Umm, hello....where's the support, people??

Friday night I wound up babysitting for my godchild Tess, a brilliant, delightful child who is, unfortunately, overly coddled and pampered by her doting parents. I mean come on, she’s 22 months old, she should certainly be earning her keep by now. So I went over there determined to set things right and with the appropriate supplies in hand: the AbPlex machine to start hardening that mushy little tummy of hers, raw eggs and wheat germ to blend up a healthy shake, and of course some inspiring Soviet music that we could march along to briskly, getting at the heart of my training regimen. They're never too young to start these habits for excellence.

Thusly prepared, I had no idea that I would be confronted with the situation I was, a child marching only to the beat of her own selfish needs. Yes, it’s true. After striding briskly around the house several times, breathing deeply, I decide it’s time for Tessie’s dinner. We march into the kitchen and I sit her down, exhorting her to pull in that stomach to work on her core strength. Honestly, the girl is like a marshmallow, no core discipline whatsoever. Sigh. I then look in the frig to see what productive, useful foods await.

Me: Hmm, pomegranate pulp of some sort. What do you think, Tess?
Tess, shaking her head: No!
Me: Aha, yogurt! You want yogurt, don’t you Tess?
Tess, again shaking her head: No!
Me: Oh, I forgot to mention – it’s yogurt For The Cure. Yoplait and all that.
Tessie: No!
Me, stunned: Well. Well. I guess you don’t support finding the cure for breast cancer then, huh?
Tessie: No!
Me: Oh sure, it’s not like I wanted to live a long, healthy life anyway. But that’s okay! Yes, what YOU and your little pre-toddler self want for dinner is obviously more important than The Cancer. Even though the cure could be right in this little lid here.
Tessie: No!

Thus rebuffed, we finally settle on some oaties cereal and a Pop-Tart (“with fiber!”), neither of which contribute anything at ALL to the cure for cancer. Now, Tessie knows that her adored godmother is battling a life-threatening disease. (As an aside, many thanks to Tessie’s mom Motya for the gift in honor of Breast Cancer Month!) And I thought that by her ripe old age (22 months, mind you) she’d have a strong moral compass, be able to think about someone other than herself, to look at the big picture and put aside her selfish needs and wants for the good of others. Apparently not. I weep for the future of our country....

Is it just me?

I can't be the ONLY one grossed out by the whole Yoplait send-in-your-lids campaign. Oh sure, there are others who are offended by it all since Yoplait donates something like 2 cents for each lid you send in - with a stamp more expensive than that, mind you - and then there's the fact that Yoplait yogurt has been chock full of bovine growth hormones for years, which certainly isn't a good thing in CancerWorld and all.

Me? My sentiments aren't quite so lofty. I just find the whole idea of people sending in those sticky, crumpled, nasty little lids in to Yoplait rather.....skeevy. And in their commercials, they show these women licking the lids clean, so add some spit in there as well. Yuck! Aren't there, say, sanitation laws or something that prohibit people from sending these germ-laden bombs through the U.S. postal service? Shouldn't there be?

And their ad trying to guilt us all into sending in the damn lids - that's just pathetic. You people can count, and I'm quite sure you have some kind of supply chain mechanisms in place whereby you know exactly how much yogurt has been sold down to the last damn lid. So count them. Or hire some grads from Wharton to set up that system for you, in case it's a bit too complicated for you all. Actually, this just occurred to me - maybe this IS your supply chain/accounting system. Holy crap!

Yoplait Accounting Dude #1: "Hey Yosh, how much of that there Go-Gurt have we sold this quarter? Boss wants to know if the new ad campaign is working to drive up sales."
YAD #2: "Not sure yet there Sven. I'm still waiting for the empty yogurt tubes to come in the mail," he adds, drumming his fingers impatiently. "Don't know why it takes people so gol-darn long. Don't they realize we need these numbers?"
YAD #1: "Yep, people are pretty self-centered. You'd think the enticement of knowing that we're donating a penny to the Goiter Foundation for every sticky tube sent in would motivate these lazy bastards to get on the ball," Sven notes, shaking his head sadly. "What is this world coming to, the selfishness....."

I am SO sorry, Yoplait - I had no idea that this was how you did things. Mea culpa.

A quiz, or PSA

Let’s say you know someone with cancer. Someone charming, witty, winsome, funny (ha-ha, not strange), with a wicked sense of humor, perhaps a dry wit with a heavy touch of smartassery. All hypothetical here of course. And let’s say this person has a bunch of hockey-playing-and-watching friends, one of whom posts on Facebook that he’s going to have tickets that he’ll need to give away, since it turns out he has games that he’s playing in on those nights. This of course starts a slew of commentary, along the lines of “me, me, meeeee, I want the tickets” and so on. Then I – I mean the hypothetical person – pipes in with a comment to the effect of “Helloooo, what about CancerGirl here, doesn’t that get me anywhere, me with my Sad Cancer Face?”

Now. Your response to this should be:

a) Nothing. Crickets.

b) An indignant nothing, fraught with disapproval. There’s nothing funny about The Cancer.

c) An uplifting homily or favorite quote: “You’re strong! You’ll be fine! Keep fighting!”

d) Nothing. Obviously this person is drawing from a deep, deep well of pain, and far be it from you to stem that tide of emotions. She’s so brave.

e) A smartass comment in return: “Cancer, hmph. Get a stem-cell transplant and maybe we’ll talk.”

The correct answer is (drum roll please):.......e. Shocking, I know! Or at least I surmise it must be based on how many people in such situations go for a-d. Now, I’m not suggesting that when a friend tells you he or she has cancer, that you go running out to get the “101 Best Knock-Knock Cancer Jokes for the New Millenium!” book. And I’m also not saying that when you see your friend, the first words out of your mouth should be “Hey, so what free shit are you getting these days, you ol’ cancer faker you?!” Because if they’re having a bad day, then that’s not such a good idea.

But if your friend makes the first joke and goes on from there, then by all means, pick up that cancer hilarity ball and run with it. Because otherwise your friend will be forced to do what I had to do in the situation above – the classic “Hello? Bueller? What, like a person gets cancer and suddenly no one laughs at their jokes anymore?” And then the other people feel obligated to tell you how hilarious you are, and, well, it’s all just a big mess as you see people tiptoeing around you and you feel like a big freak and you resolve to never attempt to joke about anything ever again.

Unlike, say, the Tomatoettes, aka my group of gardening friends that I do the tomato thing with, for years now. Last year I missed our annual tomato tasting since it was the same weekend as my surgeries, so we decided to have another gathering that winter, to theoretically swap seeds but basically to hang out, eat, and drink cocktails. And that was the first time I had seen most of the girls since the whole cancer shit started. Of course, the first few seconds were filled with the typical comments – “How ARE you? How are you feeling these days?” – interspersed with awkward silence. Which just wouldn’t do. Luckily, at that moment a typical smartass comment chose to go flying out of my mouth – what it was exactly, I don’t recall, but it might have been something about how I was taking up smoking and drinking, since being healthy hadn’t gotten me anywhere. And after a split-second of shocked silence, everything was back to normal, as they deftly started giving me suggestions on what else I could do to fuel my new cancer-laden lifestyle.

And that, THAT is how it should be done.

And no, cancer isn’t funny – it’s a mean, hateful, slime-sucking bastard with no humor to it whatsoever. But those of us who have it? Yeah, we’d like to think that we’re still kind of amusing. So humor us – and don’t act weird and different. Because if you do, well, I for one will have no compunction about taking advantage of the situation: “Boy, it sure would be nice if someone bought the Person with Cancer a drink. (Heavy sigh.) Who knows how many drinks I have left in my future?”

Okay, I’ll probably try that anyway – but it would be a hell of a lot more entertaining if you called me on it – but then bought me a drink anyway…..

The unbearable pinkness of being

I have to admit I’m kind of torn about the whole Pinktober thing. On the one hand, it’s all a bit much, and it often seems like half the companies out there slapping a pink ribbon on stuff are donating pennies to god knows who or what. And the whole “awareness” thing – yeah, we get it, we’re plenty aware, okay? And all the money that DOES go to some of the bigger organizations – what the fuck all do they do with it, and why are we still doing the slash-and-burn treatment of, say, 20 years ago? Not quite getting that. Plus it’s annoying as hell that all this awareness bullcrap leads to people unawaredly and mistakenly thinking that breast cancer is no big deal, that there’s actually a cure, etc. and so on. Or BC is referred to as the “trendy” cancer, as if it somehow can’t still kill us. And we all know how I feel about Komen and their asinine “We are the cure” slogan.

On the other hand, if they were ignoring BC, we’d probably all be screaming about THAT, about being ignored, wondering why all this attention is being paid to mandibular cancer or something. And even if companies are chintzy about what they actually donate, isn’t that better than nothing?

On the third hand, there are some efforts put forth out there that, quite frankly, just leave one speechless:






While that is clearly ridiculous, it is also at the same time most excellent. After all, as I like to say, if having cancer doesn’t get you some perks, then what’s the point of having it? They seemed to be going on the honor system – no checkpoint looking for telltale scars or unusually perky boobs – and that seemed to be working, because even though the lots were kind of full close in, no one was parking in the pink spots. Well, until me, that is. Hell yes – if I were spending money these days, I’d shop at the Huntley Outlet Mall every damn day, just so I could park there. Brilliant, just brilliant.

On another note, it’s now cold enough such that I’ve pulled out my Fuck Cancer hat, and was wearing it today when I stopped by Tom’s Nursery out near Huntley. I was wandering around trying to decide between apples and donuts (eventually going with the compromise, i.e. the uber-healthy cider donuts) when an older woman stopped me so that she could see what my hat said. Now, for some reason I stereotypically think that the older generation will be offended by the hat. Nope.

Older woman: “Oh, absolutely, I couldn’t agree more. So true.”

I guess by the time you get to a certain age, you’ve seen so many friends and family members deal with the bastard that saying a fuck you to cancer seems perfectly appropriate.

And on a final note, I think I have PTSD, or Post Treatment Stress Disorder. Some of my peers don’t like October for that reason- all the pink reminds them instantly of all sorts of bad shit. Me, I don’t even have to leave the house - all I have to do is look at the mail. Today, I pick it up and what do I see but a letter from the IRS. Great. My heart starts pounding, eyes well up, I feel instantly ill. Open the letter – and it’s just saying that they’re “looking into” the events of last week, will get back to me, and in the meantime, they “apologize for any inconvenience” they may have caused. Gee, thanks. Your taking ten years off my life wasn’t inconvenient AT ALL.

Then, the Dufecta of Crapitude, as I see I have a letter from BCBS as well. Again, heart rate skyrockets, I feel shaky and ill. While I hate BCBS, the thought of losing my insurance scares me more. Is this the day that one of their beancounters FINALLY found the smoking gun, so to speak? The hangnail I had when I was 13 that qualifies as a pre-existing condition of such magnitude that I’m unworthy of insurance? (Note to BCBS: the previous point was made purely for illustrative purposes. I do not now nor have ever had a hangnail or anything resembling a hangnail thereof.) But this too is just a letter welcoming me to their online system – since I had to sign up to pay my October premium, being that the IRS froze my account and screwed things up. Whew, dodged a bullet for another day.

I seriously, seriously need to start drinking.

Small victories

1. Kona and I went to the dog park this morning, and he did NOT get attacked. Yay.

Of course, yesterday to help him get over the trauma of the day, we stopped at the cute pet store on Roscoe (Zane & Zara's) owned by these nice guys who named the place after their dogs. Kona knows this place and makes himself right at home - so he went nosing into drawers, picking out the toys he wanted, then proceeded to start chewing on one particular stuffie that I had decided to buy him. As I'm paying, the guys mention the shopping promotion Roscoe Village shops are having, where you shop on certain days and can donate money that'll go to local schools - whereby I mention that I thought my property taxes to the tune of $8K a year for my dumpy 2-flat were enough. And in the meantime, Kona has torn the head off the toy and there's stuffing all over the place. So we basically walk out leaving the place a shambles.

Yep, that's me and the Kone, making friends everywhere we go.

2. Successfully got coffee and a petite scone at Starbucks. No incidents to report. Yay.

Well, except then when I went to my car, I got in a slight altercation (verbal only, just barely) with some assclown who started yelling at me because I parked in front of a bakery. You see, Chicago has gotten very militant with the stupid parking meters, so you can no longer just run into a place and dash out again in a couple of minutes without risking a ticket. And you can also no longer just pop a quarter into a meter - you have to deal with their stupid fare box, get the slip of paper, etc. and so on. Fuck that. So when I go to SB, if I don't park on a side street, I park across the street where there's a sign for 15-minute parking with flashers on. And it's by a bakery - but the sign doesn't say "Bakery Parking" or anything like that, just the 15-minute thing. So I'll park there for the 2 minutes it takes me to get my coffee, and leave. I've bought plenty of stuff at this bakery, so it's not like they don't get my business at other times.

So Assclown started yelling and swearing at me for parking there, and I basically told him to fuck off, at which point he started yelling something about "you overprivileged kids going running home to mommy and daddy" blah blah blah - which, quite frankly, I'm kind of flattered that he thinks I look that young. Then he threw something at my car as I was driving off. Nice. The weird and crazy thing is that I KNOW this guy! He didn't seem to recognize or remember me, but I thought he looked familiar, and then his hat tipped me off - he works at the hockey store at Johnny's Icehouse. Go figure. So, asshole, go ahead and mess with me again - I'll tell the cops exactly where you work and slap a harassment charge against you. Shithead. Not. In. The. Mood.

3. Computer went through its rebuild yesterday and did NOT explode. Yay.

Of course, it turned a whole slew of emails into pure gobbledygook. But not the majority of them, for which I'm eternally grateful.

Yes, this is what passes for a "good day" around here.

Of course, now I'm scared to leave the house, since trouble seems to follow me like white on rice (and what the hell does that MEAN exactly??). Just call me Calamity Tasha. Sigh.

The universe responds

Well, that was quick! Yes folks, in response to my plea to the universe that it stop handing me a pile of shit to deal with on a daily basis -

1) Kona got attacked this morning at the dog park. He's fine other then a cut on his flank, but *I'm* completely traumatized for not doing a better job of protecting my baby.
2) Entourage - that's the e-mail program on my Mac - has totally and completely crashed. You know, where I have every single one of my work and personal emails. Won't open, can't access it, nada. So now I'm attempting a "rebuild database" maneuver, which hopefully will NOT erase everything, but at this rate, who the hell knows?

So in reading between the lines here a bit, I'm thinking this is all kind of a big ol' Fuck You from the universe, eh?

I give up.

Darkness has a hunger that's insatiable

I was going to write a rant about/to BCBS and Bumblebee tuna, since both are almost equally deceptive in my mind: BCBS making up shit as they go along, and Bumblebee surreptitiously changing the size of their tuna cans, keeping the price just as high, and thinking we won’t notice the 17% reduction. Nice try, thieving tuna barons.

But I’ll have to rail against those injustices another day, so that I can impart more life lessons to help you, my tens of readers, avoid these pitfalls. Today’s lesson: never assume a monolithic government institution has any clue what they’re doing.

You see, I made the mistake some years ago of not filing my taxes on time. Okay, this was stupid, but it was a bad time in my life, my dad having just died unexpectedly and a bunch of other stupid shit going on. I was also starting my own business, so I didn’t even have much in terms of income, so I didn’t owe any money. Eventually I filed, but in the meantime, the IRS had decided I owed some decidedly larger sum – suffice it to say we’ve been going back and forth on this, I finally got an accountant to deal with it all, who talked to them and it was supposedly being looked into. I then got a letter early this summer about a small sum I had to pay as a fine for being late in filing. Fine. Done. My stupidity fine.

Enter last week, when my bank calls me to tell me.......they’re freezing my accounts. All of them. Because of a letter from the IRS claiming I’ve never responded to them and hence owe them thousands of dollars. I call my accountant, in tears, and she determines that somehow this levy came from a totally different department than the one that I’ve sent ALL THE CORRESPONDENCE TO, and those fucktards have no idea what’s going on. But they’ve agreed to unfreeze my accounts – but this hadn’t happened yet, so in the meantime, I’m racking up late fees, and my automatic deductions aren’t going through. Like, oh, say, my health insurance??

So I know what some of you are thinking: “But Tasha, you have to admit that you bring some of this stuff upon yourself. ‘Cause you know, you are kind of a dumbass.” And this is indeed true. The IRS thing was stupidity on my part, at least the first part of it all. But then how about the fact that, say, my property taxes are going to increase wildly in the next go-round? Yes, in spite of the steepest decline in property values in decades, I recently got a letter saying that my assessed value had gone.....up. By quite a bit. Say what?? My decrepit old house that I haven’t been able to do anything to in terms of fixing it up? My friend Stan pointed out that maybe it’s my neighborhood in general, a shining beacon of light amidst the housing gloom. Hmm, maybe. Except that the yuppies who live next door in the gut rehabbed place that they’ve made all sorts of improvements to in the last couple of years – THEY got a reduction. By a lot. So now they’re assessed at a lower value than me, even though their place is worth at least twice what mine is.

Not to mention my friends who live in Lakeview, i.e. an area where property in general is way more expensive than mine, who bought a gut rehabbed place a few years ago for about a million, then immediately started doing more rehab work, and then recently had MORE work done: knocking down walls, putting in bathrooms, adding closets, etc. All in all, probably a couple hundred thousand of work done. Their place? You guessed it. Was assessed lower than mine, AND they just got a reduction, so it’s EVEN LOWER. What the hell, Chicago, do you have monkeys with dartboards figuring this stuff out??

So it’s been a bad week. And sometimes I just wonder, what’s the fucking point of it all anyway?

Then I think, maybe I’m just here as a lesson to others, so that when they think their lives are crappy, they can look at my life and say: “Umm, you know what? Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

And maybe my bad mood isn’t being helped by the drugs I’m on, FatSurly, which – oh, didn’t they mention this to me? No, they didn’t – can also cause depression. Tamoxifunk, as some call it.

And the worst part of all this, the true tragedy here, is this: my blog has become unfunny. Instead of amusing, wry anecdotes, now it’s just this “blah blah blah, woe is me, po’ po’ pitiful Tasha” shit. And who the hell wants to read that? I know what some of you are thinking: “But Tasha, you’re never THAT funny, not like that Dr. Grumpy guy and his blog, who’s more funny-strange rather than funny-haha, and who seems to have every whack job in the continental United States showing up at his office, but nope not like him.” To which I say, bite me. Okay, not really, but it’s not nice to kick a person when they’re down.

I’m just a little tired of the whole shitpile of bad luck. Okay, universe? Enough. I’m done. I am weary. I’d like something good and happy in my life for a change, if you don’t mind. Something other than “Well, I’m not dead yet, so there IS that!” That’s great and all, but it’s not enough.

Addendum: So yesterday I tried calling the IRS myself to straighten this stuff out. Ha, as if. Their computers were down FOR HOURS. The guy that I talked to the 5th time I called, after my 5th hour on hold, did tell me that “the computers should be back up in an hour – I’ve worked here for many years, and they’ve NEVER been down all day.” At which point I laughed, a little manically.

But the 6th time I called, 6th hour on hold, I finally did talk to a nice woman who could look up the info on her computer, tell me that the bank should have gotten the info to unfreeze my accounts, and when told they hadn’t, was willing to send them a fax instructing them to do so. So that at least was something. But I have to ask – THIS is the organization and its decrepit technology that we trust to manage these vast sums of money and, commensurately, people’s lives? Are we sure about that??

Chicago loses, yet wins

Wins in MY book, at least, which is kind of sad. Sad that I'm one of many many people who did NOT want the Olympics in Chicago. And it's not about the pedestrian stuff that people pull out to make us look like rubes, i.e. the increased traffic, the construction, the tourists.

No, it's about the fact that we're all sick and tired of the same little upper echelon of politicians - and their friends and family - in Chicago getting richer and richer, while we the taxpayers, and the city in general, go broke. Chicago has one of the highest property taxes in the country....yet we have so little money that the mayor sold off all the parking meters, in what's been a total fiasco of mismanagement. Our streets are horrible. Last winter the city decided to hold off on de-icing side streets, with the result that cars went sliding through intersections on sheets of ice. Brilliant.

Those of us against the Olympics know how truly corrupt this city is, know that the cost overruns would have been huge, know that the pals of Daley were already salivating at the thought of all the money THEY'D make, while the city went broke.


My one regret - I was really looking forward to seeing Chicago's version of the Opening Ceremonies, after Beijing set the bar so high. Though I'm sure the Jesse White Tumblers would have done a fine job, yes a damn fine job, of showcasing Chicago, very similar to Beijing.

The tragedy of the Nipsey Russell

As mentioned previously, the Indiana State Fair had as its theme the “Year of the Tomato” – and naturally, this made the fair the equivalent of Mecca for me. You see, I’m not sure how many of you know this, but being that I’m multi-talented, I’m known far and wide as not only Tasha the TriathlonGoddess, but also Tasha the TomatoVixen. I think there are other nicknames too, but we won’t get into that now.

Suffice it to say, I was in my element. Checking out the tomatoes that were planted all over the place, critiquing the entries for the Canstruction contest, scoffing at the tomatoes entered for judging.

At the same time, I had told Stan about the tomato-tasting contest I was planning to enter at Café Ba-Ba-Reeba later that week. Mickey found out about the contest last year, and was so irate at the fact that the girl who won brought a farmers’ market tomato (!), that she convinced the rest of us Tomatoettes to enter this year. Sadly, my own tomatoes were a bit lackluster, but I was hoping to enter something in the “Celebrity Look-alike” category. But what to enter? Decisions, decisions. I told Stan to be on the lookout for a likely prospect, as my opinion was that the best-tasting and biggest tomatoes for the contest should come from one’s own garden, but the other categories were a free-for-all.

So there we were, strolling the grounds, when we came upon the section where they were actually growing stuff, in a hothouse and outside. This is what’s so great about the Indiana state fair – unlike at Wisconsin’s, where basically all you get are a lot of opportunities to buy a ShamWow, here they have actual crafts, a settlers’ village, old farm equipment, etc. I’m looking at the tomato plants inside the hothouse, mentally comparing them to my own specimens at home, when suddenly I hear Stan’s voice yelling to me from outside, rather urgently, where he’s looking at the rows of plants.

Stan, pointing at something within the plants: Tasha, come quick! NOW! You have to see this!
Me, walking over: What’s u.....oh my god. Oh. My. God. Is....is that what I think it is?
Stan, awed: You see it too then.
Me: Well, it’s obvious! I mean hello, what am I, blind?

We both gaze in silence and wonder at what we see before us, nestled carefully within the jungle of tomato plants. It must have gone unnoticed so long due to the leaf cover – what other explanation could there be? Yes folks, it’s a tomato that looks exactly – EXACTLY – like Nipsey Russell. It’s startling, in fact, the resemblance. Who would have thought?

Me: I should take it with me, for the Celebrity tomato contest. I mean, there are billions of tomatoes out here – they won’t miss one.
Stan, solemnly: I think you have to. It would be a shame to come across something like this and not share it with the world.
Me: So true.

So I carefully pick the Nipsey Russell and coddle him through the ensuing monsoons until we go back to the car and the hotel, where he’s gently placed on top of the mini-frig. Then, as we’re watching Letterman, the next miracle occurs. You see, Letterman is doing clips of past guests or stars or something, I’m not sure – I just know that the next thing you know, he’s showing a clip of Nipsey Russell! Yes, I swear this is true. It seemed a true sign from the heavens that this was all meant to be.

The next day, the electronic devices get shunted aside so that Nipsey can travel safely and securely in the car – no sense taking foolish chances at this point. And with the contest looming ahead for that Saturday, I get feverishly to work coming up with a poem that will showcase Nipsey to his advantage – since we all know that Nipsey was known for not just game show appearances but also fine poetry:

The opposite of 'pro' is 'con'
This fact is clearly seen
But if 'progress' means move forward
What does 'Congress' mean?

And so on. I show up at Café Ba-Ba-Reeba that Saturday, Nipsey carefully transported, hopes high among his fans. I check out the competition in the Celebrity category – puh, nothing to speak of. One woman has thrown what looks like a Brillo pad on a tomato and is calling it Julia Child. Please. Could we be any more unoriginal? The bitch who won last year with her farmers’ market tomatoes is back, but luckily she doesn’t win for tastiest, though she does win for biggest. Then, the celebrity judging. I sit with anticipation, waiting to hear my name called. We start a chant: “Nipsey, Nipsey....”

But....what’s this? JULIA CHILD wins??? Oh, the humanity! Apparently arts and crafts are more highly valued than is the idea of true celebrity look-alike-edness. Plus I think the judge had to go with the easy choice rather than the more complex one –such is the nature of such things. Thus thwarted, Nipsey and I leave, with me already thinking about what to enter next year. Not sure yet, but I’m pretty sure a diorama will be involved. Oh yes.

The excellent codicil to all this is that the week after the contest, one of the judges was talking about it on his talk show – Lou Manfredini and his show on WGN radio. And Stan is listening to this as he’s driving, when suddenly he hears Lou mention.......not the best-tasting tomato, or the biggest, or the ugliest, no....but rather the Nipsey Russell! He calls me to tell me this immediately, and I’m now happy, basking in the glory of Nipsey getting the recognition he deserves, albeit a week later, thus lessening the tragedy of his not winning the actual contest. Next year though....

Losing Nemo

Fresh from my victory at the Wisconsin State Fair, it became obvious that I needed to raise the stakes. Up my game, so to speak. Go for the PR. Clearly, state fair-hopping is an integral part of any serious triathlete’s training regimen, what with how it so eloquently mimics any long-course event: being on your feet all day, eating whatever strange food people thrust at you, dealing with the whims of the elements, potentially winning valuable prizes, etc.

So my friend Keith, aka “Stan”, and I decide to head to the Indiana State Fair, which coincidentally has the Year of the Tomato as its theme (more about this aspect in a later post). Of course, I bring Salome along with me, so that when Stan is doing actual work in Indy, I can get some of my usual hardcore training in. We get there, and the next morning after a restful night’s sleep fueled by a hearty meal from Culver’s, I head out to the Monon Trail, which is Indy’s answer to Chicago’s lakefront bike path. For those of you who haven’t been to Indy, that answer is “Screw you, Chicago, ‘cause how much better are we??” Yes, whereas Chicago’s bumpy path has everything from bikers to people on Segways to rickshaw-like contraptions (seriously), leading any traversing of the path to become a near-death experience, the Monon is uncrowded and smooth, pure cycling joy.

Once on the path, I decide it’s a good time to get in some interval training. For those who don’t know, interval training essentially consists of going fast, then slow, then fast again. Some people like to do this by using speed or power readings to measure exertion and effort; me, I prefer a less technical approach, in which I use natural obstacles as my cues. And sure enough, there I am speeding along when obstacle #1 comes along: a serious need for coffee. Therefore, I slow down so I can scout around for a place to stop, and lo and behold, find a cute little bakery, of all things.

A little later, glycogen stores replenished via a chocolate croissant and 2 cups of coffee, I set off again. Blazingly fast, as usual. Then, what’s this? A fruit and veggie stand? See, another interval opportunity. Luckily I had the foresight to bring along a little drawstring backpack, so I buy some tomatoes and peaches and set out again. After passing the State Fairgrounds, I cruise past the murals painted on the nearby buildings, and marvel over the raccoon getting amorous with a watermelon.



Creative people, those Indy-ites. And so it goes, as I take advantage of these built-in features (bakeries, fruit stands, scenic views, pretty rocks, sparkly things, etc.) to get my interval training in, which proves a key point: you don’t need fancy equipment and the like to become a triathlon goddess such as myself.

Later, I meet up with Stan at the hotel, and finally, we head to the fair, which is a marvel of Yankee ingenuity in so many ways, not least of which is its approach to fried food. Deep fried cookie dough? Check. Deep-fried brownies? Yep. Deep-fried-everything-else-you-can-imagine? Absolutely.

As always, I am cognizant of the need to follow a strict athlete’s diet, so after a corndog, the aforementioned cookie dough, some ice cream, flavored milk, and a fried tomato-and-pork sandwich, I was ready for a break. Naturally, we headed to the poultry barn to see the pretty chickens, and then off to the carnival game section, where my athletic abilities come into play. Alas, with the water-gun game, the Carnie (though I have to say, at the IN fair even the carnies look clean-cut) gives Stan the win, since we had him double-fisted with 2 waterguns so that there were enough people to play. It was tough picking out a toy, but then I saw him: NEMO!! Oh boy! Such excitement and rapture! I’ve never been SO HAPPY to win something! Nemo Nemo Nemo! Ah, life is complete when you have a stuffed Nemo. Joy!!

Within about 5 minutes one thing became clear: the fish had to go. I had tucked Nemo under my arm, and every time I turned around to gape at yet another fried-food wonder, his tail would whack someone, causing me to have to use my winsome charm to get myself out of one sticky situation after another. Plus, toting him around was putting a serious cramp in my ability to carry a shakee lemonade (no alcohol at the IN State Fair!) and the bounty of fried food that I felt it was my duty to continue to sample.

So we start looking for a likely urchin to give Nemo to –I decide it has to be an only child, as we don’t want to start Nemo Wars, and there should be unmistakable enthusiasm and adoration of Nemo. How hard could that be, right?

Apparently, very hard. I thought I had a contender early on, as a little girl was walking towards me with her own little Nemo, and I pointed out that I had BIG Nemo, but before I could pawn him off on her, she was walking past, eyes on a corndog or something. Damn. I keep looking. Nada.

Finally, it’s getting late, and we’re headed for the exit to make it out before the rains hit. I’m desperately looking around for a child, any child.

Keith, I mean Stan: “Hey, how about that little girl up ahead of us? She looks like a likely prospect.”

Sweet! There IS a little girl, just her and her parents, and she looks like a potential Nemo-worshipper. I use my considerable core strength and cardio abilities to run up to them, and then come to a screeching halt so that I can walk alongside, swinging Nemo back and forth, dryland training essentially, hopefully in the little girl’s line of vision.

Me, a study in nonchalance: “Yep, just me and Nemo, walking along here, strolling on by.....”

Swing swing swing. I peek over – the parents are looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind, but the little girl is gazing at a firefly or something. Damn. I step it up, swing Nemo more such that his orange-and-white splendor catches the light from the carnival rides. This has to work....

Suddenly, I hear it: that unmistakable squeal a little girl makes when she sees something she wants.

Adorable little girl: “NEMO!!!!”

I pounce.

Me, to ALG: “Nemo? Did you say NEMO? You’re a fan, huh, you like Nemo? How would you like this big Nemo ALL to yourself? How awesome would THAT be?”

Me, to parents, babbling: “My friend won the Nemo playing a game and then we realized we had no idea what to do with him so we’ve been trying to find a small child to give him to but haven’t had any luck so please, take the Nemo, PLEASE, for the love of GOD, TAKE THE DAMN FISH!”

Or something like that. Though believe it or not, in spite of my occasional use of “salty” language, I do try to refrain from swearing in front of the wee ones, so I probably went into Amish mode and used the word “durn” instead: “TAKE THE DURN FISH!”

The handoff worked, and after many thank yous and waves, we went on our merry way, with my last sight of them being the little girl with her chubby little arms wrapped as far around Nemo as she could get them. A beautiful thing.

Of course, shortly thereafter the skies opened up and the monsoons came again, so the parents probably got stuck with lugging a big sodden fish around. But hey, that’s not my problem....

Tasha to the rescue

This morning I was pleased and delighted to find the following comment on the blog:

“oh please.......get out and run, swim or bike.......no wonder you can't improve on your PR. I want trinews not some wimpy story on the dog.”

Now, normally I would dismiss such frippery, thinking “buck up there, kiddo, I won’t always be around to tell you what to do and how to train.” But there was something about this plea, perhaps the hint of sheer desperation, the clear subtext of “please, PLEASE, for the love of god, give us some of your triathlon wisdom to go on! Something, anything! I’ve been sitting around eating Fritos, totally unable to train, because I’m like a babe in the woods without your guidance. Oh PLEASE, save me from myself! We’re dying out here!”

I foolishly thought I had thrown out enough to get you young grasshoppers going on your way towards triathlon independence – what with the Thighmaster 30-day Plan, the pictures on how I have Salome set up with Dino in his aero position on the back, even the nutrition advice, for god’s sake! – but apparently there are some who need to suckle at the teat longer than most. Granted, they’re normally clad in purple and thus have their own coaches advising them on how to walk-stop-obstruct their way to a marathon finish – but for those without that safety net, I will say this: I am here for you.

So from now on, all of my blog entries will be couched in the form of “trinews” – and while you’ll still have to do the work yourself, I’ll strive to give you enough to go on, to haul yourself out of your sloth and ineptitude, to get off the couch BEFORE we have to call Geraldo or Jerry in to cut a hole in the wall to get you out. I know you’re on the edge there, gentle reader, and to this I say: courage. Courage, my friend, help is on the way.

Hockey season - finally!

I go into Starbucks this morning, post-dogpark as usual, and the first thing that Diane says when she sees me is this: “They’re back.....”

I of course immediately knew exactly what she was talking about. Like the swallows to Capistrano, or the sea lions to the SF Bay shores, or lemmings to a cliff, the first harbinger of hockey season finally arriving is when the hockey players start showing up at my local Starbucks.

And I’m not suggesting that we stood around plotting and strategizing while other customers were waiting for their skim mocha lattecinos with a twist. Oh no. And I’m not saying that we discussed how Brent Seabrook usually has a skinny vanilla latte, but before game time ( 2 ½ hours before, not to be too precise or anything) he comes in and gets just a black coffee. Nor am I saying that we discussed ANYTHING at all that involved chairs and duct tape and the concept of “stalling” certain hockey players when they stroll in for their beverages. Nope, never. I’m just sayin’.

Go Blackhawks!

(Though don’t think you’re off the hook – I’m still bitter that to date, NOT ONE PERSON from the Blackhawks organization has replied to my email regarding the Fuck Cancer game. Hmph. So, other than the games that Deanna and I plan to go to and my stalking of players at Starbucks and making sure I’m home so that I can watch the games on tv – I’m totally shunning the Blackhawks. Totally.)

(I'd also like to add that based on the comments from my last post, I'm glad to see I'm not the only one with a "What the hell is he into NOW?!" kind of pooch. Though I have to say - JoJo, you win.)

Sometimes, it hurts to laugh so much

So for some reason I still get Glamour magazine, even though by now I’ve read every article they could ever think of and it’s all just variations on a theme. Still, hope springs eternal that eventually they’ll reveal the secrets to the cosmos or something along those lines. And indeed, what should I spy on the front cover the other day? Yes, an article on the secret to DRASTICALLY reducing your chance of breast cancer! Wee, just what I’ve been waiting for!

Though actually, before I flip to the article, I’m just taking bets with myself. Hmm, what are the chances that the #1 thing they’ll mention is.......exercise?! Unless it’s something completely wacky like heavy doses of the acai berry, which I also hear is the latest chi-chi thing in cancer prevention. Probably why they have it in yogurt, orange juice, and I think even in my Cheez Puffs – which makes them even MORE healthy, if such a thing is even possible.

So, cutting to the chase here, as I’m sure you’re all as eager to hear this revelation as I was. I flip to the relevant page, start reading....drum roll.......#3 on the list is reducing alcohol. When you’re not drinking more, that is, in the case of red wine. Okay, I don’t drink anyway, next! Oh. Don’t smoke. Okay, never did that anyway. #1? Survey says...........exercise! Gee, thanks. Get at least 30 minutes of exercise 3 times a week, or try to average a couple of hours of week over the long term. This is why even my oncologist giggles a bit when we talk about things like this: “Well, one of the best things you can do to prevent a recurrence is to exercise, but (giggle) I guess I don’t have to encourage YOU to exercise, now do I?”

Well, no – training for long-ass triathlons kind of takes care of that.

But the article does say long-term exercise, so one might wonder if I ever did anything before I took up the pursuit of triathlon goddessness. And to that, I’d have to say – not really. I was a bookish child, with a lazy eye (okay, no lazy eye, but I like the way that sounds), so exercise just wasn’t something I did. Lots of lazing about reading Watership Down and other fascinating books, while I wasn’t off spelunking or corn-shucking or partaking in some other odd Midwestern activity, as those of us from this part of the country are wont to do.

In retrospect, I guess I did start taking ballet lessons when I was 3 or 4, followed shortly thereafter by Ukrainian folk dancing lessons. Then within a couple of years, ice skating. So there was all that. In junior high I added track, and rode my bike miles and miles everywhere. College, took up rugby, and still took dance classes every day. Business school, started playing hockey. Then and only then did I start triathloning.

So it’s easy to see why cancer decided to take on my lazy ass, really. As I keep telling myself, I really have to try that whole “exercise” thing they keep talking about, one of these days.

In other random yet exciting news, I got a subpoena today, yay! Yes, soon I’ll get to travel back to the bucolic, semi-peaceful town of Eagle, WI, to testify against batshit-crazy Perp with the renegade pickup truck. Effective immediately, I will begin practicing what I plan to say: “Your honor, dat yoot over there thinks the laws of physics do not apply on HIS stove!” Not sure what that has to do with almost getting plowed over by a runaway truck, but hey, I think I can make it work. I’m just that good. I wonder if it would be frowned upon if I brought by bike up there and just, say, made a day of it?

My million dollar baby – the sequel

Those who knew my last dog Hudson know that he was the light of my life, my sweet little man, my best friend, and I still miss him every day.

He was also about the biggest money pit there could possibly be.

Yes, if there were a way to get into a scrape of some sort or injure himself, he was all over it. Eating tape from a cassette and having it lodge in his intestine, requiring surgery at the circus in Kiev after I managed to get all the necessary drugs and supplies on the black market? Check. Finding whatever sticks are poking out of bushes so he could run into them and injure his eye? Got it. Breaking off part of a marrow bone and having THAT cut his intestine? You betcha. Jumping over a log and tearing his ACL? Of course. Getting bladder cancer that turns out to be treatable, when is usually isn’t, prompting my vet to note that Hudson is on his 10th life? We’re so there.

You get the idea.

Based on the fact that paying for all of this would have bought every cream puff at the WI state fair in any one particular year prompted me to nickname Huddy my Million Dollar Baby. And in case it’s not clear, I didn’t mind the money – I would have paid any amount to keep my little guy healthy and happy. And if there had been treatment options for the cancer that finally got him at 13 ½ years, I would have gladly paid for that too.

Enter The Kone. Perfectly healthy young dog, so I’ve just had to take him for the usual annual shots, check-up, heartworm pills, etc. Okay, and one time for goopy eyes, though that seems to be a kind of chronic thing with him. And okay, I did have my current wonderful vet Dr. Luke at Becker Animal Hospital run a thyroid test on him, to see if a sluggish thyroid could help explain his chunkiness. Because I’m quite sure that the loaves of bread that he steals on a regular basis have absolutely nothing to do with it. Or the petite scone from Starbucks that he gets every morning. It’s truly a puzzle.

Wednesday night I get home from the monthly Tri Club meeting, during which I was on a panel discussing the topic “So you want to do an Ironman. What the hell?” In my usual magnanimous way, I doled out some gems of wisdom regarding training, those that have been key to my triathlon greatness, like sleeping 5 hours or less a night, and ramping up in the week or two before races. The crowd was enthralled. And I had even managed to find a parking spot WITHOUT a meter (who knew they even still existed in the city?), so all in all it was a good night. I get home and am puttering around on the computer, composing my most recent artful letter to the city of Chicago (“Dear Property Tax Assessment Board: In your recent letter, I noticed that, all evidence to the contrary, you seem to think that property values have sharply risen within the last year. Hence I must ask you: are you all on crack?”), when Kona comes tottering up to me, holding up a paw. Lo, what fresh hell is this?

Kona, in his infinite doggy wisdom and dexterity, has somehow managed to get a rawhide stuck on his paw. Yes, a rawhide. On his paw. You see, they sell these twisty spiral rawhides (I think they’re actually tendons of some sort) called Flossies, and the end of one was completely wedged on Kona’s paw, kind of wrapped around the biggest pad. I keep trying to get it off, and he cries and whines and runs, but then comes back to me holding up his paw. And it finally occurs to me, rather incredulously: I need to take Kone to the emergency vet. For a rawhide. Universe, are you kidding me? I wish I had taken a picture of this phenomenon, but when your baby is crying and in pain you don’t really think to grab a camera to document the moment – or at least I didn’t.

So off we go, and $163 and some sedation later (for him, not me), the Kone and I walk out, him lurching around like a drunken sailor, me still just shaking my head. And thinking about the fact that he’s 1 ½, will live another 20 years or so god willing.......and is another little money pit in the making. Sometimes I wonder, how do I get so lucky?

On a separate note, at YSC we lost another young woman to BC yesterday. I didn’t know LisaP, but the loss is still great, and it seemed like a better day than most to finally put the appropriate bumper sticker on my car. Rest in peace, Lisa. Could someone please find a fucking cure already?