Jihad Tasha?

In spite of assurances by the people at the Daley Center, I did NOT get my driver’s license back 2-3 weeks after the supposed court date that I never knew about. This means that when I went to the airport yesterday to escort my enfeebled but insanely stubborn 92-year-old grandmother back to California, I knew I could look forward to whatever tomfoolery the TSA people would pull out of their collective hats this time. And certainly, they did not disappoint.

But first, I’m happy to report that this time at least I wasn’t subjected to the whims of the folks at Crazy Bitch Air, aka AirTran. Nope, this was JetBlue, aka Airline to the Stars. Because the rock$tar treatment began as soon as we pulled up to the curb: the baggage check guy eagerly offers to carry our bags in – and he didn’t even work for JetBlue, but rather neighboring ATA. No line at the counter – I didn’t even have to use the electronic check-in, as the JetBlue guy did it for me, with a smile. A pleasant girl with a wheelchair for my grandmother suddenly appeared. And the best part – there was a super-long line stretching down the length of the terminal to get through security, and I was ready to trudge to the end of it……when Wheelchair Girl just took us right to the front. Sweet!

Then it got fun. Or, “fun.”

Because TSA guy looks at my passport, keeps looking, looks at me, turns the passport upside down (seriously), shakes it, fans the pages, looks at the back of it, rotates it, keeps peering at it…..then makes his proclamation.

TSA guy: This is expired.

Me: I know.

TSAG: I can’t let you through without a valid picture ID.

Me: The passport is good for a year after the expiration date.

TSAG: No, let me repeat - I won’t let you through without a valid picture ID.

Me, gritting my teeth: I don’t have any other form of picture ID…….no, wait, I’ve got it – my Costco card!! (I pull it out triumphantly.)

Okay, so I’m not quite sure why he didn’t think that was a grand idea – after all, if Costco isn’t basically the infidel class’s homage to capitalism, i.e. a place a terrorist would NEVER belong to, then what is?? At least that’s how I look at it.

“I’m calling my Kommandant!” barks the TSA guy, though he might have said “supervisor,” even though it came out sounding like Kommandant.

O-kay then. One of the other TSA guys off to the side gives me helpful advice while we’re waiting.

Nice TSA guy: Do you have anything else that you could use as ID? With your name on it?

Me: Sure, tons of stuff! Look, credit cards that speak to my embracing of capitalism! Yet there’s also my car insurance card, which shows that I’m a responsible American consumer. Ooh, and here we go – health insurance card! If my giving money to the asshats at BCBS every month doesn’t say “I’m not a terrorist because terrorists would blow those infidels up” then, well, I’m at a loss.

He’s looking at me a bit strangely, but luckily just then the Kommandant/Supervisor shows up. And looks at my passport. And the first words out of his mouth?

KS: This passport is still valid – it’s good for a year after the expiration date.

Me: Ha, I knew it! And see, I have all these other forms of ID! Take your pick! Crumpled Piece of Paper! Credit cards! Insurance cards! Costco card!

I have since learned it’s probably not a good idea to gloat thusly in front of the TSA guy who originally thought he was saving the world from terrorism by trying to prevent you from flying to California. Because he seems a little peeved.

TSAG, glaring: Fine. But you’re getting special handling. Your bags, hand them over.

Uh oh. I hand over my purse and watch as it’s carted off to places unknown. My grandmother breezes through security, but me? I’m escorted into a glass booth, and a female TSA agent is called over for the big pat down. As she’s feeling up the Boobages, I can’t help it, the absurdity of this all leads me to start snickering, and I’m thisclose to a) telling her that I’m packing titanium in my shoulder, and b) asking her helpfully if she’s looking for the Exploding Boobages of Death…….but some small semblance of a self-preservation instinct kicks in, and I keep my mouth shut.

In the meantime, my shoes have been inspected to within an inch of their lives, and when I see my purse again, it looks completely discombobulated. My grandmother’s big metal walker? Yeah, that’s walked around the security gate that people walk through. What, like grandma can’t be a terrorist? Sheesh.

We finally make it through and head off for our gate. And I leave the powers that be with this final thought:

CAN I JUST HAVE MY FUCKING DRIVER’S LICENSE BACK?? GIVE IT TO ME! GIVE IT TO ME NOW!!!

Thank you.

I have the best friends...

Okay, so now that the Bat Girl contest is over, all except the announcement of who won, I have to say that even though I really want to fucking win…….there’s a lot to be said for all the warm fuzzies I’ve gotten out of the process itself. And while I’ll write more about this later, I have to highlight here a sweet post by a Wharton classmate and former hockey teammate on the Wharton Wildmen, who wrote the following for our LinkedIn Wharton Wildmen Group. Thanks Craig H., love you!! Now I just need to dig up some of those Mardi Gras pictures to post here……

Wildmen - It's time to help one our own, Tasha Huebner, achieve a sporting honor she well deserves. For anyone who went to Wharton back in 96-98, you could not forget Tasha for her flagrant disregard for her own (or others) safety on the ice, her snarky write-ups in the Wharton Journal, or for a lucky few of us, her *ahem* presence at Mardi Gras. Well Tasha, or as she made some of us call her - "Mistress" - was diagnosed with pretty serious breast cancer a few years ago and got a very bad diagnosis right after leaving a White Sox game....and she hasn't been able to handle going back to one since. The good news is she's recovering well - has new boobs (if you know Tasha, you know how imp. they are) - and actually training for the IronMan in Kona, HI - but before she does that, she needs a fresh start with the White Sox, and one of the finalists to be an honorary Bat Girl on Going to Bat for Breast Cancer day with the White Sox. For some silly reason, they've made voting open on the internet here: http://tinyurl.com/Tasha-H . Voting closes April 13th - this Tuesday -- So please, go to http://tinyurl.com/Tasha-H , and vote for Tasha (often) and let's show Tasha that Wildmen don't just care about Hockey....we also care about boobs :-). To find out more about how Tasha's doing, and her quest to compete in Kona, read her blog at: http://thethighmasterroutetokona.blogspot.com/
---

Next up: traveling with the Boobages of Death.....

Speaking of Starbucks....

So I walk into my usual SB the other day, and as soon as I do so, it starts:

Jesse: Tasha, how are you? I’ll have your scone in a jif!

Wayne: Tasha, lookin’ good today as always!

Diane: Tasha! How’s our favorite triathlon goddess rock$tar?

Holly: Hey, girlfriend! You know, Brent Seabrook was in here the other day RIGHT after you left…..

In other words, the usual. All with the joviality and smiling faces I’m used to. But then Diane continues:

Diane: And hey, thanks for the write-up! That was great!

Hmm. I think back to what I’ve written about recently in the blog. Starbucks, Starbucks….oh, I know, the survey!!

Me: Oh, you mean the survey!

Diane: Yeah, that was awesome! We printed it out and hung it up in back – thanks for saying such nice things!

Me: I just told them the truth. You know, things as they are here, every day. The adoration I’m subjected to, and so on.

Diane: But still!

You see, once in a while when you’re at SB, your receipt spits out special instructions on how to go online to fill out a survey. I’ve gotten a few, and of course every time I wax eloquent in my usual pithy (ahem) manner about how great this particular SB is, how wonderful the people who work there are, how this is the only one I go to unless I’m out of town, etc. And for the last one, I even got to include a passage about how they have actually saved Kone scones for me if it looks like they’re going to run out of them before I get there. Thus saving Kona from the extreme deprivation that might ensue – especially since I once tried to give him a piece of a sparkly donut as a substitute, and he spit it out. So you can see how dire this situation can potentially be.

For some reason, my tendency to write these novelettes about the perfection of my local SB has endeared me to the crew that works there. Which is good, because it balances out the fact that not only does my Wharton LinkedIn group think of me as “that crazy girl who goes on and on about the need for health care reform, being a really really bad capitalist”, but also that Starbucks Corporate now knows me as “that crazy girl who goes on and on about how much her Doberman loves our petite scones.” Hmm…..I’m sensing a pattern here….

Today's PSA

So this morning I'm toodling along with Kona in the car, as we go from dog park to Starbucks, as per our usual routine. Kona, being the perfect gentleman that he is, is sitting in the passenger seat calmly, looking regal and dignified as usual. Okay, okay, as he usually looks when we're on our way for his petite scone. On the way to the dog park, he's always a bit of a maniac.

I'm waiting to make a left hand turn onto Roscoe, and an SUV pulls up to the right, with the woman rolling down her window to ask or tell me something. Naturally, as any proud mom would, I assume she feels compelled to tell me how beautiful and well-behaved Kona is, thus giving me the chance to beam with false modesty while expounding on the strict training regimen I hew to with him at all times. Yes, if nothing else, I'm known for running a tight ship!

(We pause here so my faithful readers can clean up the coffee off their computer screens.)

But no, her question is something else entirely:

Lady in car: I love your bumper sticker! Where'd you get it?
Me: The Fuck Awareness one? Look on Cafepress!
Lady: Cafeshop?
Me: Cafepress! Then just look up the phrase!

At that point some impatient asshat behind her honks, so she has to drive off, before she could launch into her next point about how perfect and wonderful Kona is. Alas.

But just so that people who google the phrase "Fuck Awareness, Find a Cure" stand a good chance of finding Janet's Cafepress shop, here's the direct link: Jellykins' shop

I'm sad to say that the woman who coined that phrase, Janet Yanosko Elkins, has since passed away from her "cureable" breast cancer. At the age of 36. But clearly her legacy lives on, as you can still buy her things and wear them or use them proudly. And you know, being remembered for a great phrase that sums things up so well and prompts nothing but rabid agreement from people......that's a pretty cool thing.

Rest in peace, Janet. Love you, and all my sisters.....

In the homestretch....

Update on the Bat Girl contest: So I wasn’t going to even mention this whole thing to my brother Andrew – I mean, why get the kid’s hopes up when I’d have about a snowball’s chance in hell of actually winning? My twelves of fans notwithstanding, that is. I’m just going by my usual luck, or “luck,” as the case may be.

Then I’m talking to my mom about the contest, as I’m still trying to harness the power of the retirement community contingent, and she mentions something about Andrew going to Korea for work in May, since he works for Nickelodeon. Shit! I had forgotten about that! Hmm, I figure I’ll think of some subtle way of finding out when he’s going, so as to not spill the beans.

Me: Hey, how’s it going? What’s new?
Andrew: Oh, not much, the usual gorgeous California weather here. Same old, same old. Hey, I’ve been voting for you!
Me: Shit! I mean, thanks! How’d you find out about the contest? I thought you rarely read my blog?
Andrew: I think I was really bored one day, and there it was. Me. I mean you, and me, at that game.
Me: Well, damn, I wasn’t even going to mention the whole thing to you, since I probably won’t win. You know how my life is.
Andrew: Oh, I know.
Me: But just in case – when are you going to Korea? The game is May 9th.
Andrew: We’re going.....towards the beginning of May. I think leaving the 8th.

We discuss the vague and distant prospect of my winning, and it looks like even if I did, he wouldn’t be able to come out here. I hang up the phone totally deflated. I mean, if I can’t have my perfect game with my big brother, then what’s the point? Sure, it would be cool, but definitely not the same. Not even close. Damn those Koreans and their Ni Hao Kai-Lan!

As I’m calling Laura to tell her she can hold off on rounding up all her kids’ friends to press them into button-clicking computer service, my phone rings.

Me: Hello?
Andrew: Okay, so I figured out, if you do win, I can head out to Korea that Sunday night, other people are doing that too.
Me: Seriously?
Andrew: Yeah – I mean, this would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, plus I am kind of the focus of your story and...
Me: I know! That’s my point!
Andrew: So just keep me posted.
Me: I will – and tell everyone to vote for me then! Ni Hao and all that! That means “win one for the Gipper” in Korean, right?
Andrew: Well actually, it just mea....

I hang up. Who has time for this idle chit-chat when there’s voting to be done??

So that was all about two weeks ago. Since then, I’ve jockeyed my bodacious little self into first second place (eek!) in the vote count, by shilling for votes pretty much everywhere, hitting up my tri friends (thanks Natalie et al!), FB friends, everyone at Slowtwitch, gardening friends, my fellow cancerchick girls, friends at the dog park (hi Ron and Shirley!), Dobie rescue folks, my mom’s retired friends with lots of time on their hands when they’re not playing Bunco or dominos, my hockey team, my twelves of blog readers, and anyone else I can think of. I’ve been passing out promises like cheap party favors - brownies here, cleavage-enhancing pictures there.

And while last year’s winners apparently had people write up some kind of .exe script for them to run so they could rack up the votes (ha, no pun intended!), I of course didn’t even consider that, no sirree.

That’s because I don’t have those kind of mad computer skilz myself, and when Brian mentioned the idea to his Romanian developers, they mumbled something about needing 3 weeks, 2 cases of cigarettes, and a flock of baby goats. That means we’ve been doing this old-school Chicago style: voting early, voting often.

The point of all this is to note that this is coming to a close soon – April 13th at 12:01 PM eastern time, the madness ends, thank god. Until then, I need YOU, pretty please, to keep up the voting. Because as we say around these parts – shoot the puck! Umm, I mean.....play ball!

*Yawn* - more fame, more fortune....

.....well, at least the fame part. Infamy? Okay, so I got my name in the paper again, how's that? AND (drum roll please), my first by-line in a major newspaper, the Chicago Sun-Times!

------

Traffic victim perseveres and sees justice

March 22, 2010

BY TASHA HUEBNER

Last week's column was about accident victims not showing up in Traffic Court. If victims don't show up, the tickets against the person who caused the accident get dismissed, leaving bad drivers with clean records.

The column prompted several letters from people who said they went to court multiple times to make sure charges stuck against drivers who caused accidents. Here's one:

"I was in an 'accident' a couple of summers ago, when I was driving on I-55 when traffic slowed down, and an a--clown (sorry, but that's his official name as far as I'm concerned) behind me was obviously not looking at the road, so he slammed into me, spun my car around, I was then hit by another car, THAT car flipped over and landed on the far side of the highway upside down, my car slammed into the concrete barricade. ... It looked like Armageddon on the highway. ...

"And it turned out this guy had no license, no insurance, and was a convicted felon..... who went to court and pled not guilty. And even though my insurance company paid for my car, I and the three Hispanic men from the overturned car kept going to court. Continuance after continuance -- he didn't have a lawyer, this wasn't ready, etc. I think we showed up 4 or 5 times -- it was the principle of the thing. I think all he got for all that destruction was a $500 fine, and maybe probation. But it was interesting that he eventually decided to plead guilty -- I guess because he saw that we would keep going to court so he couldn't get out of it that way!

"There are some of us stubborn people out here who believe in helping justice along! I'd do the exact same thing again, even though he got a slap on the wrist."

---------

Okay, so I guess I should set the record straight - I didn't actually write the article, though that is exactly how it came across, as noted above. I just wrote to the woman who writes this weekly column, and she used my story about the assclown formerly known as "Eric Strickland" who demolished my car and several others, because he couldn't bother to keep his damn eyes on the road.

I'm not sure what impressed my friends more though - the fake by-line, or the fact that yet again I managed to get some "salty language" in the newspaper. First going on record as saying "screw you" to Mayor Daley, and now referring to someone as the proverbial assclown? Hmm, it almost makes me wonder who or what I should tackle next.....

Our inefficient government bureaucrats, cont.

When we last left our plucky heroine – aka me – I was trudging along to the County Building to meet my fate, or the Board of Appeals as it’s commonly known. Knowing that it would be a long wait, I came prepared, but damn it all if my wheelie bag didn’t keep tipping over. Sigh. I should have known how the day would go when I went up to the 6th floor of what I thought was the County Building, yet found no Room 613. What the hell, our government bureaucracy is so inefficient they can’t even be bothered to put numbers on the doors? Puzzled, I ask a woman in the elevator what’s going on.

Me: Excuse me, do you know where room 613 is?
Woman: Oh, that’s in the County half of the building – you’re in the City half.
Me: You mean this building - that’s all one building - has a magical invisible dividing line down the middle?
Woman: Exactly.

Good thing I remember reading about this odd phenomenon, whereby this one building that takes up a whole block is half county, half city. And by going in the wrong door, I had unwittingly entered the city part. Silly me!

Now that I’m in the right half of the building, I find my room on the 6th floor, and follow the signage to the Board of Appeals room. Finally, let the madness begin.

Me: Hi, I’m early but I have an appointment to....
Woman behind counter, cheerfully yet efficiently: Appear before the Board, right? Not a problem, just hold on a quick second and I’ll be right with you. Sorry for the wait!
Me: Excuse me a minute.

I go back out and look at the door – yep, Cook County Board of Appeals. What’s going on here??

WBC: Okay, let’s see your paperwork....great, just grab a seat and someone will call your name shortly!

Here it is then, the government process we’ve all come to hate and dread: the interminable wait, hours long, as we look at our watches and wonder how much in parking fees this will cost - somewhat akin to watching paint dry on grass as it grows. I slump over to a chair with my wheelie, and start tugging out my copy of War and Peace – in the original Russian, of course. I’m sure I’ll have time to plow through at least several hundred pages of it, which would mean I’d be about 5% done with it, and the.......

Guy: Tasha Huebner?

Me, startled: What? Who, me? You must mean a different Tasha, don't you?
The guy looks at me like I’m slightly unstable, but still responds chipperly and efficiently: Nope, there’s only one of you! (thought bubble over his head: thank god...) Come this way! You’re meeting with that guy sitting right over there.

Aha! Here’s where the bureaucratic part begins. I lived in the former Soviet Union for a few years, I know how these things work. Damn, why didn’t I bring a bottle of vodka as a bribe? I could be here for days, as he "pretends" to work!



Desk guy: Hi, how are you! So glad you came in, have a seat.
Me, resigned: So I have this paperwork but it’s probably not what you need and...
DG: Great! Let’s take a look here. Comps, perfect. All these listings, great. And pictures! Terrific! Though I’ll let you in on a little secret – nowadays you don’t even have to take pictures – you can just use the ones we have on our website.
Me: But that’s just the front of the house. You don’t need pictures of my crappy garage compared to this beautiful double-decker one with roof deck? See, look how my garage is falling apart, made in the Polish style by having pieces of plywood tacked on willy-nilly.
DG, cheerfully: Nope, not necessary! So you can save money by not taking pictures and use it on a bottle of wine!
Me: O.....kay then, but...
DG: And I’ll tell you something else, that’ll save you time next time. See, you can check this little box on the form and then you don’t even have to come down here – we’ll file the appeal for you!
Me: Seriously? So I could avoid all this and save money on parking?
DG: Exactly! We do that also so that folks don’t have to come down here in the winter, especially the older people, and deal with the snow and ice and everything that can be dangerous. Plus how expensive it is to come down here these days.
Me: O....kay then....
DG: But make sure you keep filing these appeals – you want to get whatever savings you can! Okay, we’re all set, now just wait over there and then you’ll speak to the Appeals person. Good luck!

I feel like I’ve just entered some form of BizarroWorld, or maybe Oz. Yeah, that’s it, the Land of Oz. When do the flying monkeys attack?

As I’m walking the less than 10 feet over to the chairs by the side of the room, no fewer than 2 people look at me, smile, and also wish me luck. This is really bizarre. I’m starting to think that because this is more or less the last step in the appeals process, they must figure that the folks who pursue it to this degree are batshit crazy or poor or both, and need to be handled vewwy vewwy carefully. Either that or, like a restaurant critic, my fame precedes me. Yeah, maybe that's it.

I wait for a minute or two, during which time DG has come over to chat with me some more and wish me luck, again, and then someone grabs my file and sends me over to the Appeals person. I am positive that now is when the bureaucratic process will kick me in the teeth. Positive. She’s a stern-looking black woman, and aren’t all stern black women angry yet inefficient? Isn’t that the government way?

SBW: Hello, and how are you doing today?
Me, suspiciously: Fiiii...ne, and how are you?
SBW: Just great, thanks! Okay, let’s take a look at what you have here. Comps, pictures, great, looks like everything is in order.
Me: Do you want more pictures, of, say, my crappy falling-apart garage?
SBW: Let’s see – no, these are fine.
Me: Oh, and here are pictures of my yuppie neighbors’ house that I threw in there – the house is a different style, but it’s a gut-rehabbed place that they have on the market for $1.3M, and mine is a dilapidated 2-flat.
SBW: Oh, that’s just not right. Okay, we’ll include that. Now, what I’ll do is go to my computer later and look up more comps so that you have more data in your file. We want to get your assessment back down to where you should be!
Me: Bu...bu.......
SBW: And you should hear back from us within 4-6 weeks, and if you don’t, or if you have any questions, just call us any time at the number that’s on your assessment form. Or here, take my card, you can also call me directly.
Me: Bu....bu......you.....I.......can I just tell you how great you all are? Seriously! You know, with this health care reform, people keep talking about how inefficient and horrible government is, but you’re all wonderful, and then compare that to the idiots I talk to at BCBS about the bills for The Cancer!
SBW, whispering: It’s true, people don’t understand shit about those kinds of things until they have to deal with insurance. Oops, I shouldn’t say things like that.
Me: But it’s true!
SBW: You have cancer? I hope you’re in remission – that’s tough, my grandmother dealt with cancer, but she’s doing well now.
Me: Oh, I’m glad to hear that.....

At this point, I’m ready to invite my new BFF Shani over for some bundt cake and tea as well – hell, at this rate, I should buy stock in a Bundt Cake Emporium or something. We finish chatting and I walk out of there grinning, just because everyone’s been so damn nice, then I thank the nice people at the front counter, make my way out of the building, and see that it’s.......2:50? That took half an hour total? I decide to get a celebratory bagel from Dunkin Donuts, but the one I pass on the way to my car is inexplicably closed. So I just get my car from the garage - $10 – and am on my way. No flying monkeys......yet. I remain alert.

Six months and counting

Before I finish my saga about dealing with a maddening government agency replete with bureaucrats, the delivery of today’s mail inspired the following, a haiku, in honor and memory of my fondly remembered driver’s license, not seen for half a year now:

Driver’s license oh,
How I took you for granted
Were you ever real?

Let this be a lesson to all of you, my twelves of readers. If you ever get a ticket and they ask for your license – LIE. Lie, dammit! Say you don’t have it, the dog ate it, anything, but do NOT hand it over, please!!

That might be the most useful piece of advice you’ll ever read on this blog, my dear friends.

More sullen, bloated government inefficiency – the background

We all know that I can be, well, a wee bit stubborn. Wee. And that I have a long history of doing things for the principle of the thing, no matter what a time/money/energy suck it turns out to be.

So given that, it should be no surprise that I’ve been contesting rather vigorously the increased assessment of my dumpy humble abode – you know, where the grand poobahs of Chicago decided that, all evidence to the contrary, we here in Chicago live in a microcosm of prosperity, where property values have gone up significantly from 2008-2009. By 74% in my case. Seriously. Even I can’t make this shit up.

To improve my mood even MORE, because you can look up everyone’s assessments online, I can see that my yuppie neighbors with their gut rehabbed single family home that they have on the market for $1.3M – yeah, they got a huge decrease and are now assessed lower than me. Again, with my place worth less than half that. This is just not right on so many levels that I refuse to let it go.

Therefore, I file my appeals. Simple enough process, whereby you look up houses comparable to yours (“comps”, they call them) that are assessed lower, take pictures if need be, send it all in and wait. These were the results:

First appeal – nada. “Our analysis indicates the assessed valuation should remain as originally proposed.”
Second appeal – same.
Third appeal – they throw me a bone in the form of a slight reduction, though I’m still higher than yuppie neighbors. “Geez, this one’s persistent. Give her some miniscule reduction, maybe she’ll go away.”
Fourth appeal – this one is to the Board of Appeals, whereby I take some forms to one of the County Buildings and they get back to me with a court date.

Friday was that court date. Thursday I wander around in the blustery cold to take pics of the comps I’m offering up, and throw in a few of Yuppie House for good measure. According to their instructions, you should take pics of the front, back, garage, etc., so I do, and seethe even more when I see that one of the comps is also a beautifully rehabbed house, with a spankin’ new 3-car 2-story brick garage with a roof deck. WTH? Do they have monkeys doing assessments with a dartboard or something?

So for Friday, I plan ahead. The appointment is at 2:45, so I assume that I’ll get called up probably around 4PM or so. And that we’ll be herded up all at the same time, so I won’t get my say until maybe 5, given how I’m usually last in the queue with these things. This means I need to park in a parking garage, since you get towed if you’re on certain streets between 4 and 6, and there’s NO way I’ll be done before 4. Ha, as if! Let’s recall my numerous trips downtown to Small Claims Court and dealing with Dwight (“ID, yes or no!”) and getting into a tug-of-war with the security guard who thought my keychain was a lethal weapon and wanted to confiscate it (Me: “I don’t have time for this shit!”). Ah, the memories.

I park, leave the Keychain of Doom in the car, grab my dog-eared copy of War and Peace, the XL thermos of coffee, the huge bag of trail mix, and of course my huge file of documents, pictures, and spreadsheets - and set off. As ready as I'll ever be.....

Ask and ye shall receive

Now that the H2H Posse is growing by leaps and bounds (welcome Laura!), of course we’re already thinking about how we can show off the girls to their best advantage, even as we’ll be kicking ass in the race part of the whole thing itself, this 10K. Or marathon. Or half. Or whatever it is. Clearly, we’re very serious about the running part.

So JoJo posits this most important question: “I wonder if they sell push-up sports bras?”

Something that could have kept us busy for months, but then, as if fate willed it this way, just this morning Alert Reader Molly sent me a link to the following product:
No, it’s not someone with the drains and tubes following surgery, which was what I initially thought. It’s the “Wine Rack”! But wait, they can explain it better than I ever could, in spite of their apparently pidgin English:

“The Winerack every girls best friend. Turn an A cup in to double Ds and sport your favorite beverage for yourself and your friends. Better than a Boob Job and Cheaper Too. Not to mention the savings on over priced drinks. We developed The Winerack to Fill Out our product line if you will. The picture shown here is of our good friend Drea, who is not, no offense Drea, Well Endowed. Sporting the Winerack and Voila’ Drea’s giving Pamela Anderson a run for the money. Take a bottle of wine, a mixed drink or even a fifth of your favorite hard stuff to the movies, concerts, ball games, even PTA meetings. Sporting a rack that will turn heads and serving a beverage that will have guys standing in line for a sip of your secret stash. With simple blow into the tube it's easy to keep that full look even as you drink from your secret stash.”


So not only can you stash a fifth of whiskey in your bra and be slurping away while showing off the new cleavage to your fellow drunkards – but then you can help yourself pass out by continually blowing into the tube to keep yourself busty! Nothing like a little hyperventilation to go with that raging drunk you’ve got going on.

Of course, I won’t need such a thing since I’ll be sporting the new Boobages in all their glory – though Alert Reader Mark did mention that this could be a good substitute for a Camelbak. Wait, which begs the question, why did I get The Rack via surgery, if I could have just gone with the WineRack?? Hmm.

Is it too late for a refund?

The exploding breast implants of death!

So to recap: these days, when I fly through an airport, I’m still being forced to pull out my CPP (Crumpled Piece of Paper) in lieu of my driver’s license for a ticket I received SIX MONTHS AGO. Not that I’m upset about this or anything, oh no. Because I always have that expired passport I can whip out as my identification – since I can’t get THAT renewed until I get my damn license back so that I have some form of picture ID. I also have a titanium collarbone, which so far the metal detectors haven’t picked up (hello! Bomb made of titanium maybe?), and of course, the Fuck Cancer hat paints me as a troublemaker right from the start. Not to mention the fact that I’m often traveling with the dreaded and sinister GU or (gasp!) chamois cream, all waiting to be confiscated. And has been. Because god forbid they should stop the guy with no luggage who bought his one-way ticket with cash and is sporting an “I Luv Terrorists!” t-shirt, when they could protect a planeload of people from me and my GU. Okay, so if it’s a ClifShot gel then maybe I could see that, heinous as they are, but GU? No.

So what with all this as well as my typical surly mien when traveling, it’s hard enough to get anywhere. And then, I read this article , an excerpt of which is below:

“Breast-implants packed with explosives could be used by terrorists to blow up an airliner, experts have reportedly warned. Radical Islamist plastic surgeons could be carrying out the implant operations in lawless areas of Pakistan....explosives experts have reportedly said just five ounces of Pentaerythritol Tetrabitrate packed into a breast implant would be enough to blow a “considerable” hole in the side of a jumbo jet. It would be virtually impossible for airport security scanners to detect the explosive if hidden inside a breast, medics have said. Joseph Farah, a terrorism expert, told The Sun: "Women suicide bombers recruited by al-Qaeda are known to have had the explosives inserted in their breasts under techniques similar to breast enhancing surgery."

Great. Just great. Now, when someone posted this on YSC and a woman asked how this would actually work, i.e. how the would-be terrorists would access the implants in order to add the necessary liquid or whatever to get them to explode, I of course had to pipe up and mention my adjustable boobages – you know, with the port, where it’s easy enough to use a needle to access the port and add saline. Or, umm, the appropriate explosion-inducing material.

Yeah. So. I’m looking at my probable impending trip to Guantanamo as a good thing, as long as they let me take my laptop and I get some internet connectivity. Because really, what better way to win the Bat Girl contest than to have an entire prison full of men voting incessantly for me all day long? Okay sure, so they’re all Muslim, but maybe I can tell them it’s a “Vote for the worst infidel!” contest? Hmm, maybe I need to rethink this.....

Happy time with.....the IRS??

We all know that I pretty much make my living – such as it is – railing against the injustices foisted onto the little people by various corporate and government monoliths. Primarily BCBS and the IRS, in that order. Dealing with them, or the thought of having to deal with them, keeps me up at night. Because we all know how those calls to BCBS generally go:

Me: So I received this bill for $8K for my surgery and I don’t understand what it’s for?
BCBS lackey: Let’s see.....oh, that’s because there was a doctor in the room.
Me: A doc....what?
BCBS lackey: Yes, we decided that the doctor was unnecessary, so we can’t cover that.
Me: The doctor wasn’t necessary for surgery?
BCBS lackey: Yes. Oh, excuse me, my special “Congratulations, you’re a Rockstar” iPod just got here, as a reward for my skill in denying claims for stupid asshat reasons. Gotta go – have a great day!

So you see why I’d be equally perturbed about talking to the dreaded government. The bloated, inefficient government, so unlike the stellar service that we’re used to from the giants of private industry. You know, like the cable company, AT&T, any bank, etc. Wow, the service they offer – truly amazing.

Anyway – as we know, I had spoken to the IRS about a week and a half ago, whereupon the guy I talked to told me it was clear that no one had done jack shit about my situation (paraphrasing here), and that he’d assign it to an IRS Taxpayer Advocate, who’d call me within the next 7-10 days. And I relay what happened here simply out of a sense of fairness, i.e. if I'm going to gnash my teeth over these people when they act like total fucktards, then I should also....well, you'll see what I mean.

Yesterday

I’m talking on the work phone to David from Mintel, discussing a report, and my cell phone keeps ringing, but I ignore it because I’m on a work-related call, and I’d never be so rude as to dump one call for another.

Me: So we’re not trying to boil the ocean here, or throw a pie in the dark, as it were.....(phone is now ringing for the 3rd time)
David: Do you need to get that?
Me: Let me just see who it is, I’ll be right back....hello?
Pleasant lady: Hi, my name is Michelle, and I’m the Taxpayer Advocate from the IRS...
Me: Oh HI, thanks so much for calling! (Hang up the work phone.) It’s great to hear from you!
PL: Well, I’m just calling to try and help straighten things out for you, so hopefully we can do that...

What follows is a Stepford-like conversation with an uber-nice woman who’s looked at all my records, agrees that nothing has been done so far and it’s not clear as to why (there seems to be some kind of notation somewhere that I filed for bankruptcy at some point, which I didn’t), but she’s going to get it figured out, by golly. The fact that for some unknown reason other than my astonishing bad luck the IRS also doesn’t have a record of my 2004 returns, which I certainly DID fill out and send in on time? No problem, she’s giving me extra time to find a copy of that return. And she’s so nice and chatty in the process that I just want to invite her over for some bundt cake and tea. And I practically do, as we’re wrapping up our conversation.

Me: Thank you SO much, you’ve been so helpful, you have no idea how much I appreciate this, it’s all been keeping me up at night from stress.
PL: I’m happy to help – we’ll get all this figured out!
Me: And if you’re ever in the neighborhood, stop by for some cake! And tea!
PL: I’d love to!

Okay, so that’s not exactly how it went, but almost. And the year is still young, so the big Cake and Tea Par-tay with the IRS could still become a reality. Now, could someone explain to me again how much worse it is dealing with these inefficient government bureaucrats? Anyone?

Miss Tasha needs a favor

I think of us as having a contract of sorts, you and I. I eke out my little hardscrabble existence here in BlogLand, baring my soul and mining my life for interesting tidbits to share, trying to keep the ranting to a minimum unless it’s funny ranting – and luckily (?), fate seems fit to always supply me with plenty of stuff to write about. Plenty. Of. Stuff.

And you guys, well, I don’t ask much in return. Just readership. That makes me happy, when people read what I write. I’m easy that way. Other than that, just the usual: accolades, praise, comments, awe, admiration, Pulitzer nominations, more praise, and the occasional bonbons. So you see, not really much at all. Until now. When I’m asking you all, my faithful twelves of readers, to do a favor for me. You see...

I want to be a Bat Girl.

Yes yes, it’s one of those Pinkishness events, but we all know that I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’ll glom onto anything I can get out of The Cancer, any kind of schwag, pink or not. For this, I’m not sure exactly what’s involved, but I think you get to meet some of the players, take pictures on the field, and get an awesome pink bat. Now, how much use would I get out of a pink bat?? I’m just sayin.’

Schwag aside, there’s another reason I want to do this. Now, I know that as far as the Blackhawks go and their Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness Month, I’m not ever getting a damn thing out of them. Hell, last year they didn’t even bother responding to my emails. And I’m pretty sure – new boobages aside – that I’ll never be picked as the Bimbo for the Kid, the Geek, and the Bimbo contest during Hawks intermission. But this, this White Sox thing is possible. And it’s important to me because the last time I went to a White Sox game turned out to be the Day From Hell. Worse than the day I was diagnosed, just a few weeks before that. Because on this day I had such high hopes – I’d see this new doctor, get my medical team together, we’d decide on a treatment plan and be off and running. And in the meantime, my brother was in town from CA and I had gotten tickets to a White Sox game – which I had to leave after only a few innings, as unfortunately that was the only day this doctor had available. And it was a beautiful, perfect summer day to boot.

Several hours later I was careening home on the streets of Chicago, in a raging fury, yelling at the world, at God, at my stupid fucking life for being so fucked up in every single thing, at the unfairness of the world and everything in it. This, after being told that my only option was a mastectomy, that chemo didn’t work on my kind of tumors, that it was such a big tumor that I almost certainly had lymph node involvement, and oh yeah, that even with reconstruction, my breast would “never look anything like a normal breast.” So I’ll die at an early age AND be disfigured. Sweet! Talk about being handed a hopeless pile of shit to deal with.

I still get teary when I think about that day.

Unfortunately, my brother bore the brunt of my rage when he got home from the Sox game that day, as I told him the news and he uttered the unfortunate words “it could be worse”. My response to him was couched in my usual subtlety, something along the lines of “SURE, it could be worse, if you’re a starving Biafran refugee with AIDS, but I guess that means if you’re not then no one has any right to complain or be unhappy or pissed off about ANYTHING because it could ALWAYS be fucking WORSE, and furthermore you people with perfect happy lives do NOT get to tell ME that it COULD BE WORSE!!”

Yeah, so that didn't work out so well. And since then, I haven’t been back to a White Sox game. I want to, but I haven’t gotten past how upset I am when I remember the horribleness of that day, a day that should have been the happiest of memories, hanging out with my bro at a ball game, having a great time.

I want that day back.

Or at least, I want a day that’ll erase the memory of the shitty day, and replace it with a day so absurdly pink in all its sartorial splendor that it’ll completely crowd out and overshadow every trace of Shitty Day, once and for all. I want my brother to come out for the game, and we’ll eat carcinogenic hot dogs and drink mai tais and have the day we should have had, but better. Because even though I live with the constant worry that the cancer will be back, that it’ll metastasize, that my days are numbered, at least now I know that I have kickass doctors who have my back, always – so at least that’s one less thing to worry about. Plus I’d have that pink bat and all.

So if you’re wondering why you should take 5 minutes out of your day to vote for me, here are my reasons:

1. Because you like me. You really really like me. Maybe?

2. Okay, even if that’s not the case, you get a vicarious thrill out of seeing my life dissolve into chaos on a regular basis, tuning in just to see How Tasha’s Life Gets Fucked Up Today. I know, it’s a never-ending saga. And with this game event, even though I’m sure they have it all choreographed like a well-oiled machine, you can pretty much guarantee that if I’m involved, some part of it will turn into a shambles. I know this to be true, as this is my life.

3. My brother would be in 7th heaven. And he deserves to be a part of something like this – he’s been amazing throughout all of this, a solid rock of support, he and his wife both, and I can never repay them for all their thoughtfulness and kindness. Thanks bro.

4. For a brief shining moment, I would be happy – the kind of happy that you can only get from being at a perfect baseball game with your awesome brother holding your very own pink bat. Yeah, that kind of happy.

And in return, if chosen, I promise you this:

1. You will never hear me talk about how this is my “breast cancer journey,” or a blessing, or anything of that ilk. Yeah, journey my ass – like we’re on a fricking tour of Italy or something. And I will never EVER start a sentence with “I was given this pink gift....” – and I’m not even making that one up. That’s another entry in the Bat Girl contest. Repeat: not mine.

2. I will use my pink bat judiciously and with reason, perhaps as a substitute for the frozen ham I on occasion like to wield like a cudgel. Though as far as restraint, I make no promises when it comes to anything having to do with the phrase “Pink Warrior.” What the hell does that even MEAN, exactly?? Are you fighting against the pink? Are you a large pink version of a Viking, say? This concept boggles my mind so much that I honestly just don’t even know what to do with it.

3. I will try to work one of my many pieces of Fuck Cancer attire into the picture somehow at the game itself. Maybe by stuffing a banner into my bosom, to be unfurled at an opportune moment? The possibilities are endless.

I think that’s all I got. As far as the voting is concerned, it’s here (and yes, the text for my little story is somewhat garbled due to their formatting issues), or you can sort by “votes” and find me, Tasha-H, on page 2 or 3 or god knows where I might be at this point. And I’m not saying that you can vote many times (I think up to 24) per day (per browser!) for the same person, but......hell, that IS what I’m saying. Vote early, vote often, vote as many times a day as your little hands can stand. Put the kids to work! Shirk under your boss’s nose, as you look industrious, tapping away at the computer!

Or just wish me luck, and a gorgeous sunny day for when I do finally make it to another White Sox game.....

The posse grows!

Okay, momentum is building for the Hooters to Hooters half-marathon for 2011. To date:

Kim: I'm in if you're in! Now we just need to come up with creative shirts to wear....

JoJo: Do they check the "authenticity" of the Hooters before allowing you to run? 'Coz I may want to give mine a boost so I don't feel left out!

Oldman: Looking forward to doing the Hooters to Hooters half marathon with you next year!


Clearly, this is just the beginning of a huge groundswell of support and participation, and I predict that as the REAL Hooters girls (and guys), we will own this race. Whatever the hell that means. But I suggest that you jump on the Hooters bandwagon now, less you miss out on this opportunity.

I, for one, to show my dedication to this event, plan on adding a race calendar to the sidebar of this blog, so that everyone can see written in stone (or typed in an easy-to-remove text box) just how serious I am about my athletic endeavors.

So far for 2010-2011 we'll have:

August 2010: Tasha and Stacey's crazy-assed cycling trip in the Alps
March 2011: Hooters to Hooters Half-Marathon


I know.....the mind reels.....