Bad Advice

Such a lovely child. . . .

That's me, holding the dog.

I remember wanting a Dorothy Hamill hairdo(n't) so badly and when my mom finally took me for my first salon visit, my hair promptly decided to frizz.

I loathed my childhood and this picture just makes me cringe. We were living in Rochester, where I was fat and friendless. We went to St. Thomas the Apostle Catholic school and had a teacher who'd hold the cute girls upside down (so their uniforms would would fall, revealing their little cotton panties). Luckily, I was too un-cute for such shenanigans, but we all wore gym shorts under our uniforms just in case. Because pedophilia wasn't talked about so much back then, it was only much later that I realized we were dealing with a serious perv. And no, he wasn't a priest.

I also remember another teacher who had the largest thighs I'd ever seen. She was otherwise very trim, but she'd wear miniskirts with these shiny suntan pantyhouse just straining across her massive thighs. I was completely fascinated by those legs of hers.

Wasn't my mom pretty? She always thought she was butt ugly and I think that made her both miserable and insecure. Our cunty grandmother is to blame for this, because my mom was anything but fug. Yet my grandmother would repeatedly tell my mom how ugly, useless and awful she was. My grandmother's nickname for my mom was "cocksucker." She was such a charmer and boy, was I sad when she did the big croak. 

Giddy Titty City!

Okay, phew. My latest health scare was just that—a scare. The doctors found a suspicious nodule on my mammogram (that would be a scan of my boobies) and I needed to come back in for further testing. I found out on Thursday and promptly lost the plot. I had no doubt it was cancer. My mom was only a few years older than me when she died, I have lost many friends to the disease—why wouldn't I have it?

Naturally I wanted to find out ASAP so I could either figure out a treatment plan or quit hyperventilating. The radiology place couldn't see me until today so I did the best I could to put it out of my mind (yeah, right) and went about my business. Today I went in, they did more tests, and told me I had a cyst in my tit. Nothing further is to be done, it's not cancerous. I feel like it's my birthday, Christmas, and vacation all at once. I am so happy and grateful that it wasn't the Big C. So yeah, probably my posts will lighten up a bit from now on. Phew!!!

(Oh, and that's not me, it's Salma Hayek. I realize the resemblance is uncanny. Get it—"cans"!)

Don Draper Makes it Easy to Hate Men

Oh, Don. . . .

Where to even start? You're so handsome, I've yet to meet any human who wouldn't drop trou for you. Even my boyfriend was marveling aloud over your perfect five o'clock shadow. You know the one—that light film of black shadow, gracing that perfectly square, manly jaw of yours. . . .

Over the last few episodes we felt like you'd met your match. Faye was independent, strong, career-oriented, smart, age-appropriate and crazy about you. So crazy she even went into an ethically gray area to bail out your dumb company. (This I believe sealed her fate.) Sure, she's kind of awkward with the kids, but you only get them once or twice a month anyway, so who cares?

Then there's Secretary Meghan of the Overbite. Meghan is much younger, fawning, efficient, and possibly the most impressive flirt I've ever seen in action. Attractive in a non-traditional way (like Faye), Meghan put out when Don was at a low point and then just hung back until he came to her, as it seems she knew he would. Watching her take care of the little ones—teaching them to sing in French—showed Don that she would be the trouble-free choice for wifey. And just as Faye originally predicted, Don was wife-shopping.

Imagine Faye staying home with the kids while Don slips out for a nooner with some boho bim he met on MacDougal Street? Wouldn't happen. Meghan, however, will be up, cheerfully feeding Sally & co crepes and teaching them French verb conjugations when Don inevitably reverts to form, stumbling in at 5am, lipstick on his collar, spooge stain on his slacks. It all makes a horribly depressing kind of sense.

Men as a population were redeemed with Ken Cosgrove. Summoned into a meeting with Weasel Pete, Roger and Don, Cosgrove is directed to use his fiance's family connections to arrange a meeting with a potential client. Seeing that it would put his fiance, her dad and himself in an awkward position, Ken refuses. The other men are incredulous as Ken says something along the lines of, "this is work—she's MY LIFE!"

To a man, they look by turn utterly gobsmacked and then scornful as Ken puts down his drink and walks out of the room. "B-b-b-but work is life!" you can practically hear their little brains screeching. Thank you Ken. In one short sentence you managed to redeem your gender. (A few of them, anyway.)

¡Hola!

Behold a fairly gross photo of me taken right before bed the night after my latest hideous dental surgery. In order for the twenty or so stitches to heal over the three screws and bone graft that were just implanted, I need to remove my removable front teeth (aka, temporary denture) before bed each night. I don't have to wear the mask, but I refuse to look at my gums, which are all stitched up and have a titanium bolt sticking out of the bottom. Ugh. Once that image is in my head, I know it will never leave. I can live without it.

The cancer surgery I had was absolutely nothing on the pain scale next to the carvings I've had done in my mouth. Luckily, when you get cancer (even if it's a wussy stage-one melanoma), they give you these incredibly strong painkillers. I used about two pills after my surgery and hoarded the rest for just this kind of occasion. I spent three hours in the chair with the dentist drilling into my head. She'd be deep into my upper jaw and the novocaine would run out. Seriously—this happened about three times. I'd start to yell and once I actually hyperventilated like a lunatic. The pain was unbelievable. Also, injections into your palate do not "feel like a pinch," they feel like a spike being jammed up into your brain. As I was leaving the office, face swollen and blood crusted around my lips, the dentist offered me a Motrin. 

That shit doesn't even work on period cramps.

Anyway, enough complaining. I'm in the midst of yet another health scare, which will hopefully turn out to be nothing, but I won't know for a few days. (It's probably nothing.) I'm so sick and tired of feeling like shit and having absolutely nothing to say unless it's to bitch about my stupid health. Do you want to hear about my bowels? (Kidding—my poop appears to be in great shape!) I'm writing a bunch, which is great, but I feel like the worst friend/family member/freelancer on the planet because I've been such a miserable bee-yotch this past year. So, sorry, you guys. I'll try to do better.