So, apparently there are bad cancers, good cancers and bad good cancers.

Melanoma is considered a bad cancer. It's an aggressive cancer, difficult to treat and has a low cure rate. Other bad cancers include breast, ovarian, and blood cancers.

Basal cell carcinoma is considered a good cancer. It's easy to treat, typically balls into discreet tumours and has a high cure rate.

However, bcc doesn't always form with sharp edges. Sometimes the tumour sends tendrils out, and invades other cell areas. We'll call this the bad good cancers.

Apparently, this is what I have, the bad good. I won't know the extent of the tumour until the surgery on May 11th. The doctor said I can expect stitches from the middle of my eyelid to my temple. They'll be in six days before being removed.

I talked to my mom about the timing of the surgery before I scheduled it. The first available appointment was this coming Thursday, the 28th, but I won't be able to fly until the stitches are out, and absolutely not any exertion for two days (no ultimate for at least a week). So, the 28th would mean no Hawaii. Having it removed the following Thusday would mean no road trip with Paul, so that week is out.

The following weekend is my sister-in-law's college graduation. I'm torn about that weekend, because it's her graduation. But another week. This thing itches like mad. I don't think I can wait another week, especially mentally.

As I was waiting for the doctor today, I looked at my chart. I think most people don't bother actually looking at their charts. I was curious. The initial diagnosis was so casual. "Bumps on back." With quotes. Like I was imagining the bumps on my back and near my eye. Now everything I see has me wondering, is this cancerous, too? Should I have this looked at?

Thank goodness my zits and pimples are few and far between.

I've been writing here for over two years. I've been trying to get Kris to start blogging for a long part of that time, even going so far as to buy several different domains hoping one would stick.

Well, he has finally started blogging. Today's story made me laugh. It's about the elevator incident.

As on most Wednesdays, we went to communal dinner tonight. Mark and Megan put their little girl, Mirabelle to work, cooking a tasty lasagna meal. That kid is amazing: in under twenty two days of life-not-attached-to-mom, she's managed to learn how to sit up, nearly how to walk, track people, manipulate her parents and cook an amazing lasagna dish. If you ever wonder why I don't want kids, look at that Smith kid and know that any kid of mine could never compare.

The evening conversion oddly enough, turned to broken bones. Kris commented that Doyle had on video a particularly bad layout where he landed on the disc and jammed the rim into his ribs. He crawled off the field, and all of it was caught on video. Mark commented he had broken a rib once, then continued that the last bone he thinks he broke was his face from when I kicked him. He continued that his face was sore for about two months after the kicking. He noticed it especially after pressing on one side of his face for a longish period of time (where longish equals an hour or so).

When he told the story I stopped what I was doing, mortified. Sure, sure, it was entertaining at the time, and yes, this waiver and that disclaimer, but, dude, I physically injured someone. It was funny at the time, yes, the story is still funny, and, yes, I laughed with everyone tonight.

But part if me is more than a little shocked. I hadn't realized.

My training session today didn't go so well, and I'm kinda annoyed by it. Usually, I head into the gym in the morning, so I know the three morning trainers. Work requirements dictated, however, I go into the gym in the afternoon (or at least late morning) today. As a result, I had a different trainer.

About half the time I've been, I've had a partner training at the same time. The facility is set up so that each trainer has a maximum of two training partners, one working while the other is resting. I usually go in at odd enough times that I have the trainer to myself, but sometimes I have a partner.

Today's training included a partner.

This partner was the first that was significantly different than I: he was big, strong, loud, and, for the most part, well muscled. Contrast to me: petite, few muscles, quiet.

Heh. Me. Quiet.

Did I just say that?

The trainer started with the other guy, and would have him do 2-3 exercises (like something with both arms, right only, left only, then a different one with both arms), then worked with me. I would do three sets of one exercise, then the trainer would move back to the other guy.

I managed to get only five exercises in: bench press, inclined bench press, pull ups, bicep curls and tricep curls. The other guy started before and ended after me, so he managed to get 12 - 15 exercises in. The trainer spent more time with that guy than with me and I left miffed about it.

I bought a package deal with the facility. At this point, I'm not so inclined to get another. Might just finish this one out next week and find a real gym. Of course, that means I have to find a workout partner so that I stay motivated: motivation being my real reason for heading to this facility in the first place.

Mike and I went up to the school today. We intended to work from 7 until 10, but when Kate's out of town, life happens for Mike, and we ended up taking the dogs up to the school to eat cat poop, roll in dog poop, splash through mud and frolic with the other dogs.

Oh, and let Liza run around.

I managed to forget each and every Annie toy, but three golden retrievers made up for my lack of dog-saavy by chasing her around and around and around. Surprising, Bella didn't do her usual walk along the perimeter, howl at squirrel tracks about three days old and poop in the tall ivy. Instead, she ran around the middle of the field, ate sewage and splashed in the mud.

I had given her a bath only the day before last. Dog.

As we were leaving, the owner of one of the retrievers said hello. She introduced herself as a neighbor with the McDonald's munchkins in her front yard. I asked if she were the person who walks the dog while reading a book (note the correct use of the subjective in that sentence fragment). She said no, then started telling us about our neighbors, their pets, the new construction on the block, who lived where and what they did.

Her description of the neighborhood was quite entertaining when she pointed to Mike and said, "You recently had a baby. I see your wife with your kids every once in a while. I haven't seen her recently. You own a red station wagon." It then turned uncomfortable when she turned to me and continued, "You drive a sports car, and just planted your Christmas tree in your front yard."

D'oh.

Mike's Christmas tree, but close enough.

She knew everything. Well, almost everything. What she didn't know, I could fill in the gaps, like the two kids across the street from us (they're building a second story), or our neighbors to the north or south. She knew about the construction going on along the block (same construction company), as well as the Corridor-of-Death™.

Part of me was uncomfortable with all that she knew, but the other part of me realized that, well, she didn't know more than I knew just by observing the neighborhood. If I went on the walks with Kris, I'd be up on all the block happenings, too.

As we were leaving, she suggested a block party this summer. I remember block parties from when I was a kid, and am so excited by the thought. I'm happy to have met Debbie, and will need to go knock on her door sometime soon to get that block party happening.

Note to self: when attempting to relive various childhood moments, consider the not-so-childlike parts before proceeding.

Take, for example, standing on the edge of the bed and dropping onto one's butt, only to bounce off the bed into a standing position.

Lots of fun, but wear a good bra before attempting.

Trust me on that one.