The unbearable pinkness of being

I have to admit I’m kind of torn about the whole Pinktober thing. On the one hand, it’s all a bit much, and it often seems like half the companies out there slapping a pink ribbon on stuff are donating pennies to god knows who or what. And the whole “awareness” thing – yeah, we get it, we’re plenty aware, okay? And all the money that DOES go to some of the bigger organizations – what the fuck all do they do with it, and why are we still doing the slash-and-burn treatment of, say, 20 years ago? Not quite getting that. Plus it’s annoying as hell that all this awareness bullcrap leads to people unawaredly and mistakenly thinking that breast cancer is no big deal, that there’s actually a cure, etc. and so on. Or BC is referred to as the “trendy” cancer, as if it somehow can’t still kill us. And we all know how I feel about Komen and their asinine “We are the cure” slogan.

On the other hand, if they were ignoring BC, we’d probably all be screaming about THAT, about being ignored, wondering why all this attention is being paid to mandibular cancer or something. And even if companies are chintzy about what they actually donate, isn’t that better than nothing?

On the third hand, there are some efforts put forth out there that, quite frankly, just leave one speechless:






While that is clearly ridiculous, it is also at the same time most excellent. After all, as I like to say, if having cancer doesn’t get you some perks, then what’s the point of having it? They seemed to be going on the honor system – no checkpoint looking for telltale scars or unusually perky boobs – and that seemed to be working, because even though the lots were kind of full close in, no one was parking in the pink spots. Well, until me, that is. Hell yes – if I were spending money these days, I’d shop at the Huntley Outlet Mall every damn day, just so I could park there. Brilliant, just brilliant.

On another note, it’s now cold enough such that I’ve pulled out my Fuck Cancer hat, and was wearing it today when I stopped by Tom’s Nursery out near Huntley. I was wandering around trying to decide between apples and donuts (eventually going with the compromise, i.e. the uber-healthy cider donuts) when an older woman stopped me so that she could see what my hat said. Now, for some reason I stereotypically think that the older generation will be offended by the hat. Nope.

Older woman: “Oh, absolutely, I couldn’t agree more. So true.”

I guess by the time you get to a certain age, you’ve seen so many friends and family members deal with the bastard that saying a fuck you to cancer seems perfectly appropriate.

And on a final note, I think I have PTSD, or Post Treatment Stress Disorder. Some of my peers don’t like October for that reason- all the pink reminds them instantly of all sorts of bad shit. Me, I don’t even have to leave the house - all I have to do is look at the mail. Today, I pick it up and what do I see but a letter from the IRS. Great. My heart starts pounding, eyes well up, I feel instantly ill. Open the letter – and it’s just saying that they’re “looking into” the events of last week, will get back to me, and in the meantime, they “apologize for any inconvenience” they may have caused. Gee, thanks. Your taking ten years off my life wasn’t inconvenient AT ALL.

Then, the Dufecta of Crapitude, as I see I have a letter from BCBS as well. Again, heart rate skyrockets, I feel shaky and ill. While I hate BCBS, the thought of losing my insurance scares me more. Is this the day that one of their beancounters FINALLY found the smoking gun, so to speak? The hangnail I had when I was 13 that qualifies as a pre-existing condition of such magnitude that I’m unworthy of insurance? (Note to BCBS: the previous point was made purely for illustrative purposes. I do not now nor have ever had a hangnail or anything resembling a hangnail thereof.) But this too is just a letter welcoming me to their online system – since I had to sign up to pay my October premium, being that the IRS froze my account and screwed things up. Whew, dodged a bullet for another day.

I seriously, seriously need to start drinking.