Sorry, sometimes I get out of bed too early and channel the Universal Mother.

Ok, OK, I’ll turn it on myownself and Monday I’ll make an appointment for the Twisty Invitational Titsquish. Go ahead and make fun of me; I’m 56 and haven’t has my tits squished yet. We have a family tradition of heart attacks instead.

like MRI scans (but they did give me a panic button!), I managed to move very slightly and they had to redo it.

There’s a young woman who works at my local Borders Book Store who’s in treatment, and she wears one of an assortment of smooth page-boy wigs in colors like Candy Apple Red, turquoise, and shiny shiny silver.

Eek! When I had my MRIs, they let me choose my own music. They said they’d either put the radio on the station I wanted or I could bring in my own CD. Being sick is crappy enough. There is no reason to compound the misery with Enya.

I hope chemo goes well for you. I’m sure you’ll pull through just fine.

She always wanted to do the blue-died hair thing - we’re talking bright blue here. For her, this was a chance to do all sorts of temporary random hair things she would not do with her permanent real blonde hair. She also had a screamingly tart red wig too.

No need to look as if nothing was happening to you, so that you can look like a PMA trouper and not tax the sympathies of those around you. Damn those bangs! Go bald if you can stand the Texas sun or winter chill on your head! Or how about a devo flowerpot hat or basket of fruit or what have you? I’ve even seen body paint. Just go for whatever is you.

Although back when I was a rock star I had a ton of different wigs, my favorite of which was a salt-and-pepper semi-frizzy one that made me look like a 56-year-old East Coast Jewish art historian. I enjoyed its incongruence with the banging out of songs like “My Baby Won’t Go Down On Me” in dank and delightful punk clubs.

I remember when I made my first sexist pun on a feminist blog.