Daddy Doesn’t Have Colonscospy, He’s Just Shy April 27, 2009

The title of the post has absolutely nothing to do with the post, it was something I heard on Keeping Up With The Kardashians that resulted in the explosion and permanent destruction of at least 12 of my brain cells.  I’m sure those 12 were the ones I needed to create a plan for ending world hunger, global warming, and visible panty lines. 

Crap!

I’m having a week. A week that can widdled down and explained in 2 words: 20 pounds.  My mother’s breast reduction surgery was rescheduled from last month to this week. Why the re-schedule? Because lifelong smokers have a tendency to die while anesthetized, so her doctor recommended she quit smoking  6 weeks before the surgery.  And did my medically trained nurse of a parent keep the little cancer sticks out of her face long enough to alleviate the constant back pain and fatigue brought on by a lifetime of carting humongous boulders?  Uh, no.  Hence the rescheduling of the surgery from last month to this week.  I had the date in my calendar but I received the pre-whimpering voice mail from her saying she wanted to hear my voice before she is slashed open on a cold metal table.

Before you think me callous and shallow, we must remember my history with my addict mom.  Addicts, at least the ones I share DNA with, are dramatic.  They’re black and white. This or that. Up or down.  There’s no middle of the road.  No calm waters.  Just chaos and absence. I offered to fly out there to help with the recovery, but she said no, no she’ll be fine.  My sister and her 4 daughters are there to help.  So I called her the night before and told her she’d be OK. That I loved her. And I do, in my way. The way that honors her as my lifegiver but also recognizes the thin line between anger and love.  I spent the day of the surgery fielding frantic calls and texts from my sister about nurse’s stations, surgeons, recovery rooms, sutures, bags, bandages, boobs.  Then I talked to her. And she was pissed.

Pissed because she was under the impression that the doctor would remove 10 pounds of boobs when, in fact, he removed 20.  20 pounds of boob.  20.  Pounds. Of. Boob. From one person.  20.  20 Pounds.  I’m fully incapable of separating my own feelings from hers and am reacting to this whole thing from a personal place of frustration and fear. Frustrated because, clearly, she had 20 pounds to give.  And I want to tell her that, but it sounds callous in the midst of her real, physical pain.  But I know how addicts weave sympathy into opportunity.  I fear the addict with no retirement could be putting on her opportunistic cap.

I’ve seen drug busts where they DEA confiscates 20 pounds of marijuana and I think “Shit, that’s a lot of freaking weed!” I can’t really visualize 20 pounds of boob.  The closest I have is when Oprah carted out fat in a little red wagon.  But instead of coming from her butt and tummy and hips and thighs, it’s all boob.  I just can’t get over it.  My sister says “Wow, she’s your size now!”  Umm, my mom outweighs me by nearly 120 pounds, so I am hoping she isn’t  exactlymy size.  But the reality is that having breast my size remove her shield. The 2 big thing she hid behind to protect her from the reality of  how depression, drugs, rehab, pain, sadness has manifested itself on her body.  I think that’s really what she’s pissed about but she’s not in the headspace to have that conversation. 

Neither am I, considering her issues have become mine. That I spend 20 minutes attempting to weigh my own fun bags.  Weighing your breasts is harder than it sounds, folks. Plopping them on the digital scale didn’t work, so I had to first weigh myself to get the scale registering numbers.  I tried laying down on the floor, but I couldn’t see the numbers.  So I put them on the counter and used an angled hand mirror to see them.  The numbers changed when I bent or straightened my knees.  Heaven forbid, I get an inaccurate number when weighing my own boobies, but I had to settle on range.  They’re somewhere between 4.6 and 5.4 pounds.  But I still can’t visualize having them be 20 pounds.  Which is exactly what I fear will happen if I get pregnant, as my mother is the 4th woman with children on her side to undergo this procedure.  

Today, I’m working out my shit before I can speak to her again.  So I can be supportive, empathetic, understanding.  So I can put the “That sucks!” and “Oh my goodness!” and “It’s only for a little while” in the appropriate places.

The One Where I Try To Use ‘Twatwaffle’ In A Sentence April 15, 2009

Remember when I said I’d return to posts that had flow, connected thought and sentences, possibly with spell checking and some attention to grammar?

Well, I lied. What do you expect? We are virtually strangers, people! We’ve never met in real life and all I owe you is a chance to chuckle as I obliviously walk into the glass doors Life had just Windexed . You want truth in advertising, then you gotta see the Shamwow! Guy. Sure, he bit a hooker in the face, but, y’know, I’m sure he used that Shamwow! to clean up her blood.

And you can blame Dingo for the whole ‘twatwaffle’ thing.

THE JOB is going phenomenally smooth. Mostly. I feel like a child who’s learning to walk for the first time and all my supervisors are hunched over me with their arms rounded in a safe distance as a stumble and step and clomp around in my big, white baby shoes. It sounds bad, but it’s pretty endearing. Because it’s a sign that I am supported, protected, and cared for. Mistakes are met with a little “Whoopsiedaisy!” and I’ve given license to screw up and not fear a pink slip or public spanking. My New Boss is destined to be lampooned. I can see a cartooned and construction-papered version of him on South Park or Saturday Night Life. The progeny of Big Gal Al and Stuart Smiley and The (male) Spartan Cheerleader, in the best possible way. He’s a hugger, he’s loud, and, oh boy, is he Southern. Plus, he has this awkward looking-over-your-shoulder-non-eye-contact thing that is precious. He’s not anyone I’ve ever met and I loves him for it. Of course I am a terrible judge of character and I’ll probably be telling y’all what a dillweed his in the next year. For now, he’s heaping praise on my like Thanksgiving gravy and is wholly devoted to my professional development, so I have no complaints. There is one hyper-like monkey of a professor who I’ll have to pop a few Zanax to work with, but overactivity is a welcome change from the morgue I used to work in. Consider that blessing counted. My students are not the socially awkward humanoids I’d expected. I have had one Smelly Cat and a couple I’ve diagnosed with Asperger’s, but that may be attributed to my reading of Look Me In The Eye during my lunch breaks. Yes, that book by Augusten’s Burrough’s brother. Yes, my Augusten Book Whore tendancies do extend to his immediate family. Don’t judge me, twatwaffle. (too soon?)

TENNIS/WORKOUT thus far has taught me that my one true motivation, more than fitting into my clothes and overall health, is hot men. Tomorrow, I will be getting up at o dark thirty (5:30am) for my second bootcamp class with this guy:

Then there’s tennis. Our actual instructor, whom I’ll call Brandon Lee or Hot Tennis Pro, started our lessons last Saturday. Again, take it with a grain of salt that I think he’s a great instructor so, in addition to my Saturday lessons, I also take his Thursday night class. Plus, I hit 480 balls with the ball-projecting machine on Sunday. It has nothing to do with the fact that he told me I can be Serena in 4 months or the fact that he called out Trophy Wife for taking his beginner’s class again or for generally dropping shit and fuck bombs in, what I perceived to be, a sport void of potty mouths and deviants. I fully imagine that he hot boxes between lessons. But the good stuff, not that crap that’s all seeds and twigs (What? I grew up with a drug addict. You pick this stuff up.) Because he’s a tennis pro. No, I’m drawn to Hot Tennis Pro because his front teeth are jacked the fuck up. And I loves a boy with flaws. Especially one I can relate to. I inherited my dad’s effed up bottom teeth, so, as soon as I got insurance, I Invisaligned that mess right up. It wasn’t until we took our engagement photos that I realized my front 2 teeth were crooked as well. So, Hot Tennis Pro and I are bonded in dentistry drama. Only he doesn’t know it.

DIET and FINANCES are none of your freaking business, twatwaffle! Quit being nosy! And feel free to take my hostility to mean I have neglected to achieve anything resembling balance or accomplishments in that arena. But I did buy these 2 shoes in black, and one was on sale. Feel free to applaud.

I MEET DOOCE/HEATHER B. ARMSTRONG at her book signing in Austin (thanks for the heads up A Little Left of Lost!). And I have a lady crush on her. She is now 2 notches below Angelina Jolie on my list. I had no idea that she had an accent. She is very funny and managed a very aggressive question from the audience like a champ. She had me THISCLOSE to considering pregnancy because she rocked patent leather stilletos during the reading, but fully lost my ass with her stories about hemorrhoids and having to creating her a new lady love reservoir with a tampon. Ewww.

THE GAYS THINK I AM HOT and don’t you forget it. Saturday night I ended up a gay bar with a somewhat motley group of gals and was ceremoniously tugged at by not one, but 2 gay men. And only 1 of them was hammered. (Me, taking a bow). I think it was the shoes. I was wearing the ones on the left.