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.