Boob Job

Friday I got a boob job. Okay, it's not really a boob job but boob job sounds so much better than biopsy. At my annual exam my doc noticed a lump on my right side. "Have you felt this before?", she asked me? "No, but you can ask my husband", I told her. She sent me in for a mammogram which, by the way, is not nearly as bad as all the female comedians make it out to be. The mammogram apparently didn't show them what they wanted to see on account of my "density" so they took an ultrasound. And, sure enough, it was right there. Half a golfball nestled in my layers of boob fill. "Biopsy" they recommended. I wasn't worried, seeing as how there is no family history of breast cancer and I'm not a white woman over 40. I wasn't worried until the nurse walked me out of the ultrasound room, patted me on the back and said, "I'm so sorry" in her softest I'm-a-caring-nurse voice.

It was painful. Yes, they numbed the area. They stuck a huge needle into my breast and pushed it in further and further so they could numb it up down to the core. But we hadn't even gotten to the fun part yet. Of course, my husband was in there, for moral support and to see the coolest show on earth. Much cooler than a C-section. Where, by the way, he took PICTURES of me splayed on the surgery table with my insides peeking out. For my biopsy they made a half inch slit then stuck a long needle-like rod into the incision. The end of the rod had a modified drill bit that would shave off portions of the offending lump. The rod was attached to a vaccuum so that the doc could take a sample of boob tissue. I watched it all on the ultrasound screen with my head cocked sideways and my husband looking over my shoulder for the best view of the show.

I did pretty well the entire day until the end of the procedure where I just lost it and started crying. The day was just too long and worst of all, I hadn't planned it to go this way. For those of you who don't know me, I'm a little crazy with my planning. My outburst must've been shocking to everyone in the room-one second I'm watching the screen, the next I'm dripping tears-that they all asked, "can you feel that?!" "No" I told them, "I just want to go home". They removed all rods, sealed me up with steri-strip and showed me my boob sample. It looked like a few flesh colored worms floating at the bottom of a pee cup. Perhaps seeing that at a different time would have been interesting but at that particular time, it was just annoying.

After that I was released and they told me they'd call me on Tuesday or Wednesday. Really? Now, really? Modern medicine and I have to wait the entire weekend PLUS an extra work day? Fine. I used this time to call my mom and dad and get our family health history. Then I called some close friends to let them know about my day.

So, Today the doc called and all is well. Negative biopsy and recheck in 3 months. Ahhhh....

Go Home Already

I am not happy. Not one Project Runway-licious bit. This guy

has got to go. It's purely for personal health reasons. His tanorexia orange is causing me eyestrain. His sad attempts at coining a catch phrase ("Holla' at your boy"-really, that's the best you could come up with?) makes my eardrums ache for the sound of Christian's "fierce hot tranny mess". My favorite reality show, the only reality show, of the many that I watch, that requires their contestants to have actual talent has been tainted by this Blayne fella'.

Project Runway is and has been my favorite show since the early days of Jay and Austin Scarlett (and if that name isn't just perfect for him). I love the designs, I love to watch the designers gather inspiration, I love how they mix fabrics and textures. The only thing I would love more is to see Blayne leave the show. He is a distraction, whiney and a mediocre designer. I mean, tight bermuda shorts under a mom-shirt/tank top as business attire. Really? Oh yeah, I forgot, he's described his designs as "urban".

Um, yeah. Not even in Yakama, Washington.

Little Swimmers, Big Fear

My kids love the water. I call them my "little turtles" since they see water and head straight for it. Both of them are called to it. When Rico was 1 we went on our first North Carolina family vacation. The waves were crashing on the beach and as we walked down to the shore I expected the worst, a child screaming in fear because of the crashing waves and endless ocean. I was mentally preparing how to comfort my toddler. We all walked out together and while I stopped where the dry sand met the wet, my son kept walking. He walked right up to where the water met the sand and kept right on. I held his hand and I felt his little fingers pull me towards the waves. Apparently, he did not inherit my fear of the ocean.

Unlike my children, I fear the ocean. I don't like getting in past my calves-when I'm feeling brave-I usually just go in to my ankles. My grandmother, on the other hand, must have passed down her ocean swimmer gene. When I was a child I traveled with my grandparents. Every year we went to South Padre Island-sometimes for a day, sometimes for a week. Aunts, Uncles, Cousins and other extended family would meet us there and it was always fun. Being as close to I am to my grandparents, of course most of my memories revolve around them. My two most memorable memories (is that proper wording?) is of my Grandpa Sanchez wearing shorts-which he NEVER wore-and of my Grandma swimming in the ocean. As soon as we got to the beach she would go to the shore to "greet" the ocean. This is something she would do even when we'd go to the island in the middle of winter for dinner. While all the kids were in the sand playing, my Grandmother would swim into the waves and go past the sandbars. She would float out there and swim into the distance. I remember being scared for her. She never was but I was.

Although my Grandmother no longer greets the ocean, my kids do it for her.