As RAGBRAI comes to a screeching halt....

 

So technically this ride across Iowa is anywhere from 450-500 miles, give or take. I think this year it’s 471. However, it’s clear to me that for some of us, it’s going to be a bit shorter. Make that a hell of a lot shorter.

 

As in, 460 miles shorter. Because this is what Orange City is doing, and that’s the first town on the route.

“The town is planning a mini Tulip Festival for RAGBRAIers with stands, Dutch costumes, entertainment, floats, photo ops, and other fun Orange City Tulip Fest activities.… The Mini Tulip Festival will feature Floats, Dutch Street Organ, Tulip Queen Court, Festezanger Singers, the Tulip Mural on side of Dove Christian Book, Dutch Dancers, and much more!

So what about food?  Local vendors will be selling famous Woudstra brats, poffertjes (which are little buttery Dutch pancakes), Dutch Fudge Puppies (chocolate covered Belgian waffles rolled in different toppings), breakfast pizza, Dutch Letter & Almond patty pastries, fruits and Dutch Oliebolen (small round, Dutch doughnuts).

The town is hoping to raise funds to refurbish their Dutch Street Organ and Windmill Park (where the activities will be held).”

Is there really any reason to go any further? By this point you’ve seen the cornfields, this cute bucolic little town, the blue skies, and now you’re stuffing yourselves with glorified donuts. And poffertjes and Dutch Fudge Puppies. What else is there?

The only reason I might perhaps possibly at some point venture on would be so that I could make it to Day 2 and Sac City:

“There will be so much food in Sac City to choice from including watermelon, turkey tenders, pork chops on a stick, bananas, cookies,  porkburgers, pies from the church ladies, ice cream, chocolate brownie sundaes, floats, grilled chicken, smoothies, bar-be-que pork, pizza, Bloody Marys, Lime-a-ritas, lots of beer and a lot more!

Neat places that riders should be sure to visit:

• Sac City Museum complex – Home of the World’s Largest Popcorn Ball"

Lime-a ritas and the World’s Largest Popcorn Ball. I think that says all we need to know.

Sac City…… you complete me.

Happiness revisited

I’m happy when I ride my bike.

Somehow, I had forgotten that.

Of course, it’s been a rather hectic past 6 months. I’ve been out to Portland a couple of times to visit my Cancerchick friend Kimmy, of the SFSPPP (Super Fucking Secret Portland Pattypan Posse), who had to start up treatment again because her bastard Stage 1 cancer spread to her bones. We’re all crushed by this, but we soldier on, because that’s what we’ve figured out has to be done.

Then my mom, of all people, rudely infiltrated our Pink Posse by getting her OWN breast cancer – and unlike me, who passed through treatment in a fuzzy happy haze (the bike crash/brain injury might have had something to do with that), mom has required some tending to, after her surgery and then her recent bout with diverticulitis. I think my mom missed out on the sturdy peasant stock gene that I got.

Then there have been awesome things which I’ll write more about later, like my most amazing birthday EVER in the history of the world, when the SFSPPP surprised me with a visit from KIM! Major excitement!

But the bottom line is that I know that most of you come here for my secrets to triathlon training, as well as cycling tips and other minutiae that will help one shave seconds off one’s race time.

(Quite frankly I have no idea why the hell you come here for that, but you do, so I accept it.)

And of course I follow the Ramping Up Principle in all things related to cycling, whereby one waits until time is a–ticking away before actually doing any serious training. So even though Ragbrai (aka Crazy Ass Bike Ride Across Iowa) has been getting closer, pshaw, I’ve been busy and it’s been WAY too early to train. Who does that, anyway, starts getting ready for such things months ahead of time?

I’ll tell you who – my friends Lauren and Mike, who I recruited to Team Sloth this year. For months now it’s been “Rode my bike today!” or “Getting up there in miles!” or “Hit those hills, getting tons of riding in!” or “Got a new saddle and pedals, ready to hit the road!” You see what I mean.

It’s kind of embarrassing. And very un-Team-Sloth-like.

Now me, on the other hand, I’ve been hewing to my time-tested training plan that has gotten me where I am today. Two months ago I took my bike in for a tune-up. Excellent, ready to go.

A month ago, when I was mom-sitting, I took my bike out to Huntley. Sweet, getting her in position.

Two weeks ago I brought out my shoes.

A week ago, I dusted off some water bottles, rummaged through gels, found my suntan lotion and chamois cream.

This past Friday was the big day – I set my alarm for 5AM, because I only like riding in the early morning. The alarm rang – I shut it off immediately.

Hell no I didn’t get up – who does that, at that crazy hour?

Saturday, I set my alarm again for the same ridiculous hour. This time however – and pay attention kids, because this is how proper Ramping Up is done – I actually got up eventually. Wondered if I remember how to ride a bike. Set out. Cursed the wind. Pulled over to ask someone fishing what he was catching. Stopped to pick some berries. Tried to save a wee turtle in the road, couldn’t tell if he was dead or not, because, you know, he’s a turtle. Belted out some tunes, hoping no one was behind me. Said hi to some cows. Admired the beautiful heron flying past up above. Peered into a creek for fish or turtles. Texted Melindy to tell her that forecasters suck, because they lied about the wind direction.

It’s probably not a surprise why my bike rides proceed at a glacial pace.

But all in all, it was a perfect day of glorious riding. Bike, how I’ve missed you. I won’t let it happen again, I promise.

When a heart breaks

 
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Angie died yesterday. She was 32. She wasn’t conscious there for the few days before the end, but that doesn’t mean that it wasn’t ugly before that. Because that’s what cancer is – it’s a cold, cruel, harsh motherfucker that shows no one any mercy. It’s Angie not being able to swallow for the last month or so, it’s Stacey’s brother Daniel not knowing who anyone is, it’s Catherine the world traveler waking up paralyzed, it’s Marie and Tink and Janet and Jennifer and DaNelle and Mandy, all here one day and gone the next.

It’s not some Terms of Endearment-esque bullshit of a soft exhalation of breath after profound last words, nor does it have anything to do with pink ribbons and fluff and feather boas and all the other crap that people think breast cancer in particular has come to mean. Yay yay rah rah aren’t we so curable? Clearly not.

To know Angie was to realize how damn funny she was, that dry sardonic wit that was as unique as she was. I found myself telling Angie that I hated her, jokingly, because she was funnier than me. Those who know me at all know that that’s one of the highest compliments I could ever pay someone.

While we all loved Angie, no one loved her more than Cori. I have many Cancerchick friends who I adore, but Cori, Melindy, and Kim, they’re my posse. I would do anything for them. And I know they feel the same. But even among the four of us, even as we all note that we share one brain (which, hmm, might explain a lot), there are those extra special bonds where you feel that you and that other person are twins separated at birth.  Angie was Cori’s person. So I’ll let Cori’s Facebook post explain who Angie was:

“I've had a few people message me and ask me how I think Angie wanted to be remembered. I don't know, we really never spoke about it other than my pledge to get her face and name tattooed across my back Sons of Anarchy style. (or should I say I threatened her with that. :) ). But if anyone knows Angie, they knew she loved animals. She had been a vegetarian since her early teens. She loved her cats Ty and Brat and I am comforted knowing she left the hospital albeit briefly to see them. She used to run up my stairs to visit the chinchillas first thing. I think she would have loved Pudgy more, but she openly admitted her jealous rivalry and she claimed he was my favorite child. 

I know that her friends from Canada Min and Nan would be better able to answer this question, but if I had to, I would say do something for the animals. She wasn't super vocal about it, but she loved animals, especially cats. I asked Dan if I could adopt a cat and name it Angie, he of course is being selfish and thinking nothing about himself and his stupid asthma and asked me not to. But he did donate to a local no kill cat shelter last night in her name.

The other reason people loved Angie so much is she was so incredibly accepting of anyone and respectful of their right to be accepted and happy. Her heart was so big and so full especially for the downtrodden. Angie believed whatever your beliefs were, religious, political, whatever, she was cool with it. She changed the whole way I look at the world. And i'm completely serious about that. I am a totally different person due to Angie. I would say, if you knew Angie and you loved her, than you loved her because she was wonderful and kind inside and out and loved everyone especially her 'homos' as she loved to call them. One of the last things she said to me was and I quote 'I love dykes'. Swear to God. If you loved Angie, be like Angie, accept everyone and play nice on the playground. I know I've been a happier person. WWAD. What would Angie Do? That's my mantra for life.”

Angie wouldn’t want us to light candles for her now – unless it was in the form of a huge bonfire sending a bunch of pink ribbons up in flames.  Because Angie was not at peace with all this – she was pissed off. If anyone could give cancer the middle finger, it was Angie. While I hate all the “fight” terminology associated with cancer, Angie was a fucking fighter, dammit. She was badass. Her evil sneaky sonofabitch cancer kept coming back, throwing all sorts of garbage at her: skin mets, then mets to the pleural lining, then to the brain, then liver. Every single time she said fuck you, and went off to seek other kinds of treatment, going from home in Montreal to New York, to Boston, to wherever there was a chance of a different treatment or a trial or anything at all. She was diagnosed right after she finished law school, and never got to practice law – but I know she would have been a badass lawyer too, because that’s how she was with everything she did.

I was looking through Angie’s Facebook pics, and came across one from her pre-cancer days, and my heart stopped for a second. That’s Angie? I stared at the picture for many moments trying to recognize her. Angie was always gorgeous, but here she radiated a beautiful vibrancy (even though she joked that she looked half-asleep), and had the world at her fingertips. Cancer took what it could, stole from Angie the life she should have had, but it never diminished her, not for a second.

"A million lights are dancing, and there you are, a shooting star." The world is worse off because she’s no longer here. We all are.

Angie went out a champ.

We are NOT pleased

 

It was going to be a glorious day today, just by virtue of the fact that I had a blood draw scheduled this morning. Huzzah! There’s nothing that makes me happier than leaving a trail of weeping and shattered blood techs in my wake.

So after stopping for coffee at Starbucks and studiously avoiding drinking any water (hey, plumping up my veins is NOT my responsibility!), I show up at Delnor to see Dr. Scott, the nice genetic counselor guy who says they have another genetic test they can run to see if there’s any familial component to this BC shit. I’m eager, excited, happy – I even text Cori and ask her if we should take bets on how many attempts it’ll take them to get blood. I’m guessing 6, which seems to be the minimum.

So imagine my shock and dismay when Scott and I sit down, and he starts opening up this kit that looks suspiciously nothing like a blood draw kit. Hmm. I narrow my eyes and gaze at Scott flintily. Don’t even, I’m thinking….

Scott: So instead of a blood draw we’re going to do this mouth rinse…

Me: NOOOoooooooooo! Nay! This. Can’t. BE!

Scott: But most peo…..

Me: I had my heart set on a blood draw! How else can I leave a trail of whimpering and defeated blood draw techs in my wake?

Scott: But….

Me, making the Sad Cancer Face: Isn’t there anything you can do?

Scott: Umm…..I guess I can try to make some phone calls..

Me: YESSSS!

Scott:…but I can’t promise anything. It depends on whether or not they have a tech available.

Me, happily: Okay, that’s fine, I’ll keep my fingers crossed.

Scott backs out of the room, keeping what seems to be a wary eye on me, but I’m sure I’m just imagining that. Clearly he sees this kind of bold forward-thinking all the time, right?

As I’m waiting, I text Cori to tell her about the impending tragedy that I’m hoping we manage to avoid, and then look around the room to see if there are any computers whose home pages I can set to my blog. Damn. Nothing. I’m about to wander through the offices (trust me, they thank me for my efforts), when Scott comes in, and I look at him with the Sad Cancer Face in full force.

Scott: Well, they said it would take about an hour to send a blood draw tech here….

I look at my watch and think hmm, an hour, that might not be too bad….

Scott: So we’ll have to do the mouth rinse.

Damn! How much is one person expected to bear?? There’s a moment of silence while we ponder this latest ignominy.

Me, sadly: Mouth rinse. That’s so….ungainly. Unseemly. There’s absolutely no drama and pathos in mouth rinse. There’s nothing….blogworthy about mouthwash. Bah.

Scott, sympathetically (in my mind, at least): I’m sorry. It would have been a true battle of wills.

Me: Exactly, throwing down the gauntlet.

Sigh.

Me: Wait. I have my camera! Let me at least take a picture of the mouthwash so that I can chronicle this latest bout with the cruel vagaries of fate.

Scott: Okay! Here, I’ll move this so there’s a white background.

I take my picture, and then listen as Scott explains this whole mouth rinse process. Then he tells me that he’ll help me out as I rinse and spit.

Me: Ack! No! We are NOT compounding this tragedy by having anyone watch me spit! Good lord!

Scott: Okay, I’ll let you do it yourself. I should warn you, some people can’t handle the mouthwash – it’s overly minty, or….mouthwashy.

I just look at him. Really? I am a fricking Goddess, dude, I can handle some fricking mouthwash.

He sets up my little Scope and spit-into receptacle in the bathroom, and something occurs to me.

Me: Don’t you worry about people, say, substituting someone else’s spit?

Scott: You mean like a urinalysis test?

Me: Exactly! Aren’t there any controls?

Scott: Well, the test is just for your benefit, so that wouldn’t really make sens…….

Me: Aha, but what if someone just wants to shake things up a bit? Make it more of a challenge?

I feel this is an important point to pursue, this seedy hidden underside to genetic testing that no one ever talks about, but alas, for some reason Scott has now left a little vapor trail as he’s left the bathroom, leaving me to my own devices. Ah well. He must have had some kind of emergency.

I do the little ignominious swish-spit mouth rinse thingie – thinking to myself, you know, this mouthwash IS overly and annoyingly minty – and go back into our original room, despondent.

Me: Sigh. All done. Mouth…wash…(I can barely spit the words out, bitterly)

Scott: Next time. I promise, next time we’ll find a reason to do a blood draw. Oh, I know, the research studies I was telling you about – for that we’d have to draw bloo…

Me, interrupting: YESSSSS!

Happiness is restored. Especially when I recall that tomorrow, yes tomorrow, I have an appointment with another doctor. And yes……I need a blood draw.

Life is good again.

Weird doesn't even begin to cover it

 

There are many more things I can point to that speak to how magically weird Portland is: the cancer cures being offered at every turn (“Apricot kernels,” whispered the Starbucks guy), my actual sighting of a “go, no you go” situation in the Nice Fred Meyer parking lot, or my acting like a total moron across the entire city every time I bought something (“What? $4.50 is the exact price? Seriously? No sales tax? That’s astonishing! In Chicago it’s over 10%! My god, this is a great state!”).

(As an aside, I was discussing Portland with a dog park friend, and he noted that when he was there he thought the legally required gas station attendant was a homeless person. “No thanks dude, here’s a buck, I can pump my own gas.” “Umm, sorry sir, I work here.”)

 

But all of that is small potatoes compared to….well, let’s take a look.

The Whole Foods parking lot

Kim and I decide to head to Whole Foods to see if they have vegan donuts, after we were foiled by the long line at Voodoo Donuts even though it’s a Monday afternoon. Hello, why aren’t all you people at work? Anyway.

We buy our stuff and head back out to the parking lot, when I mention that I’d like to stop at the Starbucks that’s just down the street on the corner, less than half a block away.

Kim: Okay, let’s go.

She oddly starts walking towards the Starbucks.

Me: Umm, Kim, what are you doing? We can’t leave the car here – we need to repark.

Kim looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

Kim: How long are you going to be there?

Me: Just a minute, but it doesn’t matter, the car will be towed!

Kim: What are you talking about?

Me: This is the Whole Foods parking lot! We can’t just willy-nilly go to another store! We won’t have a car to come back to!

Kim: They won’t tow it in 5 minutes!

Me: Of course they will – where have you been your whole life?

Kim: Umm, Portland?

Me: Okay, fine, but I’m telling you, this is a mistake. We’ll get towed and then have to track down the car and pay an exorbitant fee to get it out….just you wait and see.

Kim: Okay then….

We go get our coffees, head back to the Whole Foods parking lot, and, lo and behold, it’s a miracle! The car is still there!

Me: Oh my god! It’s a miracle! Now you understand we got lucky this time – no sense in tempting fate next time.

You know, it’s odd how Kim keeps picking up these odd tics while I’m in town. First she was darting out of stores, now her right eye is twitching. Strange.

The Bob’s Red Mill parking lot

Our big excursion to Mecca, aka Bob’s Red Mill, was a grand success as we walked out toting all manner of quinoa flour, hemp seed, ingredients for Lucy’s pupcakes, and the like. Even better, Bob’s is right across the street from Dave’s Killer Breadquarters, so we could head there next. The dufecta! We put our stuff in the car and I start getting in.

Kim: Didn’t you want to go to Dave’s Killer Bread?

Me: Yes, but it’s across the street.

There’s a moment of silence as Kim and I look at each other across the hood of the car, both of us clearly wondering if we’ve been spending time with a madman.

I patiently explain: We can’t just leave the car here. It’ll get towed!

Kim: We’re just going across the street.

Me: Across the street, across town, it doesn’t matter! The parking vultures are lurking, ready to jump out and tow us the second we step foot off this property!

Kim looks around at the bucolic surroundings in this subdivision of businesses, and seems at a loss for words.

Me: Parking vultures, I tell you!

Kim: But…but….it’s just across the street. It would be silly to drive…

Me: Argh! Okay fine! But when we get towed, it’ll be on your head!

We go buy our bread, head back over to the parking lot, and…….the car is still there! Hallelujah! Another miracle!

Me: Oh my god, Kim, do you have any idea how lucky we are? Our luck, it is a changing……Kim….Kim?

See, now she’s back to the darting off thing. I have such weird friends.

More Portland weirdnesses

 

Scandal at Starbucks

Kim and I are walking into Starbucks having one of our usual conversations.

Me: Well, I really think if you look at neutrinos and the Higgs boson as part of a natural yet existential continuum then OH MY GOD! Look!

Kim: Wha….what the hell?

Me: Look at those so-called “petite” scones! They’re twice the size of the ones in Chicago! Garcón!

Hapless Starbucks employee: Can I help you?

Me: Just look at those so-called petite scones!

HSE: Umm, yes?

Me: Look at them – they’re huge! They’re almost the same size as the regular scones!

HSE: Well yes, that’s wh…

Me: J’accuse!

HSE: But…

Me: Are they always that big? Is that de rigeur here in Portlandia?

HSE: Umm, yes, that’s how the bakery makes the…

Me: Scandal! The Kone is being robbed back in Chicago! Okay, granted, my little Chunkers may not necessarily need a Chernobyl-sized scone, but still, that is beside the point.

HSE: But….

Me: Kim! Make a note of this travesty! Letters must be written! We need to coalesce around this critically important issue! Alert the media! Kim….Kim?

I don’t know why Kim keeps darting out of the places we’ve gone into together, but it seems to be happening more and more often. I hope the poor dear isn’t developing some kind of weird agoraphobia or something. Well, I’ll soldier on regardless, and will report back. Courage.

Adventures in Portlandia

I suppose it’s indicative of how hellish my recent trip to Portland was (and not the actual trip itself, but the getting to part of it) insofar as this: when I finally arrived in Portland late that Monday night, in the pouring rain (of course) and went out to the hotel parking lot to find the car Kim’s friend was kindly loaning to me, the words that came out of my mouth when I saw it were:

“Oh there you are, my little friend the Escalade.”

Yes, it’s true.

Then I giggled, that I had said such a thing, outright laughed as I keelhauled myself into the damn thing (note to self: next time bring rappelling hooks), and went on my merry way. The fun was only just beginning. To wit:

Escalade rage?

So there I was trying to follow Kim….somewhere. I forget where. Oh, I think we were dropping off her car downtown to get fixed. Point being, I was tailing her closely, or at least trying to. Until she scooted over into the right lane, and like a good driver, I put on my turn signal to get behind her, but….what ho? The car that was some distance behind her is speeding up! Must be an oversight, right?

Umm, wrong. Because as I again try to get into the right lane, he scoots even closer to Kim’s bumper, so there’s no way I can get behind her. Okay, fine, asshole. I get behind him, and figure I’ll just keep an eye on where Kim’s going.

Which would work, if this douchebag asshole didn’t suddenly creep to practically a stop with no turn signal on, before sloooowly making a right turn into the next parking lot. Asshole! I turn to look at him incredulously as I’m driving past, and this hippie-looking older bearded guy is giving me the finger! What the hell! I thought people from Portland were so nice and laidback! I am incensed, and in true Chicago fashion, am tempted to follow him and beat the ever-loving crap out of him, as we’d do in Chicago. Alas, I need to catch up with Kim – who, in very Kim-like fashion, later tells me that she didn’t notice any of this going on behind her. Sigh. 

This episode makes me deeply embittered, and it would totally derail my interest in moving to Portland, except for this:

Magic Crosswalks

So Kim and I decide to stop for breakfast at Vita Café, one of the 6 billion vegan places in Portland, and after we park our cars, we have to cross the street. Now, Kim’s explained to me this whole bizarre crosswalk concept that supposedly exists in Portland, where people actually stop willy-nilly for pedestrians, but even though I’ve seen it in action, I’m still skeptical. But there’s a crosswalk, and our restaurant is across the street. I close my eyes and stretch one leg out in front of me into the street……

“Umm, Tasha, what are you doing?”

The strains of “…and we’ll all float on okay” dissipate from my head and I open my eyes. There’s a car waiting patiently, while Kim is looking at me a bit strangely. Oh. My. God. Cars actually DO stop here for pedestrians, they DO they do! I look down. My leg is still attached to the rest of my body, not having been sheared off by a crazed driver! Hallellujah, it’s a miracle!

The entire rest of my time in Portland, this same magic continues to happen. There’s a street and a crosswalk, and the second I step into said street, the cars immediately and non-bitterly come to a stop. I find myself walking across streets just for the heck of it. Whee, another street to cross! For some reason Kim finds all this a bit strange, but I say, anyone else from Chicago would do the exact same thing.

(Portlandia to be continued….)

Down and out

No, not me – the blood techs who tried to start an IV. But I get ahead of myself.

Friday, the heart stress test

I should have realized that it was going to be that kind of day when I got to the garage so early that, lo and behold, there was room to park on the Johnny Mathis floor. Johnny Mathis? What the hell? I debated this, then put in a text.

Me, to Cori: Parked on the Johnny Mathis floor how the hell am I supposed to remember that??
Cori: What? No Tammy?

This is why I have the friends I do – they know exactly what I’m talking about, no matter how obscure.

Anyway, I decide to risk it, and head off to the Galt for the stress test. A good sign for a change is that the guy who comes to get me is, hello, a hottie! Sweet! I immediately impress him with my witty banter.

Cute medical guy: Have you ever had a stress test? Do you know anything about how they’re done?
Me, modestly: No, haven’t had one before, but I looked it up on the Google, so I think we can consider me an expert now.

He’s oddly silent at this, clearly in awe. Shrug, I’m used to it.

I then get hooked up to all kinds of machinery for the initial heart ultrasound. Which seems to indicate something, because the US tech decides I need an IV of something or other. To my paranoid mind, they’re being deliberately vague. “I think we need to do an IV. You know, just…..because.” Hmm. But little do they know about my “problem.”

Me: Umm, is an IV easier to put in than to get a blood draw?
US tech: Actually, an IV is harder because it needs to be threaded through the vein a bit.
Me: Oh.

The IV woman comes in, and I give her my standard spiel.

Me: Just so you know, it’s VERY hard for anyone to find a vein on me, they’re very tiny and roll around, so it usually takes them 6 or more tries. I don’t care about that, I just thought I’d tell you.
Nice IV Woman: It’s funny, but everyone who comes in tells me what a hard stick they are – then I come in and I could throw a dart from across the room and get a vein!

This strikes me as hysterically funny.

She continues, looking at my arm, “….but you might be the real deal. Let’s see what we have here….”

(Half an hour later….)

NIVW: Well, this isn’t going so well, is it….

We look down at my right arm, where she’s made 2 attempts, first after getting the babiest tiniest IV she could find. She then decides to go for the left arm.

“Oops…”

Oops? I look down and see a rapidly growing bump on my wrist.

“You’re getting a nice little hematoma there. Umm, I’ll call for the other tech.”

Sigh. The other tech comes in, and as is usually the case she’s much more business-like than the first one. Then there’s her assistant, who starts plying me with blankets, and putting little heat packs all over my hands and arms, to help the veins plump up. There’s a lot of hustle and bustle for just an IV. I’m idly listening to their chatter, when I hear…..what?

“So we might have to use the VeinFinder, because I can’t find anything….”

A VeinFinder?? Seriously? This is awesome!

Me, delighted: You really have a VeinFinder? Is that like a Studfinder, where it beeps when it finds a vein?
New IV Tech: Well, actually, it does kind of work like that, though it’s a big machine so we’d have to move you to another room.

They’re debating that, then New IV Tech decides my shoulder might be a good place to start an IV.

Me: Oh, that would be cool, because that area is all numb so it wouldn’t even hurt.
NIVT: Why is it numb?
Me: Well, that’s the arm where I had all those lymph nodes removed. You know, because of The Cancer.
NIVT: Wait, you had nodes removed? This is your bad arm? No one told me that!

She starts backing away from me and disappears. This is starting to feel just a wee bit Monty Python-esque.

Then two doctors come bustling in, and take a look at what the ultrasound tech has been looking at. More cryptic conversation between them, then:

Doctor #1: “Blah blah blah, we’ve decided the images are good enough, blah blah, because we can’t fuckall on you in terms of veins, blah blah, so we’ll call good enough and you can be someone else’s problem some other day, blah blah blah.”

I paraphrase slightly there, but basically that’s what it was. Which is fine, though I’m disappointed I won’t get to experience the VeinFinder. Damn, maybe next time. At least I can be proud of the fact that I’ve broken two more blood draw/IV people. Yesssssss!

We finally forge ahead with the stress test, get that done, and I leave them stunned and amazed at what a fine physical specimen I am. Or something. The doctor calls that evening, and she doesn’t seem too concerned that I’m going to keel over at any moment, though she mentions something about increased pulmonary artery pressure, and the need for more tests. Greeeeeat. Can I just say never mind at this point?

Shit is all fucked up and bullshit

So, I think I had a heart attack yesterday.

No, really.

And not as in, “Damn, the high price of The Kone’s CheezyLammies is giving me a heart attack!” or “Wtf, Hoarders is a rerun, that’s enough to give me a heart attack!” or “Is Starbucks trying to give me a heart attack, being OUT of The Kone’s petite scones???”

Nope, not at all. There I was sitting at my computer at around noon, focusing on world dominion as always, having had my usual breakfast of a cup of coffee several hours earlier, when an elephant suddenly started to slowly stomp on my chest. At least that’s what it felt like – as if I had a crushing weight pressing down across my entire chest. And there was this weird pain across my chest – not a sharp pain in the heart area, but on both sides of my chest equally. And I felt lightheaded and had this sharp pain all along my jawline. For those who don’t know, these are ALL signs of heart attack in women.

My first thought, of course, was “Shit, I may have to call 911, I had better find some clean socks to put on.” I kid you not – I started looking for socks. Because we all know how critical that is when one is having some kind of potentially catastrophic medical event, that no one is laughing at your socks that are all dusty from chasing your dog around the house and outside.

So I find some socks, and then think oh, I’ll lie down for a second, maybe a different position will help. My breathing isn’t too great either, because lo, I have an elephant standing on my chest, but I lie down. With the help of The Kone, who jumps up on the bed to get comfy next to me. Pain/pressure still there. I get up, and realize I don’t even know where the closest emergency room is – and I’m not sure if I could even drive myself there. But 911? Hell, I’ve never called them in my life.

Luckily, as I’m dithering over socks and phone calls and such, after about 10 minutes the pain goes away. Because clearly I’m an idiot, and if it hadn’t gone away, I’d probably be found eventually on the living room floor, dead, still clutching a pair of clean socks.

Then I do the smart thing that they always tell you to do – I send an email to close friend Kimmy…….who lives in Portland.

“That was weird, I think I just had a heart attack, I’m still freaking out.”

Anyway, to cut to the chase, I get in to see the doctor a couple of hours later, they take the whole thing seriously, especially given that oh, the 7 weeks of radiation I had could have damaged my heart, plus FatSurly (Tamoxifen, for the uninitiated), is known to cause blood clots. They take blood – which they manage to get on the 6th try. Yes, 6th – and this only after I pleaded with blood drawer #2 to keep trying.

“Oh, I usually stop after 2 tries – I don’t like to upset people.”

Me: “I’ll be slightly more upset if I have a heart attack and die, so really, please, keep trying – I don’t care, I’m so used to it, you have no idea.”

EKG, fine. Blood tests, fine. I have a stress test scheduled for Friday morning, because I know something weird happened. A heart thing, a clot, something. My friends know that I don’t go rushing to the doctor for any little thing, and I’ve had chest pains before, which I’ve just ignored.

But this, this was weird. And different. Something happened, and they need to figure out what’s going on before I keel over on one of my 8-hour bike rides in the middle of Bumblefuck Cornland.

So that’s me. In the meantime, Kimmy has gremlins gnawing on her bones causing her extreme pain, Melindy has had a migraine for 15 days now, Adrienne (pregnant) had some weird kind of spotting and is now on bed rest, and Cori was told today that she of all people has dangerously low potassium and something going on with her tumor markers. And Cori’s Pudgy wound up almost dying last week from leptospirosis.

Given that all of us just came back from Charleston 2 weekends ago, what’s happening is perfectly clear: we picked up a haint or a curse along the way. Right? I mean, what else could it be?

So – if anyone out there has any good anti-curse spells or good luck charms, please send them our way. Clearly, we need them.

Who's following me?

Heh heh...

The weirdness that is Portland

When friends come to visit me in Chicago, it never fails that I have to literally hold them back from being mowed down by cars, as they blithely and foolishly step into crosswalks, as if pedestrians somehow have the right of way there.

(pause for incredulous silence)

Not in Chicago, that is. Where even the cops blow through the crosswalks. Gee, great example you’re all setting. But I digress. But basically, we're a bunch of pissed off, angry drivers, and given the crappy roads, the highest parking meter prices and garage rates, and the stupidly high parking fines for the smallest infraction, who can blame us?

So you can imagine my trepidation at the thought of driving in Portland, me, who had cut my teeth on the mean streets of Chicago, where if you actually want to get anywhere you need to just barrel your way on through. Portland, where I had noticed the last couple of times I visited Kim, that people don’t just stop at crosswalks, they stop all the time for pedestrians. And they let other cars through. And they don’t dash across streets as said pedestrians when there are clearly no cars coming.

Clearly, this was going to be ugly.

(I will note, however, that in my driving adventures I did learn that it is just Kim who stops 20 feet from any crosswalk if it looks like there might be someone there who could possibly perhaps someday think about the idea of maybe theoretically wanting to cross the street. Yep, that’s all Kim. Bless her heart.)


But not only did I not start plowing over people willy-nilly once my Escalade and I were making our way through the streets of Portland, something strange happened. I lollygagged. Meandered. Went the speed limit. Who me, hurry?

I know, I could hardly believe it either.

I also found myself stopping eagerly at 4-way stop signs, hoping against hope that there would be another car there. Okay, I admit this was because I wanted to take advantage of that Portland niceness and be waved ahead, as opposed to what usually happens at 4-way stop signs in Chicago: I get there first, the assclown on the cross street decides to go first when it’s NOT his turn (or just drives on through, which happens all too often), and I wind up cursing, using the salty language I never resort to, making rude gestures, the works. I’ve come to expect this. So I was truly looking forward to this:



Alas, even though Kim did tell me that her sister Pam actually did stop when she did not have a stop sign, I never got to experience this wonder. Sigh.

However, that disappointment went crashing by the wayside, when another miracle occurred before my very eyes. It’s true. There I was, driving back to Kim’s after getting my daily coffee at Papaccino’s, when I stopped at a red light. And coming from the other direction were 2 cyclists on road bikes, all kitted up, taking advantage of the beautiful bike lanes that are all over Portland.

(a moment while I seethe with jealousy)

As I idly look at them, I noticed that one of them had clipped out and stopped, while the other was doing a track stand.

“Oh,” I thought, “the 2nd cyclist will blow through the light and then his friend will catch up with him. Friend must have had a mechanical, to actually clip out like that.”

Then, shocker of shockers, the 2nd cyclist clipped out. Nay! How could this be!

By now, I was staring in fascination. What could be wrong? Were they ill? Simultaneous flat tires? There didn’t seem to be anything wrong. As I continued to gape in wonder, I waited for them to go through the light, as there were no cars coming from the cross street. Nada. They had ample time to cross this not-busy-street and be on their merry way, chugging their Infinit, worrying their seats were too high, blaming the headwind for slow speeds. Like all cyclists do.

The light stayed red. They didn’t move. They actually laughed and chatted with each other.

I know, you’re thinking as I did: what fresh hell is this?

Finally the light turned green and they clipped in and rode on, and I stared at them as they went by, wishing I had my camera so that I could have capture this moment on film, this rarity that brings to mind the Yeti and other marvels heard of but never seen before.

To this day, I still don’t know what to make of it….

Just because

I'm working on my next post that will reveal to all the world the weirdness that is Portland, but in the meantime, this. Because it's just that awesome.

My own private Portlandia

The reason why I suddenly found myself in Portland visiting Kim is a story for another day. So for now just let me segue into the fact that I hate Escalades. Hate. Them. In fact, because my yuppie wildlife-hating neighbors who moved in 10 years ago, have not just one but TWO Escalades (a maroon one, and the white extended cab version), the Escalade has become a stand-in for me as a symbol of excess. Of wildlife-hating gut rehab yuppie excess.

So you’ll all understand why, as I was making my way last week to the car I was borrowing from Kim’s boss, I burst out laughing.

Yep, an Escalade.

Maroon.

Big huge honking thing that I needed a rappel hook to climb into, it’s that huge.

In Portland, of all places.

But the fun was just beginning, as the Escalade and I have been stumbling our way across this lovely burg for the last week. To wit:

The No Bag Adventure

There I was, heading to the Scuzzy Fred Meyer grocery store to pick up the staples: kale, chocolate, and booze. As I was walking to the entrance, I stopped, horrified.

I had forgotten…..my bag.



Yes, the ubiquitous canvas shopping bag that is de rigeur in Portland. EVERYONE has a bag. Everyone. Even the woman who was outside the Scuzzy Fred Meyer as I was walking in, who was chugging some nefarious substance out of a 2-liter bottle nestled in a plastic bag, even SHE had her canvas shopping bags. Fuck. What to do, what to do. Could I haul everything off in my arms, bypassing a bag altogether? No, then there’d be a chance I’d drop a precious bottle of alcohol.


I could feel people looking at me askance. All the people with their bags. Even the homeless-looking people shopping at the SFM had bags. I had suddenly become a pariah in Portland, the worst kind of person, a bagless person driving an Escalade. Hell, why didn’t I go club some baby seals on the way home while I was at it? Argh!

In the end, The Cancer came through for me yet again. Because I was wearing my Fuck Cancer hat when I got to the checkout, and looked sufficiently surly yet winsome, so whatever look of “don’t mess with me and aren’t I pathetic take pity on me” that I managed to plaster on my face, it worked. I didn’t even get carded. Got my paper grocery bags without being stoned.

This time.

Next up: A miracle happens in Portland

RAGBRAI redux

So there I was Saturday night, taking a break from my usual hectic schedule of squiring HRH The Kone around to meet with all the celebrities, heads of state, and other hangers-on that clamor to meet him on a regular basis. And of course I was eagerly waiting for the announcement of what this year's RAGBRAI route would be. Would it be insanely hilly? More endless riding amidst the cornfields (a given) and the mountains that Iowa is purported NOT to have?

Imagine my delight when the new route was posted, and it turned out to be one that would bypass the so-called boring parts of Iowa. Or as the article put it:

"RAGBRAI, which has given thousands of bikers the opportunity to piss in area residents’ yards and disrupt traffic for over thirty years, has long been criticized for its over-emphasis on farmland and other lame Iowa shit. With 2012’s incarnation of the annual event, though, officials have managed to minimize the time spent in Iowa."

Behold, the new route:


Yes, pretty much bypassing Iowa entirely! Such brilliance!

(For the record, let me state that I LOVED biking through Iowa, in spite of the 120 degree temps. Cornfields, small towns, wonderful people - can't wait to go back.)

Now, the best part of this article were the comments people made. To wit (names redacted to protect the innocent):

1. Edmond says:

   10/27/2011 at 8:30 pm

   Is this the first time the ride will go out of state? I thought it is GBR Across IOWA!

   Reply
   • me says:

     01/10/2012 at 3:21 pm

     This is an Iowa event. Why are you going into another state? Como on don’t do that!

     Reply
2. Margaret says:

   01/07/2012 at 3:31 pm

   Let’s keep the money in Iowa. It has always been a ride across Iowa so let’s keep it that way.

   Reply
3. Skip says:

   01/15/2012 at 12:40 pm

   WTF?

   Skip, Iowa City

4. Rachel says:

   01/23/2012 at 12:46 pm

   RAGBRAI is the “Great Bike Ride ACROSS Iowa” so why leave the state?? If we leave the state, this may give people a reason NOT to do it……

   Reply
5. An Iowan @ Heart says:

   01/28/2012 at 5:50 pm

   I agree with all of the people above who say the ride should be across IOWA…this has to be a joke.

Now I have to say, this type of thing just makes me love Iowans even more. Not only do they immediately come to the defense of the beloved RAGBRAI, but they also believe the printed word. It's not just them - after I posted the above on Facebook, one local friend did ask if it was true, and her husband noted that "RAGBRAI has to be in Iowa, otherwise it doesn't make sense!"

Umm, yes.

So, look for me this summer toodling across parts of Iowa - small parts, according to the above map - and I'll be the one with deeds to bridges to sell the locals folks. Though hell, who am I to talk? I'm the one who got more and more loaded down last year, buying every button, tchochke, and "I heart boobies" bracelet made by the local urchins. I think we know who the real smart people are here......

A Christmas Carol-ish

Background

I hate being cold. Really, I do. I’m very delicate that way. But what I hate even more is having a $900 heating bill for one month, which I had one winter. It wasn’t even unusually cold that year, not for Chicago, but prices for natural gas were even more through the roof than usual.

So of course, I’m very conscious of the need to keep the heat at reasonable, i.e. low, temperatures. Or rather, at least the 66-68 as dictated by the city, since I have a tenant, Kathleen, and for some reason the politicians won’t let me freeze people out, dammit. But even with having an adjustable thermostat and keeping the temps down, I still wind up with heating bills that are $500+ a month during the winter. Which sucks.

And while Kathleen is a great tenant, she’s also the type of person who is always cold. Always. So I stopped letting the temperature adjust down, and just keep it at a constant 68-70 these days, which is highway robbery in my book, but it’s the most I’m willing to do. Oh, I know Kathleen still thinks it’s cold, but I’m not made of money here.
Present day

The Kone and I are snuggled on the couch, having our ‘nog and bonbons, when there’s a knock on the door.

“Harrumph,” I mutter, “who pray tell could that be?”

Kathleen, at the door looking all shivery like a wee street urchin: Hi, umm, it’s pretty cold out there tonight, about 14 degrees, and windy, and it’s kind of cold upstai….
Me: ‘Tis a fine excuse for picking a man’s pocket every December!

(I find it helpful to transition into Dickensian speak at such times.)

Kathleen: But……you’re……not…..
Me: Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses??
Kathleen: Bu….
Me: Bah! A humbug I say! A humbug!
Kathleen: But…..
Me: Good day!
Kathleen: But it’s not da….
Me: I said, GOOD DAY!

Slam!

I look at the thermostat and drop the temp down a notch, just because. Hmph.

Even later that evening

The Kone has wandered off for his nightly ablutions, and when he comes back, he as usual insists I move over so he can have my spot on the couch.

Me: Koney, you’re such a sillums, my little Chunkers, you…….wait……what’s this?

Kona is maneuvering so he’s buried under the blankie, and now, he’s trying to nestle his head under there as well.

Me, horrified: Koney! Are you cold? Is my poor little monkey-chunky a bit chillums? No no nonononono……….this cannot stand! This will not stand!

I run to the back of the house, make sure the heating element back there is cranked up, then dash back to the front and turn the little space heater on. Then, the coup d’grace, I beeline to the thermostat and crank that puppy up. Then pile more blankets on The Kone so he doesn’t get a chill, and so he defrosts from the block of ice he had surely turned into. Poor baby.

And so, as The Kone and I snuggle on the couch with the furnace blasting, heating bills be damned, and I wonder how we can get that really big turkey to Bob Cratchit on Christmas morning for his poor wife to slave over plucking and cooking as if she doesn’t have enough to do with the blasted Christmas pudding….the words of Tiny Tim come to mind.

“Papa, you hold old mistah Scrooge down while I kick ‘em!”

Okay okay, not those. Not from when Scrooge was still in his pre-ghostly-visitation Republican let-them-eat-cake phase. But the later ones.

“God bless us, every one!”

Yeah, those.

Merry Christmas to all…..