Scenes from Stillmans

Delavan, WI

Deanna and I have ventured up here for the 4^th of July weekend, and naturally, after planning out our weekend and making sure we include the Carp-O-Rama in those plans, in keeping with the holiday we meet up with Mike M. to go to a Chinese restaurant. I’m pretty sure I can find something appropriately tasteless and boring ala Stillmans there. Of course, it’s not long before trouble arises.

Deanna, to the waitress: Say, these Happy Chinese Puffy Goodness Delights on the menu, are those the fried dough things rolled in sugar?

Waitress: Yes they are.

Deanna: Great, we’ll have a whole stack of them!

I sit there steeped in virtue as Deanna and Mike stuff ball after ball of fried doughy goodness down their gullets, and wait for the weight to instantaneously start dropping off. After all, I think it’s a cardinal rule that the amount of weight you lose and the speed with which you lose it is indirectly proportional to the tastiness of the food you’re foregoing. And fried dough, well, that’s pretty much my favorite food in the world. Along with pizza, Cheez-Its, mochi, Annette’s chocolate nutella cake, donuts, barbecue, and pancakes. And of course cheese, which kind of goes without saying. Anyway, I wait for the 10 pounds to dissolve from my hips. And wait. And wait. And start pouting, while Deanna and Mike give me gloating, sugar-encrusted grins. I hate them.

Mecca

“Stan” and I decide to go to the new Superdawg in Wheeling, to mark our birthdays, and in preparation I haven’t eaten all day, so that I can have my mai tai when we go to Bob Chinn’s next door afterwards. I’m determined to stick to Stillmans, so instead of the glorious Superdawgski – “nestled in a box with French fries” – I instead have the delightful yet boring SuperChickenski, i.e. a grilled chicken breast on a bun. Stan, being an intelligent human being, orders the Superdawgski, and….

Stan: Hey, should we get some onion chips?

Me, muttering: I’m on a diet.

Stan: What’s that?

Me: I’m ON A DIET! So that I’m not FAT AND MISERABLE for the rest of my MISERABLE FAT life! So NO I CAN’T HAVE ANY DELICIOUS ONION CHIPS!

Me, adding: But you go ahead, don’t deprive yourself.

He adds the onion chips to the order, and there we are chit-chatting away, eating our food, me gnawing on the chicken breast sans bread, when…..

Stan: …..so my viewpoint on Avogadro’s Number has always been a little bit different from the mainstream scientific thought, in that I think…..wait. What’s this? What happened to the rest of the onion chips?

Me, grinning sheepishly: Oops.

Okay, so sue me, I had 6-7 onion chips! I don’t know why I even bother with the damn diet anyway. Let’s see, I “cheated” with a handful of delectable fried onion chips, which when added to the chicken breast, water, and mai tai I had the rest of the day still doesn’t amount to very much. My reward? Gained 2.5 pounds the next day. I hate life.

LARD (Long Ass Ride Day), # whatever

In spite of the extra weight making me feel like I’m toting around 10 frozen hams with me, I continue the daily riding in the somewhat futile hope of making it up the Alps. Or even an Alp. I just want to make it up ONE Alp please.

And naturally, I’ve had every mishap known to man. The flat tires. The rip in the tire instead of the tube. The shifting problems. The meth head. The extreme heat and wind. The poor fit on the bike that makes every ride a new study in pain. I think today is the day, after the gazillion mile ride in the heat and wind, that I make it back to my mom’s and say fuck it to Stillmans, and have some cheese and a Coke as my post-ride recovery snack. Where are the purported 15-25 pounds I was supposed to lose in 2 weeks? Not here, my friends, not here.

The birthday party

I’ve been tracking my calories religiously, and in spite of the occasional lapse, I have yet to go over 1600 calories a day, and that includes the GU and such that I use on my rides. So basically I’ve been running a serious calorie deficit each and every day.

And tonight, in preparation for Robyn’s 40^th birthday party, I’ve had my usual austere meals of roasted chicken and zucchini, with a few blueberries thrown in for good measure. Just in case there’s something worthwhile to sample at the party. Like, say, cake? Ah yes, Nettie has made another one of her delectable creations – a chocolate Nutella cake. Who can resist?

I idly make the comment - as I eat my tiny sliver of cake – that this is the first not-on-my-diet food I’ve had in eons, since I’m not really counting the post-90-mile-ride-ounce-of-cheese as a lapse. Right after I say this, I’m met with silence by Colleen and Bridget, who give my fat little self The Look, and I can see the thought bubbles over their heads clear as day: “Umm, right, who are you trying to kid?” That hurts.

Body for StillButter?

An astute friend posts the following video to FB, which I immediately glom onto, as this could be the key to everything:

You see, I could handle the fact that Stillmans doesn’t allow, well, much of anything. No Cheez-Its. No cake. No pizza. But….no fruit? No. That’s just not possible.

But I soon realize that by combining Stillmans and its stinginess – I mean austerity - with the Butterfield Plan and the free day, and throwing a bit of Body for Life in there as well so that I have another free day, that leads to this: a diet where I can eat whatever I want for 48 hours – including my beloved bonBONbonbons - and then get by on the Stilmans’ 3 olives/day the rest of the week. Score!

I will report back.

It IS all about the bike

Received in my email inbox this morning, spam from Active Triathlete, which has snippets of a Q&A that finely honed athletes such as myself might be interested in. One of today’s headings was as follows: “Getting your bike ready for the hills” – and the blurb continued:

Not ready for those hills? Don't stress over a hilly bike course - if your training hasn’t addressed the issue of steep inclines, have no worries! These tweaks for your bike will help you get up any hills with ease.

Naturally, I glommed onto that like a rat terrier onto a leafy twig, and discovered that I’ve apparently been basically wasting my time riding hill and dale throughout the bucolic countryside of Huntley and its environs. All I need to do to prepare for my Alpian adventure with Stacey (CACTASS for short) is get different gearing for my bike. Maybe some mountain bike gearing, or a compact crank, or a triple crank. And voila, there you go! Piece of cake!

I immediately scratched all of the training off of my schedule and put in an order for a shipment of bonbons. Who knew it would all be so simple?

Speaking of simple, I attempted to find some Marmotte-esque training tips on the internet*, and had high hopes for this one guy’s blog over at the NYT, called something like “A total newbie prepares for L’Etape, with 5 weeks to train.” Right up my alley, yes?

But, much as I was disappointed when I had googled “total dumbass attempting Ironman after cancer treatment” and found nothing, so too was the letdown huge here. This guy illuminated us as to what his training plan was by squishing that information into a little addendum at the beginning of his posts (“1 hour intense ride with Carmichael group”) – and then blathered on for the rest of it on what saddle to use, how to motivate himself, blah blah blah. Look pal, we don’t give a rat’s ass, okay? Those of us in the same boat want commonsense advice and tips, not your ruminations on life.

Hence, so that my fellow wanderers throughout the blogosphere and the Googles don’t meet with such crushing disappointment themselves, I hereby vow to chronicle my enfeebled attempts to get in some semblance of a shape (i.e. cycling shape, not just round or triangular) to handle CACTASS. I might even start a countdown clock (“42 days to CACTASS!”), if I can figure out how to do that.

Oh, and for those who don’t know, CACTASS = Crazy Ass Cycling Trip to the Alps with Super Stacey. In case that wasn’t intuitive.

I am so going to die on this trip…..

*One of the funniest comments heard on the news lately – and god knows we could all stand a good laugh now and then – was in relation to the Russian spies that were just busted in the U.S., after spending years “infiltrating” the system, and basically just finding people to talk to about foreign affairs and government policies. I don’t think the CIA is too concerned, because as they put it: “What we don’t understand is why they put so much time and energy into these cover-ups and switched identities and subterfuge……when they could have just found all that information on the internet.” Brilliant.

This is second only to the best line ever uttered in a Senate confirmation hearing, when Elena Kagan was asked where she was on Christmas of some year. Her response, after looking a bit incredulous: “Well, I’m Jewish……so I was probably at a Chinese restaurant.” Also brilliant. The news yesterday was just a regular laugh riot…..

Kona for the Cure!

There I was the other day, toodling along in the car and visualizing running on those very streets once I’m recovered from the major surgery* I had last week, but hewing to my strict training regimen nevertheless as I focused on tightening my ab muscles, building up that all-important core strength. Suddenly, I heard something on the radio that caused me to gasp in disbelief and subsequently almost choke on my bonbon. An advertisement for Tickets for the Cure. Tickets as in lottery. What? Now we’re supposed to sit around chomping on our buckets of fried chicken and gambling?? This was a joke, right?

(*It has been brought to my attention that because I’m a rock$tar who’s so used to having one surgery after another, that I’ve inadvertently downplayed the latest one, which did indeed involve full anesthesia, lots o’ stitches, major cutting and slicing – in other words, a procedure that would fell lesser mortals. And by being all blasé and heroic, I’m doing serious damage to my Bonbon Receiving Potential. So let this be official notice: ouch!)

Nope, no joke. There actually are Lottery Tickets for the Cure, to go with our fried chicken and Ding-Dongs or whatever the hell else they’ve slapped that pink ribbon on. So my question becomes this – how is it that *I’m* not cashing in on the pink ribbon bandwagon? How come *I’m* still po’? Yet all these other organizations and companies are making buckets (ha!) of money on me and my people. On the backs of the cancer-trodden, as it were. And I think to myself – self, this just isn’t right.

So, for all you kind-hearted and generous folks who like to give your money to others in order to get that warm, fuzzy feeling inside – and I assure you, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that! – I present for you the following: Kona for the Cure!

What is this brilliant Kona for the Cure that I speak of? Well, it’s another one of my schemes – I mean, worthy endeavors, in which I try to make money for a worthy cause. In this case, me. Me and Kona, that is. My DIY Fundraiser which revolved around selling my beautiful little heirloom tomato seedlings was kind of a bust (ha, no pun intended) – in that my wonderful friends bought plants, even those who I suspect don’t even have any actual gardening space – but the people to whom I’ve given dozens or even hundreds of plants to in the past? Not a peep. That’s a bit of a disappointment, in them as people. But my tomato-buying friends? You’re the best. And you’ll all be invited to the Gala Tomato Tasting at my place at the end of the summer – god willing and the creek don’t rise, as they say. (And assuming we have a good tomato summer for once, please god please god pleasepleasepleasegod.)

But it also occurs to me that I erred slightly in my seedling marketing, in that I should have slapped pink ribbons on them and boldly called them Tomatoes for the Cure!, and I’m sure they would have been flying out of here.

No matter. This is why we have Kona for the Cure, which offers you the following:

- A 2-day affair of walking, camaraderie, and heartfelt tears and hugs, as we battle breast cancer together, bravely and strongly, with Kona as our courageous mascot. We’ll probably just keep walking around my neighborhood, in case it’s hot, so Kona doesn’t get too tired.

- Your choice from a range of Fuck Cancer attire, from the classic FC hat, to the equally classic Fuck Awareness, Find a Cure t-shirt, in resplendent pink, of course.

- A catchy slogan that we can chant as we’re walking and hugging: “A scone for The Kone!” Now granted, that makes no sense whatsoever, but hey, neither does Komen’s “I am the cure!”, right?

- To mimic that rustic, on-the-road experience that seems to appeal to so many walkers, we’ll set up pup tents in my backyard, and to take care of your bathroom needs, I’ll send you to the Wendy’s a couple of blocks away, as that’s the closest I can come to Porta-potties. I will try to work out a deal for participants – I mean, pink soldiers in the battle against BC – so that you get discounts on Frosties.

- The wonderful feeling of doing…..*something*…..to help in the quest for a cure, though it’s not clearly exactly how the money is helping other than by throwing out some amorphous feel-good slogans like “because everyone deserves a lifetime” and “you’re a pink warrior” and “Buckets for the cure!” We too will be slinging plenty of those about, oh yes.

I’m sure I’ll think of other things to throw into the kitty, but rest assured, you’ll be taken care of in the manner to which your $1150 fee will entitle you (after taxes, fees, and gratuities). Yes, a mere $1150, or just HALF of what Komen expects you to raise! I can’t think of many things that are more of a bargain than this particular experience, of spending a couple of precious days with myself and The Kone, all while swathed in a big lovefest of pink hugs and friendship. And alcohol. Yeah, we’ll throw lots of mai tais in there too.

Space is limited, so act now! And remember……. a scone for The Kone!

Because everyone deserves a scone……

Miss Tasha needs a favor

I think of us as having a contract of sorts, you and I. I eke out my little hardscrabble existence here in BlogLand, baring my soul and mining my life for interesting tidbits to share, trying to keep the ranting to a minimum unless it’s funny ranting – and luckily (?), fate seems fit to always supply me with plenty of stuff to write about. Plenty. Of. Stuff.

And you guys, well, I don’t ask much in return. Just readership. That makes me happy, when people read what I write. I’m easy that way. Other than that, just the usual: accolades, praise, comments, awe, admiration, Pulitzer nominations, more praise, and the occasional bonbons. So you see, not really much at all. Until now. When I’m asking you all, my faithful twelves of readers, to do a favor for me. You see...

I want to be a Bat Girl.

Yes yes, it’s one of those Pinkishness events, but we all know that I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’ll glom onto anything I can get out of The Cancer, any kind of schwag, pink or not. For this, I’m not sure exactly what’s involved, but I think you get to meet some of the players, take pictures on the field, and get an awesome pink bat. Now, how much use would I get out of a pink bat?? I’m just sayin.’

Schwag aside, there’s another reason I want to do this. Now, I know that as far as the Blackhawks go and their Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness Month, I’m not ever getting a damn thing out of them. Hell, last year they didn’t even bother responding to my emails. And I’m pretty sure – new boobages aside – that I’ll never be picked as the Bimbo for the Kid, the Geek, and the Bimbo contest during Hawks intermission. But this, this White Sox thing is possible. And it’s important to me because the last time I went to a White Sox game turned out to be the Day From Hell. Worse than the day I was diagnosed, just a few weeks before that. Because on this day I had such high hopes – I’d see this new doctor, get my medical team together, we’d decide on a treatment plan and be off and running. And in the meantime, my brother was in town from CA and I had gotten tickets to a White Sox game – which I had to leave after only a few innings, as unfortunately that was the only day this doctor had available. And it was a beautiful, perfect summer day to boot.

Several hours later I was careening home on the streets of Chicago, in a raging fury, yelling at the world, at God, at my stupid fucking life for being so fucked up in every single thing, at the unfairness of the world and everything in it. This, after being told that my only option was a mastectomy, that chemo didn’t work on my kind of tumors, that it was such a big tumor that I almost certainly had lymph node involvement, and oh yeah, that even with reconstruction, my breast would “never look anything like a normal breast.” So I’ll die at an early age AND be disfigured. Sweet! Talk about being handed a hopeless pile of shit to deal with.

I still get teary when I think about that day.

Unfortunately, my brother bore the brunt of my rage when he got home from the Sox game that day, as I told him the news and he uttered the unfortunate words “it could be worse”. My response to him was couched in my usual subtlety, something along the lines of “SURE, it could be worse, if you’re a starving Biafran refugee with AIDS, but I guess that means if you’re not then no one has any right to complain or be unhappy or pissed off about ANYTHING because it could ALWAYS be fucking WORSE, and furthermore you people with perfect happy lives do NOT get to tell ME that it COULD BE WORSE!!”

Yeah, so that didn't work out so well. And since then, I haven’t been back to a White Sox game. I want to, but I haven’t gotten past how upset I am when I remember the horribleness of that day, a day that should have been the happiest of memories, hanging out with my bro at a ball game, having a great time.

I want that day back.

Or at least, I want a day that’ll erase the memory of the shitty day, and replace it with a day so absurdly pink in all its sartorial splendor that it’ll completely crowd out and overshadow every trace of Shitty Day, once and for all. I want my brother to come out for the game, and we’ll eat carcinogenic hot dogs and drink mai tais and have the day we should have had, but better. Because even though I live with the constant worry that the cancer will be back, that it’ll metastasize, that my days are numbered, at least now I know that I have kickass doctors who have my back, always – so at least that’s one less thing to worry about. Plus I’d have that pink bat and all.

So if you’re wondering why you should take 5 minutes out of your day to vote for me, here are my reasons:

1. Because you like me. You really really like me. Maybe?

2. Okay, even if that’s not the case, you get a vicarious thrill out of seeing my life dissolve into chaos on a regular basis, tuning in just to see How Tasha’s Life Gets Fucked Up Today. I know, it’s a never-ending saga. And with this game event, even though I’m sure they have it all choreographed like a well-oiled machine, you can pretty much guarantee that if I’m involved, some part of it will turn into a shambles. I know this to be true, as this is my life.

3. My brother would be in 7th heaven. And he deserves to be a part of something like this – he’s been amazing throughout all of this, a solid rock of support, he and his wife both, and I can never repay them for all their thoughtfulness and kindness. Thanks bro.

4. For a brief shining moment, I would be happy – the kind of happy that you can only get from being at a perfect baseball game with your awesome brother holding your very own pink bat. Yeah, that kind of happy.

And in return, if chosen, I promise you this:

1. You will never hear me talk about how this is my “breast cancer journey,” or a blessing, or anything of that ilk. Yeah, journey my ass – like we’re on a fricking tour of Italy or something. And I will never EVER start a sentence with “I was given this pink gift....” – and I’m not even making that one up. That’s another entry in the Bat Girl contest. Repeat: not mine.

2. I will use my pink bat judiciously and with reason, perhaps as a substitute for the frozen ham I on occasion like to wield like a cudgel. Though as far as restraint, I make no promises when it comes to anything having to do with the phrase “Pink Warrior.” What the hell does that even MEAN, exactly?? Are you fighting against the pink? Are you a large pink version of a Viking, say? This concept boggles my mind so much that I honestly just don’t even know what to do with it.

3. I will try to work one of my many pieces of Fuck Cancer attire into the picture somehow at the game itself. Maybe by stuffing a banner into my bosom, to be unfurled at an opportune moment? The possibilities are endless.

I think that’s all I got. As far as the voting is concerned, it’s here (and yes, the text for my little story is somewhat garbled due to their formatting issues), or you can sort by “votes” and find me, Tasha-H, on page 2 or 3 or god knows where I might be at this point. And I’m not saying that you can vote many times (I think up to 24) per day (per browser!) for the same person, but......hell, that IS what I’m saying. Vote early, vote often, vote as many times a day as your little hands can stand. Put the kids to work! Shirk under your boss’s nose, as you look industrious, tapping away at the computer!

Or just wish me luck, and a gorgeous sunny day for when I do finally make it to another White Sox game.....

Gee, thanks Florida. Thanks a lot.

I’m leaving for Florida this Thursday to do the Goofy Challenge with Deanna and Jillian. The Goofy being the half-marathon on Saturday and a marathon on Sunday, all through Disney parks, with the added challenge of dodging massive numbers of the Purple Menace, all of whom have synchronized their watches for their run-walk program so that they all come to a screeching halt right in front of you as you’re attempting to run, such that you keep crashing into them and falling flailing into a ditch. Not that I’ve ever done that of course.

The other problem is that my strict running regiment peaked on oh, about June 21st or so, give or take, and it’s been a long taper since then. Granted, I have been doing my usual Ramping Up, so I figured I’d give the whole thing a shot – but that was before I checked the weather forecast for Orlando for this upcoming week. Excuse me, the fucking weather forecast. Because as usual, the temperature in FL is inversely proportional to my arrival. So right now the temperature is dropping, and by this Saturday? 29 flipping degrees in the morning. No, wait, 29 was the forecast when I checked earlier today. I just checked it again – now it’s 28 flipping degrees. That means it’ll be 28 when these races start, because they all start at 5AM so that they can clear us out of the parks before the masses of humanity show up at the gates, clamoring for their motorized carts and funnel cakes with 10 scoops of ice cream on top. And god forbid we should stand in their way.

So back to this 28 degrees. Have I noted here before that Miss Tasha does NOT do cold? I believe I have. And have I mentioned that I put “cold” as, say, 62 degrees? I think so. So can we guess what the chances are that come Saturday, this brisk, freezing-my-ass-off Saturday, Miss Tasha will still be snugly ensconced in her warm hotel room, debating at what time she should go scare herself up a waffle in the shape of Mickey? Umm, yeah. No contest there.

Speaking of travel, given that the Rackotomy is scheduled for January 18th (hint: bon-bons), which would be two weeks from today (or Fannie May, they have great chocolate too), I kind of wanted to take Foob with me to Florida (chocolate speeds the healing process, I’ve been told), to test him out in the real world, so to speak (January 18th). The real world being the land of halter tops.......layered under several sweaters and a parka. Now, I was going to tuck Foob into my bra as usual – and let me remind us all that Foob is also known around these parts as Sack-o-Flour – and then had a vision of this little scenario playing out at security. Namely, me bundled up like the Michelin Man, wearing the FC hat, still with the sunglasses on thanks to FBE, with a plastic bag half full of flour tucked into my bra. Hmm. This does give me momentary pause. And yet...?