today's 9TS update . . .

his Persantine Thallium Stress Test is now rescheduled for tomorrow morning. It was originally scheduled for two days after his IL2 started. Not good. This test will determine if his heart is strong enough to handle the rigors of IL2 and obviously must be run prior to the immunotherapy. Thank you Kim for your help. She actually bumped someone else to get him a spot in time.

We also have a date and time for his PICC line insertion . . . legitimately called a peripherally inserted central catheter, just so you know. This is how the IL2 will be delivered. I also talked to my bud Anthony, who is getting the ball rolling, in regards to their people talking to our people and making sure this is all covered insurance wise. Fun. Fun. Fun.

Next Monday, we are scheduled for his endoscopy so we can figure out what's going on with this gastritis thing. Especially since the IL2 can cause digestive problems on its own. The good thing is, they are ready to treat the symptom should they cause problems . . . or why this is all done in hospital.

The 9TS is hitting the gym every day and we are bulking him up food wise so that he is in the best possible shape to start the therapy.

So we are good to go. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.

another bag . . .

The bag I was using to carry around my yoga mats has seen better days. Much better days. It never was the right size and its handles were all frayed. I made myself a new yoga bag.

I started last night to have something to do other than watch American Idol. No offense AI but I am not a fan. So, while the 9TS watched, I gathered up my embroidery thread and went to town. Easy peasy.

This morning I cut the canvas, nosed around until I found a scrap of fabric big enough for the inside . . . this one is reversible too . . . and in a bit, I had my bag. YAY.

Now the only problem is that I never heed the 9TS and his predictable, 'measure twice, cut once' routine. I am more of a 'snip, snip here, snip. snip there,' type of person. And while the height is good and I can get my strap and towel in there, the towel is not easy. Not because there isn't room but because it doesn't like to share a space with my sticky mat. They argue. They fight. They refuse to make way for each other. The sticky mat puckers up and denies the terry cloth entrance unless I interfere. Sigh.

But all and all, I like my new bag and they can just live with it. So there.

the game plan . . .

We're back from our latest jaunt across the state. We went to visit Dr. Kudchadkar, our second favorite oncologist . . . sorry, Dr. K, but no one tops the Amazing Dr. Z.

First the good news. We got the results of the MRI done in mid February. The 9TS has a brain!!! and Mel and Anoma are not in residence. YAY!!!

And then the conversation turned to "The Plan".

There are four options:

Chemotherapy, Immunotherapy, Ipilimumab and PD-1.

Greek? I think so. So let's break it down shall we?

Chemotherapy is the treatment of melanoma by means of chemicals which are supposed to have a toxic effect on the deadly duo. But here's the thing. Chemotherapy just plain doesn't work against Mel and Anoma. The two put on their invincibility cloaks and are impervious.

Immunotherapy attempts to energize the 9TS's own system to push M&A out of Dodge. Take that you beasts!!!

Ipilimumab, which is nicknamed IPI for obvious reasons, is the brand new therapy against the wily cousins. While it can extend the average lifespan by 10 months, it does not cure the disease.

PD1 is still Greek to me. This is as close a description as I can find. "PD-1 blockade expands infiltrating T cells and reduces regulatory T and myeloid cells within B16 melanoma tumors." See what I mean? A foreign language.

Obviously, we are skipping chemo. I mean seriously, why would we get in the ring with the big bad wolf and come out gnawed upon for nothing? We wanted to jump to IPI since it has the best results but then of course, it gets complicated. If we do IPI first, then we can't try PD1 later and Dr. K wants a plan B. Also, before you can do DP1, you have to have gone through some other form of treatment first. Who makes up these rules anyway???????

So we are looking at immunotherapy, specifically IL2 (Interlukin 2), as our first stop. While IL2 is highly toxic, it actually has a 6 - 10% cure rate. CURE rate. C.U.R.E! How incredible is that? But, if you've ever read the horror stories of cancer treatments, there's a good chance they were talking about IL2. It is so toxic, it is done in the hospital. One week in, one week home, one week back in the hospital. Normally, it is not even considered an option for someone with a history of heart disease or, to be honest, someone as . . . um . . . old as the 9TS. But, we're talking about my sloth. My gym rat sloth. Super sloth. He's in great shape. As long as he passes a stress test, we are good to go. Target date mid April.

So the game plan is immunotherapy followed by PD1 if required and then IPI.

GAME ON!!

this and that . . .

my ancient little Miata has had her bath. Tonight's chicken is getting ready for its debut. We are cleared for the 9TS's appointment with Dr. Kudchadkar on Tuesday, the litter is scooped and the beds made . . . today is free and clear.

Back to the chicken. It got a bath too! In a yogurt, freshly chopped cilantro, massala, olive oil and garlic marinade. But we had to wait until the 9TS left for the gym. There are very few things the sloth refuses to eat. Yogurt, unfortunately is one of them. On the up side, he rarely knows when I have sneaked some into a dish. This will be one of them. I hope.

Anyway, tonight's menu is roasted chicken pieces on a bed of thinly sliced onions, served with red beans and rice. YAY! I get to try out my Caribbean spices and hot sauce. No hot sauce for my hot tamale though, he gets the mellow version . . . gastritis you know.

And then we are off to the Home Show. We like to wander through the convention center and watch the chefs peddle their wares, the hurricane shutter salesman trying to out shout each other and the News Journal circulation staff hawking their rag. There are aluminum siding people, hot tubs folks, insurance salesmen, furniture foisters, plant potters . . . it's an extravaganza of oddities. My favorite thing to do is people watch. Last years prize winner was the woman with the black and white striped Mohawk and white spots dyed on the rest of her gruffly shaved head. She was in her mid 50's. Winner, winner, chicken dinner!!!!

I am going to sneak in a little nap before we go. I have a cuddle buddy. She is currently asleep in my arm pit . . . the only time she has been calm in three days of zipping here and there on high speed. Ah, the energy of youth.

EDIT: The 9TS went back for seconds on the chicken. It was moist and tender and oh so yummy. Then of course he got suspicious and suddenly announced in an accusatory tone, "There was yogurt in it." "How do you know", I squeaked. "I saw you buy it", he grumbled. After half an hour of mumbling, he finally confessed that he'd eat it again. That's my sloth!!!!

project number 23 . . .

so that is about what I would look like if I was doing ballet. Truly. And so why is my making a 'ballet' bag, my latest project?? Glad you asked. Because I found this adorable little pattern here on Carina Gardner's site . . . and because I bought this glorious package of 10" x 10" fabric squares at the quilt shop a few weeks back . . .

So this is my little reversible ballet bag, for which I must find another use and then I will rename it my darling little _____ bag. See?





But it was fun. Sort of a little sewing, a little jigsaw puzzling, a little cat evading . . . they wanted to help and done!

just one of those days . . .

This post is supposed to be about my latest project. I had figured to finish it today but instead, I went to lunch with my old friend Robin. Not that Robin is old mind you, but we've been friends since the mid 80's. In fact it was Robin who gave the kidlet her first pair of high top sneaks when she first learned to walk. The kidlet rocked those blue on teal Reeboks.

Some days, it's just really good to sit in the company of someone who is oh so comfortable to be with. Robin has been through a tough time lately, trying to come to terms with the death of a dear friend she lost to cancer. I don't think you ever 'come to terms', I think the pain finally dissipates enough to let you breathe. One breath at a time until you can finally get your lungs full once again. And so we took the word out of the closet and talked about cancer. Roni's, the 9TS's, her dad's, my mother's, so many people affected. And finally, little bursts of laughter would bubble to the surface.

And thus, we drank our lunch. Slosh. It's been donkey's ages since I have done that. Slosh. Sitting in the Flagler Fish Company yakking about life and death. Slosh. Finally, it was time to head home. As in get in the car to drive . . . Slosh . . . I think that I shouldn't but like most, I made my justifications and slowly, mindfully, made my way home. Slosh. And fell asleep. Zonk. And was awaken by my phone. Hello? It was Robin making sure I was OK. Yes. Zonk.

But before lunch, I pulled over and parked and was immediately accompanied by this beauty:

isn't it gorgeous?

Do you see the reflection of my jelly bean and me in the chrome?? Coolio.

And just one more shot because I can't stand what a wonderful machine it is:

now, if you're thinking I got pulled over by the cops, you are wrong. This baby was ridden by a young man in his early 80's and his equally charming wife and they were there to celebrate his birthday. The new back seat had just been installed since wife was feeling a little uneasy on the old one . . . afraid she might slip off. Happy Birthday Mr. Man on a restored Harley!!!! Happy Birthday indeed!!!

under the weather . . .

so what the heck does that mean . . . under the weather? Someone caught in a rain shower, goes home, gets a cold and is categorized as 'under the weather'???? If someone getting struck with lightening could be said to be 'under the weather', I would get it. They'd probably be six feet under . . . the weather. But where did the phrase come from?

Aha! if I look it up, it still does not make a whole lot of sense:

"Under the weather: Colloquial expression for sick or ill as, for example, to be under the weather with the flu. The phrase "under the weather" came from British sailing ships. When a sailor became ill he was confined below deck out of the weather, so it was said that he was under the weather."

Why don't they call it 'under the deck'? Or simply 'confined', but then I suppose someone would think him pregnant and indisposed. He is neither.

Whatever, the 9TS is 'under the weather'. Not literally, because of course, we do not live on a boat but you get the idea.

He is ailing. Gastritis. GERD. Gee, do you think it unreasonable for someone under a huge amount of stress to have a little tummy upset? I think he is entitled. And so, he has taken to bed and snoring soundly, leaving me little to do but blog. And you know what happens when I blog.

Does the poor sloth get no privacy? Never! Snort.

The Muppets: Beaker's Ballad and other schtick . . .

They entertained my kidlet for hours when she was little. we even took her to see the Muppets live. For the record, she didn't love them so much up close and personal. She liked them a whole lot better a little more contained, as in stuck in the screen in the living room . . . but none the less, she would sing about the foibles of being green along with Kermie . . . had a little jealousy thing going on with Miss Moi Piggy . . . her favorite character was Gonzo. I never quite got that attraction but does it really matter who a little girls first love is? Somewhere in this house, stashed tenderly away, are all the Muppet movies that I copied from TV back in the day.

My personal favorite was Rizzo the rat. Gotta love the deviously little creature. I will always have a warm space for him inside my black pitted little heart.

I felt like wearing a black arm band the day Jim Henson met his maker. The only thing that kept me from tears was the consoling thought that up in heaven somewhere, were rows of little kidlets laughing hysterically at the antics of the master and his creations. Hats off to you Jim.

morning has broken . . .

I woke up this morning to the sound of Bear nudging the necessities on my bedside table ever closer to the edge until they crash to the hardwood floor below. I recognized the sound of my reading glasses ricocheting off the wall, a random lens cap clatters and bounces, my nail file teeters back and forth after its landing, until settling flush . . . which reminds me that I have to go hunting for the pen Pippin stole last night as I finally turned off the light.

But back to Bear, why does this morning ritual exist? Because it is my cat-cum-rooster's way of telling me it is morning and he, being the biggest of the tribe, has taken it upon himself to fend for the less vocal and demand breakfast. I have long since given up leaving half consumed glasses of water or wine on my bedside table . . . the results being disastrous, as you can well imagine. All things breakable are carefully stashed the night before in said table's drawer.

That chore taken care of, I get to lay in bed and marvel at all things morning. It is that time of year when the windows are thrown open, the ceiling fan is whirling, birds are chirping in stereo from catercorner windows and through the loft, I can see the burnt orange light teasing the underside of the old live oak limbs in the back yard.

How wondrous morning is when I remember to pay attention and thank you Bear for the reminder, no wonder I love you.

Peace out, cowgirls!

playing with St. Barts . . .

thanks Anke, for getting me going.

Credits: Template, stitches Anna Aspnes. Papers: Katie Pertiet.

the man on the moon . . .

Stacie called and said check out the moon.

And so I did.

Thanks, Stacie!!!

day 1 . . .

You knew I had to scrap these vacation shots.

credits: Paper: Lynn Grieveson, Fish: Julia Makontinski, Acrylic Alpha: Pattie Knox, Font: Damned Architect

my jewelry . . .

took a beating on our trip.

The first mistake I made was leaving my favorite trinket from Rhodes on my wrist when we went in the ship's salt water pool. It seems the sulfuric acid works with the copper in sterling silver and turns it BLACK. Gah. And how exactly did I know this? Because the jeweler on board told me when I asked him if he could remove it, which he couldn't but has since been repaired at home.

But the jeweler noted my necklace. The one I haggled for in Cayo Levantada and found my high school Spanish severely lacking, but that I liked anyway . . . it was cheap!! Finally 'got' that the backing was coconut but for the life of me, I couldn't understand what the top section was.

Back to the jeweler. He asked if I knew what it was. 'No idea', I replied. 'A sea slug', he answered. 'A what', I squealed? 'A sea slug', he reiterated. 'Why is it blue then', I gulped. 'They dye them', said he.

With a little bit of eww factor hanging from my neck, we wandered into dinner a little less enthusiastically.

By the time I got home, I was really curious and looked at thousands of photos on Google of sea slug jewelry. Nada. Then I came upon a little squib from a gent who had also been accosted by the vendors at Cayo Levantada, who liked their blue beetle shell jewelry. Still nothing under Google images. I was leaning toward petrified cockroach but I ain't looking THAT up.

So whether it is slug, beetle or cockroach, I still like it. I will still wear it. I just won't get it wet!!! But if anyone knows for sure what it is, I would really like to know.

I am a one eyed . . .

one horned, flying purple people eater!

Dear Lord! How do I get myself into these things?

When we were in Antigua, we found this nifty little store where I discovered a really funky shoulder tote in different weaves of purple fabric. Perfecto said I.

After wearing it the next day, I realized that my beige capris were now purple on one side. Hum, we seem to have a bleeder on our hands. No problemo, we will wash it when we get home to rid it of the excess dye. Do you see where this is going???? I didn't. Not I.

Do into the sink it goes. The water immediately turns a deep dark shade of purple as I commence rinsing. One sink full, two sink fulls. Twenty sink fulls later and I am getting nervous. What if the dye never comes out. I add some Ivory soap. Ten more sink fulls later, thinking about my water bill, I am starting to panic but not as much as I do when I finally look at my sink itself:

or even my hands:

and nooooooooooooo, that is not nail polish and it doesn't come off with nail polish remover. Trust me I tried.

And finally after about 36 sink fulls, I got to this color:

and gave up. It is now drip drying in a tub lined with plastic bag.

My sink came relatively clean. One more scrubbing with Comet and it will be good to go. Once the tote dries, it should be good to go too, especially if worn with jeans.

But my hands? Alas, they are still purple as purple can be and this is Friday and that means Carrabba's. ACK! I will be eating Polo Rosa Marie with purple hands. Do you think it is too late for rubber gloves????

razor blades and other signs of love . . .

As soon as we got home, Ninja became a Klingon. She wouldn't leave me alone. "Hold me", she whined, "Love me!" she pouted. "Pet me!" and so I did. And she was happy. Still clingy but happy.

Bear, not so much. "I'm not coming out from under the bed until I am darn good and ready and you can't make me. So there." "I am sooooooooooo mad at you." And truthfully, I'm not sure why. He had the best beastie sitter ever. My neighbor and friend, Joanie, who loves all things furry, doted on the three. They lacked for nada!

Pippin danced and chirped and was still the same ole Pippin until this morning when she too, turned into a Klingon. Now where Ninjie is a sweet, sweet beast who snuggles and purrs and snuggles some more, Pippin goes right for the jugular. Literally. She attacks in a prone position, nuzzles into the folds of your neck and licks with her sassy sandpaper tongue. After three swipes, it becomes uncomfortable, four swipes and she has hit the dermabrasion level and five, you are looking for blood. How can such a soft little creature have a tongue made out of razor blades? What is she hiding in there? A buzz saw? A porcupine? A cactus?

I think she comes close to the old saying of loving someone to death. EEK! And then come the paws. She does her little making bread routine, sideways pawing on my face and neck. She pushes those paws with such intensity that I can feel my throat move over two centimeters and pop back into place. She sticks them up your nose. Pokes your eyeballs and plugs your ears . . . all in a simple attempt to say, "Gee, mom, I missed you." Does it get any better?

we're baaaaaaaaaaaack . . .

did you miss us? we had a marvelous time. and since in all my self absorption, I am going to assume that you want to know all the details . . . I am going to start . . . as soon as I download all the shots and get them organized . . . and even get some film developed . . . yep, film . . . and then I will start posting. Whew, that was a mouthful. So, if you do, you're going to have to read backwards from February 28 up to yesterday. I can see you all gritting your teeth now. Let the travel slide show begin. Snort!!

But the excellent news in a nut shell is, that the 9TS relaxed and said to heck with his heart healthy diet and for 12 days noshed to his slightly rebuilt heart's content which if course made my little black pitted heart happy. He paddled in a rain forest, zip lined through the jungle and hung out in the casino . . . A happy man was he!!!!! and me too.

Grand Turk . . .

Off the boat and into a brand new shopping center . . . the old one having been removed by Mother Nature. The problem was that it really hadn't any island flavor. I can hit RonJon's here in Florida and the other stores were equally as boring. So I dragged the 9TS over to the taxi stand and we head into town. Town seems to consist of one building on one side of the road and four little shops on the other, but still we wandered and met the locals:

and some more:

and these guys:

and this sleepy fellow:

and bedroom eyes:

and these high level snoozers:

but other than the locals, there was so much beauty here:

and here:

and oh! my Lord, this:

which more than makes up for this disaster:

hee hee hee. snort.

And so our cruise comes to an end. Well not really but I didn't take very many shots on the last sea day thinking it so much more wonderful to lay out on deck all day with my favorite sloth and enjoy. Oh, yes we did!

Dominican Republic . . .

There was quite an uproar among the natives on the ship concerning the stop at the Dominican Republic. For whatever reason . . . and I think safety . . . the only way to go to the mainland itself was on one of the ships tours. Otherwise, you were tendered to the island of Cayo Levantado. We opted to putter out to the little island and walk around. Like checking into a large hotel in Las Vegas where you can't get to registration without passing through the casino, here too, you could not reach the beach before running the gauntlet of doggedly determined stall vendors. Basically, you need to put your head down, muttering no no no no until the far side of the path had been reached.

Somewhere about midway, I faltered and stopped to look at the trays of goodies. I was immediately embroiled in a bidding war for something I was not even interested in. The fur between vendors escalated and the Spanish became louder and more vehement. Thankfully, the 9TS inserted one big paw into the fray and pulled me to safety. But darn, there was a cute necklace.

On to the beach and a quick see around. The grounds were gorgeous:

and oh so photographic:

but the hotel itself, was off limits to all but its guests:

that didn't phase the 9TS, we made friends with the locals:

and after rescuing me from here:

we headed back to the ship. Tomorrow I will tell the tale of my return to the fray.

tortola . . .

I liked Tortola. I really did. But sometimes when I look at the shots taken, I wonder why they don't match my memories. I remember it better than these pictures. Much.

Off the boat, we walked past the shanty shops and the local transportation, all offering tours of the island.

and the old man with his donkey, selling photo-ops for a buck:

and then we headed off to find Pusser's which every website touted as a must see:

and since they served you know what, the 9TS was happy:

and then we passed this confusing sign:

and opted to adventure down the back streets:

and fell in love. I had to buy a bumper sticker of this. Yes, I am a tourist . . . and if you look carefully, you can see me in the reflection, taking the shot. The only shot of me you are likely to see in the next 4792 years . . .

and take shots of workers, like this:

and then we did some damage in the duty free shop. And waved goodbye.

antigua . . .

Not my favorite place. The poverty is distressing. I felt intrusive. Guilty. The streets are filthy. The sidewalks full of holes. The people incredibly poor. Who am I to be so lucky in life? There is a feeling of resignation not found in St. Lucia. It frightens me.

Things started off well:

charming:

authentic:

and then as we are want to do, we wandered away from the tourist district.

and downtown to take some shots of people and found this woman:

and this one:

and finally, we left the 'exotic' Antigua:

and sadly, this is the best view of St. John's:

from the back deck. Leaving.

St. Lucia . . .

St. Lucia was amazing. Let me say that again . . . St. Lucia was AMAZING!! I signed us up for a zip line tour. Hee hee hee. The 9TS was leery. I don't know why???? Off we went with our fearless guide 'G', out of town and high into the mountains to rain forest numero dos.

We got the 9TS and I all geared up:

and off we went:

zip, and no, ladies and gentlemen, it is not your TV set. I screwed up the color. Royally.

zap:

the 9TS loved it. Said it reminded him of his old repelling days. He was such a happy camper. Whew!

and while we were headed home, 'G' showed us this goodie. Recognize it? The Pirates of the Caribbean was filmed here. I'm going to blame the not so perfectness on shooting through a jitney window. Yes, I am!

and the amazing 'G' told us we couldn't leave the island without experiencing the market. Half being crafted items and half being food. And because I always follow the rules, cough, we stopped for lunch:

and ate THE best plate of chicken, red beans and rice EVER! Wanna see where our meal was cooked? I thought you did.

the alley was crammed with little nooks like this. Best, best, best food. Ever.

And then we went back to the boat and had our beer, because you know we had to have one. And, sometimes the color is so bad, you say, "off with its head" and with one fell swoop, no more color:

and then we relaxed on the veranda:

and said, "Good night, St. Lucia."

The end? Nope, I need to share some 'G' stories.

The poverty in St. Lucia is at a critical level and there is no government support. He works as a tour guide three days a week because he has seniority. The other four days are parceled out to other guides so that everyone has at least some income.

A hurricane blew through in October and left 'G's' home under water. There is no insurance.

If you get sick, there is very little in the way of affordable medical help.

So how do people get aid you ask? They help each other. If you have food and someone else doesn't, you share. If you lost all your possessions, your neighbors will help. If you are sick, your friends will supply food, friendship and what little medicine they have. Amazing people in an amazing land.