I just found this song today and can't believe I've never heard it before. Seems appropriate to the month.
Boobs A Lot
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Pinkwashing Month Begins
Last night I was reminded by my blogmate Carny Asada that today marks the beginning of BREAST CANCER AWARENESS MONTH, which should be re-titled 'Slap a pink ribbon on everything from candy to vodka and call it a Good Cause' month.
Sadly for Mr. Cancer Survivor I didn't get to the larger supermarkets to lay in the supplies we'll need for the next four weeks so he'll have to go one day and bear up against all that pinkwashing. I can't do it. I learned after a recent episode with some Lyndon Larouchers outside my local Trader Joe's market that I can't really keep my composure the way I could when I was younger and less grizzled. The Obama as Hitler poster taught me that I have a button that when pushed by a total stranger will cause me to let that stranger know how what they are doing/saying/supporting makes me feel, as loudly as will make me feel better.
So let's get out there and support all those companies that use chemicals in their products that might be carcinogens because they support fighting the cancer that they may have caused. Wait, don't the cigarette companies do this already?
And in an unrelated thought, does Benjamin Moore have a Breast Cancer Pink shade of paint yet?
Sadly for Mr. Cancer Survivor I didn't get to the larger supermarkets to lay in the supplies we'll need for the next four weeks so he'll have to go one day and bear up against all that pinkwashing. I can't do it. I learned after a recent episode with some Lyndon Larouchers outside my local Trader Joe's market that I can't really keep my composure the way I could when I was younger and less grizzled. The Obama as Hitler poster taught me that I have a button that when pushed by a total stranger will cause me to let that stranger know how what they are doing/saying/supporting makes me feel, as loudly as will make me feel better.
So let's get out there and support all those companies that use chemicals in their products that might be carcinogens because they support fighting the cancer that they may have caused. Wait, don't the cigarette companies do this already?
And in an unrelated thought, does Benjamin Moore have a Breast Cancer Pink shade of paint yet?
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Up Side?
Argh. I've gotta have surgery. Gall bladder this time. People (I'm talking to all three of you) you don't want to have gall stones. Bad, very bad. Pain like you can't imagine. Then there's the throwing up, the pain, the intestinal adventures, the pain, the feeling that your next meal may try to kill you, the pain...are you getting the picture?
Dr. SIL says that she's much happier without hers, that now she can eat anything she wants with no problem. I wonder if she wants to eat as many chicken wings as I do.
No matter, the offending organ will be dispatched with no regrets and then I will be free to ogle the donuts again. But I wonder if I will want to because one of the 'good' side effects from all this food drama is the aversion to fatty foods and large portions of anything that I've developed. And the liquid diets in the wake of recent attacks have resulted in some impressive weight loss.
All this is to say that my boobs look bigger. Woo hoo. Well, at least I can get into my smaller jeans just in time for summer when it's too hot to wear them.
No, nothing makes me happy right now. Constant pain can make a person cranky.
Stay tuned...
Dr. SIL says that she's much happier without hers, that now she can eat anything she wants with no problem. I wonder if she wants to eat as many chicken wings as I do.
No matter, the offending organ will be dispatched with no regrets and then I will be free to ogle the donuts again. But I wonder if I will want to because one of the 'good' side effects from all this food drama is the aversion to fatty foods and large portions of anything that I've developed. And the liquid diets in the wake of recent attacks have resulted in some impressive weight loss.
All this is to say that my boobs look bigger. Woo hoo. Well, at least I can get into my smaller jeans just in time for summer when it's too hot to wear them.
No, nothing makes me happy right now. Constant pain can make a person cranky.
Stay tuned...
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Thoughts while trying not to breathe. Or move.
I have to believe that if men had to have an annual screening for testicular cancer that involved having their nuts crushed in a vice, every insurance company in America would fully cover the cost of an MRI as an alternative.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
March madness in April
Yeah well it's been a whole year so it was time for me to go see the oncologist for the annual weigh-in and chit chat. The last few years I was seen by the fabulous and funny right hand woman. I'm embarrassed to say I never knew her official title. Is she a nurse? Is she a nurse practitioner? If I ever knew it's been lost to the mists of time and chemo brain. Anyway, she's moved on to one of the other branches of the wonderful outfit that took care of me and so this year I saw the doc herself.
It was great seeing her again, and after all this time I no longer associate seeing the doc in charge as meaning I've got something that only the doc in charge can talk to me about. You know, the kind of visit where you the patient ends up sitting in your car in the parking lot sniffling and wondering if you can see through the tears to drive home and collapse in the privacy of your own bathroom.
So we're chatting, and she goes over my history, and then she asks me if we've ever talked about genetic testing. This would be to see if I'm at risk for one or two other cancers. I told her that my memory was that we touched on it once a long time ago but we all (me, the spousal unit and the doc) decided that doing the testing might screw my chances for getting health insurance in the future. She seems to think differently now.
But the thing is, I don't wanna think about any of this. I don't want to find out what my genes might indicate for the future, and I don't want to have to think about the possibility of maybe having all my girl organs yanked to be on the safe side. I'm manly enough, thank you.
I don't wanna think that THIS SHIT WILL NEVER EVER EVER END UNTIL THE DAY I FUCKING UP AND DIE.
Really, who would want that? I know, there are lots of people who have to think about much more serious, life threatening things all the time; regularly facing the choice of some fucked up medical procedure or death, and they happily choose the procedure. I know if push came to shove I would too, but not now. Not this week or month or year.
No pithy ending this time. Just a pissy one.
It was great seeing her again, and after all this time I no longer associate seeing the doc in charge as meaning I've got something that only the doc in charge can talk to me about. You know, the kind of visit where you the patient ends up sitting in your car in the parking lot sniffling and wondering if you can see through the tears to drive home and collapse in the privacy of your own bathroom.
So we're chatting, and she goes over my history, and then she asks me if we've ever talked about genetic testing. This would be to see if I'm at risk for one or two other cancers. I told her that my memory was that we touched on it once a long time ago but we all (me, the spousal unit and the doc) decided that doing the testing might screw my chances for getting health insurance in the future. She seems to think differently now.
But the thing is, I don't wanna think about any of this. I don't want to find out what my genes might indicate for the future, and I don't want to have to think about the possibility of maybe having all my girl organs yanked to be on the safe side. I'm manly enough, thank you.
I don't wanna think that THIS SHIT WILL NEVER EVER EVER END UNTIL THE DAY I FUCKING UP AND DIE.
Really, who would want that? I know, there are lots of people who have to think about much more serious, life threatening things all the time; regularly facing the choice of some fucked up medical procedure or death, and they happily choose the procedure. I know if push came to shove I would too, but not now. Not this week or month or year.
No pithy ending this time. Just a pissy one.
Summer's a-comin'
Time for the hot weather breasties. If only such a thing existed. I suppose I could make a pair out of lightweight fabrics like linen and silk (and stuff them with cold packs. Whee!). At least they'd be cooler than plastic.
Anyway, that's not why we're here right now. Today's sermon is about words. I had occasion recently to spend some time with Carny and she was sharing her feelings about words. And personal stories. And she got me thinking. I hate when that happens.
She got me thinking about the times when I think that there's no point in relating any part of one's own story to anyone other than the shrink who gets paid to help you make sense of that mess. It all seems so freaking pointless. I mean, in a thousand years, these words will probably be forgotten, never read by more than a handful of humans, and even if they survive there will probably no longer be the proper version of Windblows that could enable someone in the future to read them.
But here's the thing. I also started thinking about other people's words and how they've affected me. We could go down the list of the usual suspects, like Dr. Seuss, Lewis Carroll, Joseph Heller, Katherine Dunn, and every author of every cookbook I own, but there's one author who stands out in my head as someone who gave me an important gift at a time when I really needed it.
His name is Evan Handler, and he's an actor who also happens to be a cancer survivor. His first memoir 'Time on Fire' leaped off the sale table at Big Corporate Bookstore right after I'd been diagnosed with the first cancer.
Time on Fire
I read that book and clung to it like it was a lifesaver in a sea of soft focus PG rated cancer books.
Having spent half a year in the hospital when I was a mere sprat I was familiar with the horrors that can come with living in a ward with eight other girls in a hospital that was understaffed with nurses and overstaffed with roaches. I learned the art of diplomacy dealing with the humans and a deadly aim with whatever was handy dealing with the bugs. And that was while I was bedridden.
But getting back to the PG books, I found at the beginning of the cancer tour that many aspects of the experience are cloaked in pastel colors and spoken about in restrained tones. This was a bit of a challenge for me given that my brain was needing to express itself more like it was dressed in black with and sporting a safety pin through its cerebellum. I needed one other voice in the world of cancer that resonated with mine. I found it in this book. It's not that he was so defiant and off the wall and crazed beyond what would be considered appropriate under the circumstances but rather it was that his story, his words, didn't read so much like a Hallmark TV movie but more like a twisted indie film that few people see but those that do no longer feel alone.
So to my comrade in arms I say, the words may still count for something, so don't give up on them just yet. Besides, in fifty years when we are creaky old geezers we won't remember most of them anyway, so let's play with them while we still can.
You never know who's reading.
Anyway, that's not why we're here right now. Today's sermon is about words. I had occasion recently to spend some time with Carny and she was sharing her feelings about words. And personal stories. And she got me thinking. I hate when that happens.
She got me thinking about the times when I think that there's no point in relating any part of one's own story to anyone other than the shrink who gets paid to help you make sense of that mess. It all seems so freaking pointless. I mean, in a thousand years, these words will probably be forgotten, never read by more than a handful of humans, and even if they survive there will probably no longer be the proper version of Windblows that could enable someone in the future to read them.
But here's the thing. I also started thinking about other people's words and how they've affected me. We could go down the list of the usual suspects, like Dr. Seuss, Lewis Carroll, Joseph Heller, Katherine Dunn, and every author of every cookbook I own, but there's one author who stands out in my head as someone who gave me an important gift at a time when I really needed it.
His name is Evan Handler, and he's an actor who also happens to be a cancer survivor. His first memoir 'Time on Fire' leaped off the sale table at Big Corporate Bookstore right after I'd been diagnosed with the first cancer.
Time on Fire
I read that book and clung to it like it was a lifesaver in a sea of soft focus PG rated cancer books.
Having spent half a year in the hospital when I was a mere sprat I was familiar with the horrors that can come with living in a ward with eight other girls in a hospital that was understaffed with nurses and overstaffed with roaches. I learned the art of diplomacy dealing with the humans and a deadly aim with whatever was handy dealing with the bugs. And that was while I was bedridden.
But getting back to the PG books, I found at the beginning of the cancer tour that many aspects of the experience are cloaked in pastel colors and spoken about in restrained tones. This was a bit of a challenge for me given that my brain was needing to express itself more like it was dressed in black with and sporting a safety pin through its cerebellum. I needed one other voice in the world of cancer that resonated with mine. I found it in this book. It's not that he was so defiant and off the wall and crazed beyond what would be considered appropriate under the circumstances but rather it was that his story, his words, didn't read so much like a Hallmark TV movie but more like a twisted indie film that few people see but those that do no longer feel alone.
So to my comrade in arms I say, the words may still count for something, so don't give up on them just yet. Besides, in fifty years when we are creaky old geezers we won't remember most of them anyway, so let's play with them while we still can.
You never know who's reading.
Monday, January 5, 2009
New Year's Resolution, Lose Weight, Buy New Rack
I wrote this entry in January. I've still got the same set, but they are another month older and their wrinkles are set. So now it's Oscar Sunday and I'm feeling like I need some girly girly dresses. But not strapless.
It's been two years plus and it may be time to buy a new set. Prosthetic breasts wear out over time. My first ones leaked at the seams, my second set saw one boob suffer a rupture of its skin, revealing a slightly sticky gelatinous "flesh" colored mass of silicone. Good thing it was an external rupture. (O.k., I know the substance that fills implanted breasts is different in consistency and color but apparently behaves the same if let loose from the skin that contains it.)
Two years of body oils and the soaps that remove said oils take a toll on the integrity of the skin of the prosthesis and eventually they fail. So then it's off to the store to get fitted in one of the latest improved (no really, these are so much better than those old ones that fit you perfectly and looked like what you remember your breasts looking like.) awesomely good new styles that are now available in that same weird "flesh" color.
Oh, you don't want that color? Well, we can order ones that are as far from your real color as these but in the other direction, so they'll be much darker than you, but that's closer, yes? No, we don't have those in stock because we don't have many women of color shopping here at high end department store what carried the brand that you like.
Are there really lots of black women walking around with white girl (and not exactly white, it's that "flesh" color) boobs on? Or do they all know about a store where we are catered to, but still can only find boobs the color of root beer candy? Me, I'd be happy with Kraft caramels.
It's been two years plus and it may be time to buy a new set. Prosthetic breasts wear out over time. My first ones leaked at the seams, my second set saw one boob suffer a rupture of its skin, revealing a slightly sticky gelatinous "flesh" colored mass of silicone. Good thing it was an external rupture. (O.k., I know the substance that fills implanted breasts is different in consistency and color but apparently behaves the same if let loose from the skin that contains it.)
Two years of body oils and the soaps that remove said oils take a toll on the integrity of the skin of the prosthesis and eventually they fail. So then it's off to the store to get fitted in one of the latest improved (no really, these are so much better than those old ones that fit you perfectly and looked like what you remember your breasts looking like.) awesomely good new styles that are now available in that same weird "flesh" color.
Oh, you don't want that color? Well, we can order ones that are as far from your real color as these but in the other direction, so they'll be much darker than you, but that's closer, yes? No, we don't have those in stock because we don't have many women of color shopping here at high end department store what carried the brand that you like.
Are there really lots of black women walking around with white girl (and not exactly white, it's that "flesh" color) boobs on? Or do they all know about a store where we are catered to, but still can only find boobs the color of root beer candy? Me, I'd be happy with Kraft caramels.
Monday, December 22, 2008
I can't really think of a title for this one
I was rereading Point of Dreams this week, a wonderful novel set in Astreiant, a Renaissance-era city in an alternate Europe where women, by virtue of astrology, control all the fixed property. It's a delicate and thoughtful exercise in world-building and the authors never step outside the narrative to explain things to you, giving you credit for being clever enough to figure it out. Plus, there's a rattling good murder mystery at the heart of the plot.
I got on Google to search for a sequel. Instead, I found this obituary for Lisa A. Barnett, who with her partner Melissa Scott, created the city of Astreiant and its fascinating inhabitants.
I got on Google to search for a sequel. Instead, I found this obituary for Lisa A. Barnett, who with her partner Melissa Scott, created the city of Astreiant and its fascinating inhabitants.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Samantha battles breast cancer, and looks fabulous doing it
I finally watched those episodes of "Sex in the City" where Samantha is diagnosed with and treated for breast cancer. We originally got the disk from Netflix around the time I was diagnosed, and I just had a hard time seeing that particular plot line as entertainment. So, yeah, this review is about three years late.
There are two moments in this season that I truly loved. More on them in a minute. In the meantime, I have a couple of questions:
1. When Samantha is going through chemo, her mental ordeal around losing her hair is fully chronicled. But she continues to wear lung-baring tops, with nary a scar or chemo port in sight. Where, exactly, are they supposed to be sticking the drugs into her?
2. In a similar vein, we see a chemo-fied Samantha having sex with her boyfriend Smith while wearing a tiny metallic bra of the sort that Madonna probably sleeps in. How much morphine would she have to take for that thing to be comfortable over a lumpectomy scar? I'm guessing, in layman's terms, a metric buttload.
2.5. Let's back up for a second: Sex. While in chemotherapy. Heh heh heh heh heh heh. Whoo. Had me going there.
3. Finally, when Samantha's treatment is over, she whips off the bra to have more sex with Smith. Revealing. Perfect. Breasts. Um, guys? Even the hottest surgeon in Manhattan is going to leave you with a souvenir. Or two. Or four.
4. So, apparently, Samantha must have had DCIS/Stage 0, but decided to have chemotherapy rather than radiation because... the writers have never actually known someone with breast cancer?
OK, enough quibbling. The moments I loved were when Samantha uses her boyfriend to jump the line to see the hot shot oncologist, and the moment before her "inspirational speech" when she tells the committee to nix the pink ribbon cookies for the cancer fundraiser: "These women have cancer. They need more than a ****ing cookie."
THOSE moments were pretty real.
There are two moments in this season that I truly loved. More on them in a minute. In the meantime, I have a couple of questions:
1. When Samantha is going through chemo, her mental ordeal around losing her hair is fully chronicled. But she continues to wear lung-baring tops, with nary a scar or chemo port in sight. Where, exactly, are they supposed to be sticking the drugs into her?
2. In a similar vein, we see a chemo-fied Samantha having sex with her boyfriend Smith while wearing a tiny metallic bra of the sort that Madonna probably sleeps in. How much morphine would she have to take for that thing to be comfortable over a lumpectomy scar? I'm guessing, in layman's terms, a metric buttload.
2.5. Let's back up for a second: Sex. While in chemotherapy. Heh heh heh heh heh heh. Whoo. Had me going there.
3. Finally, when Samantha's treatment is over, she whips off the bra to have more sex with Smith. Revealing. Perfect. Breasts. Um, guys? Even the hottest surgeon in Manhattan is going to leave you with a souvenir. Or two. Or four.
4. So, apparently, Samantha must have had DCIS/Stage 0, but decided to have chemotherapy rather than radiation because... the writers have never actually known someone with breast cancer?
OK, enough quibbling. The moments I loved were when Samantha uses her boyfriend to jump the line to see the hot shot oncologist, and the moment before her "inspirational speech" when she tells the committee to nix the pink ribbon cookies for the cancer fundraiser: "These women have cancer. They need more than a ****ing cookie."
THOSE moments were pretty real.
Monday, November 3, 2008
The Think System...
Cancer sucks.
I just got an email from a friend who is asking all of her friends to send some positive energy to a little boy who has been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor.
Cancer sucks for all times.
So for you little M., we are telling that cancer to bounce. Hit the bricks, take a hike, don't let the doorknob hit you in your fucking out of control cells on the way out. You are so unwelcome tumor, that the light from Friendly won't hit you for a bazillion years.
Go. Go now. And let us not speak of this ever again.
I just got an email from a friend who is asking all of her friends to send some positive energy to a little boy who has been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor.
Cancer sucks for all times.
So for you little M., we are telling that cancer to bounce. Hit the bricks, take a hike, don't let the doorknob hit you in your fucking out of control cells on the way out. You are so unwelcome tumor, that the light from Friendly won't hit you for a bazillion years.
Go. Go now. And let us not speak of this ever again.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Drinking in the Pink
Thank Jebus, October is over. I can safely return to the supermarket and not be bombarded with pleas to buy pink, eat pink, think pink, and drink pink. This Breast Cancer Awareness Month is a burden that gets more and more onerous as the years go by.
This year, along with pink drink coolers, pink ribbon faux carabiner key fobs, and pink cereal, I could buy a fifth of vodka in a bottle that sports a pink ribbon and claims that a portion of the proceeds will be donated to breast cancer research.
GetHammeredForTheCause
Funny, the vodka pictured at the link above isn't the one I saw while shopping in a market recently. Nice to know there's more than one way to give while getting hammered on "pink" martinis.
And let me just say that I was sorely tempted to respond to the checkout boy's rote question "would you like to make a donation to breast cancer research?" by whipping out my Foobs™ and declaring that perhaps I've given enough already. It's not his fault that he was instructed to ask this of every customer he spoke to while ringing up their groceries.
I would, however, like to spend a few minutes alone in a room with the genius MBA who thought that it was a good idea for all checkout people to ask that question. I'm just trying to buy some food, maybe a magazine, and I've gotta think about breast cancer? Again?? Would that genius MBA like to be reminded of some trauma he/she suffered every time he/she wants to buy a pint of ice cream and a copy of Vanity Fair?
Note to self: next year, stock up at the end of September, then send the spousal unit to the store for anything I might need in the dreaded month of boob corrosion awareness. It's amusing that our awareness ends with Hallowe'en. Trick or treat! Tricky tits!
Oh, and re that article Carny mentioned about the time it takes to get back to normal - word.
This year, along with pink drink coolers, pink ribbon faux carabiner key fobs, and pink cereal, I could buy a fifth of vodka in a bottle that sports a pink ribbon and claims that a portion of the proceeds will be donated to breast cancer research.
GetHammeredForTheCause
Funny, the vodka pictured at the link above isn't the one I saw while shopping in a market recently. Nice to know there's more than one way to give while getting hammered on "pink" martinis.
And let me just say that I was sorely tempted to respond to the checkout boy's rote question "would you like to make a donation to breast cancer research?" by whipping out my Foobs™ and declaring that perhaps I've given enough already. It's not his fault that he was instructed to ask this of every customer he spoke to while ringing up their groceries.
I would, however, like to spend a few minutes alone in a room with the genius MBA who thought that it was a good idea for all checkout people to ask that question. I'm just trying to buy some food, maybe a magazine, and I've gotta think about breast cancer? Again?? Would that genius MBA like to be reminded of some trauma he/she suffered every time he/she wants to buy a pint of ice cream and a copy of Vanity Fair?
Note to self: next year, stock up at the end of September, then send the spousal unit to the store for anything I might need in the dreaded month of boob corrosion awareness. It's amusing that our awareness ends with Hallowe'en. Trick or treat! Tricky tits!
Oh, and re that article Carny mentioned about the time it takes to get back to normal - word.
Monday, October 20, 2008
October madness
A couple weeks ago, I had an interesting conversation with an acquaintance who developed colon cancer in her 30s.
"I am kind of jealous of the ones with breast cancer," she said, "because NO ONE wants to talk about colon cancer."
We did find many things we had in common, however:
We both wish people would treat us like we've never had cancer... except when we need them to understand that we've had cancer.
We both find we've reached a broader perspective on life... you can't really call it enlightenment, because it sometimes involves wanting to smack the shit out of other people for being so stuck on the petty stuff.
And we've both made bargains with the Universe to do whatever it asks of us, anything at all, just as long as we get to see our kids reach adulthood.
And speaking of long-term survivorship, I read this article in Cure magazine last week while waiting to see my oncologist for a follow-up. It's pretty badly written, so I'll cut to the chase for you: New studies of survivors suggest that it can take years for life to go back to "normal" after cancer. Pain, fatigue and fear of reocurrence can persist even 11 years after diagnosis.
All I can
say is: O RLY?
"I am kind of jealous of the ones with breast cancer," she said, "because NO ONE wants to talk about colon cancer."
We did find many things we had in common, however:
We both wish people would treat us like we've never had cancer... except when we need them to understand that we've had cancer.
We both find we've reached a broader perspective on life... you can't really call it enlightenment, because it sometimes involves wanting to smack the shit out of other people for being so stuck on the petty stuff.
And we've both made bargains with the Universe to do whatever it asks of us, anything at all, just as long as we get to see our kids reach adulthood.
And speaking of long-term survivorship, I read this article in Cure magazine last week while waiting to see my oncologist for a follow-up. It's pretty badly written, so I'll cut to the chase for you: New studies of survivors suggest that it can take years for life to go back to "normal" after cancer. Pain, fatigue and fear of reocurrence can persist even 11 years after diagnosis.
All I can
say is: O RLY?
Friday, October 10, 2008
Signs of the Apocalypse No. 7
Madden NFL 09 Pink: Yes, Virginia, it's a video football game that "fights" breast cancer.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
If I had a rocket launcher...
The place where I get my mammograms done is rescheduling mine because... they've decided to stop doing diagnostic exams on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.
This is the same place that sent me a form letter a few months ago announcing when my mammogram would be. Without consulting me first about what times would work for me.
So, I'm wondering what the message is? Because it feels something like this: Hey, cancer survivor. We know you are just sitting at home with your gold AmEx card flipping through the home shopping channels. Since you're not capable of doing anything worthwhile, we expect you'll be happy to come have your boob hammered flat whenever we feel like doing it. And, yeah, we have Saturday appointments... with openings sometime in 2010.
This is the same place that sent me a form letter a few months ago announcing when my mammogram would be. Without consulting me first about what times would work for me.
So, I'm wondering what the message is? Because it feels something like this: Hey, cancer survivor. We know you are just sitting at home with your gold AmEx card flipping through the home shopping channels. Since you're not capable of doing anything worthwhile, we expect you'll be happy to come have your boob hammered flat whenever we feel like doing it. And, yeah, we have Saturday appointments... with openings sometime in 2010.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Another country heard from
"You just have to decide if you're a Tigger or an Eeyore. I think I'm clear where I stand on the great Tigger/Eeyore debate. Never lose the childlike wonder. It's just too important. It's what drives us."
Randy Pausch, 1960-2008 (pancreatic cancer)
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
A Junior brain trapped in a Misses body
I went clothes shopping. Again. This summer has found me in a fruitless search for a cute little summery dress, some cool casual tops, and maybe a nice button down shirt or two for dressy casual.
Here's the challenge: my flat-chested temple of a body doesn't lend itself easily to this year's fashion trends. Low cut bodices that show exactly what color my fake boobs (foobs!) are won't do. And the dresses that don't have the low cut V neckline have the deep U little milkmaid style bodices with puffed sleeves that are so not flattering on fifty year old arms. And the foobs are visible in either one.
That said, I'm not ready to give up and start wearing men's T-shirts. I'm going back to my sewing machine. We've been apart for awhile, but we need to get back together and heat up the sewing room.
Stay tuned.
Here's the challenge: my flat-chested temple of a body doesn't lend itself easily to this year's fashion trends. Low cut bodices that show exactly what color my fake boobs (foobs!) are won't do. And the dresses that don't have the low cut V neckline have the deep U little milkmaid style bodices with puffed sleeves that are so not flattering on fifty year old arms. And the foobs are visible in either one.
That said, I'm not ready to give up and start wearing men's T-shirts. I'm going back to my sewing machine. We've been apart for awhile, but we need to get back together and heat up the sewing room.
Stay tuned.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Schwety boobs
Oh how I hate going to the east coast in the summer. It's hot, which is bad enough, but the humidity pretty much guarantees that my strap-on boobs are going to feel worse than usual, all damp and sweaty. They have these COOLMAX® pads that lay between the plastic encased blob of femininity and my skin, but that's only so helpful since the COOLMAX® pads are covered in some space age material that doesn't breathe on its own, it has to be shot fulla holes to make it cooler. And it's all encased in a fabric boob cover, sort of like socks for tits, but the cotton they are made of NEVER cools off.
Maybe someone could invent boobs that cool, like a cooling vest only smaller and able to fit inside a bra. I bet a lot of women, and not just mastectomy mavens would like to have something chilly to strap onto their chests when it gets hot.
That's enough. I'm going to watch some opera now. Jessye Norman rocks.
Maybe someone could invent boobs that cool, like a cooling vest only smaller and able to fit inside a bra. I bet a lot of women, and not just mastectomy mavens would like to have something chilly to strap onto their chests when it gets hot.
That's enough. I'm going to watch some opera now. Jessye Norman rocks.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Let's draw a tasteful veil across the scene
Dear sister-in-breast-cancer:
I don't know how to tell you this nicely, but discussing your vaginal dryness with me at a co-ed cocktail party? SO not a bonding experience.
I don't know how to tell you this nicely, but discussing your vaginal dryness with me at a co-ed cocktail party? SO not a bonding experience.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
"You'll have to deal with this for the rest of your life."
Dear reader, the odds are good that at some point in your middle age, your doctor will diagnose some condition and tell you, "You'll have to deal with this for the rest of your life."
Surprisingly, this means you'll have to deal with this for the rest of your life. When things break after 40, they tend to stay broken. We learn this every day, yet denial remains one of the most powerful forces in the universe, stronger Peet's coffee or the under-car suction force that attracts Frisbees and dropped keys.
I'm typing this with one very tender left hand. I had a lymphedema flare-up last week, and my knuckles and fingers are still as puffy as if I had punched a wall. Which, frankly, sounds like a good idea right about now. I don't really know what sparked the flare-up -- maybe my lymph system reacted to the touch of flu I seem to have acquired, maybe I overused my left tipping books off the library shelves at my daughter's school for the end-of-year inventory. Maybe I put too much stress on my left side doing the physical therapy for my right shoulder -- the right shoulder I strained last spring trying not to overuse my left hand.
So I've spent the past nine days doing two sets of physical therapy exercises a day, one for my shoulder, one for my arm. Plus walking my daughter to school every day -- gotta get the aerobic exercise in to control my estrogen levels. Plus having the flu. I'm telling you, it's a good thing I don't have to go to a 9 to 5 right now, because my boss would be pretty close to firing my ass. As it is, I'm behind on household projects and I haven't even started to think about prep work for my fall classes.
My husband, trying to be helpful during one of my freakouts, said, "Don't worry -- you won't have this forever."
I just about snapped his head off. Because that's what I realized last week: Yes, I will. Yes, I have lymphadema. And I'm going to have to deal with this for the rest of my life.
Surprisingly, this means you'll have to deal with this for the rest of your life. When things break after 40, they tend to stay broken. We learn this every day, yet denial remains one of the most powerful forces in the universe, stronger Peet's coffee or the under-car suction force that attracts Frisbees and dropped keys.
I'm typing this with one very tender left hand. I had a lymphedema flare-up last week, and my knuckles and fingers are still as puffy as if I had punched a wall. Which, frankly, sounds like a good idea right about now. I don't really know what sparked the flare-up -- maybe my lymph system reacted to the touch of flu I seem to have acquired, maybe I overused my left tipping books off the library shelves at my daughter's school for the end-of-year inventory. Maybe I put too much stress on my left side doing the physical therapy for my right shoulder -- the right shoulder I strained last spring trying not to overuse my left hand.
So I've spent the past nine days doing two sets of physical therapy exercises a day, one for my shoulder, one for my arm. Plus walking my daughter to school every day -- gotta get the aerobic exercise in to control my estrogen levels. Plus having the flu. I'm telling you, it's a good thing I don't have to go to a 9 to 5 right now, because my boss would be pretty close to firing my ass. As it is, I'm behind on household projects and I haven't even started to think about prep work for my fall classes.
My husband, trying to be helpful during one of my freakouts, said, "Don't worry -- you won't have this forever."
I just about snapped his head off. Because that's what I realized last week: Yes, I will. Yes, I have lymphadema. And I'm going to have to deal with this for the rest of my life.
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