Don't Mince Words

I have short-term memory dreams now. Nothing vivid or grandeous and the plot is usually whatever happened within the last 72-hour period. So, I may be doing a Norma Rae at the office, or dreaming I met a nice, single emotionally adjusted guy at happy hour.

Now my dreams are going in scary, different directions. Last night, Jon Favreau, a writer/actor from Swingers, was the main character in my dream.

I was in Ralph’s getting my weekly supply of produce and whatnot when my Kenneth Cole bronze wedges hydroplaned on something and I fell into an end-cap tomato can pyramid. I got up, collected myself and looked around to see who saw my graceful move. Nobody, except Jon, half-way down the aisle.

But I didn’t know it was him because he gained some weight and had less hair. I assumed he was single (basket vs. cart), so I strolled up to him. He was contemplating getting the Italian-style whole tomatoes with basil.

“Those are great,” I said.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah, I just tried about three dozen of them at the end of the aisle,” I replied.

We both laughed and he asked if I was ok. The small talk continued and he handed me his card and asked me to call him. Oh my god, it’s Jon Favreau. Without hesitating, I turned his card over and wrote my name and number on the back.

“Why don’t you call me? And don’t wait three days,” I said walking away.

I woke up recalling the whole dream and just laughed at myself. Jon wouldn’t shop at the dirty Ralph’s on Lake in Pasadena. He seems like a Gelson’s or Whole Foods kind of guy to me. But I was excited to have my first grocery store pick-up. Too bad he’s married, and it was a dream.

To reaffirm that I am, indeed, 40 years old, my doctor wrote a referral for a mammogram. I’m probably one of the few people that enjoys them because I look forward to the conversations the technicians generate to try to distract you from the boob squishings.

My first mammo was in 1994. I was young and two months away from losing my insurance due to divorce. My male doctor felt a lump and sent me off to get screened. I was nervous and worried I might have a pre-existing condition that would preclude me from getting new insurance. The technician at Stuart Circle Hospital was almost a gray-haired little old lady. She prepped me for what I was about to experience, but the most comforting thing she said was, “don’t worry about it. It’s probably nothing. Male doctors don’t know how to examine cysty, large breasts and do this as a malpractice precaution.” She was right.

I saw a Brooklyn Heights doctor who decided to let me have a second mammogram when I was 35 because, “your insurance covers it. You need another baseline.” So I went to Doshi Diagnostic in SoHo and was manhandled by an Indian woman (slushee not casino variety) who didn’t speak to me outside of directions. A week later, I got the letter saying everything was fine. I returned to pick up my films because I knew I’d never go back.

Today was mammogram number three and it was the best one of all. I was greeted by a 30-something blond technician. After my right breast was slung up on the glass, she began the small talk. “So, I see you have films from New York. How do you like it out here?”

I decided to tread lightly, not knowing if she was a native, or someone I could commiserate with. “It’s kind of strange out here,” I replied.

“Hey, I’m from here and I don’t even like it,” she said. “I hear the difference is, people in New York will let you know if they like you or hate you immediately. You know where you stand.”

She then instructed me not to breathe as the image was taken. When my breast was released from captivity, I knew it was safe to reply.

“Yeah, that would pretty much sum it up. People out here can’t be straight with you and are worried about making nice-nice and keeping up appearances. I think most of them are bona fide pussies,” I told her.

She laughed and agreed and I said, “and don’t EVEN get me started about dating out here.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed harder and told me I’d have the results in a week. But I know the results: my tits are fabulous and LA is weird.