Rain.. rain...

So, a funny story to start out this evening's entry.

A couple of months ago, hubby, daughter and I were walking in the rain. Passed a group of children, all singing "Rain, rain, go away. Come again some other day" over and over and over. My daughter asked hubby what they were doing. His answer : "Devil worshipping".

Now, I know that some readers will be offended.  I, however, completely cracked up, as did my daughter.

The kids voices were something out of a Stephen King movie. All creepily singsongy, as if they were a small army of zombie grade schoolers looking for brains to eat. Only, they can't eat brains in the rain.

Whew. It's been raining a lot, and I review that moment in my head. A lot.

How are my boobs, you ask? Well, I haven't spoken to any docs since the death-call.  What's the point? I'm not reaching out, I know it's bad news. I have an appointment with my oncologist on Tuesday, along with lab work. Lab Work. It sounds like a part time job, or a sweet internship to further my career. Nope. It's a fucking needle, poking my one good arm, looking for some sweet, cancerous blood to tell me that I am a step closer to dying. At least they have good coffee at the Cancer Center. You'd think they could throw a little Bailey's or Schmailey's in the cup for good measure. I mean, I AM dying with cancer running around in my body, no matter how they mutilate, burn and poison me. I could use a shot of something before having a talk with the Oncologist about my impending doom.

Don't think I haven't asked for it.

... Rain, rain, go away...

for real. Though we don't have to water our garden this year. Pretty convenient. I'm hoping to have a moment of sun so we can see if there are any more amazing tomatoes to pluck.

We ordered from Fresh Direct for the first time in a long time. Over a year. They had a sale on lobsters, and who the heck could pass that up? Regardless of their lame-ass past, we ordered. 6-8. What time did they show up? 8:45. I called and they issued a credit. I asked the lady how the hell I would keep my live lobsters for tomorrow, because it was too damned late to cook them tonight. She offered me the credit (and I had already looked up how to keep them in awesome lobster-dom overnight).  Then I unpack the boxes to find a green instead of red cabbage. Yeah, I got a credit on that too, but for real - can't they get their shit straight? I guess we'll be ordering from them once more since we have this credit now... but boy, they just can't get their shit straight.

Oh well. I'm bloated... Tamoxibloat. I assume. Either I'm getting my period, or my uterus is protesting the blocked estrogen, or my uterus is about to fall out of my body because it doesn't want to get cancer, either, and would rather rot on it's own, outside of me. Any way you slice it, well, I think it's mad at something. I wonder if I'll keep getting my period. It's been somewhat of a joke of late, though I'd rather have it than not at my age. It sounds luxurious to not get it, until you realize that you are not that fucking old to not get your period. Pretty soon I'll be shaking a cane at the kids in the street, telling them to pull up their pants and ask where their parents are. And to get off my lawn. Even though I'm a city dweller. Because that's what the stereotype of old people do. Old people that no longer menstruate.

My app (yes, I have an app for my cycle) says I'm just about due. Oooh, the suspense is killing me... no, wait. That's just the cancer.