My offensive rant

This is a yearly curmudgeonly invective due to my own underlying sense of alert but annoyance with the celebration of disease.

I had breast cancer in 2002. It's been nine years. I'm very lucky. People who think they're "cured" are delusional, because it can always come back. As a recurrence or as a new presentation.

However, I don't like the color pink. I'm sick of seeing pink. I'm tired of folks slamming their stories in our faces about their valiant efforts against breast cancer. Not because they aren't valiant efforts, for which I applaud everyone, but because they're cemented in our consciousness as somehow more worthy of attention, angst, attagirl/boys, whatever.

I don't live every day thinking about breast cancer. I did while I was undergoing treatment, but, I still had to work and put up with daily crap and try to be normal. At times I wasn't good at it.

In the meantime there are spouses, friends and relatives who have had prostate cancer at the same time, or leukemia or Hodgkin's Disease or colon cancer or lung cancer or diabetes or heart attacks or...all of whom are dealing with the same day to day hovering of possible reoccurrence.

Which disease should we celebrate? How many people just live their lives day to day and deal with whatever happens without propping themselves up as heroes and martyrs and flagbearers?

It gets old. It may come back. It may not. Other peeps's crud may come back or it won't. I might get an ingrown toenail that gets infected and I die of septicemia. A piano may fall on me as I walk to my car. Which would be quite amazing since there aren't many musical offices where we work.

And, I question where the money goes with all the hoopla around some of the larger fundraisers. I'm sure some goes to research, which is lovely, but in the end, so much of this is marketing. Marketing a disease.

Pisses me off.

Perception is reality

Don't you just want to smash Timothy Geithner in the face? Is he not one of those people that, for no reason, of course there are reasons, but pretend there aren't and just pretend he's the one not picked for dodge ball, that you want to throw the ball directly at his face? He has that anemic worried, sexless, east coast tightness about him that is just...offputting. And dodgeball targeting.

If I were a eurotrash sort calling him out on his stupid shit, and, of course, his boss's shit, I would SO make fun of his hair? Expressions? His lack of testosteronishness?

And then there's pretty Janet N.

I pride myself on my substantive evaluation of political dweebs.

Dreams

Symbolism much? The other morning I woke up after a dream that lasted about ten minutes which I know for a fact since I'd looked at the alarm and had allowed myself ten exact minutes to go back to sleep and I did and so I dreamt.

It involved me going to my bedroom door to see our youngest with a bunch of people from a local Methodist church (?!?) who had done an extreme makeover on our house. They'd replaced the ceramic tile, cabinets and any other covering of any sort with oak looking particle board. It was rather attractive actually...

I remember remarking on the rubber drawer covers and wondering...


But, all they wanted was some food which we didn't have so, well, order a pizza?

Shit. I had a nice new wood covered house.

Then I woke up and realized I still needed to figure out where the cat pee smell was coming from. This was before we had extry cats deposited due to elder Frothlet's trip to a wedding and whose cats hadn't had an opportunity to pee anywhere even though they brought NO KITTY LITTER.

I'm thinking Merv did dastardly deeds as did Dot, which is just wrong. Wrong, because they don't do those dastardly deeds inside anymore. Or maybe they did. Whatever, I swiffered tonight and although random shit still resides upstairs the cat pee doesn't.

Booyah.

Flu shots

Yes, sometimes one does have a reaction to them. That sucker has knocked me for a loop for two days. Thanks docs!

And the Elaine dance

And I noticed that that was exactly what it was. Yay me.

And of course

The garter get.

Conga line

Here's Frothlet #2 leading the line during which I was pulled into immediately after this pic. I lasted at least 5 minutes.

Untoward behavior

After my statement that the reception was all lovely and stellar and well-behaved, it must be said that the after party at the La Quinta (the LOVELY La Quinta next to the bowling alley that apparently had a wedding reception the night before us. Really. I would not lie. Or else it was our younger group sorts filtering out. I dunno.) was rather unbecoming of some sorts. Not moi, of course. I just sat there thinking,"It's not me, this time! Whoo hooo!" "It's not Mr. Froth!"

Certain peeps felt compelled to reenact their hallucinated role in a movie that required Native American chants. Again and again and again. It was awesome.

And then, the groomsmen and ushers  appeared and did a fabulous ventriloquist bit called Nips and Tips that featured Mr. Froth's jeans shorts. Really don't ask. If you feel like it, youtube it. Nips and Tips. You'll see two babyfaced gents, one on another's lap answering questions. With squawking laughs in the background. That would be Mr. Froth.

Verklemptish

Still. What with residual wedding verklemptitude, and worrying about everybody who's burning up around us and hoping that we're not next verklemptitude, and 911 verklemptitude...I feel like Wiley Coyote's anvil has alit upon my back.

But, buck up, Bucko! We're employed. We have a wonderful family and friends. And Dot and Merv. And anoles and sometimes raccoons and possums. And non-grilled ribs for dinner because I won't let Mr. Froth grill.

I must energize. I must start painting again. I must write. I must clean the floors. Perhaps I'll pick my hangnails and ruminate instead. Or drink a glass of wine. Or laugh with Mr. Froth. Or compose an actual sentence with subject and predicate and clauses and such. (See Elements of F*$&#* Style.)

Instead, I shall post a pick of my new bestie from the wedding, one of our groomsmen who kept pulling me out to dance and hijacked me into the conga line and discussed libertarian sorts of views at the end of the reception. GOOD TIMES PEEPS! (That is NOT anything gross by my armpit.It's just a shadow. I mean. Ew. I think my skin turned green or something from the dress or...geez. What IS that?)

What a long short week

Please rain. Please rain. But, for your viewing pleasure, here's something pretty.

Back! And hoo boy it was TREMENDOUS!

Once I get the pictures we got loaded, which don't include any actual wedding pictures, because we were, like IN it, I'll post some. The NEW Mrs. Frothlet #1 is non pareil. Her family and friends are as well. I got to see relatives and friends I hadn't seen in awhile, make new ones, and we all puffed out our eyes from laughing.

New inlaws rock. Reception was stellar. After parties were painfully fun and made the drive home tiring. Like it's not anyway, ten hours, mumble, mumble.

To the north and west of us is a fairly major fire-Magnolia, Texas. During our drive home on Monday we saw seven fires on the horizon, some with smoke wafting across the freeway. Our local fire, local within 20 miles,  created enough haze and smoke that the drive from Huntsville to The Woodlands was a smoky mess.

If we don't get some rain at some point, I just dunno. We be living in interesting times. When Mr. Froth can't grill it's epic.