A cure for meh-laise.

I've had a case of the ughs lately.  The kind of ooogy feeling where nothing in particular is wrong, but an over-all 'meh-ness' permeates my cells.  That's why I haven't been posting much, or doing anything other than work and sulk.  During times like these, I'll take anything funny, happy, or completely bizarre, anything to help me forget to remember to be in a shit mood.

This is one of those things:

Some of you most definitely have seen this before, too bad for you.  I didn't promise you anything.  Watch it again, and quit your complaining.  Maybe you don't like it because you identify with the main character and you don't like what that says about you.  I've watched it perhaps a million times and will probably watch it a googolplex more. 

If drunk baby can be drunk, then I most certainly can put a damn smile on my stupid face.  

T.

This could be exciting, if you have a low threshold for excitment.

Note:  This post was taken down and re-posted.  It also has been edited.  Heavily.  I don't know what was (is) wrong with me, but I posted without proofing.  I also got kind of weepy at the end.  As I recall, I was kind of weepy for the rest of the night about a great deal of things, including: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, people being nice, how much I 'L-word' ManFriend, how much I 'L-word' people reading my blog, how much I 'L-word' the texture of the couch I was sitting on, and about being weepy all the time. It wasn't pretty.  I'm leaving it in because being pathetic is funny.  Maybe not laugh with funny, probably more laugh at funny. 

Why hello there.

The exciting news is really not all that exciting.  You're probably going to feel ripped off when you read it.  I feel a little bit bad about including the word 'exciting', not once, but twice in the post title. 

I tried to make this blog even more awesome by rearranging the entire layout.  It was great for about two minutes until I realized instead of making me feel like I was at a dance party, it made me feel like I was stabbing myself with a paring knife.  In a moment of confusion, instead of hitting cancel like a smart person, I twitched out and hit save.  WHAT THE HELL?!

After I finished throwing everything in arms reach and using swear words that hadn't been invented until I screamed them, I tried to return it to the way it was before.  There's something off about it now.  Like a diarrhea fart in the room, it may not be clearly visible, but there is something definitely not right.  I give up. 

Now to the mildly exciting part.  I've added new pages to the blog; an 'about' page and an 'FAQ' page.  And then, equally exciting, I've added better formatting for mobile phones, for all those who like to read Take With A Grain while driving.

PS - don't read and drive.  Or if you do, make sure you are a follower, so I least I know who's death to mourn.  

Note: This is the weepy part I warned you about.  

One of the first rules of blogging is not apologizing for long absences, the 2nd is not having long absences.  I am not in the position to not post for a long time and expect people to want to read what I have to say.  Truth time?  Jen the Bloggess and Allie from Hyperbole and a Half.  They are amazing.  So good.  Pinnacle of supreme awesomeness.  Their talent is overwhelming.  And they get sad, and they can't write.  How can I possibly expect to even be anywhere near as wonderful as they are?  It's overwhelming and intimidating.  Trust me, I know that I will not ever be on that level, but you know?  (insert something better expressed by a sober person).  Anybody? 

I have funny things to say about exploding eggs, but can't even tell you right now.  And they aren't even hoo-ha eggs, they're real eggs.  Which, now that I think about it, is probably less funny-slash-graphic then exploding hoo-ha eggs.  That would be a weird ass super power.  Think about it.

T

Cystic Prophesies: A Tale of Two Titties or the Boob Un-cancer Incident, Part MXVII

Note 1: if you didn't already know about Tit the Betrayer, you might want to read here first.  

Note 2:  By no means do I want to take anything away from the people who do have/get the ass-hat that is cancer, in any form.  Your journey has gone/will go much further than mine, and only a group of traveling minstrels could do justice to your bravery.  I'm not even lucky, I'm just cyst-e.  I didn't struggle to survive, didn't deal with chemo, and didn't have odds against placed on my life.  All I dealt with was the fear of the unknown.  Please forgive the following self-indulgence:

Cystic Prophesies: A Tale of Two Titties or the Boob Un-cancer Incident, Part MXVII

When we last left our hero, she was about to go all explode-y on a spelling challenged medical secretary.  It was also revealed that the offensive boob lump was not cancer, and was merely a cyst, who brought several cyst friends to the party, even though none of them were invited, and who insisted on playing their own music, and told everyone why their taste in movies was so terribly mainstream. 

So, why am I still writing about the whole thing when I am clearly going to survive?  Because, for two weeks, I didn't know what the hell was going on in there.  It was like a (completely bastardized and manipulated for my own purposes) version of the Schrödinger's cat thought experiment.  At any given moment, without knowing the results, it was possible that I was both cancer free and cancerous.  If only I was like a cow with a window, so I could see inside my lady lump and supervise what's going on in there.  The cysts/cancer cells would have to carry little signs though, 'cause I ain't no doctor, I can't tell those things apart.  

If there were lots of them, it might look like they were picketing.  In a moment of confusion I might actually give in to their demands and agree to paid vacations and two personal items in their workspace.  

Initially, I wasn't going to tell anyone, ManFriend included.  Both my parents have had cancer, and it was very dramatic and scary for everyone (in another post I'll talk about my family's terrible bad news delivery system).  I didn't want to frighten anybody unnecessarily, or have melodramatic all-about-me time.  Cancer seemed a very heavy load for relatively young relationship to bear.  How could I possibly ask ManFriend to go through all the worry, pain, vomit, ugly-crying, and anxiety that accompanies a cancer diagnosis?  Still, I was scared and having moments of complete panic.  More than anything, I needed someone other than Bob Marley to tell me everything is gonna be alright.

Imaginary Cities - Ride this out became my anthem.  Actually, it's always my anthem.  

**WARNING - THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS GRAPHIC SCENES 

OF ICKY MUSHINESS, GRATEFULNESS, AND GROSS LOVEY DOVEY STUFF**

 People who know Teresa personally may feel that the world doesn't make sense anymore.

RATED E for EWWWWWW

Thank the cosmos for ManFriend.  I sprung the news on him on the drive to see his Mom (15 minutes before we got to her house - because you have to keep family tradition alive), and from that moment on, he was an incredible pillar of awesome for me to cling to.  He told me it was going to be OK, and listened when I needed to talk about how it might not be.  He was careful not to fuss over me too much, made me laugh at pretty much everything, and hugged me even when I couldn't admit I was upset.  I told my sister, glossing over the potential nastiness so she wouldn't have to worry from so far away.  After we hung up the phone, I collapsed into a oddly shaped anxiety-ball and ManFriend deftly maneuvered me towards sanity.  

One evening, I told him how I'd been up all night, caught in a fear spiral (like a giggle loop, but with waaay less mirth).  One minute I'd be planning the "all-the-worry-was-for-nothing" celebration dinner, the next I was deciding if I should cut both my ta-tas off so I wouldn't have balance issues.  Balance probably wouldn't be an issue for most of the brave women who get a mastectomy, but I'm specially balanced as it is; it doesn't take much to tip me over.  I'd spent sleepless hours planning on how get rid of my stuff so people wouldn't have to deal with it if I didn't make it.  

"I've been thinking," ManFriend said.  "If the worst should happen, which I really hope it doesn't, that I would take a year off work."  I started shaking my head; I couldn't see a reason for him to give up the financial means to his dreams just because I got sick.  "No," he said.  "I will.  And you will be off work, obviously.  We'll take all our money, we'll travel the world until you've seen all you want to see, and you are happy.  And we will spend those last times together."  

"Gaaragghhhaggh!"  That's the sound of my heart cockles getting all mushy.  Damn the man for making me want cancer.  For future reference, ManFriend says that a chest cold isn't enough of a reason for him to take a year off work.  Not even if I cough convincingly or roll my eyes back in my head while delivering grand death-bed monologues. 

The day of the ultrasound came, and I was so cool my temperature was 0 degrees kelvin.  That is, I was right up until the extremely stern technician dumped a bucket of warm lube on my boob, and started scanning without even a "how do you do" in my direction.  For some reason, her lack of bed-side manners made the situation seem so much more serious.  I felt completely alone and very scared, so I, in all my 30 year old glory, started to cry.  No comfort was to be had from Helga, she scanned away, making disapproving sounds every now and then.  

To add to my sorrow, I was sure that I would never not have a slippery breast again.  They must buy lube by the sea-can, because Helga sure didn't scrimp.  If this whole breast cancer thing was a go, I could make extra cash by providing breast lube to mechanics and handymen.  "There's a positive side to everything," is what insensitive ass-holes like to say.  

As I've already told you the end result of this booby adventure, I won't dwell on it for too long.  Cysts are jerks who like to scare the feces out of you, but they are way better than cancer.  Ladies, check your boobs.  Know your boobs.  If your boobs start giving you attitude, scan the crap outta those bastards, and put an end their nasty little game early.  Even the scared part feels good when you find out there is nothing to worry about. 

image by barbara cole via sabino

T.

The Colour of a Muppet with a Terminal Illness

Last week I posted about a sneaky pen in the laundry in the Hidden Pen in the Laundry post.  Didja see that plug there?  Pretty subtle wasn't it.  Just like me writing this.  And this.  

Meg pointed out that there was some ambiguity with regards the specific colouring of a Muppet with a terminal illness.  She, very correctly, pointed out that Muppets are a multi-coloured bunch.   

Well Meg, in answer to your question, a seriously ill Muppet is this colour:

This Muppet is seriously ill.  He also has a hand up his rear end, which has nothing to do with anything,
but we should all probably be grateful that I didn't try to draw that too.

 And to prove that Muppet is not just hung over, here he is in the hospital with his terminal illness. 

Notice the copyright?  That's cause this drawing is so good y'all is going to try to steal it. 
But copyright symbol says, "NO!" and makes fun of your mother.

This is how I spend my time people.  I dare you to question my usefulness now. 

Teresa

PS.  You may have noticed the letter 'u' appearing in the word 'colour' throughout my post.  This is for two reasons.  One, I am Canadian, and that's how we spell it.  And two, that's how it's spelled, because I said so.   

I hope you got warranty on your face repairs Miss Del Rey.

If I was in charge, this girl would have her original face put back on.  Why would you ever give yourself permanent duck-face?  That being said, I will admit that she does look sexy and mysterious.  By sexy I mean she looks like she's in the midst of performing a sexual act (blowjob for those of you who aren't my mother), and by mysterious, I mean her price structure is currently an unknown. 

Excuse my pettiness.  Miss Lana Del Rey, you are a delicious creature.  I am insanely jealous of your talent, and heartbroken that I am not you.  I crave your voice, your looks (original and aftermarket), and your hair.  You probably have more hair in your shower trap than I have on my head. 

Thanks to Annelise at box of crayons for exposing me to her. 

Teresa

Boob Cancer Incident of 2011, Part IV

Much like Star Wars, I am going to start with Part IV.  Because, like Star Wars, the first three should never have been told to anyone over the age of 12.  Or something like that.  I can't remember my point.  Um, maybe, like Star Wars, giving anthropomorphic qualities to my breast is as unnecessary as giving them to Jar-jar Binks.

To the point.  At the beginning of October, I found a lump in my left boob.  

Let us pause for a proclomation.

PRUPT-TOOTER-TOOT!  (that was a trumpet).  

I declare, by the power granted to me by the Body Part Personification Committee, that 'left boob' shall hence forth be known as 'Tit the Betrayer'.  Tit the Betrayer, up until recently you were the favourite of the two knockers, but it turns out you are bit of an asshole (nothing personal, Butt the Belligerent). 

Butt the Belligerent
He cut you.

So I found the lump, had a little fall apart, then went to the doctor.  There were actually many more steps between lump and Doc, but I intend to write about them in a different post, when I can actually deal with all the things that went on.

I got an ultrasound, and expected to hear the results 5 days later.  Expecting is too limp of a word.  I was dreading, denying, and fearing the phone call.  By the end of the day, I hadn't heard anything.  I couldn't take another day of low grade panic, so I called.

This is an aproximate transcript of that phone call.  SS = slow secretary (also, by the end of this I was convinced she was involved in the other SS).  She was slurping her saliva, breathing great gusts of air, and giggling throughout. 

Anyway.

SS - 'ello?

T - Hi.  I had an ultra-sound last week.  I was wondering if the results were in.

SS - Name?

T - Smith*

SS - makes saliva sounds.  How do you spell that?

T - S.m.i.t.h.

SS - S. um, N.?

T - No.  S...m...i...t...h.

SS - Oh.  giggle.  S (deep breath) m...(deep breath) i... uh... e... uh... h.
 
T - No.  S...m...i...t..h...

SS - makes saliva sounds - OH!  Smith!  Ok, what's your first name.

T - Teresa.  T...e...r...e...s...a

SS - Ok. breathes loudly T.r.e.s.s.a

T - T.....e.....r.....e.....s......a.....

SS - more saliva chewing sounds 
SS - Oh.  Um.  Uh Oh.  OH NO!

T - Heart stops and stomach falls out my hoo-ha at "OH NO".  Start trying to figure out how I'm going to tell ManFriend and my family.  How I am going to tell work?  How am I going to support myself while I'm down for repairs?  Is it pessimism to start planning my funeral, or considerate to my family, so they don't have to?

SS - Um?  slllluuuuuuurrrrppppp.  I mean, um, Ooops?  How do you spell your name again?

T - Grits teeth.  Wonders where you can buy a mace online, and how long it would take to ship.  Considers how to re-insert stomach.  Tries very hard not to speak in exclamation marks.
T - T...E...R...E...S...A 

SS - No.  Your, uh, last name?

T - Explodes, leaving blood, guts, bad attitude, and potentially cancerous cells splattered about the room.  Feels only a little bit bad about the mess ManFriend will have to clean up.  

This continues for way longer than it should.  At one point, even I couldn't spell my name.

There is no way I can begin to convey to you the rage and fear I was feeling.  At one point, she did apologize, saying that it was her second week on the job.  I deserve a Medal of Honour for not asking if it was her second week of working with the alphabet too.  To be fair, being new is rough.  But I was one potential fun-bag lump away from my life changing completely, so was not in the mood for patience or understanding.  Ok, so I never really am. 

After we finish sorting out my name, she books me an appointment for the next day.


 *note - I actually stopped writing here.  She let it slip that it probably wasn't anything to worry about, but I was convinced it was an evil trick to lull me into a false sense of calm so she could jump out from behind a curtain, yelling OH NO while pointing at my left bosom.  Bitch.  SS would totally do that.  So would The SS. 

Turns out that I don't have cancer.  I have cysts.  Lots of cysts.  So many, they are going to rename me Cystasaurus Pecs.  I hope you are laughing, cause Cystasaurus Pecs is f'ing genius. 

Cystasaurus Pecs usually got picked to be the target. 

*not my real last name.  And for you all you who do know it, I've got a stink eye waiting right here for you if you spill.  I'm still figuring out what I want to do with this blogging persona stuff.

First image by Take With a Grain.  Second image by Elijah Majeski via Sabino.

Time to Over-share.

This morning, when I woke up, I deliberately didn't brush my hair.  Partly out of complete and utter laziness, and partly because I wanted to test the boundaries in my new living arrangement.  Testing boundaries is my favourite.  It's on my resume under interests, next to shark poking and pole vaulting.  So I lurked downstairs, saving my scary hair for ManFriend, who was upstairs being good at something.

As an aside - a summary of the two of us.  ManFriend = good or completely amazing at things.  T = comically not good or exceptionally bad at things. 

While I was lurking, I took photos of the hair, because it was impressive and something I felt the rest of the world was missing out on.  You'll notice tomorrow that it will have gone remarkably unreported on, much like Occupy Wall Street was subject to a media black out.  

Head Swirler over-shares, and tries to
compensate by appearing charming.

Head Swirler sneezes then holds face for photo.

It looks like I was swirling my head on my pillow.  I wonder if head swirling is a medical condition, like sleep apnea?  As in, "Well George, I didn't sleep well at all last night, as I have an extreme case of head swirling."  That sentence seems unlikely, mostly because I don't know anybody named George.

So, anyway, back to the lurking.  I nearly forgot, I was skulking too.  When I heard his feet on the stairs, I shifted slightly couch and scratched in eager anticipation.  Oh, if only I could have that anticipation back!  All my hopes of inciting disgust, or at least a comment about letting ones self go, were completely dashed.  He failed completely to react in a satisfactory manor. 

Instead, he looked at me casually for about 5 seconds, then let out a long fart that sounded like an angry goose playing a trumpet.  Kind of hissy with a brassy finish. 

Well played, ManFriend, well played. 

T.