The random placeholder post

Yes, yes, I know, my legions of followers (all of you) have been sitting at your computers hitting refresh constantly, impatiently waiting for the next blog post, for all the world looking like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction with the light switch. Click click click.

So I apologize for that, and for not yet getting to the stripper store story and the bonding with my fellow shoppers at the Christmas Tree Store and so on. All the things I generally regale the little people with.

My excuse is that I've been lazy, and doing a lot of Telenogging. Or just drinking a lot of 'nog, tele or no. So I'll try to catch up on things today or tomorrow, but in between, I'm going with one of the wonderful marketing techniques I learned while at Wharton: when all else fails, go with cuteness. Kids or puppies, and as we all know, I go with puppies.

So....here's Timmy!


Please note that tiny Timmy is just a FOSTER! A temp! No way are we keeping him! Even though he's cute and sweet and adorable and funny and a clown and has those big pawsums that he's not hesitant to use in upping his cuteness quotient. "Oh, look at me, Timmy, crossing my big pawsums -aren't I just the cutest?" Nope, I'm immune. Immune.....

Not all fun and games, kids.....

Of course, I don’t want to give off the impression that this conference is all about being silly and having fun. No sirree. We’re here for the serious business of learning what’s cutting edge and perhaps what the latest thinking is and treatments are, all related to The Cancer. The Big C. So Saturday morning, we all head off to the hotel ballroom for the kickoff speaker – this, of course, after I’ve dashed over to Reading Terminal to get my non-Amish bagel, thus assuaging my conscience from the Pretzel Scandal of the day before.

I try to look properly somber, as is befitting the occasion.

Woman with badge: Hi! Are you here for the conference? Please, right this way!

I’m greeted by a lady dressed in head to toe pink. And not just pink, but flamboyant pink. I think there’s pleather involved – which, let me tell you, is never a good idea for those over the age of, say, 50. And she’s definitely a bit north of that. And she’s wearing tall pink boots. And a pink hat. With a huge pink felt ribbon topping it off. It’s like a veritable walking Pinksplosion, right in front of me.

Me, weakly: Umm…..okay, thanks?

Then I see another one of these Women in Pink. This one with sparkly pink bracelets and spangles and jangly things. I feel like I’ve stumbled into some warped, circus-clown version of a breast cancer conference.

Then there’s the table piled high with leis. You’re supposed to pick one depending on how far out you are from diagnosis, but I bypass this entirely. A lei? Seriously? I don’t know, it just seems a bit too…frivolous, or something, for me.

I then make a beeline for the table where I see my young CancerChickies sitting – we’re like an island of youngness in a sea of 60-and-older women. As soon as I sit down, sweetie Melinda gives me something.

Melinda: Look what I picked up for you! Even though Pinkapalooza is over, I knew you’d appreciate it.

I look at what she’s given me, and my eyes well up, I’m so touched. *sniffle* - my very own pink-ribbon-shaped nail file.

Me, clutching it to my chest: Melinda, this is awesome! Where’d you get it?

Melinda: Over there at the tables – they have other giveaway stuff too, like this cool tote bag.

Me: Schwag?? There’s schwag?

Melinda: Yeah, ther…..Tasha?

Somehow Melinda finds herself talking to just a vapor trail, as I hurry over to the tables before all the schwag is gone. Ten minutes later I’m back.

Me, happily: Look at all my Pinkishness schwag! A tote bag, a keychain, more nail files……free stuff is the BEST! Ooh, look over there…

Over at the next table, I spy some women looking at something sparkly, something that lights up. I’m about to dart over there, create a diversion, and make off with said sparkly, but then the session begins and a woman starts talking. Damn. Well, maybe later. I put my serious face back on and get ready to take notes.

(20 minutes later)

“$@^*&#$^(*UGuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....huzzah? Wha…?” I ask, as I lift my head from the table and look around rather blearily. I’d ask Cori what’s going on, but she’s gone. The speaker lost me when she started talking about the “journey” that we’re all on, but, I think to myself, maybe she’s moved on to something more useful.

Speaker: “…..so ladies, dealing with those pesky hot flashes – whether you’re actually post-menopausal, or if you’re post-menopausal because of the treatment or drugs you’re on, I have some great ways that you can combat those symptoms.”

Aha, something helpful! I hold my pen at the ready.

Speaker: “Now, the thing that I’ve found MOST helpful in these situations to deal with those times when you’re suffering through all that excessive perspiration is…..panti-liners!”

And she starts gaily waving one about. I laugh rather incredulously, as do most of the girls at my table, but then we look around and see that no one else is really laughing – a wry chuckle maybe, but that’s it. Is she actually serious?

Speaker: “See, you can tape them under your arms – and look, they fit perfectly in your shoes!”

Apparently so, folks, apparently so.

After a Zumba demonstration and a fashion parade which consisted of older women walking around in bras and skimpy negligees (and during which I keep looking around to see if Cori will show up in a slutty nurse outfit), the kickoff speaker finishes up and we get a short break before it’s time for the breakout sessions. I believe the one I’m signed up for is called “How to do your makeup so that you look halfway decent and don’t scare little children after The Cancer has conspired to make you look and feel like shit.” Or something like that. Almost exactly like that. Meanwhile, where’s Cori? Hmm……

Cori’s quest for slutty outfits

So the day after we recovered from much pillow fighting the night before, a group of us decided to head out to explore Philly and see what kind of mischief we could get into. Little did we know….

(Group of chattering women walking down Walnut St. in Philly….)

Cori: Hey, look you guys! Do you see what I see??

We’re walking past a seemingly non-descript store that looks like a no-name 5&10 kind of place, all sorts of crap and tchochkes stuffed into the window display. And yet – yet! – amidst this chaos, a wonder.

Cori: See? Look at the slutty nurse outfit! And there’s a sailor one too! And Tasha, look, there’s a slutty ref outfit for you!

Indeed there is. In the display of this very random store, there’s one slutty outfit after another, on headless mannequins. But what’s key is that these are tasteful slutty outfits. Meaning, they’re cleavage-enhancing and short-skirted, but no weird open-crotch stuff or anything truly skanky. This is like Mecca for appropriately slutty outfits.

But then we make the cardinal mistake, one that we’ll all regret for the rest of our lives.

Cori: Okay, so let’s go to lunch and then we can check them out on our way back.

You see, little did we know that this odd little store apparently is a front for a money laundering operation or something similar. Because its hours are, shall we say, a bit skimpy.

Meaning that when we walk past the place again at around 3PM, it’s closed. And it’s closed all weekend. Cori becomes like a woman possessed.

Cori: What? WHAT???? I MUST HAVE THOSE OUTFITS! Here, you start googling, find a phone number, I’m going to go talk to the merchant next door.

Cori talks to the guy at the store next door, who has no idea when the proprietor of the Harmand Toussel store (or whatever the hell it's called) is around, or where that person might be. She leaves numerous messages on the voice mail of the store, or what we think is the store’s VM, imploring the person to come in and open up, and she’ll give him $100 just for that. Clearly, hell hath no fury like a woman determined to get her slutty nurse outfit.

We’re all a little concerned that evening when Cori hits the bottle, muttering “Damn it, I’ll get that fricking slutty nurse outfit, dammit, if it’s the last thing I do, I will not be denied.”

Saturday is upon us soon enough…

What happens in Philly......

Scene at the Cammarrano household before Cori leaves for the BC conference in Philly:

Cori is in the shower at home, finishing up her ablutions, which have included a thorough shaving of all body parts, including what we will euphemistically refer to as “down there.” Just because she prefers it that way. As she’s getting out of the shower, she calls to her husband, Dan.

Cori: Hey Dan - could you get me a towel please? I forgot to grab one.

Dan: Sure honey. Hey, you know, it’s a good thing you shaved all over, especially, you know, down there. So that way the other girls won’t wonder and think you don’t care about stuff like that.

We pause here for a moment of incredulous silence.

Cori: I…..Dan……Dan! What exactly do you think goes ON at these conferences? That we all run around our hotel rooms naked or in flimsy nighties having pillow fights or something?

Dan: Well, I guess……I didn’t know…….but…….maybe?

The girls and I, we all giggled and laughed at this when we were hanging out in the Philly hotel. But you know, as it turns out, Dan was right:

Next up: Cori’s quest for slutty outfits, and oh yeah, the conference, and useful tips for dealing with cancer-drug-induced hot flashes…..

The TSA and me

I have to interrupt my Philadelphia Stories travelogue and the accompanying tales of Cori and the stripper store, the pillow fights, etc., to share with my public this timely saga of what I went through yesterday as I had to navigate the juggernaut that is security at O’Hare airport. Because really, The People need to know. Here is my tale.

So of course I wind up at the airport over 2 hours early – figuring, why take chances that I’ll get stuck in security? Especially since my stated goal is to start a new rallying cry among the Cancerous yet Newly-Cleavaged among us. In other words, me and my fellow CancerChicks with our surgeries and implants and such. I imagine my phrase “Hands Off the Boobages!” sweeping the nation, taking hold in airports across America, even among those who don’t actually have Boobages. But simply because that encapsulates what this sturm und drang with flying and the TSA is really all about. The Boobages. It always comes down to the Boobages.

I’m also excited about the prospect of the new scanners. You see, ever since Dr. MerkHottie put that 7-inch-long titanium plate on my shattered collarbone 2 years ago to hold it together, I’ve been waiting for airport security somewhere to notice it and give it the attention and wariness it so rightfully deserves. But even though I’ve traveled everywhere, such as (ahem) the French Alps for my grand cycling adventure this past summer, I’ve wound up with….bupkus. Nada. Nothing. The disappointment has been crushing.

Now though, it would not be an understatement to say that my hopes are sky-high. This is my chance at fame, at glory, as I get manhandled by TSA and dragged away not only because of the Boobages, but also what appears to be a shiv on my collarbone. How could they NOT cause a fuss? I’m about to find out.

Station 1:

This is the person who checks your boarding pass against your driver’s license. I try to look sufficiently surly – maybe she’ll radio ahead and warn them there’s “someone to watch” coming through. A girl can dream.

TSA Agent 1: Good morning, how are you doing?

Hmm, she’s suspiciously chipper and friendly. I wonder what THAT’S all about? It’s clearly a trap.

Me: Great, and how are you?

TSA1: Oh, just wonderful. Let’s see, okay, you’re good to go.

Me: Thank you!

TSA1: Wait, what’s your hat say….oh my gosh, I LOVE that! That’s perfect!

She laughs uproariously at the Fuck Cancer hat. Okay, so ONE friendly TSA agent does not an agency make. I’m sure things will change soon. Oh yes.

Station 2:

I’m headed into the security line, where one has to disrobe, hand over liquids and computers, etc. I note with dismay that only some people are going through the scanner, while others just go through the regular metal detector. Noooo! This can’t be happening! I focus on looking menacing yet hopeful, threatening yet nervous, suspicious yet pleading. I must go through that scanner!

The guy 2 people before me gets the scanner – that is, after he spends 5 minutes taking everything out of his pockets. Guy before me does too. I try to crowd myself so that I’m closer to the scanner, so that it seems logical to send me through it as well, as opposed to the far-off metal detector. Surely they have a quota, right? I’m about as close to TSA Agent 2 as I can get without tripping over her.

TSA Agent 2: Are you wearing a belt?

Me, enthusiastically: No!

(I’m trying to make the decision to send me through the scanner an easy one.)

TSA2: Anything in your pockets?

Me: Absolutely not! Never! Pockets, bah!

TSA2: Okay, please walk into the scanner an….

Me: YESSSSSSS!

My face breaks out into a deliriously happy grin, and I even clap a little. Okay, I might have even jumped up and down a bit in excitement. That’s all typical behavior here at TSA central, right? TSA 2 smiles at me, though maybe she’s just thinking I’m on heavy medication or something and she should proceed with caution.

I step into the scanner, and assume the perp stance. Wait 5 seconds. Walk out. On the other side, I’m told to stop and wait with my feet in a certain place that allows me to watch my stuff as it’s going through the baggage scanner. I wait patiently, for the moment when they’ll call me for further screening, and my titanium collarbone will get the moment of glory it deserves. It’s about time! All hail the titanium collarbone! Really, the injus….

My visions of triumph are interrupted by the person who passes along the scanner verdict.

“She’s fine.”

See! I knew it would happen! She’s……wait, what? “Fine”? How the hell can someone loaded up with titanium and implants be “fine”?

I briefly contemplate making a stand, but I decide that now, with legions of the traveling public trying to get to places for Thanksgiving, is not the time. Dejected, I wander over to the baggage scanner. Where I find that one of my boots has escaped its bin, and is lollygagging in the end part of the scanner. As I’m reaching for it, TSA Agent 3 makes her presence known.

TSA3: Hey, how did that happen? It escaped, huh?

Me: Yeah, looks like it made a break for it. Looking for adventure maybe?

TSA3: Or maybe it couldn’t find its way out? Ha, maybe it’s a blonde!

We laugh, and yet I’m thinking - okay, seriously people, now THIS is a bit much. Not only do I not get rudely felt up and talked to like I’m an entering freshman at Oberlin (“now I’m going to touch your thighs” etc.), but the TSA people are so nice and friendly that I want to invite them all over for bundt cake. The final insult to injury is when my laptop gets bunched up at the baggage corral because I’m still putting my boots on, and TSA4 carefully carries it and my laptop bag over to another table at the end, so it doesn’t get squished in the melee. I give up at this point. My dreams of stardom through my travails with the TSA are crushed beyond repair.

Of course, I do notice when I’m putting my laptop away that I was so focused on the scanner originally that I forgot to put my baggie o’liquids in a separate bin. Oops. That puts me on a watchlist or something for NEXT time, right? Right? Please?

Throwing the puppies under the bus

Oh sure, boycotting the Amish is easy enough if you live in, say, Illinois. It’s not as if you’re confronted with stern pie-wielding women in starched dresses and headscarves at every turn, with yummy pies that present the most difficult of ethical dilemmas right there before your eyes. You see, ever since I learned that the Amish are some of the absolute worst transgressors when it comes to running puppy mills, I’ve refused to have anything to do with them. I know, kind of shocking, isn’t it? I think we all have this image of the peaceful, serene, nature-loving Amish, and this certainly jolts that notion. But if you think about it, they’re also a practical people, to a fault, so they view dogs as just another form of livestock. Hence, why Lancaster County, PA, where the Amish live, is considered the puppy mill capital of the east coast.

And so I’ve been diligently and determinedly - some would even say with the fervor of a zealot – boycotting all things Amish ever since finding this out. Pies? Nay! Furniture? J’accuse! Sticky toffee pudding? Well, okay, but that’s because that’s British, and I’m not pissed off at them. Yet.

So that’s me living in Illinois, pretty much the non-Amish capital of the world. Going Amish, as I call it, aka shunning them, isn’t too tricky.

But then there’s Pennsylvania. Philadelphia, to be specific. And even more specifically, in a word: Reading Terminal Market. A veritable bonanza of all that is good and holy in FoodLand. When I lived in Philly during my time at Wharton, I discovered Reading Terminal and have maintained that love affair with that particular market ever since. For the uninitiated, RTM is an indoor market with an industrial, gritty feel to it, but not in a bad way. It’s just not all prettified and gussied up like most markets are, like say in Chicago. There are fruit and veggie operations, but it’s mostly prepared food of different kinds, from all these different vendors. Pork sandwiches, Italian food, bakeries, seafood, corned beef sandwiches as big as your head – it’s all there. And then of course there’s the Amish section. Or, as I like to call them, the Mennonites.

Because Cori and I get to Philly last weekend for the Living Beyond Breast Cancer Conference – also known as an excuse to get together and hang out with our CancerChick friends – and lo and behold, our hotel is basically RIGHT ACROSS the street from the RTM. Well! As you can imagine, since we got into Philly a day early, we dump our stuff at the hotel and head right over there, since I’ve been regaling Cori with the wonders of the Market for hours.

We walk in, and you’d think that I’d at least wander around the entire market, to see what’s new and what’s not, and then maybe possibly eventually make my way to the Amish section, where I’d look at them condescendingly, make disparaging remarks about puppy abusers under my breath, before walking away in disgust, right? Well, that’s almost exactly what happened. To wit:

Cori: Oh my god, this place is amazing! I want to….hey, where are you going?

Me, beelining towards a certain section: This way! The Amish are this way! I want to see them make the pretzels!

Cori: But I thought you were boycotting the Amish?

Me, practically running: Oh, I am, I AM. I just want to watch. In mocking fashion, of course.

We make it to the Amish section in record time.

Me: See how they make them? It’s like magic. They just flip the strand of dough into the air, and presto, a pretzel!

Cori: That IS pretty neat, I wonder how the…..hey, what are you buying?

Me: Umm…..you know, I’ve decided they must be Mennonite after all, clearly, because otherwise how would they make it to the market every day to run their pretzel emporium, or operate the pretzel-making equipment? The Amish can’t do any of that stuff. And I’ve never heard of Mennonites and puppy mills.

Cori: Maybe you should google it fir…...mmphphpmphph…..

Whatever Cori was going to say is lost forever, as somehow she winds up with a pretzel stuffed in her mouth. Inexplicable.

So that, my dear friends, is apparently the cost of Miss Tasha’s soul: a freshly made, delicious pretzel, buttery and warm and yummy.

I am so going to burn in hell…..

A pilgrimage to Mecca

Okay, so I admit that I knew who the Grand Prize Winner of the Pinkapalooza contest would be way before the end of Pinktober. Sure, I was open to new entries, but unless someone came up with the vaunted, mythical Pink Chia Pet, Yeti-like in its absence, it was pretty much case closed as far as I was concerned. So I waited. And waited. And posted pictures of horrifying Pinkishness, for all to behold, keeping the ace in my sleeve, waiting for the right moment (i.e. the end of the month) to spring it on people.

Imagine my surprise then when I got a call from the purveyor of the GPW.

Don: Hey why don’t you and The Kone come out for Halloween? Maureen and I are having some relatives over, we’re making tamales, and I can take you out to see the GPW!

Of course he didn’t refer to it as the GPW, but that’s a literary device I’m using so as to build up the level of anticipation. It’s called “anticipational build-up,” for those of you wanting the technical term.

Of course I agreed instantly – not only would I get to see the GPW with my own eyes, but Kone and I would get out of the house and thus avoid the ragtag bunches of trick-or-treaters begging for sweets. Okay, I don’t actually mind them, but Kona gets a bit goofy and annoyed with the doorbell ringing constantly, yet no one coming in. And we all know that everything is about The Kone.

Sunday came, and off we went. I brought my homemade spinach dip and Hawaiian bread, as well as my famous homemade lemon cake from the Jewish deli in Skokie (this one’s my specialty), but as I was sitting there chit-chatting and Kona was playing with their dogs, I couldn’t help but feel a bit antsy. When would we go? Would it still be there in all its glory, as I had envisioned it? Would it, could it, possibly…..disappoint?? Oh, the agony!

Finally, as Maureen is heading out with the kids, Don says the magic words. Or starts to at least.

Don: So you wanna go check out th….

Me: YES! Umm, I mean, sure, I suppose, I guess we can do that…..if you really want to……

Don: Okay then, let’s…..hey, wait up!

What like it’s MY fault that some people are slower than others? Sheesh. I only made him run a tiny bit to catch up with the car. Good thing he did, too, since I had no idea where we were going.

So we’re in Alsip, and the GPW isn’t far away, but as I turn down one street after another, I’m more and more incredulous.

Me: Umm, why are we in this decrepit industrial park area?

Don: That’s where it is, wait and see!

Me: But…seriously? This is some dumpy riverside area that no one ever frequ….oh. My. GOD! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod…is that IT? Do you see it??? Oh my god!!!

It’s hard for me to convey how excited I am, but I’d put it on par with the thrill of the day when I got my driver’s license back after 8 long months. Yes, that level of excitement. I’m grinning, perhaps even laughing, a little maniacally to be honest. This is amazing.

I career the car over into the lot, rumbling over broken pavement that has weeds growing all through it, and jump out of the car, all the while muttering ohmygod over and over again.

Me: I….I…..

I’m speechless.

Me: It’s HERE? I can’t believe it, it’s worse than in your pictures! I mean look at this broken down abandoned industrial lot! This is awesome!!

I keep taking pictures, to capture the moment. The first glimpse.

Then closer.

And closer.

Finally, we’ve arrived! Yes folks, our Grand Prize Winner is……

The Dumpster For The Cure!

Because really, nothing says Breast Cancer Awareness like a shiny pink dumpster with perfect pink ribbons painted on it stuck in the far reaches of a decrepit lot in the middle of nowhere.

At this point I’m like a little kid, jumping up and down with glee. We take pictures. Here I am looking into the Dumpster, trying to find The Cure. Hello, Cure, where aaaaaaaaaaaare you??

And here's Don, proud of his accomplishment. "Yeah, I got your Cure right here..."

Finally, it’s getting chilly so I have to (sniffle) tear myself away from the Pink Dumpsters For The Cure. So sad – it’s like losing an old friend. We get back to Don’s house, and I can’t contain my excitement.

Maureen’s FIL: So did you see the trash??

Me: Oh my god, it was AMAZING! Everything I could have possibly dreamed of, yet better! Honestly, it was like going to Mecca!

They’re not looking at me TOO strangely, I don’t think, so either they too appreciate the wonders of a Pink Beribboned Dumpster in the Middle of Nowhere…..or they’ve been warned about me. I’ll go with the first option, thank you very much.

And with that, my friends, we bid farewell to another Pinktober. I need a drink now….

Conversations with Cori

Or should I say, text messages. For I can say that just as The Cheese Stands Alone, so too does Cori, my fellow CancerChick, in her unwavering devotion to the Pinkishness. For the entire month of

Pinktober. I should know, because I had to keep deleting messages and pictures from my new POS cell phone, as it got full with one text after another. Which is a beautiful thing, in our little land of Pinktober.

It began thusly:

Cori: Pix won’t come out but just saw bubblewrap for the cure.

How appropriate – that Cori’s first text to me was about the eponymous bubblewrap, at that mecca of all things Pink, Walmart.

And so it went. Day after day after day.

Cori: At walmart - you can also get pancakes apples and even underwear for the cure.

Cori: In borders, coffee for the cure

Cori: Kind of pissed. I saw a sign that October is physical therapy month. Ahh, no, get out of my month.

Cori: Dollar section at Target. Platic visor. Notepad shaped like ribbon. Socks with ribbon. Post-its.

Cori: So today is my b-day. So far pink ribbon socks, tee shirt, birthday card and even pink ribbon diamond earrings. I think my family sits around thinking thank god she got cancer so I know what to get her

Cori: Saw a whole bakery case of pink donuts and cookies

Cori: Okay dan’s jouirnal said October is chiropractic awareness month. Oh, I don’t think so.

Once in a while I try to chime in with my own pathetic findings.

Me: Kitty litter for the cure!

Cori: Oh, like cats give a shit

Cori: Omg no way! Gum with pink ribbons on them!

Cori: Got you some, and 10% can save lives!

Cori: I saved like 10 lives.

Cori: Just ate two pieces of gum for the cure.

Cori: Digital sign at painters union – October is all about the pink. God damn right it is, mister.

Cori: No shit sister. They should call blackhawks.

Cori: No shit, walmart has a line of for the cure tee shirts. Like with a dove. Aren’t doves for death and funerals?

Cori: And they restocked the gum. they really care.

Cori: You know my new motto? If you aren’t with us, you’re against us.

And of course, there are pictures interspersed with all of this, as Cori diligently prowls the shops of Aurora with her camera.

Cori: Cupcakes and a chocolate cookie for the cure

Cori: And it doesn’t even promise money to anyone – just smacked on a pink ribbon

Cori: At walmart, and planning peter’s bday

Cori: Sorry, no spongebob cake for you, peter. Pink ribbon time.

Cori: Tried to convince Peter to not have a sponge bob cake for his birthday party. That we should buy up the whole line of cheery pink ribboned cupcakes and cakes at Walmart for his party. Little shit really doesn't care about the cure bc he wasn't having any of it.

Cori: Wouldn't even go for the giant chocolate chip cookie with the hot pink ribbon on it. Attractively displayed in the white walmart case.

Cori: I believe his exact words were 'I'm having a sponge bob party not a cancer party'.

Cori: See, we are dropping like flies. Why? Because no one cares.

Kids these days. Really, could they be any more selfish?

Cori: Just bought coffee at 7-11, cup for a cause. No shit – savings peeps and waking up all at once.

Me again, with the enfeebled bleatings:

Me: I just got a pink donut for the cure at the new deli/bake shop!

Cori: I suppose since that’s all your neighborhood has to offer. Not very for the cure, are they?? People will be dropping like flies.

Cori: They love us at Walmart – candy for the cure. (accompanied by picture of Dove chocolates For The Cure)

Cori: Okay, want to know what I fucking love? Bread company for the cure, right? So they have a picture of model with headscarf, supposed to be BC patient. Except she has fucking hair.

Cori: It’s like I hit the motherlode

Cori: Art supplies for kids for the cure.

Cori: Okay, so there is a guy from the Lions club shaking people down as they exit walmart. Seriously guy? We are trying to cure people here.

Cori: Omg I bought us the dove chocolates for next week, and get this!! There are inspirational messages inside the wrappers!

Cori: Okay, this is the iphone ipad breast cancer app. For 1.99 you can have pink ribbons on your ipad or iphone.

Cori: Combined with pink case. Now that is support, lol.

Cori: I am off to another store

Cori: Inspiration message – believe in yourself believe in your future.

Cori: Oh and ps, pudgy and kona are really leaving us high and dry.

Cori: What am I supposed to do with an inspirational message that’s in Spanish?

(Cori sends picture of an “All About Pink” decorated cake at Walmart. And then another cake, which says “In celebration of:..” where you then write someone’s name on it. Does Komen know that Walmart is using their Special Patented Pink Ribbon on their cakes??)

Cori: Okay, so I was at outlet mall and it was pinked out including balloons, pink shirts in all the windows. Oh, Aurora wants the cure.

Cori: Greeting card…pink bra on it….I am with you every step of the way.

Cori: Just was given pink umbrella for the cure!

More texts about all the Pinkishness in Aurora. And then…THEN….the coup de grâce:

Cori: Michigan is for the cure. Starbucks has ribbon bagel and cookie.

WHAT???? MICHIGAN has not only all the Pinkishness via the Detroit Red Wings’ Fuck Cancer game, but now Starbucks is in on it too? Et tu, Starbucks, et tu? This is almost too much to bear.

And clearly, if Cori hadn’t already won for her Caring Pears, well……..

A beautiful world of Pinkishness

Okay, so Miss Tasha needs to take a break from a) her migraine, b) her work, and c) her clusterfuck of a life in general, and so we've decided it's time to post the Hall of Fame final entrants, and the WINNER in this category! And no, Miss Tasha has no idea why she's suddenly speaking in the third person, but let's blame it on The Cancer, shall we? And why not? It's fucked up her life in every other way, so it might as well take the mea culpa on this as well.

Anyway! Here we go. And let's note here that I am not against all Pinkishness, though it probably seems that way. I like the pink stuff friends give me, because it shows that they're trying. Some of the Pinkishness like little Harmoneeeeeee, well, they're just too cute for words. And I like The Pink as kind of an identifier, that helps me find my sisters at a glance. Yes, we're in the club no one wants to join, but as long as here, we might as well make it a bit more of a par-tay, shall we? We shall.

It's just the ridiculous Pink stuff that pisses me off, and organizations like Komen that had their purpose at one point, but seem to have since jumped the shark. In part because they only donate 23% of their winnings...I mean donations, to research. No wonder there's no fucking cure yet.

But here, to sooth our souls today, the beauty of Pink, and I dedicate this to the Sisterhood. You're a strong, crazy, amazing bunch of women, and I'm proud to know you.

1. Jerusalem


Kind of makes you feel like the Big Guy is watching out for us, huh?

2. The Chicago Wolves


Compared to the Chicago Blackhawks, the Wolves went all out for their Pinktober games - note use of the word gameS, not just one game. All sorts of Pinkishness going on there, from selling this cool t-shirt and pink pucks, to having the players wear some kind of pink. I think I have a new favorite hockey team.

3. Pink ribbon adhesive dispenser


I like this because I can think of SO many uses for it. To begin, taping the mouths shut of the Komen people when they start their asinine "I am the Cure!" chant? Yeah, let's start there.

4. Tripler Hospital, by GhiaGirl


This is cool looking in general, but the history of the building is also really neat:

"The origins of Tripler date back to 1907 when several wooden structures at Fort Shafter were used as a hospital. The facility was named in honor of Brevet Brigadier General Charles Stuart Tripler in 1920 as a reminder of his contributions to Army medicine during the Civil War......Plans for the new Tripler were drawn in 1942 and construction was completed in 1948. The architecturally distinctive coral pink structure atop Moanalua Ridge was dedicated on September 10, 1948 and has been a familiar landmark on the south shore of Oahu ever since."

5. Wheel stickers, by Original PV

PV is definitely The Man when it comes to finding the unusual. Now, of course I wouldn't actually think of buying these:


..but not because I'm too cool. Nope, it's because they're so damn expensive. Oh well. And it's too bad they don't say "F*ck Cancer" instead of "Cancer Sucks", but they're still kind of neat.

6. A submission from Alaska representing both Alaska and mother nature, by Dee Huebner (no relation, but she feels like a sister to me)

A pink fungus!



Or as Dee puts it:

"Clavaria rosea, a rare wild edible fungus which is found in Europe and North America. For some reason it has appeared in the Anchorage area lately but has been known to "disappear" for 30 years! There is some debate whether it's a true Alaskan fungus, but we definitely have a large selection of some of the weirdest looking mushrooms up here. And it looks like a pink ribbon (at least to me!)"

Beautiful.

7. The Pink Ribbon Tulip garden, by tigerchik








Tigerchik's been doing an amazing job of taking pics all over her campus, of Pinkishness at every turn. Here! There! More there! And in her wily way, she stumbled upon one of the ways to Miss Tasha's heart - well, in addition to the obvious one, of sending free stuff. And that is to focus on something near and dear to my heart, like gardening.

We're not quite sure what the pink bra is doing hanging in a nearby tree, but it's a nice touch. I'm hoping that pictures of the pink tulips in spring will also be forthcoming.

8. Pitties For The cure, by Robyn


These are just too cute for words. And pitties are my favorite dog after Dobes, so here we go.

* * * * * * * *

Which brings us to our winner in the Hall of Fame category........one that handily encompasses almost everything that I'm about: triathlon, dogs, BC, and I'm thinking she probably gardens as well.

This one is also submitted by Dee:


"Dee Dee Jonrowe, musher, BC survivor, Iditarod racer and triathlete (she did IM Kona in 2006). Check out those stylish pink accessories on the dogs."

Stylish indeed - I love this picture. Dee H., congrats, and let me know what color hat you want!

So to sum up our hat awards thus far:

Hall of Fame: Dee H.
Hall of Shame: Original PV
Hall of WTF: Cori
Best surreptitious photos of WTF stuff: T-Odd
Best understanding of the concept that I like free stuff: Jennifer P.
Best gardening-related Pinkishness: tigerchik

Grand Prize Winner: ??? (coming soon)