Little Jen at LCBO

Not that I frequent my local LCBO all that much.....ok, yeah I do, but in my defense it's only wine and I do have a great joke about Domain D'or ( it's right dere).
It's a little LCBO and must admit that I do know the names of most of the employees. They don't know my name, but they sure as hell know my face. I guess it registered that, lately I have been wearing hats a lot and, knowing how much they gossip.....they will gladly identify every drunk in town.... there has clearly been speculation about my mortality.

Little cashier Jen.....mousy, gimpy, cross eyed Jen asked me today if I was ok. So...ok the store was empty and, given the well known side effect of chemo-babble.....I told little Jen in 2,000 words or less, that I was fine. Well didn't little Jen just grab my hand, look at me with a limpid, cross eyed gaze and tell me that she had been worried about me and was so glad to hear that I was ok.

Ever cry at LCBO ? And not because you screeched into the parking lot 2 minutes after they closed ?

It seems that the concern you get, at times, comes from people you barely know. It's sweet, but it's bittersweet. Cancer is lonely. It separates you. I guess people think you might be contagious.....dumbasses !!

Ok, if you threw me into a swimming pool I would likely rotate to the right in endless circles but I can still form rudimentary sentences, I can still choose the correct fork for salad and I can still dance like a stripper on quaaludes. But who would know ?

I fear becoming Miss Havisham......there are enough fucking cobwebs around me to substantiate that concern, but let's make it clear that there is no wedding dress involved....just a well worn pair of yoga pants and a sweater that accommodates the arm penis.

Yes, this was a rant. Come on dudes....I'm entitled. And I was at LCBO today.

Little Jen.....you will forever be employee of the month.

What They Don't Tell You

The pre-chemo information session is chock full of all the scary things that can happen to you.
You can get an infection and watch your skin bubble and peel.
You can projectile vomit in an upscale restaurant while wearing a scary wig.
You can lose the feeling in your feet and fall down the stairs causing said wig to fly off and land at your side like a dead cat.
You can completely lose your love of cheeseburgers.

What they don't tell you is that you can become bi-polar. They don't tell you that one minute you may be sobbing over how dumb you look in hats and the next minute you might be ordering Chinese food for 20 just in case the navy stops by.
They don't tell you that you might just yell at your slippers because they are on the wrong feet and they don't tell you may spend half an hour in the Wine Rack making the fat ladies laugh about your arm-penis ( cancer translation = Pic line ).

I think I will affect a mutiny in the pre-chemo information sessions.

"Dude, forget the vomit scare. You are going to have Tourrette's Syndrome for 6 months. Hire a lawyer."

Clubs

Yeah...I have been kicked out of a lot of clubs.

I think I was first kicked out of the girl club when I was a snotty little British child. I played with the boys. I didn't like the girls. They were judgmental and exclusionary even at such a young age.
I have been kicked out of the woman club many times. I still play with the boys.....but when you look very much like a woman, you become suspect of either being a lipstick lesbian or simply being a man-stealer. I mean, let's get real.....I never mowed my lawn in a bikini, but in the eyes of all the wives in my neighborhood... ..it could have happened on any given Saturday and all of the husbands would have invented reasons to inspect their grass. Yes, I know....guys love grass....and really!!!! I'm not that hot.

I have been, relatively speaking, kicked out of the woman club because I regularly spill "woman secrets". I will quite happily tell any man that women just don't know what they want. They really don't. We will trick you into thinking that we do but, in reality, unless the cabin boy races down the deck, climbs the rigging and rings the bell.....we really don't have a clue.

I have been kicked out of the dating club. You are either too needy or just not needy enough. You play it cool and they fuck off because you weren't interested. You play it hot and they fuck off because you are clearly just too much to handle. You walk the median...and once again, you might just be a lesbian.

I was kicked out of the mom club. Ok, it was Massachusetts, and in Massachusetts all women have the same haircut and wear Laura Ashley. They have advanced degrees but spend their down time trading recipes and decorating their homes in shades of cranberry and leaf green. I decorated my home with pink flamingos who had an outfit for every occasion. I could have got away with it if I looked like a Kennedy. My teeth aren't that big.

They will soon kick me out of the cancer club. I just don't take it seriously enough and this blog is ample proof. Dude, I ain't never going to raise my hand and label myself as a "survivor". I had it. I did the chemo time.....I may have actually drooled a few times in my3 day stupor, but in the end, I just put on a dumb hat, head for LCBO, and tell dumbass Dieter that I still don't need a bag.

One club I will never be kicked out of is a biker club. Bikers have always loved me. I went to my senior prom with a biker. I think they see me as someone in need of their protection. I have always been blonde and innocent looking. I've always had a biker in my back pocket......don't get me started on cops. 

The Things You Realize

I have elf ears. They are not so pointy as to find the north star....but if Peter Jackson passed me on the street....I would have a lifetime contract in Hobbit movies.

I have a perfectly shaped head. Cut it off and drill 5 holes in it....you could easily bowl a strike.

Sometimes you have to let go. You may have once found the perfect guy.....but hey, if he doesn't realize that you were just as perfect after 6 months, then he is just plainly as bright as a small appliance bulb and will burn out just as fast.

Sometimes you have to embrace the completely imperfect guy. You inhabit a very small space in his life, and yet he tells you every day that you are beautiful....even when you know that you are not. He tells you every day that you are desirable....he tells you that the scars don't matter and you believe him. You believe him because you need to.

Sometimes....most times you will hold on to that which makes you smile. It may be temporary....but while it lasts it is golden.

Sometimes we just take what we get, accept that we are nuts, and drive our car into oncoming traffic regardless of the perils.

Where Everybody knows Your Name

You can always spot the newbies in the cancer center. When you are first diagnosed they give you a blue bag. It's the cancer bag and it is filled with all manner of helpful pamphlets about the 852 potential chemo side effects and how to approach intimacy. It may be a long shot,,,,,,but damn my legs are smooth !!
Anyway, the newbies all bring their blue bag to subsequent appointments. You see them wandering around in a daze, clutching their blue bag as though it contains state secrets and a few uncut diamonds from Antwerp.
Us pros, we don't carry the blue bag. We don't need them as a name tag. We are there in our dumb hats.....what more proof of membership do you need ?

It does seem however, that everyone seems to know my name. I have been banished to the far corner of the chemo lounge (yes they call it a lounge.....no karaoke, no mai tais). It seems that I am a troublemaker. I make the nurses giggle. It is a very serene environment you see....lots of knitting and whispering. Well even the unfamiliar nurses call my in by my first name only now. They all seem to know who I am and I see the silent looks of "put her in the corner" pass between them. A few of them have already adopted my name of "The Acme Coyote Killer" for the giant chemo needles they try to intimidate you with.

I am Norm apparently. They just say "Olwyn !!". But they don't give me a beer.

Notes on Nurses

You have to love nurses. They have seen it all. They have done things that you wouldn't do after 12 Kamikazes and a bong.
They know what you are talking about when you refer to your drainage tubes as testicles and your PIC line as an arm penis. They love tape !!! They probably know more dirty jokes than Andrew Dice Clay and could take down a charging rhino with hemostats and a roll of gauze.
I don't want to know what they do at home with hemostats and a roll of gauze but you can rest assured they will have a good time doing it.

After the birth of my first child I heard 2 nurses in the hallway outside my room loudly comparing the size of their respective patients' hemorrhoids. I fondly remember the patient in the next room who took home a new baby and "a bunch of grapes".

You have to love them......and I do !

and hey.....serious cred to me for spelling hemorrhoids right on the first try !!