You are the Monday of my Life

A few weeks ago, I had a suspicious spot burnt off my chest. Although, I guess if I’m going to be accurate I had it numbed, shot with something to make it protrude off my chest, cut out and then they burnt my gaping wound with something that made the room smell like really bad BBQ.

If you ask my husband he will tell you it is smaller in diameter than a dime and very shallow. If you ask me, I will tell you the spot has the density of a dying sun.

They called me a week later with my results. It turns out I have a serious case of hypochondria and they told me to stop looking at WebMD.

It was nothing. Which is good news as in truth, I am not a hypochondriac. But I’ve had this wound on my darn chest for over a month now. I’ve recovered from C-Sections faster than this darn spot on my chest.

I do what I normally do and I call my mom to talk about how it got particularly disgusting this past Easter weekend. Mom didn’t answer the phone. So I proceed to text her a fairly long diatribe on the disgustingness that is my gaping wound along with a picture.

Aaron RogersI realize texting my mother is the equivalent of throwing a Hail Mary. I just helped her buy an iPhone this past Thanksgiving. I should have just bought another 1995 flip phone. She doesn’t text. But I wanted to talk to my mom and I was hoping for a little “Miracle in Motown” action where Aaron Rodgers evaded three Lions pass rushers for 8 seconds before throwing a 61-yard pass to the four Packers receivers and tight end Richard Rodgers waiting in the end zone.

Surprisingly, my Hail Mary was successful. Sort of. About 30 minutes after I sent her my text I got a one liner back, “That’s gross.”

Those two words should have been all I needed to realize it wasn’t my mom I just texted.

In all my 39 years, I have yet to see something that truly grossed my mother out. She has iron constitution of hardened war medics. She also would have just picked up the phone and called me back.

So I think my silly mom is trying, and failing, to be funny via text messaging and I continue to text her further disgusting information regarding my obvious and impending disfigurement.

wifiThis is what I got back, “I regret to inform you that this is most decidedly not your ‘Momma.’ However, in light of the situation I wish you the best of luck in your continued endeavors to find your ‘Momma’ before you expire from acute exacerbation of chronic nonsense.”

Touché, Not My Momma. Touché.

Right at this moment I am wishing a lifetime of videos with incorrectly synched audio on the person that has my mothers old cell phone number.

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