You say Rambo, I say Rambeaux

The next time I have to take kids shopping for Christmas gifts for their father, I'm taking a cab so I can get liquored up. I'm so not doing that sober again. Not ever.

My plans for that beautiful Irish lace scarf have been pushed to the back burner. I got started on another scarf with the help of my mother-in-law. I had intended to make it and send it to my mother for Christmas but have also not only pushed that to the back burner too, I've decided to just keep it for myself when I'm done. This year she got a Christmas card from me. Here is what I've done so far with the scarf.

I went through the yarn section the other day while I was at Walmart and got distracted and sidetracked by camouflage yarn. It's the reason the scarf is now on the back burner.

Yep, I'm working on yet another project and have left more unfinished. Here is my progress on a camouflage knit (crochet) hat.

I don't know why, but I've been on a camo kick lately. Maybe subconsciously I'm wanting to go in hiding. Maybe I'm about to morph into Rambo. I'm sure there's some psychological explanation for it.

Silence

As I sit here struggling to find a title to this, I look around and notice the dust everywhere. The ammonia like odor permeating from the litter box nearby seems to strip my nasal passages. And I notice the erie silence in the house. Two cats sit as still as statues, watching me like prison guards.

Damn that litter box STINKS!

How is it that cat piss can smell like they've been bathing in ammonia all day?

Kids are asleep. The bickering between two girls has ceased for the day. I'm sure the drama will be continued in the morning.

I seem to have lost count of the days into my crochet project. It's taken a bit of a detour. After a couple of attempts, I went over to my mother-in-law today for a brief lesson in crocheting.

Christmas cards still haven't been sent out. After nearly two years of sending birthday gifts, mother's day gifts and Christmas gifts to my mother without any acknowledgement from her, I've decided to just give the gift of paper and a stamp. Assuming that I actually get around to signing, addressing and mailing out those cards.

Damn, I'm Cranky!

This is about as far as I got today on Youtube for crocheting instructional videos.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=La7n8-b3V7Y&feature=share

I'm cranky, but no, my crankiness didn't lead to shooting. I actually got the video off of a friend's posting on Facebook.

I haven't touched a piece of yarn today.

I haven't sent out any Christmas cards yet either.

Bah humbug. :p

What day is this? Five?

With the help of three cats, I started my project! I only got about three rows in and then took it apart. I don't think I was doing it right. So tomorrow I think I will review Youtube videos on the difference between single and double, etc. It's been a long time since I've made any attempt at a crochet project.

I will also have to figure out how to do this without the involvement of cats.

Un, Deux, Trois, Quatre

I'm into my fourth day of not crocheting. Really, I did come close to starting a leaf. I swear.

Day Three of the Crochet Project

I found the crochet hooks.

Day Two

I bought yarn and crochet hooks yesterday.

The yarn is still in the bag, hanging on the door knob in the bedroom.

Today I brought in the bag of crochet hooks that I left in the car.

I have no clue where I put them.

At least I found the stapler I bought about two months ago.

Day One

Note: I purchased three One Pound things of yarn today.

Today is December 7, 2011.

This is what I'd like to make.

Let's see what happens.

Gaaaahhh!

That's about what's going through my mind right now, as I sit at the kitchen table reading, typing and listening to a 13 year old boy fart while doing his homework. Seriously, I just don't know what the hell to feed him anymore.

I feel like a an old fart myself as I try to navigate through blogs, emails and just the plain old internet.

I'm still trying to figure out how to tie everything in together. I think I have three email addresses. I'm not sure. No, wait... let me think. I think I have more than three. Not to mention the stupid passwords for all of them.

And to think, I have had the nerve to start other blogs. What the hell am I thinking???

Cats, Crafts and Crap - My week in review

Wow! It's a good thing I'm not being paid to blog. I wrote this on Monday and here it is Friday and I'm now posting it!

It's not even December yet and I'm already about to lose my religion.

Kids are back home from school. Since I won't get anything else done because I have to watch them to make sure they actually DO their homework, I figure I'll just type away the events of the day and weekend.

I got a wild hair up my ass and rolled out a couple of crafts. Okay, so I really only finished one project and started another.

During an Ambien moment, I started surfing the internet for making a purse out of jeans. Not as easy as I thought it would be. Especially since these are low rise. That places the back pockets slightly lower than the crotch. Which makes it difficult (at least for me) to cut it even.

Anyway. I have three cats. I'm always harassing the kids to make sure they don't leave out anything that a cat might chew or eat and cause them to get sick and/or die. I don't want to lose my furry little ones and a vet bill these days nearly requires a second mortgage on the house.

Low and behold, I left out a spool of thread on the dining table and noticed it appeared to be moving on it's own. I followed the line only to find the other end of it in the kitten's mouth. I carefully pulled on it. And pulled. And pulled. I was horrified. Was all of this coming out of her stomach? As of now she appears to be fine. But it would figure that I'm the one who's always paranoid about the cats finding something the kids left around... It will probably be me who kills the cat.

Cats are like Vegas, 24 hours of entertainment available. They all seem to have their own unique personality.

I found our "kitten" in August last year. I was on my way to pick up kids from school when out the corner of my eye, just a few feet from the road, was this little black thing with it's mouth wide open meowing. We really didn't need another cat. We also really didn't need a vet bill. But there was no way I could drive by this poor thing and risk seeing her dead in the road on the drive back. So this sucker pulled off onto a side street and tried catching her. I cringe at the thought that she could have darted out into the road and got run over while I watched. Luckily I was able to grab her. I drove to school to get kids. With the cutest black and white kitten in my lap.

She was a costly little bitch.

But I love her to pieces. Turned out that she has a dead paw. She has to walk on her right "elbow" with the paw curved in. I felt so sorry for the poor little kitty. She was so pitiful looking.

Poor little pitiful kitty... my ass. After having her for a few weeks, I opened the bedroom door. She flew out like a bat out of hell, charging up the stairs. I had a con artist on my hands.

My oldest, is a black ton of fur. I would expect her to rattle the house when she walks by but she's quite stealthy. I never hear her coming. She was a real piece of work when I got her. She spent the first week hiding behind the TV set. Petting her was out of the question. She was a black beauty with the personality of an exorcism patient. Now she's sweet as pie. The cat who barely let me pet her now sleeps in between my husbands legs.

The middle one is a dopey white male. It amazes me that this big cat once fit in the palm of my hand when I found him. I drove up to the house one day after work and could hear him crying from the inside of my car. At the time I had no clue what I was hearing. I followed the cries which led me to some shrubbery where this itty bitty white kitty kept crawling away from me. How he go to my house I will never know. No one nearby appeared to have kittens. I lived on a fairly busy road. My assumption is that he must have been dropped off.

So, fast forward about two years. I'm laying on the couch trying to read while he's trying to distract me. The usual cat activity of walking all over me, sticking his butt in my face. Wait, what the hell is that sticking out of his ass? Mr. Sparkly Butt apparently ate an iridescent ribbon and it was now waving itself in my face. Let me tell you, he was not a happy camper when we finally pulled it out.

I busted him today. He was about to drag his pink buttoned ass across the floor. What the hell did he eat now? Now what's stuck in his butt? I grabbed him by the tail, lifting him up a bit only to find... a legitimate piece of crap.

It's Monday, right? Silly me. I went to Michael's Arts and Crafts today. The store looked like it would on the weekend. So much for doing a little shopping in peace. I went for an Advent wreath and candles. Easy enough. Or so I thought. I found a wreath. I found three purple candles. But not one pink candle in the store. Surely, they would have a pink candle left over from Pinktober.

Nope. I asked.

They didn't even have pink candles for breast cancer awareness month.

I was stunned. I thought everything went pink in October???

Missing inaction

It's been awhile since I've posted. I've typed up several drafts that are still waiting to be finished and published. I'm a procrastinator. My whole family is, with the exception of my brother.

Normally, I don't like to brag or toot my horn. But today is different.

From start to finish... I not only began a "sewing" project, but I also finished it too! In the same day.

My inspiration came from Lazy Saturdays

I found a juniors frilly turtleneck at a thrift store and converted into a skirt for my 9 year-old daughter complete with pockets.

Here's a couple of beginning and end pictures.

Might have looked better with a clean shirt :p

"It's all about the body, not the brain."

October has been known as Breast Cancer Awareness month. Lately, it's been looking more and more like Breast Awareness month. There have been slogans that sound like they were coined by a bunch of "dudes" at a frat party, Save the Tatas, Save Second Base, Rack Runners, Dr. X's Hot Pink Hotties, Rockers for Knockers, I Heart Boobies, etc.

Here is a bottle of Fat Bastard that I came across in the store yesterday.

That's right, two wine glasses placed together and formed to look like breasts.

I think the following video provides a good example of how October has become Breast Awareness month.



http://vimeo.com/28066212

P.S. I seem to have trouble linking it. If the link does not show up, please copy and paste in your browser.

More Thoughts on "The Race"

What, exactly, does awareness mean?

As I already mentioned in an earlier post, it appeared to me that the vast majority of participants in last weekends race were not breast cancer survivors. Maybe they were, but just didn't want to wear the pink survivor shirt or the gay truck driver cap. (The hat was so ugly that I just threw mine in the trash can last year).

So, if the majority of participants are family members, friends, co-workers, etc. of someone who had been diagnosed with breast cancer, then aren't these people already aware of it? Who are they bringing awareness to, themselves?

Are they hoping to bring awareness through the media? The media only takes and publishes pretty pictures.

Do they think they will raise awareness by wearing a pink blob bob wig or a pink mohawk?

Or that pink bicycles will bring about a cure?

Maybe they think that wearing pink seashells will raise awareness of the disease

One thing was certain. This definitely raised awareness.

I thought I would approach her and ask her to pose for a photo, but some guy beat me to it. Good thing he did. It made me all that more aware of the actual issue here, boobs. All I heard from his mouth was, "that's awesome. that is so awesome." And he wasn't some college kid wearing an I Heart Bobbies t-shirt, either.

I run like a hottie - Cashing In On Cancer

My God.

I awoke this morning at 5 a.m. in order to board a bus to a pink race. My mind seems to be spinning as I sit here now thinking back on what I saw. Trying to put this in some kind of order.

Here are just a couple of things I noticed.

When crammed into a small area, it would appear that there are many survivors. Not so much so when the race begins. There are thousands of people. THOUSANDS. And a handful of women wearing survivor shirts.

It had me wondering what percentage of participants were survivors.

And it had me wondering why.

Why so few?

Did they sleep in for the cure? Do they not participate in this event? Are they tired of spending $25 or $30 for a pink t-shirt and the opportunity to sit in the Survivor's Cafe? Or at worse, are there so few survivors?

My hope is that there are millions of survivors and that they just don't participate.

One thing that has always ticked me off about Breast Cancer Awareness month are the people who "support" the cure with the word "hotties" and "ta tas".

As I was thinking back on this morning, one thing led to another. I came across a team participant's profile and read this...

"Our practice is focused on both cosmetic and reconstructive surgery. We are blessed to help many breast cancer patients on their journey to well-being and looking fabulous!"

"We named our team "Hotties" because it best describes our patients! Dr (who I wont name) gives them fabulous cleavage and they give us a lifetime of inspiration. I run like a hottie..."

I don't know how much more I can comment on this sexist crap.

Why I'm Not In Sales - The story of a t-shirt

There's a reason why I'm not in sales. I suck at it. My attitude about selling has basically been, if I wanted to be an actress, I would have moved to Hollywood a long time ago.

It seems like every where I look, people who've gone through cancer have found their creativity. I've been trying to find mine.

Last Christmas my husband gave me a set of crochet hooks and knitting needles. They're still in the package in my nightstand. The yarn I bought last year is still sitting in the bag in a drawer. My sewing machine? It keeps traveling around our office. I have a scarf from Target buried somewhere in my closet. My plans were to do some ribbon embroidery on it.

I have a plastic storage container in the spare bedroom with a ton of patterns, fabric and various things that I think I will one day use. For something. There's also a couple of sketch books too, somewhere in this house.

One of the things I also attempted last year was a t-shirt. I didn't know how to sell it. I posted a link to it on my personal Facebook page. Then, a day or two later, a former schoolmate of mine suddenly started pushing some "ribbon" t-shirts. I should have known better. I lost my drive after that.

I don't like being pushy.

And with the exception of my husband and my cancer, everything in my life has seemed to have been a day late and a dollar short.

So, I have something to ask of you.

Please look at my t-shirt. I know everyone has bills to pay and that we're not made of money. If you like it and are willing to spend the money, please buy one. If you like it and can't buy it, then please pass it along to someone.

But, the biggest favor I ask of you... please don't take my idea. God knows I come up with a bizzillion ideas in my head. Very rarely do I ever actually act on them.

Oh, and I plan to wear this to "the Race" this Saturday.

Thanks!

http://www.cafepress.com/thepinkbirdie

Thank You

I had come here with the intent of posting something entirely different from the title. I don't even remember what it was.

After reading the comments left on my posts I wanted to say thank you.

Thank you for commenting on it.

Thank you for following it.

Most of all, thank you for taking the time to read it.



Thank you.

Awareness On The Move

With the exception of skin cancer, breast cancer is the only visual cancer.

Imagine yourself in a crowded mall. Can you pick out someone who has lung cancer? Can you see someone with colon cancer? Do you know which shopper has pancreatic cancer?

But, you CAN see a breast cancer patient who has opted out of reconstruction.

Let me make myself clear... this is NOT a post judging a woman's choice for reconstruction or not. I chose to have reconstruction myself after a mastectomy and it failed.

This is about a power we have.

Breast cancer has become an awareness more about breasts than it has become about cancer. It's become a cash cow. Save the tatas, save the boobies, rockers for knockers, i heart boobies, save second base, etc.

We are the only cancer patients/survivors who are able and capable of taking control of this awareness.

It's not easy. We have all been molded somewhat by our breasts. It's part of our sexuality. It's a part of our being. We've all heard someone joke about how "my eyes are up here".

It's not easy for me to write this or for me to practice what I preach. But, I'm obnoxious (sometimes), and abrasive and I'm standoffish. I want to make a stink and I want to bring attention to myself but I don't like to bring attention to myself.

I just wish I could find this shirt in pink.

Getting It Off My Chest - Part 2

Dear Mom,

Happy fucking birthday.

Wow. Just typing and seeing that freaks me out. A little.

I'd like to thank you for disowning me after I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I'm sure it was just too tragic an event for you to deal with.

I know, you must have been outraged that I could be diagnosed with such a disease and then get married and abandon you.

I mean, after all, life really sucks for you. Lord only knows how many times I had to hear you complain about things. You wondered why you had to suffer. Why you?

Why not you?

Well, let's see. You had it worse than starving children in Ethopia, didn't you?

And your children? We were such horrible kids, weren't we? You did say I gave you nothing but trouble. It's a darn good thing for you that you didn't have any kids who got hooked on drugs and ended up in rehab, or worse, dead in a gutter somewhere from an overdose.

I gave you nothing but trouble? Let's see. I was, technically, a virgin until I married in my forties. I never shacked up. I never got pregnant out of wedlock. I wasn't a drug addict. I hardly drank. I never married and divorced several times and/or had kids to ask you to babysit so I could hit the bars.

I never dated married men (at least not that I know of).

Out of courtesy, and probably stupidity, I'd call you to let you know if I was going out at night. Only to have you chew my ass out for wanting to "stick myself out there". And because it was easier, I stupidly stayed home instead.

So again, I'd like to thank you for disowning me.

Aside from the breast cancer, life has been pretty grand. I've gotten married to a wonderful guy. I've done things that I might not have done before. I got to visit the "big apple" this summer for the first time, see Times Square, drive by Ground Zero, got as close to David Letterman as I'd probably ever get. Oh, and I went to Montauk. I didn't know where Montauk was before. Wow.

Oh, yeah, and I'm taking karate lessons. I've made it to orange belt.

And although it's taken me quite some time (and some pills) to let go and not feel guilty about "abandoning" you, life has been peaceful and sometimes serene without you (even with 3 kids).

Sincerely,

The Woman Formerly Known as Your Daughter

P.S. Silly me, I almost forgot about your claim that my cancer was a punishment from God. I'll have to discuss this with Him sometime soon.

Getting It Off My Chest - Part I

A former co-worker of mine once said that she didn't like confrontation. I feel her pain. Confrontation for me has always been painful wether it's bad confrontation or even a good confrontation. But, after working 20 years with women, I'm slowly learning to tell people to kiss my ass. Slowly.

I'm just waiting for that right person, at the right time, to say the right thing so I can chew their ass out. To unleash 40+ years of bottled frustration, anger, irritation, you name it. I'm usually watching people from the corner of my eye as I walk through a parking lot. Just waiting for some jackass to approach me for a mugging or a purse snatching. Just waiting to use that back kick on him and send him to the hospital... and probably me off to jail.

As a woman, I've always had some difficulty finding suitable clothes that fit properly. Sure, I didn't really have that problem in my teens or early twenties. But as time creeped up on me, it became harder and harder to find a decent top or pair of jeans. Women's clothing styles are just plain horrendous. Why would any woman want to intentionally dress to look like a skank?

I know it's bad when I'm in Wal-mart and the Mylie Cyrus line of clothing actually look modest and appealing.

I now have the body of a small Michelin tire man. I'm short-waisted. That means if I were, God forbid, to ever wear a pair of "mom" jeans, that the waist would be hitting me right at about the breast line. An empire waist might work.

I try to stick to something about hip level or mid-rise on the jeans and pants and maybe even skirts. Anything higher... *sigh*

There's usually a problem with that. It seems that anything below my belly button makes me look like a plumber in training. Gut protruding over the front, but crack just looking for some daylight.

Add insult to injury. Breast cancer. A left mastectomy. A failed reconstruction attempt. One breast left. Try finding clothes for that.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far and away, I actually dressed... somewhat attractively. Then I grew to enjoy comfy clothes. And it shows.

I don't know how the very short conversation came up, but, I probably said something to my husband about nice clothes and he said that I should dress up more often.

I'm okay with that.

But at what price? What kind of clothes? How much shopping do I have to do to find modest, feminine, affordable, age-appropriate clothes for a 45 year old woman with one breast and a tire around the middle?

I set out on a mini journey Friday in hopes of finding some skirts (I'm usually in cargo shorts) and some nice tops (I usually pair those cargo shorts with a t-shirt).

I find a skirt I love and a top I sort of love, pull out the iphone, snap a picture of me in the mirror wearing it and send it off to my husband. He responds that he likes the skirt and

"I do like that style of skirt on you!

You just need to work on finding tops you are comfortable with. Comfortable with being the key word. I know you dont like going around with one boob, and flaunting it. But a few of the things you wear to "mask" that are very baggy and make you look much heavier and frumpy than you are.

Somewhere in the middle is probably about right."

Maybe it's just a poor selection of words on his part. Better would have been, "I do like that style of skirt on you! Let's spend a night at the mall and see if we can find you some pretty tops to go with it."

I bit my tongue. I failed to get it off my chest. I didn't even respond. What I would have liked to have said, was, honey, I know you like comfy clothes. I know you love those shorts with the holes in them and the tacky Hawaiian style shirts. I know how much you like to eat. But, you know, if you'd just stop eating so damn much, lose about 50 pounds and get some clothes that fit you, YOU TOO MIGHT NOT LOOK SO HEAVY AND FRUMPY.

If only it were so easy.

Saving the hooters, the tatas...

Breast cancer is so sexist.

I may have written about this one already but, it came to mind again after seeing the "save the hooters" add that came in my mailbox with the coupon section.

I was in the hospital a couple of months ago to visit a friend who just went through reconstructive surgery. Mr. Plastic Surgeon came in while on his hospital rounds. Accompanying him was his "assistant". Whoa!!!!

Bleach blond, tanned, with a glove fitted black dress ornate with a ton of golden stuff around the neckline, low plunging neckline, I might add. There was enough cleavage for, well, I don't know what. But, you couldn't miss it. Her new breasts sat so high on her chest that should could very well have milked herself.

It was definitely, an in your face moment. "Look at the great work we do". "See, you too can have great big beautiful breasts".

In general, I usually don't get offended. I just get irked. Ticked off. Annoyed. Pissed. Really, I don't care if someone has naturally nice breasts. Or even if they are not natural. What I do care about is the "in your face" from the plastic surgeons... trying to capitalize on women's insecurities.

Let's turn this picture around. Would it be appropriate for a surgeon to parade his male assistant around in tight pants with a "happy to see you" bulge in the crotch? Maybe sporting him about in a Speedo?

I can hardly wait for the Facebookers to start up their nonsense of posting bra sizes or colors for breast cancer awareness month. It's not going to be pretty when I respond. After all, cancer isn't pretty.

It would be nice if breast cancer could be eradicated. It would be even nicer if all cancers were eradicated.

Freaks Among Us

When I signed up for Twitter and started blogging, my husband basically told me, "you've got to do this everyday!" "Several times a day!"

What the hell am I supposed to post everyday? Am I to check the acidity level in my urine and report back here on it?

I try to read other blogs and articles when I can. It's amazing how much time the internet can suck up. No, I don't have ADD...

wait

is that a clearance going on? what's the Estee Lauder gift from Dillards? oooh, pretty.

Three kids. I need to read Twitter posts, blogs, articles, email, news, Facebook, wash clothes, dry clothes, iron clothes, clean kitchen, vacuum, harass kids to clean their rooms, harass kids to do their laundry, throw the cat off my desk, move the cats butt out of my face and throw him off the desk again. Get more coffee. Add more Bailey's.

No, there are not 3 kids here today. There are three kids here today, plus some of the next door neighbors kids.

But, I'm still going to blog.

Because I just read something which reminded me of some posts I read about a year ago on a cancer forum. So, here I go. Even if it may not make any sense.

I think I must be a freak. Well, not really. Maybe it's just that I don't give a shit.

I read several posts from women who stated that they couldn't have sex with their husband because of their scars from a mastectomy. Seriously?

They didn't want their hubbys to see. Seriously?

Okay, I can understand losing the sex drive from the chemo and the meds and all. The hot flashes drive me nuts.

But, seriously?

Maybe it's because I was single all my life and didn't marry until my mid forties. I used to go all out on making myself look good when I was in my twenties. Permed hair, make-up, fitted clothes. I gave up on that quickly when all it got me was a bunch of horny drunk guys. Dating got boxed up and tucked away in the attic to collect dust.

Whatever the reason, it never bothered me to have my husband see my scar. After all, marriage is for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. If I can't allow my husband to see these things, then I shouldn't have married him.

People really do surprise me. Like the ones who wouldn't dare wear used clothing, but have no problem with several sex partners. At least the clothes can be washed out. Sex can't be undone, nor can a disease be so readily cured.

I have cancer. I lost a breast to it. It's not pretty to look at. It's not sexy. And now that I just looked at, it is still somewhat pink. So, I guess I have a pink ribbon of my on brandished on my chest.

I've been bald. It was a difficult period to go through... watching my hair wash down the shower drain. I've even thought of shaving it all off again now that it's grown back. Just because it's so damn hot out there and being bald means never having a bad hair day.

Speaking of bald. One of my most memorable "events" during my baldness was a day of shopping at Walmart. It was one of the first times I went out in public bald and without a head covering and with only one breast. As I approached the check out lanes, there in line was a young head-shaven thug full of tattoos and piercings looking at me as if I were some kind of freak. At first, I was taken aback by it. Someone was staring at me in a look of near disgust. But then I realized, my bald head and single breast were not of my choice. Screw you, you little freaky bastard.

Where am I going with this post? Hell, I don't know. I was told I had to blog, so that's what I'm doing.

Excuse me while I step away to yell at some kids.

Lost: My Mind

Chemo brain. Old age. Stress.

Mental cancer.

Where has my mind gone?

I would have liked to be writing something funny about this. But today, my husband pointed out this story to me


http://www.foxnews.com/entertainment/2011/07/20/former-bond-bombshell-dies-after-drinking-drain-cleaner/#ixzz1SgTyFbxq

"killing herself while the balance of her mind was disturbed."

Regardless of her other issues, it can be difficult (to put it mildly) to put away the fears of cancer once having been diagnosed with it.

For me, the fear of cancer will always be in the back of my mind. Sometimes creeping up on me when I least expect it.

I know I'm not guaranteed tomorrow or the next minute. I could be killed in my own home from falling down the stairs. However, for some reason, I never obsess over that one. I never find myself in the shower worrying that I will slip and fall and hit my head on the porcelain tub.

I do occasionally worry about terrorists blowing up a bridge as I drive across it.

But most of the time, cancer is the terrorist.

Oh, crap

I stand in line at the checkout, breaking out into a cold sweat. The cashier turns to hand the restroom key to an older gentleman. I keep my head down as if everyone in the store has their eyes on me. I can't get out of there quick enough. Two minutes ago I was in the restroom.

A public restroom.

I hate public restrooms.

Let me say that again.

I HATE PUBLIC RESTROOMS.

Have you ever been in a store and just couldn't hold it any longer? I thought I could wait it out until I got home. God, please don't let this happen here. Not here!

I pulled my cart off to the side and slipped in after a young girl came out. No way am I sitting on this toilet.

Squatting down, praying I don't fall or splatter toilet water on my ass, I take a shit the size of Texas. The kind where you break into a sweat and your face and neck turns red.

WTF did I eat today???

The damn commercial sized roll of toilet paper just sits on the top of the tank. Finger prints and who knows what on the side of the role. I have to wipe my ass with this?

A few wipes later I pull up my britches and flush.

And flush.

Again.

And again.

And again.

One of my worst nightmares, right next to being in a plane crash. A toilet, full of shit in a public restroom. That won't flush. My shit.

I stand there looking at this pile of crap, wondering what the hell am I going to do. There's a plunger on the side. Dear God, don't tell that I'm going to have to use the plunger, in a public restroom, on a toilet full of shit that won't flush.

Surely I can't walk out of here without clearing this up. Someone will have to clean this mess. Okay, I grab the plunger, lean my head back and away from the toilet and..

oh shit, it's still not flushing.

oh shit, there's no soap.

and no hot water.

I'm so sorry.

There's a janitor somewhere in North Charleston who I'm praying wins the lottery.

A Coonass in the Hamptons and Pink Ribbon Bagels

Vacation is coming up soon. My family and I are going to the Hamptons where an in-law has rented a house for the summer.

The Hamptons. Never been there. Haven't heard much about it. But what little I have heard, well... I don't think those kind of people are going to like a coonass in the neighborhood.

A quick Google search gave me this

http://westhampton-hamptonbays.patch.com/announcements/panera-bread-pink-ribbon-bagels-raise-22000-2

http://www.panerabread.com/pinkribbonbagel/

Okay, so I cheated a little bit and Googled "the hamptons pink ribbon". Surely, I'm not going to spend 10 hours in a vehicle with three kids without seeking out some pink stuff. And the location of the nearest Goodwill.

What would Susan think?

I've got at least a dozen things in my head that I'd like to write about. Maybe more, if I include the really stupid thoughts that cross my mind.

Since having been watching the "pink show" for over a year now, I keep coming back to one question in my mind.

What would Susan think about all of this?

I'm not going to mention that foundations name here. And I'm going to try my best to avoid using that name as much as I can in the future. I may even stop referring to the pink ribbon and find something else to refer to it as, like, freaky running ribbon.

So back to my question.

What would Susan think? I just took a second or so to read something from their site, quoted here:

"Susan X. XXXXX fought breast cancer with her heart, body and soul. Throughout her diagnosis, treatments, and endless days in the hospital, she spent her time thinking of ways to make life better for other women battling breast cancer instead of worrying about her own situation. That concern for others continued even as Susan neared the end of her fight. Moved by Susan’s compassion for others and committed to making a difference, Nancy G. Brinker promised her sister that she would do everything in her power to end breast cancer forever.

That promise is now (name those folks here) for the Cure®, the global leader of the breast cancer movement, having invested more than $1.9 billion since inception in 1982."

So, Susan "spent her time thinking of ways to make life better for other women battling breast cancer... and it continued even as she neared the end of her fight.

However, her sister promised her that she would do everything in her power to end breast cancer forever."

Everything in her POWER to end breast cancer. Not to make life better for those battling cancer.

I don't have a clue what Susan was like before she died. She may have been a greedy mongrol. For all I know, she may have been the kindest, sweetest person on the planet, always ready to lend a hand.

What would she think today? Would she be impressed and overwhelmed at what this thing has snowballed into? Or would she be disappointed at what appears to be greed from marketers, and her own sister? Would she consider cancer to be a marketable product? Or would she be out in the world building facilities to help accomodate the men and women who have been affected by breast cancer?

What would she have to say about ice cream cakes with happy pink ribbons during the month of October? Pink balloons floating around the grocery store just waiting to be taken to a cancer patient in the hospital? Collectible limited edition cups with the purchase of a pink combo? Or that pink firetruck driving around in order to raise awareness?

I wish I could say. I wish I could guess. But, considering that Susan has passed away. We really don't know. If she were here today, 30 years later, she may have different attitudes, beliefs, thoughts, than those she had 30 years ago. I know I don't think the same as I did back then (this is why I no longer wear big permed hair and clothes that make me look like Boy George).

What would Susan think?

Old and Shitty

I'm a hoarder. Not like the people on that TV show where some are living in cesspools and keeping rats as pets.

I just have more magazines and books than I need or could ever read. Probably 200 purses (don't freak, they all came from clearance racks, garage sales or Goodwill - I love a good bargain). I have more costume jewelry than I could ever wear. Clothes that don't fit but still have tags. Shoes... don't go there.

The collection of magazines is slowly slimming down. Before I send one to the recycling bin, I usually feel the need to flip through it to make sure I don't toss out any good recipes or craft ideas that I'll never get to.

Here's an advertisement I came across in an old issue.

More Awareness

My family and I stopped over at Jersey Mike's Subs during the week. It seems that pinking and pinkwashing is only getting worse.

Jersey Mike's is "partnering" with Komen with a Pink Ribbon Combo and sub wrappings.

http://www.jerseymikes.com/news/read.php?id=324

"The campaign has three phases:

Phase I: “Mike’s Way to a Cure” begins with the introduction of a specially branded plastic cup that will be available as part of a “Pink Ribbon Combo” or as an individual fountain drink sale and $.70 will go to Susan G. Komen for the Cure. Donations from customers will also be accepted in-store."


The most offensive part of this is the "collectible" cup. Look closely at the bottom of the poster and you'll see that with the purchase of this combo, you can have a collectible cup. Wow, breast cancer now has collectible items. Just like a kids meal from McDonald's.

Maybe they will soon have cups to collect for colon cancer, testicular cancer, brain cancer and ovarian cancer. You could collect all 5!

"Phase II: Customers can support the breast cancer cause by buying custom “Mike’s Way to a Cure” T-shirts (100% of the sales will be donated to Komen). Also, Jersey Mike’s goes pink by creating special Susan G. Komen for the Cure® sub wrapping paper and To Go bags.

Phase III: Jersey Mike’s will create increased awareness for the cause through a final fundraising day in October. Additionally, Jersey Mike’s team members throughout the country are participating in or supporting Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure® events in their communities."

More awareness. I'm thinking about tattooing a pink ribbon on my forehead. Kind of like the scarlet letter A... only this will be the "scarlet" pink ribbon.

Independence Day

It's a good day when I realize that I can wear my clothes with just one boob. It's like celebrating Independence Day.

June 10, 2011 - One Less Boob in The House

My husband once or twice (or maybe even several times) suggested that I start writing, or blogging. Something to do about my frustrations involving life and death and cancer and mothers and kids and husbands and people who just plain get on my nerves.

I have only one tit, one tata, one breast, one boob, one knocker... whatever the hell you want to call it. Kind of sounds like that George Thorogood song, "one bourbon, one scotch, one beer.." The left one got sliced off in August 2009. What's left of it is a barbed wire looking scar caved in enough to hold a drink of water.

Here's all the boring details for you. After all, don't you want to get to know me?

There I was, a single, never-married critter of about 42 or 43 years old when I went in for the second mammogram in my life. I had missed a year. I get a call to go back in, get punched in the breast with a biopsy needle and informed a couple of days later that I had cancer.

I was told I needed to select a surgeon. Ok, like I said, I was in my forties. I haven't had any kind of surgery since my tonsils were taken out. How the hell am I suppose to select a surgeon? Is there a dealership around for me to test drive one? Look under the hood? Kick his tires?

So, I look up an old high school boyfriend who grew up to be a doctor. Things got miscommunicated between the breast doctor and the surgeon, so I decided to haul my ass up to South Carolina with my fiance and have my breast removed at MUSC.

Now I'm married. To a widower. With three young kids. And a bunch of shirts that don't look right because I have only one breast.

I tried the reconstruction route. But that didn't work. It got infected and the tissue expander had to be removed. I've sworn off surgeries unless absolutely necessary. Especially after that beauty queen died on the table while having a butt lift.

I can live with one boob. I'm getting more confident with each day that goes by.

After all, what's to be ashamed of? So what if I obviously have one boob? It's taken me a considerable amount of time to adjust to it. To not even use a prosthesis. I had been making careful efforts to wear loose fitting tops so as to not draw attention to my abnormality. I can be self conscious. I also didn't want to upset others who may fear cancer or have been through it. But guess what? I'm saying "screw it". With the exception of Sunday mass attendance, I'm not making any effort to conceal my "defect".