Auntie Fester

So for the past 24 hours, my life has been replete with Mr. Rogers.

Before I get into that, however, a small update on Left Eye . . . . SHE STILL SUCKS.

As you may recall, she had decided to rebuild herself by hoarding lymphatic fluid. So I went into Dr. Boobie Builder’s office on Tuesday, January 27, to get the cursed drain installed. (My initial appointment was for January 30, but his office had a cancellation, so a nice lady called and asked if I could, by chance, come in a few days earlier; in the hope of ultimately getting the drain REMOVED earlier (preferably before my birthday), I said yes.)

And there I lay, staring at a water-stained ceiling and trying to make small talk with Dr. Boobie Builder in a freezing cold room, while he numbed me up and shoved a drain into my chest.

Let it be known that medical professionals who try to distract you from the procedure at hand (especially if the procedure involves needles or blood) by making small talk annoy the hell out of me. I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT MY WEEKEND PLANS, Sharon, I want to PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE AND RUN FOR MY LIFE. Or at the very least, I want to focus 100% of my energy on the pain and squickiness of what’s happening to me and white-knuckle my way through it in silence, without having to engage in polite discourse about whether it’s still raining outside. Still, my conversation with Dr. BB was at least more interesting than most: we talked rodent infestations.

He told me he once had rats that caused $40,000 worth of damage to his home and vehicles. I told him that Love Tank uses humane traps to catch the occasional mouse family in our basement or garage, and then drives them to a local park to set them free. He seemed impressed by this level of compassion, and it may have scored me extra novocaine. But I digress.

Point is, I rocked the drain for a little over a month. Dr. BB’s nurse checked in with me periodically for my output records, and at one point, Lefty was churning out so much fluid I feared the drain would become a permanent fixture. Even Dr. BB’s nurse said at one point that he was expecting my output “to be much less by now.”

Eventually, though, Left Eye slowed her roll, and on Friday, February 27, I rolled into Dr. BB’s office to bid farewell to the bulky sweaters, oversized sweatshirts, and strategic armpit placement tactics that had helped conceal the drain bulb for weeks on end while I went to work, parent-teacher conferences, and out to social engagements like I didn’t have a little rubber receptacle full of gross bodily fluid tucked up under my clothing.

“I think we’re going to win this time,” said Dr. Boobie Builder to me as he exited the exam room after having removed the drain and left the nurse to bandage me up.

So YAY, right?

OF COURSE NOT, y’all.

Last week, after a couple of weeks of drain-free glory, I was getting ready for work when I noticed Lefty was up to tricks again, having popped up a wee little ant hill closer to the center of my chest (the outer part remained flatty-mc-flat-flat). It was nowhere near the size of the mini-tit she’d built before, but still . . . !@#$%&?! (which, by the way, was the exact subject line of the email I sent Dr. BB’s nurse, along with pictures of the offending micro-mound).

Dr. Boobie Builder is out of town for the next week, but wants to see me the week after, and has advised compression until then.

So I’m back to binding the hell out of myself with ace wrap (Dr. BB had given me some styrofoam pads to stuff into a sports bra for compression for the week following the drain removal, but I had JUUUUUUST thrown them all away, having made it through that week without incident) . . . and I kinda think it’s working — the ant hill seems to have shrunk a bit. At the very least, it hasn’t become any bigger, so that’s something.

At any rate, I’m not sure what comes next. I mean, I kinda thought the drain (re-)installation was the Hail Mary, here . . . but you know I’ll keep you posted, once I see Dr. BB the week after next.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes . . .

Mr. Rogers.

I think I’ll make a snappy new day (snap snap)!

So yesterday, a friend texted me and asked if I’d seen A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood — the Mr. Rogers-based movie starring Tom Hanks. She’d just watched it on Tubi, and recommended it (along with a handy supply of tissues). I’d just welcomed three of my littler dude’s friends for a play date (complete with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, because one of the friends he’d invited lives in a gluten-free household because of his dad and sister, while we live in a peanut-free household because of my elder dude, who’s currently on a trip to Boston with his school orchestra — so hell if we weren’t going to take advantage of the opportunity to SLAY these two birds with a single gluten-tastic, peanut-tistical snack . . . but I digress), and had gone upstairs to give the living room over to the kids, so it seemed like the perfect time to watch a movie.

The movie prompted me to hunt down and re-read the Esquire article by Tom Junod, on which the movie is based (I remembered reading it when it came out, but all I recalled from it were two things: the fact that Mr. Rogers consistently weighed 143 pounds, and the fact that the article’s author had seem him naked), after which I dove down the rabbit hole of Mr. Rogers clips on the internet, including at least two times when he got barefoot with a Black person.

And I came away feeling really fortunate for two primary reasons:

1. You know how when someone famous (typically a musician) dies, someone eventually declares their gratitude (online, natch) for having existed in the same timeline as that person? (For some reason, I feel like a lot of people said this about David Bowie and Prince.) Well, I not only felt lucky to have existed at the same time as Fred Rogers — I felt even luckier to have been part of the generation Mr. Rogers was FOR.
   
   Like — I and my fellow Gen X people were the OG PBS kids. Mr. Rogers was made for US. Sesame Street and Electric Company and Zoom (as in “Zoom-Zoom-Zoom-a,” not as in the online meeting platform) were made for US. And sure, other generations have certainly appreciated and benefitted from (more recent iterations of) those shows — and yeah, other generations are out there talmbout how, like, Dragon Tales or some shit was created for THEM, and they’re right. But OUR shit? The shit that was created for OUR little Gen X childhood selves? Was THEEEEEEEEE shit. Tell me it ain’t. Tell me THIS IS NOT THE BEST STUFF EVER.
   
   Or THIS. (God bless Joe Raposo, man.)
   
   Or that THIS didn’t give you new respect for first-person pronouns.
   
   Overall, there is nothing like the feeling of knowing that a bunch of creative people who were high as fuck loved you enough to want to share that experience with you, WITHOUT getting your little kid ass hooked on any substances.
   
   But I digress. The point is, how amazing is it that some guy named Fred Rogers (who was, I’m pretty sure, entirely sober, unlike the Sesame Street crew) took one look at television as it existed, and his first thought was about how he could use it to make something good for ME and my ilk?
   
   The mind reels. Also:
   
2. You know how every once in awhile, I marvel aloud at the immense magic people carry around (for me, it’s mostly in the form of prolific musical ability) in their ordinary human bodies that are susceptible to ordinary ailments like ingrown hairs and seasonal allergies and cucumber-based gassiness?
   
   And how I often wonder what it feels (or FELT) like to BE Wynton Marsalis, or Brian Wilson, or Quincy Jones, or Ann Wilson, or (you knew it was coming) Sheila E. — or, for that matter, Mr. Rogers, who wasn’t a great singer, but still brought his own kind of musical magic — and to just walk around with this world-changing talent, but also get heartburn every time you eat Thai?
   
   Well, just for a moment, during the Mr. Rogers movie, I had a little bzzzzzzt! of that feeling. There’s a scene where the Tom Junod-based character (Lloyd Vogel), arrives on the set of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood to meet Mr. Rogers, and Mr. Rogers (played by Tom Hanks, whom I LOVE, but who somehow made Mr. Rogers a little creepy for me — he didn’t have the voice for it, and came across as a little too intense at times . . . but I digress) interrupts filming to greet him, and introduces him to everyone by saying, “He’s a wonderful writer.”
   
   And for about, oh . . . four seconds, I was like, “Wait. I’M a writer. Would Mr. Rogers have introduced me the same way? Because if he did, couldn’t NOBODY tell me NOTHIN’ from that moment on.” And then I thought about the people who HAVE told me I’m a good writer, and I thought, “Maybe I don’t need Mr. Rogers to call me the thing. Maybe just doing the thing and loving the thing (and, more recently, actually getting hired and paid to do the thing) is enough to know what it’s like to carry some magic around with MY cucumber gas. Maybe THIS is how it feels.”

So I went to bed last night on a little high (not an Old School Sesame Street creator high, but a buzz, nonetheless) from THAT little epiphany . . . and woke up this morning to a TikTok sent by my sister (who had no idea I’d been on a Mr. Rogers kick last night): an AI generated video of Lady Elaine Fairchild shakin’ her thang. I’m not sure what epiphany I’m supposed to get from that, but clearly Mr. Rogers isn’t done with me.

Bring it, Fred.

I would like you to dance . . . take a ch-ch-ch-chance . . .

In other news, I just celebrated 56 trips around the sun. Aside from now OFFICIALLY being closer to 60 than 50, it wasn’t a big milestone, and I didn’t celebrate it as such — but it proved to be delightful in a bunch of low-key ways:

1. I spent the day cleaning my younger dude’s room, which — if you know me — you know gave me the deep-breath satisfaction I usually get from cleaning . . . but, like, on STEROIDS, because the boy’s bedroom floor was completely MISSING, y’all. Aside from a narrow path snaking from his door to the bottom of the ladder leading to his top bunk, nearly every square inch was buried in flotsam. And it wasn’t for lack of effort on his part; he’d tried on a couple of occasions to clean his room as instructed, but he didn’t have anywhere to PUT anything, because he has SO. MUCH. STUFF (and he’s never willing to part with ANYYYY OF IT).
   
   What’s more, because the floor was buried, it hadn’t been vacuumed in MONTHS, so underneath all that flotsam were sprinkles of crumb rubber from his last soccer season (where practices were on grass, but games were on astroturf).
   
   So my original plan was to take advantage of a bonus day of PTO on March 20 — a Valentine’s Day gift to everyone at my job to celebrate the end of a successful fundraising campaign — to dive deep into cleaning that kid’s room. In the meantime, I requested a PTO day for my birthday, thinking I’d spend a whole, glorious day reading (since Christmas, I’ve been spending my daily morning coffee time (and some time most evenings as well) reading, mostly in an attempt to avoid doomscrolling (my rule is that I’m not allowed to look at ANY screens for the first hour after I wake up, and for the last hour before going to bed (I’m good at the first part, but trash at the latter part) . . . but I digress), and it’s done wonders for my mental health, so imagine what a straight day of it could do) . . .
   
   . . . and then, about a week BEFORE my birthday, I realized that on March 20, BOTH of my kids would be on Spring Break (so the younger one, at least, would most likely be AT HOME), which would thwart my plans to stealth-toss the box full of three-year-old valentines from his classmates (and concomitant old-ass candy), the box filled with nothing but scraps of paper (and labeled accordingly), the piles and piles of math worksheets dating back to first grade . . . you get the picture.
   
   Therefore, it seemed only logical to spend my BIRTHDAY (when the kid would be at school) cleaning the kid’s room, and maybe save my reading day for March 20.
   
   So that’s what I did. Took me six hours (and yielded two large black garbage bags full of shit the kid hasn’t even missed), but LOOOOOOOOOK at all this FLOOOOOOOOOOR (yes, I took a photo when I was done, for posterity).
   
   
   
2. I got GREAT weather, both on my birthday and on the Saturday before, when we tried to celebrate my “birthday weekend” by taking a family trip to Lawrence, Kansas, for brunch at one of my favorite low-key Lawrence joints (Milton’s) and a trip to the Spencer Museum of Art.
   
   Since it was such a lovely day, Love Tank and Boy the Elder rode motorcycles to LFK (Boy the Elder took a motorcycle course last summer, but hadn’t had much of a chance to practice until this year, when a few unseasonably (and — pleasant though they may be — a little frighteningly) warm “winter” days lent themselves to some father-son motorcycle excursions, which is giving my poor, neglected Ruby a little love) while Boy the Younger and I took the car.
   
   By the time we left the house, however, we were afraid it would be too late to make it to Milton’s (I REFUSE to walk into a restaurant less than an hour before it closes, unless I’m just getting take-out), so we agreed to meet at The Roost.
   
   The Roost had a 50-minute wait. So we walked over to Ladybird diner . . .
   
   . . . which ALSO had a 50-minute wait. So we walked to Black Stag . . .
   
   . . . which is apparently under new ownership, and is only serving beer (no food) right now. So we hopped next door to Black Stag, because we’d seen a sign (sticking out perpendicular to the building) for Globe Indian Cuisine.
   
   When we reached the restaurant, the entire front window was covered in a “FOR LEASE” sign.
   
   So FINALLY, we ended up at Free State Brewery, which nobody in my family likes, but I LOVE (nostalgia, man) . . . but my dudes were all good sports (we joked about the irony that by the time we actually got our food at Free State, we would probably have been eating at the FIRST place we tried), and we all got our steps in on a lovely day.
   
   (By the time we’d eaten, Boy the Elder had to get back home to make it to volleyball practice, and we were all kind of wiped out from our endless quest for food — so we didn’t go to the museum. Instead, the big boys got back on their bikes, and the little one and I visited a few downtown LFK shops, where he scored a pastry, a skein of yarn (whatever questions you have about that, your guess is as good as mine), and a new notebook, while I trailed behind him with the financing for his little shopping spree. Then we headed home for a nap.)
   
3. I got a lot of love. I mean, I typically DO get a lot of love on my birthday (which I don’t take for granted, because not everybody’s got it like that), and that didn’t change; I got the best care package from my OBFF (who is already the care package QUEEN, but she outdid herself with a book of street slang from the 1600s to 1800s, which has awakened in me a determination to call someone a “tuft hunter” before the year is out), and awesome prezzies from my family — but this year I was made particularly verklempt by the love that came in written form.
   
   Love Tank, as always, made a sweet Facebook post in my honor, but I was particularly stricken by what he said about me this year. Aside from paying homage to the first thing he EVER said (or, rather, wrote) to me — which was a lovely little bit of nostalgia — he complimented me for precisely the things I like about myself (and have always assumed he found kind of weird): the fact that I shove food at people in almost every scenario, and the fact that I am easily sucked in by a tale of woe. (OK, maybe that last bit isn’t something I LIKE about myself, but it appears to be something that’s not changing anytime soon, so . . . ). I absolutely refuse to say — because I absolutely HATE the phrase — that I felt SEEN. But I did feel LOVED in all my weirdness. Which may be the same thing, but dammit, I don’t have to say it that way.
   
   My sister made a post in my honor also, digging deep into the well of stories from my past that I’d nearly forgotten (as only a sibling can). And while they may not have been soft, happy tales replete with hearts, flowers, and babies’ butts, they were an absolute testament to the fact that she has been cheering for me since I popped out 56 years ago . . . and that she’s the only one who’s still around to keep these memories for me.
   
   (Not to mention being the only person I know who can sing the next line if I belt out, “Don’t the moon look lonesome shinin’ through the trees?”)
   
   And finally, my team at work, y’all. The day before my birthday, per team custom, they brought some of my favorite treats to work in my honor: Pirate’s Booty, chocolate cake, chocolate truffles, peanut butter fudge, and OMG, y’all, you have not LIVED until you’ve eaten peanut butter sandwiches made with Ritz crackers and coated in chocolate. I was UTTERLY MISERABLE in my (non-stretchy) pants by the end of the day.
   
   But the best part was the card they all signed, because it gave me to know that the majority of people on my team associate me with TREATS and JOY.
   
   
   
   Seriously. IS THERE A BETTER COMPLIMENT?
   
   I think not. Even if it comes from Mr. Rogers.

So here I am, scooting into this 57th orbit feelin’ pretty damn good (you know, exept for the Perseverant Boob^TM). And as always, every day of this trip is made better by those of you who make the trip to the end of each one of these posts.

You guys. I hate Left Eye so much. First things first: my last set of scans (in August) still shows no evidence of disease (NED), so above all things I’m STILL OK, which technically means I’m awesome and full of gratitude to be walkin’, singin’, talkin’, smilin’, laughin’, diggin’ my life (with apologies to The Guess Who).

But that doesn’t mean I can’t complain about my damn left . . . whatever she is. She WAS The Troublesome Tit. So I had her (and her innocent-but-still-sus sister) lopped off. Then she was The Irritating (Infectious?) Implant. So I had her (and, eventually, her silicone sister (with a manager mister)) evicted.

But SHE IS NOT DONE GIVING ME GRIEF.

Y’all, she is trying to rebuild herself (she thinks she has the technology).

At my post-surgery follow-up appointments with Dr. Boobie Builder (which, may I remind, were to check on the healing progress of the RIGHT side after the removal of my remaining implant), he noticed that Left Eye (or, what was left of her) was harboring extra lymphatic fluid . . . which only got worse with subsequent follow-up visits. At the second visit, Dr. Boobie Builder joked that it looked like I was growing another breast! (But to be clear — in case you’re getting any pictures in your head — we’re not talking Dolly Parton, or even Cher; just a tiny little hump that would (if you’re an Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret fan) barely merit a Gro-Bra.) Still, because the issue seemed to have gotten worse from one visit to the next, Dr. Boobie Builder decided he needs to INSTALL A SURGICAL DRAIN on that side.

Cover your ears, y’all:

I mean. Mad props to Left Eye for making a way out of no way, but ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?

Aside from some pretty intense pain immediately following my double mastectomy, the surgical drains have been BY FAR the worst part of ANY of my surgeries. They’re just so . . . GROSS.

Oh, and it gets better: I’M GOING TO HAVE TO WEAR THE DRAIN FOR 4-6 WEEKS.

[See epithet above, and triple it. And add a little zhuzh whle you’re at it, like maybe throw in an “-arooney” or “-a-doodle-doo” or “on a cracker in the moonlight.” ]

I asked Dr. BB if there was ANYTHING I could do to fix this without the drain. At first (and pretty immediately) he said NO, but then I think he saw my face and wanted to send me away with some modicum (however false) of hope, so he suggested compression.

Y’all, I bound the SHIT out of my chest for a week or so, but every time I unwrapped to shower, hoping to see some flattening of the rogue mini-boob, I’d find that she’d merely morphed into a different shape (depending on where the ace wrap was squeezing the tightest). So when Dr. BB’s nurse called to check on the situation (having already scheduled the appointment, because she knew my efforts weren’t going to work), I was forced to confess I hadn’t managed to fix anything.

So, yeah. In addition to EVERYTHING ELSE going on right now . . .

(1. Winter Storm Fern, who — I must admit — has not given me much to complain about (a cancelled college visit to Duluth, MN (we were 40 minutes into the trip when we got an email from the school, saying campus was closed due to temps far beyond the witch’s tit) gave me ample time to doomsday grocery shop, the snow totals proved underwhelming, and we have had power, warmth, and homemade donuts this weekend). But still, I know it got bad elsewhere, and the drama leading up to her arrival gave everyone at least three new gray hairs and a chin pimple.

2. Minneapolis. Just . . . WHAT IN THE ENTIRE FUCK. Again, what do I have to complain about, safe here in Kansas? (Y’know — aside from watching every last limp and flailing bit of democracy disappear one murder at a time?) I mean, MY neighbors aren’t getting murdered in the street. But the weight of it is not anything ANY of us can escape. Because they’re coming for EVERYONE now, y’all. I would call this a digression, but it’s kind of the main topic right now.)

. . . I’m gradually getting closer to Friday, when I’ll visit Dr. Boobie Builder’s office at 8 am, so that he can snip a little hole in my side and snake a drain into Left Eye — all WITHOUT the benefit of the general anesthesia I enjoyed for previous drain insertions.

But again. If that’s the worst of my problems right now . . .

I mean. I’m still going to wallow in self-pity and complain to YOU GUYS. But overall, I know it could be worse. So y’all don’t worry about me. Figure out something you can do. And then do it. Here’s a start: https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1bUh43kKLL/

As always, I love y’all for listening.

Happy New Year, y’all!

It’s Tits-free McGee, checking in with my usual end-of-year wrap-up (technically at the beginning of the year, but these things are mere details). Last time we spoke, I was awaiting surgery to remove my remaining breast implant and go flat, in the hopes of simplifying my life, health-wise, and looking more like Cher.

Although it’s still too soon to know how either of those goals is ultimately going to work out, I’m happy to say that the surgery was a breeze; I had it on a Wednesday evening, took Thursday and Friday off work (and spent that time re-learning how to make friendship bracelets (in an homage to Summer 1987, when I spent all day errday weaving skeins of embroidery thread to create striped adornments for all of my friends), thinking I was going to make them for my children; sadly, the one I made for the younger kid left him rather nonplussed, and I ran out of time to make one for the older kid, but DAMN, I’ve still got it . . . muscle memory is a crazy thing . . . but I digress), and by Monday, I was feeling rested, more symmetrical, and ready to return to work (which I did remotely until the removal of the surgical drain, because rocking a drain to the office = GROSS). I’ve felt absolutely fine, both physically and emotionally, ever since — with two small exceptions:

1. When I revisited Dr. Boobie Builder a week post-surgery, to get the drain removed, I asked him about the weird “scab” I’d discovered the day after my surgery (I’d been idly scratching, and discovered a strip of surgical tape a couple of inches below my right clavicle; assuming it had been used to attach a monitor of some sort during surgery, I peeled it off, and found the scab beneath it). I thought maybe I’d been accidentally speared with a fumbled scalpel during the operation or something . . . but I learned instead that while I was sleeping, Dr. BB had taken it upon himself to remove a skin-taggy mole that had lived adjacent to my right armpit for decades. And that weird, crusty scab that hadn’t gone away in the week since surgery was actually STITCHES, because he’d pulled that sucker out at the root to ensure it wouldn’t grow back.
   
   “I didn’t think you’d mind,” he said blithely. And I assured him I didn’t (I mean, here I was deep in my dropped-scalpel theory, so clearly I hadn’t even noticed the missing mole) . . . but then, on the drive home, I was surprised to find myself fighting back tears. “Maybe I need to eat something,” I thought, realizing I hadn’t had breakfast — so I hit a drive thru on the way back to my house. Once the quarter pounder with cheese was in my belly (plus fries — always fries), I did feel a little better — but still felt some type of way about the situation on principle; I mean, what if I’d LOVED that mole because it reminded me of my precious, dead grandma (maybe we had matchies, because genetics are a trip like that)? Plus, there’s the whole thing about BODILY AUTONOMY, in which I believe very strongly — and I had not given him permission to remove anything from my body but the implant. And finally, if I’m honest, part of my frustration over the whole thing was self-directed, because the surprise of it all kicked me straight into fawn mode, so that I actually chirped out a THANK YOU to him for removing something from my body without my permission, neglecting to even consider my actual feelings about it until they jumped on me in the car on the way home. This (in a general sense) is something I’m working on, and so I felt kind of chumpy as a result of how quickly my people-pleaser default setting got activated.
   
   I wrestled a bit with some lingering back-and-forth feelings about it for awhile that afternoon, but after some conversations (among them one with my SIL, a former paralegal and current nurse, who provided some practical, logical considerations that validated my feelings about it, but also made it possible to view the situation without the Lifetime movie lens), I was able to bless and release the whole thing.
   
   
2. The day AFTER I got the drain removed, I was an idiot in the name of love, and accompanied my elder son, who had recently scored a spot on his school’s varsity wrestling team, to Parent Night — the annual “open mat” practice where parents are invited to attend AND PARTICIPATE.
   
   When he first started wrestling a couple of years ago, he joined late in the season, AFTER the Parent Night practice had already occurred. The following year, Parent Night got called off due to bad weather (disappointment ensued).
   
   So this year, he was ready. He’d (literally!) been waiting years for this moment. AND it was my last chance to grant him this particular wish (it being his last season of high school wrestling), so your girl jumped into some leggings, hauled her ass to the high school, and made a valiant attempt to wrestle her beloved boy, who has a good 7 inches and 60 pounds on her — not to mention being almost 38 years younger and a million times stronger.
   
   Needless to say, I failed.
   
   Miserably. So miserably.
   
   Boy wasn’t even TRYING and I tanked.
   
   At one point, he tried to throw me a bone by starting us out in referee position and giving me the more advantageous placement. But I still couldn’t budge his ass, so I hoisted MY ass fully onto his back in an attempt to use my whole damn self to roll him.
   
   He deftly swooped my whole damn self over one of his shoulders and flung me supine onto the mat.
   
   At another point, I tried to take him down from a standing position; as we locked forearms, I pushed and twisted with all my little might, putting all my weight forward and raising onto my tiptoes . . .
   
   . . . at which point he, seeing my center of gravity was all the way forward, gave my arms a near-effortless tug, which sent me splatting prone onto the mat.
   
   It was NOT PRETTY, y’all — but it was SO MUCH FUN! I don’t know when I’ve laughed so hard. By the end of the hour-long practice (in which I was — ahem — one of TWO parents who actually participated; the other mom who took to the mat had been a wrestler herself as a kid, but HER son kicked HER ass too (cutting her far less slack than I got from mine) . . . but I digress), I knew there was Tylenol in my immediate future . . . but I did not anticipate that it would take WEEKS for the soreness of the ribs I bruised to go away!
   
   (Karma apparently had my back, though; the kid is currently on a break from wrestling while HE recovers from bruised ribs of his own, incurred during a subsequent practice. I’m hoping he gets back in there soon, though, because I DO love to watch him compete, and besides — Santa just brought him new wrestling shoes!)

At any rate, aside from a TEEEEEENY WEEEEEENY bit of sensitivity when my younger kid crashes his head a little too hard into my left-side ribcage for a hug, all is well with me health-wise, and I’m looking forward to maybe focusing on something ELSE in 2026!

Reliving in our eloquence another auld lang syne

And speaking of 2026 . . .

OK. I have to be careful how I say this.

You know how ever since the end of 2020, meme-based sentiments have been popping up in late December that basically (yet humorously) say, Well, this year’s been a pool of bloody, splattering shit, and it can’t march its raggedy ass out the door fast enough? And even some about We thought LAST year sucked big, bacteria-crusted donkey balls, but last year is now holding this past year’s beer?

Well. Despite my chipper demeanor, I gotta say, I have felt those memes deep in my SOUL these past few years. To recap:

• 2022: Cancer diagnosis, start of treatment, and concomitant loss of hair and color. (Although I gotta say, y’all, it’s only in retrospect that I look at photos of myself from that time, and think, “Crap on a cracker in the moonlight, I looked SICK!” At the time, I thought I looked basically like me — just bald and browless. But now, looking back, I am given to understand that I also looked pale, puffy, exhausted, and just plain unwell in addition to giving Kojak a run for his money. Which I still think is important to have documented, because it allows me to feel hella pretty NOW, even when I haven’t bathed in a day or two, and it would take a top-of-the-line combine to detangle my hair . . . but I digress.)
  
  
• 2023: Continued treatment, jettisoning of tits, and the beginning of some ROUUUUUUGH and recurring personal drama (which, despite my deep stakes in it, is not mine to share; just know that it’s the kind of shit that rearranges all your guts and spits you out feeling like a tender, gooey-fresh baby chick that also happens to be packing nunchucks and a mace).
  
  
• 2024: My mom’s death after her month-long HOSP- stint (first -ITAL, then -ICE, with a single day at home in between), followed by my employer jettisoning ME, more fresh baby chick stuff, AND ALSO recurring boob infections (resulting in the yeeting of the troublesome implant) during a highly traumatic presidential election.

And don’t get me wrong; miracles both small and mighty buoyed my ass like little magic mofos during those years — but that doesn’t mean I didn’t sometimes feel like I was sitting in the VIP seats at the world’s shittiest shitshow, with a lap full of burnt popcorn and my shoes fused to the floor in a pool of sticky.

But I digress. The point is — and here’s where the careful part comes in — that yesterday, I realized something: for the first time in YEARS, I wasn’t ending the year thinking, “Well, THAT sucked; PLEASE, LAWWWWWWWD, let this coming year be better!”

To counter the recap above, 2025 graced me with some lovely mojo:

• In the midst of a summer made absolutely fantastic by myriad (and seemingly inconsequential) things, I LANDED A JOB after just over a year of unemployment. And not just A job, but a job I actually WANTED (and currently LOVE), which is a luxury for which a 50-something gal dares not hope after being jobless for a year.
  
  
• MY KIDS, y’all. I’m trying to make this post shorter than my usual novel, because I know y’all have blackeyed peas to cook — but I have to sing about my boys, because they have both blossomed in ways that make my little heart sproing outta my chest in 3D:
  
  Boy the Elder is in his senior year of high school, and he — while riding the rollercoaster of college applications, working as much as he can, participating in two orchestras, and dating a lovely gal who lives more than an hour away — has managed to KILL it so far. He rocked six As and a B this past semester, with a schedule that included three AP classes . . . but that’s not even the best part, which is that he has done it INDEPENDENTLY, without anyone having to check Parentvue with change-of-underwear frequency and constantly ride his ass about missing assignments, test corrections, extra credit opportunities, unexcused absences . . . NONE OF IT. I mean none of it AT ALL. He stayed ALL UP ON IT in a way I never would have thought was possible a couple of years ago, when we were mired in planner books, Excel sheets — and, at one point, a giant whiteboard erected in our living room — to help him keep track of his schoolwork. So even if he’d wrapped the semester with a lower GPA, he still would be SO golden in my eyes, just for that.
  
  (OK, I know I promised some brevity, here, but can I just take a moment to say that Parentvue and similar schoolwork-monitoring apps are just fresh, oozing carbuncles of stress? I know my Gen X is showing, here, but I think there is something to be said for the days when you could fail miserably on an assignment or test, and — provided you pulled your shit together and skidded, sweating bullets, into a B by the end of the semester — your parents would be none the wiser about how your class grade spent three solid weeks in the fifth circle of hell after you fuckin’ TANKED that Dante paper.
  
  But now. OHHHHH, now it’s all out there, and it is BAD for your blood pressure (especially if you’re an OLD parent, like me). One day, your kid has a solid B in a class, and the next, it’s a D+ because of ONE missing assigment. The drama is REAL. But I digress. Moving on . . . )
  
  My younger kid, known by pretty much everyone as a mini misanthrope, has become SOCIAL. Now, don’t get me wrong; I completely understand being largely satisfied with one’s own company (the apple doesn’t fall far), and I friggin’ LOVE this kid IN PART because he does not give a flying FUCK. So I have been fully onboard with letting him be the cranky old man he’s been since birth. But I also now stand utterly amazed and thrilled by his ability (as a 4th grader!) to take the reins of his own life and be like, “Nah, know what? I’ma change up some shit.”
  
  Friends, that boy has burst into this school year with a new attitude: he joined four clubs, collaborated with two friends on a GROUP Halloween costume, started asking for playdates (and sleepovers, which we have not done yet, because I’m not sure he’s sufficiently overcome his issues with other people’s feet to make that a good time), and got invited to four birthday parties this past fall! (Not gonna lie, though; if I’d known there were going to be FOUR of them, I would have shown a bit more restraint when it came time to purchase gifts for that first birthday kid. As it was, when that first invitation rolled in, I thought, “When is THIS ever gonna happen again?” and spent a little more money on gifts for the kid than I would have with, say, my elder kid (who went to like eight birthday parties a week at that age, so we imposed a strict per-gift budget). And now I’ve set an unfortunate precedent. But still. CLUBS and COSTUMES and BIRTHDAY PARTIES, y’all!)
  
  And, like with Boy the Elder and his GPA, the outcomes of the situation (in this case, the clubs and parties) aren’t the best part! The best part, as I mentioned before, is that he took the reins, made a decision about how he wanted to roll, and worked hard to make it happen. How do I know? Because you know those questionnaires the teachers have the kids fill out to share with parents at parent teacher conferences? Stuff like, “My favorite part of school this year is [BLANK],” and “Something I’m really good at is [BLANK]”? Well, one of the questions on this year’s form was, “Something I’m working hard at is . . . ” and my dude filled the blank with, “being social.”
  
  I MEAN. There is not enough verklempt ON THE WHOLE-ASS PLANET.
  
  But at the risk of digressing further, I’ll wrap this bullet up here and say that I’m utterly chuffed at how my kids are OWNING THEIR LIVES — taking charge of their own shit, bustin’ out Beat It-style dance moves in the face of their biggest challenges, and whipping those sunzabitches into compliance à la MJ (even if one of them has a WAY cooler jacket . . . I SAID WHAT I SAID).
  
  It hasn’t been perfect (for example, Boy the Younger has asked me to attend each of those birthday parties WITH him for “emotional support” (yes, HIS words), which can get a bit awkward at this age (by which I mean both his age AND mine) and which has burned “SIX SEVVVVVen” into my brain for eternity), but it has been been pure glory to watch. It’s fuckin’ inspiring, really, because if a coupla kids can do that shit, HOLD MY BEER.
  
  
• Overall, aside from a couple of colds and a wrestling injury, my health has vastly improved; as I think I mentioned in a previous post, after the results of the 2024 election, I started walking on a near-daily basis for my own mental health . . . but that turned into a concerted effort to drop some weight (which could either be attributable to the steroids that came with the chemo, or to my overall tendency to stress eat . . . or both). From there, I made an attempt at running again, which WAS going well until about a month ago, when the combination of colder weather, surgery, the holiday twirls, and pure laziness knocked me right off that wagon (I have made two attempts to climb back on in the past week, and both were pretty abysmal and left me dragging BEHIND the wagon, clutching it with one hand and taking in mouthfuls of gravel, but hey, baby steps . . . and hella digression). Now, I have some work to do to get back onboard, but I’m ready.
  
  
• As bonus, the weight loss has expanded my wardrobe, because I can now fit back into clothes I haven’t worn in more than a decade (well . . . I COULD; some of them might be a little tight again, due to the aforementioned tumble off the running wagon, AND the fact that in addition to stress-eating, I also joy-eat, sadness-eat, nervous-eat, excited-eat, need-to-focus eat . . . basically all emotional occasions call for snacks in my book . . . but again, I’m still clinging to the wagon with one hand, so all hope is not lost).

ANYWAYYYYYYYYY, what I’m trying to say is that things this year have been . . . better. GOOD even — and not in a “Good if you close one eye and squint the other while sitting in a massage chair with a mouthful of cotton candy” kind of way, but in an actual “WOW, things are kinda working out for me” way.

Thing is, I know (I KNOWWWWW) that on a global level, the dumpster fire flames are rising higher than ever for a lot of people — a few I know, and many I don’t — and in far worse, more frightening ways than I suffered on the absolute WORST of days over the past few years. And there’s really not an end in sight to the bullshit that’s causing that trauma (y’all know what I mean), so Lord knows some of that shit could end up coming for ME (I’m thinking of prohibitive healthcare costs in particular, but I’ve learned over the past few years that there is room in my life for all kinds of horrible surprises, so it’s useless to speculate) — so I’m not about to wrap up this utter failure at brevity by spouting some annoying platitudes about how the universe operates, just because I’M over here digging my life right now.

Still, I gotta say that for me, PERSONALLY, 2025 has been enough of a ray of sun peeking through the clouds, that I’m looking forward to seeing how 2026 shakes out, not from a “hell, it’s gotta be better than last year, right . . . ? RIGHT . . . ?” perspective, but from a “wouldn’t it be enchanting if this streak of glory continued for a minute?” point of view. And the good thing about the past few years is that even if that DOESN’T happen, I’m feeling a bit more confident in my ability to survive some shit — and to find little bits of joy in the process.

Like y’all. Y’all are some of the bits.
Y’all and this jacket (come on — SO much cooler than MJ’s):

May 2026 temper the chaos with joy and the difficulties with caffeine.

Love you guys!

Yyyyyyyyyeah, it’s been awhile, I know; and I won’t (yet) expound too much upon what I’ve been up to instead of updating this blog, because I did promise y’all I’d lead with the boob-related news (because this is, after all, supposed to be a blog about my boobs). And I do have boob news, but stick around after that, and you’ll probably get more than you want to know about the rest of my life, too.

I’m gonna let you down, and leave you flat (gonna let you down and leave you flat) . . . because I’ve told you before — ohhh, you can’t do that . . .

So here’s the boob news: I’m giving up on them. You may recall that last fall, during a particularly horrifying presidential election, Left Eye kicked up an infection in protest (actually, she started misbehaving a day or two prior to the election, but I’m convinced it was because SHE KNEW what was going to happen). And then she kicked up another one, less than a month later (by which time EVERYONE knew the world was going to shit, and I think she just wanted to remind people that SHE CALLED IT). So in December of last year, my plastic surgeon (OMG, why haven’t I been calling him Dr. Boobie Builder? That woulda been such a great name for him) removed the implant on that side, to give everything a chance to heal all the way up. We’d give it a few months, he said, and then discuss RE-reconstruction in the coming year.

Follow-up visits proved satisfactory, so at some point in the spring of THIS year, Dr. Boobie Builder (I’m running with this thing) handed me a brochure outlining the procedure he had in mind to replace my left jug. And it was, um . . . a little more complex than merely stuffing another implant in there (if you’re curious, check out Latissimus flap breast reconstruction on your old pal Google), because the radiated skin on that side had not been successful in hosting an implant guest on its own, and was gonna need a little help. But if y’all know ANYTHING about me, you know that I have a STRONG (and perhaps a bit unnatural) affinity for symmetry. (I get it from my mama, and I own it with pride — although years ago, when I worked for a caterer, my symmetry-obsessed ass was quickly banned from setting up food tables at events (“It’s too symmetrical,” the caterer would say; DAMN STRAIGHT IT IS, SISTER . . . but I digress), so I’m given to understand that not everyone shares my appreciation for balance.)

Because of the symmetry thing — and despite the more complex nature of the proposed reconstruction technique (and Love Tank’s careful questioning about whether the risks were worth it), I was ready to move forward with this plan . . . However, as you may also recall, I lost my job in May of 2024 — and was still sans job in the spring of 2025 — so I figured it might be best to continue stuffing half my bra until such time as I had a little more disposable income to spend on a new tit. Therefore, I rode out the spring and summer rocking a faux lady lump I’d fashioned out of a wad of gauze and a couple of those annoying (and, fortunately, removable) cup-shaped foam inserts that come inside sports bras and bathing suits). And it worked pretty well . . . but I had to pay close attention, or else I’d look down and discover that while I had been going on about my business, Falsie Lou had migrated to a spot roughly 3-4 inches directly below my jugular notch. Finally, I put my mad Amazon skillz to work, and found these bras, which have done a spectacular job at keeping the girls in their assigned seats. BUT AGAIN, I DIGRESS.

At last, in the summer, I landed a job (more on that later), and so a few weeks ago, I decided it was time to revisit getting a new, more permanent boob. I made an appointment to see Dr. Boobie Builder — and at that visit, I learned two things:

1. HIs proposed process to replace Left Eye would take not one, but TWO surgeries: the first to move muscle and tissue from my back to my front, and insert an expander, and the second to replace the expander with a permanent implant.
2. At the end of 2025, he would no longer be accepting my health insurance.

Bleh.

He would, he said, talk to his nurse later in the day and get her up to speed, and they would try to figure out a workable plan, given that the two surgeries would have to be a few weeks apart, and the end of the year loomed. In the meantime, he said, I should take some time to think and process all this news. So off I went to make the long-ish trek to work for the rest of the day, which gave me some time to mull things over.

I hadn’t even reached my office when I called Dr. BB’s office back and asked to leave a message for the nurse. I told her I knew she was going to be discussing my case with Dr. BB later that day, so I was calling to throw the possibility of removing my current implant onto that table for discussion. What I wanted ABOVE ALL THINGS, I told her, was symmetry. What I did NOT tell her was that:

• For most of my life, I didn’t really have much of a rack to speak of; I started wearing a bra pretty much when all my friends did, but trust me when I say there was NO NEED for it. Once I got to college, I gradually stopped wearing bras (which may have been made a little easier by the fact that I — ahem — tended to lose them); my girls then roamed free until I was (no joke) in my MID-THIRTIES and, having landed my first corporate job, decided it might be time for me to grow up and start keeping my headlights in the garage. By then, I was married, so it was Love Tank — not a mom, big sister, or cool aunt — who went with me to purchase the first bras I would own as an actual adult. (That shopping trip, as I recall, was hilarious, but I’m going to avoid that particular digression.)
• What’s more, my personal chest-size aesthetics lean more “one-man tent” (think 70s-era Cher) than “brick house” (70s-era Lynda Carter) — so if I’m honest, I thought the tits Dr. BB gave me after they threw away my originals were too big! (As you may recall, there was never the pre-reconstruction discussion I’d anticipated, where I’d be shown an array of implants in different sizes from which to choose my new look; rather, Dr. BB told me he’d bring a few different sizes into the OR, see how big an implant my radiated side could handle, and put that same size on the other side.) And now that I’m almost 50 pounds lighter than I was when I had my reconstruction surgery (thanks to the cessation of chemo-concomitant steroids, a habit of long walks to stave off the depression associated with last year’s presidential election, and a bit of intermittent fasting), I am feeling WAY too boobular.
• For the reasons stated above (along with the idea of just being FREEEEEEE of this whole mess — i.e., the possibility of repeated infections, the possibility of implant issues down the road, the possibility of more surgeries to fix all that crap — once and for all), I felt pretty damn good about the idea of going titless.

Before the end of that day, the nurse called me back and said that Dr. BB considered my “going flat” to be a viable option as well (I mean, what is he gonna say — “Absolutely not; you will WEAR THOSE KNOCKERS TO THE GRAVE, young lady”?). So we made that the plan, and came up with a surgery date: November 19. I now have about another week and change as a one-tit wonder, and then I’m Tits-free McGee! Unfortunately, that means another round of surgery drains (which I HAAAAAAAATE, GAHHHHHH), but once those are out, I’m burning those bras, baby! (OK, probably not, because I will still occasionally want some wee udders — both of which will be fake this time, so YAY, SYMMETRY — but I do anticipate that it will feel like a weight lifted, both literally and figuratively.) Now I need to get started on those sit-ups, so my abs can match my future chest . . . .

Tumble outta bed and stumble to the kitchen, pour myself a cup of ambition

Thazz right, y’all; Mama has (FINALLY) landed a 9 to 5! That in itself feels like a small miracle, ESPECIALLY these days, but to add a little splendor to that glory, it’s a job I LIKE.

It is, in fact, the job I wanted the most when — in what can only be described as my Hot Candidate Summer — I found myself in the interview process with three different organizations at the same time!

The first of these gigs was a remote gig for an organization headquartered out of state. I’d been involved in that interview process since spring, because it was a five-round jammy, beginning with an HR screen conducted by a recruiter who shall henceforth be known to me and mine (kin and friend alike) as Mr. Banana Hammock. (Actually, that’s not entirely true; my sister, bless her for keeping it PG, refers to him as Studio 54, but to everyone else, he’s Banana Hammock.) Why? Because about 45 minutes before my interview with him, I did the thing I always do before upcoming interviews: look up my interviewer on the interwebs. I started with LinkedIn, as always, but then I turned to Google, because that’s quite often where you can find out more about who an interviewer is as a person — and find little commonalities you can casually drop into the conversation: Are they hugging a dog in their Facebook profile pic? I’m a dog person, too (unless we’re actually talking about MY dog, in which case OMG IF SHE PEES ON THE CARPET ONE MORE TIME . . . but that’s another story)! Did they graduate from an HBCU? SPELMAN in the hizzouse! Do they play trumpet in a garage jazz band? I am totally name-dropping Wynton Marsalis (do I know him? Sadly, no, but I once saw him in concert). Y’all, I come PREPARED.

What I was NOT prepared for, though, was this particular recruiter’s Instagram account. Let’s just say that when I found it and clicked on it, I was IMMEDIATELY given to know that this man works VERY HARD on his physique, and he is VERY PROUD of it. SO proud, in fact, that he wants you to see ALLLLLLLLLL of it — leaving to the imagination ONLYYYYYYY those parts that are ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY to leave to the imagination without an Only Fans subscription.

OMG, y’all. And here I was, due to talk to him in LESS THAN AN HOUR, which gave me little time to scrub those images from my mind. Evidently, though, I succeeded in at least PRETENDING like I hadn’t just seen him basically butt-ass nekkid — even to the point of keeping it together when he talked about how this job required “executive presence” (y’all, the way I bit BOTH my lips SO HARD in that moment, it’s a wonder I don’t now need THEM reconstructed) — because I made it to the second-round interview, with the hiring manager. She was AMAZING, and for the first time ever, I walked away from (er, shut my laptop on) an interview feeling 99.2% CERTAIN there would be another round. (Typically, when Love Tank would ask, “How did it go?” after I’d finished an interview, I’d tell him I thought it went well, but who knew how things would turn out? On a couple of occasions, of course, I felt (rightly) like the interview had gone badly, and told him THAT — but after this interview, I felt confident I’d nailed it (confident enough, in fact, to say that aloud without fear of jinxing myself).)

And I was right! I made it to the next round, with the hiring manager’s manager . . . but that made me HELLA nervous, because Banana Hammock had told me during that initial discussion, when I asked about timeline/next steps, that nobody had thus far made it PAST the hiring manager’s manager (so he wasn’t quite sure what the process looked like beyond that). Once I had met with the hiring manager’s manager, I was back in “I think it went OK . . . but I guess we’ll see” mode — and had started the interview process at a second organization, much closer to home. I did the initial HR phone screen for the second organization, and then fled south with my boys, for our annual visit to our Texas family people.

While I lounged on my aunt and uncle’s sofa, I got a text from the recruiter at the second organization, inviting me for an onsite interview. Of course I accepted, and she promised a follow-up email with details — details which, it turned out, entailed an entire half-day onsite, and interviews with EIGHT different people! (I read the email aloud to my uncle at the kitchen table, and he asked, incredulously, “What kind of job IS this???”

“A writer position,” I answered. )

I had a lot of Googling to do (although at this point, I confess, I was a little afraid of what I might find).

On our drive home from Texas, during a stop for gas, I got an email from Mr. Banana Hammock, letting me know that I’d made it past the hiring manager’s manager (aka The Impenetrable Wall), and was now being invited to a 4th-round interview with the team. (Luckily, THAT was a team of two people, so it didn’t add much to my Google load.) If that went well, I was told, there could be a 5th-round interview onsite (in ALABAMA) with the department VP. I had a Zoom call with the two lovely women who’d be my teammates at the Banana Hammock gig, and then — THE VERY NEXT DAY — I trussed myself up in the first real pants I’d worn in literally YEARS (i.e., not pajamas, jeans, or leggings) and a spiffy new blouse to go meet with those eight people at the second organization.

YOU GUYS. When I tell you that I loved EVERYONE at the second organization, I mean to tell you that I left there feeling like I had found my people. Such kindness and humor, and great conversations all around (and as an added bonus, I hadn’t seen any of them naked). I didn’t drive home from that interview with absolute “slam dunk” confidence, but I did feel like it went really well . . . and then, I felt a little pang of sadness at the idea of getting the other (Banana Hammock) job. NOT because the people at THAT organization were horrible; I liked all of them, too (even Mr. BH himself was nothing but kind and professional) — but I felt such an instant rapport with the people at the second organization that I hated the idea of having to turn them down for the other job.

But would I do it? HELL TO THE YES, because the Banana Hammock job paid around 30% MORE than the second-organization job (well, POTENTIALLY; the BH job listing gave a (pretty broad) RANGE, but who in their right mind wouldn’t ask for a salary near the TOP of that range if they got an offer?), and it was 100% remote, whereas the second organization offered a(n eventual) 3/2 hybrid schedule, and a nearly 40-mile one-way commute (90% highway, but still) on those three in-office days.

(It should be noted at this point that in that moment, I was absolutely aware of the possibility that I could walk away from all of this with ZERO offers, but that didn’t stop a gal from dreaming.)

At any rate, with those interviews done, I figured I could cool my jets and take off my stressy-pants for at least a day or two —but most likely the better part of a week — because based on what I’d gleaned from BOTH organizations, I wouldn’t be hearing anything for a minute. I’d been told before leaving the interview at the second organization that they’d be interviewing one more candidate the day after me (they’d already met with one the day before), then they’d meet for a team debrief the day after THAT, and then there might be another round or some sort of project to complete. And the BH job had already established a pattern of getting back in touch with me about a week after each interview round.

So imagine my surprise when, as Love Tank and I were leaving the local mall (where we’d gone to get him some new shirts for an upcoming trip) at lunchtime THE NEXT DAY, I got a call from the HR person at the second organization, WITH AN OFFER. For real, y’all, when I saw the call come in, my first thought was that either they needed some extra bit of information they’d forgotten to get from me the day before (probably some housekeeping stuff like verifying email addresses for the references I gave), or that I’d left my sunglasses there or something. As unprepared as I was, I managed to blubble out a jangly thank you and a request for time to consider the offer (as Love Tank put pedal to metal and eavesdropped). When I hung up, Love Tank and I discussed what to do about the other organization. “If you want to hold off and see what happens there,” he offered bravely, “I support you.” But I knew I’d NEVER forgive myself if I turned down this offer (after more than a YEAR!!! of unemployment) on the hope of swinging in the Banana Hammock — and then didn’t get that job.

So instead, I called Banana Hammock as soon as we got home, and left him a voicemail to let him know I had an offer on the table, and that I’d asked for some time to consider it — but that I wondered if he had any updates about the position with his organization.

He didn’t call back.

But the next morning, he sent me this:

. . . then he closed, weirdly, with his last name first, followed by a comma and then his first name. As in,

Best of luck!
Holmes, Sherlock [not his real name]

At any rate, that gave me my answer — and a tidal wave of relief, both because I HAD A JOB, and because I didn’t have to make the decision between — essentially — my heart and my wallet. I mean, on the one hand, SHIIIIIIIIT, I have fought cancer, navigated my mother’s death, and been through some soul-wrenching personal stuff over the past three years, ALL at the age where the fucks I have to give are disappearing faster than my once-flawless vision and my girlish physique, so I daresay I’ve gotten some powerful lessons in the things that really matter (as the late, great Teena Marie said, “M-O-N-E-Y never did a thing for L-O-V-I-N.”). On the other hand, with those aforementioned fucks went any tendency I had to define myself by what I do for a living — and any shame I had about saying that I don’t need to love my job; honey, Mama just needs to get paid. Which is why, given the choice, I would have traded love for money (and less wear and tear on my car).

That said, y’all — I love my job. I get to work with smart, fun, hilarious people (and glory hallelujah, I’m not the oldest person in every room — hell, in MOST rooms), I get to actually WRITE for a living again (having been a Content Strategist for the past 10+ years), I get MY OWN OFFICE, with four walls and a door that shuts (as opposed to working in a dining room with two doorless points of entry), and heck — even the commute isn’t horrible! Do I wish my job were closer to my house? Absolutely, but it’s not a bad drive (42 minutes door to door, assuming there are no weather or traffic incidents), and it’s given me the chance to (a) renew my friendship with NPR (in the mornings) and (b) build my arsenal for our next family karaoke night (in the evenings; I’m currently working on “People Make the World Go Round” by the Stylistics).

The downside is that I now live an incredibly regimented life Monday thru Friday:

Wake up.
Coffee.
Run (sometimes; other times I convince myself it’s important to doomscroll).
Shower.
Drive to work.
Work.
Drive home from work.
Make dinner.
Eat dinner.
Leave the dinner mess for Love Tank and fight to stay awake until bedtime.
Go to bed.
Rinse.
Repeat.

Saturdays are supposed to be for planning the dinner menu and buying groceries for the week ahead, and cleaning whatever has become so disgusting it’s making my left eye twitch (I no longer clean house on a daily basis, so shit is falling into disarray, thanks in large part to an old dog who’s developing some incontinence issues)— but quite often, exhaustion wins out, and we end up just having ground beef in multiple formats (tacos, beef bulgogi, burgers, spaghetti, a random combination of ground beef and Kraft mac & cheese) over and over again, in a house replete with the smell of pee.

Still, not only do I have a job, I have one I ENJOY — and the incredible fortune in that is not lost on me. But I think maybe some of my friends are disappointed by where I wound up, because that’s been the end of the Banana Hammock shenanigans.

Oh! And for those of you who’ve actually managed to hang on for this ride through my usual gobbledygook, yes, I DID say earlier that I was in the interview process with THREE organizations at once — but my interaction with the third place put it . . . well . . . in third place. Like, WAYYYY in third place.

First of all, I applied for the job at the beginning of March, and heard NOTHING until the beginning of JUNE, when I received an email inviting me to interview IN MID-JULY.

Kinda red flaggy, right? Plus, it was a 100% in-office gig, there was no indication of salary in the job listing, and the Glassdoor reviews of this place were ABYSMAL. Like, two out of five stars abysmal.

But an interview is an interview, so after I returned home from the eight-person, IN-person interview for the job I ultimately landed, I changed out of my presentable pants AND out of the brand new blouse that made my husband and elder son — when I walked in the door after my interview — cock their heads and wonder aloud what was up with my “Victorian princess” look (THIS is what happens when I try to pull off shit I wouldn’t normally wear . . . but I digress) and logged onto my computer for a Zoom call that was supposed to have been with the SVP of HR, but was, instead, with the office manager. I didn’t mind the bait and switch, per se — but on principle, I was a little chapped. I mean, for one thing, it looked as though I was now going to have to have another interview with the SVP at another time (so basically an extra interview), and for another, it meant I’d done all my internet research on the wrong person. But the office manager was kind and approachable (and apologetic), and we had a pretty easy discussion that made me feel more like we were both guests at a dinner party where nobody had started drinking yet. I started to think that maybe this job was more of a viable option than I’d initially thought . . . but then, when I asked the nice lady about a timeline for filling the role (for which, may I remind, I’d applied in Q1 — and we were now in Q3), she said they planned to continue interviewing THROUGH Q3, with an anticipated hire date sometime in Q4.

Um. What . . . ?

So we ended the call agreeing that we’d keep in touch . . . and that was pretty much the end of that.

When you feel those balmy breezes on your face . . . summertime is the best time any place . . .

So in addition to FINALLY landing A JOB, I gotta say, y’all — this past summer brought some amazing vibes. Just the best. Nothing was particularly different, really; we did all the usual stuff (visiting the Texas cousins, blowing little things up to celebrate our nation, driving the boys to camp in Minnesota, and then ourselves to Canada while they went toe to toe with nature), but it was all just so . . . GOOD.

I’m not sure why. Maybe because I’d made my two-year NED goal, and started to breathe a little easier. Maybe because my new, 50-pounds-lighter ass (CONFESSION: now that I’ve started working (read: sitting for most of the day), I have gained back almost ten of those pounds, but I’m counting on the removal of this one boob to knock a couple of them back off) got me back into clothes I haven’t worn in almost a decade and had me feelin’ cute. Maybe because there was just no more room in my psyche for the sturm und drang it’s been weathering for the past couple of years. Who knows? At any rate, I enjoyed the hell out of this past summer, and kicked off the fall with a new job, a new ass, and renewed faith that life is not a constant shit show. (It’s a shit show on a NATIONAL level, to be sure, but I am starting to think that I may just survive my PERSONAL life. It’s a weird place to be, but I’m embracing it.)

So here I am, circling back to what feels like a normal life (some stress and drama, but not ALL OF IT AT ONCE), AND to the days when I didn’t need a bra. And I welcome both of these changes.

Now, we’re sliding to the end of a fall that went by in approximately 72 seconds, and the beginning of the holiday luge, and I’m just gonna pin my arms to my sides and WHEEEEEE the hell out of it.

I’m incredibly thankful for every one of you turkeys who have hung in with me.

Back to where I left off

Back to where I left off

I swear I did not plan this, but how apropos is it that Part 24 of this saga marks exactly 24 months that I have been CANCER FREEEEEEEEE?

I mean. That’s not what they call it in the biz. They call it “NED” for “no evidence of disease”—because you never know what little buggers are lurking in there, waiting for their moment in the sun (er, the scan?).

But as of this moment, it has been 24 months since I rolled up to the hospital, got shot fulla knock-out drugs, and underwent the double mastectomy that would remove the cancer that remained in my body after the chemo was done.

Now, granted, I didn’t know, at this point two years ago, that the surgeon had gotten clear margins, because the tissue was still being biopsied. Not until my follow-up appointment days after the surgery—where I was disappointed to learn that my stage had been upgraded from the original Stage 2 diagnosis due to the involvement of two lymph nodes—did a medical professional (the nurse who’d delivered the staging upgrade news) actually say, “[Well, the good news is that] you’re cancer-free now!”

I’d been told by Dr. Cool-and-Calm that if I made it to the 2-year mark, the cancer was less likely to return, so for the last couple of years, I’ve had my eye on this prize. While I know that my (Triple-negative) cancer is effin’ AGGRESSIVE, so this milestone is certainly no guarantee, I gotta say, y’all—I wasn’t quite sure I’d reach it, especially after all the flooflah surrounding the ultrasounds and CT scans I’ve had lately.

BUT! I am happy to report that I saw Dr. Cool-and-Calm during the first week in February to discuss the results of the latest CT scan, and I couldn’t have asked for better news. (I mean, barring some straight-up MIRACULOUS shit, like, “We were mistaken; you never actually had cancer AT ALL. Turns out your body is incapable of hosting cancer or any other terminal diseases, so what we thought was cancer were really just migrant undigested chocolate chips. However, because we fucked up the diagnosis and put you through all that shit unnecessarily, please accept this billion-dollar check as a token of our remorse.”)

The lung nodule has remained at roughly 5mm by 10 mm for the past year (when Dr. CaC first mentioned that it hadn’t grown, I thought he was comparing the latest scan with the one taken three months previous; but after thoughtful questioning by Love Tank (who was with me at that appointment in case it brought bad news), he clarified that he was comparing it with ALL the previous scans, which started a year ago). This means it’s probably benign (the Radiation Damage Theory returns), because a malignant tumor would likely have grown. Nevertheless, while the radiology department recommended a two-year follow-up scan, Dr. CaC is ordering a six-month follow-up, because of my history.

Child, I’ll TAKE it. I got no problem with erring on the side of caution.

The interesting thing I learned about the lung nodule is that if it HAD BEEN (or, God forbid, one day TURNS OUT TO BE) malignant, it would/will NOT be considered metastasis of the breast cancer, but rather its own NEW cancer. (Like an angry toddler trying to establish its independence.) Which is kinda good news in a jacked-up way, right? Because if I’m going to have to deal with cancer again, the idea of metastatic cancer is far more daunting to me. If, on the other hand, it’s just an angry toddler that can be put down for a nap before it gets its little chocolate handprints on anything, it seems more manageable.

In other good news, that CA 27-29 blood test Dr. CaC ordered along with my other routine lab work (which had me a little up in my feels, because he’d never ordered that particular blood test before, and a quick dance with Dr. Google gave me to know it’s a test to check for the recurrence of cancer) turned out fine as well: a “normal” level, according to Dr. CaC, is anything under 30 U/mL, and I was at 16 U/mL.

Honestly, what I expected (and dreaded) with regard to that particular appointment, in the weeks leading up to it, was that I would walk out with NO helpful or hopeful information—basically, that I’d walk away with a “We still can’t determine what this is, so let’s check again in three months,” and then spend three MORE months wondering WTF is going on while trying to function normally. And, OK—even THAT would be better than, “Yep, it’s cancer! Still got all those stocking caps and giant earrings? Because you’re gonna wanna dust those bad boys off.” (Actually, the stocking caps are not collecting much dust; I wear them daily to hide how infrequently I wash my hair, which you’d THINK I’d treat a little bit better now that I have it back, but NOPE.) But I didn’t dare hope for what I got, which was the tentatively optimistic probability that the lung toddler has no teeth.

SO! Here we are, TWO YEARS from the day the cancer got carried out with my boobs, and I feel like I have weathered this storm pretty damn well!

Oh, there have been moments, especially as the dreaded Dr. CaC appointment loomed, when things got a little maudlin. For example, in the many weeks following Christmas—wherein Santa had brought our elder son tickets to see Tyler the Creator in the first week of February—Love Tank and I tried to figure out who was going to accompany the kid to the show. We’d purchased an additional ticket, so he could invite a friend, but we didn’t want to send a couple of kids into downtown Kansas City for a late night without an adult, so we bought a third ticket for a chaperone. But lawd knows neither of OUR old asses wanted to cram into a loud, packed arena fulla people young enough to be our grandchildren (even though MY old ass does kinda dig some of Tyler’s music), so we tried to find a younger, cooler adult to accompany him. When THAT tactic failed (turns out all the younger, cooler adults we know were STILL too old to want to go to a Tyler show), we kinda figured we’d rock-paper-scissors it at some point close to show time to figure out who was going to take this bullet for the team. However, as both the show AND the Dr. CaC appointment loomed, I decided I HAD TO go, because what if I never got the opportunity to take my kid to a concert again? What if I never got to EXPERIENCE a concert again? (Told ya. Maudy McMaudlin.)

And of course there was all the late-night rumination about all the practicalities of the cancer’s potential return: When might chemo start? Would I have to get another port installed, or would I be able to get treatments via IV? Should I volunteer to serve on a committee for a local organization in which I participate, or cool my jets in case that turned out to be more of a commitment than I could handle while undergoing ritual poisoning? Could I make lunch plans with a friend for next month, or was THAT too much of a commitment? Should I shave my head immediately this time, or wait until such point as the haphazard operation of a leaf blower three houses down results in half my tresses taking off in the wind?

Most importantly, how the hell was I going to find a job NOW? It’s bad enough I only have one tit (oh, yeah; Left Eye’s shenanigans got her evicted in a quick late-morning surgery back in January, so I’m currently stuffing half my bra until everything heals up enough for (re-)reconsctruction—which means I fully expect those of you whom I regularly see in person to discreetly check out my rack the next time we’re together), but showing up BALD to an interview (assuming the job doesn’t require a 70s-era, sucker-munching NYC detective or a tanned, muscular mascot for cleaning products)? Fuhgeddabout it.

And most ridiculously (but I make no apologies for it), now that I’ve put months’ worth of effort into knocking 25 pounds off my ass (at this writing, I am officially 2.8 pounds overweight according to BMI calculations, which may be a questionable standard on which to hang one’s hat, but it does provide some sort of ballpark for goal-setting—speaking of which, my goal is to knock off another 10-ish pounds, or to be able to comfortably zip up the patchwork denim skirt that constituted the bottom half of my summer uniform ca. 2001 (the top half consisting of one of three tank tops: the one that said, “Kiss Me,” the one that said “Love Muffin,” or the one that said, “The Allman Brothers Band”) . . . whichever comes first), could I eschew the steroid part of the pre-med cocktail that comes with chemo to avoid packing all that weight back on—or would that kill my appetite so hard that I’d be falling all the way THROUGH the denim skirt within a couple of months?

Can you feel the liiiiiiight insiiiiiiiide, can you feel that fi-yur . . .

Ultimately, though, these questions settled themselves, and—even though I was feeling far less dramatic about my “last chances” by the time the Tyler concert rolled around, I stuck with my decision to be the one to go, and I have zero regrets.

I do, however, have some observations:

1. I could not help feeling some type of way in the middle of a crowd that was easily 70% white, while everyone on stage was Black (show openers were Paris, Texas and Lil Yachty, both of which I’m sure I’m spelling or punctuating incorrectly). Half the country is in favor of ending DEI initiatives, but what TF would their lives be like without (my people’s particular brand of) D?

2. Apparently, they don’t do encores anymore?

My son gave the “bring a friend” ticket to his girlfriend, so I accompanied the two of them, and after Tyler said thank you and goodnight, I stood there hooting and clapping like an idiot while everyone around me started shuffling out. I looked around the arena and EVERYONE was leaving! My kid and his girlfriend were standing there looking at me like, “What’s . . . going on with YOU, weirdo?”

So we left, too.

Mind you, I have no complaints; it was late, every single one of my internal organs felt as if it had been jarred slightly askew by all the Richter-wrecking bass, and that motherfucker worked HARD for two solid hours. He walked away owing me absolutely nothing. But I gotta say, I was surprised when the show ended and everyone just . . . left.

Weird.

3. One thing that has absolutely NOT changed about concerts: drunk AF college girls who make best friends with EVERYONE around them. There were multiple “I love yous” exchanged on the way out.

Overall, though, it was an amazing show! When it got to be kinda late, and Love Tank (having checked the tracker on the kid’s phone) realized we were STILL THERE, he started texting me apologies and IOUs. A smarter woman would have whipped on her martyr panties with a quickness, but my dumb ass confessed that I was actually having a good time! Even though I didn’t know most of the songs, live music makes me happy, and the timing of this particular show turned it into an opportunity to fling my arms up into the air, unclench some things, and shed some serious fucks. It helped me find my way back to some Black-ass joy.

Nonetheless, I was happy to make it home at last, and now I can check that off my list of “Things to do at least once . . . but most likely ONLY once”—especially the part where on the SAME DAY as the Tyler concert, Love Tank and I ALSO hosted a birthday party for our younger dude!

HAP-py birth-dayy tooo yah . . . HAP-py birth-dayy tooo yah . . .

Unlike his brother (who once invited 39 children to a birthday party—somewhat luckily, there was a heavy, whirling snow that day, and only 20-some kids actually made it . . . but I digress), our littler dude has always been pretty low-key in terms of birthday parties. He’s selective about his friends, and typically his invite list doesn’t come near the number of guests the party venue allows (case in point: he had a bowling birthday party a couple of years ago, and the party package came with two lanes; he invited so few kids that he only needed one lane, so Dude the Elder and his girlfriend at the time got the second lane all to themselves).

So imagine our surprise when he initially came up with a birthday plan that involved inviting FIFTEEN KIDS to OUR HOUSE. He had a multi-page plan WRITTEN UP, with no detail left unconsidered: he had various activity stations planned throughout the house; he had accommodations planned for those who wished to play OUTside (ahem—in February, in the Midwest), and for those who might want to escape the madding crowd and hang out in his room; he had a party food list that included all his favorite snacks, plus special offerings of lettuce and almonds for a classmate with multiple food restrictions. (I mean. LETTUCE and ALMONDS, y’all—with a square drawn around those two items, and the child’s name next to them. MY HEART.)

He. Was. READY.

We. Were. NOT.

Not for THAT kinda party, anyway. We tried to explain that our house really couldn’t accommodate 15 kids, and he wasn’t happy about that, but he ultimately rallied from that setback and came up with another birthday party idea: the cat cafe.

You know—one of those places where you can go, sit in a room, and cuddle/pet/play/roll around with free-roaming cats that are up for adoption, with the idea being to find a fur-ever friend (but for us, the idea is merely to periodically satiate whatever cat jones our kids may have going on, because WE ARE NOT GETTING A CAT).

At first, Love Tank and I discouraged that idea; the cat cafe does host birthday parties, but the place (understandably) smells like a litter box, and we were both kinda grossed out by the idea of cat-fur-adorned cupcakes. The kid, however, seemed pretty damn set on the idea, so we compromised: if he limited his guest list to five people—whereby we’d have the capacity (using both of our cars) to transport the kids to our house for snacks and cake after an hour of kitty lovin’—then we’d do the cat cafe.

In the end, he invited EIGHT kids (he’s very persuasive, plus each time he thought of ONE MORE PERSON he wanted to invite, it was a kid we LOVED—and frankly, if you know OUR kid, you understand why we were thrilled he even LIKES that many people), but we were able to recruit another parent (who loves cats, and so stayed at the cafe to pet them, rather than just dropping her kid off and running to freedom, which most parents understandably did) to help us with party guest transport to our house when the feline fun was done.

Overall, the party did not turn out to be as abjectly exhausting as I had anticipated. Our boy got a little overwhelmed by having that many friends at our house (at one point he quietly disappeared upstairs to his room), but the “adoption event” we staged at the house—where each kid got to choose one of the plush cat pillows I bulk-ordered as take-home SWAG—resulted in a 100% adoption rate (we had surplus cats, so those kids who had siblings at home took extras to share) . . .

It did get a LITTLE chaotic (everyone begged to be the first to choose his/her cat (I ended up having them draw numbers), and one kid was woefully disappointed that his first-choice cat got “adopted” before it was his turn), but I would do it ALL again, if only because it gave me the opportunity to totally Rick-roll a bunch of kids with the adoption certificates they got:

Did any of them even notice? No.

Do I believe any of them even knows who Rick Astley is? Also no.

But did I even do it for them? Absolutely not.

Really, none of the shit I do in the name of entertaining children is for the children in question (even when they’re my own children). It’s pretty much all about me.

At any rate, we survived the day, and I got about an hour to cram in a nap once all the kids went home, before we headed out the Tyler concert.

Surprisingly, though I was certain I’d be dead all day the next day (which was Boy the Younger’s actual birthday), the exhaustion didn’t hit me until late in the afternoon, when Love Tank and I accompanied the birthday boy to Target (which is one of his favorite places on earth—at one point, he had actually suggested having his birthday party THERE) to spend some of his birthday money. As we followed him back and forth throughout the toy and game aisles, my legs started feeling all wobbly and spaghetti-like—so after we left (the boy having dropped 60 bucks on a Target truck Transformer), I was THRILLED to fulfill his birthday request to pick up dinner from McDonald’s, and to set up a bed tray so the two of us could eat dinner upstairs in my bed and avoid the Super Bowl, which was the feature attraction downstairs.

All told, it was a banner birthday weekend—but I’d be lying if I said I’m not still recovering.

Perhaps that’s why this weekend’s 2-year milestone celebration has been pretty low-key; Love Tank and I had planned a celebratory stroll through our favorite art museum, but ended up hanging out at home, where I made a chocolate cake for the occasion. (I had planned a fancy flourless number, but the recipe felt a little persnickety and I didn’t want to risk jacking it up, so I just made regular cake in two round cake pans (symbolic, no?), whipped up a ganache glaze, dumped it over both cakes, and sent Boy the Elder next door to give one of the cakes to our neighbors (who’ve been recipients of our baked goods for nearly 20 years now, and it’s not the first time I’ve given them a tit-reminiscent dessert). Turns out he ding dong ditched the cake, so they may not have a clue where it even came from, let alone what we’re celebrating. But I digress.)

After a dinner consisting of a quick and easy pasta dish, we all ate cake and watched Goonies.

This morning, I woke up two hours later than usual, and sick (with a cold), and scrambled to figure out meal plans for the next few days and crank out a grocery list to get us hunker-ready for the bullshit weather coming this week (which will likely result in a school cancellation or two). Once the foraging and gathering of foodstuffs was done, I retreated to the bed for the rest of the day, to wallow in simultaneous self-pity (my nose doesn’t work—BOOOOOO) and gratitude (I got 99 problems, and cancer—for the moment—ain’t one of ’em), and above all, LOVE for all you motherfuckers who read these things all the way to the end.

So now’s about the time when I make my last post of the year — typically something to do with the completion of some part of my treatment. Last December, I’d just acquired new boobs, and the December before that, I was nearing the end of chemo, and starting to dream of one day having eyebrows again.

This year, I have the eyebrows (and the shoulder-length hair to go with!), and I’m long done with chemo — but the tits are giving me grief.

Well. One of them, anyway. But to avoid freaking anyone out:

IT IS NOT “OH-SHIT-THE-CANCER-IS BACK” GRIEF.

She’s just being obnoxious.

Y’all may recall my most recent update, which included the news that my stupid radiated boob (henceforth known as Left Eye) kicked up an infection right around the time of the Presidential election (as if things weren’t red/hot enough).

Well.

The infection cleared up nicely after a couple of rounds of antibiotics, so I leaned into the holidays and was gliding merrily to the end of 2024 (my glide aided tremendously by the ability to start drinking again after those antibiotics) . . .

. . . when one day (a day or two before Christmas), I noticed that Left Eye was looking at me in the mirror.

It was nothing painful, inflamed, oozy, or generally gross — but the incision scar from the mastectomy (and subsequent reconstructive surgery), which had previously run straight across each boob in a single line, was now, on the left side, morphing into more of a football shape (or like a previously closed eye JUUUUUST beginning to open). And in the center of the “opening” (which, again, was not leaking or anything), the skin was lighter in color, and featured some blotchy, bluish, bruisy-looking discoloration.

I yanked Love Tank into our bedroom and flashed him to make sure I wasn’t imagining things (which, now that I think about it, is probably not how he thought that moment would turn out). He confirmed that I wasn’t, and suggested calling the doctor.

So a couple of days later, once the Christmas flooflah died down a bit, I put in a call to my plastic surgeon. He wasn’t in the office, but I spoke with his nurse, and sent her a photo of the morphing mammary, which she said she’d send to him and let me know what he thought. She called back an hour or so later, and said that he wants to see me this coming Friday (January 3). The theory is that the swelling that came along with the cellulitis (aka the infection) put extra pressure on the incision scar. So he MAYYYYYYYYYYYY want to get me into surgery the week AFTER next, to replace that implant with a smaller one and relieve some of the pressure.

Nothing is for certain at this point; all depends on what happens when I see him in person. So I’m trying not to get all het up just yet (I mean, for one thing, if he feels like this can wait a week, I’m guessing I’m not in any grave danger of popping that bad boy) — but I do have questions:

• If he determines that the implant does need to come out to alleviate pressure on the incision scar, are there other options I could consider besides a smaller implant? When I was first deciding what to do about my boobs after the mastectomy, I considered DIEP flap reconstruction; I ultimately decided against it (because it involved a more difficult recovery; they take fat from elsewhere in your body to stuff your new tits, so you get cut open in more places), but would it still be on the table, or am I on the “Implants or Bust” road now?
• If he puts a smaller implant in Left Eye, what happens to the other boob? Will I just rock two different-sized implants (when my right boob is already bigger than Left Eye with the matching implants I have, simply because the skin on that side is more supple and has stretched to accommodate the implant, whereas the radiated skin on Left Eye is clenching that implant so tightly it looks like I’m smuggling a tortoise on the left)?
• If he DOES replace BOTH implants with smaller ones, will the right one (which stretched to accommodate a bigger implant) start looking like a sock with a tennis ball in it? Or will he take up some slack in the skin on that side?
• Will I have to have those awful drains again?

The good news is that (I’m assuming) this would be an outpatient surgery, like the original reconstruction (and UNlike the mastectomy, which involved an overnight hospital stay), and — aside from the drains — the original reconstruction was pretty easy in terms of recovery. Not to mention that I STILL don’t have a job, which (although it makes the idea of medical bills a bit more daunting) means I won’t spend my recovery dreading an overwhelming email inbox once I’m all better.

At any rate, I won’t know anything for a few more days, so I’m just going to continue rolling through the rest of this year and putting this bitch in my rearview, because it sucked BUTTS.

This [was] the end . . . beautiful friend . . .

Before it slips entirely away, however, I figure now is a good time to finish the Nadine story, because — HOLY COW — I am coming up on the ONE-YEAR mark of when that whole thing started. (January 8 was the day we walked into the ER to commence what would be the last month of her life.)

So, where was I?

Ah, yes; so after ten days in the hospital following the fall that broke her hip, my mom was moved into a lovely hospice facility a blessedly short distance from my house, so that I was able to spend my days there (God bless remote work), and then easily head home to sleep at night.

After a few days, my sister arrived in town from Michigan, and we set up a new routine: we spent mornings digging through, sorting, and packing up Nadine’s apartment with the help of our cousin’s spectacular wife Lynda, who drove up from an hour away to help us (which was no small feat given that that old bird kept a tidy-LOOKING apartment, but once we got in there, it turned out that every hidden cranny — cupboards, cabinets, closets, drawers, and behind/under furniture — was CRAMMED CHOCK FULL OF STUFF; ol’ girl had squirreled away enough flotsam in her one-bedroom apartment to easily fill the Playboy mansion), and then spent the afternoons and evenings in the hospice facility with Nadine before heading to our respective beds (mine in my house, my sister’s in my mom’s apartment) to sleep.

During that time, the hospice workers did a great job of keeping us updated on her progression. At that point, she was still lucid, talking, and eating/drinking (chocolate chip cookies from Panera and strawberry shakes from Freddie’s were her most frequent dinner request, but she did manage some soup on occasion), but the trained eyes of the hospice staff naturally picked up on things we were not as likely to notice, like changes in her vitals, etc.

One afternoon, when my sister and I arrived at the facility after a morning mired in our old report cards and the like, the kind woman who greeted us at the front desk recognized us and said, “She’s been seeing her mother today.” She reported to us that, according to my mother, HER mother (Mildred) had been sitting in the corner of her room for most of the morning.

Most of my mother’s children never met Mildred; she died of cancer in the 1950s, so only the eldest of the four of us — my sister Jancy, who was born in 1953, and died in 2005 — had any memory of her. But my mom kept a photo of her prominently displayed in all of her homes, and talked about her frequently and reverently. So it’s no surprise that she’d be chosen as my mom’s afterlife ambassador.

When we walked into the room, my mom looked at us and asked, “Am I going to get a kiss from my mother?” Neither of us knew quite how to answer that (especially in light of the impression we’d been given all our lives that Ms. Mildred was A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH, and who were WE to go making decisions for a spitfire like her about whom she was going to kiss?), so we said, “WE’LL kiss you!” and planted pecks on her forehead, which seemed to satisfy her.

Since I was already aware that seeing deceased loved ones can be a sign of imminent death in hospice patients (particularly the elderly ones), I immediately started texting people (Love Tank, Lynda, and my aunt and uncle in Texas) to inform them of this development.

The day after my sister left to go back to Michigan, my mom’s sister and her husband drove up from Texas to say goodbye. (Luckily, my sister, Lynda, and I had been able to tame the mountain of flotsam that had threatened to bury us alive in that apartment a few days earlier into neatly stacked boxes along the perimeter of the living room and in the closets so that my aunt and uncle could make use of the apartment during their visit as well, and my aunt tackled clearing out the kitchen cabinets during their stay, which was a significant bonus.) The evening they arrived, my mom — who was no longer eating solid foods by then, but was still drinking and taking a sip of soup here and there — talked to them, expressing surprise and happiness to see them.

By the next day, however, she’d taken to sleeping roughly 92% of the time — while I, my aunt, and my uncle hung out in her room and talked to each other. At some point during their visit, she got to the point where she was not really eating OR drinking anymore, but she would occasionally accept mouth swabs dipped in water. (My aunt asked the nurse if we should try dipping the mouth swabs in soup or broth to give her a bit of nourishment, but the nurse said that hospice patients reach a point where their bodily functions are shutting down to such a degree that eating (i.e., creating work for their digestive system as its battery is draining) does more harm than good.)

Although Love Tank was holding down the fort at home, he stopped by to visit relatively frequently, and when he wasn’t there, I kept him updated by phone and text — primarily so that he could keep our elder son (who was Nadine’s absolute favorite person ON THE PLANET; she loved our other son like crazy, and loved the hell out of ME, but my older boy was HER PERSON, no bones about it) in the loop. He explained to Boy the Elder that there was no RIGHT way to handle all of this, but that if he wanted to visit Grandma again (he’d visited her in both hospitals, and during her early days in hospice), (a) time to do so was running short, and (b) he shouldn’t expect the Grandma he was used to (she always said she couldn’t hold a candle to her mother, but Mildred’s sass and fire didn’t fall far from the tree), because she was no longer eating, drinking, talking, or even waking up — but that he could still talk to HER if he wanted to.

In a turn of events that once again left me agape at the Universe’s deft poker skills, he did end up visiting her . . . on a day when he normally wouldn’t have . . . and the timing turned out to be perfect.

Love Tank and I had planned to spend a chunk of that day taking care of a bunch of legal/administrative stuff, so we’d both taken the day off, and we were just about to dig into all the things we needed to handle . . .

. . . when we got a text from Boy the Elder, saying he’d thrown up at school. After some questioning, we were able to determine that he’d taken his medication (which has to be taken WITH FOOD) on an empty stomach, because he’d been running late to school, and by the time he GOT to school, things were not looking so good. Once he threw up, he said, he felt OK — just hungry — but rules is rules, and if you puke at school, yo’ ass has to go HOME.

Only his coming home was going to throw a bit of a wrench into our plans. So we decided, once we picked him up, that this would be a good time for him to go visit Grandma, while we took care of bidness. We dropped him at the hospice — reiterating our warning about the unfamiliar version of Grandma he should expect — and left for a couple of hours.

(Upon rereading this, it occurs to me that this all sounds a lot like Love Tank and I were trying to get our love THANG on at home, and that’s the reason we didn’t want the boy around, but that is NOT the case; what we WERE trying to do was avoid him possibly being privy to some of the (NON-fun) “adult” stuff we had to deal with, because he was already kind of a hot mess.)

When we arrived back at the hospice, our boy was looking at us like, “WTF were y’all ON about?” because contrary to our portrayal of her condition, Grandma was AWAKE! And CHATTY! And FEISTY! And not only DRINKING water, but holding the cup ON HER OWN (and chastising my son for trying to help her).

Because OF COURSE SHE WAS. Anything for THAT BOY.

(The nurse later told me the most touching story: at some point during my son’s visit, she’d come into the room to turn my mom from one side to the other . . .

. . . but my mom — whom she was (at that point) surprised to find awake and staring intensely at my son, who’d fallen asleep on the room’s guest sofa — flatly (and forcefully) REFUSED to be turned to her other side, because then she wouldn’t be able to see him. So the nurse obeyed her wishes and left her to gaze at her boy.

I will love that story for the rest of my life. But I digress.)

After awhile, Love Tank took our boy home, and I stayed on until my bedtime — but once my son had left, my mom went back to sleep, and I never saw her eyes again.

A day and a half later, she was gone.

Break on thru to the other side . . .

It happened in the early morning.

As had become my custom over the previous MONTH, I’d placed my phone RIGHT NEXT TO MY HEAD in my bed, so as not to miss any middle-of-the-night calls about my mother.

When I woke up at around 5, I saw that I had MISSED A CALL from the hospice at around 3 a.m.

I immediately called back, fearing the worst — but the nurse said my mom was doing OK. The reason for the 3 a.m. call was because my mom’s breathing pattern had changed, and they thought she was close . . .

. . . but then her breathing regulated again, and all was (to the extent possible) “normal” again.

I told her I would head up there immediately, anyway, and didn’t even take the time to change clothes. I hurriedly brushed my teeth, popped my rubber rain boots over my PJ pants, told Love Tank, and headed over to the hospice (which, I remind you, was about 7 minutes away on a normal day, but when you’re speeding and there’s no traffic because it’s the ass-crack of dawn, then I’d say it’s more like 5 minutes).

Because of the early hour, the hospice doors were locked, and I had to buzz to be let in.

So I buzzed.

And waited.

And buzzed.

And waited.

And cussed aloud (I believe I said something like, “This is NOT THE TIME to keep a mothefucker WAITING!”)

Finally, the nurse who’d called me in the middle of the night approached the doors and buzzed me in . . . then she stood holding the door for me, and said, in that voice reserved for death and other bad news (you know, that “melancholy cushion” tone): “Come on in.”

That was pretty much all she had to say, although I suppose at some point shortly thereafter she actually said words to the effect that my mom had died.

I think what happened was that either they went in to check on her around the time I called back and discovered that she had passed — or she legit passed away while I was speed-racing through the darkened streets to get there. In either case, (a) I will ALWAYS HATE that I wasn’t there with her when she died (HOW DID I MISS THAT CALL?) — although people who know her well speculate that it happened exactly the way SHE wanted it; and (b) by the time they let me into the building, they’d cleaned her up, put her in a fresh nightgown, combed her hair, and — this part made me laugh aloud (grief is weird) — put a fresh flower into her clasped hands.

Eventually, my aunt and uncle hit the road back to Texas (which had been their plan that day, anyway), and Love Tank started making calls: the funeral home, my mom’s apartment building, etc.

At some point after school was out, we told my kids that Grandma had died, but I have literally NO MEMORY of that moment whatsoever.

Takin’ care of business . . .

And then the Business End began. Love Tank and I spent the next day choosing and paying for all the things: the obituary (which was written flawlessly by my sister), the funeral, the casket, the gravestone.

Once that was done, we got back to work on the apartment, cleaning out the last few hidey-holes that hadn’t been touched, and watching random items of my mother’s disappear like magic.

It was common practice, in the 55+ apartment building she’d called home for the previous 8 years, for residents to place small tables or curio cabinets outside their apartment doors, and decorate them with photos, figurines, and other tchotchkes.

My mother didn’t do that.

Or at least she didn’t UNTIL, for some reason, she decided last Christmas that she wanted to put a table outside her door, and decorate it with a small Christmas tree. I helped her order an incredibly gaudy little tree that cost a ridiculous amount of money from one of her old lady catalogs, and when it arrived, I helped her set up the table and put together the tree. (Then, when she told my cousin’s wife Lynda on speaker phone that she’d put out her little tree, my cousin barked, “Someone’s going to steal it!” at which point she scuttled it back into her apartment, and I helped her order a really cheap, pathetic-looking tabletop tree to put outside her door. But I digress.)

After she died, the table sat empty outside the apartment, but then Love Tank got the brilliant idea to start putting random items on it, with a sign that said, “FREE.”

More rapid than eagles, the vultures they came!

They swooped in and snagged that stuff faster than we could get it out there, so over the next few days, anytime one of us went by the apartment to continue clearing it out, we’d dump more stuff onto the table. One day, as I was leaving, a kind and genial lady (whom I’d met before, because she appeared to be the resident chatterbox), stopped and thanked me for my generosity — and for my mom’s wine glasses. “I host a resident happy hour,” she said, “and at the next one, we’re going to drink a toast to your mother with her glasses.”

Y’all. The tears.

But again, I digress. The point is that eventually, we got the apartment to the point where we were ready for the clean-out service we hired to come and work their magic. The kind owner of the clean-out company (whom I found via Google) told me on the phone that he didn’t typically do apartments, but he agreed to come by and take a look. He ended up agreeing to do the job, perhaps out of pity for a sad, frazzled middle-aged woman, or perhaps because, as he stated, a place that small wouldn’t take up much of his time, especially since 90% of the items that needed to be cleared out were already in boxes (and the other 10% were pieces of furniture). So he put me on his schedule for a date in the near future, and I signed the agreement. How it works is that he and his crew come and clean out any and everything you tell them to (they would, in fact, have done a lot of the work my family and I had already done); they sell what they can (online), donate the rest, and split the proceeds of whatever they sell with you, 50/50. You do pay an hourly fee for the work, but assuming they sell enough stuff, you still come out ahead, without all the sturm und drang of trying to list the stuff yourself on Facebook Marketplace. SO worth it.

On the day he came back to clear the place out, he brought one of his employees, who was possibly the most interesting (and hilarious) man I’ve ever met. I mean, y’all know I’m the QUEEN of TMI, but I finally met someone who might just match my level of oversharing. Over the course of two hours, I learned many things about him:

1. He does not ever sweat.
2. Because he does not eat any salt whatsoever.
3. He has hair down past his butt (all of which he had tucked up under a do-rag/skull cap combo).
4. His parents live in the area, but he does not ever see or talk to them — not because he has any beef with them, but simply because he is a grown man, and why on earth would a grown man still talk to his parents?
5. He has nine children. (“Do you talk to THEM?” I blurted before I realized how fucking rude that sounded. Once I did, I was so focused on my own embarrassment that I missed his answer.)
6. He is not “full Black.” (This bit of knowledge came after he shared item #3 above with me; I asked him, “How long did it take you to grow your hair that long?” and I’m not sure what HE heard me ask, but his answer was, “Because I’m not full Black; I’m mixed with all kind of stuff.” I probed no further.)
7. He likes to use V8 juice to mix with liquor, so he can drink it while he’s at work, and nobody can tell he’s tippling. (As the two men were leaving my mom’s apartment, they asked me to check and make sure they’d removed everything I needed gone (IOW, everything that wasn’t going either to my house or my sister’s). I checked around, and told them they’d gotten everything; then they asked if I needed them to clean out the fridge, and by the time I said, “No, thanks, I’ll get that,” my new best friend was peering into it and asking what I was going to do with certain items. I told him to help himself, and he walked away with:
   • A couple of 12-packs of soda
   • A carton of eggs
   • A bottle of ranch dressing
   • A 6-pack of V8 (which is how I found out about him gettin’ his workday drank on, but more importantly, it’s how I found out that whole “no salt” thing was a damn LIE; I mean, what the hell do you think makes V8 taste so GOOOOOD?)
   • A pound of butter (ahem — SALTED), and
   • The doggy bag my Texas aunt had brought home from Applebee’s when she and my uncle were here to visit my mom in hospice.

But hey, I guess with NINE KIDS to feed . . . )

Overall, they did amazing work (they even offered to CLEAN the apartment, but I already had my mom’s regular cleaning lady scheduled for one last scrub down once the place was fully emptied), and it was a huge, sad-but-relieved exhale to have that done.

You’re as cold as ice . . .

The funeral, held in Topeka (where my mom lived most of her life, and had already purchased a burial plot), was miserable — not only because of the sadness of the occasion, but also because, in true Nadine fashion, my mother zinged us one last time by arranging for ELEVEN-DEGREE temperatures on the day of her GRAVESIDE service. Day before AND the day after? Temps in the 40s. Day of the funeral? ELEVVVVVVENNNNNNN. The one good thing about that is that the service was incredibly short, to prevent anyone from freezing their tuchis off.

We hadn’t put any details in the published obituary about a date and time for the service, and so only asked the funeral home to provide a dozen or so chairs, for my family, my sister’s family, my cousin and his wife (and possibly a cousin or two more from both sides of the family), and my Texas aunt and uncle.

Imagine my surprise when a shit ton of my sweet in-laws arrived (they drove almost TWO HOURS, in multiple cars, to stand in the cold for literally like 15 minutes), along with people from my mom’s former church and social circles (guess word gets around anyway). Can’t say I fully recognized ALL of them, because they’d bundled themselves up thoroughly enough, in defense against the cold, to rob a liquor store.

Which may be what some of them did after the service, so as not to waste all that effort on 15 minutes of frigid.

And then it was . . . done. My sister’s family and mine drove back to the Kansas City metro, and had lunch together at Bonefish, which my mom loved for the bang bang shrimp (so of course we got some). The next day, my sister’s family headed back to Michigan, and we both started Life Without Nadine.

My birthday was harder than I thought it would be.

Memorial Day (when we went to Topeka to decorate gravesites, as has been my family’s tradition since well before I arrived on the planet, but this year, hit WAY different) was harder than I thought it would be.

Nadine’s birthday was easier than I thought it would be — and as a bonus, someone finally used her wedding china (a gorgeous pattern consisting of a single black rose on a white background)! I inherited it when she moved from her house into her apartment, but nobody had ever used it. So for her birthday, we busted it out and ate KFC on it (she loved KFC, but I don’t like it, so it was exceedingly rare for our weekly Wednesday-night dinners with Grandma to feature the Colonel (though on occasion, she’d put her foot down and demand some Original Recipe drumsticks) — however, I figured I could suck it up in honor of what would have been her 94th birthday).

Thanksgiving and Christmas (both of which we typically spent with her) were easier than I thought they’d be.

It will be interesting to see how the rest of the “first year” goes; there are no more holidays and such to get through — but the time period between January 8 and February 5 will be the big, extensive anniversary of that sucktastic month I spent slowly, slowly letting my mama go.

We’ll see how that goes.

In the meantime, I am READY to celebrate the end of 2024, do you hear me? I mean, since 2020, it seems each year has told the former year to hold its beer in terms of sucktasticity, but I’d be lying if I said no turd blossoms had come out of some of the bullshit.

As always, Y’ALL are some of those flowers.

So what the hell, I’ll give 2025 a try, see what happens.

POSTSCRIPT

OH MY GOD, YOU GUYS. I hate Left Eye SO MUCH. 

I started this blog post earlier this afternoon (after a lovely walk with Love Tank in sunshine and mid-50s temps). I was reading back through it and making edits when I looked up and realized it was time to start dinner. So I put my laptop aside and turned to get off my bed . . . 

 . . . which is when I felt the PAAAAIIIIN. 

Pain like the pain I felt when that recent infection developed. 

I went into the bathroom to check out the situation, and saw that Left Eye was once again red, hot, and slightly swollen. 

FOR THE MUTHAFUCKIN' LOVE. 

I took my temperature, and so far, no fever. But NOW I'm hopped up on ibuprofen, and planning to call the plastic surgeon (AGAIN) in the morning. 

This bitch needs to sit ALL THE WAY DOWN. I am sick of her bullshit. 

DOOOOOOOOOD. I just left y’all pantsless on a windy mountaintop, didn’t I?

And quite frankly, I’m not sure how much butt cover I have to give you NOW, because there has been SO MUCH.

And I know I haven’t even given you Part 2 of the Nadine saga.

I’m honestly not sure which road to go down first.

I’ll start by saying that, healthwise, things are pretty good. I’m THIIIIIIIIIS CLOSE to the two-year “cancer-free” mark (I was told that if it doesn’t come back in the first two years, it’s less likely to return) . . .

. . . but of course there are acorns, twigs, dead birds, and wayward toddlers in the path — namely, a couple of things we’ve been “keeping an eye on” over the past several months:

If your nerves are getting nervous . . . [it’s because they’re] at your service . . . Thing Two and Thing One.

Back in late April of this year, I noticed a firm, lumpish thing on the outside edge of Bad Boob^TM — so I immediately booked an appointment with Dr. Cool and Calm’s nurse practitioner. Upon seeing me and feeling for herself, she said she didn’t think it was a malignancy, “but,” she said, “let’s do an ultrasound, just for fun.”

Don’t have to twist MY arm (as y’all know, I’ve been a little clenched about the fact that I would not automatically receive regular scans to check for repeat “little c” engagements, but would instead be reliant on my oncologist to order them IF he felt something needed to be checked out). I was told I’d be contacted the next week or so from the hospital, to schedule the warm jelly jam.

A few days later, I received an email from the hospital, with instructions to call and schedule my appointment — but in the meantime, I’d begun to feel a little pain just below my left shoulder blade. Not enough pain to keep me from functioning, but noticeable nonetheless. So I called Dr. CaC’s office back, and told them about it. I said I hadn’t scheduled the ultrasound yet, and wondered if I should continue with that scheduled programming, or do something different. I was told to go ahead and schedule the ultrasound for the boob, and that I would also be getting a CT scan for the other thing.

Long story short, the ultrasound results came back “unremarkable,” (never in my life have I been so delighted to be ordinary), and the CT scan showed a nodule on my left lung, “consistent with radiation damage.”

I was told to follow up with another ultrasound in three months, and another CT scan in six months.

The three-month ultrasound results again came back as “probably benign;” however, the suggestion was for another three-month follow-up.

In late October/early November, then, I got stripped down, gowned up, and studied internally via both wand and contrast dye. Again, the radiologist who checked out my ultrasound results said he was “not excited” (which is GOOD news; medical shit is weird) about it. He said it was likely scar tissue, and that it seemed, in fact, to have gotten smaller since the last scan. He said he didn’t see a compelling reason to try to do a biopsy (which involved the risk of puncturing my implant), but that if it continued to be an issue, we might consider one in the future.

As for the CT, the same nodule appeared . . . but now it’s kind of a thing. At my follow-up appointment with Dr. CaC, he indicated that it’s 5-10 mm in size, which means that it’s too small to biopsy, and that he can’t say for sure whether it’s grown in size . . . but whereas the previous report labeled it as radiation damage, Dr. CaC now says we don’t know what it is. So in three months, he wants another CT scan . . .

AAAAAAAND he wants a CA 27.29 blood test.

Mind you, HE did not say anything to me about ordering this blood test; I found out from the nice lady whose desk I visited on my way out of the office, to schedule my next check-up. Check-up scheduling always involves scheduling a date with a needle (which NEVER GETS ANY EASIER . . . *shudder*) the day before, for lab work that Dr. CaC can review before we meet. This time, the scheduler casually said, “Let’s see, he wants a CA 27.29 this time, and those results can take a little longer, so we’ll need to get you in for the blood draw maybe TWO days before your appointment this time.”

I asked what a CA 27.29 was.

She said she didn’t know, exactly.

So I Googled. You, too, can Google Fu, but basically, it’s a blood test to check for the recurrence of cancer. So clearly he’s a little concerned about this lung nodule.

Meanwhile, here I sit, a personified version of theater masks: happy that the concerns I raised in April are CERTAINLY not being ignored (early detection is everything), but sad — nay, ANNOYED AF — that celebration of my two-year “anniversary” (February 15) could end up being curtailed by the start of another treatment plan.

DAMMIT, I’m just now achieving a decent ponytail!

BUT there’s nothin’ to do at this point except dig up as much joy as I can en route to that bridge, so I’m choosing to lean into the “happy” part mentioned above, AND the knowledge that SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIT, after the last couple of years I’ve had? I can fuckin’ survive damn near anything, so BRING IT.

Well, I can tell by your game, you’re gonna start a FLA-hame . . .

In the meantime, Bad Boob^TM continues to make her presence known, in the form of a FUCKING INFECTION.

Yep, thazz right: a couple of days after my Scan Extravaganza, I noticed pain in Ol’ “Left Eye” (because come on, what better name for my mischievous left mammary?) as I was doing the bending and lifting concomitant with house cleaning.

Since normally, they’re both numb AF (and since the pain wasn’t bad — just noticeable), I thought, “Huh . . . I wonder if this is some nerves coming ‘back online’ after a 2-year hiatus . . . “

Once I finished my chores, the pain subsided, and I thought nothing of it for the rest of the day . . .

But the NEXT MORNING (which happened to be Election Day) . . . LAWWWWWWWD, JESUS, I woke up in SO. MUCH. PAIN.

Like the doof I am, I assumed that, like the day before, the pain would eventually subside (even though it was worse this time, and I was unable to raise that arm parallel to my head), so I went about my morning, making cinnamon rolls and vegetable dip for my neighbor’s upcoming Election watch party that evening.

By lunchtime, though, Left Eye was utterly aflame (much like Andre Rison’s house after her namesake’s lost temper), and the rest of me was chilled to the bone.

Uh-oh.

I grabbed a thermometer, and discovered I was one hot tamale, sitting at 100.7, so like any mature, reasonable person . . .

. . . I called Love Tank at work, choking back tears of self-pity.

Like an ACTUAL adult, he suggested I call the doctor, and said he’d head home immediately in case there was an ER visit in our near future.

While he was en route, I called both Dr. CaC and my plastic surgeon (the latter being a brilliant Love Tank suggestion), and by the time he arrived home, I was juggling callbacks like a circus performer (each nurse had a knack for calling precisely when I was on the line with the other). Once all the dialing was done, however, the plastic surgeon called in a prescription for antibiotics I was to start immediately, and scheduled me for a visit the next day; and Dr. CaC, satisfied with that course of action, said he would wait to see me until my next regularly-scheduled appointment.

So that night, still feeling puny, I dragged my soreness and my triple-digit glory to my neighbor’s house to watch the whole damn country go down in flames right alongside my left jug. And thanks to the antibiotics, I COULDN’T EVEN DROWN MY MISERY IN ALCOHOL.

Love Tank and I ended up heading home a little earlier than anticipated, because as the returns came in, I started swirling the drain both physically and emotionally.

SIDE NOTE WITH KIDDING ASIDE: Y'all may never have seen me "get political" — on my blog, or my Facebook, or anywhere — and while I could argue that my feelings about the  matter are NOT political but, in fact, incredibly personal to me and people I love, like, and hell, a bunch of people I don't even know (many of whom I might possibly DISlike), I won't, because that would be a HUGE digression from the point, which is this: 

I AM UTTERLY HORRIFIED by the election of Donald Trump for another term as POTUS. Consider that ON THE RECORD, and if that changes your feelings about me or this blog for the worse, you may now take your leave (because if you're HAPPY about this, quite frankly, that changes MY feelings about YOU). 

If it changes your feelings for the BETTER, stick around for more about my tits.

The next morning, the fever had broken, and I was feeling better physically . . . but emotionally, I was still a wreck — as evidenced by my visit with the plastic surgeon.

I saw him mid-morning on Wednesday, and he advised me to take it easy through the weekend, keep up with the antibiotics, and apply warm compresses 2x a day. He said that since there was no evidence of broken skin (cuts, scratches, wounds), there was no way to tell what had caused the infection (although he floated a theory that the pressure of the wand during my recent ultrasound may have been a factor).

He also nearly earned himself a fat lip.

I had told him that I first noticed the pain on Monday, in the middle of a cleaning spree that involved a lot of bending and reaching. When he told me to take it easy for a few days and lay off the housework, I said lightly, “Don’t have to throw a brick at ME!” and he said, “If you want, I can write you a note to that effect, FOR YOUR HUSBAND.”

Then he went on babbling while I processed that big ball of WTF.

I was still livid when I walked out, but once my cooler head kicked in, I (having “known” him for a couple of years now) decided it was a poor (and HORRIBLY TIMED) attempt at a joke.

That evening, I talked to my sister, who felt like it was NOT a joke, but a genuine attempt to be helpful, because so many women have husbands who expect them to keep the house spotless and get dinner on the table, in sickness and in health.

I can’t decide which is worse.

Anyway , after my appointment, I went home, ate lunch, took some Tylenol (all pain killer, even OTC, makes me sleepy, so I typically don’t take it during the day), and passed out for a couple of hours with a heating pad across my chest.

It was kinda glorious.

I’ve seen the plastic surgeon once more since then (he made no ill-advised jokes), and he says I’m doing well; the localized heat and redness has subsided, as has the fever — but there’s still some lymphatic swelling in the area, and my range of motion on that side is still sketch., so he put me on a second round of antibiotics, which I just finished. I’ll see him again the day before Thanksgiving, and hopefully won’t wind up on yet ANOTHER round of antibiotics, because Mama wants wine with her turkey and stuffing!

It’s the End of the World As We Know It (and I Feel Fine)

In the meantime, I feel fine. Emotionally, I’m still a little WTF, but because I’m in a pretty good place physically, I’ve taken to walking 3-4 miles most days, which is helping all the things.

On that note, I have to shout out a phenomenal group of my absolute favies.

Way (WAAAAAYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEE) back in high school, my core group of pals consisted of five amazing humans: all whip-smart, hilarious, talented, fun . . . and all dying to get TF out of Kansas, which we all eventually did, taking up residence across the U.S. and the globe, from Germany and Morocco to New York, Minnesota, Washington State, Washington, DC, North Carolina, Tennesee, Georgia, California, and Texas.

I’m the only dumbass who came BACK to Oz after I escaped. (Then again, if I hadn’t, I might have wound up married to some Love Tricycle mofo who gave me ugly children, so I think this worked out well, don’t you? Because have you seen my babies? But I digress.)

My dad dubbed us “The Rat Pack,” and although I kept up with most of them through college, once we graduated, a lot of that fell apart the further we got from the bralessness and lawlessness of our early 20s.

Oh, I spoke to, and even saw, a couple of them somewhat regularly over the years (likewise, others of us were communicating in pairs) — but ultimately, I lost touch with most of them . . . until one of us (who wasn’t me) got her act together (and scraped up the contact info) to reunite ALL of us on a Zoom call a couple of years ago. Since then, I’ve been in regular contact with ALL of them.

They are magnificent. For many reasons, really, but most recently because our group chat has become a refuge for our collective misery over the election results — and has led to the collective creation of the Best Spotify Playlist in the Goddamn World^TM.

The Sunday afternoon following the election, on my daily neighborhood meander, I queued up U2’s The Joshua Tree for musical accompaniment. It wasn’t totally out of the blue; the night before, I’d agreed to a movie night with my 3rd grader, and he chose Sing 2, starring none other than Bono himself. After the movie, I tried playing the original version of “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” for the boy, but he was unimpressed. Since it was still on my mind the next day (and it had been decades since I’d heard the whole album end to end), I decided I’d take a solo trip back to 80s-era adolescent angst.

OMG, that shit was SO. GOOD.

So good that I followed it up with yet another album that featured prominently in my pubescent sturm und drang: Sting’s Dream of the Blue Turtles. Say WHAAAAAAAT? Oh, yes, I DID. Consider Me Gone. y’all. I done Work[ed] the Black Seam with ALL the Russians.

(Another side note: Does anyone over the age of 25, who is not an actual musician, still spend time just listening to music? I mean, without doing anything else? I listen to plenty of music — while I’m cleaning, while I’m cooking, while I’m walking, running, driving — but back in the day, I would just lie on my bedroom floor, headphones on, and do NOTHING but listen. Do people still do that once they’ve acquired a mortgage? The closest I get these days to JUST LISTENING to music is if Love Tank is like, “Hey, remember that song . . . ?” and if I don’t, he’ll play it for me. And typically when that happens, I am actually sitting still, but otherwise . . . Anyway, DIGRESSION R US. Back to it . . . )

When I returned from my walk, I messaged The Rat Pack, because who better to appreciate my rediscovery of such integral chunks of our high school soundtrack?

Then one of us (the professional musician, go figure) got the BRILLIANT idea that we should all collaborate on a Spotify list of songs we used to listen to back then . . .

By Sunday night, we’d essentially created an aural time machine stuffed with REM, The Police, Tracy Chapman, INXS, Prince, Sting, The Clash, The Cure, Janet Jackson, Violent Femmes, OMD, Salt-n-Pepa, Depeche Mode . . . the list goes on . . .

. . . and it is a thing of such motherfucking beauty and delight! I crank it up for every walk, and sometimes — when it hits just right — I think we all just might survive this shit show.

And the Beat[ing] Goes On . . .

So now that you’re caught up on my recent health news (which was once the point of this blog), I have more news . . .

I ain’t got no job.

Thazz right, folx — in addition to my mother’s month-long hospital/hospice stay (and ultimate death), the first half of 2024 also brought a 25% RIF at my place of employment in May . . .

. . . and I was part of the 25%.

And it just so happened that I got canned on the last day of school for both of my boys, so when my elder son (who’d had struggles of his own throughout the school year) came home from that last half-day feeling jovial and chesty, having pulled off a 3.5 GPA with all As and Bs (I won’t go into detail, but trust me when I say that this was a mid-sized miracle, given where his grades and his motivation were a mere MONTH earlier) . . .

. . . we instantly shot a hole right through his balloon by telling him that I’d just lost my job, and therefore our grand plan to officially hand my car down to him (and buy a NEW car for me) was not going to happen.

In the end, through a series of events both unfortunate and fortunate (depending on who you’re talking to), he did end up with my car, and I ended up with a new one (a lovely Honda CRV Hybrid named Toot Toot).

Because it would take more time than ANYONE has to tell that story (which is kinda boring, anyway), I’ll itemize it:

1. Boy the Elder and I began the summer break “sharing” my old car (which mostly involved him taking it places, since even when I was working, I was 100% remote, so where did I have to go?).
2. A couple of weeks in, he was on his way home from trying to score free ice cream from a friend who worked at an ice cream shop (in the end, he paid for his frosty treat), and the engine seized up a block from our house.
3. Our only options, as presented to us by our favorite mechanic, were a new engine or a new car.
4. So we bit the bullet and bought a new car. Again, we broke the kid’s heart, because buying a brand new car meant there’d be no car for him to drive regularly; at that point, both of our cars would be too new to hand over to someone in his Questionable Decisions era.
5. Then, while sitting in the dealership, waiting for our new car paperwork to come off the printer, Love Tank asked, “OK, so what’s the MOST you’d be willing to pay to fix your old car for Boy the Elder?”
6. I said $5,000. He agreed.
7. We ended up spending twice that.
8. But we got a 12-month/12,000-mile warranty on the new (used) engine . . .
9. . . . which is GOOD, seeing as we’ve had that [BLEEEEEEP]er back at the shop almost half a dozen times, because the “Check Engine” light tends to make routine appearances (at this point, she’s shown up so often that we’ve named her Sherry).
10. In fact, we’re taking the car back to the shop tomorrow, because Sherry has returned.

In addition to a new car (and a new engine for the old one), we have also had to buy a new washer and dryer over the past few months, because our washing machine started emitting SMOKE (setting off the smoke alarm and everything) while Boy the Elder was doing laundry a couple of months ago.

(Seems to me that Boy the Elder is the problem, here; it’s a good thing he’s so cute.)

And of course there have been all the boob-related medical bills, in addition to dental work for Boy the Younger (who unfortunately inherited teeth made of paper from MY gene pool) . . .

It’s been a lot for folks working with HALF their normal income.

But on the “good expenses” side of the balance sheet, we enjoyed two amazing trips over the summer: one to Minnesota (where the boys spent a week at camp while Love Tank and I took Toot Toot on a weeklong roadtrip stretching into Canada, and where I was able to look dead in the eyeballs of one of my Rat Pack homies for the first time in multiple decades), and one to New Orleans, to celebrate the birthday of my absolute favorite Sister-in-Law, while eating all the powder-covered poofs, drinking all the bourbon, and sweating away all of those calories in the sultry summah heat.

In addition, Love Tank and I took a short road-trip zip to Louisville, KY, to celebrate our 21-year anniversary, and came back clanking with liquor souvies. And although I initially cancelled our annual Texas trip upon my loss of employment, the boys and I ultimately did end up driving south to visit our favorite family people.

All in all, it was a pretty good summer. In addition to the trips, I spent time (which otherwise would have been spent at work) at my neighbor’s pool; I watched Boy the Elder teach Boy the Younger how to ride a bike AND how to swim; I met friends for long lunches, coffee dates, and afternoon drinkies; I got some years-overdue deep-cleaning projects done; I got back on top of weekly meal planning (limited as we now are in the option to (literally) “phone it in” and order takeout); I spent long, lazy mornings chatting on porches with neighbors and admiring each other’s spring planting efforts . . .

What I did not do, of course, was update this blog. Because surprisingly, I managed to fill each day chock full (I tell ya, if not for the whole “BROKE” aspect of it all, I would make a damn good lady of leisure), and approximately four and a half days later, the whole blang summer was over.

I had this grand fantasy of landing a gig sometime around the start of school, and kicking off this fall with a renewed sense of purpose, a little more structure, and — most importantly — MORE MONEY leading into the holidays.

And for a minute there, it looked like the Universe was about to deliver! Starting in August, I was engaged with FOUR different organizations back-to-back, swinging through the hiring-process jungle like Tarzan: by the time I’d gotten to the end of the interview process with one organization, I’d have started the interview process with another, so that when each rejection ultimately came, the sting was greatly mitigated by the fact that the next vine was already in my hand.

Eventually, though, the next vine failed to materialize, and I was feeling more like George of the Jungle.

Since that heady time, I’ve had little nibbles here and there — enough to keep me from giving all the way up and selling foot pics on the internet — but at this point, I’m sliding into the holiday season with the idea that, barring a miracle, I’m probably going to be “off” for the remainder of 2024.

Whether that means I will EVER get to Part 2 of the story about my mom, I’m not sure. But I’ve got at least another month to find out . . .

As always, wish me luck, and thanks for being here! (Except for those of you who already left for “political” reasons.)