Chugging along on the Bitterness Train

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More job-hunting tips from Miss Tasha

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

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

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

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

At the Village Tap with Diane and some of her friends

Me: So what do you do, Charise?

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

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

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

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

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

At For Your Canine, with Timmy for his evaluation

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

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

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

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

Karen: Hmm….

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

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

The Reckoning, part II

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

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

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

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

(pause)

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

Yes, I actually said these things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

AMIL: OH! Oh no! That’s my foot!

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

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

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

OMIL: So back to these questions!

Me: Oops, sorry. Kona, no!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let the drinking commence….

The day of reckoning is here

8:40AM

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

9:15AM

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

9:30AM

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

Me: Wait, there are two of you?

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

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

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

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

AMIL: Can you put them away in a room?

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

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

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

AMIL: We have rules about dogs.

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

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

(to be continued....)

Bat Girl redux

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It could be my finest work ever.

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

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

Aha! Found the job for me......

Would this be perfect or what??



Next up: more job hunting tips from Miss Tasha.....

Okay, NOW I'm pissed off

So I admit, even as I’ve been hauling out boxes of paperwork and trying to get this shit organized for this ridiculous audit, I’ve been putting off looking at my actual 2008 return, the one they’re auditing. I seemed to vaguely recall that I didn’t make much money that year – remember, that was Cancer and Brain Injury Year, so for literally half the year, I was out of commission. Bleeding on the brain will do that to a person, not to mention surgery and 7 weeks of daily zappings of radiation.

But I wasn’t 100% sure. Was THAT the year I did some work early on for Accenture? Was there something else? Not sure.

Until now.

And I’m pissed.

Because I did just look at my return, and when I saw how little money I really did make? What. The. Fuck. Not only is it a ridiculously small sum, which pisses me off, but the fact that the IRS is auditing ME over this piddly-ass sum of money, well, that’s just infuriating. Our tax dollars at work.

I don’t want to say how much I actually made that year, because it’s kind of ridiculous, but suffice it to say that even if I had had monkeys prepare my tax return, there is no chance I’ll owe the IRS an iota of money. In fact, they might owe ME. Between the money pit that is my house, and the insane medical bills, and the lack of income, I might just send a bill to the IRS when this is over for WASTING MY FUCKING TIME.

On the bright side, as I’m researching this crap I am discovering all sorts of interesting tidbits about what the IRS can and can’t do, which I’m eager to share with my sixteens of readers, in case you too ever find yourselves in this unfortunate position. Because I’m just helpful that way. And bitter. And oh yeah, did I mention, pissed off?? Just checking.

Okay, I’m back

I know, I know, that was quick. And as usual, I know what you’re thinking:

“But Miss Tasha – we be all worried ‘bout you! And here you be, waltzin’ in like nobody’s business! What be up with dat, girlfriend?”

(For some reason, grammar goes out the window when my sixteens of readers speak to me. I know, I don’t quite get it either.)

I think this is a large part of why the Universe hates me – because I’m the most stubborn person in creation, and I refuse to let The Man keep me down. I guess I’m kind of like the evil villain in a slasher movie who won’t stay dead even though he’s been shot multiple times, bathed in acid, and hung and quartered. Err, or I’m like a Weeble-Wobble. Take your pick.

Plus the billions of emails I’ve gotten from friends offering sympathy, advice, their accountant husbands and friends, alcohol, flamethrowers, etc., has warmed my soul. Truly. Whereas yesterday I was despondent, today I am….okay, still despondent, but writing up in my head a post about the amusing conversations I’ve had with friends and my brother about the IRS. My brain will not be stopped. Plus, as always, I have some useful Tips from Miss Tasha, for those of you also facing this idiocracy known as an IRS audit. To wit, this is what I’ve learned from searching the internets:

• If you’re being audited, you’re screwed. Be paranoid and suspicious and realize that they’re out to get you.
• Be polite to the auditor – they’re just doing their jobs.
• Their goal is to trip you up, so say nothing, use one-word answers.
• Be open and forthright about everything.

Umm, okay. I guess.

As for why I’m being audited, I finally figured out the reason. The IRS can’t understand why someone of my brilliance and overall fabulousness isn’t rolling in money and fame and fortune; hence, they assume that I am, and are coming over to search the premises. Or as my dear friend Motya put it –

“I blame Komen. The IRS is thinking, "Oh, Miss Tasha has the cancer, so she must be swimming in monetary donations that she has failed to report. We'll get her!"

Damn you Komen! Yet another thing you’re responsible for. But yes, I’ll be dressing up mighty fine on Audit Day, in one of my many pieces of Fuck Cancer attire. That way Ms. Audit Lady will know exactly what she’s dealing with: a crazy person.

Next up: Conversations with my brother, and my potential tactics for dealing with Audit Day

P.S. For the purposes of this blog post, please substitute "Audit Alert" for Rumspringa. Thank you.

Broken

So here we are. Or rather, here I am. I was thinking yesterday about the bad luck I’ve had over the years – I can’t even call it a “run of bad luck” – because that implies something more temporary, not years of abject shittiness. And yes, my bad luck has stretched back so far that I don’t even recall the last time it wasn’t a constant presence in my life. Where I wasn’t constantly looking over my shoulder to see what would come next. Where I didn’t have friends telling me that I seemed to be cursed.

I’m sure some of these things have been of my own making, due to my own poor decisions. Dating assholes who turned out to be bisexual sociopathic liars trolling for hookups on Adult Friend Finder? Yeah, my bad. Winding up with asshole tenant Katherine Hart who trashed the place and skipped out on rent? Yep, me again, too trusting. But all the other shit – the bathroom ceiling collapsing, the crash that totaled my car, the job crap, the IRS losing my tax returns for 2 years, all the other stuff like that that happens on a DAILY basis around here – and then let’s not forget the disfiguring cancer, along with the bike crash/broken collarbone/brain injury – I’d say that’s all not my fault. That’s fate or whatever you believe in kicking me in the teeth, generally when I’m already down.

But I soldiered on. I did. Even when The Cancer came along, I thought – well, there’s some benefit to having had a lifetime of continual bad luck, because I bounce back from these things pretty quickly. The job/money stuff? Panicky, but I thought – I have so many irons in the fire, I’m damn good at what I do, something will come to fruition.

So what did it take, after all these years, to finally make me lose hope? A letter in the mail on Saturday, telling me that lucky me was selected for a fucking audit by the IRS. Yes, an audit – which on the surface is kind of laughable, because I hardly make enough money to make it worth their while. Though maybe they think I’m lying about that, and have a fountain spewing gold in my basement. Who knows.

But yes, that’s what did it. And it’s not even the actual audit that’s done it. Hell, I don’t cheat on my taxes – I don’t make enough money to make it necessary for me to try to conjure up ways to cheat. Besides, even if they decide I do owe them money, so what? You can’t get blood from a turnip, as they say.

It’s more the timing of it. Because here I’ve been humming along with the work/job hunt, lots of interesting prospects out there, I’ve been talking to people about their potential needs, etc. – all things sufficient to give me a slight glimmer of hope in the darkness. And now, with this shit, all that comes to a screeching halt. Because this IRS agent is coming to my house in 3 weeks and I now have to spend all my time between now and then trying to find my damn paperwork from 2008 and 2009. Because yes, they apparently look at 2 years at a time.

And oh yes, did I mention that that was all when I had the whole cancer/bike crash/brain injury thing going on? So not only did I not have a clue what the hell was going on around me at the time, but any paperwork from then is buried amidst piles and stacks of medical bills. This will be my life for the next 3 weeks, and it probably still won’t be enough. And I’m at the point where I’m losing any real-life friends I once had, because I’m getting scared to leave the house, as it seems like something bad happens every time I do. Though clearly the crap luck finds me at home too.

So it’s not the audit. It’s the fact that I was done with the IRS shit a few months ago, or so I thought, after dealing with it for several years, with them losing and misdirecting paperwork, erroneously freezing this account or that - in other words not knowing what the hell they were doing. I was done. Now this. And the fact that it comes along at just this time – that part makes me feel like Charlie Brown, where I think okay, this time I’ll kick that damn ball, and then fate comes along and yanks everything away and says ha, not so fast! You didn’t really think your life would improve slightly, did you? You fool.

I finally understand how hard the universe is working to destroy me. How much it hates me. That it's conspiring against me. And crushing me. Crushing my soul. And it's working.

What does this all mean? Right now, it means I have no hope left in me. I'm fat, surly, broke, single, beaten down, and tired. Very tired. It means I’m on the verge of giving up. I don’t know what that means exactly, other than that right now I don’t have it in me to write anything that approaches dry wit or is vaguely entertaining. The well is dry. That could change tomorrow, or next week, or never. I don’t know. I just know that until it does, I’m checking out.

The essence of it all

'Nuff said.

Job hunting with Miss Tasha

As we all know, yours truly is trying to eke out a bit more money from her hardscrabble existence, so that I can a) pay my bills, and b) keep Kona and Timmy in the style to which they’re accustomed. And those are not necessarily in the order of importance.

Plus, because I try to keep up-to-the-minute on any and all latest trends, it also occurs to me that there may be some of you out there in the blogosphere similarly looking for work in what has charitably been called a “challenging” job-hunting environment. So, as part of my mission to always offer the most helpful advice to my sixteens of readers, I’ll start sharing with you some gems of wisdom that you too can apply to your own job hunt. No need to thank me – that’s what I’m here for.

So, to begin. As I am always alert to any tips that I read in the paper, I was intrigued by a column in the Chicago Tribune the other day from their resident job search guru, about “creative” ways to handle the process. Okay, I can be on board with creative. This was the first tip:

Go to the coffee shop or the gym

Apparently one is supposed to go to these places and start chatting people up, those that you think look appropriately managerial. I guess that would be the frazzled people who come in early in the morning for their jolt of caffeine before they head off to their jobs? You know, as opposed to the unemployed folks who are actually hanging out in the gym or coffee shop all day.

“Go to a Starbucks or gym, for example, in a neighborhood where managers live and start conversations, asking managers about their businesses, listening for their needs and offering solutions.”

Because I am all about test-driving the unknown before I foist them on you, the unsuspecting public who isn’t as armed to handle catastrophe as I am, I decided to try this out this morning when I went to my local Starbucks for Kona’s scone and my coffee. Here’s how it went:

Starbucks Jesse, making another woman’s coffee before she gets to mine: Hey Tasha, how’s it going? Barbara, how are you?

Me: Where’s my coffee?! Ha, just kidding. Hey, I thought you were only friendly to ME, and now I see that you’re chit-chatting with everyone! What’s that all about?

Other woman, laughing: I think we’re both special, part of a select few.

Jesse: Yeah, that’s it!

Me: Hmm, okay then, I can live with that. (To other woman) So you’re getting a coffee before you head off to your high-powered job at some random company which is what exactly and would I perhaps want to work there because you know I’m really brilliant so you probably need not just someone like me but me specifically to help your company before it hits the skids, right?

I finish with my usual bright, winsome smile. For some reason, the woman grabs her coffee and bolts. Hmm. I guess I need to work on my delivery a bit.

Then there’s this tip:

Become a stalker

Okay, so it doesn’t say that exactly, but that’s the gist of it. No, seriously.

“If you have a specific company or job in mind, try parking lots in office parks and warehouse districts. Hang out at conference hotels and choose seats on trains and in airports next to people with laptops.”

The part about sitting next to people at airports with laptops will have to wait until my next flight, but I’m looking forward to that one. I speak from experience here, but there’s nothing that a business traveler working on that all-important presentation appreciates more than a crazed job-seeker sitting next to them firing questions. So I’ll report back on that.

As for hanging out in company parking lots, this morning I had to go to the grocery store, so I decided I would take the synergistic approach and swing by the WGN building on my way. They’re a tv station – surely they need good writers for the stuff their on-air people blather about, right? Story or research people? Sure.

So I head on over, and realize mistake #1: since it’s 10AM, most people have already gotten to work, and the only parking is waaay off in the distance. Well, most legal parking. Since that clearly won’t do for my purposes, I just pull up in the emergency lane so that I can see people right as they walk in or out of the building. And wait. And wait some more. Damn, it’s cold. I finally see someone peek his head out…but no, it looks like it’s just security. I’ve started the car to keep warm, and am blasting some Shinedown to keep myself entertained, when I see someone in some kind of uniform headed outside towards my car. I’m sure he’s just bringing me coffee or something – after all, aren’t all of us lowly cogs in the corporate wheel in this together? – but I suddenly remember my need to be elsewhere, so I drive off. I think I’ll have to try this again in summer, when it’s a bit warmer. I’m sure that’ll make all the difference.

As always, I will report back.

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.

What crazy feels like

I was fine after finding a lump in my breast (note: not “boobie”) last Saturday. Really, just fine. Until I remembered that at my last mammo, they kept calling me back for more films, where they were focusing on some seeming abnormality – right in the spot where I had just discovered this seeming lump. Hmm. Thus the rest of the weekend was as follows:

Saturday, mid-afternoon

Kona and Timmy are roughhousing, as usual, and as usual Timmy winds up bonking me in the lip with his hard little Dobie head. Dammit, that hurts. As I’m feeling my lip to see if it’s bleeding, I start bawling. Bawling! Not quite in a Nancy-Kerrigan-why-me kind of way, but in an

“I don’t understand what the fuck went wrong with my life somewhere along the way – here I am, old, single, broke, alone, with cancer, can’t find work – what the fuck? How did it all end up this way? I know life’s not fair, but this is just fucking ridiculous”

sort of way. I am just a bundle of cheer today, yes sirree.

Saturday, later afternoon

My friend “Stan” (aka Keith) calls me back, to give me a hard time as usual.

Stan: Blah blah blah. So what’s new?
Me: Same shit, different day. Aren’t you keeping up with All Things Tasha by reading my blog?
Stan: I’ve been on the road for work – I’m not exactly hooked up to a computer all the time. I haven’t even checked my emai….
Me, interrupting: Email, schmemail – I don’t care about that stuff. But you should be reading my blog religiously, like all those who truly love me do.
Stan: Okay, I’ll read it, and send you a dollar every time I do, how’s that?
Me: That would work, I guess. So in addition to my usual sucky life, I found another lump. I’m doomed.
Stan: Uh oh, that’s not good.
Me: Yes, so as I was putting away my Christmas ornaments, I was thinking of the one you gave me, the cute fishie with the pouty lips. So cute. (sigh) I just hope I’m around next year to put it on a tree again.
Stan: Oh, don’t say that!
Me: Yeah, I guess that’s a bit morbid. Hey, where are you? I hear rustly sounds in the background.
Stan: I’m on a Metra train.
Me: Oh, awesome! Now you can be one of those loud people having inappropriately personal conversations on your cell phone. “WHAT’S THAT YOU SAY ABOUT THE CANCER? IT MIGHT BE BACK? IS DEATH IMMINENT?”
Stan: There’s only one other person on the train.
Me: Oh, damn. That’s not quite the same. So if anything happens to me, will you make sure my awesome Christmas ornaments and my Helga picture go to good homes?
Stan: Okay, that’s it. You know what? Cancer won’t have a chance to kill you, because I will.

Saturday evening

Whee! I discover a bottle of margarita mix with the tequila already added in the frig! This constitutes a joyful evening here, folks. I of course post something about it on Facebook, and immediately, my CancerChick girls are right there to join me in teledrinking. In fact, Kim and Melinda are there with the telebottles of wine – and then Noreen joins us. Yay, par-tay!

2 hours later

Me: Sniffle, I loooves you girls! You’re the only ones who understands me, sob. Here’s to the sisterhood! Hiccup…

To be continued…..