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.

Being Goofy

Thursday night

After the optimal pre-race dinner at Chick-Fil-A (where the regular typical fast food workers must be on strike or something, because the Hospitality Manager was walking around the place asking us if we needed anything, offering us after-dinner mints, etc.), I go to bed strategizing mightily and visualizing success for my “A” race the next day: the Up Disney 5K Fun Run. This is what it all comes down to, people, leaving it all out there and showing what you’re made of in the face of true adversity. Courage.

Friday morning

We get to sleep in today, because unlike the other races where the last shuttle to the race start leaves at 4AM, today it’s not until 5. And it’s still relatively balmy here in Florida – in the 30s at least. Gee, I’m almost too warm in my six layers of clothing.

After we buy our $3 cups of lukewarm coffee, we wander around the Up race start, and I for one am constantly running my race strategy through my head, which is basically the following: run fast, unless there’s something to take a picture of. As I'm concentrating on the challenge ahead, Deanna and Jillian are laughing about something, looking at the decorations, and it’s just that kind of lack of seriousness that separates the serious athletes like me from, well, everyone else. But I do take a moment to stop to chat with the EMTs, huddling outside in the cold. Always helps to be on the good side of the people who might possibly have your life in their hands later.

Me to EMT: So are you ready for a lot of potential casualties at the Up 5K? Lot of running injuries? Overexertion? Hyponatremia?
EMT guy: Well, we’re hoping we’re ready. It could get ugly out there.
EMT woman: Yep, you never know. You’re racing today?
Me: Yeah, this is my A race. I was originally planning on doing the Goofy as well, but if it’s going to be 26 degrees all weekend, and they’re talking about sleet and hail tomorrow, then that’s not gonna happen. I can’t run in the cold.
EMT woman: Oh, you should run! We’re out there all 3 days, you could stop by and say hi.
Me: Well, I’ve done the Goofy before a couple of times, so I know it’s fun, but I seriously can’t run in the cold.
EMT guy: You should run, it’s fun! Except when we’re prying people off the ground who can’t walk any longer, but other than that.
EMT woman: Get gloves and a scarf and bundle up – you’ll be okay!
Me: I have my Goofy medals already and I have poor circulation in my hands and feet so they’ll pretty much freeze instantly and then I’ll just be hobbling along and I never get warm when I run, and….and……I have cancer!

Yep, finally had to pull that ol’ chestnut out to get these really nice people to understand that the whole running thing in the cold is NOT going to happen. I would wheeze and suck in air in my pre-cancer days when it was cold – now, post-radiation which seems to have trashed my lungs, I basically start hyperventilating and wind up with chest pains. So really, just not a good idea.

That of course gets me the sympathetic looks, when I explain the bit about rads, though Deanna is smirking and rolling her eyes as usual.

Me: Deanna of course thinks I should suck it up – she’s just jealous that I have The Cancer and she actually has to run this Goofy stuff. No cancer excuses for her!
EMT guy: Sucks to be her, huh?
Me: I’ll make sure she looks for you guys tomorrow – we have to get to the start corral, our A race is about to start!

We head over to the start, and once that gun goes off, we’re off and running! Well, shuffling, actually. Trying to not step on too many small children, or laugh too hard at adults who have race belts chock full o’ many flasks of their sports liquid and an oddly large number of gels. For a 5K. Hmm, maybe I’m missing something here…..

Our race is going along beautifully until we hit Epcot. And realize that we have an opportunity to time travel from one country to another in rapid succession, while taking pictures of it all to record these moments. This puts us off our pace, but when else do you get a chance to go from Morocco to Canada in mere minutes?

We then stop when we see our friends the EMTs.

Me: Hey, fancy meeting you guys here!
EMT guy: Hey, how’s it going? How’s the cancer doing?
Me: Not bad, I’m battling it as we speak, fighting the good fight and all that!

Then it’s off to Bavaria and Fiji and Japan and Mexico. Whew! What a whirlwind tour! And finally, the finish line, where Deanna throws the gauntlet in front of us in the form of an Extreme Challenge:

Deanna: Hey guys, look at the clock! If we hustle, we can finish in less than an hour!

Now, normally I would scoff at the very idea of such amazing feats of strength, but I think we were all feeling a bit of the Disney magic in us that day, and so we dug deep down inside ourselves to where insanity lies, gave it everything possible…..and finished our Fun Run 5K in just under an hour. I know what you’re thinking, and all I can say is this – don’t try this at home yourselves. Fair warning.

The rest of the weekend, I proudly wear my 5K medal, noting the admiring glances from others. Whenever possible, I work into the conversation my stellar PR for the race – which is absolutely true, since it occurs to me that this was my first ever 5K. How that happened, I’m not quite sure, but at least now I’ve left a small window of opportunity open for a faster time next time, if such a thing is even possible.

And in deciding to not do the Goofy, it’s interesting that the lone time I decide to NOT be a total dumbass about something, as is my wont, my friends all give me a hard time about it.

“What? You’re not running? Wimp!”
“Just bundle up!”
“Don’t be such a pansy!”
“Sissy!”

Finally I decide to dispense with the long explanation – that I have poor circulation in my hands and feet and can’t handle this kind of cold no matter how much I bundle up, that I’d be miserable, would never get warm, etc., and just wind up bellowing at people –

“Seven weeks of radiation, people! Lungs shot! Can’t run in the fucking cold! Can’t breathe!”

Though I do find that if I just mention the “can’t breathe’ thing firmly and matter-of-factly enough, I don’t have to pull out the big guns that often, at least not until I’m at the point of total exasperation. Though when one dear friend did ask me “But don’t you want your Goofy medals?” – I wound up replying thusly:

“Yes, I’d love my third set of Goofy medals. I’d also like to not wind up in an ambulance after hyperventilating and not being able to breathe and passing out, because that would kind of suck.”

That got the point across – and this is a friend who can say whatever she wants to me, and it’ll always be okay, because I know her heart is in the right place. Muah.

The only person who does laud my new brilliance in having a lick of sense, which is so unlike me, is Annette, who I speak to on Friday night:

Annette: How’s the racing going?
Me: Great! We had an awesome 5K today!
Nettie: Are you all doing the Goofy then?
Me: Deanna’s doing it all, Jillian’s doing the half, I’m sticking with the 5K, since it’s going to hail tomorrow and be 26 degrees, same on Sunday without the hail.
Nettie: Outstanding! Good for you – that’s definitely the way to do it!

I always knew those South Africaners were a brilliant people, and Nettie proves that quite well.

In the end, Jillian kicked ass on the half, Deanna kicked ass on the Goofy and made it all look easy, and me? I did my 5K Fun Run, and can honestly say that that was the most fun I’ve ever had doing a race, hands down. Must be that Disney magic – or the company I was keeping…...

Whose brilliant idea was this again?

Thursday

Of course the snowstorm starts just as I leave my house to go pick up Deanna. And of course our fine mayor, still bitter over the loss of the Olympics and the fact that the people aren’t embracing his sellout of every parking spot in the city, sees no reason to send salt trucks out onto those snowy streets, so I see several spinouts and crashes just in the short ride to Deanna’s place. But eventually we make it to the airport, where I’m sure I’ll sail through with no problems, since I have neither Foob tucked into my bra, nor a packet of explosives tucked anywhere.

Woe to me for underestimating the AirTran counter lady.

Griselda the AirTran demonlady: Your passport is expired.
Me: Yes, well, here’s my increasingly crumpled piece of paper.
GAD: Don’t you have something else? Social security card, your birth certificate?
Me: Umm, I don’t usually carry my birth certificate around with me.
GAD: I can’t let you fly without some kind of government-issued document.
Me: That crumpled piece of paper, that is a government-issued document.

Now, luckily I’m secure in the knowledge that she can’t stop me, since I know thanks to the Googles that I don’t actually need an ID to get on the plane, though I might be flagged for extra screening. But for some reason, all this infuriates GAD, as she goes to check with her supervisor, talks to her, is apparently informed that she can’t stop me, and then comes back over. Where she kicks my suitcase a few times, apparently trying to get it over the weight limit so I have to pay even more to check my bag. Ha, no dice, bitch. The best she can do is write “expired passport” on my boarding pass. Puh, that’s the best you can do? Please.

We leave Griselda and go to run the TSA gauntlet. I get to my guy, and he almost doesn’t notice the passport thing – but then he sees where GAD scribbled on my boarding pass.

TSA dude: Your passport is expired, huh?
Me: Yep, and see, I have this ticket instead of my driver’s license.
TSA dude: Do you have some other forms of ID?
Me: Sure, what do you need? Something with a picture?
TSA dude: No, it doesn’t have to have a picture, since I have your passport picture.
Me: Okay, how about credit card? Visa? Or here, my Jewel card?
TSA dude: Do you have anything else?
Me: Hmm….oh, I know, here’s my car insurance card!
TSA dude: Perfect. AmFam, huh?
Me: Yep, my agent’s great. You have them too?
TSA dude: Car and house, you got it. Here you go, have a great trip!

And I’m on my way. So thus far in my travels I’ve learned that I can get through security with a bomb made of titanium, and an expired passport if I have American Family insurance, so that TSA dude and I can bond over that. Good to know.

After our plane is de-iced twice, we manage to take off in the small window of opportunity that exists in this blizzard…..and several hours later, arrive in Florida where the cold rivals that of Chicago. Though at least there’s no snow. Yet.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard a weatherman as angry as the guy on that evening’s news: “Bitterly cold tomorrow, with a high of 44 and a low of 26. This is ridiculous!”

Sigh.

The sound of fury, cont.

When we last saw our plucky heroine - me - she was railing against the injustices of the world, one of which involves vapid asshat tenants who’ve damaged the apartment they were renting from her, yet somehow believe the magic Apartment Faeries will be by to fix things. Right.

So, as security guard/officer is moving towards me, I dodge past him and dart out – and here’s where my intense training comes in handy – and stride briskly towards the elevators, even as I hear a “Miss! Miss! Hey…..” behind me. My hearing, it is not so good anymore, so who can blame me for continuing to walk?

Of course, once I get in the elevator, I start kicking the side panel. That is, after I pound on the buttons to get me back to the lobby, so I can walk over to the OTHER elevator bank to get back up to my original floor. Kick kick kick. Have I mentioned yet that I’m in a federal building? Pound. Kick. Hell hath no fury like a woman getting screwed over, as they say.

I get into my other elevator, and of course as the doors close, a couple of people come meandering in. Fine. Hurry up already. Then this keeps happening. What, like there aren’t 12 other elevators here for all you slow-walking, strolling lollygaggers to choose from? And they are strolling towards the elevator, continually getting the doors to re-open just as they’re almost closed. Finally, I can’t take it anymore.

“Oh, come ON! Sure, why doesn’t EVERY SINGLE PERSON in this building STUFF into THIS elevator?”

Yes, I say this out loud. Suddenly things get vewwy vewwy quiet in the elevator, as no one dares say a word to me. One guy looks over, sees my fulminating glare and the Fuck Cancer hat, and quickly looks down. That’s right buddy. Just don’t fucking mess with me, okay?

I get back to the first room, have to wait in line again, then finally it’s my turn with my original hapless clerk.

Me, snarling, as I slap the papers down in front of him: How do I pay? Apparently having tens of thousands of dollars in cancer bills isn’t enough for these people!

Hapless clerk: You’re a survivor?

Me: Unless I have a coronary in the next 10 minutes, I guess you could say so.

HC: Oh, well, congratulations, that’s great! And they wouldn’t waive the fee?

Me: No! Can you believe that?

HC: That’s not right.

Me, slightly mollified since he’s being all sympathetic: I know! So when these idiots, my former tenants, lose their court case, what papers do I need to file a counter-suit?

HC: You can pick those up across the hall. Good luck! Keep surviving!

Slightly less grumpy – though we’re talking one grade down from nuclear level now – I go over to the cashier line and wait there.

Friendly older Indian gentleman hapless clerk: Next! And how are you today miss?

Me, bitingly, again slamming the papers down in front of him: Oh, I’ve had better days, trust me.

Though I didn’t want to be totally rude, so I add:

Me: And how are you doing today?

FOIGHC: Oh, I am well. I do not let things trouble me, as it is not worth it.

Me: That’s great – you probably don’t have clown former tenants wasting your time and money like this. Say, how do I get the court date changed? I’ll be out of town on that date, the 7^th.

FOIGHC: The date cannot be changed usually – you can send someone in your place.

Me, getting back up to nuclear level again: Oh SURE, like I’ll find someone who wants to go to small claims court for me. Are you serious??

FOIGHC: You can go across the hall to fill out a form to see if it can be changed.

Me: Fine, I’ll do that. (slight pause) What??

He’s looking down at my passport, looking up at me, looking down, up. Opens his mouth to say something, stops. Clearly reluctant to speak.

Me: What?!

FOIGHC: Miss, I am sorry….but your passport is expired.

So I can make it through airports without them noticing or caring, yet here when I’m trying to pay some ridiculous fee, this is a problem??

“Oh for chrissa……fine, here! Have a crumpled piece of paper then!” I snarl, slamming it down. (Yes, this could be known as The Day of Snarling and Slapping Down Papers.)

That works for him, so we finish up pleasantly enough, and I go across the hall to fill out more papers and wait in line yet again. I’d like to know, when I ask the judge to make bitchwhore Casey Moll pay my fees, can I factor in the huge timesuck that this has all been?

Apparently the “change the court date” concept is a gambit used by some people to put off court indefinitely, because the clerk is amazed when I tell him that yes, I can show up for a continuance hearing on the 5^th or 6^th – I just can’t make the 7^th. So that’s done, but now I have to go to the post office to send bitchwhore a notification of this via registered mail. Though of course first I need to go put another gazillion dollars in the damn parking meter. And it’s still blizzarding.

I can only park at this meter until 4PM, so after I pay, I have a tough decision to make: go to the Thompson Center to send registered mail, or to the outdoor Chriskindlmarket for some glogg? I won’t have time for both. And actually, not a tough decision at all. When I get to the Market I accost the first people I see who look like they’re holding a warm cup of something.

“That looks like it’s glogg,” I bark. “Where’d you get it? I need a drink, now...”

“Right around the corner at that booth,” they reply. “It’s really good!”

“Excellent – thanks!”

I get my glogg, then go to stand in the potato pancake line. The woman in front of me idly glances at me, looks at the FC hat twice, then smiles. After I get my pancakes, we wind up sharing the same little table nearby, in the snow and bluster. Ahhh……it’s amazing how a bit of warm festive alcohol - not to mention piping hot potato pancakes - can instantly improve a person’s mood.

Me, expansively, to the guy with the woman who was in front of me in line: That’s a Hawks hat, isn’t it?

Guy: It is! Most people don’t recognize it, since it’s just the symbol from the sleeve of their jerseys.

Woman: By the way, I like your hat.

Me: Thanks!

Woman: At first I thought it said Fuck Cancun, like you were embracing the harsh elements: “Bring on the snow and sleet! Who needs warmth?!” Then I looked again and realized what it said – that’s even better!

Me: Fuck Cancun – that’s a great idea. I should start an offshoot company, personalized hats that say “Fuck whatever”!

Woman: Absolutely!

And as we stand there chatting happily in the glow of the twinkling Christmas tree lights and amidst the festive German Christmas music, I feel my frozen little heart start to thaw out, as I vow, as god is my witness, to make sure the bitchwhore gets a day in court like no other, buried under pictures and other evidence galore. My mood thus lifted, I go buy some more vegetable ornaments to go along with my potato from last year, swig down some more glogg…and make a wide berth around the federal building before I get the hell out of Dodge. No sense taking any chances.

The unbending fury of a thousand suns

So I had to go downtown yesterday yet again to the Daley Center, thanks to asshat former tenant Casey Moll and the small claims court thing, and the fact that the court date was originally set for tomorrow. You know, when I’ll be out of town. As I walked into the federal building, my eyes darted around surreptitiously – would there be a wanted poster? An APB? Or something more subtle, like alarms blaring as soon as I walked in, thanks to my less-than-successful day the LAST time I was here?

But I get ahead of myself. Let’s go back to that halcyon day in late December…

(cue too-doo-loo Wayne’s World music)

December 23

It’s blizzarding outside, and I have to head downtown, in the windy, pelting snow. Fantastic. Why? Well you see, gentle reader(s), Miss Tasha has supremely bad luck when it comes to tenants living in the upstairs apartment of her 2-flat. There were the idiots who drilled huge holes in the wall to run cable into every room, then there was deadbeat tenant Katherine Hart who trashed the place and skipped out on the rent. The latest crop of ne’er-do-wells were the Springer Girls. Yes, 3 girls in their 20s, all of whom worked for the Jerry Springer Show. That should have been tipoff right there, huh? Duh.

Anyway – they were your typical useless tenants for the 2 years they lived here – never paid rent on time, couldn’t change a light bulb, always left the common lights on, broke the back storm door because they couldn’t be bothered to close it, etc. But finding new tenants is a hassle, so after warning them that they’d be racking up late fees because of the rent issue, I let it all go.

Then they move out. And I discover that not only did they paint the walls garish colors (brown, bright green, maroon), poorly at that, but they caused a lot of other damage and left a lot of junk behind and filth, for which I had to hire people to a) get rid of stuff, and b) clean. And my favorite? They put a fucking HUGE HOLE in the formerly pristine 100-year-old hardwood floor.

So call me crazy, but they didn’t get all of their security deposit back. I would have kept the whole damn thing, but one of them didn’t pay the last month’s rent. So I kept 2/3rds, far less than what the actual damages were. And while I seriously thought about taking them to small claims court myself, I didn’t want to deal with the hassle factor, nor pay the fee to file, which in IL is a couple of hundred bucks.

Now, since we’re talking about spoiled, overprivileged brats here who’ve apparently always had their daddies take care of everything for them, and who don’t realize that when you trash the apartment you live in you have to suffer the consequences – one of them decided that SHE would file in small claims. WTH? I mean, how do people even think they can get away with this shit??

From what I could decipher from all the legal mumbo-jumbo on these documents, I needed to go downtown by December 24th to file…something. I somehow got the impression that I needed to file my supporting documents, so I run around getting pictures printed of the damage, writing things up, etc. And head downtown, in the aforementioned blizzard. Looking on the bright side, I figure while I’m there I’ll get this crap taken care of and then head to the Christkindl Market for some glogg and potato pancakes, since I’m, umm…..carb-loading, yeah, that’s it. Carb-loading. Eating potato pancakes only under duress.

I get to room 1601, where I see signs about paying some $168 fee. Hmm. I had better not have to fucking pay that, or this is going to get ugly.

I have to pay that fee.

Me, furious, talking to hapless clerk: What? You’ve got to be kidding me! If I could have paid that, I would have filed the suit in the first place!
Hapless clerk: Sorry miss, but you can file these papers to waive the fee.
Me, muttering, snatching the papers from him: Give me those. You people have got to be kidding me….

I fill them out, all this stuff about income last year and expenses, etc., then make my way through elevator hell and trudge over to the other office via the other elevator bank. The rage is building, that I even have to waste time on all this bullshit thanks to some spoiled indulgent brats.

Office 1305 – I go in, and a man who looks amazingly like Dwayne from The Office – or the stapler guy from Office Space – finally looks up.

Dwayne: Do you have a picture ID?
Me: Sur…
Dwayne, interrupting me: Yes or no!!!
Me: Yes!

You know, you watch shows like The Office and think, there can’t possibly be actual people like that, such caricatures – and then you meet someone like Dwayne here at the Daley Center, and realize….oh yes. Yes there can be. As Dwayne shuffles through my papers, asking a few questions about expenses and such, I idly look at his desk to see if there’s a red stapler. There isn’t – but there is a bamboo plant, a snowglobe, and of course a beanie baby. Really. And anyone else who comes in gets the same “Yes or no!!” barked at them – so at least he’s consistent, in a very scary way. He finally sends me off to wait in the hallway.

Another 20 minutes pass, and I’m called in with 2 guys, where Dwayne almost seems reluctant to tell us the bad news.

Dwayne: I’m sorry, but none of you got your fees waived.
Me, shocked: What?? How is that possible? I had negative income last year – and all those expenses!
Dwayne: The judge only looks at income compared to the official poverty level income.
Me: WHAT? Then what was the point of writing down all those expenses?

The two other guys haven’t said a word to this point, but the little thought bubbles over their heads are pretty obvious: “Boy, this white girl is gonna get herself arrested!” They clearly think I’m insane.

Dwayne: The decision is based on the off….
Me: Oh, WHATEVER! Give me those papers already!
Dwayne: If any of you can’t pay the fee now, you can have another week to pa…
Me, snarling, as the 2 guys are shaking their heads about paying: I’ll pay now! I’m not stretching this garbage out!

There’s silence as Dwayne scribbles some denial verbiage on my papers, and as I snatch them out of his hand as he holds them out, I notice out of the corner of my eye a security guard standing off to the side. No matter. My rage transcends such mundane details. Let’s be clear that it’s not the money as much as it is the fucking principle of the thing – again, that I have to deal with this shit because of these asshat bitches who TRASHED THE APARTMENT. What. The. Hell. Have I mentioned anytime recently just how tired I am of this kind of shit?? Of being taken advantage of by self-centered irresponsible vapid asshats??

Of course I have one final sally as I turn around to head out of this office.

“And you know, my TENS OF THOUSANDS of dollars in medical bills from cancer THANK THE JUDGE!” I yell.

Really, I yell this. And start to stalk out, as I notice the security guy starting to move forward, while the 2 guys? I believe their mouths are hanging open at this point……

(to be continued)

(P.S. Low for Orlando for Saturday is now 26. I am not making this up.)

A matter of degrees

27. Yep, forecast now says it’ll be 27 flipping degrees in Orlando this Saturday morning. Or more likely 23, since it’s dropping a degree a day. As it is, we’re flirting with breaking the record low of 26 set in 1970. And let’s not forget that it’ll be a RealFeel temp of 14, thanks to the wind chill. Have I mentioned yet that next Wednesday, the day after we leave, it’s going to be 70? Of course. How could it be otherwise?

I do like the summation by accuweather.com though:

Winter of 2009-2010 Could be Worst in 25 Years

“Brutally cold conditions are gripping nearly the entire eastern half of the country, including Florida. Temperatures this extreme have not been experienced since 1985.”

Naturally. By the way, Farmer’s Almanac, who predicted a “milder than usual” winter? Yeah, you. You suck.

59. That’s the temperature in the house right now, as Kona is buried under a blanket on the couch. Though the 59 is a huge improvement from earlier, thanks to the fine folks at Williams Stoker & Heating, who I called this morning and who got the friendly and efficient Robert out here by 4:30PM. Now, in between there, a couple came over to adopt Bell, and the husband took a look at the furnace to make sure it wasn’t just a simple matter of lighting the pilot light. It wasn’t. So at least I didn’t have to feel like a total idiot for calling the heating guys.

In any case, Robert fixed the thermocoupler - for a pittance, no less - and we’re back in business, warming up steadily albeit slowly.

Thus my question for you today, my elevens of readers, is this: do I have insanely shitty luck, or is this a sign of brilliant things to come? Because yes, it sucked to have no heat today, but how much more would it have sucked if the furnace conked out on, say, Thursday? You know, the day I go out of town. And with my tenant not moving in until later this month, and only here on weekends to paint and such. (Note to burglars: this place is burglar alarmed to the hilt, so don’t even think about it.) So the earliest she would have noticed that this place had frozen over would probably have been Saturday. All while we’re in the midst of a bitter cold snap. So not only would my tenant have had to try to deal with the no heat issue – but the pipes here surely would have frozen and burst, and I don’t even want to imagine what a nightmare that would have been.

I’m so confused. Can’t the powers that be just send me a message in a fortune cookie or something (i.e. the usual way messages from the universe are passed along) so that I know what’s to expect?

And one last oddity –my horoscope for today: “Something to do with your home routine or your family situation will be a bit of a surprise today. It could be very minor, like burning the toast or running out of coffee. Unexpected company could drop by.”

Okay, so the furnace breaking down wasn’t too minor, but still, that’s just weird (cue Twilight Zone music)...

So much for 2010

I wake up this morning thinking hmm, it's awfully chilly in here. Which is what happens when it's 54 degrees in the house (20 below outside, natch) and the heater has conked out. So I do some googling ("how to light a furnace pilot light without killing yourself"), give it a shot, and verdict is.........nothing! Whee! Hmm, maybe I shouldn't have so soundly mocked and then refused to take the Snuggie that my mom gave me for Christmas....

It tells you something - though I'm not sure what - that one of my first thoughts was shit, Bell will be cold, I'll have to bundle her up and make sure she stays in the back sunroom with the electric heater. (Kona is off at daycare.) So far though she thinks our going up and down to and from the basement is a grand adventure, so that's good.

And of course today I was supposed to go downtown for my pre-Rackotomy (January 18th) blood tests - can't do that now. And of course this afternoon I need to be at the Daley Center to get the small claims court date moved because of former tenant bitchwhore Casey Moll. So if the furnace repair guys can't come before then, they'll come after - at an overtime charge of course.

I will say this now though - if I actually need a new fucking furnace, which would run thousands of dollars - then I truly do give up.

Gee, thanks Florida. Thanks a lot.

I’m leaving for Florida this Thursday to do the Goofy Challenge with Deanna and Jillian. The Goofy being the half-marathon on Saturday and a marathon on Sunday, all through Disney parks, with the added challenge of dodging massive numbers of the Purple Menace, all of whom have synchronized their watches for their run-walk program so that they all come to a screeching halt right in front of you as you’re attempting to run, such that you keep crashing into them and falling flailing into a ditch. Not that I’ve ever done that of course.

The other problem is that my strict running regiment peaked on oh, about June 21st or so, give or take, and it’s been a long taper since then. Granted, I have been doing my usual Ramping Up, so I figured I’d give the whole thing a shot – but that was before I checked the weather forecast for Orlando for this upcoming week. Excuse me, the fucking weather forecast. Because as usual, the temperature in FL is inversely proportional to my arrival. So right now the temperature is dropping, and by this Saturday? 29 flipping degrees in the morning. No, wait, 29 was the forecast when I checked earlier today. I just checked it again – now it’s 28 flipping degrees. That means it’ll be 28 when these races start, because they all start at 5AM so that they can clear us out of the parks before the masses of humanity show up at the gates, clamoring for their motorized carts and funnel cakes with 10 scoops of ice cream on top. And god forbid we should stand in their way.

So back to this 28 degrees. Have I noted here before that Miss Tasha does NOT do cold? I believe I have. And have I mentioned that I put “cold” as, say, 62 degrees? I think so. So can we guess what the chances are that come Saturday, this brisk, freezing-my-ass-off Saturday, Miss Tasha will still be snugly ensconced in her warm hotel room, debating at what time she should go scare herself up a waffle in the shape of Mickey? Umm, yeah. No contest there.

Speaking of travel, given that the Rackotomy is scheduled for January 18th (hint: bon-bons), which would be two weeks from today (or Fannie May, they have great chocolate too), I kind of wanted to take Foob with me to Florida (chocolate speeds the healing process, I’ve been told), to test him out in the real world, so to speak (January 18th). The real world being the land of halter tops.......layered under several sweaters and a parka. Now, I was going to tuck Foob into my bra as usual – and let me remind us all that Foob is also known around these parts as Sack-o-Flour – and then had a vision of this little scenario playing out at security. Namely, me bundled up like the Michelin Man, wearing the FC hat, still with the sunglasses on thanks to FBE, with a plastic bag half full of flour tucked into my bra. Hmm. This does give me momentary pause. And yet...?

Komen, still on crack

So I went running this morning – actually, I was driving, but I was visualizing running so that’s basically the same thing - when I start hearing on the radio the words “3 Day” and “Avon” blah blah blah. I quickly change the station, but first think to myself, what ho, now they’re having the pink hordes doing all that walking in the dead of winter? Is that really the smartest thing? (picturing a sea of frozen pink snuggies in one big clump.....)

And then I realize that no, they’re not walking in winter. They’re saturating the airwaves for their JUNE walk, meaning I have to listen to this shit for the NEXT SIX MONTHS. All the blather about how “everyone deserves a lifetime” and whatever moronic sayings they have, which always make me think – yes, this is true – so why the fuck all aren’t you guys doing anything about it?? You know, like funding research for studies on YOUNG WOMEN? I know, crazy selfish talk.

Plus, if this stuff annoys me, just think of what it does for the non-cancerous populace! If someone starts to beat me with a frozen ham one day because they see me as the living embodiment of these damn commercials, Komen, I’m coming after you.

And can’t someone find a damn cure already, just to stop all this fricking WALKING?? Sheesh.

One other thing – they’re now referring to their efforts as the “Breast Cancer Movement.” Which makes me wonder, are they working with the same ad agency that came up with the Blackhawks’ “Hockey Fights Cancer Awareness” slogan? Seems to me like the Komen people are missing a word (“Breast Cancer Awareness Movement” maybe? not that we're all not aware enough as it is) and the Blackhawks have an extra one (“Hockey Fights Cancer” perhaps?). I’m just sayin’.

I will note that I do have an MBA in Marketing and Strategic Management from Wharton.....so if any of you folks need some help with this stuff, you just let me know.

By god, we did it!

It’s not every day that the common people are able to come together on a task of such righteousness and moral strength as this one. Because as so often seems to happen in these troubled times, evil wins out over good, the bad guys prevail, batshit crazy trumps common sense.

Not this time.

Yes, I’m pleased to announce that in the poll noted in a previous post, we finally have a winner: Joe Lieberman was voted the winner over Glenn Beck as the Assclown of the Year for 2009! Hurrah, the people have spoken!

Again, I note that Lieberman is doing actual damage to the people he’s supposed to protect and serve, all while raking in millions from private interests such as oh, say, insurance companies. Pals with Aetna there much, Joe?

While Glenn Beck is just a bloviating windbag who isn’t worth paying any attention to. In fact, for many years no one did! Yep, he has a long history of not just drug and alcohol abuse/addiction, but also of being fired from one radio hosting job after another for a long line of tasteless stunts, like calling up a rival morning host’s wife, and mocking her recent miscarriage. Class act there. He’s like the idiot frat boy who suddenly finds himself in the spotlight for some inexplicable reason – listening to him is akin to learning about etiquette from Howard Stern.

Lieberman, on the other hand, is serious, at least about mucking things up as much as possible. And he’s in a position to do so, which makes him dangerous. And evil. Or maybe just retarded.

But in any case, the Assclown of the Year moniker is well-earned. Wear that crown proudly, Joe!

Let the sun shine in

I went to a NYE party last night, where I discovered this essential truth: my female friends are green with envy over my impending boob job. It’s true. And not only will I have the bodacious rack, but I also get the moral righteousness that goes with it. Think about it. Should anyone ever be enough of a cretin to make a comment along the lines of “Nice fake boobs there, eh?” – I then get to snarl at them that “Yeah, they’re great – too bad The Cancer is what made them necessary.” Then they get to totally feel like shit, and maybe in the process learn something about how rude it is to make judgmental comments about other people’s bodies. I like that.

I also decided, in speaking to people, that based on the glorious victory of my first annual FuCHTYP, another party will be in the offing, this time a “Bring Your Boobs!” par-tay. (Many thanks to Mary Beth for coming up with the name!) Guests will be able to interpret the BYB theme any way they wish – girls may choose to wear low-cut clothing, guys may decide to bring their cute yet clownish single (ahem) friends. Annette has dibs on the Jingle Jugs, so that she can recreate that marvel in cake format. I have the utmost faith in her mad cake-making-decorating skilz, not that there’s any pressure or anything, Nettie.

The possibilities are endless. This will probably be my birthday weekend, so please mark your calendars accordingly.

So it seems like a lot of people were glad to see the tail end of 2009 as it made its way out the door, and that it was a shitty year for many. Let’s see though – I think my summation of 2009 would have to be this: Not As Sucky as 2008! Because compared to that year, with The Cancer, the bike crash, the brain injury, the inability to work because of all of the above, 2009 was a veritable breeze. Not only were there my astonishing athletic achievements at IronSpud, but I also had the exciting adventure of driving out there and finding the wonder that is the Corn Palace, and then meandering through the Dakotas and hearing the Most Offensive Commercial Ever Created. Then to cap things off, I made it through the year without having to file for bankruptcy or losing my home, and then found out that FBE was in fact just a mysterious eye ailment rather than a brain tumor. So I’d say this year was basically an up.

My goals for 2010 are equally modest – I’d like to, say, not have my house burn down or anything else catastrophic, and keeping the “no brain tumor” streak alive would also be a good thing. Hey, never let it be said that I don’t know how to aim high.

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!