BoomTube, Episode Five, Just go to your room and don't come out until you can apologize, missy/mister

Let me apologize upfront for the use of the word "awesomosity", repeatedly. As well as the "fingerbanging" wink and sound. I. Am. So. Stupid.

Look, I said right up front that I'm undermedicated. You totally deserved that and you know it. Okay, I'm sorry. Really, I'm sorry. Jeez.

Things I have to say, the "sponsors" demand it:

RainyDaze79 Twittered: Shout out to Austin and are they real?

So uh shout out, Texas people and the answer is real expensive. I feel uncomfortable just typing 'shout out', saying it would probably do psychological damage. I'm fragile you know. Like a animal testing lab monkey. You never know when I'm going to blow and bite your face off with my freakish teeth, ala Outbreak.

I've not actually watched that movie, so if that was inappropriate, I'm again, apologetic. I read a book titled 'Outbreak', I enjoyed it. I'm not sure if the movie is based on the book, but the rule is, if the book was good, the movie ain't. So why chance that shit? I'm not a gambler with things like big chunks of time.

Also? I just looked up the plural of vagina, because I needed to know if there was a bag of them sitting next to me on the couch if I would say, "Oh, look at that bag of vaginae" or perhaps, "Oh, look, there is a bag of vaginen." Oh there is that gambling with chunks of time thing.

So, Miss Merry said: It's valium time.

Okay yeah. Looks like it. Care to send me any? The answer to that is... no. No, you won't, because if you have it, you keep that shit to yourself. It's like the land of milk and honey. I know that doesn't make sense, but it makes sense to me. And NOOO OOOONNNNE else around here pays attention.

Obviously. Ahem.

You can watch The Dude get "Hasseled" by the Hoff. And, of course, you can look at boobs until your heart explodes. (I'm still number 24.)

Oh, come back, I still love you...

But less than I did before. My heart grows stingy.

Wait, does stingy grow? Eh.

Who Needs to R.I.P.?

For some morbid and not at all cheerful reason I was thinking of what I would want them to put on my headstone when I die. Not that I'm going to have a headstone because a headstone won't fit in my husband's pants and since he is under strict instructions to cremate me and then carry me around in his pocket at all times so that when girl's hit on him he can be all, "Do you want to meet my dead wife?" and sprinkle a little bit of me in their drinks like I'm a rufie. I don't think it will actually make them sick or anything, but it will be really creepy and that is my goal. To make him appear as creepy as possible after I die so he doesn't attract a hot, rich girl to make his life happier than it was when he was with me.

As if "happier" exists.

But back to my headstone. So I don't want to be stuck with the ol' RIP, Loving Wife and Mother or in Loving Memory Of. That's no fun.

I'm thinking one of these is more me:

My Dead Wife, Spit Here

Worth More Dead Than Alive, Way More

Another One Bites The Dust
And Other Classic Queen Songs

Being A Zombie Wouldn't Suck Right Now

The Wolfman Had Nards, Don't Kick Them

And personally my favorite:

Dig Here For Free Implants!

Which brings me to wonder why you never see zombies with implants falling out of their bodies in movies. I mean come on, most of Hollywood has had work done. So why don't you see zombie silicone? Could you imagine? The walking dead with their rotting flesh and a perfect rack.

Edited: Does anyone else see how lucrative implant recycling could be after reading this? Or is that just me?

And On It Goes

I know it's been all sorts of lame in these parts lately. And how do I know this? Besides from my acute self-awareness that is especially keen on my total suckage, the small numbers of people actually entering my give away of an apron that will be made with my heart and soul, is a big tip off.

Seriously? If you haven't entered, do it now, bitches. And then again every day until the end of the week? Or? I'm just going to give it away to whoever kisses my butt the most. A girl can always use a little ass-kissing.

Speaking of ass-kissing or licking rather - I promised someone that I would TRY to get a shot of the face that resembles a cat that just licked it's own ass at a wedding that I attended this weekend. I wasn't able to...

But enough about the bride, back to me or Mr. Booms in this case, looking dapper in his suit:



And me in my borrowed dress:



And my friend, Angela, seeing my boobs for the first time:



And then she got over the excitement:



And then the mourning began. He's just on the verge of wiping away the tear that he shed over the marriage of one of his best buddies...



In between beers, Mr. Booms showed me some love:



And then continued drinking... a lot:



Never one to let photography take away from my partying and drawing of dirty pictures, that's pretty much it. On top of that? I was so lazy I didn't even bother to remove the red eye. Yes, I'm possessed in every single shot.

So I didn't want to disappoint you by ending the wave of loserish lameness I've had going on around here. Glad I could keep up the sucky work with another sucky post.

Happy week.

I Have No Desire

I just have absolutely no desire to blog these days. Oh maybe I have the desire, I lack the drive perhaps. Maybe desire is just too strong of a word and I'm just entirely over thinking the whole thing.

Whatever.

It could just be that I've been writing about my boobs for so long I'm lacking any substance that doesn't consist of mammary and saline. Whatever the case, I'm a fucking lame wad.

I think I'll just go and over-bleach my hair some more.

Oh, and just so you know, I bought a few bras yesterday and the C's that I asked for are pushing the D mark pretty hard core. If I'm not careful I border on obscene.

Sigh.

Whatever.

Have a dry hump day, y'all.

The Experience

In tears, I drove home that day. At times, I was practically blinded. But I swiped them away and kept on going. Dropping my prescription off at the drug store, I then pointed myself in the direction of the nearest W@l- Hell to find the front closing sports bra that would be the very first to support my new investment.

I have only bought bras outside the pink place where Victoria keeps her secrets a handful of times. Cheap bras were against my undergarment religion… I needed support, beautiful, expensive support. So initially I was shocked by the prices. Who knew you could get a bra for less than 10 bucks? I mean I knew you could, but I couldn’t! I could only buy bras once a year or when I got gift certificates, they were a complete luxury. So excitedly I browsed all the bras because guess what? Support be damned! I no longer have to mold them into a boob like shape. They do it on their own now. Fantastic plastic.

I guess you could argue that I bought the most expensive bra there is.

Pair that with the Almond Joy and the Diet Coke I wolfed down on my way home and my spirits were in considerably better shape.

Jason picked up my prescription for me on his way home and then talked to Crazyman’s sitter about taking him earlier in the morning so Jason could go with me to the hospital. He wanted to take me and be with me. Or it was a ploy to indulge in sweet, hospital cafeteria breakfast.

Make-up-less, I helped load Crazyman into the car that morning. On the way to the sitter, before the sun even came up, I spotted a rabbit running through a yard. “Look, a rabbit!” Jason said, “Yeah, I know, I have a dead one sitting in my front seat.” Because, yes folks, that’s how awesome I look without eye make up on. Just like a dead, pink-eyed, rabbit.

We made our way to the hospital and I checked in at registration, where I was the youngest person, hands down, going into surgery that morning. I would declare that probably made me the vainest in that waiting room as well, but what the hell.

Into the tiny room with head crushing, fluorescent lighting I walked. I took off my comfiest of comfy clothes and put on the ass-bearing surgery uniform. I sat there with a raging headache just willing someone to come in and take this waiting away.

The extremely peppy nurse answered my prayers. She took my vitals to which she commented that I must have the blood pressure of a dead person when I’m not nervous. With her annoying, nervous laugh she stabbed me to hook up my IV and graciously gave me some meds to ease the tension.

She left the room then and Jason mocked her laugh, making me giggle. Then came the fast talking anesthesiologist who explained that I would hurt afterwards. It wouldn’t be glamorous, and it would be painful. Thanks for the newsflash there, doc.

Fantastic!

Finally, the surgeon with his magic marker of fun, came in to mark me all up. Then I was wheeled out of the room and into the operating room where the last thing I remember was telling them that I was centered on the bed.

Next thing I know, I’m blinking my dopey, heavy eyes open to bright light and the face of some strange woman, patting my hand. I woke up in the recovery room, wondering why I had a midget sitting on my chest and may I please have a Diet Coke.

Within a half hour, I was wheeled back to my room to my waiting husband who greeted me with a giddy, “Hey, Tits McGee”. Within the next half hour of that I was being wheeled out to my car and off to go home.

Coming out of it, I was a little nauseated, hot, clammy and my knees knocked like an old Chevy I had once. But all in all, not too terribly bad.

At home, I lay in bed, taking my pills like a good girl. For dinner? I had awesomely, delicious hot, salty French fries and peanut butter cups. I was going to be better in no time.

The next morning we went shopping for Crazyman clothes, went to check on our rental house, went to my doctor’s appointment and then grocery shopping. I came home, hung out with my parents for a bit and then finally crawled back into warm, sweet bed.

Things that have been difficult:

• Opening and Closing the house windows – I ended up using my feet.
• Getting up while laying flat in bed. No way! At least not without screaming out in pain.
• Being at all effective in disciplining my son.
• Closing the car door.
• Reaching into the back seat to get my purse.
• Putting on a shirt – any shirt.
• Buttoning my pants. I feel like the implants are going to spring forth from my chest in complete pants buttoning defiance.
• Washing my hair or anything else that requires arms over my head action.
• Shaving my armpits. My armpits are shaped differently now. They seem deeper, somehow.
• Opening a beer. Opening anything for that matter.
• Pretty much anything that requires use of my arms.

And with that? I would like to officially NEVER talk about my boobs ever again.

Ever.

THE END

Preliminaries

Every day when I am at work, there comes a point in the day when I stop and think "Dammit, it's gotta be close to time to get out of here. I'm tired, I'm cranky and I don't want to do one more menial task." And low and behold I look at the clock and it reads 3:00 p.m.

Which means it's not only NOT time to fucking go home, but I've got a solid 3 hours left of this shit. And that? Blows goat.

A lot. Remember, as my uncle once said, "bad things happen to farm animals". That means nothing, except that my mother said it at an inappropriate moment this last weekend and while I was groaning, she made me laugh. The fact that she says things like that in front of people that are not part of our family is single handedly her cutest and not cutest trait. Gotta love her.

So while I'm sitting here, privately railing against "the man" and wishing I were home with a cold one, why not start hacking away at your questions.

First Allie wanted to know:

"Were you grossed out emptying the drains or did Jason do it for you? I was at first when I had to do it for Luis after he had his lymph nodes taken out, I got used to it though. I was just wondering because when they first told me I had to do it I thought I was going to throw up."

Gag, Allie. Big time gag. No drains for me. I know what you are talking about but I had no drains. But I can answer this and DPH's question of :

"Ummmm, I just want to know WTF the tubes were in the pic that I saw?"

Now, she is just tempting you with the fact that she is hooked up enough to have seen a snap of my ta's. Anyhow, those tubes were the catheters that I had going into each breast that were then hooked into a deliciously unattractive fanny pack that held God's little gift of pain meds. I walked around for 3 days looking like some kind of Hulk Hogan loving tourist with that freaking thing on, only to have to pull out my catheters on Sunday morning. And those things were at least 2-3 inches in. The worst part was removing the tape, but I was not a fan of the blood and I'll admit, my wussy self had to sit down to keep from passing out as I did it.

Lisa commented:

"Did it hurt more than you thought it would? Scale of to ten, how bad (that's the nurse in me)was it the first few days?"

You are a nurse! In the recovery room my first answer to them was a "4 or 5". Which was fantastic. Given that I had that awesome pain system, it was totally manageable and I was out shopping the very next morning. Not something I recommend but my kid needed clothes and I wanted to go. Without that, I can only assume that it would have been extremely painful. Now, after I went to my first follow-up visit with my doctor, I swear he tried to rip my left one off. It hurts when my sutures get stuck or I pull myself the wrong way, but other than that... not too bad.

And then I can talk directly to Doc and J at the same time:

When describing them, I don't use "squishy" or "hard", I do use "sloshy" a lot.

I swear I can feel them move. They feel squeaky too. They are getting softer by the day and I only hope the sloshiness comes to an end, because I don't think anyone believes me.

Oh and J-Nasty - My clothes don't fit better, so far? Now things that fit in my chest are too big in my waist. And dresses that used to be "a-line" now look grossly obscene on me but I'm working it out.

Stay tuned...

What Do You Wanna Know?

I sit here, full well knowing that all most of you want to see are pictures. And sitting on my camera, inside my purse are pictures. They are even pictures of my chest. However, they are before shots, not afters. Well, I do have afters, but they are of the fantastic looking bandages I had on following my surgery.

So I don't have the pictures you had hoped I'd come racing in here with today. Sorry. I'm a failure as a person and as a Betsey. I trust that you are judging me harshly and I accept said judgment. Judge away.

You see, my brain is a little jumbled. I had very little time to rest. My dad collapsed in our kitchen on Sunday. My husband frantically dialed 911 while my mom tried to turn him on his side. It appeared he was having a seizure. Something he's never done before. As it turns out it was more than likely a minor stroke and/or his MS flaring up. Dad is fine and as a matter of fact, back at work today. Just as I was up and running errands the morning after my surgery.

We're just bad asses like that.

So if you all want to wait patiently while I put together a wonderfully, beautifully, awesomely crafted post about my experience then, I'll do something as close to that as I can muster. Or in the meantime, if there is anything you're dying to know (I know there is) then leave me a comment and I'll address it before the end of the day.

And that's a promise.

And Now A Word From KaritaG

In honor of Betsey’s new boobs, and in keeping with J’s boob theme, I’m going to post about the craziest night mine ever had. Okay, one of the craziest nights.

See, I started law school and it was nothing like college. Hotness got you nowhere. Studying 24/7 did. And I only say that half-jokingly. So, I tried to make some friends that liked to party, see, that were also in law school. I ended up with kind of a mishmash of pseudo-hippies and a few guys from my orientation section.

I got all of these people together one night for a house party at the house I shared with my sister. She’s two years younger than me and invited all of her friends too, who were mostly sorority girls. J was there, but we were just dating at the time, not even for a year yet. I also invited a lot of my college friends (I went to law school in the same town I went to college) so it was sort of a random group. Of mostly men.

Well, my college best friend ARB also happened to be a badass dancer, as in, she actually danced competitively for most of her life, and even did the dance squad for a few years in college. She really missed dancing after she quit competing and decided she was going to learn how to strip and become a stripper. To do this, she thought she needed to go to lots of strip bars to “study.” I’m not sure if she was serious or not, because she never actually did it. But you never knew with her. So she was constantly suggesting that we go to strip bars. Usually we could dissuade her with something like “but there’s a DJ at the Pike house!” but sometimes, especially if there were a lot of guys with us, it was hard to stop the strip club train once it got started.

So we’re at this party at my house and ARB is all wasted and saying, “let’s go to the strip bar!” Of course everyone there (almost all guys) was stoked. So we all load up and go.

Well, we get to the bar and grab a table and this dominatrix stripper starts focusing in on our group. Her name is Deja and she is OUT THERE, I mean, she has chaps on and some chains and carries a whip and everything. We watch her spank some guys and being the dorky baby lawyers that we are, we start talking about whether they could sue her for assault or something. I mean, is it foreseeable that you might get beat with a whip when you go into a strip bar?
Suddenly, Deja grabs me by the hand and pulls me up on stage. I’m FREAKING OUT like, ohmigod please don’t leave any bruises on me, what have I gotten myself into, should I run or will I look like a big pansy if I do, WTF? So I am sitting on the stage, with my legs over the edge, facing out towards the crowd, and of course all the guys I know, including J, are cheering and going nuts. I’m trying to smile, right, through my freaked-outness, when Deja comes to stand behind me. She bends over, like she is whispering something in my ear, and reaches over my shoulder and sort of strokes my leg a little bit…

Then rips my shirt AND BRA off of my body. My girls were on display, albeit only for a brief moment before I clamped my arms to my chest. I am pretty sure this wasn’t what she meant to do, as she basically had the same expression of shock and awe on her face that I did when it happened.

I think that she just meant to give a little flash of my breasts in all of their Wonderbra-encased glory, and accidentally got a finger hooked under the front of the bra. My jaw sort of dropped, my eyes went wide with shock.

I looked at the stripper, mortified, and she just stared back. She looked sort of scared. Like I might actually try to jump some chick with a cat o’nine tails or something! We were just sitting there, while Limp Bizkit or some shit was playing, and it was like her whole routine got thrown off. I can’t even imagine what the rest of the routine was, now that I am thinking about it. I sort of pulled my shirt and bra together and crossed my arms over my chest and ran through the crowd out the front door of the bar. J was right behind me, so we ran to the car and got in and drove away, not even saying goodbye to anyone!

In the car, in between J going “holy shit did you just see that ohmigod” and my cell phone blowing up with my friends going “um, so does that mean the party is over?” I’m trying to put my shirt and bra back in their proper arrangement, and it’s Just. Not. Working. J and I quickly realize that the bra is actually BROKEN. That crazy bitch broke my favorite push-up bra! I was pretty sure J thought I was nuts at this point. Or a lot of fun, you never know with guys.

Monday I had to go to class with those people! And the guy in front of me in torts was like, so, I heard your party was pretty rockin’ on Saturday, wink wink. I’m really not that flamboyant in everyday life, believe it or not. You only get to see the craziness if you hang out with me on the weekends. In class, I generally sat in silence and messed around on the internet. No lie. I just thought 99% of the people I went to law school with were just way uptight, so didn’t really talk to anyone – I showed up, sat through my class, and got the hell out of there. So I am pretty sure that most of my classmates didn’t believe the “rumor” when they heard it, though I definitely got some strange looks that day. Luckily the people that were at the party, that I was actually friends with, thought the whole thing was pretty hysterical and “knew,” I suppose, that I wasn’t out getting molested by dominatrix strippers every weekend.

Or ever again. Because I never, ever, ever thought it seemed like a good idea after that when someone drunkenly suggested going to the strip bar, and certainly not that one. But I have to admit it was probably the craziest night my boobs ever had. They were pretty much invited to the party, if you know what I mean.

So, here’s to Betsy’s new boobs. May they get invited to lots of parties and molested by dominatrix strippers!

Back, by popular demand.

Hey. It's J.

Well, you have spoken. I guess I have to tell you about when I got my nipples pierced!

When I was in high school I had awesome tits. I mean, small, but awesome. I wanted so badly to do something crazy and wild on my 18th birthday, and I was undecided about a tattoo, so I figured that getting pierced was in order! Plus, my mom couldn't see the piercing (because, you know, it was on my boob) so that was good, too.

Here's the thing, though. When I was 17? I didn't have a job. I was a senior in high school, taking college courses, and pretty much just didn't have a care in the world. So, I couldn't exactly just go ask my mom for money, and in my family you always got gifts, not cash.

To solve this dilemma I borrowed an idea from all of the black girls at my school. (Did that sound racist? I hope not. I'm not racist, I swear. I just hate saying 'African American' because it sounds too PC. Like I am trying to hide something....or something. Whatever.)

So when these girls would have birthdays at our school they would take a big safety pin and pin it to their shirts. Random people would come up and pin dollars on them.

Way to fucking go!

Here's the thing.

The preppy white kids at my school weren't just going to start giving me money. So, I had to grab a couple bucks and get this shit started myself. Now we were in business.

I made a lot of money that day. At the end of the day I ran out to the parking lot and saw my friend Will there, and he was going to pin me, too. He told me he would give me 20 bucks and I told him he could see my nipples the next day.

Hehehehe. I was such a slut.

So, I made my money. Picked up my best friend, went to M0dern Pr!mative and signed my nipple away.

We went into the room, where I told the piercer that he better have some smelling salts. This was my first non-ear piercing, and I hate needles. He laughed and told me not to worry. He had me take off my shirt and bra, than made little marks on my left nipple where he would pierce at. Then he clamped that shit. OUCH!

After that I laid back on the table and he got his shit together. I was sweating bullets, let me tell you. My best friend held my hand while I waited, until he said 'Take 3 deep breaths'. I breathed in and out "One", in and out "Two, in and ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuch!

Naw, I'm kidding. It wasn't that bad. Once it was over it was good.

I left that day (sans bra) and went and showed it off. It was awesome.

Yeah, I showed everyone my one nipple. Okay well, probably both, but I only pierced the one because that was my little way of rebelling on top of rebelling.

To this day I still have people tell me "Do you remember me? We had history together. You showed me your nipple ring."


Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.



PS. If you haven't already, go check out my other post below.

PPS. A year after that I did my other nipple, too. LOL.

Everyone! Quick! Touch Your Boobs!

Hey everyone, it's J, here to fill in for Betsey Booms!

I thought since I am here today due to BB's new ta-ta's, I would keep with a 'breast' theme.

Though, this one isn't as fun as new fake boobies. It's actually a very serious subject. It's about IBC, Inflammatory Breast Cancer.

Inflammatory breast cancer is an especially aggressive type of breast cancer that can occur in women of any age (and, although extremely rarely, in men). It is unique because it often does not present with a lump and therefore often is not detected by mammography or ultrasound.
Inflammatory Breast Cancer (IBC) causes changes in the nipple and the surrounding areas. Invasion of the local lymphatic ducts impairs drainage and causes edematous swelling of the breast. Because the skin of the breast is tethered by the suspensory ligament of Cooper, the accumulation of fluid causes the skin of the breast to assume a dimpled appearance reminiscent of the peel of an orange. Other symptoms include rapid increase in breast size, redness, persistent itching, skin hot to the touch. IBC often initially resembles mastitis, and is sometimes misdiagnosed as an insect bite.

One of my good friends sent me this video, and I hope you all watch it.

I was going to post about when I got my nipples pierced...... but yeah, I thought this was more important.

I did, yes, get needles stabbed into my nipples and put rings through them. They were hot. :)

Looks like we have the next Pam Anderson here...

Hey everyone! It's J. I know BB doesn't usually blog on the weekends, but I wanted to pop over here for a second to let you all know how she is doing.

I just talked to her and she sounds great. She said she isn't in too much pain, the doctors hooked her up big time with the pain meds! (I will let her tell you all about it when she gets back.)

She also said they are insanely swollen, which is to be expected. This morning she did get out to the store before her appointment to see the doctor, but I am guessing Jason is doing all the driving considering the pain meds she is on and the fact that she can't raise her arms very much!
The doctor said she looks great, and is healing really well.

All in all, BB is great, enjoying her new boobies and relaxing at the house this weekend.

I will be back here Monday, and then I believe Kara will be here Tuesday and Allie Wednesday. (Unless BB gets back here sooner, she said maybe Wednesday.)

Lotsa Love,
J

Update!

Hey everyone, J here, coming to you live with an update on BB's brand new ta-ta's!

I just got done texting her and she said everything went fine and she is feeling great. I asked her if she was doped up (duh) and she said 'Of course!'.

I also asked her if they were huge, and she said she doesn't know, and won't until tomorrow. *sigh* I was really hoping for jugs pics.

As far as I know, DPH should be here tomorrow. I will be back Monday, then a few other guest bloggers to take over Casa de Booms until Betsey returns!

Reassurance

I just spent part of my morning re-reading my surgeons credentials following a freak out moment over the weekend. As I was talking to my cousin-in-law about her surgery, she had brought up a conversation she had with her doctor. He told her to get a second opinion, but to be sure that whomever else she spoke to was board certified.

Well, duh. Who wouldn’t check to see if their plastic surgeon was board certified? I mean, I did, right? Didn’t I?

Didn’t I?

Deep breaths, I did, I did. It’s okay.

And of course I had. What the hell?

So here I am, reassured and left thinking about how my jeans are way too long to wear with these slides. The hem keeps getting caught between my heel and the bottom of my shoe, in a kind of callous, denim, man-made material hoagy.

Am I the deepest bitch you know, or what?

Speaking of deep, am I the only jerk that watched the new 90210 last night? I tuned in, apprehensive and half-heartedly. I spent the first two commercial breaks thinking how stupid it was and then? Then, I found myself sucked into the silly fucking plot and remembering the feeling of watching the show as a teen. And it’s the same damn show! I swear it is. And I love it. Monkeygirl watched with me and I got to explain who was who and how they were related to previous cast members.

And now it’s official!

I suck.

Hard.

Does it give me any credibility as a human being that at 4:00 in the morning, Crazyman and I were watching a show about Rasputin?

No? Even if I leave out the fact that it did a fantastic job of putting us back to sleep?

I didn’t think so.

Okay, so I’m a shallow, silly twit.

There are worst things to be.

Like at the Republican National Convention.

For All The Suffering Jasons Of The World

Someone found my blog yesterday by Googling the following term:

Boobs For Jason.

While it may sound like a non-profit organization, I seriously doubt that it is. But now that I think about it, I might go ahead and start one up.

Because in all seriousness, Jason really does deserve boobs. I mean, he works hard after all. Just last night he went shopping for a new trash can to put in our garage - for (and I quote him directly)"dirty diapers and beer boxes."

Give that man some boobs!

And a beer.



If this wasn't enough for you today, I guest blogged over here.

There Are Days...

Where I just want to go home and squeeze Jason like a bubble bear.

And today is one of those days.

Not too long ago, my brother-in-law to be sent some DVD's over to my house with my sister. Included in those was the first two seasons of How I Met Your Mother because I could eat that show up with a side of gravy fries. Also? He sent over the first season of Weeds.

And I was pissed. Pissed, because I fell in love with a show on a cable channel I don't have. I was sucked in and there was nothing I could do and I was jonesing.

Forlornly, I would cruise through my guide and I would see that Weeds was on. There it was, staring at me. I could click the button and all I would get is a black screen with a nasty little message telling me I was not subscribed but gleefully it informed me that I could call my satellite provider. Fucking jerks.

Randomly, Jason and I would have discussions about canceling HBO and getting Showtime. Or maybe there was a way we could figure out when was the best time of year to have one over the other and we could alternate them.

And then today - it came. The thing I had been waiting for. In my inbox was a message from my husband. They had an awesome deal on Showtime for 3 months and he just signed us up. It'll be on when I get home.

Frantically, at my husband's direction, I went to their website to see when I MY show, yes, mine, would be on. And when I get there I see that there is a Weeds marathon starting Monday at 9pm.

Just in time for me to DVR and watch, woozily,pain medicatedly, through one eye as I recover from Hootergate next week.

Sweet Jesus. Jugs and Weeds. It's the motherlode for me.

Jason's Theory

My husband has a theory because I've lost a few pounds lately.

His big hypothesis is that once I have larger boobs I'll lose my ass. And then he goes on to say that I'll have absolutely no ass and I'll have to go back in for a reduction.

A girl can dream.

Given that I was born with more ass than not, I'm going with a big negatory on this one.

I'll keep you posted. ;)

Making Second Base Bigger

It astonishes me how my boobs bring the comments out in droves.

I guess I really shouldn't be surprised given what our society's most popular sex symbols look like, eh? We are a week and a half out and I'm just getting more excited. I did wake up in the middle of a panic attack last night but I couldn't begin to tell you what that should be attributed to.

This weekend when my dad dropped my daughter off after having her spend the night, he sat down at our table to chat for a bit and when the subject was brought up you could tell he was DYING to discuss it. And in true "my dad" form he said "whatever makes you happy, hon." Because that's what he does.

When I was a teenager, one time I told my dad (who is my step dad) that I wanted to be a stand up comedian. He said "You can do it! I'll be your manager."

And then another time I told him I wanted to be a boxer. He said, "You can do it, I'll be your manager." But then told me I was too pretty to box and because I bruise so easily I would always look like I lost.

Even when I didn't.

And still another time, when I was in high school this really stupid boy, who obviously didn't have a clue, dumped me. I cried and cried and the next morning as I was walking my swollen, tear streaked face out the door my dad stopped me. He said, "I don't know what happened but he's obviously missing out. And you can do anything you want in life. You don't need any boy to make you who you are and I know you could be a CEO or a brain surgeon if that's what you wanted, kid."

I know I looked confused when he said it but I thanked him and never forgot that moment.

Of course my friend also always talks about the time in the 8th grade when my dad sat the two of down and asked if we knew the rules of baseball. We looked at each other, sighed and looked at him as he explained to us that no boy should ever get past first base. We laughed for years about that.

So I guess it's only fitting that my dad gave his blessing to me enlarging the size of second base.

I haven't told him that my husband has already hit a home run or two but given the time our nightstand drawer slid open while we were moving and my dad saw all it contents, I'd have to say he knows. I walked out to the garage to see my red faced dad saying that he could have lived the rest of his life without that.

I was pregnant at the time, so I'm sure he knew about the home runs. He just doesn't want the commentary.

The Financing

After the consultation, which most cosmetic surgeons will do for free, you then spend a lot of time thinking about what you are about to undergo.

Me? I waffled. I tried not to think about it and then I tried to think about it and it was like I hit a thinker's block. I just couldn't think about it anymore. And like anything that I try not to think about, it creeps into my mind while I sleep at night and I find myself waking up at 3:00 in the morning in a slight panic.

The thing is that I never really thought about NOT doing it in that time. I thought about everything that went along with it, but not doing it didn't seem to be an option. I even slightly panicked when not doing it might have become the answer.

So I went in and went through the booby sizing game. At the end of it they showed me a list of dates and handed me a short stack of brochures for cosmetic surgery financing companies. Which introduced me to a whole new round of anxiety attacks. Anytime I have financed anything in my life I panic. Being judged by financy dudes makes me ill. My dad always said, "Never let anyone know how much money you make or don't. They do nothing but judge you with it." So here I am filling out forms to tell people the one thing that my dad always told me not to tell. I mean I JUST showed my boobs to a strange man and now I have to tell people how much I make. What would dad say?

Jason had to do the initial footwork for me. I just couldn't do it. It was too much for me. So he did and they said they would call us in an hour. So bite my nails for an hour I did. And an hour become two and then three. And then three hours became days. A week had passed and we didn't hear anything. I was convinced it was the Gods and the Cosmos and all that other cool Discovery Channel stuff telling me that I was meant to have these sad little tidlums the rest of my life. I just gave up and let it go.

It made me sad. Jason asked me about it and I told him it just wasn't meant to be. He shook his head at me and got a tad angry and said, "so you just give up like that?" And stupid me nodded my sad head. The thought of calling them only to hear I was rejected was too much for me. So Jason sighed and picked up the phone and called them. He then says, "you were approved, you dork!" It turns out my account manager was out sick. With that I did a happy booby dance to rival all others. Are there other happy boob dances? I dunno.

Do you know what happened after that? A big nothing. Again, it was another week with no info and then my doctor's office called. It's a little amazing how fast things happened after that. After the initial fast form online you then have to fill out the tall stack of forms that have to be notarized and sent via some service where they can track that shit. Which by the way, Jason had someone in his office notarize them so they know too! Included on those forms are the promise to give up your last born, my first was too old at this point, as well the names and phone numbers of every person you have ever known since birth so they can verify that you aren't a slime bag.

And do you know that they actually call every single person on that list too? We were getting calls left and right from people telling us they were called as a reference. And here is the kicker. When they called my office to verify employment do you know what it said on the caller ID screen?

Cosmetic Surgery.

Oh they only identify themselves by the name of the finance company verbally but when I transferred the call to my boss I knew that 'Cosmetic Surgery' was popping up on the screen at his desk.

Subtle, no?

So now, not only do I have to tell them that I'm going to be out for surgery but guess what? They know it's not my fucking gall bladder or some shit. They know full well that I'm fixing something. I might as well tell them what or when I get back it's going to be a full-on examination to determine just what it was.

Anyhow, after making sure that I was in fact a warm-blooded human with actual friends and family they let me know that I was indeed all set and all it takes is an APR of your left and right leg followed by a monthly payment of both arms. You will have fantastic tits but you will have no limbs because it truly will cost you an arm and a leg.

Hey, we're all set now. I go in there in 12 days and do you know what is causing me the most anxiety now?

They told me not to wear make-up the day of surgery. I'm going to be knocked out cold in front of other people without a lick of mascara.

The HORROR!

Her Response

When I initially decided to go ahead with the breast augmentation I told my sister. Well I didn't tell her at first but there isn't much I don't tell my sister. It didn't help that my husband would make drunken references to my new tata's in front of her. I mean she is a teacher, it was only a matter of time before she worked that one out, not to mention when I showed up with my new giant sweater puppies she wasn't really going to believe that they were the "new beer gut".

When telling her I made her agree to the fine print of the deal that stated that she would not tell our mother. And when I say don't tell mom, it's not because I don't want her to know - she'll know eventually - it's that I don't need my decision to be gossip fodder for the family. That will all happen in due time, right?

Against my initial thoughts and wishes I went ahead and emailed my mother and told her myself. Complete with the words "there, I told you. Now you know", I nervously clicked send and even blogged about waiting for her response.

For the record, I'm still waiting.

Even though I saw her last night.

There will undoubtedly not be any response. There just won't be unless I hear it through the grapevine that are my siblings. Passive Agressive and Avoidance are things I grew up with and had to work through as an adult. I didn't understand that the rest of world didn't sweep things under the carpet and not speak to each other for days on end.

In other words, the cold shoulder was a way of life for me. We had actual icicles growing from our ceiling when I was growing up. There were weeks in the middle of August that a parka was necessary because mom and dad were at odds.

So she came over last night to bring Monkey girl's school supplies over. One of the most awesome things about my mother is that she always gets her school supplies. My mother is a very generous gift giver as well and my dad handed me a nice check for my upcoming birthday.

The entire time I don't think my mother looked me in the eye and barely spoke directly to me. She busied herself playing with Crazyman and looking at everything but me. My dad was his usual silly self and didn't say anything about it so I don't think he knows. Jason quietly asked me if she knew, I said she did. I'm sure she heard us but still nothing came from that way.

And nothing will.

Someday she'll probably casually look at my chest and say something like "did you go big enough" or something else that takes a degree in psychology to fully determine her true meaning. It's okay. If I waited for her approval I'd never do anything because I don't get her approval.

I just don't.

I get her disdain and I get her disapproving looks. I get her judgment in the form of up and down glances to my appearance. I love my mother with all of my heart, but most of us know what a delicate dance the mother/daughter relationship can be. I honestly don't think she means anything by it.

If she comes across this I hope her feelings aren't hurt. I know how bad hurt feelings suck. Like I told my husband last night, if I let my feelings be hurt by it then I'd always have hurt feelings by things like there was no offer to watch Crazyman for my birthday either.

You see, here's the very best part about turning 31. The only approval I need now is from my husband and my kids and I've got that. The mother/daughter relationship that concerns me most now is the one I have with my daughter. One that I hope is going to be a very different experience for her.

I love my mom. She kind of rocks hardcore sometimes. I just know where we stand and I'm okay with that. I have to be.

The Consultation

My appointment for the surgery is September 4 -in exactly one month. I had not been nervous at all but I had fitful dreams last night that I know pertained to this.

Almost two-weeks ago I had the consultation with the surgeon. Jason went with me. Why? Because he rocks just a little bit and I didn't want to go in there all amped, yelling "give me the biggest jugs you got!". I can't actually see myself doing that but you know, I can't be held responsible for what I do.

Oh and also? Jason LOVES eating in hospital cafeterias. I'd like to say I don't get it and laugh at him but I do get it. I love eating there too. Something about the green beans with pieces of bacon in it gets me every time.

So we met up in the parking lot and walked in together. As I walked up to the front counter to meekly announce my arrival, Jason sat down to peruse the reading materials. They hand me the standard clip board of 80-hundred forms to convince them that I don't do heroin, have strokes on a daily basis or have children yearly to sell on the Black Market. I settle down into the chair to start the hand-numbing filling in of forms and Jason leans over to me with a brochure, boldly displaying a booby and loudly whispers "look! They've got porn here!"

Unlike OTHER doctors offices, I don't wait for very long at all. Apparently, today's economy might just be putting a slump into the good doctor's business or it was a slow day. I only saw one other patient in the lobby and I think she was there for Botox. Don't ask why I think that, I just wanted to be judgey and decide what I thought she needed!

They lead us to the room and I fully expect to have to wait forever again, you do any other doctor's office, right? And as I suspected she says "here is a book of before and afters to look at while you wait for the doctor". So Jason and I peruse the jug shots and not too far in Jason declares that he was entirely correct and mine aren't so bad because, seriously? Look at these poor women.

And you know? He was kind of right. There are some honeys in some bad shape out there. As we looked through the book, I was a little weirded out at first. I've never seen so many boobs and they all seemed to be staring directly at me. Well except for a few of the before shots, but by the afters they were staring at me too.

Jason points out that he better enjoy this while he can. He may never be allowed to see so many boobs all at once again. He has a good point and I half-heartedly wonder if he's ever seen this many at once EVER and then he says "Oh look, that one got a new swim suit afterwards", he judges this on her tan lines.

At first I was kind of unsure of what to look at but then I settled into my tatty scoping groove, declaring which ones I think went too large or perhaps not enough and then I see a set that look just about right because I am the goldilocks of funbags. Underneath it says "450 CC".

The doctor comes in first to talk to me and make sure again I'm not going to die right on the spot, he does the "I"ll step out, you put this on" gig and then comes back in to look at me. Seriously, being half naked in the middle of the day in front of my hubs, doctor dude and his nurse while we all discuss my shortcomings is not my idea of a happening party but I dealt and was a little amused by the whole thing. I, however, will never have a party where we discuss how lefty is bigger than righty ever again.

Honestly, having a guy stare at my boobs while he talks to me is nothing new, but not while I'm naked on my top half and my husband is chatting with him. He pokes and prods and tells me I have plenty of empty space to fill there. Thanks man, I needed that. I notice then? That I"m looking at all his imperfections too, so we're close to even.

The nurse has a big plastic tote with a handle that she cracks into at this point. It's the biggest pile of implants I ever hope to see. It was like most of LA had gone there and evaporated. She hands me my target sized bra and a tank top. I put the bra on and she comes over with two different sizes to try on that seem close to where I want to be. She tucks them into the bra, again? Weird. I put on the tank and walk over to the mirror. And you know what? I liked what I saw. The doc then tells the nurse to try a different size... back over to the table and her cold hands shove two new implants in the bra. Bigger. As I put the tank back on Jason's eyes bug out of his head and a smile spreads across his face. This from a man worried I'd go "too large".

As I walk back to the mirror the doctor says something I never thought I'd hear about anything other than birthing babies. He says "She's got great hips for it. Great height too." For the first time EVER, I look in the mirror and I'm a true hour glass... Not just curvy but balanced. The doctor looks at the two different sizes that I have in there and says that one looks better than the other and jots that number down.

The number he jotted down? 450 CC. Jason said "That's the one you liked honey!" and indeed it was. I just won booby bingo, folks.

At that point, everyone who was not legally wed to me left the room and I changed and we went to another room to discuss the cost. I saw the number and promptly fainted.

The fainting part probably isn't true but Jason saw the number and said that it was what he expected. I only saw mild panic register on his face. Or maybe that was my reflection in the mirror behind him. I'm not sure.

We took the paperwork, thanked the nurse and went downstairs to enjoy our chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes served with an ice cream scoop and discussed all the magical super powers the new boobies would give me.

For the record? They didn't have green beans that day.