my lovely lady lumps

"Lump" is on the top 5 list of frightening words, along with "audit," "alone," "root canal," and "rehab." A few months ago I felt a lump in my right breast, which is sizable. I'm not saying that to brag, but merely to emphasize the time involved in doing monthly self-exams when you're rockin double D's. It was very, very scary. Smallish mass sort of by my armpit. Normally I try to make a joke about something scary, but nothing came to mind. Next time I went to Planned Parenthood (since I had no health insurance at the time), I mentioned it. Sure enough, the very nice and motherly psuedo-doctor affirmed it in a tone that sounded like we had both seen the sailboat in the magic eye picture. My eyes immediately welled up, and the nice lady became even more motherly as she tried to reassure me it was probably nothing (it was that probably that rang out louder than a freight train carrying howler monkeys wearing neon). She brought out the fake boobie encased in nylon with cancerous and non-cancerous bumps in it and showed me the difference--cancer feels hard like a pebble, doesn't move around under your skin, and doesn't hurt. She imagined it was probably just fibrocystic tissue, just a benign dense mass. Nevertheless, she advised me to come back in a month to check it again.

I cried everyday for the next few days. We have great genes in my family--no cancer, no heart disease, no diabetes. Just alcoholism and manic depression, but who doesn't have that? I was constantly terrified that cancer was forming inside me, that my nieces and nephews would have to go to their aunt's funeral in their teens, that my parents would lose a child. That I'd have to go through chemo, lose my hair, lose my friends and boyfriend--they wouldn't want to stick around and watch me suffer. That it was my fault, for smoking and drinking when I knew I shouldn't. I told a few close friends, not my family. I thought I might die, or lose my breasts (which are fantastic). Luckily I got a job through UT a few weeks later that provided insurance so I took the opportunity to visit UT Health Services, where the whole ordeal was repeated: disrobing, probing, and crying. UTHS's lady was uber-nice as well, and explained that fibrocystic tissue (which is what it still appeared to be) can form from too much caffeine, and to cut it out completely while still doing regular exams. She went on to say, "You should soap yourself up in the shower with your hands so you get a feel for what your breasts feel like." To which I wanted to reply, "what is this, a porno? I know what my breasts feel like, lady, quit hitting on me." The jokester in me had started to return. To further allay my fears, she suggested I get an ultrasound and hooked me up with a radiologist. By this time, the fear was subsiding somewhat, but I was also a little sad--I had figured when I was 28 and getting an ultrasound, it'd be on my pregnant belly, not my possibly sick breast. I blinked back tears (much as I'm doing now) as the radiologist squirted warm liquid goo on me and tried to make small talk with me about tattoos and ultrasounds and cancer. I just stared at the ceiling and trying to breath, tears squeezing out the corners of my eyes. Results came back--everything seems ok. Keep cutting out the caffeine.

My point in telling you this extremely personal information is to express what fear can do to you. I pushed people away, picked fights with my boyfriend, and literally paralyzed myself with a hypothetic fear. After cutting out caffeine and switching birth controls, the mass went away, and my fear (for the most part) did too. Then I felt like a fucking coward, considering what other women have actually endured. How they lived through a real thing, a horrible thing. How they live with an actual fear, and carry on anyway--head high.

So ladies, don't ignore your shit, don't think it can't happen to you, and don't drink Starbucks doubleshots nonstop everyday. They're too expensive and corporate anyway. But most of all, don't be scared.

A Moment of Kickass

Rarely have I ever cheered for anything other than the Bears on TV. I dislike game shows as a rule. I'd much rather watch a comforting episode of Seinfeld than Escape from Whore Island or Are You Smarter Than a Retarded Kid. Shit, even 2 1/2 Men (a terrible parody of Charlie Sheen, performed by Charlie Sheen) provides decent white noise to study by. But tonight, dear readers, I cheered. I whooped. I jumped to my feet. Let me explain.

I've expressed my cynicism about A Moment of Truth before, knowing it was sure to be pure spectacle of people ruining their and others' lives in the name of the money pyramid. Great ratings, but a sad aftertaste. From what I can gather, there are various levels of questioning ranging from mildly embarrassing to world-shattering--the farther you go, the more money you get. One's truthfulness is measured by polygraph, which basically judges bodily reactions between first and second answers of questions. So they know what questions they'll be asked, having already answered them once. Slightly ineffective--polygraphs aren't admissible in a court of law, but Fox don't give a shit.

Ok. So I caught the last few minutes after class, just as some bleached blond answered a question asked by her ex-boyfriend as to whether or not she would get back with him and subsequently leave her husband. All three of these people looked to be in their early 20's, which is IMHO, too fucking young to get married. Obviously the answers was going to be yes, but Sis helped Blondie out by pushing the buzzer--the one-time get out of jail free button. The crowd booed. Blondie could have walked with 10K, but she decided to keep going--apparently this couple had already shared their wedding/honeymoon experience, during which Blondie confessed to being in love with another man. The next question looked suspiciously like the last one (and also asked by her ex): Do you think I'm the man you should be married to? Answer: Yes. Ouch. Fuck. Next question: Have you had sexual relations with other men while married? Her poor hubbie (a cop who met Blondie while arresting her for stealing from her workplace) encouraged her to just keep going--what's the point of stopping now when you can get $150K for both his nuts? Honesty's the best policy, right? So in front of God, Fox, her family and everybody, she said....yes, she had. The crowd clapped, what for I'm not sure.

So here's the Best Part. Two questions to that chunk of money, all secrets out of the bag at this point, nothing left to lose, she wants to continue. The question is: Do you think you're a good person? In that second, I changed my mind about Fox and this show, at least temporarily. Her answer, unbelievably, was yes. The pleasant disembodied voice reported: "That answer is.....false." FUCK YEAH!!! YEAH YEAH YEAH!!! OH YOU STUPID BITCH!!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!! Blondie's face fell. Her lip quivered. Her eyes got teary. She clearly was in disbelief that she, after cheating on and lying to her husband, was in fact NOT a good person. The fucking kicker was that she herself knew or believed deep down that she wasn't. She left with NO money, which is slightly sad--divorces are expensive.

We like those driving behind us to know our political views.

The current state of things:
- both my bedroom and closet light bulbs burnt out today.
- I have a heat rash on my belly.
- I really need to stop drinking so much.

Turn your sound on so you can listen to Nas. Trust me, it syncs up nicely with the videos of Bush dancing below.

Sex, politics, and religion tend to bring out the most interesting discussion. Since I've already dedicated time to sex and religion, I'll give you my thoughts on the debate the other night, which took place at UT where I go to school.

I consider myself an Obamacan, despite my cynical questioning of the possibilities of Real Change. But Hillary's opening statement was off the fuckin chain, and he never seemed to regain his rhythm. She sat there and smirked her evil dragon smirk and thought about eating babies while he stumbled disjointedly through somewhat non-specific answers. Maybe I'm being too harsh about Hillary, but here's the thing--I can't let go of the notion that maybe, maybe, this is a revenge thing. Stay with me--first, do we really want a woman who can't handle her man handling the country? I'm just saying. I know that's unfair, but still. Second, what if she's just running so she can get some grudge nookie from some hapless intern? Then and only then will she and Bill truly be even.

I'm only half serious here. Unbundle your undies.

I think it's unfortunate how scrutinized the candidates are on their tone, gestures, facial expression, word choice, etc., this after weeks and months of traveling, pressure, and little sleep. Some analysts on NPR were discussing Hillary's praise of Obama this morning, how she said she was honored to be running against him. Was this sincere? Is she admitting defeat? Is she manipulating us by being nice and positive one second and letting the bitch trickle out in the next?

The famous Xerox zinger. BOOOOOO! Go think about intellectual property. All of you.


Do I think Obama might possibly get assassinated? Yes. We have a bad history with strong black leaders. Is John McCain a reanimated zombie? Yes. He has an even better chance of dying in office, but of old age. Does Ron Paul look like a muppet? Lil bit. So as you can see, I'm unsure as to who the new leader of the free world should be. In the meantime, I'm glad to see GWB is holding shit down:


Apparently the rhythm Barack had misplaced in Austin had gotten Bush again in Liberia.


Anyway, tonight I went with Mama Christie and her man to the Manchaca Fire Dept. Friday Night All You Can Eat Catfish Fry Spectacular Bonanza Jubilee. That's not the real name. They've been doing this for decades. I was nice to go to a family-oriented function for once--6th St. got old a long time ago for me. It's a similar vibe to the Friday night spaghetti dinner in my hometown, or a cajun boil, or a Mexican potluck (which my mom said they had at her school today, which I think is funny cause I don't think any Mexicans go to that school). Lots of picnic tables, a good ole boys country band made up of men whom my father is starting to resemble, kids zooming around on Heelies and old school trikes, old folks, young folks, a tin roof and a concrete floor, and all the catfish, hushpuppies, beans, slaw, and french fries you can eat or fit on a plastic plate for $10.95.

My belly is full and itchy.

Maila

Dear Maila,

My mom called me this morning and told me that you had passed away. I felt relief, because I knew someone as vibrant as you hated life stuck in a nursing home and dealing with MS in your late 30's. I felt anger all over again, remembering the last time I saw you a few years ago when I was home--it was Homecoming, and our whole small Midwestern town turned out for the parade of tractors, girl scout troops, veterans, and the high school band. You were in a wheelchair by then, and I could see the injustice and worry in your eyes. I remembered you as a little girl when you were friends with my older sister--you were the weird sorta hippie girl on the block. I remembered you when you were my English teacher in high school, still sorta weird and hippie. You pretended not to notice when Julie and I would take hours to bring back film from the store for journalism class, knowing we were just doing normal high school skipping stuff. Then you came to do my observations when I student taught, five years later. Oddly, that's my job now, that's what I'm doing. I thought about how you did it. You had a walker-type thing by then, and you bravely smiled your crazy smile as we took the elevator up to my classroom, and I didn't know what to say. After I moved away, I'd hear about you from time to time, my mom worked in the same school your daughter goes to. Your husband wasn't the most well-thought-of person in town--you know how small towns are. I wondered how often your financial worries crowded your thoughts, how your family would be ok without you, even as your body continued to imprison you. I hope the last days weren't too hard for you--you never deserved any of this. You were only 39 fucking years old. I wonder what you could have done if MS had never knocked at your door and forced its slow way in. Great things, I know. I got you.

I am so sorry.

Update: Mom's email from today:
I just had to tell you what just happened. I was talking to Maila’s daughter, Roane, and she told me about her mom dying on Tuesday. So I told her that her mom had helped my daughter be a teacher, and Roane said that her mom is still teaching. (Maila had her body donated for research.) She said she was going to Iowa City, and maybe she would help people find a cure for MS.

A book you should never read. Ever.

Attention--if you would like to have a nervous breakdown, kill a defenseless animal, or perhaps take your own life and have just been lacking the incentive, have I got the book for you:



The honest-to-God first sentence of the book: "The practical privilege in which all scientific activity arises never more subtly governs that activity (insofar as science presupposes not only an epistemological break but also a social separation) than when, unrecognised as privilege, it leads to an implicit theory of practice which is the corollary of neglect of the social conditions in which science is possible."


Fuck. French. Theorists.

I'm starting to wonder if this assignment is itself a test--this prof (Cultural Theory in Education) had us read a decent book last week about discipline and punishment, and is all about viva la revolucion. Maybe we're suppose to revolt against this directive, which seems to clearly a waste of time. No idea. All I know is when on page 4 I came across the phrase "a theory of theory," I got a little teary.

Perhaps a beer would make this easier.

More things coming soon--been living it up with an old friend over the weekend and am now dealing with the subsequent game of catch-up.

highway to the danger zone

I had the strong feeling that something was wrong this morning, and it caused me to hide in bed til nearly ten when I wasn't even tired, just because staying in my bed in my still half-dark room seemed so much easier than facing whatever was going on out there. Or in here--I didn't know what was wrong. I just felt it--I had The Fear. I warned Mark immediately that something strange was afoot, but he reassured me I looked pretty. Antsy, I went down to S. Austin for coffee with Momma Christie, returning a few hours later to a police standoff, which is still going on about two blocks from my house.

Nothing brings the neighborhood together like a good ole standoff. The skater kids from a few doors down, the weird lady next door, a bunch of old people I've never seen and people who drove to the neighborhood to sit in their cars with binoculars, cameras, and cigarettes gathered together to express their ignorance as to what was going on. Some guy in a duplex, he has a hostage, the whole Ross parking lot is covered with police cars, and did you hear that tear gas they shot in there? They must have done that about seven or eight times, the pops making us jump and wonder if it was the inevitable gun fire we'd hear at some point. It was an exciting Sunday afternoon on Ashdale. It had the same aura as a small town football game, or possibly a public execution. I can hear the negotiator's voice, sounding like a parade announcer through a megaphone--"We know you are there and we are not leaving. Put down your gun and pick up the phone." Borrowing some binoculars, I could see SWAT guys crouched around the fence, the house itself hidden. The conversation turned to the safety of the neighborhood with some older folks who still had on their Sunday best, chatting together in the driveway. We expressed disbelief when a young blond blew past the cop car, driving right into the fire zone, and snickered together when the stern and mustached seargant, after yelling and chasing her down, told her angrily to turn around and get out of here, and sniggered more as the dumb bitch nervously executed a 48 point turn to correct herself.

I went back inside. I no longer hear the negotiator. I don't see any movement, and I felt sad at the spectacle of the whole situation. I felt bad for the guy, or girl, or whatever, who really knows...what did they feel like when they woke up this morning? How would it end? What made it come to this? I'll let you know when I find out. I suppose I am out of reasons for not doing homework now.

The Shit List, part III

I've been keeping busy and feeling pretty good lately--I have a lot to be thankful for. Nevertheless, I believe it's time for the third installment of.....The Shit List.

1) Mr. Subway Artist in the Dobie Mall--sir, I am truly sorry that you're pushing fifty and have to wait on UT kids all damn day, I really am. But if you don't want to know what kind of bread I want, don't ask--don't roll your eyes at me and sigh. I said MAYO not TOMATO, but I didn't give you attitude, and I said thank you like five times. Listen, dude--it could be worse. The only non-starving artist is the sandwich artist. Take some pride in your job. You make a good sandwich. Just lose the attitude, I got my own shit to deal with.

2) The strange lady in the Chevron parking lot who asked me if I could give her a ride right quick--I don't know you, and I don't feel like getting stabbed today. The bus'll take you anywhere you wanna go, my dear. I appreciate that you won't "be weird"--you certainly won't be in my car. Move it along.

3) The Room Store--you evil fuckers. If I was lying in bed with my husband and a clown walked past the door with no explanation other than "we gotta pay for this bed somehow," I'd be more than pissed. There'd be some what-the-fucks being yelled. Don't try and scare me into buying your shit so that I don't have to take in clown boarders. Not gonna work.

4) My older brother. Quit calling me. We're not buddies.

5) Johnny Fairplay. You are full of douchebaggery. Because TV was so horrible tonight I caught part of Survivor: Fans vs. Favorites. Whose favorite are you? I don't even watch the show and I know you're an ass. Danny Bonaduce is no prize either, but you had this coming:




6) People who post 3 line bulletins just to let you know how they're feeling. Mmhmm. Bugs you too, doesn't it?

7) Jake, buddy, you know I love you, but when you threw up in my room yesterday, I felt like Cruella DeVille. No more eating cat product, please. And you're lucky Momma's coming home tonight, or you'd be sleeping outside.