Friday, May 13, 2011
I went into the city yesterday for my annual mammogram. Controversy aside, since my insurance company pays for it, I do it. It’s that simple. When I went into the dressing room to put on the two sheets of paper towels the medical field calls a gown, I looked in the mirror and saw that my pants zipper was down.
I don’t know how long it had been down. A while, since I couldn’t remember the last time I went to the bathroom. That explained the smiles from strangers on the street. I thought they were reacting to my ravishing beauty. Oh, well. I wouldn’t care so much if this had been the first time, but it wasn’t. It was however, indicative of the day I had.
I’m a performer deep down, always have been, always will be, and an audience is my crack, but when the head Mammographer brought in two other women technicians to ‘observe’ the squishing and shmooshing of my tits on a plate of glass, I got stage fright. Not that the techies could tell. I’m a professional and the head techie even commented on how mobile and pliable I was. I’m a star! Or I have star tata’s. Whichever.
I left the mammary performance and had a hell of a time deciding what to eat. I left the house early in the morning and only had time for a large cup of coffee, which was now irritating my stomach wall. I know, I can’t find anything to eat in New York, pathetic. I have some food restrictions, too many places to choose from overwhelms me. And then I remembered that I had put two hard boiled eggs in my Lululemon Flight bag.
I usually pack an egg or two on trips; whether it by car, plane, or in this case, a train trip to the big apple. The hard boiled egg had exploded. It got squished (not unlike my bosom) in my bag and shells and yolk were everywhere.
I tried to salvage it, and it turned into a big fat mess. Did I mention that I was juggling my bag, and the egg, as I walked? I believe most people would’ve thrown the egg in the gutter, as soon as it was retrieved from the bag. No sir, not me.
I despise it when people, especially New Yorkers, throw their trash into and onto the city streets. Of course an egg was different, it wasn’t a cigarette butt, but it took me three blocks, with egg yolk on my face (pun intended) and hands until I said, “Fuck it, “ and threw it into the gutter.
The rest of the day went something like this. I paid $7.50 for a lame-ass sandwich that I ate while I walked. I had to wait a half an hour until the box office to the show I was getting tickets to opened, standing around looking like a tourist. I met my mom for lunch because I didn’t see her on Mother’s Day and she, not only forgot a book from her house that I asked to borrow, after reminding her on two separate occasions, but she made me a Mother’s Day card of sorts, which was uber sweet, but it referred to me as The Boyfriend Mom, instead of The Girlfriend Mom.
Have you met me, mother?