Cancer has its benefits

Scene: Big Boy Gyros

Annette is sponsoring my lunch today, so she picks me up and we head over to Big Boy Gyros, the little place run by a really nice Greek man, who always seems to recognize us even though we’re in there just once every few months, if that. We’re perusing the menu, when Nice Greek Guy sees my Fuck Cancer hat.

NGG: By the way, great hat.

Me: Oh thanks – it does kind of sum it all up.

NGG: My dad, he died of cancer.

Me: Oh, I’m so sorry, that’s horrible.

NGG: Yeah, cancer is so bad because of how it changes people and affects everyone.

Annette: My dad died of brain cancer, and exactly, he got so bad near the end.

NGG: My dad, he was a big burly guy, like Sylvester Stallone, you know, but then with the cancer, at the end he was like a husk, a withered old man, so weak and in pain.

Me, sympathetically: That’s just terrible….

NGG, continuing unabated: And you know, we get customers in here, they have cancer, they okay for two, three years, then bam…(here he makes a slashing notion across his throat)…..they no more.

Annette: Umm, okay, so….(she throws an arm around my shoulder, as I’m staring at NGG, giggling yet horrified at the same time)….maybe we need only happy cancer stories, eh?

NGG, continuing as if Annette hadn’t even spoken: Then you know I have the godmother for my youngest daughter, she only 38, such a nice girl….

I can’t help it, I start smiling, that incredulous smile that you have when you know where something is going and it isn’t going to be pretty…

NGG:…..she get the bad cancer, really bad, next thing you know she too gone. It was really bad at the end too, she have no idea what going on around her…

Annette: Okaaaaay so mayb…….

NGG: And her parents, they never the same afterward. You know, lose someone so young. Her mom still wear black – her dad, he just sit there in front of the fireplace, clicking it on and off. So sad.

I swear I am not making any of this up.

NGG, to me: But I’m sure you be fine! You be okay, okay? Yes!

We turn and head to a table, and as I look over at Annette, she has the same amused horrified look on her face as I do, and we both burst out laughing at the same time.

Annette: Don’t worry, you won’t be like one of those customers who suddenly – poof! – are gone.

Me: Not yet anyway – it apparently takes them 2-3 years, so I guess I have another good 6 months left in me. That’s a comfort.

So you may be thinking – well, okay Miss Tasha, but where do those benefits come in? Patience, young grasshopper, patience.

We’re sitting there waiting for them to call that our food is done, when we see one of the fry cooks

carrying first Annette’s food out to her, then mine. Mind you , this is NOT that kind of place – you walk up to the counter and get your food, period.

Fry cook: Can I get you anything else? Mustard, ketchup?

Me: Oh, yeah, ketchup, but I’ll get it…

Fry cook: No! You sit, I’ll get it.

We chat and eat our food – then the guy comes back to bus our table and take the leftovers in back to wrap them up carefully – and then, THEN, he comes out with little tiny ice cream sundaes for us! Ha, all you non-cancerous people, go ahead and be jealous! We’re so being treated like the rock$tars we are.

As we leave, NGG is at the counter again, and I get the hearty good bye, and a “Be strong! You be okay!” – though undoubtedly he’s thinking, there goes another one I’ll never see again. At least we got free ice cream out of it….

Doubling down on crazy

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

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

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

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

Me: Oh, you had DCIS?

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

Woman 2: DCIS, that’s what I had.

Woman 3: Oh, me too.

Woman 4: So did I.

Woman 5: Me too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: Me too!

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

Me: Lucky you!

NTL:….but it didn’t last.

Me: We’re a great pair here then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NRW: Hmm….

“Hmm” again??? What the hell?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there is no cure for breast cancer.

We’ll never be able to “get over it.”

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

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

Monday evening

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

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.

Not all fun and games, kids.....

Of course, I don’t want to give off the impression that this conference is all about being silly and having fun. No sirree. We’re here for the serious business of learning what’s cutting edge and perhaps what the latest thinking is and treatments are, all related to The Cancer. The Big C. So Saturday morning, we all head off to the hotel ballroom for the kickoff speaker – this, of course, after I’ve dashed over to Reading Terminal to get my non-Amish bagel, thus assuaging my conscience from the Pretzel Scandal of the day before.

I try to look properly somber, as is befitting the occasion.

Woman with badge: Hi! Are you here for the conference? Please, right this way!

I’m greeted by a lady dressed in head to toe pink. And not just pink, but flamboyant pink. I think there’s pleather involved – which, let me tell you, is never a good idea for those over the age of, say, 50. And she’s definitely a bit north of that. And she’s wearing tall pink boots. And a pink hat. With a huge pink felt ribbon topping it off. It’s like a veritable walking Pinksplosion, right in front of me.

Me, weakly: Umm…..okay, thanks?

Then I see another one of these Women in Pink. This one with sparkly pink bracelets and spangles and jangly things. I feel like I’ve stumbled into some warped, circus-clown version of a breast cancer conference.

Then there’s the table piled high with leis. You’re supposed to pick one depending on how far out you are from diagnosis, but I bypass this entirely. A lei? Seriously? I don’t know, it just seems a bit too…frivolous, or something, for me.

I then make a beeline for the table where I see my young CancerChickies sitting – we’re like an island of youngness in a sea of 60-and-older women. As soon as I sit down, sweetie Melinda gives me something.

Melinda: Look what I picked up for you! Even though Pinkapalooza is over, I knew you’d appreciate it.

I look at what she’s given me, and my eyes well up, I’m so touched. *sniffle* - my very own pink-ribbon-shaped nail file.

Me, clutching it to my chest: Melinda, this is awesome! Where’d you get it?

Melinda: Over there at the tables – they have other giveaway stuff too, like this cool tote bag.

Me: Schwag?? There’s schwag?

Melinda: Yeah, ther…..Tasha?

Somehow Melinda finds herself talking to just a vapor trail, as I hurry over to the tables before all the schwag is gone. Ten minutes later I’m back.

Me, happily: Look at all my Pinkishness schwag! A tote bag, a keychain, more nail files……free stuff is the BEST! Ooh, look over there…

Over at the next table, I spy some women looking at something sparkly, something that lights up. I’m about to dart over there, create a diversion, and make off with said sparkly, but then the session begins and a woman starts talking. Damn. Well, maybe later. I put my serious face back on and get ready to take notes.

(20 minutes later)

“$@^*&#$^(*UGuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....huzzah? Wha…?” I ask, as I lift my head from the table and look around rather blearily. I’d ask Cori what’s going on, but she’s gone. The speaker lost me when she started talking about the “journey” that we’re all on, but, I think to myself, maybe she’s moved on to something more useful.

Speaker: “…..so ladies, dealing with those pesky hot flashes – whether you’re actually post-menopausal, or if you’re post-menopausal because of the treatment or drugs you’re on, I have some great ways that you can combat those symptoms.”

Aha, something helpful! I hold my pen at the ready.

Speaker: “Now, the thing that I’ve found MOST helpful in these situations to deal with those times when you’re suffering through all that excessive perspiration is…..panti-liners!”

And she starts gaily waving one about. I laugh rather incredulously, as do most of the girls at my table, but then we look around and see that no one else is really laughing – a wry chuckle maybe, but that’s it. Is she actually serious?

Speaker: “See, you can tape them under your arms – and look, they fit perfectly in your shoes!”

Apparently so, folks, apparently so.

After a Zumba demonstration and a fashion parade which consisted of older women walking around in bras and skimpy negligees (and during which I keep looking around to see if Cori will show up in a slutty nurse outfit), the kickoff speaker finishes up and we get a short break before it’s time for the breakout sessions. I believe the one I’m signed up for is called “How to do your makeup so that you look halfway decent and don’t scare little children after The Cancer has conspired to make you look and feel like shit.” Or something like that. Almost exactly like that. Meanwhile, where’s Cori? Hmm……

What happens in Philly......

Scene at the Cammarrano household before Cori leaves for the BC conference in Philly:

Cori is in the shower at home, finishing up her ablutions, which have included a thorough shaving of all body parts, including what we will euphemistically refer to as “down there.” Just because she prefers it that way. As she’s getting out of the shower, she calls to her husband, Dan.

Cori: Hey Dan - could you get me a towel please? I forgot to grab one.

Dan: Sure honey. Hey, you know, it’s a good thing you shaved all over, especially, you know, down there. So that way the other girls won’t wonder and think you don’t care about stuff like that.

We pause here for a moment of incredulous silence.

Cori: I…..Dan……Dan! What exactly do you think goes ON at these conferences? That we all run around our hotel rooms naked or in flimsy nighties having pillow fights or something?

Dan: Well, I guess……I didn’t know…….but…….maybe?

The girls and I, we all giggled and laughed at this when we were hanging out in the Philly hotel. But you know, as it turns out, Dan was right:

Next up: Cori’s quest for slutty outfits, and oh yeah, the conference, and useful tips for dealing with cancer-drug-induced hot flashes…..

A pilgrimage to Mecca

Okay, so I admit that I knew who the Grand Prize Winner of the Pinkapalooza contest would be way before the end of Pinktober. Sure, I was open to new entries, but unless someone came up with the vaunted, mythical Pink Chia Pet, Yeti-like in its absence, it was pretty much case closed as far as I was concerned. So I waited. And waited. And posted pictures of horrifying Pinkishness, for all to behold, keeping the ace in my sleeve, waiting for the right moment (i.e. the end of the month) to spring it on people.

Imagine my surprise then when I got a call from the purveyor of the GPW.

Don: Hey why don’t you and The Kone come out for Halloween? Maureen and I are having some relatives over, we’re making tamales, and I can take you out to see the GPW!

Of course he didn’t refer to it as the GPW, but that’s a literary device I’m using so as to build up the level of anticipation. It’s called “anticipational build-up,” for those of you wanting the technical term.

Of course I agreed instantly – not only would I get to see the GPW with my own eyes, but Kone and I would get out of the house and thus avoid the ragtag bunches of trick-or-treaters begging for sweets. Okay, I don’t actually mind them, but Kona gets a bit goofy and annoyed with the doorbell ringing constantly, yet no one coming in. And we all know that everything is about The Kone.

Sunday came, and off we went. I brought my homemade spinach dip and Hawaiian bread, as well as my famous homemade lemon cake from the Jewish deli in Skokie (this one’s my specialty), but as I was sitting there chit-chatting and Kona was playing with their dogs, I couldn’t help but feel a bit antsy. When would we go? Would it still be there in all its glory, as I had envisioned it? Would it, could it, possibly…..disappoint?? Oh, the agony!

Finally, as Maureen is heading out with the kids, Don says the magic words. Or starts to at least.

Don: So you wanna go check out th….

Me: YES! Umm, I mean, sure, I suppose, I guess we can do that…..if you really want to……

Don: Okay then, let’s…..hey, wait up!

What like it’s MY fault that some people are slower than others? Sheesh. I only made him run a tiny bit to catch up with the car. Good thing he did, too, since I had no idea where we were going.

So we’re in Alsip, and the GPW isn’t far away, but as I turn down one street after another, I’m more and more incredulous.

Me: Umm, why are we in this decrepit industrial park area?

Don: That’s where it is, wait and see!

Me: But…seriously? This is some dumpy riverside area that no one ever frequ….oh. My. GOD! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod…is that IT? Do you see it??? Oh my god!!!

It’s hard for me to convey how excited I am, but I’d put it on par with the thrill of the day when I got my driver’s license back after 8 long months. Yes, that level of excitement. I’m grinning, perhaps even laughing, a little maniacally to be honest. This is amazing.

I career the car over into the lot, rumbling over broken pavement that has weeds growing all through it, and jump out of the car, all the while muttering ohmygod over and over again.

Me: I….I…..

I’m speechless.

Me: It’s HERE? I can’t believe it, it’s worse than in your pictures! I mean look at this broken down abandoned industrial lot! This is awesome!!

I keep taking pictures, to capture the moment. The first glimpse.

Then closer.

And closer.

Finally, we’ve arrived! Yes folks, our Grand Prize Winner is……

The Dumpster For The Cure!

Because really, nothing says Breast Cancer Awareness like a shiny pink dumpster with perfect pink ribbons painted on it stuck in the far reaches of a decrepit lot in the middle of nowhere.

At this point I’m like a little kid, jumping up and down with glee. We take pictures. Here I am looking into the Dumpster, trying to find The Cure. Hello, Cure, where aaaaaaaaaaaare you??

And here's Don, proud of his accomplishment. "Yeah, I got your Cure right here..."

Finally, it’s getting chilly so I have to (sniffle) tear myself away from the Pink Dumpsters For The Cure. So sad – it’s like losing an old friend. We get back to Don’s house, and I can’t contain my excitement.

Maureen’s FIL: So did you see the trash??

Me: Oh my god, it was AMAZING! Everything I could have possibly dreamed of, yet better! Honestly, it was like going to Mecca!

They’re not looking at me TOO strangely, I don’t think, so either they too appreciate the wonders of a Pink Beribboned Dumpster in the Middle of Nowhere…..or they’ve been warned about me. I’ll go with the first option, thank you very much.

And with that, my friends, we bid farewell to another Pinktober. I need a drink now….

For shame...

Whee, it's true, we're almost at the end! All will be revealed! Alert the media! Stop the presses!

Okay, obviously the Pinkishness has infected my brain - but you'd feel the same way if you'd been inundated with an endless supply of Pinkola for an entire month. Not that I'm complaining, no sirree - this has certainly been an illuminating endeavor, in so many ways. And the thought of all these Faithful Readers across the U.S. taking pictures of Pinkishness left and right, why, it just warms my heart. You could even say I'm tickled pink.

So, our final two Hall of Shame entrants - and the winner in this category is announced! But first:

1. The Chicago Blackhawks

Yes, the Blackhawks. Why? Well, we all know that The Girls and I (and Don, but he's an Honorary Girl) went to the Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness game recently. And that'll get a separate post all its own, just to show how we owned that rink, oh yes we did. It was a beautiful thing. We had the most awesome time, really and truly.

But that was no thanks to the Blackhawks and their total lack of effort on behalf of, oh, say, CANCER? Especially compared to what other teams did.

The Blackhawks:

- Had a guy battling neuroblastoma drop the puck - this was cool

- Had pretty much nothing else going on. No pink tape. No pink anywhere. It was apparently a BYOP night.

But what really bothers me is that they lied about what they were going to do. To wit:

(according to their website)

"The Stanley Cup Champion Chicago Blackhawks, in conjunction with the National Hockey League’s month-long initiative, will host “Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness Night” at the United Center on Wednesday, October 20, when the team takes on the Vancouver Canucks. ....during the game, the Blackhawks Better Halves will be selling pucks signed by a mystery player with proceeds going to the Vera Bradley Foundation, while cancer patients and survivors will be riding the Zamboni and participating in the second intermission shoot the puck contest...."

Yes, they claimed that for The Kid, The Geek, The Bimbo, they'd have cancer survivivors. They did not. How do I know? Because this is marketing for them, after all, and I'm sure that if they did, they would have made mention of it on the Jumbotron, or in the announcing, like they did with the guy who dropped the puck. Nope.

Now, this is insulting because seriously, if me or my busty CancerChick friends wouldn't make the best of flowing-haired big-bosomed bimbos like what they had that night, then you tell me who would! Hmph.

The final insult is reading what the Hated Detroit Red Wings did. Here we go, and I warn you ahead of time, it's long (and I've bolded certain key parts):

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Think Pink

Thursday is Breast Cancer Awareness night at JLA

DETROIT -- The Red Wings will host their fourth annual Breast Cancer Awareness Night this Thursday, October 21, when the Wings take on the Calgary Flames at 7:30 p.m. EDT as part of the National Hockey League’s Hockey Fights Cancer month. When the doors open at 6:30 p.m., the Joe Louis Arena concourse will be home to a variety of activities, including a silent auction, goal puck draw, 50/50 raffle and a special sale of pink winter knit hats with all proceeds benefitting the Liggett Breast Center in Grosse Pointe Woods, Mich. The funds raised will help alleviate the costs of breast cancer treatment for uninsured and underinsured women in the Metro Detroit area.

Fans who wear pink to the game will be entered to win a 2010-11 team-signed jersey by picking up a raffle ticket on the concourse behind Section 126. There fans can also participate in the goal puck draw or bid on one of 29 unique Red Wings autographed items. For $40, fans will have a chance to draw from an assortment of 100 goal pucks from the past few seasons, including pucks from the 2008 and 2009 Stanley Cup Finals. Each puck will be signed by a Red Wings player and wrapped to conceal the autograph. The fan who unwraps the puck signed in gold by Johan Franzen will meet a select Red Wings player after the game.

Players will wrap their sticks with pink hockey tape and Jimmy Howard’s glove and blocker will even be pink where it’s usually red for use during the pregame warm-ups. These items will then be autographed and auctioned off in the concourse in addition to purple Hockey Fights Cancer ties worn and autographed by Red Wings broadcasters, coaching staff and management. Other exclusive auction items include a 2010-11 team-signed pink and white Wings jersey, a one-of-a-kind Steve Yzerman jersey retirement ceremony package and game-used and autographed Tomas Holmstrom gloves and helmet. Other BCA Night activities include:

• Fans can also help the Red Wings provide encouragement to breast cancer patients currently receiving treatment by signing a banner and writing a message of support for breast cancer patients. The team-signed banner will be presented at the Liggett Breast Center on Monday, Oct. 25, and hung in their chemotherapy treatment room.
• Fans can purchase pink winter knit hats with the Winged Wheel logo embroidered on the front for $20 at both the West and East Gate entrances on the concourse level. Breast Cancer Awareness pins will be available at merchandise stands throughout the concourse for $5.
• The Red Wings will honor those affected by breast cancer by hosting 40 survivors in a suite, 20 military veterans who are also breast cancer survivors in the Quicken Loans Budd Lynch Military Suite and around 100 breast cancer survivors and patients in the stands."

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The shame of it all, trumped by the Hated Red Wings. *Sob.*

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And now, the moment you've all been waiting for - the winner of the Hall of Shame, who will be getting his very own Fuck Cancer hat!

The Pink Ribbon Vibrator, submitted by Original PV


Yep, a vibrator. A motherfucking vibrator. With an idiotic pink ribbon. In case you have any doubts as to why this is so damn wrong and insulting, it's because of this - the fact that younger women who have BC find themselves having to deal with a whole host of sexual problems. Not that older women don't, but we're supposed to be in some kind of sexual prime years here, and instead? We're dealing with scars and surgeries and looking and feeling like crap from both of those - especially when they're lopping off our boobs, as in, a key sexual organ.

But that's not all! Because many of these treatments have the added benefit of making sex tough to bear, not just emotionally but physically. Yep, side effects from Tamoxifen and other drugs include all sorts of things that make sex unpleasant, from disappearing libido to vaginal dryness - which is why not a day goes by that someone on YSC doesn't post something along the lines of "Help, what do I do, I don't want to have sex anymore!" Leading to all kinds of relationship problems, as I'm sure you can imagine.

So this little gizmo, to me, it's as if it's saying "Here you go! Let Cancer fuck you all over again!" With the underlying note of, "because you sure aint' gettin' it anywhere else."

Fuck you, you stupid little sex toy with your insulting pink ribbon. Some of us would be more than happy to tell you exactly where you can shove that thing.

Blah blah blah more Hall of WTF

Okay kids, are you getting tired of all this horrible yet inspiring Pinkishness? Because I am. It's like a Ronco commercial that has no end - just an endless series of "But wait, there's more!" coming at you from every direction.

So what we're going to do here is finish up the WTFs, then I'll post the couple of remaining Shames, then the Fames - and then the Grand Prizewinner will be revealed, in a post of its very own, because yes, it's that special. Interspersed in there I'll tell you who's won in each category.

I wish I could have more categories and give more of you the special Fuck Cancer hats, but alas, Miss Tasha is on the verge of losing the one bit of work that keeps her afloat and Kona in pig ears, so she ain't exactly flush with cash these days. Kind of the polar opposite.

But still, I've promised hats, and hats will be delivered. Onward! Our final Hall of WTF contestants:

1. Shimmies For The Cure


Apparently belly dancing has a cancer-curing component that most of us did NOT know about. I'm running out of things to say for these WTF entrants, because really.....WTF? Who thinks of this stuff?

2. The Support Bra/Corset, by PV

Okay, so I was going to say something about how this scary anime lady with light-socket frizzy hair is somehow connected to breast cancer awareness in a way that I don't understand, but when I was looking for more info on what exactly this was - and a better picture - I came upon this:


....and screamed slightly in horror. So I'm including it even though it's not strictly a Pinkishness item. It's just.....scary. Especially since at first glance her right boob looked all discombobulated and unfettered, and it was unclear where they were going with that. It's still unclear.

3. Cuddles For The Cure, by Adrienne


This is so bizarre that I'm going to just let little Cuddles - or Olivia, or whatever the hell her name is - speak for herself:

"This little angel is so sweet and precious, you'll want to hug her tight. And best of all, a portion of the proceeds from the sale of this breast cancer charity doll will benefit the fight against breast cancer! Now you can help spread breast cancer awareness with this So Truly Real® Tiny Miracles™ pink baby doll by Master Doll Artist Cheryl Hill. An Ashton-Drake exclusive, little Olivia is just 10 inches long and can sit in the palm of your hand! Dressed in a precious pink dress, white hat and symbolic pink looped ribbon, Olivia sends a heartfelt message of hope. This collectible pink baby doll is charmingly lifelike with RealTouch™ vinyl skin, feather-soft blond hair and tiny hand-painted features. Doll measures just 10" (25 cm.) long."

So you've got a freakishly small yet "charmingly lifelike" baby, which is supposed to.....what? Symbolize for your friend with BC all the babies she won't have because cancer treatment has rendered her infertile? In thinking about it, this should actually go in the Hall of Shame category, because that's pretty damn offensive, but I'll leave her here, because she's also so....freakish. Shudder.

4. Reindeer For The Cure

A pink reindeer? Umm, you mean like something you'd put up for...Christmas? It's called Pinktober for a reason, folks, not Pinkember or Pinkmas. Please remember that.

5. And not to be outdone......Pink Komen Ribbons on a Stick, by Arlyn

Okay, maybe they're garden stakes or something, since they were at Lowe's next to the hideous pink light-up reindeer, but in any case, would you want to decorate your garden with these things? I didn't think so.

6. Lint For The Cure. by Don Fernandez

Sigh. A lint roller. Really? LINT?

7. Stupid ad for Water For The Cure

Hee hee giggle. Now we've regressed to 1st grade.

8. The so-called Pink Ribbon Diet, by tigerchik

Thieves, pure and simple. Let's remember that two years ago I was proclaiming my adherence to the Pinkishness Diet Plan. And here these buffoons are, stealing my thunder. Looks like it's time to lawyer up. Cha-ching!

9. Another place for me to sue, by Don

Now that I have my world-renowned catchphrase F*ck the Ta-Tas on t-shirts for sale, I think that means I basically OWN that word, no? Yep, lawyering up again. Cha-CHING!

And our potential WTF winner:

10. Pears Care! by Cori

....because apples apparently don't give a rat's ass.

Yes, this may not strictly be the most WTF entrant, but it amuses me to no end, and it's my contest. Pears, caring! Who knew?

(to be continued)