We All Scream for Ice Cream
I love that when I write an opinionated, totally bitchy entry – you people are with me. Encouraging me. (You are naughty little monkeys, aren’t you.)
I love that when I wrote about my lymphedema, longtime reader Fran commented, telling me to quit being a cry baby. Seriously. I love that. From Fran. Because, really? Fran had lymphedema in her fucking neck! This is called perspective, people. And I appreciate that Fran is not afraid of me and will tell me to snap out of it. And that Fran, even though I’ve never met her, knows what she can say to me. I heart you Fran.
And I heart you, too, Pattypat. Your comment made me feel alot better. Thank you. A thousand times over.
This is why I blog.
Lymphedema can be part of the package that comes along with cancer. It’s like a Happy Fucking Meal. You get fries with your breast removal whether you want them or not. I’ll be fine. My arm will swell until I can no longer fit through the door (I’m just sure of it!) and then the lymphedema doctor will make sure I get it fixed. Or I’ll chew my own damn arm off.
I just got home from being taken out for ice cream by Floweer.
Only our ice cream looked like this:
We went to Applebees and had ourselves their Perfect Margarita. I don’t know why they put an olive in it. Floweer didn’t know either. But I don’t think Floweer knows very much about booze, in general. So it’s not like I was expecting her to have the answer to that one.
The Big Nugget and I had just been sitting around, watching a streamed Netflix movie (we just got streamed Netflix today) when the doorbell rang – and there was my little Floweer. Checking to see if I needed “ice cream”.
What kind of a question is that? Doesn’t everybody? Well, except for the lactose intolerant.
After “ice cream” Floweer forced me to be her coupon caddy at the grocery store. She also showed me the obsessive-compulsive side of her that I wasn’t aware of. Parking in a certain spot (we could have been still circling the almost empty parking lot had someone been in her spot), walking in the farthest/furthest door, even though we were parked within spitting distance of the nearest/nurest door.
I will have you know that I informed her that I’d be blogging about that little bit of Monk-like behavior. She told me to wait until tomorrow. I said “sure”. And then I blogged about her tonight. That’s how I roll.
But seriously – Floweer? That was the best thing you did tonight. Popping on over and getting me out of the house. What a wonderful surprise. I’ll be your coupon caddy any day! Especially if you drive me around in your red VW Bug!