The “little c” chronicles, Part 25: Right back to where we started from.

Yyyyyyyyyeah, it’s been awhile, I know; and I won’t (yet) expound too much upon what I’ve been up to instead of updating this blog, because I did promise y’all I’d lead with the boob-related news (because this is, after all, supposed to be a blog about my boobs). And I do have boob news, but stick around after that, and you’ll probably get more than you want to know about the rest of my life, too.

I’m gonna let you down, and leave you flat (gonna let you down and leave you flat) . . . because I’ve told you before — ohhh, you can’t do that . . .

So here’s the boob news: I’m giving up on them. You may recall that last fall, during a particularly horrifying presidential election, Left Eye kicked up an infection in protest (actually, she started misbehaving a day or two prior to the election, but I’m convinced it was because SHE KNEW what was going to happen). And then she kicked up another one, less than a month later (by which time EVERYONE knew the world was going to shit, and I think she just wanted to remind people that SHE CALLED IT). So in December of last year, my plastic surgeon (OMG, why haven’t I been calling him Dr. Boobie Builder? That woulda been such a great name for him) removed the implant on that side, to give everything a chance to heal all the way up. We’d give it a few months, he said, and then discuss RE-reconstruction in the coming year.

Follow-up visits proved satisfactory, so at some point in the spring of THIS year, Dr. Boobie Builder (I’m running with this thing) handed me a brochure outlining the procedure he had in mind to replace my left jug. And it was, um . . . a little more complex than merely stuffing another implant in there (if you’re curious, check out Latissimus flap breast reconstruction on your old pal Google), because the radiated skin on that side had not been successful in hosting an implant guest on its own, and was gonna need a little help. But if y’all know ANYTHING about me, you know that I have a STRONG (and perhaps a bit unnatural) affinity for symmetry. (I get it from my mama, and I own it with pride — although years ago, when I worked for a caterer, my symmetry-obsessed ass was quickly banned from setting up food tables at events (“It’s too symmetrical,” the caterer would say; DAMN STRAIGHT IT IS, SISTER . . . but I digress), so I’m given to understand that not everyone shares my appreciation for balance.)

Because of the symmetry thing — and despite the more complex nature of the proposed reconstruction technique (and Love Tank’s careful questioning about whether the risks were worth it), I was ready to move forward with this plan . . . However, as you may also recall, I lost my job in May of 2024 — and was still sans job in the spring of 2025 — so I figured it might be best to continue stuffing half my bra until such time as I had a little more disposable income to spend on a new tit. Therefore, I rode out the spring and summer rocking a faux lady lump I’d fashioned out of a wad of gauze and a couple of those annoying (and, fortunately, removable) cup-shaped foam inserts that come inside sports bras and bathing suits). And it worked pretty well . . . but I had to pay close attention, or else I’d look down and discover that while I went on about my business, Falsie had migrated to a spot roughly 3-4 inches directly below my jugular notch. Finally, I put my mad Amazon skillz to work, and found these bras, which have done a spectacular job at keeping the girls in their assigned seats. BUT AGAIN, I DIGRESS.

At last, in the summer, I landed a job (more on that later), and so a few weeks ago, I decided it was time to revisit getting a new, more permanent boob. I made an appointment to see Dr. Boobie Builder — and at that visit, I learned two things:

1. HIs proposed process to replace Left Eye would take not one, but TWO surgeries: the first to move muscle and tissue from my back to my front, and insert an expander, and the second to replace the expander with a permanent implant.
2. At the end of 2025, he would no longer be accepting my health insurance.

Bleh.

He would, he said, talk to his nurse later in the day and get her up to speed, and they would try to figure out a workable plan, given that the two surgeries would have to be a few weeks apart, and the end of the year loomed. In the meantime, he said, I should take some time to think and process all this news. So off I went to make the long-ish trek to work for the rest of the day, which gave me some time to mull things over.

I hadn’t even reached my office when I called Dr. BB’s office back and asked to leave a message for the nurse. I told her I knew she was going to be discussing my case with Dr. BB later that day, so I was calling to throw the possibility of removing my current implant onto that table for discussion. What I wanted ABOVE ALL THINGS, I told her, was symmetry. What I did NOT tell her was that:

• For most of my life, I didn’t really have much of a rack to speak of; I started wearing a bra pretty much when all my friends did, but trust me when I say there was NO NEED for it. Once I got to college, I gradually stopped wearing bras (which may have been made a little easier by the fact that I — ahem — tended to lose them); my girls then roamed free until I was (no joke) in my MID-THIRTIES and, having landed my first corporate job, decided it might be time for me to grow up and start keeping my headlights in the garage. By then, I was married, so it was Love Tank — not a mom, big sister, or cool aunt — who went with me to purchase the first bras I would own as an actual adult. (That shopping trip, as I recall, was hilarious, but I’m going to avoid that particular digression.)
• What’s more, my personal chest-size aesthetics lean more “one-man tent” (think 70s-era Cher) than “brick house” (70s-era Lynda Carter) — so if I’m honest, I thought the tits Dr. BB gave me after they threw away my originals were too big! (As you may recall, there was never the pre-reconstruction discussion I’d anticipated, where I’d be shown an array of implants in different sizes from which to choose my new look; rather, Dr. BB told me he’d bring a few different sizes into the OR, see how big an implant my radiated side could handle, and put that same size on the other side.) And now that I’m almost 50 pounds lighter than I was when I had my reconstruction surgery (thanks to the cessation of chemo-concomitant steroids, a habit of long walks to stave off the depression associated with last year’s presidential election, and a bit of intermittent fasting), I am feeling WAY too boobular.
• For the reasons stated above (along with the idea of just being FREEEEEEE of this whole mess — i.e., the possibility of repeated infections, the possibility of implant issues down the road, the possibility of more surgeries to fix all that crap — once and for all), I felt pretty damn good about the idea of going titless.

Before the end of that day, the nurse called me back and said that Dr. BB considered my “going flat” to be a viable option as well (I mean, what is he gonna say — “Absolutely not; you will WEAR THOSE KNOCKERS TO THE GRAVE, young lady”?). So we made that the plan, and came up with a surgery date: November 19. I now have about another week and change as a one-tit wonder, and then I’m Tits-free McGee! Unfortunately, that means another round of surgery drains (which I HAAAAAAAATE, GAHHHHHH), but once those are out, I’m burning those bras, baby! (OK, probably not, because I will still occasionally want some wee udders — both of which will be fake this time, so YAY, SYMMETRY — but I do anticipate that it will feel like a weight lifted, both literally and figuratively.) Now I need to get started on those sit-ups, so my abs can match my future chest . . . .

Tumble outta bed and stumble to the kitchen, pour myself a cup of ambition

Thazz right, y’all; Mama has (FINALLY) landed a 9 to 5! That in itself feels like a small miracle, ESPECIALLY these days, but to add a little splendor to that glory, it’s a job I LIKE.

It is, in fact, the job I wanted the most when — in what can only be described as my Hot Candidate Summer — I found myself in the interview process with three different organizations at the same time!

The first of these gigs was a remote gig for an organization headquartered out of state. I’d been involved in that interview process since spring, because it was a five-round jammy, beginning with an HR screen conducted by a recruiter who shall henceforth be known to me and mine (kin and friend alike) as Mr. Banana Hammock. (Actually, that’s not entirely true; my sister, bless her for keeping it PG, refers to him as Studio 54, but to everyone else, he’s Banana Hammock.) Why? Because about 45 minutes before my interview with him, I did the thing I always do before upcoming interviews: look up my interviewer on the interwebs. I started with LinkedIn, as always, but then I turned to Google, because that’s quite often where you can find out more about who an interviewer is as a person — and find little commonalities you can casually drop into the conversation: Are they hugging a dog in their Facebook profile pic? I’m a dog person, too (unless we’re actually talking about MY dog, in which case OMG IF SHE PEES ON THE CARPET ONE MORE TIME . . . but that’s another story)! Did they graduate from an HBCU? SPELMAN in the hizzouse! Do they play trumpet in a garage jazz band? I am totally name-dropping Wynton Marsalis (do I know him? Sadly, no, but I once saw him in concert). Y’all, I come PREPARED.

What I was NOT prepared for, though, was this particular recruiter’s Instagram account. Let’s just say that when I found it and clicked on it, I was IMMEDIATELY given to know that this man works VERY HARD on his physique, and he is VERY PROUD of it. SO proud, in fact, that he wants you to see ALLLLLLLLLL of it — leaving to the imagination ONLYYYYYYY those parts that are ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY to leave to the imagination without an Only Fans subscription.

OMG, y’all. And here I was, due to talk to him in LESS THAN AN HOUR, which gave me little time to scrub those images from my mind. Evidently, though, I succeeded in at least PRETENDING like I hadn’t just seen him basically butt-ass nekkid — even to the point of keeping it together when he talked about how this job required “executive presence” (y’all, the way I bit BOTH my lips SO HARD in that moment, it’s a wonder I don’t now need THEM reconstructed) — because I made it to the second-round interview, with the hiring manager. She was AMAZING, and for the first time ever, I walked away from (er, shut my laptop on) an interview feeling 99.2% CERTAIN there would be another round. (Typically, when Love Tank would ask, “How did it go?” after I’d finished an interview, I’d tell him I thought it went well, but who knew how things would turn out? On a couple of occasions, of course, I felt (rightly) like the interview had gone badly, and told him THAT — but after this interview, I felt confident I’d nailed it (confident enough, in fact, to say that aloud without fear of jinxing myself).)

And I was right! I made it to the next round, with the hiring manager’s manager . . . but that made me HELLA nervous, because Banana Hammock had told me during that initial discussion, when I asked about timeline/next steps, that nobody had thus far made it PAST the hiring manager’s manager (so he wasn’t quite sure what the process looked like beyond that). Once I had met with the hiring manager’s manager, I was back in “I think it went OK . . . but I guess we’ll see” mode — and had started the interview process at a second organization, much closer to home. I did the initial HR phone screen for the second organization, and then fled south with my boys, for our annual visit to our Texas family people.

While I lounged on my aunt and uncle’s sofa, I got a text from the recruiter at the second organization, inviting me for an onsite interview. Of course I accepted, and she promised a follow-up email with details — details which, it turned out, entailed an entire half-day onsite, and interviews with EIGHT different people! (I read the email aloud to my uncle at the kitchen table, and he asked, incredulously, “What kind of job IS this???”

“A writer position,” I answered. )

I had a lot of Googling to do (although at this point, I confess, I was a little afraid of what I might find).

On our drive home from Texas, during a stop for gas, I got an email from Mr. Banana Hammock, letting me know that I’d made it past the hiring manager’s manager (aka The Impenetrable Wall), and was now being invited to a 4th-round interview with the team. (Luckily, THAT was a team of two people, so it didn’t add much to my Google load.) If that went well, I was told, there could be a 5th-round interview onsite (in ALABAMA) with the department VP. I had a Zoom call with the two lovely women who’d be my teammates at the Banana Hammock gig, and then — THE VERY NEXT DAY — I trussed myself up in the first real pants I’d worn in literally YEARS (i.e., not pajamas, jeans, or leggings) and a spiffy new blouse to go meet with those eight people at the second organization.

YOU GUYS. When I tell you that I loved EVERYONE at the second organization, I mean to tell you that I left there feeling like I had found my people. Such kindness and humor, and great conversations all around (and as an added bonus, I hadn’t seen any of them naked). I didn’t drive home from that interview with absolute “slam dunk” confidence, but I did feel like it went really well . . . and then, I felt a little pang of sadness at the idea of getting the other (Banana Hammock) job. NOT because the people at THAT organization were horrible; I liked all of them, too (even Mr. BH himself was nothing but kind and professional) — but I felt such an instant rapport with the people at the second organization that I hated the idea of having to turn them down for the other job.

But would I do it? HELL TO THE YES, because the Banana Hammock job paid around 30% MORE than the second-organization job (well, POTENTIALLY; the BH job listing gave a (pretty broad) RANGE, but who in their right mind wouldn’t ask for a salary near the TOP of that range if they got an offer?), and it was 100% remote, whereas the second organization offered a(n eventual) 3/2 hybrid schedule, and a nearly 40-mile one-way commute (90% highway, but still) on those three in-office days.

(It should be noted at this point that in that moment, I was absolutely aware of the possibility that I could walk away from all of this with ZERO offers, but that didn’t stop a gal from dreaming.)

At any rate, with those interviews done, I figured I could cool my jets and take off my stressy-pants for at least a day or two —but most likely the better part of a week — because based on what I’d gleaned from BOTH organizations, I wouldn’t be hearing anything for a minute. I’d been told before leaving the interview at the second organization that they’d be interviewing one more candidate the day after me (they’d already met with one the day before), then they’d meet for a team debrief the day after THAT, and then there might be another round or some sort of project to complete. And the BH job had already established a pattern of getting back in touch with me about a week after each interview round.

So imagine my surprise when, as Love Tank and I were leaving the local mall (where we’d gone to get him some new shirts for an upcoming trip) at lunchtime THE NEXT DAY, I got a call from the HR person at the second organization, WITH AN OFFER. For real, y’all, when I saw the call come in, my first thought was that either they needed some extra bit of information they’d forgotten to get from me the day before (probably some housekeeping stuff like verifying email addresses for the references I gave), or that I’d left my sunglasses there or something. As unprepared as I was, I managed to blubble out a jangly thank you and a request for time to consider the offer (as Love Tank put pedal to metal and eavesdropped). When I hung up, Love Tank and I discussed what to do about the other organization. “If you want to hold off and see what happens there,” he offered bravely, “I support you.” But I knew I’d NEVER forgive myself if I turned down this offer (after more than a YEAR!!! of unemployment) on the hope of swinging in the Banana Hammock — and then didn’t get that job.

So instead, I called Banana Hammock as soon as we got home, and left him a voicemail to let him know I had an offer on the table, and that I’d asked for some time to consider it — but that I wondered if he had any updates about the position with his organization.

He didn’t call back.

But the next morning, he sent me this:

. . . then he closed, weirdly, with his last name first, followed by a comma and then his first name. As in,

Best of luck!
Holmes, Sherlock [not his real name]

At any rate, that gave me my answer — and a tidal wave of relief, both because I HAD A JOB, and because I didn’t have to make the decision between — essentially — my heart and my wallet. I mean, on the one hand, SHIIIIIIIIT, I have fought cancer, navigated my mother’s death, and been through some soul-wrenching personal stuff over the past three years, ALL at the age where the fucks I have to give are disappearing faster than my once-flawless vision and my girlish physique, so I daresay I’ve gotten some powerful lessons in the things that really matter (as the late, great Teena Marie said, “M-O-N-E-Y never did a thing for L-O-V-I-N.”). On the other hand, with those aforementioned fucks went any tendency I had to define myself by what I do for a living — and any shame I had about saying that I don’t need to love my job; honey, Mama just needs to get paid. Which is why, given the choice, I would have traded love for money (and less wear and tear on my car).

That said, y’all — I love my job. I get to work with smart, fun, hilarious people (and glory hallelujah, I’m not the oldest person in every room — hell, in MOST rooms), I get to actually WRITE for a living again (having been a Content Strategist for the past 10+ years), I get MY OWN OFFICE, with four walls and a door that shuts (as opposed to working in a dining room with two doorless points of entry), and heck — even the commute isn’t horrible! Do I wish my job were closer to my house? Absolutely, but it’s not a bad drive (42 minutes door to door, assuming there are no weather or traffic incidents), and it’s given me the chance to (a) renew my friendship with NPR (in the mornings) and (b) build my arsenal for our next family karaoke night (in the evenings; I’m currently working on “People Make the World Go Round” by the Stylistics).

The downside is that I now live an incredibly regimented life Monday thru Friday:

Wake up.
Coffee.
Run (sometimes; other times I convince myself it’s important to doomscroll).
Shower.
Drive to work.
Work.
Drive home from work.
Make dinner.
Eat dinner.
Leave the dinner mess for Love Tank and fight to stay awake until bedtime.
Go to bed.
Rinse.
Repeat.

Saturdays are supposed to be for planning the dinner menu and buying groceries for the week ahead, and cleaning whatever has become so disgusting it’s making my left eye twitch (I no longer clean house on a daily basis, so shit is falling into disarray, thanks in large part to an old dog who’s developing some incontinence issues)— but quite often, exhaustion wins out, and we end up just having ground beef in multiple formats (tacos, beef bulgogi, burgers, spaghetti, a random combination of ground beef and Kraft mac & cheese) over and over again, in a house replete with the smell of pee.

Still, not only do I have a job, I have one I ENJOY — and the incredible fortune in that is not lost on me. But I think maybe some of my friends are disappointed by where I wound up, because that’s been the end of the Banana Hammock shenanigans.

Oh! And for those of you who’ve actually managed to hang on for this ride through my usual gobbledygook, yes, I DID say earlier that I was in the interview process with THREE organizations at once — but my interaction with the third place put it . . . well . . . in third place. Like, WAYYYY in third place.

First of all, I applied for the job at the beginning of March, and heard NOTHING until the beginning of JUNE, when I received an email inviting me to interview IN MID-JULY.

Kinda red flaggy, right? Plus, it was a 100% in-office gig, there was no indication of salary in the job listing, and the Glassdoor reviews of this place were ABYSMAL. Like, two out of five stars abysmal.

But an interview is an interview, so after I returned home from the eight-person, IN-person interview for the job I ultimately landed, I changed out of my presentable pants AND out of the brand new blouse that made my husband and elder son — when I walked in the door after my interview — cock their heads and wonder aloud what was up with my “Victorian princess” aesthetic (THIS is what happens when I try to pull off shit I wouldn’t normally wear . . . but I digress) and logged onto my computer for a Zoom call that was supposed to have been with the SVP of HR, but was, instead, with the office manager. I didn’t mind the bait and switch, per se — but on principle, I was a little chapped. I mean, for one thing, it looked as though I was now going to have to have another interview with the SVP at another time (so basically an extra interview), and for another, it meant I’d done all my internet research on the wrong person. But the office manager was kind and approachable (and apologetic), and we had a pretty easy discussion that made me feel more like we were both guests at a dinner party where nobody had started drinking yet. I started to think that maybe this job was more of a viable option than I’d initially thought . . . but then, when I asked the nice lady about a timeline for filling the role (for which, may I remind, I’d applied in Q1 — and we were now in Q3), she said they planned to continue interviewing THROUGH Q3, with an anticipated hire date sometime in Q4.

Um. What . . . ?

So we ended the call agreeing that we’d keep in touch . . . and that was pretty much the end of that.

When you feel those balmy breezes on your face . . . summertime is the best time any place . . .

So in addition to FINALLY landing A JOB, I gotta say, y’all — this past summer brought some amazing vibes. Just the best. Nothing was particularly different, really; we did all the usual stuff (visiting the Texas cousins, blowing little things up to celebrate our nation, driving the boys to camp in Minnesota, and then ourselves to Canada while they went toe to toe with nature), but it was all just so . . . GOOD.

I’m not sure why. Maybe because I’d made my two-year NED goal, and started to breathe a little easier. Maybe because my new, 50-pounds-lighter ass (CONFESSION: now that I’ve started working (read: sitting for most of the day), I have gained back almost ten of those pounds, but I’m counting on the removal of this one boob to knock a couple of them back off) got me back into clothes I haven’t worn in almost a decade and had me feelin’ cute. Maybe because there was just no more room in my psyche for the sturm und drang it’s been weathering for the past couple of years. Who knows? At any rate, I enjoyed the hell out of this past summer, and kicked off the fall with a new job, a new ass, and renewed faith that life is not a constant shit show. (It’s a shit show on a NATIONAL level, to be sure, but I am starting to think that I may just survive my PERSONAL life. It’s a weird place to be, but I’m embracing it.)

So here I am, circling back to what feels like a normal life (some stress and drama, but not ALL OF IT AT ONCE), AND to the days when I didn’t need a bra. And I welcome both of these changes.

Now, we’re sliding to the end of a fall that went by in approximately 72 seconds, and the beginning of the holiday luge, and I’m just gonna pin my arms to my sides and WHEEEEEE the hell out of it.

I’m incredibly thankful for every one of you turkeys who have hung in with me.

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Back to where I left off

Back to where I left off