Flying the Tasha skies

Ah, so much to catch up on, so little time! Where to begin? Well, how about with the trip to Philly to see my Cancerchicks at a conference, which started out with a cropduster powered by a generator? But I get ahead of myself…..

So there I was in the American Airlines terminal, waiting for my plane to Philly, which is of course delayed. Mechanical issues, of course. Which is always worrisome, because what with the fines they give airlines these days if they’re late, I imagine them frantically slapping things together with duct tape, just to get the plane off on time.

We finally get onto the plane, which is a tiny little кукурузник, and I’m already peeved not just because of the delay but because the plane is SO tiny that there’s no room in the overhead bins for any of our wheelie bags. Then the true fun begins.

Captain: Okay folks, this is your captain speaking. Sorry about the really loud noise at the back of the aircraft! That’s the generator we had to plug in to power up the plane, since we couldn’t get one of the engines to work.

I swear I am not making any of this up.

He continues.

Captain:…..so we put in a new computer card and plugged in the generator and hopefully that’ll get us to Philly without that one engine!

The girl sitting next to me and I look at each other.

Girl: Okay, I didn’t need to know any of that.

Me: Umm, yeah, me neither. Not really on a need to know basis.

Girl: Down an engine?

Me: Plugged in a generator?

The whole plane is unusually quiet.

We manage to take off, and other than some major turbulence, the flight is pretty uneventful. Then as we approach Philly, sort of, I notice that the plane is starting to circle. Our illustrious captain speaks again:

Captain: Well folks, we were slated to get into Philly relatively on time (because we now cushion the schedule with an extra half hour just in case), but then we got word that there’s a boat in the harbor, so they’re rerouting all of us until they can get that boat moved. Shouldn’t be too long!

Again, the girl and I look at each other.

Girl: A boat?

Me: Blocking the planes from landing? WTH?

We finally land – finally! – and as we sit there on the runway, yes, another message from Captain Cropduster:

Captain: Okay folks, we need to wait for our chance to taxi in, but in the meantime, so that our generator doesn’t overheat, could those of you sitting near the windows close the shades, and make sure those air vents are open? Thanks! Should have you in in a jiffy.

I start laughing at this point. Seriously? Close the shades?

Me, to my seatmate: See, this is par for the course for me. I’ll tell my friends waiting at the airport for my plane to get in about our кукурузник plane powered by a generator delayed by a boat, and they’ll just say, oh yeah, we figured as much.

Sure enough. I call Cori to tell her I’m waiting for my wheelie bag to be dumped in the gangway, and explain the delays.

Cori: Well, it IS you – this doesn’t surprise us. At all.

Let this be a warning to the rest of you – if you see me at the airport, you might want to rethink your travel plans…..

The long national nightmare is over

Last night

I’m done. I concede defeat. I’ve managed to put together all my documents from 2009, the ones I can find, but for 2006? Forget it. Oh, I’m sure they’re somewhere, amidst stacks of papers, but I don’t even know where to start. And IRSLady Yvette is coming by at 10AM to collect what I have, so, I don’t think I’ll find the motherlode of documents before then. I’m just going to let the chips fall where they may.

This morning

You know you’ve been hanging out with the IRS too much when they know your lingo. My pal Yvette shows up this morning at the appointed time, and of course, as soon as she walks in, Kona wants to say hi.

Me: Kona, no jumpies!

Yvette: No jumpies! Good boy, no jumpies!

So we sit down, and I break the news to Yvette, that I have a bunch of stuff for 2009, but gave up on 2006, since it’s just too damn long ago. Amazingly enough, she’s sympathetic.

Yvette: Yeah, it can be hard to keep track of stuff from so long ago.

Me: Exactly – I mean, I’m sure it’s all somewhere, but I just can’t spend that much time looking.

She looks over what I give her for 2009, and then, lo and behold, pulls out her own documents – turns out she’s basically extrapolated from what I’ve already given her for 2008 to 2006/2009, and has come up with what I owe. We start looking at her doc, and she explains it all, but I of course just beeline to the bottom line, the total for all 3 years. Which I tot up in my head, and when I do, the voice of George Bailey sounds in my head.

“You wouldn’t happen to have 7 thousand bucks on you, would ya?”

Yep, somehow even though I make no money and am po,’ with penalties and interest I owe the IRS $7K. Shit. Yvette is still talking.

Yvette: So you can either sign this that you agree, or you can refute it and come up with other documents and receipts to substantiate your claims and oh, oh! No no, doggy!

Yes, as usual Kona has decided he loves Yvette, or at least is beseeching her to not put too much of a dent in his pig ear funds, and has placed his head on her lap. At least he’s not plunking his marrow bone there too, like he did last time. Thank god for small favors!

Basically, what’s becoming clear is that if the IRS chooses you for an audit, you have to substantiate everything to a ridiculous degree. Receipts alone (which I have) aren’t enough – you need stuff like emails to prove that a business dinner was a business dinner, for example. While they weren’t silly enough to contest any of the medical stuff, they’re disallowing a bunch of other things because, apparently, they just don’t believe me. Hmm. So even though I still have negative income even after these changes, I have less negative income, so I owe self-employment taxes on my lower negative income.

My head then spins off its moorings and goes flying across the room, as I dash up to get it, and Kona goes back to putting his head in Yvette’s lap.

$7K. I run through the cost-benefit analysis in my head. Sure, I could spend shitloads more time coming up with more receipts and proof, though Yvette would probably only accept part of it, so the savings would be minimal. I think of Cori, who has literally had the IRS agent show up at her door at random times, to collect papers. I think of the fact that if I contest this, it could be opening up a can of worms, that then they might decide to look at other years, which I know are on the up-and-up, but damned if I know where all the receipts and such are. I think of what a huge headache all this has been, how many sleepless nights, how much anxiety.

I think of the fact that I’m Schleprock, she of the perpetual black stormcloud.

I think all of this within the span of about 5 seconds, and come to a decision.

Me: Okay, so where do I sign?

We chit-chat for a while longer, me and Yvette. On the need to keep good records for everything, on my

cancer status, on her former career as an EMT. We’ve bonded. It’s a beautiful thing. She leaves, and I immediately head to Facebook to inform everyone of the verdict, as I’m sure they’re waiting anxiously. And once I do, my friends come back with helpful suggestions regarding my request for a high-paying job. To wit:

• Sign up with an escort service. This could work, though I’m still waiting to hear if there’s a company that specializes in fat surly women with a very bitterly sarcastic sense of humor. Jennifer suggested finding a niche for escorts with inflatable boobages. Maybe?
• Set up a TomatoCam or PattypanSquashCam. Pay per click? Surely I’d be rich in no time.
• Merwyn suggested a survey or sweepstakes site. As he notes, “The last two have earned me a whopping 5 or 6 bucks over the past few months, and Tammy even won $30 off of Publishers Clearinghouse.”
• Mark B.’s suggestion, which I kind of like: “You could always go John Galt and found a town in Colorado the IRS can't see with their satellites and spy planes.”
• Motya had a brilliant idea, and then yanked it away: “dog dietician and fitness trainer? (see my status re: beulah on a diet) um, no.. you'd suck at that. i see how you indulge that konie. ;-)”
• And finally, Amy W. had what I thought was the most promising idea: “I think you need to get hooked up as the spokesperson for the pattypan squash industry.” Though as of this writing she was researching this, and had gotten to page 6 on Google with nothing yet about a pattypan squash industry, just recipes and Farmville growing tips. Clearly, the pattypans need my help.

Later I call my mom as I’m headed out to her place, and of course, she too wants to know the scoop.

Me: $7K

Mom: Gasp!

Me: No no, it’s a good thing! It’s fine!

I run through my whole cost-benefit analysis, and conclude “….so you see, with my bad luck, this isn’t that bad of an outcome.

“But you must be so stressed and worried – let’s go out to dinner tonight!”

“Oh, I’m so not stressed,” I note. “Heck, it’s like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders – I couldn’t be happier. Whee! Drinks tonight to celebrate!”

Yes folks, it’s true. In TashaWorld, this is a good outcome. And not that I ever get all Pollyanish about anything, but in this case, rather than being pissed off about the fact that I shouldn’t owe them anything, and thinking dark thoughts about all the corporations that pay absolutely nothing in taxes while they’re soaking the little people…….I’ve decided to not focus on all that, and instead just think……it could have been worse. Yes. So be it.

I call Cori too, immediately, and she also celebrates with me, recognizing the joy inherent in not having an IRS cloud hanging over your head.

So what have we learned from all this? Basically, two things:

1. Don’t be the kind of dumbass who keeps bad records, or at least bad for the IRS’s purposes. Document everything, to the point of being annoying. Keep records forever; never throw anything away. Ever. Even if the Hoarders people show up at your door – throw yourself over your stacks of papers and make them drag you out to the dumpster along with the documents. Trust me on this.
2. Have a blog that’s sweeping the nation, so that you too have an excellent friend like my own Alert Reader George from Canada. Who, way back when, sent that indignant email to my congressmen, one of whom actually followed up with the IRS. They then sent a letter detailing why they were (ahem) harassing me, so I could self-righteously rail about the fact that yes indeed, the high medical expenses and such were a big part of what triggered this! Plus, the IRS letter ended with a point about how they’d work with me to figure this out, cognizant of the whole cancer thing, etc. and so on. So yeah, I think that helped. Sure, I wound up owing them money, but at least they’re were nice about it. Thanks George!

And that’s about all I’ve got. Oh, and it helps to have perpetual bad luck, so that you view things like this, a sudden bill of $7K, as a good thing. Just as I was happy over the flat tire – whee! – because I got the flat close to a highway exit, so too am I simply delighted here that I’m not having a lien put on my house. AND, I’m done with the IRS (knock on wood). That right there, my friends, is more than worth its weight in gold. Err, not that I have any of that around, no sirree……

Adventuring in London

Day One

Of course, while the weather has been lovely in the UK all summer, now that I’m here, it’s rain rain rain. And cold. Naturally. Stacey and I plan to go riding, but first we need to pick up my bike, NOT from the “Tri ‘N Run” people where we rented the clown bike from last time. That was the one that didn’t shift, didn’t brake, and had an unstable seat clamp so my saddle would suddenly go lurching into a rather severe and precarious backward tilt.

We have breakfast – I have yogurt, planning to stick to my stringent nutrition plan even while on vacation – and off we go. And amazingly enough, the bike from this We Ride Bikes place is, in fact, only a semi-clown bike. Sweet! The brakes at least seem to work, the seat doesn’t shift around, and the shifters, well, they suck, but at least they kind of work. Better than last time at least.

Today’s highlights:

· My almost falling in front of a car, in heavy London traffic. Oops. Luckily I managed to clip out in time – thank god for all the riding I did this summer, where that’s second nature by now. Otherwise I’d be looking like a pancake at the moment - or a flapjack, as they call it here. I think.

· Stacey and I riding to Windsor, getting stuck in the rain, it starting to get dark, and then having the following conversation:

Me: Aren’t you hungry? It’s 5:30. We haven’t eaten since breakfast.

Stacey: But we haven’t even been riding hard, just toodling along.

Me: Okay, let’s ignore the fact that my heart rate has been through the roof all along due to weaving and dodging in and out of cars. But even if we were just standing around all day, we’d still need more calories than that. Or at least I would. You’re about a third the size of me.

Stacey: But ^&*hakjdhY&*&#$^*IUFE*&hmph…….

Somehow Stacey suddenly wound up with a sock in her mouth, though I have no idea how that happened. Odd. I was busy eating an oatcake, so what do I know?

· The letter I composed to Shimano in my head, which started out thusly: “To the good folks at Shimano: I’m not quite sure where your fine engineers got the idea that people who buy inexpensive bikes deserve shifters that don’t quite work properly and that clink and whine and clunk horribly once they do deign to shift, curmudgeonly at that. In other words: how dare you make such pieces of crap as these horrible Sora shifters, that deserve a special rung in hell for all the misery they’ve caused?” It went on, but you get the general idea.

· I suddenly and inexplicably start speaking with a British accent, on Titchfield Rd. Somehow that kind of road calls for it. Bloody hell and all that.

Day Two

We have to return my bike today, so to “simplify” things, Stacey is going to use one of the new rental bikes around the city, and we’ll bike to the shop and return the rental bike there. The only problem with this is the following: the thing weighs about 100 pounds, is clunky and unwieldy, and Stacey looks like the Wicked Witch of the West on it as she rides in front of me. Okay, that last part isn’t a problem – it’s actually kind of funny, as I keep cracking up and humming the WWotW tune to her: da da de de daaa da…..

The other big problem with it is that it takes a lot of effort for Stacey to get it going, and just about as much effort to get it to stop. Oh, and surprise, the shifters don’t work very well. Which is why when we’re riding along, Stacey ahead of me, and she goes in between cars up an on-ramp and gets to the red light – she keeps going, turning to the left. And because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, I just follow her, as I’ve been doing all along.

Which is when the police pull up beside us and ask us to stop up ahead. Oops.

Police Officer/Gendarme (I like that word): Do you know why we stopped you?

Stacey: No.

POG: You ran the red light.

Stacey: Do you have any idea how horrible cars are in this city to cyclists? I ride my bike to work every day and I see so many of them breaking laws and I’ve been hit twice….

POG: BE that as it may, the city has assembled a task force to crack down on cyclists, so I’m afraid we’ll have to fine you and write you a ticket. It’s dangerous, what you just did. Just a few days ago I had to deal with an accident where a woman on a bike was crushed by a lorry.

Me: That’s horrible. But how do we pay the fine?

POG: You can’t pay now, you have to go to court and pay it.

Stacey: But we’re leaving for France tomorrow!

POG: When do you get back?

Me: We get back the 25^th, and I go back to the US on the 26^th.

Things aren’t looking good, Stacey is about to start arguing with them again, so I figure the time for action is now. And somehow I don’t think explaining how we got this horrible rental bike that means Stacey is trying to not stop at all……well, let’s just say I don’t think that would go over too well.

Me, earnestly: And I just want to say, I had no idea about the no left turn on red rule – in the US, you can turn right on red, which is the equivalent.

POG: Cyclists have to follow the same rules as cars…

Me, totally sucking up: Oh, I know! Absolutely! I just mean I thought we were, with the whole right turn on red rule that I thought was okay here.

This is where they start playing Good Cop Bad Cop.

POG 1: Well, what I’m going to have to do is make you both go to court tomorrow morning to take care of this…….except I’ll leave that decision to my partner here.

I turn my repentant yet pleading, beseeching yet conciliatory, Sad Cancer Face to POG #2.

POG 2: Lecture lecture lecture etc. and so on……… “…..so I won’t make you go to court this time, but consider this a warning.”

Whew! They were actually quite nice about the whole thing, and I guess if you’re stupid enough to – right in front of police officers - break a traffic law you didn’t know about (at least in my case) or are trying to pilot a tank-like bike through the streets of London (Stacey), then you at least deserve to be chastised.

Next up: Getting out of London while the getting is good, to start our awesome Alp Cycles trip! Oh yeah, and my bike crash on day one. Five miles in. No, really. No lie.

My life as Ronco commercial

The disaster that is this ride continues unabated, as I sit down on the concrete bridge to wait for pickup, and hear a loud *CRUNCH.*

“Oh god no,” I think, “please tell me that wasn’t what I think it was.”

Yep, it is. I want to weep and gnash my teeth and wail, as I reach into the back pocket of my overly long jersey and pull out…….a bag of Cheez-Its, in a state of complete disintegration. Oh, the humanity! Is there no justice at all in this world??

Dejected, I sit back down, and decide to call my friend Stan (aka “Keith”) to tell him about my latest tales of woe, because I know he appreciates hearing about such things. He in fact has a great idea, i.e. that I work the Boobages to see if I can get something out of this whole fiasco – like a ride, since it’s now been a while and there’s no sight of my mom. I unzip the jersey a bit, and seem to get more fulminating glares from old geezers Hank and Mabel as they go cruising by at a sedate 25mph. Alas, no one stops, which I guess isn’t a bad thing necessarily.

Though I do find it interesting to note that a cab slowly goes past and asks if I need help – though the police car doesn’t even slow down. Figures.

I get off the phone with Stan, and who’s that calling? My mom.

Mom: I’m lost!

Me: How can you be lost? It’s just T-stop, left, right, left, right, left.

Mom: I turned on some road and the first road was to the left so I kept going and now I’m on Leach Rd. somewhere which is the way to Wisconsin.

Me: What in the……did you go all the way to the end of the road? Where could you have possibly turned?

Mom: I don’t know, there was some 4-way stop sign.

Me: 4-way? Mom, that’s not a T-stop.

Mom: Okay, I’ll backtrack. Bye!

On the bright side, at least I have plenty of snacks. And water. Since I only got 11 miles into my ride. And a bit of useful info:

· Lara bars - I tried the cherry one, and it tasted like they took a bunch of dried cherries and smushed them together. Too cherry for even a fruitaholic like me.

· Clif Mojo bars – Omg, this thing was so good it seemed like a glorified candy bar. But of course it’s WAY healthier than that because it has the word “Clif” in the title. Buy this.

So, back to our plucky heroine (me) on Route 176, waiting, apparently in vain. I start laughing at the ridiculousness of this all. Then figure another half hour has gone by, so I call my mom.

Me: Mom, are you still lost?

Mom: I have no idea where I am. Here, I’m at a farm, talk to this farmer lady.

Me: Hello?

Farmer Lady: So where are you? Your mom has no idea where she is.

Me: Yeah, I think she doesn’t understand the concept of a T-stop. I’m at 176 and Franklinville Rd.

FL: Oh, your mom is way far away from there. She’s by the Huntley High School.

Me: The Huntley High School? So she’s back where she started?

FL: Seems like it. I’ll give her directions to 176.

Me: Thanks!

I wait, and wait some more. Now, my mom is east of me, so I expect to see her coming down 176 from the east. Instead, after about another 30 minutes, I see her pulling over on the shoulder…….having come from the west? What in the world?

I load my bike into the car, and take the wheel, to ensure we make it back to Huntley during daylight hours.

Me: Mom, how did you wind up coming from the west?

Mom: Well, she said to take 176, so I know how to get there from Marengo Rd., so that’s what I did.

Me: So…..you took Marengo, which runs parallel to 176, then turned on 176 at the point where it curves around, and then backtracked to where I was?

Mom: Was that wrong? Oh, that was all after I stopped and asked the construction workers where I was, but they were Russian and said they were from Chicago, so they don’t know any of the roads out here.

It’s silent in the car for a moment.

“Well,” I say brightly, “thanks for picking me up! (mumbling – even if it took 2 hours)”

After all, beggars can’t be choosers, and if you’re stupid enough to leave your tire-changing stuff at home while on a long bike ride, you need to be grateful for whoever’s willing to pick your sorry ass up.

We meander back, me completely ignoring my mom’s attempt at directions (“Don’t you want to turn right here?” “Umm, and go in the exact opposite direction of Huntley? No.”), and then after getting back and freshening up, this is where my life segues into a Ronco commercial. As in, “But wait, there’s more!”

Yes, even my innocent ride to Starbucks is fraught with peril. Because I also decide to go to a bike shop in Fox River Grove to get a larger behind-the-seat bag to make sure I can’t ever forget some part of my tire-changing ensemble, and wind up on meandering River Rd., behind a car going the speed limit of 25, as am I, and in front of an idiot tailgating me like he thinks that’ll make me speed up.

Suddenly – cue dramatic music here – what do we see but a huge deer bounding across the road right in front of us! Guy in front of me slows, as do I…which is good, because 3 seconds later we have the trailers, i.e. fawn and Papa Deer, also gracefully bounding across the road. In order to avoid the collision, guy in front of me stops, as do I…..and I look back in time to see Asshat going too fast to stop, because he’s obviously not paying attention and has his head up his ass, and I hear the loud screech of brakes and only because I had NOT been tailgating the guy in front of me, there’s just enough room for me to lay off the brake for a second and move up just enough to avoid the squishing.

My first instinct is to jump out of the car and beat the guy behind me to a pulp, but instead I make a random turn and pull over, so that I can do a search and rescue for my heart, which has jumped out of my chest and is gamboling about in the woods. Really, that’s how close it was.

Needless to say, after going to the bike store I hightail it back to Sun City, where I resolve to not leave the house again today, if not for days on end. Usually my point regarding messages from higher beings is that I don’t understand what they’re trying to tell me, and they should try sand writing or alphabet soup or something. Today? Yeah, I had no problem whatsoever figuring it out.

Knowing when to pack it in

I wake up this morning with my usual verve and vigor, ready to head out for the 80-mile ride I have planned for today. Though there are thunderstorms already, and more predicted all day. Bah. I spit in the face of thunderstorms! Okay, I check weather.com and lo and behold, a mere 5 minutes later the storms have apparently cleared out from the forecast, and it’s just going to be cloudy and humid all day. Sweet. Off I go. I take enough supplies with me for the predicted LAR (Long Ass Ride), including some bars from Trader Joe’s that I’ve decided to try – all in the name of bringing valuable information to you, the little people. That’s just how I am.

So I’m on my usual Huntley-Capron-Sharon route, and am about 15 minutes in when it occurs to me that I forgot to attach my seat bag with my spare tube in it to my saddle. This doesn’t concern me too much though, as in all the thousands of miles I’ve ridden, I’ve never once gotten a flat. Even though on every ride I have all the necessary tire-changing stuff. Except this one. (Note the clever and subtle use of that literary technique known as foreshadowing here.)

I’m going down yet another tranquil, bucolic country road, when a car approaching from the other direction starts sidling over into my lane. Sidle sidle sidle. I get as far over to the right as possible, as now it looks like they’re planning on running me over. As they start pulling alongside me on my now tiny strip of pavement, an arm starts waving out the window, and then out of the window pokes the head of a gap-toothed lanky-haired skank who’s probably 25 but looks like she’s 50, and as she’s grinning like a complete moron, yells “What the fuck are you looking at???” This, as she’s on the wrong side of the road with her car an inch away from me.

Now, as we all know, the first rule of cycling is to not get engaged with idiots, but to just respond in a cool and collected manner, so as to not risk an altercation. So in this vein, I don’t take the bait by answering her, but merely respond with my own question: “What the fuck are YOU doing trying to run me over???”

She’s now stopped the car and is yelling expletives at me for some reason, so again, I respond in my usual calm manner: “Fuck you! Drunk much? Meth much? WHITE TRASH MUCH???”

As I continue peddling along and yelling back at her, I keep looking back, and her car remains lurched across the road at a drunken angle, and she’s gotten out of the car and headed to the back of it. Probably either to pull a shotgun out of the trunk, or to pee on the road, or perhaps both. I keep trying to look back, and since I’m not sure if she turned around to follow me and run me down, I pull over into a farm’s driveway, ready to go screaming for Farmer Assistance if needed. These people are the salt of the earth – and even better, they probably all have their own supply of guns.

After a few minutes, I see no one coming along, so I head off again. Then as I make one of my turns a little while later, yet another car coming from the other direction pulls over. What the hell, I think to myself – is this Pick On Tasha Day? Not this time though.

Sweet older woman: Excuse me, have you seen the garbage truck go by?

Me: Nope, not at all.

Woman: Thanks!

I swear, even I can’t make this stuff up.

I continue on, and turn onto 176, a busy road that I stay on for about 3 minutes. Or usually do, before I make another right-hand turn. Right away, there’s (yet again) a car trying to pass a truck in a no-pass zone, so I get further over to the right, on a concrete bridge where there’s actually plenty of room, but the pavement is pretty crappy. Suddenly I hear a loud whistling/popping sound that sounds like a car has blown something and is going to veer over and flatten me. Of course I pull over, only to discover it wasn’t car, it was me with a flat tire. Of course! I put in a call.

Mom: Hello?

Me: Hi mom, it’s me – what are you doing?

Mom: Having breakfast.

Me: How do you feel about picking me up when you’re done? I have a flat, and no way to change it.

Mom: Where are you?

Me: It’s simple. You know the road that goes past the garden and then you hit Harmony Road?

Mom: You mean 20?

Me: Umm, no. You get to 20 if you keep going on Harmony. This is just turning left onto Harmony Road.

Mom: Marengo, the road that goes to Wisconsin?

Me: Umm, no. That’s if you go right, to the high school. Just go left. Left. On Harmony.

Mom: Okay, left on Harmony.

Me: Yeah, and then the first right onto Seeman. Then you follow that all the way to the end, to the T-stop. Then go left. And then the first right. So basically you just keep going to the end of the roads, then go left and turn on the first right. Going constantly north and west.

Mom: Okay, so a right on Seeman…..

Eventually I think my mom’s got it. It’s really pretty simple. Go to the very end of these roads – to the T-stop – then turn left and then right. Piece of cake, yes? I hunker down, figuring my mom will be there in about 15 minutes or so….

(to be continued)

What passes for luck around these parts

It’s probably not surprising that the day after my par-tay, my friend Mary Ellen, visiting from D.C., was afraid to leave the house. At least with me. After all, she was in town but half an hour when we were in a car accident AND left a bakery – a German one, no less, as if they’re not known for their efficiency! – without my cake. Then Mary Ellen pondered the fact that I’ve always had bad luck, at least as long as we’ve known each other, back from those halcyon days in Kiev when we both worked there. Yes, we fondly reminisced over my secretary who was stealing from me, my getting Hudson the Dobe as an eventual guard dog of sorts (i.e. by looks alone) due to the extortion threats, and then…..there were my last six months in Kiev, the tail end of my two years there.

Within that time frame, I got a horrendous case of shingles (and couldn’t get the medicine I needed or any painkillers, nor could I fathom getting on a plane to go to Helsinki for treatment, it was that painful), my beloved Huddy swallowed tape from a cassette that required him having an operation at the circus, after I had gotten all the medicine and anesthesia and everything else needed on the black market, and oh yes, then there was the fire. And the subsequent gas leak. Which Mary Ellen and I managed to shut off using, of all things, a garlic press. And those were just the bigger things.

So you see there’s precedent here.

This is why I’m no longer surprised when my friends think I’m cursed, or as in the case of Mary Ellen, suggest that I need a witchdoctor or something similar, to help me get rid of said curse. (By the way, if anyone has “a guy”, as we say in Chicago, let me know, wouldja?)

And while I have yet to find a witchdoctor or shaman or just any kind of person with appropriate good luck spells, I *was* rather delighted when Holly came back from her trip to Africa with a gift for me which turns out to be a good luck charm. Yep, the Hand of Fatima is supposed to not only ward off the evil eye, but also bring good luck, fortune, blah blah etc. Hell, at this point I’ll take just the “warding off evil” part.

I of course put the necklace on immediately and haven’t removed it since. And lo and behold, there I was riding out in my beloved countryside last week, and two miracles happened:

1) It didn’t start monsooning until AFTER I had finished my ride. Really, it’s true! See, miracles do happen!

2) I did NOT get run down by a pickup truck! There I was, zipping/slogging down Harmony Road, when up ahead after a curve in the road I see 2 pickup trucks bearing down in my direction. The 2^nd truck is trying to pass the first, the 1^st truck decides to speed up, so they’re having a game of chicken on MY bucolic country road. With me as the ensuing road kill. Now, had I not been wearing the Hand of Fatima charm, I probably would have panicked or flailed about and wound up as a speedbump in PickupTruckLand. Instead, I coolly rode off the side of the road as these yahoos barreled past me at some ungodly speed, then stopped and cursed at them as they continued on. Okay, so that part didn’t really do any good, but at least it made ME feel better.

So there you have it – luck personified. Well, at least for me. And on my recent rides out here, I’ve still managed to avoid getting flattened. AND I’ve discovered 2 water stops - you folks might want to take note of this if you ride out here in No Man's Land – a Café at, umm, that place in Spring Grove where those 2 roads intersect, that’s open in the mornings. And right past there, by the railroad tracks, there’s a bar that’s open in the afternoons. Score! See, and who says I never give out useful tips?

Boobages Day starts off with a bang....

Last Saturday

I wake up at the crack of dawn so that I can follow the precise instructions left by my late dad for his world-famous smoked fish – also known as the only reason people ever come to my parties. Having brined for a precise number of hours, the 7.2 pound salmon needs to be taken out, soaked in water, etc. and so on. I had planned on smoking it in the morning, but realize that I’ll run out of time since I need to dash to the airport to pick up my friend Mary Ellen, who I haven’t seen in years but who’s finally come for a visit. No problem. Everything is under control, my timetable for things is going exactly according to plan, there’ll be plenty of time for the fish when we get back. I envision us hanging out outside, relaxing with a pre-party cocktail as we wait for guests to arrive…….

As I’m driving down Addison, I hit Western, and suddenly see……a sea of pink? Of pink WALKERS??? Shit, that’s right – one of those damn 2-day or 3-day walks is this weekend! But what the hell, why are they going through MY neighborhood? I thought they were always shuttled off to someplace vague yet scenic, like the lakefront path. Why me? WHY ME???? I place a call.

Me: Laura, we’ve got a situation here.
Laura: Uh oh, what’s up?
Me: I’m surrounded by WALKERS! In PINK! Walking people everywhere I look!
Laura: Oh boy….
Me: And on my birthday weekend no less!
Laura: That’s just not right.
Me: Exactly! So my question to you is this – would it be so wrong if I suddenly get a bout of physical Tourette’s and “accidentally” jerk the steering wheel and go careening into a crowd of pink? Because you know how I feel about this walking shit.
Laura: Well I…
Me: Hold on a sec…..(yelling) Hey! Let’s see how you feel about your walking when you’ve got a fricking GUMDROP stuck to your chest!!
Me: Okay, so what were you saying?
Laura: Just that you don’t want to get arrested, not on the day of your party – that would have a lot of food going to waste. Can’t you just wave a placard at them or something?
Me: Hold on a sec….(honking horn) Hey! Check out my bumper sticker! Fuck awareness, find a cure! How’s THAT for a cheerful pinkish slogan??
Me: Okay, what were you saying?
Laura: Placard? Maybe?
Me: Good idea – I’ll get back to you.

I don’t even know why I’m so annoyed with these Pink Walk-a-Thons. It’s not necessarily annoyance with the people doing the walking – well, other than the Walking Idiot who stole my Bat Girl spot from me – but it’s the fact of these stupid walks in the first place, that raise money for unknown purposes and that make people feel like they’re doing something, when that time and money could be better spent on something like the Pink Daisy Project, which actually makes a difference in women’s lives. Not this crap. And as a friend said - what the hell is the point of the walking? Can’t they fundraise while they also do something useful, like clean up a river, say?

Indeed.

* * * * * * * *

I pick up Mary Ellen without a problem, and she too is treated to swarms of pink as we head back in the direction of my place. Gee, it’s a shame that it starts pouring – must suck to be walking in the torrential rain and all. So we’re crawling along on Addison, heading to Dinkel’s to pick up my glorious Boobages Par-tay cake, and Mary Ellen is talking:

Mary Ellen: You realize of course that you’ve always had bad luck, even back in Kiev, whe…

*BAM!!!* There is stunned silence in our car for a moment. Then….

Me, raging: Oh COME ON! Not this shit again! You have GOT to be fucking KIDDING me!!

Yes, we’ve been rear-ended. Really. A mere 3 months after the LAST hapless idiot – a girl that time – rear-ended me.

I storm out of the car, an avenging angel as I like to think of it, putting the screws to idiot drivers on behalf of all of us.

Me, to the apparent 18-year old who just slammed into us: What were you thinking? Why weren’t you paying attention? What the hell WAS that??
Him: I…
Me: Don’t people know how to drive anymore? Mary Ellen, call the cops!
Him: I’m sorry…..I don’t think your car was damaged.
Me: How can you tell? You don't know that!

I go around to the side of the car, and see that the panel that was squished in the LAST time I was hit – and was just unsquished by the fine mechanics at Costco when I got new tires – is now squished again. Egads!!

Me, still raging: Look! Look, my car is squished in! Mary Ellen!

She hands me the phone, and after a brief conversation with the dispatcher person, I’m told that we should exchange information and then go to the police station to file a report. Fine. In the meantime, cars on Addison are honking at us for blocking the road. As if I give a shit.

Me to kid: Okay, so they told us to exchange information and then go file a report. Where’s your insurance card?
Kid: I don’t actually have insurance yet…
Me: WHAT??? How could you be driving and not looking at the road knowing you don’t have insurance??
Kid: I just got the car today and was going with my aunt to get insurance and I think the tires are a little bald….
Me: And you just got the car?? And there you were driving around NOT looking at the road?? Mary Ellen, call the police again!

This time, they send someone out, and it was at this time that the most traumatic part of the whole incident occurred:

Cop: I need your insurance card and driver's license to fill out the report.

Me: NOOOOOOoooooooooooooo!

After about a mere hour of paperwork, I’m handed the accident report, which has a court date on it.

Cop, to me: “Now, make sure you show up in court!”

Ha, if he only knew.

By now I’m no longer quite as incensed, and the kid’s car got the brunt of the damage – in fact, his hood is crumpled in and steam seems to be coming from it – so kid and I chat, shake hands, leave on good terms.

By now we’re running late, but no matter, it’ll just take a minute to pick up the cake, which was supposed to be ready by 10AM, and it’s now almost noon. Off we head to Dinkel’s…..

(to be continued)