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………..