Calling All Cocktails

or here we go again...

Okay, so today has been one of those off days.

First of all, I had an extra steel drum practice this morning, and I could not have stunk up the place any more. Like a huge turd. A ginormous, garlic-laden Chinese take out, beer loaf fueled, noxious gas cloud accompanied turd. With a capital "T".

You'd think I never heard these songs before. We're supposed to perform for some big-time charity event in a couple weeks. Pffft! Yeah. Like that's not going to be too humiliating. And no, you're not invited unless you have really, REALLY deep pockets to donate thousands and are, you know, deaf. Then you can sit in the front row.

Moving on...

Part two of my "off" off day involved a trip to the hospital for a three-years-running follow-up ultrasound of my petite decolletage. After waiting for over half an hour (thank God they had wifi so my iTouch could keep me company) I was ushered into a badly lit room and handed a lovely cloth gown. Ladies, you know the one I'm talking about...it has the repetitive little diamond pattern on it much like your Pappy's boxers from the 50s. Mmmmm... Dead sexy.

This thing has almost as many random ties as Medusa has snakes for hair. Seriously. I don't know what my problem is, but I can never seem to front tie the damn thing closed. There's always a gap through which some such embarrassing girlie bit peeks. Hellooo, Sailor! Why bother covering up anyway, right? I'm just gonna have to whip out my fun bags for some stranger to wrangle. Thank God it's a chick and not some burly, furry Sasquatch Dude with a nicotine stained red beard and missing bottom teeth who doesn't wear boxers or briefs. Eeeewww!

"Hi. I'm Pam. Now lay back and let's whip that bad-boy out so I can squeeze about three inches of this ice-cold gel on your girls and press this flat DE-vice clear down to your gizzard over and over and over and over..."

Good times.

After thirty fun-filled minutes of awkward chit chat and even more awkward silences, the tech scurries out of the room to consult the doc. Turns out there are two cysts they want to do a TFA or PFA or DDT or BFD or WTF...whatever the Hell it's called. It's a fine needle aspiration of the fluid contained in the aforementioned offending cysts.

Shit.

It's not necessarily bad. It's probably nothing, much like the last time. And it certainly could be far worse. Like big-time worse. Like festering death hidden in the hollows of my innards, worse. I have two dear friends who are dealing with the Big Bad Wolf of cancers, so I should quit whining, right? Right. But still...

Shit.

I hate being a statistic.

See, now if I'd only been a big ole hootchie and got knocked up way back when, I probably wouldn't be facing this crap. But, Nooooooooooo. I had to be a good girl.

Anywho, I was fine...until I called Geo. Then the tears just started flowing. Absolutely ridonkulous with a capital DONK. I mean, really. I'm not dying of cancer. It's nothing, but you know, that's how girls are. Well, that's how THIS girl is. The first familiar voice and WHOOSH! Waterworks.

So you know what I did? I bought two Reese's Peanut Butter Pumpkin bars and ate both of them. Then I washed them down with the tallest fucking Mojito I could concoct. Because sometimes in life the only pacifier is cocktails and chocolate.

Time to turn that frown upside down. *ice cubes tinkling* Ready for a refill.