Thanks For The Mammaries

"For my sister’s 50th birthday, I sent her a singing mammogram."
~ Steven Wright

A year ago my doctor encouraged me to get my first mammogram. I politely took a card for a clinic he recommended, then came home and discarded it into my pile of “Things To Do After Napping Gets Old” where it got lost among my petitions for school volunteering opportunities, bills and Michael’s coupons. At my recent visit, he was more insistent. “Did you get a mammogram yet? You need to get a mammogram. Here’s a place where you can get a mammogram. Will you go get a mammogram? YOU ARE OLD NOW, PROMISE ME YOU’LL MAKE AN APPOINTMENT FOR A MAMMOGRAM.” Not since my honeymoon had I encountered anyone so consumed with an activity concerning my breasts. He was so adamant about it that I began to feel as if ignoring him would be a serious mistake resulting in chemotherapy, so I came home and promptly made an appointment. I went on Friday.

I would like to start by saying that I was told a mammogram is not painful. I can’t remember who told me this, but I suspect whoever it was had shot up with heroin before their appointment, because nobody in their right freakin’ mind would say that a mammogram doesn’t hurt unless they have lightly coated their veins with an illegal substance first. “Take a deep breath and hold it,” the Nazi boob mutilator friendly lab technician instructed. This coaching proved to be unnecessary because, as it turns out, holding your breath comes naturally when someone is trying to extract your spleen out of your nipple in the name of early detection. The good news? I now know for a fact that I would look awesome with a neck lift.

Still, I can’t help but think that the Tower of London really missed out on this technology. And to THINK what Jack Bauer could do with this machine – the possibilities are endless. His female nemesis would be all, “I TOLD you Jack, I haven’t lactated in over a DECADE!” He’d crank it tighter, “TELL ME THE TRUTH!!!”

I don’t know, this all sounded funnier in my head.

Drew's Moral Dilemma

We are driving in the car and Drew says to me, "Mom? I'm trying to decide...if Anthony and Samantha were both hanging off the side of a cliff and I could only save one of them, who would I choose?"

I stare at him blankly. "I'm sorta hoping you're leaning towards your flesh and blood instead of the kid you met less than a year ago."

"Still," he defends. "It's a tough choice!"

He remains conflicted, which is why I'm steering Samantha away from ALL cliffs.

Greasing The Rusty Wheels

I don't get my camera out very often anymore, but I tend to get an itch when my friends have babies. Get a load of this beauty! Congratulations Kira, Clay, Tre, Max and Drew's sword-wielding equal, Raphael.

For Jessica, Because I'm Feeling Nice Today.

I was minding my own business...actually, scratch that. I was taking care of everybody else's business on Sunday when I was caught in the halls by a really supportive and loving friend who said, "Hey, time to post something new. I'm getting a little tired of the NyQuil picture." I said something warm and loving back like, "Aren't you the one who only has ONE blog?" But now that I feel the pressure, the disease to please has kicked in and I want to meet her request. You are in for a treat ladies and gentlemen, as I give you...drumroll please... a Blast From Kristy's Past.

Here I am at Elvis' Grave in Graceland. I felt very close to him that day, and even though he couldn't hear me, I know he knew I was there. I learned that day that there are loyal psycho fans who exist that have standing orders with florists to make regular deliveries to his headstone. I want to see where those people live, because I can't help but imagine that they have pink flamingoes on their lawns and velvet paintings of the Virgin Mary.



Here I am (on the right) at my college roommate's wedding. Remember when floral prints were all the rage? You don't? Then you probably don't remember when peach and green were the primo choice for bride's maids dresses either. I'm sorry you missed it, but I'll submit a request to the Fashionland to see if they can at least make a plea to bring back burgundy and forest green. I don't want you to miss out on everything.



This glamour shot comes to you from my days as a Congressional intern when I went to witness the Presidential Lift-Off from the White House lawn. I only put this up because my legs were smokin' back then.



Oops! This is Garth Brooks. I hated country music up until I saw the video for "Friends In Low Places" and then I felt like we had a lot in common. This was before he cheated on his wife with another country music star so I still respected him. I guess he could have missed the pain, but he'd have missed the dance.



"I'm too sexy for these waders, too sexy for these waders...." What can I say? I had a crush on a fisherman and I was trying to get his attention.



LaVern & Shirley, Halloween 1992 with my friend Amy. "Shlameel, shlamazel...."



"Why I oughta...." I desperately want to have a good explanation for this picture. This was taken last year, and apparently this is what I look like when I get a hotel with friends and they take a picture of me in the dark without my make up on. I was provoked and I had just eaten a lot of pasta. 'Nuff said.



UPDATE: Samantha looked at this post last night and said, "Whoa. Those are some pretty big bangs you had in college." I guess it could have been worse, she could have pointed to the White House picture and said, "Wait a second, is that...*squinting to peer closer*is that like a space between your legs?!"

Would You Rather...

There has been a little party going on in my body this last week. I sent out invitations to germs, cramps, and even managed a special little invite to the concrete from my knee. "Come on over!" it said. "Bring a side dish effect." And wouldn't you know it, they ALL rsvp'd and showed up at the same time. Which got me thinking.

If I was stuck on a desert island and only got to choose ONE type of medicine to take with me, how on earth would I choose between this:

















and THIS?



NyQuil is kind of like a one night stand - irresistible in the throws of desperation, but you wake up kind of wondering what you were thinking. Advil is like the steady girlfriend - consistent, predictable, and she never lets you down. I'm just not sure which one would be more critical on a desert island, and for some reason I feel like I need to know. Care to weigh in?

The Good News

I've never heard anybody say it better than this. Happy Easter!

Birthday Boy

(I'm double posting today. Because I can.)

Dear Drew:

Today you are 9 years old. Old enough to play James Bond on the Game Cube and wriggle away from any affection I may attempt, but young enough to hop on my bed this morning with a grin, waiting for me to wish you a Happy Birthday. Old enough to wipe your own bum, but young enough to wipe with the efficiency of Kleenex on an oil spill. Old enough to dress yourself, but too young to decipher the difference between your bedroom floor and the dirty clothes hamper. Old enough to brush your own teeth, but too young to be interested. I don’t mind, unless you eat a big piece of blue candy that reveals just how poorly I have been supervising your hygiene, then I step in. At any rate, it’s a big day.

Yesterday, on your birthday eve and your last night as a Wolf in your scout troop, we had to hurry up and finish the last of your requirements so that you could earn your badge. That was a lot of fun.
“Drew! Time to come home from the neighbors! Scouts starts in an hour, and you still need to learn the Star Spangled Banner. Hurry!”
“Aww, Maaan! But I want to play with Anthony!”
“Yeah, well, I want peace in our time. You can’t have everything.”
He slumped his shoulders and came reluctantly up the steps.
“Okay,” I began. “From the picture here in the book, it looks like we’re supposed to sit at the kitchen table and meaningfully discuss three ways that people are protecting our world. See that? The Dad is looking introspective and wise, and the boy is smiling from ear to ear. That’s what happens when discussing propaganda.”
“Propaganda?”
“Nevermind. Now hurry up so we can bond over this.”
[Heavy sigh] “FINE.”
“By the way, can you count to ten in Spanish? You’re only three small tasks away from extra arrow points, and we want people to think we care enough about Scouts to do more than just the minimum requirements.”
“Uno…dos….”
After finishing up you asked, “So, does this mean after tonight I won’t be a Wolf anymore?”
“That’s right,” I answered.
Then you faked a few tears, dramatically dabbed away at the corners of your eyes and said, “It’s just so touching,” in an exaggeratedly emotional voice. You, my son, are a trip.

It was just a few years ago that you, Samantha and I went to the park for Family Home Evening one night when your dad was out of town. It was the middle of July so the evening was warm and the grass was still supple and green. After rolling down the steep, grassy slope and watching the sunset, you turned to me and said, “This is the best day I ever invented.” When it was time to go home you and Samantha decided to walk the several blocks, so I followed slowly behind you in the car. I remember driving, and watching the two of you from behind and wishing I knew what you were talking about. Suddenly, you turned around and ran back to me in the car. I thought something might be wrong, so I lowered the window and you ran up and excitedly reported, “MOM! There’s a BUNNY!” Then you lowered your voice to a husky whisper so as not to scare the bunny, cupped your hand to the side of your mouth said, “See? It really is the bestest day.”

It’s a far cry from the interaction we just shared two seconds ago where you complained that your birthday was already boring. Nevermind that I have let you stay home from school so we can go to a movie, the fact that we don’t have plans to fly jets or stage an intervention with Storm Troopers for the three hours before that relegates it to a boring day. As if. I guess the weird thing about you growing up is that I’m expected to grow up with you. I have to face the fact that you think parks are for babies and bathing is for…other people. Your ideal world would use burping and farting in Morse code to communicate and count video games as cardiovascular exercise. I’d like you to work on creating that ideal world, because you would make a fortune and then I could finally get that purse I’ve been wanting.

Then again, I love that you are old enough to hop in the car and head over to the church to play basketball with Dad. I love that you didn’t want to vote for Obama because he had a “wart”, and that you think ketchup is a vegetable. I know that you are no longer enchanted with bunnies, but at the end of the day when you are in bed and drifting off to sleep, I still come in and kiss your forehead and tell you that I love you. And most of the time, you say it back. You don’t have to love me as much as I love you, but my wish for you on this, your 9th birthday, is that someday you will understand just how much that is. Let me just say that if you put Cosmic Brownies, Obi Wan Kenobi, all the MacGyver DVD's and a remote control fart machine in the same room, I love you more than you love that room.

And THAT, my boy, is saying something. Happy Birthday buddy.