Busts Baps Torpedoes

I recently read that the whole thing about Eskimos having 400 different words for snow was “a linguistic hoax.”  I thought this was pretty disappointing until I got to the part of article that pointed to a study of  the Sami language of Norway, Sweden and Finland, that said the language has as many as 1000 different words for reindeer (never challenge these people to a game of Balderdash, right?)   It made me wonder, from all the thinking and writing I’ve been doing about that area inside the shirt – how many words are there?

Here are the 140 I could find.

I think my favorite is “chuberteens,” or maybe baps…no, definitely love apples…

What’s yours?

Bust, bosoms, assets, mammaries, bazookas, boobs, boobies, bouncers, boulders, bristols, cans, cantelopes, chesticles, chi chis, cones, fooblosity, fleshy milk cartons,

funbags, funbubbles, gazongas, girls, headlights, hooters, honkers, jugs, knockers, melons, milk duds, money makers, rack, saggy bags, sin cushins, snuggle pups,

sweater puppies, tatas, teats, tits, titties, twins, dirty pillows, udders, who whos, bahama mammas, balloons, bawagos, big brown eyes, blinkers, bobambas, bodacious tatas, bombs, bosom, bosooms, boulders, Bristols, brown suckies, bubatoes, yabbos, baps, bust, busts, Cadillac bumper bullets, casabas, chest, chuberteens, cones, gedoinkers, doorknobs, floppers, fried eggs, fugis, gams, gazangas,

jungle, golden bazoos, winnebagoes, mounds, mountains, marshmallows, Maguffies, grenadoes, hogans, honkers, itty-bitty-titties, jalobes, bazongoes,

bazookas, bazooms, bazoos, ninnies, nips, nupies, pair, nice pair, beamers, starter buttons, tads, handles, tatas, tittyboppers, bee stings, jiggers, jobes, rolling hills,

cup cakes, cushions, dairy section, highbeams, hinyackas, knobs, love apples, love monkeys, luscious scoops of flesh, twins, love warts, watermelons, wazoos, whoppers, winnebagos, yabos, mambas, mammas, mamms, massive mammaries, mazabas, melons, milk factories, Mcguffies, mosquito bites, perkies,

melons, milk factories, Mcguffies, mosquito bites, perkies, pillows, pimples, pink chewies, rack, set, smosabs, stacked, torpedoes, twin peaks.

But Ya’ Gotta Eat!

I have not had a diet coke since June 3, 2011.  I used to drink 3 or 4 a day.  What’s better than starting your day with a cold soda for breakfast, then one at lunch of course, and a sweet little treat waiting in the fridge at the end of  a long day?  I’d drink them with ice and lemon if I was feeling fancy, or just warm from the case I’d keep in the trunk of my car.

I knew it wasn’t great for me, but it was diet coke – not crack – whatever – George Burns smoked 10 – 15 cigars a day and he lived to be 100 years old.  My friend’s golden retrievers only ever drank water from her pool and they lived until they were 16 and 17, and that’s old for goldens.dietcokewithbacon_custom-1049e7370fb5f53e1a64499d969fa48626b6a324-s6-c30

If you asked me then I’m sure I couldn’t have thought of any way I could give up this guilty pleasure, how would I ever kick the soda habit…?

Then I got cancer and I thought – well, that would do it.

After the initial period of shock – a sunny May weekend which I ate my way through most of the Gus’s BBQ restaurant take out menu half of a Sweet Lady Jane’s Princess Cake, several plates of food at a gourmet picnic; including 3 kinds of meat, 2 types of pie, many cookies and wine, most of a cheese and chacuterie display at a wine tasting, a burger, fries and more wine, – things changed.

Because when Monday morning came – the world stopped spinning with a cold hard thud.  I thought – oh my God, I have cancer (breast, these boobs are new – I’ll be fine, but if you are anything like me then you will be wondering the whole time and I am trying to tell you a story.)  But at the time I didn’t know anything – what stage I was in – did it start somewhere else – was it creeoing around in my body?… So after that Bachanailian weekend of wine and denial I thought – I better make my body into a lean mean cancer fighting machine.

Right?  How does that happen?  I mean I’ve heard those stories about people who have cured their cancer through the power of juicing or garlic, or milk thistle or an all carrot diet, I thought it was all bunk  – but what if it wasn’t?  There are people that say eating anything with a face will give you cancer.  Like my landlord, who wrote a vegan cookbook – she was thrilled when she found out I had cancer – she said, “that means you are going to give up meat and dairy, right?” (but she’s not exactly a Ph.D., she stopped eating animals in the 60’s after she opened a refrigerator when she was tripping and all the meat spoke to her.)

What are the rules?  I stopped eating meat, dairy, wheat, sugar, anything processed and alcohol.  I was afraid to eat anything that wasn’t organic.  I emptied my cabinets and wondered what else was trying to kill me.  I threw out my Secret deodorant and stared suspiciously at my Crest toothpaste.  And my Britta filter, come on – you pour water through charcoal and that’s seriously supposed to remove anything toxic?

Sugar Feeds Cancer with WordsI was particularly afraid of the evil white sugar because of a very intense energy healer lady with big white hair who got all up into my face to say, “sugar feeds cancer!”  It was just like that scary moment in Pee Wee’s Big Adventure – “tell ’em large Marge sent ya'”  Aghhh!!!

I went to a Chinese Wellness Center and paid a ton of money for a brown paper lunch bag of twigs and mushrooms and sticks that I could only brew in a ceramic kettle – so I found one at Sears, and made pots of tea that smelled and tasted like something that was scraped off the forest floor.

I taped the Tao’s food philosophy, a quote from Hippocrates, to my refrigerator door – “Let food be your medicine and your medicine be your food.”

No fast food, chips or cookies, not one bite of steak or cheese, bacon, butter, pizza, diet soda or Lucky Charms.  Lucky Charms; the only sugar cereal I was allowed to eat as a special treat as a kid – and only on vacation – the heady pleasure of taking the time to eat an entire bowl, all the little oaty things out first, then each color marshmallow leaving only the pink hearts floating in a bowl of now warm purple grey colored milk sitting at my Grandmother’s breakfast table in the Florida morning sun.lucky-charms10

In my adulthood, I was not above buying a box to get that high and eating around marshmallows – with the grown up addition of pouring the sugary milk into my coffee.

So – never do that again?  Never, never?

Everything good was ruined – meatloaf was replaced by “neatloaf” a “meat textured bake made with oatmeal, organic catsup and barley.  Butter with palm fruit oil spread, mayonnaise with Vegenaise, ice cream made from nuts, “burgers” made from sprouts and nuts…

I barely survived Thanksgiving, – rescuing a few green beans before they were casseroled and funioned, watching everyone slather soft butter on white flour fluffy rolls and scooping up bourbon laced sweet potatoes topped with crispy browned white sugar marshmallows.  I missed out on dessert because newsflash – no matter what Vegan Girl says on her Vegan Yum Yum website – you really can’t make pumpkin pie that tastes “even better than the real thing everyone will rave” with tofu.  It doesn’t!  It’s like you said about the “delectable chocolate mousse” made with “a rich avocado base” – you know what that tastes like Vegan Girl?  Avocado with chocolate.  Chocolate guacamole!  And yes, it’s disgusting, – it tasted like burp!  The pie.  Not the mousse.  Come to think of it – the mousse too.

I would bake authentic white flour, white sugar, butter and vanilla chocolate chip cookies tor my favorite nurses and doctors, because several attempts at vegan cookie favorites like “grapefruit icebox cookies” and “magical nut chews” proved there was no replacement for the simple perfection of the original Toll House recipe.  And when I would get to my favorite part – that just mixed soft dough stage where it took Herculean effort not to stick my finger into the bowl, I resisted.

I did it.

And I felt strong – like I was doing something, you know -with every bite of blueberry pomegranate seeds and quinoia salad and sip of disgusting tea – I imagined that the superfoods were soldiers kicking ass in my system.

The mutant cells were being starved into oblivion without their hearty diet of acesulfame K, benzly isobutyrate, methyl benzonate and hydroxphenyl-2-butanone.

I ate my weight in broccoli.

My friend who is now the head of surgical oncology at a major hospital, but back when she was only a fellow at an internationally renowned cancer program, would just laugh at me.  Sitting at the bar Delancey’s eating fancy pizza one night, I ordered mine without cheese or sauce (yes, crust with mushrooms), and she said, “you know it really doesn’t matter.”

Of course it matters, if it doesn’t then there is nothing I can do – I have no control, I can’t stop it, the cancer from coming back, what if I eat all the crap again and I get cancer again later – what if it’s because some tiny little mutant cell behaving badly was just about to die a death of starvation – when along comes an ethyl methylphenylglycidate on a digesting marshmallow bit and it hitches a ride and grows an multiplies – only because I wasn’t strong enough to resist magically delicious breakfast cereal?

But I did cave.

It was Christmas cookies.  But I’m sure you could tell that was coming by the way I wanted to FF chocolate chip cookie dough…  Then it was Christmas dinner.

And then I caved and I caved – delicious bleu cheese, butter, pizza, and the meat from heaven – smokey crispy bacon and wine – lots of wine.

And everything was delicious.

Because what about twinkly eyed George Burns and those happy golden retrievers and every centurian on The Today Show who say it’s about “not sweating the small stuff,” and “having a sense of humor.”  Like Jeralean Kurtz – 114 years and 148 days who told Willard her favorite foods include potato salad, honey buns, and McDonald’s chicken nuggets!

They’re right, right?

I thought my control freak diet made me feel stronger – but now I think maybe I was just punishing myself.  Because I was angry.  At life.  No comfort in comfort food.

Does it matter what you put in your piehole if you are living your right life?

A woman named Anita Moorjani is the hot spiritual expert on cancer at the moment because get this – she was admitted to the hospital after 3 years of cancer and given only hours to live because her organs were shutting down, but get this – she didn’t die.  She had a near death experience, woke up completely healed – doctors can’t find a trace of cancer in her body and they can’t explain it.

In her book she says, “If I ever had to create a set of tenets for a spiritual path to healing, number one on my list would be to make sure to laugh as often as possible throughout every single day – and preferably laugh at myself.  This would be hands down over and above any form of prayer, meditation, chanting or diet reform.”

“The only universal solution I have is to love yourself unconditionally and be yourself fearlessly!  Add a box of good chocolates into the mix, and we’ve really got a winning formula!”

I still don’t eat fast food, rarely processed food, and to this day not one sweet sweet refreshing diet coke.  I have sitting in my cabinet a single package of Lucky Charms I was given as a gift.  One day I will feel safe enough to eat it.

 

Angelina, Celebrity & Cancer

posted in: Uncategorized | 5

Sleeping This morning my inbox was jammed with emails linking me to Angelina’s Jolie’s Op-Ed piece on “My Medical Choice,” so before my Trader Joe’s blueberry waffle made it into the toaster I learned with millions of others about her decision to have a preventive double mastectomy.  I thought – awesome, she’s talking about the “C” word – taking a little bit more of the stigma away.  It’s still a word that I have trouble using casually – seriously, try throwing that into a conversation.  It rarely goes well and usually ends up with me saying, “but I’m fine, I’ll be fine… blah blah just fine, it wasn’t so bad,” just to get that “uh oh” panic look off their face.  So honestly, thank you Angelina for that – for raising awareness, for telling your story, for telling us about the emotional  impact of the death of your mother from cancer.  Thank you for talking about the BRCA1 gene (and how it costs over $3000 – not covered by most insurance) and a little bit about the medical process…

But sister, my breast friend (or breastless friend) I had to put waffle number two into the toaster so it’s syrup covered semi healthy deliciousness could help me cope with the feeling of wanting to COMPLETELY FREAK OUT.  Is it me or did she make it sound like she popped over to Beverly Hills for a little nip, a little tuck and skinny soy latte on the way home?  She went to Pink Lotus, the amazing place I went to for my cancer, (“but I’m fine, I’ll be fine… blah blah just fine, not so bad.”)  It is an incredible place in the center of Beverly Hills with valet parking and fresh flowers, state of the art technology, and wonderful world class professionals dressed in matching pink scrubs with embroidered pink lotus’s and clogs.  I know how truly lucky I am to be cared for by the staff there, led by the (can I use the word amazing again?) Dr. Kristi Funk – who I credit with giving me the ability to face my decisions with a glass half full attitude (truly, how can she be so beautiful, funny and smart?!)

BUT – here is why I am seriously considering waffle number three – maybe 1% of 1% (go ahead and fact check me) of women have the means, the ability financially or geographically to have an experience anywhere near this one.   It is a difficult, devastating and drastic medical choice and they will not have Kristi to have hope in her eyes while telling them the facts, the flowers will be dusty and artificial and the staff will be over burdened and preoccupied and they will face stacks of medical bills that cannot be stopped.  Brad will not hold their hand, they will go through radiation, they will lose their hair, they will discover that having your breasts cut off and replaced with bags of silicone is rarely with out medical complications, ask my friend who had a leak in lefty, or another friend who is livid that at the age of 60 she has two high perky softball boobies (it’s true – she pulled up her shirt “Girls Gone Wild” style and showed me) or me – who spent an entire December trying to save a nipple.  (I call it the Blue Nipple Christmas – too soon?)  And never without emotional consequences, imagine – never feeling the caress of a lover again,  or being able to nurse a child of your own, the piece of you that has been taken and replaced by something artificial.  Aliens in your bra.

Cancer is ugly, it’s hard, it’s depressing, it’s scary gross (she kinda glossed by that part about the surgical drains…really, – try going out to a restaurant with balls of your own juices in your pockets) – and it’s different for everyone,  Angelina Jolie’s experience is Angelina Jolie’s experience and I understand that and will defend her right to tell it – but I really want to stand on top of my sunny (it is LA) apartment building and yell – “this is the Hollywood version!”  It’s just not that easy, women need to know that going in, to talk with other women who have been through it and not think they can survive the experience based on a celebrity version, one that has been reduced to a page that make a bilateral mastectomy seem like the new black.  Okay, that sounded way mean, which is probably not the way to go if you believe as I do that everyone should tell the stories in their lives, that sharing these things makes us stronger individually and as a community, but poke me and I bleed dark humor.