I used to think that mail carriers had it hard, what with the delivering the mail no matter what thing. That was before I started blogging, though. Now the postman can suck it up, because it's far worse being a blogger. I skip one day and my mother calls to make sure I'm not dead. Sheesh. Sometimes I skip a day. I've noticed that it doesn't seem to alter the rotation of the earth any, so I thought it was alright. But hey, it's nice to feel loved. Now, let me tell you what a moron I am. (That's why you came, right?) Saturday, I decided it was time to stop laying around like a slug and Go Do...
This won't be terribly long (ha! no, seriously) because it turns out that Darvocet makes me feel like ass. Or maybe the after-effects of anaesthesia make me feel like ass. More to the point: I agreed to let them stab me in the arm repeatedly, and I agreed to let them slice open my breast, but I do NOT remember agreeing to let them trap me on a very small boat on a very turbulent ocean. So, just a quick recap as I cling to the railing for dear life. Anyway! Hello! I am back, minus one "area of inflamed tissue" which has been sent for biopsy but the surgeon doesn't anticipate it will tell us...
Hey, thanks so much to everyone who had kind words in response to the last post. (I'm sure that Hucky is currently running himself ragged around two or three hundred wandering sheep. Also I'm guessing that from now on he'll get to have as many pig ears as he wants.) Anyway, I had myself a good cry this morning, then headed out to visit my friendly neighborhood surgeon and her crack team of dastardly mammographers. Not really. The mammo people don't belong to her, and they're not even all that dastardly. If we're gonna get technical, she's not really in my neighborhood, either. Okay, so that...
Are we sick of talking about my breasts yet? It's an epidemic, spreading like wildfire. My rack is the new bird flu. Seriously. My father called me on the phone this evening and we had an entire discussion about my boobs, including--as Dave Barry would say, I SWEAR I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP--his detailing for me a specialized kind of 3-D mammography machine that can perform tissue sampling without a doctor present. Yes. A boob biopsy robot. Thanks, Dad! Guess who I'll be calling tonight when I wake up screaming with nightmares about C-3PO coming at me with a hollow needle? I would like one for...
I'll confess that I'm disappointed; this morning's doctor's appointment didn't yield the acres of comedic material for which I'd hoped. Let's blame this on my HMO. They are not, strictly speaking, responsible, but I blame them for so many other things, why not this as well? So yes, the HMO is not only responsible for the continued struggle to fill my prescriptions in spite of their sacred formulary (read: cheap medications they'll consider covering), but somehow they took the funny right out of the exam room today. Those bastards. Oh, wait. There was that one thing. Dr. Maindoc is an elusive...
Phew. I'm feeling much better today. Well, I'm feeling crappy and humiliated, but MUCH BETTER. You know that saying about how when God closes a door, he opens a window? Well it's often like that in my life. Except more like, when one tragedy is averted, crushing embarrassment often steps in to take its place. Gosh, it's good to be me. Or not. But it's really the only life I know, so what the hell. Oh, did you want more information? I'm SO HAPPY you asked! Far be it from me to withhold details! Which, you know, might be a useful skill to develop if I want to limit some of these situations...
I have been meaning to give an update on the further adventures with the chiroquactor, and other things kept getting in the way. Plus, I think I was a little bit embarrassed to admit that... well... hang on; I'm getting ahead of myself. My neck is ALL BETTER. It moves everwhere it used to move, and it doesn't hurt. Ditto for my shoulder. So it's safe to say that the earnest little man with his sandals and dress socks and pogo stick in his pocket is on to SOMETHING. No, I don't think I would've improved on my own, as I waited quite a while after the accident to see him, in the first place....
Only, I haven't been to San Francisco in a very long time, and I'm pretty sure I didn't leave my heart there. There was this one VERY steep hill where I became momentarily convinced the car was going to go muffler over windshield and we were all going to die... I MAY have left a small piece of my stomach around there. But that's the only anatomy I possibly misplaced in the Bay Area. Nope, my version is "I shovelled my sanity away." And the story--as it so often does--starts with my typical opener: Hi, I'm a moron! The thing is, I've been making incredible progress in cleaning up around here....
My bed is calling me. It says "Sweet nothingness awaits you here! Come drool on my pillows and know bliss!" I'm slightly disturbed that it's talking to me, but as long as it says nothing about cookies, I'm down with the overall message. Cookies. I baked five different kinds of cookies for eight different teachers. Figure half a dozen of each kind for each teacher. That's... five times eight times six is... TOO MANY FREAKING COOKIES. Honestly, I have the biggest sweet tooth around, and after a solid day and a half of rotating cookies sheets in and out of the oven and preparing gift baskets I...
