The Mammogram

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I went to get my mammogram expecting the worst, since that is my nature, but it wasn’t that bad. First, I got to wait for around forty minutes, so I read a New Yorker profile of Mort Zuckerman. He is a bigshot who owns some newspapers and dates powerful women. He seems like a dick.

I went into a room for x-rays, and chatted with the radiologist while she adjusted my torso into impossible positions. She was a nice black woman with a slight British accent, named Ruby. She loved my handbag. She reported that she loves Vivienne Westwood’s fragrance, Boudoir, which comes in a really cool bottle. It has been discontinued, so she isn’t happy. I recommended Flowerbomb, by Victor & Rolf.

Ruby didn’t seem to like the x-rays she took. My right boob looked different from how it looked on the x-rays I brought with me, which turned out to be from 2003. Where were the ones from 2005? I will never know, since the bitch who took them won’t admit to having them.

Ruby took more x-rays, and she wasn’t thrilled with them, either. She told me to go into another room, to wait for an ultrasound test. There, I called my husband, to cancel our lunch date. I enjoyed getting to sound stoic on the phone, since I wasn’t really worried. I am perfectly used to bad news, by now.

The ultra-sound lady was a brisk little Chinese person with long black hair. I could tell she was overworked that day, but she still took her time. She didn’t like what she was seeing. I asked her if it was anything weird, and she said it was probably ‘just tissue.’ I was not reassured. She was really concentrating on the screen and typing on a keyboard.

She finally told me to wait on the table, while she went to consult with someone. She returned with a doctor, who looked at the screen and said, “Yeah, I see what you mean. I agree.” She told me not to worry, it was ‘just tissue.’ I made her repeat this a few times and she ran off after telling me to come back in six months.

I thanked the Chinese lady and she told me her name was Fuchsia. Wow. I exclaimed how much I loved the name, and told her about a fantastic book whose unforgettable heroine was called Fuchsia.

I waited by the elevator, where several medical-type women praised my big handbag. Walking to my car, I contemplated the odds of meeting Ruby and Fuchsia in the same office. All they needed was a Scarlett for the complete spectrum of Redness.

In summation, my boobs are good for right now, but who knows. I plan to buy many more large high-end handbags with my time left on this earth, but never anything obvious and stupid like a Louis Vuitton. That is my pledge and my legacy.

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3 Responses to The Mammogram

  1. Nicole says:

    What a terrible experience. I hope everything is alright in 6mths…

    At least you have a BEAUTIFUL handbag. I’ve got bag envy now.

    Titus and Fuschsia. After reading the triology I suggested the name Fuschasia to the man but he didn’t like it. I think it’s lovely too!

  2. Sister Wolf says:

    Godamm him! Maybe if he read the book, he would warm to the name. How could he not love her??

  3. Mark says:

    Speaking of luck and handbags, once, when I was in Lima with my friends Elaine and Matt, a crazy old woman hit Elaine with her (the old woman’s) handbag for no reason. I decided then that getting hit by a stranger’s handbag is good luck. For the rest of the trip Matt and I tried to provoke women with handbags into hitting us with them. We never succeeded, and guess what: Matt and I got some sort of vile third-world vomit-diarrhea-fever sickness and Elaine didn’t! Why? Because the old woman hit HER with her handbag, not us!

    The good thing was that the sickness caused me to lose eight pounds in two days.

    Also good luck: touching midgets, seeing nuns outside the church. A midget nun skateboarding into you and clobbering you with her handbag would just about guarantee that you win the lottery.

    Bad luck: Fred Segal, and throwing away the plastic widgets that keep bread bags closed.

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