I feel like crap.  This is supposed to be my night to howl, and I have a crappy cold.  My head is congested and hurts.  My throat is sore, and I have a cough.  I felt bad enough to hand the reins over to my bff’s kiddos and let them hand out candy.  I have never done that before.  I have always done the greeting myself no matter how long it takes.  Not tonight.   It started yesterday.  I felt it start in the back of my throat and I just knew it.  I medicated myself and put on my big girl panties.  I felt better for awhile, but the medicine wore off before the trick or treaters wore out.

We had about 300 - 350 trick or treaters.  Down a little from last year.  The Razorbacks played an evening game tonight.  It started at 6:00 p.m. and I think that may have been responsible for some of the decline.  I know it wasn’t me.  Even though I was sick I was just as charming as ever.  I was dressed as a 1950’s housewife.  I had the high hair and high heels.  I was wearing red nail polish to match my red lipstick.  I was fabulous.  My adoring public….well, adored me.  I was on the news yesterday and called a local celebrity better known as “The Halloween Lady”.  I had never thought that before.  I knew I was local, I just wasn’t sure anyone other than the neighborhood kids thought I was a celebrity.  The news crew came back tonight to film some more and asked a few trick or treaters what there favorite candy was.  Gushers seemed to be a big favorite, along with Twix and M & Ms, in case you were wondering.  The Precious helped me hand out Giant Pixie Stix for awhile.  Then he decided the Pixie Stix were guns and he shot everyone with one.  Most were just flesh wounds and they will heal without seeing a dr.  Some limped away with their candy in their hands.  I’m unsure of their fate.

By about 8:30, I was limping away myself.  I awarded the trophies to a Gangster, a belly dancer, a witch, a monster (not sure what kind), and a Rag Doll.  These weren’t costumes that had been bought in a store.  There had been some time and thought put into these costumes.  All of the winners were 8 or less…I can’t help it the little trick or treaters are just special.   The Precious was an Ewok.  Part of the time he would say he was an Ewok and part of the time he was a bear.  And just for your information, Ewoks growl.  They growl a lot!  At one point he was growling for his mommy and the scary music that we play on Halloween emitted the growl of a werewolf.  He had the strangest look on his face.  It was an expression that said, “how in the hell did that just come out of my mouth…and can I do it again.”  He wasn’t afraid of anything.  He was a little wary of the music, but I told him it was just music and he was fine with it.

It is over.  I have one box of forty Pixie Stix left.  I gave one to my non-vag daughter to take to the Precious’s daycare the next time she needed a treat.  I originally bought 10 boxes of 40 so subtracting the two boxes that leaves 320.  I also gave away 12 special bags to the trick or treaters who were the off spring of special friends.   The five trophies I gave away had candy with them so all in all we had just about 340 kids come by tonight.  Not a bad night’s work.  So I have my pj’s on.  I have had a cup of decaf. and I am about ready to call it a night.  It’s over for another year.  Soon (when I feel better) it will be packed away and replaced with Christmas decorations.

For all of you ghosts and ghouls, vampires, and princesses good night.  Parting is such sweet sorrow, but I have to clean this mess.  Probably tomorrow.

If I live to be 1000 I will still be unable to understand the bathroom habits of the American male.  It is totally impossible for a man to make “big potty” (a term we have coined for going poop) without reading materials.  I shouldn’t say just reading materials.  I have a cousin whose husband plays guitar while he goes big potty.  I guess that says tons about his ability to play (insert your own joke here).  If we lose a magazine in the house we pretty much know where to go to find it.  My daughter has a real issue with reading magazines that have been exposed to big potty germs.  I’ve mentioned this before.  She just refuses to read them.  I try to run interference on People and US Weekly (our gossip mags.) and make sure they never make it to the bathroom.  Those trash mags. are expensive at the newsstand. 

I have one son who really enjoys a good hunting magazine.  My middle child would rather die than admit that he does anything besides go big potty while he is in there, but I suspect his habits involve a Sports Illustrated.  Boppy has to have a two door buffer and literature relating to publishing books or getting an agent.  The one thing they all have in common is that it may take hours for the actual event to take place.  Tonight on our way home from Big Lots, I asked Boppy what could possibly take so long in the bathroom.  “Do men actually think ‘hey, I may have to make big potty in the next couple of hours so I’ll just go sit on the potty until the magic happens.’ then grab a magazine assume the position and wait?”  He looked at me like it was possible I was from another planet and said “Yes” in a manner that left little doubt that was exactly what they did.  Then he said, “what do women do?”  I told him the truth.  I said that women wait until they absolutely have to go, then they duck in just quickly enough to take care of business, do the paper work, wash their hands and head off to the next thing on the list for the day.  He looked at me like I was stupid.  I don’t think it had ever occurred to him that there was any other way to poop than to dig in for the long haul with appropriate literature.

Whatever it is that causes this tendency is genetic.  I have proof.  It had never occurred to me that it was anything other than a learned trait until my non-vag. daughter called me tonight to tell me the latest cute The Precious had performed.  Apparently he was sitting on the potty and going big potty.  He first told his mother to “get back”.  This was repeated time and again until she was in the ideal spot for him to poop.  Then he looked at her and said “I need a book.”  She had to call me.  I don’t think  I have laughed that hard in a long time.  I told her I hoped to God she got the poor kid a book.  She told me his father had taken care of that.  That seemed appropriate to me. 

The men in my family have all been very secretive about their bowel habits.  My sons would take care of business and then state “you don’t want to go in there for awhile.”  My hubby would rather die than admit he goes big potty.  It’s a real don’t ask don’t tell as far as he is concerned.  My dad was the best (which in our family means the grossest).  I called him on his birthday one year and mom answered the phone.  I told her I wanted to talk to dad and tell him happy birthday.  She said she would hand him the phone.  She forgot to mention that he was in the bathroom at the time.  Dad came on the phone in his usual friendly, happy voice and I told him happy birthday.  He said “guess what I’m doing.”  I foolishly assumed he had gotten something really cool for his birthday and he was playing with it.  So I bit, and said what.    “I’m pooping”, he said and then he laughed for ten minutes!  I was flummoxed.  I am not often speechless but that caught me off guard.  When I regained my voice I told him I would call him back a little later.  About an hour later I called again and told mother that if he was in the bathroom just to tell me now.  He still was….after an hour!  Don’t their butts get numb?

I think there should be exercises to perform on the toilet.  Leg lifts could be messy, but you are pretty safe with ab crunches…hell, you might be doing them anyway.  You could take your resistance bands in there and work out your upper body while you are working out other things.  We women wouldn’t be able to do that and have any kind of result.  I might be in the potty 5 minutes when I go big potty.  The biggest part of that time is spent lowering my pants, lowering my panties, and the reverse when I’m done plus cleaning up, washing my hands and drying them.   The event itself is very quick.  In fact, if the Olympics ever have a fastest big potty competition I will try out for the team.  If they ever have a slowest pooper competition, my boys could be the team.

Okay, for those of you who are keeping up, I have the test results and the girls are fine.  Apparently, while most people have actual tissue in their breasts I have oatmeal…very lumpy oatmeal.  I went in last Thursday to have a needle aspiration or possibly a biopsy.  I walked into the Breast Center of Northwest Arkansas ready to face whatever happened.  I took Boppy with me for moral support.  The first nurse I saw brought out a tray of instruments and began setting up what she referred to as a “pre-op” table.  Then they told me to strip above the waist.  As she was doing all of this “prep” work she was droning on and on about how the Drs. really don’t like another person in the room because he had a patient’s spouse pass out during the procedure.  I assured her that Boppy had been through and seen a whole lot worse with me and told her about breaking and skinning my nose while attempting to mount a skittish mare in an arena with a child who should have known better than to circle her horse at break neck speed.  She admitted that he had indeed seen worse, but still doubted that the dr. would let him in.  Turns out she was right.  I hate when that happens.

First of all they apparently lost my films from my mammogram so I had to get my boobies squished for the second time in a week.  I love being treated like a piece of meat.  There you stand naked with you nipples completely erect (because it is always cold in this effing place) and this trucker slaps your bare breast up against a metal plate grabs your nipple and stretches it to Tulsa.  Just when you are pretty much convinced that is as far as it will go they manage to drag it another foot or so.  Then they tell you to place your feet facing forward.  Hold the bar on the side of the machine, tip your chin up and to the right and then they slam a glass plate on your exposed and distorted boob and squeeze it until you produce milk (this is not exclusive to nursing mothers).  Then they ask you to stay in that position while they look at the results.  Thank God the damn images are digital and pretty quick to come back.  When she came back in she told me that while the doctor was looking at the images he found another lump.  That makes two in Lucy and one in Ethel.  Where is the justice?  The radiologists and the nurses are talking about me like I’m not there.  In addition, they have a med student in there who is asking questions I don’t want to hear the answers to.  Finally, his majesty, Dr. Harm (I swear to God I didn’t make that up) pats my foot in a very condescending manner and asks “What do we have here?”  OMG…this person can’t tell what a foot is, how in the hell is he going to place not one but two needles in my breasts?  At this point I have had six films of mammograms done and three ultrasounds and Dr. H picks up the wand to ultrasound my breast again. 

The first shot was to deaden my breast.  I was told it would feel like a bee sting.  That was total BS.  It’s true I didn’t feel the second needle, but if it had been the only needle I still would have only felt the one stick.  I think they only use two shots to make you feel like they are deadening the boob. The next needle was larger and had a vacuum attached to it.  He picked up that needle and began to penetrate the breast tissue.  I was watching the needle’s descent on the ultrasound screen.  I saw it approach the lump, and here is where we find out just what is going on.  If the needle can pick up fluid all I need is an aspiration.  If the needle can’t draw fluid I will have to have a biopsy.  Just then I see the needle puncture the lump and the lump begins to disappear.  One down…I have to undergo this two more times.  That was all I needed.  Needle aspirations are no big thing.  This makes five lumps I have had to have taken care of.  The new lump in Ethel will have to be watched for two years to make sure there is not change in the appearance of the lump.  For some reason I have really lumpy boobs.  Yay me!  I get to go in an have ultrasounds every six months.  So much to look forward to.  I am trying not to take this so lightly that when I feel a new lump I will just assume it is a fluid filled cyst and ignore it.  With my boobs it’s hard to tell.  They feel pretty lumpy already…kind of like a knee high filled with marbles and stuffed into a bra.  Paint a pretty picture don’t I?

Well that’s my story.  All lumps, not cancer…thank goodness.  I received a lovely letter from the Breast Center the other day.  It informed me that all of my test results were within normal range and that they didn’t need to see me again for six months.  That means that just about the time my boobs stop aching it will be time to go and do this all over again. While I am pleased with the results,  I have to say I’m still a little pissed about them not letting Boppy stay with me.  These were my boobs and I am the one paying for all of this.  Shouldn’t the decision of who was in the room be mine as well.  The way I see it they invited a guest (the intern) so why the hell couldn’t I. 

A few weeks ago my non-vag. daughter asked if I would like to go with her to the ballpark for her work party.  She was planning to take The Precious and it’s always easier to have someone with you than it is to carry him all day by yourself and you never know what might happen.  Of course I said yes.  Then I promptly forgot about it until she called me last week to remind me.  So Sunday afternoon we went to the ballpark.  Now this is the same ballpark that traumatized The Precious this summer when we took him to watch a baseball game.  You see, the mascot of the Arkansas Naturals is a huge sasquatch named Strike.  He is truly hideous and the thing he does best is go up to children and try to shake their hands.  After our first trip there, The Precious spent weeks asking about Strike.  He wanted to be sure he was not coming to his house.  We  think he may have had nightmares.  We aren’t sure.

Well, I went to pick them up on Sunday and he was super psyched.  He loves, loves, loves for people to come visit.  When I asked him if he was ready to go bye-bye with me he jumped into my arms, turned and looked at his mother and said, “you stay here mommy.”   Needless to say mom felt the love, but went anyway (since it was her place of employment that was hosting).  The trip to the ballpark was uneventful.  We spent the better part of the ride noticing all the things along the wayside.  Horseys were especially interesting on Sunday.  Then we arrived at the ballpark.  We pulled into the parking lot and the backseat got really quiet.  I turned down one of the rows of parked cars and a timid little voice from the backseat said, “ballgame?”  We said no, no ballgame  It was just going to be fun.  We mentioned all of the neat things at the ballpark play ground.  We mentioned the concession stand.  We tried to convince him that there would be other children there but we couldn’t get past one question…”Strike?”  We tried deflecting with all types of asides, but nothing was taking his attention away from his concern about Strike.  And then he saw him…a tremor began in his little body.  “I want to go bye-bye.” He didn’t say it once or twice he chanted it like it was his personal mantra.  The only other phrase he could eek out was “I don’t want it, Strike!”  Mostly these two phrases were muttered over and over without a break, sounding like a recording on a loop.  “I want to go bye-bye I don’t want it Strike I want to go bye-bye I don’t want it Strike.  He was still shaking, and since we aren’t made of steel, after about 2 minutes we took him out of the park.  While he was in the car he kept repeating his loop.  He seemed convinced that Strike had a GPS system to tell him exactly where we were going.  He was going to jump in his jet and get there before we did and scare the hell out of The Precious.  We kept promising him that wouldn’t occur.  We took him to the McDonald’s Playland.  I so wanted him to have a good time that I actually crawled up inside the stinking thing and slid down the slide with him…once.  He wanted more, but I sent his mother in as my replacement.  She lasted once as well.

We went to a punkin patch after that.  An acre of punkins of all sizes.  Our boy was in heaven.  He ran all over the patch.  He put up with getting his picture taken.  He found a red wagon and pulled it for awhile.  Then he put his favorite punkin and himself in the wagon and I pulled.  He found a disagreeable bug on one of the picture spots.  So for him. there would not be a picture taken there.  We even tried to put him on his mommy’s lap, but it just wasn’t worth it.  We didn’t push.  Lord knows he had been traumatized enough for one day.  After an afternoon of mauling punkins, he was ready to go to Emmy’s house.  We took a walk.  We looked at all the scary things in the yard.  We hit all the candy dishes for a quick sugar fix, and then we went upstairs to Emmy’s office to watch Aladdin.  It was a pretty full day.  He fell asleep on the drive home, but woke up as soon as the car stopped.  I went in for a bit (just to settle him down) and of course he was upset when I said I was leaving without him.  His mom finally suggested that he could go out and wave goodbye to me and that was okay.  It was raining, and running in the rain is second only to splashing in puddles as far as fun goes.  I came home and took a nap…for three hours.  I woke up about the time that other people are going to bed, and a scant four hours later I was back in bed.  I awoke this afternoon at 12:45.

I still have to go and get my pumpkins to carve.  I still have to buy cobwebs and a few lightbulbs.  Today I spent my time doing laundry and cleaning house.  Tomorrow I may sleep some more.  There is a reason God saw fit to give me children in my late teens and early twenties.  He knew I would be crippled.  I barely have the energy to keep up, and then there is the pain to deal with after the fact.  After he leaves, I load up on pain medication, put heat (or ice) packs on everything I have and snooze for anywhere from three hours to three days.  Then I am ready to see him and start all over again.  Trust me, the pain is totally worth it!

 

Everything has been placed in the yard…until we place something else.  The diners are at the dining table eating their brains, eyeballs, ears, internal organs and dismembered limbs.  Their goblets are filled with blood, and worms are all over.  The village has been in place for awhile, but the many pumpkins and candy dishes are also in the living room (with the village).  The kitchen is Halloweened out, and the den is only slightly less Halloweenie.  We didn’t know how The Precious would take all of this celebrating.  Mostly, he handled it like a champ.

On the first day of Halloween The Precious walked in and was instantly impressed with the vast assortment of Looney Tunes and Disney Character stuffies that lined the stairs.  There is a ghost trick or treater on the bottom landing waving hello.  He politely said “hi” back.  He came and grabbed my hand and said “Come on Emmy.  Let’s see the punkins.”  We walked through every room in the house and pointed out each and every punkin.  No small feat either as we truly have too many to count.  Yet we saw each and every one (and a few he saw that I didn’t).  He handled it all like a champ.  His eyes were wide with excitement.  He ran from room to room.  He constantly reminded me, “don’t touch Emmy.  It’s breakable!” just as I had reminded him on so many occasions.  He found each and every candy dish too, but his favorite was the three foot tall Tigger that stands in the foyer.  Tigger is trick or treating as a vampire and his trick or treat bag is open and the candy is placed in his bag.  Well once I told The Precious he could get the candy, he ran for Tigger.  He pulled out a bag of M&Ms and politely looked at Tigger and said, “tank you tigger for my tandy”.  Could it get any sweeter than that? Yes.

I picked him up on Wednesday because his uncle was in town from Chicago.  He and his girlfriend are making their farewell tour of friends and family before they head to sunny California to pursue their acting careers.  As we pulled up to the house, my son asked me how The Precious was handling all of the Halloween hoopla.  I told him that he was great with the indoor decorations, but that he hadn’t seen the outdoor stuff just yet.  We rounded the bend and a gasp came from the back seat.  “Look at all the punkins!” he said in total gush of words.  He jumped out of his car seat as soon as the car stopped he ran up to the punkin patch.  Then he noticed the, ummm…moose, that were parading across the yard holding candles and signs and trick or treat bags and he made a run for them.  Then he saw the graveyard filled with tombstones and dead flowers.  He had to walk through it and of course we had to as well.  He started for the front door, and that was when he noticed Frankenstein standing by the door with arms outstretched in a gruesome embrace.  The eyes got huge and the jaw dropped. “Oh no!” he shouted as he saw the monster.  “It’s a monster.”  I tried to tell him that it was just a toy.  I touched it.  I punched him in the face (Frankenstein not The Precious), and asked him if he wanted to box him.  “No.  I don’t want it!”  He clearly stated while backing further and further away.  Then his uncle decided it would be funny to see his reaction to Frankenstein singing Who Can It Be Now.  It was decidedly bad.  He didn’t want that either and he made sure we understood that.  After much convincing, and the promise of a tummy full of candy, he walked towards the door.  I blocked Frankenstein from his view and he walked by chanting, “it’s a toy.  It’s not scary.  It’s a toy.  It’s not scary.”  Nothing more was said about Frankenstein all night long.  As he was being dragged to the car later in the night, he kissed and hugged everyone.  He made sure to tell everyone good-bye, but we were all surprised when he turned to the seven foot tall Frankenstein and said “Bye bye Frankenstein.”

Apparently he is handling Halloween better than we expected.  I think the bowls after bowls of candy through out the house have gone a long way towards squelching his fears.  I think there is enough cutsie married with enough macabre to throw his sense of scary off just a little.  I think he will wear his Halloween costume to our house because his parents will teach him that if he says “trick or treat”  he will get candy.  I think he will handle everything just fine, until the first masked trick or treater appears.  Then I think he will disappear faster than a cupcake at Over-eaters Anonymous.  Stay tuned.

I have made an observation.  Recently we had the joy of attending two family weddings.  Both  were lovely, one was extravagant and the other was simplistic and beautiful.  The first was in a Methodist church that could have easily passed for a British cathedral of olde, and the other was an outdoor wedding at The Botanical Gardens surrounded by the flowers and trees that the Botanical Gardens are known for.  They were very different, but they had two things in common…first, the two couples were obviously in love, secondly, they had cake. The two weddings had a total of four cakes.  One for the bride…this is the traditional multi-layered confection that everyone ooohs and ahhhhs over (but looks much better than it tastes), and a smaller cake that is less extravagant but usually a lot tastier than the bride’s cake. 

Now here is my observation…cake is associated with celebratory events.  If you are having a birthday, getting married, having a bat or bar-mitzvah things of that nature you will find a cake.  If there is a somber event like a funeral you will find pie.  My question is…who decided?  If a brightly decorated “So Sorry You’re Dead” cake appeared at a funeral would you think that was in poor taste?  If it was frosted in black and just had the decedent’s name, birth date, and date of death on it…it would still be creepy.  A pie, however, doesn’t have to say anything, it is understood.  Pie doesn’t have to have words on it to say, “I’m so sorry for your loss.  I know you won’t feel like cooking for a while.  You may not feel like eating a meal, but here’s a pie.”  I know when my father passed away one of the neighbors brought us a pie.  One of the neighbors brought some brownies.  No one brought cake.  I like pie.  I don’t pick the restaurant according to how good their pie is, but I’m just not that old yet.  I have a sister who thinks pie is its own food group.  Anyway, I digress.  I like pie just fine.  I happen to like cake better. 

I have a theory.  It’s easy to find a frozen pie.  It’s not as expensive as cake is if you choose to buy one at the bakery.  I think the gift givers give pie because it is easy and inexpensive.  If you are having a cake (according to my theory) everyone is alive and well.  You will go to all of the trouble of baking and frosting and writing and all of that jazz because the person you care about will be there, front and center.  It takes time.  You really need to plan for a cake in advance.  With pie, you can keep one in the freezer and just pull it out when someone gets dead.  An hour later, you have a gift for the family and you look like a hero.  “Oh look, a pie!  Thank you so much for thinking of us.”  If you show up with a cake, it’s probably not going to happen on the date that you first heard of the death.  Unless you buy one at the bakery, and I have never had a bakery cake that tasted anywhere near as good as homemade from scratch.  So chances are (if someone shows up with a cake) they have prepared it well in advance and it has been frozen, (to give you an idea of how bad frozen cake is…think about that top layer of wedding cake that you froze and then ate on your first anniversary) or they have known for awhile that your loved one was going to die and they have been baking a cake every few days just in case you needed it.  You’ve got to admit, the creep factor goes way up when you think about that particular scenario.

I could take the wisdom of this observation and use it to my advantage.  How?  Well I could just tell everyone to put on their big girl panties and get over it.  Be glad you got the pie and shut up.  If you know me, you know shutting up is never the option I would go for.  I have a different plan in mind.  It’s going to require a big freezer and a lot of time, but I believe it is possible to bake a decent cake and freeze it.  Then you have (pardon the pun) killed to birds with one stone.  And for those of you who are thinking…”she forgot about Bundt cake.”  Please!  Bundt cake isn’t a real cake.  It is an out of control muffin.  Cake has frosting.  In our house, the frosting has some cake on it.  Don’t be waltzing in here with your bundt cake.  Life is just too short to eat cake without frosting.  If you do that I am going to know you went for the easy and cheap.  Give me a triple layer chocolate cake with buttercream vanilla frosting, and when I’m dead give it to my family.  They are going to be missing me so much they’re gonna need a little spirit lifting cake.  And for God’s sake…give some to the people who are taking care of my poor, pitiful, misused body.  Do that for me, because I want them to treat it right.  The only other request I have is one that you may not think I would like.  Close the lid! 

I am so sick of the lies being spread about our President.  Each day it seems the press either reports some new crap that the Republican lie machine has concocted or they are re-hashing the same old crap.  Either way it is crap and I’m tired of it. 

I don’t know if it is because he’s black or if it is because he isn’t a member of their party, but for some reason they seem to feel compelled to spew hatred with each breath.  I understand distrust.  Most Americans do.  It came along with 8 years under the Bush regime.  Blaming the current President for the mistakes made by the previous administration is not only unfair, it is insane.  Our current President has only been in office 9 months.  Are they more afraid that he will mess things up further or are they more afraid that he will make some sense of the mess?  I believe it is the possibility of success that frightens them most.  This was kind of confirmed when he received the Nobel Peace Prize and there was a huge commotion about him not deserving it.  He was the absolute first to admit that he didn’t feel he had earned it, but rather than looking for reasons he didn’t deserve it, why don’t we embrace the sense of pride we should have in a President that instills that kind of hope.  He is so eloquent, and after 8 years of that smug, cocky countenance I find his humble, calm demeanor refreshing.  We finally have a President that looks the part.  He walked into an office that was totally FUBAR and is wading through the latrine left behind to try and find a solution to our country’s woes.

Not since 1960 have we had a President with charisma of Obama.  He is calm in a world full of calamity.  He knows what is being said, and he rises above it.  He and his family have re-invented the first family.  Mrs. Obama put in a vegetable garden at the White House.  This wasn’t a publicity gesture.  It was a lesson for her daughters.  She doesn’t foist the care of the garden off on some White House gardener.  She and her daughters tend to the garden.  It is clear to anyone with eyes that those little girls are in a loving, generous family.  They understand that Daddy is the President of the USA, but first and foremost he is their daddy.  I think Americans tend to forget that our President wears other hats as well.  He is someones son, husband, and father among other things.  He deserves a day out on the golf course.  He deserves a trip to Hawaii to see family.  No one else works the hours that our President does.  He is the President 24/7.  We should understand that just because he is playing a game of golf, or doing a talk show, or having a bit of family time doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t drop it in a heartbeat if the country needed him.  All Americans believe that they deserve some “me” time.  Why should we deny that “me” time to our President?  Those of us who elected him should be especially aware that he is absolutely giving all he has to our country.

It is important to remember, especially when hate is spreading like a virus throughout the land, that this man has the hardest job in America.  Most of us would not accept the position he is in for the salary he is given.  If someone told us “well…your every move will be documented, appreciation for the job you are doing is not something you should count on, half of the country will be critical, 25% of the remaining citizens will be waiting for you to prove that you are capable.  You will be on call 24/7 and your pay will be far less than you would expect for all the responsibilities you will be expected to shoulder” would we take the job?  I don’t think so.

We need to quit believing the Republican and Democrocks that are spreading these vicious lies and start backing our President.  Yes, he will make mistakes.  He is not perfect, but he never said he was.  There is nothing to be gained from questioning his every move.  Give him some time America.  Rome wasn’t built in a day and the world wasn’t created overnight.  Change takes time, and I (for one) am so pleased that we have an opportunity for change.  The old regime broke us.  They are the ones responsible for the war, the economy, and the distrust we associate with elected officials.  This is a new administration that is just getting its feet wet.  He has to wade before he swims.  Be  his life vest, not his anchor.

I remember the summer that the boobie fairy visited me.  It was 1973…picture it, a young girl is bra-less and enjoying summer when somewhere between seventh and eighth grade the boobie fairy brought her a pair of 36C’s.  That’s right, I went from nothing to loaded in three short months.  I remember this so distinctly because school mates gave me hell upon my return to school that fall.  I was accused of stuffing my bra (and not with my new found breasts).  There is no way to defend that, short of stripping down, and that would lead to a whole new set of taunts.  I powered through and my girls have more or less been the same since then.   Yes they no longer are under my chin, and they don’t stay centered when I lie on my back, but with the exceptions of pregnancy and breast feeding nothing has changed.

I have lived with the girls for almost 37 years.  Friends have come and friends have gone, but the girls have always been there.  There were times in the 70’s when I took them for granted.  I always assumed that they would be pert and perky.  I was (very obviously) wrong.  I remember being little…you know, pre-boobie…and I saw my great-grandmother dressing.  Her breast were unbound.  Great-grandma always wore a chemise, but she didn’t wear a bra.  On this particular morning as I watched her slip into said chemise, I briefly saw her naked torso.  I was scared shitless.  There to my horror hung two pieces of flesh that looked like tube socks with tennis balls sewn in.   To add insult to injury, when she put on her skirt she lifted these meat socks up above the waistband of her skirt before she zipped it closed.  This image has remained with me through out life.  I made a pact with God to do almost anything he wanted as long as he kept my boobs above my waist.  So far so good.  I have always taken good care of the girls.  I massaged them with cocoa butter when I was pregnant and also while I was nursing.  I have always chosen the more expensive bras over their lesser counterparts so that the girls have been well supported.  I have always used their power for good not evil.  I once got us $1000 off of our pool installation fees just by wearing a low cut dress.  I have done self breast exams every month when the electric bill came in (my way of remembering) and have been getting mammograms longer than I can remember.   Oh yes, I took good care of the girls and the girls took good care of me. 

About five years ago my OB/Gyn sent me a letter.  It seems my yearly mammogram came back with some questionable areas on Lucy (Lefty).  I was told to go back to The Breast Center (no joke) for an ultrasound.  After the ultrasound I was told that I had fluid filled cysts on my left breast and that I needed to have a needle aspiration.  It was simple, it was quick, and I thought it was over.  A year ago I got another letter that indicated that Tighty (Righty) was lumpy too.  This time it wasn’t fluid filled.  It was an honest to God lump that needed to be watched.  For the last year I have received ultrasounds every few months to be certain that the lump wasn’t changing.  Today at my one year anniversary of finding the lump I was told that my right breast is unchanging and I can go back to yearly mammograms…on that boob.  Now it seems that Lucy has developed a lump of her own.  It is big and it is deep.  The radiologist asked me about my family history.  He wanted to know about my medications, stress levels, did I smoke, did I drink and it went on and on.  Finally he told me that I needed to make another appointment to have a needle aspiration.  They told me to allow two to three hours for the procedure because I might need a biopsy.  Then the fool says, “but don’t worry.  I’m sure it is nothing.”

 I am not worried.  I think they can usually tell from looking at the ultrasound images whether or not these lumps are benign.  Here’s the thing that bugs me.  Only a man could say to a woman, with a condescending pat on the foot, “don’t worry.”  I bet if it were testicular images on the ultrasound and I had my hand on his foot he would feel differently.  The other thing that bugs the hell out of me is that this body that I have trusted and known for almost 50 years has the nerve to up and change after all this time.  Yes I see the gray in my hair.  Yes, I see the skin on my face falling into my neck.  Yes, I am not oblivious to the menopause padding that my stomach has adopted and is apparently raising for the next 50 years or so.  The arthritis has taken the spring out of my step, and the fibromyalgia has made me constantly feel as if I just got through at the gym…and I don’t go to they gym.   But, I thought I could always count on the girls to behave just as I needed them to.   I lead with my boobs.  They are my power animals.  My husband is a boob guy.  Sweetheart that he is, when the first lump showed up and I was convinced it was cancer, I sobbed into his shirt that I was afraid if I lost my boobs I would lose him too.  He calmly and sweetly assured me that I would never lose him.  Then he said, “I would cheat on you, but I would never leave you.”  At this point, we are so tired of the recurring boob drama that we no longer cry or assume the worst.  We just accept it and move on to the next test or procedure.  When it is done, we don’t think about it again until the next time.

I’m not scared.  I’m pissed.  I would like to go to one doctor’s office at least once and have him tell me that I was just fine.  There were no problems and he wished all his patients were as healthy as me.  I don’t get that.  Ever.  Even my last dental appointment ended with the threat of an imminent root canal.  The rheumatologist says, “it’s RA, it’s advancing, take your pain medication and your anti-inflammatory meds and I’ll see you in 6 months.”  My gynecologist says, “if it gets much worse we can do surgery.”  My family doctor begins all his assessments with “considering your medical history…”  My allergist says, “use your preventative inhaler regularly and always keep your emergency inhaler handy.”  Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. 

I am already serotonin challenged.  Do I really need to be burdened with such depressing physicians?  I mean, I’m not looking for Patch Adams but seriously.  Must all news be laden with ominous overtones?  I’m not asking for a lot.  Just one lousy doctor to say, “OMFG!  You are amazingly healthy in this particular area.”  I know people who have heard such things, so it can happen.  My own 78 year old mother loves to brag that our family doctor told her that she was doing well…he didn’t even throw in “for your age”.  I always hear that crap.  One of my sisters commented that she was glad that I came along because before me, she was the one who had all the bizarre crap happen to her.   Super!  Glad I could be there for you, Sis.  I try not to ask why me, but seriously “why me?” 

I have heard all of the standard lines.  You know…what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger…God won’t give you more than you can handle…all things happen for a reason…and so on.  I have to call bullshit.  Sometimes things that don’t kill you make you bitter.  Sometimes God wants to see just how much you can handle before you cry Uncle, and occasionally the reason things happen is just because.  I am unconvinced that there is a reason for cancer.  Yes, I hear all of you screaming reasons you believe cancer occurs but the truth is, it is a gene that triggers cells to reproduce at amazing rates and some people who do everything wrong never get it or a have a family history of it.  And some people who try to do everything right find out they have stage 4.  There simply is no reasoning to it.

I am venting, my dear ones.  I’m mad as hell and I’m just not taking it any more.  I am tired of pretending not to hurt every single day.  I am tired of asking myself first thing in the morning “what hurts today…and how bad is it.”  I am sick of planning events that never happen because I just can’t function.  I am tired of making plans that may or may not take place because I don’t know how I will feel.  I am tired of afternoon naps, and  powering through.  I am just plain tired.  The last thing I needed was this.  Yes, I will go in next Thursday and let them pierce my breast with their stupid needle.  I will wait patiently while they check to see how the cyst responds to the aspiration and while they decide whether or not to biopsy.  If I must endure the biopsy I will.   I am not concerned that I have breast cancer.  I have no family history of it, but then again I have no family history of all the other crap I deal with daily.  Sometimes I think God is just pissed at me for not believing in organized religion.  Maybe He thinks that my idea of prayer being just as heard in my backyard as in an outlandishly huge church is crap.  Then again, I don’t think God is into paybacks.  I could be wrong.  If He is into getting even I’m screwed.  I won’t go into details.  He knows what I’m talking about. 

Bottom line dear ones, is this…never assume that these yearly tests we are told we need, will come out one way or the other.  I waltzed into the Breast Center expecting to hear that the lumps on the right were the same and Lucy was good, then they pulled the rug out from under me.  I should have been prepared.  Don’t live your life expecting the worst either.  I realize that today’s outcome could have been far worse.  I’m not dense. I am just giving you a little advice.   Just live.  Drink in every experience with a light heart, and enjoy your time here.  Life is a highway…if you live in the fast lane you might crash…but just because you are in the slow lane doesn’t mean you won’t.  Right now, if I had a seat belt on my couch I would be buckled in.  Buckle up, buttercup!  It’s going to be a lumpy ride!

 

 

Ab   

I did laundry yesterday.  I am not saying that to have you pity me.  I know everyone must do laundry.  I just don’t understand how three people can achieve the enormous amounts of laundry that I must do each week.  I did ten loads yesterday.  Luckily, I have a huge washer and two dryers or else it might have been fifteen loads.  You would have thought, looking at the piles of folded laundry for each family member, that none of us had a single thing left in our closets to wear. 

My hubby and my daughter change clothes frequently.  As far as my husband goes, I blame his mother.  She must have changed his clothes every single time he got a speck of dust on him.  I know for a fact that he can’t eat a meal without leaving the whole mess on his shirt.  It’s like a “look what I ate” puzzle by the time the meal is finished.f  That goes for snacks too.  He just can’t keep from getting things on his shirt.  As far as I know there aren’t bibs made for men in a 2XLT, but if you know where I can get some please let me know.  His shirts look like my maternity tops looked when I was way out there!  I don’t know if he’s eating challenged or what.  He also has to shower and change clothes after golf.  I don’t mind that.  I have smelled him after golf.  When you are sweaty or dirty or stinky, by all means please change clothes.  On the other hand, if you are just changing clothes because you have decided you are going after a different look, hang what you are wearing up and then make a new choice.  I know that I wear the same pair of jeans for 2 and sometimes 3 days before I wash them.  They usually are only perfect after they have been on my body for at least 12 hours so unless they have dirt or Precious juice on them I put them back on.   I have also been known to sleep in the same t-shirt I have had on all day if it isn’t dirty.  This disgusts my hubby.  He thinks I am going to bed dirty.  He will wear the same pajamas for a week though, and I have tried to tell him that after eight hours asleep for five days he has effectively been in the same clothes for 40 hours.  I find that disgusting.  So you can see we each have our issues.  My daughter changes her clothes several times a day because she attends different venues, many of which are open to those who smoke.  She needs to change clothes often just so she won’t smell like an ashtray.

These things wouldn’t be issues if I liked doing laundry.  I hate doing laundry.  I have heard of people who enjoy laundry.  I think they are androids.  Exciting people have better things to do .  I would rather do almost anything than laundry.  I don’t need much of an out to keep me from doing the wash.  A phone call, a good movie, a nice hot bath…anything can talk me out of doing the laundry.  The biggest problem with doing laundry is not the laundry itself, it is the process.  Sorting sucks.  I don’t mind putting it in the washer, but remembering to put it in the dryer is tricky.  I despise folding, and then once it is clean, folded, and ready to be put away I have trouble getting people to finish the process.  Boppy is pretty good about taking the laundry upstairs, at least mine and his.  Since no one specifically claims the towels they usually spend quite a while on the bar.  I end up taking a few of them upstairs at a time until they are all taken.   I am usually doing laundry again before all the previous laundry has been put away.

I wish there were a washer that washed the clothes and then at the end of the cycle became a dryer and dried the clothes without having to change machines.  Then I want to have a maid or “assistant” to hang up the shirts, pants, and skirts and fold the rest.  I don’t think that’s asking for to much.  You see, dear ones, I have a life.  It may not be a great life, but it’s mine and I don’t want it mucked with.  I have another alternative.  Everyone can do their own laundry, the problem with that is I don’t want to be the only one dressed.  I guess things will remain the same…I mean I am the only one complaining.  I’ve heard of people who do their laundry every day…but why in the hell would you do something so boring every single day?  I would much rather devote one day to being bored and play the other six.  So, I am good to go until next Sunday and then back to the washboard.  Thank God the creek is up!

I hate my hair.  This is new for me.  I generally don’t really think about hair one way or the other.  It is an accessory that I wear on my head.  It is basically a hat.  I choose a style.  My stylist cuts it in that manner.  I wear it that way until I get sick of it and then I change it.  Length doesn’t matter.  Color doesn’t matter.  I change my hair on a regular basis.   About two  years ago my hair was platinum blond and about an inch long.  I had worn it that way for more than a year, and then I decided to grow it out.  I am still in the process of growing it out.  As I mentioned before, I hate it.

Why does growing your hair out make you (and your hair) crazy?  My hair is stick straight.  It is thick and fine…I know every stylist I have ever been to says “that is some fine thick hair you have!”  Yuk, yuk!!  Well, menopause has effed my hair up too.  My stick straight hair now has some really curly silver strands now.  I don’t know how to style curly hair.  Coloring it doesn’t matter…it’s still curly.   I tug and tug at it with a large round brush and eventually pull it smooth and as soon…I mean the very minute…I walk outside it frizzes up all over my head.   I walk around looking like I got a half-assed perm.  Blank out my eyes and give me a mutt and hello Orphan Annie.

I asked my hubby what he thought about my hair.  Not in those words, of course.  That wouldn’t go along with the fun that is spousal conversation.  First I asked him about losing my bangs.  I’ve had bangs since junior high, but now they are always sweaty and in my way and I wondered what he thought about the fact that quite often they are pinned off my forehead or pulled back by a head band.  “Honey, what do you think about me growing my bangs out?”  He looked up at me like it was the first time he had ever seen me.  “I don’t know.”  “You have seen me pretty much every day for the last eighteen years.  For seventeen and a half of those I’ve  had bangs.  I have been pulling them back because they’re  driving me crazy.  Didn’t you even notice?”  Here is the thing that I couldn’t believe.  This man who has told me at least once a day for all those years how pretty, cute, blah, blah, blah you fill in the blank, I am actually said to me…”I really don’t pay attention to that stuff.”  That explains why on those pajama days when I drag myself out of bed, when my hair is nappy and mascara rings my eyes in a manner only a raccoon could love, he says, “you’re so pretty.”  I’ve always known that I am not pretty on those days.  I just didn’t know he wasn’t even looking.  I wouldn’t have minded his opinion.  I did mind finding out that he didn’t even notice.  I went to a more critical source, my daughter.  “I kind of hate my hair right now.  I can’t do anything with it.  It is always frizzy and the gray is becoming dominant.  What am I going to do?”  Miss Cuttothechase barely looked up from her salad and said, “you’re growing it out.  It’s a pain.”  I know if I truly want to grow it out I have to move through this phase.  However, at this point I am wondering why I thought I wanted to grow it out.

We are attending a wedding this weekend, and I am not happy about dragging this head of mess all the way to Texas.  Without a constant mirror I can’t tell what the hell this hair looks like.  I put more product in it than I ever have in my life.  I shampoo and condition it daily.  Weekly I put an intensive conditioner in it.  Before I dry it, I use a spray for protection from the heat of the hair dryer.  I pull the absolute thunder out of it so that it is straight and shiny.  I lock that down with some anti-frizz lotion and spray the blue fool out of it.  I give it an inspection and glue down any wayward hairs and head for the door.  Thirty seconds later I look like a homeless person.  I am quite vain.  I don’t mind that I am not gorgeous.  I will never be a raving beauty.  I am short and heavy.  But put some make-up on me and give me a good ‘do and baby I’m ready to go to China town.   I clean up pretty good for a hillbilly.  Lipstick and pigs…right?  Luckily, the wedding we are attending is on the hubby’s side of the family.  These people see me once in never.  The last time I saw his aunt was when we buried his mother, I believe.  So it is quite possible they will  think I am really sick or recovering from some deadly strain of fuzz head and frump butt disease.  Which I am.  Does anyone know where I can get an immunization for that? 

So here’s the deal.  This is how I am planning to deal with this crappy head of nappy.  I am going to pack every hair product I own.  I am taking my own Ionic hair dryer (which supposedly decreases frizz…and if it does and my hair might look worse if I didn’t use it that is just a chance I can’t take), my lotions and potions, hair pins, elastics, and a great big barrette.  I will attempt once more to smooth my stressed tresses and when all else fails (and I am almost certain it will) I will take my favorite boar’s hair brush and brush my hair to the sleekest, shiniest I can get it.  I will pull it back, smoothing and spraying it until i could survive a direct hit from a meteor,  and put it in a pony tail.  Oh yeah, that was why I was growing it out in the first place…so I could pull it back into a ponytail.