Wednesday, March 12, 2008

of cats and big breasts

It's been a time of great achievements, people, great achievements. First off, I captured the undersocialized foster cat who'd gotten out and was living in the crawl space under the house. Frankly, this cat is not the brightest light on the Christmas tree strand, and that was my salvation. Tux, as we call her, is an unbearably beautiful animal (who looks uncannily like the cat in the signature Drunken Housewife illustration) with the silkiest black-and-white fur in existence, but she's no genius. She clearly wants to be one of the herd of regular cats, who come and go with elan, but she's too timid and not clever enough to figure out how to join in. In the backyard, she would make eye contact with me and come a bit closer when I crooned, "here, kitty, kitty." She would come closer yet when she saw me petting the other cats, who are casual in their acceptance of the Drunken Housewife's love. But she would not come within reach. She did come a few steps in to the house, only to freak out and flee over and over again.

Today I ostentatiously went out into the yard, petting Frowst, the king of our block; Peter Robin aka "Defecto", our dearly beloved foster cat; and Princess Henry, my Christmas present cat. These cats all wandered about, accepting the odd pat while enjoying the day. Tux stood a bit away, mesmerized but terrified. Then I called all the cats in for food, and Tux obviously wanted to go (as part of my strategy, I stopped putting food out in the backyard for her). She tried over and over again to get the nerve to join the other cats for a meal, but something spooked her every time. Finally I went and stood behind the (glass-paned) door. She seemed to feel this way that I couldn't possibly grab her, since I was behind a barrier, and didn't understand that I could -- and did-- slam that glass-paned door shut.

Since her capture, she has been held and petted a lot. The poor half-witted cat has enjoyed the attention she can't bring herself to be bold enough to go get. I feel so glad that I have her back in the house.

On another note of achievement, I FINALLY got a mammogram. I'd been asked by my doctor to go get my first one nearly four years ago, and I could never bring myself to do it. Somehow it seemed morbid, and also I'd been traumatized by horrible forwarded email jokes about how it's like having your tits squashed by an automatic garage door or concrete blocks. When it came down to it, the Sober Husband issued various nagging ultimatums which got me to make the appointment. He was out of town when it came to keeping the appointment, but I sucked it up and went. Unfortunately for me it was a time of day when keeping my sobriety was vital (the children needed to be ferried about afterwards), so getting a little Dutch courage first was not possible.

I was, of course, just being silly avoiding that exam. After all, I have had natural childbirth (of a nine pound baby with a giant head, never again! I understand now why my fore-sisters fought for the right to painkillers in the delivery room), as well as a variety of tattoos and piercings. The tech who did my mammogram wondered aloud why I had been afraid of a mammogram when I'd gotten tattooed. "That was in my rockstar past," I explained. "I'm old and weak now."

In the event, it was a non-event. The last two films were uncomfortable, but not excruciating. The recently upgraded facilities at the Breast Health Center at the California Pacific Medical Center are lovely, just lovely. The staff are quite polite and caring. Even the hospital gowns provided were of higher quality than one would expect. The techs told me that all those old jokes and horror stories are outdated, from the days when the mammogram equipment was more unwieldy and the techs less skilled. Additionally, the small-breasted tech who took my x-rays explained that mammograms are easier for women with large breasts. Who knew that big tits had an extra perk, aside from attracting mates? It turns out that smaller breasts get pulled and pinched in those plates, while the more endowed may simply lay their assets out. If someone had told me that before, I would have gotten this taken care of years ago.

So now, cat captured and breasts mammogrammed with relative ease, I may relax and enjoy a Blood and Sand cocktail or two. The worst of my to-do list has been struck off.

9 comments:

Melissa said...

And you had that wonderful, self-satisfied, self-righteous feeling afterwards one only gets after having teeth cleaned or a mammogram, didn't you?

I'm really happy you got it done. They're not that painful, compared to the alternative.

Good for you!

Captain Steve said...

Yay for large breasticles! And might I say that I love that your cat is named Princess Henry.

Brown said...

"That was in my rock-star past. I'm old and weak now."

laughing, laughing, laughing in spite of being dog-tired and up to my elbows in a grant application.

Silliyak said...

Sort of on the subject, Jon Carroll's column quotes a book about sex, which says only pigs and humans fondle breasts. Hey pigs are supposed to be smart, no?

hughman said...

at least you don't need prostate exams. esp. from your ex-porn star doctor.

Thi said...

And that is why I chose a female doctor from my insurance company's list o'docs ...

She laughed at my telling her this
and told the story that in med school the poor patient at the clinic they were doing rounds in
SPECIFICALLY asked for the lady doctor.

My Mrs. is avoiding a mammy-gram, too. Maybe she'll do it herself now, or wait 5 more years when it's mandatory.

the Drunken Housewife said...

My doctor is a woman, also, a world-weary but brilliant woman. When I confessed I'd never had the mammogram, she didn't say a word. She rolled her eyes, sighed loudly, pulled the form out, wrote it with a bit more pen pressure than truly needed, and flicked it at me with an eloquent snap of the wrist. No need to utter a nagging word; that snap of the wrist said it all.

(Incidentally my doctor's civil union was covered in the New York Times gay wedding (I believe they use the euphemism "Celebrations")page. She's half of an uber-lesbian couple, both high achievers of blue blood background, and who have had three tiny little daughters over the past few years.

Trouble said...

With cats and dogs, as with humans, I've noticed an uncanny relationship between attractiveness and intelligence.

It's interesting. We once had the most beautiful collie. He was almost too stupid to live, but damn if he wasn't beautiful.

hughman said...

trouble -

my Polly beagle is the dumb blond hiding the PHD in rocker science. she's gorgeous and acts like a rock sometimes but when it comes to food, she can understand 7 languages. i think it's all about priorities. not unlike humans, i'd venture.