I skate on the American River Bike Trail in Sacramento, which is an off-road trail for bicyclists, runners and yes, roller-skaters. Before recently, I’d only ever biked, run and walked the trail. What I’ve noticed since I began skating on the trail is that, without failure, when men on bicycles pass me, they give me a wide birth. And most say something pleasant to me like, “way to make it up that hill,” or, “nice job.” Some have even commented on my assets.

Women on the other hand, without failure, ride as close to me as they can while passing. A total bitch move. One woman this past weekend even came to a screeching stop beside me and said, “Oh God, I didn’t even see you. I almost hit you.” Seriously? So she didn’t see the electric purple shorts with the fluorescent green stripe and the arms and legs flailing out behind me? Total bitch move.

This got me wondering. Before I became a skater, when I rode my bike past someone on rollerblades, did I pull a bitch move and nearly sideswipe every skater I came across? The answer? Probably. Because, until I started training for this inline marathon, I thought skating was easy. Something people (mostly chicks) did because they were afraid of real exercise. A TOTAL bitch thought!

This got me thinking. We all know that female dogs are bitches. Even my precious little Annabelle Hope is a bitch.

And not just because she’s a female dog. Annabelle will wait until her brother is done eating before she starts eating her own food just to torture the already anxiety-ridden boy. A total bitch move. And when Max steps inside the perimeter of her personal  space, she growls ferociously and lunges at him. Another bitch move.

And I don’t even think I need to tell you about my two female cats. They are total bitches.

And then I realized that being a bitch is not species-related. Being a bitch is an attitude. Like the one I get when I pay nearly $5 for a Latte at Starbucks and it doesn’t even taste good (my husband can vouch for this).  Or when I’m tired or hungry and you want me to do something (anything) that I don’t want to do.

If you’ve followed my blog for any length of time, you know I’ve tried to blame my bitch-ness on Dr. Evil, and Mini-Me. I’ve tried to blame it on cancer and surgery and anesthesia. But the truth is, I can be a bitch. I can be a bitch.

I can be a bitch.

And I am hereby and forever owning my inner-bitch. In fact, I’ve decided to start a movement.

The Bitch Movement.

It’ll be an exclusive club, not everyone can join because, well, not everyone is a bitch. My mother would never have been allowed in because she simply didn’t have a mean bone in her body. My sister Pamela might not even be granted membership. Here are the rules of membership:

1. Must have committed at least three bitch moves in the past six months
2. Must provide a sworn affidavit of at least one of said bitch moves (note: husbands are usually more than willing to sign affidavits)
3. Must be willing to proudly display membership logo (see below).

You too can be a card-carrying member of the Bitch Movement. Membership cost is $10. Here is what you get:

1. Laminated wallet card certifying that you have joined the Bitch Movement
2. A t-shirt (specify size) with the Bitch Movement logo
3. A Bitch Movement bumper sticker

To enroll one of your pets, please include a photo of the animal engaged in a bitch move.

Membership not limited to females only. What about you? What was your last bitch move?

In the early 80’s, my sister Diane and I had a circuit of bars we hung out on during the weekends, depending on what band was playing where. One of our favorites was a band called White Fox. There were two members of the band, both female. One of them was my mini-me.

Though I’d never met her, it was not uncommon for people to approach me, call me Janet, and talk to me as if I knew who they were and what they were talking about. And then one night, Diane and I were hanging out, minding our own business, when Janet herself approached me.

“You must be Suzanne,” she said. “People have been mistaking me for you for some time now and I must say, I can see why. In fact, you look more like me than my actual twin does.” And then she told me that her parents were there that night and would I mind coming over to meet them. “Not at all,” I said.

Janet’s parents were flabbergasted when they saw me. They took pictures of the two of us together. I met Janet’s fraternal twin, and her parents joked that Fraternal Twin and I must’ve been switched at birth. Could be, I said, but then that would mean that you also misplaced seven other daughters because I look exactly like my seven sisters.

A few years later, as I was visiting my parents in San Francisco (I still lived in Chicago then), I attended a holiday barbeque at their condominium complex. I watched as my father approached Dwight Clark (wide receiver for the San Francisco Forty Niners ) and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” my father said. “You must be Dwight Clark. People around here have been mistaking me for you ever since you moved in. I hope you don’t mind, but I signed a few autographs on your behalf.”

Dwight roared with laughter, as did my mother and I and Joe (Montana, who also lived in the building). “I must admit,” Dwight said, “the resemblance is uncanny.” And it is. See for yourself:

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What about you? Do you have a doppleganger?

Last weekend I was at a board meeting for my local RWA (Romance Writers of America) chapter, and afterward, one of the women asked if I was excited about my upcoming surgery (the final surgery in the mastectomy/reconstruction process). Another friend chimed in and said, “yeah, you’ll have bionic boobs afterward, what fun!”

The truth is, I have the bionic boobs now. This Thursday I’ll be trading them in for real boobs. Well, as close to real as you can get when you actually have no real boobs left. And I will gladly say goodbye to the bionic ones. They are not all they’re cracked up to be.

In terms of the excitement part of the question, I guess I am pretty excited about it. At least, as excited as I can be considering I haven’t felt real excitement about anything since my whole journey began last April. And why is that?

It’s because someone stole my Mojo.

Seriously, now that I think about it, I’m convinced that someone has been sneaking into my room at night and syphoning it off, little by little.

And who might that someone be? Well, he’d have to be small enough so that my dogs wouldn’t see him, Evil enough to actually steal someone’s Mojo, and clever enough to take just enough each time that I wouldn’t miss it until sometime down the road.

And then, when I thought about this I knew, without a doubt, who it was:

But seriously. I keep telling myself that I was lucky. That my stage .5 breast cancer diagnosis could have been so much worse. That I didn’t have to have chemo or radiation or both. And it’s true. All of it is true. But it’s also true that having a bilateral mastectomy is a major life event for any woman, regardless of the circumstances. That it takes its toll on you physically, mentally and emotionally. And there is no getting around it. It zaps you of your Mojo. And I’m tired of trying to convince myself otherwise.

I’ve been crankier than normal for some time now. Have reacted to situations in ways I never would normally. Have felt devoid of the joy I used to feel in my everyday life. And until my Mojo returns—and I know it will—I’m going to stop expecting so much from myself. Stop pretending that I’m fine when I’m not. Allow myself to say that what happened to me sucks because it does. It really sucks.

What about you? What struggles have worn you down, and how did you pick yourself back up and move back into the land of the living?

Repost from January 21, 2014