I’m Anne U Phylaxis. Did I Shock You?

Hi there!

The dude who normally writes the blogs here is a friend of mine (long story) and he said I could write/vent in his place every once in a while. He made it clear it wouldn’t be too often unless you all just LUV me. It could happen, right?

A little about moi. First of all, yes, Anne U. Phylaxis is my real name. The “U” is pronounced UH. Do you think my parents, Paul and Margaret Phylaxis, were smoking some pre-legal weed (or maybe tripping on something a little stronger) when they gave me that tag? They tried to be more sensible with my younger brother, but it didn’t save him. Pops and Margie named him Robert, but everyone calls him Pro anyway. If you can’t figure out why I can’t conceive why you would read this blog. Get it?

I’m a 37-year-old city girl. Yes, the city is Chicago, but I’m not telling what part. A woman has to have her secrets. And yes, I am all woman. I know there is a drag queen with a similar name, but I am not him, or her, or whatever. Nothing fluid about my gender, just my relationships. I don’t think I will write about those here. By the time I got around to write about any particular pairing, it would probably be over. And old news is just old news. Last week I read a Facebook entry (yeah, I still use Facebook–lame) from an old dude ripping his ex-wife from 20 years ago. Let it rest man.

For the most part, I am woke or woken or just damn awake. I’ve got no problems with most people, except those who disagree with me in a nasty way. I have ink, but you’ll never see it–at least not here. Margie took me to a department store to get my ears pierced when I was little, maybe the usual master of this blog did the deed. No other unnaturally created holes. I have an aversion to needles: piercing or injecting. However, I am not an anti-vaxer. Talk about STOOPID!

So what am I going to write about? Things that bother me. Things I want to get off of my chest. Rants about the Philander-in-Chief until he is gone. Rants about the Dumbocrats until they can figure out how to get rid of him. Rants about bad movies and stupid social memes. It’s not gonna be a lovefest–no Woodstock Nation. But I am going to do my best to save the world, one occasional post at a time.

So if you want to hear more from me, add a comment here either at ChicagoNow or on Facebook. And share this post.

Or send me a note at anne.u.phylaxis@columnist.com. I’ll be waiting. And so will the good doctor.

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Goodbye to a Fellow Pathologist, and to Mary Dixon Too.

Pathologists don’t retire easily.

We tend to age gracefully in place. We may need to adjust our seat height at the microscope to compensate for our compressing spinal columns and it may be a little harder to turn the focusing knobs on those ‘scopes as osteoarthritic changes afflict our joints. But we hang in there, perhaps pickled and pruned by constant exposure to formalin (always carefully measured and monitored to be below the legally permissible OSHA limit.)

So it is rare that I need to wish an associate a fond goodbye. Especially one that I have known since we were both raw residents, fumbling through autopsies and guessing at causes of death. In fact, it was just outside the autopsy suite (the upscale name for morgue) at Evanston Hospital that I first met George.

It was late in 1979 and I had just completed my first two-month pathology residency rotation. Those two months were marinated by stewing in 50 autopsies, assisted by two dieners (the upscale name for morgue attendants) who knew what they were doing and supervised by attending pathologists, who sometimes did not–particularly one blood banker who was better at cutting and pasting our list of diagnoses than he was cutting bodies.

I was thrilled to be able to wipe my hands (gloved, of course) of the morgue, only to be stopped outside my office by the department director, a stiff Teutonic gentleman who had just returned from a sabbatical. Pulling another young man into the hallway he said to me “This is Dr. Engel. He is new. You will teach him how to do autopsies.”

And I did. In so doing, I got to know George; his background, his East Coast upbringing (he shared an alma mater with my father-in-law,) his European education. and his lovely, very European, wife. I learned his favorite phrase was “to make a long story short.” In reality, the stories were seldom short, but what they lacked in brevity they made up for in entertainment value.

After our four year residencies, George and I each found work as staff pathologists with community hospitals, George in the city and me in the ‘burbs. It was only on rare occasions that our paths would cross. Yet I immediately recognized the voice on the line when George called me in the fall of 2005. He had heard through the pathvine that I was looking for a fellow pathologist to help me man a new venture, the UroPartners Laboratory. I was a day away from hiring a different pathologist, someone brusque and unfamiliar to me, but jumped at the opportunity to welcome an old friend instead.

George has been with me ever since, arriving at 4 a.m. most mornings, immersing himself in prostates, FISHing in the dark, listening to radio Français, and managing our safety program (it is always a wet occasion when he tests the emergency showers.)

When George cut back to part-time hours a few years ago, I knew that he was on the yellow-brick road to retirement. He is almost at the Emerald City and the 2020s will be sans George for us. But to make a long story short, although there is no place like home, George you will always be welcome here.

One more goodbye as WXRT shuffles its lineup. Mary Dixon, newsie and co-host with Lin Brehmer of the ‘XRT morning show, has been de-positioned off the station. As the Mistress of “3 for Free” Mary kept my ear-brain reflexes sharp and responded to some of my rare tweets, even when I wasn’t a winner.

Good luck to you Mary, and let us know where you will next make your radio home. #lesraff1

The opinions expressed above are of the author and not UroPartners LLC.

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My TV Top Ten. What is Yours?

Barb and I were almost home the other night when a familiar tune came on the car radio. “In my opinion, that’s the BEST TV SHOW EVER,” I said. And that got me thinking. What were my favorite TV shows of all time? So here, from #10 to #1 is my list. The only rule for selection is that there are no rules. It is my list, I get to say what goes on it. Feel free to disagree. I am sure you will!

#10-#7 My Early Years

10. The Dick Van Dyke Show: The classic work life-home life sitcom. Barb can still crack me up with an “Oh, Rob” or put me in my place with a “You’re no Albert Schweitzer.” I was young, Mary Tyler Moore was adorable, and Ritchie was getting attacked by birds. What was there not to like?

9. What’s My Line?: You thought Jeopardy! would be my favorite game show? Wrong again, reader. Another classic from my youth, no moderator was ever as smooth and urbane as John Charles Daley. And when the host has 3 names, I knew the celebrity panel had to be classy too, even if I had never heard of Bennett Cerf or Arlene Francis. And Dorothy Kilgallen was sort of hot to my 7-year-old eyes.

8. Saturday Night Blackhawks Hockey: Only a few Blackhawks games were televised in the ’60s. But every Saturday night during the season, I would knock on my next-door neighbor Jeff’s door at 6:30. We would play a game of table hockey (he had a great set with 3D plastic players and a ball-bearing puck) and then settle in to watch the Hawks play another “Original Six” opponent. The TV set was black and white, but there was no problem picking out the Golden Jet, as Bobby Hull, Stan Mikita, and Glenn Hall did their best to bring Chicago a winner.

7. Ray Raynor and Friends and The Dick Tracy Show: Ray Raynor, playing the jumpsuited host during the morning in the former and Officer Pettibone during the afternoon in the latter, had my full attention. White Sox (and Cubs) scores, Chelveston the Duck and some decent cartoons kept me entertained.

#6-#1 Adulthood

6. Breaking Bad: After starting to watch the family drama Parenthood in its 4th season, Barb and I decided to go back and watch the earlier seasons–our first binge-watch. Our next binge-watch: Breaking Bad, a very different family drama. Mr. White and Jessie had special chemistry together, and not just the crystal-meth kind. We did not watch El Camino, the recent sequel. Heard it wasn’t all that good!

5. Hill Street Blues: The greatest show of the ’80s, it was the cop show that stood above all other cop shows, before and after. FOMAE (fear of missing an episode) led us to buy our first VCR. VHS of course–we didn’t want no stinkin’ BetaMax.

4. Veep: Laugh out loud funny and bitingly mean and all-around magnificent. Julia Louis Dreyfuss and the whole ensemble cast made Washington D.C. seem as miserable as it truly must be. I loved it even before there was a real dramedy in the White House.

3. Game of Thrones: Maybe I would have ranked it higher before the final season, but come on, #3 isn’t all that bad. Love and hate. Red Weddings and Walks of Shame. And battles. Lots of battles. So why isn’t Arya Stark starring in a sequel?

2. Seinfeld: Yada, Yada, Yada. And Julia Louis Dreyfuss too.

1. The music I heard in the car that day was Alabama 3 talking and singing their way through “Woke Up This Morning.” I cannot hear that song without seeing James Gandolfini, cigar smoke swirling around his head, driving past the Meadowlands and Satriale’s Pork Store. Tony Soprano on the move, inviting us to New Jersey and The Sopranos, the greatest TV series ever made.

You agree with me on all of these, right? If not, let me hear about it.

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My Night with Abbey Road

“Alexa, play Abbey Road.”

Yes, the album cover is famous, it’s iconic, it is whatever you want to call it. Jesus-like John Lennon, barefoot (dead?) Paul, and George and Ringo too. How many of your friends and neighbors have used a picture of their family at a crosswalk for their Facebook cover photo or an annual holiday card? Maybe you have done it yourself (no, the Raffs have never given it a try!)

But it wasn’t for the visual effect that I asked my sound system to play the album last night. Barb was out at one of her many book clubs, I was going to do some reading, and I wanted a little background music. Background music? HAH! For the next 45 minutes or so, I didn’t read another word.

You can look up the rankings of Beatle albums (I looked at a bunch) and Abbey Road never falls below #4. But you can have your Revolver and Sgt Pepper and Rubber Soul. For my money (OK-I don’t pay for music with Alexa) there is no better Beatle listen than AR.

Let’s look at the record, as Al Smith (easy trivia) once said. What are the two most memorable George Harrison contributions to the Beatles? “Something” and “Here Comes the Sun.” Both there, and neither violating anyone else’s copyright. In need of Ringo’s second-best Beatles vocal (and his finest writing?) “Octopus’s Garden” does it for me. Want a couple of great numbers for Joe Cocker to grab? The aforementioned “Something” and side two’s “She Came in Through the Bathroom Window” are both ripe for the taking.

“I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” is trippy and doomy with its abrupt cut-off. “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” is banging fun. But it is the long medley to close the album that is astounding. Pam and Mustard and The Window Girl, the sweet lullaby of “Golden Slumbers,” Paul’s variation of the Golden Rule–taking love and making love.

Finally, after that long gap, a salute to the Queen. Who would have predicted in 1969 that 50 years later we would have lost half of the Beatles, but her Majesty would still be going strong. She was a pretty nice girl, but Paul never did make her his. Oh well, he has had his loves, and she has had Phillip.

When the album concluded, I did manage to read a few pages of my latest thriller but soon fell asleep to visions of octopuses and hammers. I’ll have to ask Barb if I was singing in my sleep.

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Billy Joel’s The Stranger, the Next Album On My Favorites List

It has been a while but now it is time to add to my Favorite Album List. How many of my colleagues remember this one?

Sometimes a bad song introduces the world to a great artist and a banner album. Not often, but it happens. As an example Boomers, let’s go back to 1977. Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” is all over the radio. It’s a sappy love song, and it made him a superstar.

In the early 1970’s Joel had some moderate hits with the songs “Piano Man” and the “The Entertainer.” Some FM stations played “Captain Jack,” but that song had a not-so-family-friendly 10 letter word. Joel wasn’t singing everyday love songs, he was telling stories; his songs were like chapters in a book. If he was known at all it was as a minor artist with minor hits.

And then those lovey-dovey lyrics, that “don’t go changin’ to try to please me” croon, hit the airwaves. It was cringeworthy and so different from the Billy Joel I had heard before. But everyone else loved it (it even won a Grammy) and it led people to discover one of my favorite albums, The Stranger. It’s on that LP that the story man found his groove.

“Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” and “Anthony’s Song.” Mini-epics that told stories of lives we could all relate to. Springsteenian, but ironic and with a twinge of humor. Who didn’t know a couple like Brenda and Eddie, the prom king and queen whose life peaked in high school? Or someone like poor old Anthony, working too hard for the Cadillac and life of his dreams? And there was “Vienna,” which I took as a shout out to my mother’s birthplace, Vienna, Austria.

Nothing rocked more than “Only the Good Die Young,” teenage Billy’s plea to a virginal girlfriend. Unlike young Mr. Joel, in my one experience dating a Catholic schoolgirl it was she who proved to be the more adventurous partner. Listening to “Only the Good Die Young” made me wonder if I was the one headed for an early grave.

“She’s Always a Woman” and “Get it Right the First Time” had their moments as well. And the eerie whistling intro to “The Stranger” let you know that this was a song that could haunt you, and make you think of the masks we put on and take off. A creepier prelude to Springsteen’s “Brilliant Disguise.”

A few years ago on the way to seeing Billy Joel play at Wrigley Field, I said to Barb “I wonder what kind of an audience he’ll have. Will there be anyone besides us old folk?” Barb looked at me like I was from another planet. And she was right. The sold-out stadium was packed with people of all age groups. He rocked the Friendly Confines, and by the end of the night, we were all friends. There were no strangers among us, just memories of a great night and a great album.

Thanks, Billy.

Missing politics?

Want more memories?

The above is the opinion of the author and not UroPartners, LLC.

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Forget the Super Bowl–It’s “The Primary Shuffle”

In honor of tonight’s upcoming debate, it’s

THE PRIMARY SHUFFLE

We are the Dems Primary Crew
We’re all here, with thoughts for you
We run in Iowa, we run in New Hampshire
We’re trying to show our presidential stature
There’s a dozen of us, or maybe more
Remembering our names is a statistician’s chore
We don’t want to burst anybody’s bubble
We just want to win the Primary Shuffle

My name is Warren and I got plans
The Prez thinks I’m Poci, he don’t understand
I’m the Iron Lady that looks like your teacher
I’ll never hear you say that say you want to impeach her
You told me Medicare for All was a real non-starter
I’m ditching that intention, I ain’t no martyr
I’m going to debate and show my mental muscle
My biggest plan is “Win the Primary Shuffle.”

I’m Sleepy Joe Biden been around forever
People say that I’m nice, not many say that I’m clever
Obama and me, we made a really good team
For eight long years, we were the liberal’s dream
I took credit for the good, and I dissed the bad
Yeah my son is Hunter, I’ll disown that lad
His relation to Ukraine I’m going to have to muffle
If I want to win the Primary Shuffle.

Don’t you know I’m Bernie, the loud talking guy
I yell and I point, don’t really know why
I’m way to the left, I’m the socialist leader
Warren thinks she’s me, but I’m going to defeat her.
My heart attack, well that’s really no factor
Let Larry David step in, he’s a damn good actor
Capitalism is dead, just hand me the shovel
And I’ll be on top of the Primary Shuffle.

I’m Mayor Pete, I’m a down-home boy
I come from Indiana, near Barack’s Illinois
You can’t say my last name? I don’t blame ya’
I just want to stay running, at least ’til Pennsylvania
I’m sorta in the center, I’ll be the moderate winner
Though in national stuff I’m barely a beginner
What I want from you is not too subtle
I need your vote in the Primary Shuffle.

We’re the late coming pair, we couldn’t be dumber
We thought we’d get away without running in the summer
Yeah I’m Billionaire Mike, I fixed New York City
Pushing Stop and Frisk, I guess it wasn’t very pretty
And I’m Deval Patrick, former Governor of Mass
I don’t go negative, I just show a lot of class
We’re so late, lots of feathers we can ruffle
As we make our first move in the Primary Shuffle.

Here’s the rest of us, we hope you still remember
Amy, Cory and Camilla, we were news last December.
Andy Yang is here, gonna give you all a bonus
It’s a lousy plan, he hopes that you won’t notice
We waved goodbye, to Kirsten, Beat and Hickenlooper
Their campaigns ’til they dropped put us all in a stupor
We’ll never figure out all the parts in the puzzle
We’re all gonna lose the Primary Shuffle.

We are the Dems Primary Crew
We think we can win but we don’t have a clue
We want to save the nation from its current corruption
‘Cause we’re sick of DC’s daily tweeting eruption
So go to the polling place and make your choice
One of us has got to be the people’s best voice
It’s up to you, so choose one on the double
Which candidate will win the Primary Shuffle.

The above is the opinion of the author and not UroPartners LLC

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A Trump – Biden Solution. You Can Both Be Heroes

Hey, Joe! How about taking one for the team? You, know, be like the guy who fakes an injury and goes on the Disabled List* so the rookie phenom can be brought up from Double-A ball. I’m not asking you to pretend to tear a rotator cuff or have a phony stroke to match Bernie’s real one. But how about you make a little deal. You call up President Donald Trump, or communicate along some of those nefarious back-channels, and let him know if he resigns you will drop out of the Democratic primary race.

That’s quite a trade-off. Give up your life long ambition, your unrequited dream, your guiding force. Toss it all in. Why? Well. for one thing, your support seems to be stalled, if not outright fading. The betting odds are against you. While your fans love your humanity, you just don’t seem to break the image of sleepy old Joe. Why not be forever known as the guy who convinced Donald Trump to “retire?” Become immortal!

So if would be a no-brainer for Joe. But why, you ask, would the President ever agree to such an outlandish proposition? Let’s look at this carefully for Donald:

Impeachment by the House is a foregone conclusion. The Republican defense of your actions keeps changing, while the evidence of wrong-doing keeps piling up. Sure you will be acquitted by the Senate, but do you really want to go down as history as only the 3rd impeached President? Join a trio including Andrew Who Johnson, and Bill Lock-Him-Up Clinton? Even Tricky-Dick Nixon had the sense to resign rather than be dragged through an impeachment, though in those days the Republican Party had guts to fry their own.
You will get Joe Biden, a guy you don’t seem to like, out of the picture. And with Joe gone the Dems are even more likely to nominate one of those two lefties Warren or Sanders. And that can give the GOP a great chance of holding the presidency in 2020. Which brings us to Reason #3.
With the Trump name less smudged your offspring will have a clearer path to their political fame (and fortune.) Give Ivanka or Donald Jr. a fighting chance for a Presidential run. Even Jared the K might have big ambitions. Resign now and at least one of them will have plenty of time to nail the 2020 nomination. No need to let the Presidential term of Mike Pence last longer than a year or so-just long enough to grant you a pardon (see Nixon-Ford et al, 1974.) And Nikki Hailey? Forget about it. You are gonna be Trumped.

So Donald and Joe, let’s make a deal. Monty Hall may be long gone (and a Canadian to boot,) but I will be glad to broker the deal. Call me up any night this week–except Friday, that’s our babysitting night. There is only so much I can give up for my country.

The opinions expressed are those of the author and not UroPartners LLC.

*To all my baseball buddies: Yes I know it is now the Injured List, but unPC or not, it will always be the DL to me. Deal with it, snowflakes.

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Why October 24th Is My Special Personal Memory

Don’t certain dates stand out in your mind? Of course, there are personal dates like your wedding day or the birth of a child that you will never forget. But I am referring to those dates that are outside of your own life but have an impact on you none the less.

For the Greatest Generation, there were VE and VJ Days. For my boomer bunch, we all know where we were the day when JFK was shot and or when Neil Armstrong sauntered on the moon. For many Chicagoans, the embedded memory is the moment in 2005 the White Sox won the World Series–or maybe you remember the 2016 Cubs championship night. Or the soon to follow 2016 Election coverage.

Yes, all those days are important to me, but October 24th also has a place in my permanent memory. October 24, 1971, to be precise. Why? It was my senior year in high school. I was at a regional event for United Synagogue Youth, the youth group that I had been insanely active with throughout my high school years. I was reconnecting with the young woman who would become my senior year sweetheart and prom date. And a bunch of us had gathered around a transistor radio (Japanese, I presume) listening to a mediocre Bears team play the Detroit Lions at the old Tiger Stadium.

There was just about a minute left on the clock when a Detroit player, 28-year-old wide receiver Chuck Hughes, dropped to the turf. The stadium and broadcasters fell silent. Hughes never moved, he was never resuscitated. This trained athlete, the father of a 23-month-old son, is the only player in the history of the National Football League to die during a game.

I have never looked at October 24th the same way. The collision of fun and romance with the stark reality of mortality and tragedy made a mark on me that I never fail to reflect on as this day rolls around. No one was assassinated, no one made a memorable quote or won the Presidency, but my memory will always be there. That October 24th girlfriend has long vanished from my life, but the death of Chuck Hughes is something I will never forget.

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Streaming Down the Road

5:28 A.M. Fog seeps in as I press the button and the garage door rolls open. The usual dashboard warning lights blink and buzzers sound. I flip to the audiobook CD on the media player as I slowly back the car out, remembering that our houseguest’s rental car is in the driveway. Pleased with myself for remembering, I manage to maneuver my car expertly out of the garage and head to the street.

5:29-5:30 A.M. Driving through the subdivision in the fog. Fortunately no dog-walkers or joggers this morning, at least none that I can see through the mist.

5:31 A.M. I can barely make out the red light at the major intersection up ahead. I accelerate just enough to position myself to make a left turn the instant the turn arrow illuminates.

5:32 A.M. Tollway bound, the state trooper in their usual spot along the entrance ramp. I wave as I begin to accelerate to expressway speed.

5:33-5:37 A.M. I slide to the left lane, engage cruise control and concentrate on listening to the new Richard Russo novel.

5:38-5:39 A.M. The first construction zone. The left lane narrows, the shoulder shrinks, concrete dividers loom. Reclaiming control from the cruise control, I reduce speed and move one lane to the right.

5:40-5:41 A.M. Back in the left lane, cruise control once again locking in my speed. As I pass the nursing home to the east I check the dashboard timer. Eleven minutes so far, the average for this part of the early morning commute. Ten minutes is a rarity, twelve minutes a disappointment. It all depends on the turn signal at that first intersection.

5:42-5:44 A.M. The road lightis have a strange ethereal appearance in the fog. My mind is back with Richard Russo, as traffic and I shimmy along — the trucks, SUVs, and crossovers all dwarfing my lone sedan. I hold my ground, not letting the bruisers intimidate me.

5:45-5:46 A.M. A longer construction zone, but I whizz past casinos and airports, toll collectors and fashion malls. A single stanchion remains from the old oasis, a reminder that nothing we build is eternal. Barely looking down, I change CDs and begin listening to the last chapter in my novel.

5:47-5:48 A.M. Cruising past Urlacher Lane. Billboard after billboard. A Chicago hero transformed into a hair transplant pitchman. Is he still a hero?

5:49-5:51 A.M. Slowly move to the right, sharing the interior lanes with drivers heading for backed-up exits, while other cars merge in from other expressways.

5:52-5:54 A.M. My exit lane, then the last toll. I brake to the first stoplight in 22 miles.

5:55 A.M. A right turn into the driveway of the near-empty parking lot, and I grab my briefcase and lunch. I lock the car doors, head for the lab, and my workday begins.

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I’m Not On a Diet-I’m Just Getting Healthier.

I wasn’t going to write about it, didn’t want to jinx it (kina hora.) But it feels like an accomplishment and I feel like celebrating it.

My weight and my blood sugar were creeping up and up. A couple of oral medications hadn’t corraled my hemoglobin A1c (a measure of glucose control over a three-month span) and nothing was helping me corral my BMI. So as my internist and I discussed various pharmaceutical approaches to issue number one, I told her I would like to see a nutritionist for issue number two. A few mouse clicks from Dr. W. and I had an electronic referral to the group’s Diabetes Educator.

That appointment was exactly two months ago. And would it be an exaggeration to say it was a life-changer? Meg the registered dietitian and I sat in her office and we talked. A little about life, a little about jobs, and then a little about how and what I ate. There were no aghast looks from her, no reprimands, not even an eye-roll as I cataloged my daily calorie intake. I didn’t need her to tell me that for a smart guy, I had picked up some dumb habits.

Meg made some suggestions. She thought I should get back on my original glucose medication, though perhaps at a different dosage. She encouraged frequent blood glucose testing, one thing I demurred on. As far as my eating behavior, she suggested cutting some portion sizes, giving up a treat or two, and trying to balance carbs with proteins. She gave me a suggested calorie count, passed on some manuals and sent me on my way. I gave the pamphlets a glance when I got home and then decided that it was time I flipped the switch and got healthy. But like with most things, although I would incorporate what Meg had said, I would do it my way.

So no, I am not on a diet. I’m not paleo’ing, or Mediteranian’ing, or ketogenic’ing. I eat at all hours of the day if I choose to. I take no issue with gluten or lactose or tree nuts and all are part of my daily routine. When someone asks “What can’t I eat anymore,” my answer is “I can eat anything.”

But the bagels have been replaced by flatbreads and sprouted grain English muffins (1/2 of one is the perfect portion size,) the handsful of pretzels substituted for by mixed nuts and fruits (hoping for a long cherry season,) and now, when Barb suggests splitting an entree at a restaurant, my eyes no longer beam death rays at her.

So here I am 61 days later, and 25 pounds lighter. The BMI calculator on my iPhone says I am still in the overweight zone, but not by much. I feel good, I am gearing up for tennis season and a couple of 5Ks, and cravings don’t seem to be a problem.

Can I keep it up? I’m not sure. And it will be another month before I need to check my hemoglobin A1c. But I think I can do it…kina hora.

Speaking of keeping healthy, I am still looking for sponsors for my 5K SEABlue Run for prostate cancer Support, Education, and Advocacy. Here’s the link!

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