It's been a whirlwind day.
I'm so excited, I can barely stand it.
This morning, we went for credit counselling to try to get a handle on some debt we accumulated while running our business (into the ground) a few years back. Our journey took us into deepest, darkest Vanier (I actually saw a sign that said: 'Welcome to Las Vanier'. I fully expected to see either the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson or Marlon Brando.)
Unlike the people you visit when declaring personal bankruptcy, who are all bubbly and sweet, the credit counsellor was dour, inscrutible even. But by the end of the session, we had him rolling in the aisles laughing about the $600 Shyla racked up on our Rogers bill for "ringtones" and our quest for boarders who don't put down "no fixed address" as their previous location.
He commiserated about the doggie debt of $3,000 we owe to our 26-year-old and told us his own tale about nearly being put into debtor's prison himself by the Alta Vista Animal Hospital last Sunday.
How we cried about that one.
My next adventure means dodging ORNGE helicopters and ambulances over at the Civic.
Don't you hate the Civic?
It's full of sick people.
I'm going breasting this afternoon at the Women's Breast Centre. Last week they called to say I needed an ultrasound on my left breast which is full of weeds and zebra mussels, so dense they couldn't see anything without the benefit of night goggles.
So that's coming up in a couple of hours.
I don't mind these tests. I mean, an ultrasound. Whoo-hoo! That's more action than that left breast has seen in half a decade!
I have no time to worry about breast cancer. If I have it, they'll take it out. Or zap it with Flash Gordon lasers. Or make me throw up a lot.
Not hoping for the last thing, although I've had years of training at the press club.
Either way -- negatively or positively speaking -- the boobs are going.
I'm tired of carrying around the weight of a small child on my chest.
I'm also hoping by next year my BMI will be in the normal range.
While I have you on this subject, I want to admit something to you. I've been trying to prove that these boobs are at least the size of ten pin bowling balls, so I found directions on the Internet to weigh the damn things. You need a baking sheet, a bowl and a proper scale. Simply weigh the scale along with the bowl full of water, then immerse the boob in it and measure the displaced water.
I'm going to give you the benefit of my experience.
It doesn't work.
The baking sheet doesn't weigh enough to even register on my bathroom scale and it's too heavy to measure on the kitchen scale. Needless to say, all I ended up with was a soggy tit and water all over the floor. Though the dog did manage to put his head in it (and it weighs five pounds!)
I'm going to ask the nice people at the Civic how much they weigh.
I'll keep you posted.
Wish me happy breasting everyone!