I'm Ready For My Closeup, Mr. DeMille

Right Front.

Left Front.

To the Side, right.

To the Side, left.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

It's all over for another year. Easy peasy x-ray squeezy.

Another updated set of funbag shots for the Mammography Mugbook.

And, I can assure you - beyond the shadow of a doubt - they cannot look any worse than this:

Those of you readers out there who have yet to schedule your first mammogram, please don't listen to all the jibber jabber out there. About how it's so cold, you should practice sleeping naked on the garage floor mid-winter (it's a little brisk, not so much as your nerples are going to freeze and fall off). Don't believe that you should have someone back a car over your boobage to get used to the squished feeling (yes it's a tad awkward, but it's not impossible).

Truth be told, as tests go, it's neither horrible nor is it excruciatingly painful. Moreover - it's necessary. Get 'er done, ladies!! Make it a New Year's resolution.

Finally, in the "Why Didn't I think of This EARLIER?" department, I should have brought a bottle of maple syrup to give to the technician. If she appeared quizzical, I would clarify: "If you're gonna squish them like pancakes, we may as well have something to go with them...".

Next year...

Pink is for Girls

Number one on my to-do list:

I have got to find out who the marketing genius is behind all things having to do with Breast Cancer Research. The person who can take credit for creating a global Pavlovian response to the color pink. It's really not merely a color anymore; anytime I see it in a magazine, I'm immediately looking for what branch of breast cancer research it's supporting, where the pink ribbon is, and what percentage of the sales of the merchandise is going to charity. If the page is pink, if the item is pink, if the text is pink, if there is a pink ribbon anywhere within a 50 mile radius of the item, then it must be for breast cancer. Why, oh why, sometimes, can't pink just be pink?

See, I live in a household full of testosterone. I am the token female. (Well, in truth, I'm not sure about the bunny's gender - there's nothing tangible to confirm or deny his maleness). I like to wear pink because I can. And because, unlike the other 98% of my property, pink items are unlikely to walk away from my dresser/gymbag/closet/secret kitchen junkfood cupboard. When I wear pink, I feel all girly and princess-like. But now, pink is rarely just pink anymore, for the sake of being pink. There's an agenda. Which kind of annoys me, because I really like pink, and would sometimes like to wear it without any altruistic intention.

Don't get me wrong here - I'm not slamming the pink. I am, in fact, increasingly in awe of the power that the color wields and wish that my cancer - colorectal cancer - (a lovely shade of blue, fyi) had the representation, the support, the awareness of breast cancer. Because I'm starting to feel like the country-hick-cousin cancer, the cancer that no one talks about during interviews, the one that blurts out Tourette's-esque non-sequiters at family functions and is an over-all embarrassment. The Trailer Park Midge to Fairy Princess Barbie.

Who's dressed in a beautiful pink ballgown, by the way.