Last night I went with a group of gal pals to a murder mystery dinner tour and then afterwards to a local piano bar.  It was a rollicking good time with some sassy ladies who totally rocked the MILF looks.  FYI:  I wore a short blue/green dress with stacked heels, silver bangles, and lottsa, lottsa green eye shadow.  Even the lavatory  bar maid said I looked HOTTTTTT!!!!  And she would know after watching all those hoochie mamas stumbling into the piss pots...  Anyhoo...!  The French Canadian piano player and the Sex on Beach (dranks, y'all!) were just what the doctor ordered.

Speaking of docs... Today is the day I go listen to my "options."  Y'all know I hate technical talk.  And of course the doc is expecting me to come to the appointment with "questions."  Seeing as how I 've not given much thought to GDMF cancer,  I'm gonna have to pull one out of my ass so as not to appear to be an uninterested, uninvolved, slacker cancer patient-which is what I am, btw.  So this is my token question:

Can I have bionic boobs?  I want boobs that can rotate and zoom and upload pics to Facebook.  Oh, and I really need red infrared sniper boobs that can pout a bead on someone from a mile or so away-just to encourage folks to straighten up and fly right-or else.  Oh!  and how 'bout water gun nipple nozzles that squirt unsuspecting f*cktards in the eye???  But please, oh please, can I have a pair of disco titties that spin and change colors and play Stayin' Alive! Stayin' Alive!  Ah Ah Ah Ah  Stayin' Aliiiiivvvve!!!!...  Can I???  Please???  Oh, and I'd like a wireless remote with that too.

Now, if I can have all that,  I'm IN!!!

I'm counting my blessings!

Drama

Y'all know that I love drama: real drama,  made-up drama, speculated on drama, barely there drama.  I'm not picky.  It's probably the reason I watch every Housewives franchise on Bravo TV.  There is no drama too small or too inconsequential that could make me look away.  I'm IN, baby!  E'ry time.  So in the wake of receiving the "cancer" verdict, it was only natch'ral that I would feel entitled to some home made drama.  So I went there-gnashing, arm flinging rage was my drama of choice.  And my victim???  Why, Carnival Cruise Lines, natch'rally... 

And it went a lil sumpin like this:

"REFUND MY GODDAMN FUCKING $$$ BECAUSE I HAVE GODDAMN FUCKING CANCER!!!"

And the very nice lady, of course, is sorry to hear this (which makes me want to kick her in her GODDAMN FACE-natch'rally).  But this is just not company policy.  Can she schedule a cruise for me at a better time, perhaps?

"THERE IS NO FUCKING BETTER TIME THAN NOW TO GET MY GODDAMN MONEY, LADY!  FUCK YOU!  I HAVE GODDAMN CANCER!"

Conclusion:  So, it would appear that I will be taking a Carnival Cruise sometime in the future, should I care to use my credit.  For fuck's sake....

Tip of the day: The next time you loose your freaking mind, call Carnival Cruise Lines.  They are infinitely polite, amazingly conciliatory, and persistent in finding you the perfect cabin that can contain your FUCKING DRAMA.

C-word

Alright:  The biopsy is positive for cancer.  Dammit...

So taking the bull by the horns I decide to tell the boybarians right away.  I plan to say something eloquent, inspiring, hopeful... "I have breast cancer..." is all I can manage before bursting into tears.  They freeze.  Big kid has glassy eyes.  Lil brother stares wide eyed, alarmed.  They look from me to their dad.... breaths held.  The moment suspended.  And even I glance at Mr B who simply stands as a sentinel, resolute, not rushing the moment or pushing it forward with useless words.  We simply sit in this fragile moment-together.

I am sure there will be more of these moments.  And there has been.  As I explain to lil brother later, "I am mad and sad."  "At me?" he worries.  And I chuckle.  I assure him, no, no-he's off the hook-for now...

And indeed real life does eclipse the "big moments."  I did several loads of laundry today, emptied the dishwasher, and within 17 minutes of my major revelation, the boys were fighting, had spilled a cup of Ramen noodles on the carpet, and had already used 18 plastic cups that were spread on the kitchen counter...

A friend said to me today, "Our love stories and our tragedies are never as elegant as we plan." So true. So very, very true.

On Friday I will meet with the doc to discuss "options."  We caught this early (Mr B is feeling righteous and justified about this) and the cancer is small-a blessing, indeed.  Our little world is going to have a few bumps in the road, but we will take them one hurtle at a time.

Blessings-as always!

B Day...no, not my Birthday...

Biopsy Day:  It's noon and I am higher than a cat's ass, dancing in the kitchen as Mr B badly sings a rendition of...   ???   ....  Oh hell,  I can't even remember.  But it was groovy.  And I didn't want it to stop...  I can see why folks might be trolling street corners looking for a hit of this...  The doctor has given me a Valium to knock back my nerves a notch before harpooning my boob with a giant forked needle (this is what my brain is telling me-not the doctor). 

And FYI-I am not afraid of cancer.  I am terrified of needles though.  I beg Mr B to not make me do this. I am totally comfortable with not knowing.  But he stoically insists that we deal with this now.  Which figures since it's unlikely his boob is cancerous, and it's ever so easy to sign someone else up for a giant needle through her boob.  So I grimly threaten him,  "Just wait until I have to make a decision about your balls!  Oh, yeah!  No mercy, mister!  I'm gonna REMEMBER THIS."  He just compassionately squeezes my knee and makes the appointment anyway.  "Bastard!..."  I acidly think.  And btw:  I hate pink.  I am not wearing pink.  No matter what...

Mr B, who is my keeper while I'm high off my ass, is taking his job seriously.  "Hey, I watched this show about a man with a 160 lb scrotum that he carries around in an upside down  hoodie, and his home health nurse, her name is Precious, comes by to wash it everyday..."  And he graphically goes into detail how Precious has to wash out the penis folds that are inches deep..  Gah!  I thought my job was bad...  And as planned, I am revolted and oddly amused and cannot stop thinking about a 160 lb scrotum... 

Finally, it's time to go, but I'm piddling around the house picking sh*t up per my usual, putting on more lip gloss.  "Goddammit! Get in the car!"  Mr B barks.  "...Please???"  he amends.  Looks like I'm not the only one nervous about boob harpooning...

Once there:  I have on my comfy pink (sigh...) slippers, yoga pants, and open in the front gown.  I take one more look in the mirror to check on my make-up.  "Damn!  That green eyeliner is really working for me,"  I think, before putting on my sleep mask which a wise friend has given me.  If you want to lead an ornery old mare out of a burning barn, you'd better put blinders on her...

A few hours later:  It is done.  I have survived.  I am bleary eyed and trussed up like a turkey with a cold pack on my boob, but my make-up still looks good and the green eyeliner is still working for me.  Triumph!

Once home:  The boybarians cautiously check on me, so I tell them that the doctor has special boob orders for them:  if/when the boob falls off, big kid is to pick it up and toss it to lil brother who will hold it up for a pic while his brother uploads the picture to Facebook.  Of course, everyone will LIKE the pic, and they will be boob heroes!  They are horrified. Naturally...

And y'all, for what it's worth, I am feeling strangely blessed by this lil life hiccup.  The support of my friends and family, well, it's enough to make even an ol' belligerent battle axe like me blink back a tear or two...  And honestly, at least I don't have a 160 lb scrotum to carry around in a hoodie.

Blessings to you ALL!

Stuff

Big kid says to lil brother:  "You should write a book and title it STUFF MY BRAIN TELLS ME. Probably be the best fiction book ever."

Sarcasm is totally the domain of 14 year olds.  They OWN it.

We're off to see the new Dark Knight Batman later.  Christain Bale OWNS this smoldering role.  He's one of my fav super heroes.  Probably because I think he's a tortured soul in real life.  Love, love, love his craggy Highlander look, too.  Can't wait to be alone with him and my popcorn bucket in the dark!

Life in the Fast Lane

Mr B and I were having a parenting argument the other evening:

... blah
....blah blah
... blah blah blah

Mr B summed it up this way:  I'm MS RIGHT and he's MR WRONG.

And that pretty much closed the barn door on that.

...evil grin!...

Cra-Cra Part Deux

I had to run an errand at the butt crack of dawn yesterday, and on my way through town I spot a homeless man sitting on a guard rail smoking a cig.  And I think to myself, "Now that's the life..."  Detoxing is kinda still happening.... mostly.

Later that afternoon I call the therapist for an appointment-after coming home from the pharmacy with a crate of tampons. Yeah.. I know-Midol is cheaper.  Anyhoo.... "Yes, I will take the next available appointment!"  It's not like I need another person to tell this same 'ol same 'ol BS too, or even that I'm searching for answers or clarity.  I just need a pill.  And the b*tch had better hand one over....  OR. ELSE.

In the meantime Mr B keeps running bubble baths the size of Lake Michigan for me and doling out my tightly controlled daily ration of "peace and happiness"-keeping one eye me at all times and never turning his back to me.

Smart man, I think.

Follow Up

OK.  That last post was a lil weird.  Even for me-who's living it. I would like to reassure you that the smoke is clearing over here at BB headquarters and my bouts of Silence of the Lambs is getting (slightly) better.  Now I understand why Hannibal Lechter liked eating spleens... with foie gras.  Sigh...

In order to help clear my brain, I have been trudging off to my local YMCA for zumba classes with a couple of gal pals.  Let me tell you what...  You cannot be a Serious Sally while taking these hip thrusting, pelvic grinding classes.  And, ahem...I'm afraid I've been slacking a lil in this department...  Anyhoo!!!  Of course, there is the whole awkwardness as you are are an entire 8 count behind everyone else while huffing and humping and fist pumping.  But the Latino-fabulousness of this class is just so joyful!  So, I plan to continue this embarrassing social experiment to purge my demons while humping my way to happiness (let's hope Mr B doesn't read this post...)

Y'all have a good day!

Battling Demons

I have been arm wrestling demons over here at Blither Blather headquarters, and it hasn't been pretty.  About three months ago I picked up a nasty lil habit-in the form of Marlboro Lights 100's.  Sigh.... I know (eye roll)...  That's sooooo 10th grade.  But y'all, I loved every click of the well oiled lighter, that sweet first suck and draw, and every pull and puff thereafter that transported me into the hazy ether known as WhogivesaF*ckitland-a lovely, idyllic country of peace and tranquility.

'Moking is my siren call.  She is an Indian princess floating down the sacred river...  the mermaid's sigh...  the dark eyed Lilith casting that tempting glance over her bare shoulder...  the opium den madame reclining on a silk couch with legs sprawled and robe hiked up with one hand in a bowl of sugared figs while the other hand tenderly strokes the hookah pipe...

Yeah.  I have a problem.  Clearly.  So I pulled the plug...  and sobbed like a forgotten child all day on Sunday, paralyzed with grief.  On Monday I was an empty, numb shell with screaming, razor sharp nerves.  Tuesday I was brittle and haggard and calculatingly vicious.  The haze had lifted and I could see clearly for the first time in months...  I was living in a F*cktardnation...and Mr B was THE KING of the F*cktards...  By Wednesday, the pain and longing was a dull, tender throbbing with spikes of agony. 

And so the world turns...  Mr B finally insisted that I shower, gently strapped me into the car, shoved sunglasses on my face, and silently drove me through town-a bag of loose bones with no will or thought or soul...  And whatdoyaknow???  People were still doing irritatin' sh*t out in the every day world-and I could feel the imperceptible thaw and shift as my reptilian brain began to be mildly, slightly.... interested.  So Mr B bought me an iced tea, and I sipped that lemony, caffeinated goodness waiting, just waiting...

Several months ago I had the grand idea of actually executing some of those fab ideas from my Pinterest food boards and trying some new recipes.... Well, I have been idly adding more pins to those boards. But as for actually rolling up my sleeves and pulling out a food processor.. Well, let's just say I've been saving the pizza coupons in the mail fliers. Please don't return hoping to see some cute pics of adorable meals gracing the Blither Blather dinner table. C'est a vie...

Mr B has made a laundry request: "You don't have to do the laundry," he wisely clarifies. "Just move the piles so we don't have to climb over them in the hallway." A reasonable, yet unlikely, request...

Hot and Bothered

Well, I did indeed attend the Million MILF March to see Magic Mike with a group of saucy ladies.  The kid at the popcorn counter (with raised brow) asks us what movie we're going to see...  And of course I pipe up, "Spiderman!"  "Yeah...umm-hmmm," he smirks.  I guess all the make-up and bangles gave me away, so caught in an embarrassing lie, I wisely deflect. "My friend is making me go see Magic Mike."  And I am positive he believed me.

Of course, MM is er'ything it's hyped up to be-writhing butts and pulsating penises for sure.  I kept waiting (and hoping) that one of those douche bag male strippers was gonna get a cap in the ass or shot in the head.  We all know that's when the movie really gets good.  But (sigh...), no such luck.  Just more writhing of clean shaven butts and jutting penises...  But I am gonna confess that Channing Tatum was, well, adorable and even endearing as he fought the epic internal battle over whether "to be or not to be" a Miami stripper.  Shakespeare would have approved.  ...Seriously!

Although the male eye candy in MM is impressive (and unrealistic),  at the end of the day men shaving their legs and wearing gold panties... is just not, well... manly.  Today at the fish fry as I check out the men in khaki shorts and polos holding a cold beer while keeping one eye on their pesky kids and the other on their unpredictable/needy wives as they man those fryers and hold down the fort...well, now that's gonna be hotttt.

But at the end of the day, and to be fair to the spirit of MM, every generation deserves a Marky Mark.  And folks, that's hotttttt!!!

Enjoy the show!!!

The 4th of July was strangely quiet in our hood since our city sensibly outlawed fireworks due to the drought.  I really missed watching the redneck firework show with folks blowing off fingers and losing an eye, all in the comforts of your own front yard.  Even the boybarians are asking when it's gonna rain again...  Nevertheless, we grilled dogs and burgers and made it to the pool for a restful and uneventful 4th.  No complaints.

I am reading a fabulous book right now:  Diana Gabaldon's The Scottish Prisoner.  It is wonderful and rich in language (Gaelic, French, etc.), impressive vocabulary (e.g. pusillanimous!), historical detail (1700's), and political intrigue surrounding those pesky and rebellious Scottish Jacobites who refuse to be put to the sword by the ruthless English.  I especially love the male protagonist, the earthy Scottish Jamie Fraser who is a man to be reckoned with-if you dare.  The opening scene of Jamie in the barn desperately missing Claire is, well, hotttt.....  Puts 50 Shades to shame, frankly-without gory bodily fluids, I might add.  At one point in the novel Jamie has to confess to a monk about his temptation for fornication and the monk, in all his wisdom, prescribes, "Cold baths.  And reading..."  Mr B just rolled his eyes when I helpfully suggested this remedy. 

Later today I'm off to Target to find some turquoise nail polish and a few MILF accessories for my walk of shame to see Magic Mike as well as to rethink my wardrobe options for a fish fry on Saturday.  Not sure how MILF'ish one should be for greasy hush puppies, But I know the competition is gonna be stiff ... and stylish.  I am carefully mulling my fashion statement...

Well, I'm off for my morning constitutional with the four footed Good Child. 

Stay cool...and pray for rain!

BOOB Report

Although I am walking around with a mysterious lump in my BOOB that has resulted in unplanned (and irritatin') doctor's visits, no one over here at Blither Blather headquarters really seems to be all that concerned (i.e. interested) in my BOOB issues-except Mr B-who is trying to prescribe for me some ridiculous sex'shal therapies that got nuthin' to do with nuthin'.  So feeling beleaguered by all the oblivious penises at my house, I rally the gal pals into prayer circles but tell them to hold off on casserole deliveries seeing as how I'm not quite dead... yet.  Anyhoo, Mr B is with me at the doc's office, and I am on the table with the gown open in front, bracing myself for whatever the universe is throwing my way, when my phone rings.  Big kid is on the other line and wants to know when I will be done.  "What's taking so long?" he queries before asking me if I can pick up his friend on the way home because they have some video gaming to do.    Clearly, I need to get my priorities in order.  Sigh... 

Once home, I over hear Mr B on the phone in the kitchen.  "Yes, I'm calling about my wife's vagina-gram.  Sure...yes, she can answer some questions for you..."  And I am incredulous that any one man on the planet can be SO PREPOSTEROUSLY STUPID AND F'N IRRITATIN'!  I want to punch him in the head as he hands me the phone and chases me through the living room to discuss my "vagina gram"  with an imaginary caller...  sheesh!

Later I find lil brother curled up in my bed watching cartoons, and I'm thinking I've finally found a concerned citizen who might wanna have a BOOB convo with me.  "Hey, lil brother!   Can I tell you about the BOOB procedure where the doctor is gonna stick a giant needle all the way through my BOOB?"  I earnestly ask, hoping that bizarre medical stuff will appeal to his macabre 9 year old sensibilities.  "Nah..."  he shrugs, eyes glued to TV.  So I resort to my final tactic: pinning him down and furiously tickling him like it's Judgement Day.  "SAY YOU CARE ABOUT MY BOOB OR I WON'T STOP!"  And he is a shreiking, sweating, red faced, desperate, bucking bronco of a wild man.  But I show no mercy until he jackknifes and shrieks, " I CARE ABOUT YOUR BOOB!"  At which point I hop off the bed and look back over my shoulder as I hustle on out the door, "Good.  Now that I know you care, I'm gonna post what you said on Facebook."

And I am certainly feeling the love now...