Getting ink done

Once in a great while – not often, mind you – I like to step away from talking about my trials, tribulations, and triumphs in the face of extreme adversity. You know, that whole goddess thing I have going on. And I do so when it behooves me to write about things that my people might find useful, like the cancer shit and all. And then some people wind up thinking – “honey, TMI, okay? Love ya, but really, girlfriend.” To which I say: suck it.

All of which brings me to today’s topic: tattoos. Or more specifically, nipple tattoos. (See, I warned you guys.) Which as you can imagine, is one of those things fraught with apprehension for the nipple-challenged among us, as we think – WTF? Really? Isn’t that going to be, you know, PAINFUL?

An appointment was made, and off I went to the office of Dr. Fine, where I was actually going to meet with Michelle, aka PA to the Stars. Things start off as usual, with Michelle explaining the procedure.

Michelle:……..so after we pick out the right color, I’ll trace the shape that….

Me: Can we do it in any shape? Like, a flower or something fun?

Michelle: I only do circles. Dr. Fine once did a star, but only agreed to it if it could later be made into a circle if need be.

Hmm. Okay, never mind that idea then.

So we’re chit-chatting as Michelle is getting all the stuff ready.

Me: So does Grey’s Anatomy drive you crazy, with all the stuff they get wrong or take liberties with? You know, all the things that us mere mortals would have no idea about?

Michelle: Oh, I can’t even watch that show anymore, it’s so bad.

Me: Ha, so you mean everyone isn’t always getting it on in a broom closet?

Michelle: Well, actually….

Me: No!

Michelle: I guess there is a certain contingent like that, though it’s not common.

Me: Okay then. So, umm (changing the topic)…..do you read any nurses’ blogs?

Michelle is silent for a moment. As soon as I’ve spoken, I’m kicking myself. Shit, now she thinks I think she’s a nurse, which I know she’s not. But now I sound like a dumbass. Geez, why don’t I just pitch everyone into the same category, call them all “technicians” or something?

Michelle: No, can’t say I do. Though I wonder if there are any Physician’s Assistant blogs out there.

Me, scrambling to cover my tracks: Oh, I’m sure there are. Especially since there are doctors’ blogs, ER blogs, you name it.

Me, continuing, hopefully: So do I at least get any good drugs after this? Dilaudid? Whatever that is, it's big in the nursing blogs. Oxycontin? There's bound to be a LOT of pain after this, and I'm kind of a wimp.

Michelle, not moved: Tylenol.

Shit. Let’s face it, I’m still screwed – I’ve just inadvertently pissed off the person about to do my tattoo. Great.

After we get the color matched, Michelle starts injecting a local anesthetic under the fipple, which leads to this kind of dialogue when it hits a nerve or something:

Me: AHHHhhhh! Sorry. I know I’m the problem patient as always.

Michelle, deadpan: Oh, absolutely. Such a problem.

Me: AHHHHHHHhhhhhh! Sorry…..

And so on. But finally that torturous part is over, and the tattooing begins! Except….

Me: AHHHhhhh! Sorry….

Michelle: That shouldn’t hurt. Are you sure it’s pain and not pressure?

Me: It’s definitely pain. AHHhhhh! Sorry….

This continues. The part where the lat flap skin is has no feeling, so that doesn’t hurt. But as soon as it gets to the rest, yep, pain. Definitely pain.

Michelle: Really, pain? Not pressure?

See, I’m thinking this is where I’m paying for my “nurse” remark. I’m obviously an idiot, so everything I say is suspect.

Me: Sigh, it’s pain. But maybe I can just grit my teeth and suck it up?

Michelle: Well, generally with all the surgeries, there are nerves left only on the top, which is where we apply the anesthetic. The ones that run underneath have been cut.

Me: I guess I’m a special case. A freak of nature. It’s a gift.

Michelle, pondering: “Special,” hmm…….oh, where was I? So in any case, sometimes the nerves are still there, so I’ll do the anesthesia deeper.

The needle again, then more tattooing, but this time we’re in business. Pressure, no pain. Whew.

Finally we’re done, and we bandage that puppy up, and I get instructions for the care and feeding of tattoos. Then off to the hallway, where I’m greeted by the other Plastic Surgeon to the Stars, Dr. Schierle.

Me: Hey, your office is a frontrunner in the Pinkapalooza contest! We here at thethighmasterroutetokona really like free stuff.

Dr. Schierle: Outstanding!

Me, adding: And we’re going to wear our glowsticks to the Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness Night game!

Barb: The….what?

Dr. Schierle: The…..how’s that again?

Me: Really, that’s what they call it. Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness. I know….but we have to remember, they’re hockey players.

Barb: Ah, good point.

Dr. Schierle: Well here, let me heap more of these glowsticks on you to take to the game!

These people clearly understand me. Clearly.

Dr. Schierle: That’ll keep us in first place, right?

Me: Well, it should. The problem is that there’s some truly scary Pinkishness stuff out there.

Dr. S.: How about having different categories? Like say…..a Hall of Fame? And a Hall of Shame!

Me, gaping at Dr. S.: Why…..that’s brilliant! I love it! I’m going to steal that idea and call it my own. But you guys will still be in the running for a hat.

Dr. S.: Excellent!

And so it has been spoken, and so it shall be done. Though in addition to the above categories, I’m also adding one called the Hall of WTF – for those entries that are neither way cool, nor way offensive, but just…..puzzling. To the extreme. In a “Huh? What the hell were they thinking” kind of way.

Oh yes, there are plenty of those out there too, trust me…..

Oh, and as for that tattoo? Yeah, it hurts like a sonofabitch, even now, days later. Still oozing, bleeding, makes it hard to drive because of the damn seat belt going over my chest. But you know, in the grand scheme of things as far as SurgeryLand and TreatmentWorld are concerned, it’s not that big a deal. My recommendation: drink early, drink often. I suggest shots of the Bloody Fipple (credit to Kim, who thought this one up, or at least something very similar):: pomegranate juice, flavored vodka, splash of amaretto. Bottoms up!

All hail Lord Stanley's Cup!

Okay, I'll admit that I'm one of those people who hasn't liked the bandwagon-jumpers. Not because I think that somehow as a die-hard fan from the olden days I'm better than them. Nope - it's just because they've made it so freaking hard to get tickets. By the same token, I've been annoyed to read about the so-called celebrities and starlets suddenly going to the Stanley Cup games. Hello, taking our tickets?!

With that said, I am glad that the Hawks have an entire city behind them. And I kind of feel sorry for the new fans, in a way. Sure, they get the thrill of seeing the Hawks win - but it's not as meaningful - and they don't realize how truly remarkable and mind-boggling this is - unless you were there in the days of "Dollar" Bill Wirtz, in a United Center with tens of people, where I could wave to my friend Keith, aka Stan, who'd be the lone person sitting in his section on the 200-level. And my hockey friend Doug told me last night that at the games, he'd always be seeing me and whatever friend I was with on the Jumbotron - basically because there were so few people there that they'd show the same people over and over. And often, you'd hesitate to buy tickets because you didn't want to give Wirtz any more of your money.

Those were the days.

And of course, lo those many years ago, there was the classic comment from my friend Laura as we were watching the final game of the Stanley Cup. I don't even remember who won, and Laura's not a big hockey person, so her comment upon seeing the players raising the Stanley Cup was "Oh look, they're hoisting a trash can aloft!" Which still stands as one of the best hockey-related comments of all time, in my book. True hockey fans will understand that she shouldn't get any shit for that comment - considering that each player gets the Cup for 48 hours, and it's been everywhere from at parties filled with jello, to, well, a lot of other strange places. Which doesn't detract from its significance at all. It's just how hockey and hockey fans are.

So, all I can say is this: thank you Blackhawks. You have been truly incredible, and bandwagon or not, all of Chicago loves you. Thank you thank you thank you.....

Not on MY watch

So I grudgingly went today to the birdfood store, to get some more seed for the little chirping, tweeting hooligans who have for some reason invaded my backyard and its 9 birdfeeders. And since the store was right next to a Foodstuffs, I figured I’d go in and see what food I couldn’t eat, and maybe pick up something for The Kone, who was having surgery on his leg and thus had to (gasp!) forego his morning scone. I know, I know….

Anyway, I walk in and lo, what’s this? A table of cookies from their bakery – but not just any cookies. BLACKHAWKS cookies. What fresh hell is this, I think to myself. Here they’re trying to trap me into innocently buying a Hawks cookie, thereby doing something different and thereby jinxing the team and thus being responsible for their tanking in the Stanley Cup finals. I saw this all unfolding before me – the shame, the scorn, the disdain I’d be subjected to, as an entire city made its displeasure with me known. So of course, much like the Hawks and the Campbell trophy, I refused to even touch the Blackhawks cookies. No way, I thought. No sirree. You are NOT pinning this on me, if they don’t win.

Kona got the smiley face cookie instead. Disaster duly averted.

Bizarro Night at the United Center

Oh, not the hockey – that was great as usual, even though in my mind I’m still protesting the Blackhawks and their refusal to even respond to my email asking if I could be the designated water girl or something for their big “Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness” game in October. Really, if *I’m* not the perfect Sympathetic Face of Cancer, then who is??

Anyway, we trudge through the snow to get to the UC, and it starts as soon as we go through the ticket line. First the purse-checking guy is all jocular, asking me why I didn’t bring him any treats (maybe my brownie-making reputation precedes me?), and then the ticket guy tells me that – brace yourselves – he knows the cure for cancer.

Guy: Wait, what’s your hat….oh, I see, that’s awesome!
Me: Thanks!
Guy: There’s a cure for cancer you know.
Me: Not my kind there isn’t.
Guy: There’s an herb that people use in treatment…

At this point I chuckle knowingly, assuming he’s talking about pot. Used solely for medicinal purposes, of course.

Me: Ah, of course….
Guy: It’s from South Africa, an herb called sutherlandia. Cures cancer.
Me: Umm…..ah! I see!
Guy: Look it up! It’s also called Cancer Bush…
Me: Okay, I will, thanks!

Contrary to my cultivation of a curmudgeonly mien, I find it hard to be rude to people who are so earnest as they’re trying to be helpful. Now, if someone were persistent in telling me to try such-and-such to cure The Cancer, that I should stop traditional treatment, blah blah blah, I might not be quite as charitable. But this guy was harmless. Bizarrely wrong, pushing some herb that sounds like a movie by the Coen brothers, but harmless nevertheless.

Then we go to our seats. Where I sit down next to a guy reading a book, some kind of weighty hardcover novel with an intellectual-sounding name, Where the Gray Owl and the Twain Shall Meet, or something. Then another guy goes clumping through our row to get past us, stepping on my feet, so that he can sit down – and then put sunglasses on and start spitting out his chewing tobacco. Okay then!

The guy in front of us is reading a book on his Kindle, and has an autographed postcard from one of the ice bimbos that he seems to be guarding rather fiercely. Guy behind us, his vocabulary consists of the phrase “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” yelled over and over, except when the ice bimbos come on the ice, and he yells “Yeah, baby, I’ll give you somethin’ to talk about!” I turn around to take a look at him, and he’s the very definition of a pencil-necked geek. Yeah, good luck kid.

Then to complete this tableau, we have the beer-selling guy, who keeps saying loudly in a monotone voice “Beer – beer – beer – beer – beer – beer” as he’s walking along. No variation. No “get your ice cold beer!” or “Who needs some beer?” – just “beer – beer – beer – beer – beer.” It’s enough to drive a person mad.

And the final touch – the kids sitting in front of us. One of whom Deanna notices first because he’s got his iPhone out, and his background picture is of some red bikini’d woman, and the kid is all of about 9 or 10, tops. Then we notice that he’s rapid-fire texting on his other electronic gadget not one, not two, but THREE different girls: Meg, Michelle, and The Girl I Will Always Love. Seriously. Good lord, this bunch makes ME almost look normal.

For some reason, it’s the texting kid that bugs me the most. Because he’s not paying attention to the game at all, just texting texting texting.

Me: Do you think anything would happen if I grabbed all of that kid’s electronic gadgets and flung them somewhere in the stands? Other than wild applause?
Deanna: You should try it.
Me: I could pass it off as my Tourette’s kicking in, where the arm just flails out uncontrollably, grabs stuff, then spastically tosses it.
Deanna: I like this kid.
Me: You would, Miss Texting-Fiend-Even-When-Driving. Me, if he were mine, I’d take him off into the deep dark woods and leave him there, texting merrily away until the wolves eat him. That’d teach him.

By the 2nd period, the kid has pulled out his iPod and starts listening to music, Beer Guy continues to monotone away, and Sunglass Guy still has his sunglasses on. Mai tai anyone??

Back to my roots

Well, after that foray into the world of imparting useful information for the greater good, I’m pleased to report that I am returning back to my roots, to that for which I’m known and renowned the world over (hello, alert reader in Saudi Arabia!). Yes, the hard-hitting triathlon and general fitness wisdom that people have come to expect from me. Not just expect, but anticipate with fervor, and wait for impatiently. I feel confident in saying that with today’s blog post, you will not be disappointed.

So I contacted Dougger, the captain of my erstwhile hockey team The Chiefs, and told him that I had been struck with the most brilliant of ideas: that I wanted to change the name on one of my jerseys to THE RACK. The question was, should I change WHO OWNS, or BNCRUSHER? WHO OWNS I liked because it prompted a lot of confusion and puzzlement, and separated the wheat from the chaff, in that I could judge intelligence and hockey knowledge by seeing who’d figure out the whole “Who OWNS the Chiefs?” schtick from the movie Slapshot…..and who didn’t. Call it my own more relevant version of those eHarmony quizzes that try to determine who you’re compatible with.

But BNCRUSHER, well, that speaks for itself, and has been great for striking fear into the hearts of the guys I play against. Sure, they’d look at the lipstick and the ponytail and think puh, what the hell is this? But then they’d see the name and suddenly everything would be different and….okay, that’s a lie. I mean, it’s true they’d underestimate me, but it wasn’t the name but rather the fact that I’d take my stick and cross-check them without hesitation, or there were the couple of times I threatened guys with bodily harm – deservedly so! – that might have sealed my reputation. So the name was kind of redundant. Plus, Doug *did* point out that to go with the new look, I might as well embrace a new persona too – so, goodbye BNCRUSHER, hello THE RACK. I can hardly wait. Am I the only one who sees a hell of a lot of opportunity for fun with this? Sure, my team and a lot of the guys I know at Johnny’s will get the inside joke, but woe to those who assume I’m just some fake-boobaged bimbo trying to snare guys with a provocative name. I mean really, bimbo indeed.