Alright, I have many a reason to celebrate today as it is less than 24 hours from my big narcissistic all about me day celebration and I am giddy with joy. It shows my true colors, this birthday week thing. All I do is talk about myself and feel important. That is an everyday occurrence here but now I can do with out feeling guilty or famous. It’s like being on a coke bender in Vegas with a group of people you barely know. You talk about yourselves, you act cool, you love everything about the world and whatever you are wearing, you are best new friends with some chick named Cheyenne or River and then, wham! It is noon the next day and you are sitting in a hotel diner with people you never want to see again, trying your best not to ralph on your continental breakfast special and spend your last five bucks on slots and Advil.
This birthday there are no major plans. Just an excuse to be high on something other that hormones, anger and lack of sleep. I am thinking one cocktail and I will be out like Winona Ryder on an international flight. I didn't even know she was still alive. Welcome back, W!
What I really want for my big day? Mommy needs a weekend at a hotel with daddy but the list of reasons why that will not happen is too long. Money, money, money. Besides, I want to hang out with Otto on my day and make it his day too. Cue projectile barf. Changing a shitty diaper is so much better than being taken out to dinner and being given a new jewelry box for my collection of big ass funky rings and cheap bracelets or a new pair of shoes to hide my scary person foot bones.
The other reason to celebrate, sorry, got a bit side tracked here, is that I had a follow up booby exam this morning at 8:20 a.m. That is how I know I have become the old mom lady person. Who the hell schedules anything before 10 a.m.? The new me, that's who. A spindly, excitable woman squished my left one into a buttermilk pancake and then proceeded to tell me why she runs instead of doing yoga. “Yoga”, she insisted, “is not my thing because it’s religious and I can’t support it if it is not Christian. If they didn’t make it religious with that religion they use and it was Christian, I would try it. Besides, running is when I pray.”
Okay, Jerry Falwell, hurry up with the mammalian molding and get me out of this church of creepy. Just tell me I am healthy, give me back my stack of silver dollars and I’ll be on my way.
I was already nervous before The 700 Club came calling. That’s all I would need this week, bunions, a new gray hair, cancer and a birthday welcoming me into middle age. I just had no idea that a religious titty technician would be the bad thing. But hey, I’ll take it over a health issue any day.
Last May, after a annual exam, they found a suspicious lump in the left booby and I had to go back for an immediate follow up. They said that the second test was clear but now I have to get a mammogram every 6 months until they are tired of seeing my hooters. I can say that no one has ever been tired of seeing my hooters except two people. My male model, manorexic college roommate who I might have slept with when I was chunky and lonely and desperate for a boyfriend and Otto. Last Thanksgiving, just as I had accepted breast feeding as part of the remainder of my life, he weaned himself and gave me the Heisman after taking a large nibble and making me bleed and cry. After the initial shock of extreme pain and rejection, I celebrated with a stiff drink and high end nipple cream. It made me feel like Nicole Richie on tour with Good Charlotte, perfect and stupid.
With the boobs ready to go and my ass back to it’s old size, I could swear my body is preparing for pregnancy again. That or it is ready for a three day weekend in sin city with a backless sequined blouse and a drug czar. I’ll either be in bed by ten reading Twilight in my old pajamas or at The Hard Rock Hotel waiting to call an ambulance and spending Otto’s college fund on watered down drinks and Craps.
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