tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35977542344968899862024-03-05T08:05:03.690-06:00The Thighmaster Route to KonaTasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.comBlogger672125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-26334834684843487102021-11-05T17:26:00.004-05:002023-05-02T20:13:49.733-05:00The Jam Cellar, cont. (Part III)<p><i> <span style="font-size: medium;">1928</span></i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn3X-8-E6zhXr4L16LESLMxNboHAhY9osbmotMx9G3fEX1NUiQub3gsR8Jt61jDjyaYZmUfLCBPg7h38C4zwk-17W_PI1bwg0fjaEtJVQ-JVY-oLoxC06l3KksIzOCOnxtFGx1ZOH48arh/s2048/IMG_5352.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn3X-8-E6zhXr4L16LESLMxNboHAhY9osbmotMx9G3fEX1NUiQub3gsR8Jt61jDjyaYZmUfLCBPg7h38C4zwk-17W_PI1bwg0fjaEtJVQ-JVY-oLoxC06l3KksIzOCOnxtFGx1ZOH48arh/s320/IMG_5352.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">“That was a nice little party now wasn’t it, maw?” asked Fred jovially, as he pulled the Model T into their driveway. He was in a good humor because he had bested his cousin in a highly competitive game of pinochle, and beating Cedric was a rare event among their group.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Well, <b>Fred</b>,” replied Flora Belle, adding the slightest bit of emphasis to Fred’s name in vain hope that he’d someday stop calling her asinine nicknames like maw, “it certainly was lovely to catch up with all our friends, I’ll say that.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I certainly got the best of Cedric! Why, he was in a fine fettle – I’m not sure I’ll ever let him live that down,” bragged Fred as the car came to a neat stop exactly 8 feet from the garage, as usual, so that she could get out while he parked the car with the ridiculous compulsive precision that sent most people shrieking off into the night.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Flora replied through gritted teeth, as she opened the car door to get out. “I’m quite sure he’s forgotten about it already, <b>dear</b>, as it was only a card ga….EEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeck!” she screamed as she tumbled out of the car onto the hard ground. What the….what in the world had she just tripped over? Flora kicked a slippered foot out and came in contact with a hard surface. Wood. Of course.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As she lay there with her feet still entangled among the small woodpile, she wondered to herself – as she often did – if Fred were malicious or simply incompetent. Surely no one man could be that inept. And yet.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And yet.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</span></p><p><i><span style="font-size: medium;">1925 - Three years earlier</span></i></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Flora Belle was puttering around in the kitchen, enjoying the blessed silence that existed only when she had the space to herself. Whenever Fred was around, his 6’2 frame loomed over her as he bumbled his way about, somehow never managing to remember where anything was. Why, if she had her druthers, he’d never even make his way into the kitchen again, and it would be HER place alone, just as he had his shed to tinker around in. Did she go gallivanting about in there? No she did NOT, thank you very much. Of course, there was the fact that the shed was boring as sin, with nothing more for entertainment than Fred’s metalworking tools, and weren’t <b>those</b></span><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtgZJRet2AU6B5mLXzaeV8w1ESxosXaoTTL1HpzS_LCD3vUuy8YYn3atM1NHeqNm6tESIceIZ-_yytp0dDuRIIKBxqAw0P-rpWktDCGOXUh_pkfon8peN1xjb_2VrxMMVPMlYFdjNcOg28/s320/a26d28f61a3ea4369d35799778dedb43.jpeg" width="320" /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"> a snooze. Yet somehow he could go on and on about them for hours. Literally hours, as Flora recalled the time she had watched the sun go down as Fred waxed on about some thin miter saw that he had special ordered from Elmira, all the way out east. He didn’t notice that she was falling asleep on her feet after canning the damn green beans all day, because of course he didn’t. Fred never noticed anything about her or what she needed, ever.</span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Flora idly contemplated what else a miter saw could be used for, as she opened the cabinet to get a teacup to make herself a large cup of tea. Now, why in the world was her favorite mug on the top shelf? As she reached for it, holding on to the cabinet door for balance, she reminded herself that gritting her teeth so much couldn’t possibly be good for her. There, she almost ha….. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“EEEEEEeeeeeeeekkkk!” Flora screamed as the entire cabinet door came loose, and she went flying backwards, smashing into a kitchen chair and crashing to the floor.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As she tried to get her bearings, Fred walked into the kitchen, having completed his regular Saturday morning errand of getting 14 oz. of hamburger meat for that night’s dinner. (“I’ll tell you, maw, you can’t ask them to give you a pound! Then you get some old package from the back. This way they have to weigh out the fresh meat exactly.” Fred was so proud of the many ways he annoyed people.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Mother! What in the world happened here?!” exclaimed Fred, astonished at the sight before him.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“By <b>God</b>, I will kill you if you call me Mother one more time,” muttered Flora Belle darkly.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“What’s that you said?” Fred asked, as he continued to stand there gaping and made no motion to help Flora up or to see if she were okay.</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHR7dfnvED1UwYXQqx0ehbtR7EZvNuujf6TE7jW4MFKx_mZKFNMV1jFf2JwmhLddkhRBZhotC2poueKo_3-zQpVuQgVnlA0pFAb-wFLf7Y9isdQu94xEzDDhPei5HyqqeNg9WmUEqEdPCK/s253/images+%25284%2529.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="199" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHR7dfnvED1UwYXQqx0ehbtR7EZvNuujf6TE7jW4MFKx_mZKFNMV1jFf2JwmhLddkhRBZhotC2poueKo_3-zQpVuQgVnlA0pFAb-wFLf7Y9isdQu94xEzDDhPei5HyqqeNg9WmUEqEdPCK/w315-h400/images+%25284%2529.jpeg" width="315" /></span></a><span style="font-size: medium;">“NOTHING! I said nothing!” screamed Flora. “The cabinet….it just came out…..I…..this house……it’s falling apart!”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Oh,” chuckled Fred, “By golly I guess that’s my fault. I took the door off so that I could oil the hinges since they were squeaking, and I guess I forgot to tighten it when I put it back up.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“You…you…….I…..wha…..” Flora was so astonished, she was sputtering. “You took it OFF? Instead of just…oiling…the hinges??” </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Well now how was I going to do that?” admonished Fred, as a stern but tolerant look settled over his face. “The oil is in a big ol’ can in the shed, it must weigh a hundred pounds! Can you see me trying to lift that can up to the hinge and getting oil all over your pretty kitchen? And in the cabinet on your little jars of jelly? Tsk tsk.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I DO NOT MAKE JELLY, YOU BUFFOON!!” screamed Flora, who was going to kill this man just as sure as he stood there. “NO JELLY! NEVER! EVER!”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Fred looked confused. “Then what in tarnation is that fruity stuff you mix up, mothe….”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“JAM! JAM! I ONLY MAKE JAM! MY PERFECT LITTLE ELIXIRS! OF JAM!”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“But is there really a diff…..” Fred started to get the forbidden words out but stopped abruptly as a cast-iron cherry pitter went flying past his head and bounced off the wall. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It had to be said: she had married Fred in a fit of pique.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Oh there was nothing wrong with Fred per se; it was just that he was so damn <b>boring</b>. And not in the “Oh I only like bad boys!” kind of way. No, that was boring unto itself, these so-called rebels acting rude, disagreeing for the sake of it, breaking the laws, all while refusing to grow up and be a responsible citizen. No, it was more that Fred and his type were so earnest, so bland, so agreeable. SUCH rule-followers that it was ridiculous. Fred couldn’t get worked up about anything! There were so many examples.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxXcqtlZYZZ58_CdbJ66c6z1IvRR3isxt8EH_DGe4khOHQY7BadCbv_ka2PI5S89uEXYxSH1xWFCw3NKk9G82U4x_S_4QInc4lpDl0PE1pBMPuYss2ANv4lNwFgs-C-mWYwG2_EFtUwlP/s753/poster_br_women_preserve_canning_wwi.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="497" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxXcqtlZYZZ58_CdbJ66c6z1IvRR3isxt8EH_DGe4khOHQY7BadCbv_ka2PI5S89uEXYxSH1xWFCw3NKk9G82U4x_S_4QInc4lpDl0PE1pBMPuYss2ANv4lNwFgs-C-mWYwG2_EFtUwlP/w264-h400/poster_br_women_preserve_canning_wwi.jpeg" width="264" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Flora ranting about the abomination that the new neighbors from California had created from the beautiful old Granville mansion. Gold leaf! Painted beige! REMOVING THE OLD OAK TREE!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Fred’s response: “Oh it’ll be fine, Mother. It’ll give a different look to our charming little Iowa town.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Flora ready to march on City Hall, alone if need be, upon finding out that the town planned to destroy a historic oak grove in order to put in another drive-in movie theater.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Fred: “They’re trees, they’ll grow back. That’s what they do! Progress is progress.” (That was one of Fred’s favorite sayings, and Flora often wanted to shiv him just for that inanity alone.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Flora seeing a field of neglected and forgotten plum trees, thinking that it would be only right if she went and rescued those poor plums from their pernicious fate as fertilizer fodder, dropping to the ground as they were.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Fred: “That’s trespassing, why that for sure can’t be done! Whether they go to waste is none of our business.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And so on. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBKz0ZLo_J_zpphlhq90j8M2vAp1vu4VPYgBWMMdEIgRtw7RzSxCB0uh-BB7pZsm-iMY3OVM9Zn_XAL-Nn4cY_Ny4UUpE22aU76umc4Pm_xNYNV6crJa2o8i1Fmw2x5cTs1p-ccGJ3mVcm/s311/images+%25286%2529.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="311" data-original-width="162" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBKz0ZLo_J_zpphlhq90j8M2vAp1vu4VPYgBWMMdEIgRtw7RzSxCB0uh-BB7pZsm-iMY3OVM9Zn_XAL-Nn4cY_Ny4UUpE22aU76umc4Pm_xNYNV6crJa2o8i1Fmw2x5cTs1p-ccGJ3mVcm/w209-h400/images+%25286%2529.jpeg" width="209" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">And yet, a year earlier, when Flora had heard that her desired beau Phillip was supposedly dating that strumpet Clarissa, and her own mother was constantly harping about her being “not married yet and what will the neighbors think and you are just too fussy for your own good Flora Belle!” and her father was mumbling about some people in the house being “long in the tooth” and “not getting any younger now are we” – well. All that….and there was Fred, mooning about as always, chatting with her parents and helping them around the house, to the point that he became “that nice young man Fred, quite a catch” in every sentence uttered. “Now these lovely potatoes were provided by that nice young man Fred, from his own garden. He’s quite a catch, Flora Belle,” was a constant refrain at the dinner table, to the point that Flora thought she might simply go mad if she had to listen to it any longer.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">She also realized that Fred was likely to be a lot more….malleable, so to speak, than someone like Phillip. Easier to cajole into doing her bidding. To get him to embrace her point of view. To wrap around her finger, if truth be told. Oh, she would make a perfect wife, there was no doubt about that. She was pretty, smart, and not afraid of hard work. But Flora also knew her “shortcomings,” if one could call them that: stubborn, mercurial, clever to a fault, slightly quick-tempered, the opposite of complacent, certain she was always right (because she generally <b>was</b>, quite frankly). She had no patience for fools, but while Fred was affable and a man of seemingly simple tastes, surely he wasn’t a complete idiot, was he?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As she reached for another projectile (being a jam maker was helpful when one was looking for sharp objects to throw), Flora recalled those thoughts from a year ago when she had decided to marry Fred. Ha, who was the fool now! She should have listened to Coreen, who tried to warn her that Fred would try her very soul. If she could go back….wait, what was the knucklehead blathering on about?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“….and so it’s finally for sale! No one knows where those Californians high-tailed it off to, but I thought we might go over and have a look-see after you’re done fretting like this,” finished Fred.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“What house is for sale?” Flora asked. “I missed what you said.”</span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmCixCHRBKJDhupliXykldGycpQVAnickyWF4Ox4H0f-9qxy7DgN6MQ70TYLyVuyX4FULCG3FrgNTbovHVKBvDeE3zqvh6nUExB0vZN_gSKTCO8GTBkS_tVZ6XDhIEmlP5uKCu77-KgDNJ/s1170/770-Rugby-Road-kitchen-1.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="1170" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmCixCHRBKJDhupliXykldGycpQVAnickyWF4Ox4H0f-9qxy7DgN6MQ70TYLyVuyX4FULCG3FrgNTbovHVKBvDeE3zqvh6nUExB0vZN_gSKTCO8GTBkS_tVZ6XDhIEmlP5uKCu77-KgDNJ/w400-h223/770-Rugby-Road-kitchen-1.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” said Fred in his loping, meandering way. “See, when I was at the market picking up my 14 oz. of ground beef, I got to talking to Stan. You remember Stan, we met him that one day when we were out driving past their farmhouse on the corner with the white chicken coop that looks like a….”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“JUST TELL ME WHAT HOUSE!”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“That’s what I’m getting to, maw – the Granville house is for sale,” proclaimed Fred with a grand flourish. “That big rattling house, with plenty of room for you to can those green beans I love and even to make your little jel….” The rest of his thought was fortunately lost to time and space, as Flora Belle suddenly leapt up from the floor, tea forgotten, and grabbed Fred by the hand to drag him out the door.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The Granville house would be hers.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><br /><p></p>Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-80938889957836810952021-10-29T23:54:00.002-05:002021-11-06T13:16:40.465-05:00The Jam Cellar, cont. (Part II)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOteHOqxFSQv9pAIWgvnupsesV0GKNRSejrsQfTLhrTi4Xdo8e_IJdBePHAo19YVUT42P9e_cZ5AsXmrL6OOUYOj5EmekH0TU7oW4GVlzWUQlrvyPMV0wx20z6TO-OXNaK5Hdnof07MS2/s1868/Screen+Shot+2021-10-24+at+11.03.31+PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1174" data-original-width="1868" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNOteHOqxFSQv9pAIWgvnupsesV0GKNRSejrsQfTLhrTi4Xdo8e_IJdBePHAo19YVUT42P9e_cZ5AsXmrL6OOUYOj5EmekH0TU7oW4GVlzWUQlrvyPMV0wx20z6TO-OXNaK5Hdnof07MS2/w400-h251/Screen+Shot+2021-10-24+at+11.03.31+PM.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Putting aside the Kaiser Shipbuilding book and the mystery surrounding Flora Belle’s impending logpile-kindled disaster, Ava set out to explore the mansion and see what historical architectural elements remained after prior owners had imposed their grotesque sensibilities on it. She had read that the house was purchased by the dreaded Californians sometime around the 1920s, who then promptly set about ruining it by adding all sorts of modern elements. They met with “an unfortunate incident” in the late ‘20s (the details were murky on this) and no further mention was made of them in writings about the history of the mansion. Since then, the mansion had been restored to its former glory, with a gorgeous fireplace mantel with inlaid tile, original crown molding, and built-ins throughout the house. I could easily live here, thought Ava, just rattling around, playing haunting and lugubrious melodies on the piano by candlelight.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHiZBKNc3BGot0KSlqWUMrZouTSvNcL6fnQqLSzJfvEZc1Y9VaV09An5AadyU7BXOdUtdXAM0YMlq96wBoRXg6Jrsr5a8LgpFzLSrsiLVtl0W2K0-N-W0Csw6Qri0Zxxu9FBOOCV2zR4iU/s1280/DOM300KJA37253__66999.1542264175.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="812" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHiZBKNc3BGot0KSlqWUMrZouTSvNcL6fnQqLSzJfvEZc1Y9VaV09An5AadyU7BXOdUtdXAM0YMlq96wBoRXg6Jrsr5a8LgpFzLSrsiLVtl0W2K0-N-W0Csw6Qri0Zxxu9FBOOCV2zR4iU/s320/DOM300KJA37253__66999.1542264175.jpg" width="203" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">It was the door right outside the kitchen that intrigued her. Smaller than a typical door, it was painted blue and there was some kind of pull cord attached to it. She pulled it, naturally, and heard the dulcet tone of a bell coming from beyond the door. Opening the door revealed stairs going down, and even at the top of the stairs there was that musty smell endemic to all basements. Knowing that basements and attics were generally the most intriguing areas of any old house, Ava flicked the light on and went down to see what she could find. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Now, Ava knew she was no expert, but the first thing she noticed was that for a house this large, the basement seemed unusually… small. Then her eyes lighted upon the sole closed door off in the corner. Aha, that must be it – there was a separate part of the basement. And there was no need to guess what it was; there was a faded wooden sign conveniently hanging above the door that said “The Jam Cellar,” in quaint etched print. Jam? She had always thought about making jam, ever since she had moved to Oregon, also known as the Land of Fruit Everywhere. It all seemed so complicated though, and potentially dangerous, what with pressure canners exploding and botulism lurking around every corner. Nope, she wasn’t going to kill off an entire family of ten (it was always a family of ten meeting their demise) with tainted green beans, no sirree. They were called Green Beans of Death for a reason. Well, <b>she</b> called them that at least. As Ava liked to say, her mom didn’t raise many foolish children.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnuoPdNmtzMf3-5FMilOQXJYK6i5SHyzsGTjc4YKf2_MRxag8brLim1vkIRnLDq_d_4hsh3WdxDya5H86uCbElHtfK5VI8VJ971S-tynEIUwbmq9NAT-ArVvpOA6UqdBEJONY2UscBmxLU/s275/images+%25282%2529.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnuoPdNmtzMf3-5FMilOQXJYK6i5SHyzsGTjc4YKf2_MRxag8brLim1vkIRnLDq_d_4hsh3WdxDya5H86uCbElHtfK5VI8VJ971S-tynEIUwbmq9NAT-ArVvpOA6UqdBEJONY2UscBmxLU/w400-h266/images+%25282%2529.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">She thought of the cellar room in her own basement at home, though that one had been turned into a wine cellar by the previous owners, with wooden shelves and built-in climate control since it was always cool down there. Once she had tried to store squash there, as that was apparently a thing one did in Oregon, but she kind of forgot about them and didn’t really care for squash anyway, so that was a bit of a failed experiment. Another friend had suggested she make freezer jam instead, which seemed to consist of mashing up fruit, adding some sugar, and freezing it. Umm. Ava explaining that that was frozen sugared fruit and not jam didn’t endear her to the rabid contingent of Oregon freezer jam acolytes. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">With no small amount of trepidation, she opened the door. And stood there. And blinked. What the hell? This was like no jam cellar she had seen in real life, the ones that were in old farmhouses before they were torn down to make way for ugly McMansions. Those always had jars with uncertain contents, either turned dark over the decades or caked with dust or both, lingering in rooms with dirt floors and cobwebs. She had seen plenty of such cellars, because although she didn’t actually can, Ava had a fascination with the tools of the trade, so to speak: the ancient and impractical cherry pitters that looked like miniature guillotines, the old cabbage slicers that actually would slice your finger off if you weren’t careful, and of course the jars. The bale jars, the blue ones, the elusive purples and greens. She coveted the green ones in particular, and had even heard of pink and yellow jars out there somewhere, probably festering in some basement she had yet to discover. Her jar obsession was why she found herself in places like Sweet Home in scenes straight out of Deliverance. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIRouTXgcGbLH-HOzmvc147SaUnzybYa7SdupKbHgfSiihh-y5cXxJe1XlpN3prmFwSIleekxorHW3e7XGXmEhiYDoVNIpxBjEYUo4TAgrsECAEsxKyE3hHPrqtqm1f1ejzhVJXKsQiDm7/s1284/jams-jellies-shutterstock_111458129.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1221" data-original-width="1284" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIRouTXgcGbLH-HOzmvc147SaUnzybYa7SdupKbHgfSiihh-y5cXxJe1XlpN3prmFwSIleekxorHW3e7XGXmEhiYDoVNIpxBjEYUo4TAgrsECAEsxKyE3hHPrqtqm1f1ejzhVJXKsQiDm7/s320/jams-jellies-shutterstock_111458129.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But, that was a story for another day. Here, she was trying to figure out why this was NOT the typical dusty jam cellar of yore, but was more akin to walking into Willy Wonka Land. This was a carbon copy of pictures she had previously only seen in old Life magazines, with abnormally cheery women in pristine sundresses showing off their canned goods. All of which were neatly shelved and standing at attention, compelling in their uniformity. Until, that is, one realized that usually those pretty jars contained limp carrots and overly sugared jams. Or jellies. Whatever the hell the difference was. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Ava supposed that “The Jam Cellar” was a bit of a misnomer – shouldn’t it be The Canning Cellar? The Jam and Waterlogged Vegetable Cellar? Except…..wait, <b>was</b> there anything down here other than jam? At first glance, there were a lot of what looked like green beans. On second glance, there was indeed a hell of a lot of green beans. Pickled? It was tough to say. She had once tried pickled green beans and they were good, but this was a LOT of jars. Other than the beans, there were smaller jars of …..jam? arranged by color, one jewel tone after another. They were remarkably bright, considering that they had been down here for decades; Ava really didn’t think that the homeowners spent their free time in between renters making endless batches of preserves. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrMOMUWoXaWq7x1Ehxox1GrTDX4hdLwBvCJ0RbcogYOK8YkTKGdt0uLzxWAyeLIiOJH9MlWt-T5L24bkGgKzfYvOZufO7m34oTxxqNUxw5vUTNycRkbZaVTxFOVi3CZ0_xA0IzKdKS3S5h/s2048/warcanning.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1455" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrMOMUWoXaWq7x1Ehxox1GrTDX4hdLwBvCJ0RbcogYOK8YkTKGdt0uLzxWAyeLIiOJH9MlWt-T5L24bkGgKzfYvOZufO7m34oTxxqNUxw5vUTNycRkbZaVTxFOVi3CZ0_xA0IzKdKS3S5h/s320/warcanning.jpeg" width="227" /></span></a></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Jam stays good forever, I think? I wonder if they’ll mind if I try one.” None of them had labels, so she closed her eyes, reached out, and picked one. “Okay, a dark blue one – blackberry? Black currant?” She shrugged and took the jam with her as she left the room. As she did, Ava noticed the small bell on a string over the jam cellar door – ah, that must be what the pull cord was for. Ha, maybe there was hell to pay if the man of the house came between the jam maker and her jams. Ava chuckled to herself as she turned out the lights and went back upstairs. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As she walked out of the basement and closed the door behind her, she noticed to her left a wall of framed pictures that she had somehow overlooked previously. It looked like pictures of the Granville over the years and the people who had lived here. There were the earliest pictures of the house, looking remarkably similar but with much smaller trees on the property, and then several with whom she assumed were the Granvilles.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“They’re playing croquet! As it should be, of course, on an estate of this caliber. Let’s see, and this must be…the original elders, Timothy and Geneva Granville. Oh, she definitely wore the pants in the family. He looks henpecked. Or, what did they say back then, choleric?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The photos were arranged in a timeline of sorts, though Ava noticed that any pictures of the house when it was unfortunately (albeit temporarily) “modernized” were conspicuously absent. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“And rightly so,” grumbled Ava. “The nerve! I hope they were run out of town like the interlopers they were.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">One picture, brighter than the others, caught her eye. A trick of the light, perhaps, glancing off the picture of the two young women. The one on the left, a brunette with hair that looked as if she had tried to curl it but was losing the battle, looked as if she were the keeper of many secrets, including those on how to laugh at life’s vagaries. And she was laughing here, as if she and her friend were in on a great joke. Her friend, the blonde, was only slightly more subdued, as if to say “yes, she comes up with the crazy ideas, but I can’t help but go along with them.” </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiHR4RC0q0bkov3R3k1D21bsILNh0_EFLssR42mdjnEk9Y-UdDlXOn8zUTjNhB6t67Vu5aKCACHA9ypG4IkAUHr_gsQGNZc5eEvz4U4IfEZ5yhDJiNWghxCmSv_Bl4e5AJX6AuHH0GX6SI/s952/vintagephoto.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="952" data-original-width="736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiHR4RC0q0bkov3R3k1D21bsILNh0_EFLssR42mdjnEk9Y-UdDlXOn8zUTjNhB6t67Vu5aKCACHA9ypG4IkAUHr_gsQGNZc5eEvz4U4IfEZ5yhDJiNWghxCmSv_Bl4e5AJX6AuHH0GX6SI/w309-h400/vintagephoto.jpeg" width="309" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Ava carefully took the picture off the wall to see if there was any information written on the back of it. A date, barely legible. “192…..twenty……something. The 1920s at least. And names……Flora Belle &…. Coreen. Wait, Flora Belle – where did I just hear that name?” Her mom did say that she had a mind like a sieve. Was it someone she had spoken to earlier today? Emailed? SHIPBUILDING, that was it! What a weird coincidence, but Flora Belle seemed like a pretty common name back in the olden days. Ava shrugged it off. “Bedtime for bonzos here – oh, I’ll email the owners first to ask them about trying the jam. Maybe I can have it for breakfast tomorrow.”</span></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">To: the Granville owners</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">From: Ava</span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"(blah blah) ….and so I was wondering if you’d mind if I tried some of the jam I found in the old jam cellar in the basement. Thanks again for everything – this place is gorgeous!”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">With that, Ava headed up to bed, leaving behind the framed photo and the book with its unfinished tale. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-18520415170365051482021-10-24T21:16:00.003-05:002021-11-06T13:13:13.579-05:00The Jam Cellar<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyeP0Sep-ZdFg8_lHSh1K0JcYDjoeDlMBiUaYhAyAXwWxchIeEpldqysnJLHWm82oBzIf4-XMu-4CUa8EBA0QeCKPQjsXNsfLXMgzla-RCM8ViPmS_NMpiSMcXbFg-_j6con3mB7ObDZdm/s2048/TheJamCellar_hires_flattened.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="2048" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyeP0Sep-ZdFg8_lHSh1K0JcYDjoeDlMBiUaYhAyAXwWxchIeEpldqysnJLHWm82oBzIf4-XMu-4CUa8EBA0QeCKPQjsXNsfLXMgzla-RCM8ViPmS_NMpiSMcXbFg-_j6con3mB7ObDZdm/w640-h438/TheJamCellar_hires_flattened.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></i><p></p><p><i><span style="font-size: large;">...or, The Emancipation of Flora Belle</span></i></p><p><br /></p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Part I</span></b><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I absolutely do not need any more stuff,” muttered Avangeline to herself as she flipped through the stack of old recipe pamphlets buried in between even older crafting books. “Nothing. At. All.” </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">An hour later, she stood nervously as the girl at the checkout desk for the estate sale looked through her haul. Luckily, Ava had managed to find two stray paper bags in the kitchen in which to put her armfuls of things – it had been a little precarious moving the stacks from room to room. She had no idea what the asking price for such historic materials would be. $100? $80? More? Ava was prepared to try to bargain them down to $40. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“So they’re just old….” said the young woman, trailing off as she looked through Ava’s collection.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Cookbooks!” Ava replied. “Umm, a couple of old cookbooks – you can see they’re kind of falling apart – and then these little pamphlets and oh, some other old books too.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">One hopeful sign was that the sale hadn’t really been organized in any particular fashion, as it was for more formal estate sales. Most rooms just had random piles of things stacked up on every surface, almost whimsically. “Let’s put all these religious tomes next to the cookbook stuff! Those church ladies are the only ones who cook these days, amirite?” Sigh. It was so hard to be a traditionalist in a modern world.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Ava was suddenly startled out of her reverie. “How about $10?” chirped the young woman in front of her, having finished her idle perusal.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Okay!” Ava practically shouted. “Sure, that works,” she continued, more languidly, as she pulled $10 out of her wallet in record time, scooped up the bags, and started fast-walking to her car. What luck! She couldn’t believe her good fortune, for a change.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyiXb8WQg-eizLfc9loafGqn8RPt7UXzYRWnb0MUU8xCPVb2SRvd1oyYilZvArfaqX6E3Ou5tKR8vpSf8-rpkEf6U7ufhD6kPfiBJd9qDeT7j5m0IKakYmGXueZY-EM_m6sU9oAhGctZFU/s1095/small_town_victorian_by_ranter69_d9tcad-pre.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1095" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyiXb8WQg-eizLfc9loafGqn8RPt7UXzYRWnb0MUU8xCPVb2SRvd1oyYilZvArfaqX6E3Ou5tKR8vpSf8-rpkEf6U7ufhD6kPfiBJd9qDeT7j5m0IKakYmGXueZY-EM_m6sU9oAhGctZFU/w400-h266/small_town_victorian_by_ranter69_d9tcad-pre.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"> - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It wasn’t often that a house like the Granville mansion was available for rent, especially on a short-term basis. Ava had been looking for a place off the beaten path, in the middle of nowhere, with few distractions so that she could finally – finally! – start working on the novel she kept talking about writing. That’s why she was now in Iowa on a rainy fall day, rattling around alone in a drafty old (but glorious!) house, currently staring at a blank screen. How to start? Ava always had ideas and thoughts and sentences tumbling over each other in her head, but as soon as she went to write them down, they disappeared</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“I know,” though Ava to herself, comfortably ensconced on a couch in the parlor, near the fireplace. “I’ll write for an hour – no, half an hour – and then I’ll let myself have a muffin. Yes, a banana muffin. That’s a good muffin.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Half an hour later she had stoked the fire, checked the weather forecast, done a few stretches, and rummaged around in a drawer for candles in case the power went out, as the wind outside picked up to an unrelenting midwestern howl. Ava also had yet to write a word, but found herself drawn to her purchases that day. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Fine, I’ll just take a quick look at the <i>Kaiser Shipbuilding – Oregon</i> scrapbook, that’s all.”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Three hours later, Ava was using the glue she had found in a cupboard to put the old pictures in place back where they belonged. It was easy enough to figure out, since the scrapbook owner had helpfully included an ordered list of the subject of each picture. “Fred D. in the shipyard.” “Assembly line of parts for the U.S.S. Fond du Lac.”</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7cAqbMT0wdn2JUA0UPAFzk-gHrOtHL57ebCQA-AbJ8y1LGnQw8SVfxQZQjoiQfRpvjylKq2imseQoPJpCaWMIpmZfv026tQ7aK-5pkJ4vL0AFM6i3AbcUk5RWXK3OQ3-TQYKf6KbhZ-K/s1037/tumblr_njjzu0uU3d1tphleno1_1280.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1037" data-original-width="560" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7cAqbMT0wdn2JUA0UPAFzk-gHrOtHL57ebCQA-AbJ8y1LGnQw8SVfxQZQjoiQfRpvjylKq2imseQoPJpCaWMIpmZfv026tQ7aK-5pkJ4vL0AFM6i3AbcUk5RWXK3OQ3-TQYKf6KbhZ-K/s320/tumblr_njjzu0uU3d1tphleno1_1280.jpeg" width="173" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">The pictures weren’t the biggest draw, however; it was the typed-up biographies that fascinated her. Yes, Fred wasn’t that interesting, but beyond him, there was scandal (!): “All of Fred’s so-called birth certificates attested to him being born in Franklinville, NY to William H. Dolton and Edna Meyer Dolton. This just ain’t so.” Hints of intrigue: “Everyone knew George would never get the commission, what a surprise when he did.” And Flora Belle! Ah, Flora Belle, born in 1906, married Fred in 1924. Ava pictured her as a saucy minx who didn’t suffer fools gladly, yet who was bound by the mores of her time to be compliant and complacent. A proper little housewife, married as she was to Fred, who seemed like somewhat of a dolt. Certainly, Flora’s bio was much more compelling than Fred of the uncertain lineage, particularly since most of his bio harped on that fact alone.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Flora Belle wore the highest heeled shoes she could find because she was only 4’9 and Fred was 6’2. She loved to go out dancing with their friends. They went out one evening after Fred and the boys had stacked a cord of wood for the fireplace. It was stacked next to the driveway. Fred let Flora out of the car and told her he would park it and for her to go on in the……”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The page abruptly came to an end.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Wait, where’s the rest of it?”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Ava looked through all the papers and photographs, and then checked again. And then looked at the backs of the pages. Nothing. The story of Flora Belle and the hapless Fred just left them dangling on this cliffhanger. J’accuse!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“Well, dammit,” exclaimed Ava. “How the hell can I not know what happened to Miss Flora Belle as she stepped out of the car and right into the pile of wood laid down by Fred and his merry band of idiots?” </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Who apparently shared one brain among themselves, mused Ava. And of course it wouldn’t occur to Fred to tell his pals that hey, maybe we should think about stacking the wood up against the house rather than in the middle of the yard, right by the driveway?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That moron, she thought. Just like a man.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdATM2DUGmq37ZiSsvKeYPU2qjPrnp7Wo4g9qK6DbfoAOP4fL-a3cCF7PXGotIQgDqgW-gH2rcc3Is9tYQ4LETuM5iijSSM8-3qjYbG6L3qSHQTrtejzI3zLCsH1lIg5P1Ox0XEC8wgwmR/s640/0e764b838d3ee2dce6d0e473427f727c.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="398" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdATM2DUGmq37ZiSsvKeYPU2qjPrnp7Wo4g9qK6DbfoAOP4fL-a3cCF7PXGotIQgDqgW-gH2rcc3Is9tYQ4LETuM5iijSSM8-3qjYbG6L3qSHQTrtejzI3zLCsH1lIg5P1Ox0XEC8wgwmR/s320/0e764b838d3ee2dce6d0e473427f727c.jpeg" width="199" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">“I guess I’ll have to assume that dear Flora, as seemed customary at the time, just picked herself up and laughed gaily as……hello?”</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Ava could have sworn she had just heard something that sounded remarkably like a snort of derisive laughter. She sat perfectly still, but all was quiet except for the soothing sound of rain on the metal roof. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“In case someone’s here I HAVE A GUN!” she yelled. True, she didn’t have it <b>on</b> her per se, not at the moment, but it was upstairs in her bed…..room. Oh. Ava looked up. Was that a floorboard creaking?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">“If you’re up there and planning to butcher me with my own gun, you will <b>feel my wrath!</b>” Ava yelled again, recognizing that that made no sense whatsoever, but going with it anyway.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But there were no sounds, no floorboards creaking, no derisive snorts. Just the rain, and the stately comfort of the old mansion settling down around her for the evening. Clearly, she was being completely ridiculous, or perhaps losing her mind. Or both. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Maybe, thought Ava, she should go exploring the house on this dark, rainy night, much as the stupid people in a slasher movie would. “Oh, let’s go ask that man with the chainsaw for directions.” Of course, she had never let the idea that she was doing something extremely foolish stop her before, so why start now?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>(to be continued)</i></span></p><p></p>Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-36724469453230882812020-07-03T23:28:00.000-05:002020-07-03T23:28:01.500-05:0012007.03 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 13 of PanCascadia<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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We rolled into <s>Deliverance</s> Mitchell, OR, late last night, after a long day of errands, last-minute gardening, packing, and oh yes, HITTING A DEER on the way. We cannot revisit the horror of hitting a young deer, seeing it struggle to get up with its mom standing over it, hearing it cry, and OMG I AM TRAUMATIZED FOR LIFE. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I need a shaman, a hex remover, <b>something</b>. I did tell the very nice dispatcher that I called (because clearly I couldn’t just…drive off) after he asked if I was okay that yes, I was fine, except that I was going <span style="font-size: 12pt;">to burn in hell because I was a horrible person.</span></div>
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So there’s that.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This road to Mitchell began on NYE, when there were fireworks nearby. And Kingsly disappeared, only to be found upstairs in the attic room, shaking, in the corner. Hmm. Several days later, we had an Airbnb booked in the smallest town I could find within driving distance, that also had a fenced in back yard. Mitchell ho!<o:p></o:p></div>
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When friends asked about our choice of destination, I chuckled and with great exaggeration told people that Mitchell had oh, a few hundred people or so… but that was a lie.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It has 103.</div>
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<br />On some sites it’s referred to as a ghost town. Seriously. I figured though that the smaller the town, the less likely there would be a big fireworks show, and hopefully the DIY fireworks would be at a minimum, or at least there would be less than in Silverton. Where, of course, it’s a week-long shitshow of noise; it would be one thing if it were just one day, but no, it’s day upon day upon day. Now, back in January we didn’t know there’s be this small issue of a global pandemic and that all fireworks shows would be cancelled….but the point about Silverton being overly noisy still stands.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We set out late yesterday in part because of taking care of urgent matters, such as adorning Harmilda in her latest cow cloak finery.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrtwzetkt-rMhnCtSmCR3E0_yclorg8Wa1msh1sQpml6ZihqUxKvvphPpF8ZQW_9AeSLqXtvffkX4TJ_pwM3ZiVWbTXf8kWtAICFh-ume5BnXTLmJZHqHUuLxSCb02hCt1PNli5DApYR22/s1600/IMG_2908.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrtwzetkt-rMhnCtSmCR3E0_yclorg8Wa1msh1sQpml6ZihqUxKvvphPpF8ZQW_9AeSLqXtvffkX4TJ_pwM3ZiVWbTXf8kWtAICFh-ume5BnXTLmJZHqHUuLxSCb02hCt1PNli5DApYR22/s320/IMG_2908.jpg" width="320" /></a>I felt the IMPEACH TRUMP flag was a nice touch as well. Now, I’ve driven enough through rural OR and CA and seen enough stupid Dotard signage that has likely not been vandalized, so I’m hoping the Dotardian snowflakes can just MAN THE FUCK UP already and leave Harmilda and her cloak alone, unlike when some asshat stole and burned her festive patriotic attire two years ago. One can dream that the deplorables have learned kind of self-containment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKcf-xGNLU_xA3CHUbiGP3NiIMFrkJ-WkfTaBR4XHg76k5oWxt49oFdP8fLD-Y0POzjxgpdtWxcG-vWMjvW3ofV58ijByTYF10L6hJuqt20BmMruDcYJjzar3J9KHj8OqAaunHpKUfS5Hx/s1600/Screen+Shot+2020-07-03+at+9.08.41+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="782" data-original-width="1312" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKcf-xGNLU_xA3CHUbiGP3NiIMFrkJ-WkfTaBR4XHg76k5oWxt49oFdP8fLD-Y0POzjxgpdtWxcG-vWMjvW3ofV58ijByTYF10L6hJuqt20BmMruDcYJjzar3J9KHj8OqAaunHpKUfS5Hx/s400/Screen+Shot+2020-07-03+at+9.08.41+PM.png" width="400" /></a>It was dark when we pulled into town, and I had this eerie sense that I was playing a part in a slasher flick, where the stupid people go into the decrepit barn where they hear distinct chainsaw sounds because they’re looking for a beer tap or something equally unnecessary. Because there we were, on an unlit gravel road, with darkened houses that looked like they were falling apart. I decided it likely that the good Citizenry of the town of Mitchell were simply staying on the downlow, so that their little hamlet was overlooked by the Directorate until such a time as when they could be overthrown. Smartly done, Citizens.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And as we were pulling up to the house, what should cross the road in front of us but – A BLACK CAT. No lie. I believe I said something along the lines of “Oh OF COURSE a black cat, the eternal HARBINGER OF DOOM, because OF COURSE! FUCK MY LIFE.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVzT_utyLRZmeT82QGYFLiXCWhyphenhyphen97C_CnRa-JQ9GdCYLA3ZYIAA3IiMILvmLsfPbW_SOenvPt2rBWIUUm0w7O90FLVi_AOjVmXsrRkw4EsoveBMpQPc0JAhL4bOnFvS03vF_bMzXYCpwAB/s1600/Screen+Shot+2020-06-29+at+11.40.28+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1138" data-original-width="1072" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVzT_utyLRZmeT82QGYFLiXCWhyphenhyphen97C_CnRa-JQ9GdCYLA3ZYIAA3IiMILvmLsfPbW_SOenvPt2rBWIUUm0w7O90FLVi_AOjVmXsrRkw4EsoveBMpQPc0JAhL4bOnFvS03vF_bMzXYCpwAB/s400/Screen+Shot+2020-06-29+at+11.40.28+AM.png" width="376" /></a>But because I’m known for my chipper demeanor and always looking on the bright side of life, I <span style="font-size: 12pt;">will note that Sir Kingsly took to the premises right away and began patrolling for King Cobras immediately. We have not yet seen any, and so his successful eradication rate remains at 100%. So brave. There is a shack nearby that looks perfect for exploring later. And it is blessedly quiet.</span></div>
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Shortly we are heading into town, and I am staking my ground by wearing my “Cycling in America – Greeting the President” shirt, but at the same time will use my Rage Cow face mask. This should confuse the locals enough such that I will be able to nimbly dash away should any kerfuffles begin. I shall report back. #courage</div>
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Oh yeah, one last thing: #WEARAFUCKINGMASK</div>
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Thank you.<br />
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<o:p></o:p>Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-21639740915134544132020-06-17T22:55:00.000-05:002020-06-17T22:55:34.467-05:0012006.17 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 11 of PanCascadia<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXPR30JrkDwJo7eQ5PYxYfhqrO-AlHCZIHUTt67QTppwxDauusYqQuSwibRtiz_iT0ED6ZoJIQQrc8vg5flWrTpgQB4gOQxV5TFlrCxHN7GkHhqcUmjKCK9QAghYw8PwFXHdtrimBYYx6w/s1600/IMG_2693.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXPR30JrkDwJo7eQ5PYxYfhqrO-AlHCZIHUTt67QTppwxDauusYqQuSwibRtiz_iT0ED6ZoJIQQrc8vg5flWrTpgQB4gOQxV5TFlrCxHN7GkHhqcUmjKCK9QAghYw8PwFXHdtrimBYYx6w/s320/IMG_2693.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Under cover of noon, we made our escape from District 7 and set out for District 11, a journey that was fraught with peril. The barren landscape had occasional notes of interest - the spray-painted graffiti on a passing traincar of “Death to the Trump regime” – and roving bands of unmasked “tourists” who were clearly in service to the Directorate. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxex4WFjGfA5r9Hu37aNQMAay17ygAUEs2X26U_D6ASPLOutvTw5LQ88DRc-L_zHn7jPTVk5F4Qs19_8NUbtj6QngsU5V9twApRt2WrVziH7W38FnGpy1EVa1GTQ3gegmS6ucMI4cHGz-e/s1600/IMG_2827.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxex4WFjGfA5r9Hu37aNQMAay17ygAUEs2X26U_D6ASPLOutvTw5LQ88DRc-L_zHn7jPTVk5F4Qs19_8NUbtj6QngsU5V9twApRt2WrVziH7W38FnGpy1EVa1GTQ3gegmS6ucMI4cHGz-e/s320/IMG_2827.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">We persevered, however, and made our way back to The Manor, where nature had already started to reassert itself. Sir Kingsly set upon his patrols immediately, and has thus far kept King Cobras at bay. In a mad fit of determination and prioritization, we began planting tomato plants upon our return, in order to ensure provisions for Pandemic Winter. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Our next priority: planting the Illin</span><span style="font-size: large;">ois Everbearing Mulberry tree. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Never let it be said that we are unable to focus on the truly important things. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1xkFsbko5Ri1X76VoZh5SjJshH9j2acvgCrpmP5nJGo-vleQhtyB5mny_mSxC65CYRQ-ImtjOP6CFZw1FXlTCCf0BApRfCJ_ISIfKmyuHhl6so8b5__4FYn_dtKTeAT_wG43J3rHpXnZ/s1600/IMG_2816.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1xkFsbko5Ri1X76VoZh5SjJshH9j2acvgCrpmP5nJGo-vleQhtyB5mny_mSxC65CYRQ-ImtjOP6CFZw1FXlTCCf0BApRfCJ_ISIfKmyuHhl6so8b5__4FYn_dtKTeAT_wG43J3rHpXnZ/s320/IMG_2816.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">We have also re-commenced teaching the local neighborhood urchins the ways of the Kingsly. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG1xkFsbko5Ri1X76VoZh5SjJshH9j2acvgCrpmP5nJGo-vleQhtyB5mny_mSxC65CYRQ-ImtjOP6CFZw1FXlTCCf0BApRfCJ_ISIfKmyuHhl6so8b5__4FYn_dtKTeAT_wG43J3rHpXnZ/s1600/IMG_2816.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Me</b>:….blah blah and they were bred to hunt King Cobras, so lo, we see that there are in fact no cobra sightings in Silverton.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Child</b>: But I don’t think there are any king cobras in Silv…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Me</b>: EXACTLY. Kingsly is doing an excellent job patrolling the estates. So brave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Child</b>: But…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Me</b>: Yes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Regarding said importance, the Matriarch had her first scans this week after starting treatment; she’s been on her cancer regimen for two months now (ie two cycles). Today was her appointment with the doctor to discuss the results. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">They are stellar. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Yes, even the Medic Citizen was astonished at how effective the treatment has been thus far. Everything has improved, from lungs to liver to bones. The Matriarch claimed that there was no longer anything visible on the lungs or liver, but we are skeptical until we have a chance to obsessively pore over actual results or scans, dissecting each spot and likely labeling it as something it's not. She’s feeling well. Normal Brother cooks delicacies for dinner daily; tonight I believe pheasant-under-glass is on the menu. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">All is well. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">#fornow #notgoingtojinxanything
</span>Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-79619131004159807802020-05-19T18:30:00.001-05:002020-05-19T18:30:16.087-05:0012005.28 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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The stress of the tightly-controlled life in the District may have gotten to us slightly last week, as we lost our shit, as they sometimes still say in the quaint old vernacular. It perhaps started a <span style="font-size: 12pt;">Saturday ago, when the Matriarch woke up with a red eye and soreness. Likely pinkeye, one would think. We called her doctor’s office and waited for a call back from the doctor on call, hoping that we could get a prescription for eye drops. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Finally, the call came.</span><br />
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<b>Random On-Call Person</b>: Blah blah questions about the eye.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Me</b>: Blah blah answers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>ROCP</b>: You should take her to the ER.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Me</b>: (silence)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Me</b>: For pinkeye?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>ROCP</b>: Yes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Me</b>: ……yeah, that’s not going to happen.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That was Saturday. Sunday, the rash came along, on the Matriarch’s neck. Of course, our first thought was the hellscape that is shingles.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Me</b>: Does it hurt? At all?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Matriarch</b>: No, it just itches a little bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Me</b>: Okay, good. Don’t touch it! It’s probably another allergic reaction.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Monday morning we are attempting to get some work done. The home healthcare person is there, and I overhear her talking to the Matriarch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>HHCP</b>: Oh this rash! Does it itch or hurt?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Matriarch</b>: It hurts! Not very itchy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wait, what?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Me</b>: Wait, what? You said it was itchy! Not painful!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Matriarch</b>: No, it hurts!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Me</b>: Why didn’t you tell me that?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Matriarch</b>: Ow, it’s painful.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQptxD8-BzMAqj90-JZj1c6PNDMktFJ77coO4SCNJavT6U5ZWmh94-mGg3xBzZNpBomlyyi9fLhadpNlgU3TH0ZmVsmCMS7KWCvVrfazkZZrV2ncLibjfVY7jMdSrg2rKe-EgMKDe_au0S/s1600/nqzQZXsFth.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQptxD8-BzMAqj90-JZj1c6PNDMktFJ77coO4SCNJavT6U5ZWmh94-mGg3xBzZNpBomlyyi9fLhadpNlgU3TH0ZmVsmCMS7KWCvVrfazkZZrV2ncLibjfVY7jMdSrg2rKe-EgMKDe_au0S/s1600/nqzQZXsFth.png" /></a>The HHCP is glaring me as if I’m a horrible person. I set up a telecall with the doctor’s office, and wind up talking to a PA who’s extremely thorough and helpful. Really. Given the pattern of the rash, we assume it’s shingles, and she also gets a referral to an ophthalmologist to check out the eye, because that too could be shingles-related.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So to recap. Me, attempting to work on something with a deadline. On hold with annoying music for going on 30 minutes with ophthalmologist’s office. Normalish Brother is talking VERY LOUDLY on the phone, with pressing questions:</div>
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“Did Sniffles do terrible?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“For some reason they didn’t like Cactus and Walrus – it was too adult. I thought it was perfect for kids.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Matriarch needs lunch. Kingsly is bored. The doctor’s office is calling with a question. The pharmacy is texting. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbmLQQbywn1BtJZaGMupccWVz208FhxjBtJRGH1AFqfzRLB7vNtL-acWIWwcVt0SynGZYvDddSu_ZUQCkbKBHY0nUMvtIWMweBsfqGGrRklkrcDxszGLAP6SDAIDcxztWTPKv4FoN6o4QA/s1600/IwMIEvn.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="407" height="343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbmLQQbywn1BtJZaGMupccWVz208FhxjBtJRGH1AFqfzRLB7vNtL-acWIWwcVt0SynGZYvDddSu_ZUQCkbKBHY0nUMvtIWMweBsfqGGrRklkrcDxszGLAP6SDAIDcxztWTPKv4FoN6o4QA/s400/IwMIEvn.png" width="400" /></a>WE HAVE REACHED OUR LIMIT. THIS IS IT.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But because we can’t really do that, we just….keep on. Take the Matriarch to the eye doctor. Pick up her prescriptions. Stay up late working, in blissful quiet. Have a cocktail or six.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We have figured out though how to “help” Normalish Brother with his budgeting issues. He leaves his computer at the Matriarch’s residence overnight, and we will be logging on to fix the cash flow so that it is properly allocated. Every Nickelodeon cent will be going – as it should - to additional episodes of The Oblongs, with Helga as the star power. This will right the ship forthwith, we are quite sure.<o:p></o:p></div>
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With the meds, the Matriarch is improving and her shingles never got to the extreme “shoot me now” stage, which we know about from personal agonizing experience. In fact, her recovery is proceeding apace to the point that she is now looking at her computer and going through her emails. Which likely means that looking at Facebook isn’t far behind.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We are dead.<o:p></o:p></div>
Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-26542632202251300972020-05-09T22:28:00.000-05:002020-05-09T22:28:56.384-05:0012005.17 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vku_gICVdbM7YrR5amJSNtcu2NZxSFYLGWl3ceIoM-JHcdAjfllZs2KU1z6-rsQCmtf-QbN0DEuj3jpzwYmF0-411akNHLlDlNLpl1oRDQtWIJ23L-UP5xp1zldU2FYP_45AvieuMb7P/s1600/IMG_2585.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1vku_gICVdbM7YrR5amJSNtcu2NZxSFYLGWl3ceIoM-JHcdAjfllZs2KU1z6-rsQCmtf-QbN0DEuj3jpzwYmF0-411akNHLlDlNLpl1oRDQtWIJ23L-UP5xp1zldU2FYP_45AvieuMb7P/s320/IMG_2585.jpeg" width="240" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There was unrest in the District today, when the NewGendarmes came for the citizens across the street. We heard loud noises and yelling, and in looking out the window, saw that our neighbors were among the first Olds slated for the Disappearing, upon proclamation from the Directorate. They did not go quietly, but in the end, the NewGendarmes fulfilled their orders and Myrna and Chester were no more. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">(Normalish Brother claims they simply rebuffed the Vaporization Summons from the NewGendarmes and went back into the house, but he’s always been a bit Pollyannaish about such things.) </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Matriarch continues to improve, and has taken to issuing complaints about the quality of the gruel and her overbearing workload. To which we say, those salt mines won’t salt themselves, now will they. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwYV_c5S7oz7JbSlBjsxsQ2uKejA65ICE0x-UGluVyqWzZ7YNMORmuJKQPxQKHJkXafHflOipDD3xXa8i-eNViRXiSczlAr71thRhmlFwTV-bBh2DPO1c_At17FRGrXknGfOMTKoMN-EQN/s1600/IMG_2589.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwYV_c5S7oz7JbSlBjsxsQ2uKejA65ICE0x-UGluVyqWzZ7YNMORmuJKQPxQKHJkXafHflOipDD3xXa8i-eNViRXiSczlAr71thRhmlFwTV-bBh2DPO1c_At17FRGrXknGfOMTKoMN-EQN/s320/IMG_2589.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We continue to look for foodstuffs that will tempt the Matriarch to eat, and the other day this took us Xielo Artisan Bakery in Ventura on a quest for cannoli. Not only did we find cannoli, but we also rounded out the trifecta of the Matriarch’s favorite desserts with cheesecake and napoleon. We then surprised ourselves by actually making lasagna from scratch, sauce and all. It was superb, and will never be recreated, because in attempting to find a recipe we only found ones where the reviews noted how excellent the original was, “with these few changes.” Such as using totally different spices, different cheese, adding cream, using zucchini instead of noodles, etc and so on. In the end, we went freeform. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And, through our Canning Underground connections, we have continued to source yeast and other provisions necessary to create our forthcoming Pandemic Buns. They will be distributed to our fellow resisters as we continue to fight the plague that has beset the Districts, aka the Orange Dotardian Menace. The virus is a secondary concern.</span>Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-25959567381600025552020-04-30T00:36:00.000-05:002020-04-30T00:36:45.681-05:0012005.08 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Eda16ESqph7lmBYAms3fUOek5XUN-f5fIHQhYyn3Ll8BVUbgydm6DO5Bl_HarKb-sahKFCXBh0HobrpYG5cPT36c1o2VT8mjJOywtLrKzd0jWfDOWjNwBQhwhOrAhor50XWs2SbgBIDk/s1600/ae1cf43a32ce30f377549f5fa6c1844a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Eda16ESqph7lmBYAms3fUOek5XUN-f5fIHQhYyn3Ll8BVUbgydm6DO5Bl_HarKb-sahKFCXBh0HobrpYG5cPT36c1o2VT8mjJOywtLrKzd0jWfDOWjNwBQhwhOrAhor50XWs2SbgBIDk/s400/ae1cf43a32ce30f377549f5fa6c1844a.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: 12pt;">We have reached our breaking point. No, actually, that might have been a few weeks ago, when we realized what bad shape the Matriarch was in, that we’d be doing most of the heavy lifting here, that we might not be seeing The Manor, our garden, our boozy jam business for some time. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">But consider today a further fraying at the edges.</span></div>
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It started last night when, as usual, the shoddy IV medical equipment we have in the US necessitates my turning it off manually, lest it keep beeping at 1:30AM. Then, we spent half an hour trying to get the damn tubing off the IV so that we could flush it, but gave up, figuring we’d do it in the morning. Morning dawned; it had occurred to us to use pliers for leverage, and the damn thing still. won’t. come. off. Not with pliers, not with alcohol swabs, not with hot water, not with brute force that (no lie) left blisters on our fingers. We have a work call in a few minutes and are waiting for Asshole Brother to show up; he knows about said call but can only be bothered to saunter in a few minutes ahead of time. And, when he does show up, is greeted at the door by Kingsly, after which (as I’m rushing to the door) AB proceeds to casually open the door, giving Kingsly an opportunity to make a run for it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now seriously, what kind of clueless asshole goes <b>anywhere</b> and lets the resident dog escape? Don’t we all do the “open door a tiny bit and scootch in without letting the dash out” maneuver? Dear readers, apparently not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At this point I shriek “DON’TLETHIMOUT!!” so of course AB <b>slams the door on Kingsly’s head</b>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This devolved into my yelling to watch out, AB calling me the “psycho with the psycho dog,” me calling him an asshole.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Needless to say, AB and I are barely on speaking terms at this point.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Or rather, it’s the usual phenomenon of him being an ass and then thinking that everything is still fine. I’d wonder if this is a guy thing, but no, I know women like this too, who lash out and say whatever asshole thing is in their heads, and then don’t at all think that it’ll impact whatever relationship there previously was. As if it’s fine to treat people like that. As if words don’t have consequences.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They can all just fuck right off.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZlPQaviPZEgMGNUsOSM7fFybZ_eCnvrPVN6W81h9DpnaVXyUxYe436gVugW1EfOASW302P-q6xdSJ24-7tv0m3MA7pD059cw1BzRi6YUt6wwy8J1I-Er0dZAaG0yYyug8SUikAXygz5q/s1600/92207529_10157683038973101_4384407391483985920_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1311" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZlPQaviPZEgMGNUsOSM7fFybZ_eCnvrPVN6W81h9DpnaVXyUxYe436gVugW1EfOASW302P-q6xdSJ24-7tv0m3MA7pD059cw1BzRi6YUt6wwy8J1I-Er0dZAaG0yYyug8SUikAXygz5q/s320/92207529_10157683038973101_4384407391483985920_o.jpg" width="262" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
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Of course, into this tableau started my work call, and the guy starting the call said “Hey, Tasha, how’s your mom doing? I haven’t asked in a while.” Which, well, went over about as well as expected, though I did manage to note that she was improving slowly and that it's just been a shitshow of a morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So here we are.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We eagerly await the day when we feel comfortable leaving the Matriarch on her own for a few hours, though quite frankly, it doesn’t matter much that AB is here when we’re not. Along with his assumption that it’s no big deal for me to have given up my life in Oregon to be in California, there’s also the assumption that he is More Important, and that everyone else can take care of things. So, the only thing he does when I’m not here is to <b>call me</b> to tell me that the Matriarch needs something. No really. “Hey, when will you be here? Mom needs to go to the bathroom.” I am not making this up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On the bright side – I am nothing if not eternally chipper and optimistic – the Matriarch is improving enough to be almost dangerous. She has twice now gotten up on her own to head to the bathroom….only to be brought up short by the tether that is the IV nutrition. Sigh. We shall be even more alert to the slight stirrings through the monitor that indicate restlessness and a desire to hit the open road.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On a final eternally chipper note:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Let the Baking Games begin.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p>Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-36476762129744502662020-04-28T01:19:00.000-05:002020-04-28T12:32:52.985-05:0012005.06 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<br />
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<b>Preface</b>: this morning, after hearing Semi-Normal Brother talk for three weeks about doing it (and only talking), we went ahead and took the shower doors off in the Matriarch’s bathroom. After purchasing a drill. And going somewhere else to buy actual drill bits. It took about 2 minutes, the only difficult part being lugging the extremely heavy glass doors out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, and we asked SNB to move them later. We will note that the Matriarch was alert this entire time, watching us struggle with those damn doors and wielding our trusty drill.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So. Early this afternoon we returned from District DIY Dog Park, and went into the bedroom to check on the Matriarch after leaving her to the devices of SNB for a couple of hours. Whereupon we discovered her not quite as askew as previously, but still awkwardly propped up on the bed, pillows every which way, head at an odd angle. Cue incredulousness, followed by – no lie – an uncontrollable fit of laughter at the absurdity of it all. Meanwhile, SNB is back in the kitchen, yammering on about Nacho Libre or whatever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We fix the pillows just so, as we know the Matriarch likes them. Then:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>The Matriarch</b>: “Did you see what Andy did? In the bathroom? He took the shower doo…..<o:p></o:p></div>
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OH no. No no no no no.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbFghQFE5kPksfqSgmiJddQ0GU7t7SVB0HbWGUQkDPb-pVd3szJ8MKTHA6pQDf-F9M2nbhpdDXDchw6gUOP2iuo16_8HFV_VYswaO1kgQZpYL3uUh1I9MxxCkbyUfAdAbBovoP-vO-oGW/s1600/%252B5wmzj1uSauzR4BKkTUnGQ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbFghQFE5kPksfqSgmiJddQ0GU7t7SVB0HbWGUQkDPb-pVd3szJ8MKTHA6pQDf-F9M2nbhpdDXDchw6gUOP2iuo16_8HFV_VYswaO1kgQZpYL3uUh1I9MxxCkbyUfAdAbBovoP-vO-oGW/s320/%252B5wmzj1uSauzR4BKkTUnGQ.jpg" width="320" /></a><b>Me</b>: “Mom. No. No no no no no. Don’t you remember ME, with the drill, this morning, taking the shower doors off and lugging the VERY HEAVY DOORS into the bedroom? ME? Brilliant Daughter? Favorite Child?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>The Matriarch</b>: “Oh, I guess you’re right.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Me</b>: “YES I AM. It was ME. After waiting three weeks for SNB to do it. WHICH HE DID NOT.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ten minutes later, when I returned with her freshly-baked peanut butter cookies right out of the oven, I reminded her of our conversation:<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Now, as I stand here with these warm cookies, let’s recap. WHO was it that removed those shower doors this morning? Who could that have been?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHorUMW2mCIGei9OpjyD_XomySA_KCc641pneKcsTmsbGtk4YVyiWBlwW5xdyCWLttZZYyR7ryIGvq_9q8OGuuqvsdouStVM3HWZEm-c1pBfaUI-oh6WbVmPpCWhyAl8PylVEFzM86Chyu/s1600/1920px-Jan_Matejko%252C_Stan%25CC%2581czyk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1197" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHorUMW2mCIGei9OpjyD_XomySA_KCc641pneKcsTmsbGtk4YVyiWBlwW5xdyCWLttZZYyR7ryIGvq_9q8OGuuqvsdouStVM3HWZEm-c1pBfaUI-oh6WbVmPpCWhyAl8PylVEFzM86Chyu/s320/1920px-Jan_Matejko%252C_Stan%25CC%2581czyk.jpg" width="320" /></a>I await the day when suddenly SNB is getting praised for making rice pudding every morning, checking blood sugar several times a day, turning off the IV pump at 1AM every night and changing the nutrition bag at 7AM, buying and setting up a humidifier, getting up to help the Matriarch to the bathroom every couple of hours, planting the whole garden, using a handy-dandy new drill to put up a hanging basket, keeping people updated, scouring the internet for various supplies, setting up the cable tv in the bedroom, adjusting pillows and blankets, doing laundry, cleaning the house, paying bills, crushing pills, BELGIANS IN THE CONGO.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh, sorry. Got carried away there for a second.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We need a drink.</div>
<o:p></o:p>Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-89651379154089545982020-04-28T00:58:00.000-05:002020-04-28T00:58:32.818-05:00Pandemic Diaries IV<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>12004.28 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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We returned from our patrol of Area DIYDogPark to find that Normal Brother had made potato soup; there was a bag on the floor with what looked like potato peelings, so naturally we asked if that was garbage to be thrown out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Normal Brother</b>: Yes….but you really should start a compost bin.<br /><b>Me</b>: …….<br /><b>Me</b>: I…I’m not really sure I have the time for another project at the moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We seriously contemplated putting NB on the Vaporization List, but will hold off. For now.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Matriarch did enjoy the potato soup, and is slowly gaining strength, but still has no interest in watching her usual shows on tv. However, we’re quite sure that once she starts tuning in to the daily pathos and absurdity of the Days of Our Pandemic briefings, she will be as morbidly fascinated as the rest of us. What insane ramblings will the Dotard come up with today? What juvenile insults will he throw out? What sarcastic and brilliant barbs will Citizen Cuomo respond with?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ0CVQ3cRxfwMbidNr3Wt9C2kJiBbigA15ow-strwipDMlmBNSPBgyeMnNI2KebGuMdJr6inwVECk1wglbsxFDosYWe8usEEtCKDF8FsR1XzbbwZq8DPXR-FH05wFbqYJU5dmWofbtHboB/s1600/94017386_10157735784793101_1028502890521559040_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ0CVQ3cRxfwMbidNr3Wt9C2kJiBbigA15ow-strwipDMlmBNSPBgyeMnNI2KebGuMdJr6inwVECk1wglbsxFDosYWe8usEEtCKDF8FsR1XzbbwZq8DPXR-FH05wFbqYJU5dmWofbtHboB/s320/94017386_10157735784793101_1028502890521559040_o.jpg" width="240" /></a>We can hardly wait.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.29 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Христос Воскрес! On this Easter day, we were sorely disappointed that we were unable to go to the usual midnight service, to then walk around the church 3 times in the freezing cold night, to then listen to a service that would go on for hours and hours. And hours. We soldiered on, however, and decided to make вареники in honor of the holiday.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Very quickly, we discovered how impossible these are to make in a tiny kitchen with no counter space. Nevertheless, we persisted. The Matriarch had one bite, and proclaimed them “good” – which, when compared to our GrandMatriarch’s usual comment of “буває хуже,” is a grand compliment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kingsly showed himself to be a true Ukrainian, as he turned up his royal nose at the beautiful lamb chops cooked by Normal Brother, but was most pleased with the sour cream. He is also excelling at keeping this part of CalCascadia free of King Cobras, as we have yet to see a single one. Coincidence? I think not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.30 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Kingsly was on the hunt today, prowling through the bushgrass fields in search of traitors to the cause. Or maybe it was rabbits he was after. Regardless, he was in brave pursuit of any and all interlopers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We were especially ragey today, given that the Matriarch still struggles with basic things like, oh, say, BEING AWAKE. Standing up. Moving. Eating. We are very close to the point of calling the so-called doctor and demanding an answer to the question of WHY they felt it was a good idea to starve the Matriarch for 2 weeks, so that she’d be too weak to do absolutely anything regarding the cancer. And then there’s the guilt, as everyone everywhere is on the “all healthcare workers are AMAZING” bandwagon and we keep thinking “well apparently not ALL of them, since they brought the Matriarch to the brink of death under their care, amirite?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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So. Much. Rage.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.31 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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It is uncanny – truly so! – how many times now a home care worker has said, with some puzzlement, “I’m surprised they didn’t give that to you when the Matriarch left the hospital.” Sometimes it’s something relatively minor, like Maalox or syringes. And sometimes it’s really fucking important, like the spirometer that she should be using to, you know, strengthen her lungs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Perhaps these were too expensive to part with, in a health care system that charges $50 for a single aspirin. Mayhap they should have just jacked up the price even more, like, say, CVS has apparently done, as I discovered today when I went online to see if they had said spirometer or a pulse oximeter. By reading the reviews, it was clear that prices had uncannily – there’s that word again – gone up threefold for such items in the last few weeks. Odd! I’m sure it’s mere coincidence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqye5T1tHy-vo19VxuAHfjJwxh1I1kQ0EUG_qpE4xR-UmyMzC8bj8fcL6UYM0CM4DNpj-4qtZVpx7tcMceqK8tx85IPXPyYfiXCUGvqbkbdaoqIB4Ej3seDb0b4LsDgjnEL9objb2CRTR/s1600/94017589_10157739580203101_3460835809043677184_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqye5T1tHy-vo19VxuAHfjJwxh1I1kQ0EUG_qpE4xR-UmyMzC8bj8fcL6UYM0CM4DNpj-4qtZVpx7tcMceqK8tx85IPXPyYfiXCUGvqbkbdaoqIB4Ej3seDb0b4LsDgjnEL9objb2CRTR/s320/94017589_10157739580203101_3460835809043677184_o.jpg" width="240" /></a>We did manage to have a very productive discussion today with May; she is the person from the IV nutrition place who’s been coordinating everything, and is by far the most competent and professional medical worker we’ve dealt with. Today she called with the results of the Matriarch’s blood test: electrolytes etc look good, but her hemoglobin is down inexplicably. We asked what we could do about this, and noted how critical it was to get her stronger so that she could resume cancer treatment. May said she’d send the results to the doctor, and then her oncologist, and in the ensuing conversation, we may have said the following things: “they need <span style="font-size: 12pt;">to get their fucking act together” “it’s their fault she’s in this state” “I don’t care how they do it, but they need to figure this shit out” “they’re responsible for starving her for 2 weeks so that now she’s too weak for her cancer treatment” “they can come to the house to give her her shot” and finally “if they can’t manage that after letting her fester in the hospital for 2 weeks then they can just FUCK RIGHT OFF.”</span></div>
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Sometimes, I have such a hard time making my feelings known. I will work on this. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/feelmywrath?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG" style="color: purple;">#feelmywrath</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12005.01 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Recently, in a moment of foreshadowing and (quite frankly) brilliance, we purchased Children’s Advil – the only liquid pain relief available OTC, or at least the only one we could find in this time of Hoarding and Irrationality. Last night our efforts were duly rewarded, as the Matriarch had a headache at around 4AM. We administered the standard dosage of this fruity elixir and hoped it would work.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKS7H_NRSnMDN4HhBpwFO1ynUvgTNTRMl0cUPvXql3jLe-RMp0RHYA8boj3tX3RZcGlLx5e8FeLgXTgSUpqNmGPHpabw83-Y7_J3_Xpnlj465YICWaDomylV_5-7sgMcoa3t2KfTMOVX9P/s1600/94356710_10157759485038101_6293012788205846528_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1199" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKS7H_NRSnMDN4HhBpwFO1ynUvgTNTRMl0cUPvXql3jLe-RMp0RHYA8boj3tX3RZcGlLx5e8FeLgXTgSUpqNmGPHpabw83-Y7_J3_Xpnlj465YICWaDomylV_5-7sgMcoa3t2KfTMOVX9P/s320/94356710_10157759485038101_6293012788205846528_o.jpg" width="239" /></a>Highly attuned as we are to the Matriarch’s stirrings every several hours, we woke up at 7AM, heard nothing, dozed off. Woke up at 8AM, went to check on her status, and…..she was sleeping soundly. Same at 9AM, at which point we woke her up to give her the medicated mouthwash for her mouth sores.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Matriarch: “I slept like a log – I feel so rested!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hmm. Am I the only one who had no idea that Children’s Advil was really just straight laudanum?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12005.02 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Normal Brother was almost placed on the Expedited Vaporization List today. We had gotten the Matriarch up and in the wheelchair, and she insisted on seeing the rest of her Kingdom (we have not yet had the heart to tell her that she is now a mere citizen of District 7). She was wheeled to the patio area, to gaze upon the splendor of flowers brought in by Brilliant Child (aka me). After a time of survey, Normal Brother wheeled the Matriarch back to the bedroom to rest, while I stayed on the patio to supervise Kingsly as he eradicated any evidence of King Cobras from the premises.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Brilliant Child then went to the bedroom to check on the Matriarch……to find her completely askew on the bed, feet practically draped over the edge, head wedged awkwardly on the wedge pillow meant to be used for sitting up, not lying down. This was the “assistance” of NB, who then dashed off to yet another critical call about the budget for Baby Shark.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW-zh4dY3eNTUMoQIdWBHfKQ6R4doR-wiYSqdTJrrgL4n8j4mXPChQsbeiIWAaz17MFhm4gzFNWWR9IY3UR2Spt-aS_-IYWtWw_snCSOo9cAo984U2XAHCHaIHEfKClA4gQDWwQxxbL_6G/s1600/93841625_10157743284578101_495416471774560256_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW-zh4dY3eNTUMoQIdWBHfKQ6R4doR-wiYSqdTJrrgL4n8j4mXPChQsbeiIWAaz17MFhm4gzFNWWR9IY3UR2Spt-aS_-IYWtWw_snCSOo9cAo984U2XAHCHaIHEfKClA4gQDWwQxxbL_6G/s320/93841625_10157743284578101_495416471774560256_n.jpg" width="247" /></a>He yet lives, but is on the Vaporization Purgatory List, where it’s not quite clear which way he’ll go.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We are also compiling a list of companies we will not patronize in the post-Dystopian era. </div>
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Today’s addition: Ace Hardware, which apparently had its online ordering system put together by sea monkeys.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We will be adding to this list as needed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12005.03 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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We are starting to suspect that we do not in fact have Normal Brother and Idiot Brother, but rather Idiot Brother 1.0 and Idiot Brother 2.0. It might have been the “she doesn’t need carbs and proteins, she needs vitamins!” comment that put us over the edge, but suffice it to say, we told Something Brother that hey, he might as well stay home tomorrow. Take a break! The day off!<o:p></o:p></div>
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It may keep him from Vaporization, it may not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Matriarch made it to the doctor’s office today, wheeled in. The oncologist didn’t seem to appreciate my many questions, as he made a couple of comments along the lines of “well with your medical background” and “so what else do you want?” etc. But he can just fuck right off because his track record here isn’t very stellar, now is it. Regardless, the Matriarch got her shot and is on a different pill, so the cancer treatment restarts. Finally.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We are tired.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12005.04 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNomimvVnJDWqROakxkSc_bLLZPtDQrekkUrd_BZJEjjD2azKEepf1bsEQksh-x3ZZRW7KR_fUjIdAySsqwKr-fii41uVvpw6hFbXDvk6IsuVQUItNbhrWg7Iv1YgLv3R0ua-M85lxcpfq/s1600/93412129_10157743284588101_8335351311767699456_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="600" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNomimvVnJDWqROakxkSc_bLLZPtDQrekkUrd_BZJEjjD2azKEepf1bsEQksh-x3ZZRW7KR_fUjIdAySsqwKr-fii41uVvpw6hFbXDvk6IsuVQUItNbhrWg7Iv1YgLv3R0ua-M85lxcpfq/s320/93412129_10157743284588101_8335351311767699456_n.jpg" width="320" /></a>Useless Normalish Brother was banished from District 7 today, and it was……rather lovely. We did everything ourselves – as usual – but with blissful silence in the background instead of LOUD CALLS about the budget for Baby Shark.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We’ve also realized that it’s not the virus that will kill us. It’s us. We will all kill each other.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbl0ht0GvJNXbqoezVktNDU1zwGKbncubbTnMECl50Y_7PjFPl65JXQPlmb_BjmkmU657ohkmI185FRKKRvps_PznNZfxEYFL1hKkG7arVSO-oLDa_tffslGBDz291kYxthGYk4Rg2DA7u/s1600/95275758_10157763182258101_5704533231349530624_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbl0ht0GvJNXbqoezVktNDU1zwGKbncubbTnMECl50Y_7PjFPl65JXQPlmb_BjmkmU657ohkmI185FRKKRvps_PznNZfxEYFL1hKkG7arVSO-oLDa_tffslGBDz291kYxthGYk4Rg2DA7u/s320/95275758_10157763182258101_5704533231349530624_o.jpg" width="240" /></a>We are also a bit tired of the commercials that show people doing cute and quaint things while in quarantine, like painting foraged driftwood with hearts or dancing in harmony with someone in the building across the street, all without a care in the world. Meanwhile, over here in the WasteLands, we’re sitting around seething about all you assholes who’ve never baked in your lives buying out and hoarding all the fucking yeast in every store out there. Really? Yeast? You all know it doesn’t last forever, right? It has an expiration date? So you had better get on with making your twee pearl-sugar-encrusted cardamom brioche buns, bitches. Good luck with that.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Us, we’re going to be over here working on our new Cooking With Viruses show, that will focus on what one can cook or bake with “things still to be found in grocery stores.” First up: fun with monkfruit sugar and barley! Yes, the mind reels.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12005.05 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Normal Brother received a slight reprieve today, as he came by and made brisket, and it was uneventful. He has moved a step away from the Vaporization List, but of course, tomorrow is another day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We also went to the store to pick up our canning jars – because just as everyone now has visions of being a creative baker cheerily turning out the most ethereal of buns and bread, they also seem to fancy themselves as canning mavens, not realizing how much effort and experience goes into making a decent jam.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hahahahahahahaha! Dare I say I look forward to reading about their endeavors?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5cepADNiagXir3WblDJe2PnT-SFkEwbvoPrliOVkWm92CExY1r32NOgDw3Op2mgB43g_H84uTqksjG5dY94NonDkNyQ2sHT5QHHcg6QyOInem8-M3egdLJzCeXH1hCgM4H8lhoHvWjZ0V/s1600/94747165_10157763182183101_467864763376861184_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5cepADNiagXir3WblDJe2PnT-SFkEwbvoPrliOVkWm92CExY1r32NOgDw3Op2mgB43g_H84uTqksjG5dY94NonDkNyQ2sHT5QHHcg6QyOInem8-M3egdLJzCeXH1hCgM4H8lhoHvWjZ0V/s320/94747165_10157763182183101_467864763376861184_o.jpg" width="240" /></a>In the meantime, we are crowdsourcing a supply of yeast BECAUSE THERE IS NONE TO BE FOUND HERE. Really people. Give up the vision. Trust us on this.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Shopping takes so much longer these days. The line to get into the store. The wandering, not <span style="font-size: 12pt;">sure if something is sold out (HELLO YEAST) or is simply in a different place. Buying unfamiliar things, because our usual brands are sold out. So tiring – of course, not as tiring as having to wait hours upon hours in a line to pick up free food in this, our shithole country that’s rampant with cronyism and inequality and inadequate systems and people bartering for flour and doing shady midnight runs for PPE and the Dotard musing about injecting bleach (YOU FIRST) and omg it’s all so tiring.</span> </div>
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Right now we are glad of two things: that the Matriarch is improving, albeit slowly, and that stores sell single-serving cocktails ready to swig down, not even needing a glass. Cheers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-76959066215100516532020-04-27T23:06:00.000-05:002020-04-27T23:06:15.286-05:00Pandemic Diaries III<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>12004.18 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFXO4fdWpD7Kpf8mJTOzC34qqNMPmjhBhe4icEyktlgcpfVVfS7KXMCTYF5UkapG-SPusiXdWNGPDSeEkCKq2WIEr22fgTIh2iQ2dg_h80dg1UTLnYq17O_PCRj-YxcyK64c-Q4LQVfFca/s1600/93566221_10157720583888101_6539364531687129088_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="758" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFXO4fdWpD7Kpf8mJTOzC34qqNMPmjhBhe4icEyktlgcpfVVfS7KXMCTYF5UkapG-SPusiXdWNGPDSeEkCKq2WIEr22fgTIh2iQ2dg_h80dg1UTLnYq17O_PCRj-YxcyK64c-Q4LQVfFca/s400/93566221_10157720583888101_6539364531687129088_n.jpg" width="400" /></a>The Matriarch is now home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She is in horrible shape. Much worse than when she went in. She looks like she didn't eat for 2 weeks...because she basically didn't, as they didn't start IV nutrition until this past Saturday.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Those bags I dropped off every day, with cards, tchochkes, etc? Untouched. You'd think someone might have noticed them piling up day after day, but apparently not. Her lips are cracked and scabbed over. She can barely stand up, much less walk.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQADSe2zweOBX5QM7Ke-zyWoa1s5fkEFmaNzK9qrTkL8TE0-aY8PDpsahlRKV02iXROpWnUHTTiU4qZPwOmtyRaMWSk0p6MJ1e5it06h4Kpfylp2bb-oCyAmWtuluiNvM_kK3ews7ksc-Y/s1600/93114856_10157713782988101_2781525141350252544_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQADSe2zweOBX5QM7Ke-zyWoa1s5fkEFmaNzK9qrTkL8TE0-aY8PDpsahlRKV02iXROpWnUHTTiU4qZPwOmtyRaMWSk0p6MJ1e5it06h4Kpfylp2bb-oCyAmWtuluiNvM_kK3ews7ksc-Y/s320/93114856_10157713782988101_2781525141350252544_o.jpg" width="240" /></a>With the IV nutrition, we need to test her blood sugar, and to get that testing equipment, the pharmacy needs diagnostic codes. I told the case manager/doctors this yesterday. And today. Did anyone bother to provide that info so that I could get the testing equipment? Of course not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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No, they don't have Covid-19 as an excuse. I asked several times when I was at the hospital pointlessly dropping off gifts/supplies - they only ever had a few patients.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Today's home health nurse, however, was excellent. A gem. Dawn, thank you for caring so much.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tomorrow morning I have a telecall with the Matriarch's doctor/PCP. I originally set it up <span style="font-size: 12pt;">because they discharged her without letting us know what meds she's been taking and how, since she still can't eat/drink/swallow. Now, however, I have a few more questions. It will not be pleasant.</span></div>
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I am so angry that I am preternaturally calm. This is not a good sign for them. Vaporization would be the easy way out. #feelmywrath<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.19 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Maybe this was Putin's goal all along, that after making fun of the Soviet Union for so long, that was what we'd become.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Because we have.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJoXCIEOsTIBcQkcM9qVvb1otfPNhiEhOzzjI-6tKKEWsdKeagk7yTU3qIj_qZYqwSwa3pHcEIxYYQRKBp8ruRmmo2BJJIoOQS8M8nVUSu3i6OXrSVQPkf-x4a3F99NWGimuC_ceRHw9-L/s1600/93563611_10157731812938101_8726031179213438976_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJoXCIEOsTIBcQkcM9qVvb1otfPNhiEhOzzjI-6tKKEWsdKeagk7yTU3qIj_qZYqwSwa3pHcEIxYYQRKBp8ruRmmo2BJJIoOQS8M8nVUSu3i6OXrSVQPkf-x4a3F99NWGimuC_ceRHw9-L/s320/93563611_10157731812938101_8726031179213438976_o.jpg" width="240" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
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Today at Area CVSShoppe, everyone was buying the one thing that was plentiful: alcohol.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A citizen walked past me clutching a precious 4-pack of toilet paper.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: Omg, they have toilet paper? Really?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Him: Yes, there's still a few left, aisle 1!<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is what we've become. A shithole country where people are dying needlessly, with a lack of medical supplies, and a Dotard as president who's the stupidest most narcissistic person alive and who communicates by tweet so that he can brag about his ratings during a pandemic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Where people are lining up for hours to get basic provisions from food banks, because the inequality that has defined this country for so long is finally coming home to roost.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We are weary.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM7uil_3Hd-_Qv3IF469WC6uIZprwpvZb99Osa62lVGwC3qPoFLIbkgg078L0xIKDCE0ubJpwtlWUtm10iKyevBHfxWc2im8tq9tDpzRIilOzqKAAaZSa5ojz-K0WYIiXG0IO4q3XVjo0I/s1600/93038208_10157699748133101_5448299270631325696_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1234" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM7uil_3Hd-_Qv3IF469WC6uIZprwpvZb99Osa62lVGwC3qPoFLIbkgg078L0xIKDCE0ubJpwtlWUtm10iKyevBHfxWc2im8tq9tDpzRIilOzqKAAaZSa5ojz-K0WYIiXG0IO4q3XVjo0I/s320/93038208_10157699748133101_5448299270631325696_o.jpg" width="246" /></a>The Matriarch slept all day, though we have told her that tomorrow we start the early-morning calisthenics. When I spoke to her PCP this morning and asked what kind of fuckery this was, I got the usual pablum: "Well, we don't know what's going on in the hospital, that's up to them, blah blah bullshit." Maybe you SHOULD fucking know, especially if you're recommending someone go to the hospital in the first place. Lesson learned: if you can avoid it, do NOT put anyone somewhere where you can't check up on them EVERY. SINGLE. FUCKING. DAY.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally, the foraging continues as we continually find new sources of sustenance in the far reaches of the District. We're not sure what kind of fruit this was, but here's hoping it's edible. Or at least not poisonous. #easycomeeasygo<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.20 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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We spoke to the oncologist today via telecall. This is a relatively accurate recounting of the conversation:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Normal Brother: Thank you for making the time for thi…<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: WHAT THE HELL, PEOPLE!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVNWbEV1eOu6ZqNA2xZSOqUUt6lgwY10gAe-f4WN-HfNzIuEK3l8IlPvtHij0SU63Nbu8HzFomeFj3yQnqdourGGJDoHVgxmsdY5MBOV6q2n9_gvMohqF4XnyF8E8h4jilIqn4eFhudoFL/s1600/93252243_10157713782938101_7798994378504011776_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVNWbEV1eOu6ZqNA2xZSOqUUt6lgwY10gAe-f4WN-HfNzIuEK3l8IlPvtHij0SU63Nbu8HzFomeFj3yQnqdourGGJDoHVgxmsdY5MBOV6q2n9_gvMohqF4XnyF8E8h4jilIqn4eFhudoFL/s320/93252243_10157713782938101_7798994378504011776_o.jpg" width="240" /></a>Onc: How is she doing?<o:p></o:p></div>
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NB: Well, not great. As you know we brought her in two weeks ago and….<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: She’s in HORRIBLE shape! Why the hell did she get no nutrition for TWO WEEKS?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Onc: I’m sure they were thinking she’d start eatin…<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: THEY WAITED TWO WEEKS.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Onc: I’m sure they thought it would be shorter…<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: TWO WEEKS! TWO!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Onc: She started getting nutrition on Saturday….<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: Yes and that means TWO WEEKS OF NOTHING.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So that went well.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have established a hierarchy for our Home Nurse Citizens. Good = offering. Meh = nada. Dawn got boozy cherries. Yesterday’s, who didn’t seem to know what she was doing, nothing. Today, Nancy and James were awesome, both got boozy jam as tribute. We have standards to uphold here in CalCascadia.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRl_dCG4GEGkFd4obifGvUhKo4FPzWJZXjPPTaro2xmDCI-ejPTj1CQjcEB1uyBTpg1CDyQbb5_Jt3bqglgf9Ddlo1rxPBNccyK23oJ5vfGxILtNriGLIpsLizaRoj-eBEzZVydrwkJdKh/s1600/92281978_10157686721493101_4384516071336443904_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRl_dCG4GEGkFd4obifGvUhKo4FPzWJZXjPPTaro2xmDCI-ejPTj1CQjcEB1uyBTpg1CDyQbb5_Jt3bqglgf9Ddlo1rxPBNccyK23oJ5vfGxILtNriGLIpsLizaRoj-eBEzZVydrwkJdKh/s320/92281978_10157686721493101_4384516071336443904_o.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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I also told the oncologist that we needed a wheelchair, so that theoretically we can take the Matriarch to appts. This led us to a place called Merlin's, which brought to mind a muffler or car repair shop? Ha ha, how silly! No, Merlin's is a MAGIC TRICKS AND MEDICAL EQUIPMENT emporium. I am not making this up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Matriarch is being subjected to the type of discipline we are known for in District 7. We have been instructed to get her to swallow protein drinks even in small amounts, and so we have called on our inner drill sergeant. The words “suck it up!” may have been uttered today. Several times.<o:p></o:p></div>
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No mercy. We are at war.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.21 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Kingsly has shown how seriously he takes his patrolling duties in the District, as he brought Kingsaroo with him this morning to teach the ways to the next generation. He continues to keep a suspicious and wary eye on Normal Brother; with the shortages continuing to plague the Wastelands’ distribution channels, no one can be trusted when it comes to critical items like cheese sticks. No one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We then went to patrol the Compound, where the Elite are allowed free rein in this time of quarantine. Kingsly was pleased.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Matriarch is more or less the same. Sleeping much, as we continue to force necessary provisions into her. We anticipate a full recovery before Ukrainian Orthodox Easter in a week, and will put her to work in the galley making paska. So has it been written, so shall it be done.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2HaTlggVNzLItLEe3Dpd4AunQ4kXcO6Hz6bRIWA9uWXfocxeEbn6G-fQmhZQ1GoIqNvwg9oZqaOZFfxU9no3DUnp2iu5bcCvP_cA6TvIsmAozptM-vRipmyJIMkDhUYy5USox0U2bpZr/s1600/93186008_10157728076183101_4971343401518628864_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2HaTlggVNzLItLEe3Dpd4AunQ4kXcO6Hz6bRIWA9uWXfocxeEbn6G-fQmhZQ1GoIqNvwg9oZqaOZFfxU9no3DUnp2iu5bcCvP_cA6TvIsmAozptM-vRipmyJIMkDhUYy5USox0U2bpZr/s400/93186008_10157728076183101_4971343401518628864_o.jpg" width="300" /></a><i>12004.22 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Kingsly continues to alertly patrol the WasteLands. All bandits and hooligans are dispatched in an appropriately unmerciful manner.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The glucose monitor we use to monitor the Matriarch's blood sugar (because the IV nutrition is 80% glucose) stopped working. After 3 days. We bought a new one, but why is everything in US healthcare so shoddy? There were also no alcohol swabs at the store, because.....why? What the hell are people using these 1-inch square swabs for??<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Matriarch continues sleeping. She doesn't want to wake up. We are working on getting a home nurse to help out. We are discouraged, dispirited, disheartened.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We are exhausted.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I often think the Fates are just a bunch of asshole bros sitting around in togas drinking shitty beer and trying to one up each other. "Oh you thought THAT was bad - hold my shitty beer, bro!"<o:p></o:p></div>
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Fuck them all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.23 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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We often think of Dirty Sock and Zen as our patron saint of sorts, embodying the principle that just when one truly gives up all hope, one gets stuck on a log and is thus saved from a soggy death. So it was that this morning, the Matriarch was coherent. Almost chatty! She ate some applesauce. And then slept all day, but we’ll take it. We have summoned nursing assistance that will start tomorrow. Our goal is to whip the Matriarch into shape by, say, Saturday, so that she is able to make the Easter paska.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Later, Kingsly and I stood at the fence separating the WasteLands from FormerWorld…. and boldly made our escape. We stood among the sage plants and breathed deeply of the fresh air, and were soothed. Noting our escape route, we then returned to the WasteLands, to continue to fight with our brethren against the Dictatorship.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyLCvovSKWMgAHPfkpcW4oPTc8Oxp-4faJGcOPxn1aU_5b_5nDEndZWYRfBL3am9zVwHNzUaNMAbbW12X5-XIGYczlpGCW2B5mOtE-JJxr0MoeB1KYVIcakcYv3_Yw5rdWXDlPvNDwdAWe/s1600/93193033_10157713782908101_4933884096922255360_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyLCvovSKWMgAHPfkpcW4oPTc8Oxp-4faJGcOPxn1aU_5b_5nDEndZWYRfBL3am9zVwHNzUaNMAbbW12X5-XIGYczlpGCW2B5mOtE-JJxr0MoeB1KYVIcakcYv3_Yw5rdWXDlPvNDwdAWe/s400/93193033_10157713782908101_4933884096922255360_o.jpg" width="400" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
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We also puzzled over the odd house on the hill. Citizen Amanda, Keeper of that District, informed us that it belonged to Citizens Belafonte and their 12 dachshunds. We are not making this up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In this time of pandemic, Normal Brother is also WFH. This may be the only time I hear the following words said unironically on a call:<o:p></o:p></div>
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• Can I give you the PJ Sparkleton budget now?<o:p></o:p></div>
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• Nacho Libre will fit in the same budget.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And last but not least:<o:p></o:p></div>
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• Okay, let’s go with whatever images Baby Shark has.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally, other words that have never been said to the Matriarch before tonight:<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You’re as bad as Kingsly! Stop spitting out the pill!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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When the Matriarch gets better, we. are. dead.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.24 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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The K̶o̶m̶m̶i̶s̶s̶a̶r̶s̶ home healthcare citizens showed up today to take the Matriarch in hand and get her ready for the big paska-baking juggernaut this weekend. It seemed to go well, as she falls into line. We also brooked no tomfoolery today with the pills and crushed them into a fine powder, surreptitiously slipping them in with the daily gruel. Victory was ours.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOh6nEUa9KwfT-gWzrD4KrdIXStPk1dOQrnAaxd4ZKkcy1QJVpLAGBcpgXTD5dnS6alL7D1XzaKbIeXlvPfEzkytDsjNHmI-2YRb6qY99VSLuZOpeV1gNm6JStg7aD2Ju9MHnge37v-dMf/s1600/93027472_10157717101008101_8200441471262785536_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1207" data-original-width="1600" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOh6nEUa9KwfT-gWzrD4KrdIXStPk1dOQrnAaxd4ZKkcy1QJVpLAGBcpgXTD5dnS6alL7D1XzaKbIeXlvPfEzkytDsjNHmI-2YRb6qY99VSLuZOpeV1gNm6JStg7aD2Ju9MHnge37v-dMf/s400/93027472_10157717101008101_8200441471262785536_o.jpg" width="400" /></a>The Matriarch has also expressed an interest in “what’s going on in the world” (cue disbelieving and slightly maniacal laughter), so we will attempt to hook up the transmission device in her bedroom so that she can watch the daily ramblings by the man-child untethered from reality, aka the Dotard. The ramblings might be considered comic relief if this weren’t the Time of Pandemic, but what do we know?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kingsly and I continue to explore the territory beyond the fenced-in confines of the WasteLands. We plan to start our shiny new Life Beyond with our latest creation: Little Miss F’in Sunshine. As we like to say, nothing sells boozy jam like a pandemic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.25 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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The Matriarch is showing signs of improvement. She is more vocal, and has been reminded to refer to us as “Favorite Child.” For some reason, this elicits chuckles from the Kommissars; we fail to see why this is amusing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Matriarch’s doctors are now suddenly eager to schedule telecalls with us to discuss her state. Quite frankly, we are not interested, unless it would be to tell them that we are working to get her back to how she was several weeks ago so that she can get back to her cancer treatment. Perhaps they recall that? The treatment she had to stop because of their shoddy and inexcusable incompetence? I do not namby-pamby around with niceties like Normal Brother does; rest assured, they will Feel. My. Wrath.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieirRtaAsFmZi1WHbsHcmyvqByMw8a_WhQUeJgroIRC2etvSWN4Z1KbBpMMndtSkIRm1lK6pIGM2EqF0WyuMJmYITuQh97K0APkvnatN-7I6aAjzHoJA66WSescG21cIGqaZPedV2as-os/s1600/92847734_10157728076158101_8681275189037629440_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieirRtaAsFmZi1WHbsHcmyvqByMw8a_WhQUeJgroIRC2etvSWN4Z1KbBpMMndtSkIRm1lK6pIGM2EqF0WyuMJmYITuQh97K0APkvnatN-7I6aAjzHoJA66WSescG21cIGqaZPedV2as-os/s320/92847734_10157728076158101_8681275189037629440_o.jpg" width="240" /></a>Between catering to the whims of the Matriarch (which is as it should be), squiring Sir Kingsly around to his Area Patrols (ditto), and attempting to keep our job, we are remiss in responding to messages from fellow Citizens. We will endeavor to return to our former steadfastness forthwith. #courage<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.26 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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We are in a state of status quo: the Matriarch was not as active today, but is still focused on viewing the Luddite device known as a “tv.” We were unable to get the cable to function today, but tomorrow will make the supreme sacrifice which is: calling the cable tv company to sort this out. #thehorror<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWm03bL72ilGID0H3jYBsbq6S73PfLSCXRaOnMNtIFFGPaW4SiAvCfvFUDfKrkBq5ecWbep9XWNrg4AIm79vuJS-rXuHU9QfVYN6f7KcCh_Tiy_wlsEMZV2Wx9WZ81ZwqvavtW3SrPelY/s1600/93485275_10157728076353101_3276259881555853312_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWm03bL72ilGID0H3jYBsbq6S73PfLSCXRaOnMNtIFFGPaW4SiAvCfvFUDfKrkBq5ecWbep9XWNrg4AIm79vuJS-rXuHU9QfVYN6f7KcCh_Tiy_wlsEMZV2Wx9WZ81ZwqvavtW3SrPelY/s320/93485275_10157728076353101_3276259881555853312_o.jpg" width="240" /></a>Our fellow citizens may be pleased to know that we will resurrect the blog for the sole purpose <span style="font-size: 12pt;">of recounting the conversation we had this morning with the person from the doctor’s office. #epic</span></div>
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After our work call this morning, a casual “team” one meant to function as a happy hour stand-in of sorts (a 9AM cocktail seemed de rigueur, no?), we realized that we had managed to convey the following: our Big Boy collection, our url hoarding, our baby goat love/obsession. #nowords<o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally, Kingsly was in his element at Area DIYDogPark, as he discovered a space that hearkened back to his ancestral caves and the Time of Hunting King Cobras. Every day he becomes more reluctant to return to the “real” world, or what passes for it these days. #can’tblamehim<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.27 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9qZqjngFMx0cvdIs4nALbn-_O-l4vV_0H7TVuZCT_Vx67nOUUBSVUlCNnbMbJ7tjUHP_McUwoyQrccxIsdqPW2SjYTpcrX7fpuyKNga7CDsvVIQ0SFZxVQP0J8tAId0hmZcXbC5cpKtB/s1600/93422679_10157728076233101_4022856327247167488_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9qZqjngFMx0cvdIs4nALbn-_O-l4vV_0H7TVuZCT_Vx67nOUUBSVUlCNnbMbJ7tjUHP_McUwoyQrccxIsdqPW2SjYTpcrX7fpuyKNga7CDsvVIQ0SFZxVQP0J8tAId0hmZcXbC5cpKtB/s320/93422679_10157728076233101_4022856327247167488_o.jpg" width="240" /></a>We were determined to scale the highest peak, so to speak: figure out the Matriarch’s cable tv situation. A call to Spectrum revealed that we’d need to run a cable from the kitchen to the bedroom. Fine. A visit to Home Depot revealed that there are complete morons out there who <span style="font-size: 12pt;">think it’s fine to spend 40+ minutes in line discussing paint swatches and trying to return something using 3 different cards and discussing fuckall whatever else. They all were placed on the Expedited Vaporization List.</span></div>
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Finally, however, tv was achieved for the Matriarch. This seems to have perked her up, the ability to watch the news and Wheel of Fortune. We shall join her tomorrow in our traditional viewing, during which we yell out the “correct” answers using our superior wisdom.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Meanwhile, Kingsly and I are using our panga to forge a path through the LandBeyond, even as we return to the District WasteLands at the end of the workday so as to not be discovered. We await the day our fellow citizens will join us in rising up. #Resist!</div>
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<o:p></o:p>Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-8939225104899077282020-04-27T22:16:00.000-05:002020-04-27T22:26:20.514-05:00Pandemic Diaries II<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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<o:p> </o:p><i style="font-size: 12pt;">12003.8 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia</i></div>
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We have become fugitives.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDaRXRITzXZfPOHA_hifh2bysSHWc4Zsbk4LdpFPYCuFUWpMpLArxYpsTXrw4W8uf49lW6oTRyW4pFg78lX7Ytg5zCbMgLNsPN_GlurYyg4mlSql9V-pfBpMtXdBj1w3ZPGX98W_zqi8aZ/s1600/91616970_10157676396263101_1134588350804525056_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDaRXRITzXZfPOHA_hifh2bysSHWc4Zsbk4LdpFPYCuFUWpMpLArxYpsTXrw4W8uf49lW6oTRyW4pFg78lX7Ytg5zCbMgLNsPN_GlurYyg4mlSql9V-pfBpMtXdBj1w3ZPGX98W_zqi8aZ/s320/91616970_10157676396263101_1134588350804525056_o.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
The Directorate has decreed the closure of additional spaces, thanks to the dotardian elements who did not heed the social distancing dictates. (We have added them to The List, ie for expedited vaporization.) This morning at our usual walk/sniffie spot (aka the “Coyote Walk”), there was a new sign saying the park was closed. We are certain this was referring to the actual multi-acre preserve with trails rather than the small adjacent field we traverse, but we are taking no chances and will be army crawling our way through the fields to avoid detection.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We had not heard back from the Matriarch and were concerned. As we were preparing to storm the hospital, she contacted us, sounding horrible and feeling terrible. The flowers we brought yesterday were rejected, but cards are deemed acceptable. Should anyone care to send cards, with carefully coded messages referring to The Resistance, she is at St. John’s Pleasant Valley Hospital, 2309 Antonio Ave., Camarillo, CA, 93010, Rm, 217.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The world has gone mad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12003.9 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2VEA31eXx4gSPQvV9i7FPMb0_LkuhauXlVyNY_CGgoMrOK44A1dQBBzIBF_AhRxQ9SMHck5kXUCw6IxSDe-PCCGTbxNgqBUEg0nDwrlKLNLt_ucpGud7FSg0gGdbxrJcSG_h-0soudGbj/s1600/91182301_10157665504128101_9067387345879171072_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2VEA31eXx4gSPQvV9i7FPMb0_LkuhauXlVyNY_CGgoMrOK44A1dQBBzIBF_AhRxQ9SMHck5kXUCw6IxSDe-PCCGTbxNgqBUEg0nDwrlKLNLt_ucpGud7FSg0gGdbxrJcSG_h-0soudGbj/s400/91182301_10157665504128101_9067387345879171072_o.jpg" width="300" /></a>The Matriarch has some kind of infection, “they” say. Yet they know not what it is, and so are giving her antibiotics as she worsens. We are skeptical. We have devised a plan to get to the truth of the matter: tomorrow we will float a scientific balloon up to her window, with a subtle coded message on it such as “ARE YOU BEING KEPT PRISONER?” or “THROW APPLE JUICE AT THE WINDOW IF YOU NEED RESCUE.” We are quite sure no one will suspect anything, as the balloons are equally subtle.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Our familiar Hospital Guy was back at his station today, pleased to receive today’s tribute of Treasonous Tartan Tayberry. I was allowed to walk right up to the desk; soon, free reign will be mine, mine!<o:p></o:p></div>
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District 7 of CalCascadia continues to be shut down. Kingsly and I are left with smaller areas to patrol, but remain vigilant. Tonight he barked ferociously at the balloons, suspecting nefarious intentions, and rightly so. In our new Dystopian Thunderdome, no one can be trusted.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Well, except for the Pillow Guy. Glory be that he has come to save us!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12003.10 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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We have received welcome good news in the District: the Matriarch is improving, or so “they” say. We spoke to her this morning and she claimed that she was feeling better, but, skeptical as always, we sought to verify this information.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hence, our attempt to implement Operation Secretly Coded Balloons came into play. Our intel slipped us critical information as to where the Matriarch is located, and so we attempted to send up the messages. Alas, it appears the Matriarch was either sleeping or, we suspect, being interrogated, and so contact via SCBs was not made. Yet. We shall try again tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We will note that our carefully curated planning that has involved boozy jam tributes to the Front Desk Hospital Guy paid off in spades today. To wit:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Me</b>: Okay, so she’s somewhere in that building. I’ll send up the balloons.<br />
<b>FDHG</b>: I’m sure that’ll work well.<br />
<b>Me</b>: Hmm. What if I’m sending them up to some random person’s window? Say, if I get arrested….<br />
<b>FDHG</b>, interrupting: I’ll vouch for you!<o:p></o:p></div>
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My work here is done. Well, for today at least.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.11 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOO4UF4h-W4vRHoTCCQGfyLP1KqAC8JVw8nyyupcTtg3etDRqJmSXEjobU8bQkE_fF1wj8gepQ8iaW7ouMRqwSUGaAK3NFTi3BOVcDnLXF7nWjcc6L6mreRTQkxPyYPDjK_QwKF-Q7OvVE/s1600/91531231_10157672931793101_917270165337407488_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOO4UF4h-W4vRHoTCCQGfyLP1KqAC8JVw8nyyupcTtg3etDRqJmSXEjobU8bQkE_fF1wj8gepQ8iaW7ouMRqwSUGaAK3NFTi3BOVcDnLXF7nWjcc6L6mreRTQkxPyYPDjK_QwKF-Q7OvVE/s320/91531231_10157672931793101_917270165337407488_o.jpg" width="320" /></a>Just yesterday, a fellow patriot shared a missive about someone in District 28 of OpiOhio who was equally determined to visit HIS mom in a medical facility, and used a bucket lift.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Today, we arrived at the Matriarch’s current kingdom to discover: the street was blocked off. Equipment was in place. INCLUDING A BUCKET LIFT.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A coincidence? I think not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I innocently inquired if I could perhaps borrow said machinery for a short period of time, and was denied. However, the seed has been planted. Tomorrow I shall arrive with reinforcements, aka boozy cherries. I may or may not have inquired if they lock up their equipment when they leave at night, but I probably did. Being from Chicago, I may or may not have a shiv with me at all times to use as needed, but I probably do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Matriarch is status quo, neither better nor worse. We await results of tests. Every morning on our first of many walks, Kingsly and I are serenaded by the trilling of a mockingjay, and this reminds us that there is still beauty in the world, amidst the rage. Courage, my fellow resisters. We will burn this whole fucking house down if we have to.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.12 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8xPhIehHBhsE7u8jMNnPZhKCRjHjaTIqg9ftvNMvtPGlm6D1JV02kdC6onTVcDQPEo_Jip9hzpWFK6GcDsR_gFvevW7TT7Hixi_IEPPRuCHm2N50Pz9sHr_flmB7NUgS3RTeHW6Fos5VB/s1600/kingslyhole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8xPhIehHBhsE7u8jMNnPZhKCRjHjaTIqg9ftvNMvtPGlm6D1JV02kdC6onTVcDQPEo_Jip9hzpWFK6GcDsR_gFvevW7TT7Hixi_IEPPRuCHm2N50Pz9sHr_flmB7NUgS3RTeHW6Fos5VB/s320/kingslyhole.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIFV50CZsrpUDvsLIAkzEOFjotCGxgFsG6dPur2EJNpT1vUWBaEGFLvy417qv5TdJCSB38KsigqvM6XKeet_RRQHAeFUV9OtHQaAbJkwSlqZbK0GrASRyN1On8C2VcVNoyqIivU8tVx8Km/s1600/khole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIFV50CZsrpUDvsLIAkzEOFjotCGxgFsG6dPur2EJNpT1vUWBaEGFLvy417qv5TdJCSB38KsigqvM6XKeet_RRQHAeFUV9OtHQaAbJkwSlqZbK0GrASRyN1On8C2VcVNoyqIivU8tVx8Km/s320/khole.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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We have been foiled in our attempt to liberate a bucket lift, as the goldbrickers were not at their posts today. A drone launch may be next, as we are determined to make contact with the Matriarch. She is essentially the same, and we deem this unacceptable, that the doctors can't figure out what's going on. Heads will roll in District 7, oh yes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbC2wQwpksQWzI__WbQ1IB_lDyG6UeocKgq2BHsg4C1MnVXc9QeVpjljJV4sc0NR8Fo-18mIaEpAxwloN4XJGv9cAXMLjIDAEwq2PKPqSWMWDtUN6jF9HYXBJwWLeBZk8CIstJW44gIXC7/s1600/91552645_10157665504318101_2039011770743390208_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbC2wQwpksQWzI__WbQ1IB_lDyG6UeocKgq2BHsg4C1MnVXc9QeVpjljJV4sc0NR8Fo-18mIaEpAxwloN4XJGv9cAXMLjIDAEwq2PKPqSWMWDtUN6jF9HYXBJwWLeBZk8CIstJW44gIXC7/s320/91552645_10157665504318101_2039011770743390208_o.jpg" width="240" /></a>In our ample free time, we grew some flowers, to have at the Matriarch's house upon her return. And, alert as always, Kingsly detained a King Cobra on our afternoon patrol, or perhaps it was a bumblebee. Whatever the interloper, it was vanquished posthaste.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We have lost track of the Pandemic DeathCount. Nothing seems real anymore. Isn't there an alternate universe we can jump to, perhaps the one where the Cubs DIDN'T win the World Series, thereby unleashing the furies from the black depths of Hell? Maybe?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10157676396293101&set=pcb.10157676397503101&type=3&__tn__=HH-R&eid=ARAt-n2mEbG5Icd6umdo0XmngQ0Zr_hCF7lZP1pCsRPYSu_11cxAuzSzejqRlrOt_d7CoDdj9GC3VYO2" style="color: purple;"><br /></a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.13 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Today was a day of fuckery across the district. We set out early as usual to patrol Area 1 of the Royal Courts, only to discover: padlocked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Our patrolling took us to our next stop, the dog park.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Padlocked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There is no longer any offleash place to go in the District<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0jhc2DEWkcovtfRnSs2ENDjvE59U5ypMRPcwFQYJr9Ix_xT9aV6x388DpNIdQx2OFiT8suwmMNk_xRXgAMnLWx4b41nigiWJTSLTbv3kggVk3FAV28unSSaBHwmWLQ4kejmeTmnG023Gi/s1600/91622842_10157679790738101_4687867116076924928_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0jhc2DEWkcovtfRnSs2ENDjvE59U5ypMRPcwFQYJr9Ix_xT9aV6x388DpNIdQx2OFiT8suwmMNk_xRXgAMnLWx4b41nigiWJTSLTbv3kggVk3FAV28unSSaBHwmWLQ4kejmeTmnG023Gi/s400/91622842_10157679790738101_4687867116076924928_o.jpg" width="300" /></a>We then determined that if you’re up at 6AM, having a cocktail at 10:30AM is essentially like having a nightcap.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Matriarch remains in the medical facility, but today, somehow by some dystopian miracle, we managed to actually see her on Facetime. Given the Matriarch’s, umm, shall we say technological capabilities, we’re still not quite sure how this happened, and a few minutes in we were looking at a piece of equipment rather than the Matriarch, but we’ll take it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Other discoveries today included a stunning display of plantings that will fare well in the apocalyptic drought times, and a clutch of King Cobra eggs that Kingsly diligently ignored, as they are not yet of concern to him. It is a long road ahead of us, and he intuitively understands the wisdom of marshaling his resources, as should we all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Courage.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.14 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Fools, they, who thought they could keep us from our patrols.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkMSKxLObIDz6voMyZ9m8HDqT6NWtm51xbkYz0KSivVX_vsA-E0LNfxSa0yhJj9Dkx1bm90-C5NVrtZZ33hb1TJnMi0JSS6AAFUFFdKWXq090pALShTwyXypi5NfuPUNPwtWZzCOKLBNzH/s1600/91582711_10157683038993101_4465949411477815296_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1398" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkMSKxLObIDz6voMyZ9m8HDqT6NWtm51xbkYz0KSivVX_vsA-E0LNfxSa0yhJj9Dkx1bm90-C5NVrtZZ33hb1TJnMi0JSS6AAFUFFdKWXq090pALShTwyXypi5NfuPUNPwtWZzCOKLBNzH/s400/91582711_10157683038993101_4465949411477815296_o.jpg" width="348" /></a>We made contact with a citizen in the WestHills District, where we were able to continue protecting the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/resistance?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG" style="color: purple;">#Resistance</a>. This included making sure our communication apparatus was still functioning, looking for an alternate galaxy where we can offload 62 million dotardian units. </div>
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Alas, the quest continues.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We then went to give the Matriarch her daily coded messages, disguised as innocent-seeming cards in a festive bag. We are sure the medical personnel do not suspect that we are building a coalition that will overthrow…..whoever needs to be overthrown. She feels slightly better, and this hospital continues to have a low incidence of Virus patients, thankfully. The sirens in the region are becoming constant, as the state continues to shut down. Our anger grows, as the Chief Dotard continues to bathe in his own incompetence. We will rage until the end, and take matters into our own hands as needed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Our powers will not be questioned.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.15 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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The WeatherDistrict claimed that today would be a day of heavy rain, and so we did not schedule a visit to Area DogPark. It did not rain. Needless to say, names have been submitted to the Vaporization List.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaeC6l0mQ0O5IuLKUqvtQq7uItbBETheWTh0pOM8a2CZVbKC5c5dwOq28Vpp_EU3KHlQPcP2o1gD2K2Wo9AsadJhInj_wx2wT8UdNXdLd5kEorEpwODdMmWgH50lWeXYg3rdgApI7xlodG/s1600/bicycle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaeC6l0mQ0O5IuLKUqvtQq7uItbBETheWTh0pOM8a2CZVbKC5c5dwOq28Vpp_EU3KHlQPcP2o1gD2K2Wo9AsadJhInj_wx2wT8UdNXdLd5kEorEpwODdMmWgH50lWeXYg3rdgApI7xlodG/s400/bicycle.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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We then became “those people” who go to stores to buy seemingly ridiculous things. In this <span style="font-size: 12pt;">case, Home Depot, for flowers. The Matriarch is likely to be coming home tomorrow, and so Kingsly and I decided that she needs a riot of color in her little patio area, as right now it is completely devoid of such. We somehow stopped ourselves from buying a fig tree to plant……but it’s early days yet. The Matriarch will be allowed to have a modicum of input into the planting decision.</span><br />
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Speaking of Home Depot – what the ever-loving fuck is everyone doing with Swiffer refills?? We’re attempting to thoroughly clean the Matriarch’s domicile, and there isn’t a single wet Swiffer cloth to be found. Anywhere. Wth, people, wth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As noted above, the Matriarch is likely to be liberated tomorrow, albeit still with IV. She has been informed that she will be put to work immediately, after we determine which Worker Echelon she belongs to. The most likely slotting will be either a) Salt Mine or b) Dictating Placement of Wall Hangings. Tough to say.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.16 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYd5yCRIarsEtsxCtczHZiduXTTMFODLxMBKwMe4U4OT8UkXWlirkWlbKB7ohk6HShsIPuvZjg1GtDsRBKY9a2aUX-jdlmbi4eKnQkj8-pdY11OpWyhueKEz4RduO6J2Qgm1GhMgZWnzaD/s1600/92207529_10157683038973101_4384407391483985920_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1311" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYd5yCRIarsEtsxCtczHZiduXTTMFODLxMBKwMe4U4OT8UkXWlirkWlbKB7ohk6HShsIPuvZjg1GtDsRBKY9a2aUX-jdlmbi4eKnQkj8-pdY11OpWyhueKEz4RduO6J2Qgm1GhMgZWnzaD/s400/92207529_10157683038973101_4384407391483985920_o.jpg" width="327" /></a>The Matriarch was not liberated today as planned; she was feeling poorly and so they are h̶o̶l̶d̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶h̶o̶s̶t̶a̶g̶e̶ keeping her another night. Our day consisted of the following types of conversations:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Hospital person</b>: So we'll send her home with the IV and she'll get nutrition through that.<br />
<b>Me</b>: Okay.<br />
<b>HP</b>: You'll have to coordinate with the company that makes up the nutrition.<br />
<b>Me</b>: Okay.<br />
<b>HP</b>: And then coordinate with the home health people.<br />
<b>Me</b>: Okay.<br />
<b>HP</b>: The cost of the nutrition isn't covered by Medicare.<br />
<b>Me</b>: Okay.<br />
<b>HP</b>: It's a custom-made solution to exact specifications.<br />
<b>Me</b>: Okay.<br />
<b>HP</b>: It's not covered by Medicare because reasons.<br />
<b>Me</b>: Okay.<br />
<b>HP</b>: It's $1600 for the week.<br />
<b>Me</b>: Okay.<br />
<b>HP</b>: .....<br />
<b>Me</b>: .....<br />
<b>Me</b>: Ooookay?<br />
<b>HP</b>: Did you want to go ahead with it?<br />
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<b>Me</b>: Oh, you know, never mind, we'll just wing it. Gatorade will work too, right?<o:p></o:p></div>
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I did not say that last part. My inner smartass was tempted though.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We are weary.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But then today we received a postcard from Citizen Laura, who is bravely persevering at the chateaux and hoping that the contents of the wine cellar prove sufficient. And we are heartened in the face of such courage. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/persist?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG" style="color: purple;">#Persist</a>!<o:p></o:p></div>
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(Also today, we were wrongly directed to a dog park that was CLOSED. Kingsly was displeased. Vaporization will ensue.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12004.17 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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The Matriarch felt worse today, and remains in the hospital. Normal Brother and I have determined we will break her out tomorrow; our shivs are at the ready. Our boozy jam tribute today was ITMFA – always appropriate, these days more than ever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpRHhYMox3UGBJOVATUynTGbIWxCx2Vcf3Q41OXQDhGwSGanmJx_FC-klUGGoWymBhtZuAIOYEdseMnBl5K_4YeMEdKMQ-G02hScECQJiD4gDNpoEE9f6il_Y6fd1rBwHalzpOCu2vgbOg/s1600/target.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: 12pt; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpRHhYMox3UGBJOVATUynTGbIWxCx2Vcf3Q41OXQDhGwSGanmJx_FC-klUGGoWymBhtZuAIOYEdseMnBl5K_4YeMEdKMQ-G02hScECQJiD4gDNpoEE9f6il_Y6fd1rBwHalzpOCu2vgbOg/s320/target.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />We also attempted to get additional elements for our Patio <span style="font-size: 12pt;">Garden Tableau, but were foiled by the Directorate, which is keeping the little people away from our essential goods. Are flowers and mulch less necessary than pea soup? I think not. We shall prevail tomorrow. This is our talisman, our defiance against evil forces, our bit of hope and sunshine for the Matriarch to enjoy when she comes home, a sanctuary. It should be perfect.</span><br />
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Kingsly is becoming known among the Area LeisureVillage citizens for his heroics. These have involved standing in the middle of the street, alertly sniffing into the wind for the scent of King Cobras. Later, at the Area PupYard, Kingsly ran a King Cobra to ground, trapping it in its burrow. It was a battle to the finish! <a href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/sobrave?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG" style="color: purple;">#sobrave</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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Our thoughts today were with our fellow citizens in District Cheesehead, as they defiantly waited hours to vote in spite of blatant suppression efforts by the Thugs. Your citizens may be terribly slow drivers and call us FIBs, but we’ll always have Mineral Point and the Quality Bakery. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/wisconsincheeselandforever?source=feed_text&epa=HASHTAG" style="color: purple;">#wisconsincheeselandforever</a></div>
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Courage!<o:p></o:p></div>
Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-23274314710005719082020-04-27T21:44:00.000-05:002020-04-27T21:44:27.668-05:00Pandemic Diaries I<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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We’re catching up our gentle readers on what kind of fuck-all craziness has been going on since we got to California about a month ago. For you tens of readers who have seen this already on FB, we apologize. Rest assured, there’s so much new shit going on every day that you too will have new stories to read that will shock and amaze! Only seen here! For a limited time only!</div>
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<i>Day One in District 7, aka CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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The citizens have adapted; as a visitor I was unaccustomed to the New Dystopia. At Ralph's (grocery store), a guard at the door let small groups in at a time, spraying their hands with disinfectant as they walked in. Many people wearing masks. Bare shelves: no chicken, few eggs, little meat, in spite of a limit of 2 on many items.<o:p></o:p></div>
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THERE WERE NO POTATOES.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Day 2 Despatch from District 7 CalCascadia<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Took the Matriarch to the ER today*. Was stopped at the door by a begowned and masked tech who barked at me to BACK UP. Mom was whisked inside and I was left standing at the door wondering what the hell just happened.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Alert: you have truly become a shithole country when one has to wonder if taking someone to the ER for care means you just signed their death warrant.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So fuck you trump/repubs and your "back to business" and stock market bullshit. If karma really existed, you and all your parasitical spawn would get the virus.<o:p></o:p></div>
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At least I was able to sanitize a piece of cheesecake and "smuggle" it to my mom this evening, ie hand it to a security guard to hopefully pass on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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(*she recently started cancer treatment, became dehydrated, her levels were off, etc.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Day 3 Despatch from District 7 CalCascadia</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Leaving to bring mom provisions; in a lesson from my Soviet Union days, I am bringing a supply of boozy jam/cherries so that she can “butter up” medical personnel as needed. In the battle for scarce resource, we do what we must, so step aside, hipster.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On another note, I am eyeing this grapefruit tree for later guerrilla foraging. I am surrounded by the elderly here at Leisure Village; they may try to guard said resources, but this is a battle I will win.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I hope. #theoldsarefeisty<o:p></o:p></div>
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(Apparently we’re going to be euthanizing the elderly anyway, so.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Day 3 Despatch, continued</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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The time to mince words is past us, as I marched into the hospital with the items for my mom.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nice bemasked hospital guy, sharpie in hand: Okay, for Rm. 308. What's in the bag?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: PAJAMAS AND BRIBES. Do you like pickles?<o:p></o:p></div>
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I left a few minutes later, having successfully used the NDC (New Dystopian Currency) of Canning Underground products to ensure my mom being at the front of the line for scarce resources. Nice Hospital Guy got a jar of Slim Gin Pickins; my mom has Boozy Cherry Bitterness and our new Little Miss F*ing Sunshine to give out. We don't fuck around here, folks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now if you'll excuse me, we are looking for leather chaps and creating an unnecessarily spiky armored car, as these are clear requirements for citizens of District 7 CalCascadia.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12003.4 NPD (New Pandemic Date), Captain’s log, District 7 of CalCascadia</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></div>
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The matriarch remains in the hospital. I have instructed her to keep me informed as to whether her treatment is acceptable; if not, I am prepared to write a letter. She is improving, and does not have the Virus. Oddly, she claims all the nurses "are so nice!" to her, yet the bribes (aka boozy jams) remain in her possession.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Midnight foraging is proceeding apace - #TheOlds have not yet caught on, but we are prepared to o̶f̶f̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶m̶ ̶m̶a̶r̶m̶a̶l̶a̶d̶e̶ fight to the finish if need be. Kingsly has been deputized and is keeping order in the District. Just this morning he began barking and growling ferociously, staring into the kitchen. Investigation revealed that the dishwasher door had fallen open, but luckily we were able to close it with no loss of life. #sobrave<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12003.5 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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The matriarch is at status quo. We were able to drop off provisions, aka bribes, to ensure her status at the head of the line for key resources. With value now being measured by the new SWC (Societal Worthiness Calculation) dictate, I feel the Canning Underground creations will bump her ahead of any IPA-brewing hipsters with bad lungs from vaping.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGK8k5YvdW0sU9wrFaMBJ_Ty7dpvhGCYphcfizudoWyVsSPb90zbfQ48yYBu48Pidh7fbAhpvZM8usKd_dtf0WriY79GJ2UKCMS3DczQSlWF4i6kzLqE5GLXaP-KsEvMh49XOxzCa44Ndo/s1600/IMG_1595.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGK8k5YvdW0sU9wrFaMBJ_Ty7dpvhGCYphcfizudoWyVsSPb90zbfQ48yYBu48Pidh7fbAhpvZM8usKd_dtf0WriY79GJ2UKCMS3DczQSlWF4i6kzLqE5GLXaP-KsEvMh49XOxzCa44Ndo/s400/IMG_1595.jpg" width="300" /></a>Kingsly and I then went to patrol the local fields, where we found groups of subjects using the royal courts that Sir Kingsly likes to romp on playing some pickle-oriented sport. I immediately put in an order for them to be vaporized. As we say, absolute power is of no use unless it’s used at whim.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<i>12003.6 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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It is clear that by now, the gentleman at the front desk of the hospital and I have an understanding. I drop off today’s provisions for the Matriarch, who remains in her Overlord position at the hospital, and give Hospital Man a jar of Little Miss F*ing Sunshine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Here’s today’s tribute,” I say, with a meaningful arch of my eyebrows.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He feigns puzzlement, but I know he’s pleased that I’m holding up my end of the bargain. Meanwhile, the Matriarch informs me that she gave the jar of Slim Gin Pickins to a nurse who noted that her “daughter loves pickles!” I…did not inquire as to how old said daughter is.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kingsly and I patrolled the grounds this morning as usual, and as he alertly surveyed the scene, did not signal any infractions. While those subjects thus avoided being added to the vaporization list, I am adding the children who run around yelling and screaming in front of the house all day, as these hooligans consistently interrupt Kingsly’s royal sleep, which cannot stand.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Later in the day, we made a necessary trip into the city, and while there were cars on the road, we did not sit in traffic once. On a Friday afternoon. In LA.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Winter is here.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>12003.7 NPD, Captain’s Log, District 7 of CalCascadia</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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Kingsly has embraced his new deputization, as he has been insisting on starting his patrol at 0630. Each morning. Saturday too. Not being one to deny such devotion to his creed, I accompany him on his rounds, today in expanded territory: tennis courts, coffee drive-thru, unpatrolled dog park. His unbridled ferociousness is clear: though technically there are no people around, if there were, I am quite sure they would immediately throw jazz hands, ie how we in the District now signal retreat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kingsly is not pleased with the new social distancing dictates, as he is usually suspiciously sniffing everyone to discern their intentions. This change in his routine is unwelcome, and for this we blame the Dotard, aka The Hated One.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Speaking of hate, we were filled with unending rage today, at every word that emanates from the bloviating buffoonic sociopath currently squatting in the White House. So much rage. So much death and suffering on his narcissistic soft tiny hands, and on the hands of every person who’s supported him in his criminal acts. Our tribute today at the hospital went to a new hospitalist.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: I have brought you the most appropriate of boozy jams, The Great American Blueberry Sazerac Shitshow.<o:p></o:p></div>
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New Woman: Oh, that sounds really good!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: Our offerings from the District are known for their excellence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Matriarch is still unable to eat, and out of rage at being unable to visit, we have decided to bring ridiculous tchochtkes every day. Today: a crown and a shark straw.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is past time for a revolution.<o:p></o:p></div>
Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-9498667382135431072020-04-27T18:46:00.000-05:002020-04-27T18:46:46.650-05:00Still here<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We are bitter and ragey in the best of times…..and these are not the best of times. It seems so long ago that we made our way down to California from Oregon, but it was only about a month ago. The state of California had just declared shelter-in-place restrictions, and it wasn’t clear if we’d make it down the coast. Would hotels be closing? Road or highways? The traffic was as busy as ever in Oregon, but once over the border, we entered the New Dystopian State of few people, few cars, most things closed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It had such a sense of surrealness to it all, that we found the still-normal ads on the radio jarring, as if we were listening to relics of time gone by, tinny voices from the past when things were as they were. We were outraged by all the cops in their usual speed traps –didn’t they know that people were just trying to make it to wherever they urgently needed to be, as quickly as possible?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And then of course there was the fuckery of discovering that my mom was unable to eat because of the terrible mouth and throat sores from cancer treatment, which led to taking her to the ER, which led to the Pandemic Chronicles. We’ve been tracking this shitshow on FB, but quite frankly, it will come as a surprise to no one that we feel stifled by the tendency towards the pithy on that channel. And we are not pithy. It will never happen. We will never be sparse with words. So be it.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-84526096001293306482019-10-28T00:16:00.000-05:002019-10-28T18:31:05.567-05:00I belong with you, you belong with me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Today is the 2-year anniversary of my beloved HRH the Kone’s
death, and it still feels as if no time at all has passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His last days haunt me, as does the guilt
that I did the wrong things, and the end was terrible. I’ll never <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">not</b> be bitter that he was stolen from
me so early and in such cruel fashion. And I still cry every time I think of
him; Kone was my heart, my soul, everything.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLsqRJZZGQG-yd8Epsvc8dVCMqUpbyg20-x5Oz2QEmgihoNSchU9kto9CPmw_v7nLcYpt7tDVUngCO0t7xcgjtSAs7pXFDfB2-jkkHDxazTDp8AMxnVq5_gbLi8x2GCyHJL_ajuSuW2A7h/s1600/3428_10151793432573101_651633401_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="816" data-original-width="612" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLsqRJZZGQG-yd8Epsvc8dVCMqUpbyg20-x5Oz2QEmgihoNSchU9kto9CPmw_v7nLcYpt7tDVUngCO0t7xcgjtSAs7pXFDfB2-jkkHDxazTDp8AMxnVq5_gbLi8x2GCyHJL_ajuSuW2A7h/s400/3428_10151793432573101_651633401_n.jpg" width="300" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I recently had an epiphany of sorts, realizing that getting
a dog in general makes absolutely no sense, as it always leads to certain
heartbreak in the end. Always. Given lifespans, there can be no other ending:
it’s like an endless loop of Logan’s Run, where everyone dies at the age of 21.
Or 35. Whatever, it’s fuzzy. But this is one part of why I’m anti-dog, for
myself at least.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Having said all that, rattling around in a big house with a
big fenced-in yard alone seems churlish, so at the beginning of the year I started
fostering for the Marion County Dog Shelter in Salem. It’s been…..interesting.
Let’s take a look back, shall we?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">January<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfIQRwfY0Ri-L5ND6G91GdAx4EK17uoMDXtN2-T9V6Ez_Z6PCHgOzuaL9ApEUZOAxHCpw7YZ_M6w_vhb_mZ0P4g_FCQKAXkRZ1QDWy6ktp-8oGPwddIZwfeIC31KJmaat7A30bm03I_gDI/s1600/56911238568__17B92A7A-C236-4B6E-B6EF-2BFDC6944800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfIQRwfY0Ri-L5ND6G91GdAx4EK17uoMDXtN2-T9V6Ez_Z6PCHgOzuaL9ApEUZOAxHCpw7YZ_M6w_vhb_mZ0P4g_FCQKAXkRZ1QDWy6ktp-8oGPwddIZwfeIC31KJmaat7A30bm03I_gDI/s320/56911238568__17B92A7A-C236-4B6E-B6EF-2BFDC6944800.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I offer to foster Enzo, a stray who they have little info on
other than that he’s not good with other dogs, so he needs a no-pet foster
home, and he’s too skinny. Miss Tasha’s Fatten ‘em Up Camp it is! Sweet Enzo is
a devilish little rascal who wastes no time in making himself at home. He loves
to snuggle, play with all the toys, and has no manners whatsoever. Thankfully
he’s a quick learner. He’s adopted by a wonderful couple that I stay in touch
with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">March<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGY9yLgMH8Fk2RPl5GVvAzLvvKlOm70Jxmz-sDr1VeA3mcG2OVnY2rYtOyZd0tPBviOkpGvy5fUCTCFXejhadpiiJ_2tVC1m6bYHJ_CJz8FuCw_gT1zMsLBQxC9hlrl0bU8svaj2WBQdgk/s1600/IMG_5909.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGY9yLgMH8Fk2RPl5GVvAzLvvKlOm70Jxmz-sDr1VeA3mcG2OVnY2rYtOyZd0tPBviOkpGvy5fUCTCFXejhadpiiJ_2tVC1m6bYHJ_CJz8FuCw_gT1zMsLBQxC9hlrl0bU8svaj2WBQdgk/s320/IMG_5909.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I….who….what….why, why did no one ever tell me black Labs
are insane? Aster is the sweetiest, smushiest, cuddliest black </span><span style="font-size: large;">bear of a
Lab…and she’s insane. Or at least my definition, where she does. Not. Stop. At
all. Ever. There’s no off switch. No matter how much I throw the ball, she
lopes back to me happily, waiting for me to toss it again. And again. I bribe
Thomas and Allen to throw the ball for her, but they prove themselves to be an
unreliable workforce. (Note to self: avoid hiring cheap labor ages 5 and 7.)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBu4CLEXId-RASEq0LP5nBOV1jJsk7lBhjGr3osKQdNXKnsmEmuvBHT_MTRfM3ycDl5l_rwgXt8SeIch3YKnOV8Im-5smBIBONCF0vf3q-U-MtWM8201R3UYtEmWOFjoJOgEfd1l2IcPVK/s1600/IMG_5882.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBu4CLEXId-RASEq0LP5nBOV1jJsk7lBhjGr3osKQdNXKnsmEmuvBHT_MTRfM3ycDl5l_rwgXt8SeIch3YKnOV8Im-5smBIBONCF0vf3q-U-MtWM8201R3UYtEmWOFjoJOgEfd1l2IcPVK/s320/IMG_5882.jpg" width="240" /></a><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I develop chuck-it elbow. I get two, and rotate throwing.
It’s not enough. We go to different dog parks in my foolish hopes that a new
venue will get her excited and tire her out. Hahahahaha!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She too goes to a wonderful couple, after I query multiple
times about their previous Lab experience. They know. Whew.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">September<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLIpFN_F_9aBX05fOwqLFb9P4YpMwdLXCPkINDX0OlgFlAqCCYnp5J79hWib-u95wufIfxz_GjB1kaHCE_n-04JhLG9XhI8AMFgKqbd2pKf0EAQ0hyphenhyphen2IxXvEBHJ9iYmVACFNZVYmQPh0-r/s1600/IMG_9122.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLIpFN_F_9aBX05fOwqLFb9P4YpMwdLXCPkINDX0OlgFlAqCCYnp5J79hWib-u95wufIfxz_GjB1kaHCE_n-04JhLG9XhI8AMFgKqbd2pKf0EAQ0hyphenhyphen2IxXvEBHJ9iYmVACFNZVYmQPh0-r/s320/IMG_9122.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I haven’t had a chance to foster all spring/summer due to
bike stuff, travel, then the aforeblogged medical stuff. Somehow I randomly
decide the week before I’m going out of town (again) that it’s a good time to
get another foster, so I offer to take Zeek, a Dobe mix of some sort. I’m
schedule to pick him up that </span><span style="font-size: large;">afternoon, when I get an email.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Shelter person J</b>.:
I just learned that Zeek is on hold to be adopted, sorry about that! Could you
possibly take Opie? He’s a 10-year-old Chihuahua who’s stressed out in the
shelter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Opie? A geriatric Chihuahua? I’m bemused by the thought of
me, the quintessential big dog person, with a wee pup named Opie. Okay then!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuA9Jxgp-45sZeSNZj1zF5-pQtTS5KOReIX-3eQXu0g24n-o4uuYFKutKKCDgE5YbbsPylGzqelLYTkMuvDV1ttq2f76JkTsrQ50ajmHwBwEpH6AhHxYbiQCEtdT4SBnmGaDdyqNmpC74j/s1600/IMG_9453.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuA9Jxgp-45sZeSNZj1zF5-pQtTS5KOReIX-3eQXu0g24n-o4uuYFKutKKCDgE5YbbsPylGzqelLYTkMuvDV1ttq2f76JkTsrQ50ajmHwBwEpH6AhHxYbiQCEtdT4SBnmGaDdyqNmpC74j/s320/IMG_9453.jpg" width="240" /></a><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Then, another email.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Shelter person J</b>:
I’m sorry again, I just learned that Opie is going to a rescue! How about
Murphy? We don’t know much about him and could use some additional info.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Me</b>: Sure! And I’m happy to take a different dog as well,
just let me know what’s needed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I go in, and A. tells me about Murphy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A.:</b> Honestly, he
seems kind of feral – we actually had to catch him in a trap since he was
eluding us for so long. So far I’m the only one who’s been working with him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1u6iPCI3U3QHZcjzSRg_WmM-2iISFmPioJE4gjQ26voalyN1pvQJ-VdcbQ6N5G4-Ljj1_sFYM204OXHmE-z-XhETUt7kVyM7LuW2Y9NU9JGuBU_e9j6-rD8-gZzWE_5iHZVpmherIubF_/s1600/IMG_9037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1417" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1u6iPCI3U3QHZcjzSRg_WmM-2iISFmPioJE4gjQ26voalyN1pvQJ-VdcbQ6N5G4-Ljj1_sFYM204OXHmE-z-XhETUt7kVyM7LuW2Y9NU9JGuBU_e9j6-rD8-gZzWE_5iHZVpmherIubF_/s320/IMG_9037.jpg" width="283" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">A. and another employee D. and I go outside with Murphy – or
rather, A. takes him to the outdoor fenced-in yard, and D. and I </span><span style="font-size: large;">follow at a
distance. Murphy looks at us only to look displeased at our presence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A.:</b> I’m the only
person he’s really been in contact with, so he might only trust me. We think he
might have some wolf in him?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">We all gaze at Murphy and his big black shaggy wolf-eyed
self. Murphy now refuses to look at any of us but has his tail down and exudes
unapproachability.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1lagKAx5yH0-e0IWwmqbUkjnUVW8uzG-VA7r0jdnEANk6M5yGWrVCFfVELnqoTlLBxQEEkgjGMJ-ACMrzdwEZwESVvfin9cTQbA4vaXF_qnmIoIY4O4_vPh061KUW50kO9caf9eKdhRA/s1600/IMG_9329.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1lagKAx5yH0-e0IWwmqbUkjnUVW8uzG-VA7r0jdnEANk6M5yGWrVCFfVELnqoTlLBxQEEkgjGMJ-ACMrzdwEZwESVvfin9cTQbA4vaXF_qnmIoIY4O4_vPh061KUW50kO9caf9eKdhRA/s320/IMG_9329.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">D.:</b> Look at him!
He’s so BEAUTIFUL!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I look at Murphy, who looks like he wants to eat anyone who
isn’t A. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A.:</b> You know, I’m
not sure it’s the best idea to send him to a home with a brand new person,
given he’s only comfortable with me so far. We should try getting him used to
other people at the shelter first.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Collectively</b>: So,
maybe another dog?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">We head back inside, and I tell A. to just let me know what
other dog needs to get out of the shelter most, if only for a week before I
leave town. She’s about to bring me back to meet a couple, when we’re informed
that apparently </span><span style="font-size: large;">that’s a no-no, A. can only describe them and then I can choose
from that. Okay then.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh8aYCeDvYpjxW0UNDu4iDZ1nHgVb9YifOK00TUF3mbyVVqpJF8LsUGJ-uX4x2XdoaXgp_Qpti9enmPeil5c1UBc6IDFz_Ne38pEVscH89kDMZ5lXONAEzpEUSX89TSYqGydULXl4wcC0d/s1600/kingsley+in+yard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh8aYCeDvYpjxW0UNDu4iDZ1nHgVb9YifOK00TUF3mbyVVqpJF8LsUGJ-uX4x2XdoaXgp_Qpti9enmPeil5c1UBc6IDFz_Ne38pEVscH89kDMZ5lXONAEzpEUSX89TSYqGydULXl4wcC0d/s320/kingsley+in+yard.jpg" width="244" /></a><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A.:</b> Well, there’s
Pongo who’s a pit bull mix, very sweet, stressed out in the shelter, around 80
pounds. Then there’s Tommy, a Thai Ridgeback, REALLY hates the shelter, around
45 pounds. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: I….damn. I
really really love the pibbles, but…I can’t walk very well and have an upcoming
surgery, so I should probably take the smaller dog since he’ll be easier to
handle. Okay, I’ll take Tommy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">Later</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VeMLIj2qvNZumiWZXixSaPeMeUclvXQ-SWHn1a3B5TaSw2Mani7eghhHLZR8fudMA-dgvoBCqAUo7sjRD8K4M-8Pqb7jgQEbaEuZZkz6PQEn4n3OIqdg3qrTjJrtjjWFVyYAOPaX4PwP/s1600/thai+ridgeback.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="645" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2VeMLIj2qvNZumiWZXixSaPeMeUclvXQ-SWHn1a3B5TaSw2Mani7eghhHLZR8fudMA-dgvoBCqAUo7sjRD8K4M-8Pqb7jgQEbaEuZZkz6PQEn4n3OIqdg3qrTjJrtjjWFVyYAOPaX4PwP/s320/thai+ridgeback.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">What the hell is a Thai Ridgeback? Time to do some research. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Hmm. “The Thai Ridgeback is a primitive dog breed that originates from
Thailand, dating back at least three thousand years, and while it is common
there, it is very rare in other parts of the world. In fact, it is estimated
that there are only a thousand Thai Ridgeback dogs outside of Thailand, and
only about 300 in the U.S.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Okay, so clearly this isn’t a Thai Ridgeback, because how
would one of these end up in a shelter in Salem? Granted, he does have a ridge,
so that must have prompted the guess at a breed by the shelter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG6Leta94Se9rxTkqoC7uzr8hsQjGHNrI3KSvr8KlD5q-21Qyb4M9we0tSwm_dRAhTdJ0BQPR_6EPBFOf-hfXAYSIoPRWrEdNkUQg505rbNf5pY-jEEDgmSuPNEaCVWNQUj6H38WSH4LuO/s1600/IMG_9388.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="902" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG6Leta94Se9rxTkqoC7uzr8hsQjGHNrI3KSvr8KlD5q-21Qyb4M9we0tSwm_dRAhTdJ0BQPR_6EPBFOf-hfXAYSIoPRWrEdNkUQg505rbNf5pY-jEEDgmSuPNEaCVWNQUj6H38WSH4LuO/s400/IMG_9388.jpg" width="225" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Then I look at some pictures of actual Thai Ridgebacks.
And…..he’s the spitting image of one. Then he yawns. And….his tongue is black
and blue, like it is for TRs. I guess that’s what he is then. They’re stubborn,
extremely smart, very active, escape artists. This should be interesting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">The next day<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">This is the most ridiculous dog I’ve ever seen. I take him
out to explore the big yard, and suddenly, it’s zoomie time! Whee! Except
whereas most dogs get the zoomies once in a blue moon, for Tommy it’s a
non-stop thing. Which isn’t BAD, of course, as he’s tiring himself out, but
it’s unusual.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">And he leaps like a springbok. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">And he’s perfectly potty-trained. Not one single accident –
he waits until he’s outside to pee. He also has a perfect sit and shake. Wth? I
find out that he kept escaping his house, and this last time, in August, his
owner didn’t want to pay to get him back. Escape artist – check.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">That week<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dytoLhvHLb2Q4nur4Q6RtoRQhe8qONzhdSUqcrHy7GmFYaAqcrkjHaSV1UajvbshvfwWSCyVTWKw1qZnHJofQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">“Tommy” is a completely inappropriate name for this guy. He
also has zero name recognition with it. I’m not sure what else would fit, but
one day as I’m calling him, it just pops out: Kingsly. Yes. Kingsly. That fits.
I’ve also learned that the TR is considered the “Royal Dog of Thailand.”
Royalty, really?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Well, he may be royal, but he’s certainly nothing like my
Kone. Kone was the most chill, laidback, fearless, happy-go-lucky little man
ever. He assumed everyone was put on earth to pet him and that naturally he was
welcome everywhere, because everyone adored him, which was basically true. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe9vviPkEJ0pK5hVn2CDLzddrcEEgXekzwL1GMeL1XHwbrSCVWvjE06RF7dGs6ByNts0PWeg9TeSOMqvx7staaHoKO8lbY1n3OSUSuzYJQpOLD3Sst0CHxtJlOtkm3WpLnUPMQ-jaEkMDe/s1600/IMG_9362.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe9vviPkEJ0pK5hVn2CDLzddrcEEgXekzwL1GMeL1XHwbrSCVWvjE06RF7dGs6ByNts0PWeg9TeSOMqvx7staaHoKO8lbY1n3OSUSuzYJQpOLD3Sst0CHxtJlOtkm3WpLnUPMQ-jaEkMDe/s320/IMG_9362.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Kingsly is skittish, inscrutable, aloof, wary, and the
shelter has said he’s “dog aggressive.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Awesome
Friend Peg and I meet at the dog park so that Kingsly can meet her pups, and
yep, he doesn’t like them very much. There’s no biting, but lots of snarling
and teeth. I start to wonder if Kone sent him to me – since Kone came along
when I was diagnosed with cancer the first time around, and now I might have
cancer again, and here I randomly wind up with this funny rare little dog under
very convoluted circumstances. But I don’t want another dog ever, so that’s
that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJeLPsPZRMgmFcW4hcznNBfvu-4S72d7pepsRD38z2Qc84ipxnhWNFAZ2OOuMHoIxmTWTzCrx-M2847Wnn2WxpZTt3fYBD6D3O_HKpoUSRfAMTAudzlTCMEAh5eA27HpuQyTy1mn_ZaCEg/s1600/IMG_9625.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJeLPsPZRMgmFcW4hcznNBfvu-4S72d7pepsRD38z2Qc84ipxnhWNFAZ2OOuMHoIxmTWTzCrx-M2847Wnn2WxpZTt3fYBD6D3O_HKpoUSRfAMTAudzlTCMEAh5eA27HpuQyTy1mn_ZaCEg/s320/IMG_9625.jpg" width="239" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The breed overall is one that every article notes –
repeatedly – needs “an experienced owner,” and I can see why. Some fool trying
the “alpha male” routine would get his face bitten off. I worry about the
likely idiots who might want to adopt him, just </span><span style="font-size: large;">because he’s a rare and exotic
breed. Before I take him back to the shelter as I’m getting ready to go out of
town, I try to find another foster who’ll take him, with no luck. I bawl as I’m
taking him back – the guilt is overwhelming. No wonder he’s wary; people keep
letting him down. I’ve already told them my view on potential adopters:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“He should ONLY be placed with very experienced dog people.
Have they had dogs? Have they had primitive dogs? Have they had a THAI
RIDGEBACK TAN IN COLOR WHO WEIGHS 53 POUNDS? No? That’s a CLEAR no then.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">End of September<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVJyWd8ToQ2I-MSAchrA_e6gXjjVxy9X1JDkPFLa6WXBU6ZLjZDDsdWbdXqLB_zjX5AMzz2QKMNNakk43KU18hxyguihssOOf8WMDmaMJmnlmOEh4VqUe-t4JfqRkeMR3IMlW8K9EFJkZv/s1600/IMG_9596.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVJyWd8ToQ2I-MSAchrA_e6gXjjVxy9X1JDkPFLa6WXBU6ZLjZDDsdWbdXqLB_zjX5AMzz2QKMNNakk43KU18hxyguihssOOf8WMDmaMJmnlmOEh4VqUe-t4JfqRkeMR3IMlW8K9EFJkZv/s320/IMG_9596.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I’m planning on picking him up as soon as I get back, but I
get back on Monday the 23<sup>rd</sup>, and because there was a cancellation,
my surgery was moved up to the 25<sup>th</sup>. I let the shelter know that
I’ll get him after my surgery date, and they tell me that I should know that
he’s deteriorating in the shelter. My poor little guy. Surgery is Wednesday,
and on Thursday, since I can’t find a good Polish Fest or Oktoberfest to go to,
I decide to head to the shelter to pick up Kingsly. Makes sense to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">Trainer/Behaviorist
Day<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Purely so that the shelter has more info, I’ve found a
behaviorist who’s going to come by to assess Kingsly to see if his dog
aggression is manageable, if it’s a breed thing, his upbringing, etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She does some really interesting tests and
sees how smart and wonderful he is. He does his usual zoomies and this time bowls
me over, and I’d be falling over laughing if I weren’t </span><span style="font-size: large;">already on the ground.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzhx0EW-AWfBv60RsDHK19xqyU5Y5r9kQtwAKqFdIBWtckGMSXGzorPjeuyFnIA51EP5GiFE5DkqFKnJunp9ohTtKS299DuSVC6EWXHyWu75_FX8qJ6x1cWqjdAmL7wCQeoZ6zwf14ZjKL/s1600/IMG_9549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzhx0EW-AWfBv60RsDHK19xqyU5Y5r9kQtwAKqFdIBWtckGMSXGzorPjeuyFnIA51EP5GiFE5DkqFKnJunp9ohTtKS299DuSVC6EWXHyWu75_FX8qJ6x1cWqjdAmL7wCQeoZ6zwf14ZjKL/s320/IMG_9549.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The shelter has people who might be interested in him, and
they want to know if I want to keep him and I don’t know what to do. No dog can
ever replace my sweet Kone, and my heart is too broken to let another pup into
my life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">On the other hand, how did I wind up with this odd
ultra-rare royal dog if Kone <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">didn’t</b>
drop him into my life? Or is that just a lie I tell myself? I ugly cry, as
always. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Kingsly is starting to settle in a little, as he shows me
his tum to be scratched, and goes upstairs for sleeps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I hear Kone’s voice in my head as I keep dithering:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Momma, come ons. I sent you the most ridiculousems dog I
could finds. Really, you need to thinkums about this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">He does have a point. To wit:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsGEFc7bGbjCAeinQXBITsTY6CdvBHiIO0XFm_YV-77N2Sao7dRJP5w-C8tRTQD8azNEP4g0Y2cJBfyJ3h0MGdNgceMpHt1_QYKNAWlggbVDB0sHW-tYnUPjvc8gm9KB8N5C6uf9IZtW66/s1600/IMG_9440.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsGEFc7bGbjCAeinQXBITsTY6CdvBHiIO0XFm_YV-77N2Sao7dRJP5w-C8tRTQD8azNEP4g0Y2cJBfyJ3h0MGdNgceMpHt1_QYKNAWlggbVDB0sHW-tYnUPjvc8gm9KB8N5C6uf9IZtW66/s320/IMG_9440.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> Kingsly</span></span></span> LOVES massages. If I start massaging his back, within 3 seconds his eyes droop and suddenly his bones disintegrate and he topples over, falling like a tree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span>He bounces like a kangaroo…..but won’t jump up
on the bed at night. Yes, I have to lift him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span>He loves ranch dip. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span>He’s SCARED OF CLOWNS.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">-<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> He does yoga poses.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">-<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;">He snores. Loudly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJOk_3IQdVdO-K34-K995qjkP7KJ9RKjczoK-olaABf47O4jhCJKwplCTwanwip1XDe1YdmhIWdSRVSzaMyMGWK0vmbT0F1iXkP7twymnqZKkP_ptZhbV46SMMIc7aE-PX7A21j0yvMLoN/s1600/IMG_9442.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJOk_3IQdVdO-K34-K995qjkP7KJ9RKjczoK-olaABf47O4jhCJKwplCTwanwip1XDe1YdmhIWdSRVSzaMyMGWK0vmbT0F1iXkP7twymnqZKkP_ptZhbV46SMMIc7aE-PX7A21j0yvMLoN/s320/IMG_9442.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span>I cook special treats for him for training:
steak, chicken livers, roast chicken. When I give </span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: -0.25in;">him one, he sniffs at it suspiciously. Curls his lip back, touches a tooth to it, lets it drop to the
ground. Sniffs it some more. Sometimes he leaves it (roast beef, really??).
Other times, in the absence of the royal taster he desires, he’ll think “mayhap
I shall deign to try the foodstuff the peasant is offering” and will delicately
eat it. Then the other day I idly picked up a bag of store-bought treats I had and
offered him one. What did he do? Suddenly omg it was the HAPPIEST DAY EVER as
he gleefully snatched it out of my hand, tossed it into the air, danced around
in jubilation, then triumphantly pranced off with this oh-so-special of sacred
treats. What was this treat you ask? A BEGGIN’ STRIP. No lie. Beggin’ Strips. I
shake my head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’ve done some sleuthing, and have found out more about his
background, from the original owner having him shipped from NYC, then him
somehow winding up with this other person in Salem, him escaping and being on
the lam back in April for almost 2 weeks and being hit by a car, then in the
shelter, then with loony Salem person, then escaping again and her not getting him
back and him being stuck in the shelter again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLvVNxbCpt3t-MhwgX4x0rZxuY3nYgbAgCNZDiKe-WnH2QlAkMTJoCxm1DW1H1vs29yYDsIvTEDm0I5fK6SByiAs6Ss9LG-tgK2hrMJbaZNLKnq5wJ-ZLrT-pdE9aA7tb-gRQpAtBDChDu/s1600/IMG_9372.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLvVNxbCpt3t-MhwgX4x0rZxuY3nYgbAgCNZDiKe-WnH2QlAkMTJoCxm1DW1H1vs29yYDsIvTEDm0I5fK6SByiAs6Ss9LG-tgK2hrMJbaZNLKnq5wJ-ZLrT-pdE9aA7tb-gRQpAtBDChDu/s320/IMG_9372.jpg" width="240" /></a><o:p><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I’m not surprised he’s slightly broken, wary, and highly
suspicious. We’re kind of a perfect match that way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I signed the adoption papers last Friday. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">That same day, I
took a pic of him as he was going into the back foyer. When I looked at that
picture later, I saw that Kone had given Kingsly his pawstamp of approval. A
slightly goofy pawstamp to be sure – “Momma, I did the bests I could!” – but what
else would it be? Message received, Mr. Handsomes, message received.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I believe HRH the Kone has just welcomed you to The Manor, little Kingsly.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-63787961234719858332019-10-10T09:37:00.000-05:002019-10-10T09:41:21.066-05:00Some of us surviving<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bLYxNRq_ufi6UrvepPFaIvSvKTm2HrpIoUnmcsqqp1wMH2xYam_GLJXHoL9l4riEnVlwEjrLq3mVyCFYudO0QTDtpYxL4SVPDLyjbx5InKm4ogKhCjetnXyqgQJ_sEK7bgz98nt6LsSy/s1600/IMG_8020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bLYxNRq_ufi6UrvepPFaIvSvKTm2HrpIoUnmcsqqp1wMH2xYam_GLJXHoL9l4riEnVlwEjrLq3mVyCFYudO0QTDtpYxL4SVPDLyjbx5InKm4ogKhCjetnXyqgQJ_sEK7bgz98nt6LsSy/s320/IMG_8020.jpg" width="240" /></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Surgery day<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I get up and dress like the badass warrior I am: socks that
say “It’s a beautiful morning….don’t <span style="font-size: 12pt;">fuck it up” and my axe-throwing,
rifle-snipering t-shirt that says “Do Epic Shit.” Awesome Friend Peg is driving
me to surgery, and while I was nervous in the days leading up to it, now I just
want to get this shit over with. I’ve also brought my usual brownies, as I do
to every surgery. I figure, they haven’t killed me yet so obviously it’s
working. Far be it from me to mess with success.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m disappointed that the bureaucrats at the hospital have
deemed it necessary for people to wear hospital socks into surgery, the ones
with the bumpies on the bottom, as if to say that people not slipping and
falling and cracking their heads open is somehow more important than cool
socks. Bah. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dr. W. ,Surgeon to the
Stars, bounces in and I insist on showing him my socks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: See? “Don’t.
Fuck. It. Up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Dr. W.</b>: Hmm. I
like those, but….<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMDOqG_58nrHcD2_p_djKhEBgemSm8VIUuYwvNplXzBHeRGT67asPUu2lolNAwb46bk4c7FFFdKeoQhmy07sQcGv50ge3aGespWvyCjoEnLGWXnJU3kd4e4edZz-geMD9PgU2AbyxncbFl/s1600/IMG_8831+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMDOqG_58nrHcD2_p_djKhEBgemSm8VIUuYwvNplXzBHeRGT67asPUu2lolNAwb46bk4c7FFFdKeoQhmy07sQcGv50ge3aGespWvyCjoEnLGWXnJU3kd4e4edZz-geMD9PgU2AbyxncbFl/s320/IMG_8831+copy.jpg" width="240" /></a>He takes them and folds them over so that only the “It’s a
beautiful morning” part is visible. I look at him skeptically. I’m not sure my
curmudgeonly self can truck with this kind of Pollyanna-ish nonsense, but on
the other hand, he’s the guy with the scalpel. Robot. Whatever. I graciously
let it slide.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Off to surgery! I always refuse Versed so that I can dazzle
everyone with my witty banter, but for some reason, they always seem to put the
mask on my face right away. Odd. Before I know it, I’m at the bottom of a well
and someone is talking. “Blah blah…benign…lab…….test…..blah.” I gather that the
Borg is in all likelihood benign but they send it to the lab for testing.
Everyone is so damn nice at this hospital, but they kick me out later that day
anyway. At least it’s not like the wayback hospital in my beloved Dodgeville,
WI, that wanted to send me home when I had bleeding on the brain and a crushed
collarbone after my bike crash.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh look! She’s fine!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe at that point I was offering everyone a teacake
and insisting that I had Ironman in 3 weeks. Repeatedly. But yes, I was fine. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That night<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5R55MK15IO9eqUoYqeFXSMToxHGF7zxZ6Sj1pAt0dKkH21BK1oB2d4i79deXdZyZPsunC9vUkoSmQ1Rxk1Gbc_UAYcMVFDnIIPN5LKne4Fs6ZwyxyJuLHxwduzYA9tnu-e_7pqQxZbrk/s1600/IMG_8488.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM5R55MK15IO9eqUoYqeFXSMToxHGF7zxZ6Sj1pAt0dKkH21BK1oB2d4i79deXdZyZPsunC9vUkoSmQ1Rxk1Gbc_UAYcMVFDnIIPN5LKne4Fs6ZwyxyJuLHxwduzYA9tnu-e_7pqQxZbrk/s320/IMG_8488.jpg" width="240" /></a>Peg drives me home, and after a nap, I start looking for
festivals I can attend the next day, also as per tradition. I’m doubtful
there’s anything like the Polish Fest I went to in Chicago the day after my
concurrent cancer/broken collarbone surgery, but perhaps an Oktoberfest? (I’ll
note that <b>I</b> was on <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">heavy
psychotropic drugs</b> at the time of my visit to Polish Fest, unlike my
friend.) (*cough* Deanna *<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">cough*</span>)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Recovery<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t seem to find a local Oktoberfest or anything
similar, and my disappointment is palpable. So instead, I decide I need to go
pick up my foster dog in Salem – the almost-2-year-old very hyper bouncy pup
who I had fostered before surgery. This seems logical.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Otherwise, well, I’ve had so many surgeries I could pass
them out like cheap party favors, as I like to say. I’m sore, big deal. I’m
back working the next day. I take a total of two oxy, one the night after
surgery and one the next morning, and am done with them. Neighbor Laura brings
me food, Awesome Carlyn sends me dinner by delivery service. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Lab tests confirm that the Borg is benign.</b>
Fuck yes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Final post-op
appointment<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5GjeN7Dfy6fpNyM3kDARsWkRaSwciFwd-fjuZQ_qYxGyMs5jMcUzaMDUnWnt9R2hP8W00ZQ_igTePFP5-8y6PmyeuVtn15QPCnJ9TKpX3jhRk-uwMK3om_OqcqWy4k9lKCKVeQxN3j-7n/s1600/waitaminute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="420" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5GjeN7Dfy6fpNyM3kDARsWkRaSwciFwd-fjuZQ_qYxGyMs5jMcUzaMDUnWnt9R2hP8W00ZQ_igTePFP5-8y6PmyeuVtn15QPCnJ9TKpX3jhRk-uwMK3om_OqcqWy4k9lKCKVeQxN3j-7n/s320/waitaminute.jpg" width="320" /></a>Being back at the doctor’s office is a revelation, because
everyone’s so damn <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">happy</b>. This is
good, of course, but a bit different, until I remember oh yeah, this is an
oncologist’s office. Where if things have the not-so-good outcome, you have
ovarian cancer, which is brutish and cruel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So hell yes, no cancer, let’s party! I’m contributing to the festivities
because I brought Dr. W. a jar of boozy cherries and a jar of gin pickles. I
even get to see a picture on his computer of the Borg!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Wait, that
huge thing, that’s it?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Dr. W</b>.: Yep. Just
took it right out. And I checked your liver too, looks good.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Oh, it does
look plump and happy!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Dr. W</b>.: …….<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Anyway, I
make boozy political jams, but if I don’t know people’s leanings, I give them
the more neutral ones, like Boozy Cherry Bitterness or Slim Gin Pickins.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSjfKFAIR1Im1Ae_zEsDzrRopp2D4SAWSTLaA61tolMb5AuML8UE8gbUqNLwzLoIdzhAOPB0KPIUeV2ll5TN_5FcZ91CUu3wBdSlOdpAN_jELbptzYOOg3kps3vq-LEhsmCz1d8GeLU9tz/s1600/kingsley+in+yard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSjfKFAIR1Im1Ae_zEsDzrRopp2D4SAWSTLaA61tolMb5AuML8UE8gbUqNLwzLoIdzhAOPB0KPIUeV2ll5TN_5FcZ91CUu3wBdSlOdpAN_jELbptzYOOg3kps3vq-LEhsmCz1d8GeLU9tz/s320/kingsley+in+yard.jpg" width="244" /></a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Dr. W</b>.: Political
ones would have been fine too! Anything to help deal with that <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">goober</b> who’s in office right now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, normally I’d look askance at anyone who uses that kind
of terminology in my presence, but I then realize the ingenuity of this
approach, ie of using ridiculously innocuous words in certain circumstances, and
appropriately salty language in others. People will be so shocked, you’ll be
able to get away with anything. Nicely played, Dr. W., nicely played. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also belatedly realize that yes, one probably can read
between the lines to tell if a scan or appointment is good or bad (beyond the
obvious grim faces and “so here’s a referral for a <span style="font-size: 12pt;">specialist”). Thinking back
to my MRIs, the right hip one in Silverton and the rogue ones in Illinois:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Silverton MRI tech</b>:
You’re talking to your doctor about these right away, then?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Rogue MRI in IL tech</b>:
So you have an appointment with your doctor as soon as you get back, right?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPN7Jjfgb-JzvL47MM9uAQvZ9bZtGkwf6bAriDgayKtwA8fGzejnnp0nmpUTy5wKWP6IGTB1hcmDq1RQNSC751xvxu5iRaRDo7PRlZr1AfMdTM3kXX-9bFOoIIdtf5nK9ZNbPmCCGC7-N/s1600/_storage_emulated_0_DCIM_Camera_20171008_133036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPN7Jjfgb-JzvL47MM9uAQvZ9bZtGkwf6bAriDgayKtwA8fGzejnnp0nmpUTy5wKWP6IGTB1hcmDq1RQNSC751xvxu5iRaRDo7PRlZr1AfMdTM3kXX-9bFOoIIdtf5nK9ZNbPmCCGC7-N/s320/_storage_emulated_0_DCIM_Camera_20171008_133036.jpg" width="320" /></a>Now that this saga is over, I’m trying to get back to the
important things in life. That is to say, cycling. And the quest for Hot Cowboy.
Or, as I described my vision to HockeyWhartonCraig:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So far my tactic of riding my bike in the hinterlands until
I have a mechanical and am winsomely standing by the side of the road and then
a Hot Cowboy pulls up and says "Hey darlin', need some help?" and
then his dog jumps out of his truck chasing after a jackrabbit and we go
running after the dog and accidentally fall into a muddy pond and the Rage Cows
gather around and stare at us like we're insane........well, it hasn't quite
happened yet.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hope springs eternal.</div>
Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-40733537631870107392019-09-25T09:22:00.001-05:002019-09-26T13:11:43.904-05:00I always take the long way home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt;">The rage is almost unbearable. The thought that Betsy Devos
dicked around with this for AN ENTIRE YEAR, bleating about “a joint thing!” and
“I’m not worried!” and “it can’t be anything since the pain comes and goes!”
and on and on. I have one last appointment with her after I get back, for some
bloodwork. My speech is prepared; I’m going to tell her what I think of her.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHHJnv5K-Iyl_l64tmpXxexxz1VyJokbefWh9rLkYPzrJ0rtxD3MbEZGPkxokbOzGNgEXy6uUyp6P7DDLomM_nHMVvrwmS3YaQaU5tLjBypyE4vPkPjXq8RTqEIstEeJlfcLZvu6-ac3RR/s1600/fRTObXszQsS3ye2TcWAnUQ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1203" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHHJnv5K-Iyl_l64tmpXxexxz1VyJokbefWh9rLkYPzrJ0rtxD3MbEZGPkxokbOzGNgEXy6uUyp6P7DDLomM_nHMVvrwmS3YaQaU5tLjBypyE4vPkPjXq8RTqEIstEeJlfcLZvu6-ac3RR/s320/fRTObXszQsS3ye2TcWAnUQ.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then, I can’t do it. I’m a fraud. I think I’m still in
shock that this is the way all of this is going down. Seriously?? On top of the
shit summer I’ve had, now this? Betsy clearly knows she screwed up; she tells
me that WHATEVER I want, any prescription, anything I need, let her know and
she’ll take care of it. A few days later I message her for an Ativan
prescription, and that puppy is at the drugstore in no time flat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good thing too, because the thought of waiting
until October 2<sup>nd</sup> for my surgery is in fact making me <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">extremely</b> anxious. Clearly, drugs will
be my friend, and will put me at stage 3 on the Kuebler-Ross scale, ie “bitter
and drugged up but slightly less obsessive.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the meantime, I have one more trip, back to IL for a
get-together with old high school classmates. At the same time, I cram in as
many visits with other friends as I can, since I don’t know when I’ll be back
in Illinois. Friday night, this involved meeting up with the tri girls at a
hopping establishment in Ukrainian Village, leading to a series of text
messages.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robyn</b>: We’re
never again letting Tasha pick the bar out for us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: What? Stariy
Lviv is a classic!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robyn</b>: I asked
for a gin and soda water. The woman told me they have two kinds of soda: Coke
and Sprite.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Aaand? That
sounds right to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Robyn</b>: Yes. IN
UKRAINE.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2iOTnsIID7v-K-p7-neY2ULvX42J8RxrvNWQOwYuNkIv4K9TV0sxApUxtl5zFGjHV2djkAyJCQpf4ZXSSyjNKW9E3xNbU2xYgfKA47HFo7zS2_bV7YF_YgFj61_lAIWhv59SUvzmn9OQk/s1600/IMG_8897.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2iOTnsIID7v-K-p7-neY2ULvX42J8RxrvNWQOwYuNkIv4K9TV0sxApUxtl5zFGjHV2djkAyJCQpf4ZXSSyjNKW9E3xNbU2xYgfKA47HFo7zS2_bV7YF_YgFj61_lAIWhv59SUvzmn9OQk/s400/IMG_8897.jpg" width="400" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m happy to note that after a few shots and a couple of Будьмо!<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">"</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">s
</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">here and there,</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> everyone was happy, especially
after the delectable varenyky made by the bartender’s mom. It was lovely
hanging out with the tri girls, and when Robyn told us her tale of woe, well,
it truly put everything into perspective.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Robyn</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">:
Not to discount Tasha’s cancer but……..my shower curtain rod fell down and it’s
just been a disaster to deal with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sometimes it hurts to laugh so hard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">* * * * * * * * <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’m also fuming about things that might not occur to (cough)
more “mainstream” people. I’m staying with my old friend Laura in Northbrook
when I’m in IL, and I have grievances. Lots of grievances.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">:
And you know what ELSE?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Laura</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">:
What’s that?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">:
What if it’s cancer and I have 6 months to live thanks to Betsy, and now, here
I am, and I haven’t had a chance to have the wedding and shower payback I
deserve! ALL THOSE YEARS of wedding after kid’s birthday and baby shower and
lingerie shower and blah blah blah and I get NOTHING. That’s bullshit!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Laura</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">:
But…I thought you said you have too much stuff?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">:
THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT! I don’t want stuff! It’s the principle of the thing!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Laura</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">:
You should have a…..a Cancer Shower!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">:
That’s it! YES. A big-ass party where people have to wear what I tell them to
and donate to my favorite charities like Save the Manatees and it’ll be festive
and obligatory and the best Cancer Shower <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ever</b>.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Laura</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">:
</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Yeah it might be the ONLY Cancer Shower ever…..<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">:
What’s that?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Laura</span></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">:
Oh, nothing! Great idea!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">* * * * * * * </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that I have an actual diagnosis, I’m not exactly
shouting it from the rooftops, but am telling the people who I’ve discussed my
maladies with, when I see them. This leads to a bit of cancer redux, and it’s
not good.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqXuE9GpTHBFh1h7xcsukipvt6ohxvKyuYUijDCSP_N7KxbhNMM-VHb_V0wR4ytOqVX39MYL24tFAE06dJJAHuVT-2hxQLsqpn048n44bCiRmPeErjVG0Wiz_DUq1PsKkEQJF7RA2ntAZK/s1600/IMG_8907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqXuE9GpTHBFh1h7xcsukipvt6ohxvKyuYUijDCSP_N7KxbhNMM-VHb_V0wR4ytOqVX39MYL24tFAE06dJJAHuVT-2hxQLsqpn048n44bCiRmPeErjVG0Wiz_DUq1PsKkEQJF7RA2ntAZK/s320/IMG_8907.jpg" width="320" /></a>The other day, as I’m out in the garden, I see a neighbor
with whom I’ve had many many many conversations about our respective ailments:
his hip problems, my unknown leg/hip problems, with both of us limping around.
I even asked him at one point how his hip problem was diagnosed, when I was
trying to think of tests that Betsy might actually run. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Hey, how’s it
going?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Neighbor</b>: I’m
having my next hip surgery in December!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Glad you’re
getting that one over with too! And I finally have an update on my leg problem.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Neighbor</b>: Which?
Oh, your knee?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Umm, no. The
whole leg/hip/back thing I’ve had for months, where I couldn’t walk?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Neighbor</b>: Oh
right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Blah blah
mass blah blah surgery blah thanks Betsy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Neighbor</b>:…..(says
nothing, mouth agape)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>, after a
pause: Yeah, I know, it’s kind of shocking whe…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Neighbor</b>,
interrupting: Hey, I really have to go, I really gotta go pee.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_GZ1zxcga-4pD9zOb2PzwsqQaHXVX7LW0Y7FFHYgtZi3lpWSkiGuP6b1YptuK2q2mJas9pU9rHUoBXlhpPXdSm1GMjOw5oK-hgZqc2dwn9sVApq5_TSd1xV51V4vkSdgC5Eh9LzTaMh8/s1600/IMG_8896.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_GZ1zxcga-4pD9zOb2PzwsqQaHXVX7LW0Y7FFHYgtZi3lpWSkiGuP6b1YptuK2q2mJas9pU9rHUoBXlhpPXdSm1GMjOw5oK-hgZqc2dwn9sVApq5_TSd1xV51V4vkSdgC5Eh9LzTaMh8/s320/IMG_8896.jpg" width="240" /></a>Seriously? Are you fucking kidding me? As I turn away in
silence and go back to the garden, I hear him yell “I’m sure it’ll all be
fine!” and I mutter to myself, oh sure, cancer is always fine, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">and</b> you can go fuck yourself. For the
first time since all this crap started, I’m brought back rather harshly to
CancerWorld, where people disappear or they say stupid things and you’re left
all on your own to deal with an incomprehensible medical system, crazy bills,
feeling like crap, and endless contemplating of one’s mortality. Sure,
everything will be <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">just fine</b>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there’s the friend who, when I told him what was going
on, within the context of an evening of ax throwing, just…said nothing. Sat
there and smiled. And when I mentioned I might seriously need a malpractice
lawyer, he commented on a potential job offer he had received from a law firm
that does malpractice, but he’d need to commute. This one just stunned me into
speechlessness. Look, people, it’s not hard. There’s a LOT of pablum out there
that makes for decent (or at least inoffensive) responses.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, I’m sorry, that sucks.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ugh, that’s horrible.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“OMG you’re kidding A WHOLE YEAR??”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“FUCKING BETSY!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See? Not that difficult. I can forgive young people who
haven’t navigated enough of the world and might stumble over what to say, but
people in their 40s+? No. Just no. Get it together, people, and act like
adults.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speaking of ax throwing, yes, I went to a cider bar that had
the opportunity to practice one’s ax throwing skills on Friday the 13<sup>th</sup>.
I of course wore my “Do Epic Shit” t-shirt in honor of Cancerchick Paige, who
died recently, and left us all with a great example of how to live. Fiercely,
badassedly, and of course, doing epic shit. Always.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtloIqGTGZktnx9LkbN8tW7o8d4hmY5QDR3_zCn7hoT9lbBoOv1J9VFMPV4C1UrLwkDXrY0ZkRFfZ9NPTa1DSTTo4cD-Rf3cCKuMv4kMc5vreWL6biUJlXqzOY7oDeLRR7XiFiPRYxOaWx/s1600/IMG_8901.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtloIqGTGZktnx9LkbN8tW7o8d4hmY5QDR3_zCn7hoT9lbBoOv1J9VFMPV4C1UrLwkDXrY0ZkRFfZ9NPTa1DSTTo4cD-Rf3cCKuMv4kMc5vreWL6biUJlXqzOY7oDeLRR7XiFiPRYxOaWx/s400/IMG_8901.jpg" width="300" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>* * * * * * * <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Cori, I must be dying.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is my latest call to Cori.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, really. You know how I had to cancel Cycle Oregon
because Ragbrai was such a shitshow and I couldn’t bike? Well, I had bought
travel insurance in case the ride was cancelled, but I figured they’d try to
weasel out of paying for this since it wasn’t an injury like a broken leg or
something.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I just got a text, a week after I filled out the form, that
I’d be getting a full refund. They must have called Betsy’s office and she told
them that she fucked up, and ‘FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY GIVE HER
WHATEVER MONEY SHE WANTS, SHE’S PISSED OFF ENOUGH AS IT IS!’”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cori seems skeptical, but I’m sure of it. I mean, I’m happy
to have the refund, but since when do insurance companies pay out right out of
the gate? Never. I’m doomed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
* * * * * * <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For some reason, I’m now becoming obsessed with Gilda Radner
and the fact of her not coming out of surgery. She didn’t want to be put under
because she was positive she wouldn’t awaken…..and she didn’t. Somehow, I feel
I can make a point about this to my surgeon while keeping it light-hearted, and
I don’t know what the fuck <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>all I was
thinking with <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">that</b>, but then I read
an article that talked about the 10 months her doctors ignored her symptoms,
with one of the last ones being “sharp pain up and down her right leg,” after
which they “removed a grapefruit-sized mass from her abdomen” and well at that
point I decided this all was hitting a bit too close to home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At least I know I won’t have any “unknown” or random
babbling about Gilda while I’m going into surgery, as I’ve made my aversion to
Versed very clear. Versed, aka the “forgetting drug,” as I call it. Never
again. If I wanted to be yammering about stupid stuff and not remember any of
it later, I’d go back to doing shots of peach schnapps like I did in college,
so no thanks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
* * * * * * * <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOn1ToyUoDY_Q-Y0X2MF5wOEn4J3xCmgzjtwYJd4IOxCLc14w01JCy-hPo9sZKMkYQt17mRpg9mLzvZp2nbohyZKWdbjfoBByPLdEVbvQQJwFsp9h9GmeR7-fEz6sKfk1P1OFxhxD5N4Rb/s1600/IMG_8831.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOn1ToyUoDY_Q-Y0X2MF5wOEn4J3xCmgzjtwYJd4IOxCLc14w01JCy-hPo9sZKMkYQt17mRpg9mLzvZp2nbohyZKWdbjfoBByPLdEVbvQQJwFsp9h9GmeR7-fEz6sKfk1P1OFxhxD5N4Rb/s400/IMG_8831.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A week ago I got a call from a scheduler at the hospital,
who told me that there had been a cancellation, and that I could have my
surgery on September 25<sup>th</sup> instead of October 2<sup>nd</sup>. Did I
want to switch? Oh hell yes. One less week of being insanely stressed sounds
pretty good to me. Yes, twos of readers, my surgery is this morning. I had my
pre-op appointment yesterday, and alas, even after a CT scan, I have no more
information than I did before. The possible scenarios range from them going in
and removing the ovary and mass with no problem, to them finding cancer and
things stuck together and having to do a full gut-opening exploratory thing.
That’s the nerve-wracking part, ie going into surgery and not having any idea
of what things will be like when you wake up. If you wake up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I ride my bike for miles and miles and find the
happiness that always seems so elusive, I do a lot of thinking. Much of that
thinking is about my stupid, cursed life, and how it got to this point, but I
also sometimes think about the fact that we never truly know what other people
are thinking or feeling or going through. Maybe that person with a short fuse
has just found out she might have cancer, or that sad surly guy has a dog that
just died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, there are a lot of jerks
out there, and we don’t have to be nice to everyone. But sometimes it soothes
me to think: we are all just walking each other home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are all just walking each other home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-33498868219657929862019-09-25T00:25:00.001-05:002019-09-25T01:14:30.951-05:00All the empty things disguised as me<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmTR_Ork1N7-RMqFwAgubSbIjlTvStx7BekUP6Qmecpt91H-MrYgtYTpRccqHat2ExIBgROzr7BYFf73HkeBC36WYk_nF7euinXsxKzrIXHTwLHclSjG1gSLub48oUXm1MAlLmRf_FWvXD/s1600/IMG_8563.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmTR_Ork1N7-RMqFwAgubSbIjlTvStx7BekUP6Qmecpt91H-MrYgtYTpRccqHat2ExIBgROzr7BYFf73HkeBC36WYk_nF7euinXsxKzrIXHTwLHclSjG1gSLub48oUXm1MAlLmRf_FWvXD/s320/IMG_8563.jpg" width="240" /></a>As I arrive in Oregon, I drive back to the Manor with no
small amount of trepidation, wondering what UHA destroyed in his psychoticness.
Luckily, he “only” stole a bunch of stuff and broke some things, but nothing
major has been destroyed. I bake strudel for the neighbors who had to deal with
him and who kept an eye on my place, and they assure me that none of the
clusterfuck was my fault.<br />
<br />
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The next day, I go for my appointment with Betsy, and my
hopes are dashed, yet again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Betsy</b>: So we’ll
do a bonescan and some x-rays.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: But x-rays
won’t show stuff like bulging or herniated discs, right?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Betsy</b>: True, but
insurance won’t approve anything else. I’ll send you to physical therapy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: But…what’s
the point of PT if I can’t tell them what’s wrong?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Betsy</b>: Sometimes
PT can help pinpoint or narrow down what the problem is.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Really? And do we know this insurance thing for a fact, or
is Betsy just trying to keep costs down? I look into DIY MRI places, and in
Oregon, an MRI is around $1500 each, and I have no idea what the actual issue might
be. Luckily, I see Cancerchick Cori at a spa retreat in New Mexico a couple of
weeks later, and lo and behold, she Has Ideas.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: Dan can
write you a referral! Get all the MRIs when you’re in Illinois!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: How much are
they?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: I’ll have
his office person email the price lists.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dan being her husband, a chiropractor, and sure enough, each
MRI is only about $300.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: I’m doing ALL
OF THEM! Lumbar, thoracic, cervical, shoulder.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: Uhh, each
one takes about an hour.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Fine! I’ll
have a cocktail beforehand, and then I’ll just be dozing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: Dan says,
don’t do thoracic – nothing ever shows up on that one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Okay, I’ll
just do the rest.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKP6KvZK9y2f50mzivKIwRLh9EuRwyZfB9Yoiy656nysfMrIMi0PArqJuTt4Jp52xxeOFejOxPuUJgZ8aIPTqeJkIjJp4F8bv7hNfaBZPKDoGdaSgS4ooLnwAr5fFc1dqsCjRmqnXkW3sz/s1600/931440_372065886243600_1523905465_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="646" data-original-width="501" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKP6KvZK9y2f50mzivKIwRLh9EuRwyZfB9Yoiy656nysfMrIMi0PArqJuTt4Jp52xxeOFejOxPuUJgZ8aIPTqeJkIjJp4F8bv7hNfaBZPKDoGdaSgS4ooLnwAr5fFc1dqsCjRmqnXkW3sz/s320/931440_372065886243600_1523905465_n.jpg" width="247" /></a>I spend our spa retreat weekend NOT going on the hikes that
Cori goes on, because I can barely walk, but I do get a private lesson in rifle
shooting, where I am a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">total sniper</b>,
even though I’ve never shot a rifle before. Now, I’m not saying I have a gun
and will take out anyone who fucks with me….but I have a gun and will <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">take you out</b> if you fuck with me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I get back to Oregon, I message Betsy yet again,
telling her that the pain is getting worse, that I can’t stand the length of
time needed to do anything in the kitchen AT ALL, and that I almost cancelled
my out of town trip because it’s so bad. Which is true – I only didn’t because
I figured a spa retreat with hot pools and massage is the only kind of trip I
can take at this point. The airport was a problem though- so hard to walk that
I thought, my god, I’m going to have to be one of those people pushing people
aside to get a scooter! And getting a handicapped parking sticker, whereby
people will glare at me because I don’t LOOK disabled (except when I’m walking
slowly, hunched over in pain), and I’ll tell them to fuck right off. Awesome.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Betsy tells me that she finally put in a referral for a hip
MRI – just the hip, based on a random guess because the hip hurts all of the
time while the back is more sporadic. So the next Monday, I have the hip MRI in
Silverton, and then get the red-eye that night to go to Illinois to help my mom
with final packing and moving, and so I’ve booked my trifecta of MRIs for the
next Tuesday. I have this fleeting thought – what if nothing shows up? What if
I look like a total fraud? Like I have phantom pains but nothing is physically
wrong? Man, would I ever feel like a dumbass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I go for the hip MRI in Oregon. FINALLY. I try to read the
demeanor of the tech doing the scan: is that a look of sympathy? Of impending
doom? Hmm. Betsy later messages me through the patient portal to tell me she
doesn’t have results yet, probably on Tuesday. On Tuesday I’m in IL, getting my
other MRIs done. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walk out and check
the patient portal. Lo, a message from Betsy! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Now, if I were a horrible person, I’d leave things here as
a cliffhanger until next season. But I’m not, so, off we go.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Betsy</b>: I have the
results from the hip MRI, and it looks like you do have a torn labrum in the
hip. Buttherearesomeotherthingsthatareconcerningsocanyoucomeintoseemetoday?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinMA-GWV17AUhJZ9IC1rXYv17pDPnA897NMo5ur2AXo9VIiGldixDP8AV20zDqioOnbPeEiadiel9C0mlFi39BOtB89j5moxRjJnd7hI-Y6VLQuRVB0hJZzlwNeEuLkBFSVz6PBvCeQm7A/s1600/IMG_8020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinMA-GWV17AUhJZ9IC1rXYv17pDPnA897NMo5ur2AXo9VIiGldixDP8AV20zDqioOnbPeEiadiel9C0mlFi39BOtB89j5moxRjJnd7hI-Y6VLQuRVB0hJZzlwNeEuLkBFSVz6PBvCeQm7A/s400/IMG_8020.jpg" width="300" /></a>I read that whole second part just as I imagine she wrote
it, rapidly and all squished together, when you’re trying to stuff in bad news
unnoticed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wait. Say what? “Something concerning”????<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Umm, that
sounds worrisome. I’m in Illinois and won’t be back in Oregon until next week.
What’s going on?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Betsy</b>: You have a
very large cyst on the left side of your abdomen near your ovary, this could be
the cause of any lower back pain- as it is big enough to push backward and
press on nerves, etc.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>:…..<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Betsy</b>: I’m
sending you a referral to a gynecological oncologist – it needs to come out as
it is too large. I am not worried but always act quickly on any abnormal
findings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A mass. Large. Nerves. Pain. A LARGE MASS.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
WHAT THE FUCK, BETSY.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look at the report she sends. “This cyst measures 9.7” x
6.9 by 8.2 cm. Differential certainly includes an ovarian tumor.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What. The. Everloving. Fuck. A mass the size of a grapefruit
floating around in my pelvic region. That’s probably been there for the PAST
YEAR, growing away, merrily. While Betsy has been dismissing my debilitating
pain as “oh, just a joint thing. I’m not worried!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I call Cori.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
conversation consists of a lot of “fucking Betsy!!” and “it has to be a cyst”
and promises to St. Elizabeth of Hungary that if she comes through on this and
makes it a cyst, I’ll name a jam after her. And more:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Cori, what if
I turn into a religious nutball? What THEN?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: It won’t
happen, but if it does, at least swear fealty to St. Elizabeth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5i8SEIOmvX5SHDMv0ZBpF7QNZEBy1WEgpT8GVrbWcPUxiKYPLuniTB3XV-1-kB4deF4TquP2AKPZCuCMIKfntY9HrXW-8ATkL9nSUZ82169h40NK6W4g59XEpxnUx30_39wg9EivhfQo/s1600/wtf.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="797" data-original-width="997" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF5i8SEIOmvX5SHDMv0ZBpF7QNZEBy1WEgpT8GVrbWcPUxiKYPLuniTB3XV-1-kB4deF4TquP2AKPZCuCMIKfntY9HrXW-8ATkL9nSUZ82169h40NK6W4g59XEpxnUx30_39wg9EivhfQo/s400/wtf.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: I know, I
could have a whole line of religious jams! All the forgotten saints: St.
Elizabeth of Hungary, St. Cornelius. There’s a Cornelius, right?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: Hell yes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: I just got an
amazing 1890 piano from the nicest people in Salem. If this is cancer, first, I
can guarantee I’ll be the most bitter and rageful person this world has ever
seen. Then, I’m going to play haunting and lugubrious melodies at 2AM, like a
tragic heroine of yore. Or maybe I’m thinking of the Haunted Mansion at
DisneyWorld. Whatever, close enough. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: Excellent
idea. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: And I’ll wear
even more shirts, hats, etc. that say “fuck” on them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Snarl at people while driving and tell them
to fuck off. Okay so it seems like a lot of these are things I do already. I
may have to work on this list.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: Hey, it’s a
work in progress.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: I’m going to be fighting with large people at Walmart
for the scootypuffs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: You don’t
shop at Walmart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: But still.
The point stands.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: Uhh, no it
doesn’t?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>:
Whatever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hey, maybe it could be a new
reality tv show! <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Scooter Wars.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cori must have lost her phone connection, because the line
goes dead. Oh well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later, I get the results from the Illinois MRIs, which show:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shoulder</i>: oh look,
a shoulder/labral tear<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cervical</i>: a
synovial cyst pressing against nerves<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lumbar</i>: bulging
discs, severe facet osteoarthritis, and OH LOOK IT’S THE BORG<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, the mass shows up on this MRI as well. Since the
imaging place also uploads the actual scans, Cori and I spend a lot of time
studying and dissecting them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8HDZYK9hbQMK40yY6dhiWfWF2xl9FrAm75pJ7fwdCEKd21cYAFEztmAHVp7iGqMkIohoArCsbgpJ7MjQ-XJdl1cpaXxsb81U1ktZp2KRS4uWTLMCZ_r1Danj3kPIOPCPjCQyTE5Qo9ONb/s1600/Large.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="927" data-original-width="603" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8HDZYK9hbQMK40yY6dhiWfWF2xl9FrAm75pJ7fwdCEKd21cYAFEztmAHVp7iGqMkIohoArCsbgpJ7MjQ-XJdl1cpaXxsb81U1ktZp2KRS4uWTLMCZ_r1Danj3kPIOPCPjCQyTE5Qo9ONb/s400/Large.jpeg" width="260" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: If I compare
it to pictures of ovarian tumors, it looks like a malignancy. See?
There’s….texture, or something.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: But it
seems smooth and round, so that’s good.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Which blob is
it exactly? I’m assuming it’s the big white blob.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: I think so?
Let me ask Julian.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Julian is Cori’s son, who I (ahem) helped with his medical
school applications, and he is now (ahem) a doctor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: Julian says
we’re looking at the bladder.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me: </b>Of course we
are. How can anyone ever tell what anything is on these??<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: I have no
idea. It all looks the same to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me: </b>If the mass lights
up, what are those are areas that are lit up, like in the lungs? Are<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>those….<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">lung masses</b>??<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cori</b>: I think
fluid lights up. Maybe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We give up, at least for the night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the meantime, I head back to my mom’s place with cookies,
cannoli, and booze. I know she’s going to start once I walk in the door, asking
why I bought so much stuff when we’re trying to pack up everything, so I
preempt her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Mom, before
you say anything, I got my results and I have a huge cyst that needs surgery so
we need booze and cookies and that’s all there is to it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s the extent of what I tell my mom, because really, it <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">could</b> be true. And the thing is, when
you have a lot to deal with yourself, you just don’t have the mental energy to
console other people.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Normal Brother gets to town the next night, and I tell him
what’s going on, rather unceremoniously as we’re picking up pizza in town.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Let’s get a
drink at the bar while they’re packing up our pizza.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">NB</b>: We can have a
drink at mom’s, we might as well get goin….<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: I might have
cancer again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">NB</b>: So, let’s
have a drink at the bar!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">NB</b>: And, you
couldn’t wait until we were somewhere in Missouri to tell me this?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: I thought
about it, but then you’d be a captive audience and it might put a <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">da</span>mper on our epic Rt. 66 road trip.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">NB</b>: Oh, and we
wouldn’t want THAT to happen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Exactly!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXC2XZZwWipyoRmwfj3kAjGPKfTxl0UR5x49Rsx8wZ5heKwqwmHTcquBxez4myy8q6pzMh4ExziV29EDHmYWX8bnlP8k3udjDhSWpF5eceSBGnOSSlgDkzou3e-nkE4yW6Fj_aqnBBR-d/s1600/cloud.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="680" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXC2XZZwWipyoRmwfj3kAjGPKfTxl0UR5x49Rsx8wZ5heKwqwmHTcquBxez4myy8q6pzMh4ExziV29EDHmYWX8bnlP8k3udjDhSWpF5eceSBGnOSSlgDkzou3e-nkE4yW6Fj_aqnBBR-d/s400/cloud.jpeg" width="400" /></a>The next day, I go for my final bike ride on the bucolic
country roads of Huntley. The ride out is lovely. Fast, quiet, peaceful. I had
checked the weather and there was going to be very little wind. I turn around
at 20 miles so that this is a quick out and back, and….what fresh hell is this?
WIND???<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I actually shake my fist at the
sky, no lie. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Couldn’t I have JUST ONE RIDE without the
DAMN WIND?????<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I’ve become the crazy old man shouting at the sky. So
be it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I get back to my mom’s house and set about moving things and
putting aside boxes and loading up the car with what we’re taking with us. My
mom sees me hunched over and limping around and in serious pain and is
appalled, and I realize how much I’ve gotten used to this over the past year.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Ed. Note: the Rt. 66
road trip was indeed epic, and will have to be the subject of a future blog
post.)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
* * * * * * * * * <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s amazing how quickly things happen now, because Betsy
sent a referral to the surgeon/oncologist that day, and I have an appointment
with him the day after I get back to Oregon. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnIqUpH5BKGx0i90RCgxhhXn-BDWoOrzCLEtiCljAOUlZ2Wk4py7jn4nGVk-taDkcpvqWuTlm-87dXC0iFIU_zVIjhLfQ6CND8GstqcWHzoJqtyozlsfvC7TzcBbavuNvzLH9fc4yU6ZsP/s1600/IMG_8261.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnIqUpH5BKGx0i90RCgxhhXn-BDWoOrzCLEtiCljAOUlZ2Wk4py7jn4nGVk-taDkcpvqWuTlm-87dXC0iFIU_zVIjhLfQ6CND8GstqcWHzoJqtyozlsfvC7TzcBbavuNvzLH9fc4yU6ZsP/s320/IMG_8261.jpg" width="240" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: So, can you
tell where the mass is originating? Is it ovarian, or uterine, or something
else? I’m confused.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Surgeon</b>: Well,
the mass is so large that we really can’t tell where it’s originating from.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: And you can’t
tell if it’s malignant or not from the MRI.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Surgeon</b>: No, we
won’t know until we actually take it out.<o:p></o:p><br />
<b>Me</b>: So....just tell me the truth. What do you think are the chances it's cancer?<br />
<b>Surgeon</b>: I'd say, 25%.<br />
<br />
25%? That doesn't sound very good.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: What will the
surgery consist of?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Surgeon</b>: We’ll
take out the mass and the ovary on that side, and then if people have a cancer
history, we’ll take out the uterus and other ovary and…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Umm, no.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Surgeon</b>: Well, it
would put you immediately into menopause, so that’s a drawback.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Plus, I know
this is dumb and stupid and I’m old as dirt, but….I still had this thought that
I could have a baby. That obviously can’t happen if I don’t have a uterus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Surgeon</b>: Okay, we
can leave it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Okay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Surgeon</b>: But.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>:…..<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Surgeon</b>:
Well…..it looks like the mass might be vascularly attached to the uterus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: So obviously
you wouldn’t be able to remove just the mass in that case.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Surgeon</b>: Right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>:……<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: I’m not
stupid, and you can’t leave the mass in, so, if that’s the case, do what you
have to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fuck. My. Life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-86248543645654838942019-09-23T19:43:00.001-05:002019-09-23T22:34:34.280-05:00Things fall apart<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglNL9RPyeLuokIPCGxYkue_4OowcviGsepQPrTanX28vwOPMua-uN1Lbclwe8Gn16zUJX8nfKZNKzb_qmYt9hdZTPISlWdtYIDCXb0xDoMpJYm2UnlQiYsHecgpxY37rEvmIjdV5aNLHsL/s1600/IMG_7556.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglNL9RPyeLuokIPCGxYkue_4OowcviGsepQPrTanX28vwOPMua-uN1Lbclwe8Gn16zUJX8nfKZNKzb_qmYt9hdZTPISlWdtYIDCXb0xDoMpJYm2UnlQiYsHecgpxY37rEvmIjdV5aNLHsL/s400/IMG_7556.jpg" width="400" /></a>I return to camp and go to check in with Mike, the Bike Guy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">MtBG</b>: Well, your
handlebars were mangled and I pushed them back into place and replaced the bar
tape. The derailleur was crumpled so that too I shoved back into a semblance of
functionality. Tires, shredded, replaced. The frame looks okay, but you know
there’s no <span style="font-size: 12pt;">guarantee with carbon fiber.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Good enough.
Can you put the new saddle on?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">MtBG</b>: Sure. Oh,
and the derailleur hanger, I don’t like the looks of it. But there are so many
different kinds that I don’t have a replacement – try to ask another bike
repair place during the week. Soon. Hopefully soon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This qualifies as a “good enough” in my book.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The next morning<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first day of RAGBRAI! It’s pouring out. Team Sloth
sloths around for a while, but eventually, we need to get moving. My bike
seems….okay? Knock on wood and all that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now. We know about the leg/hip/back problems. I’ve been
riding all summer and those have been constant once I’m OFF the bike, but on
the bike? Fine. Until today. Because as soon as I start riding, I have horrible
pain in my:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 21.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Left shoulder blade<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 21.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Left shoulder<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 21.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Left arm<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 21.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->all of the above<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWaZC9DkABtW2ogRK2SeZweOLQI8XUu_NCzeCPhyo4tJ0lRTXUgRCRO0cdIHYddykAtiD-fdQdr5r1o1iaMN6Kfb_33QOLrdnPdjxIKWNwiDisAbab6aaDQxfcUMjNgtX9shxeI8ysBci/s1600/IMG_7621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWaZC9DkABtW2ogRK2SeZweOLQI8XUu_NCzeCPhyo4tJ0lRTXUgRCRO0cdIHYddykAtiD-fdQdr5r1o1iaMN6Kfb_33QOLrdnPdjxIKWNwiDisAbab6aaDQxfcUMjNgtX9shxeI8ysBci/s400/IMG_7621.jpg" width="400" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes folks, ALL OF THE FUCKING ABOVE. I swear I am not making
this up. Out of absolutely nowhere, I am in serious pain, with that pain
radiating down my entire arm. What fresh hell is this??<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I honestly think to myself, I’m going to have to SAG all
week. This is horrible. Maybe it’ll go away. Why am I cursed? WHO WAS I IN A
FORMER LIFE?????<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These are my thoughts as I toodle along the countryside, in
the rain. I am going to cry. I hate my life. Later in the day, I’m attempting
to message with neighbor Stephanie to see what’s going on with UHA. Though in a
sense I know that shit is going down, because he <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">keeps calling me</b>. And leaving ramblings messages and text messages,
all along the same lines – that is, after his first couple of texts where he
told me how crazy Stephanie and I are. Then, he apparently thinks of himself as
the so-called adult in the room. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">UHA</b>: Let’s
discuss this like adults.<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">UHA</b>: I’m going to keep calling so you
need to call me back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">UHA</b>: Call me now.
This isn’t working for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I block him, and then call the Keystone Cops in Silverton to
report someone on my property who won’t vacate it. Whereupon I discover that in
Oregon, if someone has been anywhere on your property for more than 15 days,
they’re considered a <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">resident</b>. No,
seriously. I have no words.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6WOloUK8zMnJA92Kqisnh0RsVdcEvIryr2dP3S8zawRpWszyOfPMNe9EcTzrbx3C8RckSxiwWnOWofdId2sMAiABE1g9t_E7bWy0KM4rKGVPuSb0ZjiRijSzJ6ieodyVvFtgH9tUUUnE4/s1600/IMG_7549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1193" data-original-width="1600" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6WOloUK8zMnJA92Kqisnh0RsVdcEvIryr2dP3S8zawRpWszyOfPMNe9EcTzrbx3C8RckSxiwWnOWofdId2sMAiABE1g9t_E7bWy0KM4rKGVPuSb0ZjiRijSzJ6ieodyVvFtgH9tUUUnE4/s400/IMG_7549.jpg" width="400" /></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monday<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m in a lovely small town in Iowa when I get a text from
Stephanie.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Stephanie</b>: I
don’t think you were getting rid of these, were you? UHA put them against the
fence with notes that they were “free.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s a picture that I can’t see (see: no connectivity),
but I can tell this isn’t good. I try to call Stephanie to see what’s going on,
with no luck. In the meantime, I’m taking oxy to see if that’ll <span style="font-size: 12pt;">help with the
new shoulder/arm problem, along with the 800mg ibuprofen horsepill. I bike to
the next town, hasn’t helped, take another oxy. They’re only 5mg, so what the
hell, right? It does occur to me to take notes on my phone, in case I pass out
in a ditch somewhere. #mesosmart</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, I can see the pic that Stephanie sent, and UHA has
propped up some antique doors that I had behind the garage against the fence,
indicating that they’re free for the taking. What. The. Fuck. Time to call the
police! Surely now they can do something, since this asshole has actually
stolen things, right?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Blah blah, so
he can be charge for theft, right? This is outright theft.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Keystone Cop</b>:
What’s that again?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>, shouting on a
crap connection: THEFT! HE’S A THIEF.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KC</b>: What’s his
name again?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: UHA. He has a
record, so you have him in your files.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KC</b>: He put
something against a fence?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: He STOLE
items that do NOT belong to him. Giving them away is the same thing as STEALING.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KC</b>: He put a door
against a fence?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: OMG HOW
FUCKING STUPID ARE YOU??<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdTZJWEAqOKfqe-vLJrUlT1tJiL1SfQrII3ojJLkVwFE_gqkQn8a96kbN7twjsncmjyXZT8DO5J2OcfFINtMilQVQfr3B5GP9aMDDBjhrmbNb9-EVyp_3L5pVOv92AOLP-q4vdm6jaIbtc/s1600/IMG_7578.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdTZJWEAqOKfqe-vLJrUlT1tJiL1SfQrII3ojJLkVwFE_gqkQn8a96kbN7twjsncmjyXZT8DO5J2OcfFINtMilQVQfr3B5GP9aMDDBjhrmbNb9-EVyp_3L5pVOv92AOLP-q4vdm6jaIbtc/s400/IMG_7578.jpg" width="300" /></a>I didn’t say that last part, but I was certainly thinking
it. I was informed that they’d go by my house “if we have time, we’re very
busy” and when I asked if he’d be charged with theft, “I can’t tell you
anything about what may or may not happen.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tuesday<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More oxy and ibuprofen. I’m biking with Mary Beth and
Michelle, when I see a sign for Bloody Marys.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Oh look,
Bloody Marys! I’m in, who’s with me?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mary Beth</b>: Great
idea, nothing like washing the oxycontin down with a couple of Bloody Marys!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is, objectively, hilarious. We stop for a cocktail. In
this town, as in many others, there’s a tent set up with local medical people,
in case anyone has a minor ailment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: So…….if
someone is having severe shoulder pain, for example, how much oxy can they
take? In addition to the 800mg ibuprofen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Nurse</b>: What
strength?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: 5mg.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Nurse</b>: One. MAYBE
two after a little while, but that’s it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t bother telling her I’ve already taken 3. That seems
incidental, no?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m also trying to check in with Stephanie to see what’s
happening with UHA. Is he gone? Packing up?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Stephanie</b>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>UHA seems to have a lot of respect for Sarah,
so I’ve talked to her and she’s trying to call him, but he's obviously avoiding
her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Why doesn’t
she go to the house?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Stephanie</b>: I
don’t know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I try messaging and calling Sarah as well. She ignores me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That night<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8e1G66x3vFlkzVo6S4vBj23qY98diE2rwoTAYDPeUk3t0WJe2s4P29A9UaRqZmpHLkLX1ckS9JyWHXlilTzMVGiEtgiNsWYBrWMwEKNLnJl0_zW4QW7U_9OzVbxtNlzpyIJP0OnwHq6O9/s1600/IMG_7393.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8e1G66x3vFlkzVo6S4vBj23qY98diE2rwoTAYDPeUk3t0WJe2s4P29A9UaRqZmpHLkLX1ckS9JyWHXlilTzMVGiEtgiNsWYBrWMwEKNLnJl0_zW4QW7U_9OzVbxtNlzpyIJP0OnwHq6O9/s400/IMG_7393.jpg" width="300" /></a>The girls and I head into town to get some dinner. My leg
problem is getting worse. We’re standing around looking at our food choices,
and I just can’t – standing makes my leg/hip worse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: I don’t care
where we go; I can’t stand anymore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Michelle</b>: Let’s
walk down to the next block and see what the Mexican restaurant looks like. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: I. Can’t.
Walk. I can’t. Down the block is too far. You guys go check it out, I’ll wait
here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is what it’s come to, and I decide, enough. I’m going
to call my oncologist the next day, and hope that maybe SHE’LL get me in for
some kind of scan. This is insane.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And oh look, a text from Stephanie.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Stephanie</b>: UHA
got arrested.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: …….<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently the Keystone Cops were driving by the Manor, saw
UHA, and only <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">then</b> decided to look
him up. And saw that he had a warrant for his arrest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So the police force of Silverton showed up to
take him in, he resisted arrest, and poof, off he went to the clink. Great. And
the sad story that Sarah passed off about him “down on his luck” and having
“made some bad choices a long time ago”? Yeah, those bad choices would include
BEATING SOMEONE UP the month before at the local mini-mart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then we find out that the guy he beat up? Was BRIAN, THE
OWNER OF MY FAVORITE LOCAL COFFEE HUT.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I message Sarah about this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sarah</b>: I didn’t
know it was Brian.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, but the fact that he beat <b>someone</b> up just a month
ago was fine? Thanks, Sarah. You and your “sheltering services” can just go
fuck yourself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today Michelle and I are wandering around Some Small Town
when we see a sign for “Popesicles.” Hmm. I’m intrigued. Not only do they have
aforementioned popesicles, but they also have “holy water” beer kozies. Well.
If these are blessed, I might be in business. Not that I’m especially
religious, but hell, I’ll take all the blessings I can get at this point.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjriOMlNtSS205dmwFdL2dCd3YBDVEhjVvWPg7AU0nR6OqowaVC1bmHtvJdN_bZMKtv3QAAIxyH6_8AorNckONpBN2LH9oULWgQZg9QmFxT0IzUpt5s2idvWOG2zSb5PekT9AKpk_WWl0qy/s1600/IMG_7573.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjriOMlNtSS205dmwFdL2dCd3YBDVEhjVvWPg7AU0nR6OqowaVC1bmHtvJdN_bZMKtv3QAAIxyH6_8AorNckONpBN2LH9oULWgQZg9QmFxT0IzUpt5s2idvWOG2zSb5PekT9AKpk_WWl0qy/s400/IMG_7573.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me</b> to woman: So, have the beer kozies been blessed?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Nice woman</b> dealing with us lunatics all day: Hmm, I don’t
think so.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me</b>: Can we get them blessed? I need all the help I can get
these days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Nice woman</b>: I don’t see why not. Father! Father! Do you have
the holy water?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Priest from Ghana</b>: I’ll go get it!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He goes inside the church, and who am I to argue with this,
the Anointing of the Beer Kozies? He blesses the kozies, I get one and buy a
couple of popesicles for Michelle and myself (frozen grapes dipped in jello
powder<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>= weird sounding but delicious)
and shove money at these lovely church people, certain in the knowledge that
I’ve just bought myself some holy good luck. Okay, probably not, but it can’t
hurt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wednesday<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m now trying to make an appointment with my oncologist,
again trying to make calls from lovely middle-of-nowhere Iowa. No really, it IS
lovely….but there’s crap cell phone reception. Finally I get through.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Blah blah
blah.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Office</b>: An
appointment, okay. Umm. So it looks like you haven’t seen Dr. Conlin in 3
years. You need a new referral.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: A…what? She’s
my oncologist. I’m not a new patient.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Office</b>: If it’s
been 3 years you need a referral.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: But….I’ve had
my mammograms, I just haven’t seen her because they’ve been fine. My insurance
doesn’t need a referral.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Office</b>: it’s a
requirement of our office. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I call Betsy’s office, tell them I need a referral and I
need one fast. They get snippy with me. Oh, DO NOT EVEN give me any bullshit.
DO NOT.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thursday<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I call Betsy’s office. She’s not in today. They’re still
snippy. Fuck off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
UHA apparently vacated the premises overnight, and <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">stole a bunch of shit</b>. I call the
police again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimfFIllP3e2lpt95JQ0tW4L9FtuUJDUOR71sW4-vv7N-AJ3g2Hrnd_HRikXeuFeyoynv9QF0acTQ5QOz8dfIW-zmOQCivC7zbAb5JVSQ-lB_DgO6xAEoCdFsJ3XyzbWdQ8RZmC73B5ogqg/s1600/waitaminute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="420" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimfFIllP3e2lpt95JQ0tW4L9FtuUJDUOR71sW4-vv7N-AJ3g2Hrnd_HRikXeuFeyoynv9QF0acTQ5QOz8dfIW-zmOQCivC7zbAb5JVSQ-lB_DgO6xAEoCdFsJ3XyzbWdQ8RZmC73B5ogqg/s400/waitaminute.jpg" width="400" /></a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Blah blah
blah, stole a bunch of shit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KC</b>: Do you have
it on video?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Umm, no.
You’re saying you only investigate if there’s video evidence?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KC</b>: Yes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: So people can
do anything they want, and it’s fine as long as it’s not recorded? Credible
testimony is ignored?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KC</b>: Did you see
him steal the Shopvac?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: No. But it
was in the shed last night, he got his stuff this morning, now the Shopvac is
gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KC</b>: Well, that
doesn’t mean anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: ……..<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I forge ahead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Now that he’s
gone, he can’t step foot on my property, right?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KC</b>: Did you
trespass him?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me:</b> What the hell
does THAT mean? I can just declare him a trespasser?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KC:</b> No, it’s
something we do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me:</b> So you do
this, and then he can’t come on my property?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KC:</b> Right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me:</b> And if he
does I can….<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">KC:</b> Call 911 and
wait for us to show up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me:</b> Oh. Right. Of
course I would do <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">absolutely</b> that.
No question.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Friday<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNsT3b5vTi2kbwLhozoAH8Way0Dz9_tTtXQey6Ufy5ZqNVkdv8Cu4pW9I7l5VxZgTl_XQ2fT3YZB-fUoi85K8pWK5fpx6qTs4jfW0HsYS5khuw65ifNx0icRnaqoo7sU_Z2kIFxXZRefXY/s1600/IMG_7437.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNsT3b5vTi2kbwLhozoAH8Way0Dz9_tTtXQey6Ufy5ZqNVkdv8Cu4pW9I7l5VxZgTl_XQ2fT3YZB-fUoi85K8pWK5fpx6qTs4jfW0HsYS5khuw65ifNx0icRnaqoo7sU_Z2kIFxXZRefXY/s400/IMG_7437.jpg" width="300" /></a>I call Betsy’s office, and talk to Snippy Woman. I still
don’t have this damn referral. I’ve also made an appointment with my former PA,
who left this office to start her own practice with a couple of doctors. Then,
I have a message from Betsy on the patient portal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Betsy</b>: Why do you
want a referral? Do you think this is bone mets? Do you have night sweats,
fatigue, overall systemic symptoms?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Really?? I
saw you a year ago for the leg pain i was having, which at the time you said
was "probably just a joint thing." Now it's that leg, hip and back as
well, and it is debilitating and constant. I cannot walk at all without pain,
sometimes severe pain. I went to the chiropractor as you suggested, and that
was a waste of time and money.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She sends the referral. But then I find out that the
referral won’t go through because I have new health insurance. At least though
Betsy is now saying she’ll order some x-rays, so that’s a start, even as I
suspect it’s not a bone issue but something else that’s somehow nerve-related.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(When I get back and see Betsy, she mentions that she had
spoken to the doctor at the practice about my case, and his response? “She has
a cancer history and has had unexplained pain for a while? Of course we should
be doing some scans.”)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back at the actual Ragbrai, I had stopped taking the oxy and
ibuprofen after 2 days, because it wasn’t doing jack shit. I'm biking along and see a repair
tent from Trek, and since my bike is a Trek Madone, I figure I’ll ask them
about that derailleur hanger to see if they have the right kind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: So, my bike
fell off our car driving out to Ragbrai, and our bike mechanic thought I should
look into replacing the derailleur hanger.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrYFeQ418qHcvY_FVua2J_712s6bA9Fwg1B8PSItvybwQ83XxxcxZTvLc1s8Npn9pGs8ODs8zUr8iSAuWOMikhTNtGZ9fjYM3thqU2llMUExSr-HXAGGiQvh-6Y-mGXQpEFvtmVflUSpb6/s1600/IMG_7607.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrYFeQ418qHcvY_FVua2J_712s6bA9Fwg1B8PSItvybwQ83XxxcxZTvLc1s8Npn9pGs8ODs8zUr8iSAuWOMikhTNtGZ9fjYM3thqU2llMUExSr-HXAGGiQvh-6Y-mGXQpEFvtmVflUSpb6/s400/IMG_7607.jpg" width="300" /></a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Trek guy</b>: Oh, we
probably have that kind, but you know, we can replace it and give you your old
one to keep with you, or you can hang on to a new one and replace it if you
need to, because I’m sure it’s fi……<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">okay</b>
so we’re going to replace this right now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: You think it
needs it?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Trek guy</b>: It’s cracked.
If it had broken while you were riding, let’s just say, it would have been
ugly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess that’s what passes for my kind of luck these days.
Thanks, holy beer kozy?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And on the bright side, my ramping up has actually, finally
worked. I’m passing people left and right, even guys who – no lie – speed up
after I pass them and make asinine comments like “well NOW I’m awake!” I’ve
discovered that the shoulder/arm pain is slightly less excruciating if I dip
that shoulder down and tilt my head all the way to the right. I’m looking like
a complete idiot as I’m riding, so there’s that. Life is so awesome I almost
can’t stand it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Friday night<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All week I’ve been wearing my “Any Functioning Adult 2020”
button, which the people of Iowa have just loved. Older women in candy shoppes
in small towns wondering why no one has taken him out yet, the person working
the table of geodes at Iowa’s National Geode State Park proclaiming that a
geode would be a vast improvement, etc. But all this time I’ve also had the Fat
Baby Trump balloon that I haven’t been able to have blown up, because I haven’t
seen a helium emporium. Finally, Friday night, after margarita night at our
charter camp, I’m determined. Fat Baby Trump will fly again! I make some calls.
Dollar Tree has helium. Victory is within reach.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hop on my bike and drunkenly toodle off to the Dollar Tree
a mile down the road. When I walk in and ask, the first store clerk isn’t sure
they can fill it up. She calls over the manager. Uh oh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Manager</b>: A
balloon? Sure, we can fill that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Great!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Manager</b>, as she’s
trying to get the nozzle on, and turning it over: What is it…..omg, hahahahaha,
this is awesome!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ4c2mAejIWGI6zxyjXitsReYHDGT90Pu6Alnbz04duyu2XN_1vkhSkSK41QL5Q02efc8l07Cqoors0nmu7PA3KKK_ERk1X5Xya39CGqn8DmwHIPHnrsf3oW8JZXmfy4kM5o8DbILdCG0G/s1600/IMG_7598.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ4c2mAejIWGI6zxyjXitsReYHDGT90Pu6Alnbz04duyu2XN_1vkhSkSK41QL5Q02efc8l07Cqoors0nmu7PA3KKK_ERk1X5Xya39CGqn8DmwHIPHnrsf3oW8JZXmfy4kM5o8DbILdCG0G/s400/IMG_7598.jpg" width="300" /></a>I admit, I stereotypically thought she wouldn’t like FBT,
but no, she’s dying laughing, and calls over the other clerk, who also starts
laughing. These people are my new best friends. I proudly tie FBT to the back
of my bike and go back to camp. Much incredulous laughter ensues, even though
at night, the specter of FBT looming above in the dark is a bit frightening. These
are the sacrifices we make for our art.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Saturday<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
FBT is a smashing success. Mostly it’s the Iowans who love
the balloon and take pictures – in one case for a grandfather who’s a fervent
trump hater and rails against him to anyone who’ll listen. These are my people.
I’m careful to keep my bike with me as opposed to propping it up against lamp
posts and such as usual; no sense taking any chances that a derelict
neanderthal trump supporter (but I repeat myself) will decide to abscond with
FBT, or just destroy him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the drive back, I insist on putting my bike IN the truck, and there's silent agreement on this. Over the next couple of days, before I leave Illinois for Oregon, I go for one last ride on my beloved country roads. My shoulder and arm are still killing me, of course. I want to cry. I can't help but think, my life has completely gone to shit since Kone died. It seems fitting.</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-64040674749650184822019-09-22T11:53:00.000-05:002019-09-22T11:55:11.931-05:00Miss Tasha’s Series of Calamitous Events<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3lkQ5e36BX0Xf2l_z9nBeqS1a39dXePpT5gl0ckw7-SwIq-T1rPDlnfz3HQCzrRrsvo6BGofafSfg3CkgGe_lOhvC-4dhYNGGIIWpcabgBFe52OXeid1Lgqc32-uxcXX2B2mFTvbFDidY/s1600/IMG_7358+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3lkQ5e36BX0Xf2l_z9nBeqS1a39dXePpT5gl0ckw7-SwIq-T1rPDlnfz3HQCzrRrsvo6BGofafSfg3CkgGe_lOhvC-4dhYNGGIIWpcabgBFe52OXeid1Lgqc32-uxcXX2B2mFTvbFDidY/s320/IMG_7358+2.jpg" width="240" /></a>Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is me, in the back seat of Mike’s pickup, realizing my
bike is mangled somewhere on the highway. I’m in shock. The bike falling off
the bike rack is every cyclist's worst nightmare, but <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">it never happens</b>. Except to me, of course. Mike has pulled over.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: WE NEED TO
TURN AROUND AND FIND MY BIKE.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mike</b>: Where?
What?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Michelle</b>: Omg.
Omg.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: TURN AROUND
ON THE HIGHWAY NOW.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mike starts driving, slowly. Just then – and luckily we’re
already on the highway in Iowa and there are few other cars about – another
pickup pulls up alongside us and tells us what the deal is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Nice people in pickup</b>:
Your bike is dragging behind your truck!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: OMG OMG OMG.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We pull over and get out. The bike is indeed dragging behind
Mike’s truck. Somehow, fortuitously, after we strapped the bike on, I spied an
extra bungee chord and strapped my bike <span style="font-size: 12pt;">wheel to Mike’s bike’s wheel, and it’s
still holding. Right, the thick rubber straps somehow didn’t hold my bike on,
but the bungee did.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My bike is somewhat….mangled, but seemingly all in one
piece. We can’t do anything about it now, so we put it in the back of the truck
bed with the luggage, and drive on. I sit in back staring into space, in shock,
thinking, fuck my fucking life, because seriously, what the fuck.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>* * * * * * * <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, I should note that after Betsy dismissed my
leg/hip/back pain YET AGAIN, I did in fact see a chiropractor, because, why
not? I suspected a bulging or herniated disc problem, as that seemed like it
could be pushing against nerves and causing the leg pain. For the entire month
of June, I saw a lovely chiropractor in Silverton, and after a month, even he
admitted that it had done absolutely nothing. He referred me to an orthopedist,
at my request. Said orthopedist was also lovely, did an x-ray of my hip, which
also showed nothing. He referred me to a back specialist, who I didn’t have
time to see before leaving for Ragbrai.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA09Gvxg6rSezCSTvIbBHGGUj-Z4jNrwLrgKIKhjS_pBCnFyWXDGLa4umt1uzgRy3QMSIMy2gZ2goOnp4ml5-NrwC82E8zf9JPsmD5DpZdhUu1u8cnN-mSqsY8PY1KCWV0Kpxryns2XiBJ/s1600/IMG_7360.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1156" data-original-width="1600" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA09Gvxg6rSezCSTvIbBHGGUj-Z4jNrwLrgKIKhjS_pBCnFyWXDGLa4umt1uzgRy3QMSIMy2gZ2goOnp4ml5-NrwC82E8zf9JPsmD5DpZdhUu1u8cnN-mSqsY8PY1KCWV0Kpxryns2XiBJ/s320/IMG_7360.jpg" width="320" /></a>* * * * * * * <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I should also mention now the saga with Unhinged Homeless
Asshole, or UHA. In May I had hired upon referral from Sarah W. (who runs
Sheltering Services in Silverton) someone to clean out the washhouse. He then
revealed that he was living out of his van, and asked if he could temporarily
park his van on the fringes of my property; in a temporary fit of attempting to
model the ideals of a “compassionate Silverton,” I said yes, based on the fact
that Sarah recommended him, they had “known each other a long time,” would
“vouch for him,” etc. This was what’s known as a Bad Move. And before I left
for Ragbrai, I needed to talk to him to tell him to move on already, but he had
disappeared for several days. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So to recap: I’m in nowhere Iowa trying to figure out my
mangled bike, with little connectivity or cell phone reception, and there’s UHA
back home and my neighbor who I’ve hired again this year to water the garden.
For the bike, luckily at our charter we have My Bike Guy, ie a bike repair guy
who’s there all week. I leave him to look over the bike, and I head off to the
Expo to buy a new saddle. Mine has been shaved down with frightening precision
from being dragged along the highway, such that only about half of it is left.
I get a text.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Neighbor who lives
behind me</b>: Are you home?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Umm, no, I’m
in Iowa.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Neighbor</b>: Half of
your tree fell into my yard.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Say….what? Which tree? Wtf? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55uKtlXmTO6-G-iJu7ze46WTiiFJBocVb9B6XUPN6qzQB4IyMQ5ARJSzLtXYiz0Rn-fQF3oDfEKvmMn38_QEMm-O3ML-maUmlYjuJv2XJJG2gdFJLDpZiMGaMzPt2cdQvtV9QvOfT7_r9/s1600/67063688_1506563026147804_4478787047250722816_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55uKtlXmTO6-G-iJu7ze46WTiiFJBocVb9B6XUPN6qzQB4IyMQ5ARJSzLtXYiz0Rn-fQF3oDfEKvmMn38_QEMm-O3ML-maUmlYjuJv2XJJG2gdFJLDpZiMGaMzPt2cdQvtV9QvOfT7_r9/s320/67063688_1506563026147804_4478787047250722816_n.jpg" width="240" /></a>The old apple tree in the back of my yard has fallen
backwards onto the fence, with part of it brushing against the neighbor’s shed.
No, there’s no storm, no wind. Yes, this is totally random. I start trying to
find someone who can deal with this. I get a text.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Garden Watering
Neighbor</b>: UHA thought he was going back to jail, but he left his dog here.
And he put a lock on the washhouse so I can’t get to the tomato fertilizer. Oh,
and he told Emma to move so he could take a nap on the patio couch. And the
tree, he’s decided he’s going to “help” with it, and I keep telling him to NOT
TOUCH ANYTHING AT ALL.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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What. The. Fuck.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I text UHA to tell him to get his shit and get off my
property. I find someone who’ll remove the tree. I limp to the Expo, find<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;"> </span><o:p></o:p><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">a replacement Terry Butterfly saddle, start
limping back to our campsite. My leg is killing me. I wonder, can things
possibly get worse?</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh yes, dear one of readers. Oh. Yes.</div>
Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-81503557709197509332019-09-20T15:24:00.001-05:002019-09-20T15:24:07.950-05:00The Art of the Potato
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfxmgcBE4h1F1KbsIcQkVdFvTGsnaL-okVqlLFyrBXvna7IjM6dhBaLRD5KLG5-H7Sb02RD6zVT9ZLu86cPbRwQE7svRK7PRFkeDte_pf0rsjZ9E42MQWu24HApTHTYKULZrELaHxHO7z/s1600/IMG_6445.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXfxmgcBE4h1F1KbsIcQkVdFvTGsnaL-okVqlLFyrBXvna7IjM6dhBaLRD5KLG5-H7Sb02RD6zVT9ZLu86cPbRwQE7svRK7PRFkeDte_pf0rsjZ9E42MQWu24HApTHTYKULZrELaHxHO7z/s320/IMG_6445.jpg" width="240" /></a>In preparation for RAGBRAI, I decided I’d forego my usual
ramping up procedure and start training early. Yes, the mind reels. This meant
that I started looking up any intriguing sounding bike ride in Oregon that I
could find, which included the aforementioned The Art of Surviving the Potato
century ride, down in Tule Lake, CA. I was debating signing up, given the long
drive down there, when I came across this gem in an article:</div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Every rider gets a sack of newly harvested local potatoes!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I might have signed up so fast such as to set a new
land-speed record. And one lovely Airbnb reservation later, I was all set. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
* * * * *</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitV2Tv56OoNq8AvFc5QQGZgb8r3eXz6ule_vzaps-Wcc9rY9pBL3SZX4yniMiQUCJOji-hLvma4QnVeDnhTt905Hdtl2q43rohGwNn2_WuBZGgrluSmkQkCrfpKvxcXDgRonS0DQzjOLLE/s1600/IMG_6474.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitV2Tv56OoNq8AvFc5QQGZgb8r3eXz6ule_vzaps-Wcc9rY9pBL3SZX4yniMiQUCJOji-hLvma4QnVeDnhTt905Hdtl2q43rohGwNn2_WuBZGgrluSmkQkCrfpKvxcXDgRonS0DQzjOLLE/s320/IMG_6474.jpg" width="240" /></a>I will now use a technique known in literary circles as
“foreshadowing” to mention the injury-but-not-an-injury that I’ve been dealing
with for lo, the past year or so. It started in May (!) of 2018, when
suddenly…..I couldn’t walk. I mean I COULD, but not without serious pain
radiating up and down my right leg. Since it was towards the front of the leg,
I figured it couldn’t be a sciatic issue, but Dr. Google was of little help. It
was so bad that I tried to not leave the house – because it was too painful to
walk – and when I did have to, say, go to the post office to drop off packages,
it was an ordeal. Assuming it would go away, I put off going to the doctor’s
office, until I decided enough was enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Scene: the office of
Betsy Devos, aka my Nurse Practitioner<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that I was shunted to after the PA I was seeing left that practice. I
assume Betsy was a doctor and only realized much later that she was an NP, and
that I’ve never actually seen a doctor at this office. Why Betsy? She’s the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">spitting image</b> of Devos, even some
similar mannerisms. It’s eerie.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdByLWPyTn_1yW3EevPPHc2BNh1gA_S_N-R416dZPnVvxT01j3QeNW86nR-mRK8kPUjg0BTyN8N1630psiFm_MKA9wqUQeZvMT73bsr301p8QIwpN5aamRRzyatB4_Jz825SdC3mcfYPIV/s1600/IMG_6479.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdByLWPyTn_1yW3EevPPHc2BNh1gA_S_N-R416dZPnVvxT01j3QeNW86nR-mRK8kPUjg0BTyN8N1630psiFm_MKA9wqUQeZvMT73bsr301p8QIwpN5aamRRzyatB4_Jz825SdC3mcfYPIV/s320/IMG_6479.jpg" width="240" /></a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: So I’ve had
this right leg pain since May, and it’s better than it was at first but still
there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Betsy</b>: Let’s move
your leg around randomly. Can you stand? Raise your knee? Move your leg to the
side?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Uhh, yes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Betsy</b>: I’m sure
it’s nothing, just a joint thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: But it’s been
going on for a while.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Betsy</b>: Does it
hurt all the time?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Well no but…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Betsy</b>: Then it
can’t be serious. If it were serious it would hurt constantly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: But…..<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Betsy</b>: It’ll go
away, I’m positive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course it didn’t go away, but it was tolerable-ish, until
it wasn’t. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before the Potato ride, I
contact Julie:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: When I last
saw you I had shooting pain up and down the front of my right leg, and now it’s
not just leg pain but also hip and back. I’m hobbling along hunched over, can’t
lift or carry things, etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn’t there a
scan you can order that would indicate what’s going on?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk5eQ1e_8C_6fTIFf5nuNZ9t9f_fK64pPtksvLsegOA1Oxkof_yJIYHzARs6HOmvVVg5FXIjNeOEYwMJnhSQ_EsivSd1TcbNyKc-nA2fG6BGsLlxk7Ssy1Emz1pGwntXOhvc-_ygylWTtb/s1600/IMG_6468.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk5eQ1e_8C_6fTIFf5nuNZ9t9f_fK64pPtksvLsegOA1Oxkof_yJIYHzARs6HOmvVVg5FXIjNeOEYwMJnhSQ_EsivSd1TcbNyKc-nA2fG6BGsLlxk7Ssy1Emz1pGwntXOhvc-_ygylWTtb/s320/IMG_6468.jpg" width="240" /></a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Betsy</b>: It’s your
hip or your back but as it comes and goes and you are a very active person, I
am not worried. I’d recommend going to chiropractic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay then. I do the Potato Art bike ride and happily collect
my hard-won sack of potatoes, but when I’m not actually on the bike, I can
barely walk. This is the oddity – I can ride my bike just fine, but once I’m
off it, I’m worse off than before. Much as I'd like to explore the local towns, the most I manage to do is find a musty antique store and buy a book of old recipes that includes such gems as "Supreme Clam Loaf" and "Festive Potato Cake."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This continues through the other bike rides I’ve signed up
for: the Gran Fondo, the Joyride, etc. – and then we’re at RAGBRAI.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whereupon Michelle, Mike and I are driving to
Iowa to start the week-long bike ride……..and Mike looks into his rearview
mirror.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mike</b>: Tasha. Your
bike. Where’s your bike?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>:
Whattheeverlovingfuckareyoutalkingabout???????<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My bike has fallen off the car. My. Bike. Has. Fallen. Off.
The. Car.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then all hell REALLY breaks loose.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-34011697263919660012019-09-19T15:56:00.000-05:002019-09-19T15:59:26.644-05:00Hell be a gooseberry<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaPJeLGhaQg8JqlEUY5SD1ptZM9-_vKGTnWdyW-5DEk5KBgB-6PYHzPQs77HFz_vNaqOiay3luiOQ5lIdyowETwjzsE-CxTDPRG_yTo2rfOx-0IVOLhfgmTfD_RU7hxjvoC6BYkhYUK3sp/s1600/IMG_7305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaPJeLGhaQg8JqlEUY5SD1ptZM9-_vKGTnWdyW-5DEk5KBgB-6PYHzPQs77HFz_vNaqOiay3luiOQ5lIdyowETwjzsE-CxTDPRG_yTo2rfOx-0IVOLhfgmTfD_RU7hxjvoC6BYkhYUK3sp/s320/IMG_7305.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Well, one of reader, it’s certainly been a while, has it
not? Things fall apart, as a famous writer once said, and then they come
together again in patterns of chaos, pathos, despair, joy, insanity, WTFedness,
laughter, tears, rallying to laugh again. So let’s get on with it, as there are
things that need to be said.</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt;">Like the tale of the gooseberries. Now, I clearly</span><span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt;">- CLEARLY – recall having nostalgic and
winsome conversations with my mother about her time growing up in the old
country.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">My mom</b>: “Oh,
gooseberries! I remember picking them as a child in Ukraine, and then we’d make
pie. Gooseberry pie has always been my absolute favorite.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now. I’m not saying necessarily that talk of obscure,
hard-to-find fruit is an early warning sign of dementia, but. Well. You be the
judge.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I of course took this as a given, that I needed to find
gooseberries. Here I’ll note that there’s a very valid reason one never sees
gooseberries sold in stores, and that’s because they are Satan’s Own Fruit.
Yes, it’s true. Go look up “gooseberry” in the dictionary, and there’ll just be
a picture of Satan himself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR7jX5j19JKMO7tIrgfk23g_JAp50a8OA2JcJf3S1a4shfKUpMLQ-YB1p7p76vMr1MgCrukitgvrjUeY-p7dquqKyRZ_qaUc9gd-fXdre63e1FaYPno2nM2UICgCR7zWB_JW9j_FOQ-zj9/s1600/IMG_7136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1391" data-original-width="1600" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR7jX5j19JKMO7tIrgfk23g_JAp50a8OA2JcJf3S1a4shfKUpMLQ-YB1p7p76vMr1MgCrukitgvrjUeY-p7dquqKyRZ_qaUc9gd-fXdre63e1FaYPno2nM2UICgCR7zWB_JW9j_FOQ-zj9/s320/IMG_7136.jpg" width="320" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
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I naturally laugh at such minor challenges, which is why one
day this summer I found myself at Fordyce Farm in Silverton, whose sign proudly
proclaimed “u-pick black currants, goose, blue,” using the short-handed
vernacular familiar to all. First I decided to pick black currants, because
those too are difficult to find already picked. They’re tiny, don’t come off
their strands easily, and grow in said strands instead of big clumps like the
glorious blueberries. Yet, I persisted, and picked a full bucket, grumbling all
the while.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Black currants, you’re the bane of my existence! Surely the
most difficult berry to pick!’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe the appropriate saying here is “man speaks, and
nature laughs.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, beckoning, were the gooseberries, in all their
sparse-looking glory. My bucket was full, but ech, I had some plastic bags, and
technically only needed 4 cups in order to make 2 pies. I’d pick them quickly
and be done with it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(half an hour later)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnyfZpPJ3xo8orHXMfe7N7T_IsAZeEEdqDxsRoQR63bAx0zhvPAfwlJKk0yvgVtniU0Rxcb-Dw6Rmi-Y2idYkdpLDqqEsFknApsdfTuj55C0qYfbHN3tnPHxFft6n7L_O3fs6kQ3MEXv2i/s1600/IMG_7135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnyfZpPJ3xo8orHXMfe7N7T_IsAZeEEdqDxsRoQR63bAx0zhvPAfwlJKk0yvgVtniU0Rxcb-Dw6Rmi-Y2idYkdpLDqqEsFknApsdfTuj55C0qYfbHN3tnPHxFft6n7L_O3fs6kQ3MEXv2i/s320/IMG_7135.jpg" width="240" /></a>“AYEEEEE YOU FUCKER!” Luckily there was no other idiot
intrepid soul in the field at that point, not that I would have really cared if
there were. Because HOLY FUCK this was a nightmare. I quickly discovered that
gooseberries grow in even more solitary existence than currants, and are
guarded by a thicket of thorns. And not the painful but short thorns of the
ubiquitous Oregon blackberry, oh no. These are inch-long thorns that bring to
mind the Bre’r Patch of Peter Rabbit fame. So to get a lone gooseberry, one had
to reach into this thicket to pluck the little <s>bastard</s> berry, which of
course didn’t come willingly. Of course I hadn’t brought gloves, though in
retrospect, the only adequate preparation would have been a full suit of
Kevlar. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At one point, I was reaching for a fat-looking berry……and
lost my balance and almost tumbled forward into the patch of thorns.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the time of screaming, wasp #1 had bitten me on my hand,
adding insult to injury and my scratched up and bleeding hands and arms. I
assessed the haul in my little bag, and determined…..not enough. Grimly, I
persisted. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FdfB1eng7zG7ENtkcuHina_xZM-FTQMFXnbQpmwN0dzvrhRxfnfTVeX7mWpRHf0T4lyMILRv44-FaZcwevIj-iybF5mv1NSfnGhTjcyqj75u9rLktkHXDwm8S4gq4qTaxlULtozrnLPp/s1600/IMG_7146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FdfB1eng7zG7ENtkcuHina_xZM-FTQMFXnbQpmwN0dzvrhRxfnfTVeX7mWpRHf0T4lyMILRv44-FaZcwevIj-iybF5mv1NSfnGhTjcyqj75u9rLktkHXDwm8S4gq4qTaxlULtozrnLPp/s320/IMG_7146.jpg" width="240" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(an hour later)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wasp #2 has bitten me. My hands are actively bleeding, and
oh look, it’s starting to rain. I look <span style="font-size: 12pt;">into my plastic bag and say, good
enough. I start wandering back to the main building, small bag of gooseberries clutched
to my chest, looking and feeling shellshocked. When I walk in, I have no words.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Girl</b> <b>#1</b>: Hello?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me</b>: ……..<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Girl #2</b>: Do you need to weigh some fruit?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me</b>:….I….I….….goose….gooseberries.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Girls 1 and 2</b>, in unison: Oooooohhhhhhh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5rF4Qee9c0VYyXQOHfpSYQQAMBxYvIOaJSegVe-g2NAeDAPndWptmzCKfT6D3SUszS7Tngw3OERjQvW9G8nLgmcNKW9FVNcMswWPRmpJofqSJYutPUjoFlpOP-M5GbwfqNcgt0SGORxa8/s1600/IMG_7124.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="815" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5rF4Qee9c0VYyXQOHfpSYQQAMBxYvIOaJSegVe-g2NAeDAPndWptmzCKfT6D3SUszS7Tngw3OERjQvW9G8nLgmcNKW9FVNcMswWPRmpJofqSJYutPUjoFlpOP-M5GbwfqNcgt0SGORxa8/s200/IMG_7124.jpg" width="101" /></a>I show them my bruised, bitten, scratched and bleeding arms
and hands, and they leap into action, offering Benadryl, Neosporin, tea tree
oil, bandaids.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Me</b>: I……I think I just need a drink. A big one. A big stiff
drink, yeah, that’s it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I leave, I carefully place my little gooseberry jewels
on the front seat next to me, cushioned by other material, as I bask in the
glow of triumph, knowing how much my mom will appreciate this ethereal pie of
her childhood. Well done, I say to myself, well done.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
* * * * * * * <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(2 days later, Huntley,
IL)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxjaptMH1ExmIRQzKlUP-vAyqJ61O0hbz21zrFp0yhSi4pJW7hVGo8HSCU8M_kDZjpJ9Z3hENiMAvPFRCkOH7YGJYDksVyBnbXdSde5NzKxcdPJQudX_CYtbu2xfF1FM_NsH6Fe_JGF6a/s1600/IMG_7294.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxjaptMH1ExmIRQzKlUP-vAyqJ61O0hbz21zrFp0yhSi4pJW7hVGo8HSCU8M_kDZjpJ9Z3hENiMAvPFRCkOH7YGJYDksVyBnbXdSde5NzKxcdPJQudX_CYtbu2xfF1FM_NsH6Fe_JGF6a/s320/IMG_7294.jpg" width="240" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>, having
arrived at my mom’s house pre-RAGBRAI, and having already taken the 30 pounds
of cherries from my suitcase: Look! LOOK WHAT I HAVE BROUGHT! Behold!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mom</b>: What are
those?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Umm,
gooseberries. You know, beloved fruit of your childhood, made into your favorite
pie in the entire world by Baba’s capable and nimble hands?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mom</b>: What’s a
gooseberry?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Codicil</i></b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">: I did make an
incredible pie the next day, which is in fact now MY favorite pie, with the
tartness of those little <s>fuckers</s> gooseberries lending themselves to the
most amazing pie. My mom still claims she has no idea what I’m talking about
with this “but you said that was your favorite pie from childhood story!” but
also concedes that it’s a great pie. I think I win.)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-73746523094644507302018-04-22T15:18:00.000-05:002018-04-24T00:54:24.878-05:00Welcome to the Suckfest<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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You might be wondering how it is that I’m back in eastern
Oregon, when I just made my way out of Malheur forest. Well, through the magic
of this thing called “the blog that hasn’t been updated <span style="font-size: 12pt;">for 8 months or so,”
I’m skipping forward at lightning speed, basically so that I can write about my
epic achievement of 2018 (thus far). Of course this is the grueling .5K race
that I did…..but more on that later.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, but I can hear you all now, sounding for all the world
like Cindy Lou Who: “But Miss Tasha, why? <b>WHY</b> do you keep going to eastern
Oregon to ride your bike in the middle of nowhere?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A fine question, but a number of reasons come to mind:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"> 1)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->the quest for Hot Cowboy<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"> 2)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->There are few people<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"> 3)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Turkey vultures<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"> 4)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Really, very few people<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"> 5)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Meetcute potential (albeit slim) with Hot Cowboy<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"> 6)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Practically no people<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj97Yuf_uIo2gAzvg4rYdXQyc3cm5SIBt3uBLEwMRCs429grUcqyBT5YjHZHmWGGJOjwhSul7I5h1_jz0jsvr0mu12QWJ515f8PpALIutExPVcDz5Jtc4nScTSBq6l0ZwDFK1sRmz1LDfxZ/s1600/cPWblS0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj97Yuf_uIo2gAzvg4rYdXQyc3cm5SIBt3uBLEwMRCs429grUcqyBT5YjHZHmWGGJOjwhSul7I5h1_jz0jsvr0mu12QWJ515f8PpALIutExPVcDz5Jtc4nScTSBq6l0ZwDFK1sRmz1LDfxZ/s320/cPWblS0.jpg" width="320" /></a>Plus, my trip out there in October was on a whole other
level of stupid. You see, I decided, in <span style="font-size: 12pt;">some epic leap into ridiculousness and
folly, that 2018 (as my year of #DoingEpicShit) would be when I would bike all
the Oregon Scenic Bikeway routes. There are 17 of them in different parts of
the state, with varying degrees of difficulty, and it seemed like a good way to
mark my 10-year Cancerversary year. Plus this gave me a good excuse to head
back out to Burns last October, to get a jump on things. And of course, as a
secondary motto to go along with Doing the Stupid Things So You Don’t Have To,
I also have Always An Adventure. Namely, when things are going south quickly
before my very eyes, I tend to find myself saying “Well, at least it’s always
an adventure.” Which is true.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So. My brilliant and well-thought-out-plan was thus: I’d
head out to Burns, do some of my local rides, and then do the 184-mile John Day
Scenic Bikeway route, the one that has about 6 billion feet of climb, give or
take. I studied the weather incessantly, parsing out the likelihood of snow
(nah), doing some back-of-the-envelope calculations on wind speed (not too
bad), extrapolating temps based on previous years (balmy-ish). I was ready. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4cYzR5NMmi6oJgoHSsAc3T8QAl3Ojgth10s_dRiDBGXzDEthUUcTs6AgkCz_ho322eev30s0oQT9BXJI3xLGuVfRt9VhqpLod8dmEVBRWnznuP2-DZH5RUY5gTG-t6rgKo2eK-zZO-Cnm/s1600/IMG_1852.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4cYzR5NMmi6oJgoHSsAc3T8QAl3Ojgth10s_dRiDBGXzDEthUUcTs6AgkCz_ho322eev30s0oQT9BXJI3xLGuVfRt9VhqpLod8dmEVBRWnznuP2-DZH5RUY5gTG-t6rgKo2eK-zZO-Cnm/s320/IMG_1852.jpg" width="240" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Saturday<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My plan for Saturday is to head out on my usual ride to the
Crane Café, using the theory that I once saw a Hot Cowboy there, so maybe
someday I’ll see him again. This is basically what my beloved Kone would do –
if something positive happened once, that meant it was immediately solidified
in his mind as a given, rather than an anomaly. There’s one problem though. We
all know the issue I have with wind, and I fret as I study the wind speeds for
today.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
15. 20. 23. 17. 25! (!) I start googling “how windy is too
windy to ride.” There’s no consensus on this, as one person’s 15mph gusty is
another person’s “ech that’s fine.” Most people agree that wind in the 20s
sucks and is to be avoided. What to do?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the one hand, I hate wind. On the other, this is my Crane
Café day. On the third hand, how bad can it be, really. (This is known as
“foreshadowing.”)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Plus, according to weather.com and weatherunderground, the
wind is supposed to be from the north on my way out, and then it’ll switch to
coming from the south on my way back, so that’ll work out. Could it be worse
than the Windburn 100 ride that Deanna and I did once where we were pedaling
hard to go down hills at a blistering speed of 5 mph? Or my last ride in
Morocco, where the wind was pushing me UPHILL with no pedaling? Surely not.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hahahahahahahaha! Hahaha. Ha. Ha…..<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBgj3ivzcYC8xY8obAmjZscl_Sz1h1ZS1uFQ_P1heMsvNa0n2sLBHfCOe3pgKgRPOk4ymDDrXzpXyhymbVIuRFh7dzK166dOda7NxMxhq1ZiQ7x9du5wx_5n16WOV60e50VsTTAapLXLsI/s1600/_storage_emulated_0_DCIM_Camera_20171007_154511.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBgj3ivzcYC8xY8obAmjZscl_Sz1h1ZS1uFQ_P1heMsvNa0n2sLBHfCOe3pgKgRPOk4ymDDrXzpXyhymbVIuRFh7dzK166dOda7NxMxhq1ZiQ7x9du5wx_5n16WOV60e50VsTTAapLXLsI/s400/_storage_emulated_0_DCIM_Camera_20171007_154511.jpg" width="400" /></a>The ride starts out as usual<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>- I’m zipping along, looking for Rage Cows and jackrabbits, appreciating
the desolate beauty of the high desert and the complete dearth of people. Then
at one point I realize something. I’m <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">really</b>
zipping along. As in, I tried to calculate things so that I’d be at the Café
somewhat before lunchtime, but at this rate…..I’ll be there around 10AM. Hmm.
This……this does not bode well for the return trip.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Luckily, when I get to the Crane Café at the crack of dawn
thanks to the high wind, I find delightful company, Brandy and Shilo, who are
from southern Oregon and road tripped to the eastern part of the state on a hot
springs tour. Even though I hate people as a general rule, I find myself
talking to them by butting into their conversation as they’re talking about how
incredible the full moon was the night before (it was), and then we talk bikes
and we exchange names and friend each other on FB. In other words, typical
stuff.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, as we’re sitting there chatting merrily, the wind
is picking up, to the point that people walking in are looking disheveled and
windblown.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This does not bode well.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Indeed, as I’m leaving the Café, I pass a couple walking in,
looking…..windswept and disheveled. They see me with my bike.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Them</b>: You’re not
riding in this, are you?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>:
Unfortunately, yes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Them</b>: Hopefully
going with the wind at your back?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Sadly, no.
Against the wind the whole way back to Burns.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Them</b>: Get someone
to pick you up!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: I’m out here
by myself. Me and my bike. Alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Them</b>: Umm….good
luck?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So there’s that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
set off, and honestly, this is so ridiculous, I almost start laughing. I’m
hurpling along at around 6.8 mph, and I get an insta-headache from the wind
blowing into my ears. It’s either a full-on headwind (bad) or a strong crosswind,
which is almost worse because it’s blowing me into the road. Of course, since
there are more cattle than people in this part of the country, that greatly
reduces my chances of getting plowed down by a passing vehicle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxiI9lKsWguXbEJieH-KuE870BTHDI0OJAFJbvfY_gaCKva1LiSCK5k_UhFplRkx1hrfNbl6Io-bt4joNm-zw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Yet again, I find myself gazing at the houses and ranches
I’m passing on occasion, thinking of grifting a ride into town. Yet again, I
stubbornly press on. It’s just me, out here on the tundra, with nowhere to
escape the wind. I soldier on, because really, what else is there? That might
be my metaphor for life: just keep pedaling. No matter how sucky it is. Until
you decide you’ve had enough, and are weary. But I digress.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And sure enough, around 12 hours later, I wind up back in
Burns, back at the hotel, shell-shocked and disheveled. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once I thaw out, I get online, and see a
message from Brandy from the Café. “We stopped to pee, saw how windy it was,
thought of you!” Well, at least someone was in tune with my <s>suffering</s> <s>stupidity</s>
<s>aggressive athleticism</s> stubborn delusional self.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, to add insult to injury, I decide to check and see
just how windy it was. 25? 32?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">38 miles per hour</b>.
Squarely from the north, ie a headwind. So much for the wind switching directions, huh,
weather underground?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shall have to write an angry letter.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<i>Next up: We're goin' bear hunting!</i>Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-13754031924468682442018-04-19T23:22:00.000-05:002018-04-19T23:25:19.276-05:00I did not sign up for this. Okay, maybe I did.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<br />
So I head off on my now-delightfully-paved road. And it’s
glorious. Beyond. It’s rolling and beautiful and there are deer and then OMG
SANDHILL CRANES. Cranes are my favorite, along with herons and owls and birds
of prey and well, maybe all of them. I stop to take pics of my beloved Rage Cows, who are so startled at the sight of me on my bike that they bypass glaring at me with barely-disguised fury, and instead just kick up their heels and run away. Yes, I'm starting cattle stampedes as I toodle my way across eastern Oregon.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4DytXpyw26SgsA_OS7c4bQF01xK2wM_upuYq8_XLfYnp3AGC79tkuUN0NO5qN6jY_YelSNVwp9ioUifzqATwO887YDsyuYPDEns4xdNo03zfUW0mDjsUxPdoqO2j1nUYoyXyaPo7o1JLy/s1600/20170814_143212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1434" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4DytXpyw26SgsA_OS7c4bQF01xK2wM_upuYq8_XLfYnp3AGC79tkuUN0NO5qN6jY_YelSNVwp9ioUifzqATwO887YDsyuYPDEns4xdNo03zfUW0mDjsUxPdoqO2j1nUYoyXyaPo7o1JLy/s400/20170814_143212.jpg" width="357" /></a>Then I get to a hill. FINE. It keeps
going. And going. Up and up and up endlessly. I start thinking asinine
thoughts, like, wow I didn’t realize Oregon was so tall! No lie. I then realize
that <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">this</b> hill is the equivalent of
the stupid hill on the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">other</b> side of
the forest, aka from this morning so long ago when I started out on this
daredevil tour of madness. Thus, it will never end. Until it does. At the top
of the hill. I’m confused – where’s my downhill? Is this highway 20 ahead of
me? Well, it’s only 20 or so miles back to Burns, piece of cake.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Except somehow, the lying sign says 32 miles. Wtf? No
really, wtf. I’m not mathy, but could my calculations have been THAT far off?
Apparently so, but I’m hoping the sign is actually wrong. Hope springs eternal
and all that. Especially when I look at this road and realize: this is a
fucking highway. That’s when the conversation I had the other night with awesome
local friends Erik and Isabelle pops into my head.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /> </o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(cue dooototoloooo
Wayne’s World music)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Erik</b>: Sometimes I
ride on 20, but it’s weird what they did to that road. They chipsealed it, but
left all the gravel, especially on the shoulder. In fact it’s kind of piled up
there.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Uhh, that
sounds crazy. So it’s not flattened down at all?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Erik</b>: No. The
shoulders are basically useless, they have so much gravel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Huh, good to
know. Will definitely have to avoid that!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-0KGgdtBEDNPZKJS-U9h_BHWmOuh9efCiXvqchYor-5wCyGhsPh6gKYTDcdegAKDBCjawSm4dW2ZsEyUk63jedrOSXAcmztmuJeMSTrScbM8hu89D6ESkUU04WNA4LZ0qwcDOlXlc_Jr8/s1600/clearthepath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="233" data-original-width="736" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-0KGgdtBEDNPZKJS-U9h_BHWmOuh9efCiXvqchYor-5wCyGhsPh6gKYTDcdegAKDBCjawSm4dW2ZsEyUk63jedrOSXAcmztmuJeMSTrScbM8hu89D6ESkUU04WNA4LZ0qwcDOlXlc_Jr8/s640/clearthepath.jpg" width="640" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
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And of course, here I am. Staring at 20, the briskly
desolate highway, where oh lookie, to the right (aka the direction in which I
need to go) is a swoopy curvy steep road that’s downhill for quite a while. On
a highway. With no usable shoulder.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /> </o:p></div>
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I think to myself, well, this is it. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">This</b> is where it ends, where all cyclists go to die. On a highway
in eastern Oregon, splattered by a truck. Oh well. It’s been fun, except when
it hasn’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyIvKGAxFRBeVMbirkxR6jk-FRagHEyRU78t5XWwo1ydL7z6cQC_i8V0BBq1JOEbwgohR7vZFydIr0fFzAhOrHGncSPnxk2cRWp1eBmkVmDv2bGuuYNfSnuVCDiORuD6teRQ16cWhzVb6N/s1600/20170814_173647.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyIvKGAxFRBeVMbirkxR6jk-FRagHEyRU78t5XWwo1ydL7z6cQC_i8V0BBq1JOEbwgohR7vZFydIr0fFzAhOrHGncSPnxk2cRWp1eBmkVmDv2bGuuYNfSnuVCDiORuD6teRQ16cWhzVb6N/s400/20170814_173647.jpg" width="225" /></a>Because this road isn’t going to ride itself, I set off.
It’s as sucky as I imagined – the shoulder has too much gravel to be rideable,
so I’m whistling down the highway. By some odd stroke of luck, however, no cars
come up behind me and try to pass. Or perhaps they do, but are so dumbfounded
by my stupidity that they decide to hang back. “Look Mabel, another one of
those idiots on the road!” Yes Henry, I know.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I make it down this stretch of highway, turn a corner, and
start heading down another steep hill, when like a detour into bizarroland, I
see….a store? Up ahead on the left? Wha…?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Of course I have to go in, whereby I discover a gas
station/convenience store/museum/Indian art gallery. No lie. I wander around
the one-room museum looking at the old pics and old-timey antiques, and then
wind up chatting with the lovely lady who works here.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Nice Lady</b>: Oh,
you’re on your bike! Where are you going?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Well, I did
this loop through the Malheur forest, and now I’m headed back to Burns.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">NL</b>: …Burns?
That’s….ambitious.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Stupid. I
like to call it stupid.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">NL</b>: You just be
careful now – the cars go so fast, and the road is terrible.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: I’ve noticed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFueKYOsxWON44GVewIBe0ndSHcCXI4XM65t51XRlZN_loOpjU7uvDPeSSbc_thCoo7juZboLixPeGLKoO7DftJrAzUe8OKoX8PUQCbgwX8DkZYDmvvUxBeGB1_bT06okr-tBetfV-Xkb/s1600/20170814_195802.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFueKYOsxWON44GVewIBe0ndSHcCXI4XM65t51XRlZN_loOpjU7uvDPeSSbc_thCoo7juZboLixPeGLKoO7DftJrAzUe8OKoX8PUQCbgwX8DkZYDmvvUxBeGB1_bT06okr-tBetfV-Xkb/s400/20170814_195802.jpg" width="225" /></a>My next issue with this road is this: the shoulder has
varying amounts of gravel, but between the shoulder and the road there are
rumble strips. Yes, this road is so boring that it’s lined with rumble strips
for its entire length, for drivers who wander over. First, this isn’t exactly
comforting, knowing that drivers here are likely to drift into me. Then, I have
to do this odd hopscotching thing, where I ride on the road, then bump over the
rumble strips to the shoulder when I see a car or truck coming up behind me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ride-bumps-gravel-bumps-road-truck wooshes
by-bumps-gravel and AD NAUSEUM FOR MILES.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Not for the first time during my bike rides, I look at the
houses I occasionally pass by and wonder if I should stop and see if I can just
get a damn ride into Burns. Because that would be the smart thing to do, I
don’t do it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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On the bright side, the road is pretty flat at this point,
the Rage Cows are out in full force, as are the hawks, and it’s looking like
I’ll make it back to town before sunset. Whee! For all the complaining, it’s
still been a day on the bike in my beloved eastern Oregon, amirite?<o:p></o:p></div>
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As I toodle back into Burns, I decide that my epic
achievement of stupid deserves a drink, so I pull up at the Shady Pastimes. For
anyone wanting to recreate this ride, I will have you know that this loop,
start to finish and ending up at the bar, is exactly <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">100</b> miles. 100.0 on the dot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I feel like this is a cosmic <span style="text-align: center;">sign of something, but I’m not sure
what.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3597754234496889986.post-54915321570660943252018-04-18T22:21:00.001-05:002018-04-19T11:52:09.111-05:00Whereupon things take a turn for the better. At least for a while.<br />
It occurs to me that based on the last blog post, any
faithful readers I have left have surmised that I’m still riding around
blithely in the Malheur forest in Burns. Which might not actually be such a bad
thing, really. I could become a legend, like the Yeti, spoken of in hushed
whispers and appearing out of the shadows only when a hard cider or pez or some
other delectable is available. But I digress.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxPt2n5kriBC3OmOZM53e9ZF_aEsrZs4mwLP67lFek50MhxSJSvXmvCGk82CPKh52720aDFFfJX90kZzko6a7Re46ewgzyp2FWXlrcXZtOLgOw7a3F38Z59jijd8hyQmWavnIm1LI-_Aib/s1600/meetcute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="379" data-original-width="490" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxPt2n5kriBC3OmOZM53e9ZF_aEsrZs4mwLP67lFek50MhxSJSvXmvCGk82CPKh52720aDFFfJX90kZzko6a7Re46ewgzyp2FWXlrcXZtOLgOw7a3F38Z59jijd8hyQmWavnIm1LI-_Aib/s400/meetcute.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Given that it’s been longer than I thought since my last
post, and I have NOT in fact been in the forest all this time, I thought it
would be wise to write the conclusion to my tale. Behold.<o:p></o:p></div>
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* * * * * * *<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Now, if this were a romcom or if my life were anything other
than the clusterfuck that it typically is, this would be where my bleary eyes
would see someone on horseback coming towards me, off in the distance, but
first I’m startled by a rampaging herd of….baby goats, say…….who knock me into a
shallow pond which is not all muck and mud, and I’m sitting there adorably
disheveled when who should ride up but Hot Cowboy himself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is not what happened.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Instead, I honest-to-god see up ahead Rage Cows. Unfettered.
Out in the wild. The first one sturdily goes from the trees on the right side
of the narrow gravel road to the left side, as I stare at him, mouth agape. I
at least understand the import of this: There. Are. Rage. Cows. Not. Behind. A.
Fence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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A few more trundle by, like a mirage, which hey, maybe it
is? It’s been a long day, after all. But then, what (or who) do I see walking
down the road towards me?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmzcMk9rkpcWrcYfP4tZcRrmFOUu11iJIg3LRFv7ZhaUvGEvvRh0m0gnwmjgWG1se63kBqNPzENETcEAi4P7KcyOZrHW_zE2B76atZoHlKAf34NenQOKhdQKRkSArlHAlqU1QyKHbdhVf/s1600/20170807_161937-2_resized.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="689" data-original-width="867" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmzcMk9rkpcWrcYfP4tZcRrmFOUu11iJIg3LRFv7ZhaUvGEvvRh0m0gnwmjgWG1se63kBqNPzENETcEAi4P7KcyOZrHW_zE2B76atZoHlKAf34NenQOKhdQKRkSArlHAlqU1QyKHbdhVf/s400/20170807_161937-2_resized.jpg" width="400" /></a>Nope, yet again, NOT Hot Cowboy. Rather, it’s an old man,
probably in his 80s. I assume he lives nearby or is parked somewhere and is
wondering if this silly-ass person (me) is lost and needs help.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Older Man</b>: Howdy!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Hello there!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">OM</b>: So, my wife
and I are lost and were wondering if you could help us out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I…..what? How the hell did they even GET to this extremely
remote spot to even BE lost?<o:p></o:p></div>
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I then see their truck off to the right, pulled off into a
little gravel side area. As we walk over, he explains to me that he and his
wife are from Idaho and like to go on weekend treks to look for wildlife, and
somehow they wound up here with no idea where they are. They’re well-prepared,
and irony of ironies, offer me WATER. TONS of water! And sandwiches and snacks
and so on. We wind up chatting and it turns out they’re beekeepers, who sell
honey. Yes, I’ve run into little old beekeeper couple and they’re absolutely
wonderful. They show me pictures of what they’ve seen – a baby bear and
bounding bighorn sheep – and I show them my Rage Cows. It seems like an even
trade. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1vpfp8S34e3q4ysnJH3tkI1SeR5-OUC5gU-QHEzvqpFS24H799D6bixce08wJyzgDqlKxFGwVWJF1yH23rbHaIyqepn7Pwp4rAO7llCPQEVMt0RZPNBJ8LATj2j7uik-t376BalBdVWd/s1600/20170807_142158-1_resized.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="721" data-original-width="1161" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1vpfp8S34e3q4ysnJH3tkI1SeR5-OUC5gU-QHEzvqpFS24H799D6bixce08wJyzgDqlKxFGwVWJF1yH23rbHaIyqepn7Pwp4rAO7llCPQEVMt0RZPNBJ8LATj2j7uik-t376BalBdVWd/s400/20170807_142158-1_resized.jpg" width="400" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
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We then have the conversation that I seem to have quite a
lot in this part of the state.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">OM</b>: So you’re out
here all by yourself?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Me</b>: Yeah, I like
to go on long bike rides by myself as far away from people as possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">OM</b>: You should
carry a gun.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It is at this point that I decide fine, I’m getting a gun.
If the people who <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">live here</b> keep
telling me this, who am I to argue? This, in spite of the fact that in Oregon
I’ve never had problems, while in Illinois I was almost run down by the
meth-crackhead lady, and in Wisconsin was almost run down by the runaway pickup
truck that the guy who kidnapped his mom jumped out of before he ran into the
bar called Knuckleheads and wound up tazed by the cops after he started trying
to stab people.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /> </o:p></div>
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No, I am not making this up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAp-wSoQ0p0po6h5MbsG_7ECLcswfTrurRRrRmz2mL2yTwamddyCs3s1XzpL08_7jv-I9rDSqbyAFE-SziTplCyaMrXsrPUpL6RiB71p3YB4_U-32hs9pBPT-PbWO-hKSXHBR-0VAw4ISj/s1600/20170814_134948.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAp-wSoQ0p0po6h5MbsG_7ECLcswfTrurRRrRmz2mL2yTwamddyCs3s1XzpL08_7jv-I9rDSqbyAFE-SziTplCyaMrXsrPUpL6RiB71p3YB4_U-32hs9pBPT-PbWO-hKSXHBR-0VAw4ISj/s400/20170814_134948.jpg" width="400" /></a>And oddly enough, while we’re chatting, we see the only 2
pickups I’ve seen on this road at all (other than the police car and the
firetruck), each with several sketchy-looking guys, driving past us. Did I meet
this sweet old couple right before I would have been shivved? Who knows. But
it’s weird.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The lovely couple, Bill and Judy, give me a ride in their
truck over the few miles of gravel road, and before we part ways, they give me
jars of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">honey</b>! This is why bike
jerseys have back pockets, so they can be stuffed full with all sorts of happy
things. And I miraculously know how to direct them back to <s>civilization</s>
395, so all is well in their world as well.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I wave goodbye, and continue. Onward.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(to be continued)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Tasha the Triathlon Goddesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04492980012367649865noreply@blogger.com0