The Tick

The other night I volunteered at the big donor dinner for the Pan Mass Challenge. That's the big bike ride cancer benefit. The big contributors are invited to a dinner with speeches by the top folk at Dana Farber and a guy from the Lance Armstrong Foundation. I do actually own an Armani dress (that I bought for $99 at Filene's Basement) and I have no nice shoes that fit my non-Armani-type feet, so I wore big black engineer boots and everyone nodded approvingly at the funky chic girl. Maybe I'll have started a trend. It was at the very elegant Four Seasons, and I ate some delicious lobster ravioli, met a lot of interesting people, and had a really nice night.

One of my jobs was to give people their nametag when they arrived. It was simple. If Joe Donor had registered and bought more than one ticket, the other attendees with Joe had blank tags that said in tiny letters: Guest of Joe Donor. We then filled in their name. This was not enough for one woman. She hissed at me when I couldn't find a tag with her name pre-printed. "I'm not a guest. I'm not a guest. I'm not a guest. It must be here somewhere." I told her I'd fill it in for her, and it was no problem. "It is a problem," she spat. "I'm not a guest. I'm a Heavy Hitter. A Really Big One." I did not show her my really big boots. I was super nice. It had no effect.

She became "The Tick" in my head. A Really Big One. She came back and stuck herself to the table. She spoke to two other volunteers and made them search the table so she did not have to have a handwritten badge. "The Tick" is a reference from the day I was working as a ranger and a woman stormed up to the ranger hut and stood in the doorway aggressively leering. "There is a TICK on my blanket," she accused me. She blocked the door. She stared some more. The hut is about the size of a phone booth.

"Well, " I said, unclear as to whether maybe she wanted me to go beat it up or something, "you should be sure to check yourself for ticks later." I said this in a very calm and kind voice. She got red in the face. "Oh I KNOW how to check for ticks. I used to live in Michigan!" She leaned forward, continuing to stare at me aggressively. It was much more amusing than the women that occasionally come up to the hut hand first, waving a dirty diaper inches from my face asking if I had trash in there, but rather disturbing nonetheless.

Friday I picked ten quarts of strawberries and four pints of peas in the hot sun before meeting my brother at his house where I photographed some of his tree art and we hiked around in the woods. I yanked a tick out of my thigh later that night. Despite all my buggy outdoors activities I was certain I got it from that Heavy Hitter.