I know. I'm writing words. The hell? I'm sure you all thought I had forgotten my alphabet. Trust me when I say I would rather vlog but as it's after midnight and I'm in bed, that would mean you'd see how completely forty-five years old I am and there is just no damn way I'm having any of that.
So I'm not sleeping for two reasons.
Number one - the little bastards outside have not yet come to grips with the fact that it's officially NOT the 4th of July any longer. It's my firm belief at this point they are just blowing shit up to piss me off.
Mission accomplished, Blackcat Firecracker Guy. I hate you more than Michael Jackson hated vaginas. (Forgive me Tito. I'm not myself right now.)
And reason number two I'm not sleeping - I'm planning my funeral.
So far I've only told a very limited number of people, but there is another friggin lump in my breast. I wasn't going to tell anyone because once I say it out loud, there it is again. All out loud and real and what not. Plus I didn't want to sound like a whiny, lumpy breasted, cry baby.
Which I am. Except for the crying part. Which I'm not. Because I almost never do. What with me being a bad ass and what not.
Which I totally am.
Sure, the lump is likely nothing more than me forgetting to chew my peanut M&M's again. It wouldn't surprise me a bit for the mammogram to show something yellow and delicious in my left girl. After all, they do melt in your mouth - not in your boobies.
But telling me that is NOT going to do anything but piss me the hell off, so don't say that to me. Don't email it; don't send me a greeting card with it; don't write me a poem about it; and in the name of all that is titillating; don't spray paint it on a cat and send it to me.
I do not enjoy cats and I especially don't care for message cats, what with their poorly written graffiti and aloof personalities.
Here's the thing, peeps. My factory-second brain goes right from lump to hospital to mastectomy to chemo to hair loss to yellow pieces of rubber around my wrist to Oprah to Mr. Man showing up at the morgue with my laptop because the only way you can get in it is with my DigitalPersona fingerprint and no way he's gonna let 'em plant me until he cracks my super secret code.
Truly, I've gone from zero to dead like 1000 times since I found this stupid thing. When Doctor felt me up for fun and profit last week, he made that, "Oh I'm sure it's nothing but we'd better check just in case" face - which looks eerily similar to that "Good night nurse! This chick has a peanut M&M in her boob!" face.
He told the nurse to get my mammogram scheduled STAT!
Well actually he didn't really say STAT, but it's a life long dream of mine to hear someone yell it in my presence, so I just made that part up to make me feel all flittery in my down there.
That was horrible and I'm sorry. I shouldn't be thinking sexy thoughts when I'm facing the possibility of an M&M biopsy - and/or death. That's just morbid, not to mention stupid. The last thing I wanna be doing right now is attracting undue attention from the Man upstairs for being a foul-mouthed woman with loose morals. And yes I'm well aware that he is omnipotent and omnipresent and omniawesome, but I've felt reasonably secure he's not seen me be bad recently as he's been distracted by all this Michael Jackson coverage.
Anyway, that's that and this is it and there you go. I'm back in boobie trouble again and I'm unhappy about the whole kit and caboodle.
I have no idea what that means honestly and I'm pretty sure it's not spelled correctly but you're not gonna correct me even if it's not because you feel sorry for me and my M&M breast. So there.
Suck it.
Dammit. Inappropriate and unintended sexiness again. I hope God is watching CNN right now.
Before we move onto your regularly scheduled programming today, here's a quick note for my female readers. I am currently conducting a highly scientific study of the male psyche using some real life males as my subjects. Stay tuned for some deep and life changing insights coming up next week.
OK so I've been keeping my menopausal life on the down low. Some years ago I was told I was in menopause, but then the pause stopped and as it turned out all the bad hormonal BS was attributed to Hashimoto's Thyroiditis and I left bio-identical HRT in the past.
But taaaa-daaaaa - it's back. And when I say it's back, what I really mean is, "I FEEL LIKE I COULD KILL A WOLVERINE WITH MY BARE HANDS AND EAT ITS BRAINS!!!!"
Yes, I'm a little touchy. (But not the way Mr. Man likes me to be.)
Naturally I called Pharmacist and said, "I AM GOING TO KILL A WOLVERINE WITH MY BARE HANDS IF YOU DON'T FIX THIS!!!!!!!"
He said okay and then I think he wet himself.
Long story short, I had to spit in tiny vials for an entire day and ship them off to The Texas Institute for the Study of Saliva and Wolverine Cravings.
Once they did whatever it is spit scientists do, they sent a report back to Pharmacist and Doctor. It said I'm so messed up, it's no wonder I can't watch chick flicks without my gag reflex kicking in. I'm like one testicle away from being a man.
Thus the wolverine fetish.
I've had several visits with Pharmacist since then. On my first visit he announced I would be applying something to a place on my body that embarrassed me so much I could only tell my closest girlfriends. The image of him saying the word that describes where I was to put it is burned in my brain. Forever. I damn near passed smooth out next to the Chapstick display and the pen chained to the counter.
Thankfully enough time had passed that I could finally face him once again because I had to go back today.
This time he said, "Hey girl! Come back here with me!"
"Back here" is a place surrounded by glass where he compounds stuff for people who like their pharmaceuticals compounded. I believe it involves pounding of some sort.
He handed me a mask like the one surgeons wear and I pranced my happy ass into the compounding room glancing only briefly at all the little people who were standing on the lower level looking up at me with envy.
"That's right people. This mask means I am somehow important and medical-ly." I made a mental note to wear it to Wal-Mart next time I go - which will be in approximately 5 minutes as I live in a constant Wal-Mart going loop.
Of course I know the feds like you to have a degree to make medicine, but since Pharmacist and I are buds, I figured it would be like Martha Stewart having friends over to learn to bake cupcakes.
As I was looking for the giant white tub labeled, "Medical Marijuana", he commenced to showing me how he stuffs capsules. It was quite riveting. Then he showed me how he measures. Also riveting. Then, out of NO WHERE, he said to me, "Now what you're gonna wanna do is take this much of that stuff in that tube and apply it directly to the vulva."
I said, "Can you show me that measuring thing again?"
The phone rang. It was the aforementioned Texas Institute. I don't know who was on the other end but Pharmacist was super excited. "Yes! Oh yes! This is great timing because she's right here. So which do you think we should use? OK. Well we're going to be applying it directly to the clitoral area. Yes. Right on the clitoral area."
Thank you Jesus for the mask because I began to grin from ear to ear and giggle. This man was tossing around funny no-no words AND he had made it sound as though this whole deal was about to go down right there in the pharmacy since WE were going to apply it to my lady business.
Just the two of us in the glass room, compounding and what not.
Listen kids, I don't care who you are there are certain words you should never say. Ever. Not to your partner, not to your spouse, not to your doctor. You know why? Because they are so clinical they sound utterly dirty, plus once you hear someone say those words, they are stuck in your head like the Wiggles singing Fruit Salad.
I would also like the record to reflect that as an adult woman nearing the 45 year mark, I was unaware there were so many doctor type words for my down there and that I would have to learn them all from my pharmacist. Thank you public North Carolina schools.
I don't remember what happened next because I think I had a seizure or something, but I do know I have $150 worth of tubes and pills that are guaranteed to turn me back into a girl again. The directions say I'll know it's working when I can watch Titanic through to the end without vomiting on the coffee table.
Oh and when I stop ripping the guts out of wolverines.
For some time I have searched with no success for someone to teach a CPR class to a group of new hires for a new business with which I am associated. “No problem,” I said when the task was put on my side of our lengthy to do list prior to our Grand Opening.
How hard could it be, I thought, to find a person with the knowledge necessary to teach others how to bring somebody back from the brink of death?
Turns out its damn near impossible to find someone who will teach others how to do this black magic known as CPR. I have concluded CPR instructors are like ninjas. Nobody actually knows one, but we know that in a fight, Chuck Norris would kick all their asses.
I’ve enlisted an Army of my peeps to assist me in my desperate search for a CPR ninja of my very own. The problem is that everyone I call acts as if I’ve just asked them for the name of a good back alley abortionist.
“Ummm, well I know a guy who knows a guy who might be able to do it, but I think maybe he had to stop.”
As of today, I have reached the end of my rope with this whole thing and have therefore decided just to teach the freaking class myself.
Am I certified to do so?
I am not.
Does that make me any less qualified to teach life saving techniques to the masses?
Definitely.
But with as much enthusiasm as the first time I had sex, I am going to show up in a low cut dress, plaster a fake smile on my face, and shout out a lot of words I do not understand.
Infarction! Aorta! Long-term commitment!
Topics I will cover include:
How to know if someone is really experiencing a heart attack or is simply a big fat cry baby.
(A good way to separate the ill from the pathetic is to kick them square in their no-no place. I’m saying if it’s really a heart attack, they will not possess the energy to beat the crap out of you.) When to give CPR.
(The Sher method of CPR indicates you should do it whenever you want to show off. It’s great to bust out some CPR moves at parties. Who doesn’t love getting straddled and having their chest pumped? Some people pay good money for that kind of thing.)
How to actually do the actual do.
Step One - shake the victim violently and ask in a loud voice, “You didn’t have Mexican for lunch did you?” If they do not respond, flick their nose or nipple as hard as you can and issue the command, “I asked you a question dumb ass.”
If no response…
Step Two – Tilt their head back and hold a mirror under their nose to check for breathing. If you do not have a mirror, don’t worry. Simply lick your finger and shove it under their nose. Do not make the rookie mistake of licking their finger.
If you feel air, it’s all good and they’re breathing. However, since this low life has caused you to get off your behind and rush to their aid, they’re getting CPR come hell or high water.
Step Three – Pinch their boob, hold their nose, cover their mouth with your mouth and blow as hard as you can. If you find yourself incredibly aroused at this point, it’s perfectly normal and nothing to be ashamed of. The giving and receiving of CPR between two adults at least one of whom is conscious is a beautiful thing.
Step Four – Sit on the victim’s stomach and place your hands one on top of the other in the center of their chest. Begin pushing up and down as fast as you can, as hard as you possibly can. If you do not feel like you are pushing hard enough, enlist the help of a couple of the people who will certainly be standing around watching you. You will need about the same amount of pressure it takes to squeeze the air out of a radial tire so this is no time to be gentle.
Step Five – Do that boob, nose, mouth thing again. It’s not really going to help the victim, but it’s not all about them, is it?
Step Six – Keep pumping their chest until they come back to life, or until your arms get tired. If you do get tired…or bored, the proper protocol is very similar to what dealers do in Vegas when leaving a table: Wipe your hands together in a washing gesture and tell the dead guy good luck.
Step Seven – This is the most important step of all so listen up, class. If the person grabbing their chest in pain and falling smooth out on the floor is in any way unattractive, shout out, “I don’t know nothing ‘bout no CPR! Somebody call 9-1-1!” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ This song has been stuck in my head all day. No idea why, but I love it.
