRCA2 mutation, and, as it turned out, so did I.

I was 32, and the diagnosis — an increased lifetime risk of developing breast cancer (up to 85 percent) and ovarian cancer (up to 27 percent) — was devastating. Because the cancers associated with BRCA mutations develop in adulthood, my son’s care didn’t change, but my medical team expanded overnight.

I immediately entered a high-risk program at the University of Virginia’s Emily Couric Clinical Cancer Center, and met my gynecologic oncologist, breast surgeon and plastic surgeon. They showed me photographs of women’s torsos before and after surgery. We discussed my family tree, which was marked by a variety of cancers on one side. Having a BRCA mutation doesn’t mean you’ll get cancer. It just means you have to weigh whether you want to spend the rest of your life under surveillance (alternating breast M.R.I.s and mammograms every six months) or take things into your own hands with a major preventive surgery.

Myself, I waited four years to decide. First, I had one last baby and nursed her until the fat filled her thighs and made delightful pockets around her elbows. I took time to write essays and landed a book deal. I prayed, and waited for guidance on timing. Then, before the baby turned 4, I read a piece by the late writer Elizabeth Wurtzel on breast cancer and her words nudged me over the edge: “I could have avoided all this if I had been tested for the BRCA mutation,” she wrote.

I had that chance; I could still get ahead of the cancer. I called to schedule the surgery and reminded myself that along with decreasing my risk of breast cancer, I’d also get a “free” breast reduction and lift. It was a vain silver lining, but I clung to it.

***

I’m a year out from my two breast surgeries. They call me a “previvor,” meaning I have a genetic predisposition to cancer, but haven’t developed it. My lifetime risk of getting breast cancer has been reduced by at least 90 percent. I’m confident I made the right decision for me, though most days I don’t feel especially brave or empowered. Grateful? Yes. But when I quiet all “shoulds” and expectations in my head for a moment, I hear a call from within to survey the changes to my body. To allow myself room for wonder and even disappointment when I look down at my chest. I ask myself for permission to grieve.

During my breast reconstruction, the plastic surgeon suctioned fat from my thighs and flanks and inserted it around the implants to make them appear more natural. It left my thighs dark purple with bruises, the pain far worse than I’d imagined. Over time, the bruises disappeared, but so did the fat placed around the implants; my body reabsorbed it. Now when I take off my bra, I see ridges and dimples that can’t be smoothed without a third surgery. My breasts have more lift and are smaller than they were after nursing three kids, and without nipples I’ll never again have to buy breast petals to wear with a strapless dress. But it’s also true that the holes where drains were inserted during my mastectomy left behind pock marks that remind me of cigarette burns when I glimpse them in the mirror.

“You’ll do great,” people said. “You’ll feel so relieved.” I needed their voices, echoing as doctors rolled me into the operating room. All things considered, I did do pretty great, I have little to complain about.

New Developments in Cancer Research

Card 1 of 6

Progress in the field. In recent years, advancements in research have changed the way cancer is treated. Here are some recent updates:

Pancreatic cancer. Scientists are exploring whether the onset of diabetes may be an early warning sign of pancreatic cancer, which is on track to become the second leading cause of cancer-related deaths in the U.S. by 2040.

Chemotherapy. A quiet revolution is underway in the field of cancer treatment: A growing number of patients, especially those with breast and lung cancers, are being spared the dreaded treatment in favor of other options.

Prostate cancer. An experimental treatment that relies on radioactive molecules to seek out tumor cells prolonged life in men with aggressive forms of the disease — the second-leading cause of cancer death among American men.

Leukemia. After receiving a new treatment, called CAR T cell therapy, more than a decade ago, two patients with chronic lymphocytic leukemia saw the blood cancer vanish. Their cases offer hope for those with the disease, and create some new mysteries.

Esophageal cancer. Nivolumab, a drug that unleashes the immune system, was found to extend survival times in patients with the disease who took part in a large clinical trial. Esophageal cancer is the seventh most common cancer in the world.

Yet, can my body hold two truths? Do I have room, between the asymmetry of my new breasts and my clean bill of breast health, to lament? To say: I’ve lost something, too. After having kids, my breasts sagged, looked worn out, but they never appeared unnatural. They were mine. Now when I undress in my closet with my back turned, it’s not just that I’m prone to shame. I’m also taking space to relearn my body, how it feels to live in a place that’s been rearranged. Doesn’t each of us, at some point in our lives, have to confess: I thought this body was one thing, it turns out it’s another.

***

Previvor. It’s a privilege, no doubt, a deep bow to science and, for me, to God. I cannot help but look around at friends who already have cancer and never got a chance to pre-empt anything. We call that perspective, right? But if I told you I knew how to navigate the psychological terrain between honoring others’ harrowing stories and my own, I’d be lying. It can’t be healthy to hide behind gratitude without acknowledging that sometimes I feel like the subject of a Cubist portrait — a woman made of fragments pieced together, almost recognizable as her own. I’m looking for space, as a previvor, to mourn. A space where I can stop and consider that my scars are signs of relief but also collateral damage from a choice I made. I am fortunate and disappointed, indebted and sad.

I may never have breasts fit for Playboy, but recently I’ve reconsidered my “Thanks, I’m good” approach to nipple tattoos. Now that my skin has healed and I’ve had some distance from the trauma of surgery, I’m more open to the idea of making my breasts beautiful to me. Maybe it’s vain, but maybe it’s not ungrateful to want my breasts to look more polished or complete.

The other day I ordered a temporary tattoo print — a mix of cool blues and greens, a dab of lavender, coral and pink — called “Confetti Floral.” Back when I first visited the plastic surgeon, he’d shown me photos of women who chose to have intricate designs, rather than nipples, inked on their chests. I couldn’t appreciate their artistic decisions then; I was drowning in new information. Now I’m standing somewhere between perspective and grief, and perhaps this area is just to reimagine my body and its beauty. I keep the fake tattoo in its plastic film on a bookshelf in my office, as a reminder that I have options. In time, as I parse what matters to me from what can be discarded, maybe I’ll give Vinnie a call and ask if he takes special orders.

Game of Bones!

Don’t fall the docs all tell us.

Let caution lead the way.

A broken bone incurs,

Conversations with more to say.

There is no easy fix.

No bandaid lined with salve.

Wearing sensible shoes,

You thought you’d never have.

The bones are the main structure,

From which we dance and play.

The years of “double dutching” so very far away.

So you fix the carpal tunnel,

A slice of life returned.

You can shuffle up the cards

And feel your finger if it’s burned.

With the femur and the tibia and the humerus intact,

A quick walk around the block

Once our sprint around the track.

One foot proceeds the other,

Add caution to the mix,

Enjoy this beautiful Saturday.

Leave nothing left to fix.