The Hodgkin's High-Five

Seven months ago, two scared kids walked into a doctor's office and their lives were turned upside-down.
Tonight, those same two kids will walk back into that same doctor's office hoping that their lives will be set back upright.
After 24 weeks of ABVD chemotherapy regimens, countless anti-neutropenia shots, dose after dose of nausea preventative, alopecia, neuropathy, and a perplexing (and ongoing) bout with something called chemobrain, we have an appointment with the oncologist who will tell us if my wife has a clean bill of health after her battle against lymphoma. We're pretty confident that the results will show a negative scan. Her doctor likewise expects a clean bill of health.
But that doesn't keep me from being scared to death right now.
I promised you way back when that this website wouldn't regress to a weepy cancer blog, so please forgive me if I've gone back on my word a time or two. And I suppose I'm going to break that promise once again today.
The summer before we got married, my wife bought a new townhome with the idea that I'd move in after our pending nuptials. As is the case with all new houses, there was some preliminary work to be done. One of the first items on my honey-do list was to install window treatments throughout.
Now, growing up, my father did his best to teach me how to be a man and be handy around the house. It was just that I was extraordinarily lazy and didn't pay attention to his wise instruction. So here I was, just a few months away from being one-half of a homeowning partnership, fumbling around with a six-volt hand drill and bits of Venetian blind, putting holes in the drywall and threatening to shatter the window pane. I wanted to give up and just walk away.
That moment was the only time I've ever doubted marrying my wife. I completely panicked and broke down. How was I supposed to be a good husband if I can't even accomplish a simple task like hanging blinds?
But I persevered. I sweated and grunted and cursed and fought those blinds, but I finished the task. And those blinds ended up a little crooked and not all of them opened right, but I had proven that, in a pinch, I could take care of my wife. It may have been a bit clumsy, but the job got done.
My wife called me on a sunny Tuesday afternoon in March. It was cancer, she said. But Hodgkin's lymphoma. That's the good kind, if there is such a thing. Curable. Probably.
So we took it in stride. It was her job to get well. It was my job to help her. My honey-do list now consisted of being strong and supportive, giving her nightly Neupogen shots and staying positive for her. This meant keeping a smile on my face even if I really didn't feel like smiling. When she wasn't looking, I completely panicked and broke down. How was I supposed to be a good husband if I couldn't keep myself together? Giving up and walking away would have been so much easier.
But, once again, perseverance paid off. I fought and cursed and cried and lost my temper. But never around her. I think in the long run, however, I proved to her that, in a pinch, I could still take care of her. It may have been a bit clumsy, but the job got done.
We have this thing, my wife and I. Whenever we feel like crying or denouncing our rotten luck or feeling sorry for ourselves, we give each other a high-five. We call it the Hodgkin's High-Five. I know it sounds stupid, but it's a symbolic manifestation of the optimism that we know we must have in order to survive this. I even taught it to our dog. How can you get all weepy if you're slappin' five? You can't my friend, you can't.
So tonight, when we walk into that doctor's office, she'll sit us down and disclose those results that we've been waiting all year to hear. The tears will be of joy, I think.
I hope.
I pray.
And maybe, just maybe, as we're walking out to the parking lot, it'll all be over. We'll exchange glances, share a knowing wink, and give each other a regular high-five.
This time without the Hodgkin's.

Thanks for nothing, Internet

I went and picked up the dry cleaning myself.

A Small Favor

Can somebody pick up my dry cleaning?

I'm serious. It's a simple request. No big deal. It's just that I'm pretty busy this week - lots of TV premieres (Dancing with the Stars is back, baby).

Sixty-one dress shirts. That's it. They'll fit in the back seat of your Corolla. You can even cram them in your trunk. I don't care. They've been heavily starched.

Cyberspace is a big place. Lots of people in it. Surely there's someone out there with some time on their hands after work. Look, on your way to happy hour, the gym or Starbucks. A few measly shirts. Won't take any time at all.

Anyone?

They've been there for a week and half. I've been wearing the same wrinkled Stafford to work for three straight days. Help a brother out. I look homeless. I smell a little.

The folks at the cleaners keep leaving messages. They're sick of staring at the same poplin button-down all month. They'd like to get rid of this order to make some room on the rack. The claim ticket's right there. All you have to do is hit print. It doesn't need to be in color. I've just scanned it that way for your convenience. You can thank me later.

Right there off of Madison in the Wilgro shopping center. Between the BMV and the Dollar Store. Two doors down from Fantastic Sams. I've called ahead. They're expecting you. Listen, it's not like I'm asking you to grab some carry-out from the China Garden across the way or anything like that. But since you're in the area...

Just one catch. But a small one. Okay, you'll have to pay. But I can reimburse you. Not in cash, per se, but we can work something out. I have a drawer stuffed full of Steak 'n' Shake coupons. They all expired 7/31/08, but sometimes the cashier looks the other way.

You'd be doing me a huge favor. And I'd owe you big time. I'd really appreciate it.

Thanks.

Doppelganger

Many of you who are new to this site are here because of my recent celebrity as USA Today's PopCandy Blog Reader of the Day. This prestigious and exclusive honor is bestowed upon those saavy few who can A. Fill out and return a list of their favorite movies and music; and B. Email a low-resolution picture of themselves.

In my quest for fame and fortune (coupled with my unquenchable lust for attention), I figured out how to do both. So last week, my glowing countenance was splashed across the pages of a web site that is read by approximately 340.7 billion people daily. Imagine the thrill of checking your morning Internet favorites and discovering that you are included in that day's current events. I was pretty stoked to be hurled face-first into the World Wide Marketplace of Ideas. Forever will I live on in digital perpetuity as the dude who digs Fight Club and the television show Lost.

However, this particular site also allows other readers to comment on the daily profile in an anonymous forum geared toward generating discussion about the Reader of the Day's pop culture references. For example, I listed Bob Dylan as one of my favorite artists. Theoretically, the forum gatherers would discuss the merits of his Highway 61 album over Blood on the Tracks.

But this was not the case.

Instead, the comments largely focused on the lo-res picture I submitted as part of my profile. A lot of the notes were positive (much to my wife's chagrin), like "He's pretty cute" or "Looks like a cool guy to hang with". But the overwhelming majority of the comment threads were about my apparent resemblance to a particular Hollywood actor:

Steven Seagal.

Really? Steven Seagal? The dude in Under Siege 2: Dark Territory? No way. The pudgy mind-reader guy from Heroes, maybe. But Steven Seagal? You've gotta be kidding me. I'm totally offended.

But then I got to thinking. Perhaps I've underestimated the awesomeness of being compared to one of the greatest action stars of our time. Maybe Steven Seagal and I are kindred spirits. Maybe we're destined to go down as the greatest duo the entertainment industry (and the world) has ever seen.

Consider these and the similarities are eerily obvious:

- Steven Seagal was born in Lansing, Michigan. / I have been to Lansing, Michigan. Twice.

- Steven Seagal worked at Burger King after graduating high school. / Burger King is one of my favorite restaurants.

- Steven Seagal is a internationally known aikido martial artist who has kicked many-a-butt in his time. /I once engaged in drunken fisticuffs with a bouncer in Windsor, Ontario.

- Steven Seagal's movies have grossed over $850 million dollars worldwide. / I had a cable access show in college that no one watched except my mom.

- Steven Seagal is a singer-songwriter who has released two albums and has toured all over the U.S. and Europe with his band. / I was in my high school's jazz choir and toured all over Indiana.

- Steven Seagal is a renowned environmentalist who has raised awareness through such direct-to-video movie titles such as On Deadly Ground and Fire Down Below./ I recycle. Sometimes.

- Steven Seagal has a really gay looking ponytail. / I had a really gay-looking pageboy haircut until I was 13.

- Steven Seagal claims that he can supernaturally speak to animals due to his divine nature as a reincarnated Tibetan tulku. / I can get my dog to sit, roll over and fetch a tennis ball.

Uncanny, right? And to think, all this time, I was more of a Van Damme fan.

A Word About Search Engines

When they hear that I have a blog, people generally ask me for a description of what I write about. I don't have a good answer for them. I usually mumble something about 'overly earnest, cringe-worthy descriptions of my increasingly awkward life - sometimes in poetic narrative form' and hope that they either change the subject or walk away. But apparently, I have a much wider readership than I initially thought.
My mom emailed me this morning asking for the web link to this blog. Apparently she got a new computer and lost the link. I thought about telling her to just type it into a search engine. But I understand that the name Tortfeezor is unduly cumbersome and difficult to remember and spell, so I checked my Google Analytics printout to see some of the searches that pull up this blog.
After seeing some of these, I am simultaneously confused, bemused, amused and just a little bit...scared. I don't know what most of these even mean, let alone why anyone would want to Google them. But if you've reached this site to find information on hairless albino boxers, then welcome. However, I don't remember ever writing about them (or any of these for that matter).
In no particular order:

- scabies spread in sinks and showers, bathroom floors
- rules for dating my dog
- profitable things to steal
- most profitable things to steal
- moonshine 101
- pee puddle ballet
- odor street person
- flamboyant fanny packs
- common law larceny donut pie
- albino boxers hair falling off from yard treatments
- 10 pieces chicken nuggie macdonald

and my personal favorite:

- topless yugioh cards

It's like Wikipedia for weirdos. Not really my target market, but whatever.

Strange Bedfellows

If you recall a few months ago, I blogged fantastic about my amazing shopping odyssey to redecorate our bedroom. It turned out beautifully. A neutral, relaxing haven of leisure and comfort.I haven't seen the inside of it since.
2008 has been The Year of the Couch.
Of my own volition, I was initially avoiding the bedroom at night because I didn't want to disturb my wife. For those of you who don't know by now, she's been through chemotherapy for the past six months and needed her rest. She also has a port in her chest where they administer medicine (kinda like an insulin pump) and I didn't want to flail in my sleep and hit it. But she's done with chemo, she's used to the port and it was time to slip back between the sheets to resume our marital normalcy.
Big mistake.
In the eight or so months I've been snoozing in the front room, she's become a literal nightmare to be asleep next to.Most men, when they act boorishly, end up relegated to the sofa, dispatched from their wives' affections. But now when I give her some sass or upset the domestic balance, she punishes me by making me sleep in the bed with her. Therefore I am usually on my best behavior.
Because she's a bed bully. A sleep saboteur. A blanket bandit and a pillow pillager. It's upsetting really, that someone so small could make for such a violent, combative tormenter during slumber. She'd tug and yank on the comforter until she'd be wrapped up like a cocooned mummy. Holding the dust ruffle ransom, she would leave me cold and shivering, desperately clinging to a small corner of fitted sheet for sweet warmth. A knee in the kidney, a forearm to the throat, an elbow in the nads - it was awful.
So fed up with the abuse, I've re-commandeered the sofa. A comfy, cozy couch where I can catch forty winks and rest in peace. The fridge is two steps away, the TV is within viewing distance and my threadbare childhood security blanket still has many moons left before retirement.
But I'd like to have my wife back.
Last week the bed actually broke. Now I can understand if a slat would crack or a metal bracket would come undone on my side of the bed. But it's supposed to be a sturdy frame, only a few years old, and solid oak at that. But the bed rail connecting the headboard to the footboard snapped in two. Now I have a good 75 pounds on her. BUT IT WAS HER SIDE OF THE BED! Now before you start making suggestive innuendo, keep in mind that my wife has been battling cancer for the past year and been understandably off-limits in that regard.
The most action that bed's seen in Double Aught Eight is the periodic mattress rotation.
In fact, it happened when we weren't at home. We came home, walked in the bedroom and found the entire thing collapsed in on itself.
I don't know if she's dreaming of destruction or having nocturnal night-terrors of annihilation, but something about sleeping triggers a night-time rampage within her that can only be mitigated by the dawn.
So I take matters into my own hands.
The couch it is.
I tuck her in, kiss her forehead and get the heck outta dodge. It's every man for himself up in here, my friend.
Someday I hope that our regular nighttime routine will resume. Of course, it’s probably no picnic for her either. Dutch ovens and thwarted advances are regular occurrences. However, even if she has completely annexed the master bathroom and walk-in closet, it'd be nice to enjoy the consortium and intimacy that comes with sharing a bedroom.
But the only way that's gonna happen anytime soon is with some kind of high-dose, large game tranquilizer and limb restraints. In the meantime...Sweet dreams.

Tha Tortfeezor II

Brett Favre did it.
Jay-Z did it.
Apollo Creed did it in Rocky IV.
And so The Duke is doing it as well.
After six weeks of mulling it over, I've put away my other hobbies (sitting on couch; watching TV; eating obscene amounts of BBQ Pringles) in order to bring The Tortfeezor out of retirement.
I considered holding a press conference. I thought about making a move to Typepad or Wordpress. But in the end, I decided the best thing was to do what I do best. Remain at Blogspot and continue to share my embarrassing personal anecdotes.
I cannot deprive you all of this. What was I thinking?
But I'm not just making a comeback. That would not be enough to trumpet my return to the blogosphere.
Therefore I am hereby proclaiming myself The Best Blogger Alive.
Pretty confident words, I know. But consider this: Rappers do this all the time. Every time a new hip-hop artist emerges onto the scene, they immediately dub themselves The Best Rapper Alive. And they almost never are.
Take Lil' Wayne, the current self-proclaimed reigning Best Rapper Alive, for example. Lil' Wayne is actually one of The Worst Rappers Alive. I know this because I foolishly purchased his most recent CD and watched his cringe-worthy performance on SNL last Saturday night. It is not rap, it is a tuneless mess of drug-marred jumble. If Biz Markie and ODB adopted a little retarded child and left it alone in a recording studio with a vocoder, a joint and a cheap drum machine, Lil' Wayne's music would be the result. Which, come to think of it, on paper actually sounds great, but in reality, it is not. Too bad.
But I am a rapper at heart. And by rapper at heart I mean awkward white guy who disguises his shortcomings with outrageous braggadocio. I.E. Best Blogger Alive.
So even if its not true, which it isn't, I'm still going to wear that mantle until someone calls me on it. And since no one really reads this blog other than my mother-in-law, I can continue hiding in my little corner of cyberspace, calling myself whatever I want.
Welcome back to The Tortfizzle, my bizzles.