Susan hits the Spot on Friday

Now that Susan's done with another round of chemo, the race is on to get her innards in shape for her next visit to Hotel Hope.

As you may have gathered, cancer is a full-time gig for Susan, and she's missed seeing friends minus the drug-induced fog of chemo.

So, she's going to park her pole-dancing derrière at The Taco Spot on Friday and enjoy a leisurely, late lunch.

While there is no medical evidence that spicy shrimp tacos boost platelet production, why take a chance? Better for her to eat tacos now in case researchers discover a correlation later!

I, your faithful cancer correspondent, will be there as well, most likely up to my neck in nachos.

Why don't you play hooky and stop by for a visit and/or lunch? (If we're lucky, the hunks from the fire station across the street will stroll in.)

Here are the details:
Friday, June 29
1 to 2:30 p.m.
Stop by anytime during Susan's "office hours"

The Taco Spot
2006 Colorado Bl. Eagle Rock
Here's the menu.

There's street parking and a small lot in back. This is a BYOB (buy your own burrito), very casual gathering. Seriously, wear your flip-flops.

If you think you'll be dropping by, just email Susan or leave a comment here, and we'll corral enough chairs. The restaurant should be emptying out by 1, so it'll be quiet enough to talk, possibly about the aforementioned muy caliente fire fighters.

Oh, and Susan's progress, of course. We can chat about that, too.

Calendar Girl

I write prose, not poetry. But every million words or so, a phenomenon occurs, and I feel the need to express myself in verse. This poem can still use some polishing, but here it is in its mind-racing, can't-sleep, night-before-chemo state.

Calendar Girl

I’m a calendar girl –
The old fashioned kind.
My days are numbered
In neat little boxes
Parading across the page.

The boxes compete
For my attention.
Meetings, appointments,
Parties, dinner dates.
See how important I am?

The debris of my life
Spills into the boxes.
Double booking, triple booking,
Elbow to elbow
In crowded boxes.

When the doctor says
Let’s book you for chemo,
I answer, Let me check my calendar
For an empty box.
See how busy I am?

Chemo has five letters.
Strange. It won’t fit
Into any of my boxes.
I must erase
Meetings, appointments, dates.

One box every three weeks.
But I know the truth.
Chemo is a thief.
It will steal my energy
And encroach on all my boxes.

But without it
My days are numbered.
Now isn’t that ironic
For a calendar girl -
The old fashioned kind.