Since this is going to be yet another long, whingy post, I’ve decided to liven things up with various houseboy pictures, since that’s what you’re really here for, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
So today was mammogram day. Yay! And I actually made it to the appointment because at the last second I realized Daylight Savings Stupid Time had started and the world was an hour earlier than I thought it was. “Why does the computer have a different time than all the other clocks? Oh. Oops.” Again, Yay!
Plus you need plenty of time to get from my house to MammogramLand since San Francisco’s quaint street layout requires a series of major, seemingly unrelated doglegs to do so. Up around the shoulder of Twin Peaks (SF’s highest point and a serious roadblock to getting to plenty of places,) down through Haight Ashbury (nexus of all things hippie and free love-ish and, now, grimy,) a quick hook through the weird neighborhood that claims to be “Golden Gate Heights” but which everyone here calls “Over Behind Kaiser” (home of San Francisco’s Catholic university, one of the many, many locales mrpeenee delivered some of his many, many, many speeches on How to Start a Business, but the only one where I actually told someone in the audience “Shut up. Just. Shut. Up.” Yeah, the fact that I was able to retire rather than being fired long ago amazes me too.) and then, Titlandia.
But I got there and after being processed in by the entirely brainless chicklet who addressed me as “Miss Marshall,” answering a long questionnaire printed with copious amounts of pink ink and which asked me a lot of impertinent questions about my period, the whole thing turned out to be a breeze. I suppose if I was one of them gals with big, juicy Lady Bags, squishing them down flat would have been a problem, but I’m not, so it wasn’t. I’ve had rougher tit play on a date. Or “date.” Then the doctor cheerfully announced “You probably don’t have cancer.” Yet again, Yay! Although I would have preferred a little more emphasis on “don’t” and less on “probably,” but that’s just how she read her lines.
I know from bitter experience with R Man’s heath issues the time to press for details is while you have the doctor in your sweaty grasp and before she can palm you off on the next specialist in line. But I have to hand it to sister doctor, she was not having it. Despite my best efforts all she did was retreat further and further into weasel language: “probably” became “possibly” and then morphed into “maybe.” Arrgh. “You maybe don’t have cancer.” Really? You went to medical school for that, did you? I could do that good with a Magic 8 Ball and a bottle of vodka.
Then, because all specialists like to spread the wealth around, she referred me on to a surgeon, and be quick about it, no messing around, chop chop. (You get it? It’s a joke, “go to the surgeon” “Chop chop?” Oh, never mind.) I know I should have clarified that this was not for breast augmentation, but I just wanted to get home to Saki and my vicodin, so I let it drop.
So now, more tit work! Once and for all, Yay!