I am channeling my inner Florence Nightingale.
I’m all decked out in my gear…my white coat, my white hat, and my awesome orthopedic oxfords. RAWR. Yes, yes, I realize that our good Florence didn’t even wear the sexy white gear and looked a lot more like Ma Ingalls, but you know what, don’t rain on my parade today. I’m a super good nurse, if I do say so myself. Just ask my sister. (just ignore all the hydrocodone she’s on right now, she totally loves my nursing skills, I swear) (No, really, she does).
We arrived at the clinic early in the morning and waited. And waited. And waited. She got the royal treatment. The lovely gown, the lunchlady hairnet, the anti-blood clot compression socks, the IV, and the shot of a little somethingsomething to take the edge off. When the doctor arrived toting boxes of fake tits in his hands, she got the pleasure of standing nude while he Picasso’ed her up. I didn’t get the royal treatment. Now that I think about it, maybe that’s for the best; she was probably a little cold. But I could have use the edge-off meds, that would have been nice.
While she spent the day on the table, I spent the day in the waiting room, well, waiting. The only thing I could stomach was the box of Swedish Fish EGGS I had bought because when you see something like a box of Swedish fish that they make for Easter and they are nothing like the other kind of candy eggs you get around this holiday…but instead, they are Swedish Caviar. CANDIAR, they are calling it. I had to sneak the little suckers into my mouth because there were rules in this waiting room. No eating or drinking. I had already gone and been a big old rude rule breaker when I walked in with my giant coffee, I didn’t really want to get kicked out. So, I hid my face in my purse while I stuffed it full of the entire box because I am nothing if not klassy with a k.
(Also klassy? Listening in to fellow waiter’s hushed conversations with their doctors to try to figure out what sort of surgery they are they for.)
But then it was over. And I got to help my sister get dressed while I tried to sneak a peek at her new rack. I may have touched them a little bit, even though they are wrapped in a tremendous amount of gauze and bubble wrap..Or something. She is going to have gorgeous boobies, and I am going to hate her come June when we go to Myrtle Beach together. My sad little 32Bs are going to hide in embarrassment.
Now, all I have been able to think about while I am helping her walk, or making her something bland to eat (BRAT DIET, FTW!), or telling her when she can take her pills, or helping her potty is that
DAMMIT SHE GOT TO HAVE HER MYTHICAL SURGERY.
I mean, she is my sister. We have had endless conversations discussing our mythical plastic surgeries of choice. She always came back to the boobs, and I always come back to the stomach. We have each imagined other surgeries too…mini-lipos and rhinoplasty and botox on our foreheads (we are both squinters because we are both pretty lazy glass-wearers) and neck surgery to avoid the dreaded wattle. But it was always just sister talk. I never really thought she would go ahead and make hers a reality.
But, alas, if my tummy tuck ever comes to fruition, I know she’ll be there with her nursing gear on, helping me pee.
If you want to see more of me – and, I mean, obviously, you do – you can read my latest entertainment news over atÂ Juice, including my thoughts on this week’s LOST…OHMYGODLOST, my latest outfit over atÂ The Urban Closet, my latest advice over atÂ So You Want It, and my latest blathering over atÂ Aiming Low, where I am talking about TARGET.
ALSO…have you enteredÂ my contest yet? You can win a $200 VISA GIFT CARD!