Thanks to Cheri at Blog This Mom and her Facebook page for the vid link below and the reminder. Have you had your mammogram yet if you’re 40– or younger if you come from family with high incidence of breast or cervical and/or uterine cancer or you’ve tested positive for the breast cancer gene?
I had my baseline at 30 because my mom was diagnosed at 40, and I’m good about routine self-exams, but I’ll be 36 this year and it’s time for me to get my second squishing and checkup. It was uncomfortable, yeah– but it’s better than a blow to the head, and certainly better than the alternatives, that’s hella for sure.
You can find out about free mammograms in Massachusetts here.
Well, since my last post, it hasn’t quite been boils, fell beasts and death– but there have been a variety of dramas and ailments. To acknowledge the hard times of late, my Better Half bought me a present on what was– for me– not a Good Friday at all.
Pics, ’cause it happened.
Not Only on South Park
But wait. There is more. There’s the BACK of the box.
You know this is for reals, yo. This shit’s in HEBREW.
You know you want the manufacturer information. YOUDO.
You’re Googling this right now, aren’t you? Don’t lie.
They also make a walking matzah ball. To tell you the truth, I’m afraid to assemble the 9 pc. puzzle that corresponds with the death of the firstborn. Wouldn’t you be?
I also got flowers.
If that’s not the best present ever, well– may a plague of locusts and frogs descend upon you. (See pictures and product number above. Order your own, this seems to be the new, updated package in a PYRAMID. Come on. You’ve always wanted your own pyramid.)
He’s teething, and yet he was soooo good when I walked him around the block a few times while his Mom was getting her back cracked. He’s so smiley and … gah. Just adorable. (Although, not having to change his diaper and his actually eating when I give him a bottle helps.)
Now all I need is some cats and I can post photos of them!
(I can haz crazy cat lady childless aunt blc? Wai yes, u can haev that.)
Here’s a piece in the NYT about the seltzer deliveryman of Brooklyn, who fell and hurt himself, depriving two hundred customers of actual hand-pushed seltzer, complete in antique seltzer containers. And this is why I love the NYT, even when sometimes their slip in editorial standards sends me, weeping and clicking, to the Guardian.co.uk site. Human interest stories, pieces about “hunh, never thought about that before” slices of life just slay me when they’re written like this.
“Real seltzer should hurt,” is how one person describes the difference from the store-bottled stuff.
If that isn’t an invitation to run and find out, I don’t know what is. Off I go, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi in my new quest for “real seltzer.”
