I never ever ever post from work but this time, I can’t help it. It’s all I can do not to run a lap around my building right now (which, btw, would hurt like hell given the state of my boob)

For those of you who are not following me on twitter or my friend on facebook, I just got the call from the Dr. - I’m free and clear! Back to the old every 6 months routine unless I find something else funky in the meantime…

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

It’s been nearly a decade since I found my first lump. It was in my right booblie, and after monitoring a few weeks I went to see my girlie doc, who confirmed it and referred me to a dedicated boobage specialist.

It was a cyst, but the one the mammogram revealed in my other breast wasn’t.

That nasty little dude was eradicated and in the years since there have been frequent visits back to the doc, more cysts and more bad guys.

A few weeks ago I found a new little fella had cropped up, and a week or two later noted that he must have been lonely, because he now had a new friend.

I’ve been stewing on this for a few weeks now, my appointment is next Tuesday to see which kind of bad guys we’re dealing with.

Knowing that I’ll be in a holding pen for the better part of two hours while they ultrasound and read results and mammogram and read results and then eventually I get to talk to a doctor, I’m lining up the bits that I like to bring to keep me busy. There’s always a book, sometimes some knitting and always my iPod/iPhone.

Make me a playlist or suggest a song. Tell me what kind of good juju beats I should have thumpin’ and keepin’ me company…and don’t say that Melissa Etheredge song b/c it just makes me cry.

The third lump? A subdermal tumor removed from my middle finger last week. Good times!

So bring it. What songs?

I took the week of our move off work. I was floating on fumes and nary a wisp of patience or kindness when it finally arrived. Months of living out of boxes after a year of living in suburban hell, movers that were four hours late, cable guys that were two hours early, boxes and kittens and fur balls like tumbleweeds dancing across concrete had taken their toll. The Mc didn’t have enough PTO saved up to unpack with me and wow, what a blessing. I needed time to nest, recharge, reacclimate and reengage, Mr. Sulu! Preferably solo Sulu.

After threve bijillion trips from the apartment to the condo to the apartment to the condo with my not-as-much-cargo-space-as-you’d-think filled to the gills with plants, shoes, and piles of items I failed to pack for the movers in what I can only describe as stress induced delusions of “I can get that-itis”, I decided I’d stop. I’d stop on the way to the condo and treat myself to a little mani-pedi action at a place I’d just been introduced to to a few months before.

After a delicious soak and with warmed silk eye pillow and buckwheat neck pillows in place, I was reclined in an anti-gravity chair and starting to check out. My technician and I chatted while she massaged and trimmed, then she fell silent.

“Huh.”
“What is it?” I whipped my eye pillow off as she lifted my foot this way and that, angling it in the light, sqinting her eyes and saying “huh” again.
“I’ll be right back.”

She gets up and scurries off, leaving me to lift my foot to my face, mortified, blushing wildly and counting my blessings that it’s 2pm on a weekday and I’m the only one in the salon.

A few moments later she returns with reinforcements. An attractive blond, presumably the salon manager hmmmed and grunted while examining my feet. The concensus: some sort of fungus and it wasn’t athletes foot.

I yelped and whimpered and whines the likes of Nellie on Little House on the Prarie seeped out of my lips with words like “I’m the cootie customer!” and “I have funky feet!”

I was horrified. I’m still horrified. You’re probably horrified. The next time you see me you’ll stare at my feet, unable to think of anything else. It’s happening to me every morning.

Luckily I have an awesome GP about my age who also grew up in Anchorage, and my visit started off with a good ten minutes of Palin mocking. Ahhhh a slice of home right here in the hot hot.

Short story far longer than it should be, whatever it is isn’t anything special or that scary. I have a fancy lotion to make the dead skin on my feet slough off and I need to stay hydrated, and maybe not wear flip flops in the rain in Atlanta anymore…though he tried to convince me that didn’t have anything to do with it. Psha. Like he’s a doctor or something.

1grace
Pronunciation: \ˈgrās\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Latin gratia favor, charm, thanks, from gratus pleasing, grateful; akin to Sanskrit gṛṇāti he praises
Date: 12th century

1 a: unmerited divine assistance given humans for their regeneration or sanctification b: a virtue coming from God c: a state of sanctification enjoyed through divine grace
2 a: approval, favor barchaic : mercy, pardon c: a special favor : privilege d: disposition to or an act or instance of kindness, courtesy, or clemency e: a temporary exemption : reprieve

You know that part in the movie Signs where the alien has the kid in his arms and Mel Gibson has the flashback to his wife, dying? She’s pinned between a car and a tree and she says “tell Merrill to swing away” and he thinks she’s out of her mind (dying, obviously) until that moment years later when it all hits him smack in the face in the living room with the trophy baseball bat?

If you didn’t remember, maybe you do now.

My mom used to call me two things that went beyond the expected variations on my nickname or even *gasp* my real, full name. All three of ‘em. Beyond Megret, McGarrett, Meggers and the like were these two: Clyde and Grace.

Clyde was because I’m a “heavy walker”, have been since I was a tater-tot dipped in ketchup and loaded with salt and pepper. I also had big feet for my age, calves that - in relation to my thighs - resembled a Clydesdale.

Grace was a slam she used on both my sister and I, one I can only imagine she picked up in the 50’s. “Way to go, Grace. I like the way you knocked that entire rack of Funyons over when you tried to be sly about grabbing one in the first place.”

“In youth we learn; in age we understand.” - — Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach

I believe, my friends, I’m aging.

December 29th of 2004, I was in the bedroom of my apartment during my Christmas sabbatical. I’d read Blue Like Jazz and Lamb over the course of that week, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt Grace. It’s something I’ve been hesitant to tell others that I knew wouldn’t understand, or those that were outside of my immediate circle. There were a few I IM’ed or emailed about it because I knew they’d understand, I remember as clearly as I can feel this sub-dermal zit brewing on the bridge of my nose that Becky was one of them.

Nearly four years later with the onset of my existential crisis, I’ve been reading again. I’ve been seeking. Exploring. Groping in the dark for the light that will help me find my way. Everywhere I look, everything I read, every conversation or tweet loosely related to my journey brings me back here: to Grace.

I am admittedly a fuckup of epic proportions. I was a horrible student, have binged and purged when it comes to caring about my career, was more times than not a complete headache to both of my parents, and have failed at a million things without even including marriage. I struggle with depression, refusing to medicate for it, I have a hot temper at times and vacillate between a fiery, quick tongue and a jaw clamped shut when it shouldn’t be. I swear too much. I talk to other cars in traffic when I get frustrated.

Of all the things I’m not though, I am not a hypocrite. I know my flaws better than all of you combined and I beat myself up for them regularly.

How fitting; then, that Grace keeps coming…the reminder of what it is, and the peace it brings me and the want and drive and compulsion I have to be a better person every day. To speak from the heart when it hurts and the inherent (and problematic) want better in the lives of everyone I know. Learning to love freely, and accept love without question. To work and work and work to show compassion and to understand those it’s difficult to wrap my feeble little mind around.

A few months ago, Mary Jac and I reconnected after a year apart. I won’t go into details about that, but what’s important is that we each arrived back in each others lives at just the right time. We were in the same spiritual and psychological black holes, and together, we could pull ourselves out. We could lean on, lift up, fireman carry, counsel, coddle, and just flat out hug the stuffing out of each other while the bad man 30 feet up told us to put the lotion in the basket.

It happened over coffee before a cardboard box visit, one of us said “I want a new tattoo” and the other yelped with glee “me too” and when asked of what, the answer was “grace” followed by another “me too”.

So this last weekend when it was burned in us so hard and so fast that our eyes bled saline and we held each other in the dark (both physically and emotionally) I knew it was time. I knew I didn’t want to go a day for the rest of my life without thinking about it and feeling it.

I’m a transmitter. Sometimes I’m sending the signal, but more often, I’m receiving. And my mother? I like to think she was trying to tell me something then, even if she wasn’t. Because it stuck right where I needed it to, in the vulnerable places where I have no choice but to admit my flaws, and to try to do better.

…on the princess scale. I’m outraged.

Let me back up.

Last year I took three friends - who knew little of each other - on a road trip. We drove south 5 or 6 hours (who can keep track when you’re knitting?) to Jekyll Island and a magical, mystical, friendship cementing, chickens in trees and skinny dipping place called The Hostel in the Forest. During a lazy afternoon of reading on our bellies on a near desolate beach, we dipped ourselves in the ocean.

NOTE TO MEN: look away now.

It was during that dip and chattering over the waves and newfound buoyancy that the topic somehow turned to my needing to roll up the beach to the cabana for a check-in/swap out of a female variety. Problem was that we’d hustled away from the hostel (before chores, me thinks) and I hadn’t…ya know…packed properly. One of the girls couldn’t offer me assistance because she’s a member of the Diva Cup cult, and another couldn’t because she hadn’t packed anything - didn’t need to. The last of my wee little piggies offered her stash of OB.

Now let me just say that as much as I love the earth, I do not love jamming my own appendages in my girlie places. The other alternative involved a cardboard applicator…to which I replied something along the lines of “I have a sensitive vagina.”

Alright. It wasn’t along those lines. It was that line.

The line was noted in our book of fabulous one-liners for which we’d always remember our retreat and though amusing, I’d mostly forgotten it.

Until tonight.

I met up with said Queen of Cardboardandfingerjamming and a few friends tonight after work for a little adult giggletude. They’re her friends, really, a circle I’ve been invited to join time and again (and loved every minute of it!) but nonetheless, her friends first.

One of these friends (who may or may not remain NAMELESS) and my gal-pal apparently had an interesting conversation when we returned from our grand tree hugging adventure to the Georgia Shore, starting somewhere near my sensitive vagina and ending with their having rated all their friends on a Princess Scale - where they were the happy medium.

My vajayjay combined with my blogging apparently ranks me as a 6 on the princess scale - which - returning to my original point - I find appalling.

I consider myself something of a no-holds-barred, take-no-prisoners, say-it-like-it-is, hard-and-fast, hike-camp-dig-sweat, morse-code-dashing kinda gal. In real life. A solid 3. I’m a tomboy for cryin’ out loud. I don’t buy designer clothes or wear make-up or spend a lot of time on my hair (all other considering factors on the weighting scale).

It’s only here in the safe embrace of the faceless interwebs or with close friends that I let the other side out. I mean really -I grew up in a house where my mother used code like “BM”, and “TP”. I still can’t bring myself to use real words when I go to the doctor and tell them I don’t feel well. I CRIED at my doctor years ago when he suggested a colonoscopy while I was awake. I cry at commercials. But that’s for me and my loves and not for the whole world. Not for consideration in the running for This Circle of Friends Next Top Princess (which I was really in no danger of winning).

So there’s the rambling story and my ranking and now I want to know - if I’m ground zero, if I’m the neutral 5 on myveraown princess scale - based on what you know about me - where would you rate me? Where would you rate yourself?

Carlos/Los/Raggamuffin Soul is always doing something provocative in his tattoo clad corner of the bloggosphere, last week it was a new take on collecting and creating community where you might not expect one. In response to his request on the Splat Your Tat post to “on your page, place the image of your tattoo and the story behind it” I give you this foggy explanation.

I got my tattoo shortly after my 18th birthday as an ignorant “it’s my body I can do what I want (and it’s finally legal!)” statement. It was a gift from a friend I’ve since lost track of - Erica Ash, and it was inspired by another friend I’m still in touch with - Gaea - who had the same ink put on her shoulder a year or two prior. At the time, I chose to replicate it because of the message one interpretation of the ankh provides: eternal life. I knew too much about loss for someone my age and it resonated with me in a way that nearly made me vibrate. The message, and the feelings the message brought still make me close my eyes for a brief unspoiled visit…a few moments alone with gratitude and sorrow and hope.

Perched in my seat at the Larry Allen studio in Anchorage, I was told to sit sideways in what reminded me of a dentists chair and I was told to push my arm against the back of the chair so my shoulder was flexed. I did as I was told. I remember it didn’t hurt until the end, mostly it felt like someone was writing something over and over again with a ball point pen, a sensation I wasn’t unfamiliar with having just been released from high school. In those days of course we didn’t have cell phones (only the rich people had them, and they were the kind of satellite phone that had their own purses) so we’d get bored and write on ourselves. So that’s what I knew, and that’s what it felt like to me. I don’t think we were there more than an hour.

I considered other locations for it, but my shoulder seemed the most fitting since - in my infinite 18 year old wisdom I didn’t think anyone would ever see my back. A year or so after getting it I was in California, living with my dad and in a move that was *very* not me, I joined him and in the hot tub one night. Maybe I was sore, maybe I was bored. Either way, he saw the tattoo and he wasn’t thrilled, but I was his daughter and he knew what the package was all about so he let it go.

I’ve never been more horrified and relieved in rapid succession in my life.

In the years since, there have been countless occasions I wish I hadn’t put it there. My first semi-formal office Christmas party where I wore a cute little black number with spaghetti straps, and countless work functions since then. I’m fortunate that I now work for an organization that could care less about body art of any shape or form, and it’s become an non-issue in that part of my world.

The challenge with it of late is that I believe in once piece of flair at a time, and while I still love the message; there are others I’d like to add to my body but can’t bring myself to. Why? Because I have a flair compulsion. I have one piece on my truck (a breast cancer license plate), one on my body (I wear mostly solid colored clothes and usually only one piece of jewelry - frequently recently colorful earrings) and otherwise am pretty flair free. Except, of course; for my ankh.

I often wish I’d waited, that I’d been more creative or at least more of an individual, but I didn’t and I wasn’t and that’s the story of my tattoo.

October…is for living and awareness and thankfulness.

I’m thankful for my breasts, riddled though they may be with cells that don’t conform. I’m thankful for the lumps, and for what the first of their kind reminded me of - before it was too late. I’m thankful for my body whether it chooses to agree or disagree with me on any given day and accept that it, like me; is moody. I’m thankful that several times a year, I get to give back to and cheer for women like me and women who had it all much worse than me (like my girl Mish) who have made it to the other side and join together in celebration. I’m thankful that I can share that with you - and that maybe you go home and feel up your wife (or yourself!) and that maybe by playing telephone with it and talking about it and not being scared to attack it…that one day…we’ll kill it.

Yeay for you, and yeay for us and yeay most of all for booblies!