MAMMOGRAMS (Or How to Go From Cantaloupe to Crepe in 15 Seconds)

Because of my Mom’s history surviving breast cancer, I’ve had to get annual mammograms since the age of 30. I’m not complaining; it’s uncomfortable and a bit unnerving, but it’s just a fact of life.

But this last time, the lab technician was particularly rough. I think in a former life she packed sausage or stripped industrial wallpaper by hand. Mammogram techs are all women, so they’re usually sensitive to the uncomfortable situation in which they’re placing you. And certainly, they aren’t doctors, but this one had ZERO patient relations skills. And at about 4’11” tall (as well as wide) she made me look like an NBA center.

You’re already feeling vulnerable as you walk in to a very cold, clinical, dark space with a very large machine in it. You’re feeling exposed in your not-anywhere-close-to-designer hospital “grobe” – that’s a combination gown and robe. You’re nervous anyway, and you’ve been asked to remove your deodorant for the procedure. Add smelly underarms to your current list of assets. NOW you’re the picture of confidence and calm.

Then, you are asked to offer up your bare breast so she can lift it and place it on a piece of plexi-glass. Oh yes – there are also spot lights on it/around it/under it, so it looks even paler than it is. Most of the techs I’ve had over the years are gentle and very descriptive as they guide you and your breast to the point where they can get a useable x-ray of it.

Not Yoda the Jedi Boob Smasher. She grabs my breast and pulls one way, while telling me “turn.” Now I’m college-educated, but at least tell me which WAY to turn. Instead I turn toward her and my retreating boob – but no. “Other way” is all she could manage to blurt out as she started bringing the top piece of plexi-glass down for the top-to-bottom clamp.

“Grab this handle.” “Hold your chin up.” “Feet straight ahead.” “No, turn back – hips facing the other way.” At least she got a little more descriptive as I became a Cirque de Soleil contortionist. And now for the smashing. I have never seen my breast look more like a wheel of gouda than right now. I really thought it might explode. Snap – the picture is taken. Five minutes of maneuvering and mangling for 10 seconds of x-ray.

Now she moves the plexi-glass torture device to the side-to-side clamp. Same contortional activity, just a different breast shot. In this pose, my boob looks more like a Frisbee than a wheel of gouda. More maneuvering, more smashing and snap – the picture is taken. Luckily, the pictures are good and I don’t have to do any of this again.

Except for the other breast. Contort, mangle, smash, snap. Contort, mangle, smash, snap. Yea! We’re done. My breast and chest area are a lovely shade of crimson and there’s heat emitting from it as the blood slowly begins to flow again. And by the time I get home, bruises have appeared on my upper rib area as well as near my underarms. I think this technician must have earned her world heavyweight title belt after my appointment.

See ya next year, Rocky.

When Did I Reach the Geritol Demographic?

So I’m watching TV. Who are all these new friends I have? Sam Waterston, Wilfred Brimley, Robert Wagner and Sally Field. And why is that aging garage band annoying me with “Viva Viagra?” I’m already feeling my age, due to the genre of advertisements popping up in my current choice of programming: retirement funds, osteoporosis meds, medic alert bracelets, hover-round chairs. Oh yes – and I can also install an easy-bathe tub and shower combo that will accommodate my wheelchair.

Then I hear, “Carol is a formidable woman. But she was no match for something smaller than the tip of a pen…” I look and there are arteries and blood and little scary clotting globules! And they are talking to ME. My name. Never mind that the woman on-screen is an African-American. It’s ME.

So thanks to a Plavix anti-cholesterol ad, I’ve been to a cardiologist. I’m healthy and my heart rate is normal. But I do have elevated cholesterol, so the doctor recommended the usual: modified diet, daily exercise, getting rid of stress. The exercise is pretty easy…my dogs help with that. Anti-stress? Well – I can’t quit my job. So it’s mostly up the diet modification. Now I know how my Dad felt when Mom fed him that first meal that wasn’t fried and didn’t have any salt on it. Fat-free cheese is still artery-plugging cheese. And even worse, it’s like eating Play-Doh.

And my husband – who’s a fabulous cook – is no help: “Yuk. Fat free sour cream is awful.” “I hate fake butter, it doesn’t melt.” “I think I’ll grill us a steak tonight.” “Here, I baked banana nut muffins.” On top of that, my Benecol Smart Chews look like caramel candies; so he ate a handful. I guess his cholesterol is taken care of for at least a year.

Ike-isms (or “Terms That Blew Out of the Hurricane”)

After living through Category 2 Hurricane Ike, seven days without power (we were lucky – some are still without at 14 and counting), mosquitoes as big as hummingbirds and consuming more meat than Dr. Atkins, I thought this glossary of terms was applicable….

Power Envy – The completely draining, pit-of-the-stomach feeling one gets at the realization that the across-the-street neighbors have power, but you don’t. Side effects sweating and the urge to break something.

Power Guilt – The guilty feeling one gets upon finally having power reinstated before your friends and neighbors.

Hurricane Hair – Complete lack of styling of one’s hair due to lack of power and/or water; serves as a quick visual ID of who has power and who doesn’t.

“PC” Legs – Having nothing to do with political correctness, this affliction happens when one’s legs become pin cushions for mosquitoes.

Worker Worship – The uncontrollable urge to bow in honor (or get down on one’s knees and beg) at the utilities professionals working in the neighborhood.

Line Fatigue – The exhaustion a body experiences after being in a seemingly unending line for ice, gasoline and 4-way stops.

Shingle Shock – Unexpected and very quick anxiety one experiences at the sight of partially-left roofs OR the cost to replace them.

Floodge – The sludge that is left behind in a house after it had flooded.

Tree-ning – A phenomena where groups of trees are all leaning the same direction from the triple-digit MPH winds.

Storm Stench – The aromatic scent that comes from lack of showering, due to no water after the storm.

Withdrawl-Mart – The intense need for Wal-Mart to open again.

More Haiku (I know, I know)

Blowing wind, wet heat;
Waiting for Ike, please be kind;
Anticipating...

McCain picks woman;
Sarah Palin intrigues us.
Just win in the Fall.

Can I Save Face With a Facebook Addiction?!?

A friend of mine invited me to join "Facebook." It sounds harmless enough and let's face it (really, no pun intended), I'm over 40 and happy to stay on the fringe of all these new social networking and texting technologies. So how bad could it be?

OH PLEASE. Now I post photos, give and accept "Flair" buttons, chat online, look for song quotes, eat online cupcakes, poke (and SuperPoke) people and might hyperventilate if I don't reach the acceptable "Lost" trivia level! (See my blog from April). And did I ever know that so many people cared about "My Lil Green Patch?!?" Well, they do!

The good news? It's great to catch up with old friends. It's neat to see a personal side of some of my favorite co-workers. I enjoy keeping in better touch with people than if I had to rely on old-fashioned letter-writing. I have fun with it and hopefully don't look like the techno-challenged geek that I really am! So if you've never tried Facebook, try it. I never thought I'd recommend anything like it. And if you're on Facebook, be sure to look me up and add me as a friend!

And BTW - the friend who invited me to Facebook, she never gets on it. It's like she gave me the drugs and then left me to deal with the addiction! Her loss, but I'll still get her for this!

Cukoo for Haiku!

This weekend, we stayed at a Hotel Indigo in Chicago. All of the hotel marketing materials - from the front desk to the restaurant to our room - were written as haikus. So I was inspired to create a few of my own. If you have any YOU'D like to share, please reply to this post.

Edouard, he blew in
Like a scared little sissy
Today we were spared.

Southwest Airlines Trip,
The fat lady’s to my right.
Hide your peanuts folks.

Red wine or white wine?
What is my preference tonight?
That the glass is full!

Brake lights in the front,
Merging vehicles threaten;
Commuting is Hell.

Big brown eyes longing,
Slobber slowly drips to floor.
Zach awaits dinner.

Pretty fertile soil,
Violated and pillaged;
Weeds take over beds.

Animals in Their Places – And NOT Nail Places

(WARNING: SOAP BOX ALERT. SOAP BOX ALERT.) I know it’s very chic and trendy to bring your pocket-sized pooch wherever you go. Purses are getting larger and dogs are getting smaller. Some purses are even being redesigned to accommodate a mobile mini-mutt. I don’t think that’s what Dylan meant when he said, “The times, they are a-changin’.”

But it’s just not my style. My dogs are large. The only purse in which they would fit would have a system of pulleys and hydraulics attached. Oh yes, and a pair of drip attachments for the slobber. And while they’re friendly, let’s face it: they really don’t want to shop unless it involves possums in the backyard. But I digress from my original rant.

I went to my nail salon for my regular mani/pedi appointment. Mary, my nail artiste, is finishing up the client before me as my feet are happily soaking in the sudsy warm water. I’m checking out that client’s nails, when all of a sudden I notice movement in her lap. A DOG. A cutie to be sure – a tee-ninesy little schnauzer. But he’s was not looking at all happy. And I see why:

1. Would you be happy if the person whose lap you were clinging to was really not a lap? It’s more like a slope. This lady was not missing many meals if you get my drift…and the poor little guy kept sliding under the manicure station.

2. Would you be happy if as you slid, you were scooped back up and smushed back into a belly covered in a terrycloth shirt? I guess it’s better than corduroy.

3. Would you be happy if you were wrapped in a “potty pad?” The plastic and cotton pads on which puppies are trained? Imagine yourself wrapped in a very large Kotex pad (with or without wings) before you answer that.

4. Would you be happy to breathe in acrylic nail dust in your very sensitive little canine nose? Try sniffing some talcum powder and it will feel similar.

5. Would you be happy as the metallic whirring of the nail dremel file was picked up by your heightened sense of canine hearing?

Would I? I’m going out on a limb here to speak for Little Schnauzy – not no, but HELL NO.

Aside from what I’m sure are plain old sanitation reasons why an animal shouldn’t be in a salon, that poor sweet little thing did not want to be there. He was NOT having a good time. But it was important for us all to see her with her precious pet. I hate it when people dress their dogs and I hate it when they’re used as accessories. A pet’s supposed to be your pal – and I would never treat MY pals that way!