It's a Hard Egg

Whenever I hear the song It’s a Heartache by Abba, I think of my dad. We both really liked that song, and so, many aeons ago when I was wee, he decided he was going to go get the single record with that song, and he asked me: "Is it ‘It’s a Heartache' or ‘It’s a Hard Egg’?" I had no fucking clue. I guessed wrong, and when he came home later that day, I still remember his annoyance, because the salesperson at Ye Old Record Shoppe didn’t know what he was talking about. But they figured it out, and I think I still have the 45 floating around somewhere among all my piles of crap.

My dad would have LOVED the internet.

I thought of that song this morning, both going to and from my doctor’s appointment; to, for no reason at all having it pop into my head, maybe because it was my dad’s birthday this past Wednesday, and from, realizing that it was highly unlikely that I’d ever have a child with my dad’s dry and smartass sense of humor and his brilliance. Kind of like me – I was definitely my father’s child. Sure, my mom is a rock$tar as well of course, but even she would say that my dad and I were like two peas in a pod, two Geminis..

And now it looks like the Huebner genes are coming to an end. Because I went to my appointment this morning with a foolish sense of optimism – according to my AMH test, I should have had plenty of antral follicles. Tons. Tons of potential eggs and babies.

I had 4.

For the uninitiated, 4 is a shitty number. 18 would be good. 4 is not hopeful. 4 is the death spiral of fertility treatment, where you throw tons of money at this stuff and get nowhere.

Clearly, my AMH lied. Science lied to me. I’m a little bitter about that.

To add insult to injury, I then had my blood drawn, and yes, I’m a hard stick and I’m used to that, but this time attempt #2 hit a nerve or something, because my left hand and then arm got painful and numb. Attempt #3 wasn’t much better. I drove home bawling.

One reason I sold my house in Chicago – the main reason – was so that I’d have the money for fertility stuff and kids and so on. What a fucking waste that was, all that cleaning and packing and sorting and boxing up and sheer hell, all purely motivated by the thought of: think of MiracleBaby, it’ll all be worth it. I might as well have stayed in Chicago in my house with my friends and family and my bike rides to Wisconsin and my hockey playing and my railing against the idiot yuppie neighbors putting up their 6-ft privacy fences and blocking out all my sun.

Now I’m here with none of that, and likely no baby. Some great fucking plan.

And I have to say something here about all the Judgy McJudgersons out there who come up with something along the lines of “why did she wait so long” or “if she really wanted kids she would have had them by now.” My new cohort of childless-but-trying, we hear that shit a LOT. Or we see it written a lot, everywhere. Whereas we don’t see it for guys who wait until they get their shit together before having a family, do we? I don’t recall anyone ever saying about some guy having kids at 55+ or whatever, what the hell was HE thinking. It’s more along the lines of hey, congratulations you stud. Wtf is up with that?

The thing is, life gets in the way, and no, not all of us wanted to start churning out kids at 18 or 21. In fact, I’ll admit it, when I was younger I wasn’t sure if I wanted kids. Gasp. But then I’ve never made the case that that was my life’s only goal. Then when I was in my 30s, I figured I’d get married and then have kids, even thinking it through to the point of saying of course we’d wait a while before having kids, so that we’d have time together as a couple before the craziness of kids. Ha ha.

Then once I thought oh shit, that doesn’t look like it’s happening, (still in my 30s here), I didn’t have the savings to pursue fertility or childcare or actually raising a kid, PLUS my insurance didn’t cover any kind of maternity at all. Nada. That would be downright stupid, to take that kind of risk of not having any of that stuff covered. Then cancer happened, and that’s kept me occupied for the past 5 years or so. Gee, my bad.

So my point, if there is one, is to say this: we all take different paths to get to where we are, and some of those roads can be pretty bumpy. I’m sorry I didn’t follow the same fucking lifeplan as the rest of you, but let’s lighten up on each other, shall we? Can we just do that at least?

It’s lonely enough doing this all on my own as it is.

All the world's a par-tay

While we wait anxiously for things to start happening on the The Damiens front, life goes on. Specifically, the anniversary party for The Manor goes on, in typical spectacular fashion. Not only have I been planning the necessary festivities and merry-making, but beloved Cancerchick friend Cori timed her visit to Oregon so that she would be here for my par-tay. Score!

Before Cori arrives, she taunts me with missives on Facebook talking about the birthday gift for me that she’s managed to sneak through security. I can’t even imagine what this might be, as she has quite the history of ferreting out bizarre yet supremely perfect gifts.

To hear Cori tell the tale, upon arriving at The Manor:

“So I get to the first security guy, and he takes a look at my gift and tells me ‘oh no, they’ll never let you through security with that.’ I tell him well, I can only try. Second guy says the same thing, ‘oh, they’ll definitely not let you through with something like that.’ I can only try, I tell him too. It’s like a kids’ book at this point. The THIRD security guy before I actually get to screening ALSO tells me they’ll never let me through. ‘Nothing else to do at this point,’ I tell him, ‘so I can only give it a try.’ 

I get to security and lay the gift on the conveyor right next to my carry-on bag. It goes through. No one says anything. I pick it up and hustle the hell out of there – they might still be looking for me. As I’m trying to stuff it into the overhead bin on the plane, everyone is asking me how in the world I got that through security and why I’m traveling with it, and I just tell them it’s a gift for Miss Tasha, and it had to make it to Silverton.” 

THIS is what Cori took through security and on the plane:
 
Now I don’t know about you, but that’s what I’d call a cudgel. A heavy iron one at that, with a very pointy hummingbird beak, whereby once you start swinging that thing, more than just an eye or two will be lost.

And yet I’ve had a tiny nail file, a letter opener, tiny scissors all taken away from me. Cori, tweezers.

I will laugh about this, and the sight of Cori showing up in my driveway wielding this thing, until the day I die.

The party of course was a smashing success. Too much food as is typical for my par-tays, and Kone ate a goodly number of deviled eggs before anyone noticed. Old-timey punch, more captives in the JCoT, and croquet rounded things out, as well as a celebratory cake with frosting much to Kone’s liking (see: deviled eggs).

Speaking of eggs, in keeping with my goal of making this blog purely informative and science-based, I did in fact do a highly controlled experiment to determine if there were a way to boil/cook fresh eggs in which one would actually be able to peel the damn things. A bit of crowdsourcing via FB yielded the following suggestions:

1. Baking them
2. Boiling them with some baking soda

I tried both methods, and the verdict was……BAKING SODA! Which apparently helps get splinters out too, so that shit is good for everything. But yes, adding a tsp or so of baking soda to the cooking water worked like a charm, whereas the baked eggs weren’t cooked all the way through, and were impossible to peel.

Yes, life goes on, and there are always good things to be found, without much effort at all.

Anonymous and I, a love story

 
It’s been a while since I’ve had a comment from one of my twenties of fans that has spoken to me so intensely, so wholly, so profoundly. Well, at least not since the Days of Swimfan, who had such a deep abiding obsession with my finely-honed athletic self, it was almost a bit embarrassing. Almost, I say, because I’m used to that kind of adoration, but still. Anyway, lo these few years later, we find ourselves in a similar place, dear reader, albeit without the cookins and the image of Swimfan as a member of the Polish cycling team in bright red and overly tight biking shorts. Thank god.

Because this was the comment on my last post:

“Miss Tasha, how about a positive attitude, like when you sign up for a run, or bike race and sit back, eat crap and don't train and poof you do it.  If tests are negative there is always adoption correct?  You will be providing a needy child with all you have and that is a lot, it might be too much.

Also what do you think Kona will say?”


And you know what? Fuck yeah. I mean, not that I’ve been sitting around wallowing in self-pity, no sirree. But if anyone can make the impossible things happen, why that would be me, hands down. And it’s true – I do sign up for things, have great intentions, look for my running shoes for months, wind up taking my cycling shoes to a half-marthon, yet I still go ahead and do it. I’m stupid that way. Who else did the Goofy that one year (half marathon on Sat, full on Sunday) and screwed up her foot on Saturday but decided it would be a great idea to do the marathon anyway and wound up destroying her feet and legs so much that she had to be wheeled through the airport? Yep, that would be me too. “Stubborn” is practically my middle name.

So fuck yeah, this is going to be happen, one way or another. I already envision me and The Damians (I picture 3 little hellions) out on the back 40, toting those bales and plowing those fields, before we sit down to some Kool-Aid and cheez doodles. Oh sure, they say babies shouldn’t eat that stuff, but what do the so-called experts know? Not more than me, certainly.

Thanks for the words of encouragement, Anonymous. Sometimes it’s good to be reminded of what an optimistic full-speed-ahead idiot I am, rationality be damned. Oh, and when I’m out and about, I’m constantly asking myself WWKW, or What Would Kona Want, naturally. Kone wants a sibling or three – he loves the little bastards. I don’t know if it’s because of the crumb detritus left on their face and hands, but whatever. Love.

So it has been spoken, so it shall be done.

Floating on

 
Far be it from me to be one of those annoying bloggers who comes out with a monumental-ish, revealing post….and then disappears. Today is my birthday, so it seems as appropriate a day as any to talk about how I got to this point with my life not where I want it to be.

Having said that, it was a fucking awesome birthday, with well wishes from around the globe, the usual invite to tea with the Queen, telegrams and packages, and so on. Let it never be said that I scoff at any celebration of me just being my general awesome self.

But to update: nothing else has happened. Not surprisingly, with these things one has to wait until certain tests can be done, so that’s what I’m waiting for, and that should be next week. At which point I’ll go back to ORM for the FSH test and an antral follicle test, which is kind of the make or break one,  as that shows you how many potential eggs you have that can be harvested for an IVF cycle. That test scares the shit out of me, because if it’s bad, well, there go a lot of my options. So that could be an ugly day. A day to drink ALL the liqueurs.

A very very ugly day.

The only glimmer of hope that I stubbornly cling to is the fact of my rocks$tar AMH result of 2.94 (AMH is the new FSH), which was pass-around-the-office-worthy according to Dr. Barbieri.  Yay me and my Ukrainian ovaries! But just that fact isn’t enough – that’s kind of the lowest common denominator, really. If that had sucked, well, it would have been Dirty Sock and Zen, where one kind of gives up all hope. Even though it’s good, there are still a LOT of hurdles to clear, so….we’ll see.

 One thing all of this has shown me is just how many friends of mine have dealt with fertility issues. Sure, there are the ones I know about, and with my Cancerchicks it’s pretty much de rigeur – but there are a lot of other friends where I just assumed they didn’t want kids, when the reality is, they’ve found themselves in situations like mine, or having other issues to deal with. I guess that’s a good reason to not assume anything, about anyone’s situation, ever.

My other public service announcement is something that I preface by saying that if you think this is about you and something you said to me, it’s not, and you don’t need to apologize. This is a general point, because I see it all the time, anywhere there’s a discussion about someone trying to have a child via assisted means, let’s call it. And my point is this: the people saying I should adopt because why waste money on these treatments when there are so many unwanted kids out there? Yeah, not helpful. Unless this is your thing in general and you say this to everyone who ever says they want kids, in some Doomsday prepper belief that no new children should be brought into this world. Otherwise, no.

I’ll leave out any mention of how freaking hard it is to adopt and how expensive and how lengthy of a process it is, because my real point is this: no matter how things turn out, I have as much right to at least try to have a biological child as anyone else. Period.

Speaking of kids, I was at Trader Joe’s the other day buying stuff for tomorrow’s par-tay, and of course got to chatting with Checkout Guy (even though I hate people, as a general rule), after he asked me what was new.  

Me: Well, I’m having a par-tay this weekend to celebrate The Manor. Here, let me show you a picture….  
CG: Ooh, picture swapping. Let me show YOU a picture of me and my nephew!  
Me: Dueling pics – you’re on! Oh…that’s a really cute baby.
CG, smugly: Yeah, setting the bar pretty high, aren’t I? Let’s see your…..oh, that’s a gorgeous house.

Us, in unison: Tie.

Then we somehow got to discussing the dilemma that one has when there’s an ugly baby at hand. I mean, what do you say? And no, not all babies are cute, let’s face it. Even my neighbor and I talked about this potential issue, but luckily her newborn is adorable and looks like Prince George, so they got lucky. Other times, when there's a gremlin-resembling urchin?

Some suggestions:

"Wow, now THAT'S a baby!"
"Congrats, so exciting!"
"Baby looks so happy!"

 Thankfully, this is often only temporary, as many times UnfortunateBaby will start to look much cuter, and then one can offer up honest sentiments. Until then, we do what we must.

Never let it be said that I am not one to proffer useful advice. Hell, I generally have so much, I could pass it out like cheap party favors.....

So the Yeti and Nessie walk into a bar….

It could be that the purpose of your life is only to serve as a warning to others.
 
I don’t normally write about serious stuff on this blog – I mean I DO, cancer and shit, but other than some rants, I’m generally able to see the humor in things. Because that’s life, right? It throws shit at you, you deal. Laugh, cry, rally to laugh again, as I say. And as I always point out, I have so much bad luck in general, I’m able to quickly adapt to bad news.

This one might be tough though.

So yesterday I went on my first visit to a fertility clinic in Portland, namely Oregon Reproductive Medicine (ORM). Yes, Miss Tasha is attempting via sperm donor to have MiracleBaby, aka PerfectChild. Have I always and forever wanted a child ever since I was an embryo myself? Well no, because if that were my life’s goal I probably would have made sure to have a child when I was in my 30s and not leave things to chance, right? But I have for some time, though The Cancer did kind of derail things for a while there.

I drive into Portland all whistling and happy, me and The Kone, on a gorgeous spring day, excited about finally getting this party started for reals. Then reality came crashing down on me during my appointment with the wonderful Dr. Barbieri at ORM, who was really awesome. But she did tell me some sobering statistics, all revolving around the fact that I’m old as dirt. I was fine with them though, even though they were all along the lines of  “1% chance of such–and-such, and .006% chance of this” etc. Ech, numbers, I’m not so mathy anyway.

Then she pulled out the chart that will be burned in my brain forever, the bar chart that shows how many women they’ve worked with who have gotten pregnant with their own eggs, by age. And she points to the bar for 45-year-old women. And that number?

Zero.

A big fucking zero.

Me, being the eternal sunshiney optimist that I am, at this point start to sound like the guy in the movie who, when being told he has a one in a million chance of dating some woman, says “So you’re saying I’ve got a shot!”

See again: not mathy.

Hence the Yeti and Nessie reference, because those are about my chances. Hey, it could happen! We decide to go full steam ahead anyway, because as I told Dr. Barbieri, go big or go home. More testing, the “clomid challenge” (which to me sounds awesomely like the Battle of the Network Stars, so hell yeah, bring it on – not that I’m competitive or anything), an IUI attempt while working on the IVF stuff, then IVF which will probably cost around $24K. For each attempt.

As I jokingly told my most awesome Cancerchick friends Melinda, Cori, and Adrienne later at home as they were talking me off my tiny ledge, I should get on the fundme bandwagon and set up a page along the lines of “Help Kone achieve the baby of his dreams!” Because Kone LOVES babies. Freaking loves them. He just wants to be near them and kiss them and make sure they and kids in general glom onto him. So I could have things like, say, a gift for $10 donations consisting of a pawtograph from The Kone, and so on. Of course I wouldn’t do this, but it amused me to think of it. Do it for The Kone!

Anyway. This ledge thing.

Because then I started thinking of course about how I fucked up my life. Put stuff off, waited, putzed around, wasted time with idiot guys, didn’t take note of time madly rushing by. Though I did recall this morning that most doctors don’t tell you about fertility options before you start cancer treatment. They don’t mention that even if your ovaries aren’t completely fried afterwards, after you go through and finish everything, you might then be too old to get pregnant anyway. So it’s not ALL on me.

Just most of it.

And while it’s mostly on me, I’m also bitter and resentful while looking at all the people who have kids without any problems – not that I begrudge them, but it’s still painful to see billions of pics of kids on Facebook and everywhere else, knowing that might not be in the cards. I know that’s the case for a LOT of my Cancerchick friends, so it’s not like I’m some special snowflake, but still. It’s tough. It's tough for all of us. Some people get truly lucky with the kid situation, where everything falls into place perfectly, and often they don't appreciate how remarkable that is, but some of us don’t. And it sucks and it’s hard.

The thought that kept drumming through my head when I was talking to Dr. Barbieri was actually from the stupid show Private Practice that I watched maybe 3 times, because I don’t do tv as a general rule, and there was the episode early on where Dr. Addison has just found out that she basically has no egg reserve, or something like that, and her chances of having a baby are zero to none. And she’s in the elevator, stunned, just thinking – “I waited too long.”



 * * * * * * * * *

Well that was just one huge boring fucking pity party, now wasn't it?

The point being, young grasshoppers, don’t be like me. At least not in all ways. Don’t think you have all the time in the world for certain things. I mean I know we should be carpe dieming and all that shit in general, but with some things it really doesn’t pay to wait. Because then you’ll be like me, alone with your thoughts at night, and the main one that keeps running through my head is this:

I waited too fucking long.

Bringing home the stupid

 

Note: this is some stupid shit I do here. As usual. Don’t try this at home.

It started with the bronchitis. Or whooping cough. Or typhoid. One of those. Yes, I did my usual thing of having a hacking cough for months until I went to the doctor – partly because I hadn’t yet found a doctor in the bucolic town of Bedford FallsSilverton, and partly because I’m an idiot that way. Oh, let’s be honest here: total idiocy.

So when I get to the point where the cough is a fiercely burning pain in my chest and it’s keeping me up at night, off to the doc I schlep. Where, of course, he falls under my spell immediately, based on our conversation:

Me: Terrible cough, blah blah blah…
Doctor: Okay, so….

Me (interrupting): Mayhap might it perchance be whooping cough?

Doctor: Whoopin….well, I suppose…

(We discuss our mutual hatred for anti-vaxxers and immediately form a mutual respect society, membership of 2.)

Me: Perchance might I have…..pleurisy?

He looks at me with what I am positive is admiration shining from his eyes.

Doctor: Wow, you’ve really done your research, haven’t you?

Me, modestly: Well, I do like to keep up on all the latest old-timey diseases that a person can be stricken with at any moment.

I’m sure it was just a sign of his efficiency and high demand that he bustled out of there pretty quickly, leaving a little vapor trail. Positive.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. So. Two days after said diagnosis I was off on a cross-country sojourn to continue my idiotic tale of stupidity, which began a month beforehand when I did the Tinkerbell Half Marathon at DisneyLand in California. Actually, that journey began some months before that, when I let myself be sucked in by the promise of even more shiny medals (to add to the ones sitting in a box somewhere at The Manor) to add to my collection. By doing the half at DisneyLand AND the half at DisneyWorld, I’d get not only a medal for each race, but also a third coast-to-coast medal!

I know exactly what you’re thinking at this point. Namely: what the fuck, Miss Tasha?

Because you see, I don’t train for these things. Oh sure, I have the best of intentions, but, well, let’s look at what happened.

1)    Miss Tasha decides to find her running shoes

2)    Miss Tasha has no freaking idea where they are

3)    But surely they’ll turn up? I just have to sort through hundreds of boxes

4)    Who the hell has time for that? But I’m sure they’ll magically turn up

5)    Two weeks before race day, I decide they’re not going to turn up. I buy the cheapest shoes imaginable.

6)    I break them in through my daily morning walkie with Kone. Tearing after him as he bolts after squirrels and stupid cats counts as running, right?

So you see my usual trajectory. In this case, I decided that instead of actual training, I’d do the smart thing: I’d look for people out there who were as stupid as me.

Here we’ll add a public service message. Now when you google “doing a half marathon without any training” – you may stumble across this blog, where you’ll actually find someone who did NO TRAINING AT ALL.

 

Because I kid you not, EVERY blog I found with people who claimed to do “ no training whatsoever” said something like this:

“Oh I did no training at all! So this was such a hard race even though I took a break after my last marathon a month ago, which was on top of the 6 marathons I had already done this year. But damn this half was hard. I barely made it through running the whole way.”

I kid you not. And the comments were great too. “Oh, I’m so glad I found this blog, as I too have done no training! I mean my longest run was like THREE weeks ago and that was only 10 miles!” Or  “Oh gosh I’m so worried, I’ve only managed to run 2 or 3 times a week and never more than 5 miles.”

News flash: that’s still called training. So again, I repeat: no training here whatsoever. I did mention that I’m an idiot, right?

Anyway, the Tinkerbell half went about how you would expect: I finished. My greatest accomplishment was that I didn’t wind up in jail for homicide. Because really people, if you’re doing the run-walk thing and have to set your watch alarm to beep LOUDLY every 30 seconds – maybe you should just pack it in. Stephanie packed her electric can opener so that she could juice up the night before with beets, and I had my pre-race Mickey-shaped cake pop.

I finally got my shiny medal, hobbled around a bit that day, was fine the next. The usual. No blisters. Yay me. Lots of telling myself how stupid I was and how I’d do at least SOME running before the Princess Half in a month.

Kone and I went running twice. Total. However, this time I did invest in a good pair of running shoes, finally recognizing that wherever my other good shoes were, in some box somewhere, they’d probably stay there until after this race too. I smartly decided to treat these new shoes as I would with race wheels, ie where you keep them in reserve until race day, so that you feel light and speedy in comparison to one’s clunky regular wheelset. That works with running shoes too, right?

So what can I say about Princess Half race day that hasn’t been said before a million times? Getting up at 3AM for these Disney races sucks. They have too many people out there, to the point where you wind up not drinking anything because you don’t want to wait half an hour in line for the porta-potty. For the Princess Half at DisneyWorld, actual time spent running through the Magic Kingdom was ridiculously short.

My greatest triumph came in my overcoming the corral Nazis. I was trying to find Cori and her daughter, as somehow Disney failed to recognize my athletic ability and running prowess and had placed me in a corral further back than them. Wth? So off I go to look for them. I manage to get past the people checking numbers, but they’re calling after me. “Ma’am!” Ma’am? What’s that horseshit? I ignore them. Surely they won’t come after me, right?

A guy comes after me.

But somehow with my winsome pleading gaze and patented Sad Cancer Face I convince him to let me stay and look for Cori, and gosh, when I don’t find them I’m forced to stay in the corral, figuring I’ll find them when they catch up to me. So the race starts, and I’’m hanging back, off to the side, looking for them, etc. I’m concerned. After all, this is their first race, and without my expert guidance how will they even begin to soldier on?

I start trudging up an Alpian mountain of which there are many on the course (some people call them something called an “overpass” but I don’t understand that term), and I’m still fretting. I need to find Cori and Tori! I keep scanning the crowd looking for them, to impart my coaching and wisdom to the newbies - otherwise how will they even finish? How will they go on? How wil… oh. That was them that just passed me. Well, I’m glad they’re managing to hide their suffering so well, and I can only hope that they don’t crash and burn at mile 8 and wind up in pain at the hotel the rest of the day. Still, if that’s what it takes for them to learn these valuable lessons, so be it.

I dash on, and note that the course is an out and back in which I can see across the way that the first runners (there by virtue of their corral placing only, clearly) are heading back in. I contemplate cutting the course and getting this tomfoolery over with. Of course, that would put my time at around 58 minutes, which might look a TINY bit suspicious. Maybe. Finely honed athlete that I clearly am, it might not. I decide to not risk it, plus I wouldn’t want to take any glory away from people who are actually kind of at the head of the pack – oh sure, I could be there as well, but I might as well let the little people have their day in the sun.

The rest of the race: suck suck suck. Sucks. I finally finish, get my precious medals, and go to find the bus back to the hotel – which literally has a line at least half a mile long, snaking hither and yon. I decide I’ll wait until it goes down a bit, because it’s pretty clear I’ll be waiting at least a few hours.

 

Here of course the hand of Disney comes down to grace us, because somehow they work their magic to get more buses, and by the time I look up from my lawn chair half an hour later, the line is down to people getting on the last couple of buses. Nicely done, Disney. 

In the meantime, I’ve texted Cori to see how she and Tori are managing, the poor dears. Maybe I can bring them something to their hotel room? They must be spent.

Me: How are you guys holding up?

Cori: Hey, can’t talk now, we finished, got back to the hotel to shower, composed a few haikus and odes to Mickey, went for a refreshing swim in the pool, built a replica of the Magic Kingdom out of toothpicks, had a bite to eat, and packed up and are on our way to the airport – chat with you soon!

I’m tempted to warn them about the fact that they’ll surely crash later in a heap of agony….but again, there’s just so much I can tell people from my great stores of wisdom, as some things people have to learn for themselves. Courage.

God bless us, every one

So there I am at the post office today. I know, I know, but I figure, how crowded can it be? Stuff that needs to make it somewhere by Christmas should have been sent out already, right?

Umm, yeah.

I’m standing in the long line with all the other procrastinators, and things are moving along surprisingly quickly, even though there are only 2 mail people. Then along comes Herbie, our bottleneck.

Herbie is an elderly gentleman who decided that today of all days would be a fine and dandy day on which to take care of his mail being transferred to his home in Florida for the winter. Okay, no problem. This seems to be a quick thing. Just hand over the form (that you didn’t bother to get out of your bag until you were at the counter), confirm everything, and be on your way. Ho ho ho!

Umm, no.

Because first he wants the postal woman to explain everything to him in great detail, down to what he should do to his own mailbox back home so they don’t put mail in there. She tells him to just rubber band it shut.

Herbie: What? What do you mean?

Postal Woman: You know, the clips at the top, just take a rubber band and twist it around them.

Herbie: Oh, so they can’t get it open. Rubber bands. Huh, how about that.

The line is building.

But he seems to be done, so that’s okay.

No.

Herbie: So just to make sure I understand this process, let me explain it back to you.

This is when the lady 3 people behind me starts muttering. “No, let us NOT try to get more understanding about this process. I think we get it. I think there’s a long line here.”

Herbie: The mail leaves here, then it goes to Tennessee, where those machines there do something with it….blah blah blah.

I kid you not. This is where he’s going with this. He keeps going until he has literally gone through the entire thing until his mail winds up in his mailbox in Florida.

Lady keeps muttering, louder. “You have got to be kidding me.”

PW: Right, and then you have your mail!

Yay, we’re done!

No.

Herbie: Wow, that’s fascinating. Tell me, is this a new process? How long ago was this type of service enacted?

I am seriously not making this up.

The woman is going to lose her mind. Herbie. Keeps. Talking. I start laughing. Really, laughing. There is going to be a mutiny. Then word comes in from the street that a car parked in front is going to be crushed by a big mail truck, which also appears to be backing its way directly into the post office building.

In the meantime, the woman in the other line is trying to find some package that a girl is insisting is back there somewhere.

PW #1 to PW#2: Does this look like a 7 or a 2 to you?

PW#2, momentarily taken away from Herbie, who, yes, is still talking: A zero.

Wtf?

PW#1: A zero? Hmm, I guess it could be. I’ll just keep looking in back.

She eventually comes back with something that looks like a postcard. Herbie seems to be winding down, though of course he takes his time packing up his stuff so as to free up the line. I finally head to the counter, and hear poor woman in line comment “All this and all I need is two stamps!” And she holds up her stack of Christmas cards, with 2 bereft, stamp-less denizens.

Stamps?

Suddenly I’m doing my best Mary Bailey imitation, where she holds up a fan of cash in Toddlers & Tiaras style, to avoid the foreclosing of the Crappy Old Bailey Building & Loan.

Me: Stamps! I have stamps!

Irate Woman: Oh no, I couldn’t…….

Me: No really. There’s still a line, and you never know when someone else is going to want to discuss the entire history of the postal system.

IW: Well….

Me: I insist.

IW: I’ll give you a dollar..

Me: Don’t be silly. Here you go.

We exchange our Merry Christmases, and off she goes, happy. Whew, disaster averted!

And that, my friends, is what the true meaning of Christmas is all about.

Christmas tree tips from Miss Tasha

I think we’ve pretty well established that on rare occasion, yours truly gets some pretty damn stupid ideas. Rare to be sure, but it happens. Most recently, this involved my brilliant idea to get a freshly cut Christmas tree, because, you know, Oregon! Trees! Seriously, you can just pull your car over basically anywhere and stumble across a tree farm.

Of course, my scheme revolved around not just getting a freshly cut tree, but cutting it myself. What the what? Yes, this seemed appropriately Christmas-y and lovely and the height of Oregonianness, fa la la and ho ho ho and all that shit. Besides, who knows how fresh the trees at the lots are? They could be days old! And somehow I’m still able to find friends willing to go along with me on my excursions into madness, hence, dear friend Sarah. “Sure, that sounds like a great idea!” Luckily – or not, as the case may be – friends are reluctant to tell me what a total idiot I am, complete with asinine ideas.

So. We set off for a Christmas tree farm that seems to be open on Tuesdays, based on their website, and has both “u cut or we cut” options, based on their handwritten signs dotting highway 213. But hell, even if it’s only  “u cut,” how hard can it be, right? Right. Sarah’s brought her truck, so we’ll just saw that puppy down, pop it in the truck, done!

Our tree farm seems a wee bit deserted, but hey, there are trees! And a couple of puny saws by a little shack, so clearly we can just have at it. I assume. Luckily, the owner of the farm comes out of her house, and gives us a bit more direction.

Tree Farm Lady: So those are the Nobles, and then there are the Grands, which are generally fuller, taller, and more fragrant…

Me: Whee!

TFL:…..but those are down that hill off into that valley way off there.

 

I look off into the yonder, trees stretching as far as the eye can see, and can’t even tell where the Grands start.

Me, to Sarah: Yeah, screw that, we’re not going that far.

Off we go, our lumberjack selves, and we soon run into the problem that all intrepid tree-killers face. Namely: trees! Everywhere! How to choose?? They all look pretty damn good, to the point that one has to practically make up flaws. “That one has a few brown needles, so clearly it’s defective.” Stuff like that.

Me to Sarah: It’s exactly like Sophie’s Choice, well, if the trees were children and we were trying to decide which one should die immediately.  Otherwise, same thing.

I really don’t know why Sarah sometimes looks at me so oddly. Nervous tic perhaps?

Anyway.

Luckily I thought to bring a tape measure as well, because I have zero depth perception. Four inches, 6, 12, 2 feet, whatever. Kind of all the same to me. I see a tree that looks like it would work. Yay, my tree! Umm, except that it's 12 feet tall, and I need one that's 9-10ft. Oops. 

And have I mentioned yet that sawing down a tree with a puny saw is really fricking hard? Because it is. In case that wasn’t clear. Or perhaps it IS clear to everyone but me. So for those other two people out there who didn’t know this, consider this a free but important tip from Miss Tasha: never try to saw down your own damn Christmas tree. Leave it to the professionals. There are roving bands of merry tree-cutters for a reason.

We start trying to saw the chosen tree down, and damn, it’s hard. We’re trading off, and in between collapsing on the ground to rest, trying to recall a time when we didn't have hours of sawing to contend with. I blame cancer surgeries – who knew that not having a lat muscle on your sawing side would be such a detriment? WHY was I not WARNED about this???? Hello, Dr. Fine? I have a bone to pick with you! Hmph.

Fast forward about 2 hours later, when we’re still sawing down – and cursing – this damn tree. As we’re almost done, who should come along? Yes, a lumberjack, or as commonly known, a guy with a powersaw.

Guy with powersaw: You ladies need some help?

We just look up at him, mouths agape, gasping, kind of like beached carp breathing our last.

Sarah: Trunk…..even…….

I think she’s trying to ask if he can even out the trunk where we cut it, but somehow, we’ve managed to make it pretty straight. Rock$tars!

Have I mentioned yet that 10-ft tall Noble firs are pretty damn heavy?

Because yes, now we have to carry this sucker to the truck, and get it in the back. As we’re doing this, lumberjack guy comes along, whistling merrily, having powersawed down HIS tree in about 5 seconds. Also at this point, TFL comes out of her house and asks us if we need help. Oh, and informs us that we should come on a weekend next time, when “my husband will have his 4-square (which I assume is an actual powersaw) running!”

Who knew? Apparently the entire population of Oregon other than me, that’s who.

Because we get back to The Manor, drag the tree into the house, and I get a text from Most Excellent Neighbor Laura.

MENLaura:  Tree delivery?

Me: Omg, that was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done! Well, one of. There are so many. Sawing down my own tree – never again!

MENL: What?!?!?!?!?!

Me: Omg, that was freaking hard! I cant’ believe my friends go along with my stupid ideas.

MENL: Are you kidding me?! You and your friends went and cut down trees….by hand??

As should be becoming clear by now, everyone ELSE in Oregon is too smart for this kind of tomfoolery.

Me: Yes. At a tree farm, with a puny saw. Freaking. Hard. More people need to tell me that I’m an idiot when I come up with shit like this.

MENL: You’re an idiot!

MENL: You’re an idiot.

MENL: You, my friend, are an idiot.

Me: NOW you tell me!

I must say, however, it’s a glorious tree: pine-y, fluffy, fragrant. In fact, I’ve already forgotten about what a total pain in the ass this was – maybe because the Tree Farm Lady promised us mulled wine next year.

Hmm, maybe I need another tree for the upstairs of The Manor……

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.