High Tea in a Hurricane

My granny is traditional, yes.  She wears pearls and Ferragamo and Louis Vuitton and went to Harvard. 

And today she hosted high tea at the start of our second natural disaster this week...a hurricane.  It was cool, actually-- I got to meet some of her friends from high school. They are a fun and rowdy bunch. Or about as rowdy as five giggling elderly black women can be. 

dress-maeve by anthropologie

We ate in the old Cassatt mansion, where my granny is living now.  It's really beautiful: crown moldings and a baby grand piano and a winding staircase...there is even a servant's bell. Not bad for a nursing home. I mean senior living community. It's classy. Mad Clessy.

Anyhoo, the tea went spectacularly, or at least as well as it could have gone given the fact that there was a torrential downpour outside, no gas at the gas stations, no batteries or water, and no candles.  In spite of this, everyone and their mother (okay- everyone and their grandmother) seemed to be out-- the trip out to the burbs was nearly doubled from traffic.

This reminds me of my old college days in Florida when we'd wait out the hurricanes: there is quiet anxiety coupled with who-gives-a-fuck excitement. 

Sorry for cussing, granny,

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The Breast Man

So. Blogger is back, eh? Thank you for joining us, Blogger.

I did not lose weight this week, largely due to a great influx of fish and cheese grits prepared by the loving hands that nurtured me as a child.  Mother shows love through food and money. I let her.  Luckily I didn't gain, unless you call two pairs of shoes, a flower pin, a lovely scarf,  a cotton dress, and an embroidered clutch a gain.   My little carry on was bursting on the return trip.

Yesterday saw me in the physical therapy room with Granny.  Harvard- grad, debutante Granny, who wore lipstick in her recovery room and requested a "clean" blanket from the nurse.  She had her hip replaced on Monday but looked really good. Then I raced back to the city for my own appointment with the surgical oncologist.  That's right-- the breast man. The one who will be responsible for chopping and scraping.

He was a bit of a jerk, and kept me waiting an hour before coming in to prop his feet up only to repeat everything the RN who'd come in before him had said.  

And he kept staring at my breasts. "You're pretty big," he said. He had no neck and a rat face. He was visibly tired.

"Yep," I replied. "An F cup."

"We're going to have to reduce you. And we won't be able to save your nipples."  Still staring. (Note: I wasn't undressed.  This was a consult- sort of an interview for me to figure out if I like this man enough to trust him to get me through a double mastectomy.) 

Thing is, he has done hundreds of these before, and the other surgical oncologist at the hospital has a wait list until July. And...they work together, so he'd know if I booked with her.  And while he eventually seemed like a smart guy, I can't shake the thought that he was sort of a creep.

I don't know what to do: trust rat- face? Do another consult with his counterpart?  This is all so confusing. 

In other news, it appears that I ran two miles yesterday.  I can't remember the last time I felt so appreciative of my physical endurance...ever. Yes!

xoxo,

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