A Mother, a Daughter and a Visit From the Boob Fairy

As I racked my brain for what to write for my second installment of “Second Thoughts,” I wanted to make this entry extra special.  So I decided to write about one of my favorite topics–my mom.  Be prepared. There will be plenty more of where these came from. From her well documented 90′s fashion to her love of all things Tom Jones, it’s possible my mom will be the next trending topic on twitter (even though she doesn’t know what that means). #loveyoumom!

Warning: This blog post may or may not contain a nubbin sub-plot. I can explain. Read at your own risk….

My mother has learned that the best way to contact me is through e-mail when going about a regular day.  I’m awful with keeping my phone on ringer, or finding it in time to answer when it’s at the bottom of my purse, or knowing where it even is at all.   Being that she’s still using ABC text mode where in order to type the letter C you have to press the number “2″ three times, she obviously finds the task time consuming and would just prefer to call and “get it over with.”  However, we’ve found a happy medium when she can sit at her computer at work and e-mail me from the comfort of her keyboard, and I’m able to provide a response from anywhere in the world on my handy dandy Blackberry.

The conversations we’ve shared via e-mail have been some of the funniest exchanges we have ever had, and she is completely unaware of this.  From asking me why I keep writing “Sent via Blackberry” at the bottom of my e-mails to alerting me that “there are butts all over my facebook” when she accepted a friend request from a porn spammer during her first foray into modern day social media, my mother has provided me with many treasure chests full of comedic gold.

It’s safe to say my mom is not one for any type of dry humor or sarcasm. She prefers movies with Eddie Murphy doing the voice of a donkey or watching America’s Funniest Home videos which “hasn’t been the same since the Full House dad stopped being the host.”

On this we differ.  I live for witty banter, political satire, and cutting remarks delivered in calm and monotone voices.  I love Larry David and Stephen Colbert.  She finds nothing remotely funny about my type of humor and when she does attempt to bask with me in my love of all things deadpan, most of it just goes over her head as she waits for the joke to present itself five minutes after it was actually over.

Now, on to the subtext about my boob:

Recently I discovered a white…thing, right at the bottom of my boob.  For a visual scope of the situation, it looks like a chicken pock scar.  Just a flat white mark.  Due to my hypocondriasis and automatic belief that I am at advanced stages of melanoma, I immediately booked an appointment with my dermatologist.  I proceeded to explain that I “have a thing on my boob I want to get checked.” I debated using “breast” but I felt it was too serious and bad things never happen to “boobs.”  ”Breasts” provide milk for babies and only get squeezed during mammograms.  ”Boobs” just sound so much more casual.

I entered the doctor’s office, nervously started to crunch around on the white exam table roll, lifted my shirt and waited for the doctor to look into the crystal ball that is my boob and tell me my doomed fate.   She proceeded to look at it for the longest 10 seconds of my life, and right as I was about to say “Give it to me straight, doc!”, she casually shrugged her shoulders and stated “It appears to be scar tissue, or at worse a benign growth.  Nothing to worry about.”

WEIGHT LIFTED.

Walking with a bit more pep in my step as I exited the doctor’s office, I proceeded to e-mail my Mom who asked me to tell her how it went when I got out.  Following is the exchange, verbatim:

Me: Boob is fine, she said its nothing but a third nipple.

Mom: Excuse me – how big will it get?

Me: Standard nipple diameter.

Mom: You OK with that?

Me: I’ve come to accept my fate.

Mom: BRAVE ONE

Now, what would one think when reading that?  She’s gotta be in on it.  “Brave one?”  She knows. She gets it, she’s playing along.

WRONG.

My mother, ladies and gentlemen, actually believed her daughter was, in fact, developing a third nipple.  When I got home, she immediately wrapped her arms around me and began to comfort me about my newly maturing, post-pubescent nubbin.  Gotta love her.

My mom and I circa Christmas 1991.  Although we don’t share the same sense of humor, if there’s one thing we do share, it’s the fact that we will ALWAYS utilize as much tinsel as possible for our Christmas trees.

Until next time!

XO,

Ash