Perfectly Useless

It's a Smashing Pumpkins kind of week. The final chorus from 'Perfect' earworms through my head, accompanied by lyrics from 'Ava Adore':

"...and I'll pull your crooked teeth / you'll be perfect just like me..."



My kitchen table place mats are a bit shrunken since they first arrived as a wedding present 16 years ago, wrapped in an over-sized Crate & Barrel box. They are now so frequently spattered with ketchup, chocolate, barbeque and balsamic vinaigrette by the other members of the household (I confess the occasional coffee slosh) that I gave up on my drip-dry dreams in favor of weekly washings. The mats often arrive back on the table with dryer creases that won't lie quite flat and I'm positive that they were once a much warmer shade than taupe. Something more from the African savannah.

They are, however, precisely aligned with the edge of the table. Parallel, perpendicular and crumb-free for a few hours, they lie emptied of half-filled water glasses, rubber bracelets, dirty napkins and scissors. I draw them up just so to the waiting chairs, evenly spaced from each other like mutually repelling magnets, and flush with the wooden edge so that no casual passer-by can plop, put, forget or otherwise fill the serenity. It's a table-in-waiting, with sunshine illuminating the dust motes that surreptitiously drift back down after a good smacking with a damp towel or my bare hand.

Compulsive behavior is a real plus to the one charged with determining the household's standard. The symptoms of my suspected disorder benefit everyone in the house: those who appreciate a tidy space AND those who can't abide a disturbance in the force. Stasis is the status quo of a good housekeeper. The badge of honor. Touching, straightening and re-creating a space without actually living in it.

Down the Booby Hatch

Today I meet with a local surgical group about excising a small benign mass in my left breast.  A week ago this appointment seemed like a horrible step onto one of two paths: unnecessary surgery that would ease the medical community's mind, resulting in more pain and scarring, not to mention infection risk and emotional trauma; or surgery that would find cancer, thus requiring additional small (or large or monumental) surgeries and other treatments in the name of preventing my untimely death.

Having obtained a few second opinions and done our own research regarding this particular pathology, my husband and I are perfectly comfortable choosing the monitoring route even before we talk to the surgeon.  We'll see if there's a new spin after this afternoon.  However, our relief is already palpable - we are in control over what needs to be done, not the person on the other end of the phone line.  There is no rush, no urgency, and no wondering what parts of our lives might be forever altered, probably for the worse.  Even a bad diagnosis still can be dealt with a piece at a time.

So, before I get all maudlin and thoughtful again, I'll just pass along another small bit of the humor that helped me to communicate each part of my news to the world without scaring anyone or myself.  I used it to express what was probably anger over feeling smashed and railroaded through an imperfect process versus any real fear about cancer.  During all the mammograms, ultrasounds and needles, I would occasionally remember this untouched blog, named for a Tori Amos lyric that I like to say to myself but only sometimes feels true for me now.

I decided that, based on my minor and relatively short experience, I might change the name to "Everybody Else's Boobs."  They certainly felt that way.