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*

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.