Only Mr. Pansy

Only Mr. Pansy

Something Pansy Found 2 Lifetimes Ago

Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, But to be fearless in facing them.
Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain,
But for the heart to conquer it.
Let me not look for allies in life's battlefield,
But to my own strength.
Let me not crave in anxious fear to be saved,
But hope for the patience to win my freedom.
Grant me that I may not be a coward,
Feeling your mercy in my success alone,
But let me find the grasp of your hand in my failure.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)

Thursday, October 30, 2008


No wonder I felt so fucking awful while riding 70-ish miles this past Saturday! In fact, I felt SO bad that on Sunday I threw a tantrum and REFUSED to ride more than 40 miles. I was still feeling not great on Monday but I went to work anyway. Mostly because I have a lunch date every Monday with My Very Most Christian Friend Vicki at Denny's and I will fucking do ANYTHING for a free ass lunch. Including talking/listening to her.

She and I told each other long ago.... god, I think I have known her for almost 10 years? Fuck, no wonder she looks so much older and haggier now! hahahaha! Naw. In fact, she is a Dead Ringer for a (oxymoron alert!) "good looking Camilla". The Camilla that married Prince Homeliest Man Who Would Be King (but for the fact that his oldass bitch of a mom will NOT fucking die already!) in the history of inbred Englishmen. If Camilla were "prettied up"....she would look like Vicki.

Anyways, we told each other long ago that we could be friends and say anything to each other no matter what. Well, she evidently has the nerve to take me at my lying-through-my-teeth word and said this OUT LOUD:

Vicki: I voted "yes" on every proposition on the ballot just to Make Sure I did NOT mess up voting Yes on Prop. 8 (allows gay marriage in California).

Me: [choking on food and nearly passing out.] WHAT?

Vicki said (OUT LOUD again!) that Prop. 8 just could not happen because then sex will be taught to 2nd graders.

Vicki, honey, there's plenty of "sex education" going on already at the hands of priests, ministers, and second graders' own damn parents! And Pansy ain't talking about the Good Kind of sex education. But I don't tell her that. It would not change her mind about Prop. 8. Amazingly, her parents bankroll the Democratic Party so this just has to be breaking their elderly hearts to have raised such spawn of satan. hahahhahahha! Even the most insane throwback caveperson mentality knows that gay marriage isn't gonna kill anyone. Except in gay marriage domestic violence situations, I suppose. I just don't understand people who worry about gay marriage. I mean how did Vicki arrive at that side of the issue? With her parentage, she couldn't have been BORN that way, could she? hahahhahahaha! (That was a twist pun on gays being born that way. In case you didn't get it.)

Anyways....THAT is not what made Pansy feel so bad during her bike rides. Especially since the bike rides happened before the lunch with Vicki. No, what happened is I went in for chemo today and waddayaknow? I have a FEVER! I am SICK! I think it's all you internet people. I probably have an Internet Virus! hahahahahhaha! (THAT'S another twist on another pun. In case you didn't get it.) But then I ran a scan on my computer and there aren't any viruses there. So you assholes are off the hook. Hey! That's ANOTHER pun! ("Off the hook" means different things depending on your elderliness. In case you didn't get it.)

So I am left wondering "what's up" or, to better relate to you buncha punks "wassup?" I eventually figured out what happened. I filled out my absentee ballot and I VOTED FOR JOHN McCAIN AND YOU CAN'T STOP ME. But not to worry. I live in California and this state's Electoral College has already long gone loopy over Barry Obama so my vote totally does not count, makes not a bit of difference, and I am even all down with Obama being President. Even so, I VOTED FOR JOHN McCAIN.

Anyways, I have been Actually Really Trying to study and educate myself for this stupid election. In case you babies don't know: in every election EVER there has always been One Candidate who had it in the bag. And without exception That Candidate always then proceeds to do their damndest to lose the fucking bag. J0HN McCAIN, WHOM I VOTED FOR has done the Very Most Perfect Job of Fucking Blowing His Bag that Pansy has ever witnessed.

I voted sensibly and educatably (Is that a word? Looks like I need some more edumacation my own stupid self!) on the Propositions and I am generally FOR anything that involves Education or Prevention. So I supported money for junior colleges (they are the Higher Education Lifeline for people who are never going to get into Big Time Colleges) and I supported lighter sentences that included diversion programs for certain non-violent drug crimes.

Because if society does not give its marginal, slipping between the cracks people a hand in mercy they will find themselves being bitch slapped in about 5 years by a marginal person that has a gun in one hand and crack in the other. And NO junior college credits, neither!

Anyways, I know what made Pansy sick. It wasn't that PANSY VOTED FOR JOHN McCAIN. It was the stress of voting her leanings and feelings in the face of this Mass Hysteria over Obama. He is NOT the Chosen One. He is a politician.

Hey! Are we allowed to discuss politics on the internet? If not, the jury will please disregard the prior statements in this post. hahahhahahahahhahahahahahahhaha!


Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Pansy Turns Great Tricks!

Oddly enough, Pansy does not "DO Halloween" even though it is the quintessential "trick or treat" occasion. But she is waaayyyy into April matter what day of the year the calendar claims it really is.

1. Put a split loop (used to attach charms to bracelets) on nostril so it appears to have been pierced. Become annoyed by everyone at work because they don't even question that Pansy would actually DO something that. Switch loop from nostril to nostril during day. Become incredulous that NO ONE NOTICES the switcheroo-ing. Go into attorney's office to complain that the Office Manager is having a hissy fit. IF Attorney continues looking down at paperwork on desk increase the complaining with aggravated tone and say "the piercing parlor assured me this is an acceptable Business Look and now I am being told I have to remove it." Enjoy seeing attorney look up, stare, lay head facedown on desk and say "Pansy, what are we going to do with you? And, yes, you are going to have to remove that piercing." Remove piercing "forcefully" by yanking it out while squeezing opened ketchup packet cleverly pre-concealed in palm of hand. Cry out in "pain". Revive attorney.

2. Start new job (NOT because of prior "nose piercing" incident) and learn on Day 2 that the Office Holiday Party is in one week. Ask what the dress code will be for the party. It's "casual." Boldly Declare "I don't care. I am dressing up." Whole office decides that sounds nice and they are in formal wear on the Day of Party. Arrive in lovely holiday dress festooned with fish-shaped battery-powered lights and other ornaments attached all over dress. [Be careful when sitting.] When asked where the batteries for the lights are, say "Only my gynecologist knows for certain." Somehow keep job.

3. When it's really hot outside and co-workers need a refreshing drink? Fill glasses with ice cubes, a few ounces of Coca Cola, and lots of yesterday's old, room temperature, mold-filled (well, one can always hope) coffee. The Coke gives it just enough fizz to entice co-workers to take a big thirsty gulp. Run away before spewing begins.

4. Place stickers over the earpiece of telephone handsets of co-worker(s). Add layers of stickers on top of stickers until co-workers believe they are going deaf. The stickers can even be BRIGHT GREEN or YELLOW or RED but somehow are never noticed. Sometimes the co-workers will shout into the phone to see if the caller is also having difficulty hearing. Especially if you do #5:

5. Call co-worker with stickered up phone, disguise voice, shout back and forth with them......while you are in your cubicle RIGHT NEXT TO IDIOT CO-WORKER.

6. Use GREEN Sharpie Felt Pen for lipstick. It looks awful, tastes worse, and makes your teeth look like they have been soaked in week-old yellow urine. Mmmmmmm. Wear many different shades of green clothing together. Oddly, it embarrasses [bonus!] your friends/co-workers to be seen with you even if it IS St. Patrick's Day.

7. When riding bicycles if a lizard, but especially a SNAKE, is nearby tell rider in front of you that it has gotten tangled up in their rear wheel spokes. Enjoy their screams and amusing body gyrations. Be careful to avoid them should they crash.

8. Carry automotive oil with you at all times. When co-worker is showing off new vehicle/motorcyle pour oil underneath vehicle so that it appears to be leaking from their new treasure. They look so cute when they get "upset".

9. This is the only Pansy Trick that really must be used ONLY ON APRIL FOOL'S DAY! Tell attorney that the firm's Most Important Client has just called and is quite angry about why no one was at airport to pick them up. Confess that you forgot to let anyone know that the Client had called and told you that information a week ago. Use defribrillator that you have brought to office in preparation for this joke on attorney. When attorney is sufficiently recovered, at his urging pull same joke on Office Manager. Barely keep job.

10. Obtain just enough information from strangers via the internet and use it to trick them into believing you are their "friend". Then dump on them a fake email you have made out of whole cloth about how a "mutual internet friend" hates them. Laugh heartily over their freakout. Oh, wait. That was YOU? Sooo sorry! hahahhahahahaha!

There are more. Perhaps you have some to share? Just know that if you share, Pansy will move heaven and earth to twist it and use it on you. hahahahhahaha!

Thursday, October 16, 2008


I originally only came here for your planet's water. Who knew your fucking gravity would make Pansy have to stay the rest of her life?

I am a fine and sturdy mare. [Read: fat from those fucking steroids.] I have been dieting since 7/1/06 when I was awakened by the same old/same old: the singing birds, the nectar on muffins, the several partially-clothed, muscular Man Servants fawning at my bedside. HO HUM. But 7/1/06 was different in that I also awoke with this thought/command suddenly screaming at me in my brain: I am going on a diet and this time I really mean it.

The "This Time I Really Mean It Diet" involves:

1. Eating less food. I do a combo of my version of WeightWatchers and my version of Special K's cereal diet. I have tea/toast for breakfast; chicken salad lunch, cereal or spaghetti for dinner. The worst? NO DESSERTS EVER. Except for those 4-5 pieces of coconut cream pie (crack on a plate) I have had since 7/1/06, I mean it about the NO DESSERTS EVER. God, who fucking made THAT rule up?

2. Exercising vigorously (my version of "vigorously" anyway) most days of the week which I do by riding my bicycle. I rode 8,000+ miles in 2007 and am on track for only 5500 miles for 2008. Shut up, you hyenas! I got waylaid this year with 3 surgeries so I have a doctor's note that excused me from P.E. Is that okay with you fuckers? God, there's a critic in every damn crowd.

3. Going to bed angry and hungry. The going to bed angry thing is nothing new but that going to bed hungry shit is really ratcheting up the Anger Quotient. And, please guys: no matter how many times you offer it up, us wimmin do NOT consider your Special Male Appendage to be an acceptable substitute for a "snack". So stuff it, already. And I don't mean THERE, either! God, you horndogs are sooo predictable.

Oh, how I have prayed for an eating disorder. I would only want it for a month or two, okay? After all, I am not greedy. I just want to be NOT FAT. Actually, currently I am NOT FAT. Just not as NOT FAT as I want to be. I topped out at 218 pounds. I did not even hit 100 pounds until after I graduated from high school so that is some Big Momma for me.

The worst is right now: Size 12 clothes are too big/Size 10 clothes are too tight. Nothing fits! Now you know why Pansy has to go to Jamaica for vacations: it's the naked resort for me until this diet thing gets me out of my current awkward-in-between size.

No. Wait! Pansy is [gasp!] WRONG! The WORST of it is this: with the dieting and the exercise I do, why in hell don't I weigh 102 pounds al-fucking-ready? I have lost just under 1 pound per week since 7/1/06. Who the fuck has been stealing those "2 pounds per week" that I am supposed to lose? I can't even manage to lose 1 pound a week. dammit.

I know, I know. It's those Magic Meals I eat the day of/day after chemo: Velveeta Cheeeezee grilled sandwich/tomato soup/7-Up. With white sugar sprinkled on top of it all. WHITE SUGAR IS NOT A just has low self-esteem. And those steroids. Why do cancer patients get fucked over on even the steroids? Why can't we get the Muscle Steroids instead of those stupid Health Steroids? No wonder that Pansy packed on a few pounds between the steroids and the "After Chemo Anything That Goes Down Is All Good." NO, PANSY DOES NOT MEAN SHE "GOES DOWN" after chemo. Even if, you know, she does. Damn fucking one-track-mind horndogs. Which is not at all like a big hot and salty Corndog.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

The Streets Will Run With The Blood Of Pansy

Well, gotta have a dramatic title, ya know. Pansy has decided she actually has only ONE ISSUE. It's them damned Needles. Pansy will confess to (hell, she'll actually COMMIT) the most heinous crimes ever if doing so will allow her to avoid a needle in her personal space. Or anywhere else in her body for that matter. She had a "childhood trauma" that totally ruined Pansy for life about needles. I won't even discuss how it totally fucks up her ability to properly maintain a decent heroin habit, ya know.

As an Air Force Brat, I lived in San Salvador, El Salvador from ages 3 through 9. Vaccinations or "shots" of some horrible kind or another on a regular basis were de rigueur. All kinds of shots. Every one of them nasty. In every limb. Every few months. By the end of each "shots day" my siblings and I would be quite paralyzed from muscular pain, swelling, and etc. (It's that goddam "etc." that gets ya every time!) Our "treat" was we were each given a fucking paddle ball toy. It was a little rubber ball tethered to a wooden paddle with an elastic string. We would paddle ball the holy shit out of our miserable little selves on orders from our military parents supposedly to loosen up our muscles. It just added to the pain as far as my memory is concerned. Whatever sadistic bastard invented that piece of shit toy......well, just wait til Pansy gets her hooves on him! Poor Paddle Balls. They are probably innocent "happy memories" for other children. NOT FOR PANSY!

All in all, it's been a damned good thing for Pansy that for most of her life she was always as healthy as THREE Clydesdale horses put together. No major injuries, no stitches. Look, Ma! No cavities! A fairytale somewhat needle-free life until that fateful day.....when Pansy decided to make a friend. A very selfish friend who all of a sudden decided SHE wanted some major surgery. Which required lots of blood. So Stupid Pansy went and donated blood. What a mistake that was.

Donating blood means voluntarily allowing a needle to tear a hole in my pristine flesh. Did you know that? It's true! And for what? There is NO BENEFIT TO YOURSELF from donating blood. "Save a Life." Piffle. At least you get immunity with vaccinations. Next to me at the blood place was a Big, Burly Man. Not as Manned Up as Pansy, of course. And what happens to the Big Man and Man Pansy? We both go into low grade shock from the "trauma" of donating blood and begin weeping! What the fuck?! So we are weeping and laughing at the ludicrous situation we find our manly selves in.

The blood people are not amused and they shuffle us off to another room so we can't continue making a scene and scaring off other would-be blood donors. They monitor us and called our respective people to come take us home since we were not fit to drive. A couple hours later each of us, now best of manly friends, still weeping and laughing, leave with our spouses. And have to make arrangements to get our extra cars home, too. The next day, to add insult on top of injury, the blood people called me to let me know my blood was unsuitable and THEY THREW IT AWAY! My friend did get "blood credits" for my attempt. Sheesh. They threw it away because it contained Hepatitis B stuff/germs/whatever. I was ordered to never again darken their door. hahahhahha! Fine, fuckers! THAT stupid rule is one Pansy will gladly obey.

Years later when I was pregnant with Daughter #2 the Hepatitis B vaccine had just been invented and mass produced so all pregnant women were subjected to blood testing for Hepatitis B. Of course, I came back positive for Hep-B. My ignorant obstetrician handled it by bringing down all kinds of hellfire damnation talk on me. I finally said "so what am I supposed to do here?" He said "get an appointment ASAP with a gastroenterologist and don't come back until you have seen one and we have his report." I literally walked out of there in such shock and dismay that I said to Mr. Pansy "Now I know what someone who has just been told they have AIDS must feel like." And I meant it.

As I drove home from the obstetrician I decided "Well, I'm dead meat; Mr. Pansy is probably dead meat; I will try to save my child (daughter #1)." I called her pediatrician that day and somehow from the tone in my voice that Wonderful Angel Doctor told me to hang up and come right away to his office--that very minute. He made patients wait while he sat me down and read aloud, tracing his finger on the words, from some big doctor book all about Hep-B. He did everything so right and wonderful and he saved my sanity.

The various doctors and I decided there is little doubt that during the years in Central America those needles were used on: horses; goats; swiped on a sleeve; me. Not necessarily always in that order. Sometimes the goats went first. But I am from Strong German Stock (Percherons, I hope) and my bout with Hep-B was probably thought to be a bad cold or flu. Plus there was nothing to be done back then even if anything else was suspected. So, after bunches of tests and I am not a "Hepatitis B carrier" which upsets Mr. Pansy because, as usual, he is always looking for some way out of this hellish marriage he finds himself ensnared in. The kids are safe, alive and well and I gave the obstetrician Quite the Piece of Pansy's Mind.

The tie-in here to Present Day is two-fold.

FIRST TIE-IN: back then the gastro-guy told me "You are healthy but there is an increased risk that you'll have liver issues later on when you're over 50." Well, whaddayaknow? I did eventually end up "in my 50s" with "liver issues". I don't have liver cancer but I do have a liver that is smothered in jillions of tumors. Which is not at all like having liver that is smothered in onions. When I got my cancer news what kept me alive at that moment were these 3 thoughts, in this order:

1. I am so glad this is not a surprise. Surprising people is Pansy's Turf! That gastro-guy did warn me and I am shocked, but at least I am not completely blindsided.
2. I am so glad my children are grown up.
3. I am so glad we are somewhat financially stable.

I was GLAD...GLAD, GLAD, GLAD, SO VERY FUCKING GLAD when I got my cancer news! Haw! Not quite, but survival genes evidently run very strong in my emotional makeup and I was in survival overdrive instantaneously. I probably have terrific powers of denial and I am very driven by Shame. I would literally die from shame if I did not have the guts to do whatever was asked of me to fight this cancer. I will take any drug, drink any combination of mammal/insect piss, put any kind of suppository up any orifice. I will not let myself die from having chosen to NOT try some option....offered by DOCTORS. I won't be traveling to Mexico for powdered apricot pits ala Steve McQueen but I would be terribly embarrassed if anyone anywhere could ever say "She didn't try."

SECOND TIE-IN: I may not be able to donate blood ever again but guess what? Me and my Hep-B got passed on to my daughters in a Most Bizarre Classic Only With Pansy way: they each have SUPER BLOOD which contains the magic ingredients needed to make the Hep-B vaccine! Their blood is literally worth more than its weight in gold. Take THAT, stoopid blood donor place.

Moral of Story: be careful....that blood you drink at your next Midnight Dance Naked Under The Full Moon Ritual just might be from Pansy via her daughers' donations! hahahhahahahaha!

Friday, October 10, 2008


It's taken me awhile to process this event and some of you know the story but here it is again, anyway.

People I know think I am so "brave" with my cancer. It's because they believe that bullshit about cancer. It uses its Big Bad Scary Muthafucka street rep to scare people who don't have cancer. Getting cancer is not a good way to learn that it is actually a cowardly pathetic chickenshit that has no purpose other than to lie in wait for its chance to attack when no one is looking. Come out front and center, Cancer. Then we'll see who's the Real Muthafucka.

Since I got cancer I think of myself this way: I have become my own Special Needs person. I still love me, take care of me, am glad for what I can do, proud of what improvements I achieve, and once in awhile I even mope around because Pity Parties are a part of NORMAL people's everyday lives.

I will never again be the person I used to be. But every day each of us is no longer the person we were yesterday. At best we are one day older, one day more feeble, one day closer to dying. Everyone has to go through that even if they don't ever have cancer. Every day is a day that might turn out to be the day you embark on a "New Normal". You make a decision that changes the course of your life. An event occurs that changes the course of your life. Some are positive (marriage, babies); some totally suck (marriage, babies). I mean: Some are "not so positive." Like cancer. But "totally suck" or "not so positive"......."New Normals" don't deserve to be given any more power than they actually have. Why should cancer be given any Special Power? Power to the People! [Pansy was a Black Panther back in the day, doncha know?! After she got done being an Aztec Warrior Amazon.]

I have also always been a Daredevil. Got that "spark" that makes me a Fierce Competitor. It's all good so long as my "spark" is channeled into Legal Activities! hahahhaa! Just kidding. I always been a Good Girlie. But I have learned that when a Daredevil Patient meets a Daredevil Doctor that's when the REAL sparks fly. And they can burn the house down.

Cancer is supposed to be "one for all, all for one"....."together we stand, divided we fall"......"in for a penny, in for a pound" kinda shit. As in: the tumors either ALL grow or they ALL shrink/stay stable. Whatever they do it's supposed to be ALL of them. Not Pansy's tumors. The largest tumor on my liver has long been 2.5cm. Then, one day last year it--and only it--suddenly grew to 3.6cm. Everyone went on High Alert (that's why we were all wearing orange there for awhile) and the frequency of scans was increased. The tumor noticed all the High Alert Orange so it hunkered down and stayed at 3.6cm for several months. Fooled us all. We "Stood Down" and went on with our partying ways. Then a scan showed the tumor was suddenly 5.0cm. After the doctors and I did an appropriate Morale-Raising Cheer: "Fuck. Fuck. Double Fuck. What the fuck?" we all knew it was time for Aggressive Attack. But what to do? We had two options: RadioFrequency Ablation (RFA) or SNAKE VENOM!!

Well, you fucking know Pansy wanted that Snake Venom, twice! Woohoo! And, since the tumor was Hugely Beyond the limits for RFA (it is only for 3.0cm or smaller tumors due to technological limitations)it really looked like Snake Venom was gonna happen. They inject it all around the tumor, the venom kills off the blood supply lines, the tumor starves and dies. I was so excited about having those bragging rights. Because Pansy has reflexes like a cobra and when cancer grabbed her, she grabbed cancer's wrist right back and said "You're gonna die, too, cuz I am taking you with me."

Then, The Cowboy rode into town. He is my onco surgeon and he actually IS called "The Cowboy" in the medical world. He makes Clint Eastwood look like a singing telegram bellhop. He said "It's gonna be an RFA showdown, so spur up, bitch." Perhaps he used other actual words but that's what Pansy heard. The surgery went way longer than predicted and then The Cowboy tells Mr. Pansy THIS fucking downer when he came out to update Mr. Pansy: "Well. We got the surgery done." WTF? We all know the surgeon is supposed to say, in a very upbeat voice: "Wow! That went Great!"

It didn't help that I had a preview/premonition dream two days before the surgery wherein I was know, with typical dream flying powers--all on my own. Someone was with me, holding me on my left side, and we flew over my liver and I saw it in its entirety. We studied all of it and I could tell it was in trouble. The other flier (not male or female) pointed out everything and said "This is serious. We are not kidding around here." I woke up in kind of a funk. And not the good kind of James Brown FUNK.

After the surgery I woke up in great pain, despite the Kick Ass Big Time Post Op Drugs they had pumped into me. I was medically stable and this is an outpatient procedure so home I went. On the Third Day (sounds Biblical!!) I went off the edge of the cliff. Pansy The Most Manned Up Woman In The Universe was a fetal ball of vomiting and crying in her bed. Mr. Pansy and Pansy Jr. took turns literally staying physically in the room with me they were so freaked out by this never-before-seen behavior from Pansy Da Man. On a pain scale of 1 to 10....this was an 18.

The surgeon even gave us his personal cell phone number. Over that weekend he guided me through overdose levels of the various drugs prescribed for me. When the pain got down to about 14, I was able to "rest" for maybe 30 minutes. Others might describe it as "blacked out". In hindsight, THAT'S when we should have taken me to the hospital. This went on for 10 days before I was no longer bed ridden. I was able to sneak in a 4th of July parade viewing involving my sister but that took all of my Super Powers to pull off even though it was totally worth it.

When I saw the surgeon at the 2 week followup visit he questioned me extensively about what I had experienced. It was "post ablation syndrome" and I got every single symptom that defines this syndrome. All of them are bad. It always starts on....Day Three after surgery! No one can predict what patient will get it or how severely they will have it. It is Very Rare (I am beginning to get just a WEE BIT so fucking tired of being Very Rare!) and my level of severity was Even More Very Rare.

Well....let's think. We were already breaking the rules by even attempting this surgery due to the size of the tumor. And then it turns out that the tumor, which was 5.0cm on the last scan before surgery.......was 12cm on the day of surgery. Any other surgeon would have just said "Close her up, I'm outta here." But, noooooooooo! The Cowboy dives in anyway. Which is why they make you unconscious beforehand so that you don't hear them all scream, retch and barf when they open up the Surprise Package in surgery. Thank you, Cowboy and God.

RFA is supposed to be a walk in the park kind of surgery. Really. Evidently MY fucking park was full of goddam rotten trees and sure as shit every one of them fell on me. Fuckers. Oh, and for Bonus Points my liver also got "knicked" during the surgery....on the "Glisson's capsule." DO NOT LET YOUR GLISSON'S CAPSULE GET FUCKING KNICKED EVER!!! hahahhahahahha!

It took weeks to fully recover but the last week of August I definitely felt I had turned the proverbial corner. Naturally, like all wounded wild animals, I do a masterful job of acting "Healthy And Well" so that no predators will think they have a chance at me. Since the surgery on June 25, I have managed to ride my bicycle 1,081 miles. And stay on schedule with my chemos. And even work at my job. Oh, and fuck that Mr. Pansy a lot.

Exercise (bike riding/dieting) has undoubtedly literally saved my life. I am so glad I already have decades of physical activity in my body. I fret for all the people out there who haven't already "been there/done that". How do they get over the mental trap of "I can't do that" re exercise? I know my doctors have gone to the mattresses for me at their "committee meetings" simply because they can see I am worthy of backing because I am actually likely to survive even horrible procedures. I hope they are beginning to run out of those! hahahaha! Now, finally, I am getting a clue about what people mean when they say those stupid platitudes such as "a good attitude is why you are doing so well." Those are not quite the right words. Plus, well, the doctors want to keep me around since I AM so foxy and all.

The only "take away" I can remotely snatch from my jaws of death experience is: you really, really cannot die from pain. I am "glad" I got to experience this misery because it is important to know I do have limits but that I still got through it. It gives me a deeper sense of I can do this and....

You won't do it with as much flair and swearing and certainly no Mr. Pansy fucking, but you can't always have everything. Oh. And next time Pansy thinks "maybe I need an ambulance" she is so fucking gonna call the goddam ambulance! Good godawmighty, what was she waiting for? The pain to get worse?

And the shopping goes on and on and on....!!


Some people dismiss Greg Lemond as a bitter, green-eyed, bile spewing, whining crybaby who has devolved into a pitiful trainwreck. Whew! Just because he seems on a never-ending vendetta against "nutritional supplements" that Greg thinks ALL the professional cyclists ingest. Especially His Holiness Lance Armstrong! Well, Pansy has THIS to say about THAT:

MY personal experience with Greg Lemond was very pleasant--especially since I was not forced to go into a Witness Protection Program of some sort because by the Grace of God we were all smiled upon that day and a genuine tragedy was averted: Mr. Pansy and I really almost killed Greg in a head-on collision on Monitor Pass (Sierra Nevada mountains near Lake Tahoe) in the Summer of 1990 with our Chevrolet 4WD 1/2 ton truck. Chevy Rules!

We were going uphill, scouting out the bike ride portion of the World's Toughest Triathlon (held at Lake Tahoe). On a somewhat blind curve, our truck tires were on one of the double yellow lines on the road and suddenly there was Greg--entirely on both of the double yellow lines on the road, with his riding partner to Greg's right. I still believe we could have "made the spare" and gotten them both since the angle was pretty good.

Anyway, we all veered in the appropriate defensive/evasive directions and as Greg went by the driver's window (inches from the mirror on the door) Mr. Pansy and I both screamed simultaneously (waking the sleeping children) "That was Greg Lemond!" We knew it was him because he was THAT close to us and had no helmet or sunglasses on so he was like a real live Bicycling magazine coverboy.

However, we were on a mission so we dutifully continued our route scouting. Then we turned around and drove "quickly" down the hill to see where Greg might be. We found him and his buddy resting in Markleeville--sitting on the hood of the chase car. A top of the line with all the bells and whistles Mercedes Benz, thankyouverymuch. With a soon to be degraded paint job from their salty, sweaty, nasty wet asses!

Before I could unbuckle the children, Mr. Pansy (who is SOOOO outgoing that I have always sarcastically called him "Chatty Cathy") has already leaped out of the truck, has shook Greg's hand, and they are chit chatting like longtime friends by the time I straggle up with the girls. Mr. Pansy apologized for scaring Greg on Monitor Pass to which Greg said "Oh, that was you? Yeh, that was close but I was over the lines so it was really my fault." Greg and his riding partner were riding their bicycles on a training ride for the World Championships coming up in Japan.

Mr. Pansy asked him why no helmet or glasses? Greg said "We had just come over the summit and I was sweating so much I couldn't see, so I took them all off." He was thrilled we were out camping with our family, saying "I take my family everywhere with me, too." He told me I was crazy to want to do the Toughest Triathlon since he had done the bike portion a few years earlier. He signed a hat of mine and was generally a fabulous PR poster child.

He and his buddy were out for a "little ride"--a 120 mile loop from Carson City, NV, where his folks lived. They took off, waving to us as we took photos of them. I then went into the country store there to buy some of the "power training food" Greg was eating----red licorice whips. Which I still have in my scrapbook with the Lemond photos and my signed hat. The licorice I bought was actually touched by him! Woo Hoo!

Factoid: every ultra-level cyclist I have ever seen personally, including Greg, has a unique physical feature: they are very "deep chested" from front to back. I am convinced that autopsies will reveal all of them have 4 to 6 lungs encased in their huge chests. They are not wide side to side---just deep from front to back.

I also hold as true that Greg was the first cyclist to truly break through the unwritten rule of "Europeans Only" for the Tour de France. He was loved and reviled at the time and I truly feared for his physical safety. He was also very intent about being a Good Will Ambassador--for which he has never received enough credit. He lived "over there" more than any other Americans of the era, he learned the language(s), he made himself accessible to the press, he WAS betrayed by the "broken promise" of his team and Bernard Hinault, and his time trial 8-second win over VainPrettyBoyPonytail Laurent Fignon remains forever The Miracle on Wheels.

I also go along with Greg's bruised ego over not being able to achieve all he probably could have due to the gunshot accident and its aftermath healthwise. He has systemic problems due to the multitude of buckshot pellets still scattered all through his body. I am highly disappointed in his comments about Lance Armstrong and drugs. But I am a person with Many Personalities (or perhaps just someone with many voices in my head) so I love and am dismayed by Greg all at once. I forgive him because I don't have the full story, never will, etc. I hope Greg is wrong and I hope Lance was/is clean. That is all. I must go answer the phone now. It's either Greg or Lance. Maybe Jan Ullrich {drool}. They all call me constantly for advice and to ask me to run away with them. Other than THAT obvious lie, the rest of this story is true.