Oh, mammy...how I love ya, how I love ya...

...my dear old Mammy(gram).

Yep, today was the Second Annual Mammary Mash, also known as my mammogram.

That's "mammogram", not to be confused with "Candy Gram."

And if that picture and reference leaves you totally lost, well, I am so sorry for you, because you missed what I consider to be the best years of SNL. You know, before they totally sucked.

So, anyway, this was my second mammy, so I knew what to expect after going for the first time last year. Last year, when I had to come back because I apparently have what is referred to as "dense" breasts. Not like "duh", but you know, compact. When I went to my follw-up mammy last year, I got the super-squish. I mean, they flattened those puppies out. I was amazed that they went back to being melon-esque. Today was the regular mammy, and I am hoping I won't have to go back for the tighter one again. Definitely not fun. But then again, after having a series of three shots in my eardrum earlier this year, pancaking my boobies should really be no biggie.

Really, mammies are not all that bad. If you have a family history of bC (Cancer always gets a big "C" in my book) then go get the thing done. It is a tad uncomfy, but over relatively quick. And your boobies will spring back into the correct shape, I promise.

But pulling the little stickers off the nips is no party. Just sayin'. Oh, and don't do that quick band-aid pull. Nip tissue is TENDER.

Just so you know, and don't get scammed...this is a mammogram machine:

This...is not.

Freak Show

I was torn between the title "Freak Show" or "Wal Mart" as they are one and the same. A trip to my friendly neighborhood WM yesterday gave me such bloggin' material. Seriously, I cannot make this crap up.

1. As I am in the antacid aisle, attempting to find my after-dinner mint (AKA Gaviscon), in my peripheral, I see a person behind me, off to the side, appear...then disappear, appear again, disappear...So I look and it is a teenage boy. He is looking at the section of the pharmacy that has the condoms. I sort of laugh to myself as I see why he keeps disappearing. Every time someone else comes into the aisle, he, I am guessing, gets embarrassed, and beats feet until he can peruse the stock again on his own. Still looking for the Gaviscon (who knew there were SO many brands of antacids...?) I watch as he finally makes his selection and walks toward the registers. But he bought a pregnancy test, which was, incidentally, right next to the condoms. I wanted to reach out as he walked past and slap the ever-living stupid out of him. I also wanted to suggest that he go ahead and pick up a box of condoms as well. Maybe that way, this can be the last pee-gee test he buys for a while.

2. As I was leaving, there was a guy at the end of an aisle (and God how I wish I could have snapped a pic with my cell phone, but no way to do it discreetly, not that I still have the foggiest how to transfer pics off my Blackberry onto the computer) who had on too-short purple nut-hugger shorts and a t-shirt (too tight) with a chihuahua on it. No lie, people. No freaking lie. And before you think that maybe he was a little "challenged" or whatever, his lady friend walked up to him and they chatted about "did you find this, did you find that...?" and walked off, hand in hand. The only thing that he was challenged about was his fashion sense, apparently.

3. As I was loading bags into my car, I saw ugly love PDA. Now, I don't want to particularly see anyone sucking face in public, but it brings about a special *gag* factor when it is ugly love. And as luck would have it, they were right next to my car. Making out and rubbing each others' butts. Truly, every lid has a pot. But, please, take that behind closed doors.

4. I also saw a Hummer with this sticker on the back:

Riiiiight. Pretty much, what I get from this driver is, "I care about the environment. Just not that much."

And finally, as I was driving home, a Fred Durst look-alike passed by me in a CRX. I am not 100% sure of the color of the car, as the majority was Bondo-slash-primer, but I venture to say it was sort of blue (?) I find Fred Durst oddly sexy when he is onstage performing, but in a south central PA Wal Mart parking lot, it is just a chunky dirtbag with bad facial hair, driving a crappy car.

Ruuuuun, Forrest....Ruuuuun!

So, this looks interesting. I have been checking this out for a while, and in my mind, I am already up to two miles. And I am not out of breath a bit.

I guess I need to actually get off my booty and start it.

Did I mention that in my mind, I also have lost about 15 pounds?

A girl can dream...

Anyway, I am liking the thought of being able to run 3 miles in just two months. As it stands right now, the only time I can imagine running is if something is after me. (And, might I add, that something would have to be very scary.) I need to get myself back in shape, and I like the progressive track this plan takes. I am blogging about it to make myself accountable. I am starting the Couch to 5K, and I challenge anyone reading to join me. I promise to blog about it, and be prepared for a lot of bitching and complaining. I will be a total whiny tit-bag. There are not going to be any inspirational entries, so don't come here for those. But I am here for you, to share in the misery.

Maybe we can learn to like to run. Together. Yeah. Not bloody likely.

Just for fun and inspiration, enjoy sir hotness, Christian Bale, out for a run. Delish, even if he is a complete tool.

Uh...mah...GAH.

I need a dose of girly. Like, right now.

Normally, I am totally into all things "boy". Hell, what choice do I have? I am surrounded by 'em. But today was the cherry on the testosterone sundae. The middle kid asked me if (and I quote...) "my balls were batwings." Oh, yes he did.

Little sidenote for those of you who are male-challenged...when it is hot outside, apparently the dangly boy parts tend to stick to the inside of their legs, creating a sort of "batwing" effect.

There you have it. And yes, I did explain that the correct terminology was "testicles", and that indeed, mommy does not possess said parts.

I think I need to go get a pedicure or hang out in Bath and Body Works for a little while.

It's in the basement...

And it calls me. Every stinkin' day. It is scary. It is daunting. It is

The Pile O' Boxes.

In the words of this here dog...

I hate packing. No, really, I HATE it. I hate it like poison. Like a trip to the dentist or the gyno. Actually, I would rather take a trip to the dentist and gyno on the same day rather than pack. I would rather my dentist give me a gyno exam than pack.

I have moved so stinking often, and I am TARRED of it. Yes, TARRED. If you are from the south, that made perfect sense. If you are not, well, I am sorry for you in so many ways, but that is beside the point right now.

Anyhoo... I may just torch everything rather than move it. Maybe a big Woodmont bonfire. Get blazing drunk and roast marshmallows over piles of undies and knicknacks. Sounds good to me. You are all invited. You have to help carry the crap outside, though. That is only fair.

Then again, if I burn it all, I will just have to replace it. That may put big Dave over the edge. So, I guess I am back to packing. Damn.

Reporter, or the story?

Today's funny, courtesy of YouTube.

And, hilariously, the reporter is trying to do a story on violence. And damn that camera guy for not following with the camera. I'd like to think she took the obnoxious guy out by punching him in the junk. That'll learn 'im.

Scalped

Daddy and the boys went to the barber. The boys had hair when they left, not so much when they came back. I love short hair on fellas, especially my fellas, but someone got a little clipper-crazy at George's. Subsequently, Daddy has been A. read the riot act, and B. given a set of rules regarding future haircuts. Ok, so it is actually one rule:


1. Do not bring the boys back with haircuts like that. Not ever again. Ever.


*Sigh*. I just want to fast-forward a couple of weeks. I know it will look perfect then.

If he does it again, I am painting his fingernails and toenails while he sleeps. OPI's "Keys To My Karma" should fix his little wagon. >; )