My brilliant friend Normal was reaching out about a project we could do together, and while I LOVE working with this amazing, inspiring unicorn of a woman, I was a little crestfallen, because I knew I’d probably have to say no.
I did have a lot on my mind and my cervix, not to mention my chest. I also had 10 more emails like this just rubbing it in my bloated, dull-eyed face that seven months ago, I was a slim and sexy writing machine; a lecture-giving, article-slinging, mother-fucking magnificent producer of CONTENT. I was a maniac, cranking out ideas and projects like a fucking BOSS. You think that’s impressive? Get this.
I was finally getting PAID. In money.
So, in what can only be described as the most hilariously not-cool joke the universe has ever designed to fuck me in the ass with, things got REALLY GOOD, and I came down with a case of the cancer.
Diagnosed with breast cancer at 38, just as my finances, love life and reputation were enjoying a nerdy but satisfying saturnalia of “fuck yeah!”. I had just started my own successful salon talk series with two partners, and was coincidentally was in the best shape of my life. I looked and felt like a sexy genius powerhouse of badassery after decades of...not. Unfortunately my tits that seemed to be looking somehow BETTER in these golden times were apparently plotting to kill me.
|In the Before Times|
I was also apparently knocked up-a fact revealed to me in the very same visit informing that no, it was not a cyst.
So within two months I slipped into a complete work hiatus, undergone a bilateral mastectomy, and then spent the next 7 months getting expanders filled for reconstruction, bouncing on and off medications, and rubbing my increasingly portly belly when Danielle approached me about this blog.
It was nice to feel wanted. I'd spent weeks in bed, bored and medicated, waiting to pop out my 9+ pound little miracle. I tried not to worry about how in the hell I was going to get back on track with the life I lost last year, when all my trauma-addled brain seemed to be capable of was endless Mob Wives marathons and Farmville.
Maybe that was just what I did now. That would be my new "thing".
While no one is a bigger fan of me than me, even I was starting to doubt another interesting thing would ever birth itself from anywhere but my uterus-but I appreciated the faith that others seemed to have in me. I would have to ease into something...but what?
A mother-fucking wine blog, that’s what.
OF COURSE. Normal and I have tons in common and love idea-having together, something we have discovered over many, many, MANY glasses of the sweet, grape-y nectar of Dionysus. So here I am, a little late to the party, already covered in someone else’s vomit, but I got here, and that’s what matters.
Enough of my sad sack story, it's time to get to work.