One day this will all just be a distant mammary

Many thanks to my brother in law, Danny, for that little piece of witticism.

Warning:  this post is being written under the influence of narcotics.  Anything I say cannot be held against me.

So the surgery went fine, obvi.  This is not my ghost perched at my computer, my sexy anti-embolism stocking clad feet resting uncomfortably up on my bed, per Nurse Hub's instructions.  He takes those rules the surgery nurses gave him uber seriously.

It's pretty crazy, y'all, because as I was being wheeled to where the surgery would take place and the nurse was setting my IV up with some wonderful drug that made me say out loud "I'm beginning to feel something...zzzzzzz"...

...all of a sudden I woke up in recovery.

Anesthesia.  It's pretty much the bomb.

My eyes were goopy and so heavy it took ages to finally raise, but I noticed a different nurse standing beside my bed.  And Momma didn't raise no impolite fool so I slurred out "We haven't met before, how're you?"

And she had the nerve to laugh at me.  Hmpf.  At lease I know that even in my most druggiest state, I can still be non-wenchy.  Always good to know, that.

So it turns out that they removed 6.25 pounds from my bosomy area.  That's a lot, folks.  You need something to compare it to?  Go to your kitchen pantry and pull out your 5 pound bag of sugar.  I know, that's a lot, huh?

Now I'm all wrapped up in this really sexy ace bandage with crazy long tubes, full of goopy red goo.  I try not to dwell on it's contents.  Neither should you.

Also?  My soft gel laxatives haven't started working yet.  You probably shouldn't dwell on that either.  Perhaps I should avoid talking at all whilst under the influence of Vicatin.

On that TMI note, peace out and have a righteous Friday.

Toooomorrow! Tomorrow! I'll undergo anesthesia, tomorrow! I can throw my old bra awaaaay!! Sing with me, everyone!

Clearly I was meant to write song lyrics.

Yes, my friends.  The time has come.  I shall undergo the Big Scary Knife Or Whatever Doctors Use For Surgical Procedures These Days tomorrow.

Have I mentioned I'm a big fan of Unnecessary Capitalization?

So.  I shan't be on the innernets much in the following days or whatever.  I plan to perch on my sofa with a pile of books and cans of Diet Coke and jars of applesauce as I recover from a boobalactomy.  Nay, that's not the right word, but have I mentioned I am a big fan of Made Uppy Words?

Some of you have asked for before and after pictures.  I gulped quite a few times as I pondered this.  For Me and The Front of the Camera do not play well together.  Because She's Mean.  But I shall think about your kind requests and go through piles of pictures of Before The Knife.  Because I've got years of them, people.  Years.  Have I mentioned I've been wanting this surgery since I was 13?  Nay?  Well.  There you go.  An extra special glimpse into my life.

Wish me luck.  If you're the praying kind of folk, pray that I'm not one of those minute ratio of people who don't do well with anesthesia.  Or you know, die or whatever.  What, have I not mentioned I can be macabre?

Also, who wants to attend my Burn The Giant Brassieres Party?

It's Tuesday, and since we have no cable that means I get to choose between doing laundry or cleaning out my pantry for nighttime entertainment

Why, yes, that is the most obscure and boring title ever.  Thank you for noticing.

SO.

You're all perched anxiously on your seat to know the outcome of my *dum dum dummm* MAMMOSMOOSH.

I would be too, inquisitive reader, especially if I hadn't been through that glamourous experience before.

Well.  Let me just be frank and say-- man, I've never felt sexier.

This was so much worse than that time in 9th grade when my mother shouted to me through the dressing room door how to put on a bra.  It went something like this:  "Bend over and shake them into your bra!  Are you shaking them in?  Are you bent over?  Am I shouting loud enough for you to hear me?" (Why no, I'm not scarred by that experience, why do you ask?)

It was so much worse than the entire school bus turning to stare at my Rocky and Bullwinkle t-shirt after Landon Hessler announced I had big boobs.  So much worse than childbirth, with my legs stuck in stirrups and my mother in law and sister in law in the room, me trying desperately not to cuss out loud.  Also trying not to poop on myself.  

There is nothing, I repeat, NOTHING to make you feel sexier than seeing your own breast smooshed between two pieces of plastic.

Wait.  I take that back.  The last nail in the coffin of unsexyness is when the mammogram tech-person comes over and manhandles your breast until it fits correctly into the mammogram plasticky pieces.  THAT, my friends, is so much fun you'll want to do that every single year.  Just for fun.  Like going to the girly doctor.

So, yeah.  Unsexyness.

But thankfully, nothing abnormal or weird was in my bosomy areas.  So, I really can't complain.

Next week?  Surgery.

*dum dum dummmm*

I am feeling lucky

I've won TWO, count 'em, TWO giveaways this month, as well as Employee of the Month.  So I figure why not go whole hog and enter this smokin awesome giveaway by one of my most favoritist authors ever.  That'd be Maggie Stiefvater, for those who don't know, who don't listen to me yammer on about her all the live long day.

Also, real quick- so I had this dream?  And in it, Maggie S. and her buddy and fellow awesome zombie author, Carrie Ryan, were at my Costco.  Yes, that'd be the Costco in the booming metropolis of Louisville, Colorado.  Yes.  And they were shopping.  Yes.  Just work with me, people.  So, Mags and Carrie are roaming the concrete aisles of Costco when I happen upon them and become completely and utterly uncool and fangirly and swoon over all their oisome books.  And then I tell them all about my teeny work in progress.  Or "WIP", which is the writer's way of sounding all professionalish and importanty whilst talking about their works in progress.  I gotta sound the part, you know.  So I'm going all Swim Fan on them about my WIP and they're just staring at me.  And then Mags goes, "So what's your word count right now?"  And so I tell her.  And she and Carrie sort of glance at each other and give each other this look, which is all fraught with meaning and then Maggie tells me, "You know, I don't think you're cut out for writing."  Maggie and Carrie exit scene.

There you have it.  My dream/nightmare.  Which is what happens when you eat too much pizza before bed.  I am a cautionary tale, my friends.  I'm pretty sure in real life if I happened upon these two awesome ladies, we'd all be best friends and name our kids after each other and I'd be Godmother to at least two of my namesakes.

SO.  I am pining and jonesing to win something from Maggie S. and her newest giveaway which is where this post comes in.  Thank you, persistent reader,  for reading this insanely long giveaway entry thus far.  You are a gentleman and a scholar!

First things first.  So Maggie (I love how I just toss about her first name like we're all besties) is about to release her third and final installment of the Mercy Falls Trilogy.  Which is about werewolves and kissing.  Which you should clearly already know about or you must live under a rock.  Or we just don't hang out enough.  And so, feast your hungry eyes on this amazing video which is the Forever trailer, put together with the genius hands and brains of Maggie, herself.  It's pretty amazing.



Now, I talk about books quite a bit here on za blog, because they are my cocaine and life and hopefully future career.  This blog is really just to keep my fingers limber.  So let me reiterate.  If you've not read Shiver, Linger and don't know about Forever yet, please locate them henceforth immediately and get your eyeballs to those pages, folks.  They are awesome.  To purchase Forever, head to this link.

Carry on with your days and nights.  I'll be the one with a book in my hand, occasionally thinking about eating a piece of cake.

Happy Wednesday.

Monday is a royal pain. Except this Monday is pretty awesome. So it's like a royal pain that got a massage and is now happy.

So my friends, very little has been happening here at Chez Murphy.  Except for laundry.  That is a virus that never ends.

BUT, in my mind, my little book is slowly unfolding to be this super fun adventure starring a 16 year old girl named Deena.  Would you care to learn more?  Sure you would!  You're such a good sport.  Pull up a chair and I'll tell you more.  Unless you're Kim and have to stand.  More power to you, sister!  Also, I stood in the shower for 15 minutes today and tried to imagine how healthy my body was.  You have to read this to understand what I'm talking about.  Also, I'm sitting as I type this and I actually feel guilty.

Ok, so now that you're sitting/standing, let's get down to it.

So, there's this girl, named Deena and she dreams...

Yep.  That's all I'm going to tell you.  I know, I'm so mean.

Except, I'm going to include this one little scene, just for fun, for your reading enjoyment.  Unless you don't enjoy it and it's like reading punishment.  Either way, here it is:

***

Excerpt of Parasomnia, by Kearsie Murphy

I was heroically trying to cram biology facts into my sluggish brain one Thursday night, planning for an exam the next day when I heard a knock on my bedroom door.

“Yeah, Dad, come on in.”  Who else would it be?  Ed McMahon?  The President?  

He was hanging out by the door, holding onto the doorknob and kicking the doorjamb. An image of a child like version of my dad popped in my head, what he must’ve looked like as a little boy trying to hide the fact he stepped on the cat or broke his grandmother’s cremation urn or something.

“Dad.  You just gonna stand there?”  I sat up on the bed and drew my legs closer to me.  I even patted the bed a bit, like I would to attract a stray cat.

He ambled in slowly and perched on the edge of the bed.  Every few moments he would open his mouth like he was going to say something, only to snap it shut.  Ugh!  It was like having a conversation with a goldfish.

“Can I have a puppy?” I blurted out, just to break the tension.

“Huh, what?” His eyes jerked to mine, finally.  “Deena, honey, I don’t think we can handle the responsibility.  Caring for an animal takes time, a lot of time and--”

“Dude,” I interrupted, my hand outstretched to stop his flow of words.  “It was just to get you talking.  Carry on.”  I made a magnanimous gesture, like a king from his throne.  

“Oh.”  His eyes fell to his feet again.  Silence again.

Geez!  This was so painful.  I was feeling sorry for the guy.  “Sooo, that Ms. Shaddy...she’s pretty awesome, huh?  A hottie, too.”

A flush fell over my dad’s cheeks, making him look about ten years younger.  Full of life.  Kind of cute, in a gross, old man sort of way.

“Dad,” I said more seriously.  “It’s ok.  She’s great.  Mom would’ve liked her.  I like her.  So just go for it.”  

He glanced up at me again, kind of shyly.  “You’re ok with me...um...dating her?”

I shrugged one shoulder, trying to appear indifferent.  “Sure.”  If hanging out with Ms. Shaddy brought my dad a sliver of happiness, what was I going to do?  Stand in his way? 

He sighed with relief and patted my foot before getting to his feet again.  Just before he crossed the threshold I called out, “Just don’t forget to use protection.”

Ha!  The look on his face!

My cell phone rang just as the door shut with a click.  It was Hester.  No doubt calling to ask me something inane like “do you think Ethan and I should run away and elope and change our names to Bernadette and Clarence?”  

“Yo,” I said, tucking my cell phone between my ear and shoulder and propping open my textbook against my raised thighs.  

“Deena!”  She sounded panicked.  As per usual.  “I need a huuuuge favor!”  

Ugh.  The last time Hester needed a “huge favor” it was to drive her to get a bikini wax.  

“What is it?  I’m studying Biology right now.  Every moment I talk to you is one step closer to failing and it'll be all your fault.”  So I was being dramatic.  It was the only language Hester understood.

“It’s about Junior Prom,” she began.  My stomach was already plummeting.  “I’ve got to fly to New York for my great-aunt’s funeral and I’m going to miss Prom!”

“So what does this have to do with me?”  I asked, twirling my pen like a drummer twirls a drumstick.  I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.  I had an idea where this was going.

“I need you to go, of course!  I can’t let a perfectly good formal dress and Prom tickets go to waste!  And Ethan...he’ll be so disappointed to miss it…”

Seriously?  I let my head fall back towards the wall, solid thunk resonating in the room.  “Hess...I don’t want to go to Prom.  I told you that last week.  In fact, I’d rather go see the gynecologist AND get a root canal in the same day than go to Prom.”

“You’re ruining my life!” she wailed.  Melodramatic Female, table for one, I thought, rolling my eyes.  “And stop rolling your eyes!” 

I jerked my head up.  How the heck did she know I was rolling my eyes?  I searched around the room, looking for a nanny cam.  “How did you-”

“Ugh, Deena, you’re so predictable!  Look, I’ll be over in half an hour to drop off my shoes and dress and walk you through the plans, ok?  It’ll be fun!  I promise!  Did I mention you’re the bestest friend and I’ll love you forever and ever?  Bye!”  Hester’s voice turned from accusatory and wheedling to sugary sweetness.  Before I could protest again, she hung up.

I tossed my phone down on the bed and let my head thunk up against the wall again. 

Prom with Ethan.  Dressed up.  With Ethan.  Pictures and dinner.  With Ethan.  Dancing.  With Ethan.

In his arms.  

I tried not to shiver.

***

P.S.  Please don't steal my little excerpt.  Or make complete fun of it.  Or eat the last sleeve of Ritz crackers in my pantry. 

All systems go

You will all be pleased to know that insurance has granted permission for surgery.  I know, you were all perched at the edge of your seat, just waiting for this joyous news.  

We shall pick a surgery date soon.

But first, I must schedule *dum dum dummmm* ... a mammogram.  You know you wish you were me.

Also, before I go, let me share with you one of the funniest spam messages ever.  This came into my inbox from the last post.

You recall what I wrote last past, yes?  All about seeking a breast reduction?  Ok.  Well keep that in mind.  

You've raised two interesting points in this post.

Indeed I have, random spammer.  Indeed I have.  Oh, the irony.

Carry on with your weekend, kind readers.  

Bosom Buddies: The Beginning of the End

*My apologies to any and all people who read this that don't like discussions about breastesses and bosoms and chests and girly doctors.  Like possibly my mother in law.  I promise to not always write such smut.

So.

It's been...*carries the two, divides square root of a month, subtracts interest and sales tax*...a month or so since I last blogged.  Life.  She is a busy and demanding thing.

And so much is going on.  Not only do I work and feed the kids and wash the underwears, but my body has decided to make some demands.

No, this is not a fetching and catchy way of saying I'm pregnant.

Moving on.

See, I have this issue with my wrist.  Aaaaand long story short, it turns out I have rheumatoid arthritis and blah blah have to take medicines and blah blah have erosion happening in the structure of my bones in said wrist and blah blah blaaaaah.

But that's not what this post is about.  Clearly.  Because, even in my imagination, Bosom Buddies  rheumatoid arthritis.  Or maybe if it does if I'm influenced by the evil cake and Diet Coke.

So.  Back to the topic.  The Bosoms.

See, here's the skinny on my body.  Long ago, in the wee beginnings of my adolescence, I was generously endowed by the bosom fairies at the tender age of 13.  I did not make the walls jealous.  I was not called Flat Alice.  Nay.  So very nay.  I was so the opposite.  And ever since Landon Hessler shouted to the entire school bus "Kearsie's got boobs!", I've been planning on having breast reduction surgery.  Yes, for that long.  

But life has a way of tossing me obstacles like having babies and nursing said babies and not having health insurance and being broker than the Ten Commandments to keep such dreams of surgeries from happening.

Until now.

And so the process has begun.

And, because I'm me, and cannot have ordinary experiences of any kind, hilarity ensues and I must share it with you fine peoples.  Have I told you I love you?  Nay?  Well, I am full of the deep most fondness for you dear readers.  All three of you who still read The Drivels That Issue From My Fingertips.

Aaaand moving on again.

So.  When one goes to the doctor to pursue a breast reduction, here is what happens.  You go, you are told what to expect with the surgery, you speak to the surgeon, you are examined by the surgeon and he tells you "You're a keeper" and has giant googley eyes and throws phrases like **"gigantic mammoplasty" around.  Which makes your husband snicker.  Then, you go get your pictures taken by a helpful nurse and something like this takes place...

Setting:  Nurse's office.  You're half naked wearing a purple kimono and the nurse holds a giant camera. You try to act as though this happens all the time and are thus, blasé.  


Nurse:  Ok, if you'll just take off your kimono and stand up straight up against that wall.


Me:  Sure. (No big deal, I do this all the time.  Ahem.)


Nurse:  Now, if you'll just stand straight I'll...*snaps picture*...ok good.


Me:   Good.  (Must not make a dive for my kimono.  I am sophisticatedy, yes I am.)


Nurse:  Now just turn to your right.


Me:  (Must break the ice with the Nurse so I feel more comfortable)  So, is it bad that these are my first nudey pics?


Nurse:  *blushing*...Um.  If you'll just turn to the other side...*takes pic*


Me:  Man.  My husband would be mortified I just said that out loud.  (Oh, God why did *I* just say that out loud??)


Nurse:  ...Yes I can imagine.  Now face towards me again.


Me:   We're pretty vanilla at our house, you see. (blather blather blather)


Nurse:  *avoiding eye contact*  We're pretty straight laced too.  Ok, you can get covered up now.


Me:  (Phew.  Is this how porn stars feel? Also, how fast can I put this kimono back on?)


End scene.


**Also, your husband calls you Gigantor the rest of the evening.


Breast reduction.  It's lots of fun.  You should totally try it!  


Have a happy Friday, folks.