In international news, Dolly the sheep was euthanized today due to a lung infection, raising serious doubts in the scientific community about whether an animal can be cloned without serious defect.
Dolly was named after Dolly Parton because she was created from a mammary cell of an adult sheep.
Dolly was made out of a boob.
She's dead. I'm depressed. I don't like the whole idea of cloning much, but I did like seeing pictures in the paper of sheep. It broke up the monotony of politicians, wars, and general inhumanity. Sheep rock. I liked Dolly a lot. Even if she was made out of a boob.
In other news, I woke up feeling like my own boobs were about to fall off.
Now, I expected to be in pain when I woke up this morning. I had surgery the other day, and I suppose I OUGHT to be in pain. However, I did NOT expect pain in my BOOBS.
I'm really depressed, folks. Give me a second to think about things... We'll talk about boobs for a few minutes...
All of the women on my mom's side of the family have elephantine boobs. All of the women on my dad's side of the family have concave boobs. (Concave -- remember that from eight grade physical science? As in, caved-in?) Magically, I ended up a nice happy medium. Sort of between a B and a C cup. But I have a small frame, and most bras don't fit me right. I wear sports bras sometimes, but I don't have to bother if I don't want. I bitch about my other body parts a lot, but I guess I have a lot to be grateful for as far as boobs. I have underwear-model boobs.
No, sorry, no pictures available...
I admit it; I have great boobs. If I walked into a bar with the intention of seducing somebody (which, yes, I have done), I'd dress to accentuate the boobs. And the shoulders -- I also have nice shoulders. The rest of me is okay-looking: fair-to-good, I'd say, if I were speaking honestly. But the boobs and the shoulders are superstars. Especially the boobs.
On my fifteenth birthday, my friend Julie came over for a sleepover. This was a special treat, since I never had sleepovers, ever, with anyone. We ended up playing this stupid game of Truth or Dare, in which one of us had to run outside and announce, "I'm a LESBIAN!" I guess we couldn't think of anything more interesting to yell. I don't even remember which one of us had to do it. Then we dared each other to take off our shirts and run outside and yell something about not wearing a shirt. (Bear in mind, when I was fifteen, you could be screaming bloody murder, and nobody'd hear you in that neighborhood...) Eventually, as fifteen-year-old girls will (or so I'm told by pamphlets such as "Growing Up And Liking It" -- ask Jayden), we just took off our shirts and stared at each others boobs.
Mine were better. Hah.
No, really, they were. Mine were perfectly spherical. Hers were maybe a little bigger, but mine... yeah, mine were underwear-model boobs. You know that most underwear models have such weird bodies that they don't fit into regular bras and underwear? I was so delighted to hear that... Anyway...
In high school, when the "swimming" part of gym class came around, I was the only girl with the guts to wear a skimpy little bikini. All the other girls wore these big Speedo things that mashed their boobs down so nobody could see anything. I got a lot of stares. Mostly from the scandalized girls. NOBODY in high school is supposed to be secure enough with their upper body to show CLEAVAGE!!! But my female friends agreeds: *I* could get away with it.
I couldn't swim for shit.
Speaking of swimming... There was this comedy show I watched once when I was about twelve, with Angela. The comedienne was talking about how she was swimming, and her bathing suit fell off in mid-paddle. Some kid purportedly walked up to her and asked, "hey lady, what's that?" The comedienne claimed to have told the kid it was a flotation device. It would have been funnier if you could have seen it. Angela and I cackled about "flotation devices" long before I had any of my own.
Anyway...
I woke up this morning looking like Dolly Parton. I SWEAR this to you, my boobs looked about five times as large as normal. I figured it was the stupid turtleneck I'd fallen asleep in: maybe it was a little too tight?
No, because they HURT... They hurt like they'd been run over by a Mack truck and reattached.
Some of the grossest fantasies ran through my head... I imagined I'd been given a blood transfusion from a transsexual who'd been receiving female hormones. Or from Michael Jackson. I imagined I'd been given the wrong surgery by mistake; or that perhaps the one-millionth patient (which MUST have been me) received complimentary breast augmentation. I kissed Jake, poked his eyebrow, and blew in his ear to wake him up. "My boobs hurt," I complained, "And I think they got bigger."
Jake, interested at the word "boobs," woke up immediately to inspect. I swear, a hurricane could destroy all of Western Washington, and he'd sleep through it, grinning peacefully, but he'll wake up for boobs... (Helena rolls her eyes here...) Tidal waves and titties... That's gonna have to be the title of this entry...
Indeed, Jake agreed with my diagnosis: my boobs were bigger. He poked at one. I whined. He poked at the other one. I whined louder. I could barely sit up in bed the damned things were so big. Jake grinned. He's such a wicked man. Here I am, thinking horrid things about Michael Jackson's pedophile blood in my nice pure (heh) body, and he's grinning over my mysteriously-enormous boobs. I love Jake very much, but if his testicles ever do anything weird, I'm going to sit there cackling and poking them. I'm putting that in the pre-nups.
I must have searched for three hours on WebMD.com, before it dawned on me that the boob thing wasn't a direct result of the surgery or the medication...
The surgeon told me she'd removed either the whole placenta from my body, or a good portion of it. It had been in my body, doing nothing useful, for three weeks and two days.
Except, since it was still in there, my body still thought I was pregnant.
And now that it's NOT in there, my body, being pretty damned foolish, has decided that I've had a baby and must feed it... Even though my baby died at fifteen weeks, the lacenta kept my body's hopes up until eighteen weeks. I'm lactating. I'm making food for my baby. My milk is in.
I'm absolutely horrified.
This is only amusing because Jake thinks it's kind of funny, because it gave me an excuse to say that Dolly was made out of a boob, and because of the phrase "tidal waves and titties." Otherwise, it's absolutely disgusting and terrible. My baby's dead. And my stupid body still thinks I'm a mother. It couldn't keep her alive, but NOW it's going to try and make up for it by... what? feeding a corpse?
This is disgusting. A little bit amusing, and a little bit fascinating, but disgusting.
At least I didn't get Michael Jackson's blood. I hope.
I made a telephone call to the midwife's office, even though I'm not a patient there anymore. (I'm kinda disqualified...) The midwife said to take an ice pack, or a package of frozen peas, and to put them on my breasts for half-hour intervals. If the pain got too bad, and Tylenol wasn't cutting it, she'd give me codeine.
I was just starting to be able to forget. I'd just started forgetting all the stupid little hopes and dreams I'd had for my baby: about home-schooling, and playing in the park, and telling her she wasn't allowed to date (especially not boys like her father) until she was sixty, and even diaper-changing and stuff... I was JUST starting to forget... My belly didn't look so big, and I could fit into all my jeans again...
And NOW?
Anyway... I started this entry by talking about Dolly being made out of a boob, which I think is rather amusing, and I've ended it in a totally depressing way. I apologize. It's Valentine's Day, and I couldn't even go out to dinner with Jake, though he brought me a lovely rose. (And then, being Jake, he added to the romance with a loud belch in my direction; feel the love...*smile*) My boobs hurt. And I'm fairly bitchy. I'm sorry I'm being depressing. I wanted to be sitting here making a "Greatest Hits of the Past Year" entry; anything but this...
Just think about a sheep being made out of a boob.
Heh.
Wishing you well...
~Helena*
Happy 4th Birthday, Wet Cleanup. I'll make you a chocolate cupcake... and a glass of m--- nevermind...