"Today?", replied the boy. "Why, Christmas Day."

"I haven't missed it."

We've been in the new house for a year now, a year ago yesterday, actually. Mom and Dad keep saying that this year went by so fast and that they still can't believe that it's been more than two since they first got it into their heads that they'd be able to buy this place.

They hired a guy, Gerry, to paint the whole house and it was fun for me 'cause he'd bring his puppy, Duncan, with him once in a while. I liked playing with him (and with his super-cool velcro-covered soccer ball), but I didn't much care for getting blamed for his "accidents". Gerry implicated me in the "Laundry Room Incident", but I don't think Dad believed it for a minute. If my Dad was anything like his Dad, he'd have had the belt off his pants, makin' like Buddy Rich on my backside before you could say "scarred for life".

I've had quite a year, myself. I won't go over the details again in this posting, though. I know how it makes some people scared and others just sad, but it's not such a depressing tale of woe, really. I'm having a great time! Mom and Dad got a tree (my first) and I got to open a few presents early! (They weren't home and the presents weren't really for me, but, hey, if they're on the floor--they're mine!) I even have a Christmas video on YouTube...

Mom and Dad said that since I've been such a good girl, Santa will come tonight. (I hope they left his name at the guard shack). I suppose a velcro-covered soccer ball might be nice, but Santa, if you happen to read my blog, just between you and me, we already have everything we could ever want...

Merry Christmas, everyone!

What About Me?

I'd overheard Mom & Dad talking about how they were going to go away for another long weekend before the end of the summer. Actually, I snooped Mom's history on AOL and figured out that they were planning a trip to Ithaca, NY. It's a quaint college town nestled up in the foothills in the Finger Lakes region. It's got small town charm energized by a large student population from Cornell University and Ithaca College, rustic B&B's, good restaurants and BLAH,BLAH, FREAKIN' BLAH...

Hey, what about ME??!!!

Now, you all know that I'm not the complaining type, but geez, yet another jolt of radiation and right back into the kennel for another swell weekend of concrete smackin' good times! Come On!

I put my foot down and demanded that they do something for me for a change. Mom thought that it sounded like a good idea, but Dad asked "Do you think all the money I've spent on radiation and vaccines was for ME?" Since I'd finished the last of the treatments a few days before all of this came up, I felt emboldened enough to join Mom in "laughing him off". Looking back, I don't really remember anyone laughing...


When Mom asked me where I wanted to go for my special day, I could think of only one place -- Coney Island. I'd been dreaming of the day when I could relive my mispent youth by hanging out on the boardwalk, drinking beer from a can hidden in a paper bag, getting wasted and going for a ride on the Wonder Wheel. They agreed to take me, but Dad said that I couldn't have any beer because of my meds and that he would get drunk for the both of us. I clearly remember Mom NOT laughing at that.


Boy, did we have a swell time. I put on my "Pits For Peace" shirt and strolled the boardwalk for a while. A few people even stopped to take my picture! The live-human-target "Shoot The Freak" paintball attraction was closed (bummer), so we headed to Deno's Wonder Wheel Amusement Park. I went on the Bumper Cars and the Spook House Ride and tried to win some stuffed animals at the "One In Wins" stand. After we noshed a few red hots at Nathan's, we all went up for a ride on the Wonder Wheel! It's a really tall, really cool, 85+ year old Ferris Wheel, but I wasn't scared at all!
You can see for miles from up there! The wide beach and ocean, Brighton Beach, the New York Aquarium, the Cyclone roller coaster, soon to close Astroland Amusement Park, the old Parachute Drop ride... even Manhattan! Come along for the ride with me!





We were up so high up and were having so much fun that, even if for just a few spins around that big old wheel, it felt as if we were soaring far away from all the sad things we'd left on the ground. And hey, you know, from waaay up there, everything looks a million miles away...

Still Here...

Alberto Gonzales? -- gone. Tony Snow -- gone. Karl Rove -- gone. Roxanne Murtagh?-- still here!

You, the loyal readers of this blog, seem well aware of my medical condition. You know that I was diagnosed with cancer and that I've had to undergo a course of radiation treatments and vaccinations that have taken a toll on my delicate Pit Bull constitution. Could one of you PLEASE inform my parents??? They did it to me again. They once again decided to go on vacation in the middle of my health crisis and toss me into a kennel. Oh, that's right, I forgot -- "Don't get sick in the summer!" Two vacations within the month? What are they all of a sudden -- FRENCH?

This time they went on a short trip to, of all places, The Adirondack mountains. Now, I understand the 'Dacks are beautiful and all, but let's face it, when you think of my parents (not that you do, but if you had to), images of them hiking through the woods, "bagging peaks", canoeing and rock climbing don't automatically spring into view. More likely, and rightly so, this is the appropriate picture. They accepted a gracious offer from some friends to join them at a house they'd rented in "the middle of nowhere" (Dad's words). It was pointed out to them that while the house was situated on an unpaved road that was a turnoff from yet another unpaved road, it was closer to "the edge" of nowhere than the middle of it. I think Mom and Dad felt a little more at ease after hearing this -- until they were told of the recent Black Bear sightings, that is.

Here's a short video that was taken on one of the ledges on Pitchoff Mountain.

Dad went on the hike.

Mom went to the Art Fair.

Hungry after the hike (and the Art Fair), everyone gathered around the kitchen and dining room for a lot of great food... Leila's mini BLT's, Emily's appetizers and Marnie's corn salad and whole wheat fruit tarts (two separate items) were highlights. RR's breakfasts of apple pancakes, french toast and cheesy omelets were amazing -- so I'm told. So I'm told, because while they were relaxing up in the mountains, I was in North Plainfield freakin' New Jersey contracting Kennel Cough from that annoying Pomeranian in the next "suite". Suite? A quarter-inch thick, placemat-sized, artificial-lambswool-throw-rug and something called an "elimination patio" isn't exactly what I'd imagined a suite to be. ("Excuse me, Massimo, which way to the spa, per favore?)

Enough about them. As for me, I went for my last radiation treatment a couple of days after they got back. I think the combination of my being overly tired from the kennel coupled with the expected cumulative effect of the treatments left me kinda wiped out. I wasn't hungry (apparently a major cause for concern) and for reasons I won't go into, was put on a regimen of Pepto-Bismol and Immodium.

Thankfully, after a worrysome few days, I started eating again and was back to my "regular" habit of eliminating, not on the patio, but on the edge of the Bear-free woods just across the paved street in front of my very own house.

Patios, if you ask me, are best left for BBQ's and beer...

Where's The Love?

Sorry it's taken so long for me to bring you this update. I thought that the silence from this end would heighten the dramatic tension that all of you were feeling. I thought it would trigger an avalanche of well-wishing cards and letters, encouraging comments to the blog, phone calls. Increased traffic to my YouTube videos, maybe. As it turns out, I thought wrong. No calls, no cards, no comments. No extra hits. Truth be told, I was feeling pretty down about it. "Nobody cares about me." "If only I'd been born a Jack Russell Terrier!" and "Why, oh why, did I have to go and get sick in August when so many people are away on vacation?" were among my many self-pitying thoughts. I was inconsolable.

I think, in some bizarre way, Dad was just trying to cheer me up when he shared his theory that people weren't "showing me the love" because they thought I'd already... how do I put this, well, you know... been tossed my last biscuit. That's crazy! Just because people knew that I'd been diagnosed with a malignant melanoma, given a bleak prognosis and been informed that the proposed treatments were deemed both experimental and expensive and that Mom and Dad were planning a vacation immediately following a scheduled visit to the vet... oh, crap! I was beginning to see his point. I'd heard the whispers at the Dog Park about "the farm". The saying at the park was "The PeeBee's get the meds, the Freebies just get dead." The old timers would explain to the pups that owners of the PeeBees -- the purebreds -- always went the extra mile for their prized investments while the mutts, mongrels and shelter dogs -- the Freebies -- were shipped off to this farm..."upstate". Hey, it may make you may feel better to sugar coat bad news, (the worst news, really), but look, we're dogs, not gullible 4 year old kids. We know the score.

Luckily for me, though, Mom & Dad are suckers for my adorable belligerence and my weepy doe eyes and decided to treat my like a PeeBee and pull out all the stops. Currently I'm in the middle of a course of 4 targeted radiation treatments and I'm scheduled for my second vaccination Friday afternoon.

The route down to the vet's office takes us past a few farms and, I admit, they do look pretty nice. Somehow, though, they look a lot more beautiful to me... on the ride back home.

The "C" Word

In case you haven't heard by now, my test results came back from the vet last week, and just like my Dad in his first semester of freshman physics at NJIT, I got a "C". The BIG "C", actually.
The tumor on my tongue turned out to be a malignant melanoma. We were hoping for something benign, or at the very least, a somewhat less aggressive form of cancer, but alas, what was made painfully clear by that "C" in freshman physics (and by the conspicuous absence of a Jaguar convertible in Dad's Christmas stocking), is that you don't always get what you wish for.


My vet, Dr. Bacon, recommended that we consult with another practice, the Red Bank Veterinary Hospital, in Lincroft. He said that they are the most advanced facility in the state and feature, in addition to many other specialties, an oncology department. He prepared my records and my films (doctor lingo for my chest x-rays) and wrote a letter about my case for the new doc. Mom was reading the letter and I thought the worst when, right at the end, I caught her wiping a tear from her eye. It wasn't so bad, really. Well, yeah, the diagnosis was bad, and the prognosis wasn't good, but I felt a lot better when I found out that what made her cry was that Dr. Bacon ended his letter with... "Roxanne is a nice dog and deserves your best care."

He said I was a nice dog. Now I think I'm gonna cry.


We trekked down to this mecca of pet medicine the following Saturday morning. The place is amazing! It's freakin' ginormous! Automatic doors, flat screen TV's, separate exam rooms for Dentristy, Opthamology, Oncology, Allergies and Skin Disorders, Emergency, Surgery... you name it. Granite everywhere! They even have their own Pharmacy. We checked in, watched a little Animal Planet on the TV and waited to be called.


We met with the Oncologist, the tall, cute Dr. Clifford. He had a diploma on the wall from Penn, which, I'm told, is one of the foremost Veterinary Schools in the country. I liked him a lot. He didn't come across like one of those Med School dropouts who went into pet medicine because it would just be way too embarrassing to become a chiropractor. He really seemed to like animals. Well, he liked me, anyway.


My bloodwork looked good and my lungs sounded OK, though I may have a bit of a heart murmur. He recommended radiation therapy for my tongue and said that I was a good candidate for the new vaccine (yea!). Mom and Dad asked about any side effects and Dr. Clifford said I shouldn't have any problems, that I was "a tank." A tank! He then must've remembered what Dr. Bacon wrote about me because he added, smiling, "a very nice tank..."



Mom looked to set up the appointments for the treatments and Dad went to the cashier to, as he put it, "pay for some of this fine granite..."

Next entry: Under The Gun: My Drugged Up Rendezvous With Dr. McDreamy

Cat Got Your Tongue?

Well, as it tuns out, it's entirely possible that they just might have fed a piece of my tongue to one of those crazy cats at the animal clinic. Let me explain...

Some of you may know that I went in for surgery this morning to remove a growth that had appeared on the underside of my tongue. Mom & Dad (JoeAndRose to you) noticed a little bleeding coming from the right side of my mouth a couple of weeks ago, and at first thought it might be a problem tooth, or maybe some gum disease. When I finally let them take a really good look for the cause (I'm not keen on people poking around inside my mouth), they found the growth. I'll spare you the gory details, but it didn't look good, what with the blood and the puss and the... oops, sorry, no gory details.

So back to Dr. Quin at the Cedar Lane Animal Clinic we went. Avid Oh, Roxanne! readers will remember that I'd just been to the vet and had gotten a clean bill of health. Since it was a last minute appointment, we couldn't get Dr. Quin, instead getting his boss, the founder of the clinic, Dr. Bacon. (If you have any suggestions for a funny line about a vet named Bacon, feel free to pass it on.) He took a quick look (and feel) and didn't like what he saw (or felt). While Dr. Quin has an easygoing, "everything's gonna be O.K., pass the hookah", child of the '60's way about him, Dr. Bacon has a more "There's no point in me painting a rosy picture about things" way about him. While I know the information and prognosis being passed along would be the same either way, I think I definitely prefer "groovy" to "doom and gloomy".

The humans in the room decided to schedule the surgery to remove the mass and have it biopsied. The procedure would involve removing a portion of my tongue, attempting to get all of the mass and salvaging as much of the tongue as possible. Right before the surgery, Dad asked Dr. Bacon if there would be a discount if he could do everyone a favor and remove Mom's tongue, too. Dad, Dr. Bacon and I were all having a good laugh until we realized that Mom wasn't laughing so much. Not at all, really. She was shooting daggers Dad's way, and quite frankly, I was pretty glad at that moment to succumb to the heavy dose of Special K they'd shot into me. Ravers use this stuff to stay up all night? Really? Me, I was out like a freakin' light.

Dr. Bacon performed the surgery and so far,I still have most of my tongue. Only a small portion was removed, really. I hope he got it all...

I'm home now, resting up, looking forward to my Dad's birthday extravaganza. He's the only one who calls it that. Mom just calls him an idiot. I think I'll take my pain medication now...

This Is A Vacation?

I thought we were going to visit my vet Dr. Quinn again. Or maybe a trip to that crazy dog park. Either of those would have been better. Actually, I really like going to see Dr. Quinn, my vet. I'm not at all like some of those dogs who whine and shake and try to squirm their way out of the car to avoid a trip to the vet. Even if I didn't like it, I'm smart enough to know that running off into traffic is probably not the smartest idea and would just result in me being brought back to the vet, with my Mom crying and shouting things like "Oh, God!" and "My baby! Help my baby!!!" and such with me all crumpled up, half moaning and half wheezing with that pathetic look on my face like those dogs you see being dragged into the ASPCA clinic on the show Animal Precinct on Animal Planet. Dr. Quinn is a really cool, caring vet and his warm, supple hands have this soothing, calming effect on me, even when he's probing and prodding me in all my most unmentionable areas. He's not quite as good as a top flight Korean Spa sponge bath lady, but almost...
I digress. I was about to tell you about how my hopes for a fun day out for a ride in the car were dashed when I realized where we were headed. I should've been paying more attention as my parents were packing bags and bickering about the packing of the bags and about how late it was, that they were going through their semi-annual ritual known around here as Trip-a-Palooza. "Do you have the tickets?""Where's the phone?""I forgot to cancel the paper!""Is that your biggest problem right now?""What time are we supposed to leave?"... Aye, yai, yai. It's like this every time! The real issue for me is that when they go away, I get shipped off to jail. I get put in a kennel to spend my days surrounded by over-indulged, separation anxietized prima donnas who's idea of a good time is barking from the second they wake up till the moment they fall asleep, exhausted. Now, I'm not a barker. Never have been. But on occasion I have been known to let out an unexpected yelp or two. And, oh, to what effect! But these sad sacks just bark and bark, with no effect and seriously cut into my nap time. I know I shouldn't, but because I get so pissed at them, I sometimes needle them into hysteria by telling them that their families have moved to Arizona and are never coming back. "It happens all the time," I tell them. (I know it's wrong, but when I'm tired, I'm cranky. And when I'm cranky, watch out!) The place is called Best Friendsand it really isn't such a bad place, I guess. I always get back at my Mom and Dad a little by running up to the workers and following them off into the kennel without even looking back. I won't give them the satisfaction of that over-the-shoulder, "don't do this to me" forlorn look they so desperately need. They want to lock me up for the weekend, they're gonna have to suffer a little, too. Actually, it's not all that bad, really, and I always look forward to that bath I get right before they come to pick me up. Sleeping in a puddle of you own urine can be fun for a couple of days, but even a tough girl like me can appreciate coming home to her own comfy bed...

I'll fill you in on their trip... after I catch up on my sleep.

It's Been a While

I guess I'm not really cut out for this blogging thing. Prolific, I'm not. I've been so busy with auditions and getting my head shots redone (what a ripoff!)(don't ask!) and a whole bunch of other time wasters that have kept me from adding new entries. When I visit other bloggers it's apparent that all the things that distract me from blogging are the very things I should be blogging about! If I don't get it together soon, they'll revoke my official Blogger's License (and I probably won't get my $200 back, either).Until then, Happy Easter!

And The Oscar Goes To...

The Academy Awards were last week and as I sat there watching, even the Chunky Monkey I was devouring couldn't keep the melancholy from welling up inside. As some of you know, I am an actress. I still call myself "actress" and not "actor" like some of today's stars do. They do it, I think, to lend an air of respectability to their craft, which as far as I can tell is mostly playing one dimensional, gum-snapping, bubble-headed eye candy. I do it mostly because, well, let's face it, I'm not the most feminine looking gal on the block. I can't tell you how many times I've heard people ask my parents things like, "Does he bite?" "Has he ever killed anyone?" and "How do you sleep at night knowing that he could "click on" at any moment and rip your throats out?" It's frustrating. Why can't SHE ever rip their throats out?!!?
Anyway, I was sad because I was watching my peers parade up onto that grand stage to accept accolades for their performances in roles that I know I was more suited for had I not been ostracised by the Hollywood community (humility, Ben & Jerry's and a half a box of Chardonnay do not go hand in hand). Time after time I've been passed over for parts because of my looks, or worse, because of my checkered past. Hey, I'm not the only actress who was forced to walk the streets at an early age, have babies and then give them up for adoption (all eleven of them). I'm just the only honest one. I know you think I'm just another whack-job blogger living in her own fantasy world dripping in her own self-absorbed-ed-ness-ness (?), but I have proof... I need you to bear with me here. I need you to go to YouTube and start the Jim Carrey interview with David Letterman. You don't have to sit thru the whole thing. Let it load, then fast forward to the 7:42 mark... It's a clip from his new movie The Number 23. See if you can spot the part I was up for, then come back. Use this link... Jim Carrey on Letterman Go 'head, do it now... then come right back.
OK, hopefully you've figured out that I was being considered for the part of the "creepy, yet sophisticated bully-breed with a heart of gold" sitting there in the middle of the street. My agent told me they were looking for a cross between "a young Cujo and a somewhat less standoff-ish Gwyneth Paltrow type". We both thought I'd be perfect for it. Check out the audition reel I sent them... then come back.
Well? Whaddya think? Am I crazy or am I the only one who thinks that that saggy jowled, unconvincing, mouth breathing half-breed got the part instead of me 'cause she'd been allowed up onto the casting couch after dinner? I mean, really. You work at your craft, you compile a body of work you can be proud of, pay you dues doing Annie in regional theater for six loooong years and this is the thanks you get? I can't even get a gig on one of those freakin' Law & Orders. I'm beginning to get the feeling that I definitely have been sleeping with the wrong pack...

Welcome To My World!

Welcome to my new blog!
My name is Roxanne, and as most of you know by now, I'm a world famous YouTube video artist. My postings have hundreds of hits and have been seen by classy people from Sunnyvale Drive to as far away as Cambridge/Sommerville, MA! I live with my parents (NOT my real 'rents -- thank GAWD-- I'm adopted) in a home for the aged and infirmed in Somerset, NJ. It's not really an actual old folks home, but a gated community for the 55 and older crowd. My mom's only 50, and Daddy's MUCH younger, but they were allowed in, anyway. I think the board must've heard of me and thought it'd be cool to have a celebrity living amongst them.
The place is "guarded" by a fence and a main gate, and people have to be announced before they get let in. It gives some of the folks here a sense of security, but if you ask me, it's more useful purpose is to keep Mrs. Pistarelli from wandering off the grounds.
Sorry, that was just my teen angst speaking. But seriously, if you drive up to the gate and have either Chinese food in the front seat or what appears to be someone's grandkid strapped into the back seat, they'll let you in -- no questions asked!
Keep checking back, as I'll be updating this blog with my innermost thoughts on how things are going for me around here, what my dear "we-love-you more-than-we-would-if-you-were-our-own-flesh-and-blood-because-we-had-so-much-love-to-share-that-we-chose-you" B.S. flinging parents have been doing with the house, and how I'm adjusting to life out here on the plains (sorry, again, for that sarcastic (albeit obscure) reference to that (I'm soooo sure) made up story about how sick old elephants leave their packs and wander off to die and whatever). And, oh, yeah, I'll post links to my AbFab videos, too. Here's one of my early works... Roxanne and The Spoon. Enjoy!