So I got the old mammyogram, as one of you said. Well. You personally didn't say it. You told me, in the comments, that someone you work with said "mammyogram," and it cracked me up, and I kept seeing Mammy yelling, "MISS SCARLETT! YOU DONE GOTS DENSE BREASTS!"
Which slayed me, so basically I slayed my own self, and one wonders if I could be more repulsive. Anyway, mammyogram. That's how Ima say it from now on.
Of course they told me nothing yesterday, and I kept trying to look in the technician's eyes for sympathy or dread or to see if she was quietly vomiting into her scrubs or anything, but of course that cold-blooded heifer revealed nothing.
"We'll call this week if we find anything. Otherwise, look for a letter."
As if I don't know THAT drill. And couldn't she have subtly let me know? Like, couldn't she have waggled her eyebrows dramatically at "Look for a letter"? I almost feel like this torture isn't even worth it. Maybe I could just NOT get any mammyograms till one of my hoots falls off or something equally alarming.
See. You know I'd never do that. Miss Run to the Doctor for Every Tiny Thing, over here. Which makes for a terrible monogrammed sweater.
So let's not think about that right now, since there's nothing we can do but pace the halls and wait for Dr. Steve Hardy to come out and give us the news.
Aaaaand I slayed myself again, remembering Steve Hardy from General Hospital.
Steve Hardy. Oh, god, I love me.
Anyway, on Sunday, Ned helped me decorate my haus for Xmas. I got all multilingual, there, although I guess technically "Xmas" does not count as another language. I mean, at all. But I did say "haus"!
Here's poor Ned sweeping the 4495050540302-532dfnrir545ngo3!!949 feet of animal hair that was behind the couch when I moved it. And look how the dogs are all, "wee can add NEU furz now!" fukkers. As Violet would say.
Don't you miss Violet?
lilee say no
Anyway back to Xmas. And I like how 95 thousand inches of animal fur leads me to miss yet another animal.
Ned seemed a trifle astonished at how...not masculine my Christmas stuff was. "That tree looks like the Abominable Snowman," he said. Whatever with Ned.
He spent an inordinate amount of time enjoying the boxing snowman and reindeer. And, you know, not helping.
Tallulah took the first opportunity possible to make off with the Starfish Barry Gibb that Faithful Reader Mrs. Oh made me. Tallulah is a Christmas dick. I think I say that every year, but it's true. All she does is steal ornaments and trinkets and tinsel and generally make a pest of herself when I'm TRYING TO DECORATE.
Christmas. A time to get cockblocked by your loved ones.
This is how much I adore Ned. I did not go back and fix the places he stuck the ornaments when they were aesthetically displeasing. I'd rather remember Ned was here than have a perfect tree. Oh, and look. Ned seems to be hitting the booze DESPITE MY GENEROUSNESS ABOUT THE TREE. Whatever, ya drunk.
what dis krismis, mom? do lillee get decorate?
Last year at this time, Lily was in a shelter. So was Iris. This does not make me all gushy inside. It makes me wish they were BACK IN THERE because all they've done is EAT THE TREE and BAT THE ORNAMENTS ever since I put stuff up. Cockblocked. I was not kidding about that.
pleese to stop cats from bat me.
Yes. I just did treespeak.
Eventually we decided to take a break and eat shoes. It's a Christmas tradition here.
edz kant beleeve he ate hole theeng.
eyeriss excite! bat at tree! bat! bat bat bat! what you meen, fambly airloom?
When we were done, Ned asked, "Will you go with me to the Christmas tree lighting downtown this weekend?"
"Of course."
"...It's been a good year," said Ned.
It has been. It's been a good year. Even if we HAVE had Dick Whitman in it. (Heart you, DW.)
Ornamentally,
June
