Although it’s more or less dead and gone (unlike, thankfully, its author), I’m going to give a shout-out to Cake Eater Chronicles. The longtime MOB stalwart Cathy the Cakeeater was one of the most sparklingly original writers on the Twin Cities blog circuit.

And then, a few years back, she came down with ovarian cancer, which both led to some of the most gripping blog writing – writing, really – anywhere.

And, unfortunately, and indirectly to the end of the blog.

Oh, the spirit was sure willing:

Yes, that’s right: I made good on my threats to leave the state entirely, and am pleased to say that once I’ve registered to vote in my new homeland, I will be represented in the Senate by people who are not a. Stuart Smalley or b. Amy “I’m a publicity seeking whore” Klobuchar.  Their names rhyme with Fay Gaily Mutchison and Fawn Smornyn.

But it’s not always about spirit:

It’s somewhat of a longish story that I will endeavor to simplify: the chemo-induced nerve damage in zee hands and feet was deemed permanent in August, and since I have a weird desire to be productive in the winters (never mind to go out of doors on occasion) the husband and I, at the end of October, packed up our belongings and moved south to observe and record the wild ways of the Texas hippies of Austin.  After some interesting stops and starts along the way, we’re finally moved into our new place, the husband will be opening his new store tomorrow, and I can finally sit down and get some work done.  I’m more grateful than I can say because the husband decided to upend his business and to, essentially, start over so that I can be as pain-free as I can get.  He’s a good guy and I am not worthy of him.

Enh.  I’ve met ’em both.  They both deserve the best, and I think they got it.

This post, in particular is one that grabbed my attention – indeed, was where this “around the MOB” series started in the first place.  Breast Cancer has, apparently, the best PR agents in the world – because an alien coming to earth and reading indicators in our society might think that only breasts and lungs ever get the disease.

Cathy’s had enough of it too:

It’s the fifth of October, and I’ve officially had it with the color pink.

Pink, in case you’re an Eskimo and don’t have either a tee vee or the ability to whip down to the grocery store to purchase some seal steaks, is the color of Breast Cancer Awareness.  October is, officially, Breast Cancer Awareness month.  Yesterday, we tuned in to watch the Bears beat the snot out of Detroit, and what were the husband and I treated to?  Pink gloves on the big, badass players, pink ribbons on their helmets, pink towels on the sidelines, pink bills on ball caps, etc.  The other day, while in Austin, I was asked at the checkout line (mind you this was also on the 29th of September.  Not October 1st.) at the grocery store if I wanted to donate money to breast cancer research.  When I went to my usual coffee date at the local Bou with Mr. H. yesterday, the entire store looked like a Pepto Bismol addict had puked all over.  The employees asked me if I wanted to buy a pound of “Amy’s Blend,” part of the proceeds of which would go to breast cancer research, and then they asked me if I would like to donate a pound to a woman who was going through treatment.  I politely said, ‘no, thank you,’ and then walked away.  One of the employees, who has been there a while and knew me when I was bald, shot a very understanding glance in my direction and shrugged.

All of it makes me wonder if anyone cares if I, as an ovarian cancer survivor, live or die because I didn’t get the trendy cancer.

The “good” news is, if you want to catch up with the whole oeuvre, there’s a finite amount.

Anyway – all the best, Cathy, and thanks for a great run!

It’s the fifth of October, and I’ve officially had it with the color pink.

Pink, in case you’re an Eskimo and don’t have either a tee vee or the ability to whip down to the grocery store to purchase some seal steaks, is the color of Breast Cancer Awareness.  October is, officially, Breast Cancer Awareness month.  Yesterday, we tuned in to watch the Bears beat the snot out of Detroit, and what were the husband and I treated to?  Pink gloves on the big, badass players, pink ribbons on their helmets, pink towels on the sidelines, pink bills on ball caps, etc.  The other day, while in Austin, I was asked at the checkout line (mind you this was also on the 29th of September.  Not October 1st.) at the grocery store if I wanted to donate money to breast cancer research.  When I went to my usual coffee date at the local Bou with Mr. H. yesterday, the entire store looked like a Pepto Bismol addict had puked all over.  The employees asked me if I wanted to buy a pound of “Amy’s Blend,” part of the proceeds of which would go to breast cancer research, and then they asked me if I would like to donate a pound to a woman who was going through treatment.  I politely said, ‘no, thank you,’ and then walked away.  One of the employees, who has been there a while and knew me when I was bald, shot a very understanding glance in my direction and shrugged.

All of it makes me wonder if anyone cares if I, as an ovarian cancer survivor, live or die because I didn’t get the trendy cancer.