Happy Obamacare Day!

The day I’ve been waiting for is finally here, the day I can go to the Cover Oregon site and, lo and behold, actually shop around for health insurance. Huzzah! This means that I might have a chance of no longer having to pay $780/month for coverage alone, aside from prescriptions, co-pays, all that other crap. Which is really kind of a moot point these days, since I don’t go to the doctor, but that’s another issue.

But what I really want to say today is reserved for all of those so vehemently against Obamacare, including asshat Republicans willing to shut down the government because they haven’t gotten their way. (Hint: the ACA has been signed into law. Done deal. Get that? Done. Fucking. Deal. It’s the fucking law.) To all of you and to those who just don’t get what it’s about and don’t care to find out, because as long as you like what you have, that’s good enough, dadgummit! To you I say – you can all just go fuck off. Really.

Because what I’m realizing as I read more and more coverage is that most people are too stupid to actually try to figure out what the law DOES, so rallying against it is a knee-jerk reaction. Get that gubmint outta my health care! Umm, the government isn’t in your health care.  Let’s sum up a bit.

To those who read that the companies in the exchanges are in some cases limiting the doctors you can see, and are thus screeching about how “we were told we could still see the same doctors we always have!” You’re all idiots, because if you HAVE insurance and have a job, you won’t be getting insurance through the exchanges. Your plan won’t change. Those going through the exchanges are the uninsured or underinsured or those like me, paying ridiculous amounts of money for independent insurance. I guarantee that most of the people in those groups will be happy to have A doctor to see, not necessarily a specific one. Oh, your premium might go up $10 or $20? Boo fucking hoo. Pretty sure that would have happened anyway.

To those who rail against how expensive the plans through the exchanges will be. AGAIN, repeat after me – unless you’re uninsured, etc., it doesn’t matter to you. You already have insurance. For those who need to go through the exchange and find that insurance is still expensive, there are subsidies depending on your income. If your income is too high to get a subsidy, then you don’t need it.

To those who have been on state plans and are bitterly railing against Obamacare because your plans are going away: fuck you all. The only reason your plans existed is because they were high-risk plans for those who were uninsurable on the private market. That will no longer be the case, so the state plans aren’t needed. But what really galls me about this group of people is the “I got mine” mentality. Because most people can’t get on those state plans. The one for Oregon? Yeah, it was full in February and not accepting new applicants. I know people in this group who are concerned and wondering what the new plans will look like, and I get that - but those who want to deny other people the chance to get healthcare because you’ve already got your government-run plan? That’s just selfish.

To those of you right-wingers who follow party lines and are against Obamacare because of stories floating around about ER doctors pointing to blinged-out so-called welfare queens as “what’s really wrong with the healthcare system” – yeah, I hope when you get insurance at a reasonable price through the ACA that you actually admit how wrong you all were. Don’t get me wrong – people who abuse the system clearly ARE a problem, but that doesn’t mean we don’t need serious, major reform to healthcare.

To people of all walks of life who don’t bother with health insurance because you don’t want to “waste” money on it – suck it up. Everyone will get sick or have some kind of ailment at some point in their lives. Everyone. When that’s you, I don’t want to pay for it because you have no insurance and rack up huge bills. And these are not just the stereotypical po’ folks that most people seem to reference in discussions about this. The WSJ has run a number of articles over the years, and one in particular I recall, that wrote about yuppies Bill and Jane, or whatever the hell their names were. They didn’t want to “waste” money on health insurance because they were young and healthy, doncha know, and that was money that could be better spent on their 2^nd Escalade. Idiots.

To those of you who have employer-provided insurance and want to know what’s in it for you, guess what? There’s actual stuff for you too! Here’s a summary, from Slate: “About half of all Americans—about 160 million people—already have private health insurance, mostly bought by employers. If this applies to you, Obamacare matters only if your plan was stingy. Under the law, insurers must now pay for many things that used to be optional, like prescription drugs, having a baby, and mental health care, among other services. The law also blocks any extra charges for routine checkups, cancer screening, and some other stuff. Obamacare also limits your yearly out-of-pocket fees, such as co-pays for going to the hospital. It also forbids insurers from kicking you out if you get sick.”

I could go on, because there are so many people to rant about in all of this, but I’ll start to bore even myself. I won't even go into how the rest of the world thinks we're crazy and selfish for not thinking that everyone should have access to health care. Or the fact that if you don't have insurance, no you do NOT get health care - you get to go to the ER for stop-gap treatment. 

But since everyone else has been looking at the ACA through a lens of “what’s in it for ME?”, I’ll do the same. And since right now healthcare/insurance is THE biggest item in my budget – yes, more than housing or anything else – you can damn well bet I’ll be toasting my man Obama tonight. In spades.

Cheers!

Update: Just went to the BCBSIL site to use their tool to see what new insurance through them would cost, exact same plan using my current stats. It would go from my current $780 to...........wait for it.......$322.  A whopping $322 fucking dollars, without any subsidy from the government. Gee, price-gouging much right now?

The spirit of canning

People who are scared of such things (read: Kim) have asked me if my glorious house is haunted. To which I always say, hell yes! Though that could be wishful thinking. After all, what could be wrong about sharing a cup of tea in the morning with Geneva Allen, matriarch of the Allen clan and original owners of The Manor? The Allen clan, or, as I call them, the Clampetts:

 

And I mean that in no bad way, but seriously, just look at that picture! Yes they were the land barons of their time, but you do expect them to load up the truck and head to Beverly Hills at any moment, no?

Anyway. I’m torn between envisioning Geneva as a stern God-fearing woman, or someone who seemed buttoned up but loved her boozy cherries on the side. I’m thinking the latter, because it’s clear that I – me, personally – have been inhabited by the spirit of Geneva Allen herself.

Exhibit A: I’ve never canned a damn thing in my life. Haven’t even cared to. Oh sure, I think there was the one time I tried to put up some tomato juice, but the jars got some weird floaty things in them so I tossed them. It’s like I wasn’t even trying.

But what do we have now? This:

Yes, the Jam Cellar of Terror, thus named because when a friend from (ahem) Wharton came visiting with her family, I thought it would be cute and quaint to get their picture in the Jam Cellar. That is, until the pic turned out to look like something from Silence of the Lambs, with Kate clutching her daughter in hopes of keeping her safe. As if.

I of course decided to embrace this, and have been imprisoning visitors in the Jam Cellar of Terror ever since. I think I’m up to 7 captives by now, which includes Normal Brother and his wife Angela. Sometimes at night while Kone and I are tucked into bed, I imagine I can hear their screams echoing through the walls…..

But I digress. The point being, this canning thing is NOT normal behavior for yours truly, so of course the only explanation has to be spirit possession. And I’m okay with that. I haven’t had any jars exploding on me yet, so Geneva must be giving me some good advice at least, right?

Her assistance means I can focus on other things as well, like being the town curmudgeon when it comes to running a tight ship in our little community. Clearly someone has to.

Next up: Whereupon Miss Tasha takes on the Silverton Police Dept.

Catching up

Okay, so it's been a while. That's why I'm going to sum up everything that's been going on since my last post via pictures. First though, the story:

Bought Manor house, whee! Met Tomato Guy, bought lots of tomato plants. Moving Day at the Manor. Immediate tomato planting. Finding Butters, lost and alone at the dog park in Portland. Butters and Kone guarding The Manor. (I do eventually find Butters' people, lovely people at that.)

Kone's Big Fun Days at the Silverton reservoir. Winning Pancho Corna at the Marion County Fair. Miss Tasha paints! Seabrook and Hossa show up regularly at The Manor to eat the apples, and all the other shrubbery. Happy Hour Pie. Kone discovers the raspberry patch.

THEN, of course, Miss Tasha discovers that Oregon is just one big Fruit Mecca.....and that's when things really get crazy.....


(Next up: whereupon Miss Tasha becomes possessed....)

Making enemies!

I’m a bit inordinately excited about this, as I wasn’t sure it was even possible to have enemies in this town of uber-friendly denizens. So friendly, in fact, that when my own smiley, I mean curmudgeonly, self encounters a disinterested or even brusque clerk, I take that as a personal affront. The nerve! Then I comfort myself with the thought that they must be from Salem.

Anyway.

As I said, this is big stuff here. I think it could be the beginning of a glorious long-standing feud, along the lines of the Hatfields vs the McCoys, with townspeople choosing sides until everything ends in a shootout or hanging in the town square. Well, or something almost exactly like that. Come to think of it, my Most Excellent Neighbor Laura has a bit of a head start on me with this, as she has a good and deserved feud with the Crazy Busybody Lady who lives down the street, and apparently feels it’s appropriate to tell people their property isn’t edged properly.

I kid you not.

But I digress. Up until now I’ve been living in this halcyon haze of Silverton splendidness, though I’ve had moments of thinking this is all a big front of some kind (that’s the Chicagoan in me). That behind this insanely nice façade is a cauldron of simmering malcontent going deep down to the town’s roots. I’ve been blissfully unaware of this seedy underbelly……until yesterday. Oh yes.

 

So yesterday Kone and I are on our new morning routine, which instead of drive-to-dog-park/coffee-shop-coffee-and-scone, now consists of neighborhood walkie. Kone doesn’t seem to miss the scone, which is great because it was getting to be a bit difficult to find the damn things (stash of individually-wrapped madeleines in the freezer, I’m talking to you).

Our walk is a lovely jaunt around the neighborhood – or it would be lovely except for one thing: the damn cats. Yes, there are literally billions of free-range cats wandering about, and we generally see at least one on our walkie, at which point Kone goes ballistic and pulls my arm out of its socket trying to go after it, and looks like something out of a cartoon as his legs churn frantically but he’s not moving much because I’m holding him back.

Fun times.

Of course this isn’t his fault – even though he’s basically people, he still has a dog’s instincts, and that instinct is to chase furry things. So needless to say, I direct my rage at the people who own these cats but let them wander around freely, killing billions of songbirds and antagonizing The Kone. INSIDE, people, keep them INSIDE.

It was against that backdrop that we went on our walkie, and stopped to chat with Steve, a nice older guy who lives a street over and has a beautiful pear tree and flowers in front of his house. When I see him I stop to talk, usually waxing eloquent about the greatness of The Kone, and he’ll say something about the deer eating his roses, and then we cheerfully part ways. So yesterday we’re talking, and suddenly Kone yanks my arm out of its socket and I watch in horror as Kona, his leash, and my arm go flying into someone’s front yard after one of those blasted cats. I go after him, and he’s barking up a tree, though it’s not clear where the stupid cat went. Then an older lady comes out of the house, pinched face and all, and at this point I’m still prepared to be nice, even though she’s a Stupid Loose Cat Person.

Me: Oops, I’ll just grab his leash.

SLoCaP: (pinched face, is looking around)

Steve: Imelda, this is a new neighbor – she lives over on Pine!

SLoCaP: (continued pinched face)

Then she speaks, sourly:

“Where’s my cat? Do you see him? Where’d he go?”

I’m about to tell her where she can stuff her cat, when she really says the fateful words:

“Your dog chased my cat! Where’d my cat go?”

Oh.

Well.

Look lady, there are a few incontrovertible rules in life, and chief among them is that we don’t diss The Kone. No one disses The Kone.

Oh wait, I lied. There are no other rules.

Needless to say, this was enough to send me into full-on Mama Bear mode, as the crazy parenting blogs like to call it.

“Well MY dog is on a leash – your cat is just running around willy-nilly. Dogs do chase cats you know,” I tell her, with a baleful glare.

Poor Steve is still trying to do an introduction – “yep, lives over on Pine” – and SLoCaP is still walking around muttering and I’m still glaring at her. I think she’s waiting for an apology, which will occur when the inner bowels of Hell freeze over and start churning out sno-cones for everyone. She finally wanders off – and hasn’t said a single other word during this time other than cat-related muttering – so it’s just me and Steve. I firmly tell him that I am NOT ever going to apologize to someone who lets their cat run loose, and I think my Mama Bear fierceness scares him, though he rallies by bringing up what we all should know, about the billions of birds and other critters killed by cats every year.

So yeah, I didn’t see Steve this morning – I think he’s in hiding. SLoCaP doesn’t show herself either, lucky for her.

To sum, my first sworn enemy in Silverton, only a block away. Score! This is a festering outrage that I’ll nurse over the many years that I’ll live here, escalating it to hatred and “accidentally” dropped bags of dog poop as needed. We’re not there yet, but stay tuned…

Life in Mayberry

The other day The Kone and I went to the Silverton Reservoir for the first time, and much hilarity ensued. Kone went leaping into the lake after a duck, then didn’t know what to do. I stood at the ready to jump in and rescue him, good momma that I am, but luckily he made it the foot to shore. Whew. Then we went along this precarious path along the lake and BOTH almost fell in – until we realized that oh, there must be another normal path somewhere, because this is nuts. Yes there was. Duh.

Anyway. All this fun was a mere $2 for parking, though I discovered that one could buy an annual pass at City Hall. Now, much as I like to be a scofflaw – and these fees are basically on the honor system – I certainly don’t mind paying for park usage and such since I figure the money is going for a good cause, especially when the fees are so miniscule. So off I go to City Hall, with utility bills in hand to make sure I can get the “resident” cost for the parking pass. I fret. Will 2 utility bills be enough? Should I bring something from the title company?

 

Umm, yeah. The clerk didn’t ask, didn’t care. I must look trustworthy? Then I asked her if they had gotten my paperwork to do an automatic deduction for the water bill. Oh yeah – there was the paperwork sitting on her desk.

I skip back to my car, parked right in front, for FREE! No meter, I get free 10 minute parking there.

I’m not quite sure this town really exists, or if I’m in some kind of Truman-esque reality show. Really.

Next up: Boozy goodness in Silverton

Life in a small town

Really, I should just rename this blog, to something like The Small Quirky Town Route to Kona or Happiness or Whatever. Because I’ve been here less than a day, and am already racking up the charming little experiences that make life great.

But I get ahead of myself.

So, I’ve been in the process of moving into The Manor over the last couple of weeks. Having all my crap trucked here from Chicago, then my crap from Portland. The official closing was May 21^st, and on May 23^rd I was out here trying to figure out what to do about the (overgrown weedy) garden, and showing the fence guys where to put up Kona’s fence. One problem – the water had already been turned off. Damn, these people are fast!

So I went over to the neighbors in back of me to see if the fence guys could use their water spigot to mix the concrete. Lo and behold, I met the Most Excellent Debbie and Karl (MEDAK), who not only let us use their water, but Karl also drove me over to City Hall to see about getting the water turned back on.

As you would expect, dealing with City Hall was a long cumbersome process, being shuffled from one office to another, no one knowing who was in charge, being told the water shut-on would take weeks and I’d need to pay extra because it had been turned off, etc.

Wait. That’s big city life. It actually took less than 5 minutes, and they promised to send someone over in the afternoon to turn the water back on.

Anyway, during all this back and forth, not only did I meet MEDAK, but also the next door neighbors, Laura and her husband Dan. Where I learned about this quirkiness in marking property lines, that’s called “let’s put a penny in the concrete and call it a day.”

Yes, it’s true. When I asked my realtor Michael (who lives across the street from me, of course) about the property lines, his response was “oh yeah, the listing agent told me that there’s a penny in this concrete marking the lines.” Say what? Yet somehow this came as no surprise to anyone around here, who would just nod sagely when told about the penny. Okay then.

It turns out that the penny shows that neighbors Laura & Dan have a shrubbery and part of their garden bed on my property – so of course, in typical Chicago fashion, I plan to put up a 7-foot privacy fence bisecting their garden and so that I never have to see any of my neighbors.

Okay, that’s a lie – I really don’t care about the property line, especially since the penny cracks me up so much. Plus I like Laura’s husband, who said he’d take care of the problem by putting in a new penny. Now THAT is how a Chicagoan would do it.

I also love the fact that all my new neighbors saw my letter in the local paper, which I wrote after being enthralled by the actual parking meters all over the city. Faithful readers will know about my hatred of the parking meter sell-off in Chicago by corrupt and useless former Mayor Daley, and hence my delight at seeing actual parking meters here in downtown Silverton.

This is all well and good, but is all background bringing us to yesterday, a day from hell when I had poky movers taking all day to move my stuff in from Portland, a day ending with me driving around town to recharge my phone since I had forgotten my charger in Portland, and spying – what else – but a Russian and Argentinian food truck. Of course. I pull over, and find out that the food truck came here to coincide with my own arrival, probably just for that purpose. It’s been here 5 days to my half. There’s a woman working there, and 3 guys sitting at a nearby table.

I chat with the woman in Russian, and then her husband pipes up from the table.

Husband: So how long have you been in Silverton?

Me: A day. I just moved in today.

H: Oh! Welcome to town. If you need a plumber, talk to this guy here, and here’s my card, I do painting and contract work.

Me: Cool, I’ll probably need all of the above – I just bought an old Victorian on Pine street.

Plumber: Oh, you wrote that letter in the paper! That was really nice.

Well. My fame precedes me.

Plumber:…..and you should know the secret, that the locals don’t have to pay the meters.

I’m skeptical. Is this some Silverton initiation rite, where they feed new people this stuff to see if they’ll buy in?

Me: I’m skeptical.

Husband: It’s true, the locals don’t pay. 

Me: Wait, how….

Plumber: See, they don’t enforce them – with budget cuts there’s no one to give tickets, and only the locals know that. So the out-of-towners are the only ones paying the meters.

Me: Aha! Well, I’d still pay since it goes to the murals, but that’s nice to know if you’re just dashing out for a few minutes or don’t have change.

Plumber: Yeah, they still pick up the money – Dan collects it once a week – but no one gives out tickets.

Well. So there you have it. Not only does writing a letter to the paper mean everyone knows who you are (which actually reminds me of Wharton, where I wrote so much for the Wharton Journal that people would regularly greet me with “Oh, you’re the one who writes everything for the paper!” Hmm.), but they know the meter-change-collector by name, and you make instant friends.

Oh, and in a rare form of kismet or karma or what have you, I also seem to have been magically transported to one of the last cities in the country – if not THE last at this point – that still has penny meters. 

I’m going to like it here.

(Note: As I’ve been checking out places in downtown Silverton, I’ve been putting quarters in the meters….just because I can. Take that Chicago.)

Behold.

So we all know that I moved to Portland last October, based in large part on a sign from the PattyPan Squash Gods. Well, plus Kim lives here, and she swore to me (liar) that it never rains (big liar), that it’s really just “cloud mist” that envelops the atmosphere (did I mention that liar thing?). Right.

But The Kone and I have been settling in, in spite of the many quirks that Portland is home to, including an inability to have any single street actually go through more than, say, 4 blocks. They might as well rename this city T-Stoplandia, or OhAreYouLostLandia, or perhaps HaHaGoodLuckGettingThereLandia. I think that might be next on the county’s docket, a renaming to a more accurate moniker.

Still, in spite of our newfound love for this strange land, The Kone and I had no intention of buying a house here. None. Zilch. Zip. Nada. After all, I’m a Midwestern girl at heart, and sometimes I pine for my endless cornfields, blazing hot muggy days, feet of snow, and oh yeah – houses that have some actual square footage. Mainly that.

Because my mom has been determined that I should buy a place, so she sends me listings, I go to the occasional open house, then back away in horror at the paltry size of basically everything in Portland. 600-800 sq. ft on the main floor? Umm, in the Midwest we call that a closet. Even the classic bungalows in Chicago – the housing that to my mind is parallel to the ubiquitous Craftsman houses here – have way more space. Maybe we have more stuff. Maybe we like keeping open the option of having our Midwestern cattle or corn grow inside the house. Maybe the City of Big Shoulders isn’t just a cute nickname.

 

I have no idea.

All I DO know is that these tiny wee houses were damn expensive, like $350K and up for a shoebox. So I humored my mom by looking at the listings, going to the occasional open house, but having no intention of buying anything – also because I didn’t know the different areas of Portland enough to know where would be a good place to buy.

Then came Silverton. Where Hated Cancerchick Friend Kathryn lives. (Kathryn is lovely in every respect – sharp, funny, uberwitty, kind, genuine – but she’s also on occasion wittier than I am, hence she must be hated.) The first time Kim and I went down to Silverton to see HCF, it was a dark rainy night, but even through the pelting rain, I could see the town all twinkly with Christmas lights, and I thought, wow, it’s like Bedford Falls!

Me: Look, Kim, it’s just like Bedford Falls!

Kim: You’re so weird.

Anyway. This meant that one time I mentioned Silverton to my mom, and she latched onto that like Kone on an Italian beef sandwich, which is to say quickly, determinedly, and while I wasn’t looking.

Which is how sometime in April, my mom sent me a listing for The Manor, as I have since christened it. Fate conspired to keep me away, perhaps to see if I really wanted it – the guy who sent the listing to my mom never returned my email, and then there was some confusion on the part of the listing agent and we didn’t get to see the inside as planned. I was ambivalent – it was probably a mess inside, or at least kind of meh.

But what was probably an errant pattypan put the thought in my head that I must see the inside of this house. So I went back down to Silverton, and as soon as I stepped inside, I knew.

 

This was my DreamHouse.

High ceilings, gorgeous original woodwork, and oh, that staircase. The staircase! Swoon. Straight out of IAWL, my friends. AND! The house came with an entire extra plot of land – room for my tomatoes and for The Kone to run around!

Really, I had no choice.

So after the usual bargaining and back and forth and rigmarole, which I won’t bore anyone with, my offer was accepted, the inspector said that out of the hundreds of houses he’s seen of this age, this was the one in the best shape, and my mom started ordering furniture.

It’s a historic house  - the Timothy-Geneva-Allen House, built in 1890 – and I am its latest steward who will bring it back to perfection. Oh, it’s pretty close, but let’s face it, the ugly 1970’s wallpaper in the stairwell has to go, and the renters of the last few years didn’t do the place any favors.

There are 4 bedrooms upstairs, including the Anne Frank room which has a wee door that leads to an odd hidden room big enough to fit an entire Guatemalan family in there. There’s a garage-barn (henceforth known as The Carriage House), 2 extra sheds, and a canning room/wine cellar in the basement. There is apparently a family of deer that ambles through the yard most mornings on their way from the transgender mayor's house (he lives on the next street over) to the nearby creek, and possibly a skunk family that tries to take up residence under the porch.

It is perfect.

You are all welcome anytime. Croquet and mint juleps on the lawn will be forthcoming.....

Miss Tasha, Upset Again

So I recognize that I’ve been a little, shall we say, lax in writing my usual charming and witty blog posts, to keep my legions of fans entertained and enthralled. What with buying The Manor and all that, some things fell by the wayside.

No more.

Especially since the purchase of The Manor - my very own 1890 drafty old house -  means that I’ll have many tales to tell, as we all know that everything falls apart under my watch. Always.

Today though, we’re going to revisit one of Miss Tasha’s favorite topics: health insurance. Favorite topics to rant about, that is. Because BCBS has provided some major suckage over the years, in many stupid and fascinating ways, that have left me in tears many a time.

But now that it looks like I’m staying in Oregon for the duration, I decided (fool that I am) that I should look into actually getting health insurance in OR, as opposed to continuing to pay for insurance I’m not using in IL, but am too paranoid to let go of. With good reason, as it turns out.

Because last week I called Kaiser, and spoke to 2 perfectly lovely agents who were OH so helpful. And nice! Bending over backwards! This in spite of the fact that the VERY FIRST words out of my mouth when I talked to each of them were:

“I’ve had cancer – is this going to be a problem as far as my getting insurance?”

Oh NO, I was told. Certainly NOT.

Fool that I am, I believe them. And filled out their stupid and annoying 20 page form detailing every bit of my medical history. And waited.

And there was my response, 3 days later: denied. For what? Why, The Cancer of course!

What. The. Fuck.

Had they told me before I filled out their Stupid-Ass Form that it would be pointless, I would have been slightly annoyed, but that’s it. That was kind of what I expected. But now?

Now Miss Tasha is pissed off. And bitter. Oh so bitter.

So I assure you, come January 1sr 2014, when the Affordable Care Act takes effect as far as pre-existing conditions, I’ll be back on Kaiser’s doorstep, thumbing my nose at them, oh yes.

And you know how right now I barely ever go to the doctor? It’s true. I stopped seeing my oncologist, since she’s of the “no scans without symptoms” school, doesn’t believe in the use of tumor markers, and doesn’t even do any blood tests. So I basically go to her to get felt up, which, quite frankly, I can do on my own well enough. Hence, no more onc, and I just go for my mammo once a year. Simple enough. Trust me, the last 3 years, BCBS has made WAY more money on me than they’ve paid out.

Once I’m covered by Kaiser though, I’ll be damn sure to get my money’s worth. Oh yes. Hell hath no fury like a woman who’s wasted her time filling out a lengthy Stupid-Ass Form, time that could have been better spent in a myriad of ways, like getting through level 273 on Candy Crush.

So those of you who insist we don’t need health care reform because you have your perfect happy little plans, well, I’m tired of it. Our system is broken. We need to do something, anything, to fix it, or at least start to.

This reminds me of states like Texas and Oklahoma, whose congressmen vote against federal aid for other states, but are there asking when suddenly it’s their state in trouble. Of course they are. Because no one gives a shit until the chickens come home to roost – and eventually, they always do.

Trust me on that.

Still in Morocco

 

And since it’s April already, this has apparently been the 5-month long trip. I’m thinking it’s time to wrap things up, as I have All Things Portlandia to write about. So, to that point, here’s a rundown of the key things from the rest of the trip:

 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

That evening, we stay in a lovely hotel with a fireplace and gorgeous view…..that gives us a heater on a brick. We do not freeze.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The next day, I’m ready to bike like the wind! My cleats are fixed, I can clip in just fine, certain death no longer awaits me! Whee! Wait…..why is the wind almost blowing our van off the road? Uh oh.

Yes, the Santa Ana winds or whatever they are have kicked in today, and we all know that wind is #1 on Tasha’s Hierarchy of Cycling Suckiness. And this isn’t just wind, it’s Wind. To the point that I’m going uphill at a resounding 2 mph rather than my usual stellar 5. This sucks. I solider on through some stupid number of miles, with Khaled and Mohammed as my trusty sidekicks, with all of us joking around about how much this sucks…..until finally I’ve just had it. Done. Fini. We’ve been biking for hours, but I’m pretty sure if I squint real hard, I can still see the place where we started. Basta. (I think that’s Italian for “you’ve got to be freaking kidding me.”) Khaled suggests we take the SAG van, and I’m all for this – but instead of waiting for it, we decide to cycle back and catch up with it, and then we’ll get the tailwind.

This is how strong the tailwind is. I fly down the hills at breakneck speed, and when I get to an uphill, I decide to stop pedaling. The wind is so strong it literally pushes me up this mountain. No lie. It’s like being on a ride at DisneyWorld, Mr. Toad’s Madcap Adventure or along those lines. This is pretty damn excellent.

Of course, by taking the van some of us miss the “fun” that Stacey experienced, of being accosted by the Redrum children. Yes, three little hooligans – 2 girls and a boy – who stood in the middle of the road, prevented Stacey from passing, grabbed onto her bike, and kept chanting menacingly at her. “Bonbon bonbon BON-BON!” I guess Moroccan delinquency is a little different than what it looks like in the States.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

That night back in Marrakesh we go for a final dinner with the gang, replete with everything from tagine to pastille to platters of fruit. It’s all astonishingly good. At one point, Stacey looks at the dessert tray and asks, “Oh, are those the cookies we like? The Kristallnacht ones or whatever they’re called?”

Somehow I don’t think they have cookies named after the bombing of Dresden, but for better or worse, the nickname sticks, and for the rest of our time in Marrakesh, we’re on the lookout for the Kristallnacht cookies.

Speaking of Marrakesh, Stacey has found for us the most incredible riad to stay at, Riad Orangerie. You find it via a nondescript door in the souk, which opens up to a little slice of paradise, complete with expansive rooftop deck and a gorgeous courtyard. It’s such the perfect little oasis that we might stay here forever.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The next night, we head out to meet up with Sayeed and Khaled for drinks. The bar we go to has a little couch sitting area, and we make ourselves comfortable – across from what seems to be a Moroccan gangsta. Who’s either terrorizing the people around him or keeping them amused, tough to say which. At one point, Khaled seems a bit concerned that we’re going to all get into a brawl. You see, Stacey has had one gin and tonic which consisted of a glass full of gin and a splash of tonic. Me, I’m not drinking much, but when Gangsta tells us something along the lines of “Motherfucka don’t know fuck don’t you know fuck he is went motherfucka,” I am immediately offended. Because of the poor grammar, of course. Those are probably the only words he knows in semi-English, but I give him a frosty glare, and am about to point out his grammatical shortcomings, when Khaled smoothes things over. Hmph. Maybe we should just head out and look for some more Kristallnacht cookies.

I believe this is the first time Stacey is told to “chillax” – and it’s amusing then. It’s shocking when she hears someone yell it to her the next day in the souk. Chillax, seriously?

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The flight back to the US was uneventful, other than Iberia being the least customer-service-oriented airline known to man, and their losing my bike somewhere between Madrid and Dallas. I would have been worried, except that they also left a couple of other bikes and a snowboard behind, so I felt my bike was at least in good company. And of course, she was delivered to me the next day, so all was well. Until the next Grand Adventure…..

Broken cleats, broken dreams

Today is a day that “will be great! Lots of downhills!” according to Sayeed, said in that chipper voice that occasionally makes me want to strangle him. Okay, not really, though at times today I do find myself cursing everything else: my bike, the road, the mountains, my crazy and stupid-ass self, etc. But I get ahead of myself.

As usual, we set off by dodging and weaving through a sea of people walking willy-nilly in the road, meandering about on motorbikes, and so on. I comfort myself with the thought that we’ll be going downhill a lot today, apparently, rather than climbing up those blasted mountains, which my acute bronchitis doesn’t appreciate. By the way, I’ve now collected a whole heap of various remedies to try for my illness: half a cut onion put on the bedside table at night, milk and ginger, ginger alone, absinthe. I don’t know if the absinthe is exactly a remedy, but it’s alcohol, so I’ll take it. At one point I’m pouring that shit into my mint tea like no one’s business. Doesn’t help my cough, but who cares?

We then get to the downhills.

Whereupon Miss Tasha discovers that she has a slight problem. Which I had been starting to notice before, but which becomes all the more evident when I need to clip in fast because my bike is going to go careening down a very steep mountain.

This problem is that my cleats are so worn down that they won’t clip in to my shoes anymore. At all.

This means that when I try to clip in before heading down a 23% grade with a hairpin turn at the end, I’m up shit’s creek since I can’t, and I have no control over the pedals.

This is not good.

But, intrepid and stalwart crazy person that I am, I soldier on, one insanely steep mountain at a time, thinking, what the hell is up with Morocco? Was it built on an Indian burial ground, such that the whole damn country slopes downward? Seriously people.

Then I get to one particularly steep and long stretch, with the requisite bumpy road of chip seal, and I pick up enough speed to hit 44 mph and feel my bike go into the classic “death wobble”, where it feels like it’s going to fall apart. And potentially send me hurtling over a steep cliff.

I stop. And wish for some absinthe, or even some cough syrup. Alcohol might be my friend at the moment. It’s also telling that all of the mountains have the “oh shit” sign, as I call it. Or as others in the group have christened it, the “OMFG” or “surprise!” sign. Take your pick, I think they all work.

Luckily, Khaled is toodling along behind me, so when I stop, so does he, and we discuss the history of Morocco, the language and culture, and the possibility of having a goat farm with goats that are guaranteed to climb trees. That part is critical, of course. I then careen down more mountains, and we stop and chat some more. We even stop at one point and take a picture of the two of us, as pictorial evidence should we actually lose our lives on these mountains. Hey, better safe than sorry.

I’m proud of myself for actually cycling down all these mountains rather than revisiting my walk-a-thon from the Great Alpian Trip – until I get to one completely ridiculous stretch that has a crappy steep road, hairpin turn, then an even steeper descent to another hairpin. Umm, no. And did I mention that my cleats are useless? I put my cleatless foot down, and Khaled, ever-cheerful guide that he is, says "okay!" and walks down with me, as we chat away happily knowing that we're avoiding certain death.

But after walking that one, I make it down the rest, somehow, shaving a few years off my life, until we congregate at the lunch spot. When I learn that the remaining day’s ride is full of more of these damn descents, I pack it in, since I know I have an extra pair of cleats and we can replace them for tomorrow’s ride. At least I have company – Biljana and another person join me in the van, as they couldn’t deal with descending with a death grip on the brakes the entire time.

And by being in the van, I have more of an opportunity to look for small children with chipmunks on strings. This is apparently a “thing” in Morocco, or at least according to the guidebook that Stacey and I found in our room at the riad the other night. This book claimed that children would catch ground squirrels (aka chipmunks), put them on string leashes, and sell them to people to take to local restaurants to cook them up. Thus Stacey and I also remain vigilant in our search for these BYOC restaurants.

I kind of think the guidebook was just fucking with us.

That afternoon we’re all “entertained” by David and his rubber chicken, which he oh-so-nicely continues to give to little kids to ooh and aah over….until he takes it away. I weep at the trail of broken-hearted children left behind in Morocco, who’ll always be haunted by illusory dreams of that one day in the past when their rubber chicken dreams came true….

I also try to check in on occasion with my mom, at least when we have internet access. At this point, my missives are consisting of the bare basics, a posting on Facebook that notes “Still alive!” What else is there to say?

Near death misses: too many to count