Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Prairie Settle Loveseat

In 1999, I fell in love with a loveseat. Mr. Stickley must have had me in mind when he designed the original. Look at that nice broad wood shelf, perfectly designed for a plate of microwaved leftovers. So forward thinking, Mr. Stickley.

I then assembled a collection of furniture around the loveseat. It was inspired by Mr. Stickley, and a chair inspired by Mr. Morris, and it was all influenced by Mr. Wright. It was nice, because if you pick furniture from the Mission/Craftsman era there are no decisions beyond that. Chair? Morris chair. Loveseat? Prairie Settle. Colors? I kept the Craftsman color pallete in my purse for a year. I made a stained glass table to match it.

The loveseat in particular cost a god-awful amount of money, but it was a reproduction, so it was a third of the price of a real one from the company Mr. Stickley founded. I told Gary, "The nice thing is that the dimensions of all this furniture are set in stone, so we can always get another identical Prairie Settle."

Sixteen years later, this happened:

I stood back and gave it a hard look. It was pretty broken down.

"Time for a new settle," I said. "Let's get out all the receipts and call the company and order a new one."

Nope. Company no longer in the settle-making biz.

"Let's get on the internet and find who makes reproductions."

Well, all kinds of woodworkers make reproductions, but not ones you can sit on before you buy them. If you want a Prairie Settle nowadays you have to get an original from the Stickley company.

"Let's get it fixed."

Nope. Leather people don't fix upholstery, upholstery people don't fix leather, and new leather costs double what it cost in 1999. I ended up dismantling the whole thing just to get estimates, only to find the leather people had no time and the upholstery people demanded all new leather.

After that, I said, "Let's go to the local Stickley vendor and see how much it might cost for a new one."

Three times what we paid for the first one, and that's on sale. Nope.

"Let's fix the old one ourselves and see if it's acceptable, because what have we got to lose? It could always stay in the basement."

I took it down to the wood ...

I labeled everything so I knew how to put it back together, then I bought and used leather cement, foam glue, dacron, two types of foam, and a heavy-duty stapler.

For a while it looked like this:

And now it looks like this:

It isn't perfect, but it only cost about $300, and it doesn't look like this anymore:

I'm very smug. I even sat on it for about thirty seconds.

Garden Growth

 
That's a plan I made for my landscaping, twenty years ago. I carefully researched every plant. I measured the area and plotted the correct distances between plants and evaluated the sun and exposure.
I researched the best nurseries in my area, Eventually, I planted it all. 

Two decades later, after years of nurture, most of the plants are still with us. Some petered out, and any bulb is long spent, understandably, but other plants have stuck with us. In particular, the Boston Ivy is immortal.

I nursed that ivy. Then ten years ago I pitted it against vinca, in a vinca vs ivy death match. They both thrived. Nothing will kill the Boston Ivy. 

Immortality made the ivy cocky, When the twenty-year-old ivy decided to grow under the siding this year, I decided it must be trimmed back. I started out trimming, but soon I was committed to wholesale ivy genocide. It think I left three strands because they were behind the spiky barberry.

Now, I need to fill in large swaths of dirt the ivy has sucked dry of nutrition. I made a few weak attempts at researching a new ground cover to replace the ivy (die ivy die) but I never did. Landscape planning isn't something I do in my middle age, evidently.  "Sink or swim," I remember Mom saying to her plantings. I understand her laissez-faire gardening attitude now. 

Instead, I decided to wing it. "I'll just ask them what they recommend at the nursery." And there on the edge of the nursery parking lot was a pretty arrangement of plants.

I marched in and waved toward the lot. "I want that," I said to the staff. "What is it?"

"Creeping Jenny, ajuga, and dianthus."

"Full sun?"

"Absolutely. How big is your space?" 

I paced off the area that I needed to fill, they said, "How about 5 of each," and I said, "Cool. Wrap it up." And with an additional 150 pounds of compost, I was done "planning" my new landscaping.

Of course, I knew ajuga is a weed (bugleweed) and suspected creeping Jenny was too from the name, but that means they'll swim, not sink.

Car Wash Adventure

Saturday I began gardening at seven am. I thought I'd only be a few hours, but at eleven Gary woke up, came out, saw my face, and abducted me.

This is how the abduction went down:

"Gary, help me finish this gardening."

"No, we have to go now to get your car. They called to say they're done with the air conditioning."

"We don't have to go right now. Help me with - "

"We have to go RIGHT. NOW." I wasn't even given time to pull the gardening tools out of the landscaping.

Then he sat me in front of the ac in his car until my vision unblurred.

My neurons were so restored by the air conditioning that I asked if we could tool about the August A. Busch Memorial Conservation Area, which is right next to the Nuclear Waste Cell we visited last weekend.

You might think the establishment of the Conservation Area came after the discovery of the radioactive waste, but no. The full sequence is:

• Three towns were eminent-domained out of existence for a WW2 TNT plant (there are TNT bunkers all over the area).
• After the war, August Busch's wife bought the land (including the TNT bunkers) for conservation.
• Then, Mallinkrodt built a nuclear plant next door.
• It became a superfund site.
• We moved nearby.

So, I can imagine the Busch family are none too pleased.

As soon as Gary heard about the TNT bunkers, he was all excited to go, and as soon as we discovered the roads in the conservation area are gravel, he became less excited, and all he wanted to do was get out of there.

Here is a snippet of conversation from our adventure:

"OH MY GOD THIS CAR IS SLIPPING ALL OVER THE ROAD I CANT SEE OUT OF THE BACK WINDOW IF I TURN ON THE WIPER IT'LL JUST ALL BECOME MUD OH LOOK THE DOOR TO THAT TNT BUNKER IS OPEN I BET THERE ARE BODIES IN THERE WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE."

Of course, we got lost. Interestingly, if you are lost between a conservation area and a nuclear waste dump, and you ask Siri to get you to the highway, Siri will say, "I don't know where you are, You Stupid Cow." (Or whatever you have Siri call you).

The dust on the car was so extreme we had to go through a car wash, which is something we never do (evidenced by the water buffalo sweat that is still ornamenting our Fit from the animal park last Labor Day).

Gary, of course, wanted only the high-end choices on the automated car wash, one of which was Color Wax. I assumed that meant Color-enhancing Wax, so I was astonished when the car wash spit out wax that smelled like bubblegum and looked like confetti birthday icing. I suppose it's a treat for the kids.

My big treat was coming home to discover that I'd gardened my way through the sprinkler system, and it was seeping. Still, a satisfying adventure.

Bank

I was at the bank earlier this month because a transfer I'd made from the Credit Union to the bank hadn't gone through. I'd made it a month earlier, and the money had left the credit union, but not arrived at the bank. It was in Lucre Limbo. Pecuniary Purgatory. For a month. And because of that, a check had bounced, and a fee was incurred.

Mr. Bank Man got to the bottom of it. I had sent the money to a physical address that I can only imagine is a warehouse full of checks waiting for the bank to pick up the money using long brooms and a big truck.

"I can only imagine I had that in my bill pay list from ten years ago, and I just used it because it said 'Bank of America' in the name."

"Yes," he said, not looking at me like I was a crazy old woman who transfers money with electronic checks instead of transferring directly from one account to another.

I said, "I would transfer directly from one account to another but I know you don't do that."

"We do that."

Not ten years ago you didn't, I thought. And then I realized I am old, so old, and so not keeping up with the times and technology.

I vowed then and there not to be the old lady who shows up at the bank with bearer bonds, demanding to convert them in Certificates of Deposit. I'm with it. I'm in to computers, man. I want to use only the latest and greatest technology.

"We'll waive the overdraft fee on your account," Mr. Bank Man said, clicking away on his pc. Then he said, "Your overdraft - oh, wow!"

"What?"

"Wow, I've never seen that."

"What, is the overdraft like a thousand dollars?"

"Oh, no, it's just you have a really old type of overdraft account. I've never seen one like this before."

"Well I don't want something old," I said, because I had just had this epiphany about wanting to use only the latest and greatest technology.

"What we do now is give you a home improvement loan for your overdrafts."

"I do not want that," I said, because I AM OLD AND I DO NOT LIKE CHANGE. And that was a good choice, since I have now looked online and they don't use a home improvement loan, it's a credit card, and I'm devoted to my American Airlines credit card. All vacations are funded by the American Airlines card. It's like getting Green Stamps.

And because I am old enough to remember Green Stamps, I went home and set it up so I can transfer directly from the Credit Union to the Bank.

Friday Freakout: Red Light Edition

It has been a week without tears, or mood swings, or arguments with Gary. Well, there was one argument with Gary Friday night, and it was notable how calm I stayed.

We went out for miniature golf, of all things, which was some degree of fun. There are no rules when we play miniature golf, and we don't keep score. My god, if my father knew I married a man who didn't play scrupulously by the rules ... every board game we owned had the rules circled in red and special house rules annotated by my father:

• The LOSER will be responsible for putting away the game.
• THE LOSER refer to the winner as 'THE WINNAH!'
• THESE ARE THE RULES.

After the game, I took his ass to Red Lobster, and when the waiter asked if we were there for a special occasion, I refrained from cheerfully answering "Because I slay!"  I really wanted to ask how many people a day give the full Beyonce excuse for going to Red Lobster, but I did not.

Afterward, we were waiting at a red light when some other light changed, Gary saw other people moving, so he started to drive through the red light.

"RED LIGHT!" I screamed.

He slammed on the breaks, and then clutched his chest and yelled, "Don't scream! You almost gave me a heart attack!"

And then he went on ... and on ... and on. I calmly suggested that he might have yelled the same way I did had our roles been reversed. He might even yelled as loudly as he was yelling now.

I didn't cry. I didn't escalate. It was nice. It was like old times.

This is clearly some subconscious reaction to my decision to get medical or therapeutic assistance.

 

Comedy In Its Purest State

We have been naming the raccoons. There's Snow White, the delicate princess who exclusively eats with her hands, Patch, who has missing fur, Nosey who wiggles his nose when he eats, and Blackie. Yes, Blackie is black.The names aren't at all clever. Just a way for us to figure out if any of the dead raccoons we see on the side of the road are ours.

Anyway, one raccoon, Runty, has a personality bigger than all the others put together. He is Runty, Runty, The Socially Awkward Raccoon With No Sense of Personal Space.

It's embarrassing to say, but Runty is obsessed with all the other raccoon's private parts. All the raccoons will be feeding away when Runty comes along and sniffs every posterior until whatever raccoon he's nosing in the anus whirls around and charges. If he isn't sniffing your butt, he has his nose in your undercarriage.

One big bear raccoon had had it with Runty and his sniffing in this tableau. Runty is on the right.

The other thing Runty does is touch.The skunk will live with the opossum, the opossum will lie down with the raccoon, and a little child will lead them, but Runty will tap someone and set off a chain reaction of hostility.

Runty is of course our favorite.

Fun with Radiation

Weldon Spring is an EPA Superfund cleanup site right outside of St. Louis. There was a uranium processing plant there in the 50s. In the 70s, Gary's high school biology class went to Weldon Spring to observe the two-headed frogs and learn about radiation.

We'd lived ten miles away for a decade before the EPA finally cleaned it up in 2000 or so. Now, it's so clean it's a tourist site. Really, there's a Tripadvisor entry for it. We went Sunday to see the containment cell and the museum.

First of all, I was expecting at least a photo of a two-headed frog. No luck. There was a reference to "frog pond," but that was it.

They contained the radiation with layers of plastic, dirt, filters, and seven stories worth of rocks.

The view from the top of the cell would be impressive, only, all you can see is every water tower in St. Charles county, plus an elementary school, and a high school. I know three people who went to that high school, and yes, they all have cancer.

We came down from the top of the cell a little horrified to see how close everything is to the radiation.  That's why it was nice, at first, when the museum had a tone of "Well, this is the history, here's the problem, here's how we solved the problem, you're safe now and enjoy the view from the top of the big pile of rocks."

Only, of course, the photos in the museum are appalling. The Mallinckrodt company ran the plant, and when it closed they just packed the radioactive material in metal barrels and just let it sit out in the sun, rusting. Alarming. And frankly, not what I'd expect from Mallinckrodt, nice Irish firm that they are. They're usually dwarfed in evil by big brother Monsanto, located here in St. Louis.

I'm sure I would have enjoyed the radiation cell much more if I were a tourist, and didn't grow up in Hazelwood, yet another site tainted by Mallinckrodt.

I don't know if the side effects of nuclear waste are to blame for this sign:

Friday Freakout: Radio Silence Edition

I decided that it would be wrong to bypass the psychiatrist's opinion, so before I go see a counselor I'm going to visit him. I left a message Thursday afternoon, but I haven't heard back.

My mood has been elevated by earrings and wildlife.

Earrings:

I plan to wear these on days I wake up cranky.

Wildlife:

Switching the peanuts out for a peanut / lamb and rice dog food concoction has proved to be very popular.

It has also brought in a new friend ...

Soon we will have wolves at our door. Literally. And figuratively, if I don't stop buying earrings. (That's a joke. I'm not maniacally buying earrings. )

Accident and Other Traffic Drama

About a week ago, I witnessed a traffic accident. I was stopped at a light, waiting to turn left, when a young man impulsively gunned his gray car toward me and an old man barreled over a hill and T-boned the young man.

I was not paying careful attention, but I remember seeing the young man's body sway from the impact. Somehow, even though I wasn't in the accident, I developed retrograde amnesia. I know this because I stayed to talk to the police and when questioned I could recall nothing.

"So you were stopped at the light. So it was red."

"I can't remember exactly if it was red or not. But there must have been some reason why I wasn't driving."

"So the gray car turned left on to your street."

"I recall him coming at me, but I don't remember where he came from."

So, I was useless. However, I kept my mouth shut and I think the possibility that I might contradict them kept the two men honest. At first they both claimed they had a yellow light, and the officer mentioned that was impossible.

I thought about it a while, and I realized that the young man must have turned on a left turn arrow. Not five minutes after that, I saw someone turn left even though the left turn signal was red. Not flashing red, which means you should stop, but a solid red arrow.

I think what's happening is the lights for a red arrow and the green arrow are the same light. With the usual red / yellow / green signals, color-blind people can at least see which light is illuminated: top, middle, or bottom, but not so with the turn arrows we have now.

Do other people stay when they've witnessed an accident? I always think I should, but usually that's because someone is clearly at fault and might try to weasel out of it. In this case they both were in the wrong, I think.

Perhaps I got a credit in the car Karma category. The next weekend a purple car completely cut me off on a four lane street. That's by my definition of cut off, which is swerving into my lane without signaling and causing me to apply my brakes. I have to clarify, because some people define "cut off" as "changing into my lane, even five car lengths in front of me." At any rate, it was a tiny bit rude, but I applied my brakes and it was fine.

It was NOT fine with the teenage boys behind me. They didn't honk, but about a block later they passed me, got a lane away from the purple car, paced it, and flipped off the purple car with extreme prejudice. And they didn't let up. That bird flew for ten seconds. Then they took a left, but they gave the bird an extra flourish as they turned.

I was amused at how indignant they were, given that they were one degree of separation from the actual cut off. Cut off once removed, as it were. Cut off adjacent. Still, like me witnessing the accident, they needed to weigh in.

Finally, in traffic-related news, this morning I was behind a car with a plate that read UCKGO. The owner waited till it got grimy and wrote an F on one side of the plate and a D on the other.

An Expedition to Big Joel's Animal Safari

This weekend's adventure was to Big Joel's Safari Petting Zoo and Animal Park, thirty minutes west on Highway 70..

You know we love animal parks, but the drive-through parks discourage you from touching the elk, the bison, etc. Petting zoos let you pet the animals, but that's about all the interacting you can do. Not this place. Short of tongue kissing the animals, this place had it all.

Feeding: We each got a big cup of food. There were four feeding options:

• Feeding by hand

We both fed the chickens and deer by hand. Gary ignored the signs that said "Zeedonks may bite!" and "Camels may bite!" choosing instead to have the camels envelop his hands with their giant lips.

• Feeding by spoon.

 

You could spoon-feed many animals, like the miniature horse above. I preferred to use the giant spoon tied to the pen, because given the enthusiasm with which some animals chewed on the spoon I feared my hand would get the same treatment.

• Feeding by tube

If you peek at the bottom left corner or the photo above, you can spot a PVC tube running between the human enclosure and the water buffalo / yak / moose enclosure. Gary immediately poured one half of his cup down the food slide to the trough below.

•  Feeding by popsicle stick

There was a special parakeet feeding area, with the requisite parakeet food sugared to the popsicle stick, and the parakeets were not shy. After a minute or so, the parakeets moved off the popsicle stick and latched on to my hand.

Petting: Just as it was with the feeding, there were only a few animals you couldn't access: the peacocks or the kangaroos, for example. I rolled up my sleeves and petted the goats. If you've petted goats before you know why I protected my sleeves. I kept my hands away from the Zeedonk ("Zeedonks may bite!"), but of course Gary had to pet it.

I gave the alpacas all the love I could, because since that one Branson alpaca spit on Gary they are my faves. Gary avoided them, which wasn't hard because they were penned into a roomy stable.

(Not shown: Gary.)

He had less luck avoiding their cousins the llamas. When I heard a teenage girl scream, "Eew! It just SPIT on me!" I assumed the llama was no longer armed. I walked right up to them, but Gary didn't take the chance. The llama sensed Gary's fear and started moving along the fence toward us. Gary followed the fence away from the llama. The llama moved faster. Gary jogged along the fence looking steadily over his shoulder at the llama. The llama broke into a trot. Gary broke loose and ran. He ran away like a little girl.

Riding: As soon as I saw Big Joel himself (a distinctive bearded man) leading the camel ride I was there, ticket in hand.  I asked if my ride was a camel or a dromedary, because I never can remember which is which, and Big Joel said "He's a hybrid. That's why no one else wanted him." The camel certainly didn't seem to have a dramatic hump, which made him a comfy ride.

After Big Joel said that, I started looking for flaws in all the beasts, as if this was Big Joel's Home for Misfit Animals. The horns on one horned creature didn't curl symmetrically. One peacock was albino. The moose was a runt the size of a Great Dane. It made the whole exhibit have a charm you don't see at the St. Louis Zoo, and I liked it. It was charming, and fun, and well worth a drive to Wright City. If you feel the need for some animal saliva I highly recommend it.

Raccoon Life

I squawked at the amount spent this month on peanuts for the nighttime animals. Essentially, we converted several hundred dollars into raccoon poop.

Gary did some research and discovered raccoons like dog food, and as long as it's high protein dog food it can be as good for them as peanuts.

So tonight the raccoons, opossums, and skunks will dine on Purina One Lamb and Rice dog food. I think they'll react to it the way I reacted to the chicken and waffle flavored potato chips. "Oh wow, these pellets taste just like baby sheep. How do they do that?"

Friday freakout: Are You F'ing Kidding Me?

I summoned up the courage to see the nurse practitioner at the gynecologist.

I described my symptoms: hormonal rages, mood swings, etc.

Her next words were, "So I see you're bipolar."

Sigh. You know, I've never really bought into this bi-polar diagnosis.

The first person to tag me with it was my neurologist, based on my risky roller-coaster behavior. Then I heard it from the psychiatrist, and he should know, right? But then he backed off.

And then when I saw it again on the general physician's chart, I noticed it said bi-polar N.O.S., or "Not Otherwise Specified," which evidently means, "Probably bi-polar but she doesn't fit the diagnostic requirements ... yet." That was twenty years ago. Granted, if the requirements are depression and hypomania, I did have that one time I felt like I could jog home from the mall. Damnit. One particularly happy night and I'm bi-polar for life.

It can also mean "It looks like you have bipolar disorder but your doctor thinks your symptoms might be caused by drugs, alcohol or a general medical condition (see Ruling Out Other Physical Conditions)", where MS is one of the conditions.

"N.O.S.?" I said hopefully to the nurse practitioner.

"Oh, I know all about the different types," she said sympathetically. Then she recommended counseling, which I am going to take full advantage of, as soon as I can pick up the phone to call someone without crying.

I was encouraged when she ran her diagnosis past the gynecologist, who recommended I get a blood test to be sure I'm post-menopausal, or if my hormones could still be fluctuating.

And the test came back and my follicle-stimulating hormones are at 80 in a range of 16 - 113, solidly menopausal. So, I need to schedule a visit to see the psychiatrist again, go back on the Celexa (or perhaps its less fattening cousin, Lexapro), and as an added bonus I am going to indulge in counseling. I'm thinking of it as a luxury. I need to be counseled in how to deal with injustice. Because seriously, my husband can't find the snow peas and he explodes, but no one tags him as bi-polar. So not fair.

St. Charles Saints and Sin

Our Sunday adventure did not begin well. The plan was to visit the shrine of Saint Rose Philippine Duchesne, because we live pretty close to her shrine, and when someone is made a saint? Respect. Or, as much respect as I can summon. (My first words after we parked were, "Where is this goddammned motherfucking saint?")

Saint Rose Philippine Duchesne must have heard me, because her shrine was locked down tight, despite web site promises that it is open every day from 9 til 4. It's too bad, because Saint Rose lived in Saint Charles where I live now AND Florissant, where I grew up. I feel a kinship.

After out aborted visit (see what I did there?) we went to Little O's Soda Shop, a relatively new place in downtown St. Charles. I had a lime phosphate. I demanded that Gary have the strawberry gooey butter cake milkshake, because it is a handmade ice cream milkshake with strawberries and a slice of gooey butter cake churned up in it.  I like the free thinking that led to that combination. These are my people.

I'm pretty sure you can't even get a gooey butter cake milkshake even in Vegas. It's a special type of St. Louis gluttony.

We hiked around the riverfront for a while to burn off the gooey butter cake milkshake. Afterward, we decided to get pizza at Frankie Tocco's pizzeria, not because we were hungry but because we were passing by when my body decided it was time to use the bathroom. It's the price you pay for drinking things like gooey butter cake milkshakes.

They serve St. Louis style pizza, which is pizza with a cracker thin crust and Provel cheese, which is the Velveeta of Italian cheeses. The local chain that is famous for it is Imo's Pizza, and I am not a fan. The cheese sticks to your teeth. Nothing to write home about, especially if home is St Louis. However, this pizza made me see the light.

 
That pizza tasted like a giant, fancy hors d'oeuvre. Tremendous. It can't be, but I got the sense that there was cream cheese mixed in with the Provel. It just all tasted ... very lively. Really good pizza.

So, gooey butter cake and St. Louis style pizza. Had I eaten toasted ravioli I would have had the entire St. Louis food trifecta. Perhaps they could whip up a special pizza topped with toasted ravioli and serve it with a gooey butter cake milkshake.

Not surprisingly, I gained three pounds in the last five days.

Wildlife Videos for the Strong of Heart

Gary upgraded the memory card and batteries for his birthday wildlife camera, so now it takes a ten second video every minute of the day. Or, it feels that way when you review the videos.

We've employed a speed-viewing method, which sounds like "bird ... bird... squirrel... squirrel ... squirrel ... OH GOD WHAT IS THAT?"

[If your video is not enabled: Video of scalped squirrel. Picture Ray Liotta in Hannibal. Or, Google Ray Liotta brain. Less blood, though.]

Gary has dubbed this Zombie Squirrel. I say he's a zombie victim. Whatever you call him, he is the first to eat every day.

Speaking of wounds, Gary did find out why so many of our skunks sport bloody neck wounds: the males bite the females on the neck to induce ovulation. This explains why the females look bloody and ratty ...

 ,,, while the males swan about in glorious coats, hickey-giving bastards that they are.

I think that skunk was just giving the camera a warning. Even with all the hot hickey sex, both genders of skunks are irritable. 

[This skunk below just had a feeder full of seed dumped at his feet by a treed raccoon. He is not sharing. Double-click for all the action.]

If the video of skunk and raccoons eating at the same trough surprises you, observe this view of skunk, raccoon, and black-eared opossum sharing a meal.

Gary seems to feel the brutality of nature the most. He really gets upset when the squirrels are injured. Ray Liotta Zombie squirrel makes him scream, but he is encouraged because we see his brains every day and they seem to be healing up. The squirrel that really gets him is Oedipus Squirrel.

"But hon," I implore, as Gary hides in the corner clutching his head, "If you keep watching you'll see he still has one good eye." Oedipus Squirrel gets up early and eats right after Ray Liotta.

It looks like we have two distinctive disabled squirrels, four raccoons, two opossums, one male and three female skunks, and given the amount of ovulation going on there will be loads of skunk babies.

Mammogramma

In a rare moment of adult responsibility I scheduled a mammogram for Friday afternoon. I don't know what my reproductive system will think, a mammogram on Friday and a Pap smear on Monday. I picture my ovaries whispering to each other across my uterus, "Are we coming out of retirement?"

This is my first mammogram in three years. I've had the yearly breast exams, in which my doctor and I politely talk while he pads at my boobies like a cat, but this is the first mammogram since the one that really hurt.

This one did not hurt. Not one bit.

Other high points:

From the moment I stepped into the hospital to the moment I stepped out, the visit took twenty minutes. Granted, the drive there was 45 minutes and the drive back an hour.

There was no wait in the check-in waiting room. At first I didn't recognize the waiting room, since I had confused it with the MRI waiting room. On the way out I was able to tell them the reason it all looked unfamiliar was that I'd never been there more than two minutes.

At the check-in desk I signed up for a 3D breast image. It cost 60 dollars more, but they said it was better for women with dense breasts. I suppose they are still dense, if looser and smaller. (I noted the shrivel texture of my bosom as we flopped them into the device.) At first I thought I'd be getting an image like those 3D baby ultrasounds, but no. It's more like an MRI, where the camera pivots around you and makes photos of "slices."  I had to research this after, because Gary was planning to hang the 3D image in the bathroom.

There was almost no wait in the second waiting room, the one where we all get naked and hang out in our gowns tied in the front.

My back was turned when the disoriented woman pulled the curtain on my changing room when I was half-naked.

A nice lady helped me figure out the cappuccino / cocoa machine. I was summoned to the exam room even before the cocoa finished dispensing, but they waited and I sipped cocoa during my exam.

The nurse must have noticed my weight change, since she asked me what I weighed at my last mammogram before she asked what my weight was today.

Not a bad experience at all. I could do that yearly. I feel that I should go on Yelp and give the Barnes-Jewish fifth floor Mammography suite a five-star review.

Friday Freakout: I Finally Cave

I see the OB-GYN on Momday morning. Well, his assistant. I truly hope she doesn't have to go poking about up in the sanctuary. They said something about being overdue for a Pap smear. I still have to have smears? Really? Does it ever end?