We Could Have Done Without This

Besides hearing, "hey what's this red stuff" uttered by your doctor,  the worst thing he or she could say is: "it's back."
After nearly nine months of recovery from a stem cell transplant, my wife's cancer is back.
Son of a bitch!  Just when she had begun to feel like all of this had been a bad dream it comes back like a punch in the gut.

We got the news two weeks ago and it felt like somebody was pelting our house with rocks, or, in Linda's case, a home invasion.  Every morning the knowledge that this sneaky bastard of a disease had once again slipped into our lives made the temptation to just stay in bed seem like a good plan.  We're over that now and are ready to kick some large B cell lymphoma ass.  Linda begins with a brand new (just approved in April) chemo drug the first of next week.  This one promises not to leave her feeling too bad or--even more important as far as she is concerned--BALD.  After meeting with her primary oncologist we are feeling quite positive about this drug's ability to do the job.  If it fails there are other new miracles  of medicine to be tried including  the possibility of another trip to Seattle and a re-education of her CAR-T cells.  I have no idea what that's all about but it seems to be succeeding in early trials at the Cancer Care Alliance and at the Mayo Clinic.

Linda is a native of Rapid City, South Dakota and, as another child of that great state and longtime friend, Doug Steckler, said to me, "NEVER piss off a girl from South Dakota....No NEVER."  Steckler is a lunatic but I can't remember the last time his insight was incorrect.  She is pissed!  Cancer doesn't stand a chance.

What Kind of a Name is Marilyn for a Boy?

"Hi, I am a moron."

Major freak flag flyer Marilyn Manson, like most rock n' roll reprobates, won't set foot on a concert stage until all of the perquisites outlined in his contract are in place.  His backstage rider includes such beauties as:  "all rooms shall have private flush toilets (Porta Johns are specifically not acceptable), also "promoter shall provide one oxygen tank with regulator and mask for artist's sole use.  In order to avoid being late to the stage, or starting the show with runny makeup, the dressing rooms for both Manson and his band each require "one clock and one efficient AC unit.  Dressing rooms need to contain these items:  ten Gatorades ( grape, berry or watermelon flavors), two packs of Dentine Ice gum (peppermint and spearmint), French onion dip (fresh from deli, if possible), a half-gallon of two percent milk, and two bags of Haribo gummy bears.

To ensure patrons and performers are in safe hands, "None of the security personnel shall possess any handcuffs, mace, firearms, clubs, knives or dangerous weapons...under no circumstance is a flashlight to be used as a weapon."  If you're a patron of the event, Manson's contract forbids the wearing of spiked bracelets and chains of any kind.  (Obviously Manson draws a "classy" crowd.  ed)
With demands like these you'd expect the guy to actually be talented.
Guess again.

I think we should all have these kind of riders just for participating in daily life.  Not that you asked, but here is my newly created list of "musts" just for waking up each morning:

1.  I would like to be awakened gently like a lily on a quiet pond.

2. I would like my wife to give back at least half the covers.

3. Breakfast shall feature only cereals that come with toys in the box and contain either chocolate or fruity flavors.

4. All pictures and references to liberal politicians must be removed from my newspapers. (yeah, I still read them).

5.  No whippersnappers with their caps on backward allowed within two miles of my hacienda.

6.  NO WIRE HANGERS!  (I had this one before Joan Crawford!)

Uh....I know I have more ideas for this list but I'll need some more time to think them up.  It's not that easy being petulant and demanding.  Now get busy on your own damn list!

Okay, one more:  I demand permission to resume drinking booze if ever I find myself trapped between two or more boring people.  

Pull the trigger.  I'm begging you!

Miss Cleo, Chickens and Bats...Oh My!

Miss Cleo

As the wife and I took a little break from reconfiguring the house in the wake of a visit from our six year-old grandson Dan (Cocoa Puffs and Trix still turning up in unusual places) we both did some catching up on the latest news.  First of all I was saddened to note the passing of Miss Cleo who, you may recall, was always standing by to talk with you on The Psychic Hotline.  Did it catch her by surprise I wonder or was she dressed up and waiting at the station for the Dirt Nap Express?  If her obituary is correct it appears that she had been less than candid about certain aspects of her life.  For example,  her real name was Youree Harris and she was from Los Angeles which, last time I checked, wasn't even in the same time zone as the Caribbean.  What else was she not telling us?  And, it's obvious that the old Hotline must not have been getting the job done for her cash flow lately as one of her last jobs was doing commercials for a Plantation, Florida used car dealer called Uncle Mel's Cheap Heaps.  This, of course, begs the question:  Would Miss Cleo be able to predict when the transmission might take a hike on one of Uncle Mel's bargain rides?

Here in the Idaho panhandle we have time to relax and enjoy a slower pace.  The news cycle doesn't usually include major crimes like murder, home invasion, drug busts and endless freeway tie-ups.  Of course we have the occasional meth lab explosion but those seem to be almost the exclusive province of rural and small town America.   The big ugly stories we leave to the major metropolitan markets while we take time to focus on, well,  Miss Cleo assuming room temperature and items of local import.   Here in Coeur d'Alene there was a front page story regarding some old bag state senator--or was it representative?--who drove her car around police barricades during our Fourth of July parade.  She assumed that the cop yelling at her to back her car up and not cut through the marching Cub Scouts and Brownies didn't realize how important she was as she whipped out the old "Do you know who I am young man?!"  No, he wasn't impressed and wrote her a ticket which she is contesting vehemently.   Frankly I hope they give her about five years in stony lonesome just for being a politician.   It's a doggone shame that she was recently defeated in her bid to continue on as our local state political hack.  She had the potential for real comedy gold.

Another breaking story here in the Famous Potatoes state is the disappearance of the 7-foot tall steel chicken in Pocatello.  (This just in:  THE CHICKEN HAS BEEN RETURNED, film at 11.)  I have no idea what this monstrosity is supposed to promote or represent but do agree that it would look cool on our front lawn.  I won't bring it up for a vote as no doubt Linda would not be willing to go along with this stroke of decorating genius.  Women have no imagination when it comes to home decor.

A little something for the front yard.

Last night after finally agreeing that we had caught up with the news and our home had returned to normal--okay, as normal as we get--we relaxed on the front patio and enjoyed watching the sunset.  As darkness descended and we enjoyed a gentle cooling breeze off the lake, we lingered and congratulated ourselves on surviving a week of a six year-old's visit and how smart we were to move to the Idaho panhandle.  Linda remarked that there was a really large butterfly putting on a show near the tree just to the West of us and how nice it would have been for our grandson to see it.  Of course it was a BAT but I agreed that it was indeed a very special "butterfly" just to get her inside before she wised up and screamed.
I wonder if I could have blown that by Miss Cleo?

An Idaho "butterfly"