The Uniboober, sent in by the blaming Burt family
First, my heartfelt thanks to everyone who sent their tokens of esteem down here. Ensmellulated soap! Muffins! Mary Oliver! Queen Lucia! CDs of your music! Space pen like on ‘Seinfeld’! The Uniboober! The depth of the blaming community’s generosity knows no bounds.
To those of you who have emailed to inquire after my health, a brief synopsis: a week ago last Monday I had what my sister Tidy calls a two-fer: mastectomy’n'hysterectomy (the procedure was entirely prophylactic, the result of my having recently discovered that I possess the pesky BRCA2 mutation). Unlike Boobalectomy ’05, this time I was fortunate to have had an adequately competent anesthesiologist. I was in the hospital for two days, during which interim I divided my attentions between puking from morphine and begging for more morphine. Upon returning to the Twisty Compound, I took to my bed for seven days with a fever, a bottle of Vicodin, and a small television (a full report on my TVpalooza to follow shortly). I lost 10 pounds.
Three days ago I ate something (Buddhist Delight from Suzi’s Chinese Grill).
Yesterday an awestruck hush fell upon the city as I emerged at last for a trip to the ta-ta surgeon to get my 19 staples removed and my drain tube pulled out. Thereupon a woman transformed, I proceeded with Stingray directly to an upscale boutique (By George on 6th St) for what I believe is popularly referred to as ‘retail therapy’. I bought an absurd indigo pinstripe linen suit in which I look so devastatingly handsome I dare not wear it amongst mortals. Take that, cancer. I answer your challenge with white middle class consumerism.
What’s left of my left side, feat. MC Gruesome Drain Tube. Yes, it was sewn directly to my skin with black thread. Yes, it hurt.
You must all think me an ungrateful slutbag for taking so long to acknowledge your kindness in sending me your cheery words of encouragement and/or tasteful booty. There’s no doubt I have been rottenly self-absorbed lately. Last night, though, like Harriet Vane, I finally managed to fall asleep thinking about somebody besides myself, so perhaps there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.
Meanwhile, Lauren sent me this cruel shoes link. Yipes. They’re like armadillos for your feet, if armadillos had spurs and cost $6000.