Don't hate on the girls with big boobs.

Except for this chick. She's a whore.



Yorkie posted ^^this^^ spectacular pic yesterday and I was reminded of a rant.

We've talked about my knockers on here many times, have we not? I've written about my uplifting bra experience as well as the time I freaked out about my nipple rings at my mammogram. Oh, by the way, mark your calendars, as Rip has...



(Isn't he the best? I just love that guy to pieces.)

My follow-up mammogram is on May 14th. Plan accordingly.

Anyway, recently I got a gift card in the mail to the store where Swamp Thing works. Actually, I don't know if she still works there, but last I heard, she did, so I was kinda torn. I have almost gotten through the entire school year without seeing her (fingers crossed!!), so I tried to go on a non- Mom's Day Out day so she'd most likely be home.

I decided to check out the bras. It looked like there were some really cute ones.





Sure there are cute ones, if you're a C cup...



or a B cup...



or an A cup...



or even a "Nearly A". (I'm sorry... NEARLY A??!!?)




Here's what comes in MY SIZE.



Sexy as HELL, right?

It pisses me off to no end because the cute bra thing is kind of a big deal to me. I have a love/hate thing going with my boobs. I kinda like my boobs better when I'm dressed. I love how fantastic they look under a tight sweater or a low-cut blouse.

But aesthetically, I don't think they're that pretty, close up and nekkid. Come to think of it, penises really aren't that attractive to me, either. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love my porn n' all, it's just that everybody's naughty bits are kinda weird-lookin, aren't they?

Before I had kids, my boobs were perky and Girls Gone Wild awesome. I wish I'd pierced my nips back then. At age 38, I'm slightly asymmetrical and I've got stretchmarks, veins, and nipple hairs goin' for me. I'm just layin' it out there for y'all. We're all friends here.

Usually, by the time I have my top off, I'll give ya a minute to check out my rack if my bra is cute, and then the lights are going off. You either get to see my boobs while encased in my cute bra, or you get to fondle them in the dark. Only a very privileged few have seen my al fresco nipplage.

So what I'm sayin' is, I count on the cute bra/panty ensembles to feel hella sexy under my clothes, cuz once the clothes are off, don't ogle me or I'll get self-conscious and it'll totally kill the moment. Just cut to the chase.

I get that the little boobies types feel the same way, perhaps - that the packaging is important - but you girls have so much better selection and variety available to you. Why would you want to get implants so your selection becomes white, black, or beige? I don't get that at all.

Itty bitties, I got nuthin against y'all, really. I know you have nothing to do with the complete lack of styles available to the larger girls. It's probably MEN in charge of this disparity, and don't a lot of those men LIKE the big'ns? Why do the bra makers gotta make my life suck?? Having Bodacious ChiChis is no picnic. Trust me.

Oh, and while I'm ranting, can we PLEASE, as a society, come up with some universally accepted standard of the heirarchy between Ultra, Ultimate, Super, and Absolute? Between bra support level and feminine hygiene product absorption level, I'm just fuckin lost. Do guys deal with that, in any aspect of life?



Seriously. Write your congress(wo)man.

It's been a week? Sorry.

Here's how you know your life sucks.


Your life sucks when the best thing that's happened all week is that your prescription drug provider is now using a smaller generic version of your anti-depressant medication so you no longer have to choke down the giant yellow horse pills every day to keep yourself from killing people. I literally cheered Awesome!! out loud. And then I realized how completely pathetic it was that I was so excited about that.

You know the feeling that you've been busy as hell but you haven't really DONE anything? I spent most of Friday driving Rip's gorgeous son Skater to and from his class and to get his car fixed so he could pass safety inspection and he could stop getting ticketed for his expired plates. Let me clarify that I am SO not complaining about driving the boy around.

Rip's son Skater is beeeeeeeyootiful. He and his friends made a skateboarding video (which he's selling, ladies) in which he appears shirtless. His Abs are fuckin AMAZING, and he lets me touch them as payment for my shuttle services (I'm thinkin I totally get the better end of that deal). Seriously, if I wasn't both married to R and a good friend of Rip's, I'd be ALL OVER that boy. Hey, he's twenty! Roowwwwwwwlll..

The chronology of the day was that as soon as I got Pie on the bus in the morning, I went and got Skater and took him to his class, then I came back home, put Tito on his bus and went back and got Skater and brought him home to Rip's. I had one hour that I didn't have to spend in the car and was hoping to take a nap, but then I remembered that Pie needed to wear his Boy Scout uniform the next day, so I wound up spending that hour sewing patches on Pie's shirt.

Tito had a birthday party at 4 - which I thought was kinda crappy because, hello, not all kids get out of school at 3. Mine get out at 3:47 and the party was a good 20 minutes away. If I'd let them ride the bus home like usual, we wouldn't have left until 4:15, so I had this great plan to get in the Parent Pickup line so we could leave right away and be minimally late.

Pie forgot I was picking them up and got on the bus anyway. I should have thought about it more before I made this genius plan. Pie could have just gone home on the bus anyway because Beebie was home, but I thought keeping the boys together would make everything simpler. By the time they got Pie off the bus, it pretty much negated my whole attempt at maximum efficiency.

So I got there at about 4:45. It's not that I got lost, exactly, it's that I went to the wrong place. Plus I got lost on the way to the wrong place because I turned the map upside down, but that's beside the point. Anyway, the party was supposed to end at 6, and I needed to pick him up and get him home right at 6 so I could turn back around and head to KOFA's work party at the bowling alley (I almost typed blowing alley, which would have been a WAY different kind of party).

It didn't make sense for me to drive all the way home and back, so Pie and I got Chik Fil A and killed time until 6, and then I took the boys home and headed out to hang with KOFA. And I turned the wrong way going there too. The irony, of course, is that I had no problem whatsoever driving home after I'd been drinking for two solid hours.

Saturday morning all five Karmas went to the Boy Scout's Scouting for Food thing, where they put the bags on the doors one week and people fill the bags with non-perishables then the next week the Boy Scouts come back and pick them up and load them into a huge truck to be distributed to local food pantries. It's a really cool thing, so if you got a bag on your door last weekend, don't forget to fill it and put it outside early Saturday morning.

We got there and got our random assignment of what street to put the bags on. RANDOM, ok? Got that? RANDOM.

There are dozens of streets in the area our Pack was covering.
We got Swamp Thing's street. Unbelievable.

I stayed in the van with Beeb listening to Bon Jovi, and at one point a red minivan that looked like the Swampmobile came toward us.

I went into a quiet panic, whispering,

Oh SHIT, Beeb. Shit. Shit. Shit. Oh God, NO. Mutherfugginfuck...

Beeb was laughing her ass off, reminiscent of the Lubaba hysterics, as the van passed Swamp Thing's driveway and headed right for us. It was the dude who organized the pack asking how we were doing and if there was anything we needed.

Nope, nope, we're fine, thanks. Just a little tiny heart attack when I thought you were my archnemesis coming for my soul, but apart from that, perfect.

We were almost done, maybe two houses left, and as I bent over to my sunglasses out of the glovebox of the Odyssexy, I looked up and saw Swamp Thing's van - and I'm POSITIVE it was hers - which had somehow passed, miraculously when I wasn't looking.

I don't know how she didn't see me parked there. My van is easily identifiable by the Luckenbach, Texas sticker on the back window. And the boys were putting a bag on a house which was on top of a hill so she didn't see Pie either. Crazy.

Seriously, the planets aligned in my favor. I hope they align again when we go back to pick shit up this Saturday. Moving on -

MORE BOOB NEWS.

It's been a little while since my last boob update, so here's the latest Boob News. This morning I got a call from my OB's office, reviewing the results of my follow-up Mammogram last week.

Well, Dr. Walsh says it looks like it's probably benign...

Hang on, what?? PROBABLY? This Girl doesn't handle the word Probably very well. Probably's not the same as IS.

She says she wants you to be absolutely sure you go back in six months... (She's saying that because I went like two and a half years between annuals once.)

Great, I get to freak out until May.

And keep doing your self-exams...

Ok, look. I'm a Double D. I've got a lot of surface area goin' on, and my worst fear is that there'll be something horrible buried deep down and I won't be able to feel it.

If you'd like, we can give you the name of a Breast Specialist so you can get another opinion...

Specialist??? Do I NEED a Specialist? Am I okay or am I not okay??? Fuckin TELL ME!!

Um, way to fuck with my head! Why didn't they send me to the Breast Specialist for the follow up in the first place? They had actually told me that they were going to do a sonogram rather than the Boobsquisher 3000, and they said that the Boobsquisher results made it look like the sonogram wasn't necessary. They sent me home thinking I didn't have anything to worry about. Why didn't they do all they had to do to find out as much as possible the last time I was there with my boobs already whipped out?

I mean, it's not that I mind whipping them out, I'll whip 'em out anytime. I'm just saying, for the sake of my convenience, why didn't they go more indepth if the best they could tell me was Probably Benign? So yeah, that's how my day started out.

Later that afternoon, old boyfriend Rick called me for a Boob Update, and first, while I'm thinking about it, let me just say how much I love the fact that y'all are so tuned into my boobs. Really, it's sweet. Anyway, I told him about the phone call I'd gotten from the OB. And while I was still on the phone with him, I opened the mail. I had received the following letter from the Department of Radiology:

Dear Mammography Patient:

Evaluation of your mammogram reveals one or more findings, which we believe are probably benign (not cancer).

We recommend follow-up:

Left mammogram in six months . This exam does need to be scheduled. [Call us and make an appointment, blah blah blah]

Mammography does not detect all breast problems and does not replace a regular physical exam by your physician. Theses (sic) two methods together have been shown to be the most effective means for detection for early breast cancer.

Remember that you should not ignore a breast lump or possible change in your breasts, even if your mammogram is normal. If you feel an abnormality in your breast or a change in your breast examination, contact your physician.

We also encourage you to use regular breast self-examination. If you wish information on the technique, call [our office]. We look forward to serving you in the future.


Don't you love it when in trying to tell you not to worry they have to also add, in order to cover their own asses, that they might possibly be wrong? Great. So I got that goin' for me.

And you know what makes me feel better when I'm freaking out? Ridin Dirty.



I also spilled beer in my closet last night. Trust me, you don't want to know.

Suffice it to say, it's been a Fucked Up Week.

Keeping Y'all Abreast...

Two posts in one day??? Yup. Scroll down and read my earlier post if you haven't already.

Lymph nodes, they said. Lefty's gonna get another checkup in six months, but apart from that, we're good. They even showed me the x-ray film, and there, right in the middle, amidst the cloudy collection of veins and ducts and whatnot, there was my nipple ring - standing proud, defiant and beautiful.

Yes, yes, I know I was worried about nothing, but I would so much rather worry and find out it was nothing that to get horrible news that I'm not mentally prepared for.

Rip was such a trooper. I can't say enough good about the man. He didn't grumble at my conservative driving style, my complete ineptitude at navigating a parking garage, or my uncanny ability to pick the absolute farthest point from where we need to go when I choose where to park. Rip is a great guy.

He's witnessed me in purely social situations up to now (drinking beer and/or throwing darts, mainly), and I'm a fun drunk, but very few get to experience my Real Life Neurotic Self up close and personal, in real time, along for the ride, as it happens, watching the shit I'm gonna write about going down before their very eyes. It's like the Amusement Park Ride version of my blog.

And after accompanying me to my mammogram, Rip and I sat back with a beer. Now THAT is how you treat a lady, my friends.

Good times.

More Boob Talk.

Yes, today's my follow-up mammogram. Did you remember? I'd pretty much forgotten about it until yeseterday morning, and then I started worrying a little. And now, I'm worrying a lot. I'm carrying it in my neck and my shoulders and my jaw. I have the worst headache in recent memory. My hands are shaking.

In my brain I know there's probably nothing to be nervous about. They told me that they're really just "making sure it's nothing".

But let me remind you what happened the last time I went for what I thought was "nothing": A routine follow-up ultrasound (this mammo's actually a sonogram), that lasted four hours and culminated with the perinatalogist telling me I Didn't Have To Have This Baby Who Might Not Survive Anyway. It was by far the most surreal, almost out-of-body experience I've ever had, and it was the beginning of what became the most heart-wrenching six months of my life, to date.

The words Don't Worry do not work on This Girl. Because once you've gotten the shock of your life when you thought you were going in for Nothing, Nothing is ever Nothing ever again. I can't think of anything as Nothing. Tell me there's nothing to worry about? Fuck you, I'll think of Something to worry about. If there's even the slightest possibility that Nothing could be Something, and there always is, I'm going to focus and stew and allow myself to be consumed by my thoughts. I just don't want to be blindsided like I was that other time, because that really fuckin sucked.

To this day R wishes he had been there with me for that nightmare. I know he would have been if he could have - and he got there as soon as he could, in what I refer to as his Knight In Shining Armor moment - but I talked him out of it because I'd had a follow-up ultrasound before with Beebie and it turned out to actually be nothing. I went in thinking I'd be in and out in twenty minutes and they'd tell me everything was perfect. How could I have known anything was that wrong with Pie?

So I try to prepare myself mentally for Worst Case Scenarios until they get funny. Kinda like how I was pissed about the whole Lubaba thing and the more pissed off I got, the funnier the story got? Eventually my thoughts become so ridiculous they're laughable, and eventually I crack myself and R up with them. For example, what if there's a power outage while my boob's in the machine? I'll give you a minute to get that visual out of your head.

I combat everything dark with humor (read my entire blog if you don't believe me). Why does it surprise people to hear that so many comedians battle depression? I can kinda look danger in the eye, once I've made myself laugh about it first. Of course, it's not always appropriate, but when has that ever stopped me from anything?

For example, how hilarious would it be for me to need a mastectomy after I just dropped $200 on those kickass new bras I've been talking about for a month now? Funny, right? Rememember how comically ironic I thought it was when my parents' dog died in the car on the way home after dropping $60 at the groomer's? That's the kind of sick sense of humor I have. And you bitches love me, dontcha? Yeeeeeaah, ya do.

You'll be glad to know that I'm not going to this Mammogram thing alone. Rip has graciously offered to go with me so I'll have someone I can actually say the words "Dude, I'm so totally freaked out right know..." to out loud instead of just hearing it on a constant loop through my head. He's not going in the Nekkid Boobie Frankenstein Switch Room or anything, but he'll be there when I get done, and that's so cool. Thanks, man.

I'm wearing black eyeliner and non-waterproof mascara. If they give me something to cry about, I'm going Balls The Fuck OUT.

And P.S. - I'm packing a flask.

My First Mammogram. (Long Post, But TOTALLY Worth It)

Aaahh, nothing like waking up on the morning of a day you know you'll never forget.

A sense of hyper-alertness comes over me. Like I want to pay extra close attention and remember every single detail so that I'll be able to write about it afterwards for y'all's edification. Because that's what I do.

Last night before I went to bed, I texted as many of my friends as I could imagine might possibly know another pierced woman who had a mammogram to ask if they knew the Official Pierced Nipple Policy for mammograms. I almost accidentally asked my mom if she knew the answer when I called her last night to wish her a Happy Birthday.

It's hilarious. I mean, I am absolutely certain that she knows about my piercings thanks to Cousin Keek, but Mom's never asked me about them directly and it's soooo totally entertaining to watch her sneak little peeks while trying to act like she doesn't know. She took me bra shopping, for cryin out loud. How covert.

Anyway, the overwhelming consensus among my texted friends (which most admitted was based more on logical assumptions than experience), is that I will have to take them out. I am FREAKING, people.

One of the reasons I love my curved barbells is because whenever I see them I remember that I (albeit temporarily) overcame my fear of pain and needles and did something nobody (including myself) ever thought I'd do. I love that they're under my clothes, making me feel secretly hardcore, perhaps even dangerous. In reality, as you know, I'm a total pussy - squeamish, and easily icked out. I'm not someone you'd expect to have pierced nipples. And yet, I do. Surprise!

I like to think they represent my Inner Badass. Whenever I think I can't handle something, I whip out my nips and remind myself of the time when R and I, over dinner at Sam's Steakhouse, were trying to think of something a bit outrageous to do after dinner. I can't remember which of us brought up getting my nipples pierced, but I'm pretty sure it was me. Up to the last possible second, he thought I'd chicken out. HA!! He didn't think I'd ever actually go to Goldenlands, place my breasts in the hands of another woman and allow her to stick me with a needle in a rather sensitive place - twice - BUT I DID.

(Ok, I don't literally whip out my nips whenever I face a challenge, but maybe I should - just to baffle my opponent! Take that!! And that!!! Feel my wrath!!!!)

Since I got them four years ago, I've never taken them out. Theoretically, they're removable; I could probably get them out. But I don't think I could put them back in. I just don't think I can do it. I get queasy when I snag one of them on a loofah in the shower. Not only can I not stand the sight of blood or even the thought of the possibility of the sight of blood, I hate the actual word Blood. The only word I hate more than Blood is Pus. Ugh.

Mucus is another word that's totally icky, but I love the word Phlegm. It's one of my favorite words in the whole English language, truly. Such an interesting combination of letters uniting to create the actual sound one makes when attempting to expel phlegm from one's throat. But I digress.

I didn't watch when the girl pierced them. In order for me to get the rings out and put them back in would require me to actually look at the holes, and I just can't. And I'm not sure I could let someone else do it either. R'd be too afraid of hurting me. It's not even the pain, really, I'd sooner just get them pierced again, but it's the idea of it. I don't even know how to explain what I mean any better than that.

I asked R if I could get them redone if I couldn't get them back in, but then what? Get them redone every year, right after my annual mammogram? Yeah, that makes sense.

So right now it's 7:15 in the am, and I'm trying to decide if I want to just take them out at home and get it over with in a place where I can cry or throw up privately (if necessary), or chance it and leave them in, hoping they'll tell me they could work around them. Fuck.

I don't know what to do. What if I take them out and I get there and they tell me "Oh, you didn't have to do that, silly!!" I'd feel like such a jackass. Back later.


8:45 am Fashion Choices.

Should I go for the hippie bohemian crunchy granola Birkenstock chick with pierced nipples look -



Or the hardcore, Yeah, I got pierced nipples - you wanna fuckin MAKE me take 'em out, asshole?? look -


Such decisions. Guys don't have to think about what they wear to a prostate exam.

I'm supposed to be there, with a full bladder, in four and a half hours. I know you're all thinking I should just call and find out if I have to take them out or not, right? Now, come on...that's not very sporting and it wouldn't make for a very interesting blog entry, would it? Plus, I want you all to feel my angst.

Are ya feelin' it, bitches????

That's it, I'm going with the hard core shirt. Back later.

10:01 am

Still have the rings in. I think that's the route I'm going to go - cling to the hope that just maybe I won't have to take them out. Maybe I'll pull a Charlton Heston:

Sure, you can have my barbells... when you pry them from my cold, dead nipples!!

Nah, never mind. That's creepy.

Meanwhile, my Nipple Ring Anxiety is affecting my brain. I went to go change my contacts (y'know, in case I cry or something) and for some reason I couldn't get my left eye to see right. Shit. I just ordered new contacts in the old prescription. I need to go back and get them checked again. There go the days of buying one box of contacts for both eyes to share.

And then I realized I hadn't taken the old one out.

I'm losin' it, y'all. I seriously need to get out of the house.
Back later.


11:20 am

I just spent twenty bucks on Halloween candy. And I just realized I forgot to put deodorant on. I did manage to remember to put the trash out, though, so that's something. And I remembered everything I went to Target to get, I think. Yeah, I did.

Gotta get my mind focused on other things.

Here's a little pre-pubescent humor I meant to share with you. Say it out loud.



I believe the sequel is called "Diary of a Sperm", and it's about a whale.

Totally getting down to the wire, y'all. Fuck. FUCK.

Ok, I was gonna publish this as one big post when it was all over, but I think I'll post this now and let y'all read it and sit in suspense until I get back, and then I'll tell you whether they made me take out my nipple rings or not.

Believe me, I'll be thinking of you all, THE WHOLE TIME. Later.


************* PART TWO *******************

Ok, I forgot to tell you all the part about how I had to get an Ultrasound first. Nothing major, I just think I have a cyst or something, so I wanted to get it checked out and I figured I might as well do Cooter and Hooters at the same time just like yesterday.

I hate it when they tell you you have to come in with a full bladder. I have a belly pooch and I'm rather sensitive about it, and one time, more than 26 pounds ago, I had a tech lament out loud that she couldn't see anything because my bladder wasn't full enough and there was Too Much Tissue in the way. Yeah, you don't have to be a medical professional to know what that means. And I'd rather not hear that ever again, so when they say Full Bladder, I go Maximum Capacity. I push my limits.

And as you know, I was big time stressed about the whole day, what with the nipple rings and whatnot. So what sucks more than being stressed out and having to pee really bad? Trying to find a fucking parking space when you're stressed out and having to pee really bad.

And what sucks worse than that? Finally finding a parking place and going inside, only to find out that you're in the WRONG fucking building. FanTASTic.

So, running cross-legged, I got to where I needed to be, filled out my paperwork and waited. And waited. And tried to read. And thought I'd die. And waited.

And took a pic of the Turn Off Your Phone sign.



And my socks.



Thirty minutes I waited, in total agony. Ow. Then the tech called my name, and I said, out loud, I have to pee SO BAD. And she chuckled politely as she walked me to a room. And the second she put the thing on my belly she literally gasped and said,

HOLY COW!

God, don't you LOVE that? Cuz where does my mind instantly go? Right back to the time I went in for an ultrasound thinking I wasn't pregnant at all but rather suffering from some bizarre medical abnormality, and the tech told me I wasn't just pregnant, but FIVE MONTHS along.

Yeah, shit happens to This Girl, so please don't take one look at me and whisper words of horror. I'm way ahead of you, sister, freaking out before you even tell me there's a reason to.

Holy cow, what? What's wrong? It's a tumor, isn't it? I knew it.

You DO have a full bladder!!

Yeah, pretty sure I mentioned that...

So I unbuttoned and laid back, and I saw that they have these peaceful serene nature photos up on the ceiling, presumably so you have something to focus on and you can relax and zen out while they press on your uterus. And one of the pictures was a waterfall. SO not what I needed to see. I politely pointed out that they really shouldn't have a waterfall picture when patients are laying on the tables with full bladders.

They finished up and I finally got to go pee. And in the bathroom was this lovely picture.



It's fibroids, but doesn't it look like a Cooter with teeth?
This is my what my WHAT THE FUCK?? face looks like.



So to continue, I hate that they don't just tell you what's wrong with you right then and there. You know they know, and more that that, you know that They know that YOU DON'T know. They're sitting right looking at it, not saying a word. I hate that. Just tell me. Or, if you legally can't because you're the tech and not the Doctor, at least give me a fuckin clue.

Oh, and the worst part is when they ask you a bunch of follow-up questions. They've seen what's going on. They know what the answers to my questions should be, based on what they've seen. I always feel like they're trying to catch me in a lie or something.

So, are you on any birth control?
Um, no, my husband's had a vasectomy.

And the look on their faces just says
Hmmmmm.... innnnnnteresting...

So from there I went to:

THE MAMMOGRAM!!!



And I still hadn't asked anyone if I'd have to take my rings out. At that point, I figured I'd get into the room and if they said something I'd play dumb, like, "Oh yeah, I've had those things so long I forgot they were there! Tee hee!!" That was my entire plan. Cuz I'm a criminal mastermind, you know.

So they took my information (which would have been the PERFECT time to find out the Pierced Nipple Policy, so I could gracefully back out if I decided my nipple rings were more important to me than finding out if there's anything wrong with my boobs, but the chick was kind of abrasive and I had a feeling that she'd roll her eyes in disgusted disbelief that I'd even ask such a stupid question), handed me a robe and led me to a locker room, where I saw this sign in one of the stalls.



It says, Happiness is like a Potato Salad - when shared by others, it's a Picnic.

My reaction was twofold: First, what about getting your boobs squished resembles either Happiness or a Picnic? And Second, Funny, you could almost say the same thing about V.D. Almost.

But I put on my sexy blue gown (which I totally snagged, because I thought it brought out the color of my eyes - oh, and I also snagged a Probe Sheath from the ultrasound room because I thought they were funny)...


This is the face of a CRIMINAL MASTERMIND, bitches!

...went through this door...



and saw THIS. The BoobSquisher 3000.



MaryJo was going to be handling my boobs today. She was really nice. I was hoping for a nice person, because now was the moment of truth. She asked me if I had any questions. I said, very timidly,

"Um, yeah, I have, um, Nipple Piercings... AmIgonnahavetotakethemoutpleasepleasepleasesayno?"

I begged her, close to tears, explaining that despite the fact that I had pierced nipples, I was actually a total wimp and I'd never ever get them back in and I'd been stressing about it since yesterday.

She left the room to go check. And I was left in the room with a fucking Frankenstein switch on the wall, in case you missed it in the above pic.



Fuck. I'm gonna throw up.

She came back and gave me the verdict. Y'all ready??



I




did





NOT





have to take them out. They just bent them outward (or upward, I guess) so they really didn't interfere at all. AWESOME!

Thank GOD, because the only way to handle this whole boob-squishing drama is to relax, and fuck if I could have relaxed if I had to think about getting them back in.

MaryJo was an absolute sweetheart. She was patient and she didn't get mad when I giggled, and you know I get these giggle fits at the most inappropriate times. She asked when I got the piercings, and why (a question that does not offend me in the slightest), and I told the whole story about how R and I talked about it after dinner and just went and did it, totally spur of the moment.

And after she took a total of four pictures, she told me she'd see me next year.

So overall First Mammogram Experience, not bad at all!! And I got to leave with my TittyBling intact!

And P.S. - Renee, I'm really glad Kev asked you about the Nipple Ring question because you were the ONLY one who said I might not have to, and that was the hope I held onto the entire day. :)

A is for Apologies, Appreciation, and All kinds'a shit.

I apologize to all of you, faithful followers.

Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I have a lot to cover. So, so much to talk about. None of it was particularly enough to be a post on its own, so I've done my best to make mental notes so I could compile a post that was worth your time to read. Because why? Because I love you, my vast readership. My BMB Bitches. My PK Posse. I hope you know how very much you all are appreciated.

And I organized all of it, in my head, in alphabetical order, so I could remember what I wanted to write about. Enjoy.

B is for Boobs.



Are y'all sick of my bodacious boobage yet? Me neither.

Anti-Stella even copped a feel when I met her and the lovely Miss Bo (as in Bolivia) at McDonald's last week on an Early Dismissal Day. Here's a pic of Bo, plus, as a bonus, Anti-Stella's stellar rack, if you're not exactly sick of boobs but you might like a little variety. See what I do for you kids?




Next, C is for Character.

Last week Pie misplaced not only his homework, but also (gasp!!) a magazine he'd checked out at the school library. He was absolutely beside himself. He gets so upset when he can't find something, I thought he was going to give himself a heart attack. I can't stand to see him so distraught, but at the same time, I didn't want to make it sound like it was ok not to take care of your stuff.

So I told him I'd email both his teacher and the librarian to ask what we needed to do to help him relax a bit. I'd make sure he'd do the responsible thing, we'd pay for the book, he'd do the homework again, whatever, just tell me what to do. I didn't hear back from his teacher right away, but the librarian was quick to inform me that a mere $12 would take care of everything.

Pie was pretty sure he'd turned it in, and I believed him, knowing first-hand of the high probability of human error in The Library System.

Pie's homework had to be turned in Thursday, so when we hadn't found it Wednesday night, I told him I thought maybe he should re-do the five sentences that he had to write for his homework. So he did. Not really a big deal, but if he'd kept track of his stuff he wouldn't have had to do them a second time. I figured that'd be enough to teach the lad a lesson to keep his shit togther.

So Thursday afternoon he came home and told me he'd gotten a Character Counts award from his teacher. Why? Because he had actually turned his homework in several days early and forgotten about it. To me that was kinda like being rewarded for forgetting you'd already done your work and stressing yourself out to the point where your mom had to email your teacher for you, but the teacher was proud of him for being honest (for telling her that he couldn't find his homework) and responsible (for doing it again when he didn't really have to). And he was proud of himself.

PLUS, the same day, the magazine he'd been looking for since about the 2nd week of school miraculously showed up in the library. Instead of checking it in like they do with the books, Pie had simply put it back on the magazine shelf. And The Dragon was, predictably, kinda twatty to him about it. I'm so kicking her ass the next time I see her.

Bottom line, he got a Character Award and I didn't have to pay $12 for a magazine. I'd call that a darn good day by any standard.


D is for Dream Dates (that aren't really dates).

Thursday night I got to go out on a dream date with KOFA (which was most emphatically not a date) to see Ben Folds at The Pageant. It was sold out, and I wound up paying way more than face value for the tickets from a guy on Craigslist (who, coincidentally, was in my sister's class in high school), but we had great balcony seats and we were able to take our time getting to the show rather than having to bust ass to find two seats in General Admission.

We went to dinner beforehand at Blueberry Hill, and our androgynously beautiful, tattooed and pierced waitress was totally hitting on me despite Kev's best efforts to wow her with his clever wit. As I usually do when I order food in a restaurant, I politely ask the waiter or waitress to please keep any and all pickles well clear of my plate or I will, quite literally, vomit. KOFA told our waitress, "Feel free to hold my pickle too..."

Yes, he fuckin did! Seriously. And I loved it.

Then we went to Rag O Rama, this awesome vintage clothing store where I found a shirt and a pair of shoes (which I'm totally going back for at my earliest opportunity), and Kev picked out two awesome pins for me. One says Knit Till You Die and the other is a 1" story that reads "She was such a sweet girl, until she started all that knitting." or something like that. Ironic, as I haven't knit anything in a while other than a bunch of cotton dishcloths for Rip. I WILL, I WILL, I WILL finish the Ice Queen. I'm almost done, I just have to remember where I hid it from myself in a fit of angst, months ago.

Anyway, we had a nice time, even though we both wished Ben had played more of his older stuff. Ben Folds is a genius of an entertainer and at one point he kinda apologized for playing mostly the new album. And he essentially played each song on the new album twice because there's actually a real and a fake/leaked version of each song on his new CD (which is a hilarious story in itself), but he told the crowd that at the end of the set he and the band were going to walk off the stage like it's over, but then they would do an encore and come back out and play the old shit.





And he played for over two hours, which was especially great for a girl like me who doesn't get out much. There were a couple of songs I was really hoping to hear, such as Luckiest and Song For The Dumped, and this dude behind us apparently wasn't leaving until he heard Rock This Bitch, but Ben played Annie Waits, Zak and Sara (which would be a far better song if Sara had an H - there, I said it), and Army, and that was cool. Since the show, I've listened to his newest CD a lot in the van, and it's growing on me. I would absolutely love to see Ben again. It was a fantastic concert experience.

Friday was Beebie and Princeton's School Dance. They were so cute together. At one point, Beeb was climbing out of the back of the van, and Princeton offered her his hand to help her down. SO SWEET. They're adorable. They're such good friends. She's not that giddy sappy head over heels girlfriend girl, she likes him, and she knows he likes her. They genuinely admire and encourage each other. Of course, I can't stop wondering how envious her friend Jack would have been, but I think ultimately he'd be happy for her.

I should also mention that I'm starting to actually like Buffy, now that I've let my guard down a bit. She calls me on her way to work almost every morning, and I've dropped some personal tidbits on her that might offend or freak out a lesser person. Like the fact that I have told my husband, in no uncertain terms, that if I happened to run into Bill Clinton at a bar, I will leave said bar with The Former President. Because he's very persuasive. Anyway, my iciness toward Buffy is melting. She's invited me to a hockey game. Plus, I thought it might be fun to have a radical, outspoken pal to introduce to the Inlaws just to fuck with 'em. Stay tuned.


E is for EVIL.

Saturday night R and I went out to watch the ill-fated MU/Texas game and have some dinner with Rip and his seriously gorgeous son, Jailbait.

Remember how I ask for anything pickle-related to be kindly kept the fuck away from my plate? I asked the waitress, in full view of R, Rip and Jailbait, to please hold the pickles. And I have to say that now I don't think I'm ever going to be able to say Hold The Pickle ever again without harkening back to KOFA's attempt to woo the Blueberry Hill Waitress.

But anyway, our dinner arrived, I double-checked my plate for any picklicious presence, and everything was cool.

Fast Forward to pickles mysteriously appearing on my plate. THREE TIMES. Rip held my attention while R lobbed three pickles onto my plate. I caught him the fourth time. And I punched R in the arm repeatedly as hard as I could, because it was actually the second time that day that he had seriously pissed me off. Hold on for G.


The next topic - F is for Fat Chick Compliments - I actually drafted as a separate entry, in anger, a few days ago. I'm over it now, but I still think the story needs an audience.

I've heard them my entire life. I know one when I hear one. I could write a book.

I was always the "she has a great personality" chick getting set up on blind dates. I get it. I know my strengths and my weaknesses. I know what I am and what I'm not. And I know I'm a brillant conversationalist, not a supermodel. And as long as I'd rather eat a Twinkie than do a damn sit-up, this is the body this girl's gonna have. And for the most part, I'm really ok with it. But some people aren't.

Today I received a Fat Chick Compliment.

While it may or may not be true that I have a cute face and a magnificent rack, why don't people get that it's soooo much more about what isn't said?

Here's a little PK PSA: You don't ever, EVER tell a bigger girl like myself what a pretty face she has. That's what our mothers are for.

Because Sweetheart, you have such a pretty face is usually followed by (whether or not it's actually spoken out loud is not even the point - you know they're thinking it) if only you'd eat more salads and fewer Peanut M&M's... yeah, thanks, Mom. Oh, and ESPECIALLY don't point out your preference for my petiteness when regular ol' XL isn't big enough for your ass either.

Just because you believe that being gently tactful is tantamount to being false or sugar-coating the truth, that doesn't make you a noble, honest person. Even if you mean well, it makes you a bit of a jackass.

Because now you've made me acutely aware that there's something about me that you have an issue with, and I'll never ever feel like I'm 100% comfortable in my own skin around you. I'll always be sucking in my gut and stressing about how big these jeans make my ass look.

And frankly, that's your loss, because now I can't give you the best of me. Sure, I can laugh at my own neuroses, but I'm way more fun to be around when I feel like I can relax. Like I'm loved for who I am and there's not a single thing that you'd change about me, even if you could.

I know I'm not perfect, so please don't remind me. If you want me to feel good around you, remind me, occasionally, of the things you DO like about me. And if it's too hard for you to think of something nice to say that's neither a lie nor a backhanded compliment like "wow, you sweat a lot less than I thought you would", then just don't say anything. That's all I ask.


G is for GODFUCKINDAMMIT.

(And, dare I say, this is the best part, particularly if you're a fan of profanity. And, dare I say, if you're not, what the fuck are you doing reading this shit?)

Saturday Tito had a birthday party to go to. Crucial to the telling of this story is this picture of the actual invitation:



So Saturday afternoon, R took Tito out to get a gift for his friend Johnathon. Tito picked out a Spiderman action figure, we put it in a gift bag and all five of us went to drop Tito off at the party, which was just in the next subdivision over from ours.

I walked Tito to the door, where I saw a chalkboard which read:

Happy Birthday
Johnathon
AND
Lubaba!

FUCK!! Lubaba's a KID!

I thought that was Johnathon's last name or something. Shit. Shit. SHIT.

So I very discreetly told the very nice woman (and I don't want anybody to think I'm slammin cultures or anything, but she wasn't foreign - she was whiter than WalMart) who answered the door that I was very, very sorry and totally mortified, but I hadn't realized that this was a party for two children. I said I would get a gift and be right back, and she said "Oh, no, don't worry about it..."

Ok, what part of one kid getting a gift and the other not is acceptable? No, no, I won't hear of it. I'll be right back. Again, I'm very sorry I misunderstood, see you in five minutes.

As soon as the door closed behind me, I literally sprinted back to the van and hissed to R,

Fuck. Me.

Right now?

Dude, the party's for TWO kids. We have to go get another gift.

What? Two kids??

Lubaba's a fuckin KID, for fuck's sake.

Oh, SHIT.

Yeah, oh shit! Fuck!!!

Wait a second, is Lubaba a boy or a girl?

HOW IN THE FUCKING NAME OF CHRIST WOULD I KNOW???

Well, how is it spelled? Is it L-U or L-O-U?

What the FUCK difference would THAT make?

I just meant Lu as in Lu-Ann or Lou as in Louis...

Are you fucking kidding me?? DUH, Louis could just as easily be LOUISE, it's the same spelling, Dipshit! Jeeeezus, how fuckin inconvenient. DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT!!!

I was so distraught over the whole thing, I was in tears, and meanwhile Beebie and Pie were lauging their asses off at me from the back seat.



But I didn't care. I was so completely pissed off at the idiot mom who planned the party for putting me in a position of totally understandable confusion and making ME feel like I'M the idiot.

Just so you don't have to scroll back up, look at this shit again:



Would it have killed the bitch to put the word AND in there, instead of a half-assed, backwards plus sign between Johnathon and Lubaba? Seriously! Woulda helped.

R suggested we go to Target, three blocks away, where he had seen Moon Sand on clearance.

No! We CAN'T! There's no TIME!!! Let's go to Walgreens, it's right here...

So we went into Walgreens, and I'm still seething and cursing and the kids are thinking my quiet, obscenity-laced tirade is absolutely fucking hilarious. Beebie kept antagonizing me, saying,

Hey, Mom... LUBABA.

Goddammit, Imma kick yer ASS, and then Imma kick Pie's ass, and then Imma kick Lubaba's ass.

Pie, c'mere, let's line up for our asskickin!

I swear to Christ, if you assholes don't shut the hell up...

They love it when I swear at them. They do, really.

So we went to Walgreens and found some sort of gender-neutral something or other (being careful not to have it be anything cooler than what we'd given Johnathon) and a gender-neutral bag to put it in and went back to the party, which, I don't know if you noticed on the invitation, was only scheduled to be an hour long in the fuckin first place. Oh, and I was asked to RSVP a full week ahead of time for a one-hour party at the kid's HOUSE.

I discreetly dropped off the last-minute gift, hoping to spare me (and Tito) from humiliation and got back in the van, still hopped up on adrenaline.

So, so many elements of this party showed a supreme lack of party planning competence. I hate it when people do stupid shit and I wind up getting totally pissed off at MYSELF because of THEIR stupidity and not mine. I get all worked up because I'm embarrassed, not because I'm at fault. I fucking HATE that.

I told Beebie and Pie that we can never tell Tito that I was hatin' on Lubaba, because I figured it would get back to Lubaba and Tito wouldn't understand that it wasn't really Lubaba I was mad at. It was the fuckwit whose brainchild it was to have Lubaba's party along with Johnathon's.

When we got back to the party, I made R go pick Tito up at the door because there was no fucking way I was going back a third time. R and Tito got back and I proceeded to find out the scoop on Lubaba.

So, was it a fun party, Tito?

Yeah.

And it was a party for Johnathon AND Lubaba, then?

Yeah. It was for both of them.

Is Lubaba in your class too, then?

(Laughs) No! Lubaba's his sister. She was turning three.

Ok, once again, a major party planning faux pas. Who puts a party for a seven-year-old boy along with a party for a three-year-old GIRL? Especially if the kid in the seven-year-old's class doesn't even know of the existence of the little sister? Have two separate parties at the same time - one that invites the boy's friends and one that invites the girl's friends - and send their guests completely separate invitations UNLESS you know that the guest knows both children.

It was totally a mooch-off party. Like Ok, you're in my son's class, but it's my daughter's birthday too so could ya bring an extra gift, even though I know you've never met her? What the FUCK??? Did they do it the other way too, for the kids in Lubaba's preschool class, did they have to bring a gift for a Kindergarten boy they'd never met? Tell me that's not fuckin tacky as shit! I wish I HAD gotten the three-year-old the fuckin Moon Sand from Target.

The punch line (literally) of the entire story is this:

As we were pulling out of the subdivision, R said,

"Oh, by the way, she asked me if you were Penny Karma..."

After a split second of Instant Diarrhea, I punched the fucker in the arm as he was driving. He says it still hurts.

GOOD.

History Repeats Itself

Two days ago I was taking a well-deserved afternoon nap when Pie shook me awake.

"Mom! Mom!! Wake up!! Tito got in trouble on the bus again and he said he got written up by the bus driver and he has a note from the Mrs. White [the Vice Principal] to give you! Is he grounded?"

In my experience, grounding a five-year-old is more of a punishment for ME than it is for him, so I told Pie it was really not his business and called Tito in for some 'splainin. Tito had conveniently made himself scarce.

Just then, the phone rang and it was Mrs. White. If Tito continues to be a problem the bus company won't allow him to ride the bus anymore. I hope that isn't what he actually wants - for me to drive him every day. Because that would seriously piss me off.

Why can't he just keep his lil butt in ONE SPOT??? It's ridiculous. I don't know what to do.


Yesterday my throat still wasn't feeling better, and I was pretty sure it was Strep again (for the fourth time in the last 5 months, thank you very much), so I went to Urgent Care after Tito left for school.

I got into a room within a few minutes and not long afterwards a rather jovial doctor came in and said, "Sarah?"

That's me.

Hey there (shaking my hand), I'm Doctor Bob.

Doctor Bob was cute. Well, hello, Doctor Bob.

Oh, by the way, here's what I was wearing:



Suuh-MOE-kin.

As you can see, not much room for the stethoscope when he listened to my chest. But he could hear well enough to tell me it wasn't pneumonia.

He asked about my symptoms - am I coughing? No. Congested? Not really. Trouble sleeping? Yeah. Headaches? Dude, I have headaches every day. I don't even pay attention to them anymore. I'm a mom. I put on my game face and tough it out. I don't have time for a sick day.

He looked in my throat and said, "Yup, Strep!" Great.

Allergic to penicillin? No.

Want some painkillers? Um, sure.

I'll give you some good ones. Here's what I want you to do: Get a babysitter, take one tonight and don't make any plans for tomorrow that would involve you driving anywhere.

No problem. I was just going to clean my closet anyway.

Dr. Bob gave me Vicodin. I've been to Urgent Care for strep four times and this is the first time I've been given Vicodin. And he didn't just give me five or ten to get me through the week. He gave me TWENTY. Plus, I'm pretty sure he grazed my ass when I was paying my co-pay.

I'm thinkin Dr. Bob was under the spell of my Chin-High Titties. My Chitties, if you will.

And, just because so many of you wanted to check out my Chitties, here ya go.

Exhibit A, regular satin bra. Look closely. See the barbell?



Here's where you can really tell the difference:

Before.



After - molded cups. Awesome, right? Did I lie??
Fuckin PERKY!




Looks like it's a dead heat in the Zeppelin race! Hee hee!

Unable to come up with clever title. But it's about my Boobs.

So today would have been another day at the Dragon's Lair, but I just couldn't take it. Sorry to disappoint, especially after I'd billed my library gig (and the mayhem which I predict will ensue) as blogfodder - my gift to you.

But you know I wouldn't let my BMB Bitches down.

Today, kids, I woke up with a nasty sore throat. My uvula's fine, though, thanks for asking. So I went to the kitchen to brew myself some peppermint tea, and there were so many dishes in the sink I couldn't get to the faucet. How can I be the only one in the house imparted with the basic intelligence and manual dexterity necessary to unload and reload a dishwasher? Ugh. Pisses me off.

Although they suck pretty much equally (and again, I'm the only one who knows where the laundry room is) I decided I'd rather do laundry than dishes. In order to make room for the stuff in the washer I had to take stuff out of the dryer. And out of the dryer fell... one of my favorite lipsticks. A $16 one from Aveda. Seashell. I wept.

I loved how long it lasted once I put it on. I loved how it smelled. I don't even know why I had it in my pocket in the first place because it doesn't really require much touching-up. The loss of the actual lipstick (while it's certainly replacable, it's an inconvenience) is a tragedy in itself.

But apparently, I'd left it in the pocket of my jeans, and it got washed, and dried. And it was everywhere. All over everything. My new J. Jill sweater, my NASCAR shirt - the HORROR.

Tearfully, I went upstairs to find something to spray on the hopeless lipstick stains. And the only thing I could find in the cabinet under the sink full of dishes was Oxy Carpet Cleaner. It's supposed to get red wine out. Couldn't hurt, I figured. The shit's totalled as it is.

And get this - Pie sees me holding the bottle and he says,

"Oh, is that for the spot where Tito threw up on the floor upstairs?"

Ummm... what???

Tito was sick Sunday night. And while I knew that he'd thrown up in the bathroom, I didn't know there was a 2-day-old spot of barf on the floor. Apparently I was really stressed out Monday morning (took Rip to the airport so he could go to Mexico for two weeks) and nobody wanted to piss me off.

Ok, I know I get pissed about stupid stuff sometimes, but I understand that little kids can't always control their spew. Of course I wouldn't have been pissed. I'd grumble, sure. I hate barf. But I wouldn't be mad at the kid. Unless they wait TWO FULL DAYS to tell me about a stain.

In fact, let me go on record with this - if you have something to tell me that's gonna piss me off and I'm already pissed off, please don't wait for me to not be pissed off and then send me back into pissed off mode with whatever drama you're about to drop on me. I'd so much rather have one full day of HELLA fuckin fire-breathing pissed and be done with it than two consecutive days of kinda pissed. I'm just sayin'.

So the best part of the story? The tower of dishes, the lipstick, and the barf stain all went down within about 20 minutes of my waking up with a sore throat. Yeah, I'm thinking The Dragon's gonna have to get by without me today.

The day got better quickly, though, when I scored me some Ben Folds tickets. WOO HOO!!! There was no way in Hell I was missing that show. And y'all know I don't give up easily, unless it's a knitting project.

And there's one more thing I want to talk about.
Well, two, actually.

My boobs.

If you don't want to hear me discuss the topic of my boobs, just click out now; I won't be offended. I know it's not like me to reveal personal things about myself (HAHAHAHAHA!!!), but just in case you weren't aware, I'm a busty gal. I'm a DD. Perhaps you've seen me flashing them under a highway sign.

I may or may not have ranted on here before about the pathetic lack of selection among DD bras. Generally, my color choices are white or beige (and Kev, I can't say the word beige without looking up at my ceiling), and maaaaaybe black or pink. And they have straps about three inches wide with six hooks in back. So unsexy. I need a sexy home for my Girls.

I'm also really picky about my bras so my choices are even more limited. I hate the ones with seams in the cups that look lumpy or itchy lace, which leaves few choices available other than the stretchy cotton variety. I love the cotton bras because when I'm wearing a tight t-shirt (and honestly, when am I not?), the balls on my curved barbells are visible and I think it's fun to watch people awkwardly try not to stare at them.

Forget the economy, forget the Federal *click*, I don't care about any of that shit - Nipple Alignment is a priority in my life. There's nothing unsexier than Cockeyed Headlights. That might be my band name, KK. Or is Nips Askew better?

The thing about cotton bras, though, is that they get gross after a while - pilly and dingy and ratty looking. So I told R that I wanted a complete overhaul of my bra wardrobe. So R, God love him, took me to Cacique on Sunday.

Up to this point in my life, I had never ever even considered wearing a bra with molded cups. I just thought it was weird how if you throw a molded-cup bra on the floor in a passionate moment, it'll lay there looking exactly like it did when your boobs were actually in it. And I didn't think my hooters needed any help. But there was this really cute polka dot plunge one that I thought would look smashing if I were wearing something low-cut (and honestly, when am I not?), so I tried it.

HOLY SHIT. That bra looked fucking fantastic, both on its own and under my clothes. My boobs were pert and perfect and they filled out my sweater fabulously. Of course, the downside is that my nipple rings don't show through, but hey, maybe having them hidden might make it more fun to surprise someone with them.

Suddenly I had excellent posture. I even think having perkier boobs actually made my waist look smaller. I'll see if I can talk R into taking before and after photos for y'all's edification.

I bought five molded cup bras. Bought the polka dots, a navy one, a black one, a white one and a beige one. And the panties to match. I do like to match. Dropped about $150, after all was said and done. WORTH EVERY DIME.

I simply can not get enough of my own magnificent boobs. I totally look like I got a boob job. I feel like a completely different person. I keep checking out my rack in every mirror or reflective surface I pass. My seat belt rests differently. They look so hot! I have absofuckinlutely incredible breasts. A woman at the grocery store caught me cupping them. Seriously, I can't keep my hands off of them. They're so cute I just wanna squish 'em!!! I even feel myself up when nobody's looking.

I can't even describe how fuckin awesome my titties are. I lay on my sofa and my boobs stay straight up, right where they were! I don't even want to take my bra off at night. My boobs look AMAZING, you guys. I can't even say it enough times.
Rip, care to testify? :)

I can't believe it. I can't get over it.
I am in love with my own fun bags.