Thanks for the mammories.

Lately I have been pretty consumed with worry about my boobies. I think about only three things on a daily basis:

What's happening on the inside of my girls? Am I going to have to have all or a portion of them removed? And if the latter should occur, where does a good girl find a bra for the 54 DD's I'll have built to replace them?

I'm not even kidding. If I have to sacrifice the twins, I will buy myself a set of top of the line, automatronic, porn star big breasts that will cause me to have to place a classified ad in search of an Oompah-Loompah to walk beneath me supporting them everywhere I go. They will be so magnificent and glorious that I will very likely be asked by the Smithsonian to donate a plaster cast of them, which of course I will do 'cause I'm nice like that.

Anywho, I am really going to try to take my mind off my girls and think about things non-boobie related today. I want to think of good things, happy things, things that make me laugh and things that are in no way associated with breasts.

Like the story my friend BD told me about his torturous battle with a terrorist rat that invaded his sleeping quarters in Iraq.

There he was, minding his own business and passing time looking for Waldo in his "Where's Waldo's Weapons of Mass Destruction" activity book, when suddenly he heard a sound coming from under his bed.

Because he's a hybrid half Marine, half Army soldier specially bred for killing by the US Government in climate controlled pods, BD fearlessly leapt into action. And when I say leapt, of course I mean in a manly killing machine kind of way and not in a swishy, Brokeback Mountain kind of way.

As smooth and stealthy as a snake, BD quietly moved to the floor and peered underneath his bunk. There, staring back at him with beady, glowing red eyes was a rat so big and so frightening, BD knew immediately it must be one of the infamous Al-Queida rats he'd learned about in a training film he'd seen only days before titled, "Infamous Al-Queida Rats and You".

Based on his training and experience, BD knew what to do.

"Shoo rat!" he yelled. "Shoo! Shoo!"

While a normal rat might flee upon hearing the command "shoo!", BD knew the fearless Al-Queida breed will only respond if the command is issued by a soldier using a high-pitched girlie voice while hopping around on his tippy toes and flailing his arms about wildly.

Realizing at once that he was dealing with a highly trained American soldier for whom he was no match, the rat quickly retreated.

Unfortunately he retreated into another soldier's room. It was a suicide mission.

"You lure the rat from under my bunk," said the other camo wearing guy to BD. "Once he is out, I will shoot him with my handy-dandy Russian made high-powered dart gun and our American asses will once again be free from this furry scourge."

BD did as instructed and flawlessly executed the classic Bugs Bunny by putting on a dress and some red lipstick and pretending to be a pretty rat hooker. Thinking BD was one of the promised 77 virgins, the gullible Al-Queida rat ran right for him.

"Kill it!" screamed BD while again using the Army approved tippy toe girlie dance.

An epic struggle between good and evil ensued. Darts whizzed through the killing field, rat fur flew and soldiers cried out in the fury of the battle.

"Bam! Whammo! Squish!" (OK. I'm a girl, so I don't know the sound a dart makes when it hits a large rat, but I think whammo is probably pretty close.)

As the 13" rat lay dying, three large darts protruding from his Al-Queida behind, in a final act of defiance, he whispered "Death to America".

And then BD put him in a Ziploc baggie and threw him in the trash. Oh the humanity.

I wonder what size boobies those 77 virgins have? Damn it. Here we go again.


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Microcalcification.

I'm always amazed at how some of the words or phrases that I use in Wiping The Crazy Off My Face sometimes rank in the top 3 of a Google search. What a world.

Today, I thought I'd use the power of Google for good and offer some facts and resources about what is really taking up all my brain power anyway.

Microcalcification.

Microcalcification are tiny flecks of calcium that look like grains of salt on a mammogram. (BreastCancer.org)When my doctor showed me my breasts in the mammogram results, I thought they looked like tiny glowing grains of sand scattered around inside both my breasts.



They are so tiny, they can't be felt in an exam. Mine were discovered in a routine mammogram. Microcalcifications can sometimes indicate the presence of an early breast cancer. A cluster of these very small specks of calcium may mean that cancer is present. (BreastCancer.org)

CancerBacup says this: About 4 out of 10 breast cancers contain clusters of microcalcification. Microcalcification is even more common in the precancerous condition of ductal carcinoma in of the breast (DCIS) where it is seen in about three quarters of all cases.

In mammograms used for screening for breast cancer microcalcification may be the first sign that a cancer is present, with clusters of calcium specks showing up even though there is no lump to feel and no tumour showing on the mammogram film.

Microcalcification does also occur with a number of completely benign, non-cancerous, breast conditions including fibroadenomas and papillomas. Very often the specialists can tell from the shape and pattern of the calcium specks whether or not there is likely to be a cancer present.

If there is any uncertainty as to whether the microcalcification is due to cancer, or precancerous DCIS, then your doctors will almost certainly arrange a biopsy to get a definite answer. This involves taking a tiny piece of breast tissue and is usually done with a needle and a local anaesthetic in an outpatient clinic. (This is where I'm headed next.)

Here are some personal stories from two women who have had microcalcification discovered in their mammograms.

Sharon

Beth

When do you need a breast biopsy?

I hope this collection of info helps another woman whose mammogram finds clusters of microcalcifications.


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Home alone...and not answering the phone.

I carry two phones with me everywhere I go. One is for work and one is not. When the one ending with the number 8 rings, I know I should answer it in my grown up voice. When the one ending with the number 7 rings, I know its someone I like at least well enough to have given them my number. (Or its someone who has visited the restroom at Big Mike's Diesel & Bait.)

Today I know the big city boobie doctor is hunting me down, so each time 8 rings, I push the ignore button. I'm not exactly eager to actually schedule an appointment to have something done to my girls which was described to me by a jackleg doctor no bigger than my son, as "uncomfortable".

Mr. Man is off toting a badge and a gun and my son is glued to PS2. That leaves me lots of free time to think about every single thing I have no business thinking about.

Like what exactly will that word "uncomfortable" mean to me and what will I do if these tiny little grains of glowing boobie sand I saw on the xrays are something that begins with the letter c and ends with a dirt nap.

Welcome to crazy. Please keep your arms and legs inside the ride.

My friends say, "Don't worry."

I say, "Have we met? And by the way, is that the best you can muster? Don't worry?" And then I pinch them... really hard. On their boobies.

What I really want is a friend that says to me, "I know you're afraid and that's ok because I'm afraid, too. I don't want anything to happen to you because you matter to me."

How hard is that? Come on people. Telling me not to worry is like putting a Moon Pie in front of me and telling me not to microwave it 'til it pops before I eat it.

My mind has run the gammit. I can go from gigantic biopsy needles to wigs to cremation in 5 seconds and not break a sweat. I remember my grandmother and breast cancer and ten months of death. I remember my friend and cancer and letters and cards of good-bye. And no matter how often I hear, "Don't worry", my brain says, "WORRY! WORRY AS FAST AS YOU CAN!"

I'm pathetic. I need a brainwasher person to give my gray matter a good scrub. Know anyone?



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Jackleg, jackleg, jackleg.

"I'm going to need you to put on this paper shirt for no good reason," said the lady whose medical orientation was not specified on her name tag. "And be sure the opening is in the front."

"Umm, yeah...if Doc has my xrays and the thingies inside my girls can't be felt from the outside, why does he need to examine me?"

She looked as if in the history of the medical profession no woman had ever questioned a request to wear a paper vest. The best answer she could give me was this....

"Because he's a surgeon and he doesn't like surprises."

So, I put on the damn paper vest like a good girl. But when he came in the room I jumped from behind the tongue depressors and yelled, "Boo".

"I'm Dr. Bald Guy," he said as he shook my hand. "Now why don't you tell me what you know about what's going on with your breasts."

If I had a nickel for every time a bald guy asked me that.

"I'm told that one of the twins has micro-calcification that the radiologist says he's 100% sure is not cancer. The other one he can't be sure about so we're going to biopsy."

He smiled and cocked his head. "You're from Oklahoma, aren't you? I like that accent."

"North Carolina. Do you agree with the radiologist?"

"North Carolina!" he said it with such shock and awe that I was worried I'd had a seizure and told him I was from Pluto. "How in the world does a girl get from North Carolina to here?"

I felt like I was on a first date. A first date where I had nothing to wear but paper clothes.

"I could tell you, but it involves many twists, turn and husbands and we'd be here awhile. You wanna bill Blue Cross for that?"

"So, did you move directly from North Carolina to here, or have you lived other places as well?"

I have had men ask fewer questions before they said I do. "Really, it's a very long story," I said.

He laughed as if I'd just told him the one about a priest, a rabbi and a monkey. "Why don't you go ahead and lie back on the table now. Put one arm behind your head and relax while I examine you real quick."

Now this really felt like a date.

"Sherri, I'm going to send you to a doctor in the city to do the biopsy. I don't necessarily agree with the radiologist, so I'd like to biopsy both breasts. I'm not going to lie to you... it's going to be an uncomfortable procedure."

That's doctor for it's going to hurt like hell.

"If you knew that you were going to send me to another doctor, exactly why did I have to come here and go through an examination?" I have to admit, I was a little angry.

His answer?

"I'm sorry if you felt inconvenienced."

"Not inconvenienced, Doctor. Curious."

In the south, when we feel someone is shall we say, a cad, we want to call them a jackass but our upbringing won't allow it. No one would dare to utter such a word so instead we refer to them as a jackleg.

This man was the jackeleggiest of all the jacklegs and although some might argue I am taking out my concerns over this situation on him, I still want nothing more tonight than to make him put on paper underwear and kick him in his taquitos.

Yeah. That feels right.


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Eyes on the road, Mr.

Today I totally exposed one of my girls. Accidentally, of course.

While leaving Wal-Mart I was the victim of a freak coin accident. Through a series of twists and turns and a little twitch, a shiny dime landed in my bra. A cold, shiny dime to be more specific.

As I was driving, it became clear to me that said cold coin was going to have to come out or it was likely I was going to crash my car. Without thinking, I stuck my free hand down my sweater and began rooting around for it.

It was in the act of rooting that I found I needed to go lower than first anticipated and completely without forethought or malice, I popped her out. For the first time, one of the twins was having a look at the world at 45 MPH out the driver's side window of my Ford.

Given her precarious future at the moment, I think she deserved it. I almost hated to put her back.

Just as I was contemplating letting her have a few more minutes of freedom, I found I was neck and neck with a sedan to my right. Inside was a Dad, a baby and a Mom and all three were looking at me. In fairness, Dad was more leering than looking.

So in the interest of public safety, I put her away as quickly as I could. If she's a big girl at the doctor's appointment tomorrow, I've promised I'll let her drive home






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Ticket for one for Brokeback Mountain, please.

Hollywood is stupid.

(What a writer I am. What a weaver of words. You're lucky to be reading this.)

I'll say it again. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Hollywood eats paste and wears a helmet everywhere it goes because it can't stand to have its ears touched...and here's why:

Brokeback Mountain.

Brokeback Mountain is a movie about two gay cowboys, not that there's anything wrong with that. I haven't seen the movie yet, so that's all I know. I haven't seen the movie because Mr. Man... like every other straight man in the universe... refuses to actually go see it. In fact, he refuses to even drive by the theater where its showing.

One never knows how far gay cooties can jump.

Were Brokeback Mountain a story about two gay cat groomers or a couple of professional gay knitters, maybe... just maybe I could have tricked him into going with me by convincing him it was a comedy. He's totally OK with laughing with the gays. Nobody loves a good Will & Grace "mo" joke as much as Mr. Man.

But as soon as he saw the commercial and figured out Brokeback Mountain was about homosexual cowboys and that there were tears and longing involved, his eyes rolled back in his head and he began simultaneously to spit, burp and scratch in an effort to ward off any gay vibes that might be floating in the air.

Which brings me to the aforementioned stupidity.

If you want to make a movie like this and tell what you believe is an important story, for goodness sake don't tell the straight men of the world the truth. Don't air commercials that even so much as hint at what the movie is really all about.

It's OK to show those good looking cowboys in your ads, but try having them punching each other in the nose or chugging beer or chewing tobacco. (Make sure its real tobacco though... Big League Chew is a no-no as everyone knows it's the gay cowboy favorite.)

In fact, if you can somehow throw in a couple Hooter Girl cowgirls washing dirty horses, even better.

The trick is to get them in the door and then once they've settled in the dark with their tub o'popcorn and their Big Gulp, you can spring it on 'em. Well... after you splash across the screen the following announcement:

"Attention! Anyone seen running from the theater is a flaming homo. Thank you."

You're welcome.



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I hear ya.

Dear Sher,
omg! U Rock Sher!!LOL! I ended up on your blog via google 'mean Christmas cards ex-husband' and ran into your 'you forgot your anniversary/addicted to Benadryl' post! LOL!You have made my day! You will be sure to get more hits from this part of the country!

Dear Soul Sister,
You were looking for a mean Christmas card to send your ex-husband and found me? I can't help with Christmas, but as Valentine's is right around the corner, allow me to hook you up. Here you go... a Sher original:

To my ex-husband on Valentine's Day~
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Your penis is tiny
Which is why I left you.
(Hint* This sentiment is best expressed in weed killer on his front lawn.)

Dear Sher,
Your hair is the same color as your dog. Do you take him to the salon and have them dye you to match him?

Dear person who married my brother,
Yep, but only because the cat is too fast for me. Oh, by the way... if my parent's should find out all the mean stuff you say about them, it was Connie. She's a total blabbermouth.


Dear Sher,
I think your writing is great. I first found you when I was searching for stuff on Hashimoto's, being a recent victim myself. I did however make the mistake of showing said article to my family, and now they let me get away with nothing!! Stupid move on my part, huh?

Dear fellow sufferer,
Yes it was, but it's not your fault. One of the symptoms of Hashimoto's Disease is the inability to stop yourself from making stupid moves. I submit for your consideration my laundry list of ex-husbands.

Dear Sher,
I was reviewing my site and came across your link. I have this strong feeling about your experiences even though you are a total stranger and I wouldn't recognize you if you passed me in the street. I really want to see you make "Wiping the Crazy Off My Face" into a book,with that perfect titles, about your experience with OCD. Hasn't anyone approached you with this idea? Send some columns off to an agent and get one.

Judging my your writing, you could do a great job. Through in some quotes with doctors, a few interviews of other people (famous) with OCD, etc. Please write this.

Faith R. Foyil (Sanity Central)
Sunny Daze: The Humorous Misadventures of a Tropical Island Mom by Faith R. Foyil
Have a laugh! See my columns at www.faithfoyil.com

Dear Faith,
Thank God you wouldn't recognize me on the street. It would make stalking you a lot more difficult.

Dear Sher,
Reading your stories has been very fun, and yes, even informative at times. I am a Minnesotan transplanted into the genteel southern city of Nashville. I truely love it here, but I miss my family. Reading your collums makes the pain hurt a little less. Please don't stop writing, you do have loyal fans, and I'd like to think that I am now one of them.

Thank you for the voodoo that you do.

Dear person I like because you thanked me for my voodoo,
All you really need to know to thrive in the South is this:
Tea is sweet, hair is big and all church functions require you bring a casserole with Cheez Whiz or Ritz Crackers as the main ingredient.

Dear Sher,
I need an ear.

Dear Vincent,
I told you not to do it. A greeting card would have been more appropriate and your headphones would still fit.

Dear Sher,
Why is it so hard to comment on your blog? You can't comment unless you are registered!

Dear wanna be blog commenter,
Because I said so.


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Hi Grandma. Heaven is louder than I thought.

As I write, I am near death. I don't want to break your heart entirely, but there is coughing and fever and aches and lots of spewing of bodily fluids. I'm entirely ill.

Bless my heart.

To occupy my mind I have been reading and watching TV, buying stuff on eBay and whimpering. I decided after having bought a commemorative set of Civil War pot holders I should surf for stuff to make me laugh...for free.

Remember Mitch Hedberg? He was a comedic genius and he died way before his time. I found some of his stuff online and it made me laugh as hard reading it now as when I would watch his deadpan delivery on TV.

Now I will share with you. Look at me giving to others even as I am surrounded by a bright light. I'm a giver.

http://www.thedotdotdot.com/humor/hedberg.html (Scroll down to about mid way in the page.)



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My glass is half dirty.

My son is sick, Mr. Man is sick, and now in spite of the gallons of Lysol I have gone through, I am sick.

My computer is all jacked up, I haven't been to my office in days and I have a breast biopsy in my near future.

I don't know whether to drown my woes in Chunky Monkey or fling myself from a bridge. (A low one as I am afraid of heights.)

I guess I should look on the sunny side of the street by playing a mood boosting game I like to call the At Least game . It makes me feel good by comparison and that's the best way to feel good.

At least I'm not a conjoined twin. That would suck 'cause with my luck, I'd probably be the one condemned to a life of pushing the stool for my Reba McEntire wanna be sister.

At least I don't have Ted Nugent hair. Seriously.... put down the gun and pick up some product. It was fine back in the day, but come on.

At least I have all my teeth. I am grateful for that every time I see old people cutting their corn off the cob.

At least I know there is no such word as "irregardless".

At least even though due to illness I look like I've been licked from head to toe by Big Foot, Mr. Man is forced by law to love me and to baby me while I am sick.

At least I am not a yankee. If I couldn't say "y'all" and eat biscuits and gravy, I would combust.

At least I am not James Frey. I tore through both his books and am saddened to see what's happening to this prolific writer. When I write my best seller, it's all gonna be a lie, so back off.

At least I can say this completely unfunny post is a result of my fever and in no way a reflection
of my lack o skills.

Sweet.


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Alrighty then.

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.

Jealous?

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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I've given you my stories... give me your support & feedback.

My work has been stolen.
http://txtwistnic.blogspot.com/

As you visit this blog, you will find my words...my work... my life. Plagarized. Stolen.

Names and minor details changed. My words... my work... my life.

Notice the words that close all my posts and that handy, dandy little funny looking c?

Thank you, John.

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What would Priscilla name a monkey?

You ever want to dye your hair, change your name to Priscilla and move to New York where you will find work as a taxi driver by day/ exotic dancer by night?

Me neither.

But when I'm stressed, even though I'd never actually do it, I go ahead and mentally do it. In my head, I have already decorated my apartment, gotten my taxi driving license and choreographed an act involving fire batons and a trained monkey. I'm in a New York state of mind, Baby. It's my happy place.

So why am I so stressed that my mental monkey and I are dancing for tips in my head? One word: germs!

It's cold and flu season, otherwise known to people with OCD as HELL. There are germs and germy people every where I turn. People are hacking, snotting, puking, coughing, oozing, wiping, blowing and wheezing and based upon my observations, they are doing it as close to me as they possibly can. It's a conspiracy as big as that whole moon landing shebang.

Why do germy people want to be near me so that they might in some way expel something disgusting upon me? Can you tell me that? What is it about me that screams, "I heart bodily fluids"?

I went shopping over the weekend. Mistake number one. Everywhere I went someone with a red and leaking nose wanted to stand near me or in one frightening episode, actually touch me. Mothers wiped tiny snotty noses and then rifled through hanging clothes while little germy juniors cried, "Mommy, I don't feel good!" To my ears, that's the same as an air raid siren.

If Lysol made body suits, I would have them in every color.

Mr. Man, who is typically not only tolerant of my fear of germs, but who on a regular basis actually buys for me bags of items from Wal-Mart with the words "disinfect" and "kills germs" somewhere on the packaging, sometimes briefly forgets who I am. He mistakenly thinks I have a sense of humor about germs and people who have them.

"Did you see that woman?" he asked me at the mall the other day. "She was wearing a mask. Maybe she has SARS."

He laughed. I did not laugh.

"Thank you for pointing that out, you sweet, sweet man," I said. "We should head home now. I'm going to need you to boil me."

Please send all mental monkey name suggestions to humorwriter@gmail.com. I'm leaning toward Cletus.


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