Evidence 101

EVIDENCE 101...Wherever you go, there you are...

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Paddle This

Well, The boobies were not aligned in my favor.

I received a call from my doctor to get right back into the office the next day. Over the phone at 8:00 PM, I was run through a series of questions that felt like an interrogation. Nurse Ratchet asked me over and over-you sure you haven't felt any pain in your left breast?

My only response to her was that it really, really hurt during the mammogram when my boob got smashed and it was like an orange in a trash compactor, or how we would simulate it. Although, we didn't get any orange juice and now that visual just took a wrong turn down the dirty highway.

Anytatas, I got the paddle. And NO, Coffeypot, it is not what you think. Picture this. Boob on tray, paddle comes....slowly...then BAM! Paddle hits boob and smashes a size C to the depth of a dime. Yeah. Picture that boys. It feels about as nice as hitting your family jewels with a ping pong paddle back and forth like the Chinese champions do at the world tournament. FORCE. Think FORCE.

While I peed down my leg, Nurse Ratchet had no sympathy. Seriously, tears ran down my face.

Moving on.

That showed bad results. New test.

That test showed bad results. 'Nother test.

While I am laying on the table in the dark while an ultrasound is being done during some point in this process, my mind wanders to everything FINAL. It especially hit home when the doctor said, "Is it true, your last mammogram was 8 years ago?" I was appalled at myself. Was it? Had it been? Was I so busy as a cop and business owner that I had not made my appointments? Skipped out?


I had screwed myself. Now everything had probably metastasized. This rang home when the ultrasound went to my rib cage all the way up to my shoulder. FUCK ME IN THE ASS!

I started to rewrite my will. I thought about Bug. I had an hour to lay there and beat myself up in the head. That's a hard thing to reach. According to my parents, it is extremely hard and stubborn in there.

You know when things go downhill real bad when your bottom lip starts to quiver and tears start coming and you try to stop it so you don't look like a fool! Yep. All that happened.

In the end, the doctor told me I was OK. I had benign fibroid-z- (two-plural) in there. Gross. The word sounds like aliens. So, I like to say I have alien abductions in my left boob.


Save your boobs. Save your life. Get checked annually and SHOW UP!

Oh, and yes, I was a little disappointed in not getting new fake boobs that are perky. Nurse Ratchet ruined all hopes for these puppies. They now drag on the floor.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Slide Presentation

Curse you, Albert! Curse you, Patrick! Curse you all involved in this invention! Not really. It is a good thing for womankind and any man with moobs.

The mammogram: the art of compressing a boob (mammo) to the size of a gram or smaller between two plastic slides on a gigantis microscope.

I attended the Annual Crushing of the Boob yesterday. It's not a Viking drinking party, although it should be. There isn't one nice thing about it. Well, except early detection. Get yours done now. Mine went like this:

RECEPTIONIST: Good afternoon, fill out these forms in this glassed off confidential area and when you are finished, come sit in the waiting room where Ellen is. (points)

ME: Ok. Thank you.

(I filled out my form with enthusiasm and vigor because, by golly, I was going to see Ellen in the waiting room. They had excellent customer service!)

ME: (peeking in waiting room) Hmm. No Ellen. No people.

I went out to the reception desk.

ME: Ma'am, I can't find anyone. Where did everyone go?

RECEPTIONIST: Excuse me, Ma'am? You are the only one here.

ME: Uh. You said Ellen was in the waiting room. I can't wait to meet her. I love Ellen.

RECEPTIONIST: (points to television)

ME: Oh. Oh. You really need to work on your customer service and false advertisements just to get people in here to smash their boobs. Sadists, I tell ya.

RECEPTIONIST: *blink*blink* (no humor-stone face) Someone will call you when they are ready. Please have a seat in the waiting room.

Did as I was told. That woman skerred me.

I got in about 5 seconds of Ellen before a nice-nurse-technician-lady-whomever in scrubs asked me to come in the back. Apparently, to distract you from thinking about your precious body parts getting crushed under the machine, you are to deflect thoughts for 5 seconds on humor from Ellen and not a second more before the impending doom begins. I did appreciate their promptness. No screwing around. (which would have led to VD and other problems spreading nationwide)

She told me to get top naked, not bottom naked and to wait in another waiting room like that with other top naked people with gaping gowns. It was weird. It was actually like we were getting checked for boob harvesting. I know that is a BAD visual, but I was just praying nothing was wrong with my goods because breast cancer runs in the family. I was nervous. During the waiting in the top naked waiting area, we were only allowed to watch Rachel Ray. I found her squeaky voice annoying because it reminded me of the machines needing oil that were about to penetrate my happiness.

It didn't take long before I was ushered back into the dark room which made me feel I was about to consent to some type of free will molestation. My gown was ripped open and I was on my tippy toes, pressed up against the gigantus (it changed from gigantis to gigantus because it was much bigger than I pictured)  slide machine. The nice scrubs lady plopped my boob on the slide like a piece of meat and told me she was going to tell me not to breathe at two points in the process.

SCRUBS LADY: You can breathe now. Later I will tell you not to breathe.

ME: Oh. I guess I was practicing or fright just set in. (weak smile)

SCRUBS LADY: I will talk you through it.

ME: Ok.

Scrubs Lady took the upper slide and brought it on top of my left boob and then CRANKED the holy hell out of the knobs until my boob was a millimeter in depth. Let me tell you that spread that size C breastusis all over Indiana. I'm sure everyone was grateful to have boobs everywhere.

SCRUBS LADY: Ok. I 'm going to crank a little more.


SCRUBS LADY: Don't breathe.

SCRUBS LADY: Ok. You can breathe. Now diagonal.


SCRUBS LADY: Ok. Same process.

My now flattened boob got plopped back up on the gigantus slide and she cranked again.

SCRUBS LADY: Ok. I'm cranking as far as I can go. Pressure.


SCRUBS LADY: You are dense.

ME: Yes, I have been told that before. How can you tell. I haven't said anything.

SCRUBS LADY: No, your breasts.

ME: Is that good or bad?

SCRUBS LADY: That is neither. It is just how you are.

ME: Oh.

SCRUBS LADY: Now we will move to the right breast.

ME: Oh. Goody.

SCRUBS LADY: Same process. Scoot closer. Scoot closer. There.

So she plopped my right boob up on the slide like a piece of prime rib. Meanwhile, my left boob hit the floor and I almost stepped on it. So much for perky boobs. They were going to be shot after this visit.

SCRUBS LADY: Pressure. And I am cranking.


SCRUBS LADY: Don't breathe.

click click The machine took at least 20 minutes. Swear.

SCRUBS LADY: Ok Breathe. One more time.

ME: (weak smile)

SCRUBS LADY: Don't breathe.

click click click click

SCRUBS LADY: Ok. Now for diagonal. And pressure. Cranking.


Time stood still and my eyes popped out of my head and I am sure that I went into a temporary coma. I don't know if I did everything I was supposed to because I checked out.

SCRUBS LADY: Ma'am. Ma'am.

ME: Yes. I think a peed a little.

SCRUBS LADY: We are done. You may go get dressed now. Are you OK? I usually watch every one's face and I can tell if it is really painful and on that last one, your face told me to move fast.

ME: Yeah. That one was tough.

SCRUBS LADY: You were a trooper. Go ahead and go back to room 1.

ME: Do you have a wheelbarrow?


ME: I have to get my boobs off the floor and into the room and then I need a forklift to put them in my bra to carry them home. What do you recommend to get them perky again? If you smash out cancer by compressing my boobs in the slide machine, does that mean the cancer breaks and dies or does it get spread easier?

SCRUBS LADY: Um. That's not how cancer works. This will give us a good picture of your breasts and we can screen for anything suspicious.

ME: That was worse than water boarding.

SCRUBS LADY: Um...I don't follow you.

ME: Thanks very much. Have a great day!

SCRUBS LADY: Ma'am. Here is a card to check on your results within 24 hours.

ME: Thank you! I got my boobs smashed and all I got was this stupid card. No t-shirt?

SCRUBS LADY: No t-shirt. Sorry.

All I can say after that is...ladies, SAVE THE TA-TAs!

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

RYN & Son

It isn't a problem for men.

It is a problem for single women.

And children.

Who are you?

I find myself at an odd crossroads for the first time. It didn't really dawn on my until this weekend while I was visiting a good friend, Lori,  over state lines. It's nice to be close to several state lines where I can just hop over and visit. And old friends makes me feel at home.

While sitting on her sofa, I looked up at the mantel and admired her family name framed in glass. It was very tasteful. It looked like this, only in letters and themes that went with their family interests, then it was framed in a nice black frame.
 I mentioned that I liked it very much and it was clever. Lori told me she had the kit and she could print the letters I needed for my family sign. Immediately, I got excited. Then just as fast I got deflated.
Who the FUCK am I?
What name would I be?
I couldn't use my maiden name because it doesn't include my daughter. I couldn't use my current name because it doesn't include my daughter. I couldn't use her name, because I am not that and it doesn't include me.
So who the FUCK are we?
I was perplexed. I mean, I got the *blink*blink* going on in my head which transposed to the eyes and I stared at Lori. Despite how many time she asked me what letters she should print, I could not tell her an answer. So, I opted out of the program. There won't be any names on my walls.
Then, this bothered me.
For the whole weekend.
Why? Because I overANALyze everything.
All my life, I have been very sure of myself. For 20 years, I was profoundly my maiden name and proud of it. For over half of my entire life, I was known as my first husband's name and proud of it. Then I got divorced. I kept his name until I married again. Then divorce strikes twice. FMITA. I don't think of myself as his name anymore, although I have it.
It is only because to change your name as a woman divorced and all that is the biggest pain in the ass. I have to bring all paperwork from the birth to the marriage to the divorce to the marriage to the divorce. Well fuck you, government. I have to bring more papers to prove who I am than an illegal alien needs to be in this country. I can only blame myself, for I got myself into this predicament.
When I was married, I was always proud to take the man's name.
But now I find myself  LOST.
If I was going to hang a name plate in the Harry Potter House, I would take the last three letters from my first name and the last three from my daughter's name. We are now known as:
So, fuck you, sign company.