Save the Tatas

December 24, 2008 · Filed Under Breast Cancer Stories

A few days before Christmas Ed and I set out to do one of my least favorite things, shop. We ended up buying a bottle of fish oil pills, a digital camera for my mother and decided we would give money to a charity instead of buying junky stuff that no one on our lists wants or needs. I gleefully declared my shopping done. Whew!

Leaving the busy parking lot, Ed and I pulled behind a car with a special breast cancer license plate,
the kind that cost 25 bucks extra each year, the additional proceeds going to the plates stated cause. This plate has a big pink ribbon on the left of the tall, black, block letters, and I know from considering purchasing one, that along the bottom it said, “Early Detection Saves Lives.” Buying a breast cancer plate is above and beyond the more common, less costly magnetic pink ribbon commitment to support breast cancer research. I assumed therefore, the driver had a compelling reason to extravagantly identify themselves as a supporter of early breast cancer detection. Impressed, I tried to get a better look at the person behind the wheel. I could not see much, just a dark silhouette. I glanced back at the plate looking for any clues to who this was, and wondered if we were connected by survivor-hood. The car was registered in June. On top of their black plate cover, in bold caps, stamped in hot pink, framed by two pink ribbons was “Save the tatas!”.

“What THE … ?” I huffed, “Save the tatas? Well! How about cutting the dammed things off to save your life?” I exclaimed in overblown indignation.

Ed noting my disapproval wisely nodded his agreement and piled on, “You can’t see the state. The frame is covering it. What’s the fine? $150?”

He’s right. The frame completely obscured “ARIZONA,” in clear violation of a new law prohibiting concealing the state name (or other information). She’s a lawbreaker, too!

I’m irked not only by that, but she is sending the wrong message and in such a frivolous way. “TATAS!”
As she pulled away, I hoped she would be stopped by a cop who would be hard-nosed enough to ticket her — at least $150. In using the plate frame she was masking, not only “ARIZONA” but the important message — “Early detection saves lives.”

I supposed she had not given a thought to the women who find they have the breast cancer gene and willingly sacrifice their “tatas” for a better chance at a cancer-free life and I wondered if the frame was a gift. I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, perhaps her naive child, boob-loving husband, or air-head best friend gave it to her. Yes, I wanted to believe she installed it only in respect for the sentiment.

Years ago my car wore a bumper sticker that I did not agree with. It was slapped on the rear end of my car to pay my son for his improved grades. I think he was in third grade, and not doing as well in school as he was able. He had made a deal with me, if he brought home a stellar report card he could put a bumper sticker he had bought on my car. It said, “My kid beat up your honor student.” Not exactly the message I would have chosen to drive around town, but I understood it was a weird sort of payback for him. He had always been a honor student. In second grade, before he had had enough and drew a line in the sand, he had suffered a stint of physical abuse by a couple of thugs who were his classmates. I suppose the bumper sticker was his way of running a public awareness campaign that smart kids often get pummeled by mini-ruffians. To my dismay, he found it hysterical when other drivers honked giving me lock-jawed glares of disapproval wagging their fingers at me. Angry drivers who saw him in the car spared shaking fists or one finger salutes that the sticker instigated when I was alone. I was even confronted in parking lots. I would stutter, trying to explain myself, “But … My son is the honor student. He is the one who … .” They would end their hissy fit with some nasty comment directed toward me and my bumper sticker as I slunk back into my car and steeled myself for the next honor student parent or gifted teacher outrage. Finally, after what was thankfully a very short life for a bumper sticker, someone wisely scraped it from my car while it was parked at the grocery store. I was thus released from my promise.

I thought about the plate cover and my old sticker as I lay in bed that night. I imagined getting up, slipping on my black running pants, black pullover, black watch cap and smearing my face and hands with black shoe polish. I could grab a wrench and a screwdriver and Ninja-like head out to relieve the woman of her embarrassing “Save the tatas” plate cover.