If feelings had a flavor, this would be umami.

Today, I went to the breast center for an ultrasound on the ol' boob.

Best day ever!

I went because, well, the section of my right breast where all the action is (read: lumpectomies, cysts, general bad behavior) is more painful that usual. My doctor wasn't overly concerned, and I wasn't until last night. Then, my dark little imagination went absolutely wild with fantasies that basically all ended with me having a very rare, "Alien"-like cancer that would surely spell death and destruction for all womankind.

Imagination is awesome!

But I went today, and I forgot the doctor's order. I called My Guy in a panic from the hospital parking lot, and he was poised to somehow Batsignal it across the sky to the breast center. But they had the order, so it was fine.

And then the lady in the office said, "Your last mammogram was last February. You need another mammogram."

And I said, "I think my last mammogram was September 2012."

And she was all, "I think you need a mammogram."

And then I was all, "I'M ONLY 38! CAN'T YOU TELL BY MY LUMINOUS, SUNSCREEN-PROTECTED SKIN? BACK OFF, BITCH!"

And then it turns out that she was looking at the wrong file because I have a fairly common name, and I decided not to kill her because I didn't want to break a nail.

But it made me angry. For the gajillionth time: This is not fair. I'm only 38. I've already had 3 or 4 mammograms. I've had 2 lumpectomies. I've had so many cyst aspirations that I've lost count. And today, the next-to-the-last day of the month? The tech told me that I won "Biggest Cyst of the Month." Which actually made me laugh.

The tech. Oh, I love her. She makes everything OK. And everything is OK - the cysts are all cystacular, and I can have them aspirated if I want, but there's no desperate medical reason to be jamming needles into my boob.

So, yay.

I have a tiny bit of a cold, and it's making me feel like no human has ever suffered the way I'm suffering. Add in some boobtacular fun, and I have a full-blown "poor meeeeee" going on.

Except ... that I've left the breast center before and cried in my car. I've been in those chilly rooms where the doctor has come in to talk to me about my options. Today was a piece of cake, and a total blessing.

I hate that I'm supposed to be thankful for this.

I hate that the way the other lady in the waiting room looked at me when the nurse verified that I didn't need to remove my deodorant because I wasn't getting a mammogram, but something else - something probably way serious and horrible.

I hate that the lady in the office didn't apologize for sounding the fake alarm about my need for a mammogram.

I hate being a very special case, like I'm going to guest on a very special episode of "Blossom" and then never be heard from again because nobody wants to be reminded week in and week out of a very special case. We all want to believe that everything is fine.

I want to believe that everything is fine. And today, it is. And for that, I should be delighted.

You're phat. Now fatten up.

Sometimes, when you're a dog, your mom can be really mean.


Nobody knows the trouble I've seen.

Your mom gets mad when you poo inside the house, even if it's really cold. And she takes you to the vet. And she expects you to let the vet do horrible things like pet you and coo to you even as you shake and look away.

Yeah, the vet's been nice to you for 6 years. But the guiltier you make him feel, the more treats he parses out.

But back to your mom. She's horrible.

She's worried that you have dropped from your healthy weight of 7 pounds down to 5. She notices that you're always cold, so she layers you in various t-shirts and jackets, including one that looks like a Christmas tree.

This is what exploitation looks like.

The vet and your mom can't figure out why you're so thin. Your mean mom has started pureeing all of your food with chicken stock, in the hopes that it will help you absorb the nutrients. All of the vet's tests came back fine. He's not sure what to think, either. Maybe pureeing will help.

You eat like a champ. Unfortunately, you poop like a champ, too. It doesn't seem like much goes on in between.

Somehow, this is all your mom's fault because she's so mean. And it serves her right that the day after the vet gave you so many treats, she picked up a treat off the floor with her bare hands ... only to find that the treat had been through your system already. She picked up poo. With her bare hands.

She's starting to think that your weight loss started about the time you actually began answering to the moniker "The Little One." Your mom and dad call you and your canine pals all sorts of names. Roo-Roo-Noodle and Giant Noggin don't respond to their nicknames.


Someone doesn't put a lot of stock in the words of the "humans."

Nickname? Dude. I barely know my name. I love you!

But you? You're different.

You're messing with your mom on purpose. You're smart as hell, and you don't give 2 shits about what your humans might want.

But maybe, just this once? You'd consider packing on some pounds?

Le sigh.

Thanks.

Olympics? Play on playa, play on play-ahhhh!

Oh, Winter Olympics. Or, as my brother used to call them, Bolympics.

My Guy and I have been watching the Bolympics off and on. Basically, he said, "I'm embarrassed to admit that I only care about the figure skating. I hate to skate and I'm straight. What is wrong with me?"

Well, I think the issue is that we are not winter sports people, and it's hard to get really passionate about a sport that involves skiing and then shooting a gun. I have enjoyed the snowboarding, though, and was a bit astounded that all the long-distance skiers literally collapsed right after crossing the finish line. Watching it made me tired, so I went to bed.

But I have tuned in enough to have, you know, some insights in to the 22nd Winter Bolympic Games.

• I can't help but think that poor Bob Costas wouldn't have that horrendous eye infection if the water in Sochi didn't look like toxic urine.
• If I were a Winter Bolympian, I would totally do the skeleton. Now, granted, I'd need the padded bra to end all padded bras. But I like sledding face-first, and I already have a super-awesome human-interest story for NBC Sports. Bob Costas could visit my hometown and talk about how my Bolympic dreams started in my parents' front yard. And then NBC could do an entire package about my family sledding in our front yard and how regularly running your sled into a tree builds character and perseverance. Of course, the segment would end with my mom being all teary-eyed about me being a Bolympian, because that's what the Bolympics are about: making moms cry.
• Even though I like to pretend I'm not quite as emo as my mom, if one of my dogs were in the Bolympics? I would cry non-stop out of pride. And I'd probably wear the most obnoxious red, white, and blue outfits ever made because, like my mom, I have kind of stopped giving a shit. Now, if only we can just get the IOC to acknowledge peeing in the house as an Olympic sport with a canine division ...
• Anybody out there think of "No Diggity" whenever they hear Ted Ligety's name? Bob Costas mentions Ted, and suddenly I'm all, "Ted Ligety! Got to bag it, bag it up! Play on playa play on play-ahhhhh!" And then I dance around and think I'm soooooo cooool.
• My Guy and I have actually spent time researching all the terms used by the ice skating commentators. Triple Salchow? I knew what you were for 30 brief seconds before I forgot. But, you know, we're trying. We have, however, determined that there is evidently a crotch shot quota for all female skaters. They have to twist and show their crotches to all areas of the arena in order to earn points. I generally don't like sports that require ladyscaping - it just seems so unfair that you have to be really good at a sport and really good at waxing. This is also why I'm not a pro beach volleyball player.
• And as if flashing your ladybits weren't bad enough ... can we all just agree that the female skating commentator is just mean? She seems gleeful when somebody messes up. I kind of want to go back to the beginning of the Bolympics and count the number of times she describes someone's performance as "devastating," and not in a good way. More like in a, "that was so bad they are going to stone him when he gets back to his village" kind of way. I can barely stand up on skates, so I'm just going to love everybody and give all the skaters a 10, whether they flash their privates or not, OK?

I do not know why NBC hasn't hired me to do color commentary on the Bolympics. Clearly, it's a travesty.

If you were a commentator for NBC, what would you talk about?

That's how I roll.

My Guy and I broke our rule about no Valentine's Day gifts. Basically, I let him buy me a car stereo. Because it's 1990 and that's cool.

The great thing about driving a 10-year-old car is that car payments are a distant memory. And when you back into your husband's truckasaurus, it's kind of OK because, well, you have a 10-year-old car.

The crummy thing about a 10-year-old car is that stuff starts to fall apart. The backlight on my stereo / clock went out about 3 years ago, so once it was dark, I had no idea what time it was beyond "nighttime." And about a year ago, the stereo itself started being kind of possessed. It would occasionally play when the car was turned off. Yes, just like Stephen King's "Christine." Yes, it freaked me out.

And then the radio stopped playing when the car was turned on. Or, it would just screech. It was annoying, but it just didn't occur to me that I could replace the stereo.

Enter my husband, who was all, "I looked online and we can replace your stereo for, like, $200. Happy Valentine's Day!"

Now, I'm from the Midwest, and I'm from a small town. I come from a long line of people who made it their professional calling not to be too flashy. Buying an after-market car stereo is pretty much the antithesis of being low-key and not flashy. I had images of my Honda now vibrating with bass, and I figured that any new stereo would also come with hydraulics and a neon undercarriage package.

I was apprehensive.

But it turns out I was wrong about the neon and the hydraulics. However, we didn't take into account that the dash of the 2003 Accord has kind of a unique shape, and to completely replace the stereo and HVAC controls would cost an additional $300.

Uh, no.

So, we went with the $30 installation option, which didn't replace the old stereo. This means that I now have not 1, but 2 stereos in my car, err, pimpmobile.

Two stereos. Granted, 1 doesn't work. But on the other hand, the only thing worse that having a fancy (OK, not really - it just feels like it because it works) after-market stereo is having 2 car stereos. Pretty soon, I'm going to fill my trunk with subwoofers and woofers and a sound board like you see in recording studios. I'll probably have to start wearing gold chains and wear my pants down around my ass, like an ass.

I guess it's a small price to pay. I can listen to the radio in my car! It's amazing!

Norovirus, exciting and new.

It's time.

To the cast of “The Love Boat,” I’m looking at you. It’s time to get the gang back together for made-for-teevee movie magic. You’re the only ones who can save us, the only life raft that can keep us afloat in the choppy waters of good cruises gone bad.

Clearly, I’m talking about the recent spate of cruises that have unwittingly hosted norovirus.

We need the crew of the Pacific Princess to show us the proper way to deal with horrendous diarrhea and other maritime disasters. I figured it all out and explain my plan in detail at Aiming Low.

Don't worry: Isaac the bartender will still serve drinks with his signature finger-pointing panache. It's just that the pina coladas will be replaced by Pepto and 7Up.