Samsonite—I was WAY off

Went to see the plastic surgeon, Dr Grasee.  That’s pronounced Grah-zay.  The Foob really likes it, because it sounds so French.  He never has cared for Dr Birhiray-pronounced Beer-Hurray—instead, wanting me to find a doctor named Dr Chardonnay-Hurray.   “We are going to zee Dr Grah-zay, no?”  he asked with a smile.  Little does he know that Dr Grah-zay is going to eliminate his job.  You might think he’d catch on once he heard our conversation, but he was way too busy trying to sweet talk the implant samples to pay any attention.  So, for now, he’s very excited about having a doctor with such a French-sounding name. 

When I made my appointment with the plastic surgeon, I imagined how I thought the place would be.  I figured, you know, they’re in the business of making people look better—bigger in some ways, smaller in others—so everyone who worked there would look like Barbie.  Prior to my appointment, I imagined myself sitting in a waiting room full of people uber-plump lips, tattooed make-up, and gigantic boobs, sticking out alike a sore thumb (me—not the gigantic boobs) because I still have my cellulite intact.

I’m happy to report that I was wrong. 

Dr Grasee and company are down-to-earth, regular people.  No barbies or fem-bots in the bunch.   As for the waiting room, well, I didn’t see any other patients there.  I hope that’s not because I’m the first customer.  Although, when I went to write a check for my co-pay they did ask me if I had cash so they could hang their first dollar on the wall… hmmm.  No, seriously, Dr Grasee is about my age.   Or at least she *looks* my age, but really she could be 112 years old and just keeps having her partner give her a face lift every year.  So, at any rate she’s been doing this for a little while. 

Right off the bat, I told her that I wasn’t really interested in any of the reconstruction methods that would use muscle, and that Dr Schmidt had said I was a good candidate for an expander & implant, in spite of the fact that I’ve had radiation.  She said, “Okay, we’ll see when I examine you if I think that’s a good idea.”  So, she went ahead and explained the other reconstruction options, and showed us the various implants.  Then she opened up a binder full of before and after pictures.  It was all I could do to keep from busting out laughing as she showed us photos of 70 year old women’s boobs—I knew that Hubster, while appearing calm on the outside, was mentally trying to chew his eyes off to get away.  That alone was worth the price of admission. Heh heh.

Finally, she looked at and felt my skin, and agreed that it does indeed look really good.  “Okay,” she said, “I’m thinking we shoot for the initial surgery in August, and then plan to do the exchange in December.  What do you think?” 

I thought that sounded just jim dandy. 


Return of The Foob

As you may recall, The Foob had been missing.  There was even speculation that perhaps he’d run away to join Cirque du Soleil, being a wannabe Frenchman and all.  I’m sure some of you probably suspected that rather than running away, The Foob had simply been misplaced by his Tamoxifen-brained owner.  But I assure you that’s not the case.  The fact of the matter is that he was hiding.  Pouting because he wasn’t getting enough of the spotlight. 

However, even The Foob can only hold out for so long.  And when I said to Mini Me the other day, “I wish I knew where The Foob was so we could take him mushroom hunting” as I was opening one of my underwear drawers, I was greeted with “Bonjour!  Were you looking for me?” 

(Well, well.  Aren’t we unusually congenial?  Amazing what the right motivation will do.)

And so, we took him on his first mushroom hunt.  Of course, since it was his first time and all, we had to point him in the general direction.  Mini Me said, “Okay Foob, I see one over there.”  “I do not see zee truffle,” The Foob replied.  “It’s not a truffle, it’s a morel.  Keep looking,” said Mini Me, “It’s over close to the fence.  Do you see it?”  After a few seconds of intense scrutiny of the leaf-littered ground, The Foob shouted, “Sacrebleu! I see zee mushzroom!”

As you can see, he was licking his chops in anticipation of the evening’s meal.

Sock Her

Mini Me had her first soccer game Sunday.  Other than a couple of practices and just goofing around with friends, she’s never played before, so she spent a good part of the game just trying to figure out what to do.  Fortunately, she didn’t make any grievous mistakes.  You know, like when she started dribbling the ball toward the wrong goal, she at least listened when the parents all screamed in blood-curdling unison, “WRONG WAY!!”  And only proceeded a few feet before turning in the correct direction.

There was a girl on the opposing team who I’m pretty sure was really a 35-year old Austrian man in size 13 cleats. She was just ginormous, and intimidated the socks off all the other kids in spite of the fact that she didn’t really have any skills.  Mini Me, who is used to being the biggest kid in her age group, got clobbered by Soccer She-rah at least once.  “Mom, did you see that really big girl?  She kicked me in the calf so hard I was afraid she broke my leg!”  I don’t think the girl meant to hurt Mini Me.  I found out later that it’s her first year, too.  And, you know, it’s probably hard to control those size 13’s.  But that doesn’t make Mini Me’s calf hurt any less.

Nevertheless, she sucked it up and kept playing.  Go Mini Me!  Unfortunately her team lost 1-0, but at least Mini Me wasn’t the one who scored the winning goal for the opposing team.

Of course, there’s always next week.

Playing Hooky

At the end of last week, I spent probably 45 minutes or so typing up a blog entry.  I mentioned a while back that I have the slowest internet connection ever.  Well, not only do I have Flintstone’s Internet, but I also get my electricity from Flinstone’s Power and Light.  Apparently, just as I was just putting the finishing touches on my masterpiece, the wooly mammoth who runs on the treadmill to generate our electricity decided to take a break.  *poof*  The power went off. 

Now, this isn’t particularly rare.  We have random power outages all year long.  Sometimes it’s because some unlucky critter decided to get up close and personal with the local transformer.  Or, when the moon is full and the Pabst Blue Ribbon is aplenty, it might be because some hilljacks decided to shoot up the substation down the road from here.

But arrrgh!  Why does it always have to happen when I’m writing?

Then the power came back on.  Anxious to find out whether or not the auto recovery feature had done its job, I powered up.  But before the machine could completely reboot….*poof* the power was gone again.


I gave up and went downstairs.  Eventually, the electricity came back on for good.  I fired up the computer.  My blog entry was nowhere to be found.  Thanks to chemo brain and tamoxifen, I no longer have the ability to recall what I’ve written.  Used to be I could remember anything I’d written, nearly verbatim.  Now I can remember the general idea and maybe a particularly pithy phrase or two, but the rest is gone. 

And so, I did what any mature blogger would do.  I pouted.  Okay, not really, but what I did do was walk away from the desk instead of trying to recreate what I’d lost.  And I’ve been playing hooky ever since.  But of course, no one visits my blog if there isn’t anything new, so I figured I’d better get off my butt and write something.

In the coming days, I’ll tell you how I’ve been spending my time, including taking The Foob mushroom hunting, and Mini Me’s first soccer game.  Stay tuned…

Getting an Earful

Prince called and wanted his 80″s hair back, so I had to find a new ‘do.  You may recall that I’d previously attempted to use a flat iron without much success.  Oh sure, the hair was straight, but not in a good way.  It’s been a few weeks and my hair has grown since then, so I decided to give it another shot.

The flat iron, for those of you who don’t know, looks like a pair of electric hair tongs.  Spring loaded, it stays in the open position until you insert a piece of hair and squeeze it shut.  Then you pull it away from the head, allowing the hair to slide through the two sides, effectively being ironed along the way. 

I’m sure that for people with naturally straight hair, this is a very quick and painless process—making their hair super-straight.  But naturally curly hair doesn’t want to give up its identity that easily.  And so, each small piece has to be ironed again, and again, and again. 

This is where the process starts getting dangerous for me. 

You see, I have a very limited amount of patience.  Especially for things like ironing my hair.  Unlike Hubster, the engineer, with infinite attention to detail, I just want to get it done and move on already.  Hubster doesn’t iron his hair, but you can bet if he did, ALL of the individual hairs would be independently straightened.  In fact, their straightness would probably be measured with a tiny, calibrated hair straightness measuring device.  “Quadrant C-16 has 2 degrees of camber…”  Do you have any idea how LONG it would take him to get ready?  Sheesh!  It already takes forever, as he has to inspect and cleanse every pore individually, and brush each tooth 652 strokes.  I can’t imagine what the results would be if he did more than run a comb through his hair.

But, that’s not me.  I’m all about get it done and move on.  Mini Me will tell you, that I sometimes label the cockamamie ways she goes about doing things as “grossly inefficient.”  Get it done.  Move on.  And so, when it came time to iron my curly hair into submission, the repetitiveness quickly wore on me.  It was especially difficult to straighten those pesky, curly parts that tried to hide behind my ears.  Those pieces are shorter than the top, and hard to capture in the electric hair tongs.  I quickly lost patience.  My movements began to gain speed, until the fateful moment when…

YEEOOUUCH!  I did not grab my hair.

I grabbed my ear.  Yup.  Clamped that puppy right in between those electric tongs, I did.  And while I quickly pulled the flat iron away, the damage was done.  Burns, both front and back.  Of course, with my hair being so short and all, there really wasn’t a good way to hide it.  Especially from whoever happened to sit on my right.  Now you’re probably thinking, “Oh, it’s probably not that obvious.  I bet people don’t even notice.”  Oh yeah?  Every single person I’ve told this story to has had the same response: “I was wondering what had happened to your ear.”

It’s a good thing that I’m well past that self-conscious, afraid-to-look-like-a-dork stage of life. 

I’m glad I have enough hair to iron, but I’ll be even happier when it’s long enough that I can let it be curly.  This hair ironing, ear frying stuff is just grossly inefficient.

A Riddle

What is eight feet long, has two wheels, four arms, four legs, and two heads that scream at each other “Stop leaning! I’m NOT! WHOA! I feel like I’m going to DIE! AAAHHHH!”? 

Hubster and I on our new tandem bicycle. 

I know, you guys all have the same romantic notions I once had about tandems.  You’re probably humming that bicycle built for two song right now.  “But you’d look sweet, upon the seat, of a bicycle built for two.”   Yeah.  More like, “But you and I, will sure-ly die, on our bicycle built for two.” 

You wouldn’t think it would be that hard, would you?  I mean, it’s a bike, for Pete’s sake, not a jumbo jet.  (Although it’s nearly as long as one.)  

The tandem bicycle laughs at your ignorance, just as it laughed at ours. 

“Ha!” says the malicious deathcycle, “You think you can ride me?  Bring it on, amateurs.  I ain’t your mama’s Schwinn, with the cute little basket and the bell on the handle bars. I am the modern tandem—sleek, and beautiful, and ready to throw you to the pavement at the slightest mistake.  What?  You didn’t bring your helmet to test drive me?  Aw, that’s too bad.  I wonder what you’ll carry your head home in.”   

We did manage to successfully complete the near death experience test drive without any carnage.  Afterwards, Hubster asked me, “Well, what do you think?”  I said, “I think it’ll be a lot of fun if it doesn’t kill us.”  And so we brought it home.  No hateful bicycle’s gonna be the boss of me, doggone it.  Besides, this is the only way I have of ever keeping up with Hubster, who rides way faster than me.

But from now on, I’ll be wearing my helmet and some Depends.

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You Don’t Scare Me

My medical bill post gave some of you a little sticker shock.  Sure, I don’t have the money to pay a bill like that, but I’ve gotten enough of these things by now that it really doesn’t even phase me.  Really, what are they going to do?  Take their radiation back?  Or put my old boob back on?  Not that I’m a deadbeat about it or anything, but you know, there’s only so much cash to go around up in here.  Get in line, hospital.  Right behind the surgeon’s office, and the oncologist, and the lab, and the mammogram people, and the pathologist, and the foob store, and…. 

Besides, when you’ve faced down cancer, is anything else really scary anymore?   It’s kind of like, once you’ve given birth nothing else is really painful by comparison.   The first surgery I had was scary because I’d never had one before.  But was it the most painful thing I’ve ever done?  HECK no.  Not even close.  I’ve given birth—to a 9 lb baby—there IS no worse pain.  And, surgery isn’t even scary anymore because I’ve done it four stinkin’ times in the last year.  At this point I’m totally over it.  My biggest concern is whether or not it’ll keep me from going roller skating on the 2nd Friday of the month.

So, sorry, hospital, you’re just going to have to wait your turn.


Remember my post a couple of days ago about search engine terms people have used to find this blog?  I’ve got another one for you: “pink tourniquets”.  Gee, I didn’t know they came in colors.  All the ones I’ve ever had wrapped around my arm (at the same time, even) have been that generic rubber glove color.  Maybe my insurance will only pay for the generic, as opposed to the name brand tourniquet.  No fancy DKNY or Prada tourniquet for me.  Nope.  I get the Faded Glory tourniquet.

But I guess I can’t blame the insurance company.  If I had to pay for it, I’d be like, “We’re getting our tourniquets at a yard sale this year” or “We can’t draw your blood until July when the summer tourniquets go on clearance, because I am not paying full price” or “Make sure you hang onto that tourniquet and bring it back with you next time.”