It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 81

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or anyone who lives within 10 miles of me. Or parents of my children's friends. Or people going to estate sales.



Today's topic: Krazy Boob




I try to have a Zen attitude about most things in life. Really, I do.


The problem is that I inherited my Dad's ability to be overly high strung about things, and there are times when I'm not mad, but people think I'm mad because I'm focused on getting something done and not screwing it up, because BELIEVE ME, I have great ability to screw things up.  I spend most days trying to anticipate which priceless piece of Wedgewood china I'm juggling is going to hit the ground and shatter.


When I get uptight, I try to think, "Hey, I'm not a victim of genital mutilation in Rwanda.  I don't have leprosy.  My children are not in prison at this time.  I remember my name and address.  I currently have my original teeth.  Wine and coffee have not yet been restricted from my diet."  This is my mental version of 'count your blessings' - things could always be worse, no?  That said, this week has been a little bit WTF.

My extremely awesome neighbor bought these for me. 

She also buys Gruet and invites me over.  I heart her.

First, it was the flags.  After that whole debacle, I drove to the high school on Wednesday over my half hour lunch to get the van with 87 freshly dried flags and take them back to the Optimists.  I pulled into the lot, and ....ohdearGod....the van was gone.  As I walked to the school office, I wondered about liability if the school cargo van was stolen on my watch.  It turns out the maintenance people at the school had another set of keys, and they moved it - WHEW - so I got in and drove it across town.  In my Jambu wedge shoes and prairie mini-dress.  I felt a little badass, I'm not gonna lie.

Second, I tore my boob.  On Wednesday, I got ready for work and noticed a little pain in Rightie, but didn't think much of it.  While talking to a co-worker, I noticed it hurt again, so when I got back to my desk, I stuck my hand down the front of said prairie dress and adjusted my cup, much like an MLB baseball player. (It should be noted here that I didn't spit.)  Suddenly, I'm convulsing in pain, because it turns out that Rightie had some fluid come out that hardened like Krazy Glue.  Remember the Krazy Glue commercial with the guy in the hardhat glued to the beam?

Well, the yellow hard hat is my boob and the beam is my bra.  And I sort of accidentally ripped it off.  So then there was bleeding.  And Band-Aids.  And I had a little secret in my bra all day while I walked around the office.  I know, male co-workers, that's pretty hot.  Bidding's over, CH won.


So I go to Book Club, my go-to panel of women on all life topics, and after we discussed 50 Shades of Grey and I found out that most of them have regular and spontaneous orgasms (What?  Broccoli is on sale?  OH GOOOODDDDD...) I brought up my boob, and they all stopped talking and two people said, "Call your doctor tomorrow."  And then everyone sort of awkwardly stood up and prepared to leave, and then whispered among themselves about who was going to start the casserole schedule for my family.  (I'm of course kidding, since I know some of you are reading this.  Remember, I'm an entertainer, not a historian.)


Instead of calling my doctor, I got on Web MD, which as anyone who does Web MD knows, it always drills down to cancer.  Of course, Web MD said, It's either Mastitis, OR, if you aren't nursing anyone, it's probably a rare cancer.  I still didn't call my doctor, I had a glass of pinot and then texted, FB'd and called my OB-GYN high school friend, Paige.  (I have been known to call her answering service semi-drunk and demand to know why she isn't at a party.  It's a miracle I haven't been blocked.)  Paige asked me questions only a doctor or someone who knew you before you got your period can, and we determined that I should see my doctor but it's probably just an infected duct.  But I'm still wearing a Band-Aid on my boob.  Now you know.  CH is one lucky bastard.


Third, my neighbor is having an Estate Sale starting today, and there is a strong possibility I'm going to hit someone with a shovel this weekend.  I love me a good estate sale, but some people like to see if they can actually drive their car through the estate sale, or pull up on lawns, or block driveways.  It's like someone is handing out free cigarettes in prison, or Justin Beiber is visiting middle school.  The crazy just oozes out of people.


BUT.  It's Friday.  I'm not a victim of genital mutilation in Rwanda.  I don't have leprosy.  My children are not in prison at this time.  I remember my name and address.  I currently have my original teeth.  Wine and coffee have not yet been restricted from my diet.  So honestly, it's all good.


Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!