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.