To grandmother’s house we go…..

So this year as opposed to my usual sojourn to Boston, I decided to head to California for Thanksgiving, to spread cheer amongst additional little people, and to make myself useful. Even more useful than usual, that is. I would stay with Grandma in Seal Beach, then be her designated chauffeur on Thanksgiving Day, driving her back and forth to Normal Brother’s place, in Tujunga.

I know, I know – the extent of these sacrifices I make of my time and effort, it’s astounding. But that’s just how I am.

Of course, this trip to Normal Brother’s on Thanksgiving was only going to happen if we survived that long. Because as soon as I got to Grandma’s, it became clear that food poisoning might be imminent.

Take the stuffed cabbage, or holubtsi, as we call them. I loooove stuffed cabbage – that’s one of the few Ukrainian dishes I can make really well, modeled after my mom’s way of making them, because no other kind I’ve tried ever compares. And naturally Grandma makes them the same way. So the night of my arrival, I was all set to happily dig into my plate of holubtsi, when my mom calls.

Mom: ….and blah blah…..and this and that……and oh yes, remember to be careful about what you eat. Grandma has a tendency to keep food that’s expired. That’s probably why she’s had an upset stomach and been running to the bathroom for the last 2 weeks!

I swear I am not making this up. I pause with a forkful of stuffed cabbage on its way to my mouth.

Me: Umm…..what kind of food?
Mom: Oh, one time there was the ground beef that she left in the frig for over a week, then decided to put it in the freezer. Ha ha, that was something!
Me: Umm….but……..
Mom: And the sour cream! She left THAT on the counter, and it was already old! Make sure you check the expiration dates on everything!

Shit. There’s my 94-year-old Grandma, smiling at me beatifically, waiting for me to dig into the stuffed cabbage. So it’s the feelings of Grandma – and for someone who likes to trash talk and complain about pretty much every other person under the sun, she gets her feelings hurt VERY easily – or my entire digestive tract at stake here. That’s an easy call.

Me: Дякою, Баба. Дуже смачного! (Thanks, Grandma. Very tasty!)

She then tries to push on me the blintsi (crepes), which unlike the holubtsi, do taste kind of……off. Like the flour or butter she used wasn’t quite fresh. Sigh. At least the sour cream is okay, I hope. I sidle over to the counter to surreptitiously take a look at the sour cream container. Which…….has a Country Crock lid. Sigh again.

Oh well, down the hatch. What can you do?

Though it’s interesting to note that when I posted this adventure on Facebook, about my mom belatedly telling me about grandma’s problem with paying attention to expiration dates, it turns out that pretty much EVERYONE has a grandmother-with-spoiled-food-like-on-Hoarders story. Everyone.

From Shannon: “My Gram always had these...containers...she used to pack up her care packages she'd give me when I'd leave her house. They were usually some type of former food container that had been re-used about 100 times.”

To Jen: “Hoarders!!!! My grandma sent leftovers home in used kool whip and country crock containers. I think that is a grandma thing too.”

To Andi: “Omg. I was just talking about that with my family! Little old Swedish grandma insists on cooking the whole meal for holidays and last year was... questionable, to say the least. This year her eyesight has gone even more... so she doesn't see dirty plates etc.”

Then Lisa reminisced about her Baba, who I knew, leaving meat and cheese out on the counter until it was eaten, and Debbie chimed in about the bottle of salad dressing at a family dinner at grandma’s that had an expiration date of 5 years prior. And of course, Andi and I have in common grandmothers who clean and dry paper plates and paper towels, as if they’re meant to be reused. The “universal elderly money-saving technique,” as Andi puts it.

Somehow this makes me feel better, as if we’re all part of this vast network of grandkids of aging relatives taking our lives into our own hands so as to not make the elderly feel bad. It really does take a village…..

Next up: Why taking your 94-year-old Grandma to Costco 2 days before Thanksgiving is a Very Very Bad Idea....

Cancer has its benefits

Scene: Big Boy Gyros

Annette is sponsoring my lunch today, so she picks me up and we head over to Big Boy Gyros, the little place run by a really nice Greek man, who always seems to recognize us even though we’re in there just once every few months, if that. We’re perusing the menu, when Nice Greek Guy sees my Fuck Cancer hat.

NGG: By the way, great hat.

Me: Oh thanks – it does kind of sum it all up.

NGG: My dad, he died of cancer.

Me: Oh, I’m so sorry, that’s horrible.

NGG: Yeah, cancer is so bad because of how it changes people and affects everyone.

Annette: My dad died of brain cancer, and exactly, he got so bad near the end.

NGG: My dad, he was a big burly guy, like Sylvester Stallone, you know, but then with the cancer, at the end he was like a husk, a withered old man, so weak and in pain.

Me, sympathetically: That’s just terrible….

NGG, continuing unabated: And you know, we get customers in here, they have cancer, they okay for two, three years, then bam…(here he makes a slashing notion across his throat)…..they no more.

Annette: Umm, okay, so….(she throws an arm around my shoulder, as I’m staring at NGG, giggling yet horrified at the same time)….maybe we need only happy cancer stories, eh?

NGG, continuing as if Annette hadn’t even spoken: Then you know I have the godmother for my youngest daughter, she only 38, such a nice girl….

I can’t help it, I start smiling, that incredulous smile that you have when you know where something is going and it isn’t going to be pretty…

NGG:…..she get the bad cancer, really bad, next thing you know she too gone. It was really bad at the end too, she have no idea what going on around her…

Annette: Okaaaaay so mayb…….

NGG: And her parents, they never the same afterward. You know, lose someone so young. Her mom still wear black – her dad, he just sit there in front of the fireplace, clicking it on and off. So sad.

I swear I am not making any of this up.

NGG, to me: But I’m sure you be fine! You be okay, okay? Yes!

We turn and head to a table, and as I look over at Annette, she has the same amused horrified look on her face as I do, and we both burst out laughing at the same time.

Annette: Don’t worry, you won’t be like one of those customers who suddenly – poof! – are gone.

Me: Not yet anyway – it apparently takes them 2-3 years, so I guess I have another good 6 months left in me. That’s a comfort.

So you may be thinking – well, okay Miss Tasha, but where do those benefits come in? Patience, young grasshopper, patience.

We’re sitting there waiting for them to call that our food is done, when we see one of the fry cooks

carrying first Annette’s food out to her, then mine. Mind you , this is NOT that kind of place – you walk up to the counter and get your food, period.

Fry cook: Can I get you anything else? Mustard, ketchup?

Me: Oh, yeah, ketchup, but I’ll get it…

Fry cook: No! You sit, I’ll get it.

We chat and eat our food – then the guy comes back to bus our table and take the leftovers in back to wrap them up carefully – and then, THEN, he comes out with little tiny ice cream sundaes for us! Ha, all you non-cancerous people, go ahead and be jealous! We’re so being treated like the rock$tars we are.

As we leave, NGG is at the counter again, and I get the hearty good bye, and a “Be strong! You be okay!” – though undoubtedly he’s thinking, there goes another one I’ll never see again. At least we got free ice cream out of it….

More fruitless ramblings

I had an epiphany the other day, about why people hate the IRS so much. Oh sure, you’re thinking – that’s kind of low-hanging fruit there Miss Tasha, now isn’t it? But hear me out. I truly think that most people would NOT hate the IRS quite as much as we all do if there were one important component to the system, which is clearly sadly lacking: equitability. Fairness. I think we’d pay our taxes and still grumble at all the waste and fraud, but there would also be an element of “okay this sucks, but we’re all in this together and it sucks equally for all of us.”

Except that’s not the case.

I see it this way – it’s like being in line at the amusement park. It’s hot, you’re waiting a long time, but there’s a feeling of general camaraderie. Until those bastards go whizzing past you in the fast-track line, that they’ve paid extra money to use. Suddenly, there’s a sense of, Proletariats of the World, Unite!

Because that’s bullshit. If

there should be equality anywhere, it should be at the amusement park, where you all suffer together, dammit, no matter your station in life. You want fast-track, go build your own Disney, okay, Mr. Moneybags? And that’s how it’s always been, until recently. Which is just not right.

So here we are, the poor schlubs paying our taxes, because we can’t afford expensive lawyers or accountants to figure out all the tax loopholes for us – and then we read about those asshole GE people, making their $16 BILLION in profits, yet not paying a penny in taxes. Or our politicians here in Illinois – who at the last election also revealed that they paid nothing. And the list goes on.

But of course, no one cares about us, which is why – as usual – I took my grievances to the local paper. Where they’ll be summarily ignored – also as usual. But hey, at least it made ME feel better. This is also for all of you, my little proletariat friends. One day, we too will rise up. I hope. Or move to Canada. That’s looking like a better and better option these days.

To the editor:

It was with no small amount of disgust that I read about GE – in spite of making $16 billion in profits – not paying a penny in federal income taxes. This, against the backdrop of my own audit by the IRS. Oh, but you’re probably thinking, as most people do, surely you must have done something to deserve an audit? Some tricky accounting that flagged your returns?

Come to think of it, yes. First, I’ve made the deadly mistake of being self-employed. Clearly, based on how many of us are chosen for audits, the IRS frowns on this kind of aberrant activity.

Then, I made the true mother of all mistakes: I got cancer. And a month later, while still training for Ironman while working on coming up with a treatment plan for my out-of-the-blue Stage 2 breast cancer, I was in a bad bike crash, and had bleeding on the brain and a broken collarbone as a result.

This of course meant that not only did any income come to an abrupt halt, as not only could I not type or work on a computer, but I was also in LaLa land as far as the brain injury was concerned. One would think that the IRS could subsequently put two and two together, and think hmm, little income, huge medical bills, this must somehow correlate.

One would think wrong.

So yes, now I’m being audited for 2008, 2009, and oh yes, they’ve decided to throw 2006 in there as well. Because they managed to lose my return for that year, so I had to recreate it – again, while dealing with these medical issues and being not quite all there mentally.

And what are the supposed red flags that the IRS wants to take a closer look at? My medical bills, of course – they’ve expressed shock and amazement that one’s medical expenses could actually be so high. My utilities. Yes, utilities. Do people really lie about their gas bills on their taxes?? Then of course my property taxes. Apparently no one from the IRS actually lives in the real world, or at least the real world as it exists in Chicago, where all of these things are ridiculously high.

The end result is that now, as I’m trying to cobble together some semblance of a post-cancer life, and am looking for work (anyone want to hire a self-employed marketing and communications expert?), trying to figure out how to pay my bills, etc., I’m also being forced to dig through literally hundreds of pieces of paper – all my medical bills, a legacy of not just treatment but epic battles with my recalcitrant insurance company – to find every last receipt and bill.

And as I’ve said to my friends, even if the IRS does find some issues with my return, you can’t get blood

from a turnip. But I suppose it’s easier for them to go after me and those of my ilk, rather than the GEs of the world, and the investment bankers. Those who can afford to lawyer up, who make the real money, they manage to avoid getting on the IRS’s radar. I am apparently a much easier target.

It was bad enough that my life was completely derailed by cancer; now the IRS has taken over that role. But hey, as long as GE and companies like it are in good stead, who cares about the little people? Let them eat cake, I say. It’s worked so well for all of us thus far.

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…..

The internets is scaring me

And this isn’t even about the Pinkishness. Where I must say, I’ve created a monster. But more about that later.

Anyway, you know how it is – there you are, diligently working away, doing what you can to bring in some money to keep the pigs ears rolling in and thus your home in a state of happy harmony. Then someone sends you an email with a link to something, which you decide to check out in between your bouts of diligence. That link leads to a page with other interesting stories, so you check those out. And so on. And the next thing you know, after signing a petition or two, writing a scathing letter, and commenting on 6 or 54 news stories and blogs, you find yourself avidly reading an article entitled "The 25 Craziest Food Creations 2010."

Now, some of these things are just silly, like the fried seafood platter from some fast-food fish place. Umm, hello, what did you think you’d get there, grilled tilapia? No. They serve fried fish to people who want it fast, and they don’t need people like you around to give the joint atmosphere. So you two pixies out the door……oops, sorry, I was channeling Nick the mean bartender from It’s a Wonderful Life there for a moment. Where was I?

Oh yeah, crayzee food. The other thing is that this article is written by the wacky people who came up with the “Eat this not that” concept. Where they exhort you that instead of eating that celebratory steak to mark your 50 years of working in the salt mine at a restaurant you can afford to go to once a year, instead you should have a veggie platter, because doncha know, it has fewer calories. Really? Who knew?

Or they’ll mention that when you make that daily trip to Hardee’s for your Mega-Double-Baconator-Burgarific-Burger, that you should tone it down a bit and have a fruit salad and some yogurt. Because we all go to Hardee’s for yogurt. Right. And I wonder, who exactly is their audience here? If you go to Hardee’s once a year, like most of us, you’re going to order what you damn well please. If you go there every day like some segment of the populace, you’re very likely to not give a shit.

But all of that isn’t what stopped me in my tracks, what made me wonder what we as a country are coming to, this kind of lawlessness and total disregard for the basic mores of society. Because then I saw this:

Yes, kids, Denny’s Fried Cheese Melt. Or, something you get “by driving four deep-fried cheese sticks into the core of the sandwich. So what you end up with are cheese sticks with extra cheese between slabs of buttered bread and a pile of fried potatoes on the side.”

My soul died a little when I saw that. But wait, there’s more! Behold:

New York Cheesecake Pancakes at IHOP – described as fluffy pancakes with gooey hunks of cheesecake.

Much as I like crappy food and am always happy to be introduced to the latest and greatest in this category (hello raspberry Zingers!), this is just…..wrong. On so many levels. Please, let’s stop the madness before it’s too late. Who’s with me? Bueller?

The crayzee, cont.

Next on our travels, Annette and I decide to peek into Zane & Zara’s, a high-end (read: expensive) little doggie boutique that sells all sorts of cool stuff and caters to the crowd who believes in indulging their pets’ every whim. In other words, most of us – or at least most of the people I know. The store is owned and run by this great couple, John and Russell, and whichever one of them is working when I go in, they’re always smiley and friendly and indulgent.

Which is great, because, umm, I usually go in with The Kone, and he tends to leave the place a bit of a shambles. We’ll go to the back of the store where he picks out a toy, which he then shakes about in order to break its neck, and then as I’m standing in front at the counter to pay for things, Kona sets about ripping the stuffing out of said toy, after which he peeks up on the counter to snuffle at the biscuits and such, in the process knocking things about.

So to recap, as we walk out there’s stuffing and bits of shredded toy all over the place, biscuit crumbs, and things knocked off the counter. Yet somehow they always seem happy to see us. It must be Kona’s and my collective charm and wit, no?

This time, we walk in, and there’s someone behind the counter who I’ve never seen before, a young guy, though I assume he’ll be as friendly as everyone else always is.

Me: My good man……do you carry dog treats For The Cure?

New guy, barely looking up: What?

Sigh! I start over, speaking more slowly.

Me: Dog…..treats……..For….The…Cure. You know, like rawhide in the shape of a pink ribbon perhaps?

NG, unsmiling: No. I can’t imagine why anyone would make anything like that.

Me: Well, they have kitty litter For The Cure, and cat food For The Cure…..

NG: No.

Me, whispering to Annette: He’s not very friendly, is he…

Annette: No shit…..

We wander around, looking for anything Cure-esque, no help from Busy Clerk Guy up front. I feel like explaining to him the concept of how these tiny stores work, where everything is shitloads more expensive than similar stuff online. You see, you’re catering to a crowd of truly crayzee people, who are willing to spend beaucoup bucks indulging their pup’s every whim, even as they embrace a new frugality and spend no money on themselves. Frugal schmugal when it comes to Kona. We’re the people who get dog coats for our kids when it’s cold, who buy them bowls with “Royal Highness” written on them, who are looking into getting a running water fountain kind of thing for baby for Christmas, because he loooooves running water.

We are people who have bonded with our Starbucksian friends over the tragedy of no-petite-scones, and have made them understand that there may come a day when I come in with little money in hand, and may therefore forego my coffee – but I will never forego my boy’s petite scone.

And this is why when we go into our little neighborhood stores to spend a lot of money on silly things, it’s best if you, the store clerk, make an effort to laugh at our stupid jokes, to helpfully point out things that Kona might like, to mayhap act as if you actually like dogs and their besotted owners.

I don’t say any of this of course, though that’s what I’m thinking, as I wind up with an armful of treats and toys for The Kone, and….

Me: Look! Pinkishness!

I point to the pink dog poop bags.

Me, resolutely: Poop Bags For The Cure. I’m getting them.

Annette: Excellent!

I plunk all my stuff on the counter, and NG starts ringing them up, after he pulls himself away from his papers and textbook or whatever he’s reading. I can almost hear the petulant voice in his head, thinking, “damn these people and their purchases, taking me away from my studies!”

Then he really starts to get annoying. Because he gets to the Flossie – a long twisty cow part of some sort that looks like your typical variation on rawhide – and picks it up by a corner of the tag, with a look of disgust on his face.

NG: Eeewww……I’m not touching that.

Dude. Seriously? You work in a fricking pet store, where basically every dog treat is some kind of animal part. Most of us, we just tell ourselves that it’s some new form of extruded rawhide, and we don’t worry about it too much. Case in point, this was me and Jennifer the other day at Petsmart.

Me: Ooh, since we’re here, I have to see if they have those treats that Kona likes. See, these – the Twibbles.

Jennifer: What are they made of?

Me: Umm, I’m not sure, I’ve never really checked.

Jennifer, looking at the package: Ah, here we go – they’re tracheas.

Me: They’re….what? Really?

Jennifer: Yep, see? What did you think they were?

Me: I don’t know – I guess I thought they were…….twibbles?

This is why we tell ourselves that all these yucky things, the ears, hooves, tendons, what have you, most of which look like rawhide (if you squint and don’t think about it too much), are all just different forms of rawhide that has been twisted and compressed and molded to within an inch of its life. And what is rawhide but a form of leather….glove? Yeah, that’s it. Gloves. We’re essentially just buying gloves for our babies. Nothing the least bit icky about that.

So this is how we get around the grossness of it all, and you standing there refusing to touch Flossie the Tendon is NOT helping maintain this illusion, thank you very much!

Then of course, one last insult, which annoys me primarily because it makes it clear that NG isn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to anything I’m saying.

Me: Okay, whatever you do, don’t tell me the final price on everything!

Me, to Annette: After not spending money on anything for so long, I don’t want to know how much I just spent on His Royal Highness. It’s better this way.

NG: Okay, that’ll be……

And he tells me the total. Bastard.

The bar is being set pretty high, my friends

I had no idea. I mean, I know it sounds incredibly naïve to say that, but really, I didn’t. Oh sure, I knew things had gotten a bit crazy and out of control, had degenerated a bit as it were, but I also figured that some semblance of reason would remain. We’re all rational people after all, right? Able to resist a free-for-all orgy of excess, able to hew to a more civilized society?

Apparently not.

Because I have seen the Pinkishness, and it is us. And I don’t mean this in a good way.

* * * * * *

So it started yesterday, when I met BCCF Cori downtown for her appointment at Dr. Fine’s office. Our Plastic Surgeon to the Stars was off sculpting the perfect boobages for someone else, so we met with Dr. Schierle as a follow-up to Cori’s last surgery. And not only was Dr. Schierle funny and warm, laughing at jokes I’m sure he’s heard a million times about adjustable boobages and the need for an iPhone app so that the girls can be automatically adjusted, but……well…….let’s just say this. How often do YOU go to the doctor and get awesome parting gifts?

So our first contender for the Pinkapalooza Contest is……the Pink Glowstick For The Cure, from the plastic surgeon’s office! Yes, perhaps not the most outrageous thing out there, but I like it, and it’s my contest, so sue me.

* * * * * *

Now this is where things start to get tricky. Because after announcing my little contest, suddenly I was inundated with all sorts of items For The Cure. Not only was I astounded by the sheer variety of foods that I could add to my All Things Pink diet, the one that’s sure to cure me before the month is out, but it soon became clear that I could buy nothing but pink in all aspects of my life and still live a pretty normal existence.

To wit: pink ribbon bagels For The Cure (Panera), toilet paper For The Cure, cake and cupcakes For The Cure, Edy’s ice cream For The Cure. Tic Tacs! Batteries! Playing cards! Tortilla chips! Mushrooms in pink Styrofoam packaging! Perfume! Purses! Dansko clogs! Boob lube!

And against that background, I hear from Cori, who’s out shopping and letting me know about pink stuff left and right, when suddenly she spies…..gum For The Cure. Not just any old gum either – white gum with pink ribbons on each piece, and best of all, the package proudly proclaims “your purchase can save lives!”

Cori: I’m buying a lot of gum – that means I’m saving lives!

Me, sulking: How come *I* don’t see this gum around? I’m not saving anyone!

Cori: Nope, not like me. Here we go, another life saved. They should make a Lifetime movie about me.

Me: Yeah, like the one about the guy who discovered Herceptin!

Cori: Exactly! I’m pretty much just like him. Okay, off to save more lives!

I feel so inadequate in comparison.

Next up: The frontrunners thus far. Suffice it to say, I may need to give out more than one hat. Alert Readers with entries, please check back……