Today I am tethered to the house because my taller than me son is sick. Tethered that is with my sick HP Laptop (don't buy one), which makes typing this next to impossible, thank you very much. $1250 smackers just so I can fight with HP to convince them to do the right thing and give me a new one.
This afternoon however, my son's other Mom is going to take care of him for me because I have a 1:00 date with a boob squisher.
I had my mammogram the other day because that's what good 40 something chicks do. We put on paper shirts, slap our girls in a vice and smile for the camera. It's loads of medical fun. I especially enjoy it when you get a tech who hasn't had enough coffee or midol or sex or whatever it is that causes one to be angry and have cold hands.
I knew when I was there that I'd be back in a couple days. Call it ESPN, but I just knew. Sinking feeling and all.
Day before yesterday, I heard a monkey chattering and it went down hill from there. (I didn't have a fever.... the ringer on one of my phones is a monkey.) "Hello Sherri," said the woman I knew wasn't my friend as she used the unfamiliar "Sherri" instead of "Sher", or "Goddess", or "Your Supreme OCD Chickiness".
"Sherri, there is a little problem with your mammogram," she said. I wondered if she ever calls anyone and says, "There is a HUGE problem with your mammogram!"
"OK," I said out loud. Inside though I screamed, "Sweet Jesus, I'm gonna die!"
The conversation that followed involved words like "spots" and "can't rule out" and "more xrays". I personally think medical professionals should learn French or at least master a fake Scottish accent so that when they use words like that, they sound prettier.
So today I head to a little city north where they will xray my girls using cones... which I'm hoping I get to keep as a lovely parting gift. I've always wanted a Madonna bra. As Mr. Man can't get off work today, the evil red-headed Berta Lou is meeting me there to hold my hand and to point out good looking orderlies to distract me. She will be with me when the doctor tells me whether I have the best looking 41 year old boobies he's ever seen or whether he wants to plunge a sharp object into them for fun and profit.
You think it would help if I draw smiley faces on them?
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