For those who know me only through my blog, it might come as a surprise to know that I’m actually a rather modest person. Really. Not modest regarding my obvious superiority – hell, I have so many gifts I could pass them out like party favors! – but rather in the Victorian sense. I grew up with parents from the “old country,” meaning nothing related to sex was ever brought up in the house. Never got “The Talk.” Chicken had white meat, not breasts. You get the idea.
So it was a particularly cruel joke played by fate when The Cancer came along, in the form of a large lump in the worst place imaginable, at least in terms of removing it. But being my shy self, I’d spare people the details, which prompted questions and comments like “Oh, a lump, so they can remove just that and then that’ll be it, right? Why would you need recon? You don’t need recon, do you? For just a lump? Blah blah blah, yes?”
Until one day I snapped. Right here on this little blog, I believe it was. Where after the six millionth puzzled look and inquiry as to why I’d be so vain as to go through reconstruction for just a little ol’ lump I finally responded with:
“It wasn’t just a lump! It was a huge honking lump that was RIGHT UNDERNEATH my fucking NIPPLE, okay? So the whole thing had to go, leaving me with the Appalachian Mountain Boob problem, okay? You know, with the whole top sheared off! THAT’S why I need recon!”
So here we are. Where I still don’t like to talk about things like nipples or fipples, but sometimes, it’s for the greater good, and so I’m okay with it. But when it comes to the Boobages, and the new lovely cleavage, I figure, all bets are off. I earned these puppies, and the right to flaunt them any way I damn well please. Which I plan to do, in spectacular fashion. Not just because they’re fake, but especially because they’re fake, and pretty. Because as we say around these parts – the real ones tried to kill me.
All this is a prelude to announce the big celebration of Miss Tasha’s New Boobages, in the form of a Coming Out Par-tay on June 5th! The Boobages party of the decade! And not coincidentally, it’s also my birthday weekend. There’ll be the usual fun, food and festivities, with Kona stealing guests’ food at every opportunity, and in the “special events” category we’ll have:
- A piñata as a stand-in for BCBS execs!
- Whatever other crazy stuff we can come up with!
And YOU are invited! Yes, you! Well, okay, those of you in the Chicagoland area, which I think narrows things down considerably. I’m also inviting my doctors, so they can admire their handiwork in a social setting, and guests (the female ones) are encouraged to flaunt their own girls in a show of solidarity with my own Boobages. Man boobs are not encouraged. And given that some of my dear CancerChick friends are planning on coming, this could be the finest assemblage of Boobages, fake and otherwise, that my little burg has ever seen.
I do think it’s telling that my female friends who’ve responded to the Evite are all giddy about buying new push-up bras, picking out the most boobalicious clothing, etc.
The guys just seem frightened, and most of them have gone to ground. Nary a peep from many of the menfolk. Sad.
But speaking of the Boobages, it’s almost startling to discover that hey, I now gots cleavage! And not because the girls are pushed up and wonderbra-ed within an inch of their lives, but because they’re now naturally busty, thanks to the superior work of Dr. Fine and his people – well, and the fact that he had a good base to work with, naturally. Modern medicine can do just so much.