Post-op

I'm not really sure why I feel compelled to share stories of my bosom and the myriad insults and indignities it has endured. Perhaps this topic choice has to do with a date I went on recently. Hmm. Something to ponder.


Anyway.


Oh, stop it. We've all had a date who reminded us of a mammography machine. I'll tell you about it later.


No, later.


Moving on.


After the Rob-ectomy was performed [and sadly, no breast lift was done at the same time] I went about my business. It wasn't terribly exciting, just the usual blah blah blah of life and work; I just wasn't encouraged to play tennis for a bit. Not that I play tennis. I'm just saying. Everything was fine until a few days after the procedure. There was redness. And a bit of heat. And, well.... There was a bit of swelling. No, not the fun kind. Just on the one side. Yes, I was listing to starboard.


I'm sure you know, dearest invisibility, that this is a classic billboard for post-operative infection. I wasn't worried about it. Of course, I also wasn't too worried when Robbie could have been malignant, so maybe we shouldn't place to much weight on my level of concern. But I knew such a situation was relatively commonplace and in this day and age, an easy fix. I called the surgeon's office and learned that I could be seen by a surgical PA [physician's assistant] who just happened to be in my building's walk-in clinic for the day.


Now, I'm sure you also know that when a woman is...listing, the medical provider must examine...the whole darn prow. It's not enough to peek at one boob to determine if swelling has commenced. You gotta check out the whole rack. For propriety's sake, the PA, whose name is John, had with him a medical assistant, whose name is Rochelle. Rochelle is also a dear friend of mine. We had the exam. Antibiotics were prescribed. I was given privacy to redress myself. All very ho-hum stuff. Then I left the exam room and stopped to chat with Rochelle, and this is where it got entertaining.

Rochelle told me that she didn't think I had caught it, but after leaving the exam room with the PA, she'd said to him, in what I can only assume was a gentle and loving fashion, "John. When you're performing an exam on a woman and she's naked to the waist, don't start the conversation with, 'Well, I'm not impressed.'"

My dear friend was correct, I hadn't caught it. And even through my shrieks of laughter, I knew what John meant. Plus, I work in the same health care system, so we weren't too worried about my feelings being hurt. After regaining enough control to share this delicious kernel of silliness with four other coworkers and another physician, PA John came out of the office area to face the roars of laughter. He was a wee bit pink in the cheeks, but was a good sport about it.

A few days later, I had the follow-up exam with the surgeon. Unable to resist sharing, I told her what John had said. Let us remember, this is the surgeon who, when I brought her chocolate cupcakes, laughed delightedly upon hearing, "You're about to cut into my breast. I want you to like me." After the punchline, I can only imagine what people in the hallway outside my exam room thought. When she walked me down the hall, we ran into John, who had just finished up with another patient. My surgeon grinned and said, "Yeah, I looked at her, too, John. I wasn't impressed, either."

You have to love a good sport. On my birthday card, PA John signed his name beneath the words:

Happy Birthday, Lisa Marie. And I'm still not impressed.

Now, when I say obvious....

Yesterday, while working in another lab, I noticed that there were two urinalyses ordered on the same patient.

"Why are there two UAs ordered on Jane Doe?" I asked indignantly, almost as if it were a personal affront.

"Uh..." James the float answered. "Are they both from today?"

"I think so. One's a stat order." I snorted derisively. "As if they're going to get the results that much faster."

"Well." James paused, thinking hard. He may have scratched his head; I was looking the other direction. "It's probably a duplicate order."

....

....

....

Ungh. Sigh.

"Yes, dear. I think I figured that one out on my own."

I know, I know...

I'm a terrible blogger. Disappearing for weeks at a time. Yes, of course. Get the stick. I accept the beating as well-deserved.

No, I will not wear the little outfit! Sheesh!!

Anyway.

I'm toying with the idea of doing what my dear friend Karina did, and that's a 30-day blog challenge. A blog a day for thirty days. I could do that, right? Right?

Oh, shut up.

If I did do such a thing, despite lack of support and encouragement from certain unnamed people, it would coincide nicely with another writing goal I have for my current work-in-progress. Wouldn't that be marvelous?

The downside that has planted itself firmly in front of me, and is glaring at me with its arms folded across its skinny chest, is that some of the blogs that will get published might be a bit...unfiltered, shall we say. I cannot tell you the number of times I have typed up a blog, saved it, walked away from it and discovered upon my return that some maniac was obviously typing away. Yes, some of these trains of thought have slipped through the filters and crashed into all of our computers with such a vengeance that tiny little disaster teams in itty-bitty hazmat suits were called in. At this point, however, there's really nothing to be done about this tragedy of a trainwreck except call the local news station.

Oh, what the heck. What are they going to do if this sucks, take away my birthday? Pfft! And we won't call it a blog challenge. We'll call it...a nice chat. Yes, we will. Yes, we will! Because I said so.

All right, then. Let's chat about...mammograms!

As I have mentioned before, my very first mammogram didn't have the results I might have expected. I expected my usual round of boring information, "Everything's fine, nothing unusual, see you next year." This did not occur.

I had my very first mammogram after doing the 3-Day Walk for breast cancer. I mean, jeeze, who wouldn't, after that? Plus, I was 41. It was time. So I went in and experienced my first boob squish. Ooo, such fun! Hard plastic plates squeezing my grumpy boobs into pancakes. Yay!!!

What's that? Oh, the grumpy comment. I always feel my girls look depressed. I do. I say to them, "Would you perk up, already? People are talking to you!" But there they stay, stubbornly and morosely staring at the ground.

What to do?

Anyway, after that initial squish, I got the call from the breast center at the local hospital. Everything was fine, they said. There was no reason to worry. But, gosh, they just wanted me to come in again and be resquished to be absolutely positive that everything was fine and there was no reason to worry. My thought upon hearing this?

"Oh, my God. If I have breast cancer, I'm going to have to do that f__ing 3-Day Walk again!!!"

Yes, this was my primary concern.

So I had another squish. And I had an ultrasound immediately afterward, with an ultrasound tech who had evidently been trained never, never, NEVER to use the word "mass" to a patient. Bless her heart.

US tech: [remarkably cheerful tone] Okay, let's just take a quick look at this doohickey!
Me: [struggling not to snicker] All right.
US tech: [after a period of quiet, but still, REMARKABLY cheerful] And now we're going to Dr Whatshisface take a look at the doohickey!
Me: [remembering to respect this woman's adherence to training] Uh huh.

So the radiologist came in, a man who did not include the word "doohickey" in his conversation. He was mildly disappointed that my mass was not a cyst and would in fact require a needle biopsy. I think he was also a bit surprised that I said those words, "needle biopsy," before he could.

Before we go further, let me say, I am delighted, nay, thrilled that numbing medication was injected before the needle biopsy occurred. I would hated to have that procedure performed without it. But....YOWZA. Ow ow ow ow OW!

Now, as we all know, my mass [yes, I can call it that] was not cancer, was in fact a myofibroblastoma. I called it Slacker Tumor, because unlike cancer, it had no real goals. In the cancer family, this is the adult child who won't get off the couch, get a job and move out. My coworker named it Robbie after her worthless ex-son-in-law.

I did have to have a complete Rob-ectomy, which was super fun. After the surgeon felt me up and couldn't locate Robbie by touch, she instructed me to go back to the breast center before the surgery, have the folks there jam a wire into Robbie, then drive to the surgery center and yank him out.

All technical terms. Feel free to write them down.

So today, when I was bopping around the radiology department and happened to mention to Liz, the WonderTech, that I needed to see her for my four-months-later yearly squish, I felt a little flutter. After all, in my mind, mammogram = several squishes + ouchy bits + Rob-ectomy.

I have a skewed frame of reference.

Strange. You don't look surprised.

Stop me before I bake again.

Stephanie, the wonder coworker, has left me.

Okay, she didn't leave me, per se. She found a job that suits her life better and makes her happier. And I want that for her, I do. You would have been so proud of me, dear invisible friend. I only whined a little.

So. I have a new coworker. She worked her first weekend and, to make things easier, I was asked to work with her. No problem. Well, not much of one. Yes, it meant giving up a fair chunk of my off-time, but if it kept all running smoothly during a time of transition, it was worth it. Yesterday, she mentioned that today is her birthday.

Sigh.

Yes, this meant baking.

Now, you know I love to bake. I already had something on the books to make that day, though. We'll get to that in a minute.

I called Roommate to see if I needed to pick up anything at the grocery store in addition to the small items I would need for the day's baking, and Roommate reminded me that I also needed to make shortbread for her mother. [Roommate's mom decided to give pretty coffee cups as Christmas gifts and wanted shortbread to fill the oversized mugs. My shortbread, to be exact.] The way Roommate reminded me of this was too precious for words.

Roommate: What do you need to make shortbread?
Me: Butter, flour and sugar.
Roommate: Do we have that?
[small pause]
Me: Yes.

Yes. We have flour, butter and sugar in the House of Obsessive Baking. Followed closely by eggs, heavy cream and baking cocoa. In fact, if I am out of flour, it pretty much is the end of the world and we need to watch out for those four guys on horseback. And really, when I say that, I mean watch out. Look both ways before crossing the street. 'Cause whammo! Outta nowhere, here they come. And rude...! Rude. Every last one of them. Like, ohhh, you're the Pale Rider, you're such a tough guy. It would kill you to use a freaking turn signal????

Yes, yes, I digress again. One would think you'd be used to it by now.

Anyway. Baking.

When I got home, I started with the shortbread for Roommate's mom. [It's the cream-colored cookie in the picture above.] Fortunately, this is an incredibly easy cookie to make. [See ingredient list as previously mentioned.]

Then Roommate reminded me that she had received a "to die for" pumpkin bar recipe, and we should try it. I say unto you again, WE should try it. We. Much like "we made a horse cake." Remember how that turned out?

Actually, it wasn't quite like the horse cake situation. In this case, by "we," Roommate meant "Lisa." And so....



The pumpkin bars were not to die for. Oh, they're quite nice, really. Good texture. Pleasant moisture level. And thanks to my first experience hand grating nutmeg, fairly flavorful. But to die for? I think not.

These things completed, I moved on to the birthday cake. I considered making my go-to chocolate cake, but in the end, was compelled to make the peach-cinnamon-ginger bundt cake you see below, served with my cousin Dana's apricot syrup.




Pretty, huh? I have a Heritage Bundt pan I got from Williams-Sonoma. Pretty. So pretty. Of course, one must use half a can of Baker's freaking Secret to keep the pretty cake from sticking, but hey! Such is the price for beauty. Or so my friends who have had plastic surgery tell me.

And if it doesn't come out perfectly, well....God bless cousin Dana and her apricot syrup.

It was at this point I started on my last baking foray of the afternoon/evening and Roommate announced she was done washing the dishes I dirtied for the day. This isn't unusual or unreasonable, as I tend to use many, many dishes as I cook or bake. Fortunately, I was able to clean up the rest myself. This was not difficult. What was difficult, however, was the last item on my list.

French meat pie.

For this, I blame Guy Fieri.

If you are unaware, dear invisibleness, Guy Fieri hosts a show on the Food Network called "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives" and now and then, shows his viewers a dish I cannot resist trying to make. Such was the case with French meat pie.

I paged through a few of my ninety-five billion cookbooks after seeing this dish made on television and found a few variations on it. Then, emboldened by the first real success I had making pie crust for Thanksgiving dessert, I gave it a try and brought my efforts to work.

So many lovely guinea pigs at work.

One guinea pig---ahem, colleague in particular raved about the pie. So much so, in fact, that another coworker [who is also a dear friend] asked me to make this nice [albeit raving] woman a meat pie of her own. And, as this is essentially meat loaf with a crust, I said okay.

I said okay. I said sure. I did. I have no one to blame but myself.

Again, siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

So in the spirit of the season, let's sing together...

I baked

Four dozen shortbreads

Three zillion pumpkinbars

Two pounds of bundt cake

And a French meat pie for Mer-e-diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiith!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh, ouch.

A dear friend sent me a picture message just recently, showing off her brand-spanking-new microdermal piercings. On the back of her neck. Yes, my invisible pal, you read that correctly. On the back of her neck.

Now, before you shriek and run away, or turn a delicate, pale green, like the fragile leaves of spring, let me tell you a tiny bit of the information she shared with me. A tiny bit, don't be scared. I won't go on and on.

Was that an eyeroll? Mmm. I see. I'll let it go this time, but if it happens again, I might have to unleash The Look. You know what I'm talking about. Yes, you do. Yes, you do!


Anyway. Piercings.


Evidently, a microdermal piercing is a little different than the usual kind; the puncturing jewelry doesn't go in to one bit of skin and out another. No, no. One end gets rammed into the skin and then that end is screwed into a bit that lives under the skin. At least, I think this is what my friend told me. It's difficult to be sure, as I was screaming and rocking back and forth while she described this to me.


No, I wasn't really doing that. Ha ha ha.... I would never--okay, it was close. I nearly did that.

But back to my friend. She survived her piercing experience, has two new pieces of body jewelry [which makes her very happy] and claims she's done with getting any more piercings for a while. As I have seen the additional body jewelry she does sport, I had this to say in response:

Uh huh. Sure. No, I believe you.

Now, I appreciate that this is something my dear friend loves to do. And it is her body. I'm not judging. It's just that I have a different frame of reference. I look at piercings and tattoos and scarification and making the holes of piercings bigger and all I can think is OWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

But that's me. [Dreadful grammar, I know.]

On a daily basis, people who come into my lab to have blood drawn inform me, in dire tones, that they do not like needles. As if this might be news to me. As if I expect them to like it. Who likes getting blood drawn? And would we want to know them?

I think not.

There are people who don't mind the process, I admit it. Delightful creatures. But nobody actually likes it. What amazes me, however, are the people who inform me of their distaste of the process...while dripping piercings and being covered with tattoos. At this point, I am less sympathetic than usual.

Patient: I'm not very good at this.
Me [after spotting a full "sleeve" of tattoos]: Really?
Patient: Yes. I can't stand needles.
Me: Uh huh. And this was done with Magic Marker?
Patient: Well, no, but it's different.

Yes, it is different. I stick the tip of one sterile, single-use needle into a vein, blood flows out, and voila! We're done. Your average tattoo artist repeatedly injects ink into skin, sometimes using bundles of needles, in a process that can take hours. Different. Yes.

I'm not saying blood draws don't skeeve me out as much as the next person. I'm a wuss. I admit it. I was 35 when I got my ears pierced. Roommate forced me to come to the mall--well, okay, not forced. But she insisted. They gave me a teddy bear to hold. Roommate held my other hand [later claiming I "nearly broke" her hand---pfft!] and a six year old, in the store with her mother looked at me as if to say, "Jesus, lady. Get it together." It was mortifying. It was painful. And I will never, ever, EVER get anything else pierced in my life, much less anything tattooed. I would rather get blood drawn any day.

Microdermal piercing. [shudder] Really? Gah.

Joy in Portland

You know how people tell you where to go? No, no. Silly invisible friend. Not that way. One mentions that she's headed to Portland, for example, and if one is very lucky, a flurry of information drifts down on one's head, like happy snowflakes. But warm. And not so wet.

This is what happened to me. After hearing about a little place called Voodoo Doughnut, I had to go. And you know...they're correct. Good things do come in pink boxes. Heh.

This, for example:


This is the Dirty Old Bastard. On top of an insanely fresh chocolate doughnut, crushed Oreos and peanut butter drizzled resides. Or it did. Now, it's hanging out in my cellulite, with plenty of little friends.

Voodoo Doughnut also makes incredible apple fritters, a tropical delight called Mango Tango, a maple bar with BACON, yes, BACON, and countless other delicious treats. My favorite, however, is this gift from heaven:



It's called the Cock & Balls. It's a huge, light, raised set of doughnuts, slathered in chocolate and [naturally] filled with cream. It took me two days, but I ate it all.

Yes, I did.

Top Ten What?

Oh, my darlingest invisible friend. Sometimes, in this wasteland that is my life, bounty appears. I never see it coming. I never know from whence it comes. But come, it does, in all of its glorious abundance.



This time, it came from the Land of eSchmarmony.



In case you were unaware, dearest, eSchmarmony will periodically email its victi--ahem, customers with gentle advice on how to find the love of one's life. These articles and slideshows are super, by the way, filled with words of wisdom. Things like, how to pick to the right photo[s] for one's profile. [NB: It's NOT the shot taken by cell phone in the bathroom mirror. Who knew?] How to recognize relationship sabotage. [Evidently, sleeping with one's emotionally abusive ex is bad.] How to spot red flags. [They're red. And they wave about like...well, you know.] And most recently, sandwiched between a list of movies that "make men cry" and a "free" newsletter that offers the secret to lasting love, was the unexpected wealth of information called.....



[Wait for it.]



Top Ten Pick-Up Lines.



Now, my initial reaction to this was a teensy bit derisive. After all, mine is a testosterone-poor existence. If I had eligible males in my vicinity on whom I could practice such techniques as pick-up lines, would I be on eSchmarmony to begin with??? No. In case you wondered, no. Okay, probably not.



Anyway.



I didn't realize the gift I'd been given, the gift I would share with you, dearest of all fictional friends. Let me extend to you now, the experience of eSchmarmony's Top Ten Pick-Up Lines.



And my responses to each.



All right, all right. These aren't necessarily my responses. They're just response one might encounter if trying to use these nuggets of social gold. Here we go

Top Ten Pick-Up Lines [from eSchmarmony]



Number One: Hey, I Love Your Shoes (or Handbag or Coat, etc.)



No. I'm sorry, no. Because you're gay. You might not realize it. But you're hitting on the wrong gender. Embrace who you are! Be proud! Yay, you!



Number Two: "Hi, I would love to get you a drink."



Sure....but who's paying for it? And I'm not easier when I'm drunk, just so you know. More belligerent. Or...oh my gosh! I'm sorry! I didn't realize you were our server tonight! Could I start a tab, please?



Number Three: "What kind of dog is that?"



[Okay, this one might actually work on me. Unless I get ultra-focused on dogs and forget there's a guy standing there. This has actually happened.



Friend: That guy was flirting with you.

Me: No, he wasn't.

Friend: Yes, he was. And you started talking about canine intestinal problems.

Me: So what?

Friend: You're an idiot.]



A non-dog freak, however, might respond with:



That's not a dog, that's my nephew/offspring/sister/mother/et cetera. [Things go downhill after this.]



Number Four: "Are you single?"



Insensitive reply: Yes, and thank you for reminding me why.

Sensitive reply: [muffled sobbing] Have you been talking to my mother???? I'm still a person, you know!! I still have value in this couple-driven society! [Things go downhill after this.]



Number Five: "Hi, who's your friend?"



Are you kidding? You walked across the room, shoved by hordes of people milling about, and you're asking about my friend??? [Things really go downhill after this.]



Number Six: "Nice to meet you. I'm ____ and you are beautiful."



Murphy's Law: Thank you, that's a lovely--oh dear, I can't believe I just spilled my....

Vision of self: Really? So you like the old-baggy-yoga-pants-and-ponytail-through-eggbeater look?

PMS: Uh huh. You're not getting laid.



Number Seven: "I bet you were an awfully cute baby."



Ew. That's just wrong.



And you're still not getting laid.



Number Eight: "How much does a polar bear weigh? Enough to break the ice."



Seriously? Is that [sniff] is that [sniff] is that Limburger? That was some majorly stinky cheese, buddy.



And you brought up the weight of a polar bear to me because...?



Number Nine: “Excuse me, but you have something on your face," (when she goes to wipe it off you stop her and say) "No, no leave it. It's beauty."



Excuse me, but I seem to have gotten something on your shoe. Yeah, you probably want to wipe it off. It's vomit.



And Number Ten: "WHO are you?"



Who am I? Who the [insert appropriate copulatory Anglo-Saxon term here] are you?



And you're still not getting laid.