Author: Margit Detweiler

Editor’s Note: Buddy, Buddy

This week goes out to our ride-or-die chicks (and dudes). The ones we’ve been sworn to since we were 12 (Hey, Teresa!), the ones we’ve bonded with through recent circumstances and even the ones who’ve quietly, sadly slipped away. How and why we choose our besties is a mystery of time, circumstance and sometimes similar pairs of glasses. (Hey, Stacy!) But we can always count on them, no matter what — even if we haven’t spoken with them in years. We pick up the phone, and there they are, still cracking us up. (Hey, Diane. Love you, girl.) Is it still easy to make new best friends in our 40s and beyond? As our lives become more settled, we’re pickier about what we want. We may think we have less time for spontaneous connections (unless they’re through our kids, our dog or a yoga class), but we’re still craving new, close, dynamic friendships as our lives evolve. And women are particularly good at making new friends later in life. Which, come to think of it, …

Margit’s Note: Orange You Glad Our Theme Is…

Choosing our  TueNight themes is not quite an exact science. We Tuenighters, Adrianna, Karen, Darian, Justine and myself — a handful of Gen-Xers and a couple Millennial allies — meet via Zoom video conference weekly for a virtual brainstorm. What are we personally dreaming, mulling, posting and talking about? What matters to those of us over 35? What have our formal and informal surveys told us that you want to read about? In the last one you told us: Do-Over, Best Friend, First Job, Mourn, Renovate, Siblings, Aging. Check. Check. And stay tuned. Some themes we like to do over and over like Sleep. Or Sleep. Never too much sleep. Occasionally, the spirit just moves us to a word or phrase. Hence Tasty, Prince, Period, Vice, Wife, Boobs and, who could forget, Shart Week — an issue devoted poop. (Maybe we wanted to forget that…) This week we wanted a word that combined Halloween, costumes, the omnipresent waft of cinnamon-and-pumpkin-infused items and, of course, orange-y politicians. Adrianna piped up, “Pumpkin?” We had that collective head nod. And so, Pumpkin was born. (Along with a quick search to realize Trumpkin …

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Margit’s Note: Can I Get a Do-Over?

Yesterday was one of those days. I’d overslept. The cat had pooped just to the side of her litter box. (But it’s right there Alice!) I tried to put on a jumpsuit and it took me five minutes to realize my arm was in the leg part. I was not going to make a podiatry appointment because traffic uptown was 100 percent blocked due to the UN General assembly, so I cancelled it (after fighting about a “rescheduling fee”) and hobbled to work. I’d double-booked meetings with two different friends and left one standing at my doorway texting me frantically while I had coffee with the other. Finally, in the afternoon while I was at work, the shower in our apartment leaked into the neighbor’s below and into her electrical box. The super called, needed our key, and when he couldn’t reach us he busted the lock to get in. The kind of day when you yourself would like to poop on the side of the litter box. Can I get a do-over? Please? But, …

Margit’s Note: 50 Ain’t Nothing but a #

A few weeks ago, I attended a 50th birthday bash replete with beer, karaoke, ‘80s music, wigs (of course) and a freshly minted AARP card. As a drunken reveler wrapped me in crepe paper while singing “99 Luftballons” in German (don’t ask), I realized that my friend’s party was the first of what promised to be a slew of half-century parties over the next few years as I, myself, will turn 50 next year. I needed to pace myself. Nurse a seltzer. Fifty? Seriously? I’m in this strange mash-up of a grand denial and a “no kidding; I’m 50, kiddo” kind of headspace. Many days I wonder when I stopped being 22, and other days I feel like, oh have I been there and, oh, have I done THAT. Many lives have been lived. As I live out this final year of 40s, it has already been a scary mix of illness and renovation. (Literal and figurative – we’re renovating our kitchen! Right after cancer! I am crazy!) My body is recovering, my mind is …

Margit’s Note: Who Are the People in Your Neighborhood?

Take a stroll around your block (or your subdivision, or your farm). Or drive. What do you see? Whether you’ve chosen to live here — or your environment chose you — your neighborhood is a key piece of who you are. And you are an integral part of shaping its ecosystem. Like when my neighbor spilled white paint on our sidewalk the other day. Yeegads. Now think about the neighborhood you grew up in. I’d reckon that few of us live there anymore — and even if you do, time has left its mark. They changed a street name, they put in a Starbucks, but, ok, the kid who used to eat glue still lives next door, now with his four kids. A neighborhood is not just an assemblage of houses, streets and cul de sacs, it’s people and relationships. There are legendary lives that existed before you lived there, and there will be lives after. Your neighborhood is an organic, dynamic thing and, paradoxically, a memory. It is a place fixed in time and …

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Margit’s Note: Career Criminal

Our first jobs teach us the value of a dollar and the crap we have to put up with to earn that dollar. Punch a time card. Be nice. Don’t steal the candy. We start to amass data about what we do and don’t want to do when we grow up. Watching the world share their #FirstSevenJobs has been thoroughly entertaining and enlightening — so many VPs were once babysitters, waiters and paper kids. By and large, my first jobs were menial — meant to show me the value of hard work, a way to afford my Tiger Beat addiction and often, stamp-lickingly dull. As I counted, I realized all of them occurred before I’d even left college. There was no rhyme or reason to the mix of gigs, but they probably influenced me in ways I still don’t fully understand. The things I recall about my #FirstSevenJobs have little to do with the job itself and more about the ways I avoided those jobs and/or found little deviant distractions in a strange new adult …

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Margit’s Note: The Summer of Side-Eye

(screengrab via therachelpotter/Twitter, h/t The Daily Dot) I see you there. You and the mini casualties you’re creating on Facebook. Judging the way she parents, the guy she’s dating, the purple pants he’s wearing, the politics she espouses. You’re judging me right now aren’t you… Or wait, is that me? Am I doing the judging? Being judgy is dirty. It’s mostly wrong, casting stones and such. (Wait, did I just judge there?) But it’s as easy as a raised brow, and we all do it. Maybe it’s, unfortunately, part of being human. Is judging ever a good thing? Sure, in life we have to assign values to things, gather data so that we can carefully to select the right path to take — it helps us create intuition. “Use good judgment!” my dad has told me since the day I could open a can of beer. But judgy is more about the lack of data and personal bias. The world works the way I see it. Period. It’s a “should” on steroids. It’s not open-minded, …

Jennifer Saunders as "Edina" and Joanna Lumley as "Patsy"

Here’s to an AbFab Evening — And Bloody Good Mates

Jennifer Saunders as “Edina” and Joanna Lumley as “Patsy” in the film ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS: THE MOVIE. Photo by David Appleby. © 2016 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation All Rights Reserved Every time I dabble in the “now” of fashion (which is usually a retread of the “then” of fashion) — gaucho pants, massive Jackie O’s, chartreuse tights, orange lipstick — I wrinkle my nose in the mirror and think, am I an Edina? That would be Edina Monsoon, the hilariously oblivious character from the British tv series Absolutely Fabulous. Edina, or Eddy, tenuously “works” as a PR rep and sports the most techni-crazy mash-ups of trendy items — and often wearing form-fitting, lycra-esque pants and avant-garde hats. Like Eddy I am at the age where I’m supposed to settle into weekend khakis and clogs, but of course wouldn’t dare dahling. Well at least not all the time. I, too, have my neurotic moments: Can I pull this off lovey? A little more botox in the brow? This past Tuesday night (natch), TueNight was invited to a …

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Margit’s Note: An Affair to Remember

A fling means nothing. A dare. A tossed-away kiss. A happy mess you got yourself into. Temporary and mindless. It’s just a fling, after all. In the very last year of the 1980s, right after college was over, I had a purposeful fling — an oxymoron, but so it was. C and I stuck around State College. He waited tables at Ye Olde College Diner (that’s really the name); I worked at the college paper and the local department store — and we had no idea what we were going to do for the rest of our lives. We were both in the mood for temporary. Somehow we knew we weren’t made for each other, but a fling is a chance to be someone else. What a delight! Several mix tapes, deep kisses, boozy nights at Zeno’s and a month-long bout of mono later… A fling is exciting until it’s not exciting. And then, yikes. But even if the result of a fling is feeling a little too flung, the lasting memories  — and at the …

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Margit’s Note: Everyday America

The driver from Enterprise picked us up at our hotel in Richmond, Virginia to bring us to the rental car office. We were on our way down south to North Carolina for our annual summer beach vacation with my husband’s family. Five minutes into our trip, I asked the driver, “Can you believe what’s happening?” Given Baton Rouge, Minnesota, Dallas — given that our driver was black — he didn’t need any more detail to know what I meant. He shook his head. “Let me tell you a story…” He proceeded to explain that he was part of a car club and was recently pulled over by a state trooper for going five miles over the speed limit. At which point the entire flotilla of cars pulled over — all 40 of them — and the state trooper got a little nervous. “Who are all these people?” He told our driver that he and his car club friends needed to move along or he’d give each and every one of them a ticket. “If I …

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Ovarian Rhapsody: Pop a Wheelie and Ask for Help

I was sweating and cursing under my breath as I wheeled my suitcase through 30th Street Station in Philadelphia. Maybe it was early in my post-chemo life to be taking a trip to D.C. I might be jumping out of my pants to be my old go-get-‘em self again, but my body is definitely not so sure. You ain’t ready yet sister, it alternately whispers and shouts to me. Patience, butterfly. Just a month out from the end of cancer treatment, I’m still weathering various side effects — leg clot, infected toe, a fuzzy brain and big-time fatigue. But when a friend invites you to the first United State of Women Summit, a gathering that is essentially FLOTUS’s power-packed swan song, meant to shine the spotlight on the challenges and opportunities women and girls face around the world — violence, education, healthcare, workforce issues, family care, entrepreneurship — you go. Amirite? So I decided to do it. I just needed help getting there and getting around. Help? Help? HALP! Asking for help is hard. But …

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Margit’s Note: Ms. Independence

Writing about independence is no easy task. I’ve written this little note to you three or four times, scrapping each edition and littering the page with words like “Liberty” “Freedom” and “Inalienable Rights.” It’s like Thomas Jefferson is all up in my grill. Come on Tom, back off. I’m trying to explain to my readers about we women of a certain age and independence, that the word means something particular to us because we’ve cultivated it over the years — and we fight for it every damn day. We can’t take it for granted. The point is, we need to light the sparklers and fist pump to Freedom — the freedom that a woman earns over the course of her life, that guides her decisions and allows her to forge and determine her own crazy, sexy path. As we see this week on TueNight, our path might be on a boat, on a motorcycle, in a van or even in a wheelchair. Yeah, I found independence in a wheelchair for a day. Go figure. I …

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Ovarian Rhapsody: Wait, What? We’re All Done Here?

  My chemotherapy is always on a Monday. This particular Monday is May 2. No balloons. No fanfare. Just me and my husband and the final infusion needle affixed into my vein. Yes, it’s my very last chemotherapy appointment. There it is! We’re at the finish line! Whee! Whee? I should be excited, but, frankly, I’m just tired. It has been 18 weeks since we started this mess, and now it’s come to a halt. It’s hard to know how to feel. Like 18 Mondays before, my journey to the hospital began at 7:45 a.m. A brisk 55-degree chill in the air; my blue-and-white-striped tote pre-packed with mints, hand sanitizer, tissues, Zofran anti-nausea medicine, my water bottle and the same granola bar I’ve had in there for the last three chemo sessions. I don’t even have to think about what’s in there. I usually wear black yoga pants, a t-shirt and a comfy sweater of some sort, but this time I figured I’d dress it up a little and wear this purple tunic dress thing …

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Margit’s Note: Take a Bite

Digging in. (Photo: Stocksy.com) The word “Foodie” is super annoying, right? You imagine a person obsessed with the cultivation of cuisine — how it looks, smells, is plated, is grown, is sourced, is, of course, chronicled for social media. A foodie doesn’t eat to live; a foodie lives to eat… that avocado toast donut mash-up. (It’s a real thing.) Credit for the term is hotly debated, but most cite Gael Greene as first to coin the term in a 1980 New York Magazine article. She writes of a character who “slips into the small Art Deco dining room of Restaurant d’Olympe … to graze cheeks with her devotees, serious foodies.” Since then, the word has spawned three million Instagram accounts and a smattering of Portlandia episodes. Is there room for a much less discerning foodie? I’ve been known to entertain that day old slice of pizza or the questionable street cart egg sandwich. I was in Philly this past weekend, and whenever in my hometown, I must acquire a hoagie. A Wawa shortie to be …

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Day Job: I Work for a Temporary Tattoo Company

Yng in her Tattlys. (Photo: Ace Boothby/Tattly) Yng-Ru Chen is the head of partnerships at Tattly, a company that makes artful, fun and often elaborate temporary tattoos. (We had one made for our first TueNight birthday party.) Her Tattly partner work even brought her to an easter party at the White House! We wanted to ask Yng-Ru what it was like to work for one of the coolest Brooklyn-based teams, and quiz her, Prosustian-style, on her work essentials and career history. Tell us in your own words: What are Tattlys exactly? That’s a fun question to answer. Tattly is a temporary tattoo company that adults seems to love as much, if not more than kids. All of the designs are by amazing artists who receive royalties from the sales. What exactly do you do for Tattly? As head of partnerships I work on developing clients for the custom Tattly side of the business, I oversee the events we do, I manage our large licensing properties and I create relationships with partners so that our tiny, …

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Margit’s Note: Tattoo You (Not Me)

(Photo: Farrah Braniff/SusanGoldberg.com) I’m on a fast track to 50 and yet… when I half-jokingly ask my mother, as a preface to this issue, how she would feel if I got a tattoo she swiftly responds with a “No.” Okay, Mom. What about a commemorative, post-chemo… “Nope.” Despite Mom’s protestations, I’ve considered it. I just have zero idea of what I’d get. What’s worth a perma-doodle for my forearm? What witty, sums-it-all-up phrase could I see peeking out of a backless dress? (If I wore backless dresses.) There are plenty of tattoos I see and think, “Now why didn’t I think of that??” See this week’s theme image for the perfect example. Yet, nothing has me rushing to get needle and inked. More than likely, I’d get a tattoo, tire of it and end up with a Johnny Depp “Wino Forever” travesty. I have a poor track record with body modifications in general — a heavy, dangling feather earring in 10th grade resulted in a torn earlobe. I’ve been a clip-ons wearer ever since. But never …

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Ovarian Rhapsody: It’s a Bird. It’s a Plane. It’s… Cancer Lady?

I am a superhero. Stronger than a shot of Lovenox into my body — twice a day! Powerful enough to withstand my first surgery ever! (Wait, make that two surgeries in two months.) Able to shave my entire head and utter, “Pssh that tweren’t so bad.” You see, even though cancer, chemo and the ensuing side effects are hellish, there is a bright side: Sometimes, I actually feel like a badass. I strut into Duane Reade, bald head shiny and a-blazing, all sweatpants and felt slip-ons, ready to pick up my meds. I look people right in the eyeball. Yup, that’s me — Cancer Lady. Cape on. Power up the invisible jet. Since my ovarian cancer diagnosis last November, and especially since undergoing chemotherapy, there are things I’ve dealt with things that I never thought I’d be able to withstand. Before, I could barely even give my cat Alice a shot in her little fleshy parts, let alone my own. Now? Hell, I’m a pro. My super powers don’t end there. My sense of smell …

Margit’s Note: Are You Up?

I am too tired to write this editor’s note for our second SLEEP issue. So I decided to delegate. You fancy folks call it “crowdsourcing.” To that end, I posed seven very important questions on Facebook: The respondents numbered 50. Forty-seven women and three dudes. I cut it off there because it’s a nice number and time’s a-ticking. You snooze, you lose. To outsource this even further, I enlisted FancyHands.com to turn my Facebook post into a spreadsheet so I could easily sort the data. Perhaps this issue should have been called LAZY… Nonetheless, the answers were fascinating-ish. Here’s what we uncovered: Favorite Sleeping Position: Thirty-three (66%) of you are side sleepers. Six (12%) of you noted “always on the left,” and four (8%) of you noted “always on the right.” You four might want to read this article because apparently you’re doing it all wrong according to this very reputable site called OMGFacts. Seven (14%) of you are back sleepers, and one of those described her prone position thusly: “Flat on my back arms …

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Ovarian Rhapsody: The Routine of My Dreams

Sunday morning. Tea. CNN muttering in the background. My husband has made eggs with pesto. I’m going through old mail and sorting it into “recycle it” or “shred it.” The cat is snoring on the couch. It’s a lovely boring day. Finally I have energy. My brain feels clear and crisp; I can do mundane physical tasks, even multitask. Ah, doing too many things at once. I feel like I’m back to my old semi-healthy self — yippee! The reason for my vim and vigor is in part due to a new chemotherapy routine. What was once every week is now every three. My doc decided to switch things up because I wasn’t tolerating the chemo well and the side effects were mounting. More importantly, she was acting on a report in the New England Journal of Medicine — released only two weeks prior —that had determined that my every week “dose dense” treatment wasn’t as effective for ovarian cancer patients as getting it every three weeks. Say what? This is how fast cancer research …

Margit’s Note: What a Mess

Spring cleaning! One of my favorite times of year — no joke. It’s when I go all Kondo on my apartment, roll up my socks, fold them ever so nicely into drawers, parse out items designated for donations or the annual stoop sale and generally de-clutter my world. Of course this year I haven’t exactly felt up to the task, but I’ve enlisted a friend Stormy (aptly named — to tackle a whirlwind of mess) to help me out. Stormy’s been coming twice a week to help me with some basic tasks as I go through chemo (making freezable meals, running to the post office and dry cleaners etc) but on the weeks I feel better we’ve been organizing. It’s truly her strength and something that genuinely gets me focused on the future – and excited. Watching stacks of old magazines get the boot. Witnessing a pantry filled with expired cans of beans get transformed into a thing of useable beauty. “This shelf is for cans, this section for cereal and snacks, here are your towels” …

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Margit’s Note: The Prince Issue

Over the weekend, I watched the MTV broadcast of Purple Rain (more than a few times). Listening to the song, “Beautiful Ones,” I was thrown back to my shag-carpeted, high school-era bedroom, lifting the needle to play the song over and over, tearing up over an unrequited crush, caterwauling along with Prince. “Do you want him? Or do you want me? Cause I want you…Baby, baby, baby listen to me…” Prince was passion. Purple, ruffle-sleeved passion. He evangelized it. Over-the-top emotion infused his lyrics, music, guitar licks and that knowingly seductive glare (that Fred Armisen hilariously captures in his SNL impression). And as impressionable youngins, we learned everything we ever wanted to know about sex from Prince. Wendy? Yes, Lisa. For me, along with Bowie (stop taking them away!), Prince was a musical vanguard who launched my own fascination in the possibilities of music and sound. Like any true artist, he’s given us a gift that will outlive his time on planet earth. And, guaranteed, if we’re all still here we’ll be dancing to “1999” in …

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Ovarian Rhapsody: Side Effects, Unfiltered

Rock the Taxol. (Photo credit: Margit Detweiler/TueNight) I’m lying flat on the bed with just yoga pants on. My legs are propped up on a stack of pillows. I can’t muster enough energy to finish getting dressed this morning, so here I am, half nude. My mind wanders to that hilarious Bill Murray SNL skit about an out-of-shape Hercules and his bad back. “If I lie flat like this it will fix itself!” If only. My entire left side feels swollen and pricked with pins and needles — it’s probably neuropathy, a chemo side effect. Yet…  I can’t be sure if this is actual neuropathy or the fact that I have a recently developed a blood clot in my leg. Or that I now have a new toe infection because of the clot, because of the chemo, or because of surgery. Who knows. The icing on the cake? I have a cold so I’m coughing and hacking and sneezing out chunks of blood. The blood thinners I’m on, to combat the clot, make bleeding from any orifice …

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Margit’s Note: Nothing to See Here

(Graphic: Helen Jane Hearn/TueNight) Chances are when you hear the word “Censored”, you think of the PMRC, 1985, Tipper Gore, Frank Zappa, 2 Live Crew and the beginning of parental advisory labels — if you’re a Gen-Xer. If you’re under 35 you’re probably like, huh? It’s funny to think back on how little effect the PMRC ultimately had on shutting down artistic expression; you just have to watch a tv zombie get a spike through its eye or sing along with the “explicit” version of Nicki Minaj’s “Starships” to know we’re in a brave new world. We spent the night inside Sheena Easton’s coulda-been-censored  “Sugar Walls” and never looked back. Or, did we. (I mean, I didn’t. But anyway….) Censorship may have a shiny new banner. It was reported recently that Apple has developed new technology that automatically scans and removes swear words from music — and books. Of course that’s by choice, for now. Stand-up comics at colleges are being required to “keep it clean.” And as we watch social media grow in influence, we …

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Ovarian Rhapsody: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Upon hearing you have cancer, the thing people will ask you about, more than anything else, more than your diagnosis, more than the treatment, more than surgery: “But will you lose your hair??” And that’s only the executive summary of queries. Will you wear a wig? Are you doing a synthetic or human hair wig? Will you shave it off? Will it fall out? Won’t it be easier not to shampoo your hair? Does it fall out down there? (Yes, if you must know. Easiest Brazilian ever.) One friend suggested a cold cap? “You can keep your hair that way!” she said. Cold cap? Huh? Like many things related to cancer which I’d never thought about before in my life, this sent me down the Google rabbit hole on a process which is about $600 a month where, during chemotherapy, you wear an iced cap on your head which has to be changed at least every hour and kept in the infusion center’s refrigerator. It’s painful, it’s expensive. No thanks. I already had enough of that. …

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Margit’s Note: Are We Halfway to the Rainy Day?

I don’t plan on retiring. Or maybe I’ve just never put much thought into it. Ok, let’s be honest. I actively avoid thinking about it. My mom, a septuagenarian, still works and my Dad, just a bit older than that (though he’s told me he’s 29 for as long as I can remember) only recently retired in the last few years. He still does volunteer work at such a clip that it might as well be a full-time job. They love what they do, it isn’t exactly work, it’s a livelihood. I feel the same way about my work — writing, editing and making fabulous web sites. So why retire? I know — life has a way of interrupting the best laid plans. I’m hopeful I can do what I do until I keel over and, ideally, get paid for it. It’s a terrible course of action. It’s the classic Gen-X approach to retirement: “Gen-X is sleeping through its retirement wake-up call. Starting to turn 50, they’re acting like they’re 30.” Who, me? Don’t get …

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Ovarian Rhapsody: Choosing Your Cancer Hero

“This chair pattern is driving me nuts,” says my husband. We are sitting in NYU’s waiting room, about to meet the first oncologist on my list. “And isn’t it funny how they have to put those dots across the glass so people don’t run into the pane?” My husband, the architect, is always analyzing how a room could be better or why certain design choices are made. I’m looking around too, making different kinds of notes. A hushed room, friendly staff Bundled up cancer patients — some with caps, some with wigs — reading “courtesy of NYU” People magazine A bit depressing, but of course it is Red couches accented by intertwining geometric shapes made to look cheery but not too fun You never know, some of this random detail might help me select my doctor and my choice of cancer care. No, really. After scores of friend-of-a-friend suggestions, scouring RateMds ratings, New York magazine best doctor lists and insurance coverage checks, I narrowed my list of possible oncologists down to two: one at NYU Langone …

Margit’s Note: How to Get Away With Bingeing

I’ve watched everything. All of the shows. Jessica Jones, Episodes, Billions, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (genius), House of Cards (finally)… you know what, I’m not even going to list them. You know what they are, and it’s all of them. As I’ve had up days and many more down days lately (due to this stuff), I’ve spent a lot of time streaming TV, movies, podcasts and anything else that is entertaining, distracting and pleasantly sedative. I’ll admit, it got kind of strange when I started DVRing The People’s Couch on Bravo, an actually hilarious show where you watch real families, best friends, sisters, etc. watch must-see or cringe-worthy TV like Scandal, Jane the Virgin, Grease Live or #HTGAWM (and if you don’t know what that is, well, maybe it’s time to close this issue.) Seriously. I’d never heard of the People’s Couch, but it’s been on for like four years, so clearly I’m not alone in being entertained. Although my fellow TV addict and our social media manager Karen Gerwin chides me, “I feel bad enough about …

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Margit’s Note: Votes, Valentines and Vuitton

This week we’re going for a 3-for-1 theme: Politics, Love and Fashion. With the primaries in full swing, Fashion Week taking over NYC tomorrow and Valentine’s Day around the corner, they all kinda go together in some strange way, don’t they? Just ask Derek Zoolander and Hansel who explained this eloquently on Weekend Update (“Bernie’s a big fan of the 99%. 99% off at J.C. Penny.”). We love — or love to hate — our candidates, and we are so wrapped up in the way they present themselves. A comfy mauve pantsuit, a stacked high heel cowboy boot, a fluttering orange toupee. One minute a candidate is in vogue, the next she’s yesterday’s SNL skit. But we do our best to avoid the 24-hour Twitter-induced panic and remember who really deserves our vote. We travel to far-flung places to do the right thing, buck trends to stay true to the styles we love and share a stylish obsession with a candidate we’d never vote for. Hailing from a family of staunch Republicans, I left for …

tuenight drugs margit detweiler ovarian cancer

The Waiting Room: Details of a Diagnosis

“Fakakta…shit.” “Fakakta…shit.” In a packed radiologist’s waiting room in midtown NYC, a 70-something woman sits next to me, scribbling in a stack of forms and muttering loudly in Yiddish-English. “Fakakta…shit.” The woman says this roughly every 10 minutes.  I want to whisper to her, “My feelings exactly.” I’m here to get a precautionary mammogram to rule out any additional cancer. Four days prior, I learned that I had — well, what looked like — ovarian cancer and, because my mother and grandmother had breast cancer, my gynecologist thought we should rule out B.C.  Hopefully, I wasn’t a cancer factory. This brown-carpeted clinic smells like sanitizer and sadness. I fumble with my keys in my jacket pocket. I’m still zipped up in my puffy orange coat, ready to get in and get out because this isn’t me. This isn’t me. Fakakta…shit. *** Allow me to back up and start from the beginning of this C craze. Back in September of 2015, I’d bled for five days. Hey, we ladies bleed; not weird, right? Well it was weird …

Margit’s Note: Altered States

As someone who is going through a crazy mixed-up illness, drugs have become my lifeline and a new curiosity. The last time I smoked pot in earnest (am I sure I’m not running for president ever? No? Oh, it doesn’t matter anymore? Ok, continue…) was several lifetimes ago, but with New York now making medicinal marijuana legal, my interest is piqued. Also, because a friend told me her chemo treatment was saved by smoking pot, that the opiates her docs prescribed made her ill. While legal for medicinal reasons, it’s still not easy to access — there’s only one dispensary and there are convoluted protocols and an online course you have to take before your doctor can write that particular prescription. Not easy. In lieu of that, friends have offered to hook me up. One pal texted me that she’d happily drop off some “special legal chocolate… if I like that sort of thing. I was like, “sure, I looove chocolate. But um, isn’t it always legal?” not getting her gist for the first five …