Today is my husband's birthday

The picture at left is my current view from the Big House. If the image looks a little grey, wet, and bleary it's because for the past two days, RVA has received significant amounts of moisture from the sky. Some would call it rain. Quite a darn lot of rain.

Praise God and pass the biscuits.

The building in the right portion of the picture is one of my favorite here on the MCV/VCU campus, maybe even in Richmond. It's the Egyptian Building, one of the older remaining on campus (Built in the 1920's, I think.). My snapshot does it little justice, but were my webcam a wee bit fancier, you be able to make out the fact that even the posts in the iron fence around the building have a lovely Egyptian shape to them. Man, they just don't make them like they used to.

What you probably can't make out, at the bottom of the picture, is the chaos of valet parking right in front of the Cancerville Clinic. There's the older gentleman valet who always gets the thankless job of helping direct the clueless goofballs through the intersection. Today, bless his heart, he was out there in the pouring rain in a bright blue poncho just waiving the cars along.

Also not quite visible in the photo, from lousy photo quality and grey haze, far in the background, beyond the tree line is the lovely James River. Maybe we're not a fancypants metropolis like New York or Chicago, but darn it, this is a pretty little city.

So life here in the Big House has been fairly uneventful. First night was pretty sleepless (Not as though I can get a full 8 hours in here anyway.), but I am making it up with some quality nap time. Today I actually crashed out for about two hours.

There are two prisoners from our illustrious city jail on the hall, possibly a third (I suspect from a county jail because his minder is dressed more like a sheriff-type.). The zombie warrior in me is somewhat relieved to know that there are a few fellows on the hall packing heat. Should there be a sudden swelling of undead masses in the hallway, hopefully these three will be able to hold them off long enough for me to make a break for the stairs, dragging Cletus along behind me.

One of the nurses told me that walking the length of the hallways on the floor eight times equals a mile. This gives me a goal on my daily strolls, and I think I might just attempt two miles today.

As you have probably already ascertained, today is The Mister's birthday. He was hoping to take Little A to King's (Demiff) Dominion for the evening, but the day's soaking rains kind of put the kibosh on that idea. They did stop by this afternoon for a little celebration and decadent chocolate ganache cake, provided by my mom and Fresh Market. While the rain isn't what he expected for a birthday treat, The Mister conceded that Richmond needed the rain more than he needed a trip to KD. Besides, I believe the consolation prize is a trip to the G-Force Go Karts tonight. Papa A races and Little A is his gleeful audience.

And to save the best for last, we got word today from the bone marrow team that a donor has been located. It's not a perfect match, more like a 9.5 to 10 point match thanks to my rare antigen. But it's a good enough fit for the doctors to want to progress further. There are a few more pieces left to fall into the puzzle. This donor has some further screenings to complete to make sure he/she is still a viable candidate health-wise (Meaning no syphilis or AIDS or other such yummy stuff), as well as agree to complete the process necessary to donate stem cells. I of course have to get my cancerous ass into remission and complete some of my own health screenings to determine that I am in a good way, besides the leukemia, to participate in the transplant.

If all the stars align, we'll be looking at the end of September to fire up the transplant train and get that sucker rolling out of the station.

Thanks to everyone for their prayers, positive thoughts, intercessions, meditations, and otherwise all manners of good juju that has been sent my way. Looks like you guys are a mighty powerful lobby; keep it up.

I am not above admitting that the transplant scares the living bajeebers out of me. But like the Good Book says:

I have set the Lord always before me.
Because he is at my right hand,
I will not be shaken.

Psalms 16:8

Happy birthday, my beloved!

A New Normal

A few weeks ago whilst visiting, my uncle used the term "a new normal" to describe life when you have a serious disease. Life changes drastically, almost overnight, but then that change becomes the routine of your existence. You have to adjust, sometimes continuously, as this new normal takes over the day-to-day. So not only am I having to relearn parts of my old routine here at home with Little A, but also integrate my new practices like daily saline flushes of my Hickman line and psychotic hand washing . I'm also learning to become more flexible with my schedule and my notions about my own health.

Since being home, I've felt pretty good. I tire a lot quicker, and my allergies went into hyper-drive for a few days, but other than that I've been feeling moderately healthy. My blood work, on the other hand, tells a different story. I had a blood draw today, and my white counts have stayed the same since last week, hemoglobin is down a little, and platelets are down. The doc (known now as my Parole Officer) is concerned yet again at my slow rate of recovery. So he's moved up the bone marrow biopsy (Number five!) that was scheduled for Friday to Wednesday; the White Coat Folks need it to determine what the heck is going down in my marrow. Are the Oompa-Loompa's just on an extended smoke break and need to get back to work making my cells? Or have the Stupid Zombie Leukemia Cells reinfested? Only the biopsy will tell.

Either way, my furlough is going to be cut short for another stint in The Big House. I'll be getting more chemo, but what kind depends on the results of the biopsy. So I'm looking at another couple of weeks behind bars. And sooner than I anticipated. Apparently I misheard my doctor and thought his "three weeks" meant three weeks from this week. Nope. He meant three weeks from my initial release from the hospital. Dammit.

All this schedule shifting means child care plans have all been thrown higgedly-piggedly. I now have to find someone to watch Little A and someone to give me a ride to and from the hospital (Since they give me the goofy juice for a biopsy, driving is not recommended.). Plus, someone needs to watch Little A while I make my triumphant return to Dancing With Chemo as my mother has to finish out the school year.

Watch as Manda beats her head against the wall.

On top of all this schedule shifting nonsense, I get the additional word that my genetics don't look promising. Apparently on one of my cell lines, I am missing a chromosome at chromosome 7. From what my Parole Officer tells me, this indicates a fairly aggressive form of leukemia (Sweet! Awesome!) which is generally treated with a bone marrow transplant (Rad!). And at that point, all I've got going for me is my youth and the grace of God to get me through to the other side.

Looks like when I wandered off the highway and my RV broke down in LeukemiaTown, I ended up in the slums with a pissed off Denis Leary hunting me down. I ain't got no map, and it's a long way to the border. And Cuba Gooding Jr.'s having a hysterionic fit.

Oh and today is my anniversary. Here's to eight great years! Best husband ever!

The Book of Seder

Or One of the Many Reasons My Husband is My Soulmate.

Soon to be part of Whoa, Camel!'s annual Easter postings (or at least until he tires of seeing it published) is a bit of my husband's brilliant satire. I find it wholly amusing that he, a completely nonreligious person, would take such offense at the hypocrisy engulfing the modern American church in its efforts to market Christianity to the masses. As part of his disgust, he views church-sponsored Easter egg hunts as blasphemous towards Christianity's most holiest of holidays. A few years back, out of frustration with the cloying manner in which Easter is now regarded in most Protestant and non-denominational churches, he penned The Book of Seder, a hitherto missing Gospel wherein Jesus sets the precedence for the revered tradition of egg hunts and chocolate gorging:

And so, as the Seder feast approached, Jesus called unto his disciples and said, “I have received news which is my Father’s news, and that is to be given unto you. That you are to collect the eggs of hens throughout all the land, and bring them to the temple on Seder-eve. There the eggs will be emptied without breaking, and brightly colored so as to show the love of my Father.”

And so the disciples set out upon the land to collect the offerings of hens. And it was so, that they rejoined unto each other on Seder-eve at the temple, each with his measure of eggs. And Peter asked, “Lord, how are we to drain the eggs without breaking them?”

Jesus replied, “Does not the ewer empty with even the smallest hole? We shall prick tiny holes in each end, and blow with forceful breath upon one end, that the yolks shall flow forth. And we shall collect the yolks in great urns, so to bake treats for the children.”

And they began to drain the eggs, with Jesus draining many times his measure. But the disciples were discouraged, for their eggs broke. And they asked unto the Lord, “Lord, our eggs are breaking. Soon there will be no more eggs. How can we present broken eggs in the temple?”

Jesus considered this and replied, “Not all eggs need come from hens, though those that do not must be rich indeed. Peter, look in that urn, and bring forth what you find.” And Peter peered into the urn, and drew forth strange material, shiny and smooth. “Lord, what is this treasure you provide us?”

“Plastic.” And so they continued, filling the plastic eggs with small treasures, baked goods beyond measure and coins bearing Caesar’s image. The eggs of hens were brightly painted to capture the splendor of the Seder feast, and the plastic eggs were filled.

And on the morning of Seder, Simon went to fetch a hare for the noon-day feast. And Jesus said unto Simon, “Cook not the hare, for he represents the work of my Father on this day. Nay, praise the hare, and place an egg before him, that you have painted. And when you see a hare before Seder, say unto any who stand near, ‘Happy Easter’, for the Lord my Father has brought the beasts of the land upon the East winds, so to feed his children the Israelites.” And he asked of Luke, who had thus far sat quietly, “Luke, go to Mary’s house, and request from her that which she has been keeping for me.”

And Luke went to Mary’s house, and retrieved Jesus’ bunny-suit. Then Jesus did say, “Let us go to the mall, and pass out our eggs, but hiding several for the children to find. And afterward, let us dine together, as a family might.”

And so Simon went to fetch an ox, which was not protected by the word of God, and they feasted heartily. And afterward they ate chocolate.

**Oh and in case anyone was wondering, we are sending Little A to Saturday's church egg hunt. Because in the face of a toddler who loves to hide and find all manner of things, we become total hypocrites. And unfortunately, my recent healthcapades have left me with little energy to organizing a Good Friday service like I normally do. I feel like poo that the death and resurrection of Christ won't have gotten my full attention this year. Maybe eating a Cadbury Egg will make me feel better.

The Luckiest

First let me extend my apologies for this post to my dear friends and readers who abhor Valentine's Day. It's a perfectly fine holiday except that Hallmark and jewelry stores have hijacked it and turned the day into an attempt to boost revenue in the post-Christmas buying slump. Because really, nothing says love like some ugly, mass produced piece of shit jewelry.

And trust me, I am one of the most unromantic human beings to ever carry the double x chromosomes. The V-Day festivities tonight will probably involve eating leftovers and running on the elliptical machine. One of my favorite Valentine gifts from my husband was Ice Bat, the Ugly Doll.

But since this is a day dedicated to acknowledging the ones you love, I thought I'd dedicated a few words to my husband, the love of my life and soul mate. It's difficult for me to express my affections for people, even my beloved. Chalk it up to that tidy wall I've built around myself, protecting me from those years of mocking and teasing. I never was one of those women who played cheerleader to their boyfriend or husband; it always struck me as odd when gal constantly proclaims how wonderful and great and amazing her man was, like maybe she had to repeat those sentiments to convince herself they were true.

Anyway...

Dear Adrian,

When I used to see you around campus freshman year, I would always get this weird feeling, not a "sky opens up and rainbows and unicorns descend" kind of feeling. It was this sense that I knew you or should know you or would some day come to know you. The mystical side of me believes that it was that still, small voice of God nudging me towards my personal destiny. Whatever it was, imagine how freaked I felt standing in the first meeting of the German House and realizing you, That Guy, would be living down the hall from me. It took few weeks to con you into finally talking to me (As I recall, you head was firmly planted up the skinny little ass of Janet.) and then a few more weeks to con you into spending waaay to much time together and with decreasing amounts of clothing. Little did I know what I would be getting myself into.

It's funny when I hear us referred to as "college sweethearts". That term seems to come from a far away time of girls wearing their boyfriends' fraternity pins and single sex dorms and the like. "College sweethearts" does not do justice to our severely weird courtship full of potholder battles, long walks in wee hours of the morning, scuffles over trivial things that only two kids just barely out of their teens could find important enough to argue over, adventures in breaking and entering, holding hands constantly, sleeping crammed into itsy dorm beds, and a few incidents that we try to keep Unmentioned. Our friends may have doubted we'd last as long as we did or end up where we are today. But I remember one afternoon, Vivian told me that she'd seen us walking across campus holding hands, me dressed mini skirted with knee socks and Mary Janes and you with your Adidas and chain wallet. She said we looked like the perfect alterna-couple. And that's how I think of us back then. We had this cool, crazy love-thing.

If it hadn't been for you coming into my life, loving me, and willingly taking on all the insanity that is Amanda, I'd probably be single and living alone in some tiny apartment crammed to the gills with half-dying houseplants and more cats than my rental agreement allowed. I'd be spending way too much time watching television (but without the sweet set-up we enjoy now), eating cereal for every meal, and still be decorating my walls with my collection of Christian Slater movie posters. Not there's necessarily anything horribly wrong with that and I do wonder how my days would be spent if our relationship had never been. But I know that I would never have had all the adventures we've shared. I wouldn't have had your companionship to enjoy as part of my every day life, nor your support and love to get me through the rough times. And I certainly wouldn't have our crazybeautiful little man to simultaneously bring me pure joy and unmitigated frustration.

What I'm trying to say is I'm glad I put on my courage hat tight enough to have the nerve to talk to you that first day and that I latched onto you like a tick on a dog because somewhere deep down inside of me was a whispering voice telling me that you were Mine.

You are my one, true love. The only person who has ever seen me for who I am and still wants to share space with me. You have given me some of the happiest moments in my life. You are my rock, only way cuter.

I like you a lot. Do you like me? Circle one: Yes. No. Maybe.

Love,
Amanda

Softy

When Scarlett goes to visit Rhett while he is temporarily incarcerated in a Union jail, she wants him to think she's doing just fine and not about to starve to death out at Tara. She needs his help, his cash, to keep the family homestead afloat. But like the wise little Southern Belle she is, Scarlett knows better than to look desperate; she is looking for money, not pity. So, with Mammy's help she rustles up some pretty fancy duds out of the velvet green draperies, complete with a smart little hat and drawstring purse.

Looking resplendent in her emerald finery, she waltzes into the prison and begins charming the hard-hearted Rhett. Everything is going well until Rhett takes her un-gloved hands into his. Immediately, he noticed that the palms are hardened and calloused. All is not well at Tara; the plantation princess has been working-scrubbing laundry, hoeing in the fields. Her no-longer baby soft hands betray Scarlett's ruse.

Ah, to think that there once was a time that a lady never had to lift a finger for herself and that her adult hands were as tender as a newborn's.

The noblewomen of Dynastic China wore tiny, intricately embroidered slippers with beautifully decorated soles and proclaimed their elevated social status through the pristine state of their shoes. They hardly ever walked anywhere on their teensie little feet, being so rich as to have a cadre of servants to care for them. While I am sure those bound feet looked horrible, like deformed potatoes, the skin on those seldom-used tootsies was probably smooth and petal soft.

After my massage/manicure/pedicure this morning, my hands were not as delicate as antebellum Scarlett's nor were my feet as tender as a ancient Chinese lady's. But damn, they sure felt smoother and softer than they have in a long time.

What a great Mother's Day gift.

Put that thing back where it came from! So help me!

I'za slacker.

In my defense I did just return from a week-long 5th anniversary trip to lovely Asheville, NC, a wonderful little town nestled in the moutains of WNC. Great hiking, food, sights, art, and a scrumdelicous spa.

And no the Amos' have still not seen Episode III. And NO, the Slack Ass Amos' have not been replaced by Pod People. We were on vacation. Sheesh. We managed to miss Lost, for crying out loud. The Hitchiker's Guide is still on our list of flicks to see. But not for long. Heh, heh.

I think my job is trying to drive me insane. I am slowly working my way down to the Ninth Level of Corporate Hell where they will stick my ass in a frozen lake and some demon will gnaw on my exposed limbs.

However, there is a minor bright spot in the near future. My annoying co-worker, BobbleHeaded Turtle Man, will be out for the entire month of June. Which means no complaining, whining, obtuse e-mails, tense spousal phone conversations, frozen lunches that stink like dog food, and most importantly, no nail clipping. Praise God and pass the biscuits.

But guess who gets stuck doing all his work while he's gone?

Lucky me.

Gotta take the good with the bad.

You have T-minus four and a half days to reach minimum safe distance

Today, there will be no nail-clipping. The Bobbleheaded Turtle-Man is out all week. Unfortunately, I will also be out two days this week, missing out on a full week of annoyance-free days at work. Ah well.

Friday, BTM brought his obnoxious daughter into the office. She's about seven-years-old but behaved like she was three. I don't think there was a quiet moment in the last hour I was here. She talked to my boss and then when my boss stopped participating in the conversation, she talked to herself. She sang. She played with noisy toys. Maybe twice, her father made half-assed attempts to get her to calm down and sit with him. Did she? Hells no.

It was as if he knew he would be out all this week and wanted to give us all a friendly send-off care of his bratling spawn. If he only knew the great effort I was making to keep from taping his kid's lips shut and tying her to a chair, he probably woulnd't have tempted fate so much. Ill-behaved children are my nemises.

Sunday, Mr. Harper and I got our fill of boyfriend goodness. Shirtless boyfriend goodness. Yum. The Amityville Horror was ancillary and not very scary at all. For me it served only as a vessel for boyfriend goodness. Like crackers are to peanut butter. Except I normally dispense with the crackers and eat the peanut butter right out of the jar with a spoon. Now, how do I get boyfriend goodness like that?

Hooray to my husband, the champion race car driver! Another win under his belt. I'm so proud. While I was in the movie, he was off kicking some asphalt ass. Smart, handsome, funny, sweet, AND a race car driver. Sheesh! How can one girl be so lucky.

Tonight's Netflix pics: Spanglish or Garden State? Hmmmmmm Dinner: Mexican or Veggie-Boursin Burgers? Life is full of choices.

Corporate Hell Manifesto

My husband is brilliant. Displayed below is an example of said brilliance:


"I've discovered a slight flaw in the Judeo-Christian concept of Hell. Hell is not, as is popularly theorized, an eternity of burning torment and physical pain. Hell is the slow and gradual reduction of man's expectations, hopes, and dreams by constant needling and the presence of aggravating people. Simply put: Sartre was right. Hell is here; Hell is now. Hell is work, as demonstrated by the slow removal of key benefits (education reimbursement, "free" days, etc), the annoying habits of co-workers (nail-clipping, fish-grilling, not washing hands in the bathroom), and the constantly rising demands of management folks whose own responsibilities seem to diminish in an inverse proportion. Hell is 4pm meetings, and the sinking feeling that you'll never escape. Hell is the knowledge that a change of the winds could spell financial doom with "down-sizing", "smart-sizing", and general "work-force reduction".

Hell is the day-to-day, with back-stabbing, burnt popcorn, and Sunday afternoon pager alerts."

Fuck this shit. I'm getting out. I'd much rather suffer the slings and arrows of nine-year-olds than any more of this corporate pig slop in which I am forced to wallow.

Squirrel Girl

I’m anxious, maybe because I won’t have a full weekend to relax and kick around the house for a month. My nerves are wound up tight as cheerleader’s ponytail, and no, I am no longer freebasing OTC decongestants. I feel like Lucy, my skittish black cat. One out-of-place noise and I’m clattering out of the room with my claws out and my tail puffed.

On Monday, I got to work three hours late. I thought that I had by chance avoided the weekly nail clippings. Not so. 12:45 p.m. and the snip-snipping began. God help me, but one day I am going to wrench those fucking clippers out of his hands and run out of the building, never to be heard from a again.

This past weekend was non-stop chaos as Adrian and I shuttled from one social commitment to another. The visit to Williamsburg was nice, crap weather aside. Even though my quest for Tori tickets was fruitless (damn you Ticketmaster!), I had Zen shopping and lunch at the ‘Tec. It’s weird to explore the little town I know and love with someone other than Adrian. Since I roamed about with someone new I didn’t stick to my usual path and discovered places in the ‘burg I didn’t know existed.

For starters, there was the B&B we stayed in Friday night, the Aldrich House. Tucked off of Second Street on a non-descript cul-de-sac, the Aldrich House was a spacious, yet homey B&B run by Tom and Sue Patton and lorded over by the resident feline princess and three-legged wonder, KC. We were lucky to be the only guests in the place, so we took advantage of the huge great room to chill out after a wonderfully filling dinner at Christiana Campbell’s Tavern and bond with the purr machine KC.

Adrian and I stayed in the lovely Patton Room, and my only regret was that I didn’t get to enjoy a bubble bath in the massive whirlpool tub. Breakfast was excellent with huge slices of French toast, a bowl of sliced fresh fruit, sausage (that everyone else enjoyed), and scrambled eggs. I got a little mushy inside when I noticed that the juice glasses were the same type of hand-blown flutes Adrian and I used to make our first toast at our wedding reception. Our stay was made particularly special by an early morning visit by KC, who slept in the bed with us for a few hours and made use feel like we were at home curled up with our own kitty babies.

This was our third B&B experience since this summer, and I’d have to say it ranks slightly under the exceptional Barclay Cottage of Virginia Beach and their massive gourmet breakfasts, awesome personal attention, and perfect location. At the bottom ranks our stay at the Gentry House in NOLA. While the price and location were just right, I felt like we were afterthoughts to the innkeeper as he was taking classes. Amenities were sparse and our rooms did not get cleaned daily (or at all during our week’s stay, I think), but we did get rocking croissants for breakfast each morning and killer restaurant recommendations.

We’ll definitely stay at the Aldrich House again, and since being bitten by the B&B bug, will continue to find ourselves seeking out accommodations at inns rather than the typical hotel/motel experience.

My second ‘burg discovery was Mermaid Books on Prince George St. Tucked in a tiny basement shop below Parlett’s, Mermaid Books could be considered my ideal store: crammed to the gills with used and vintage books, tchotcke of various decades, and tons of ephemera here and there throughout the shelves. Add a dash of vintage clothes and hats, and I would have thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Evelyn had to practically drag me away when it came time to go find Tori tickets. If I’d known what a fruitless expedition that turned out to be, I would have stayed happy as a clam amongst the shelves and boxes so precariously arranged until I was weak with hunger and could no longer stand. I don’t know how long Adrian will stand the claustrophobic atmosphere and the proliferation of old stuff, but I will return to the Mermaid next ‘burg trip.

Congrats to my husband and his navigator Jeff who won their class in the Rides of March Rally. This was their first rally, and I am just pleased as punch for their success. Luck number 13, after all.

Be jealous. I’m going on a date tomorrow night.