Lance the wanna-be, and the vagaries of fame.....

You know, sometimes even I don’t realize the extent to which my rabid fans will go in order to be just like me or to make their adulation known. For example, for some time now I’ve known about (or rather intuited) Lance Armstrong’s obsession with All Things Tasha, i.e my training, my nutrition, the steps I’m willing to take to get in peak physical form, and so on. This adoration has manifested itself in pretty obvious ways: I get cancer, Lance gets cancer. I form Team in Bacon to raise awareness of bacon, HE forms Team Livestrong to raise awareness of yellow bracelets. I break my collarbone, oh look, Lance breaks his collarbone! What a surprise! The right one, no less. Why do people not realize...it’s just not that simple?

I also was somewhat embarrassed for Lance after his accident, where he was clutching his shoulder area in obvious pain, and even talking about how much pain he was in. Tsk, tsk. Now, when MY collarbone was crushed, I continued to gesticulate wildly with THAT arm, fling off the sling they put on me, and was prepared to hop back on the bike with not a word about any so-called pain. An example to all.

Okay, so the fact that I had bleeding on the brain and was probably completely out of my head – I say probably because I have absolutely zero recollection of any of it – might have had something to do with it. But I really don’t think so.

I will also note that Lance’s collarbone was repaired with a slab of stainless steel, not the cool, sleek mega-aero titanium that mine was. Know it and weep, Lance. Poor guy. Sometimes I almost feel bad for him....

Of course, this type of problem that I’ve had with Lance is only going to get much, much worse now that I’m (ahem) famous. Yes, in addition to the article in the paper, little ol’ me was on the news last night talking to news goddess Carol Marin. Truly, it was like the Make-a-Wish people had bestowed on me my greatest desire (well, one of the top ones, along with being on my favorite tv show, Sunday Morning with Charles Osgood. Hey, a girl can dream....) – and yes, Carol (I can call her Carol, since now we’re practically like BFFs), is as nice and smart and wonderful in person as one would think. Swoon.

I know, one would think I would be talking about my triathlon prowess, but this time at least it was still about the whole parking meter fiasco in this city. And the quotes they picked out were most excellent, including the “Screw you Mayor Daley” one and my noting that I’d have to go to the BANK to get the rolls of quarters I’d need for the meters, and life is too short for that. Ain’t that the truth. My gardening friends, the Tomatoettes, immediately started referring to me as the Parking Curmudgeon, to add to my nickname of the Grammar Curmudgeon, both titles I wear with pride. Though Tomatoette Ann did comment “but I guess you won’t be getting your invitation to the Daley family picnic now.” What a pessimist! And everyone else is happy that I was sticking up for the little people – as is my way, as my readers here know.

They also spoke to the guy who does the expiredmeter.com website, who interestingly enough refused to let them reveal his actual name, so they just kept referring to him as The Parking Geek. No fool he. Me, I like to live dangerously, though I wonder now if I could have just had them refer to me as The Triathlon Goddess. Hmm......

On another note, I can report that my new diet is going spectacularly well. The other evening we had a Tri Club leadership meeting, and we provided a dinner of pizza and Cadbury mini-eggs. Food of champions. Having already had my token two tbs. of cottage cheese for dinner, I declined to partake. Now, according to The Rules, this should have netted me an immediate and drastic weight loss, since Axiom 1.2 clearly states that the greater the sacrifice made in terms of food, the greater the resultant weight loss the next day. So I step on the scale the next day, and the result is? I gained two pounds. No, really. I now seem to be absorbing fat from the air. Note to self: Tomorrow, breathe less.

By the way, for any city workers who might be moseying around my house, trying to figure out how to “accidentally” shut off my gas or flood my basement.....have I mentioned lately what a BIG MEAN DOG I have? Yep, a big ol’ vicious 80-pound Doberman. Named.......Killer. Yeah, that’s it. Killer. Make a note of it please.