There are strange things afoot these days and when there are strange days, what do you do? You figure out a way to deal with it, I guess.You try to figure out what is real and what is make believe and then you throw yourself behind what is real.

When you are faced with challenges I think the biggest determination about who you are as a person can be based on how you deal with those challenges. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes a challenge is a deal breaker in a friendship or a working relationship, a marriage or a family, sometimes however, they are not.

Uhmmm. Could I possibly BE more vague? (No, seriously, can I? I’m trying really hard.) Just to be clear- all is well in my world- I love my husband, I love my job (most of the time) and I have a family that I adore. But no matter what you do, every once in a while life throws you a giant curve ball and you have to figure out when to block and when to duck.

Or you’re me and you don’t duck or block. You start trying to get shit done.

Even when it’s scary.

Well, as of some godawful time tomorrow morning, we are on our way to Halifax so the new in-laws can meet the surprise wife.

Wish me luck gang, I may need it.

Play nice while I’m gone.

Time is not “flying by” it’s rocketing at supersonic speed and I have my head out the window like a dog and the wind is so fast that I can barely catch my breath.The days are warm and sunny but the evenings are cool and the leaves seem to have gone from green to gold overnight. In the morning when I walk the dogs everything is covered in a fine layer of dew and I can see my breath.

As of tomorrow I will have been a Mrs. rather than a Miss for an entire month.

One week from today I fly across the country and meet my new in-laws.

When life moves this quickly I always fear that I’m missing something.

Firstly- I’d like to add the disclaimer that I’m writing this after a few glasses of wine…….

So you remember my porn mammogram? It’s the post right below jackass, read it. Well, I checked my cell as I was walking home at 4:06 pm and I have a call from “Special Procedures for mammography” with a request to please make an appointment. Their office closes at 4pm.

Are you fucking serious?

I’m not normally a “worrier” because I’m pretty much pragmatic right to the bone. I mean it- I’m the type of person that would be making sure that there was a solid vegetarian option at my own fucking funeral. I’m a thinker, a planner and a doer. What I’m not is a worrier, a freaker or a panic stricken delicate flower. (You can confirm this with the ex that watched me squash a giant pack rat with a Louisville slugger on the back deck during a bad invasion at the ranch.) However, given the fact that I had a full (benign) lumpectomy in my 20’s I’m a bit “on edge.” (Hence the wine? No, forget it. The wine is normal.)

My theory is that my boobs are so fantastic that they’re flying in the likes of Brad Pitt, George Clooney and John Malkovich (shut up! I LOVE HIM!) to check them out. (really- I have pretty fabulous boobs. I’m not being vain, I just got lucky that at 40 they still stand up like brand new military recruits and smile at the crowd. They’re the type of boobs that would buy you flowers AND call you the next day. My boobs could run for office.) I’d post pictures but my husband would probably get an annulment.

So….. basically, I’m in limbo until office hours tomorrow. If I knew the address of the lady that called me I’d be there booking my appointment right now.

I’m just gonna go with the Hollywood viewing theory. It works for me.

Fuck is my husband gonna be mad when those guys show up. Such is the life of a man crazy enough to marry me………..

Despite my normal OCD tendencies to over think and over plan for everything, every once in a while I get caught *gasp* unprepared.

So I go in for a mammogram yesterday (shut up assholes- Don’t you watch Cougar town? 40 is the new 20!) I check in and get led to the private waiting room where you take off your bra, shove it in your purse like a bad high school date, put your shirt back on and then wait patiently with a whole bunch of other bra-less women to have your boobs squished between two pieces of Plexiglas.

I get called in and I’m standing in front of the mashing contraption when it hits me. Today was probably not the best day to have worn a dress to work. She laughs and tells me that it happens all the time. So I pull off the dress and a few minutes later as a strange woman is fondling my breasts while I stand there in nothing but a black thong and a green lead apron, I say to her;

“Is it just me or does this feel a little like porn right now?”

She looks me straight in the eye and says “Yeah. A little bit. But weird porn.

Ok, maybe not Guffman, but I am waiting.

“For what?” You ask with baited breath.

“Uhm, sorry. Can’t say.”

I know, I know. That’s kinda mean but I still can’t say so please quit asking me and sending me beer and cigarette bribes. Well, quit the asking at least. Feel free to continue with the rest.

I will be MIA for the next week and then I shall reappear on the scene like a bolt of lightning or a super hero and I will whisper sweet nothings in your ear.

You know when you get a song stuck in your head and it plays on a never ending reel through your brain until you want to shoot yourself in the face?

Yeah, that. I have it.

It’s a song from”Coke Machine Glow” -Gord Downie’s old solo project- called Vancouver Divorce. All morning I’ve been hearing;

“Sittin’ here at the Horton’s, so you know this is important.”

All of you in Canada have probably just cracked a wee little smile of familiarity and nostalgia while most of you in the US are saying “Huh?”

On the up side though, at least it’s not the fucking “Chicken Dance.” Na na na na na na na na, Na na na na nana na……….

Sorry if I just implanted you with that little piece of fresh hell.

Remember when this is what Blackberry meant?