I am Moleless

Is that even a word? Would it make more sense if I typed it "mole-less"? Does it really matter when you're writing about such things? Which brings me to why I am writing about such things: I seem to be experiencing as of late, the apparent removal of any and all such things that protrude from my body (thankfully, that disqualifies my boobs). It seems that during my tonsillectomy, the cute little mole on the back of my neck was damaged to the point of danglement. (Again, not a word, but an effective made-up word nonetheless.) I was saddened by said mole's trauma, but equally heartened by its heroic attempts at re-attatchment. For two weeks, it tried in vain to regain its composure and rightful place on the back of my neck. To no avail. When at a follow-up appointment I learned that my little mole must go, I promptly asked if I could have another zipped off too. I know, it sounds heartless, but speaking as a mole-free woman, I can honestly say that I miss my moles whilst being thankful that they are no longer with/on me. And so my tiny, benign friends, I salute you:

back-of-the-neck mole + necklaces = cancer

For you, back-of-my-neck mole, I recall the day when I was all but eight years old, and my mother warned me that you and necklaces should not mix. I shall miss your soft, bumpy self, but I shall wear great strings of heavy pearls about my neck knowing that you are in a happier place and no longer posing an unsubstantiated cancer risk.

wearing birkenstocks everyday for 18 months + tropical sun = cancer

(Photo taken with socks on with Courtney in mind. You're welcome.)

And for you pinky-toe-on-my-right-foot mole, I will remember you for appearing upon my "beautiful upon the mount," recently returned-missionary feet. A souvenir from the tropical sun that set in you in place to grow rapidly and rub on my shoes occasionally. May you bask in the tropical sun beyond.

I am Homesick

Where can I get my hands on a pair of these?

There's no place like home.

I am on Drugs

...Which is why this post doesn't really have to make sense. After putting it off for two years, I recently had my tonsils removed. It's true what they say about having it done when you're an adult: slow death.

Some are under the mistaken impression that a tonsillectomy means two solid weeks of comfort food. Not so. Ice cream creates phlegm. Blended soup looks like dished up diarrhea. One can only take so much Jell-O. And popsicles just aren't that great if you're not ten. My only true source of comfort has come in the form of a gigantic white bottle of liquid pain medication.

Having never taken pain killers before and (more importantly) having grown up loud and proud in the Nancy Reagan era, I've always "just said no" to drugs. This time however, Nancy and I have parted ways. This time, I have stepped over into the sweet abyss that is Roxicet one half hour before trying to force something as simple as water down the tube of open flesh that used to be my throat.

♥

Now all of you red-ribbon wearers, do not despair. There will come a day (give me a week or so) where I will be able to swallow mashed potatoes without shrieking. When that day comes, I will happ'ly put down my 500 ml bottle of syrupy, red liquid morphine- and walk away forever.

Until that day, you can find us here:

Just say yes.