I’m irrevocably and neurotically bashful about my feet. Whenever I confess this to people, they always assume that I must have some sort of troubling foot oddity going on, but no, my feet are pretty much just feet. Except that I happen to be excruciatingly private about them. Once in a blue moon I’ll wear shoes/sandals with my toes exposed, but whenever this happens, I always come home at the end of the day feeling slightly rattled and unnerved. Once my friend S. completely shocked me when we were co-teaching a class by taking off a shoe (and a sock!) to show the entire class her crooked toe. I can’t believe you just did that, I had to say to her after the class was over. Quite frankly, I would just as soon take my fucking shirt off.
Statistically speaking, it is highly unlikely that you have seen, or ever will see, my bare naked feet. I’m just saying.
So, case in point, I’m blushing a little bit after having discussed my bashful feet, but apparently I think it’s okay to blog about today’s mammogram. Here’s the thing, though. The mammographer garnished me with these pretty little Band-Aids (Pink! And purple! With flowers!) that are studded in the middle with what look like silver dragees (i.e., those tiny silver balls for decorating cakes and cupcakes). It’s apparently an X-marks-the-spot kind of thingy for the films. I can’t explain why, but I find these dragee-studded floral pasty Band-Aids exceedingly amusing.
Here’s a secret: In point of fact, I find them so amusing that I’m. Still. Wearing. Mine.
It should perhaps be noted that the true miracle of cell phone technology is that two (frankly somewhat overeducated) women equipped with Motorola Razrs can (even from opposite sides of the country) ask each other for advice on what to wear.
Tonight I ate a salad comprised of shredded broccoli (with a bit of shredded purple cabbage and carrots), tossed with slivers of thin-sliced, oven-roasted deli turkey, generously garnished with sweet crunchy slices of Asian pear, and drizzled with a sesame ginger dressing. Can I just say that it was dee-fucking-licious?!?! (Tmesis strikes again. Yay for tmesis!)
Can I also add that I am now officially obsessed with Asian pears? And every possible variety of winter squash? (And I would be obsessed with kale, too, except that I don’t really know how to prepare it and the only reason I know that I’m intrinsically capable of kale obsession is because E. makes this delicious kale dish. However, unless she shows me how, I don’t think a Full-On Balls-to-the-Wall Kale Obsession can be officially launched.)
I’m not obsessed with cantaloupe, though. (Even though I love the word cantaloupe.) Definitely not cantaloupe! (Unless it’s an anti-obsession.) Cantaloupe freak me the fuck out.
Sometimes when I have one of those days where I manage to fucktard up every single last fucking goddamn thing, I come home and sing Beck’s “I’m a Loser, Baby, So Why Don’t You Kill Me” to the cats. Sometimes I even do the twist while I sing, for good measure. They stare at me quizzically and tilt their little cat heads from side to side. I’m never exactly sure why, but therapeutically speaking, this always seems to make me feel immeasurably better.
(I’m not saying today was a bad day. Because it wasn’t. It was a perfectly good day. I just wanted to pass this golden nugget along as a public service of sorts . . . a stop gap, say, before racking up hundreds of dollars dialing the Psychic Hotline, or feeling compelled to join the Church of Scientology, or abashedly skulking about in the self help aisle of Barnes & Noble in a slightly creepy manner all the while pretending to be lost and really looking for something else. I can’t make any claims that this particular technique has universal efficacy or even any efficacy for someone other than myself . . . but perhaps you might like to give it a try?)
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