OK, I am. They're here.
My personal fave stanza:
All this chitter-chatter, chitter-chatter, chitter-chatter 'bout Shmatta, shmatta, shmatta (note: author's emphasis on the shmatta-ing) -- I can't give it away on 7th Avenue This town's been wearing tatters (shattered, shattered) Work and work for love and sex Ain't you hungry for success, success, success, success Does it matter? (Shattered) Does it matter? I'm shattered. Shattered.
Somebody needs a hug.
I followed a car into work this morning with the following license plate: WMDNTRNK
Think about it.
Perhaps the following bumperstickers, affixed to the aforementioned car, would help you decipher it:
"Kerry/Edwards 2004," "Mission (Not) Accomplished," and "Sorry I wasn't in church, I was busy practicing witchcraft and becoming a lesbian."
I thought it was funny. Pretty daggone ballsy too.
Did I hear someone ask me how my mammogram went the other day? Yes? Well, bless your heart, I didn't think you cared.
It went just fine, really, once I traversed the open road the middle of god-knows-where to find the weensy medical center that houses the mammography machine. Why they have one in the middle of Franklin County is beyond me, but perhaps there a big call for that kind of thing up there. Farmer's wives, and all that.
Anyhow, after I got registered and chatted up the gal at the desk (learning that she has PCOS and is 16 years younger than her husband and that they're trying for a baby and it's been three years already and the injections last cycle caused a bloom of 23 follicles and a softball-sized ovary), I was invited to go back to radiology, where I waited in the tiny anteroom with 2 translucent old ladies for at least10 minutes while the ladies in the back finished up their chat about something to do with wet back slaps or something that sounded like that ( I couldn't hear very well, with the rushing of blood in my ears from being pissed off at the wait).
After killing some time watching grainy teevee reception of some soap where an old guy was welcoming his granddaughter back to the family (she called him "grandfather," ick), I was called back and invited to disrobe from the waist up and don a lovely gown ("open in the front, hon!"). The gown was made for someone half my size, or about the size of a 12-year-old boy. No matter, pretty soon what was being barely covered would be out in full view for all and sundry to see.
And maneuver and manhandle and massage like they were slabs of raw meat.
"Lift your arm, hon," "Step toward the machine, hon," "Put your other arm under your other breast, hon," "Keep your chin back, hon," "now relax, hon."
The plastic plate descends, and my boob, once a modest D, balloons outward to somewhat frightening proportion, being smashed and pressed into x-ray penetrable submission. 2 views for each boob, and we're done.
Didn't even hurt.
Which is why they had to do it again.
Apparently, I have "dense breasts." Which means that the smooshing action had to be turned up to 11 to get those feeb x-rays to zing all the way through my poor mashed titties.
Holy crap - the ballooning was impressive. Pamela Anderson impressive. Anna Nicole SMITH impressive. Damned impressive. And only a little bit painful.
During the second process I chatted up the tech a little, you know, to distract myself, and found out that she only wears gloves if there's an "open or weeping lesion." Sweet hoppin baby jeebus, I did not need to know that, and hoped to heaven that they autoclaved the plates before putting my ta-tas on them. I asked her very few questions thereafter, but did find out that she's mammographied a lot of men (perhaps a few of which had lesions, but I already knew better than to ask that question).
Anyhow, after the maneuvering and smashing and ballooning part of the show was over, the tech let me look at the developed films. Which, irritatingly, show a curious little lump or 2.
And so, goddammit, I might have to go through it all again if the radiologist is the suspicious type.
Here's where my inner Polyanna takes over and goes "oh, hey, the films you had done almost 9 years ago looked a lot like that. It'll be FINE! Sure thing, ya hey." (because my inner Pollyanna? Is apparently a little bit Swedish).
Until I hear otherwise, I'm taking her word for it.