Mammo-Lammo-Ding-Dong

So, I got the booby-squish this a.m. And gotta be honest with you here. The first smash took the air out of me! Whooooo, that’s a cruncher for sure. Then, when I was able to exhale and the stars in front of my eyes disappeared, I thought, “Okay, that was definitely worse than the one I got two years ago, but the alternative of NOT getting it done is just not an option.” I hope you feel that way too.

Rewind to pre-booby-smash as I was getting ready to take the girls in for their mammo. I had to remember to not wear deodorant, and then I chose a comfy bra, which, now that I’m thinking about it, why the hell did it matter if I had a comfy bra on anyway? Why did it matter that I wore a bra anyway? I had to take it off eventually. But, the comfy bra I chose is actually a very thin maternity sportsy-type bra that I wore like every day of my third pregnancy. Why do I still have this bra you ask?

Duh. It’s my comfy sportsy-type bra, that’s why!

Problem was, it’s a little see-through, and my girls must have been excited about getting squished today because I ended up walking into the mammo place with my arms severely crossed against my breasts, as if I were a pre-pubescent girl at the swim club walking past the hottie lifeguards.

Anyway, I’m at the mammo place, breast out, front and center, and boy, do those techs have to know how to maneuver and manipulate just to get it in perfect place to smash it like a freaking pancake.

As she was molding my booby and pulling back my shoulder and telling me to turn my head toward her, I prayed that I didn’t have stinky breath, so I wasn’t really even breathing, even when she told me to hold my breath.

Then, after the first picture was taken [Say Cheese!], I exhaled and felt better.

“I bet this is the only job in the world they don’t let men do,” I said.

There is no way in hell a woman would let a man do that to her breast, even if the end result was pleasurable. No way. And it’s weird to think that, sure, I’d let a man doctor stick whatever he has to stick up there in order to make sure I don’t have cervical cancer or to check for an IUD string, or to massage the perineum to pull out a healthy eight-pounder, but the breast thing? No way would I let a man do that to me.

Odd. Very odd.

So, while it was uncomfortable, it was survivable, and that is the KEY word here my friends. You get a booby squish, and the odds of you surviving are so much more greater than if you don’t.

Plus, one more good thing about getting a mammogram: They don’t have to weigh you there in order to take your boob’s picture!
~ ~ ~
So, done with that, and then I decide, hey, since I haven’t eaten anything since last night’s beef shish-kabobs, onions, peppers (Oh hell yeah, now that I think about it, I definitely had stinky breath at the mammogram!), buffalo moz and tomato salad, I figured I could go get my blood taken for this thyroid management I’m on. The blood-taking place just happens to be directly upstairs from the booby-picture-taking place (I’m all about convenience folks!)

I go upstairs, sign in and sit down and then suddenly a cute doctor looking guy in a white jacket opens the door and says very sexily, “Manic Mom?”

HERE! HERE! I’M HERE!

Ooh, and I get nervous because he is really cute, and I’ve never had a cute blood taker before. I felt my face blush.

I go in and sit in the chair and ask which vein he takes it from because I prefer the left. He says, “You know, you’re arm’s not going to work for a week after I do this.”

Good, does that mean I get to stay in bed then? Winka winka. No! Of course I didn’t say that! But while he was spanking me… yes, he had to spank me… I was a bad, bad girl… hahah, kidding, but he did have to slap my arm to make my vein pop out, and boy, was I thinking crazy little thoughts as he delivered each smack!

Then he starts the procedure and in my head I’m thinking, “Don’t breathe on him! You ate onions and peppers last night!” And then I’m thinking, “Say something witty, something flirty. Be a flirt; make him laugh! He’s cute. You’re in this room alone together, make the most of it!”

I was too busy thinking of cute things to try to say that I ended up not saying anything.

Then he tells me he’s run out of adult bandaids.

“That’s okay, I can take a kid one! And do I get a sticker too?” There! I did it! I was officially flirting!

“You get two if you cry,” he replied.

Ooh baby, make me cry. Heh heh.

So, when the needle’s in I tell him that wasn’t too bad, and he tells me he only has to take one vial, and I say it looks like a lot and he tells me if you put the blood in a shot glass, it’s not even a half a shot.

HOW DID HE KNOW I’M A DRUNK ON THE WAGON?!?!?!

Then it’s out, it’s all done, and I still haven’t said anything overly charming or witty. I’m boring. I am lame. I suck. Why can’t I be an empowered woman? A woman who is confident enough to just get her boobs smashed for the sake of surviving? A woman who is confident enough to take a needle to her vein in order to manage her thyroid?

Dammit, I am woman, here me roar!

So, he gets out the band-aid and I say, “I hope it’s not a Batman one.” Oooh, clever one there, Manic Mom.

“Old School—It’s Snoopy.”

Does this mean he thinks I’M OLD!?!?!? Just what I needed for the old ego boost!

He gently applies the band-aid and says, “There you go. You got to sit in a high chair (cuz the chair kind of does look like one, I guess), and you got a Snoopy band-aid...”

Then, witty Manic Mom jumps out and finally comes up with the cleverist thing she was searching for to say the whole time cute-blood-taker was testing and smacking, and poking and pricking… and this is what I say…

“I also got a cute guy to take my blood!”

Then I bolted the hell out of there because I had blushed as red as the blood that was just vacuumed from my vein, but not before hearing cute-blood-taker guy say,
“Hey, thanks!”