Obviously, not much to report.

I got my aspiration on today. It went well, and now I have a lovely bruise on the ol' boobie.

As usual, I can't take any good painkillers - only Tylenol. I don't mean any disrespect to the fine people who make Tylenol, but ... WTF, Tylenol? Seriously. Tylenol is only good when you pair it with wine. Which I am. Because I am a proactive, smart, take-charge, kind-of-buzzed lady.

Kudos to Average Jane who advised that oh, crazy lady, maybe you don't need to tell your new male boss exactly why you need to take the afternoon off. Good call. Based on Jane's comment, I mentioned it to My Guy ... who was basically like, "Oh dear God! Why would you tell your boss about your boob? No! Nooo!"

So, yeah. Thanks, Jane!

Mega thanks, too, to my dear husband, who understands that every breast procedure calls for burgers and fries. So, when I texted him, "The boob needs Five Guys," he did not question the request. Instead, he came home with fries and burgers - the perfect accompaniment to Tylenol and wine.

He just offered me more wine. I should probably stop blogging.

Yes, I am worrying my pretty little head about it.

I can't bring myself to watch "Mad Men." I know it's a great show, and if anyone could convince me to watch any program, it's Jon Hamm. But I just can't stand watching how the women portrayed on the show are treated.

I'm almost OK if I think about it as an accurate portrayal of sexism that is long, long gone. But it's not distant history. It seems like we're rehashing the same stuff in the upcoming election.

Obviously, I'm super pumped about democracy and you bet your ass I'm going to vote. But all the tomfoolery? Make it stop!

My particular pet peeve is the growing number of candidates who seem to feel like it's finally OK to just come right out and voice their opinions on my ladyparts, my role in my household, and, oh, how being a woman is a pre-existing condition that requires special care and consideration.

Some rape is legitimate - more rapey than other rape. Women need flexible work hours so they can go home to cook dinner for their husbands. Being handed women's resumes that you didn't request means means that you really did try to hire women. Abortion is the business of the government, not a woman and her doctor.

I've learned so much.

And now? I'm tired.

I'm tired of being told that I'm not to be trusted with my own body. I'm tired of being told that I should be happy to have a job and shouldn't worry my pretty little head about what I'm actually being paid. I'm tired of people acting like the crazy talk is kinda normal.

I guess I can blame my parents. In yet another example of how they failed me, they never bothered to tell me that I am not bright and my work isn't worth as much as that of my male counterparts. They never sat me down for "the talk," where they covered sex, Santa, and how Jesus and George Washington expect me to prepare gorgeous meals every night for my husband. My mom and dad even went so far as to make me think that I was smart, and could do whatever I wanted to do in life - in or out of the kitchen.

I know, I know.

Now, I'm finding out that it was all just a big fat lie.

I'm also finding out that my entire career as a writer and editor has been built on a yet another lie.

Of course, I'm talking about Bic's new pens for women. All these years, I've been using Man Pens and didn't even know it. It's a miracle that I haven't permanently ruined by manicure and my mind. Ellen explains it all best:
Yes. Men have pills for hair loss and erectile dysfunction, and women have finally gotten a pen.

Please vote - with your ballot and your dollar. Vote for the people and companies that have your daughters' best interests at heart.

Also? I'm pretty sure that "best interests" does not mean "a future in a steno pool."

Just athletic enough to climb on my soapbox.

So, there's this article, aptly titled, "In which I blame my PE teacher for ruining exercise for me forever."

And I read the article, and was basically like, "This author is my spirit animal! Yes!"

And then I read all the comments, which are basically a gajillion women saying, "Yes! You are my spirit animal!"

And then I realized that holy shit, that mandatory class that's supposed to teach us how to be healthy and active has basically turned thousands and thousands of girls / women / female people off of being healthy and active.

It seems that every non-jock has at least 1 horror story about a PE teacher who was mean, vindictive, unsupportive, and / or batshit crazy. If you're like me, you hate this crazy, so you hate PE and try to find ways to get out of it. Somehow, your brain expands that to hating all exercise.

I hated PE since the dawn of time - quite possibly because my elementary school memories include:

• Getting beamed in the face at close range by a basketball, and having the PE teacher tell me it was my own fault because I ran 2 feet off course in our obstacle course
• Dying of embarrassment when the PE teacher made a big show of attempting to teach me how to swing a bat - but eventually admitting defeat - as my entire class got pissed that their softball game was halted

Physical activity? Fun? What?

I read somewhere recently that exercise is like pooping - your body just has to do it. It's necessary and not negotiable.

Now, instead of going off on a tangent about how my then-2-year-old brother decided for a while that he didn't like pooping and so just wasn't going to do it (this was also around the same time he decided he was only going to eat orange foods), I'm going to stay on task and save the poo tale for another time.

Here's the thing: we have to empower girls to take charge of their bodies. And making somebody feel bad because they can't serve a flippin' volleyball is not the road to empowerment.

I hope that things have changed since the olden days when I dreaded PE with all my heart and soul. I'm guessing they probably haven't. Not for me, anyway - I still have dreams that I'm running late for high school PE and if I miss it, I'll have to run to make up the class ... the class that was GRADED and counted towards your real-life GPA. It was a nerd's nightmare, and it haunts me to this day.

In my fantasy world, all PE teachers focus on learning new stuff and having fun. And this speech is mandatory at the beginning of every class:

Today, we're going to learn new things and we're going to have fun. There's room for everybody in this class. Remember, we all have different skills - some people are great at math, and some people are great at kickball. We all have our special gifts. Now, let's have some fun!

Oh, and anybody who makes fun of another student automatically flunks the class. For the year.

Maybe if I had that type of environment, I wouldn't be, you know, almost totally sedentary.

Did you like PE? How did it translate to your adult exercise or lack thereof?

There's a reason I stay at my desk and don't talk much.

The great thing about starting a new job is all of the people watching. Everybody is new and interesting, and foibles stand out. Basically, you haven't had time to become numb to the weirdness.

At Globotron, there's the coworker who strides - not walks, but strides - like a confident hooker. She's mean, and yesterday she had her skirt tucked into the back of her underwear. I saw her across the room and didn't have the opportunity to help her out. I'm assuming she figured out there was a reason she was feeling a draft.

There's the lady we called Jumpsuit Judy for the 3 days she worked at Globotron. She might want to consider laying off the shoulder pads and icy blue eyeshadow.

Then, there's the maintenance guy who looks like a hunky, Hispanic Freddy Mercury.

 

Maintenance Mercury is always smiling, and I looooove him. Every time I see him, I want to break out into the "heyyyyyeheheheheheheh" part of "Another One Bites the Dust."

Or at least greet him with some song lyrics.

See him pushing a broom? "You work hard ... every day of your life! You work 'til you ache in your bones!"

Grab the elevator door so he can get on? "You've paid your dues ... time after time. You've done your sentence, but committed no crime."

Pretty much any occasion? "Fat bottom girls, they make the rockin' world go 'round!"

I can't help but wonder what the world would be like if we all said exactly what we think. I would either be in prison or lauded as a great creative thinker. Probably the former.

This is what real awareness looks like.

I'm celebrating Breast Cancer Awareness Month in a very special way. Much like a very special episode of the cheesy 80's sitcom of your choice, "very special" = "kind of crappy."
 
Remember a few weeks ago when I found a lump and had a mammogram and sonogram? Good times! Today, I had a follow-up appointment with the breast surgeon - or, as I like to think of her, The Boobie Doctor. Because I hate the idea of surgery, and she's really great and wears cool glasses and was honestly impressed today when I told her that I got my cool bracelet at a garage sale.

The Boobie Doctor and I decided that I should have my current asshole cysts aspirated - not because they are dangerous, but mostly because they hurt when my 7-pound dachshund walks on them, which is basically every night. I'm going to get my aspiration on on Monday.

The good? I have done this 3 times and totally know the score. When the nurse was going over the instructions with me, I was all, "Yeah, whatevs. Been there, done that. I like your hair."

The bad? I get to tell my new, male boss that gee, I need to take at least an afternoon off, and gee, wanna talk about my rack?

The ugly?

Sigh.

This is so dumb and so not fair. And even though I've switched to a non-aluminum deodorant and am in the process of throwing out all the plastic in my kitchen and completely revamping my diet, The Boobie Doctor basically said that all things considered, stress is causing my cystacular flair-ups.

Whaaa? So, she's saying that trying to get pregnant, leaving a job I'd had for 6 years, starting a new job, finding out that oh, we're barren, and getting fired was stressful? That's crazytalk.

It's annoying that stress isn't something you can fix with a vitamin. Addressing it is deliberate, and difficult. And it doesn't really fit in with the pouting thing that I've got going on right now.

But the even stranger thing than the pouting?

I really am OK with the aspiration.

I was by far the youngest woman in The Boobie Doctor's waiting room. I was alone. I wasn't upset. I knew what the situation was, and I knew what the options were. I was in control. I didn't even feel like crying later in the car. Mostly, I'm just annoyed about talking to my boss - even though he will be lovely about it.

It just sort of is what it is.

Maybe this is just what my normal is like ... regular normal, punctuated by needles-in-my-boobs normal. And really, needles-in-my-boobs normal isn't that big of a deal.

But I would rather be on a beach somewhere, drinking a Bloody Mary. I'm not completely insane.

But my teeth are lovely.

Yet another day o' corporate training. Would you like to see a process model of my trip for far? Sure you would!

Cha Cha -> Training -> Mind Explosion -> Cha Cha's Brain Oozing Out Her Ears

The end.

One day left. I'm ready to go home and see my sweet husband. We've been able to chat every night, and that helps my sanity. Traveling is OK, but it's just not the same as being home.

Case in point? I forgot my mouthguard. So, I've slept all week with a nekkid mouth. I mentioned my "lips together, teeth apart" mantra as I attempt not to clench my jaw while I sleep. It's the absentminded packer's sad-but-less-spitty mouthguard substitute.

My husband's response? "Well, I won't worry about you gettin' busy with some random dude on your business trip since you left all your sexiness at home."

Yes. When My Guy thinks of my mouthguard, he automatically thinks of sex. Or, Not Sexy.

You know that scene in "Date Night" where Tina Fey has already put her mouthguard in, and she responds to Steve Carrell's sexytime overtures by pulling her spitty mouthguard out, and he's all, "Uh, nevermind?"

This is my life. My poor husband.

I'm delirious and need to go home.

--

Wanna read something a little more, erm, not insane? Check out my profile at Derfwad Manor's Slow Cook Thursday. There's a delicious recipe in there and everything!

And now for something completely different.

I am really lucky in that I genuinely like the people I'm traveling with. Sitting in a hotel conference room starting at 7 a.m. our time is made much more bearable by funny, friendly folks. It's pretty much the antithesis of my experience at Mega Corporate Behemoth.

I've been fortunate to have made some really lovely friends in my various and sundry jobs.

When I first moved to my fair city 13 years ago, I didn't know a soul. "Friends" had just gone into syndication, and the local Fox station played it 3 times a night. I watched it 3 times a night. Because I had no 3-dimensional friends.

My first day at my new job, my cubemate Minnie showed me the ropes, and took me out for lunch. Her manner was so warm and friendly, and she immediately put me at ease. Minnie and her husband kind of took me under their wings - like, he was the guy I called when my basement flooded. They are those kinds of friends.

When I sat in my Cube of Despair at Mega Corporate Behemoth with no friends and no one who would give me the time of day, I thought a lot about Minnie. It didn't take much for her to reach out to me, but it made all the difference in the world to me. I desperately needed a friend like that at Mega Corporate Behemoth, but just thinking about Minnie made it a little better. After all, I couldn't be a total leper if she was still my friend. And I could be a friend to the newbies hired after me.

I got to see Minnie and her husband last week. They've moved away and we don't get to see each other much. It was wonderful to hear their laughter and catch up. And I was so glad that I had the opportunity to tell Minnie about Mega Corporate Behemoth, and how in a roundabout way it gave me the gift of her friendship all over again.