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Triathlete Blog


By October 31, 2009July 20th, 2015No Comments

It’s Halloween. Regardless how you feel about distributing candy to small children who beg at your door like they need a little more sugar and sloth in their diet, I can’t help but revisit the Halloweens of my past with a sweet fondness. There was the Wonder Woman costume with matching mask (I also had the matching underroos). Raggedy Ann. A baby. A cowgirl. I cannot remember anything else but I do remember collecting a giant pillowcase of candy and processing it with – of course – a system. Even at a young age I showed a freakish ability to organize. First to go – the Smarties, Mary Janes and those nasty peanut butter candies that come in orange or black wax wrappers.


Next, I would be willing to eat the Snickers, Almond Joys, Butterfingers and M&Ms.

But I would absolutely trade all of that for Reeses Peanut Butter Cups.

This year Halloween has not been about candy. No, in fact I don’t buy candy to give out to children. It turns out that we live in a neighborhood where the median age is something like….70. I don’t answer the door on Halloween. I’ve thought about leaving a bag of candy on the porch with a note that says help yourself but it reminds me of dark porches with bowls of that nasty bubble gum and notes of help yourself which sounded more like a lure into Squeaky’s Porn Shed behind the house than a generous Halloween treat.


This year in celebration of Halloween, I’m not dressing up. In fact I find the whole dressing up as an adult thing kind of ….weird. I like who I am and on most days I can barely dress myself in something other than a jog bra and capri tights. So to assemble an entire outfit that not only is witty, creative and mysterious….yeah, that’s what I call the days when I put on jeans and dry my hair. Call me creative, honey. I’m dressed.

Every year we get an invitation to a friend’s Halloween party. I like them but I hate the “mandatory” command about dressing up for Halloween. In my life, the only thing that is mandatory is starting the day with coffee. Not doing it in costume. Besides, I’m convinced that costume parties are just an excuse for single girls to dress up like a slutty cat. I’m allergic to cats therefore I am allergic to (most) Halloween parties.

Halloween reminds me of black cats, vampires and blood. Drippy, gory things. Somebody take a bite out of me. Oddly enough, my life lately has been about blood. Giving it. Lots of it. I’ve been tested for many things. The only thing I’m pretty sure I haven’t been tested for is distemper.

According to my husband, I’m 100 percent positive.

I’m not dying and I’m not ill. I’m just testing to be sure I am human and not part e.l.f.

Though it’s inconclusive at this time.

There was one week I was at the doctor several times to give blood. Each time I would get home, they’d call and say they forgot something. Back to the doctor for more blood. I almost started sticking them with needles when on the third day they asked me what my blood type was. Shouldn’t you be telling me? Have you not seen enough of my blood to know? Isn’t there some kind of color chart. Like telling if you are dehydrated from your pee? O positive is light red, A negative is dark? I had no idea what my blood type was. Hence another test.

Know what they found?

99.9 percent caffeine and .1 percent little tufts of chihuahua fur. Bottom line: my blood runs coffee with a hint of puppy.

Actually my blood type was A positive. It came as no surprise. I’ve always known I was perfect. I’m not sure what I should do with this information other than tease my husband for being O-negative while I’m a perfect A-plus.

It’s like giving candy to a child, information like that.

In that week I got to know the phlebotomist by name. She would ask me what workout I was doing that day. She told me I had great veins. But when she told me the story about how her husband forgot their 10 year anniversary…I got a little scared. Nothing spells psychotrouble like a woman in a white lab coat holding a needle while shouting about her husband. I wanted to buy her dinner, give her roses or at the very least ask her to put the needle down but when she finally stuck me in the arm I could almost taste the satisfaction.

Like my arm was her husband.

This past Monday I gave more blood. It was a different phlebotomist who tried to make small talk with me. I really didn’t enjoy it. Mostly because there was a rubberband pinching off my bicep and she kept pulling out all these little vials. Is this necessary? I’m perfect people, A positive. You won’t find blood more perfect than mine.

Imagine my delight when the asthma-is-awesome doctor decided he wanted to get in on this. He, too, wants my blood. But I thought to myself: this again? There’s got to be some type of overdraft rule here. Like you can only withdraw so much blood from my veins before they are just empty. Veins are tapped out. Ask me to cough it up instead.

To another lab with a new phlebotomist. I know this game well. Roll up the sleeve, stick arm on little desk that sticks off of chair and wait for rubberband.


I know this reaction too by now. And you know how when someone tells you something enough instead of getting embarrassed or annoyed by it you finally concede to play along.

I know, they’re great aren’t they? (oh my god I just said that)


Seriously it was like phlebotomist Christmas. My arms are like a road map of phlebotofun. (I did not say that)


No, I eat Moose Tracks everyday while watching Oprah (lie). But really: they popped out of my arm when I was about 14 years old while taking tennis lessons. (thinking: I’m like Anna Kournikova except way hotter but like her I play a lot and don’t win. I also really like Spanish men)


I do, or did. I don’t know.


It’s like a bad Carly Simon song. Your great veins, I bet you think this..

When I was out in Colorado Springs I actually quite enjoyed helping with a blood lactate test. For once I was sticking someone with a needle. But the freaky part? Dude didn’t bleed. I had no idea what that meant but one thing is certain: he was not A-positive. Perfect people always bleed gumdrops and cupcakes. I did finally get him to bleed after 3 shots in the finger. I wasn’t supposed to use the fatty part of his finger but…it’s the only place I could draw blood. And then I drank it. And hid for the rest of the day.

Of course I’m just kidding. It’s a little Halloween humor. Oh go eat your Mary Jane. Honestly after all of the needles and blood lately, I feel like I’m totally over Halloween. Either that or I have the perfect costume: I need to go as a sharps container.

That settles it: I’m going to answer the door tomorrow night. I’ve got a great costume. I’m going as the girl with great veins and by my side will be Boss, the Chihuahua going as a Sharpei. Boss had an “inappropriate reaction” (vet speak) to a vaccine that caused him to swell up with face wrinkles and hives. He makes a damn ugly Chihuahua right now but one heck of a ringer for a Sharpei. This is the best damn Halloween ever – no costumes, we are just going as ourselves.

So stop on by tonight. I might answer the door and I might give out the good stuff. That would be dental floss.

Seriously what was wrong with THOSE people?

But heed my warning: if you see a bowl with a bunch of bubble gum and a sign that says help yourself, take that advice – help yourself by running away.

Or else I’m sending Squeaky after you.