Paris sounds good right about now....

The good news is that my grandma did not have breast cancer after all - phew! It was only a calcification - you'd think they could have realized that in the biopsy but -- whatever.

Bad news is that the the inhibitor pill (not chemo, but has all the wonderful side-effects of chemo) my mom may have to take for the cancer that may or may not have reached her renal vein is super-atrocious out-of-pocket expensive and they can't be sure it would actually get rid, or inhibit, the cancer spread. Great.

Bar du Marche by Solar ikon 2007

So all of this cancer/surgery/chemo-ish/life-threatening crap makes me want to run off to live in a garret in Paris! I'll write semi-autobiographical stream-of-consciousness novels that I self-publish and guilt my friends into buying. I'll park my wide-American-ass in cafes drinking gallons (uh, litres) of espresso or wine while chain-smoking Gauloises (hey, when in Rome, people!). I'll bring my parents too, even though mom has vowed never to cross the ocean again (they flew to Hawaii once -- and survived --still). I'll blindfold her and tell her that we're just going to Minnesota, but the airport is so busy we can't land for another, ohhh, ten hours, and give her my peanuts.

Ok, so maybe I don't have to go to Paris to do any of this (except smoke in a cafe without being executed). And my wide-ass isn't as noticeable over here - so that's a plus. Ok, ok, so we'll stay here and just deal with whatever the Universe is going to dump on us. OK. ( But I'd rather be in Paris.)