Never did no wanderin’….

One of the things that I learned at (ahem) Wharton is that a sure bet in advertising or any kind of marketing is to go with kids or dogs. That basically applies to anything, really – when in doubt, kids or dogs.

So! There I was with Noreen in town to do the Chicago marathon, and of course, as part of her pre-marathon prep, I had a full schedule of activities and other things to do for the week that would make sure she showed up at that start line on Sunday in optimal shape. Normally I charge the big bucks for this kind of advice, but for friends, I do make exceptions. At least on occasion.

This meant that after she got in Monday, on Tuesday we went to a winery. On Wednesday we went and walked miles around downtown, and had Chicago-style pizza at Due’s.

Thursday, I proclaimed it to be Big Fun Day. That is, Big Fun Day for The Kone, which involves a trip to the huge-ass dog park in Lake Forest, the one that’s 44 acres of fenced-in forest preserve, then a trip for hot dogs. Oh sure, some of you may be saying, but Miss Tasha, how is this different from any other day for HRH?

Big Fun Day, or BFD, dawned bright and sunny, so off we went. I made sure that Noreen wore running-appropriate attire, so that she could run after Kona a bit as part of the ramping up portion of her marathon training plan. This was all uneventful yet much fun, in keeping with the spirit of BFD.

Then, off to Superdawg, whee! Where The Kone got his double-cheeseburgerski, while Noreen and I had the Superdawgski and onion chips. Perfect pre-marathon food, clearly.

As we were driving through the suburbs after our glorious Superdawg visit, I had the brilliant idea of hey, we’re near my old stomping grounds! Let’s really top off BFD and go for a walk in the woods near my old house, where I used to take Hudson all the time, and where I’ve taken The Kone on occasion!

Not to foreshadow or anything, but this was a really stupid fucking idea.

This path that goes through the woods, I always let Huddy off leash, and he’d go running through the woods like a deer, occasionally running back to make sure I was still there, then running off again. Many many times I took my Hudkin there over the years, and never a problem. There aren’t any big roads nearby, so he could take off and only find more woods, and a creek, where he’d stock up on water. Same for The Kone, though being the momma’s boy that he is, he never wanders far from me at all.

And so it was this time. We all wandered along, went to the creek, turned around, with Kona the whole time in my sight. Or rather, him keeping me in his sights, because that’s the kind of momma’s boy he is.

So when he first disappeared into the bushes and trees, I wasn’t worried. At all. I heard him rustling around in the bushes, as Noreen and I stood there chatting. Rustle rustle rustle. Suddenly, no rustle.

“Kona?” I call. No answer. “Kona!!” I yell, more loudly. What the hell?

I go trudging through the trees, to where there’s a slope on the other side, that goes down to railroad tracks. I know this. There’s a freight train that goes by on occasion, but rarely. Still no sign of The Kone. I go sliding down the hill to the tracks.

“Kona! KONE! KOOOOOONE!” Where the hell could he have gotten himself to?? There’s no sign of him, no telltale rustling sounds, nada.

I stand on the railroad tracks so that I can get a better look around, and peer up and down the tracks. No sign of him….wait, what? What the……..is that his little butt all the way off there in the distance? Hustling his way down the tracks, trotting along purposefully, with I think a stick with a bandanna sack tossed over his doggie shoulder? It IS! What. The. Fuck.

“KONE! KONA!”

He’s totally ignoring me, still trotting away, from what I can see off in the distance. Suddenly I have the words from a song from A Mighty Wind going through my head:

Never heard the whistle of a lonesome freight,
Or the singing of its driving wheel,
No I, never did no wanderin’
Never did no wanderin’
Never did no wanderin’ after all

“KONE! Get back here! There are NO PETITE SCONES on the RAILS!” I yell.

"KOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!" I wail.

I’m running down the tracks as I’m yelling, and I don’t know if it was the increasingly frantic sound of my voice, the mention of scones, or the realization that leaving the comforts of home was a Really Bad Idea……but as I’m running, it appears that he might have at least stopped. Turned around? Started to come back? YES!

As he trots up to me, I scoop my heart back up and shove it into my chest, and then snap the leash on The Kone before he gets any more brilliant ideas about riding the rails to the carefree freedom of a hobo’s life. I don’t yell at him, because you’re not supposed to yell at your dog when he comes back to you, plus I’m so astonished by this whole incident that I’m basically speechless.

“You….you…..the rails…..taking off…….hobos….wanderin…..” I babble, still shocked. “The call of the rails! What was that?”

We get back into the car to head back into the city, and Kona collapses in back as if he’s the one who almost had a heart attack. Hmph. The entire drive, he's snoozing away, no doubt dreaming about what might have been, while I just keep looking back at him and shaking my head. Riding the rails? Really?

That evening I exact serious punishment on my boy, by giving him one less marrow bone to gnaw on than usual. Severe, yes, but he needed to learn his lesson.

Then, two more days of eating our way through Chicago, from Italian beef, to pie ala mode.

Needless to say, Noreen kicks ass in the marathon. I, on the other hand, am still in recovery mode.....

Why I’ll always be single

I always figured I’d meet PerfectMan in one of the usual ways. For example, a "meetcute", whereby we’d be walking our respective dogs near a duck pond, when the dogs see the ducks and go bonkers running around and the leashes get tangled around our legs and PerfectMan and I go tumbling into the duck pond and fall instantly in love, sodden hair and all, while our pups gambol and frolic about happily.

Or PerfectMan would fall in love with me through my blog and would start sending me gifts and cards that would seem creepy if they weren’t from someone with the amazingly good taste to love my blog, and then PerfectMan would be accidentally arrested for stalking when he gets a little overzealous but someday we’d laugh and laugh over how I maced him the first time we actually met as he snuck into my backyard to plant some unusual varieties of tomato plants for me, his true beloved.

Like I said, the typical ways.

But I’ve recently come to the realization that even if these scenarios were likely to happen – and I’m not saying they’re NOT, but The Kone and I aren’t exactly in the habit of daily strolls near duck ponds – that I wouldn’t exactly be batting a thousand in the man-keeping department after that.

Why? Well. I’m glad you asked.

I came to realization #1 when Kim and Melindy came to stay with me and The Kone in May for Kim’s Birthday Extravaganza. I figured that Melindy could have the spare bedroom, and Kim and I could share my bed, and Kona would graciously allow Kim to have his usual spot, while he slept at the foot of the bed.

I was clearly smoking crack when I came up with that little rosy scenario, because this is what actually happened:

On night #1, I had the brilliant idea that I’d sleep in my usual spot on the left, and when Kona saw Kim in his spot on the right, he’d sigh but jump up to sleep across the bed at the end. So Kim and I get into bed first, and I encourage Kona to follow, as I pat the foot of the bed, where there’s plenty of room. He stares at me. Goes to Kim’s side (aka his usual side). Goes to my side. To Kim’s. Ignores me patting the foot of the bed. Then he eventually does decide to jump up after about a half hour of this…..jumping up where Kim is, totally ignoring the laws of physics that say that 2 objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time.

He does that a lot.

So Kim’s sitting forward, and he’s behind her, with absolutely no inclination to move. So I get out of bed, at which point my beloved sweet momma’s boy of a dog who can’t be without me for seconds…..nestles into my spot, sighs contentedly, and promptly shuts his eyes. I think he even started snoring.

I sleep on the couch. The rest of the time that Kim was there, she got into bed on the right, and The Kone had no problem whatsoever occupying MY usual spot. So much for the whole “I can’t let you out of my sight, momma!” routine that he likes to use. Hmph.

So there’s an issue with the bed routine, should I be dating PerfectMan for 6 or 10 months or so and deign to let him sleep over. But wait, that’s not all! Because quite frankly, I’m not even sure we’d make it to that point.

You see, Kona and I have this, well, routine. Which would kick in after, say, I’m out on a date, and decide to invite PerfectMan in afterwards to sip some fruity cocktails and watch Hoarders, while we talk about how astonishingly funny I am, in a wittily ironic and bitter way.

The problem would arise when we step into the house, because this is what would happen, as I envisioned in Realization #2, as this is what happens every single time I come home, whether I'm gone for 30 minutes or 2 hours:

Kona would come running up and jumping, all excited. Then he’d dash to the back of the house, holding a shoe or toy or something/anything in his mouth, and I’d have to run back there to let him out. At which point he’d barrel outside, do a lap around the yard, then barrel back in. Then he’d pick up a shoe – preferably one I would have just kicked off – and he’d run and scamper around the house while I chase his little puppybutt around like a lunatic saying “Who’s got the SHOE! Oh boy! Who’s got the shoe??”

Oh yeah, and Kona expects some kind of treat or leftover when I come home after an evening out with friends, so I’d snatch out of PerfectMan’s hands whatever he thought he’d be having for lunch the next day, and give it to The Kone.

Then if PerfectMan hasn’t already left enough of a vapor trail as he quickly departs the loony bin, we’d attempt to snuggle on the couch while following the aforementioned Hoarders/TashaAccolades plan……with Kona sprawled out in between us, pushing at us with his little pawsums as he takes up more and more space on the couch in an enfeebled attempt to eke out just the slightest bit of comfort.

Now personally, me, I don’t see why any of this should be a problem, but hey, maybe that’s just me? Probably. None of this really fits in with the romantic little cocoon one hopes to be ensconced in after a date with PerfectMan, not when you add the running-around-the-house-chasing-Kona bit. Oh well. Priorities, right? It’s not like my whole life revolves around HRH The Kone or anything……

Panic at the Wisco(nsin)

I knew it would happen some day – that HRH The Kone would attempt to toss off the shackles that have been penning him in to a life of misery, and break free of his existence centered around oppression and cruelty. After all, if nothing else, I’m known for the tight ship I run here at Chez Tasha, so who can blame the poor little man? Certainly not me.

So there we were, the Kone and I, up in WI last weekend to deal with Idiot Brother. Which is a long story in and of itself, so let me interject here with this important rule of thumb: should you notice that a major body part, say a leg, is suddenly very red and very swollen, and you’re feeling feverish/chilled, you in all likelihood have a raging infection and should hie thee to a doctor ASAP. Just sayin.’ Rather than, for example, making your mother haul herself up to WI the night before she’s supposed to go out of town, to take you to the ER, even as you’re protesting the whole way, because of course, “nothing’s wrong.” Right.

We get up there, and after making sure The Kone is being kept in the style to which he’s accustomed (bread and water, cement floor), I head off to the hospital to see Idiot Brother. Before doing so, I open a side sliding door a little for some fresh air, leaving the screen door closed. Why this sudden need for fresh air? Well, here’s another important note: if you notice that there are pantry pest moths in the house, do not, I repeat do NOT simply ignore them. Because they will multiply, and you’ll be walking around through swarms of them, which is pretty damn annoying and gross for most people. Most people who aren’t my brother, that is.

So of course I had sprayed the shit out of the place with flying bug spray, and I didn’t want Kona to expire from the fumes. Hence, leaving the side door open.

I get home a bit later, after a frustrating visit with Idiot Brother who wasn’t quite able to grasp the whole “rule of thumb concerning infections and limbs that might need sawing off,” and as I step onto the deck, I stop in horror, as my heart goes leaping out of my chest and sauntering off jauntily. Because the screen door has been pushed out, and The Kone – as I discover after I go running through the house – is gone.

Oh. My. God.

Of course, I do what any normal person would do under such circumstances: I go running through the neighborhood, yelling my fool head off: “Kone! Kone!” I stop kids who are going fishing: “Have you seen a BIG RED DOG?” I contemplate calling Melinda or Kim, because of course the smart thing to do is always to call friends who live in Ohio and Oregon, respectively. I think I hear Kona barking, so I wonder – is he tied to a pickup truck? Being held hostage in a garage? Stuck in a well while the barn is on fire??

I run back to the house, thinking I’ll call 911 and get the police and National Guard on the case, but first I decide to take one more run through the house. And so I get to the last bedroom and open the door – and there he is! The Kone!! Much happiness ensues!

I’m guessing he did go outside to chase the damn squirrels which were taunting him on the deck, tired himself out, then decided to go into the bedroom for a well-deserved nappie and the door closed behind him. My poor baby!

We then head out for a walk, and while uber-relieved and happy, I’m also not in the mood for moronic Wisconsinites and their crazed dogs, which is all we’ve met so far on our walkies. So when yet another idiot comes walking along by the channel with a snarling fat mangy Chihuahua who’s lunging at Kona, and then this fool has the nerve to tell me “You keep that dog over there and away from us!” as Kona is just walking along sniffing a flower…….well. I may or may not have snarled something along the lines of “why don’t you keep your asshole POS dog away from us, m’kay?”

In other news: I have taken up drinking. Heavily.

My adoring public

I realize that to a certain extent, people come here to my little blog for the train wreck aspect of it. Ooh, what kind of craptastic day will Miss Tasha have now? Will THIS be the day the swarms of locusts show up? The barn fire? What next?

Be that as it may, there comes a point when even the most despairing of bloggers needs to throw in something a bit more chipper. For me, that day tends to come when I get an alarmed phone call early in the morning.

Mom: I read your blog!
Me: Huh….wha? Mom, what time is it….?
Mom: You sound terrible! How much money do you need?
Me: Mom, that’s not the point, I’m just tired of dealing with the same old…
Mom: How much money?? I have money like a drunken sailor!

Sigh. I finally convince my mom that I’ll have enough money to pay my bills if and when my Ukrainian-American Bank Samopomich (aka “Bank HelpYourself”) ever decides to put the money from the cashed-in savings bond into my account. Which hasn’t happened yet. Hmm.

But in any case, this kind of alarm made me realize that I’ve been a bit all about the gloom and doom here lately. And not even funny gloom and doom, dammit! If my life’s going to suck, it should at least do so in amusing and entertaining fashion. But until that happens, I decided I should go with happy sunshiney stuff. Like….puppies! Bunnies? Ah, I know, baby goats.

There I was, despairing over my inability to find humor or even cuteness in despair, when I suddenly realized that I could write about the bounty of gifts that have been showered on me by you all, the little people. Well, or a stalker. But I guess that’s kind of the same thing.

By gifts, of course, I mean random towers of treats:

….which arrived courtesy of Amazon, with no gift card or other note signifying who this was from. I of course posted something on Facebook, because this same thing happened when dear friend Melindy sent the boys a toy – also no note attached as there should have been.

This time, however, no one fessed up. Of course, there’s a good possibility that I got all dizzy with teledrinking success and ordered it for myself, after a night of one too many amaretto stone sours. But barring that, if anyone would like to confess so that I can properly thank you, please do. Otherwise I’ll just continue to be proud of having my own stalker, kind of like Diane who has the guy who’s been giving her stalker salt for years now. Stalker salt as in these 5-gallon buckets of winter salt, left on her porch at regular intervals. Having been one of the recipients of said 5-gallon buckets thanks to Diane – I don’t see how this is a bad thing.

Then there was the Christmas package I got from dear friend Stacey the other day, chock full o’ goodies from the Old Country, aka the UK, like Christmas pudding and Curly Wurlys and Bath biscuits and – best of all – my very own Kate and William teaspoons. Jealousy, thy name is everyone who’s not me.

But wait, there’s more! In my Ronco-esque life, where nothing ever comes slumping along by itself, my dear friend Stan, aka an anonymized Keith, stops by today with a lovely bouquet of flowers. Just to cheer me up. I know, the mind reels!

What was perhaps the final coup de grace in this litany of adoration being sent my way was the friend request I received on Facebook. From a dapper gentleman called Love Knockingdoor. Swoon! Right there, I was already smitten. But then when he told me - in an obvious attempt to win me over - that “I love to go out dancing, to nice romatic dinners and shopping at large malls like the Mall of America..... I like women who find value in self help books"…….well, if he doesn’t have “keeper” written all over him, then quite frankly, I don’t know who would. Please note how he cleverly honed in on my love of all things platitudinal and hokey, what with his reference to self-help books. Why, it’s like he knows me better than I know myself!

For you menfolk out there in BlogLand enamored of Miss Tasha but too shy to make a move, well, clearly you’re too late. As we say in the Old Country - поезд ушёл.

Why retailers love me, part 64

Oh, I know that all of my eighteens of fans out there in the blogosphere have assumed that my lack of writing lately is due to the fact that my life is a total trainwreck. That I’m lost in the sea of despair, mired in a quagmire of hopelessness, floundering in a briar patch of calamity. That I’m spending my days – and nights – Ativaning and teledrinking myself into oblivion, cursing and bemoaning my fate in life while burning mini-replicas of GE executives and IRS agents in effigy. There is no happy shiny swirly twirly gumdrop land in TashaWorld.

And you know – that’s not too far from the truth. Life does indeed suck, and I find myself so bogged down by the suckiness of it all that I’m paralyzed into a state of inertia. I don’t know where to start with anything – should I be gathering the scraps of paper from 2008 that the IRS wants? Or working on the 2010 taxes? Or wondering how I’ll come up with the $4700 to pay my property taxes for HALF the year? Or pointlessly sending out more resumes, since no one ever gets back to me? Oh, where to begin!

Drugs and teledrinking are my friends. Not my only friends by far – but good friends nevertheless. You know how I was waiting for that ONE good thing to happen in my life, to let me know that it’s not all totally hopeless? Yeah, still waiting. Well, there is the potential stalker - but that can wait until another blog post.

So where was I…oh yeah, despair, bitterness, suckiness. But you know, even in the darkest of moments there can be great hilarity, so why the hell have I not been all over that? And here’s where we get to the crux of the matter: computer suckage.

As we all know, technology hates me. It’s true. A fact. So my PC that’s only a couple of years old, it’s been slowly giving up the ghost in a particularly cranky and annoying manner. Slowing down, not wanting to get online – but the worse thing has been the keyboard, aka the Instrument of Satan. The keys on the IoS kept sticking, and so – carefully following instructions I found on the internets – I’d pry off individual keys carefully to try to fix them, and of course what happened? Yeah, the keys wouldn’t go back on. So I lost the q, which wasn’t too bad. Then the m. Then, the horror of losing the comma. Not just the comma, but the little plastic doohickey that I could still press so as to be able to use the q and m? Yeah, it fell off. So I superglued it back on. Which then made it stiff as a rock, so to use a comma I have to press REALLY HARD on it.

Which is why I’ve been using a heck of a lot of dashes instead lately.

And you can imagine that typing has been a bit of a PITA.

Until today.

Today, the glorious day that I’m typing away on a Macbook Pro. WITH all the keys. Imagine that! Let’s go back to that beautiful day Friday when I made my way to the Apple Store….

(que Wayne’s World music)

I stride in briskly, as usual, and the 12-year old workers at the front of the store barely glance up. Okay, they give me a chipper hello, but I’m on a mission so I keep moving. I know what I need, and don’t need pesky youths hovering over my shoulder. Ah, there they are – the MacBooks. I get to work.

(15 minutes later)

Me: Oh hi mom!

I’m meeting my mom here for lunch, since I’ve gone to the Apple Store in Deer Park IL rather than the one in Skokie.

Mom: Wha….

Me: Hold on just a sec….finishing up here….okay then!

Mom: What are you typing?

Me: Oh, I’m just pulling up my blog on all the laptops here. A service for the little people, as I call it. Why should they be forced to read boring websites when they can bask in the brilliance of my blog?

Young Apple Guy: Can I help you folks?

Me: Oh, I’m interested in the laptops – I was just pulling up my blog.

We look down the row of laptops and see the distinctive blue green screen of my blog on every screen. I smile brightly.

YAG: Sure, that makes sense, have to see what the important stuff looks like.

Me: Exactly! Oh, and look, here I have pictures of my dogs. Aren’t they adorable?

Mom: But don’t you want to….

Me: Look! Here’s Timmy! Precious, no?

YAG: He’s great….

Me, cooing: And look, here’s The Kone! Ooh, and here’s a pic of the two of them.

Me, adding: I’m going to wind up on some website about customersfromhell, aren’t I…..

YAG, chuckling weakly: Oh NO, of course not….

Me: Aren’t you fortunate I came to this store specifically because it’s in Lake County, so I pay 6% sales tax rather than the 10% in Cook County? Yes, I’m stubborn that way. It’s the principle of the thing!

YAG: Oh, I’d do the same thing.

Hmm. He’s doing a good job of humoring me. We then further vex him by trying to prove that my mom is indeed a retired teacher and so we should get the 10% discount. Because I’m beyond po’, so my mom is buying me the computer as an early birthday gift.

Mom: Okay, here’s my insurance card…..my AAA card…..my senior discount at De…

Me, interrupting: Mom! None of that works. Don’t you have anything that says “former teacher” on it?

Mom: Here’s my AARP card……my punch card for the eyebrow lady at the mall……

Me: Mom! How about your bank account? Would it show where your pension check comes from?

Mom: Oh wait! I know! I just got an email about a Retired Teacher’s Luncheon next week.

I log into my mom’s email account and voila, there it is! At this point poor YAG is looking a bit like a deer caught in headlights.

Me: So what do you think, will that work? We could also try….

YAG: NO! I mean, no, that’s fine, perfectly fine, that’s enough proof right there, yes sirree, absolutely, not a problem at ALL……

He dashes off to get the computer. Oddly, someone else comes back over to finish checking us out. I’m sure it’s a mere coincidence that we didn’t see YAG again, right? Right??

Anyway, you don’t appreciate the beauty of typing with all the keys intact until that’s no longer an option. So tonight, I’m grateful for computer keys. Especially that damn comma.

For today...that’s all I got.

Life as we know it

This morning at Starbucks:

I go sauntering in as usual after the dog park, with HRH The Kone waiting patiently in the car for his Kone Scone. As usual as soon as I walk in my eyes anxiously dart to the pastry case - just a couple of days ago there were NO scones, the order didn't come in that day, and there was hell to pay, let me tell you.

"I'll write a letter!" I threatened menacingly.

I could sense the fear, so I trust that kind of tragic situation won't happen again.

Sure enough, there are scones a'plenty this morning. But then....

Me: Ah, you have scones today!
Dave: Oh definitely - I don't know what happened the other day but I heard about it. I'm surprised they didn't call me at home at 5AM to apprise me of the situation.
Me: Well, I'm sure next time they will.
Dave: I hope so! But did you hear what happened this morning? The Kone is developing a following!
Me: What? Even more of one you mean?
Dave: Yeah, a lady came in this morning for a petite scone for her dog! "No bag, just the scone, it's for my dog," she said.
Me: Aha! That's thanks to my Little Blog That's Sweeping the Nation, no doubt! The Kone and his scone are becoming a legend in his own time.
Dave: Apparently so.
Hunter: But have you trademarked the phrase Kone Scone? Because you know how people will steal any good ide.....
Me, interrupting: Oops, look at the time, gotta run - see you all tomorrow!

Note: if any of my readers know anything about trademarking key important phrases, contact me, m'kay? Thanks!

The Reckoning, part II

I glare at them as they come in, toting their wheelie bags of torture documents, and as soon as I open the door, I realize – oh yeah, I have Dobes. Big dogs. Oh well.

AMIL: Oh…oh boy….can’t you put them aw….
Me: NO! They’re little lambs, look at them. Konie baby, no jumpies!
OMIL: Aren’t those dogs mean…
Me, firmly: Lambs. Precious little lambs. Just keep walking to the back room, try not to let them trip you up.

They finally make it back, and to the boys’ delight, I give them big marrow bones to gnaw on to keep them occupied. The interrogation begins.

Me: First, should I put on some coffee? Would you like a brownie? I made them just for you guys, to soften you up.
OMIL and AMIL: Oh no, thank you, we’re fine.
Me: Do you guys really operate under a “No Snackie” rule? My friends and I were wondering this.
(speaking at the same time)
OMIL: Not really…
AMIL: Yes.

(pause)

OMIL: Okay then, so, before we start, do you have any questions?
Me: Well, yes, I suppose. Why are you people bothering me? How did I get picked for this?
OMIL: It’s a random process…
Me, ranting: It’s not like I make any money! Especially in 2008!
OMIL: Oh, that reminds me, we’re going to audit 2006 too.
Me: WHAT??? You can’t do that! What happened to the 3 years statute of limitations? I can barely find my papers from LAST year, now you want 2006??
AMIL, who’s been silent until now: Blah blah random explanation that’s probably made up blah blah can look at returns up to 7 years back blah blah.
Me, muttering: Well, good luck with that.
Me, more loudly: I don’t get it – what’s the deal? Do you think I have a printing press in my basement? Gold brick manufacturing in the garage? What??

Yes, I actually said these things.

OMIL: Well no, but when your income is less than your expenses….
Me: I know, it’s a problem! I’m po’! Everyone knows this!
OMIL: Well, that’s why we…oh….oh! No thank you, I don’t need that.

Kona has come along and, in showing off his generosity of spirit, has decided that Mean IRS Lady #1 needs to partake of his bone. His slimy marrow bone. Which he’s just placed into her lap, on her black pants. Oh my.

Me, smiling weakly: Heh heh, that’s my boy, he’s generous that way. Umm, where were we?

OMIL starts with the questions, and we’re trucking along, until we get to a question that almost has me burst out in laughter.

OMIL: So, would you say your income in 2008 was typical? Less than other years? More than?
Me, giggling: Oh, I’d say I made significantly less – I did only work half a year you know. That was the year of The Cancer. (Sad Cancer Face)

I go through my spiel – The Cancer, bike crash, broken collarbone which left me unable to type, brain injury that left me stupid, daily radiation treatments, etc. I think this either brings AMIL over to my side – or they’re suddenly segueing into a good cop/bad cop routine.

AMIL: OH! Oh no! That’s my foot!

Timmy has come along and plunked his little head on her foot, as he’s continuing to chew on his bone.

Me: Tim Tim! Move please.
AMIL: He’s cute. Are you planning on keeping him?
Me, sighing: No, it’s too hard as a single person. Plus it’s so expensive… (Sad Cancer Face)

She reaches out to pet him and he sits there like a good little boy, and I tell her about where he came from, and she tells me about a friend of hers who works in rescue. OMIL can’t get a word in edgewise.

OMIL: So back to these questions!

Me: Oops, sorry. Kona, no!

He’s just dropped his bone on her lap for about the seventh time. This is getting to be a bit Monty Python-esque.

Me: I can see the headline now – “Woman jailed for IRS agent harassment.” Just send me the dry cleaning bill. They love you guys, by the way! I keep giving them bones to keep them occupied.
AMIL, giggling: That one likes you Yvette – you’ll have to take him home with you!

Kona is now trying to climb into OMIL’s lap. Sigh.

AMIL: Oh, and are those poinsettias? How do you keep them alive so long?

Thus follows a long conversation about how I keep my poinsettias alive, and how hers always crap out by mid-January, but how she’s tried to overwinter them, etc. OMIL manages to break in every once in a while with a question, which I think AMIL finds slightly annoying. We’re bonding here, okay? Hmph. Kona keeps burying his head in my lap, which I figure has to be a good thing, yes? I mean, it’s not like Bernie Madoff had dogs that adored him, right? So according to the transitive function, Kona loves me ergo I am a wonderful, non-tax-evading gem of a person.

AMIL: So if you wind up needing to pay for any of these documents you need, like from the bank, you just call Yvette and let her know – we don’t want you to have to pay for anything. We’re trying to be the kinder, gentler IRS you know….

My eyes widen in disbelief, but somehow, by the grace of god or someone, I manage to remain silent at that.

Timmy then starts barking, loudly, apparently to indicate that this interview should be over. Luckily, they’re wrapping up, telling me what the next steps are, blah blah blah. I’ve been informed that this will “go on for quite some time” – yippee.

Let the drinking commence….

The orphans need your help....

Before I move on to my next post, which will be related to training (I can hear the gasp of excitement already!), I’d like to take a moment for a Jerry-Lewis-esque appeal for cash. Well, not cash outright, but rather cash in the form of a raffle ticket purchase.

Yes, as part of our effort to raise more funds this year so that we can help more orphans, IDR is having a Mega O’Rama Raffle – at least that’s what I like to call it. Big Money! Big Big Big! For purchasing just one $10 ticket, you have the potential to win BIG MONEY! Okay, so I don’t know exactly how much – it’s a 60/40 raffle so the amount depends on how many tickets we sell.

Why is IDR so important to me? Well, for one, it did bring the love of my life, HRH The Kone into my sad little CancerWorld. He makes me laugh or smile every day, and these days, that’s saying a lot. And IDR helps dogs like my rascally little impish foster Tiny Timmy.

And then there’s Miracle. Our Miracle dobe, who some of you know from following along on Facebook. Who was found near death after being dumped in an alley in Gary, IN – and luckily the shelter down there called IDR, and of course we said YES, we can help him, YES, please send him to us. Because that’s what we do. This was Miracle a week ago:

And this is him the other day, taking his first tentative steps after being unable to walk.

Walk? Hell, he couldn’t even lift his head when first brought in – and they couldn’t even get a temperature reading on him. But IDR helped him – because that’s what we do. We take in the old, the sick, the heartworm positive – all the ones that certain big shelters in Chicago pawn off on rescues because they’re not “perfect.”

They’re perfect to us, all of our babies.

Even when we want to kill them, after they’ve peed on our bed. (Thanks Timmy!)

And we’re beyond grateful – beyond! – for all the donations and love and support inspired by our Miracle boy, but the more funds we can raise, the more of Miracle and Kona and Timmy’s orphan brothers and sisters we can save. But we need your help.

The irony here in my asking you for this is that Miss Tasha is beyond po.’ Miss Tasha be sellin’ biscuits on the corner pretty soon to try to make some money. (Wait, biscuits? Wha...? I think those are the drugs talking. Or the whiskey.)

So yes, I have a fan-fucking-tastic resume, great experience, and many happy former clients, but can’t find work. WTF? But I’ll manage. And I’m not so po’ that I can’t offer up my standard PRIZE offering for those who buy an IDR raffle ticket! Yes sirree, while I have yet to open my own Fuck Cancer Emporium, which is still in the works, I’m still willing to procure an FC hat, and will raffle it off to anyone who lets me know that they bought at least one IDR raffle ticket (and you can do that via the website here). Just email me or comment on this post – we’ll go with scout’s honor here.

And if you can’t donate yourself, please pass this around far and wide. Let’s help this Little Blog That’s Sweeping the Nation do some good for a change! Let’s let freedom ring! Let’s say, yes we can! Let’s get Tasha some help before she completely loses her ever-loving mind!

Oh, where were we? That’s right, my shameless plea for cash for IDR. Maybe, just maybe, if you’re one of the people who’s ever eked out a tiny bit of amusement or joy or fuck-YEAH-glee from my blog, you’ll want to pay it forward by helping IDR. Or you’ll at least think about it. That would be good too. The orphans – and I – thank from the bottom of our respective pawsums, and heart.

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.