Put up your dukes!

No, this isn’t another post about mayonnaise or BLTs. This time I’m talking about the old-fashioned, two-fisted kind of dukes.

Ever since I found out about my imminent stem cell transplant, I’ve been ready to put up my dukes at the slightest provocation. Why the edge? I figured that, after I return home from Chicago, I’ll have just 15-waking-non-doctor-appointment hours to tackle my “Things to do before my transplant” list. And, I’ll admit, I’m a little grumpy that I’ve been rejected from the Zevalin trial.

This morning, while trying to get ready for my Minneapolis/Chicago trip, the phone rang nonstop from 8:30 am until I left the house at 9:15 am. Darn those annoying folks at the City of Hope calling to confirm appointments and prescription refills.

Once I got to the airport, the chip on my shoulder grew. As a rule, I’m extremely cordial to the good folks at TSA, particularly since my god-baby’s mom and her sister are former and current employees. But I almost lost it when an employee ripped my boarding pass from my hand after I walked through the human scanner. She was like a bully toddler yanking away my favorite stuffed bear.

“You’re supposed to show me your boarding pass,” she snarled while she bobbed her head like an out-of-control guest on the Jerry Springer show.

“There was no need for you to RUDELY grab it from my hand,” I snarled back, without bobbing my head.

“Well, that was RUDE OF YOU not to show me your boarding pass,” she hissed.

“Well, my rudeness was unintentional, but yours was INTENTIONAL,” I fumed, resisting the urge to add, "And your mama wears army boots."

“Well, you were rude not to show me your boarding pass,” she repeated. (Wouldn’t it have been just as easy for her to have said, “Excuse me, ma’am. May I see your boarding pass?”)

We were going at it like a couple of extras from “Mean Girls.”

I could see that our tussle was going nowhere fast. My inner Buddha said, “Breathe and let go,” but my inner bitch said, “Don’t let this bully get away with that.”

My inner chicken finally won out after I began to visualize myself in a federal holding tank instead of visiting “cell mates” (our affectionate name for fellow mantle cell lymphoma patients) in Minneapolis or getting Satisfaction at the Mick Jagger party in Chicago.

I calmed down after I boarded the plane, but slowly began to steam when I realized that the over sized individual in front of me was managing to recline his seat 5 degrees more than anyone else in his row. (Yes, I pullled out my protractor and verified the degrees.) My long legs needed those extra 5 degrees, so I engaged him in a push-pull tug-of-war. It was a losing battle.

Then I became silently iRate when the young man next to me played his iPod at full blast, drowning out the OMs that my inner Buddha was trying to generate.

Lunch service was no better. For $2, we Northwest passengers had a choice of Pringles potato chips or another junk food. I opted for the $5 luxury box, filled with enough empty calories and fat to sustain a flight to the other side of the planet.

We eventually landed, and I looked forward to relaxing at the hotel. But after waiting more than 40 minutes for our Hilton airport shuttle, I called the hotel. Turns out they were having “a little trouble” and advised me and the two other guests, who had flown from Melbourne (literally the other side of the planet) to take a cab.

It’s now nearly 8:30 pm. I’m less than a mile from the Mall of America, the world’s largest mall. Cindy would consider it sacrilege to choose not to travel to Mecca. But for me, a little ranting and writing therapy beats retail therapy every time. That and a perfect Manhattan, straight up.