Boob Job – Help Wanted

I’ve got boobs, not centerfold worthy, but still, boobs. When I told my oldest son I’d be blogging about them today his reaction was, as you’d (82)

He’s 18; I live to embarrass him, however, when I explained October is breast cancer awareness month he set his fear of public humiliation aside and gave me the green light to chat about everything boob.

“Yeah, go ahead.” He said

“Thanks.” (Like I wouldn’t anyway.)

“No vagina crap though.”

“Deal, no vagina crap.”

“I’m serious; my friends read your Facebook page.”

“Fine, I’ll refrain from all things vagina, labia and cervix. How about ovaries?”

“I’m leaving.”

We’ve lost too many friends over the past five years, and I’ve had my own small-scale go round with the Big C. It’s about time someone goes cage-fighter dirty on cancer, and the ass kicking starts with you! (THUNK – Grandmother rolling over in grave – ass, boobs and vagina in one post. “Heavenly Father, please forgive my granddaughter’s toilet mouth!”)

Embarrassed to talk ta-ta with your doc?  Afraid of the mammo-monster? Get over it! It’s check em’ or wreck em’ ladies! (And gents!) Here’s what I do.

My girls, Sandra Day and Ruth Bader are upheld by a titanium underwire and pressed into fleshy quesadillas once a year as per American Cancer Society guidelines. In addition to the Arctic-handed OB/GYN’s annual poke, I do self-exams in the shower and belt out a little Gloria Gaynor, I Will Survive. One verse is a sufficient amount of time to check for lumps, although I feel it’s my duty to finish all three; my husband disagrees, as do neighborhood cats.

It’s your health, YOUR LIFE! Do the check. Oh, sure, there’s the old, “Ask your husband/partner/lover to check you.” But please, be honest, it’s boobs, they get nipple blindness. If you want the job done right, do it yourself – please.

breast cancer


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