Tagged by the Rat Crips

I've gone back to editing old entries so I can post them on another weblog and, if I'm going to be funny, I'll have to do it now. Any reflection on my early life can only end badly. Some days I can be funny about that, too, but mostly not. And even when I am, you have to wade through all of the horror to find it. I'll spare you.

Besides, I'm really furious. I got this lovely pair of impeccably creased black pants back from the dry cleaner yesterday and, when I glanced down a little while ago, I saw a couple of white marks running across the front of the left leg. Mind you, I have no idea at this point who's responsible for the affront to my tidiness. It could just as likely be me as anyone else.

Wait a minute. It just occurred to me that it could be the work of one of those nefarious rats that seem to hang around in gangs downstairs in the kitchen. One of them probably tagged me and I'm the official property of the Rat Crips now. I'm going to have to get right over to the other side of the building and warn Money Man and his family to avoid the downstairs altogether. My kitties have once again attracted all of the rats fleeing sewer repairs and property development. That damn kitty cabal!

Having noticed the imperfection of my pants, I started searching for my recently acquired Tide pen. It was nowhere to be found, so I tried a damp paper towel. Whatever it is, it's not coming off. This is Kelly Ripa's fault. She convinced me on her wildly annoying commercials to buy one and now look what's happened. I've relied on it and it's missing in action.

I'll just have to remember to keep my right leg crossed over my left for the rest of the day. Maybe I could try to only let people see me from the side. I might be able to sidle in through doorways and then casually drape my left hand over the offending marks on the front of my left thigh. Or right hand. Whichever seems more jaunty at the time.

Of course, that's not to say that I have much interest in how I look at work these days. Lately I don't even use any makeup. I wash my hair and arrive at the office while it's still wet. (Thank you breast cancer that made all my hair fall out and then grow back curly!) Sometimes I put on a little blush and mascara after I get here, but I don't see any point in even doing that. My genial co-workers have gotten accustomed to seeing me in much worse condition than this.

For several months, I had an incredibly white, moon face with dark shadows under my eyes. I was bald and had sores on my hands. My fingernails were black and deeply ridged. I weighed 20 pounds more than I'd ever weighed in my life. I only had one breast. Compared to that, I look positively fabulous now. I carry makeup around with me in my cancer tote bag, just in case I feel inspired. I rarely do.

My Meyers-Briggs personality profile notes that I'm strategic thinker. Comes in handy when you've been rat-tagged. I'll let you know what I come up with, you know, in addition to the walking sideways thing.