Monday, May 20, 2013

Is that Aqua Net I smell?

I wish a tummy-tuck came with a hysterectomy. Then all I'd have is some booty. (And if Sir Mix-a-lot is to be believed, then my self-confidence just sky-rocketed)

I wonder if I'll feel like a Baskin Robbins ice cream bucket after tomorrow? (IOW, scooped out) Come Wednesday, I'll either be back on my laptop and getting spoiled with great coffee and bakery-goodies, or preparing to be cremated. (I gotta remind my family that I'm an organ donor...and I should clear my laptop's browser history!)

I'm told this procedure is so common, that the only real complication would be I've somehow become allergic to anesthesia, which my five-year-old self once identified as hairspray. And, as I've not been under any 'knife' since a tonsillectomy in 1973, it could go either way. (For those of you that find it impossible to believe, a pediatric-tonsillectomy required an overnight stay in the early 70s. Ice cream, and learning how to ride a skateboard in the children's ward soon followed)

I've also learned that, though the physical issue we ladies endure for the sake of procreation will no longer be the monkey on my back, the emotional symptoms of that joyful 'time-of-the-month' will linger; apparently, I still get to have P.M.S. 


On the off-chance I end up in Limbo--and not the good kind--I hope my Grandma will forgive me for misplacing her Girl Scouts bracelet, (made of tin-like material, and over 100 years old) that Uncle Rabbie won't shake his head at me for choosing to write borderline-erotica--rather than 'drunken-Scot' odes to roses, and that Grandpa won't be embarrassed that I once found his original copy of 'Joy Of Sex' in the bottom drawer of his bureau.

Of course, this last paragraph will be edited...should I be allowed to keep on NOT procreating....

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