Breath Cancer

As you guys know, I like to keep tabs on the Google search engine terms that land people on my blog.  It’s not that I’m all about the marketing or anything like that.  I’m not sitting around trying to figure out what keywords to use in order to generate the maximum amount of traffic.  Although, I do get immense pleasure out of being high up on the search results for Pete’s Pride Pork Fritters, and have been known to work a pork fritter reference randomly into just about any post.  This serves a dual purpose, by both bolstering my Pete’s Pride position on Google, and allowing an atrocious amount of alliteration.  Heh heh.  I am nothing if not and incorrigible word nerd.  But at least as amusing to me as the Pete’s Pride Pork Fritter thing, (score!  I just snuck in another one!) are some of the bizarre phrases that people Google in order to end up here. 

 Included on the list of recent searches was one for “breath cancer black rollerskates”.  Breath.  Cancer.  Now I’m not sure if this was merely a typo, or perhaps this person has a speech impediment.  I figure, I write like I talk, so why shouldn’t they, right?  Ah, but I suppose in that case they would have searched for “breath canther black roller thkates”.  So, okay, maybe that’s not what was going on with this one.  Maybe they really were searching for breath cancer roller skates (in black, please, because if breath cancer could be seen, it would most certainly be black or at least very very dark green).

 I’ve never heard of breath cancer before, but I’m by no means an expert on such things.  And, if it exists, why it sure would explain the halitosis some folks have.  Oh, snap, do you think my dog has breath cancer?  I bet there’s a special day for that, too.  National Canine Breath Cancer Survivors Day—a holiday that’s as much for those of us who have survived an encounter with our dog’s breath, as it is for the furry survivors themselves. You know, I seem to remember seeing breast cancer awareness kitty litter—how ironic would it be if that were Canine Breath Cancer awareness kitty litter?  Huh? That’d be a whole lot like lung cancer awareness Marlboros.  Maybe that’s why I’ve never seen it.

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It’s Like Deja Vu

Wow.  Okay, so apparently Feedburner has lost its mind.  Those of you who subscribe to the email list probably thought I’d reached new heights of slothfulness when you got an email yesterday containing a post from February.  You were thinking, “Dang, Moody, if you’re going to try to recycle some old post, the least you could do is pick one that was more than 3 months old.  That way, you know, you might have a chance of passing it off as new material.  Or perhaps if you’re too lazy to actually write, you should consider plagarism.  Sure it’s intellectual theft, but we don’t care if you regurgitate someone else’s work as long as we have something new to read.”

 Alas, I did not try to Jedi Mind-trick you into thinking I’d posted something new Wednesday.  And have no idea where that feed has been spending its time since February.  The Bermuda Triangle?  Area 51?  Walmart? 

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 About that old post…um, yeah, I didn’t go.  I know, I know.  I got you all worked up with that poll and everything, and then I just couldn’t make myself do it.  Even Hubster was like, “Don’t go—why should you burn a whole day on that?”  That was all the enabling I needed to blow it off.  I’m pretty easy to enable.  Sorry.  I guess if you want to know about the wisdom circle, you’re going to have to go to one of those things yourself.  What was that?  You say you don’t want to actually have to go participate and try to keep a straight face all stinkin’ day when you could be sitting at Starbucks or yard saling?  Yeah, well, me neither, so I guess that’s one juice box worth of wisdom we’ll never have.   Amazingly enough, the absence of this knowledge doesn’t make me feel the least bit incomplete.  Shocking, I know.

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 Note to Union Hospital: While it didn’t bother me in the least (in fact, it gave me blog material), some more sensitive types might get a little freaked out by being asked if they have a living will prior to a routine, non-invasive procedure like my recent ultrasound.  I realize that you have your standard battery of questions, but seriously—living will? 

 Of course, it’s not the first time I’ve been asked that.  You know, when you have a surgery, they ask you stuff like that just in case they somehow scramble your brain in the process of making your newpple.  “Gee, we’re sorry that your wife is now a vegetable, Mr Foodie, but we did have to harvest tissue for the nipple from somewhere, and since your wife obviously doesn’t use her cerebral cortex much, we thought that was as good a place as any.”

 And, we are talking about me, here, she for whom everything is a blog post.  So, you know, they really could be concerned that I might not make it out of there alive, and I’d still be taking mental notes for a later entry.  But, some folks are kind of sensitive to that whole brain death thing.  So, Union Hospital, you might want to re-think the necessity of some of those questions.  Just sayin’.

I Feel a Song Coming On…

Okay, so now for a little bit of randomness.  (Shocking, I know.)

In case you haven’t noticed, yesterday’s post was the first in a couple of weeks.  Now, what you probably don’t know is that when I don’t post, I don’t even visit my blog.  At all.  And now you’re like, “So? Why would you? To see if you wrote anything new yet?”  No, Smartypants, when I’ve been writing, I obsess over frequently check my blog stats.  How many people have been there?  Has anyone left a witty response? Have there been any publishers offering book deals in the comments?  Also, I re-read the thing, like, 652 times just to make sure I didn’t miss any typos.  And, I even look at all the stuff that’s not really related to the current post like how many hits I’ve had from people searching for Pete’s Pride Pork Fritters, and what bizarre search engine terms have led people here lately.

So, because I hadn’t written, and therefore hadn’t been here at all, I’m just now seeing the great searches that were performed on my birthday.  Are you guys doing this on purpose?  Believe it or not I had three, yes, three searches on my birthday involving roller skating.  One of which was “why people like roller skating.”  Seriously?  Seriously?  Who needs to ask this?  Hubster, was that you?  (Oh, I’m sorry, that would be the “why people like dorky videos” search.)  Um, why do people like roller skating?  Hmm.  Let me think…gee, how about because it’s fun?  I mean, where else but the skating rink can you zoom around on wheels, to music, under a disco ball, AND watch people fall at the same time?  Besides heaven, I mean.  What’s not to like?  Sheesh. 

Then there was this one: skating alliteration.  No. Way.  Someone actually googled that and ended up here?  Sweet.  Those are, like, two of my favorite things.  Skating and saying something that starts with the same sound.  Heh heh.  Another one of my favorite things is rewriting songs.  Songs like, well, My Favorite Things

Rewriting lyrics and butchering classics

Shocking the Hubster with kisses of static

Watching folks falling at the skating rink

These are the best things in life—so I think.

 

Writing in rhymes or with alliteration

Disco balls, coffee and procrastination

Big chunky jewelry and shoes with some bling

These are a few of my favorite things

 

Black raspberry pie and some laughing out loud

Yard-saling bargains and days without clouds

Having more hair than I had just last spring

These are a few of my favorite things.

 

When the sun’s gone

And my mood swings

When I’m feeling sad

I simply go get a big plate of cheese fries

(And vanilla Coke added straight to my thighs)

And then I don’t feel so bad

 

Yeah, I know, I don’t understand why no one is beating down my door to offer me a recording contract, either.  Perhaps it’s because I can’t sing my way out of a wet paper bag.

Looking for Hair Tongs in All the Wrong Places

And now it’s time for another look at those crazy search engine terms.  You know, the ones people are apparently googling that somehow cause them to end up here.  I wasn’t planning to write about them again so soon, but they’ve just been so doggone funny lately, that I had made a mental note to write about it in the near future.  But not quite yet.

That is, until I glanced at them this morning.  And when I saw that someone had gotten to my blog by searching the phrase “how to blow dry hair after mastectomy” I thought to myself, “Okay, that’s it, I’ve got to blog this today.  Pray tell, o searcher of this phrase, are you wondering how to go about blow drying your copious chest hair?  Has Tom Selleck had a recent mastectomy? Just curious.

And then there’s this gem: “does richard simmons have breast implant”  Gee, I know I’ve got Richard Simmons hair, but I never realized I was going to have a boob just like his, too.  Yay me.  I draw the line at sequined tank tops and stripey short-shorts, however.  So, if you ever see me looking like this, it’s time for an intervention.

Believe it or not, we haven’t had a pork fritter search in about 5 days.  We have, however, had a search for the Spelterville Inn, which is almost the same thing since, as everyone knows, it’s home of the tenderloin the size of Rhode Island.

Then there are the cryptic phrases, “bald people doomed” and “tiny hair tongs”.  Gee, I don’t even know what to say about those two, except to wonder if the tongs are for grasping tiny hair, or if they are actually made of hair.  Are the tongs tiny, or are they normal sized but constructed from tiny hairs.  And finally, was the author really searching for tweezers?  Perhaps she has chemo brain and can’t remember what they’re called.  “What are those things that you use to pluck your eyebrows?  I can’t think of what they’re called, but they look like tiny tongs…” 

Of course, on any given day, some lame-o ends up here after searching for things like “swim suite show boob no top” or “bathing suit boobs” or “little boobs water park”.  Okay, first of all, you pervs, the least you could do is learn to freakin’ spell suit.  As in swim SUIT.  Not suite.  Which is an entirely different thing altogether.  Second of all, I bet you were about 31 flavors of disappointed when you got here and saw that the closest thing I had to a boob shot was a picture of a fake boob with a face.  Serves you right.  I hope your search for water park boobs landed you right smack on this entry, where the sight of Gertrude and Margaret in mastectomy suits left you blinded, and scarred for life.

Welcome to My New Home

I keep getting compliments on my hair. And people keeping saying, “It’s coming in curly!” Yes, that’s because I have naturally curly hair. Sometimes I think I must have been darn forgettable prior to chemo because no one seems to remember what I looked like. Not only are people incredulous that my hair is coming in curly, but they actually tell me, “I thought your hair used to be straight.” A couple of weeks ago I asked Angie, “Hey, did I exist before I was bald?” You know, chemo has really jacked up my short term memory (more on that later…unless I forget to write about it) but people, even *I* remember what my hair looked like!  Sheesh! Of course, this is at least partly rooted in the belief that when people do chemo their hair comes back in different. Personally, I think this is a bunch of baloney. When you hair is a half inch long, any amount of wave it has will make it seem curlier than when it was longer and stretched out by its own weight. And if you used to color your hair, then of course your new sprouts won’t be the same color. Sometimes people say it comes back I thicker, but really, how would you know? You just spent the last 6 months bald!   

Last week I had my stitches removed, and met with Dr Birhiray. The last time I saw him was after the Tribune Star interview, but prior to the article actually being published.  I’d told him about it, and he asked me to bring him a copy next time. So, I took a copy when I went for my check-up. Dr B insisted that I autograph it, as if I am really some sort of celebrity. He’s probably got it listed on eBay for 99 cents right now with 2 minutes to go and no takers.   

I also griped to Dr B about not losing any weight. After weeks of working out, I weighed in one measly pound lighter. Of course, it doesn’t really help that my appointments are always right after lunch. And since we were running behind, lunch consisted of Steak N Shake. So there I was, griping that he’s making me fat with all this Tamoxifen, while the smell of cheese fries still yet lingered around me like a deep friend aura. But the way I see it, I’d have had those cheese fries if I weren’t working out, so the fact that I have been working out consistently should definitely overcome one meal at Steak N Shake.  I should still be ahead of the game. And I should be ahead by more than one stinkin’ pound!  

About that memory loss thing…you’ll be amused to know that I did indeed forget to write about it. It was only when I went back and read through what I’d written that I said, “Oh yeah!  Memory loss!” Welcome to life with me, post-chemo version. While it can be frustrating, it’s actually kind of amusing to me because it’s just so ridiculous. My long-suffering hubby can attest to the resemblance I bear these days to Dory from Finding Nemo. The only thing that has kept him from losing his mind is that he knows me well enough to finish most sentences for me. Still, that doesn’t help when he asks me to do something and I say, “Okay” and then immediately forget.  I guess it’s a good thing he loves me. 

There are some folks who will say, “You can’t claim chemo brain anymore.” Oh yeah?  Come hang out with me for a couple of hours and see if you still feel the same way. Ask any of my friends how many times I say things like, “Did I already tell you this?” Sure, it’s not like the very slow mental processing I had going on while I was actually doing chemo, but neither is it normal brain function.  At least 70% percent of the time I can’t think of the words I need to complete an intelligent sentence. My conversations are peppered these days with thingamajigs, doojiggers, and watchacallits. The names of people either completely escape me, or are crossed up with someone else. For example, the other day I commented to Mini Me, “Man, Emeril’s trying to kill me!” She said, “Emeril’s trying to kill you?” I just busted out laughing. I was actually not talking about Emeril at all. Instead, I was talking about Gilad, the exercise guru, whose dvd I’d done the previous day.  How on Earth I crossed up those two, I’ll never know. Mini Me astutely observed that indeed Emeril is the very opposite of Gilad.   

Clearly the synapses are not firing correctly.