My luck, it is a’changing

By now, we all know that bad luck follows me around like a sea sponge. Insistent, unyielding, determined. This is particularly true when it comes to anything auto-related, judging by the fact that I don’t even commute for work, hardly drive at all, yet in the last 3-4 years, I’ve been rear-ended twice (once on my birthday!), had my car completely totaled by an assclown (and convicted felon with no driver’s license and no insurance) on I-290, and have had my share of flat tires. Three, to be exact, though none of those have left me stranded in remote places leaving me wondering how to use that weird jack they include with the car.

That is, until yesterday. Kind of. It wasn’t remote per se, but getting a flat while driving on I-90 out in the general area of Bumblefuck ain’t so great either.

Aha, but here’s where the luck comes in! Because somehow once I heard the thunk-thunk-thunk and realized I in all likelihood had a flat, I did not pull over willy-nilly and decide to check out said flat on the side of the highway, where I in all likelihood would have been flattened. Mayhap even by the classic predatory yet ironic bus? Hey, a girl can dream.

But no! Instead, I calmly and wisely figured (hoped/prayed) that I could make it on Bad Tire to the next exit, my mom’s exit which is where I was heading, since it was less than a mile away. So I bumped along slowly on the shoulder – and did NOT get squashed by a semi! I know, shocking!

But wait, there’s more!

So I get off and manage to make it to the first turn, and pull in behind the restaurant that’s there on the left. And call my mom to see if she has any kindly neighbors who know how to change a flat. Yes, yes, I theoretically know how this is done, but given that it probably would have been dark out by the time I figured out where to place the jack and how it actually works, this seemed the more prudent course of action.

She finds a neighbor who can help, and as they’re headed over, I find the tools, get the spare off the back, etc., all in between taking Kona for walks in the field behind the restaurant. Oh yes, he’s insisting on “helping,” of course.

Needless to say, the fiasco that ensued was very much in keeping with the style to which Miss Tasha is accustomed. And as always, because I am all about helping my alert readers, aka “the little people,” I’ve gleaned some keen observations regarding the whole process that should be heeded by those to whom they apply. To wit:

To manufacturers of those flimsy tire changing kits: M’kay, do you think you might be able to have those jacks go up just a tiny bit higher, say an inch or so, just in case the person trying to get the tire changed managed to park the car on a slight tilt, such that the jack won’t lift the car high enough to get the new tire on? Thanks.

To the brain trust people who design the cars: Your helpful note in the manual that “the exact tiny divot where the jack should be placed – or major catastrophe will ensue when the jack slips and the car comes

crashing down on you – is noted by a small white arrow underneath the car” – is in fact not at all helpful.

To wonderful good Samaritans: I thank you so so much for stopping to help us after stopping for drinks at the restaurant, mother and son, living in Sun City (the retirement community cough resort that my mom also lives in) – truly I do – but the next time you do so after having more than a few cocktails, please be a bit more careful? Because I think if we hadn’t noticed that you were turning things the wrong way, you might have wound up decapitated.

To The Kone: Momma loves you dearly, HRH, to pieces! Forever and ever! But I want to assure you that when I disappear into the restaurant to get bandaids (for good Samaritan) or ice water (for tire changing helpers), I will come back. I will always come back to you. A 2-minute absence does not necessitate yanking the leash out of my mom’s hand and running insanely to the front of the restaurant looking for me, almost running in front of a car in the process.

Things got progressively more absurd, of course, from the realization that the car was on that teeny-weeny slant and we had to reverse the whole process and move the car….to The Kone running wild and free! Looking for his momma. Sigh. To my having the following conversation with Lita, the mom, while her son was still working at changing the tire.

“Say….do you like tomatoes?” I ask, out of the blue. Somehow she didn’t think this was an odd question.

“Oh yes,” replied Lita. “I love them!”

“Great! Expect to get a bushel of them on your doorstep in August,” I said, beaming. “Mom! Write down her information!”

Why, we were having so much fun chatting that the whole thing would have been downright festive had there not been that danger of my teetering car drunkenly decapitating someone. Ech, but what is a lost head between friends, really?

In the end, the tire got changed, no one was decapitated, my mom made a new friend, the helpful neighbor got wine and T-bones as a thank you, and The Kone had yet another adventure. And then there was the next day, when I went to the Costco tire center where I had gotten all new tires a year before. My mom’s neighbor had warned us that unless I had specifically purchased a Road Hazard Warranty, I’d be stuck buying a new tire unless there was a defect.

Young Costco Guy: Okay, the tire wasn’t repairable, there was a gash in the sidewall.

Me, sighing: Of course there was. What would have caused that? I was on the highway! Are you saying a rabid nail went leaping off the road to its death in the side of my tire?

YCG: Umm, maybe? Sometimes these things happen.

Me: Okay, so how much do I owe you for the new tire?

YCG: Eleventwentyfour.

I look at him and tilt my head. Eleventwentyfour? Is this some kind of New Costco Math? It doesn’t compute.

Me: What was that again?

YCG: Eleventwentyfour.

Me: Eleventytwentyforty?

YCG: No, just eleventwentyfour.

I think to myself, hmm, this must be what they’re teaching kids in school these days. They’re so used to texting and shortening words, that now they’re shortening numbers too. Could it be $1124? No, of course not. $110.24? That makes more sense. I try to coax him out a bit, using my excellent communication skills, to mayhap get him to use non-texting language.

“So,” I say craftily, “if you were me and you were going to write this out on a check which you probably wouldn’t do because you kids do everything online these days but let’s just pretend, and say there were no mobile devices anywhere in existence so that you couldn’t send a text, what would this figure look like?”

I for one think I’m being very astute in picking up on these younger kids’ hep lingo and all that, but for some reason, he looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

YCG: Umm……..eleven dollars and twenty-four cents?

Now, I’m not saying I wrote out and slapped that check down and bolted out of there before he could figure out they had made a mistake……but hell yes, that’s exactly what I did. Okay, so I did discover that Costco has some insanely amazing service plan in place whereby all tires come with a 5-year Road Hazard Warranty, which is prorated based on how many miles you’ve driven on the tires. But still! Yet another reason to love this place. Costco, aka Mecca, will you hire me? Please?? Now?

And yes, this is what passes for really good luck around these parts. Car got a flat tire on the highway but close enough to an exit? Sweet! Par-tay time!

Clearly there should be a picture of me in the dictionary next to the word “super easy to make happy.” It’s a gift.

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…..

Hunkering down

My faithful fifteens of readers know that Miss Tasha has been having herself a bit of a tough time with the whole money situation. Business is slow, I still have all these goofy-ass medical bills to pay plus my own insurance costs, etc. and so on, and due to all that, I was getting into a bit of a panic, though I wasn’t quite there yet. As my dear friend Adrienne told me, “This is no time to panic! Unless it’s a perfect time to panic.”

It’s time to panic.

You see, while as my resume will attest I’ve done a lot of great contract work over the past number of years - work that my clients have been thrilled about - my one truly steady source of income has been the market research work I’ve done for one particular company that specializes in such things. For ten years now – yes, ten – I’ve researched and written reports on a vast range of topics, from soup to gardening to footwear to oral care. You name a consumer good, chances are I’ve written about it. All the editors I’ve worked with have loved my work – and no wonder, considering some of the other writers they’re dealing with.

I have seen some of this other work. It has not been pretty.

So imagine my surprise and shock when I discovered just yesterday that I’m not being assigned reports due to…..who knows. Some random concern about timeliness? Which begs the question – if a report that’s turned in on time is deemed by the company to be not on time even though it is on time, in how many ways can one’s head explode? So that’s clear as fuck-all.

Concerns about quality? Hmm, let’s see. There was a report that I did in November that the QC guy (who needs to justify his existence to the company) took issue with. Living as he does in the tony enclave of Kenilworth, he apparently was unclear on a few concepts as far as research that I put into the report were concerned. What? People are struggling with a poor economy? Business at second-hand shops is booming? No!

And then there’s the work for the company that I’ve taken on the past that’s consisted of rewriting – yes, entirely rewriting – the shoddy work that other writers have done. There was the entire consumer section for one report, which consisted of statements like the following:

“Black people buy more biscuit dough because it goes well with their fried chicken, which they love and eat constantly, which is also why they will purchase items with the Aunt Jemima symbol, as she with her nappy hair and broad features represents the down-home cooking of their childhood, with chitlins and other black foods.”

No, I’m not making this racist shit up.

Then there was another report where, also in the consumer section, the Asian consumers were referred to as “boat people,” or, for a cute little colloquialism, just “boaters.”

Clearly, that’s some quality writing there.

So it’s unclear why I’m suddenly and inexplicably and with no warning persona non grata. Hell, I didn’t know there was a problem until the report-scheduling guy ignored all my emails, and didn’t respond to one until I called him and left a message, as he ducked that call too.

I can only conclude that their new research director, a woman with editing experience but no background or experience in actual market research, is perhaps fearful that The Cancer is contagious – kind of like cooties. Or maybe she thinks I’ll suddenly be stricken by a sudden bout of The Cancer! Like gout or something. That’ll render me somehow unable to complete my assignments. This is the kind of forward thinking I suppose the company wants to be known for, always alert for any possible problems on the horizon, no matter how remote. After all, that report that I was assigned that happened to coincide with my cancer surgery, bike crash, broken collarbone and brain injury two years ago – yeah, I finished that one. Even though I couldn’t even type at the time. But you never know, so one must always be alert for potential shirkers.

Now, I know what you’re all saying. You’re saying “Now Miss Tasha, be that all as it be, we ain’t here to hear ‘bout your problems, we be here to learns abouts the training and stuff, and fo sho to be some kind of entertained!”

I realize this. I’m one of billions of bloggers out there, a minute speck in the Blogosphere, and I’m sure if I depart, by tomorrow there’ll be six wanna-be bloggers to take my place: The Shake-Weight Route to Pasadena, and so on.

So in that vein, I present to you my latest in diet advice, that I’m sure will hone my already-almost-perfect-athlete’s physique to an even greater state of perfection. We all remember my Stillman's diet, which proved to be a bit tricky on those long bike rides:

The there was the liquid diet, which was certainly a happy one, though perhaps not the most productive.

My current one, therefore, is borne out of Need and Opportunity, or as we call it, Neeportunity. This is akin to when you’re on a bike ride and need to do some intervals, and you see a hill so you ride up and down it, even if said hill is on someone’s property. Or when you’re on yet another long ride and need some quick fuel, so you stop at a nearby donut shop. This is the kind of opportunistic thinking that’s made me the goddess I am today.

So for my latest diet, it occurs to me that I need to a) not spend money I don’t have, and b) get my ass in shape for this summer’s cycling adventures, to include my Crazy-Ass Bike Ride Across Iowa, or CABRAI. I think that’s what it’s called. And who is it that has enough food stored in her place to last through the next millennium, due to her Ukrainian-bred tendency to buy food in bulk when she sees it in a store? Yep, yours truly. I honestly think I can go months living on what I have in the house, between the cans of tuna and frozen chicken breasts, and so on. Oh sure, scurvy might be lurking around the corner due to a lack of fruits and vegetables, but you can’t have everything.

Because you see, the timing of all this – and the unexpectedness of it – is really shitty. Not only do I have the regular bills, plus what I’m sure will be an early property tax bill (unlike the fall one, which they delayed by several months until after the election), as well as the root canal that I need, but…. I also found a lump in my breast this morning. The right one. The cancer one.

Now, do I really think this is anything? No, I honestly don’t. I really think it’s scar tissue or the port that I still have in there, or even a frisky meandering implant. Though it’s a bit of dejavu that I have my every-six-month mammogram schedule for Monday – which is just what it was like for my original cancer diagnosis.

So I don’t think it’ll be anything, but at the same time, it pisses me off, because my first thought was, oh for fuck’s sake, can’t I get a fucking BREAK around here once in a while? And I don’t mean a break that’s just a lack of bad news, as in “oh whew, it’s not cancer.” Or like the Ukrainian National Anthem, Ще не вмерла Українa, which translates to Ukraine is Not Yet Dead. Gee, yay.

And I don’t even mean I need the seriously amazing luck, like winning the lottery. No, I just want a garden-variety decent something happening in my life. Oh, you know, like say having one of the many potential projects I have out there actually come to fruition, where some company realizes – hey, you’re exactly the kind of brilliant person we need, you with your fan-fucking-tastic resume and your amazing experience!

Seriously, is that too much to ask of the universe?

Apparently so.

Cakeless in Chicago

We pull up across the street, and in a fit of pique and defiance, I refuse to go trudging down the street to the stupid machine to put in money for 5 minutes of parking. If it were a regular old meter that I could pop a quarter into? Sure. But this is stupid. So I leave Mary Ellen in the car with the keys, instructing her to be on the lookout for vulpine-looking women eyeing cars with malice and glee, and I head over to Dinkel’s.

Me: Hi, I’m here to pick up a cake? The name is Huebner.
Girl: Okay, just a second.

(A minute passes)

Girl: What did you say your last name was again? Could you spell that?
Me: Huebner. H-U-E…
Girl: Okay, just a sec.

(A few more minutes pass)

Now a second girl has joined the first.

Girl #2: When exactly did you put in the order?
Me: Wednesday – I was in here on Wednesday.
Girl #2: And you were supposed to pick it up…when?
Me: It was supposed to be ready this morning by 10AM.
Girl #2: Okay, just a sec. Could we get you some coffee while you wait?
Me: No thanks, that’s okay.

By now I’m getting a wee bit concerned. After all, what’s a Boobages Par-tay without the accompanying cake?

We do this routine a few more times, I get offered coffee several more times, then finally a woman comes out to break the bad news.

Woman: I’m so sorry, but somehow it seems your order got misplaced. Right now our decorator is working on a firetruck cake, but then they’ll work on yours. Can I get you some coffee?

Hmm. The last thing I want is for them to rush my elaborate little cake.

Me: You know, how about if I just come back in a couple of hours? Say around 2?
Woman: Oh, perfect, that would be great! I’m SO sorry about this.
Me: No problem, it happens.
Woman: By the way, can I ask what the cake means? We were all wondering about that.
Me: You mean the “Boobages or Bust”? The cake is for my Coming Out Party for the new girls!
Woman, looking slightly dumbfounded: The new….as in…..

I decide to go with the slightly longer explanation, so they don’t think I’m having some odd party to celebrate my garden-variety boob job.

Me: I had reconstruction, after breast cancer. So I’m done with treatment and now have the new boobs so they’re getting their own party!
Woman, nodding sagely: Aaah, I see. That is excellent. I really love that idea.
Me, beaming: Thanks!

I leave, go to the car, and tell Mary Ellen what happened. As we drive off to head home, cakeless in the squished car, we both start laughing, albeit rather incredulously. Really, what else can you do?

(Next up: The Par-tay! Pictures!)