Tag Archives: mardi gras

A Mother’s Confession (Spoiler: It involves cake.)


I went to the grocery store yesterday. I ran there alone to grab a few items to restock a household that has been existing on stocking stuffer food, Christmas presents from places like Harry & David and Hickory Farms and, if I’m being completely honest, canned goods that have probably been here since before we moved in seven years ago. It was time for some fresh produce … and foods that don’t taste like peppermint, gingerbread or pumpkin. (Not that I’m knocking that delicious trinity.) So I popped into the neighborhood store intent on grabbing fruit, vegetables, milk, a rotisserie chicken and, of course, a king cake.

I’m just going to assume you know what a king cake is.

Fine. (rolling eyes) It’s a “sweet, sugary and iced Danish type dough that is braided with cinnamon inside and a plastic doll underneath. King Cakes are made of a cinnamon filled dough in the shape of a hollow circle. They have a glazed topping and are sprinkled with colored sugar. Hundreds of thousands of King Cakes are eaten in New Orleans during the Carnival season.” (Thanks, Wikipedia.)

King cake season starts right as the Christmas season ends (January 6) and runs through Mardi Gras Day. And here it was … January 11th, 5 whole days into the season … and my poor children STILL hadn’t had any king cake yet this year.* By New Orleans standards, this oversight puts me only a few clicks above Joan Crawford. (Please get that reference.)

To preserve my reputation as a loving mother, I went to the bakery section of the store to find the king cakes. There were two kinds. Which meant I had a decision to make. And this was an IMPORTANT one. Because it was about cake. To help me decide, I opened the boxes to examine the cellophane-wrapped cakes inside. Even though they were marketed as the same size, one was clearly bigger and more icing-laden than the other. “Well, THAT was easy,” I thought, placing the cake into my basket.

Then I saw something new on the shelf.

The store was actually selling individually-wrapped slices of that same delicious king cake. For years, I’ve been wishing stores, bakeries and coffee shops would package them this way (for the closet king cake eater on the go). “Finally!” I said aloud in the grocery store, probably to the dismay of several confused passersby.

I reached down to grab two that I could put into my kids’ lunches this week. “They’re gonna LOVE this,” I thought, praising myself for being an innovative genius. But in the middle of the applause in my head, I heard the familiar sound of a needle scratching across a record. (Please get THAT reference, too.)

“There’s only one left?!!?” I said, resuming my public conversation with myself. But then I smiled. If I was a cartoon character, a lightbulb would have appeared over my head. I picked up the single piece of cake and tossed it into the basket next to the full cake. I didn’t think about it again until I was in the check out line and I overheard the cashier talking to the bagger. “We still have some of these?” she asked.

I looked up from my phone to see her holding the individually-wrapped slice of cake. Then I interrupted them, “Well, you DID. That’s the last one. Of course, I have TWO kids so I really wish you had one more.”

“So what are you going to do with this one? Just let them fight it out?” the bagger asked, laughing and giving the cashier a why-is-this-woman-even-talking-to-us kind of look.

“No,” I explained very matter-of-factly. “That one is now for ME. Problem solved. But I need to eat it in the car on the way home.”

The two young female employees both looked at each other like *I* was the crazy one. “Why??” one of them finally asked.

I sighed before answering. “Because …” I spoon-fed the young fools, “if no one knows that I already had a piece, I can guiltlessly partake of the big cake with everyone else.” (And yes. I did say partake.)

I got it. I know YOU get it. The two mothers behind me got it. They even commended my efforts and decided to buy themselves Snickers bars for their own ride home. But I don’t think the two employees got it.

Of course, I could have mothered either one of these young girls. They’ve never had to give away their own food because a child is looking at it in a yours-looks-SO-much-better-than-mine-and-I’m-going-to-have-a-meltdown-if-you-don’t-let-me-have-it kind of way. They’ve never had to deny their children seconds while they secretly shove another helping/slice/scoop/hunk into their own mouths in the kitchen. And they’ve probably never had to pretend that one piece is “plenty” because they’re such ladies that they “couldn’t eat another bite!”

Please. It’s cake.

Who doesn’t want seconds?

So there. I confessed. Now, everyone knows about the extra slice of king cake I ate yesterday. Well, except my family.

Can YOU keep a secret?

* * * * * * * * * *

*Correction: After this post went “to press,” my daughter assured me that, prior to the cake purchased in this story, she had already had king cake once before this year. Further, she informed me that she had gotten the much-sought-after plastic baby within it. Guess we’re buying the next cake.

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A weekend of Mardi Gras Revelry before a big (Griswold-ian) family trip


When you’re born and raised in New Orleans, you love Mardi Gras. You appreciate Mardi Gras. You anxiously anticipate its arrival each year. But sometimes you just don’t make it to every parade anymore.

My family and I had a great last few days. Until this weekend, things like dance classes, talent shows, homework assignments, unseasonably cold weather snaps and torrential downpours (usually only situated within the city’s six month hurricane season) kept us away from the festivities. But, since we’ll be flying to Disney tomorrow for my kids to participate in a behind-the-scenes program there, we decided we needed to make the most of our Mardi Gras weekend before we left.

There were three days of great parades available to us, only two of which didn’t involve excessive rain. Friday night, we joined friends who along with many others in their circle had rented an apartment for the entirety of the season on St. Charles Avenue, the main drag of nearly every major parade in the city. It’s crazy really. It’s an apartment occupied the other eleven months of the year by, no doubt, a Tulane or Loyola student. It’s modest – one “great” room (a term used very loosely), one bedroom, a kitchenette and a bathroom. And the individuals that rent them for the year know full well that they’ll pay twice the annual rent unless they’re willing to vacate (and, by that, I mean 100% of their belongings) the premises for the month of Mardi Gras. The apartment owners are then able to rent the space out that one month for as much as they’re getting for the other eleven. Usually to a group of families willing to split the high cost for the beauty of having the storage area each night for the many ladders, ice chests, chairs, throws and other assorted crap we all find a must for our parade set-ups. Oh, and let’s not forget the invaluable asset of a bathroom located only steps away from your viewing area on the avenue. These days, I think people would pay that high one-month-rental price for that perk alone.

Every year, I find myself paying a buck-a-pee at various restaurants all over the city or, better yet, befriending people along the route who so kindly offer up their bathrooms only after they’ve determined I’m not a serial killer. (One of these days I’m going to live up to that urban legend and pay the high price of one of my kidneys for peeing in a stranger’s bathroom.)

Anyway, we had a great time Friday, horning in on the well-executed plans of our friends. We’re not part of their Carnival Commune but have certainly considered joining it from year to year. A case of beer and lots of snacks were our ticket in this year. And we all had a blast as we watched one (Krewe of Hermes) … two (Krewe of D’Etat) … three (Krewe of Morpheus) parades pass us by, loading my kids up with beads, stuffed animals (because we SO need more in my house) and all kinds of light-up “jewelry” which has become a coveted staple at these nighttime parades.

By the time we got home, it was just after midnight. And both of my kids (even my son who feels admitting to fatigue is a sign of weakness) begged to go to bed. Dave & I were more than happy to oblige. We all slept like the dead that night.

Saturday was easy. Not easy to decide. But easy as far as parade endurance. The weather was horrid. And, after going back and forth about it for literally hours, we decided to let our kids simply enjoy their rainy day playdates and forego the parade that day. It – was – a – mess. My most sincere apologies to our good friends who throw an incredible party for this parade (Krewe of Endymion) every year. We’ll be there next year. And Dave will make his homemade king cake. Man, was it good.

Yesterday was a beautiful day. With the excessive rain behind us, the sun was out and the weather was actually a little cold. Of course, the grounds were still a soggy mess so a very wise choice was made by me to wear my knee length rubber boots as there were times my entire foot was fully submerged in the swampy muck. I felt sorry for my other family members who were all in sneakers. But there’s always next year, right?

It took us forever to find a parking spot but we finally did … in a little church lot for $20 about 10 or 12 blocks from where we were headed. Par for the course for Mardi Gras I explained to my somewhat whiny kids. “The walk is half the fun!” I lied. It’s only a half-lie really. I honestly don’t mind the walk. You get in a lot of great people-watching when you walk the parade route. I saw a 300-pound woman dancing in a purple wig, tube top, tutu and roller skates to Sir Mix-A-Lot on my way there. And she’s one in a million this time of year. “Drink it in, kids. This is YOUR city.”

We found our spot and joined our friends who’d been out there since 5am to reserve their space on the neutral ground. (That’s what the median is called around here. The term goes back more than a century literally meaning the ‘neutral ground’ in the middle of the street where two different ethnic groups could meet in peace.)

We caught the Krewe of Thoth and, after a short break to eat and regroup a bit, Krewe of Bacchus, one of the biggest Carnival organizations in the city. This year, the parade’s king (referred to simply as Bacchus 2012) was funny man, Will Ferrell. He’s in town filming a movie (with Zack Galifianakis … and I spelled that name without looking it up … Go, me!) and has been busy doing everything from visiting the local Children’s Hospital to emceeing at the New Orleans Hornets Basketball game. From what I’ve seen, he’s having a ball and it looks like New Orleans has welcomed him with bit, fat, easy open arms. That doesn’t always happens with some of the Grand Marshals of years gone by.

Click here see a clip of New Orleans Mayor Mitch Landrieu introducing Ferrell and toasting him as Bacchus XLIV.

My family had a wonderful time. My daughter and I each only got smacked once with beads. We caught lots of stuffed animals and footballs, so both kids were happy. We had more than enough food and drink. And I introduced my boy to the art of public urination.

Don’t judge me. He’s a boy. My girl used a ‘proper potty’ every time. And, if it makes you feel any better, I explained to him that his days of this convenient method are numbered … as it’s a punishable offense when he’s grown. I honestly don’t think he had another drink for the rest of the night. Poor kid.

And now, completely exhausted and totally behind in our planning, we need to get organized for Disney. As we are leaving … ugh … tomorrow morning. I’ll try to check in again soon from “The Happiest Place on Earth.’

Happy Mardi Gras!

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Stuff that happened this week that I thought was worth mentioning …


Today’s Weight … 120.8

It’s been five days since I checked in here. Glad to see that number down a bit. Pretty impressive considering the cheese consumption in this household this week. And we’re now headed into Mardi Gras weekend. The good news is … lots of walking. The bad … lots of food … and drink. Sigh. Promise to be honest with the stupid weigh-ins. Ugh.

Don’t get it? Check this post.

1. I attended a Polyphonic Spree concert with my brother and my friend, Vanessa. I realize most of you probably aren’t familiar with this band, so please allow me to pontificate. There’s something about their music (especially live) that elicits an inexplicable feeling of euphoria usually only indicative of a nice muscle relaxant. Or, well, something like that. Maybe it’s the 16 people taking the stage at once wearing choir robes and carrying with them an orchestra’s worth of instruments that sets them apart. I don’t know. And, because I’m a big dork, I stuck around after the concert to meet the band’s frontman, Tim DeLaughter (even his freakin’ name sounds happy) and snap a quick photo. I’ve included the picture as well as a shameless plug for the band (a video of their appearance on Scrubs in 2004 – Love this band. Love this show).

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2. While Googling the above song for a good video for this post, I was reminded of a movie (in which the song was used) that I always intended but never actually got around to seeing. (Story of my life.) So this week, thanks to Netflix, I watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Anyone besides me ever see it? That is one unconventional film. And it involves Jim Carrey in a serious (as opposed to manically stupid) role which (like Robin Williams) is always a good thing. I won’t ruin it for you by rehashing the whole plot. Just go see it for yourself some time and come back and tell me what you think.

3. Ellen DeGeneres used one of my jokes on her show this week. “ONE of my.” That’s funny. Like I have an arsenal or something. Anyway, she was seeking corny Valentine’s Day jokes and I tweeted her one. What’s that? Well, YES, I tweet. It’s 2012, McFly. (Great. Any hipness Twitter just bought me was erased by my cavalier use of ‘McFly.’)

4. I lost half of my face to a little snafu with a women’s skin care product, uncharacteristically cold weather and my own, full-on ignorance. Apparently, Retin-A does not double as a moisturizer. I’ll bet any woman worth her salt already knew that. In the area of cosmetics and girly savoir faire, I am not worth any salt, mine or anyone else’s. Which, apparently, is only about $2.99 per pound, thus rendering me pretty useless. Except that when I complained of my Retin-A debacle, one friend actually said I was ‘making leprosy cool.’ Um, thanks?

5. I made cheese. Yes, that’s right. I built it. From the ground up … or the milk up, as it were. There were powders, liquids, cooking thermometers and oversized, cauldron-y-looking pots involved. And then there was the whole curds-and-whey-separation, a rather tedious process. And kneading. Dear God, was there kneading. But, in the end, there was cheese. Mozzarella cheese. That we promptly used on a homemade pizza for dinner last night. I made cheese. (Sniff.) I may try walking on water later this weekend.

6. I watched my girl kick butt in her third year in the school talent show. She channeled a young Michael Jackson beautifully in her own take on ‘I Want You Back,” although I think she was going for Nickelodeon’s Victoria Justice who recently covered the old J5 song. And, as always, we got to see a lot of other kids strutting their best stuff on stage all evening. One of my favorite acts involved two nine-year-old white boys popping and locking better than a 1980s Alfonso Ribeiro. (Without googling him, please comment below if you actually know who I’m talking about. No cheating!)

7. With the help of a few friends, I compiled a list of of people we’d like to see cloned and sent it to @GeneticsView who (foolishly) decided to follow me on Twitter. They hung in there for most of my shenanigans but finally unfollowed me because, I think, I got greedy and asked for too many clones. Who was on the list, you ask? Using the input of others as well as my own ideas, we sent them the following names: Brad Pitt, Jane Russell, Johnny Depp, Julia Child, Bono, Ellen Degeneres and Orlando Bloom. We were really just getting started when they unfollowed. Cowards. What crappy customer service.

8. I learned that I am an unteachable monkey when it comes to the computer. As such, there will likely be many more ‘This is not a real blog post‘ blog posts until I get this crap straightened out. Feel free to ignore them.

9. I learned that I know someone who knows Paul McCartney. That’s only two degrees, people. Meaning YOU are only three degrees of separation from Sir Paul. Go run and update your Facebook statuses … now!

10. I accidentally emailed my kids’ teachers from my ‘tits’ email again. Bear in mind, my daughter’s teachers include a nun. Please say a prayer for me immediately.

11. I an effort to throw off the many cheesy porn autobots of the world, I tried reprogramming my Twitter account by using hashtags like #Osmonds, #GirlScouts, #PBS, #BillCosby, #7thHeaven, #milk, #Crazy8s and #Waltons. It worked, but only for about five hours.

12. I devoted a day of my life to thinking good thoughts about Doug Henning. Doug Henning, you guys! Am I the only one who misses his big, buck teeth? Did you know he was a magician, illusionist, escape artist AND politician? Didn’t see that one coming, did you? A moment of silence for Mr. Henning, please.


Oh, yeah. And we passed 25,000 hits on this six-month-old blog. Yay, us! Thanks to all for reading. Happy Mardi Gras! I’m off to THE paradeS. 

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Seven weird things that happened to me since my last post


Today’s Weight … 121.9

Two pieces of king cake, sushi, crawfish pasta, finger sandwiches, french fries, cheese, an Oreo ball, a doughnut and alcohol. Oh, and a banana. Surprisingly not a good recipe for weight loss.

Don’t get it? Check this post.

(1) I bit down into a fried oyster and may have cracked my tooth on, ironically, another tooth. Actually, part of another tooth … that somehow was deposited and cooked with the oyster. It was restaurant leftovers. And, yes, I realize how completely disgusting this situation is … as it was in my mouth.

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(2) I watched as a group of dads (I’m sorry, I mean really tough guys) defended the honor of my friend, Vanessa, who was accosted by a large group of redneck hillbillies (I can say it, I’m from here) at the family Mardi Gras parade this weekend. Totally serious. It almost got as ugly as the people doing the accosting.

(3) I was handed a tooth at our Superbowl party yesterday. Granted, it was my daughter’s. But still … what’s with all the dental omens?

(4) I stopped to take a picture of my neighbor’s garbage … a 1960s-ish AirGoMeter (wondering if it’s Air-GO-Meter or AirGOMeter) … and contemplated “stealing” it for the purposes of my own entertainment.

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(5) I used a bathroom with a bidet yesterday. I thought that merited mentioning.

(6) I was sold a beer at my Superbowl party yesterday by my daughter.

(7) I helped a friendly stranger name her (hopefully award-winning) vegetarian chili. My suggestion? Milli Vanilli Chili. Because the recipe includes an ingredient posing as a something else.

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Busy day of Mardi Gras parades, Superbowl parties & #footballforwomen


Today’s Weight … 121.3

“Losing weight during Mardi Gras season is going to be harder than I thought,” said me, with a mouth full of doughnut.

Don’t get it? Check this post.

I just dropped off my family and an entire truckload of crap at the float for their parade.  My daughter’s on the bottom level with a bunch of friends.  My son’s up top with one friend and a bunch of crazy-looking people I don’t know.  Among them is a tattooed lady in Harley Davidson assless (is that hyphenated?) chaps.  And she’s 72. (Shudder.)  Dave will be running up and down the ladder checking on both of the kids throughout the parade.  And I’ll be running behind the float trying to break my boy’s two-story fall with my body.

Well, that was my personal Facebook post today anyway.  (It’s a joke. And, yes, I know it was hiLARious!)

I will not really be chasing behind the float.  I will be at the end of the parade waiting with friends and family to see my little people on their inaugural float ride (read: rite of passage in these parts) and hoping to get their attention long enough for at least one blurry photograph. (Sniff.)

And we will be dashing straight from the parade (and its after-party) festivities to a Superbowl party.  Those of you who have been following along know I’m not a huge sports fan.  Of course, it would have been entirely different if the Saints were playing today. Sigh.

So, if you’re on Twitter and you’re sitting around today confused … or bored … or just seeking a laugh between plays, look for us on #footballforwomen.  It’s sort of like #shitgirlssay, football-style. And don’t be afraid to put in your (Kick it through the thing!! Kick it through the thing!! ) two cents.

Go … uh … team!

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Now taking ideas for what’s acceptable to hurl off a Mardi Gras float


Today’s Weight … 121.7

I ate cheese, damn it! In pizza form! TWO deliciously-evil, triangular-shaped pizza forms!

Don’t get it? Check this post.

My kids are riding in a parade this weekend. This is New Orleans, remember? It’s their first experience and, needless to say, they are totally pumped. As such, I’ve spent the last few weeks scouring our closets, cabinets, drawers, pantry, pockets, shed, yard, cat box and sofa cushions for trinkets or anything that would be appropriate for chucking off a float. If you’re not from NOLA, know that I’ve caught everything from large leafy vegetables to five-foot Tweety Bird plushes to real, non-novelty underwear … so everything in this house is fair game. I’ve also badgered everyone within driving distance offering to pick up their household sludge. Plus, I visited the nearest Mardi Gras supply store (they abound here) to purchase a few choice items that my kids specifically requested for their stash. The boy’s number one throw request? Moon pies. And the girl’s? Stuffed animals.

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Holy crap. Someone call ‘Hoarders.’ (God, I hope we have enough …)

My girl’s so excited about riding that she used it as the theme for her English assignment yesterday to create a cinquain (don’t feel bad – I totally had to look it up, too) which is a class of poetic forms that employ a 5-line pattern. She showed me her creation while she was doing her homework today.

Very cute. She’s got the crown, the masks, all the Carnival colors … it seems right on, yes?

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Until I zoomed in a little …

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“Fighting, Acting, Yelling??” Well … now she makes us sound like a bunch of uncivilized, redneck hillbillies!

Of course, I guess I’m doing my job right selling it to her as a mom (a New Orleans mom) because she followed up that colorfully violent description with “A Great Experience for Everyone” and “Incredible.”

I guess we are what we are down here. And my kids are riding with their dad anyway. So, if there’s going to be any “fighting” over airborne crap thrown in my direction, I will be the one doing it. Cross your fingers my kids don’t see me.

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The Second Consultation – a polar opposite experience & some other unwelcome news


I woke up this morning to my alarm slapping me in the face and telling me to get out of bed. My daughter had choir practice and needed to be at school extra early today. Never mind the fact that the rain and my husband, hit hard with a headache again, kept waking me throughout the night. It was time to get up, throw everyone together and out the door so my day could begin.

Yesterday morning couldn’t have been smoother but this morning was a little … bumpy. (Sooo not the ‘explevatory’ word I want to use here.) Nobody was in an especially good mood, with my daughter being the real star of that dark and dramatic show. So, once they were all off and on their way, I was left to get myself, now really not in the best of moods, ready for appointment number two. Remember to wear a two-piece ensemble again, Michele. (If I ever forget and wear a damned dress, I will have to stand there completely naked for the examination. Topless is demeaning enough.)

Fortunately for me, my friend, Vanessa, was my appointment buddy for today. And, even more fortunately, she offered to drive … enabling us to get there on time today … unlike last week when I was in charge of the driving. I Googled the address from the car and we got there without incident. All improvements from last week.

After finishing the elephantine amount of paperwork a second time, Vanessa and I were left to peruse the waiting room and all that it had to offer. The TV in the corner blared ‘The View’ for anyone interested in hearing about Danny DeVito’s latest exploits. The requisite glass cabinet of upscale Obaji skin products was on display on the wall near the exit. There was an additional glass case featuring all of the doctor’s Mardi Gras memorabilia. Clearly, he had been this organization’s king at some point in the past. And his membership was probably paid for by the many sets of beautiful new breasts that may have, ironically, been flashed at his very float for that parade.

Vanessa and I flipped through his ‘Breast Book’ – filled with page after page of impressive before and after shots. True, there were some women who either had no business being befores or were fairly disappointing afters … but most had made significant improvements in their areas of interest. There was even a before and after picture of a man who had reduction surgery. And, yes, we both thought he had made the right decision. All of the pictures were headless, including his, except for one. One beautiful blonde woman with a smile as wide as Texas wanted to be sure she got credit for her efforts. And did she ever look happy!

We were just finishing up the book when the nurse called my name and we went to the examination room. She handed me a gown and told me to put it on facing forward. Oh, and I want to mention that this room had some nude Venus de Milo-y statuettes here and there as well as a plastic resin cross-section of a boob.

Isn’t this exactly what I was looking for last time???

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And, as I was undressing and putting on my gown, Vanessa took her top off … just for me to see a comparison. She promised before, remember? First of all, I want to compliment my friend (who I will point out is six years younger than me!) and say she has great boobs. Everything looked to be very much in the right place to me. Did I have that six years ago? Of course, I didn’t get to look at them long because, about two minutes after she unhooked her bra and pulled down her strapless spandex dress, the doctor walked in without warning … forcing her to throw her sweater around her chest and sit there throughout the entire appointment with her bra in her hand and her dress at her waist. Our little secret.

The doctor wasted no time with me. I kind of expected a man to be different. He got right down to the examination and was fairly physical with my breasts. He immediately said that the first thing he would recommend was a Bilateral Supra Areolar Mastopexy, which is sort of like a mini-lift. It wouldn’t lift as much as the full lift suggested at my first doctor visit but it also wouldn’t leave the anchor scar (line from the nipple to the breast base with a perpendicular c-shaped scar under the breast). The only incision needed would be made around the nipple and the implant could actually be inserted through that opening. Unlike the last doctor, he said the two surgeries could be done at the same time and that, since the only incisions made would be around the nipple (rather than the full lift’s anchor incision), scarring would not be an issue. And he seemed very confident with his answers.

When I asked about implants, he said he uses both kinds but much prefers silicone over saline. (I know. Again, different, right?) He said the silicone implants feel much more real and less invasive to the patient.

When I asked about the recovery period after the surgery, he said there would be some pain but that I could exercise after two weeks. (Woohoo!) He said the breasts are taped down a few weeks during the healing process anyway. (Sounds awesome.)

When he asked me how big I wanted to go, I looked at Vanessa and we came up with the same conservative “Not too big” (me) and “Small C?” (Vanessa). He seemed surprised with our answers and said that you want to go big C or small D to really get your money’s worth and have others notice the difference. I think he mentioned something about my husband at this point. (I really wasn’t wild about this conversation.) And then he asked to take my headless picture for my file. (Please let me know if my pictures hit the internet so I know when to file for free boobs!) Perfectly nice man. Seemed to really know his stuff. Just sort of felt a little like a number. Two lifted boobs, D, silicone, check.

Of course, he did leave us to play with his sample silicone implants – the 330cc, the 420cc and the whopping 450cc – which would translate to me being a full D. With my small frame and my just under 5’4” ‘stature,’ I looked like I was about to topple over. I might just need to take it down a notch.

They say everything happens for a reason. And I mentioned earlier in this post that he was pretty physical with the examination. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, of course. But without that literal manhandling, he would never have found the lump he found today in my left breast. Yes, lump. Which was also what I got in my throat when he told me. Remember that scene in Sex and the City with Samantha? Damn.

(I love you, Vanessa, and am so glad you were there with me today.)

So now, in the middle of this whole thing, I need to go get a mammogram to determine what the hell he found today. I would have had to do it for any of these surgeries anyway, but now I’m just going with a little more urgency … and anxiety. And I have another consultation appointment tomorrow. Sigh.

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