Did you ever hear the joke about the gal who did breast smushing and a colonoscopy in the same week?

Me neither.

In January lots of guilt about delayed check-ups descended on my mind. Called the office of my awesome gyno, a no-nonsense, old school, brusque, brilliant, caring-under-the-tough-exterior doctor who will retire before going concierge. At least we hope. I also got the name of the doctor she refers to for colonoscopy, called the office and got in for March 12. “Do you want 6:15 check in or 6:30?” An extra 15 minutes? Yes please! Anyway this is January and March is far away.

Meantime in February the gyno personally calls when she gets results (PAP smear fine). Then I set up an appointment to the imaging center through which I have to do a call center for which I have to enter my name, birthdate and reason for calling before I talk to someone, and eventually get an appointment for early March. We have an imaging center inside our local Four Seasons spa (yes really), but my doctor likes this one better.

Well off I go to this new location, park in the wrong place, walk around the whole building trying to find the entrance, you know, pre-medical nervousness. Inside the staff is super nice, it’s organized and nothing like their hit-and-miss call center (some of them are rude, some of them cannot spell, etc.).

Gentlemen, you do not have a vast medical waiting area devoted to your same sex in various stages of worry having come for perhaps a follow up or to hear really bad news. No one waiting in a breast imaging center is cheerful, or even chats. I change, store my clothes, submit to the smushing and leave. I have to say the tech was a little too nice on the smushing. Guys, soft tissue is firmly placed between those two planks and a lever is turned and turned and turned and then. Turned again. Below the machine.

I get a nice call from my doctor. Oh they did not like the mammo too much on one side so can you come back? This was last Thursday. I want to go in as quick as I can and the appointment will be two days before the colon look-see, the same day as a travel event at the French Consulate that we really need to attend.

Meantime I have a nice dinner and drinks with friends, our birthday group, and get lots of tut tuts that I am so behind on the colon poke, but also great advice on what to do, broth to buy, etc. Also some kudos for somehow getting in to this doc. “She’s hard to book.” All too soon it is Monday, countdown to re-imaging and John has a meeting in L.A. that cannot be moved no way, no how, so I Uber to the doctor. My driver is one our local Grandpas who makes cash this way and chats about property values. He is really nosy about the facility. Me: “Oh you know, MRI’S.” Let him think I have a bad hip.

Back to the locker room, back to the machine, same tech. Now we get Defcon 1 smush, and there will be an ultra sound as well. When that is done, the doctor comes in right away. Well he is one happy fella and I know I am fine. A cyst that will resolve itself. “Sorry about the extra smushing”. Me: “Good to know that’s a medical term.”

John picks me up. A couple hours pass and it’s the French Consulate event, which is chic and classy, yet cute and in the backyard so the consul’s large golden retriever and incredibly large pure gray cat (let’s say 35 pounds) are wandering among the guests. I feel relief for a couple hours before dread of Thursday. Dad died of colon cancer so that’s why everyone is mad at me for delaying. I have a tendency to think I am eternally 40!

I swing by CVS and pick up the glop you have to drink in 2 doses, at 5 p.m. and 9 p.m. while eating nothing but broth and (theoretically) popsicles and Jello, both of which I detest. I guess everyone but me has done it, but in case you haven’t, this is called prep. You read the paper explaining this is how they can best see what is in your colon if it is clean. By clean they mean as though you were just born, and by prep they mean if the KGB or the Mafia, in their glory days, got their hands on a traitor.

By 1 a.m. I am, as they say, running clear. I have visited the toilet, conservatively, 20 times? Not sure? Counting was too depressing. Gee I just wonder why people ever delay or never do this test. It’s a real mystery.

As I fall asleep I realize March 12 of 2008 was when I was already in Texas, at the hospital, with my two sisters, where dad was dying, having been diagnosed on March 10. He was to pass away March 14. He had, by the way, plenty of colon exams. I gather the machines are a lot better.

I sort of sleep and am awake when the alarm goes off. My clothes are laid out and I just have to brush my teeth without swallowing any water. There can be nothing in my stomach. Like in “The Verdict”, no nurse is changing my 1 to a 9, and I will not be a vegetable because I had anesthesia poorly administered. It’s pleasant thoughts like this that accompany you as you go for testing. John drops me off, I have my i.d. carefully checked (do people try to steal colonoscopies? I pity them), and wait just a bit before, as I just did on Tuesday, I take all my clothes off, put on a gown and wait.

This time I sign a bunch more papers and learn my i.v. nurse lives a block from us and we discuss good local walks. I then get a quick hello from the doctor, a tall, kind-faced mom type with a great manner. I rest a bit and the anesthesiologist comes in and quips, “Oh good, you are already asleep.” We go over the various allergies again and then I lie on my side…. and then I am awake, the doctor is there, showing me images, polyps are removed and, considering my age, the colon is in very good order.

Because I was medically weighed on Tuesday and again on Thursday, I can with complete certainty say I lost 5 pounds. I mention this to the doctor who drops, “Oh yeah the actresses do this before the awards shows.”

This is a dedication to beauty I will never embrace. It’s good to be fine and, based on my colon doc’s recommendation, will not be enduring for another three years. Mammo in a year. Smush harder the first time please!

Somehow last year, we missed the school Valentine’s Dance.   Were we sick? Oh wait.  We were in Paris.  Aaaah.  Back to earth.  That was not going to happen this year.  Meaning going to Paris. And meaning not missing the dance.   We sent our $4 a person check for $16, covering us 4,  only three days late, which in school fund-raising terms was right on time.  From 6:30 to 8:30 there would be a deejay in the school Multi Purpose Room (MPR for the cognoscenti).  Families were asked to bring a dessert to share.  Translating as an excuse to make cookies.    Since John Sr. and Jr. don’t really like chocolate chip (!) it was a Snickerdoodle (recipe) kind of night.

Our mild rainless February continues but we drove the 2 blocks to school, as carrying cookies and a camera in heels is a drag.  Juliet donned a lacy black dress, and put her hair up.  She had slapped on some unauthorized lipgloss, so pale I missed it till the end of the night.   Which was fine.   At this age, the few boys dragged by their parents hover at the edge of the dance or hop around if the music is especially loud and  bouncy.  The girls dance with each other or their parents, but eventually it’s all a big game of chase except for the 11 year olds, who looked terribly mature to us parents of 2nd graders.   They wore heels!  They looked at boys! The boys kind of looked at girls!  God help us in three years.

The MPR  had dim lights, a disco ball, a deejay playing everything from “Thriller” to “Party Rock” (that’s by LMFAO, and is current, to you readers who lost track of pop music with Nirvana).   When Katy Perry or Taylor Swift songs came up, you could hear only screaming as the girls worshiped their heroines.  In short, it was a great night.   With a photo booth you could enter as many times as you want.  A sample:

Outside the dance, various parents chatted, passing around a bottle of. . . water.   The lemonade inside was juiced with. . .  lemons.   The popular kids were. . .  no doubt cruising the mall, as this was the little kid dance, people!   Get your minds out of the gutter!

My Scottish grandmother was a terrific baker.  The Waterloo for most home bakers is pie crust.  Snap.  How about nice crumbly scones?  Double snap. I can make those both very well, thanks to her.   Having left school at 14 (typical then), and with no desire to work in a factory (horrible work), a shop (nice young girls did not mix with strangers), or a pub (are you kidding?) she had been a housekeeper to a couple of, as they said in the U.K. way back when, “retired gentlewomen.”    Bake well, keep your job. That will raise your game.  Marriage whisked her away from all that.  World War II finished the social re-ordering begun during World War I, and I assume retired gentlewomen now order in.   Or maybe they have Posh Meals on Wheels?

All by way of saying today, here in Southern California , in a world unimaginable by my Granny Glen, was Muffins With Moms day at Juliet’s elementary school.  Earlier in the year was Donuts With Dads.   Next month, Oatmeal With Old Folks?  Kidding.

Juliet awoke at about 6:30, got dressed and woke me at 6:42, informing me she would come back at 7 a.m. at which time I would be getting up.   She’s been getting herself up and dressed for the past week, much to our fascination.   I dozed a bit and then she did return at 7 and I dutifully got in the shower.  By 7:35 I was wearing a nice blouse and jacket with my customary jeans and we were curling her hair so we would both be looking our best.

To make it on time for the 7:45 beginning (we always arrive as close to first as possible for all school events.  It’s not considered uncool until you are about 15, I think), we drove the 2 blocks to school.  Mock me if you will, but that nice warm car was awesome during today’s 20 mile an hour winds.    We parked near the school, joining the throng of mostly Hondas and SUVs bearing moms and kids.   The Multi Purpose Room had plenty of mom and child volunteers directing us to the treat-laden tables.  Today was a modest fundraiser mostly meant for us to have a little downtime before the rush of real life.  I mean how much money can you make when the muffins are 25 cents for small, 50 cents for big, and coffee or milk costs a quarter?

Back to my Gran and her home baking.  Everything on offer was a steroidal leaden bomb from the grocery.  Not even a bakery muffin in sight.   Sigh. Who bakes any more?  Answer: no one, at least when it comes to feeding 700 moms and kids.  We spied some mini cinnamon rolls and bought 3.  And they were pretty darn good.  So was the Starbucks coffee and actual half and half for said coffee.   Since our choice was between sitting outside in the wind and having a picnic in the car, guess where we went?

So we hung out for about 30 minutes, watching people arrive and fight the wind up the hill to the school.  We  cruised for tunes on the radio and blasted the heat.  Too many drive time commercials.  We put in our well-worn Kids Bop 20 c.d.  Those are covers of popular songs with cleaned up lyrics sung by talented kid singers who are not famous.   Cleaned up Lada Gaga.  Cleaned up sexy dance numbers with the sex taken out.  Cleaned up ballads without references to drugs or suicide.   Kinda nice, actually.

We joked about keeping our cinnamon rolls secret since they did not start with “m.”   We tried to think of other breakfast foods that start with “m.”  “Milky Way”, chortled Juliet. “Milkshake”, she added.  “Meat”, said I, half-heartedly. At the thought of meat, Milky Ways and a milkshake for breakfast,  Juliet laughed too much and spit milk on her shirt, her knee and parts of the seat.   Thank god for black pants and plenty of napkins.  Too soon, it was time to face the wind.

Back home, John asked where his muffin order was.  Hmm.  Juliet did not mention a muffin order.

Oh well.  Guess I’ll be making muffins this weekend.