Miss Tasha needs a favor

I think of us as having a contract of sorts, you and I. I eke out my little hardscrabble existence here in BlogLand, baring my soul and mining my life for interesting tidbits to share, trying to keep the ranting to a minimum unless it’s funny ranting – and luckily (?), fate seems fit to always supply me with plenty of stuff to write about. Plenty. Of. Stuff.

And you guys, well, I don’t ask much in return. Just readership. That makes me happy, when people read what I write. I’m easy that way. Other than that, just the usual: accolades, praise, comments, awe, admiration, Pulitzer nominations, more praise, and the occasional bonbons. So you see, not really much at all. Until now. When I’m asking you all, my faithful twelves of readers, to do a favor for me. You see...

I want to be a Bat Girl.

Yes yes, it’s one of those Pinkishness events, but we all know that I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’ll glom onto anything I can get out of The Cancer, any kind of schwag, pink or not. For this, I’m not sure exactly what’s involved, but I think you get to meet some of the players, take pictures on the field, and get an awesome pink bat. Now, how much use would I get out of a pink bat?? I’m just sayin.’

Schwag aside, there’s another reason I want to do this. Now, I know that as far as the Blackhawks go and their Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness Month, I’m not ever getting a damn thing out of them. Hell, last year they didn’t even bother responding to my emails. And I’m pretty sure – new boobages aside – that I’ll never be picked as the Bimbo for the Kid, the Geek, and the Bimbo contest during Hawks intermission. But this, this White Sox thing is possible. And it’s important to me because the last time I went to a White Sox game turned out to be the Day From Hell. Worse than the day I was diagnosed, just a few weeks before that. Because on this day I had such high hopes – I’d see this new doctor, get my medical team together, we’d decide on a treatment plan and be off and running. And in the meantime, my brother was in town from CA and I had gotten tickets to a White Sox game – which I had to leave after only a few innings, as unfortunately that was the only day this doctor had available. And it was a beautiful, perfect summer day to boot.

Several hours later I was careening home on the streets of Chicago, in a raging fury, yelling at the world, at God, at my stupid fucking life for being so fucked up in every single thing, at the unfairness of the world and everything in it. This, after being told that my only option was a mastectomy, that chemo didn’t work on my kind of tumors, that it was such a big tumor that I almost certainly had lymph node involvement, and oh yeah, that even with reconstruction, my breast would “never look anything like a normal breast.” So I’ll die at an early age AND be disfigured. Sweet! Talk about being handed a hopeless pile of shit to deal with.

I still get teary when I think about that day.

Unfortunately, my brother bore the brunt of my rage when he got home from the Sox game that day, as I told him the news and he uttered the unfortunate words “it could be worse”. My response to him was couched in my usual subtlety, something along the lines of “SURE, it could be worse, if you’re a starving Biafran refugee with AIDS, but I guess that means if you’re not then no one has any right to complain or be unhappy or pissed off about ANYTHING because it could ALWAYS be fucking WORSE, and furthermore you people with perfect happy lives do NOT get to tell ME that it COULD BE WORSE!!”

Yeah, so that didn't work out so well. And since then, I haven’t been back to a White Sox game. I want to, but I haven’t gotten past how upset I am when I remember the horribleness of that day, a day that should have been the happiest of memories, hanging out with my bro at a ball game, having a great time.

I want that day back.

Or at least, I want a day that’ll erase the memory of the shitty day, and replace it with a day so absurdly pink in all its sartorial splendor that it’ll completely crowd out and overshadow every trace of Shitty Day, once and for all. I want my brother to come out for the game, and we’ll eat carcinogenic hot dogs and drink mai tais and have the day we should have had, but better. Because even though I live with the constant worry that the cancer will be back, that it’ll metastasize, that my days are numbered, at least now I know that I have kickass doctors who have my back, always – so at least that’s one less thing to worry about. Plus I’d have that pink bat and all.

So if you’re wondering why you should take 5 minutes out of your day to vote for me, here are my reasons:

1. Because you like me. You really really like me. Maybe?

2. Okay, even if that’s not the case, you get a vicarious thrill out of seeing my life dissolve into chaos on a regular basis, tuning in just to see How Tasha’s Life Gets Fucked Up Today. I know, it’s a never-ending saga. And with this game event, even though I’m sure they have it all choreographed like a well-oiled machine, you can pretty much guarantee that if I’m involved, some part of it will turn into a shambles. I know this to be true, as this is my life.

3. My brother would be in 7th heaven. And he deserves to be a part of something like this – he’s been amazing throughout all of this, a solid rock of support, he and his wife both, and I can never repay them for all their thoughtfulness and kindness. Thanks bro.

4. For a brief shining moment, I would be happy – the kind of happy that you can only get from being at a perfect baseball game with your awesome brother holding your very own pink bat. Yeah, that kind of happy.

And in return, if chosen, I promise you this:

1. You will never hear me talk about how this is my “breast cancer journey,” or a blessing, or anything of that ilk. Yeah, journey my ass – like we’re on a fricking tour of Italy or something. And I will never EVER start a sentence with “I was given this pink gift....” – and I’m not even making that one up. That’s another entry in the Bat Girl contest. Repeat: not mine.

2. I will use my pink bat judiciously and with reason, perhaps as a substitute for the frozen ham I on occasion like to wield like a cudgel. Though as far as restraint, I make no promises when it comes to anything having to do with the phrase “Pink Warrior.” What the hell does that even MEAN, exactly?? Are you fighting against the pink? Are you a large pink version of a Viking, say? This concept boggles my mind so much that I honestly just don’t even know what to do with it.

3. I will try to work one of my many pieces of Fuck Cancer attire into the picture somehow at the game itself. Maybe by stuffing a banner into my bosom, to be unfurled at an opportune moment? The possibilities are endless.

I think that’s all I got. As far as the voting is concerned, it’s here (and yes, the text for my little story is somewhat garbled due to their formatting issues), or you can sort by “votes” and find me, Tasha-H, on page 2 or 3 or god knows where I might be at this point. And I’m not saying that you can vote many times (I think up to 24) per day (per browser!) for the same person, but......hell, that IS what I’m saying. Vote early, vote often, vote as many times a day as your little hands can stand. Put the kids to work! Shirk under your boss’s nose, as you look industrious, tapping away at the computer!

Or just wish me luck, and a gorgeous sunny day for when I do finally make it to another White Sox game.....