Bad News, Good News, Bad News

Bad News: Apparently, I’ve been suffering from a mild case of chicken pox
Good News: The spots seem to be going away
Bad News: But I’ve a nasty, deep cough and have been feeling terribly weak. I fear pneumonia, which I’m prone to, unfortunately. Since babyhood, I’ve been blessed to receive pneumonia at least once every four or five years, and chicken pox can lead to pneumonia, especially in very young children and adults. It’s been a little over four years since my last bout.

Bad News: After my shower yesterday, I walked into the kitchen wearing only a small T-shirt and thong, which I don’t usually do -- I’ve four kids, most of whom invite friends in to play while I’m showering, and my youngest is a very curious boy, and I wouldn’t want to scar neither them nor the neighborhood children in any way -- but I was in a hurry to start dinner preparations (homemade baked macaroni and cheese takes forever if done right) and didn’t feel like putting pants on over my still-lotion-y legs. So, of course, the boy happened to be in the kitchen at that moment.

He looked at my butt and said “Mommy, why are you naked?”

And I go, “I’m not honey. I’m wearing underwear.”

He moved around to inspect the front. “But, Mommy, they’re too small for you.”

“No, darling, I’m wearing a thong -- lots of ladies like to wear thongs because they make pants look better.”

His eyebrows furrowed as he took one more peek around the back and said, “Weeeeelllll, okaaaayyy. But you do have a big butt.”
Good News: My butt isn’t all that big.
Bad News: I’ve probably scarred my boy for life.

Bad News: My sister-in-law harangued me into going for my first ever mammogram, then made the appointment for me, the bitch.
Good News: I’m going for my first ever mammogram.
Bad News: Come June 5th, my sister-in-law and I will be sitting nervously together while wearing paper shirts and stupid fake smiles as we await the smashing plates of doom. I don’t relish the thought of having my boobicles turned into phyllo dough, really I don’t. I’m terrified that after the mammogram, I’ll be left with two crispy-crinkly Greek pastries hanging from my chest. If such is the case, you can bet that while my husband is sleeping, his testicles will be shaved and colored neon green with indelible marker. It’s only fair.