The obvious secret

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I’m not perfect.

BOOM! There ya go.

A week ago, I wrote a blog that I proudly posted, as I do most blogs. But it was brought to my attention by someone that I totally admire and respect that it was confusing, and should be re-structured. Basically, a total blog train wreck.

Even after being a professional writer for 23 years now, I’m still willing to admit my mistakes. I know I’m not perfect by any means, and am always willing to be the first to admit my defaults. Yes, I am seasoned, but heaven knows that I don’t know everything about anything. As much as I know, I have a lot to learn.

I am a work-in-progress. I learn every day. Some days, I make mistakes. I admit this fact. And I’m ok with that.

So for the first time in my career, I removed a blog from the internet. I didn’t want to, because I initially felt good about it, and it was getting traffic. But after reading my mentor’s response, I felt it was the proper thing to do. I am currently in the process of re-formatting that blog and will post the new one soon.

Again, I’m not perfect. But I am thankful to those of you that have taken the time to read my work and follow me all these years.

That means the world to me, so let’s be dorks together, okay?!

 

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Summer Vacation 2013 Rules For My Two Children: By Lydia A. Templin-Collins

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Please welcome my good friend and guest blogger, Lydia. She is a busy mom to 2 rambunctious kids and devoted wife to an amazing man she affectionately calls Mr. Beard. We met through a mutual friend on facebook awhile back and quickly formed an online sisterhood. We’ve never met in person, but I love her to death, and is one of the few people that make me LOL with every damn post she puts up! She’s smart, funny, real and honest; one of the many reasons I love her. But she’s also a kick-ass writer, I always tell her that. She won’t start her own blog, so I’ve offered her a home on mine. Show her some love. 

Summer Vacation 2013 Rules For My Two Children:

1. Don’t follow me around and talk (or whine) constantly about nothing for hours at a time.

2. Don’t follow me around.

3. You don’t need to eat every single second you are awake. You survived on three meals a day and the occasional well-spaced snack in the fall and winter. You aren’t suddenly going to starve if you can’t consume every speck of food we have in the first 24 hours of summer vacation. I’m not being paid to feed you 200 times a day and I didn’t bring you into this world to spend your summers functioning as Olympic poop makers.

4. Go outside and play.

5. Feel like sitting around and arguing all the time? Nothing like an afternoon of extended, universal punishment to unite you both in your hatred of yours truly. Get along or I’ll give you a reason to get along, and you don’t want that. Trust me.

6. Bored? Bored is a level of hell where children clean out garages and underwear drawers and playrooms. My recommendation to you is not to be bored.

7. Go outside and play.

8. There is no functional or even grammatical reasoning behind starting and ending every sentence with the word, “Mommy!” Furthermore “Momma! Momma! MOMMA!” is not the song of our people. Which is why you will be ignored until such time as you are able to show me an open wound or a splinter of bone.

9. You are either inside or outside. You are not a cat- you cannot be in two places at once. Choose what side of the door you want, SHUT THE DOOR and, for Pete’s sake, stay there. As long as we live with your father, he will have apoplectic fits when a door is left open while the central air is on. And as long as you all live with me, your dad’s fits will make me crazy. SHUT. THE. DOOR.

10. Do NOT put random objects in your mouth. I can’t believe I still have to say this.

11. Wash your hands, eat your vegetables, ALWAYS be polite (unless you want to spend the entire pool season locked in your room, forced to weave macramé hanging plant holders) and…

12. Go outside and play.

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Got something to say? Say it here! Contact me if you’d like to be a featured blogger on Lotus Blu Mama.

From a Vets point of View

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  As the granddaughter, daughter and wife of a vet, I’m proud of my family, and all those that put their lives at risk for the sake of our country’s freedom. Please welcome my guest blogger, RAS, a Desert Storm vet that shares his opinion on a controversial subject. I’m proud to offer him this platform to voice his opinion, as I do to anyone else.

So many times I have seen posts on Facebook about how it is insulting to a vet if you choose not to vote and how un-American it is. For a very long time, I have avoided answering the questions I am asked so many times over and over again about how do I put up with it, how does it make you feel, don’t you get angry when people don’t vote?

As I read the political news online and the comments that follow I realize that the people making them have never served, have never really done anything of significance for their country and generally are talking without any real knowledge of the subject.

Bold statement? Yes.  Founded in fact? I believe so. Why? I once had a person tell me that she respected a person drafted more that a person who volunteered to go to combat. Interesting statement considering she was born 20 years after the last draft was ever held. But it made me realize, she didn’t have a clue what a vet really defends and that majority of Americans do not. Why? Because of the oath.

I, (NAME), do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.

There it is. Take a good look and try to understand it.

So what did I defend? Any of your rights? Yep, those outlined in the Bill of Rights. Your opinion? Nope. Not one of “your” opinions is listed. Only the text of the Constitution of the United States. You know, that really old document written by men much smarter that anyone that exists today, men who know that you need to put others first. That’s it. So the way I see it, I did only defended the following when it comes to voting:

The 15th Amendment

The 19th Amendment

The 26th Amendment

I am not going to spell out what each of these says here for you. Go read them yourselves. What I will tell you is that not a single one of them says that you have to vote.

So the next time you want to complain about a person who chooses not to vote and you are not a vet, find your own reasons to bitch.

The way I see it, I did defend that – your freedom of speech.

Just don’t tell me that a person who doesn’t vote is insulting a vet unless you are one yourself.

Those you thought you knew…

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Days away from my 42nd birthday, you would think that I would know exactly who I can love with abandon, and who couldn’t trust past my ability to throw them.

But I don’t. I still don’t. And that pisses me off!

One of the multiple chinks in my armor is I trust everyone immediately, without question, without hesitation. Until you give me a reason NOT to trust you.

I automatically assume you will represent the best of who you are, because that’s what I do. I’m a ‘what you see is what you get’ type of gal, that’s how I was raised. I will shake your hand firmly, look you straight in the eye and lay everything on the table. There is no guessing, no games, nothing.

I pride myself on this. It makes me who I am and makes you realize from the get-go who you’re dealing with. I will tell you what I expect and I expect you to reciprocate. If this is too much to expect, then perhaps we need to re-evaluate our relationship.

I’m not going to say that this whole mentality has worked out the best for me, because it hasn’t. I’ve been burned six ways from Sunday, more than I can blog about. But somewhere deep inside me, somewhere deep, deeeeeep inside me, I  have a faith in mankind.

I still believe in love. I still believe in faithfulness. I still believe in honesty. I still believe in commitment; not just from a spouse, but from friends and family as well. So when you do something outside of The Code, it rocks me to my core and makes me question whom exactly the fuck you are.

I’m not perfect, I know this, and I’m more than willing to admit my faults. But damn! At least own up to your shit and I’ll respect you even more. Don’t ever throw your insecurities on other people, that’s not cool. At least if you’re willing to be honest with yourself, then I’m  willing to be honest with you.

Love is love. Honesty is gold. Family is everything. And once you realize this, then you’re set. It’s so simple, yet so complicated for others to understand. It comes down to a choice.

So where so you stand? Do you choose to share everything with your family, or hold back? I’d love to hear your thoughts on this subject, please comment on this blog to keep the conversation going.

Penises, Periods and the Pituitary

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Little Woman came home last Thursday, just like any day. But she had this particular look on her face. I knew something was up. I asked her how her day was, just like any day. She groaned and said “Mom, something happened today and it was so gross.’”

OH SNAP! Now I was on high alert, afraid of what I may hear next. She took out a small little pink booklet from her backpack and threw it on the kitchen island.

photo copy

And then I began to laugh. Hard. Little Woman looked at me as if I’ve lost my head.

It had happened. The time had finally come.

Suddenly, I flashed back to 1982, when I was 11 years old and shoved on a bus with my fellow classmates for the “long” drive to the Robert Crown Center in Hinsdale, to learn about human reproduction. The facility itself was beautiful. Then we were ushered into multiple state-of-the-art rooms, one after the other.

IT WAS A WALKING SHOW OF HORRORS!

We were subjected to seemingly endless videos of boobs, growth spurts, maxi pads, pubic hair, periods, body odor, facial hair, tampons and penises! Lots and lots of penises, both healthy ones and ones riddled with chancres. Lots and lots of chancres! And we were told no matter what, stay away from those penises!

OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD!

At the end of the trip, we all loaded back on the bus with some form of PTSD. Most of us were either laughing from immaturity, crying hysterically or curling into the fetal position and sucking our thumbs. It was that bad. We were that traumatized.

So fast-forward 30 years, when my own daughter was subjected to the same experience, except this time with a new twist. Nowadays, they don’t take the kids on a big field trip to the Robert Crown Center. Now the RCC comes to them! Little Woman said the girls and boys were separated and ushered into separate rooms, without being told what was going on. Then they were greeted by a friendly RCC rep and shown things that “made me want to throw up in my mouth”, as Little Woman described.

Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

After I was done with my laughing fit, I fell into full Mama Mode, asking her if she had any questions she’d like to ask, any concerns, any random thoughts she’d like to share? She just opened up the book, pointed at random pictures and grunted, page after page. I told her that she already knows a lot about some of this stuff just from what I’ve told her, and because she SEES ME dealing with all this crap every month. And some things I’ve chosen to keep my mouth shut about. Until now. But now it’s been put there on an open platter for her and me to talk about. And talk we did. And talks we will have, any time she wants to have them.

In the meantime, I’ll continue to hold my baby close, stroke her beautiful hair and repeat the mantra “it’s ok honey, it’s a part of life”, all while trying to control my laughter. Because one day, her own daughter shall have her Robert Crown moment. And then she too shall laugh.

Namaste.

Sticks and stones may break my bones but your posts and texts won’t hurt me? ~ A guest post by Don Mrskos

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Welcome to the debut of the newly refreshed Lotus Blu Mama blog!

After 3 years and over 160 posts later, I’m ready to take this blog to the next level. A great mentor of mine once said “own your own shit.” And so here I am – I’ve put on my big girl panties, officially bought the domain name, and I couldn’t be more proud. I am ready to own. My. Own. Shit!

To kick things off, I’m proud to feature a guest blog written by my first male guest blogger EVER! Please welcome Don Mrskos. A fellow Chicago Southsider, close friend, great guy and an amazing dad. Here’s his spin on the subjects of bullying, kids having cell phones, social media and all the drama that follows. 

As parents, we want our kids to thrive – what parent doesn’t? We do everything we can to make sure they have it “better” than we did growing up. Technology has helped with that… right?

For me, growing up in the mid 80’s, developing social skills meant talking and playing with other kids my age. Very straightforward – no bells and whistles and this went on for years. Being “social” nowadays means you log into the social media outlet of your choice and post something on a wall. On the other hand, if you want the adrenaline rush of an “almost” live conversation you can open a chat or send a text. What happens if the message is semi-private? No problem, you just write that special someone an email – an email is personable right?

OK, it’s not all bad but what happens when kids do not play nice? Even worse, what about those schoolyard bullies? Do bullies exist in today’s cyber world? Yes, yes they do! And, I have witnessed in recent weeks the big difference nowadays is that they put their words in writing and sometimes their actions into videos. I did not say they were smart!

Here is a realistic scenario. Little Johnny is harassing little Billy in the school cafeteria. Little Johnny makes some nasty comments; maybe he gives Billy a smack and dumps his crusted cafeteria pudding on Billy’s head. Everyone has a hearty laugh. Unknown by Billy, one of Johnny’s friends records the incident with his $400 iPhone. Within minutes, the video’s posted to Johnny’s Facebook page. Johnny shares this post with 100 of his closest friends. Tweets are flying, comments are posted, and the video is being re-shared repeatedly.

By the end of the school day, the video has gone semi-viral – 2,000 people have watched the video. As dinnertime approaches, total views/likes of the video have doubled. More than 100 “unfriendly” comments about Billy are posted to Johnny’s wall. Worse, some comments are directed to Billy’s phone because Johnny posted Billy’s phone number. So, Billy is YOUR son… what do you say to him? “It’s no big deal – no one will remember this tomorrow.” Social media will remember and she can be relentless on children! We forget once comments, photos, videos, etc…are “out” on the web it is damn near impossible to “take them back”. If something embarrassing or humiliating happened to us in front of our peers 20 years ago we were mortified. If we were lucky, only a handful of people witnessed it. Nowadays… record, upload, and post for the world to see. And, have you ever noticed the more humiliating, crazy or violent the more viral it goes. As I said, I have seen examples in recent weeks and my scenario is not farfetched. Think I am crazy? Here’s are 2 fun facts to think about… ▪ 500 years of YouTube video are watched every day on Facebook (roughly 182,500 hours per hour) ▪ Over 700 YouTube videos are shared on Twitter each minute (just over 1,000,000 videos per day)

Nothing we do will guarantee our children won’t fall into the online social meat grinder but we can take some steps to reduce the risk.

First, and probably the easiest, is impose a curfew. If your child’s curfew is 10:00 pm then that should be for computer time and phone time as well – watch them power down those devices. What is so important in a child’s social life they need to text, post, or tweet about it after curfew?

Second, do you know their friends? If you DO NOT know them then should they have access to your child? I almost shit when I heard a 13 year old bragging about having 600 Facebook friends. Seriously? Unfortunately, the next time I see that kid he will probably be on a milk carton.

Finally, start with baby steps! If it is a cell phone… start with the basics – phone only, no texting. If it is Facebook, start with just immediate family and maybe one or two close friends. Keep an eye on their posts – keep them clear of those posts from Little Johnny. Start with the understanding you must know their friends personally before they can be added.

No doubt, social media is a huge game changer in society and growing rapidly. We don’t have to fight it kicking-n-screaming but we need to move cautiously as long as the rules are written in pencil. Remember, it’s more important to be a strong parental force in their life then to be their friend.

Mama needs some hooker heels…or does she?

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On the eve of my 42nd birthday, it suddenly dawned on me – I have no fucking clue what it means to be sexy anymore. 
And after I gasped in fear at that realization, the next thought that entered my head is that I’m too young to feel this old! I don’t feel my age, and I certainly don’t act nor look my age. But sometimes I feel as if I’ve lost my Mojo. Ya know, that thing that makes you feel you got Game, you’ve got Swag, you’ve got it goin’ on. Eh.  
I suddenly want to hit up my local Lover’s Lane and buy a feathered boa, naughty nurse costume and the highest clear platform shoes I can walk in, ‘cause that’s sexy, right?  Yea, I need some hooker heels….
So how does this happen? I read Glamour and Cosmo magazine monthly. I like to think I know my shit, but am I really this clueless? Am I seriously this out-of-touch with reality? Is this a sign of the Apocalypse?! I suddenly feel the need to take pole-dancing lessons offered at my local suburban “dance academy”, ‘cause that’s sexy, right?
I’ve been with the same man for (what feels like) forever and am the mom of two amazing kids. My body is not the same as 11 years ago. But if you ask my Hubby, he thinks I’m sexy all the time; cooking in the kitchen, dusting the furniture, folding laundry or doing nothing at all. As a WAHM, I spend most of my days in yoga pants, crappy t-shirts, hair messily wrapped up in a clip, no make-up, completely frazzled and looking quite the hot mess. Apparently, this turns him on.
Really? So after all these years, after countless visits to my local lingerie and play toy store, investing hundreds of dollars in yards of lace butt-floss, ridiculous costumes, battery-operated toys/lubes/stimulants and lotions of every flavor and intensity, all he wants is…me? In the raw. Just me?
Again, how does this happen?!
I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the complicated fact that at the end of the day, all men simply want is us, in our natural state, as we are.
I admit, I’m not quite the young broad I once was. But with age comes experience, tolerance, understanding, compassion and a strength I’ve never known. These characteristics alone make me the sexiest bitch I never knew I could be. And my tits are still epic. Hold on…screw the hooker heels, I think I got this covered. 
Namaste. 

Three reasons I miss working in an office during the holiday season ~ A guest post by Shannan Younger

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Meet Shannan Younger, a talented blogger and good friend of mine. Check out her blog Tween Us, or on Facebook.

“I am a Midwestern mom who raising a tween daughter.  Said daughter loves to throw me curve balls just when I think I have this parenting thing figured out.  Good thing I have her amazing Bonus Dad for back up.  This blog is to share the stories that come from being embedded with a Tween and the research that I’m doing to better understand her and her world.”

Like the fabulous Lotus Blu Mama, I work from home, and we all know that working from home presents unique challenges.  It requires juggling and focus and never is that more true than during the holidays. Working from home during the holidays is a whole other ball game, and there are things about heading to the office that I miss.
1.     The sterile sanctuary of an office, free of holiday to dos.  There is refuge in a cubicle or behind a desk and you feel like what you need to do is, well, do work. At home thought, while I work on monthly reports and draft memos, I am surrounded by laundry needing to be folded, the dishwasher begs to be emptied and dust bunnies are having a party in the corner. When working in an office, those chores are out of sight, out of mind. Those chores are present year round, but working from home at this time of year means that I’m also confronted by additional distractions.  I’m tempted to start addressing Christmas cards, or the Thanksgiving decorations that need to be put away catch my eye, or it takes great self-control to not rush into the kitchen and go on a cookie baking binge. Eleven months of the year, I don’t typically have the urge to bake in the middle of a weekday.  Not the case in December. In a more clinical corporate environment, these holiday time sucks just aren’t present. The temptation to go home and do them may have been present when I was in an office, but the effort of getting back home generally mitigated the urge. At home, though, resisting the siren song of the festive fun (or even not fun but must be done tasks) feels more like bah humbug than it does being a responsible employee.
2.     No holiday party.  While I work with many other people from Seattle to Washington, D.C., we see each other only a few days of the year, and not at all around the holidays.  That means no sociable gathering or toast to the successes of the past year. I realize that many people would love to skip their party, and many companies have eliminated them, but when I saw a news story announcing that office parties are back, I wanted in. Maybe I can have an office party with other work at home folks, but it just loses something.  It’s not the same as seeing the folks with whom you interact on a regular basis in a whole other light, even if it is the light of bad holiday decorations.
3.     City sidewalks, busy sidewalks. I worked in the Loop, and I loved the city at Christmastime.  Seeing the Marshall Fields fabulously decorated windows, or smelling the chestnuts roasting at Christkindlmarkt or hearing the music at the ice rink were daily feasts for the senses experienced just in this special season.
Of course there are many aspects of working from home that I adore, including being able to make the holiday band concert scheduled for 1 p.m. on a Thurs. (that scheduling choice is the topic of a whole other blog).  I love that I can make a hot cup of tea whenever I want or light a sweet smelling candle. The holidays may be a time for sharing joy, but also for still getting work done, and some days that it is easier said than done when working at home.

Home truths about me and cleaning – A guest post by Susan Price

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Please welcome my guest blogger Susan Price. She’s not only an amazing writer, but a writing coach as well, inspiring others to be the best writer they can be. Check out her web site, Starting Your Story, and follow her on facebook. She really knows her stuff, and I’m proud to call her friend. 
I learned something about what impels me to really clean my house this past weekend. I like clean and tidy but generally tolerate both modest disorder and less than surgical-scrub cleanliness because life is too short to demand more all the time. Especially with children, spouse and an ever-changing cast of companion animals doing their best to thwart tidy, let alone clean.

But last Saturday morning I scrubbed the kitchen floor and lower cabinet faces. Scrubbed. With chlorine-containing cleanser. And rinsed well with water. I haven’t done that since we moved in 14 years ago. I vacuum; I spot clean as needed; I damp mop or even add soap at least a couple of times a year—whenever we’re having people over for a party, basically. But scrub the corners? Sanitize the cupboard corners and walls where the elderly dog used to lie and made dark grease spots? Not for me or the family … or even friends coming over.

No, what caused the white tornado activity was the imminent arrival of newborns—newborn puppies, that is. For immature or compromised immune systems, I’ll make the time to not only clean but sterilize. I’ll even rearrange furniture to get the family eating area out of the puppy zone.

To be fair, I also rearranged furniture so our college-aged son, his fiancée and their two part-Dane dogs would fit in the guest room. So I guess what I’m saying is that I get into a rut of minimalist housework: process the laundry, keep up with the dishes and trying to clear the kitchen counters, vacuum as debris shows up on the rugs, wipe down the bathrooms when they look scuzzy. But the inevitability of doing the same cleaning the next day—or hour—discourages me from following up beyond clutter-clearance most of the time.

But the big cleaning does bring a residual less-cluttered environment that sometimes lasts a week or more. And even with new-puppy stuff cluttering one counter, my kitchen feels so much nicer to me without smudgy bits hiding along the cupboards and stove or in the corners. And the Christmas holiday partying has yet to arrive. Greater cleaning is on the way—exhausting, but rewarding.

If you drop in on me the day after a big party, you’ll find me basking in the not-nearly-familiar-enough glow of a house well cleaned and [nearly] organized. My New Year’s resolution, as always, will be to keep it that way. And yet I know that, by MKL Day at the latest, I’ll have clutter lurking in the front hall and unfolded laundry taking over the living room again. I do love the clean while it lasts, though.

The necessary boobie squeeze

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Tomorrow I go to my second mammogram, ever. I’m not thrilled about the whole thing, but know it’s necessary. This past year, I had a friend diagnosed with breast cancer, undergo a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. This was a huge kick in my ass, making me realize that this could happen to anyone at anytime. I’ve decided to re-post a blog about my whole virgin experience from last year, with a promise to blog about tomorrow’s experience later.

A day in the life of my boobs. You know you want to read this!

Originally posted in October, 2011


I’m an official Mammy Grad!
Today was a huge milestone for me. Not only because of what was taking place, but because what it represents. When planning out my life, there were a few things I didn’t exactly “pencil-in” on the agenda. But then reality walked up and slapped me in the face.
Yes, I am officially 40 and officially of “advanced age.” I’m sorry, but when the hell did this ‘officially’ fucking happen?!
Yes, I’ve paid the co-pay to more doctors and blood clinics in the past year than I wish to mention. But I already have, through the fabulous world of social media and my dumbass big mouth. So why stop now.
Yes, I actually showed up for this particular event, which I’ve been dreading for months, continually repeating the reassuring words of those who have gone before me.  Much like childbirth, the horror stories could throw your fear factor into complete paralysis. But what is inevitable is…inevitable.
The inevitable occurred this morning, much to my contempt. To calm these internal fears screaming in my head, I felt the need of a grande pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks ASAP. I know, caffeine + neurosis = total train wreck. But with me, this is a lifestyle. My husband will attest.
After obtaining my 16 ounces of liquid love, I spent several moments driving around with a slightly confused GPS system, guided by a pleasant Anglo-Saxon voice, telling me to “turn left here, turn right here, continue down the road 6.2 miles to destination, make a U-Turn now (WTF?)” when in all actuality my desired location was just across the street from that particular Starbucks. Yea, still not quite sure where that GPS bitch was trying to send me to, but I had enough smarts to figure out she was soooooo wrong.
NOTE TO SELF: Write a note to Garmin stating that their product is total shit. Exclamation!
Once in the lobby, the calming environment surprised me. Fireplace in one corner, gorgeous green plants in the other, relaxing yoga music playing over the speaker system, pleasant receptionist to greet me. ‘Hummm, this must be a facade’ I initially thought. Once they get you in the back, they blindfold you, strip you naked and mercilessly gut you like a pig.
Ah-ha! I’m on to them (Insert wiggly eyebrow here.)
After filling out and signing endless paperwork that I never really thoroughly read anyway, I sat back, closed my eyes and finished the remainder of my latte. Deep breathes, in and out. Om shanti. A few minutes later, a petite, gentle looking radiologist in her 60’s (guessing) came into the lobby asking for me. Once I confirmed who I was, she shook my hand and I noticed that her glance went quickly from my eyes to my boobs.
Awkward.
I can only assume she was trying to quickly assess what she was about to work with. Regardless, it was…weird. Anyway, she showed me to the softly lit locker room, briefly explained what the procedure would entail, handed me a cape and requested I strip from the waist-up. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve sworn I was at Mario Tricoci preparing for a Swedish massage. Damn these people are good!
Once in the exam room, she showed me “The Machine.” As I’m standing, I would gently place each breast on a flat grey plate, as another clear plate came down to ‘compressed’ the tissue. “It may take your breath away at first, but it won’t last long.” she explains. Oh great, so is this her special lingo for ‘this is going to hurt, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ The cape was quickly thrown back and it was Show Time!  Before you could say ‘Slap A Duck’, Mama Radiologist had my right breast in her bare hand, placing it on the examination plate and positioning it as needed, as if a piece of Play-Dough.  Usually before something like this happens, I’ve been wined and dined, so this is new. Turn here, lean forward, put your right arm on this angle, put your left arm here, raise your chin, tilt to the right, shift to the left….ok, and now don’t move or breathe until I tell you to.
Are you friggin’ kidding me?! Um, ok…deep breath in…
Mama Radiologist quickly stepped behind a reinforced wall and pushed a button, dropping the above clear plate that would quickly become a vice on my chest. I let out a gasp. Rapid x-ray pulses filled that air. The pain from this contraption digging into my ribcage the worst, but before I was allowed to go to my Happy Place, it was over. The plate was magically lifted and I could breath again. Then Mama Radiologist exclaims, “Ok, now I need to get a side view.”
Fuck. There’s more?!
So once again, my (already traumatized) right boob was pushed, shoved and molded into the necessary position to ensure proper placement. Out of nowhere, she compliments my gold ballet flats. ‘Thank you, got them from Target last summer blahblahblah.” Trying to create small talk while holding my breast is really not necessary, but thanks for the complement.
Awkward.
So then Mama Radiologist runs behind her Wall of Steel and pushed her button, allowing the procedure happen once again, but from the oh-so-more-sexy side angle. Yea, this was not much better, and added a whole new level to that oh-so-uncomfortable feeling.  After confirming her happiness with the results from the right breast, it’s time to invite the left breast to the party. Whoopwhoop! At this point, I’m looking over my shoulder for someone – anyone – to offer me a shot of whiskey at this point. And I don’t even drink whiskey. Do the math.
All of the above is repeated on the left side, nothing more, nothing less.  Can I get my gold star and go home now?!
She had me sit while she reviewed the pictures on the big screen, which actually were quite fascinating. Suddenly, my breasts became a mountain of complex veins that honestly resembled a road map. And no matter what route you choose to go, all roads led to Nippletown. Huh. Who knew?!
After Mama gave me her seal of approval, I was released and allowed to throw on my street clothes. Once I got to my car, I sighed a deep breath of relief. I successfully popped this cherry and was ready to go home to hug my kids. This, too, has ended. Nothing more, nothing less. Worse things have happened, and I’ve survived them all. Now to await the results.
Throughout all my anxiety and bitching, I know that this procedure is for the best, for my own health and well-being. Goodness knows that I’m nowhere near completing what I’ve been put on this Earth to do. I’ve got kids to raise, a husband to torture, friends to haunt and a blogosphere to conquer. A few moments of uncomfortableness is totally worth another 40 years of life.  
Namaste.