GiG is home.

Photo by Barry Alan.

A week ago today, I left New Hampshire at 5am in an effort to beat Boston traffic and make it to Rhode Island with time to spare before my mom's scheduled appointment with her oncologist. When I got to the house at 7am my mom was asleep on the couch, evidence of a night of awful sickness surrounding her. My dad was visibly shaken and tearful.

This was the start of a week that got considerably worse before it got better.

For right now, I'm concentrating on the better.

I wanted to be sure to let the masses know that GiG came home from the hospital today and is feeling better though the tiredness of a week of sleepless nights has caught up with her and she'll need to make up for the rest she missed.

I'll need to do the same thing. I have an emotional hangover. This happens. I spent the week in a mode of function and purpose; tend to my mom. Now that this particular fire is out, the intensity of it has just caught up to me and I am exhausted by a week's worth of emotion crashing through my body in one massive wave. The last two nights I've taken 5pm naps.

But, tonight as my mom rests easier, I will now do the same.

Sleep tight, peeps.

In real life, even House doesn't have the answers.

I am sitting at the foot of my mom's hospital bed watching her sleep, the green blanket from home which lay over her rising and falling with her breath. I am comforted by the motion of her breath. I am grateful for its ease this moment.

Dan is next to me working on a crossword puzzle. The room is lit only by midday sun sneaking through the cracks of the closed window panels. We're hoping she sleeps for a while as the three nights she has spent here so far have not provided much rest. The deepness of her current sleep is aided by the sedative drugs she was given this morning when she underwent a procedure in which a scope was inserted through her mouth and snaked down to her left bronchus for the purpose of getting pictures as well as lung samples. Even though the procedure went smoothly, we decided we should take shifts watching her sleep in case there are any complications. It is expected that she will cough more following the procedure; even cough up blood.

That was a minute of writing I got in yesterday before family started showing up to visit with my mom and the day busied up.

I am happy to say that my mom seems to have improved from where she was these last few days, from where she was even yesterday morning.

Dan's wrap-up was pretty right on (and, of course, adorable). That is, unless any of you caught the first version before I corrected it in which Dan said my mom had a pulmonary edema, a much more serious diagnosis than the pulmonary embolism she actually had. As the pulmonologist explained to us regarding emboli, "Tiny ones cause pain, big ones kill you." My mom's, thankfully, was small and thus she is still alive.

I cannot yet write at length about what has transpired over the last few days---soon I'll have to shower up and head back to the hospital---but I can at least summarize where things stand now while I sit here having my morning coffee alone in my parents' kitchen at my mom's seat at the table. My mom went into the hospital with chest pain, utter weakness and fever on Wednesday. The chest pain was attributed to the pulmonary embolism (which is, apparently, common with lung cancer), the weakness was due to chemo and general dehydration, and the fever---well, they're still trying to figure that out like, as we've said many times, it's our very own episode of House. While fever is often seen with pulmonary embolisms, they have to rule out infection which is of particular importance because my mom's immune system is so compromised by the chemo. All testing has ruled out the presence of bacteria, but the reason they did the bronchoscopy is to be sure there isn't an infection hiding behind the tumor. While in there, they saw just how much the tumor was obstructing my mom's airway (thus causing breathing difficulty, the collapse of lung tissue and the potential for infection) so they may have to do some radiation soon to shrink the blockage.

This is the science of things. Decisions will be made this week regarding radiation, chemo, etc. Surgery is pretty well off the table. Science.

Since Wednesday morning when my mom was admitted, science has been very much second to life and emotion. Conversations were had that I never imagined having. Many tearful phone calls and worried text messages were exchanged. My sister Katie will be flying in tomorrow.

But, it seems that for the time being, the worst of this particular episode is over. Last night my mom ate an entire sandwich and bowl of soup for dinner---the most she's eaten in days. The color has returned to her face and she was sharp enough yesterday to bust my and everyone else's balls.

"Mom's back," was how my dad put it.

So now I'm going to head back to the hospital to see her. Yesterday morning when I raced there to be sure I would get a chance to see her before she went under for her procedure (a measure of the sort of just-in-case that is hard to believe is reality) I wasn't going to see that mom. Glad she's back today.

Whether things will stay this way, whether this is the beginning of a years-long road or the beginning of the end, we have no idea. Stripped of its platitudinal essence and from its spot on book marks and coffee mugs, the "this" of "this moment" is truly all we've got.

So off to the shower I go.

Thanks all for the support and prayers and love for GiG.

A Guest Spew

Lola couldn't be here today as she was out getting her new tattoo.

I don’t know if Lola will get mad at this, but I decided to Guest Blog on her site in her absence. She’s been trying to update over the last few days but she’s been quite busy tending to a few things that take precedence. However dear Spewers, one thing you should know about the anxiety-ridden mind of Ms. Lola Mellowsky, a mind I am so lucky to know in so many wonderful ways, she feels a great sense of debt to update her readers and her blog frequently. She feels very lucky to have so many fans; so much so that she really starts to feel pressure when she lets the blog go a few days without update. Hopefully, this will make her take a quick breath in relief as she prepares for her next entry. Believe me, she is working on her next entry right now, she just hasn’t been able to put it down on the Mac.

So, for today, you are stuck with me. First, the big update: Becky is still winning the battle of female incontinence. The second update: Gigi is in the hospital.

The evil word of the day today is Pulmonary Embolism. Gigi had a rough night a few days ago and she was up most of the night vomiting and spiking a fever. When they went to have their regularly scheduled visit with their oncologist, they decided to admit her to make sure all was ok. After a day or two of a Dr. House mystery (could it be Lupus?), they discovered a pulmonary embolism, which, if I am to believe Wikipedia, is a blockage of an artery or branch of the lung due to a clot which travelled through her blood from elsewhere in the body. Gigi is being treated now, but she’ll be in the hospital until she’s better. I’ll let Lola update you on what this all means (because I don’t really know), but that’s the scoop. Hopefully, she’ll be back home soon.

For the past few days, Lola has been spending most of her day at the Hospital with her Mom (she highly recommends the Stuffed Shells from the St. Anne’s kitchen). Her Dad has been there too, and of course her sisters (and Our Tina) have been checking in as well. Last night, Lola and her Mom watched a movie together on her laptop and talked until it was time to leave. Her Dad had to work, so it was Lola and Gigi in the dimly lit hospital room watching a Sandra Bullock comedy as the beeps and hoots of the hospital machines chirped in the background. It sounds sad (and it is in many ways) but I am sure it was a night neither Lola nor her mom will soon forget.

Lola called me on the way home. She was exhausted in every way. Her voice was gravelly and hoarse as she gave me the update on her day while she made her way home and into a rarely empty Mellow homestead. She said goodnight to me as she crawled into her childhood bed and we hung up, both missing each other as we turned out the light. Today, for Lola, it’s more of the same.

So that’s the update. Lola will be back soon to tell you more and to Spew all over you (yes, that’s what she said).

My sister is famous.

I thought we could all use a laugh today given yesterday's downer of a post.

My sister Becky is the voice of modern women (and their soiled drawers).

P.S. A hearty thanks to Bec for allowing me to post this. (I swear I asked.) You're saving lives, sister.

Looks like someone has a case of the fuck-its.

I really do swear a lot, don't I?

Oh, I'm just so cranky today.

We all are, aren't we?

It's hard to want to write an I'm-just-so-cranky blog entry when A) crankiness on a Monday is nothing new and I'll sound awfully whiny going on about it and B) I'm annoyed at you for calling me whiny.

More concerning still is that when I explore this crankiness I find that it's not really crankiness at all; it's dread and stress and fear and fatigue and worry and all sorts of emotions that I would just like a break from for today. Just for today I'd rather rest in the comfort of financial panic, social outrage and the sweet chorus of curious voices inside my head.

Where's a girl get some good old-fashioned mental illness when she needs it? Oh, how I miss the simplicity of depression...

Instead, my braining is sizzling and popping with dilemma fried in unknowns and powerlessness (seasoned with heartbreak and anger).

It's chemo week again. I'll be heading down to Rhode Island first thing Wednesday morning to make it to my mom's appointment with her oncologist and then on Thursday the party begins.

For the first time, I don't want to go. I want to go. I mean I want to be there, I want to hear whatever will be said, I want my mom to feel supported.

But I'd rather hop a flight to California and spend some time getting drunker than I've ever been in my life. I'd even do some drugging if it would take me further from this place.

There's no move right now. It's sit-and-wait time. Manic downtime where there's nothing to do but sprout growths of clustered wonderings to your root questions.

My mom had a MRI last week in order to see if the cancer spread to her brain as she has been complaining of dizziness that is likely due to all the chemo-related meds. (The terms spiders in my lady-parts is less scary to me than the words "cancer spread to her brain.") Although we were told this MRI looked normal (as in brain-tumor free) another message on the machine later told us that they would have to wait until this week to be totally certain of these results (read: ass-covering) as they want to compare the recent MRI images to ones taken in February just after she was diagnosed. I know it's only a MRI of her fucking brain, but would a little certainty about one fucking thing, kill someone? Can't someone tell us one thing for fucking sure?

And I know they can't. Nobody knows anything for sure. They can want what's best for her, they can believe they're doing their best, but nobody knows what's best. As far as I can tell, cancer is not a science. And, the fact that nobody really knows what they're doing where it concerns the life of someone I love so much, could make me (is making me; has made me) crazy.

This is because: What if we're doing something wrong?

And you sit and you stir with that thought day and night. Is there something else we should know? Something else we should try?

My mom has felt sicker since starting chemo than she ever did before. I knew that was going to be the case---you get worse before you get better, they say---but is still unnerves me and seems so counterintuitive. What if you get worse before you get worser?

You think and think and think.

I'm worried about this next chemo session.

I'm worried she's going to lose her hair and it's going to kill her spirit.

I'm worried the next CAT Scan will show that the treatment isn't working.

I'm worried that even thinking like this (never mind writing it...) taints my hope and puts energy into the universe that will affect her negatively.

And I'm worried about my mom because if I'm so consumed with all of this worry, what could she be feeling?

How do we keep her afloat?

I was in the car with her when she got the initial all-clear message about the MRI. I heard her repeat what the person on the voicemail said, "MRI is normal." But when I looked over at her thirty seconds later she was weeping.

"What? What is it, Mom?" I asked, panicked and trying to split myself so that I could both comfort her (I was sure she had misheard the message and on a second listen learned that they had found something) and keeping us on the road.

But they were tears of release, she explained. She had been terrified that the MRI would say otherwise and could only release her fear now that she was safe (so to speak).

Her fear had been cancer in her brain. What could that possibly feel like for her? What does that fear feel like when she's awake with her thoughts at night?

Something other than cranky, though sometimes it comes out that way for her, too.

And then sometimes it is crankiness. And I feel annoyed. And it's the normal stuff of family.

Other days, it's the stuff of brain tumors. And not a thing feels normal anymore.

Not even a Monday.

Birthday Spew

A personal fave.

You guys...the blog is a year old today.

I swear to god.

I feel like I should divulge some dark secret in celebration: I steal.

No, that’s not true.

I pee standing up.

While I wish that one was true, regretfully, it is not.

I just feel like I want to mark this occasion with some sort of give-back because I am so grateful to all who power up your computers every day, type in that ridiculously long web address and stop by the Spew. Seriously grateful, in fact. Some of you have even been here since the very first post. Others jumped on after my Oprah interview. Whichever you are, you need to know that I’m not blowing smoke when I tell you how appreciative I am that you take time out of your busy (Facebook) schedule to come here.

Normally, when I hear musicians or actors “thank the fans,” I want to wretch. As if, now that they’re hobnobbing with the stars of People magazine’s cooter shots, they give even one shit about the chick with the Loony Tunes sweatshirt who bunked with the homeless in order to score front row tickets and scream, “Justin Timberlake, I love you! (Check out my blog!)” I often think “thank the fans” is an item from a to-do list their publicist gave them, falling somewhere between bed Seacrest and advocate for an endangered species.

But while I can hardly compare myself to Timberlake (he doesn’t have my sex appeal) or even possibly claim a fan base (that doesn’t consist of the teenage boys from the skate park next to my house whom I flash every Friday) I do have to say that when someone tells me they enjoy my blog, I feel truly thankful that s/he, in a world of books and newspapers and Kindles, even reads it. (If, however, they don’t say they enjoy it, I poison their cat.) I feel a buzz of excitement every time someone says to me, “I follow your blog (and you’re kind of a pervert.”).

So, screw it, I’m pumping my chest, pointing my hand to the sky, giving shout-outs to Jeebus and thanking the fans.

Thanks people...especially those who have their little mini pictures up there in the corner. And the ones who leave comments. (You’re my favorites.) And the ones who do neither of those things but check in when they want to look like they are doing something important at work. And the ones who have a little Spew with their morning coffee. And the ones who visit between porn sites (a li’l Spew with their spew). And the folks who check in from my dad’s hospital (Holla atcha Charlton Memorial!) And the ones who got here through my sister Bec’s Facebook advertising. And all the rest of you too. But most of all, I’d like to thank those who happened upon here because they did a google search of Leslie Lillian, featured singer on a 1980‘s Jane Fonda workout video, who was referenced on here one time by my sister Katie in the comments section. According to Google Analytics, I get hits from that search term all time. (I’ll save the entire list of word combinations that deliver people to this site for another entry, but favorite among them are: “fat irish face” and “top of my ass hurts when I wear thongs.”

Joking aside (But why? it’s been so long since we’ve joked), I really am appreciative of you being here. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll drop you faster than my pants on burrito night once I get really big, but for now...you complete me.

It’s been quite a year. Michael Jackson’s death, London, Bookish. Now, of course, cancer. Do you feel like it’s a case of bait and switch? You used to come here for a little “That’s what she said” and now all you get are extended absences and tales of woe. I’ve been thinking of adding one of those lines at the top, below the blog title, which explains what this place is about. In trying to find the words to capture the theme here, I realized that cancer now has a place in this blog’s identity; my identity, I guess. This is certainly a departure from wherever I was a year ago. Wherever I was three months ago, actually.

I don’t think I’ll ever be back there. Not in that same place, anyway. Things have shifted. There will be new places, I’m sure, but not the one I dwelt in where I could go on living my life, happily taking my mom and all of life for granted. What I’m saying is that I think cancer will probably continue to remain a main theme around these parts. It has metastasized to my blog.

Though, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there will be plenty of thong jokes to go around when we need a little levity.

So, into a second year we go. I’m hoping to perk up the look of things, maybe learn how to do something visually creative. (This could involve a web address change---stay tuned.) Mostly though, I think the change will be in content. Because I’m changing. It is very strange to know you are going into one of the most important years of your life but have no idea what to expect.

This blog will be whatever that’s about.

I hope you stick around (and leave tons of comments).

I will do you right by continuing to show up too. This is all getting too big to keep inside anyway.

And that, my friends, is what she said.

Big News!

Photo courtesy of iWomb.





Not, however, my news.

My sister Cherie is about ten weeks pregnant. (I've been holding on to this nugget of info since Easter...)

Holla! Congrats Chirl and Petey! Looking forward to taping the birth (and posting it)!

P.S. Not my strongest post-absence entry, but wook at da wittle baby.

I'm flexing my knees for this picture

I chose the one on the left. Your left.

It's magical. Yesterday, via iChat, I was able to have a fashion consult with Mattie regarding my outfit for the evening's festivities. I actually put the computer on the ground so he could get a closer look at my shoes. (I don't recommend squatting down to try such a thing while wearing a short black dress...ANOTHER DRESS!) I'm pretty sure all technological achievements of the last century have been been leading to this momentous occasion: having a bicoastal "Which shoe?" conversation. I was so awed by the experience that I wasn't even offended when Matt scoffed at my necklace ("No...") and told me that putting a pashmina over my ensemble (which included a green scarf around my neck for color...a look I apparently invented called Scarf on Scarf) made me "look like a priest." I'm thinking of bringing him with me for my haircut today.

I am writing this morning from the ever-trendy, ever-modern lounge of the W Hotel in Boston. (On a table which looks more like a mirrored filing cabinet meets Swiss cheese sits a book titled "Luxury For Dogs.") Last night, Dan and I were wickit fancy taking in one of the kickoff concerts of the Boston Pops' 125th season at Symphony Hall. More specifically, we were there to see featured singer Idina Menzel (who is one of our favorite performers and a sizzling third party in both of our fantasy threesomes) and to spend a night in Boston. This was our fifth time seeing Idina live including when we first saw her originate the role of Elphaba in Broadway's Wicked (for which she won an Oscar). (The Gleeks among us might know her as Vocal Adrenaline's coach.) The first time we saw her in concert was at a jazz club at a hotel in Cambridge...now she's playing Symphony Hall in Boston. I'm pretty certain there are Grammys and maybe even Oscars in her future. You heard it here first, folks. As expected, Idina was fantastic. She did a mashup of sorts, juxtaposing Cole Porter's "Love for Sale" with "Roxanne" by the Police that was totally badass meets Broadway which, in many ways, is what Idina is all about. Her talent is such that her gentle version of "For Good" from Wicked, sung not only a cappella but also off the mic, filled the room. Youtube her version of "No Day But Today" or "Defying Gravity" and try not to be totally inspired to do life right.

The Boston Pops were, well, also good. We expected something all highbrow and then they played the themes from Star Wars and E.T. and even Hedwig's Theme from Harry Potter. (Remember how it starts off all music boxy---that's musician speak, right there---that's what they played.) All are works of former Pops' conductor John Williams. As I watched all these musicians perform, I wondered about each person's story. These people have worked their whole lives to be on that stage where, in many cases, they cannot even really be seen. Most of these musicians appeared to be middle-aged or older and I wondered if their children were in the audience or traveled across states to see them play. I would like to make a documentary about this if anyone has a spare movie budget they'd like to squander.

Before the show (because I haven't the ability to wait until after 10pm to eat without fainting) we had dinner at a place (Dan picked out) called Tantric. The idea was to enjoy the sensuality of Indian fare. I was intrigued by the concept until I saw an appetizer on the menu called, I kid you not, Chicken 69.

A classy night, indeed.

To do: Not waste time blogging about stupid things.

First of all, I want those shoes. Second, would this be my avatar?

The good weather is finally here: I made a airbrush spray tan appointment in celebration.

Also, I'm wearing a dress.

I’ve spent most of my life avoiding wearing dresses as I am simply not the kind of woman who wears them with any sort of ease. Wearing a dress means that there is one less boundary between my ass and the rest of the world. As a person who hasn't worn a bathing suit sans shorts since seventh grade, this concerns me. The probability that an accident involving the exposure of pink skin will occur is increased exponentially with the addition of high heels, the real offender in the dress/heel goon squad. Given these risks, in addition to the fact that dress-wearing is generally accompanied by a social situation I was unable to get out of, I had taken a strong position against clothing that is not sewn together at the bottom. (This is why I staple my nightgowns...)

However, a few years ago my mom took a risk and bought me a summer dress---a little black lightweight cotton number, sort of surfer girlish with spaghetti straps---and it changed my life. My disdain for dresses has been somewhat tempered by the realization that they are actually friend to the fashionably lazy.

After my shower today, it took me 45 seconds to dry off and clothe myself due to the advantages of the summer dress. A perk of the one I am wearing now is that I don’t even have to wear a bra, a particular freedom I most enjoy. (I do wear underoos; even though I would like her to play me in the Lifetime Lola Mellowsky biopic---if Meredith Baxter Birney is unavailable, of course---, Lindsay Lohan I am not.) Plus, in a nice loose dress my ass is pretty much lost under billowing fabric. You can't make out its size or shape much less see the Star Wars figures on my undies. While the mortifying accident risk level is still high it is at least reduced by the fact that appropriate footwear involves flip flops, a shoe on which I am generally stable. (I sincerely believe that tomorrow I will be reporting a terrible fall as a direct result of writing that sentence.)

Comfort is of particular importance today because I am planning on accomplishing every single thing I've ever needed to do. All of it. Letters will be written, laundry will be put away, budgets will be balanced. I may even finally get a degree. Anything short of 75 crossed off to-do items will be unacceptable. (Writing about the perks of wearing a dress was not on the list.)

I am just feeling perpetually behind lately. While I know this is the story of my (and everyone else's) life, I still dream of waking up one day and thinking, "Heck, clean slate today. I might as well collect some sticks for that house I've always wanted to make by hand."

Seeing that it's 4:30 and I've accomplished about three things so far, I'm doubtful that tomorrow will be that day.

But before I head off and Tasmanian Devil my way around this apartment, I wanted to give an update on my mom because I know many of you are checking in here for that reason (and not to hear me ramble on about my assoutaphobia).

Gig is doing remarkably well. No vomiting or hair loss (though I think the hair loss wouldn’t happen quite yet). Though there is a metallic taste to whatever she eats and her appetite is inconsistent, she is able to stick to a schedule of eating something every few hours in order to stave of the nausea which comes in big scary waves often when her stomach is empty. She also has an anti-nausea med that works but at the cost of dizziness, fatigue and a general feeling of being drugged. All of this is much better than what our fears were which included...what exactly? My mom and I both concluded that we weren't quite sure what our fears were. It wasn't just kidney failure though that certainly had a place at the table.

I came back to NH last night as a result of her stable health. My mom and dad separately voiced their concerns to me that as she did so well health-wise with the last chemo cocktail and it proved to not be working at all, that perhaps the same thing is happening now; that her body resists chemo, both its bad and good effects.

I choose to believe it's the leafy greens and grass-fed beef that's protecting her from toxicity while the tumors shrink away. As I see it, that IV bag of chemo is half-full.

Okay, lots to do. Off I run...er, walk carefully.

With age comes wisdom. And some pouting.

Mama and sisters 1, 4 and 5

I turned 29 yesterday. I had been dreading 29...it feels very old which I know sounds obnoxious. I'm not the type to dread aging. In fact, I've always looked forward to being 40 and having my shit together due to all the wisdom I plan to acquire by then. But 29...eh. It feels more like one of those ages when a status report on life comes in and on paper I'm pulling straight C's. I like to think that what I lack in quantifiable success I more than make up for in raw rationalization. Hopefully this carries me through my thirties too.

Ten years ago, when I turned 19, I spent the day working a double at a restaurant and then drove from NH to Boston to have a little celebration and cake with my sister who had an apartment there and my mom who drove up from RI to meet us. Yesterday, my mom and I started the day off back at the hospital. In order to guard against renal failure, they had her come in the day after chemo to have some blood drawn for immediate reading. If her creatinine levels were too high she would have either needed to get more IV fluid or be admitted to the hospital. When she and I followed Rachel, her oncology nurse, into a small room for the results, the mood was heavy.

"I've never seen labs look this good," Rachel said.

Holla!

She said my mom looked great for the day after chemo and her blood work showed that she was doing great. Rachel attributed this to my mom's attention to keeping hydrated upon going home and my mom has since said that all the healthy food we've been pumping her with boosted her immune system and provided some resilience.

Either way, fucking thrilled would be an understatement. As with her last two chemo treatments, the days directly following do prove to be "up" days for my mom due to the steroidal function of the Decadron. Tomorrow would be when things would start to slip if they're going to.

But it's not tomorrow yet and it wasn't tomorrow yesterday. After almost two hours at the hospital we returned to my parents' home for a visit and lunch with a couple of my sisters out on the back deck. Later, we all headed down to the beach and watched my three-year-old nephew run around while we took pictures of him and each other in front of the river. I told Dan all week that I wasn't sure how I wanted to spend the day since so much would hinge on how my mom was feeling. Turns out, I was the tired one. In an attempt to surprise me Dan made dinner plans behind my back which, if I'm being honest, stressed me out. I just wanted to take the day as it came---no plans and, more specifically, nobody else's plans hinging on fickle me. I wanted to be noncommittal to everyone and everything. After getting pedicures with Cherie (thanks, Chirl!) I decided at the very last minute that I could handle a meal out and Dan had to change the reservation to accommodate my ever-tardy brain. I know it sounds like I was being a spoiled brat---I won't even say that I wasn't---but I just couldn't know if I was going to be able to find the mental energy to bring a fork to my mouth in a public place. As a last-minute thing, Chirl and Pete joined Dan and me for Italian fare at a little BYOB spot. I ate veal. I know... The mental hangover is not worth it, I've decided. We ordered coconut key lime cake for dessert (which was not good) and they all sang to me before I blew out the table candle. I made a big wish.

So 29 is here. My mom is still doing well. Dan and I are about to head out on the kayaks. I'd say a celebration of life is still occurring.



P.S. Here's the story...of a girl named Lola...who was playing with her new compuuuuuter...



This is a picture of 29-year-old maturity. BFF Mattie introduced me to iChat (Mac's version of Skype, I guess) so he and I chatted a la Jetson phone for an hour and a half the other night. I was so nervous about the whole thing at first---I felt like I was on Oprah---but by the end I was like a silly teenager and kept flashing Matt just because I could. Bra on folks, this is a family blog. (No, it's not.) I should also point out that Matt doesn't care much for ta-tas, mine or any other girl's so there was no cheating on the husband involved. (But if you did like them you'd like mine best, right?)

Yours in boundless maturity,
Lola