“Wow. You have the cleanest ceiling ever,” I said, as a my large breast was smashed like a pancake in the booby machine.
The nurse was taken aback.
[I am making polite conversation, lady. Hello? Work with me, okay?]
“Um… yes, I guess we have cleaners,” she said laughing.
“And they clean the ceiling?! That’s impressive,” I said. And I wasn’t even faking the “impressed part.”
All cleaning impresses me – as long as I don’t have to do it.
“Yeah, I used to clean my ceilings until I started working again. I have 3 kids,” she said, as if she needed to explain herself.
She is re-adjusting my massive tata for the side x-ray now. When the booby machine clamps downward on the breast from the top, it is weird.
When it clamps inward to take the side x-ray, that shit hurts.
“So let me get this straight, you clean your ceiling? Really?” I said, with the appropriate amount of shock and admiration.
“Yes, twice a year. I mean I used to,” again, justifying her behavior.
Six years ago, my cheaper-than-cheap ass brought new windows for my dining room because it was freezing in the winter. The sales guy was so excited to explain the best function of the double-hung windows.
“Wait until you see this!,” he said, completely primed to ejaculate any second – he was so happy. And he pushed in two levers so the bottom half of the window opened inward. “Now, you can clean the outside of the window while you are inside your house!”
[Insert orgasm here. His, not mine.]
Of course, I looked at him like he was explaining quantum physics to me.
“People clean the windows on the outside.” I said legitimately confused. “ Why? That is what the rain is for and dirt is supposed to be outside. That is where it lives.”
He thought that was super funny. [Yes, me and my super funny vagina making the salesman laugh again. How do we do it? Next, we will juggle and do Kegel exercises simultaneously. Behold!]
Once I got up early on a Saturday [I know. Right? It was a miracle. Pigs also flew. And Lindsay didn’t hit anyone with her car. It was a magical day.] My neighbor, Bobby, was on his roof with a broom-y thing and buckets of cleaning stuff.
Bobby was really focused on the scrubby broom. [Dude, YOU. ARE. GONNA. DIE!]
Of course, I said, “So whatcha doin’?” [because I am nosey.]
He replied matter-of-factly, “Cleaning the roof.”
[Really?! I guess I should of asked why? Because if he falls to his death, it will be a huge problem for me. Duh. Who will clean up dead things in my backyard place. Me? Everyone knows I am not emotionally-equipped to maintain my home alone. Dude, focus on living, focus on my needs. Helloooo… ]
Note to self: If you ever sell this house, do not buy another one. Get an apartment and shut up.
Now, that I think of it – all of the house exterior chores are out of bounds. I can barely keep up with the inside.
Anyway, I don’t do anything that requires my feet to be more than 2 feet off the ground. It’s unnatural.
Which leads to my next point…
Cleaning the ceiling. Who even knew that was thing?
I don’t do ladders. Ladders are for other people
who like to die a stupid death. I can’t even wrap my brain around accomplishing this task without a Xanax.
Or some wine.
A barrel of it.
I wish the nurse didn’t feel she needed to sound apologetic to a complete stranger about not cleaning the stupid ceiling.
Which is yet another reason I shouldn’t procreate.
If I jettison a person out of my sweet honeypot, that will be the last task I ever complete.
That includes cleaning.
My house would be shithole.
‘Cause my honeypot [vagina, vajayjay, Her Royal Highness] would need 25 years to recuperate, massive amounts of pampering, and a car, maid and butler.
And if I had 3 kids?!
I would probably stab anyone who said the word Pine Sol in a 3-mile radius.
Then, I would go to jail.
And jail is not cute.
I keep looking around the big office as one of my mammoth tatas is being squished in the booby machine and the other pendulous tata just hangs there. It is the cleanest place on earth I determine and it smells like a potpourri factory exploded.
Which is very relaxing, for some reason. If my boob weren’t being held hostage, I might want to curl up in a big topless ball and nap.
Like my cats who literally fall asleep while they are walking.
But I am a little distracted by the truckloads of parting gifts.
They are everywhere.
Glass containers lined up on the window sill like soldiers with pink nail polish and hats and combs and brushes. You name it.
It’s like a Booby Game Show with lots of pink prizes.
Usually I would consider backing up a U-Haul and loading up on the free stuff. [Yes, I am tacky like that.]
When all is said and done, I just take one pink nail polish.
I figure a clean bill of health is all I really want.
And that’s exactly what a got. Cancer-free boobies.
That is the best kind of clean.
I mean really.
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