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.
