My Brother Has a Breast Infection

I call my brother Lumpy.

The nickname hasn't been with him long, but, well...it's growing on him. Actually, up to yesterday it was growing pretty rapidly. Thankfully, he got pills just in time. Had he not, I might have had to take him to the Semi Annual Sale at Victoria's Secret. But, I get ahead of myself.

Early this week, as I was enjoying my nightly date with Alex Trebek, my brother came up behind me and said, in a husky voice,

"Hey...feel my nipple..."

What are, words you do not want to hear coming out of a relative's mouth? I'll take Osmond-esque Situations for 1000, Alex.

After a second of shock, I turned around and realized what my brother was talking about. In the most medical of terms, his areola seemed droopy and discolored and there was a large, dense mass developing above it. Basically, his boob looked funny.

Giggling, poking and prodding aside, I concurred with him on the most logical answer: breast cancer.

Oh, stop your snickering...the great American icon Kenny Rogers suffered from mammary abnormalities as well.

Mom, in all her wisdom, wanted a second opinion, so she called the family doctor. Prescription: an appointment the next day.

The next day work seemed to pass like cheese through a constipated digestive tract...I couldn't wait to find out the diagnosis! Finally, after an hour long car ride home, it was time to find out the news.

Mastitis.

Oh my gosh, that sounds serious! Oh no, my brother is going to die! Don't worry, I'll make some silicone bracelets with messages on them for you...what do you want them to say?

Settle down...it just means he has a breast infection. You know, I don't know what he's complaining about...I had one of those right after I had your brother. Try having a kid sucking and biting at your infection and then come talk to me.

Wow mom, thanks...I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.

But, hooray! My brother is going to live! His nipples are on their way back to normal and soon he will be Lumpy no more.

Wonder what happened to Kenny Rogers?

Erinny Flynnckit's Series of Random Events: Part One

I do not have a job. I believe we have established this fact before, but it is something my parents delight in reminding me every hour on the hour; I don't even have a clock in my room because I know that I will be getting the call promptly at 7am, "What are you doing still sleeping...stop being so lazy and get a job!" Anyway, to help with the job search I decided to make a road trip down to good old Elon University to get some help finishing up my resume reel. And, as a bonus, it gets me out of the house...ding ding ding!

First stop: Ohio University First random event: Anthropology Exam

Myself having been graduated for nearly two weeks, I found it very hard to believe that there were other people still in school. However, the Bobcats down at Ohio University were just approaching exam weekend, which meant studying was in order for the friends that I was visiting. That, however, would get in the way of the uptown bar crawl we had planned for the evening, so I made a little deal with Sally.

Fact 1: She had not attended an anthropology class in over a month.

Fact 2: Her exam was scheduled for 8am the following day.

Fact 3: Uptown bar hops = a late night.

Solution: I will attend the exam with Sally for moral support...and take it for fun just so I have an interesting story.

When the alarm went off at 7:20 a.m., I was rethinking my negotiations. But, I made a promise to Sally and doggonit I was going to stick with it. So, I rolled out of bed and pulled on my best gym shorts and t-shirt and Sally packed up some of the notes she stayed up studying in the living room. Then we headed to campus.

We tramped groggily up the bustling stairs of the Sociology building, rounding the corner and heading into the classroom...all unfamiliar territory for me. Although, since Sally hadn't been to a class since April the situation was pretty much the same for her. We picked some nice comfortable seats in the second row of the auditorium and waited for our professor to arrive.

Oh, wait! I don't have a pencil! How am I supposed to take my exam without a writing utensil? Ah, I will ask one of my classmates. First try: no luck with the curly haired Slipknot fan behind me. Thank goodness for the shaggy guy in the baseball hat...and a really high quality mechanical pencil at that!

Then the professor walks into the classroom, stacks of exams in hand. He is 170 pounds of pure Asian pleasure with an accent to match. His self-proclaimed Changlish was surprisingly discernable...

"Prease to take one test and pass down row. Pink is version A, Brue is version B. Just fiwl in name, rast fo digits of sociar security, and which version. You have question, you ask me. First one done gets comprimentary Miso soup."

Ok...I'm exaggerating. But he was Asian. I swear.

Now, as much as I feel like a rebble taking this exam as an illegal anthropology alien, my conservative voice kicks in and I realize I should not put my real name on the exam. But what name to make up? It can't be a common one; what if I somehow pick the exact same name as someone in the class and my grade goes in their slot? But what if it is too unbelieveable and he stops me before I leave the room after reading it? And, of course, the most important consideration, what if it's not an entertaining enough name to keep you, my blog reader's, attention? So I settle on what I feel is a very appropriate, believeable, respectable name: Dawn Keeballs. Say it quickly and you're understand it ;-)

So, after flying through the anthropology exam (the pink version), I...er, Dawn...make my way to the front of the room and slyly drop it on the top of the pile, avoiding eye contact with Mr. Miagi at all costs.

Keeballs out!

Wait a minute...you forgot to give me my soup!!!

You Know I Don't Like White Shirts

I spotted the real Napoleon Dynamite yesterday in T.J. Maxx. It's true. I know what you're thinking. We're a long way from Boise, Kip. But I promise, it was the real deal. Let me tell you the story and you can see for yourself.

So I had wandered away from my mother who was diligently searching the junk shelves in the back for something that didn't have fruit painted on it or a weird African tribal mask jeering about. I can never find any clothes for myself in the crowded aisles, so I decided to try to find the perfect Hawaiian shirt for my dad. As I rounded the corner I could hear someone talking on their cell phone in a husky, Napoleon-esque tone. Curious, I listened to what he was saying:

I can't decide whether to get a medium or a large. What size do I normally wear?

Sounds like a fairly normal request. Then I see who is speaking. An awkward, gangly man, probably about 27, with thick, plastic rimmed glasses, protruding lips, bad courduroy pants and a tight vintage shirt. SCORE! I kept eavesdropping as I admired some polo shirts hanging on the back wall:

I think I'm gonna go with the medium...No...I'll call you later...Okay, bye Mom.

Did he just say Mom? Jackpot! Uncle Rico must have gone back to the desert. I tried to contain my excitement as I skipped over to my mom who was checking out bathing suit cover-ups. Yes, it's that time of year folks. After perusing the store for a few more minutes, we decide on a few polos for my brothers and head to the line to check out. And who is in front of us? That's right. Napoleon! He's buying his new shirt. Oh...wait...what's this? He's pulling out his cell phone again! Could this day get any better? Oh yes, my friend, it can! As he steps to the side of the line, admiring the clearance bin at the end of the register, this is what unfolds:

Hey Mom. Are you guys still looking for a barbecue set? Because I'm at T.J. Maxx and there's this really sweet one and it's on sale.

Time out! Is this the same mom he just called from the same store? Ah, but the saga continues.

Oh, okay...Yeah I'm gonna get this shirt. Except, it's mostly white, and you know I don't like white shirts. But it's Le Tigre. It's pretty cool...Yeah, I know, I'm getting it, gosh!...Okay, I'll call you later. Mom, I'll call you later! I gotta go, I'm checking out...Okay, bye.

At this point, my cheeks hurt from clenching them to keep from bursting into laughter. My mom, seeing that I am about to be very rude and inappropriate, tells me to go outside before I do anything. I proceed to walk out of the door and call my brother and tell him about my luck, half laughing to myself because I just bought him the same mostly white shirt. But it's Le Tigre!

First Entry

There is a lot of pressure in starting a blog (at least I think so, and that's what we're going to go with since it's MY blog and I call the shots), and I'm not sure how to start it out. The first post sets the precedent for all posts to follow. It shows you what this whole page is going to be about and will probably be the deciding factor in whether or not you continue following my thoughts in cyber space or you move on to the next recent college graduate's page who is trying keep their idle hands busy while she waits anxiously for a job call back or something to get her nagging parents off her back. But if you're looking for the profound, you're not going to get it in this post. I'm too tired and too full on sushi and Saporo to write anything worth reading. Sorry to disappoint...but hey, it sets the bar low for future posts!