Miz S. has a bunch of sassy commenters over at her place. Somehow she writes a little post and next thing you know, there’s this running stream of back and forth chatter, much of it very funny. On her blog, people get so excited in their typing they occasionally make typos. MsCellania was commenting that she didn’t like to give cash gifts to high school graduates because they just run out and get "a fake idea and booze." Maybe she meant to type that; either way, it struck me as very funny. Miz Mary’s good friend Jane told her that now that she has an empty nest she’s "f-ing old". With friends like that…I just love this neighborhood of buddies. I’m worried that if I slip away while transitioning back to Chicago so will my friends here, but I know that’s not true. Just my own insecurity typing. In reality, I feel pretty connected to my fellow bloggers, even my lurker in Burdur, Turkey.
You want to feel f-ing old? Go to a triathlon. I biked down to watch the St. Anthony’s triathlon here in St. Petersburg this morning and while it wasn’t quite as exotic as the Maui one each year, it was fun. Lots of great looking man buns, as Susan puts it. Susan, this picture is for you and you can click it for a closer view if you want.
I’m actually more impressed with the old geezers (people even older than me) who swim in the ocean 1.5k, bike 40k and then run 10k, some in less than 2 and a half hours. Some of the very nice people I’ve met in yoga this winter compete in these events and one of them, William Riley, is a Grand Master triathlete at the age of 71.
Today, I kept his wife Debbie company and took pictures while he ran. She wasn’t competing because she broke her back in a road race a few weeks ago, so she’s wheelchair bound into the summer. What these people do is a real inspiration and as I stand there and watch, I think, okay! I’m going to start training and do this next year. Then I rode my bike back home- it was actually the second round trip because I came home midway for another CF card, hoping that I could bike 6k faster than Bill Riley could run 10k so I could snap him at the finish line- and I was exhausted, so now I’m no longer inspired. I’m on the sofa wondering if there’s enough cash around here for a fake idea and some booze.
Not really. I signed up for the National Marrow Donors Program with a plan to swap my fat little cheeks for DNA. (Okay, that typo is too good to correct. See what I mean?). I actually felt good after I signed up, not just for the obvious reasons. I had to fill out a questionnaire to see if I qualified as a donor and I discovered I’m neither too old nor plagued with illness or medications nor guilty of dangerous debauchery. (Did you hear that Babette is watching Feist on YouTube in her spare time these days? So much for fishvision.)
I’ve mentioned my young friend who is waiting now for a transplant; her whole life depends on it. She’s just a starter person, with incredible potential and attitude, so I’m hoping and praying she gets a good match. Right now, it’s looking like a cord blood match from France is her best bet. She marveled in her care pages that, once her entire immune system is destroyed by chemo and she gets a cord blood transplant, she will be like an infant and have to start all over again with immunizations. She donated her hair before it could fall out so I asked her if she wondered about who would be wearing it and whether they would pick up Louise vibes and she said she did. You could sign up to be a donor if you wanted…
When I used to go through customs in Mexico they had this totally random system where you slapped a button (ala deal or no deal?) and it turned up mostly green but sometimes red. I used to be paralyzed with fear that I’d flash red and have to have my luggage inspected, despite the fact that I never had anything more interesting than circular knitting needles and binoculars in my bag. Who knew? Maybe someone slipped a baggie of crack in my bag back there by the Koala Changing Station at the Family Restroom. Now I’m worried that by turning my DNA over to a national DNA bank "MATCH" will be flashing on a CSI screen somewhere.
Sigh. I’ve been a) out in the sun too long and/or b) cutting and pasting photos and text too much. Also, Rich is gone and so, as mentioned previously, I’m a little at loose ends. By the way, I’m kinda worried he’s going to be, ah, distressed when he sees the pile of stuff he needs to put in the car and drive back to Chicago. He’s suffering under the illusion that we brought everything down here and dropped it off so now he’ll just have the cats. Hah! Tomorrow, I’ll show you what he has to load up.
Call your mother, run a triathlon or get a fake idea- and enjoy the remainder of the weekend.