Thanks, but.....?

So yesterday, as is my custom, I’m watching the national news, and they have one of those teasers as to what the next segment is going to be.

“Up next! We meet a woman who fought back against the IRS….”

Next thing you know, the phone rings insistently. In my usual intuitive fashion, I know who it’ll be.

Ring ring

Me: I know mom, I’m watching the news.

Mom, all excited: You’re watching channel 7? You saw they’ll have something about the IRS?

Me: Yep, I’m on it.

Clearly this was going to be a David vs. Goliath story, where this lone woman took on The Man, pushed back against their absurdity, and emerged victorious. Proletariats, unite!

Then the story comes on.

And they show this woman who, yes, has engaged in battle with the IRS. She owed them the astronomical sum of about $3K – and paid them in full. And had forms and receipts showing this. And yet the IRS didn’t believe her, so they took out more money from her bank account – this time $5K+, for the original supposed amount plus interest and penalties. And then they were still harassing her- showing up at her door, calling at all hours, etc. Now saying that she owed them $7K. This woman then tried using the Taxpayer Advocate service – and those folks determined that yes indeed, she had paid the IRS in full and should get that second $5K back. But the IRS wouldn’t budge.

Then ABC news got involved. Wrote to the various congressmen responsible for overseeing the IRS – no response. Contacted the IRS, got a standard form letter in return: “If we have erred in any way, we apologize for this theoretical error that may or may not actually be an error and may or may not have actually occurred.”

The story ends with this poor woman still out her money, with not even the ABC people being able to help her. I try to call my mom back, to chuckle about this rather depressing story. No answer. Undoubtedly, she’s gone out drinking.

I am sooooo screwed.

My adoring public

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At what point do you give up?

Seriously. At what point do you just recognize that your life is totally fucked up, that it's not going to get any better, that there's no point in even hoping that it will? Because I think I'm reaching that point. I think you get to that point when not one thing - ever - goes your way.

Let's take the job hunt thing. Okay, I guess it's typical that most of the companies that I've applied to for full-time jobs, I just don't even hear back from them. Nada. Zilch. Even at Accenture, where I supposedly have an in.

Crickets.

Fine. But then how about all the project-type work I've been pursuing fervently for many months now? Where there's been one thing after another that looks really promising, but then just goes FUBAR, for one reason or another. This work, they hire a full-time person, that work, I get underbid by people who aren't even going to do what the client needs. Note to self: overpromise, don't worry about underdelivering. This falls through, that falls through. Every single fucking thing. This potential hiring guy winds up in the hospital, for god's sake, as if I'm cursing everyone I come in contact with. I had to cash in a bond, my last one, so that I could pay my property tax bill. I'm not even scratching out an existence anymore - I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

The IRS garbage is of course just the proverbial icing on the cake. I simply cannot deal with them too. I just can't. Hopefully my friend Hymie's lawyer friends (thanks dear!) will help me out with that - I've told them that I'd be happy to cash in my IRA and pay the penalties rather than have to deal with the IRS myself. I probably won't live long enough to see that IRA anyway, so who gives a shit?

My dear CancerChick friend Pam, who I got to spend time with at the conference in FL, discussed with me this concept of bad luck and curses, because she too has had shit luck in spades. For many years, like me. And she thinks there's some higher meaning to it all, some purpose to our shit luck. And while I love Pam dearly, I have to wholly disagree. I'd say, the only point to my shitty luck is that fate is trying to see how miserable a person's life has to get before they snap, once and for all. To see how much misery one person can take. And that's pretty much it.

Really, how much?

Can't make this shit up....

So the other day I’m chatting with my uber-cool tenant Kathleen, who’s a teacher in Evanston and thus on spring break this past week. Which means that she gets to sleep in later than the usual 5:30 AM that she normally gets up at. But Friday she’s awoken by the loud sound of a text message.

*blootoolooroop!*

That reads:

A goal is a dream with a deadline.

Which would be bad enough on its own, this kind of horrendously sappy platitude.

It becomes truly something horrible to be woken up by when you consider that it came from Kathleen’s unemployed transgendered female brother who hasn’t worked in the last three years and isn’t out on the street only because Kathleen sends him money.

And apparently his goal for that morning was to bake biscuits. No, really, biscuits.

I…..speechless. Just…..speechless.

More fruitless ramblings

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

Except that’s not the case.

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

Because that’s bullshit. If

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

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

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

To the editor:

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

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

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

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

One would think wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why retailers love me, part 64

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until today.

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

(que Wayne’s World music)

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

(15 minutes later)

Me: Oh hi mom!

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

Mom: Wha….

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

Mom: What are you typing?

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

Young Apple Guy: Can I help you folks?

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

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

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

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

Mom: But don’t you want to….

Me: Look! Here’s Timmy! Precious, no?

YAG: He’s great….

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

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

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

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

YAG: Oh, I’d do the same thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For today...that’s all I got.

Life as we know it

This morning at Starbucks:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have we all lost our ever-loving minds??

Seriously, people? Seriously??


Denny's Introduces the New Baconalia Sundae

Denny's introduced its maple bacon sundae in honor of the diner's Baconalia festival, a celebration of all things baconmongers crave.

Denny's describes the sundae:

Bacon makes a classic ice cream sundae even more awesome. We start with maple flavored syrup, and a scoop of rich, creamy vanilla ice cream and then a generous sprinkle of our diced hickory-smoked bacon. Add another sweet layer of syrup and vanilla ice cream topped with even more bacon and a drizzle of syrup.

Chugging along on the Bitterness Train

So I’m more pissed off than ever these days. I know, I know, what else is new, right? Well, the more I think about all this IRS crap, the more pissed off I get. Seriously, you people are auditing me because you don’t understand how someone can make so little money in the year they’re diagnosed with cancer and have a bike crash/brain injury and are thus unable to work? Really? And then you also don’t understand how someone could have such high medical bills? Do you people even watch the news once in a while?? You know, to have a clue about those skyrocketing medical costs all of us out here have been yammering about. Apparently not.

So in my mind, they’re picking on the broke person with cancer because, quite frankly, they’re idiots. I mean really. Let’s let Bernie Madoff get away with scamming billions and billions of dollars for years, and let’s see nothing wrong with IL politicians paying zero in their own federal income taxes – but let’s pick on Miss Tasha.

And I have to give credit here to my most awesome friend George from Canada, who tried to help me out by contacting my congressmen to tell them how appalled he was, as a Canadian citizen, that I was having this crap foisted on me. And to the credit of Mike Quigley’s office (current congressman, who I once played ice hockey against!), they did contact me. I sent them the info, they sent off an inquiry, blah blah. Then yesterday I’m toodling around on the Googles, and I’m trying to see if this “contact your Congressman” idea ever does any good – and I find a website where a lawyer is answering a question, and basically says – oh, you don’t want to contact your Congressman except as a last final resort. We consider that – are you ready for this? – the nuclear option.

Fantastic. So now the IRS will be even MORE determined to find something wrong, just to prove they were right.

Tonight I was talking to Normal Brother Andrew from California, and I tell him my latest woes and how I’m basically screwed. Because once they start looking at your bank statements, suddenly everything is income, even if you’re just being reimbursed or paid back for something. And expenses, pshaw, why did you think that was deductible? I tell him all this, and there is…..silence. And then:

Andrew: Wow. Well……so……I guess things really did get worse, huh?

This, from my brother of the “It could always be worse” fame.

So, my friends, in times like these, when your life is falling to pieces all around you and there’s no bright spot on the horizon, not a glimmer, one is left with only a few options.

The first is to hunker down, hide from the world, which I guess is what I’ve been doing, but it hasn’t done much good. Trouble still hunts me down, like the sly bastard it is.

The second is to check out, as in check out. I can’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind, but….no. Not an option.

Then there’s the third option. Oh sure, I guess there are other things one can do – like join a monastery, or go AWOL, etc, - but when everything is scraped down to bare nothingness, this seems like the only realistic thing to do. Yes, the only one.

So yes, I’m doing it. I’m heading to N’Awlins. It’s not quite putting the band back together, because my former fellow NOLA-travelers have full normal lives unlike myself – but rumor has it that Craig can be persuaded to head to the Bayou with me and as many of my awesome CancerChick friends as we can round up.

Or, as I put it on Facebook – “I’m broke, I’m being audited, I’m probably headed to jail – fuck it, I’m going to New Orleans.”

So it has been spoken, so it shall be done. Not tomorrow, and not next week, but soon. Because, as I like to put it, when you’re robbing the bank you don’t worry about double-parking. And because……life is short. And the IRS can just suck it.

More job-hunting tips from Miss Tasha

Most of the job-hunting advice out there suggests that you should be focused in your search. Target those companies that interest you, and that have openings that closely fit your qualifications.

To which I say: malarkey! I much prefer what I call the “shoot enough bullets into a forest and eventually a deer will wander in front of one of them” approach. This served me well when I was at (ahem) Wharton, where no job was too out there for me to apply for. After all, what is “obscure”, but just another word for “opportunity”?

Plus it’s not like the companies actually expect anyone to have those exact qualifications –they’re merely guidelines, suggestions, a wishlist. They want ten years of experience and you have two? Pshaw, that’s easy. Both numbers start with the letter “t”, so clearly that’s close enough. Besides, you read these job descriptions that are incredibly detailed while being almost whimsically arcane, and you realize that they can’t possibly be serious. “Must have worked at least 6.3 years in the salt mines of the Congo, and be fluent in 16 out of the 44 known Swahili dialects” – trust me, they’re just testing you to see if you have the boldness and confidence to ignore all that and apply anyway.

You should also make sure that you tell everyone – and I mean everyone – that you’re looking for a job. There’s no pride at stake here, folks – if you’re damn good at what you do (ahem, like I am), then you know you’ll be doing the little people a favor by giving them access to your amazing skillset. In fact, you might want to emphasize to them that they should act fast, as an opportunity like this might not come up again. This is what I do, and we can all see how great it’s been working for me. Here are some recent examples:

At the Village Tap with Diane and some of her friends

Me: So what do you do, Charise?

Charise: Oh, I work for Costco in the eye depa…..

Me, interrupting: Wait. Did you say…..Costco?? As in…Mecca??

Charise: Yes, that Costco! I take it you’re a big fa…

Me: Hire me! Did I mention I’m job-hunting? And I’m brilliant! Talented! Diverse! I got diversity in spades!

I then finish up with the Sad Cancer Face, which is always a great way to clinch the deal. I’m still waiting to hear back from Charise, but clearly she’s just trying to jump some hurdles for me, so that I don’t have to. (Yo, Charise, call me, okay?)

At For Your Canine, with Timmy for his evaluation

Karen: So your schedule is flexible, in terms of bringing him in for classes?

Me: Oh, absolutely, I could bring him in at any time. I’m self-employed, and low on work at the moment.

Karen: Oh, that’s too bad. What do you do?

Me: Marketing, market research, writing, communications, strategy – I’m basically your go-to person in all of those areas. I’m excellent at what I do.

Karen: Hmm….

Me: Aha! You need someone, don’t you? I can see it in your furrowed brow. Unless your forehead normally looks all crumpled and wrinkly like that, in which case, never mind.

Still waiting to hear back from her too, but again, I have faith. (Psst, Karen, call me!)

The Reckoning, part II

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

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

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

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

(pause)

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

Yes, I actually said these things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

AMIL: OH! Oh no! That’s my foot!

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

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

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

OMIL: So back to these questions!

Me: Oops, sorry. Kona, no!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let the drinking commence….

The day of reckoning is here

8:40AM

I get home with Kona from the dog park, and discover a tragedy at home that pushes all thoughts of Mean IRS Lady from my mind: we’re out of marrow bones! I look at my watch, the boys’ beseeching faces, my watch……and head out to the store. Priorities, people, it’s all about priorities.

9:15AM

Whew, made it home in time. I wonder if she’ll show up exactly on time? Damn, I should have made a bundt cake.

9:30AM

Doorbell rings – the boys start going crazy, and I go open the door. To find…..two people? WTF? Aren’t there rules against this?

Me: Wait, there are two of you?

Yvette, aka Original Mean IRS Lady: Yes, is that okay?

Me: Well, I was expecting just you so I’m not prepared for two, but sure.

Addendum Mean IRS Lady: Wait, dogs, you have dogs? I don’t like dogs.

Me: Yes, I have two dogs, but they’re friendly.

AMIL: Can you put them away in a room?

Me: A room? No. No I can’t. They will not be denied.

OMIL: You can’t separate them? She really is scared of dogs.

Me: They’re friendly, and they will NOT take well to being pushed aside.

AMIL: We have rules about dogs.

Me, getting huffy: Well! I told HER that I had two dogs and she said that was fine!

So we’re not exactly off to a great start here. Mind you, they haven’t even seen the boys yet. Oy….

(to be continued....)

Bat Girl redux

Oh, where to begin? So much to catch up on – the YSC conference and the awesome pink ribbon balloon I “borrowed” from the Komen people – the impending IRS audit and the potential for an Ativan Bundt Cake – the job tips that include an elevator speech based entirely on statements by Charlie “I’m a rock$tar from Mars!” Sheen. But first, we must go back to a dark day in my past, one that brought me to tears, to laughter, to tears again….okay, but without the laughter or tears. I was just plain pissed off.

I know. Me, pissed off? Nay! But yes, it’s true. I won’t rehash the whole Bat Girl saga from last year – because you can read about it here. My original post where I made my Bat Girl plea…..then my outrage at the end upon learning that it was all about how much one sucked up to Komen, to the extent that the winner for the White Sox was a fricking WALKER, i.e. someone who raised a boatload of money for Komen. But who never had cancer. Which, sorry, just doesn’t work for me, m’kay?

Plus originality and composition were supposed to count the most, and her entry was a poorly written piece of garbage, which offends my wordsmith sensibilities to no end.

Which brings us to this year, and the composition of what I refer to as Tasha’s Opus. Below, my entry for this year’s contest, which is sure to bring everyone who knows and loves me to tears…..

Little did I know those many years ago when I first joined the other women on my hockey team in putting together a team for the Komen 3-Day, just how prophetic this would turn out to be. Little did I know….that just a few years later, in 2008, I myself would be diagnosed with aggressive stage II breast cancer…..and would find myself joining Komen in racing for a different goal – a goal of finding a cure that would benefit the amazing women I’ve gotten to know through this horrible disease.

I don’t recall how many thousands of dollars we raised that first year in our 3-Day journey, but those memories came flooding back to me after I was diagnosed, with the irony of having worked so hard for a cause that was now working on my behalf. That summer of 2008, I found comfort in not just going to White Sox games with my beloved brother, a huge fan himself, but also in my amazing friends who rallied around me to form Team in Bacon for the Komen 5K that fall. Not only was I undergoing cancer treatment, but I had continued to train for an Ironman even after my diagnosis, which was foiled when a bad bike crash landed me in the hospital with a broken collarbone and brain injury. Needless to say, the pictures of me from that race wearing a sling and sporting a badly bruised face were a sight to behold – in part because the smiles of everyone on my team that sunny day were transcendent, as we felt part of something bigger than ourselves. Okay, so I was pretty hopped up on drugs too.

In the two years since then, I have spent countless hours doing what I can to help other young women stricken with breast cancer – from spreading the word about Komen and what it stands for, to volunteering with Imerman Angels, to being part of the local leadership team for YSC, the Young Survival Coalition. And while I am not a mother – yet – I celebrate Mother’s Day in my heart not just with the White Sox, but with all the other young women touched by breast cancer, and I have hope that we will all be given the opportunity to realize our dreams. And in the meantime, I go to bat against breast cancer every day through volunteering and raising money for the Cure, knowing that it would be an honor and privilege to come full circle as an Honorary Bat Girl, going from that traumatic day two years ago when I went to a White Sox game with my brother the day I was diagnosed – to a day this year, returning as a survivor with a message of hope for those just beginning this journey.

….of laughter, yes, because that’s the biggest load of horseshit I’ve ever written. Really. Oh, the whole thing is FACTUALLY correct, but it’s also total horseshit.

It could be my finest work ever.

Now, the super-sad part is that they seriously constrained how much one can write this year, so I had to keep chopping and hacking away at the above, until I had a mere shell of my masterpiece, at 900 characters WITH spaces. Bastards. It doesn’t have nearly the same pathos as the other one, sigh. And they’ve changed the way one can vote, so it’s not even clear where you’re ranked in the voting process – which is fine, because I had my poor friends voting ad nauseum for me last year, and I still lost to a Komen suckup. Who, by the way, entered the contest again this year – apparently LAST year her aunt or someone tripped at the game so they had to leave and take her to the doctor, though she turned out to be fine. And Walker thinks she should get another shot. Which she’ll probably get, considering ALL THAT MONEY she raised for Komen.

So I’ve learned my lesson. The page to vote is here (for Miss Tasha) – if you want to vote for me, please do. But I’m letting the chips fall where they may – and hoping the picture puts me over the top. Who says I don’t love Komen with all my heart??