Things On My Lips

Dragos famous broiled oysters:

Local brew:

To wash down local flavors, including goat meat stew(ish) type food:

I will admit, I was pretty tentative on the goat meat, but then recognized that I've had far more questionable things in my mouth at some point in my life, and ate it. Also included in the meal was jerk chicken, a Jamaican staple, which was spicy deliciousness, crafted by this dude:

The dude in the hat, not the dude in the Bazinga shirt.

More local brews, with a splash of tequila floating. Beer + tequila = yumbuzz!

Shrimp cocktail tasted that much sweeter when eaten underneath a tiki hut on the beach:

And in Grand Caymen, it was my own damn fault. On the rocks.

Which I blame for clouding my good judgment, leading me to say "YES!" when I maybe should have said, "I'll think about it" when looking at new diamond earrings.

The new earring is the lower earring. Purchased only because I lost the mate to the earring in the top hole on Day 1 of vacation. Woke up in New Orleans and I faced a naked lobe, and I was sad. They were a really clean, pretty pair of 1/2 carats that I've had for a number of years (at least 8, I don't remember exactly, but they were a Christmas gift from Fucksteve, so at least that old).

So I had a couple margaritas, went in to the jewelry shop to try and find a single 1/2 carat replacement and the next thing I knew, I was dazedly walking out with new almost-a-carat-each in my lobes.

That was an expensive fucking margarita.

Kenny is a horrible shopping Wingman, by the way. The Caymen brew caught up with him and he was slumped over on a couch while the deal was being done. They kept him lubed up with glasses of champagne, and was trying to push a $16,000 (beautiful!!!) engagement ring his way, to make an honest woman outta me, instead of the loose floozy slutbag that I am. He said he was fine with the cheap (much, much cheaper) slutbag version of me.

One night of very fine dining offered this:

And it was good.

Soft words were also on my lips:

And big smiles, especially from this view:

Dedication

Look what I found for you, Rob!

29

Happy Birthday to ME!

I'm feeling pretty lucky to know me. And I celebrated me with a few bites of red velvet cake. My mouth appreciated me.

Do the Hustle

I give up. On the celebration that is supposed to be Birthday Month, that is. It has repeatedly turned out to be a sucky month, more than once, and now I'm tired of the disappointment. Yeah, I said it, and sound like a big baby crying about the unfairness of Life and wants to take her ball and bat and just go home. Well, Birthday Month, you can sort of suck it.

A few examples of shitty birthday month:

One year during the start of Birthday Month, my Fatass-Ex-husband's dad killed himself. Shot himself right in the head, he did. I remember it distinctly because it was the year I was turning 35, and we had to go to Texas and take care of bidniz. And we had planned a trip to Memphis for my birthday, which I distinctly remember because we had really angry hotel birthday sex that year, as he was feeling distraught and took it out on my vagina. My vagina had to pay the Piper for the dad's deed and act like a wailing wall or a crying towel. Or something.

Then another year, right at the start of Birthday Month, my Fatass-Ex-husband was discovered to be a cheating fatass-husband and got thrown out of the house, complete with a hillbilly-white-trash-moment police escort (which was ironic, as he IS a policeman!), and earned the "Ex" part of his title. My vagina was sad that birthday, until it found someone to cheer it up, but that didn't happen until well into the holiday seasons, and by then Birthday Month was a memory.

This year? I've had my fair share of troubles this month so far. None of it can be linked back to my fatass-ex-husband or my vagina, which is a step in some direction. In fact, Kenny is doing his part to ensure my vagina does not suffer. But really? Times seem to turn to suck this time of the year, as if somehow The Universe does not understand the rules of Birthday Month.

How did this month start? Oh, with my boobie-non-cancer surgery - that's right! That morphed into the ol', "you don't have cancer, but should take some cancer drugs" discussion, which is weighing heavily on my mind because I don't want to be making the wrong choice and have to pay the Piper later, because I hate the Piper. He is pretty bitey.

I've had more family drama, as hard as I try to avoid it. It's too much for a stupid nonsense blog, but it's not helping me age gracefully. I thought my fucking Clean Karma spray would help out, but it doesn't appear to be living up to the promise.

On a positive note, I met my mother's friend for drinks and chats on Saturday night. Now, that was a good time! And it was full of a lot of stories. Fifteen years worth of words came out of my mouth. She is a funny woman. And she knows several unladylike things about me - that, coincidently DO involve my vagina - so if I'm ever running for president, I'm going to have to have her as my vice president so she doesn't sell out to The National Enquirer and give them pictures of me in my teensy-weensy bikini. When I was 16, so yes, it looked a lot better than images of Current Me in a bikini would look.

Perhaps if she has that picture I will scan it in. In fact, that just inspired me to do a whole cringe-worthy photo series of myself through the years. Now that could be an interesting look-back to celebrate birthday month! If it's going to stink anyway, I may as well provide you, Reader, with a laugh at my expense. Laughter is the best medicine, at least when you're out of Vicodin.

Unearthed

Look what I found while walking Lady the Dog at 8:00 a.m. on a chilly-but-bright Sunday morning:

A ripe tomato hanging from a very sad looking vine next to the backporch.

Over the summer a couple of plants were thrown into the ground, and then pretty much forgotten about. They didn't mind the insult and bore fruit anyway.

I shall enjoy that on a slice of toast Monday morning.

Winter's On The Way!

Snow clouds moved in over the city this morning, making an impressive backdrop against the Fall colors. Impressive way to start my Friday workday.

Good Thing It Was Nothing.

So I had my follow up appointment with the boobie doctor. And I'm not too thrilled with the outcome. I need to do a lot of research.

I do not at this time have any cancer. I had abnormal cells. Now I am high risk.

They gave me a little chart that factored in my age, the age of my first period (which is a guess, who the hell knows if I was 11 or 12, or whatever). That's something all mothers should mark down for their daughters somewhere, because apparently that's info you need when you're in your 40s.

My risk is 35% that I could develop cancer. I didn't think that sounded too bad (considering all the shit we encounter on a daily basis just living life), but then she told me that the Average Woman (who is this average woman, anyway?) has a 12% risk. So I'm a triple threat.

They recommended I take tamoxifen for 5 years, which is normally what you take after you have cancer.

I wouldn't care too much except it would probably throw me right into menopause.

I'm not ready to be in menopause.

I'm just not. I'm forty-fucking-four. I don't want to get a dried up vagina and sweats and more hairs to fight, not to mention more risk of weight gain (hooray, like I need that).

And oh by the way, the tamoxifen can increase your risk of uterine cancer. Maybe.

I guess I'd be more accepting of the fate of this if I had cancer! But I just have some shitty cells, that they scooped out.

And oh, by the way, I also get to get a titty MRI in May, which is where I lay in an MRI machine with my titties in a cup and they do an MRI on 'em. And even more exciting, she told me, "Don't be surprised if we find a lot of stuff we have to biopsy after the MRI, because that thing picks up every little thing and we have to check it all out." WTF. REALLY?

So that's when I started crying and told her that let me get this straight, I didn't at this time HAVE cancer, but I've been worried for the past three months, and now every six months I get to go through this all over again, and worry for three months? So for six months out of the year, I'll be getting biopsies and waiting for test results. Hooray.

Now don't get me wrong, I'd rather be making these decisions than scheduling chemo appointments, and far far too many women are in those shitty pair of shoes. But I cannot imagine that poking around inside my titty every six months - not to mention my mental strain - is going to do me a bit of good in the long run.

I am going to request an estrogen test. I want to know what my levels are, and if they are high, and if I can decrease them naturally over the next six months through diet and exercise and Juice Plus. That's my call back to the doctor tomorrow. She never even told me about that, Almighty Google did.

And one last oh, by the way, she also shared that another option is to have a bilateral mastectomy, and that will reduce my risk of developing cancer to 1%. Why don't I just get all my fucking potentially troubling body parts removed, just in case? What would I be left with? My hair?

Like Madonna sang, I'm keeping my boobies, oh yeah, I'm going to keep my boobies. For now. I'll hold off on the bilateral mastectomy for the moment, but thank you for the option.

Without the Green Jello

Computer's going into the shop. Won't keep a charge. It's only a year or two old, was quite expensive. Why should I expect it to last?

My newish car, with less than 10,000 miles, stinks. Literally. It's been in to the shop once already. They sprayed some stuff in the vents, but that's not it. I think it may be the foam in the seats deteriorating, based on some Eos forums I've read. Those forums aren't anywhere near as exciting as Penthouse forums, but they are somewhat informative.

That's it, I only have 3% of a battery life left and I have other, important things to google and squander that precious life on.

Look Before You Leap

I have a cat. Who randomly decides to shit - occasionally, no rhyme or reason, sporadically - on the living room floor.

He's lucky he's lovable, sweet and kind.

Or we'd stomp right on his fucking shitting-on-the-floor cat head and squash his brains on the floor right next to the steamer he leaves.

Like I said, he's pretty darn sweet other than this. And he's taught me my new life mantra, "Nobody's Perfect" so he's actually a TEACHER, Reader, kinda like the Dalai Lama. And I do like the Dalai Lama.

So we don't squish his head under our feet and instead we just clean up the poop. With a lot of bitching and complaining.

Today?

Kenny didn't see the pile of poop. He didn't even notice it until the stench caught up with him. After he'd traipsed around the house.

I did that once before, too, so I can't judge him for his unwitting behavior.

Tonight? We got to steam clean the carpet as soon as I got home from work.

Good times.

Nobody's Perfect? I'm pretty fucking close, for excusing that bad cat behavior and still showering his nose with kisses. Because did I mention how sweet he is? He is. He's lucky.

Now we know why he was a year old and at the pound. Now we know.

Monday Madness

I have a love / hate relationship with the time change. I love it in the a.m., when I'm stealing an extra hour of sleep. I hate it at 5:30 p.m., when I leave work and it's pitch black and I think I should go home and slip immediately into my pajamas.

I didn't do that tonight. I kept my day clothes on, thinking I would perchance venture out this evening. Instead I whipped up a quick dinner of general toes chicken and vacation rice. Vacation rice is supposed to trick you into thinking you're on a vacation, due to the peach flavor and coconut. It was okay. It blended well with the general toes.

And then? I found my place on the recliner and napped through Dancing With the Stars. I'm totally digging on the Latino with all the Moves. Holy smokes, can he do things standing that I'd like to try in the horizontal position. With him. Or Kenny, if he could learn some of those moves. I'm not too particular.

Mr. Rogers Was Right

I took another walk around the neighborhood park today, drinking in the last of the Fall days. It's pretty out there.

Essential Oils

I believe I am the most gullible shopper. Ever. Because I buy into (get it? I "buy" into it all) anything, if it's hyped the right way and appeals to whatever is aggravating me at the moment.

So it's no surprise that when I saw the chance to clean my aura and purify my spirit, I whipped out my credit card and made the purchase.

And spent the weekend spraying and spraying and spraying things.

A clean aura smells like refreshing peppermint. My aura got sprayed, Kenny's aura got sprayed, the new cat got her aura sprayed, the rooms got sprayed, and Timmy came upstairs for something on Saturday morning and got a good spraying, too. His only word as I was spraying him was, "Idiot." But he gamely turned around and let me spray all angles. I gave his wiener area an extra dose, so he can get some new energy around that thing. He didn't seem to appreciate my efforts.

And then today? I've been a Bitchy McBitchy Pants. I think when I get my karma unknotted and my aura cleaned, it releases a lot of stuff I keep bottled up. I'm not friendly to be around for a while.

Man Vs. Wild

In the saga of Kenny vs. Squirrel: Squirrel 2, Kenny 1.

After the debacle of the failed CD Blockade, a Blindingly Bright Idea came to light. He would add MORE CDS to the hole, to make it extra-extra snug.

So he did.

And the squirrels?

Laughed and laughed and laughed some more. And then crawled through the hole and snuggled up for another night inside the cozy confines of the Parma Palace.

Finally? My DIY'er decided to get something a little more hardy than music. And a plywood board was located. And inserted over the hole.

Some CDs were still used in the making of the blockade, to snug it up. They were the perfect height for snugging the board.

We think the squirrels have been defeated. There is probably still space for the mouse to get in, however, as they can fit through a hole the size of a dime. We'll have to fill the holes with foam, once we determine that the barricade holds.

I will probably have to take the board and get it cut to not look so hillbilly jacked up, however it is difficult to see in it's current position. One thing at a time.

When we pulled in the driveway yesterday afternoon? A very disgruntled squirrel was poised on the rooftop of the garage, looking towards his former doorway, with a WTF bubble over his head.

Free Range

This made me laugh.

Prognosis Negative

I am curious as to what lies beneath the bandage on my boob. Kenny and I are both curious if I still have a nipple, as we don't currently see one. If I do not, my new nickname will be Nip.

I don't have cancer in there - it's official - and hooray to that news! However, I need to hear about some stuff when I have my follow-up appointment, she said it'll be "easier to explain with pictures." WTF. Why do I have to see some horrible warning pictures??

I asked her if the prognosis meant I was going to have to give up cake. She laughed and said, "No." The Hoff would disagree, probably.

Anyone get the blog title?? Seinfeld fans out there?

The Rhythm Isn't Gonna Get 'Em

So remember waaayyyy back when, in some other blog post, I mentioned that Mr. Non-Handyman was letting squirrels live in our garage? We have some bricks missing near the facia and, well, squirrels were having a grand, warm and cozy winter in there last year.

And they ate through many of my things, and our electrical wires that control the garage door opener.

So Mr. Non-Handyman who thought he was doing a good deed by providing shelter for outdoor critters decided it wasn't a good idea after all.

Then this summer, he attempted to fix the doorway to squirrel heaven by slipping a little piece of cardboard over the hole.

The squirrels said, "Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, and LOL, too!"

Last weekish sometime, I pulled into the driveway and saw a mouse coming down out of the hole. A large mouse. Large enough that the Mister thought maybe it's not a mouse, but we both agreed to let me believe it's a mouse. And things needed to be done. STAT.

So he fixed it.

In the only manner that Mr. Karaoke would know how.

Yep. With music CDs, from his old Doo Wop group, The Nitelites.

The squirrels and mouse (ahem..yes, MOUSE) just laughed and laughed.

And laughed some more.

The end.

11.1.11

It's Biiiiiiiiiirrrrrrth Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay Month!!!!!

Yay me.

I celebrated? With boobie surgery. And all went well, of course, because it's BIRTHDAY MONTH and nothing else would do!

I had to be at the hospital at 7 a.m. Let me reiterate: Seven. A.M. That's EARLY. I don't know when I got home, sometime around Judge Joe Brown, which is in the 3-4 p.m. timeframe. Kenny had the bed all nice and fluffed up for me, turned on mindless Judge shows (I was waiting for Judy, she's my favorite to sleep through), but I was o.u.t. in seconds.

Just got up around 7:00, blogging as I signed up for that blog-a-day-for-a-month thing, and today is Day 1. So here it is, but it's really taking a lot of effort to get this much down, so all you need to know is:

1/ I didn't die today (so far)

2/ It wasn't too bad

3/ Vicodin rocks

4/ Popeye's Chicken seems to be my official "you had a scary day" meal

5/ Kenny had his first day of orientation for his new job at the casino!

6/ My friend The Healthy Hoff is the best!!

7/ Boobie hurts a little bit now, but there's a cure for that

There you go. Aren't you happy now. Ha.