The Focaccia Bread – Boob Test.

Faint hearted readers refrain.

After my Mammo last week, I have decided to invent a machine — The penis-o-gram. O! Ye women – who have suffered this not so subtle torture, we shall lead a victory dance to all male toilets, grab them and make them go through this very vital test! C’mon – we are as concerned with the health of their precious gems as they are of ours. Right?

Bloody holy hell! Only a man could have invented this mechanism of torment! Some chap called Andre Willemin. I read up on his history – life and death. He was served justice! He died of a severely decapitated and crushed penis injuries!

Have you seen a Focaccia bread?? That’s what they do to your boobs!

Sonography in itself is torturous. A full – and by full I mean bloody full bladder is needed. Then they strip you waist down, and apply cold gel all over your uterus! That doesn’t really help the urgent need to pee! Then they press a mouse like machine all over your uterus, but what they are actually doing is punching your bladder. Slowly, deliberately they press those very points, which can embarrass you right there and then! They keep punching keys in the machine and peering at it. As it is – its a test to check the health of your very precious baby producer – and you are just a wee bit nervous. And then there is the completely beaten up bladder, which you are controlling with military discipline, and on top of all this the technician hems and haws over the computer. One starts with wanting a woman to do such precarious job for you, but after a while you cannot be bothered. A dinosaur could be peering up your uterus it doesn’t matter. All that is in the site of your vision is a commode and some toilet paper!

One step further – no many many miles further is the Mammogram. Wrong word actually. Nothing mammo is left after the gram! All those mammary glands, made to feed the babies, are destroyed. Crushed! Hopelessly annihilated.

Obviously you are striped down, and asked to wear a smelly dirty hospital gown. (They can keep saying it is washed – it could be – but when? – is the question!) After this one looses all semblance of dignity!

One boob is lifted up and placed on a machine. You could be 7 feet tall, but the machine will always be a few inches higher than you – you have to stand on tip toes. Subtle torture has begun!

The poor unsuspecting, ill fated, boob is then placed on a shelf like thingy. The woman does thousands of adjustments. She cops a few good feels! Your hands are practically placed and stretched at angles and distances, you did not know you could manage. At that point you feel you have mastered Iyengar Yoga! After the stretching and pulling, she commands “stay still”, and slams another lever on top of your boobs – and victoriously turns the screws of yet another lever – till you have FOCACCIA Bread Boobs.

“Don’t move” she says again. Oh! but you want to! You want to pull your super stretched, immobile hand and slam her face with all your strength. You want to yell and curse!

And repeat with the second one. By now the second one knows its fate and completely shrinks. “Wow!” says the technician. I get to throw this one around a little more!

Once you are let off the machine, run. Barefeet, bare breasted but run!

I’m inventing that machine ladies. All technical minds are welcome. Women who know martial arts are required too.

I have already been funded – by all the women whom I instigated to do this test! Please know I just followed the Doctor’s orders. This suggestion was made before I went through it myself. I apologize!

 

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Periods is a Man!

This is a dialogue between a woman (me) and her periods. The period is a man.

Well – of course he is!! Would a woman invent such a thing, and then put another of her brethren through this kind of bullshit, over and over again? Month after “bloody” month?

THE PERIOD IS A MAN:

Personality – Agressive, Brash, Unpredictable, Impulsive, Impetuous, Rash, Hasty and Downright Inconsiderate.

Characteristics – Mischievous, Badly behaved, Irksome, Nocuous, Sly, Exasperating, and an Unholy Terror.

Period, in this dialogue will henceforth be known as P. P as in Pain in the butt. (or stomach, or vagina, or boobs!)

I (and the thousands other fellow sufferers) will be known as MW – Miserable Woman.

The door bell rings. MW is expecting no one, so she is surprised. And then shocked –  to see, P standing there.

MW: Whaaaa? You were supposed to arrive a few days later?

And MW tries to close the door on P. But once P arrives, P has to come in, and remain as a damned unwanted guest in your house for the next few horrible days. Nothing can stop P from taking residence whenever he so pleases.

P is comfortably snuggled in the sofa, and MW is having a crying fit.

P: Why are you crying?

MW: (Between heartbreaking sobs) I wanted to go swimming with my husband this evening. Now you have ruined it. And the husband will finally give up on me, eye that hot blonde (fake one) in the pool, loose interest in me, and when I have gone to the loo, (thanks to you – asshole), he will take her number and get in touch. And then have an affair. Oh! God ! What if he leaves me for her?? I don’t think he will – but …

At this point P has sighed 80 times, rolled his eyes 100 times and now looks like he is ready to turn around and sleep -(remember he is a man!) The only way he can stop this is by throwing a cramp at MW.

MW stops mid triad and collapse into an uncomfortable mind numbing painful ache. More sobbing ensues.

Tired, exasperated MW goes through the chores of the day, with a hungover look on her face.

Just a few days before P made his appearance her breasts were feeling like rocks, and each time one of the kids hugged her, she felt they were mountain climbing on her.

Her body was bloated, stomach heavy, and hunger pangs at their meanest best. Chocolates were gobbled up and immediately after they were swallowed, guilt would strike. And with that – out would come the sarcastic mean bitch living inside MW. The one who made an appearance once a month without fail. Like a ghost with an agenda.

Once P arrived (ill timed as always) the bloating disappeared. All that remained was the mean bitch.

But next day MW is feeling remarkably better. The world looks like a happy place. Till she went to the loo! All hell broke loose then! Figuratively speaking!

P: Well hi! Good morning!

MW: Good morning my ass! (Gutter mouth is a side effect of P’s arrival!)

P: Now is that any way to greet a friend who makes it a point to visit you every month? I mean who could be more faithful?

MW: You are never welcome, you know! I hate you.

P: Not true. Remember the other day, when I arrived on time, but you thought I was 3 days late? (naughty girl!) You welcomed me like I was that puppy you always wanted? And you sent up fervent prayers of thanks to the MAN that made me?

MW: (Sheepishly agrees) True. And I will remain ever grateful to your arrivals. But why are you so ill timed? And why such grand entrances. That once, three months ago was so embarrassing. Why can you not give me a warning?

P: Darling – I do! Sometimes you are too busy to see it!

MW: (Thinking — Yeah ! True! Why do I forget that! Empty mind and all that ..)

MW: When do you think you will leave forever? Huh? I have had you visiting me since I was 12. Don’t you think you need to diversify and move on? I have been feeling you getting milder, your arrivals more inconsistent for a while now. But the problems associated with you will never fade. I don’t know how much longer I can handle you!

P: Darling – (MW hates being called that by P, and P knows it) I’m not going anywhere in the longest! You will have an ultra dry vagina, a mean streak which will hit record levels, even for you…

MW is now abusing copiously.

P:(Continues, least concerned about gutter mouth) Missed dates which will give you high BP, food cravings, the smell of which will make you fat, grey hair, dry itchy skin, and mild alcoholism!

MW: (The last few words, put a sudden 100 watt smile on MW’s face) Now that perks me up. You fuck with me as much as you like P. I know how to deal with you.

MW went to her bar. Poured her self a chilled crisp glass of wine, started a chick flick – and in the back ground P faded away, till he could not be felt anymore.