It's Been a Tramautic Week

During the course of the past seven days, I have done the following:

- Thrown up in Erin's car;

- Had nightmares that a small man was sitting on my chest suffocating me;

- Nearly passed out when the nurse yanked the surgical tape off my brand new boobs, ripping the skin off in the process and causing blisters;

- Didn't poop for six days;

- Slept sitting up every night;

- Had an emotional breakdown when I took my first post-surgery shower (three days after surgery...I know. I'm gross) and saw my bruised, battered, and broken looking new boobs in the mirror. Crying and wailing continued when I tried to raise my arms to wash my hair for the first time;

- Had an emotional recovery when I bought my first cute new bra and rejoiced at the size.

And then... there was last night. I don't know if I can recount the details of the most horrific, traumatic, terrifying thing that's ever happened to me.

First I need to explain that for the past week (and for the next two weeks) my brand new boobs are wrapped in an ace bandage (otherwise they'd pop out the top of my turtleneck) and I have to wear a granny bra on top of that. It's quite the attractive combination.

Last night, due to the fact that I live in the desert, I was sleeping on top of my covers in my skivvies. And by skivvies, I'm referring of course to the sexy hot granny bra and ace bandage. I was thisclose to falling asleep when in my semi-sleep stupor, I felt something crawling on my hand.

I sat straight up in bed and flailed my hand before leaping up and turning on the lamp. If it was a fly, no big deal. But if it was the alternative...a spider...I had to have a visual, hone in on the target, and destroy it.

I spent several minutes scouring my bed and all surrounding areas, but didn't find whatever had been crawling on me. Which made me feel even more unsettled. If I could just see it and know what was there...

I finally convinced myself that it had only been a fly and went to turn the lamp off. When I looked down, I nearly fainted from fright. There, on my brand new boob, was a huge crusty spider. Right. On. My. Boob.

As you can imagine, I let out a manly wail and started to flail, except it was more of a panicked waving motion, as my boobs are so sore, I didn't dare touch them. Not only did the spider not fall off, but it proceeded to crawl across the ace bandage towards my brand new cleavage.

At this point, I started to cry and flail more violently, except this time I bent forward at the waist and did some kind of shimmy (which I'm sure was incredibly attractive and all sexy like) in an effort to stop the spider from reaching my actual skin. Which somehow incredibly shook the spider off my body to the floor, where I promptly grabbed a sneaker and bashed the living hell out of it, crying the whole time.

I'm amazed that my neighbors didn't come over to make sure I hadn't been raped and pillaged.

Then again, judging from the screams they heard, they probably thought I was a man.

Still Alive

I'm still alive, and almost four pounds heavier!

As I'm still coming out of my percocet-induced haze, I haven't been doing much except for laying around and having nightmares that someone is sitting on my chest trying to suffocate me.

And I owe a million thank-you's to all the people who have called, texted, and emailed to see how I'm doing. And especially to Erin and Nicole for their round-the-clock nursing duties. And also sorry to Erin for puking in her car.

"After" pictures to come as soon as my chest doesn't look like a battered wife anymore.

My Car Got Gang Banged

I looked out the office window today and was not at all surprised to see the latest stunt of three superintendents:And yes, I am one of "those people" who parks way far away from everyone else to avoid door dings, and now, gang bangs.

In Which I Become A Woman

"Dad, now that I'm twenty-six, and an adult, I've made the decision to get a boob job."

Blink. Blink.

My sixty-year-old father sat across from me last weekend and stared at me as if I'd just told him that I'd eloped with my twice-my-age boyfriend at the Little Chapel in the Woods at Graceland, and by the way, I'm having his love child and can we stay with you for awhile? Then he proceeded to unload on me all of his fatherly "wisdom"; and by "wisdom" I mean, "I'm your father and I know everything about everything and there is no way in hell I'm supportive of the fact that you're making a huge mistake that you'll regret for the rest of your life."

Suffice it to say, breaking my big news to my dad did not go well.

But for the rest of you, I hope that breaking my big news goes much better.That, my friends, is a preview of the "After" result of my boob job which is happening...IN ONE WEEK! Yes, really. And everyone is invited to a "Bon Voyage Bone Junior's Boobies" dinner this Saturday night.

So if I don't blog much for the next little bit, it's probably due to a combination of the following reasons:

- My stomach is in knots as the surgery gets closer;

- I'm working on a eulogy for my sad little boobies;

- I'm shopping for all my post-op necessities: a large bra, lots of water, crackers, Benadryl, Step Up 2: The Streets on DVD, and lots of Percocet;

- I'm recovering from the pure exhilaration of seeing the midnight showing of The Dark Knight this Thursday;

- I'm so freaking excited to finally get ginormous bazoombas.

Where Do These People Come From and How Do They Always Find Me?

You know what I don't understand? I don't understand why some people think its okay to go up to a stranger and just blurt out whatever they're thinking.

Like when I was waiting for my two-hours-delayed flight at the Philadelphia Airport on Monday, quietly enjoying a peanut butter cup blizzard thingy from TCBY, and an older black businessman comes right up to me and says, "You know you shouldn't be eating that."

Blink. Blink.

Bone Junior: Are you saying that I'm fat?

Businessman: Um, no, ahem, no no no, I'm just saying it's bad for you.

Bone Junior: (shoving another spoonful into my mouth) Right, well thanks for the heads up, but its frozen yogurt, so it's not that bad, and I'm going to keep eating it disirregardless of your opinion.

At this point, any normal person would take the hint that they've already crossed the line with me and would go away. Not this guy. He continued to stand there and tried to engage me in conversation to the point of calling me a Phoenician from ancient Mesopotamia because of my skin coloring. Other topics touched upon include Barack Obama, my nose, my birth order, my age, him asking me to guess his age, and his opinion that if he had lived during the times of slavery that he would have been an ideal candidate for breeding. Yes, really.

The conversation ended when he told me that he believed we were kindred spirits and that he could see it in my eyes.

Buh-bye.