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….

People unclear on the concept

Blah blah blah - this is shorthand for saying that this morning Kona and I went to the dog park as usual, i.e. every day, rain or shine, blizzard or tornado, etc. When we get there, there's some woman I've never seen before with a border collie-type dog running around. It's a Big Holiday in Chicago (Casimir Pulaski Day), so that generally brings the non-regulars out of the woodwork.

Anyway - we open the outside gate so we're in the "vestibule" area before the inner gate, kind of a holding pen of sorts. The other dog is sniffing at the inner gate, checking out the "fresh meat" as I like to call the new dogs coming into the park, and as the woman is walking up she says "My dog is an alpha with other dogs."

Hmm, I think. Okay. "Well," I respond, "that's fine since my dog is totally non-confrontat......HEY! What the HELL!!"

Because at that point as I'm opening the inner gate her dumbass dog scoots out and attacks The Kone! And as usual, she's none too quick in pulling her dog back, so as usual, it falls to me to yank her dog back by the collar several times and protect Kona.

Idiot woman: I told you he was an alpha.
Me, yelling at this moron: There's a difference between being an "alpha" and attacking another dog!
IW: Sorry.

She didn't bother arguing with me, because I think she sensed, or intuited, that I was ready to kick her and her dog to another hemisphere.

Seriously people, I'm sick of you all who have not a lick of common sense. If your dog is an ass, do NOT bring him to a dog park where there will be other dogs. Because now I'm just going to start carrying Mace or something with me to the park - and I won't use it on your dog, I'll use it on you.

A question regarding etiquette

I’ve recently come across a situation where I’m just not quite sure what the right thing to do is. Normally these things are instinctive, but here, well, I hesitate, for reasons that may soon become clear. To wit:

Let’s say you have an acquaintance on FB – someone you were peripherally friends with a long time ago (friend of a friend) – and you have them as a friend because it’s a way of keeping up with someone from your past, who you probably will try to get together with at some point. Even though they post odd things about their horoscopes, and what God said to them today, and so on. Note: I think god’s too busy to be talking to all of his children directly, m’kay? And even if he were chatting up a storm – it probably wouldn’t be via a Facebook app. I’m just sayin’.

So this morning she posts the following: “Susie Silly*” keeps seeing 11:17 & although I know some numerology I'm no expert... anyone have any insight or suggestions?

My question - would it be wrong if I went with my first instinct and responded simply but helpfully with “Umm, yes, it means that you’re batshit crazy?” Or would that somehow be considered a bit rude?

You see my dilemma.

As an aside, I’m realizing how useful Facebook is in some respects, particularly with regard to separating the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. In the olden days, it might take months if not years to discover that people you considered your friends were insane or unstable or flaky or ignorant or bigoted. People can be amazingly good at hiding things. But on Facebook, between the games and links and posts and groups and fanpages and extremely religious right-wing rantings, it’s pretty easy to figure out where people stand. And then hide them. Quickly.

*Name changed so I don’t look like a total meanie.

Heralding the Apocalypse

Monday morning

Hmm, let’s see. I was up at 3AM talking to Disney tech support to try to get their internet access to work, so that I could email some work that my computer at home screwed up before I left, it’s been raining/sleeting on us the whole time we’ve been here as the temperature continues to plummet daily, and I’ve gotten very little sleep overall due to racing, working, etc. Gee, I wonder why I wake up this morning having come down with Ebola? Or what is almost certainly Ebola, or perhaps the plague. Sniffling, hacking, can’t breathe, my head is on the verge of exploding, and of course there’s the cough that instantly settled into my lungs and makes me think a hot poultice or something might not be the worst thing. Hot poultice or a nog, whatever works.

Since I feel like shit, I tell Jillian and Deanna to go to breakfast without me, while I try to rally so that we can go to the Magic Kingdom as planned today. They offer to bring me back a biscuit or something, but I’m oddly hesitant. I wonder why…..

Breakfast Saturday morning at the Waffle Shack

Jillian: My biscuit is really weird. Here, try it, it tastes like it’s fried in Crisco or something.
Me, taking a bite out of the biscuit that Jillian’s already eaten half of: Ack…. agh..a.a.cka…ack……(spitting it out)…oh my god, that’s GROSS! That’s not fried in Crisco, that’s fried in RANCID Crisco! Why’d you make me try that?
Jillian: I don’t know, I guess I thought you might want to try the rancid Crisco biscuit!
Me: Oh my GOD that was horrible. I thought we were friends, yet here you are, pushing a rancid biscuit on me! Et tu, Jillian, et tu?!

Back to Monday

I tell them thanks, but I’ll pass on the biscuit. After chugging down a passel of hot Mickey tea, I still feel like crap, but at least I’m hydrated. Jillian and Deanna get back, and off we go for a day of fun and festivities at Disney on this 30-degree day. Where we learn that foreigners are pretty damn rude when it comes to basic things like lines and not stepping on or pushing into people, that you could easily lose your sanity if you go on the It’s a Small World ride more than once, that the Pirates of the Caribbean ride isn’t the same since they got rid of the pirates-chasing-scantily-clad-wenches scene, and that the Haunted House and Space Mountain are still pretty damn cool.

By 5PM, however, I’m done, so I go back to the hotel and leave Deanna and Jillian to inflict themselves on the unsuspecting Disney masses. That night I watch the news, where the top items are: the extreme bitter cold, the frozen orange crop, the sea turtles they’re trying to rescue from the too-cold water, the iguanas that are getting too low in body temp and falling from trees, the too-cold manatees. And this comment from the weatherman:

“You have just one more night of bitter cold to endure, folks, so hang in there! Tomorrow it starts warming up, and it’ll be in the 70s by the weekend! Back to normal Florida temperatures!”

I would lament that we’re leaving tomorrow, except for the fact that I seem to be bringing crop failure and apocalypse raining down on Florida, so it’s probably for the best.

* * * * * * * *

Tuesday

We head to the airport and Deanna and I go to the counter of AirTran – or Crazy Bitch Air, as I’ve come to think of it. My main worry is that my suitcase might be overweight. I know, 50 pounds, what the hell am I packing, right? But I don’t have a carry-on since I figure if I’m going to pay for luggage, I might as well stuff everything in there, and of course I have all the toiletries and such that I couldn’t take on the plane anyway. So it adds up. On the way over I had 47 pounds, and the only thing I’ve added were the race shirts, which collectively weigh less than a pound. So I check in, and put my suitcase on the scale thing. 50.5. I look at Crazy Bitch, and am about to say…..something, when suddenly….

CB: 53 pounds. It’s over. That’s $49.95.
Me, suspicious as to how it suddenly leapt in weight: I’m not paying that – I’ll remove something.

I take out my laptop, then as an afterthought, a half jar of peanut butter. Those 3 ounces could make all the difference. Bag goes back on the scale. Survey says…..47!

Me: Okay then. I’m going to put this jar of peanut butter back in.
CB: It’s still over, you still have to pay.

I look at the scale, and lo and behold, it’s back up to 53. Which might have something to do with the fact that Crazy Bitch has her hand on my bag, holding it down. WTF? Now I'm pissed.

Me: Umm, that's because your hand is on it. Take it off, now.

She does, and we’re back down to 47. Again, WTF was that about, like I wouldn’t notice??

She slaps the necessary sticker on my bag, and then tells me I have to carry my suitcase around the corner to security. Which is behind some kind of construction that they’re doing. In other words, not visible to the AirTran CB Lady.

Me, to Deanna: Okay, that’s stupid. I wonder if I could just put my laptop back in my suitcase now?
Deanna: I don’t see why not.

So I do. And please note that neither CB Lady nor the TSA guy noticed that my passport was expired. Naturally.

And my luggage makes it to Chicago unscathed, though I would like to take this opportunity to state the following:

Open Letter to the TSA people who inspect luggage after it's been checked in:

Given that now every time I’ve traveled in the last year I’ve found that slip of paper in my suitcase informing me that you’ve searched my luggage, I can only conclude that there’s something about my luggage that simply screams “terrorist.” Perhaps it’s the jaunty green LL Bean bag that captures your attention? Just the kind of thing the modern-day shoe or underwear bomber would use. Oh, wait, except for the fact that those guys never check any luggage anyway. So never mind.

Maybe the scanners this time picked up the puffy white Mickey Mouse hands that I bought at Disney? I guess it would be pretty difficult to discern fluffy white cotton batting from, say, lethal chemicals and weapons. I feel your pain on that one.

Now, of course I have no problem with this. Have at it. Really. Dig and paw through whatever you want, looking for….something. But for the love of GOD, could you for chrissake please leave things as they WERE before you started?? Because I’m a little tired of pulling out my toiletry bag, for example, and having things go tumbling every which way because you couldn’t close the zipper, or having my lotions leak on stuff because you couldn’t handle closing the plastic bags they were in, or any of the other lazy things you do.

Thank you.

Every vote counts!

Finally, a poll we can all believe in - other than my very own brain tumor poll, that is. The question being asked here is the following: Who was the biggest assclown of 2009?

Now, in some ways this may seem like a simple answer, when your choices are finally narrowed down to Glenn Beck and Joe Lieberman. I went with Lieberman, because he's a worthless shill who has no problem betraying the people he's supposed to represent, all while lining his own pockets.

On the other hand, I watched a snippet of Beck the other night on Rachel Maddow's show, and from that, I can only come to the following conclusion: this guy is batshit crazy.

Here is the gist of what he was babbling about:

"This time Beck is taking shots at the titan of American capitalism, John Rockefeller, accusing him of having been a secret communist. Beck knows this to be true because he has discovered all sorts of "communist" and "fascist" art on NBC headquarters at Rockefeller Center, as well as on land behind the United Nations that was donated by Rockefeller.

........Rockefeller left clues to his true legacy with these communist art pieces which are hidden in plain sight, and since we have people in our own time who call themselves progressives they must actually be communists (possibly fascists?).

.......Also, Beck's icing on the communist cake is that the Rockefeller Foundation honored Beck's latest target, Obama adviser Van Jones. Got it?"

Well, no, I don't really get it - but then, I'm not batshit crazy. At least not for the most part.

Happy voting!

Was this necessary?

Okay, so before I get to the fascinating saga of How Tasha Almost Got Herself Arrested, I just have to note something I read in the paper yesterday, something that makes me wonder who exactly the Sun-Times has writing some of their columns.

To wit: it's an article about some local mobster's "holiday dinner," as he got approval from a judge to lose the house arrest for one night and go to dinner at a fancy seafood and crab house downtown. So far so good. They give the background and say ".....what reputed Cicero mob boss Michael 'The Large Guy' Sarno did." Okay, still fine. Not the most clever or original of nicknames, but whatever.

Then, in a later paragraph:

"Sarno, also dubbed 'Fat Ass' by some colleagues, has denied any wrongdoing...."

Seriously? "Also dubbed 'Fat Ass'"?? God forbid they should include those kinds of "nicknames" in every article. "Casey Moll, also dubbed 'Bitchwhore' by her former landlord" or "Katherine Hart, also dubbed 'Deadbeat Con-Artist' by all the many people she's scammed money out of" etc. Actually, that would be kind of interesting.

But if I ever get my name in the paper again or in print in general, let's just state here and now that NO nicknames should be included. Because really, that would then be an insanely long article, and I don't think we need that kind of deforestation in the world, m'kay? Global warming is bad enough as it is.

Fat ass indeed......

No worse for wear

I'm happy to report that, in spite of my taking the advice of crack-smoking newspaper columnists who tell people living in northern climes to "put that Christmas tree in a bucket of water and leave it outside for 24 hours for maximum longevity!", my tree-encased-in-bucket-of-ice seems to be doing well. The water level is going down every day significantly, so that means Tree is soaking up tons of water which will help it stay fresh and......wait, what's this?

"Schlork schlork schlork......."

(I watch in disbelief as first Kona and then Bell poke their heads under the tree and loudly start drinking water from the Christmas tree stand. Lots and lots of water.)

Never mind.