I Need a Compliment, Melvin.

I am used to getting complements. And the reason I get complimented so often is not because I look good, or do anything particularly noteworthy, but because I ask.

'Tell me I look nice,’ I’ll say to Jim, before I head out for the night. He’ll glance up from the pasta sauce he might be stirring, look me up and down, and then come up with something kind. He might for example, say ‘nice earrings’, or ‘blue’s a good colour on you’, or ‘those boots are quite slimming’. Sometimes that’s satisfactory, and I will feel content to leave the house. Other times I’ll dig a little deeper, ‘Jim, tell me I look hot.’

Helen-the-Waitress

The reason I started to ask for compliments was because of Helen Hunt. Years ago (1997) she made a movie with Jack Nicholson called ‘As As it Gets’. In it, she plays a waitress who struggles in everyday life, and has a chance to go away for the weekend with Jack’s character. They go out for dinner, and she makes a really big effort to look nice. This, of course, goes unnoticed, so she says, ‘Pay me a compliment Melvin, I need one quick.'

Up until then it never occurred to me, EVER, to ask for a compliment. I thought a compliment was something you waited around for, and then pretended you didn’t want. (Like the last oyster on a tray, or free samples at Costco). Also, this also coincided with a stage in my life where I was learning to set boundaries and ask for what I needed. I thought I was doing pretty well with it – considering it was uncharted territory, but Helen-the-waitress took it to new heights!

In training

Wearing a red dress was not part of her repertoire, but she did her very best to rise to the occasion. For another woman, a red dress dress and lipstick is easy as pie. But for her – not so easy. So how does someone know when someone else has tried with all his or her might, and their actions need to be rewarded? The truth is, they don’t. But I do.  

I know when I’ve put all my energy into trying to look presentable. And I know when I really need a compliment (often), just in the same way when I really know when I need a hug (occasionally) or a second glass of wine (always).  And there are the days when I’m an inch away from a nervous breakdown, but those might be the days when it took every cell to smear on some lipstick, and I really near to hear something nice.

And those days, my friends, are days I wouldn’t receive many kind words, unless I was smart enough to give orders to ‘Pay me a compliment Melvin, and please make it quick.’

My Second Very First Bra

My very first bra was from a department store. I’ve filed that experience away in the same place as the other awkward firsts; first pap smear, first oyster, first time drinking too much gin.

Having two grown ladies (my mother, and the sales clerk) fussing over my brand new breasts so insulted my sense of modesty, that I said yes to the first crappy brassiere that I tried on. ‘It’s fine,’ I said impatiently, ‘I’m not trying on anything else.’

Many functional undergarments followed after that. I was an average build, and once I knew my size, bought them without even trying them on. None of them were very memorable but they did the trick. Or at least I thought they did, until I went for an actual grown-up bra fitting.

Once again, I wasn’t so keen on the  ‘fitter’ coming in the room with me, and I was less impressed that she was helping herself to my small breasts. She told me to lean over and fall into the bra, and to make sure all the fabric was smooth and even, while liberally touching me in places no woman had ever touched me before. The result, however, was brilliant.  A beautiful bra (French, of course) that was so lovely and comfortable that I didn’t blink at the three-digit price tag. In fact, I bought two.

For a few glorious years I had wonderfully dressed breasts, and then came the diagnosis. Because I was sliced and diced and altered, I switched back to soft (saggy) cotton bras that would accommodate bandages and incisions. My requirements were simple.  It merely needed to hold me together, and wouldn’t cost an arm and a leg. I didn’t want to invest in a garment that I could potentially ruin. So I was stuck with icky garments until the final stages of my reconstruction.

Once my stomach fat was moved up to create a brand new set of breasts I made myself a promise. When I was fully healed, and anatomically correct (with nipples), I would once again go for a bra fitting and get my Second Very First Brassiere.

That day has finally arrived! Last week, courtesy of a gift card from a favorite friend, I went to a lovely shop selling nothing but beautiful lingerie. Bubbling with excitement I’d practically grabbed a salesgirl by the hair and dragged her into the fitting room with me. Modest no more! Halfway through her introduction, I’d already ripped off my sweater and started the debriefing. I explained about my scars, new nipples, and the 22” slash across my tummy that made me look like a Fat Twist ‘n Turn Barbie.

My French Bra. And the cat.

The salesgirl, who was young and dewey, tossed her hair and looked me in the eye. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I’ve seen everything.’ Ha.  I may or may not have snorted. People who say they’ve seen ‘everything’ usually haven’t seen anything at all. Just as those who claim to be the ‘life of the party’ or usually as dull as a bag of hair.

So I whipped off my bra. The ‘fitters’ reaction wasn’t really my problem, and I was eager to get on with the proceedings. She blinked a few times and then moved in for a better look. I let her measure me, and then I told her in meticulous detail what I wanted and how I expected it to fit. To her credit, she seemed to listen, and returned moment later with lovely with three lovely undergarments dangling off her fingers. I disqualified two of them immediately on the grounds that the straps were too skinny and there wasn’t any padding. (These days I need light padding because fake nipples, cute as they are, are permanently erect in the manner Jennifer Anniston in a tank top)

But the third one was a charmer. Black, smooth, with just the right amount of engineering and the perfect width of strap. According to my sources (trashy magazines), three quarters of woman wear bras that don’t fit properly. If only they knew the joy of a well fitting bra. Even though my boobs are relatively numb, I can still tell when something feels like it’s made for me.  And when you get a second chance at boobs, you don’t settle for second best.

When it comes to buying a first bra, second time round is so much better than the first.

The Other Side of the Glass

When Jim and I took our first trip to Florida, we got a kick out of hanging out at his parent’s trailer park with the seniors. It was fun for a couple of reasons. Firstly – they could drink us under the table and still be able to kill us at euchre. Secondly - they were like exotic wrinkly creatures, all wrapped in hats and glasses, and in comparison we felt strong and reckless.

We also loved the hot sun, though we seemed to be the only ones. Even though the snowbirds came for the weather- they made a point to stay inside. Wandering through the compound we could here them laughing and watching TV, but they were safely behind a screen. Even the restaurant were glassed in – not a patio in sight.

We were particularly disappointed one night – as we snuck off on our own to go to a fish restaurant. Expecting to eat outdoors, we were a confronted by shiny panes of glass. Behind it were sea of little white heads sipping on cocktails, and with the blue walls and fake plants, it felt like we were staring into a giant aquarium. Jim and I looked at each other, in our smug youth, and wondered what the f*ck was the point of being in Florida if you’re going to sit inside. The fun was on our side of the glass!

Me and Jim. (No, not really)

Fast forward 'till last week,  and I’m in Miami taking a tour of the Art Deco district. ‘Is it just me,’ I wondered aloud, ‘or is anyone else burning up inside?’  My companions, all fresh faced and breezy, looked at me blankly and shook their heads. Apparently it was just me. As our little group strolled through the streets, I dashed from one piece of shade to the next – disappearing into doorways and hiding under trees. Our guide, who was about 180 years old, looked cool as a cucumber in his short-sleeved shirt. But I was melting, and when we passed a garish souvenir shop, I bolted inside and bought the first hat I saw, along with a few bottles of water.

Rejoining the group, I felt a little bit better. And by ‘better’ I meant that I no longer feared passing out on the sidewalk in front of Gianni Versace’s mansion in a pool of my own vomit. Still it was  pretty darned unpleasant.  I couldn’t tell if it was just one long hot flash or if in the process of being rewired I’d lost any tolerance for heat.  I was dragging myself around feeling like a furnace wearing a fedora.

Once our tour was over, my friends and I went off in search of tacos and margaritas, and at Katie’s suggestion, a nice patio.

Are you serious?!’ I squeaked, ‘It’s kind of hot, don’t you think?’ Another round of blank looks. I pointed feebly to a restaurant across the street. No patio in sight but it did have a neon cocktail dancing in the window.  Taking pity on me and my red blotchy face, we went in, got settled in a booth, and ordered a round of fish tacos and margaritas.

Outside, hoards of people in pastel colours sashayed down the sidewalk.  And watching them was an event in itself – even if we were on the other side of the glass.

Dessert Before Dinner

When my sister Sue and I were little we used to explore the particulars of dieting. (Primarily, how many weeks of cigarettes and Tang would help us fit into our  dress pants). We concluded that losing weight was hard because it took way too long to see the difference. We need our rewards more quickly. 

‘What if…’ Sue said to me, ‘you could take a pill to lose weight instantly. BUT in order to keep the weight off you’d have to sign a contract to diet for two months. Yes! Of course it would be easy to keep the weight off if you’re skinny! It’s like dessert before dinner.  Easy peasy!   

Well, I stand corrected.  Not easy at all. As someone who has had their stomach surgically un-enhanced, I take it all back. Not only is it not easy, it’s not realistic.  Especially when a gal is menopausal, taking tamoxifen, and  trying desperately to survive the coldest friggin' February since 1936.  

 My flat stomach was supposed to be my silver lining. Apart from a clean bill of health and a low risk of recurrence, it is the ONLY upside from my bout with breast cancer, and it is the one thing about DIEP reconstructive surgery that is supposed to be fun. Replace the breast tissue with tummy fat and voila! A lifetime of fitting into dress pants.

But here’s the kicker. My fat is coming back, and it’s not going where it’s supposed to. Since my front has be rearranged, and since I was sliced in half like a like a 'Twist 'n Turn' Barbie Doll, my weight doesn’t hang out where it once did. Rather than sit in front of me like a regular beer belly, it collects above my scar like a loaf of pumpernickel bread.

‘What’s that?’ Jim said, gently patting my pumpernickel other day. I sucked in my tummy and feigned innocence, ‘What’s what?’

‘Oh, nothing….’ He said, knowing better than to probe too deeply.

I must admit I feel a little bit gypped. I really liked having a flat stomach, and I want it back. It was a big investment and I was counting on it to maintain itself for a while. And asking for my money back is out of the question since I paid for it in trade, not currency. 

So it's time to get up off my yoga mat and kick some ass.  I'm going to dust off my trainers and go to Zumba (whatever the f*ck that is). And in leiu of dress pants, I'm going to squeeze into linen pants, in in Florida, in a couple of weeks. 

And if none of that works, I'll just go back to Tang (or a smoothie) and cigarettes (carrot sticks). I worked hard for my dinner, and I don't want just bread, I want my dessert.

Mary Mary Quite Contrary

Aunt Mary. My Version

My parents used to compare me to my dads Scottish Auntie. Whenever I’d do something I considered adorable, they’d look at each other knowingly and say ‘She’s just like Aunt Mary’.  I was flattered! In my mind Mary had bouncy auburn hair, and a jaunty kilt which would swing merrily around her as she danced on moors spreading sunshine and merriment. In my imagination she was radiant. In reality, I found out years later, she was a shrew. 

So in an effort not to be a scowling old battleaxe, I often force myself to smile.  I figure that if I make my mouth move up, the mood will follow. But the thing is, my heart is not always in compliance. There are some days when I feel like I’m just holding at Mary at bay. But hopefully, I’m the only one to notice. 

Such was not the case as I went skidding down the street this morning with my hound dog, Jed. We’d just been walloped by a winter storm and we were doing our short-legged best (yes, me too) to navigate our way down the street. My feet were cold,  zipper had busted and I had a real hate on for old man winter.

Aunt Mary. For Real.

At that moment I bumped into a neighbour who was shovelling snow off his car. ‘Hey’, he said jovially, ‘my car is absolutely buried!’ I was baffled by his positivity. I also didn’t understand why he needed to point out the obvious. I stared at him blankly then blurted out the first thing that came to mind, ‘Well that’s a crummy way to start the day,’ I replied; my tone attempting to match his level of cheer.

My neighbour cocked his head and leaned on his shovel. I guess I’d failed in the cheery department. I heard the tone of my voice and  recognized  more Mary than merry. Now I understood what Linda Blair felt like in the exorcist. Like me, she was channelling a much stronger force and wasn’t always in control of what came out of her mouth (Pea soup, in her case. Hostility in mine).

‘Well,’ my neighbour said earnestly, ‘It’s just a way to start the day.’ Ah. I stood corrected. And I thought for a second about what he said and realized that he was right. He reminded me of two things. Firstly, I shouldn’t always feel the need to have a comeback. Sometimes a statement is just a statement and doesn’t need and additions (I should have just stuck with my fake smile). Secondly, not everything has to be positive or negative. Sometimes something just a way. Not a bad way.

I felt that his small correction had given me another tool to use against becoming possessed by the black soul of Aunt Mary. A simple trick of language to eliminate negativity. Still, I kind of wanted to punch him in the face. The excessive earnestness was a bit much, and if he hadn’t wanted feedback he shouldn’t have announced that he was cleaning of the car.

There it was – my inner crabby. The worst part of my DNA. However , as I’d learned a positive lesson that day,  it cancelled out my inner shrew. One point for me. One point for Aunt Mary. I plastered on my fake smile, and walked a way.

The Intern & The Snail

At  10:00 am on the dot, I showed up for my first annual appointment with my Breast Surgeon, and was greeted by the receptionist. ‘Oh Dear,’ she gave me a pitying glance, ‘He isn’t here.’ (My yearly check-up with Dr Escargot; the surgeon who forgot to show up on the day of my surgery, leaving his fellow surgeons scrambling to find an immediate replacement. But I’m almost over that now. Time to move ahead).  

Dr. Escargot

I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes. ‘Is it me?’ I asked. We both laughed a fake laugh, and she explained there’d been an emergency, and he wouldn’t be back till 2. Would I like to see an intern? No. Screw off.  I would not.

I returned at 2 and was ushered into a room. The nurse said that Escargot would be crawling in shortly, but in the meantime, would I mind if the intern came in to ask a few question. This time I said okay, but it was mostly ‘cus I was bored. Also, Mount Sinai is a teaching hospital, so everybody is much happier if the fellows, interns, and students are allowed to touch some naked flesh. (My boobs are extra fun, because they were created from my stomach and have recently been adorned with fabulous new nipples).

I was sitting on the table when the intern walked in, clutching a clipboard to her chest. She asked if she could examine me. I asked if her hands were warm. Three years ago I never would have asked such a thing, but I had become a bit cocky. Now that my breasts are numb it doesn’t really matter – so it was mostly about who had the power (me). I lay down, and Dr Intern began her examination.

The Intern

After a few squeezes she asked about my follow up treatment, and whether I’d lined up a mammogram. I told her I would not be having a mammogram, as I did not have any breast tissue. She squeezed a bit more. ‘So you have implants?’ I shook my head. No – no implants. She looked confused. ‘Small ones?’ she asked. I told her no. She frowned and looked at her notes. ‘You had a double mastectomy. Right? But no implants?’ I told her she was correct.

I didn’t tell her that I’d had DIEP reconstruction because it didn’t occur to me that she wouldn’t know. Wasn’t my whole history on the clipboard? Weren’t the interns debriefed before they but on white coats and pretended they’re doctors? Was she about to cry?

Dr Escargot came in the room and took my hand in his. He explained the DIEP surgery to the intern and told her that it was a very long operation because of all the tricky medical stuff.
‘Twelve hours?' he asked me – in a manner you’d ask a pal with a shared experience.
I paused for a second. Did he really not remember?
‘Nine,’ I said.
We locked eyes for a second and I waited for recognition to creep in. Nine hours was considered remarkably short for bilateral DIEP, and only because I got two extra surgeons on board during the initial scramble to cover Escargots absent arse after it became apparent that he was not in the hospital, and and had just flown off to Germany! But …nothing. His little snail eyes were unburdened.

Clearly, the same could not be said for me. I still carried the resentment. Escargot may move like a snail but his shell was light – I was the one with the baggage. So along with my gown, I ditched it, and let the baby doctor have one more admiring glance before I hopped off the table and moved ahead for real.

Nothing TV

I like to do as little as possible after Christmas, especially this year when I could say 'so long' to the social whirlwind and sit back and enjoy doing nothing. So,  I was delighted this holiday when I stumbled upon Fireplace TV.

Initially I had it on to keep me company as I wrapped gifts and drank champagne, but then I started having it on all the time. Not having a fireplace of our own I quickly grew to love the sound of crackling, and the flicker of light. I found myself fixated many times by the quivering flame.

Nothing happens on this channel! There is no plot, no cast, and no drama. Remember how Seinfeld was a ‘show about nothing? ‘ Well that is an edge-of-yourp-seat thriller compared to Fireplace TV, where, if you’re VERY lucky, you might see a burning ember floating towards the chimney.

I was doing some yoga stretches yesterday, when Jim wandered into living  room and asked if he could change the channel. I told him no. He gave me the same look he gives me when I’m watching ‘Dancing with the Stars’ and asked why I wanted to waste my time watching a fake fireplace.

While I recognize that this may slightly weird for me, for Norwegians it is a national obsession.  Over half the population tunes in to nothing! It all began in 2009 with a five-day broadcast of a cruise ship traveling up the West Coast of Norway in real time. More than three million people tuned into watch – and that is over half the population!

Following the smashing success of a cruise ship doing nothing, Norway followed it up with a 10-hour train ride, 18-hours of salmon spawning, and nine-hours of knitting. Each marathon was a massive hit, pulling in eager audiences from a tiny rich country where everybody wears wooly sweaters.

So I looked into why it was so popular. Our lives are busy (obviously) and we’re surrounded by bite size nuggets of information constantly being hurled at our brain. So Slow TV (as it has been dubbed) is a chance to calm down. It’s the opposite of instant gratification.

There is another theory though, that maybe we watch things because we’re waiting for something to happen. While I continued , Jim plopped himself down on the sofa. Twenty minutes later Jed, who seemed slightly hypnotized, lay down in front of the TV. We carried on quietly for a while until Jim sat upright. ‘Janet, look!’ he shouted. ‘I saw a hand!’ 

Brimming with excitement, he told me that a human hand holding a poker had emerged from the right side of the screen and prodded a log! He could barely contain himself. ‘Come Sit Down and Wait!’ he said. ‘We might see it again!’

So we did our favorite things. We sat with our pets doing nothing, and watched a roaring fire on TV.  Hoping something might happen, content if everything stayed the same.

Bye Bye Monster

The Door

Three years ago, a handsome Dutch Plastic Surgeon walked through this door and shook my hand.

Prior to his arrival, I’d been sitting with my sister Sue in side-by-side guest chairs. I was wearing a striped hospital gown with my arms folded across my chest, and she was happily chatting away. She was making jokes about boob jobs and I was laughing in that nervous way one does when they haven’t accepted the reality of the situation. Jokes that are funny, as long as they don’t actually occur.

The room was small. A little desk, two chairs, one rolling stool. The biggest item in the room was an examining table that lay quietly in the corner, just a few feet away. I was trying too ignore its’ presence. After all, I was only there for a ‘consultation’ and didn’t intend to actually get out of my chair. Exam tables are not something I like to be on. Control is taken away and is replaced by vulnerability. Fantasy, once something at arms length, now becomes a possibility. Security is replaced with uncertainty as you learn to search for your fate in someone else’s eyes.

The Monster

It was on an exam table that my doctor first found a lump. And it was on an exam table when they found the second one. And it was my experience on many an exam table that once I sat up, the news would not be good. The exam table is the sleeping monster in the corner of the room, and as long as I don’t go near it, I will probably be okay.

Dr H patiently told me all about the DIEP procedure, and kindly answered all my questions, as well as all of Sue’s. His gentle manner (blue eyes, cute accent) made me feel safe and reassured. And then he asked me to hop up on the table. Thud went my heart – it was time to wake the monster.  So I took a deep breath, climbed up on the table, and opened my robe. Even though Dr H was just checking to see if I had enough fat (I did), I was no longer in my safe place. The door to reality had opened, and I started to cry.

The Gown

The only difference in the room, this time, was the absence of fear. I had none, and I could see each element with clear eyes. The exam table in the corner, was just a table, and if I sat on it, nothing bad would occur. The door, when it opened, wasn’t taking me to places I didn’t want to go. 

But as the room didn’t change, neither apparently did my ultimate reaction. Dr H came in the room and shook my hand. We had a nice talk and he asked if I was happy. (I looked into his pretty eyes and tried to picture him with his shirt off). I told him that everything was great, and he asked if he could check my new nipples.

‘You don’t need to get up’ he said, 'Just stay in the chair.'

So because I was so happy,  I took a deep breath, opened my hospital gown, and cried.

Bacon Cat

My cat smells like bacon.

Bacon Cat

I noticed this when I woke up early in the middle of the night, following a dinner party, with my nose buried in her fur. She smelled as though she’d just worked the late shift at a diner.

I nudged her out of the way, and rolled onto my pillow which also smelled like bacon. As did the towels in the bathroom, the curtains, my entire wardrobe, and my hair. Upon further inspection the smell of bacon had permeated every square inch of our little bungalow – and even the sofa was starting to look like a giant ham. While that may be tantalizing to some, I haven’t intentionally eaten bacon since 1995 and the smell was making me sick.

Bacon Dog & Bacon Sheets

But that’s the thing about Christmas! One cooks with wild abandon and does things they wouldn’t normally do. A few months ago I was in a restaurant and had a bite of Jim’s ‘Brussels Sprouts Slaw’. It was one of the best things I’d ever had and I almost heard trumpets going off as I ate. Of course the waiter mentioned that the delicious crispy bits were pancetta, rather than the caramelized shallots I’d expected, and I put down my fork with great sadness.

But that did not stop me making the same dish for a potluck dinner for 15 on the weekend. Even though I couldn’t eat it – I wanted to make the best thing ever. Not only do I not eat bacon, I don’t normally cook with it. So knowing that it had to be extra crispy - I filled three frying pans full of sliced pancetta, and set the stove to high. Let the games begin!

Five minutes later the kitchen was filled with smoke, and seven minutes later the bacon smog had filled the rest of the house. The cats looked at me in confusion, and Jed was walking around inhaling the new dog–approved ‘Bacon Air Freshener’, which he seemed to be enjoying. Back in the kitchen my eyes were stinging, and I had a lung full of pig smoke.

My Brussels sprouts were eventually served in my friend’s lovely kitchen, and everyone said they were delicious. (Or maybe they were just inhaling me, and I smelled delicious). Either way, it was too much for me and I practically dove into the cauliflower risotto in relief.

Two days have passed. Windows have been left open, the bed has been changed, and some clothes have gone through the washer. Jed has rolled around in the dirt, and much to his chagrin, smells once again like a basset hound.

Unfortunately for our little cat, she lives indoors, and can’t be aired out. Nor is she washable. So for the next while, she is our bacon cat. And from this I’ve learned my  lesson and written a little Christmas poem:

Don’t cook outside your comfort zone,

Don’t cook foods you can’t eat.

Keep the burners nice and low

lest kitty smells more savoury, than sweet.

Desperation Pants

For years I was a waitress. While serving drinks paid my tuition and bought me some plane tickets, it also gave me a life-long distaste for black pants, especially the kind I'd been forced to wear as part of a uniform.

Black pants may be staple in every girl’s wardrobe,  but I loathe them. The last time I wore black pants to a party, someone confused me with the caterer. So I’ve sworn off of them for good.

Sad, & lonely, & blue

Recently I bought a shirt that I adore. A Calvin Klein, teal blue, boat-necked, drapey shirt with ¾ length sleeves, an extra long waist, and no ironing required. It was prefect! Problem was that I had nothing to wear on the bottom, and the most obvious choice was black.

The next week was awful.  With an upcoming party, my mission over the next week was to find the perfect pair of pants. I tried on 21 different pairs  and they all made me feel like I should be restocking a salad bar. With each pair of pants,  the image that I saw in the mirror was a middle-aged, sexless waitress from an all-you-can eat steak house, with an inexplicable gash across her belly. Ugh. So when I finally found a pair that were high waisted and  ‘sort of felt okay’, I got a bit excited and  decided to buy them.

In my living room I put on my party shit and new black pants and twirled in front of Jim. 

‘Great shirt!’ he said. 

I gestured towards the pants and asked him what he thought. 

‘They’re okay’,  he said. 

I spun around hopefully and his smile faded, ‘You kind of look like a server.’

'A classy server?’ I asked.

'No,' he said gently, ‘They kind of look like desperation pants.’

Fuck. Had I not learned anything in the last 25 years?   My golden rules are never to wear black pants, always trust my gut, and never to shop the week before a party. There is never a happy ending.

My Desperation Pants went back in the bag, and I went to the party in my one and only fun

dress, and had a great time. The Blue Calvin Shirt hangs in the closet, untouched, as are my standards.

Being a Patricia

Wear Me!

There is a woman I know named Winnie who owns an antique shop. She’s just a wee thing but she’s got a big personality, and may or may not have been born into Chinese royalty.

Occasionally she lets slip something that happened in her youth, (like being chauffeured or carried) but she breezes over those details and always returns to things that matter: My dog, her dog, family, and Peking duck. Recently she lost her dear friend Patricia, a quiet and elegant lady who occasionally worked in the store.  Earlier this year Patricia was diagnosed with cancer, and went home to her family, and died.

During this year, Winnie stayed close to Patricia’s side. She took her to doctor’s appointments and brought her food. They lived just a few doors apart and spent a lot of time together. Winnie did everything a thoughtful person would do to make sure a beloved friend as comfortable and safe.

But as much as they were similar, they were also quite different. Winnie has the energy of a teenager and loves to chat, then fling herself into your arms for a hug. Patricia was more of a dignified observer, but enjoyed a good joke. Winnie liked to buy fun stylish clothes, and go out for dinner. Patricia, apparently, was more frugal  - though Winnie kept trying to shake her up.

Last time I was in Winnie’s shop she was up a ladder, acting nothing like the grandmother she is. She came sliding down like a fireman, landing squarely at my feet. Along with the small  woman came a flash of light. ‘What the heck?’ I said, squinting my eyes. ‘Are you wearing diamonds?’

Winnie was accessorized like Mr T. She grinned and held up her hand. On her middle finger was a diamond rind that was the size of a chiclet. I have one almost like it, only mine was $7.00 at Old Navy, and hers was real. ‘Where the heck did that come from?’ I said.

Winnie told me that after Patricia went home, she went into her friend’s safety deposit box, ostensibly to get some documents and the ‘good’ necklace. What she found instead was a mother lode of jewels. Gold bracelets, emerald earrings, money, and diamond rings. There was a ton of it.

Winnie said her first reaction was shock. She had no idea that Patricia had such valuable items. Then she wondered why Patricia had saved so carefully right into her 70’s. She had no kids, and nobody depending on her. She could have been having a ball. Eating, traveling, and buying cute sweater sets from J – Crew.

‘So that’s Patricia’s ring?’ I asked.

‘No?’ laughed Winnie. ‘It’s mine!’

She told me that when she was getting dressed that morning she noticed her own box of jewels – the ones that are too expensive to wear.  The massive gem she had on her tiny finger was a gift from her husband and she only wore it at home. But that day she thought, ‘What am I waiting for?'

A good lesson I thought. That night I went home for some roast chicken with the wingman. We wanted a glass of wine, and I open the fridge and reached for some plonk. Then I heard Winnie’s voice. ‘Don’t be a Patricia,’ it said, ‘It makes no sense to wait.’

So I put back the everyday wine,  and opened something sparkling instead.