friday (saturday) cat blogging: the pinkseries

Pink heads towards the (laser) light (pointer)



sacred heart of pink




















P.S. In case anyone is wondering, NO i most certainly did NOT name pink for any komen related pink ribbon crapola reason. He has been "pink" since his birth, because he is...well...pink. In color. And, for those of you overly tied to gender essentialist specific coloring...i give you this from Wiki: "The color pink is now associated with womanhood and little girls, just like light blue is associated with little boys and manhood. However, in 1918 "Infant's Department" (an industry publication) said the reverse was the "generally accepted rule", describing pink as "more decided and stronger" while blue was "more delicate and dainty". there u have it.

The unbelievable lackness of blogging

I don't know why i have nothing good to say to you all. Certainly you deserve more than i'm giving lately, and i cannot blame you for losing faith in cancer grrl's indomnitable spirit and rapier like wit. I know I know. A whiny, bad pun-ridden, dispiriting rant about work, complaints about aches and pains, some bad pictures and, horror of horrors, the massive, mean-spirited, unamerican all out dis of a holiday that i'm sure you all hold near and dear to your hearts has begun to open your eyes to the jaundiced ne'er do well that cancer grrl/bloggrilla really is. Ah me.

It's almost as if, along with chemo, I was injected with a jolly drug. In truth, i think there are 2 kinds of chemo recipients, those who milk the chemo for all they're worth and make sure everyone knows they are suffering mightily, and those who, suddenly, and uncharacteristically, turn into pollyanna for the duration.

Lose my hair?? No problem, never liked it anyway...I LOVE my wig!!!
Tired? No problem there, I really had too much energy before. I'm so much calmer now!
Nauseated? O well I really needed to drop a few pounds anyway! Hey I look great!
and on and on. You get the picture. The real person goes away for a while and is replaced by bright and shiny CHEMO GRRRL.

In a way, I think we all need the opportunity to play "brave sufferer putting on a good face to the world" for a while. I'm not being at all facetious. It's a rewarding role to play. The only trouble is that you may actually have to suffer to do it right. I don't recommend cancer as an avenue to realizing your own personal "brave sufferer" persona, however here are some things that you can do to reap the kind of rewards that the lucky few of us reap from chemo:

1. fast for a week or so. Believe me, you'll suffer. What's more, your suffering will be doing some good, because you won't be contributing to any shortages, and you won't be throwing any money at BIG FOOD (which is as bad as big oil). PLUS you'll be thin...and the world LOVES a thin sufferer...

2. Do an iron man triathlon without proper training. (disclaimer: the writer of this blog is NOT liable for any injuries, illness, sickness, soreness, lameness, crippledness, death, or misery you may suffer from doing this. Didn't anyone tell you not to do everything the internet tells you to do?) You'll suffer. And maybe, if you bet people you can do it, maybe you'll make money. More likely you won't. But maybe you can RAISE money for a good cause. That'd also be good.

3. Send me all your money. You'll suffer, and, you will have helped a cancer patient realize her life's dream...to have your money. Think of the prestige! In fact, I will install paypal on this site so that I can help you attain your goals. perhaps i will even put in one of those little thermometers to inspire you.

4. Give away a tenth of your income to an animal rights group. You won't even suffer that much, and, i've got news for you, back in the days when christians actually believed in doing good, they always gave away a tenth of their income. Tithing y'know? And, we owe animals for the years of abuse we have heaped on them. The suffering part? hmmm. Guess that HDTV will have to wait til next year.

5. Ram your hand or foot into the closest SUV (but wait til it's parked). wear gloves, and break something (in the SUV, not on you). You'll suffer, but you'll be doing good. (see disclaimer above and add the following language: "the writer of this blog is likewise not responsible for jail time, damages verdicts, judgments, orders, sentences and community service time"). Then, wear your bandaged limb prominently to the next greenpeace rally and be sure to let all of the comely young greenpeacers (of whatever gender floats your particular boat canoe or what have you) know how you injured yourself, and get ready for the lovin.

OK i cannot think of any more creative ways to suffer, and still be around, not too scathed, to reap the rewards and the kudos.

I especially like #3, but, well, i'm generous like that.


(PS: CONGRATS! to all the NYC bar passers out there. ain't you glad it's ovah? now you have to work tho...see below posts on THAT...)

a day at the races

well this is a bit belated, but here are some race pix from Austin...





Yes I was all chemo huffed & puffed. note the bald head and wobbly looking knees...

tanks but no tanks

I've never really liked thanksgiving, it always seemed like, objectively, it was just a runner up to christmas: a practice meal, a truncated vacation, no presents, and ridiculous, rust-coloured, harvest type memorabilia; and, subjectively, it was a day when i'd have to do battle with my mother in the morning, my brother and father in the evening, and in the middle have to endure an oh so joyous holiday meal surrounded by three people who, barring the fact that we shared genetic material, never should have come within 3000 miles of each other, or at least never should have gotten emotionally closer than it takes to say "hi," "bye," and, "you're sitting on my coat". I refer of course to the bloggrilla/cancer grrl family.

Picture this:
thanksgiving morning, bright and early. Crisp, chill, my sweet blond head goes back under the covers. but NO! soon my mother is in the room, telling me it's time to get ready for church...

Of course I hate church. Church is like slow poison. But, my mother's wrath is like some meaner kind of torture, perhaps involving disembowling or molten lead. She ramps up the volume. GET READY FOR CHURCH (subtext: you will die a slow agonizing death if you do not come to church with me). The longer I stay in bed, the worse it gets. What do i do?

What of my brother and father? No succor there. For some reason, I, being female, am the designated scapegoat. The sacrificial lamb. The sitting duck. (Apt metaphors indeed, considering thanksgiving also marks the season of wanton slaughter of millions of tortured and tormented farm type animals...). At any rate, in my family, church is women's work. Religion is for the gals. The men in my family do not set foot in church. No wonder I had gender issues...

What do I do? if I go, I'll hate myself. If i don't go, she'll hate me. What to choose?

Well, often I cave and go, suffering mightily through the intonations, the hymns always played too slow and sung too high, the woozifying smells...;

some years I just slip out of the house until I see her car leave, her driving off with the ramrod straight neck, the heavy coating of powder, the absurd coil of waist length hair sitting smack on top of her head like a concrete bunker... and ooooo boy am I in for a fun afternoon when she gets back, and we all sit round the table, her furious, my father seeking higher ground through consumption of some sacred alcoholic potion guaranteed to promote unecessary outbursts of wisdom and utter conviction of rightness..and so insulated from her fury that he deems it appropriate and hilarious to start baiting her and egging her on to some dramatic resolution, my brother just drunk from all afternoon contact with my dad, the constant football game on TV, and the joys of being the excused sex and the youngest to boot, and me on eggshells, watching mines exploding under the table, dodging crockery and daggers, walking the narrow path of conciliation and terror like the omega dog of the pack...knowing that when it comes, the dramatic resolution will be carried out against me...

So, no. I do not like thanksgiving.

I am, of course wildly exaggerating. There were no real daggers and the mines were just little bitty ones...