Ah, I bet you are sitting at your computer, hunched over like the rest of us with the terrible posture that would make my Nana poke you in the back...wondering why on earth you should read my ramblings. I've got only one answer for you...in view of the fact that I happen to be a bit of a wackadoo, my musings can be your evidence that you are completely normal, thus relieving you of the fear that you have gone loco. Leave that part to me. Oh, and I love to use the thesaurus, as I have an affinity for elocution and a deep seated, albeit odd obsession with grandiose language.
So dig in and be prepared...

Friday, February 4, 2011

She told me I was going to pass out...

sh*t. She was right.
SO, to launch my new soapbox, I've decided to share a tiny tidbit (seriously? I don't do tiny anything,) of this particularly mortifying episode.
Picture this, dear readers. You are standing half naked, your boob pressed like a sad little pancake between 2 sheets of radiographic plexiglass. You've already had a few dizzy moments during embarassing pictures # 1 & 2. The tiny little radiographer has brought you water and waited patiently while you regain your wits. You have assured said tiny person that you are fine and ready to proceed. She proceeds with boob flattening and positioning of your parts. You again reassure her through the deafening rush in your ears and flashing lights in your eyes that you are just fine!
WELL. Since I woke up on my back, boobs flapping everywhere, and 4 people standing over me, CLEARLY I was not fine. Oops.
Fast forward to an apple, some water anda bottle of oj later and the 4th and final picture is done. And I am mortified, and still clearly NOT ok.
Mind you, my other half and 3 of my 5 offspring are waiting in the car, as just a short 2 days ago, he had a minor surgical procedure that prevents him from lifting our littlest chubster. SO. Now I have to go to the ER. Oh, by the way? That tiny little radiographer was the one who caught my dead weight.
SO. I bet you are all just perched on the edge of your seats, breathlessly awaiting the cause of my distress and embarassment.
I have 5 kids, I'm a bit nuts and my hubby was out of commission. That is essentially equal to low blood sugar, low sodium and dehydration. Oops.

The first voice I heard when I woke from my little incident? My therapist. That sweetly charming southern voice that somehow manages to be just the right mix of my mom, my mama in law and God's word, all rolled into one very wise package.

Now that you have an image of my flattened boob burned in your brain FOREVER, have a wonderfully lovely day.

And, hell yes, I know I need to take better care of myself. I also need a nanny, more money, and something other than a dorky minivan to drive. More tattoos might cover it.

Wine awaits me...


  1. Ohhhh nooooo!!! I hope everyone is well now! It's funny you mention the tattoos and the dorky minivan!! I have the same complaints. I, too, feel as though a new tattoo would somehow help my inner rebel calm down a bit...but once again, I am slapped back into reality with my husband saying, "Are you crazy?" WELL, YES, AS A MATTER OF FACT I AM!! I did pose this question the other day, "If ear rings are okay then why aren't eye brow rings? What's the difference?" I thought he was going to levitate!! Anyway, I hope you have a wonderful weekend and I hope we can get together soon!!

    Love ya, Dana Sewell

  2. You're doing it! Here's to many a successful rant. May your new blog bring you joy, laughter, and an occasional inspired stranger. ;)