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.....

The Portland Pattypan Gods speak?

So once in a great while I like to head out of Chicago and share my greatness among the little people far and wide. After all, the gifts such as those I possess shouldn’t be contained within such a small area, n’est-ce pas? (that’s French for “Tasha, are you on crack again?”)

Thus, over Labor Day weekend, I decided to head out to grace the city of Portland, Oregon with my presence – to visit beloved CancerChick friend Kim, who lives there, and meet up with equally beloved CC Melinda, who was flying in from Ohio. In a fortuitous turn of events, I managed to get the very last ticket to Portland on United using my miles. Hmm, interesting. I mean really – they try to scare you on the website with the “there is ONE ticket remaining, buy now or you’re screwed!” thing – but in this case, it was true.

So off I went, whee! Kim came to pick up me and Melinda at the airport, and we head out to the parking garage, where I got the first indication that Portland exists in some weird time-space warp that is so unlike Chicago as to be scary. Or rather, it just confirmed how absolutely fucked up Chicago is.

Because we get to the garage-ticket-paying thing, and I pull out my wallet, ready to be the polite guest and pay for the stuff that our wonderful host wouldn’t incur if we hadn’t foisted ourselves on her. I figured it would be what, $26, maybe $28? You know, like in Chicago. And Kim had surely been there almost an hour.

We patiently wait for the machine to tell us the total owed.

$2. Yes, $2.

I promptly put away my wallet. “Hell, you can pay that!” I cheerfully say to Kim. I am nothing if not the most considerate of guests.

We then proceed to have one of the most amazing weekend ever, truly. I never laugh so much as when I’m with my CancerChicks. Katie joined us on Friday, and then Debbie came down from Seattle on Saturday, all of which led to us having the most amazing and brilliant conversations, replete with astonishingly wonderful ideas, like this one.

Me: Hey, we could totally do a doggy food truck here! Think about it, people would love it, especially since this is already food truck central! And we could have special things based around Kona and Lucy and Daisy.

Kim: Yeah, like….

Me, interrupting: I have it! Kurmudgeonly Kona’s Kookies! Because everyone knows me as Miss Curmudgeonly, so it would all blend seamlessly, and….what?

I noticed that Melinda is looking at me with that long-suffering “Tasha you’re insane” look on her face.

Melinda: Umm…..do you realize that Kurmudgeonly Kona’s Kookies spells out……KKK?

Thank god I have my friends to save me from myself.

But the truly remarkable thing happened when we went out to dinner on Saturday night. The Portobello restaurant we wanted to go to was booked, so we went to another cute place, Café Haydn or something like that, which had an outdoor seating area under a beautiful gazebo. After we ordered our drinks, I noticed that they had a lawn area to the side, with gardens in raised beds, so I got up to wander over there and take a look.

I’m walking along, noticing the nicely trellised lemon cucumbers, the lack of tomato plants (sigh), the…….wait, what? Is….is that what I think it is????

“Oh my god, oh my god, give me my camera QUICK, before it disappears!” I’m practically hyperventilating as I bustle back to our table, waving my arms and demanding someone hand me my camera.

Melinda: What the heck did you find? A tomato?

Me, breathlessly: No!

Kim: A…….pattypan?

Me: YES!

I grab up the camera and run back, and lo and behold, the pattypan beauty is still there, perched on the railroad tie, like a beacon from heaven in all its glory. I swear I am not making any of this up. It’s bizarre. This lone lovely pattypan, right there at this random restaurant – when there’s not even a squash plant in sight, because I look closely.

Is it a sign? Is it one of many signs I’ve been getting, like my deciding to read the latest Outside magazine (which I never do), which names Portland as one of the top places to live? Actually, THE top one, right after Chattanooga (which, really, what the hell?)?

Would it be crazy to pack up and move to Portland in part based on a sign from a squash? Does the fact that the idea of moving from my sedate comfortable ordinary life scares me shitless mean I should just go ahead and do it? I have no idea.

We left the pattypan there, as I didn’t think it would be right to relegate it to an ordinary end, like being cut up and grilled. That seemed a bit….ignominious. Better to leave it in its exalted state, right where I found it.

Of course, no discussion about Portland would be complete without mention of Miss Lucy, Kim’s most adorable and wonderful pup. I’m happy to report that Kim runs a tight ship just as I do, ever the strict disciplinarian. Then there were the daily jaunts to Papaccino’s, the best coffee shop EVER, and the trip to Breadquarters, aka home of Prisoner Bread, and last but not least, the visit to the incredible rose garden, which wowed even me, aka someone who’s generally ambivalent about roses.

Portland – Chicago – Portland – Chicago. Hmm. I need more signs. Off to the store now to get alphabet soup – I will report back. Though I kinda feel like god or fate or whatever is out there is right now saying "Oh for chrissake, now you want words written in alphabet soup??? I gave you a fucking PATTYPAN, wasn't that enough?? You people!"

Oh, and if I do move to Portland, I need insta-friends, so please, blogosphere, send some cool people my way. M’kay, thanks.

Doubling down on crazy

Sunday is the most insanely long day in creation, and I wind up catching up on emails at 2AM because I can’t sleep. Then finally, Monday! Yay! I head downtown and park on my usual Tammy “Stand By Your Man” Wynette floor, and thank god there are no lollygaggers today as usual, because otherwise there might have been a death or two. Not mine.

The small waiting room after you’ve gone in and changed into the flimsy hospital gown

First it’s just me, and then more women troop in, until there are about 6 of us, a regular caffeeklatsch. I think about asking one of them if they brought a bundt cake. Then the older, frazzled-looking woman next to me starts talking.

OFLW: Blah blah blah waiting blah blah blah keep a close eye on me blah blah something in situ.

Me: Oh, you had DCIS?

OFLW: Yes, I think that’s it. Something tiny that they found but it’s been ten years and I haven’t had any problems or anything since then. Thankfully, because that would be the worst thing to have to go through!

Woman 2: DCIS, that’s what I had.

Woman 3: Oh, me too.

Woman 4: So did I.

Woman 5: Me too.

What the hell kind of crap is this? How in the world did I wind up with my appointment on “lucky older women who had what most call pre-cancer” Day, while I’m the token representative of the Huge Honking Tumor group? OFLW is still yammering about “God looking out for (her)” and “being too stubborn to get cancer”, and I start looking around the little room for a frying pan, preferably cast-iron. Surely they have such things on hand?

Talking to the mammo tech while she’s setting up the machine

Me: At least it’s nice and warm in this room – the waiting room is kind of chilly.

Nice tech lady: They do try to keep it warm in here, though they have to be careful so the machines don’t overheat.

Me: Oh great, what happens then, do they start smoking?

NTL: Ha ha! They……umm, I don’t know. I think we just need to wait until they cool off.

Me: That’s good, because I tend to have bad luck with such things. My friends call me Schleprock.

NTL: No, really? Mine too! They always tell me that if I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.

Me: Me too!

NTL: I did have good luck once for a while…

Me: Lucky you!

NTL:….but it didn’t last.

Me: We’re a great pair here then.

NTL: Well, maybe our bad luck will cancel itself out.

Me: Ah, good point, like matter and anti-matter. I like that. Yes, let’s go with that theory.

I then get the little stickers that they give you to put on scars and such to protect them from the evil death rays from the mammogram machine. Okay, I don’t know what they’re for exactly, but they come from these rolls of stickers and have flowers and hearts and balloons on them, which I always find amusing. But NTL informs me, after I ask, that no, they do not in fact come from the craft store or the dollar store, that they really are special stickers. Who knew?

When I get out, I go back to the little waiting room, where thankfully OFLW is not in attendance. I wait, and wait, and wait, imagining all sorts of dire scenarios, whereby my films are so shocking and scary that Dr. Jeruss is trying to muster up the courage to tell me that I’m doomed. Because I’m sure that’s what she’d say, too: “Tasha, I hate to tell you this, but you’re doomed.” Right.

As I ponder an escape downstairs to get a tea latte, I’m then bustled into another room for an ultrasound. The lump is apparently nothing to worry about, though they’re not sure exactly what it is, but then the tech calls in the radiologist.

Nice radiologist woman: Okay, so this lump that you’re feeling, I don’t see anything there, and….hmm….

Hmm? I look over at the screen where she’s focusing on one little area under my armpit. You know, where those pesky lymph nodes are.

NRW: Hmm….

“Hmm” again??? What the hell?

NRW: There’s this lymph node….I’m sure it’s nothing, but….hmm……maybe…you know, you just sit tight, I’ll be right back.

Great, the lump was a red herring, and now I have a pesky lymph node to worry about. Just super.

NRW, coming back: Okay, you know what, we’ll just keep an eye on this node, so instead of having you come back in a year like we normally would from now on, we’ll see you in sixth months. But really, it’s nothing to worry about!

I decide to just go with this. They’re not worried, I’m not worried. I eventually see Dr. Jeruss, and she’s her usual chipper wonderful self, not worried at all. Which is great – except for one tiny thing. And that’s that I often think that our doctors – those of mine and all my CancerChick friends – have little understanding of why we tend to freak out at every little bump or ache or weirdness or just whatever’s going on that’s new and unfamiliar. To them, the chances that any of this is the cancer coming back is remote.

This is the problem with that thinking: some would look at us and say oh, you shouldn’t have gotten cancer in the first place, so the chances of it coming back are infinitesimal.

We look at that same info and say yes, we shouldn’t have gotten cancer in the first place, but since we did in fact win the shit-luck lottery, that means we’re not very fortunate people in the first place. And it means that cancer cells know how to grow in our bodies. For whatever reason, they do, and that means they’re more likely to come back. Because whatever reason we got cancer in the first place, that hasn’t changed, if it’s something in our genetic makeup or bodies or environment, nothing’s changed. I’ve read studies that show a clear linkage between secondhand smoke exposure growing up and BC in pre-menopausal women. I’ve never smoked myself, but that doesn’t change the fact that my dad smoked like a fucking chimney my entire life. Which I’m actually not bitter about – there’s no point to that, since it’s unchangeable.

But the fact remains that we’re younger women with aggressive fast-growing cancers, not 65-year-olds with 3mms of DCIS.

And there is no cure for breast cancer.

We’ll never be able to “get over it.”

We see our friends die on a regular basis, these lovely beautiful smart funny women who leave a gaping hole in the world when they leave. And we rage about the unfairness of it all.

So no, we’re not paranoid or hysterical or overreacting – we’re fierce about protecting our health and being diligent about anything that could be something. And we don’t really care if you think we’re being ridiculous. We’ll continue to be ridiculous until we die of something else – hopefully many decades into the future.

Monday evening

Stan comes and gets me, and we go to Moody’s Pub, for celebratory onion rings and sloppy joes and hot-cider-with-rum. As we clink glasses, I bask in the joy of being alive. Because yes, my life is rather sucky at the moment, but no matter how sucky things get, it’s still great to be alive. This is something I’ll never stop appreciating, especially after an all-too-frequent cancer scare. I may want more out of life, and feel I deserve more, but for tonight, just being alive and cancer-free-ish is good enough. I’ll take it.

What crazy feels like

I was fine after finding a lump in my breast (note: not “boobie”) last Saturday. Really, just fine. Until I remembered that at my last mammo, they kept calling me back for more films, where they were focusing on some seeming abnormality – right in the spot where I had just discovered this seeming lump. Hmm. Thus the rest of the weekend was as follows:

Saturday, mid-afternoon

Kona and Timmy are roughhousing, as usual, and as usual Timmy winds up bonking me in the lip with his hard little Dobie head. Dammit, that hurts. As I’m feeling my lip to see if it’s bleeding, I start bawling. Bawling! Not quite in a Nancy-Kerrigan-why-me kind of way, but in an

“I don’t understand what the fuck went wrong with my life somewhere along the way – here I am, old, single, broke, alone, with cancer, can’t find work – what the fuck? How did it all end up this way? I know life’s not fair, but this is just fucking ridiculous”

sort of way. I am just a bundle of cheer today, yes sirree.

Saturday, later afternoon

My friend “Stan” (aka Keith) calls me back, to give me a hard time as usual.

Stan: Blah blah blah. So what’s new?
Me: Same shit, different day. Aren’t you keeping up with All Things Tasha by reading my blog?
Stan: I’ve been on the road for work – I’m not exactly hooked up to a computer all the time. I haven’t even checked my emai….
Me, interrupting: Email, schmemail – I don’t care about that stuff. But you should be reading my blog religiously, like all those who truly love me do.
Stan: Okay, I’ll read it, and send you a dollar every time I do, how’s that?
Me: That would work, I guess. So in addition to my usual sucky life, I found another lump. I’m doomed.
Stan: Uh oh, that’s not good.
Me: Yes, so as I was putting away my Christmas ornaments, I was thinking of the one you gave me, the cute fishie with the pouty lips. So cute. (sigh) I just hope I’m around next year to put it on a tree again.
Stan: Oh, don’t say that!
Me: Yeah, I guess that’s a bit morbid. Hey, where are you? I hear rustly sounds in the background.
Stan: I’m on a Metra train.
Me: Oh, awesome! Now you can be one of those loud people having inappropriately personal conversations on your cell phone. “WHAT’S THAT YOU SAY ABOUT THE CANCER? IT MIGHT BE BACK? IS DEATH IMMINENT?”
Stan: There’s only one other person on the train.
Me: Oh, damn. That’s not quite the same. So if anything happens to me, will you make sure my awesome Christmas ornaments and my Helga picture go to good homes?
Stan: Okay, that’s it. You know what? Cancer won’t have a chance to kill you, because I will.

Saturday evening

Whee! I discover a bottle of margarita mix with the tequila already added in the frig! This constitutes a joyful evening here, folks. I of course post something about it on Facebook, and immediately, my CancerChick girls are right there to join me in teledrinking. In fact, Kim and Melinda are there with the telebottles of wine – and then Noreen joins us. Yay, par-tay!

2 hours later

Me: Sniffle, I loooves you girls! You’re the only ones who understands me, sob. Here’s to the sisterhood! Hiccup…

To be continued…..

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…..

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…..

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……..