cool beans

Apparently, I have been taking my yearly blog-break. I don’t know why. Here’s some random stuff you could live your whole life without reading. You should read it anyway. What the hell else do you have to do?

I need a haircut.

If I wasn’t mortified at the thought of clothes shopping on television, I would start wearing only the worst things I could find in my closet so I could have the “What Not To Wear” $5000 wardrobe. If you nominate me, I will kill you. Just send the money.

I’m at peace with the outcome of Big Brother 8.

I have CW so I can watch a “cycle” of America’s Next Top Model WHILE it’s …cycling.

Someone get me out of my house. I’m rotting over here.

I’m too lazy to make links.

My friend, WhyMommy, has reached the halfway point in her chemotherapy treatment. In July, she wrote about the type of breast cancer she is fighting. I was going to repost it here in October during National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. So why am I writing this now? Because I’m getting several hits from searches related to breast cancer signs and symptoms. It scares me a little that someone is typing, “inflamatory breast cancer symptoms” and “what if I have a lump?” into a box, hitting the Enter key and landing here. I know SQUAT. I’m not a doctor. I don’t even play one on T.V. There are great online resources and support for breast cancer patients and survivors, but if you’re wondering, “Is this breast cancer?”, your doctor wants to see you.

The following was originally posted by WhyMommy at Toddler Planet on July 23, 2007.

Inflammatory breast cancer

We hear a lot about breast cancer these days. One in eight women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes, and there are millions living with it in the U.S. today alone. But did you know that there is more than one type of breast cancer?

I didn’t. I thought that breast cancer was all the same. I figured that if I did my monthly breast self-exams, and found no lump, I’d be fine.

Oops. It turns out that you don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer. Six weeks ago, I went to my OB/GYN because my breast felt funny. It was red, hot, inflamed, and the skin looked…funny. But there was no lump, so I wasn’t worried. I should have been. After a round of antibiotics didn’t clear up the inflammation, my doctor sent me to a breast specialist and did a skin punch biopsy. That test showed that I have inflammatory breast cancer, a very aggressive cancer that can be deadly.

Inflammatory breast cancer is often misdiagnosed as mastitis because many doctors have never seen it before and consider it rare. “Rare” or not, there are over 100,000 women in the U.S. with this cancer right now; only half will survive five years. Please call your OB/GYN if you experience several of the following symptoms in your breast, or any unusual changes: redness, rapid increase in size of one breast, persistent itching of breast or nipple, thickening of breast tissue, stabbing pain, soreness, swelling under the arm, dimpling or ridging (for example, when you take your bra off, the bra marks stay – for a while), flattening or retracting of the nipple, or a texture that looks or feels like an orange (called peau d’orange). Ask if your GYN is familiar with inflammatory breast cancer, and tell her that you’re concerned and want to come in to rule it out.

There is more than one kind of breast cancer. Inflammatory breast cancer is the most aggressive form of breast cancer out there, and early detection is critical. It’s not usually detected by mammogram. It does not usually present with a lump. It may be overlooked with all of the changes that our breasts undergo during the years when we’re pregnant and/or nursing our little ones. It’s important not to miss this one.

Inflammatory breast cancer is detected by women and their doctors who notice a change in one of their breasts. If you notice a change, call your doctor today. Tell her about it. Tell her that you have a friend with this disease, and it’s trying to kill her. Now you know what I wish I had known before six weeks ago.

You don’t have to have a lump to have breast cancer.

P.S. Feel free to steal this post too. I’d be happy for anyone in the blogosphere to take it and put it on their site, no questions asked. Dress it up, dress it down, let it run around the place barefoot. I don’t care. But I want the word to get out. I don’t want another young mom — or old man — or anyone in between — to have to stare at this thing on their chest and wonder, is it mastitis? Is it a rash? Am I overreacting? This cancer moves FAST, and early detection and treatment is critical for survival.

Thank you.

This post contains strong language. Don’t read it out loud to your children or employer (like you usually do) without reading it quietly to yourself first.

There are times I know other people believe my kids are misbehaving when I know otherwise. What my kid is doing or saying is perfectly innocent but causes onlookers to suspect I am dropping the ball in the parenting game. In these moments, I can choose to slouch, act apologetic, maybe even try to escape. Or, I can hold my head high and enjoy a little laugh at the quiet shock of strangers.

My four-year old is a great grocery shopper. He is typically sweet and cooperative and I miss his company when he doesn’t tag along. Because it is more work for me to let him walk, I usually ask him to ride in the cart for the first half. He’s getting a little big, though, and the cart hurts his legs. Last week I agreed to let him walk along the whole time. I kept him involved by letting him push the cart.

We started in produce where he learned how to tear the plastic bags off the stands and that we put the apples in the bag gently and banana bunches are not basketballs and should not be shot into the cart. So far, so good.

But as we were turning the corner into Aisle 1:

“WHOREWHORE! WHORE!”
“What?”
“Mommy, just let me push the cart.”
“I am. What are you saying?”
“Can we get chocolate chip muffins?”
Uh? “Sure. Okay.”

Turning into Aisle 2:

“WHORE! WHORE!”
“Baby! What are you saying?”
“Whore.”
“What?”
“Mommy, you put the stuff in the cart. I push it.”
Ohhhkay.

Aisle 3:

“WHORE! WHORE!”
“?”
“Whore!”

I knelt down and said, “Honey, what is that you’re saying? I don’t know the word.”

“It’s my WHORE, Mommy. I have to honk it.”

“OH! Your HORN! Yes, your horNNNN. You honnnnk your hornnnnnNNNNN.”

“Yes. Whore! Let’s go.”

He did this every time we rounded a corner and, more horrifically, whenever it looked like another shopper might be in our path. I thought about hunching my shoulders and hiding behind my hair, but decided against it when I caught the first judgmental glance that was lobbed at me. “TSK!” right back atcha, lady. If my kid wants to honk his whore, it’s fine by me. Take your eyeballs back and kindly step out of our way. Beep, beep.

Three things:

1. Britney Spears is not fat. Flailing, but not fat.
2. Sarah Silverman isn’t funny. (You can click that if you need proof, but you might want to just take my word for it. What.the.hell.)
3. Maraka is awesome:

Monday
Did nothing. I can hardly remember Monday. I’m only including it because …I have no idea why.

Tuesday
Daughter complained of stomach ache in the morning. Other than holding her tummy and looking like hell, no other symptoms. Trip to the library in the morning. Picnic lunch in the park. Finally used the Neat Sheet I bought three or four years ago. I recommend.

Wednesday
I hated Wednesday. I would like to boycott days like this past Wednesday from now until forever. Here’s how it went:

Get up, shower, dress, eat breakfast. Ready to walk out door, no time to spare. Daughter comes out crying, “Tummy hurts.” No other symptoms. Suspect faking. Do poor job of hiding suspicion. Tell her to get in the car anyway. Get in car, realize I forgot something. Put coffee mug in holder. Tell son, “Watch out for my coffee.” Run in house, climb back in car, see coffee POURING from overturned mug. Scream obscenities. Back in house, wring out coffee-soaked pant leg. Back to car, throw towels on floor board. TOTALLY LATE! Peel out of driveway.

Wait for train.

Drop children at school, little guy at grandma’s. Leave grandma’s at 8:00. Arrive to work late. Have unpleasant exchange about lateness that I should maybe apologize for but won’t because I.don’t.want.to.

9:30 call from school secretary. Daughter crying about stomach ache. Leave work, take girl home, return to work. Vow to make up missed half hour on Thursday.

Off work at noon. Retrieve little guy, take him to preschool, be surprised at lack of drama.

(The highlight of Wednesday was grocery shopping with my four-year old. He is an awesome grocery shopper.)

Thursday
Daughter to doctor. Rule out Strep, h. pylori, treat for possible constipation and allergies. MAJOR DRAMA over finger poke for h. pylori test. Pray she’s full of poop and doesn’t need blood work. It will require restraints.

Friday
Daughter still home sick. Hoping tummy improves by 11:00 or may have to do blood work. Crossing fingers.

I’m still feeling tired and worn out. I’m trying not to take anything to help me sleep at night because I think that might be part of the problem. As a result, I hardly slept at all last night. It was like I was floating just above sleep. It.sucked.

Healthy
I have a headache. I might throw up. I’m really, really tired. I’ve felt this way for at least two weeks, cats. It’s bothering me enough that I peed on a stick even though pregnancy is the last thing that could be wrong with me. I’m taking a vitamin, drinking some water, and trying to eat things that grow on stems and trunks.

Wealthy
Earlier this summer we had someone work on the outdated air conditioning unit in my car. Afterward, my car started pissing itself on the driver’s side floor board. My husband took the car in last week to have some pipe blown out (dirty!) so it would stop leaking and I said, “Have them check the brakes, too. They’re screeching.”

Later that day I had this telephone conversation with the girl at the car shop:
Her: Hey, we checked your brakes and they need to be replaced.
Me: Oh, well. Are you sure?
Her: Yes. Front and back.
Me: Oh, front AND back? Wow. That sucks.

Silence.

Me: So, how much will the brakes be, then?
Her: $Toofuckingmuch.
Me: I see. Well, I have a 13-year old here. Maybe we could just swap. (nervous, hope-you-go-for-this twittering)
Her: Uh, huh huh. Um, I don’t think so.
Me: Weeping.

My brakes don’t scream anymore. My neighbors are probably really happy about it. I should have made them pay for it. I mean, even if it was loud the car was braking. Pretty much.

Wise
I’ve been reading a lot this summer since we haven’t had paid television and it’s been really great. I felt smarter and stuff. Last weekend while I was out running errands with a kid, my husband ordered DirecTV. I realized Friday night that I was glued to the couch watching the same episode of The Hills for the fifth time in two days. My mouth was hanging open and I was slouching. We’re all like this now.

We are buying our own stupidity.