2015 is gone.

Yes, 2015 is going and with it, earlier in the month of December, Carolyn.  It made my brain hurt to try to process that I won't see her posting anything on her blog now, or pictures of her beloved family that she loved and adored so much.  It made my heart hurt to know I won't see those things from her, it made my heart hurt to know that there are people in the world who value money over her life and the countless lives of others who have cancer that goes mets by not putting money into research to help people like Carolyn.

Good bye, 2015.  

Hello, 2016.  I hope you're far better and more improved in every way possible than what 2015 was.

I suppose we'll have to wait and see.

It finally happened.

One of my Cancer Bitches with mets has gone to hospice.

While sitting here crying, I tried to thank her for her kindness and friendship to me.  I'm afraid my attempt was very inept, though.

Carolyn,

Cancer hasn't won. You know why? Because I when met you and The Cancer Curmudgeon, you were both the only two women who didn't try to spew fake garbage at me and make me feel even worse about the train wreck cancer threw into my life that still hasn't left. Of all the people I tried to reach out to years ago, you and The Cancer Curmudgeon were the only two who accepted me where I was, how I felt and let me know it was okay to be where I was when I was there. That is why cancer hasn't won. You two were my original cancer bitches before there were cancer bitches because you were both willing to stick to saying it sucked and not be fake about the shit that cancer is. You gave me acceptance, and in turn, I hope to give that to others and because of that, I want to say thank you. You and Cancer Curmudgeon taught me that it's okay to reach out and someone will eventually be there, it's just a matter of finding the correct person who will understand unconditionally; I want to be able to give that to others. Thank you for your kindness to me. It means more to me than you will ever know because there's not really a way to express it adequately and for that, I am sorry.

Even though we never met in real life, I am and always will be proud to speak of your kindness to me. You have my deepest gratitude and appreciation. (And thank you, Julie.)(Julie is the person who will hopefully convey my sentiments to Carolyn.)

Much love and many hugs.

Me

Bet you thought I deserted the blog.

But guess what?  I didn't.  I happened to not be able to find my password.  Why?  Because my brain is Swiss cheese now, thanks to the year of chemo poison.

I figured out what to do.  I made a document with my passwords so this doesn't happen again because I know you people were wondering where the hell I was.

Here I am.

Flirting with the Dark--

Because it's not Halloween, I thought I'd do a post that's Halloween related just for giggles.

Are You Flirting with the Dark; Or, Are You A Closet Rebel?

Vampires.

We all know what they are on the surface.

But come a little closer and let’s delve a little deeper.  Step behind the dark veil and embrace the thoughts in the back of your mind.  You know, the ones which some people rarely indulge.

Vampires are a safe plaything, if you will.  They allow just about anyone to take a walk on the dark side or flirt with it, even if only for an hour or two via a book, tv series, or movie.

What do vampires represent?  Coming out into the darkness.  Pure, hot lust.  Need.

Who doesn't have needs?  

When I look at a vampires, I don't see something creepy-scary- must-go-stabbity-with-a-big-sharp-piece-of-wood creature in a Buffy kind of way.  I see pure, primal need and I think on some level, that sort of thing appeals to people, otherwise the stories, the books, the tv shows and movies wouldn't continue.  (Supernatural, True Blood, Underworld, Steve Barton’s Graf Von Krolock from Dance of the Vampires, anyone?)

In a way, it is darkness versus light.  Most people want to believe they are safe in the light, be it figurative or literal.  They want to believe they can watch such things as vampires in a movie or read about them in a story and then when it's over, it's over.  They can put it away or walk away from it and that makes them safe, back in the light, so to speak.  But I think that level of participation by either reading or watching lets them connect with the things a vampire represents—the darkness, the lust, the need.  (And it doesn’t even have to be October 31st for that to happen.)

It's something they can't or won't further acknowledge within themselves, so they loosely connect through the media which they’ve chosen and then they can safely walk away from it, having had a very safe flirt with the dark.


And then I think for some, that lingers, making them a closet rebel because deep inside, even just a little, they sometimes wish to either be that vampire or be the one to sate that need.

Zomato, zomato and multiple linkage.

Apparently, the Urban Spoon site is no longer the Urban Spoon site and is now Zomato. We'll see how this goes with the food review thing I have going on there.  JS

My friend, Beth over at The Cult of Perfect Motherhood, posted something which I believe you, the readers, should take a look at.  It's about why she hates the pink ribbon culture and it's a damn good read.

Living With Cancer:  Collateral Damage by Susan Gubar is also an excellent read.  She talks about even though treatment may end, side effects don't always end and many are impairing.  Personally, I can cite the fucking lymphedema that flares up on occasion and makes things difficult for me and yet for many others, it's absolute fucking torture they have to live with day in and day out because it's not curable and it's not controllable for them.

I don't know how on earth I've missed Shittytittiebangbang, but I did.  Now that I've found her, I wanted to share with you all.

A molecular biologist explains how THC completely kills cancer, so maybe we'll eventually see what comes of that, like maybe more studies and it can finally be offered as a valid option in the treatment of cancer and other vile illnesses that wreck people's lives, bodies, and health.

And in other important linkage I'm sharing today, The Realm of Caring is rocking the news and education related to cannabis in the healthcare industry.

Coping with Fear of Recurrence is actually somewhat helpful in content.  I admit I was surprised when I read it because it came across as helpful in a good way.

Breaking Breast Cancer has a great post about recon related ink.

Cancer--Until You've Had It, You Don't Get It.  That pretty much says it all, I think.

What is the Real Battle Here? is another one that's an excellent read.

Breast Cancer Awareness?  Let's Get Real from The Accidental Amazon is, of course, a great read.

From JAMA Oncology (Journal of the American Medical Association) is Losing the Battle With Cancer and I think it looks like they're finally starting to comprehend just exactly what a shit storm a cancer diagnosis actually is for so many patients.

I may not post much for the month of October because there's just so much that needs to be said and I'd never be able to say it all.  JS  

The beginning of September.

Last week, I got my teeth cleaned at the dentist. The hygienist who does that is so patient with me. I have a super hyper gag reflex now because of all the throwing up I did during the year of chemo. She commented on my lymphedema sleeve, so I told her all about that. She's so nice, her mom has had breast cancer, so she actually understands me being such a flake about stuff now, but I was able to get my teeth cleaned without going into panic mode because she kept nose booping me. The dentist is a cute little redhead who has a son a few years behind the youngest monkey in school and in the same district, so we always talk football, so all of that actually went well. They love it when I come in because they want to know what I'm cooking. (Wait until I mention I cooked a smoked turkey breast in the slow cooker--I bet they haven't thought of that one yet.) The other dentist is an older guy who always speaks to me, even though I'm not technically his patient.

Anyway, yesterday, I went to the oncologist by myself. (This is a bfd for me after the cancer related ptsd thing.) I got up and baked and took at least three dozen cookies for the onc. (Basically, I went by myself because the husband lost five weeks of paid vacation when he was laid off from the other job, so now he doesn't have time he can take off for this sort of thing.)

When the oncologist came into the exam room where I was, he sat down and asked me what was going on, so I told I was in for a visit so he could see I was still as mean as ever. He said if I wasn't still mean as ever, he'd be concerned about me.

I told him I was still taking the turmeric, but wanted to know if my knees were always going to scream at me if I tried going up or down stairs or was I stuck with that. He told me I'm stuck with that.

Then I told him about the porcine thyroid supplement I'd been taking and handed over the bottle. I told him I figured he either wouldn't object or he wouldn't like me taking it. He said if it worked for me, he doesn't have a problem with it. (This stuff isn't FDA approved, but he's okay with me taking it in spite of that because it makes my energy levels improve, go figure.)

I showed him my lympedema sleeve from Solidea Medical and told him it was so much more comfortable than the other products out there. I told him I need the occasional manual drainage done on my arm but the way the laws are written in this state and with the insurance, I can't have that done because the state and insurance dictate that I be put on an anctual physical therapy regimen to go with the drainage, even though I don't need physical therapy, which is frustrating because I only need the manual drainage when my arm flares up and that could be once every six weeks or once every six months, I never know. He told me that he couldn't do anything about the hoops the state and insurance want me to jump through, although if I could find a massage place that does "light" lymph drainage work, I could try that, but the insurance wouldn't cover it.

At that point, I mentioned that the kinesio taping did quite well for pain control and that my neighbor will tape my arm on occasion and that I can easily lose an inch from my upper arm within about twelve hours if she tapes me and that taping usually lasts three to four days. He said he'd seen that but he didn't know anything about it and since I was telling him about it, he was going to look it up and research it further. Then he told me I should start a breast cancer consulting business or something along those lines since I know so much. I told him I wasn't really qualified to do something like that and that's when he said that no matter how much the medical profession knows, they don't know what it's like to be the patient and that I do know a lot.

That's when I told him I had a group called Cancer Bitches and it was pretty much a worldwide group and he thought that was interesting.

I explained to him about the still throwing up on occasion thing that I still blame on chemo. I was finally able to articulate to him exactly what happens and said if he wanted me to go see a gastroenterologist, I would. I told him that sometimes when I start eating, I feel the top of my stomach knot up and that it's like my esophagus and stomach are on two different movements or are being uncoordinated together at the same time separately. When that happens, I take a fourth of a phenergan and if that helps, great, I keep eating. If it doesn't, I try another fourth of one to make a total of a half of one and then I can literally feel both the esophagus and my stomach relax and feel normal again. He asked me if I ever take a whole one and I started laughing and said "Sir, if I took a whole one, I'd be comatose for about six hours." He asked me if that worked for me, taking the phenergan that way and I said pretty much, so he told me that if that works for me, he has no objection to it and would I like to have more phenergan. I handed the bottle over and asked if that was okay, I wasn't dealing phenergan. He looked at the label and said he didn't think I was doing anything like that at all since the label on the bottle was over two years old, then he monkeyed around with the computer and sent in a refill to the pharmacy electronically.

We moved on to the topic of a PET scan, if that would be beneficial or not at this point since I'm coming up on four years from surgery in January. He said at one point, the risks of scans are not any longer outweighed by the benefits, so if I want a scan, he would order one for me once the health savings account total rolled over to an amount that would cover payment for the scan, or if I didn't want one, that was fine too, he was leaving that up to me. If, at any point, I feel like there's some sort of problem, he would, of course, order a scan. (Not unreasonable, I think.)

While he's wanted to see me once every three months and get me scanned once every six months, I've really stretched the time out because of the stress of anything medical related causes me. After poking and prodding on me here and there, he said he could confidently say I'm still NED and that I could come in once every six months now, but if I was going to keep bringing cookies to him, then maybe he should stick with the once every three month schedule to keep getting cookies more often.

We talked about a few more things, nothing major, but I pointed out that I'd come in by myself. He said please give his regards to my husband and I said I would. I told him I'd even managed to sleep a little bit. He said he understood this was a terrifying thing and it always would be and that people on his side of things just don't understand it like someone like me or other patients would. (Holy fuck, I'm going to try to find the best white chocolate chip macadamia nut cookie recipe for this man because I think he actually gets it and really deserves it.)

I thanked him and left, feeling like I could breathe again, and not have that borderline tunnel vision, can't breathe thing going on. (I only dropped the F bomb once, ladies.)
Ran home, let the dog out, crated him again since he's a bratlet and not trustworthy to be left loose in the house while people are gone, and then went to the eye doctor. I've seen him several times because Football Monkey needed an eye exam and glasses, but I liked him and since I was somewhat familiar with him, I was okay with getting my eyes examined by him. He's great because he explains everything very well and is a personable guy with a pic of his grandkids on the wall. They call him Opa, which he mentioned is German for grandfather. I guess I'll wind up going next week to pick out bifocals. (He said I could try a higher number on the over the counter reader glasses I've been wearing, or I could get a prescription for reader glasses from him, or I could go ahead and get a prescription for bifocals since I'm slightly astigmatic, it was up to me and he'd go along with whatever I wanted to do.)

Went by to speak with the horse person about an exchange of work for the occasional riding lesson and am waiting to hear back from her about that.

To scar pic or not to scar pic? That is the question.

And here is my answer and why.

I didn't have the opportunity to find out about what other cancer patients looked like after surgery. The entire time I was doing chemo for the first six months, the word lumpectomy was spoken, reinforced, emphasized, so much so, that while the remote possibility of a mastectomy had crossed my mind, the health care people were saying lumpectomy the whole time, so of course, *I* didn't know why the hell a mastectomy had even crossed my mind once or twice. They knew what they were doing, they knew what they were talking about. They dealt with this shit every day. After all, I was *just* the patient who didn't know anything. 

Imagine my shock when I went in after the first half of chemo and was told "Time to schedule your mastectomy." like it was no big deal. I wasn't given an option, there was no actual discussion of it. Just this is what is going to happen next. Within a week, I was in to see a surgeon and things went from mastectomy to my saying (with the nurse telling me afterward the insurance would, indeed, cover a bilateral) that I would not do this again and stay sane, take them both.

As sick as I had been, as sick as I was, I just didn't have time to mentally process going from lumpectomy to mastectomy, to bilateral mastectomy. Imagine my disgust when I was told upon waking up that "nothing had been found, although four of twelve (or sixteen, honestly cannot recall at this point) nodes had been positive." Why, then, had a bilateral mastectomy been done on me, and not a lumpectomy? Why was it both ways? Some lymph nodes were positive and yet there was "nothing" in my breast? What the fuck?  Nobody would (or could) explain this.

As soon as I finished out the second six months of chemo, I relocated because of my husband accepting employment in another state. As I slowly started to recover from the ravages of what had been done to me, physically, mentally, emotionally, I began to find other women like me. Some who had had reconstruction, some who had not. Others were in the process of deciding.

In any case, I decided to start putting up pictures of my scars, generally for the month of October, that was my profile picture. I wanted people to see the reality of breast cancer, a reality that I really didn't get to find out until after it had happened to me. I still fully believe that had I seen more images of other women who looked similar to what I did BEFORE my amputations, I'd have been far more accepting of my body and what it might or would look like.  I think, I believe, I KNOW I would have processed it far better on several levels. 

Instead, I was left on my own to cope and this is such a shit storm to cope with, there's just no other way to put it. It's not like we get owner's manuals for our bodies afterward. Before diagnosis, there is "normal" and afterward, there is no across the board normal, because everything is so varied, age of diagnosis, reason--genetics, hormones, etc./lack of reason, kind diagnosed with, treatments, etc., that I don't believe anyone really, until recently, wanted to try to figure out what to do afterward to help; after all, I'm still of an age where, back in the day, this was an "old woman's disease" and it wasn't talked about.  It wasn't ever a topic of discussion for me until I was in my late 30's and an online acquaintance in another state was diagnosed.  I think this is where social media begins to come into this as a factor.  Now we're able to find and help each other.

Then there's the dumb asses who don't want to see the reality of breast cancer. There's the people who give public lip service, like one person I had to block. She would "cheer me on" publicly when I would be so "brave, putting up scar pictures" and yet she would castigate me in private messages, telling me that nobody but my husband and sons should see my scars, that it should be kept private. 

I politely thanked her for her messages and decided to tell her that I was going to keep saying and doing what I was for others to know they weren't alone. She told me I was evil when I politely told her that since she couldn't be nice, I was unfriending her. Her telling me I was evil was what put me from the unfriending mode into the block mode and I blocked her ass. Who the fuck needs that? I certainly don't. Not when I was getting tons of messages from people, other women, THANKING me for what I was doing because it was the right thing. One person saying I am a horrible person doing that, as opposed to probably close to hundreds (now) telling me that I'm doing what needs to be done? Yeah, I still believe that giving that one person the block was definitely the right thing to do. 

So, bottom line is, if by sharing my ugly ass scar pics will keep just one woman, or even a man, since men can get breast cancer as well, from having such a hard time processing what their body may potentially look like, well, then fuck yeah, I'm going to keep sharing and whoever doesn't like it can go fuck themselves. Because you know, I'm a bitch that way now and if that makes me a bitch with an attitude, then yes, I've got bitchitude and I dgaf.  JS

Since most of my readers are in the U.S.--

I decided not to adapt Britglish to my repertoire of spelling.  

*waves to Alaskan readers*  Yes, I see you people lurking up there with my bright green graph of readers illustration.  I'd have thought you were all out hunting and fishing, but maybe you reserve more reading time for when it's cold out, yes?

Anyway, regardless of what you Alaskan readers are doing, it's nice to have you reading.

Here's some fabulous linkage to share with you today.

Please Put That Can of Soup Down and Put Your Bra Back On is very well stated by Leisha, over at Cancer In My Thirties.  Yes, it's an older post, although it's put together in a way that is applicable at any time of the year.

I am Not Your Hero is from The Geeky Nimrod.  I read this and while it's true that I fucking hate being called any of the things he mentioned, like hero, strong, brave, etc., it annoys me because all I did was survive chemo.  Well, my body sort of survived, it broke my fucking brain and quality of life.  To my way of thinking, for anyone diagnosed with cancer to be called a hero, blah blah blah, they also have the very real possibility of mets, so if someone winds up with mets, does that make them any less than a "hero," in that case?  I don't think it does and it's insulting to them because it implies they didn't do all the "right" stuff to stay a "hero" for the cancer to have stayed gone.  

That said, if someone wants to stand up and say they survived cancer and that it makes them a hero, well, good for them, but you know what?  I have yet to find anyone who has had cancer or who is currently currently dealing with it who does that.  "Look at me, I'm so wonderful, I had/have cancer and I'm win automatic hero status because of it."  Nope, that's not happening with anyone I've seen/heard/run into.  It's the non-cancer people who do it to us, go fucking figure.

Cancer Curmudgeon shared this and I wanted to toss it up here for you people to watch.  Inspiration porn and the objectification of disability:  Stella Young at TEDxSydney 2014. This was awesome to watch and if you change out the word disability with the word cancer patient, well, boom, there you go.  It's definitely applicable to the whole hero/shero/rock star/inspiration/etc. blah blah blah factor that so many of us find ourselves contending with on a regular basis.

Just wanted to toss those out for you.

What have I been into?

Two exceptionally good hair days and a fabulous day with makeup in the past week, which is very rare for me.  (Thank you, Physician's Formula in buff beige.  This has fixed the steroid blush which has been fucking lingering for three years after chemo so bad that I haven't been able to correct it at all up to this point, so yay for that.) 

Lots of football time.  Lots and lots of it.  

Would like more horse time, but it's been so damn hot, it's unreal.  We had a cloud cover and some rain today, though, so that's okay.  We needed some rain.

Way overdid on the cleaning binge yesterday.  I rearranged the laundry room except the washer and dryer, tidied up the coat closet, (which is small, so I turned that into a linen closet with a cloth shoe closet organizer), managed to wrangle the laundry, clean the bathrooms, and do some other assorted stuff around here. 

There's an outstanding post over here at Cancer Curmudgeon's blog.  She's always incredibly articulate and solidly nails exceptional commentary about the stuff those of us who have been diagnosed have to contend with.  Her fearless sharing makes me feel incredibly pleased to say how awesome she is. 

Today was...interesting.  I wind up doing stuff where I'm around other people.  Consistently, I find that kids of any age have far less of an issue with how I look than adults.  Actually, I'd have to say across the board, kids have zero issue with it.  Adults, well yeah, let's just say that they seem to have problems with it and those who do fail epically at hiding it.  Their fucking problem, though, not mine.  (Although this is why horses are so awesome.  They don't care what I do or don't look like.)

Jeggings people, they're a bad idea.  This so needs to end already.  I don't care what size someone is or isn't, these jegging things should be put on a rocket and launched out past Pluto and forgotten about.

I'm going to take my bitchtastic self in there and make toothpaste now because my toothpaste is so wonderful.

So, this week is...this week, with links.

Friday of last week, barn time.  I gave the pony a manly war braid thing to get his mane pulled up off his neck because it's so long and thick.

Saturday, found out there's a lady who boards her horses at the small horse farm around the corner.  She does Very Reasonably Priced Lessons, as in VERY reasonably priced.  Score!

Sunday, laundry.

Monday, picked up trash along the fence line at the small horse farm around the corner and spoke with the lady who does reasonably priced lessons and handed out carrot bites.  Score!  

Tuesday, went to small show barn and had some social time with some of the show horses.  With the heat being as bad as it is, grooming is more of a challenge than when it's cooler, so I only managed to get one horse groomed well before I needed to leave to run some errands and pick up Football Monkey.  Still a score.

Today, well, what can I say about today?  It was strange.  Some of the people I know online have had metsters they knew who died earlier this week.  It fucking sucks.  I fucking hate it for them.  This disease fucking wrecks lives.  I also had to ponder an NCBI release of information regarding HER2+ and HER2- cancers.  Evidently, there isn't long term tracking done, so the statistics are fucked regarding how those like me are actually doing long term.  I also found out that regarding mets, what is of most concern for me is the potential of mets to my liver and brain for twelve fucking years.  Twelve.  And yes, that's going according to the statistics presented.  (Where people pull the "magic" five years out of their asses as a "safety" zone regarding HER2 cancers, I have no fucking clue, but it pisses me off.  I want to print this shit out and put it under my onc's nose and tell him I'm not stupid and that I don't appreciate not being told about this stuff.  To be fair, he's not the one who was such a dill hole to me when I did chemo, but at the same time, I'll never really trust him because he's a doctor and he probably is under the grossly mistaken impression/opinion that I was already "informed" about this stuff when I was in chemo, which I was not.)

This is a lovely post about the Mythical Cancer Warrior.  The phrase, "Mythical Cancer Warrior" reminds me of the typical over done trope (perspective) about cancer  by the non-cancer civilians.  I greatly appreciated reading this post and wanted to share it here, since my readership seems to have picked up.

I Can Pretend by the Cancer Curmudgeon and the reality of this shit.  She so articulately states what so many of us are thinking/encountering at any give time when dealing with the shit storm that cancer is.

And here's how a Molecular Biologist explains how THC kills cancer.  Gosh, you'd think using something like that to cure cancer without fucking up people's lives and wrecking their health would be, oh, I don't know, criminal, or something.  JS

In spite of the heat, today definitely falls into the category of amazing barn time.  While I managed to groom only one horse, I had the amazing experience of being on the receiving end of not one, but two hugs from two different horses.  If any of you readers are familiar with the body language of horses, you'll know that their noses are super personal space for them.  They explore with their noses.  I eat peppermints like a fiend anytime I'm around horses and once they are interested in me, I'll exhale slowly from my mouth and let them smell the peppermint.  (Yes, horses like peppermints.  I have yet to have this fail me.)

My action is rewarded with perky happy forward ears and great interest in whatever it is I'm going to do--comb, brush, and/or braid.  I visited with one horse who I wasn't going to groom today and was standing outside his stall.  He had poked his head out of the stall to say hi to me, so I started scratching his neck.  He straightened it and leaned, so I kept scratching and moved to the other side.  He leaned on me, so I reached up around both sides of his neck as high as I could get and managed to find his happy spot on his poll, up on his neck on behind his ears.  If he was a cat, he would have gone into hyper purring mode.  He rested his head on my shoulder, the full weight of it and even pulled me a bit closer.  This is like a horse hug, for lack of a better way to put it.  I felt so privileged to have gotten that sort of acknowledgement from him.  (And for continuity's sake; Score!)

I moved along to the leggy bay mare and brushed her, worked on tidying up her wild mane, and didn't even mess with her tail.  I need to work on stepping up my game on the mane and tail detangler.  The winter/spring formula is NOT going to work during the summer.  I'm thinking aloe pureed with distilled water, white vinegar, and a couple of other things should potentially work.

There was one horse I hadn't worked on last week or earlier this week, so I tackled sorting out his mane and getting him groomed.  He leaned into the brush when I was brushing his neck, so I started scratching his neck in the same place, up on the poll.  That elicited a very soft, relaxed snort and he closed his eyes.  He sighed and leaned some more, so I went in for the ne plus ultra.  Both arms around the neck, scratching his poll, and I managed to be rewarded in the same manner.  The full head weight relaxed on my shoulder and that slight pull with the head to move me a little closer to him.  Score!  

I exited the stall and closed the door.  Then I asked him if he remembered "pretty neck" and he responded with arching his neck to show me that he did.  I told him he was a good, smart boy and was so pleasantly surprised because I hadn't asked him for "pretty neck" for several months.  He accidentally learned it back in the winter in maybe five minutes with no treats involved other than verbal praise and me petting his forehead as a reward for his effort.

Horses are amazing animals.  They are intelligent and it's so easy to understand why they are exceptional for therapy.  

Avoiding the scary chickens today?  Why yes, yes I did avoid the scary chickens.  Score!

Mostly unpacked, key word being mostly.

Yes, I know.  We've been officially moved for like six weeks now.  No, I'm not all the way mostly done done, as in the house is all neat and tidy and organized because I need a bookshelf for the books.  

The other day, I cooked a beef roast in the slow cooker with about twelve ounces of beer and it turned out rather well.

I decided it was time for some colcannon, or colcanon, if you prefer that spelling.  It was amazing, of course, and definitely one of my more favorite comfort foods.

Spent quality time with the monkeys when College Monkey was off work for two days in a row.  Best way to do that quality time thing?  Star Wars.  Yes, I raised them to be SW nerds.  It's a wonderful thing in the insanity of this day and age to be able to commune around the tv and discuss all the fun stuff that's SW related and speculate on the upcoming movies.

Football Monkey wanted to know who The Phantom Menace was.  I told him it was Jar Jar Binks.  He asked me if he was really supposed to believe that.  I said yes.  Jar Jar Binks was The Phantom Menace.

Anakin Skywalker is still a whiny bitch, always has been, always will be, except for Little Kid Anakin.  He was tolerable.  After watching the other SW movies (the originals) also, I can safely say that Luke definitely inherited that trait.  Even when the originals came out, I can definitely say that as warped as it may sound, I preferred Han to Luke, even though my cousin told me Han was "too old" for me to prefer.  I liked the idea of Han and Leia, the fangirl in me was so pleased to find out in the SWEU (INSERT GRATUITOUS SPOILER ALERT HERE) that they eventually got together.  Woot.  Han and Leia.  Awesome sauce!  (ETA:  I'm not a professional movie critic, I just like to make opinionated comments on my blog sometimes.  JS)

One of our cats resembles an Ewok.  I want a Chewbacca because then I could tell people I have a Sasquatch for a pet, even though I don't speak Shyriiwook.

On a weather related note, cooler weather is headed our way.  The geese are returning from Canada.  The Children of the Fur have been acting differently this week.  The Ewok looking cat has been super bouncily energetic, so that must mean cool weather is on the way.  This would be a good thing.  The black cat has also been on the spazzy side of energetic, so I'm thinking he will also appreciate the cooler weather.  (Now that said, keeping him out of the fireplace should be a challenge since he seems to like walking around the back of the fire screen.  Glass doors shopping at a home store, here I come, since I don't want the cat to injure himself.)

The amount of laundry I'm doing is down to one load every other day.  I'm not joking about this.  It's a glorious feeling!  The reason for that is A--ginormous washer.  B--it washes a load of laundry in fifteen minutes.  The dryer takes a few minutes longer to dry, but talk about the time I spend on laundry being minimized!  It's amazing!

So, the husband changed jobs.  Just when that was going on, I got a call from the oncology office and was told by the nurse "You have to have your appointment changed.  The doctor won't be in that week."  No, I don't HAVE to change my fucking appointment, because *I* never made the appointment to begin with, so yeah, ever so glad you decided to call me about it.  I have clearly and repeatedly stated I make my own appointments.  (If any of you readers have had a shit storm diagnosis like cancer or something devastatingly similar, you will appreciate making your own damn appointments for yourself because YOU know what's going on in your life at any given time and what your schedule/potential schedule is/could be.)  

The way it works for me is this way.  (And yes, this HAS been discussed with the oncologist, and was, in fact, his idea.)  I don't just randomly go in, see him, get orders for a scan handed to me, get get scanned, and then go back to him to get the results.  In regards to that, I think he's being reasonable, which I don't have a problem with.  Why pay for two office visits when the scan order can be faxed to whatever facility is doing the scan and then just pay for a single office visit to get the scan results from him?  Yay for the common sense factor of this oncologist--I do have an appreciation for that.  (No, that's not actual sarcasm, that's me being serious--I actually do appreciate him having discussed that with the husband and me.)

Not only that, with the job change came insurance changes, so I don't even know if the medical facility where my oncologist is takes this kind of insurance, if this insurance pays for the scans I'm supposed to have, and if the place that does the scans takes this kind of insurance.  (And I'm supposed to see the oncologist, according to what he said, once every three months.  I stretch it out closer to once every six months because I turn into this terrified, excessively stressed out insomniac who can't eat without getting sick any time this even comes up with a visit to the oncologist and/or scans.)  I know, right?  Like it's not stressful enough without having to deal with freaking insurance shit?  ZOMFG, already!

(To make it all much worse though, when the local office where my husband was employed was shut down, he lost five weeks of paid vacation.  That meant he could take off to go with me for scans and oncologist visits.  Now?  He has to work like holy fuck, a week to earn four hours of paid time off.  Now he won't be able to take off to go with me to get scanned or visit the oncologist.  I know you're probably thinking I should grow the fuck up and put on my big girl panties, but fuck, you know, any time there's a visit to the oncologist, once diagnosed, there's always the potential for Bad News.  No, that's not me looking to borrow trouble, that's just the fucking reality of a cancer diagnosis.  Once diagnosed, there's always the potential for it to return FOR ANYONE.)

I'm acquainted with some metsters and have communicated with some of them for around three and a half years now, and some are the #PINKISNOTACURE people, some aren't, but yes, I have a point to this, and that is mets.  How many of you have had it discussed with you when you were first diagnosed?  Like specifically something along the lines of, "You've been diagnosed with breast cancer.  Whatever is done to you to fix you, you need to understand there's always going to be a possibility of mets.  That is the reality of this vile disease."  

There was a discussion recently on my CB group about some things that aren't always discussed with patients.  Things like actually explaining the sort of breast cancer someone was diagnosed with, a prognosis, and...dare I say it?  Mets being a part of that discussion.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Mets.  It was certainly not discussed with me.  I'm not fucking making this shit up.

I was told the breast cancer I had was not hormone fed or driven, as some doctors say.  (I also wasn't told I would need a bilateral mastectomy done.  The entire fucking time, it was "Lumpectomy, lumpectomy, just a lumpectomy, nothing more.  Mastectomy won't be necessary, blah blah blah."  While I understood that a mastectomy might be necessary and the thought crossed my mind, everyone and their fucking brother said LUMPECTOMY.  That.  Was.  It.  

So, yeah, you can imagine the fucked-up-ness of my brain when the fucking oncologist said "Oh, I'll call the surgeon to schedule you for your mastectomy."  What the ever loving fuck all?!  Seriously?  A fucking mastectomy?  After how many months of you saying "just a lumpectomy" and nothing more?  FUCK.  So yeah, when I went to the surgeon, I said "Take them both, I will not fucking do this again and stay sane."  Yeah, I have the feeling he made me pay for the statement because he did a radical mastectomy on me.  I was lied to about that, also.  I was told it would be modified and only breast tissue would be removed.  I fucking woke up with nothing more than skin over ribs from a massive amputation on my entire chest.  Modified, my sarcastic ass.  Is it any fucking wonder I have fucking huge trust issues with anyone medical now?  (That said, Streak does have a friend who is a doctor and I'm okay with being around her because I've never seen her in doctor mode, I've only ever seen her in mom mode in tee shirts, blue jeans, and flip flops.  That, I'm totally okay with.)

Anyway, I was not given a "prognosis."  I was told if I did "treatment A" then I had an XYZ % chance of being alive in X amount of years.  If I did "treatment/protocol B" then I would have ABC Z%Z chance of being alive in Q amount of years.  The percentage between the two "options" and I use that word loosely because I didn't get to make that decision was something like a miniscule amount of maybe two percent.  When that was what I was told, it was more like "This is what you should do." without giving the husband and I an opportunity to really discuss it.  It's ridiculous how it was explained/not explained.  

At best, it's an info dump that would make any patient's head explode because of the kind of diagnosis it is, but when these medical people tell patients "I'll give you the information I think you need to know.  Any questions?"  then how the ever loving fuck all are people supposed to even know what the fuck to ask?  They aren't.  Or is that the whole point?  I can say that more than once, I would ask a specific question and be completely ignored, so what's the fucking point of asking?  Not much of one, is there?

Mets was NEVER mentioned.  The cancer emperor has no clothes?  So that's how it works?  If mets isn't mentioned to the patient, then it must mean that it won't happen to the patients who aren't told about it.  Seriously?  That kind of mentality really fucks the patient over, because it's dismissive of the importance of educating the patient about what's going on with their body.  It's basically the same shit as "Oh, you're breastfeeding your baby?  You'll never get breast cancer."  

I'm fucking serious, people.  I had more than one doctor say that to me when the monkeys were wee little critters.  That's why the shit storm diagnosis that breast cancer is came as such a huge fucking shock to me.  I wasn't aware I had any risk factors going on for breast cancer, other than I had breasts, which evidently IS a risk factor for anyone since men have breast tissue, also.  What probably did it to me was the DES I was subjected to when I was in utero, but it kind of doesn't fucking fix anything related to any of this and it sure as fuck doesn't fix the fact that anytime I would tell a doctor I was DES exposed, it was ignored. 

Why bother even making the effort to fucking communicate with medical people?  They're obviously more educated than the average patient, so they must know more even though they aren't the ones living in these bodies.  What the fuck ever.

I'll get the fuck around to finding out insurance coverage shit when I'm damn good and ready, probably not until after school starts next month.  At this point, one way or the other, it doesn't matter.

I suppose I'll be trying to cram in as much time feeding carrots to horses before the scan, after the scan, and before the visit to the oncologist.  That's the only way I'll be able to deal with the amount of stress my brain will be trying to contend with.

Here's an exciting update!

I'm digging out from under boxes from The Great Moving House Adventure (All two blocks of it--yes, you read that correctly--we moved two blocks.  LOL), although slowly, I'm still trying to get stuff sorted and organized with the unpacking.

A few weeks ago, there was an incident online which I won't even dignify with commenting about, other than to say lesson learned and after nearly twenty one years on the internet, I will remain as neutral as Switzerland.  JS  

Cancer Bitches is growing by leaps and bounds!

Cookies, I've created new ones with using my base recipe, white chocolate chips and raspberries.  People jumped on those like crazy.  Some even made it to Oklahoma City, although I think more of my lavender cookies made it there than the raspberry ones, but that's okay.  My cookies are traveling!  Next up, miniature blueberry lemon cream cuppy cakes!  (Yes, oh yes, there will be foodporn!)

The Children of the Fur like the new house.  I've acquired a couple of small baskets and they really like laying in those for some reason. 

I love living where I live.  I was out and about to pick up Football Monkey this week when I stopped by a shop in town.  At the shop next door to where I was going in, there was a man and a woman, each with a rather large blanket, running around the parking lot.  They were chasing a ginormous rooster that's evidently been running all over town for the last two weeks and nobody can catch it.  I hope they caught it because roosters are chickens and chickens are scary, although I have to say it was pretty fucking entertaining to see people chasing a rooster in town.

People are trashy.  I picked up trash from the fence line earlier this week at Mr. K's around the corner.  People are seriously trashy.  This wasn't stuff that was blown around by the wind because you know, Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the plain.  This was people being too fucking lazy to ditch their trash properly and tossed it out the window.  A porn mag, seriously?  Beer bottles, water bottles, sports drink bottles, empty cigarette packs, paper soda cups.  But a porn mag?  What a fucking I can't even come up with something creative enough for that shit.

Up side?  I had carrots with me and was nicely hugged, nudged, and loved on by the horses who wanted carrot bites.  (Yes, horses can hug a human if they use their head and neck the correct way.  It's pretty awesome to be hugged by a horse.  It's probably like petting a sea turtle, dolphin, or elephant.)

Now that I've unpacked probably 3/4 of the way, I want to go back over to the small show horse barn and start grooming again, even if it's only once a week because of football going on right now.  (Note to self to avoid the scary, rabid chickens there.)

Speaking of unpacking, I found my horse cookie recipe.  This is awesome because I have peppermints and carrots and molasses and oats, so I can make horse cookies.  How fucking awesome is that, readers?  Pretty fucking awesome!

And speaking of finding my recipe, I stopped off at the local library to see if they had any interesting books available for sale.  Let me tell you, I walked out of there after having paid one USD with five books, two of which were amazingly spiffy recipe books!  I've got a wealth of new recipes to monkey around with in the kitchen and spent only twenty cents on each book!  I am sofa king awesome!

I've acquired more twit followers than I can shake a stick at, all over the world in all kinds of varying fields, and the same goes for my pinterest boards, although pinterest is now wanting to charge for paid pins, so I'm not too sure about that yet.  We'll see how that goes.

There's a crochet project I'm working on, which could turn out to be interesting, if it works.  

Recently, there was a discussion about advice for flatness.  Of course, there was a comment made about breasts not defining us as women--there always is one of those.  And of course, I had plenty to say about that shit.  I said I felt like my breasts did define me as a woman because they helped make me appear to be more feminine and they were part of what made me a woman and I hate not having them now.  If anyone feels like their breast did define them as a woman and that was ripped away, that's normal.  One person said she hadn't thought about it from the perspective of if someone didn't like being flat.  It opened up the conversation enough to where I was able to tell her I got so tired of seeing the fake platitude crap about yippee-skip-acceptance that I started the Cancer Bitches group.  If someone is having a bad day, and it happens to everyone, they're allowed to say something there in a safe space instead of being told to suck it up and wear the pink ribbon because yay, gtfoi, pink ribbons and shit.  Nope, if someone's having a shit day, they can cry or vent or rage in a safe space and will be given kindness and respect and now she's a Cancer Bitch.  (No, we aren't always going to agree with each other about everything all the time, but that's part of being a mature adult, being able to discuss things with others, even if it's not always something everyone will agree about.)

Change what you can't accept or accept what you can't change.  I can't fucking change how much cancer fucked me over in a multitude of ways.  It fucking happened and I can't fucking change that and I sure as fuck refuse to accept it.

You're now returned to your regularly scheduled mundane blog reading.  I know you all missed my bitchtastic bitchitude here since I haven't updated recently.  I'll try to get that regular updating thing sorted out.

House moved and

Currently dog-sitting for T Sparkle Snickerdoodle Dog.  So far, the cats are not impressed.  He'd go up to them and be nose to nose with them and they wouldn't do anything, but when I put him in his crate in the laundry room, so I could post this, they got bent out of shape and their fur was sticking up and they got all pouty.  You can follow me on the twit machine for images of #childrenofthefur, if you're interested.  And yes, that includes T Sparkle Snickerdoodle Dog while he's visiting this week.

Moving went quite well, all things considered, and am now attempting to unpack.  It seems like the more I unpack, the more I'm behind on laundry and cooking.  The more I try to catch up on laundry and cooking, the more behind I get on unpacking.

Wait.  I have a new washer and dryer which I've named Boba and Fett.  Boba washes a ginormous load of laundry in fifteen minutes.  Fett dries same washed ginormous load of laundry in fifteen minutes.  I guess I'm not really behind on laundry any longer, as much as it is I'm behind on folding and putting away.  And unpacking, of course.  

The house is beautiful, I'd love to give a huge shout out to the lovely lady who got us into this lovely custom built house, Dustina.  That's a link to her newly current neck of the woods and those look like lovely homes, also, but I do like mine!  

I think it's safe to say

I finally have a direction in which to point the finger of blame over the cancer diagnosis.  My mother was given a drug when she was pregnant with me that was/is a synthetic estrogen and endocrine disruptor.  It caused/can cause clear cell adenocarcinoma, along with other various types of cancer.

DES.  Diethylstilbestrol.

Does cancer start in the womb?  Breast cancer risk at age 40 and older is two and a half times higher in DES exposed women than women who were not exposed who are the same age.

Maternal DES exposure during pregnancy causes an increased risk to both the mother and their DES exposed daughters.   (Given the fact that males can also get (male) breast cancer, I have to wonder, how many of them were DES exposed in utero?)

DES and Bisphenol A are estrogen-like endocrine disruptors.  Exposure in utero alters a tissue expression of something called EZH2, which is associated with tumorigenesis.

Invasive in ductal HER2+ breast cancer is what I had.  In this information, numbers are broken down to give more insight into exposed versus unexposed numbers.

Mayo Clinic led team identifies Master Switch for cancer causing HER2 protein.  A mutant protein would be used for this.  Of course, I find this of particular interest since I had HER2+ breast cancer.

Just wanted to share that with you readers out there in case someone was needing some further research information while I work on packing for The Big Move.

(And if you're so inclined, please go check out the Bressante Kickstarter page.  It's a very worthy project to help women like me acquire custom made foobs (fake breast prostethics) to wear.  After the crap those of us breast cancer people go through, we should have these available to us, so this is a great invention that I'm hoping will gain some much deserved and much needed attention.  Thank you.)

"Doing XYZ prevents breast cancer." aka a Lying Meme.

(Actually, I've sat on this post just to make certain I was being objective about my perspective.)

Since I was attempting to catch up on fakebook this afternoon, I was scrolling along quickly in between doing a bunch of stuff today.  I found a meme which made me angrivated in an angrivated way that only others like me would understand.  Basically, it's yet another meme circulating about breast cancer with a very false claim about how if humans stop using toxins, then breast cancer would be prevented.  (Note:  WOULD BE was implied as if it was set in stone in would be prevented for any and all diagnosed, implying that no use of toxins will keep anyone from being diagnosed.  There was no acknowledgement of the fact that men can be diagnosed with breast cancer also, which was another thing I found disturbing.)

So, I did what those of me do.  I sent a comment about what I saw and why I believed it to be putting out incorrect information.  (And this particular meme was from a group that is supposedly about "breast health," which makes it even more appallingly sad they're putting out incorrect information.)

I attempted to be polite, convey civility without being condescending, and didn't drop the F bomb.  (I know, right?  Wtf?!)

Here's what I sent:

This picture meme is misleading because it's not known what causes all the different kinds of breast cancer there actually is.  People who have lived "perfectly" have still wound up with one or another form breast cancer.  Men can get breast cancer, you certainly aren't acknowledging that.  

And before you get pissy with me about my comments, I've had breast cancer and I did everything "right" and still wound up with it.  It doesn't discriminate between yoginis who are hardcore vegans and breastfed or women who breastfed and ate the occasional burger or women who were raised on farms or in cities or who are in their twenties or in their eighties or used makeup or didn't use makeup, women who had a genetic pre-disposition to it from a family history or women who have no family history of it at all.  Cancer does not discriminate.

Regarding breast cancer, another lie is that early detection saves lives.  It does not.  Women who are diagnosed at grade zero, stage zero can go stage 4/mets at any time and eventually die from whatever form of breast cancer there is, just like some women diagnosed as stage 4 can survive for a few years, and some won't.  Breast cancer STILL kills.  People diagnosed, and I say people, because both men and women can wind up with breast cancer, can still wind up with mets/stage 4, even though they did everything "right," according to their doctors or did everything their doctors told them to do.  Cancer happens and it's a shit storm.  

Where's your meme telling people this sort of thing about kids who wind up with cancer?  Are you going to imply their parents weren't responsible enough with one thing or another and that's why their child wound up with that vile disease? 

You probably won't take it down or alter it, but at least I said something.  There are tons of people out there like me who are attempting to educate others about the gross misconceptions about cancer.  Toxic chemicals in any form are a bad idea--for anyone.  But to say protecting the earth from them prevents diseases like breast cancer is flat out not true.

Thanks for your time.

Of course I felt as if the reply given to me was standard response fodder, but at least someone did read my comments.

I've been chosen to participate in a really cool thing.  Bressante makes custom foob forms and amazingly enough, I was chosen to receive a pair.  This could be interesting, people.  They definitely appear to be an improvement over the old kinds on the market.  Here's information about Wendy's Kickstarter page.  She's doing this to help people like me.  

Building a Better Prosthesis  That dot in the center of the U.S. you see on the map?  That's me.  I'm hoping that the funding will come through from kind souls who believe this is a project worth contributing to.

There's a few links I'm going to share to some posts/articles related to various cancer related shit since cancer is a shit storm.

Want Attention?  Just Say Breast Cancer.  (This is a lovely commentary about the ribbon versus ribbon stuff that seems to now be going on.  Thanks ever sofa king much, Big Name Pink Ribbon Foundation for being divisive instead of helpful, since ALL cancers can and do kill people.)

Something I Can Use  (More cancer patients versus cancer patients commentary, communicating about what cancer patients really need, and included in this are some thought provoking statements about head shaving.)

Cancer Charities Scammed Millions of Consumers  (Yes, it can and does happen, people.  Please think before you pink, or pay attention to where you're donating.  There is no fucking way I'd donate anything to the Big Name Pink Ribbon Foundation or The Other Big Name Cancer Society.  Neither have ever done ANYTHING for anyone I've encountered who's had to deal with cancer.  They sure as fuck won't get anything from me.  Am I saying not to donate?  Nope, not at all.  I'm just encouraging you readers out there in HorseDoovers Land to check around, ask questions, do a bit of research first, and then donate.)

Living With Cancer; Patients On Our Own written by Susan Gubar says "At one point or another during and after radiation and chemotherapy, the women in my support group have needed physiological, psychological, dietary, cognitive, sexual, child-raising, financial, or housekeeping guidance that none of us received.  Of course we address these matters among ourselves, but why don't cancer centers provide professionals to advise us?  If nothing else, such supplementary counseling would give cancer patients the boost of knowing that we are doing what we can to help us cope with difficult circumstances."  (I have a comment or two about that wonderfully put paragraph.  It's because it's all about money and nobody but others like us really give a fuck about our functionality and quality of life once it's fucked up from the shit storm that cancer is.)

My Life on Xeloda  Commentary about why is treatment still so primitive?  This was an outfuckingstanding read.

Not Long and Beautiful  Interesting thoughts on losing hair and breasts.

Living With Stage Four  The breast cancer nobody understands.

And because I always want to share options I've found for those of you who want foobs, here's a couple of links.

Super Gel Breast Forms  These look like they could be interesting, maybe more comfortable than the old silicone foobs which are pawned off on so many of us as replacement foobs.  Eventually, I would like to try a pair and then share my thoughts on them here for you people who are interested.

38 views in one day?

April 28, 2015, there happened to be 38 page views.  None of them were mine.  Wtf?  Where did you people come from?

Anyway, moving on..."Oh Mother's Day, what are you doing?  Blah, blah, blah."

Please can that nonsense and yes, I'm a Scrooge about shit like that.  To me, it's just another day to do laundry and cook like any other day.  As a wife and mom, if there is appreciation of me, it should be every day, not just one day out of the year.  Did anyone even think of that?  Just curious.

Last week, I was brave and called a place around the corner and down the road to inquire about boarding prices.  $350.00 pasture board, $450.00 stall board.  Those prices are indicative of the lower end of what's customarily charged for boarding.  Some places include vet/farrier fees in that price, if those services are needed, some charge extra.  Those prices are also customary of leasing fees.

I called the place around the corner, around the corner (No, that's not a typographical error.) and inquired.  $125.00 pasture board, $150.00 stall board, because "I try to keep it affordable for people." were his exact words.  He has a horse for lease that's a TWH for $275.00.  Still more than can be afforded right now (but reasonable because that's a full lease with as much riding time as I could possibly stand) what with the house build going on, but I may look into the process of getting hired as a sub so I can pay for my own horse related activities once I contribute several thousand to braces for College Monkey.

The husband told me he didn't want me to work unless I *wanted* to work, but with an insanely expensive addiction of horses that I know I want to continue pursuing, I feel like it's my responsibility to contribute in some manner since writing sure as fuck hasn't paid off.  (So yeah, I'll wind up working to pay for something I'd love to enjoy, only to be too tired to enjoy it.  No logic, but since it's me and we all know I have no concept of limitations regarding my life post cancer until I'm non-functional from exhaustion, well, we'll see how this goes.)

I went and met said TWH and the guy who owns him around the corner, around the corner.  TWH was adorable, of course.  I spoke with the guy for some time and offered to walk his fence line twice a week and pick up trash that blows in.  There are two horses I can groom, TWH and ON.  ON is too old to be ridden, he's a retired re-enactment horse, but would love the attention, so I don't mind.  I'm all about grooming horses since I'm not able to ride right now.

(The one thing that was interesting was that I met a BLM Mustang who was very much interested in nuzzling me, rubbing all over me with his face, and I was amazed at how rowdy he wasn't and how well mannered he was.  He was an absolute kitten horse and evidently, came off the truck like that.  Talk about shattering a legend about Mustangs being rowdy, well, he certainly did.)

Yesterday, I walked between fifteen to twenty acres of fence line and picked up trash.  Of course the horses wanted to follow me around, hoping for treats, but none were overly pushy or demanding, which is a good thing.  The owner of this place had told me he has a stud horse who wouldn't object to me being in his pasture walking the fence, he'd just want treats.  That was funny because when I climbed through the fence and this big, black stud horse notices me standing there, he decides I'm interesting and wants to investigate the new human.  He comes running at me, so I just stood there and waited.  He slowed up to a trot about fifty feet away, then about twenty feet away, he slowed up to a walk and very politely approached me and asked for treats.  I don't make it a habit to give treats to horses I don't know, so I talked to him and petted him for a few minutes and then once he lost interest, read that as he figured out I didn't have any treats with me, he wandered off, I finished that fence line.

Time taken walking entire fence line of said huge property?  Two and a half hours.  I wore my tall boots because of snakes and ticks.  It's not flat terrain, either.  It's very rough and uneven.  I have to clean my boots today because they need it.  I may switch to my shorter boots, even in spite of ticks, since they are easier to clean.

After that, I went to the other barn and groomed the big palomino gelding.  (He'd been a complete jack wagon last week.  Not in a rude manner, but a typical horse manner.  I went out to catch a horse to groom.  He wasn't interested, so I got the big mare, took her into the barn, groomed her, and turned her loose.  I tried again on the big palomino gelding and again, he wouldn't cooperate.  I chose one of the red geldings, took him into the barn, groomed him, and turned him loose.  Guess who suddenly decided to follow me?  You guessed it.  The big palomino gelding.  "Want to be in your pocket!  Want to follow you into the barn!  Right now!  Let's go!  Groom me!"  Dude, seriously?  You had two chances, now I have to go back to being responsible wife and mom and go home, clean up, and cook.  *shakes head*)  Anyway, yeah, yesterday, I managed to groom him.  He was good while he stood for me, although he was funny.  We had to walk from way over in the other pasture area, but he decided once he got into the barn, he needed to poop.  At least he pooped when I brought him in and he didn't actually poop on my head while I was cleaning his back hooves.  (Either you'll get it or you won't.  This is what horses do, get creative about pooping.)

Delightful visit was delightful.

It was Wednesday evening when Army Monkey and his adorable wife arrived with their two cats.  Fortunately, the way this house is, we were able to have space for our two cats in a third of the house and their cats in the other two thirds of the house, so no cat fights here.

They stayed Wednesday night on their way from Further Out West to their New Civilian Life Down South.  (While where they lived in Colorado was lovely, neither were fond of the cold weather.  Both are happy to be heading back down to the Deep South.)

Thursday morning was breakfast of coffee, milk, juice, a double batch of sour cream biscuits, and sausage gravy.  I also threw an herbed pork loin into the crock pot for supper.  Since Football Monkey never misses school, it was decided it would be okay for him to skip school that day since he doesn't get to see Army Monkey and His Wife very often.  The College Monkey only had one class, so while he went to his class, the rest of us loaded up and went to look at the new house.

Once College Monkey was done with class, we all met up at a favorite place to eat lunch.  The two younger monkeys came home and the rest of us paid a little visit to the liquor store nearby.  Everyone was talking about a food coma, but 

Because this was such an awesome post, there needs to be some bitching included.  I don't gaf who you are, jeggings are a bad idea, whether you're a hundred pound stick or weigh three hundred pounds and look like a stuffed sausage in your jeggings/leggings/whatever the fuck it is they're called these days.  Stop with the madness, people.  Please.  I'm all for not giving a fuck what anyone else thinks and dressing to be comfortable, however a little respect for other people's eyes/sanity needs to be taken into consideration.  No, I'm not turning into the fashion police.  Yes, I am going to bitch about this because well, my fucking blog, my fucking posts, my fucking content.  If you don't like it, please feel free to click the back button, and don't forget to burn your tights/jeggings on the way out.

Linkage updated.

Since I never know how often I'll be updating links, I'm going to announce it here like it's a Really Big Event, so yeah, linkage update.  JS

People get bent out of shape when I express my perspective on things and it's different from their perspective.  I can't figure out if they find me more offensive than I find them or if I find them more offensive than they find me.  Either way, it's fucking amusing as all get out, at the very least.

Mets Monday: Get Up Swinging featured a post by Carolyn.  Yes, you should go give it a read because yes, it's that fucking awesome.

Cult of Perfect Motherhood has a post called How the Hubs Feels.  This is content that is great enough to (hopefully) get people to pay the fuck attention to what goes on regarding a cancer diagnosis.

Amazingly enough, most of my traffic on here is still coming from pinterest, but here's further exploration, just for fun.

People are coming in from Pinterest, fakebook, google--just exactly what people are googling to get results which include my page, I have no idea of why that is, Ravelry, and a few other sites that I'm not sure exactly who or what they are.

And here's a list of my top views by country, so you can see I'm internationally read.

United States, Canada, France, United Kingdom, Russia, Australia, Indonesia, Poland, Germany, and Belgium.

Apparently, I am also internationally re-twitted with my food porn images.  This makes me a happy little camper.  What doesn't make me a happy little camper and does piss me off in an angrivated way is getting a twit follower who messages me and whines about the F bombs I drop on occasion.  If you don't like what I say or how I say it, don't fucking read what I fucking post!  What a waste of that person's time typing and sending that to me and a waste of my time fucking reading it.  FUCKETY FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.  JS  (See what I did there?  That was clever, wasn't it?  Am I helpful, or what?)

So yeah, linkage updated.  

I've decided that I'm going to be utilizing this blog as an outlet/base for exploring further resources related to DES (diethylstilbestrol) and the information about it being related to breast cancer, since that's what I was diagnosed with.  Stay tuned for further bitching about this, because it's very likely this is why I was diagnosed with (HER2+) breast cancer in 2011.  Yes, I knew about the increased risk of CCA (clear cell adenocarcinoma), however I didn't make a connection in the Swiss cheese that is my brain now that perhaps I should explore this potential connection further until recently.  

Rest or sabotage?

Resting when needed has gone much further toward me becoming more functional than anything else.  Just thought I'd toss that out there. 

Sure, eating and being active can help, but if you're eating better and trying to be active and not seeing any improvement, maybe it's time to listen more to your body and back off on the food changes and activity and rest more, then try to gradually incorporate the dietary and activity changes back into your routine.  

Sometimes rest is the thing that's needed the most.  Sure, it's difficult to do that, but damn, are we slowing down our recovery times by trying to jump back into everything with both feet, rather than trying to recover gradually?  I've often wondered about this, but never really said much of anything about it until now.

Bitchitude pays off, a collection of posts collated into one for the week.

Yes, indeed. 

Do you know what it's like to have someone say "Because of you, I didn't get reconstructed and I'm okay with it." because *I, as in me, HorseDoovers* didn't get reconstructed? That's pretty damn cool.

Do you know what it's like to have someone say "Thank you for what you said on your blog because I've had the same thoughts, I just never said anything.  You said it perfectly." and it was unsolicited?

Do you know what it's like to have someone say "Thank you for having the Cancer Bitches group because it's real?" and know they really mean it because the were in a group where they were hassled for their realistic perspective of the shit related to cancer?

It makes me pretty damn pleased with myself that I've been enough of a bitch to speak up against what is the anticipated social "norm" of "acceptable behavior" and keep on speaking up, regardless of what others said/thought/did and now, others are speaking up.

We just all need to find each other because yes, we all do exist, those of us who are speaking up about what was done to us and it's okay and tolerable and acceptable for us to have a very ugly view of the cancer industry.  We admit that cancer didn't make us into "better people" and that what it did to us was turn us into people who don't tolerate shit from anyone now.  

That's what speaking up has done for us, we realize we aren't alone.

Recently, I was out with my husband and we ate lunch.  At the next table, there happened to be two men sitting there eating their lunch.  With going flat, I've become accustomed to people looking at me strangely.  Normally, it doesn't bother me, I don't gaf, I don't try to hide it.  I suppose some people would say I flaunt it and I don't care.  Their issues are just that, theirs, and I don't make their issues with it into my problem, which is why I don't try to hide being flat.  But, I noticed this guy was looking at me like I was a complete freak since it was obvious with the kind of shirt I had on, I'm flat.  Flat as in concave, let's say.

So, I looked at him as I was getting up to leave, turned around, and followed my husband out of the restaurant.  I walked out as if I owned the fucking place.  My husband doesn't realize what happened and that's okay.  This is my issue to deal with.  When someone gives me a strange look, I do look back at them so they see I've noticed and I go into "I own this, fucker." mode, even if a tiny part of my brain doesn't want to, I still fucking do it because eventually, all of my brain will catch up with that 99% of I Own This Mode.

I have days when I struggle with being the ugly duckling, for lack of a better way to put it, even even though I'm 3+ years out from surgery.  Other days, it's not a big deal for me to own it the entire time I'm out and about and no, I don't get overly analytic about why a day may go into one category or the other, it just is the way it is.  I also don't lie to myself about how great I am now since I've had cancer by trying to convince myself I'm "new and improved" and super de duper better since that would be fucking lying to myself because I'm not "new and improved" or "better" and I refuse to go along with what's expected of me now as a former oncology patient, since there was nothing wrong with the old, functional me.

Someone who doesn't lie about how things are is Knot Telling.  In her post, Why I Lied to My Doctor, she's very truthful about why and how being honest with your doctor isn't always helpful for people like us, believe it or not.

4 Times and Counting talks about how cancer patients are not Collateral Damage in this post and many of us feel that way.  Some of us acknowledge it, others remain in denial and refuse to say there is a deeper and even multiple impact of breast cancer on our lives.

Your Body, After Cancer, by Diane Mapes, is about seldom covered issues of the post-cancer body.

Life, Interrupted:  Lost in Transition After Cancer, by Suleika Jaouad writes beautifully about trying to figure out who she is now.

Study Reveals Treatment for Women with Breast Cancer Suffering Cognitive Difficulties tells of brain fog which causes problems with concentration, organization, and even activities such as following a schedule or planning things to do.

15 Things You Don't Owe Anyone (Even Though You Think You Do)  Do yourself a favor, pay attention to this and ponder how you can apply it to your life.

Song of My-Selfie by Sara Sophia Eisenman is a wonderful article about finding our identities and sharing ourselves in this day and age of media all over the place.  (Here's what I said:  I loved reading this. As someone who has completely lost my identity and both breasts to the abuses of the cancer industry, and yes, it is an industry, I appreciate every “selfie” I see of other women also trying to find their way through wrecked and mangled bodies, bald heads from chemo and/or radiation, and other assorted collateral damage that is now our lives as people who somehow managed to survive what was done to us. We can find out we aren’t alone in trying to reconfigure our identities as women, even though men can and do get breast cancer, also.)

Julie Frayn wrote a delightful post called Warning - foul language ahead, in which she goes into profanity, swearing, and F bombs in an entertaining and agreeable manner.

Let me wrap this post up with some helpful commentary;  it pays to bake for the mechanic guys.  I randomly bake them cookies for no reason, other than I like to bake for other people, as well as my family.  I have baked for the mechanics, teachers at school, neighbors, construction people building our house, etc. because I like to bake.  Some people knit and I'm not that coordinating, so baking it is.

My husband needed a vehicle to drive to work since he was in the process of changing jobs.  We took a trucky thing to the place we get oil changes, engine work, etc. done.  They looked it over and confirmed it had a timing problem because it idled very rough.  Didn't charge us at all and if they had, it would have been around fifty dollars.

To make a long story short, we found a vehicle for him and purchased it.  The tire light came on, so we took it to be looked at.  They fixed that right up and didn't charge us.  The cost would have been around ten dollars.

We got on the big road and my husband noticed it was slightly off at a high speed, so that meant the tired needed to be balanced, so we dropped it off.  A few hours later, I took him to pick it back up and there was no charge.  If there had been, it would have been around forty dollars.

I spent the evening baking a ton of cookies to take to the mechanic guys because they, by all rights, should have charged us for their time and what they did, but they didn't.  Since they didn't, I figured the least I could do was take them cookies.  That was definitely worth every chocolate chip, as was seeing how pleased they were at being given cookies, so that was a lot of fun.