Luckily it came back benign

Turn 40, get mammogram...

Get compression mammogram (yes, they can compress more than a regular mammogram)...

Get a phone call from the doctor recommending a biopsy. (Which, as I mentioned above, came back benign.)

My dear and highly skilled surgeon needs to work on his sales pitch, though. For this is how the biopsy was presented.

"You'll check in at the hospital and be taken to a room to change into a hospital gown, undressed from the waist on up. You will then lie down on a table right up next to a mammography machine. Your breast will be positioned into the machine and held in place while photos are taken. Still in this position, with your breast in the aforementioned vice grip, the radiologist will insert a needle deep into your breast tissue to remove as many micro-calcifications as he feels are needed to examine by a pathologist. He will check the specimens under a microscope, not freeing you from the device until he is satisfied that an appropriate sample has been removed. The process takes about an hour and half."

(at this point he noticed my face had lost color, I noticed the walls moving in on me)

"You will receive valium," he added, as if that would make it all better. Which it did.

But the best part was the benign path report. A great way to wrap up breast cancer awareness month for our home.

Substitute Teacher

I have a degree in Human Biology, not Education. But that does not stop my kids' grade school from calling for occasional emergency substitute teaching from time to time.

This time it was the music teacher called away at the last minute who needed backup. I agreed to an afternoon-only stint, threw on something prettier than my yoga pants and planted myself in the music room.

First-, second-, and third-graders paraded in and out of the room thrilled for fresh meat (me) and surprised at how their sub (me) did not tolerate excessive noise (them) well.

But then the preschoolers waddled in. Delightful, happy, easy-to-please, these little creatures politely filed to their seats, excited to watch a DVD for our 25 minutes together.

"Elmo Presents Peter and the Wolf" held the attention of these delicious human nuggets with the exception of one little toe-headed boy who had some concerns.

With the lights dim and the movie rolling, my soon-to-be friend waddled across the front of the room to ask me a question.

"Do you think they will have a real wolf?" he whispered between his pudgy cheeks.

"I doubt it," I assured him. Temporarily confident he was not about to witness a Muppet massacre, he made his way back to his seat. For about two minutes. And then he made his way back.

"Do you think Elmo will be the wolf?" he again whispered wide-eyed.

I was impressed with his mental casting, but I did not know the answer. "I'm not sure," I replied, "why don't you go back to your seat and watch the show to find out?"

Perhaps distracted by the private Q/A session, perhaps oblivious to it all and full of questions themselves, a number of hands flew into the air. I quietly offered that anyone with a question come to me rather than disrupt the movie.

Four kids immediately evacuated their chairs and lined up before me. Led by my friend, there for a three-peat.

"Did you know Elmo and Telly are friends?" he asked.

"I did!" I answered with quiet but undeniable enthusiasm. Off he went.

The next child had stepped forward, mouth open but with no sound coming out.

"Do you need to think about your question?" I asked. A silent nod and pivot turn, and the child went back to the movie.

A serious-faced tot stepped forward next.

"I can't concentrate on the movie with all of these people talking."

"I agree," I answered. "Go on back to your seat and we'll all watch the show."

Finally, a precious little girl with big blue eyes and cherub-like cheeks stepped forward.

"I love you," she whispered earnestly.

It was the sweetest thing I'd heard all day. I considered gobbling her up, but I was pretty sure her parents wanted her back. So I simply replied, "I love you too."

40

Bono and I both have better hair now than we did in the '80's. And "40" rings even more beautifully today than it did back then...

Ode to Liana

Oh, Liana? Oh, won't you dye for me?
My real hair color's growing out with roots for all to see.

Doomed!

Pat Robertson really, really, REALLY believes marriage should be between a man and a woman in sickness and in health. But not in Alzheimer's. Because that is exactly WJWD.

Michelle Bachman is not a doctor, but she is very comfortable passing along medical information on national television based on something someone once told her. Which totally qualifies her to be president.

Rick Perry and Ron Paul can both have strong appeal with the pro death penalty faction of the pro life party, especially if failure to procure health insurance results in death.

And Mitt Romney. State-run health insurance exchanges and health care reform that includes mandated purchasing and government assistance for those in need are the best things ever! (Unless the idea was suggested by Team Donkey.)

And Joe Biden is still our vice president.

On the bright side, Kardashians are still on the air.

We're doomed.

Gratitude

Dear God,

Thank you for so many of your most brilliant creations, like nachos and bacon and college basketball, but thank you most of all for beautiful fall days in Lawrence, Kansas. The clean blue sky gift-wrapped sunshine on my shoulder and happy all around.

Keep up the great work,
Julie


Dear Tylenol and Advil,

Thank you for your collective efforts that finally brought Luke's fever down after three very long days. You made it possible for me to breathe outdoor air again.

I hope I don't have to see you again for a very long time.

Sincerely,
Julie


Dear Birkenstocks,

Thank you for relieving my poor, cramping, seizing feet from their stint last night in peep-toe heels. For, darling as they were, they have left me hobbling like the elderly woman I am quickly becoming. But you, blue paisley Birks, saved the day, allowing me to book it up and down Mass Street on my own personal shopping day.

Amen,
Julie


Dear Downtown Lawrence,

Thank you for being a place where stoners and socialites, vanilla and rocky road, $1 draws and top shelf bottles, boutique stores and my credit card can live in perfect harmony, providing incentive to get the f off Facebook and enjoy this gorgeous fall day.

I'll be back,
Julie


Dear Evening Rain,

Thank you for smelling like a freshly extinguished candle and cooling off my sweaty face. You swept over our city majestically and closed the curtain on this excessively perfect fall day.

Please do not return until after tomorrow's KU game,
Julie

Evidence

The September 5th River City Jules details my bad fashion over the years. To supplement this, I am offering some proof.

That poor little child in the red sweater with the precision-cut bangs and soft, face-framing layers originally asked for the Dorothy Hamill, but her mom told her that was out of style. Luckily her baby brother could always be counted on to wear an actual bowl on his head, detracting from her own.

I grew out the haircut in time for my well-intentioned mom to administer the worst home perm ever in the history of home perms, somewhat offset by my Easter (egg) dress. The pearls are real, as is my hair color. This girl is a looker!

The Interventionist, Kari, with Caroline after First Communion. Note the fashionably layered scarf over the necklace, the smooth never-frizzy hair, and the waistline hidden behind her elbow. My awkward phase? 32 years. Kari's? 15 minutes. Growing up with Kari was awesome.