The Suburban Jungle

I had a mammogram this week.  I have to get one every year; though tatas are small, there is miraculously  room for fibroid cysts.  My tech went so far as to comment on my boobies, saying they’re “perfectly perky.”  Well, she said that after laughing aloud at the thought of getting my A’s to stay up on the shelf of the machine.    My tech was crass to say the least, but her outrageous inability to filter actually shifted my focus and put me at ease.

After enjoying a good chuckle at my “cute and perkies,” my tech stuck on a set of beautiful nipple markers, which are stickers with silver balls that resemble starter earrings.

“Sorry, we’re all out of fringe,” she informed me, still getting a kick out of herself.

“Don’t worry, I have some at home,” I responded, doing the same.

As it turned out, she was right to laugh. The first time on the shelf, they slipped right out. The intense squeezing actually slung-shot them back towards my body.

“What?  Did you butter those puppies?“  She asked, with a snort.

I ignored her, and rubbed my chest to stop the vibration that the ricochet had caused.

The second time she was more thorough and managed to get a couple ribs onboard, as anchors, I assume.

“Um, excuse me, is it okay that you have bones in there too?”

“Don’t worry.  They won’t break.”

Squeeze, squeeze, squeezing harder. Shelf lifting.  I raised myself onto my tippy-toes to avoid my bosoms being ripped clean off. More squeezing. CRUNCH.

“What was that, bone?”

“Alright, just one more squeeze.”

“Fine, but I think milk might come out.”

“Oh, are you breast feeding?”

“No.”

After flattening my boobs into pancakes, I felt like a cartoon victim of a falling anvil. I patiently waited for them to snap back, or for an animated squirrel to come along, stick in a tube and pump them up.There was no one.  No squirrels, or skunks, or any other well-meaning rodents came to my rescue, so I shoved them back into my sports bra.  This is what all the hype was about, what my friends are dreading? The relief of finishing the test was quickly cancelled out by the anxiety of knowing I had to wait for my results.

As I passed the waiting room, I noticed the same elderly woman shakily stick her nipple markers in a plastic baggy and into her purse, where they most likely sunk into an abyss of sucking candies, saltines, and sweet N’ low packets.

I imagined one kinky grandpa with a bottle of Viagra eagerly awaiting her return, and got a chuckle of my own.  If your boobs hang down to your knees and grandpa‘s sight isn‘t what it used to be, you might need some assistance finding your nipples.  That’s one us flat chested folk don’t have to worry about -gravity.

In the end, the findings revealed another benign cyst.  I told my body it is not allowed to create so much as a zit without my permission.  I will, however, still be at next year’s appointment in case my body disobeys my explicit instructions. I want the option of stealing nipple markers in about 70 years.

When you walk into a Starbucks it’s a little like entering another country.  Some of the language is “Italianish” and the rest is completely made up, yet universal to all citizens.  When you visit Starbucks for the first time you might be overwhelmed by the cultural gap and the language barrier.  You see, Starbucks drinkers have an acute understanding of this made up ordering system, the terminology, how to conjugate the verbs, and the proper phrasing of the request i.e. size first, then special requirements, then drink type.

The employees, or should I call them caffeine scientists, are trained to do far more than make a cappuccino.  My barista knows the make, model, and color of my car and when he sees it drive up, he starts my drink.  He deduces that if I’m wearing golf or workout clothes I will require my usual to be iced and quickly dumps it and has the appropriate drink ready by the time I hit the door.  He is keenly aware of my standard approach speed and if I seem to be ambling he’ll throw in an extra shot.

But, sometimes even I am shocked by how intricate requests can get.  I think some of these drinkers actually believe they have learned another language and revel in this false sense of intelligence.

Today the woman in front of me ordered a tall 2 splenda, extra dry, machiatto with extra foam, on the fly.

Extra dry? Really? “What is extra dry… just beans?”

“No, it’s more froth.”

“Didn’t she imply that when she said extra foam?”

“No the frothiness actually refers to the consistency of the foam.”

Why do I feel like I’m having a conversation with NASA? And yet, who am I to talk? I know that a standard latte is made at 160°, which would be bad enough, except that I also know that I prefer mine at 150°. My barista who also writes, Jenny from the block on every cup, actually figured this out by watching my drinking ritual. He said, “I noticed you seem to wait about 8 minutes for your coffee to cool. I think the problem is an over sensitive pallet and I suggest you drop the temp about 10 degrees. Look, this is just a hypothesis, I will investigate further.” Soon this will be something you can major in, like criminal investigation or a show, “CSI Starbucks.”

“Everyone step away from the mocha, CSI unit (Coffee Scene Investigation) is here. There is nothing to see here, please disperse. What’s seems to be the problem, ma’am?”

Disgruntled Customer:  “My mocha is not rich enough, and it’s too wet. I specifically said grande, 18 pump, extra fat, mildly damp, 157° Mochachokaccino with extra whip that is dolloped in the shape of a pygmy monkey.”

The area around the cup is taped off and a bit is spilled into a petri dish and run out of the store to a mobile CSI van. The maverick of the team fearlessly swipes his finger through the java then smells and licks it, as if it’s cocaine. One more lick for good measure and an extra jolt. “Well your first problem is this is only 17 pumps. It’s also a mere 142°, which if my calculations are correct mean 7 minutes ago when it was made it was 155°, and not a degree more. Your other problem was in the call. The cashier/Mayor should know not to call a whip sculpted in the shape of anything other than the Starbuck’s mermaid goddess on our logo, who we in the biz affectionately call Flo.”

Disgruntled Customer: “Like flow of the coffee or the ocean?”

“No, like cash flow. Look, we’re gonna take this downtown to the lab, but just for the record Cappy Joe, or Cuppa Joe as we like to call him, is the best. He’ll have this coffee and a full report back to you by day’s end. Please enjoy a maximum of 2 hours free internet access in the mean time. And don’t forget to try one of our new hot breakfast sandwiches.”

How to retain fluids and bloat up, FAST cont…

WEEK 6

My fingers are so fat, I had to dictate this. I also had to order one of those large number phones for the visually impaired, a clapper, and a medic alert necklace in case I fall and can’t… I’m scared. The fluid retention may have water logged my brain and I fear I have officially lost it. I am babbling to myself and cannot walk across the house without a nap. I tried to cut down on salt and substitute it with garlic as was recommended by VirtualDoctor.com to even blood pressure. I ate 2 whole cloves last night.

WEEK 6 -day 2

I brushed my teeth and tongue 27 times. My tooth brush is too short. The garlic is rising from my intestines and oozing from my pores. My closest friend asked that I back up when speaking, I was down the aisle from her to begin with. I told her I needed to apologize to the sales lady for having no idea what I was looking for and she suggested I apologize for talking to the sales lady in the first place.

I warded off three vampires,or were they more sales people? I don’t know, they ran so fast in the other direction, I just assumed they were vampires. One was working the register I was at and actually turned into a bat and flew away shrieking.

I cannot take it anymore.  I must get away from myself. In the carpool line I went crazy and started swallowing Altoids whole with the hopes that they would dissolve in my stomach and take care of the guttural odor, at the source. First, I swallowed a half, then I started thinking, ‘What have I done? I don’t know if it’s safe to just swallow an Altoid without chewing it.  They are curiously strong.’

Me: “No, that’s silly, it’s fine. People accidentally swallow gum and mints all the time, it just takes 7 years to digest, but they survive. Just shove the other two in your mouth and be done with it.”

So I did and before I could talk myself out of it, I washed them down with coffee.

Me: “Holy shit. What did I just do? I swallowed more, and with coffee no less, a stimulant. What if they’re like Poprocks and my stomach explodes?”

Me: “That never really happened, or did it? I don’t know for sure. My stomach is feeling a bit sour. Should I drink some ipecac?”

Me: “No by the time I get out of carpool line they will already be absorbed into my blood stream. Maybe I should call someone and tell them what I’ve taken, so they can inform the paramedics when the ambulance arrives.”

Still Me: “This is ridiculous Jenny, could you imagine if people just died from swallowing mints? You would hear about it. It would be on 60 Minutes or the news. Whew.”

Me: “Wait, I don’t watch 60 Minutes or the news. I only watch Cartoon Network, HBO and reality TV.. Fuck, I’m screwed”

Me: “No, you would have gotten one of those mass emails warning you about swallowing mints, like microwaving saran wrap, or using plasticware with the numbers 4,6, or 7. Whew.”

Me: “Maybe I’m the first person to swallow so many Altoids and wash them down with coffee. You have to admit it’s a bit random. Why would any sane person like myself do that?”

Me in a British Accent: “Pip pip and all that… Don’t worry luv, all will be splendid. Now, let’s have a spot of tea, shall we?”

Me: “I’d love to.  You French people make every idea sound smart.”

Last month I had a scary episode. I was driving and out of nowhere I felt like I was about to lose consciousness. I was luckily in a parking lot. First, I debated if I should just put the car in park out of fear that I would pass out and glide into something. Then, I spotted an open space, sideswiped a pedestrian that then gave me the bird, and quickly parked.

My mind was racing, “Something is wrong, people don’t just pass out.” I called my husband unlocked my doors, so he could get to me, and searched for something to eat. I shoved a lollipop in my mouth… nothing. I was hanging on by a thread, when I saw my daughter’s morning sippy cup of milk. I sucked out the milk as fast as I could and after a rush of boiling heat radiated through my body, the feeling slowly eased. After a meal during which I was barely lucid, I told husband I was okay to drive myself to the doctor, which by the way took very little convincing. Thanks Mark.

Now let me tell you a bit about my Doctor. He is a Jewish Jamaican with a strong accent and the stereotypical laid back attitude you would expect of people who use the word irie, though he does not. I go to him because I am too big of a hypochondriac to go to someone high strung. When I arrived I found him outside taking a smoke break, he rolls his own, so there’s no telling what it was.

“Ello luv, I see you got yer pretty self all worked up. I don’t mean to trow the book at ya, but yer blood pressure is very low… too too low. Yer passin’ out cause yer not getting enough oxygen to yer brain daarlin’.

“That actually explains some other issues.”

“Well, ya got ta take care of dis yerself, cause yer not gonna like the medcine I’d ‘ave to put ya on. Now go to the store and buy everyting wid salt. Get some matzoh ball soup and put extra salt init, put salt on yer salt. Everyting you been taught, ferget it. Rememba ya need tons of fluids, ‘cause ya ‘ave to retain ‘em.”

“What about water?”

“Water? No. That’s terrible fer ya, that just washes the sodium away. I prefer you ‘ave a coke, that ‘as yer, salt yer caffeine, and yer sugar. It’s the perfect drink fer yer ‘ealth.”

“Yes, I believe that’s their campaign slogan. Drink Coke, It’s Perfect For Your Health.”

“OK then, I love ya daarlin. ‘Ave a space cake fer the road.”

Did I mention he takes his appointments in a small shack? I’m totally kidding, it’s more of a trailer.

So, if I want to stay awake, I must retain water and eat and drink crap, and if I want to stay thin, I must pass out. Hmmm, well I certainly wouldn’t be the first person who passed out trying to stay thin. It is against everyting, sorry everthing, in me to purposely retain fluids. But apparently, this medicine is something I want to avoid so here goes.

WEEK 1- Filled pantry with pretzels, pistachios, popcorn, pickles, peppercorn jack, and Pepsi. I know, you’re thinking they all have… salt in them, and that’s why I got them.

WEEK 2- Ate and drank all of the above. Wide awake. Feelin’ gooood.

WEEK 3- Feeling sluggish. Fingers pruning… Must have sweet, in need of a cupcake. I secretly busted a piñata at Ryan’s friend’s 4^th birthday, and ravaged the remains. I blamed it on a little kid that teases Ryan, who just happened to be the birthday boy. Ahhh, sweet sweet revenge.

WEEK 4- Cannot look at another saltine. Putting MnMs in my soup instead of oyster crackers. Can no longer wear rings. Thighs are becoming too friendly with each other. Mission accomplished. Do I cry or cheer?

WEEK 5- Too bloated to cook. Can’t get fingers around pan handles. Oven mitts don’t fit. Had Mark install salt licks around the house for convenience. Lick them each time I waddle by. Will write more tomorrow, sausage fingers too swollen for keys.