Browsing Archives for June 2010

It’s been a while since we heard from the Oracle Known as Steve. He’s been uncharacteristically calm lately and I can only guess that his cunning wife Emily has been slipping sedatives into his morning brew. Or perhaps he has just been biding his time?  Waiting for the perfect time to exert his final plan for dominion over his entire extended family? Because he is back at it again.  In a series of fatal emails over the past few days, he has once again gained the top of the mountain and shows no signs of getting tossed off anytime soon.

The missives must have been laced with some sort of a jelly-like substance that slowly breaks down even the most stalwart of family members, because one by one… they all fell.

Except for me.

The Oracle’s magic doesn’t work on me.

I am somehow immune to it, forcing the Oracle to delve deeper and deeper into his dark arts to gain control. He even managed to shape shift this time in an attempt to break my will! Proving once and for all that his dangerous powers are growing! If someone doesn’t stop him soon, HE WILL RULE THE FAMILY! And every Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, Halloween, Fourth of July, Presidents Day, Ides of March, Saint Patrick’s Day, Spring Equinox and Summer Solstice,  we will all be completely under his control! He will decide the menu, the cutlery, how many pieces of pie everyone gets, THE KIND OF PIE, the sleeping arrangements, the keg options, whether or not the brats have to be boiled prior to grilling or if they CAN JUST BE PLACED DIRECTLY ON THE GRILL!

And the constant cabbaging over Cajun cabbage?


I will be forced to pretend that the KU Mizzou game matters to me!

I will have to GO to football games!

My furtive escapes to explore downtown Lawrence during family gatherings after football games will come to a brutal end.

He will make all of my kids take naps when his kids take naps at which point, the SHUSHING will commence and I will have to GO ALONG WITH IT!

I have decided to print a few of the recent missives in an effort to leave some clues behind. So that maybe someday… someone will be able to put this all together… and find out what happened to this family?  Whose iron-fisted grip held us hostage until we surrendered even the birth-dates of our babies?

Several relatives were initially resistant to his plans to collect our personal information into one tidy spot, but one by one they were worn down to gelatinous nubbins through the Oracle’s hypnotic insistence, his campaign of chaos, and his non-stop whittling, whittling, whittling away of his victims viscera until they are left weak, bloodied, scattered, scared and struggling for breath.  These letters come at the end of the battle.  Almost everyone is broken.

Only I was left standing against him.

And in the end he got to me too…



Dear Family,

Please find attached the Data I collected on our family.  Please send me updates as you change your status and I will issue updates to the family.

Please note that if you change the date at the top of the spread sheet it will update the calendar calculations fun…!


(Please not how PARTICULAR he is about everything!  Is anyone else’s head about to explode here?  Because the fissures in mine are almost two inches deep!)



Dear Family,

Please find attached an updated Family Data Sheet.

I was notified of a couple of errors and anomalies in the addresses and the phone numbers.  I think I have them all cleaned up.  Please check your data and let me know if your information is not correct.

Sorry for any confusion.


(That apology is just a part of his ruse people.  Don’t believe it for a second.)



Dear Family,

Wait a minute, Steve did not require everyone else’s SSN’s and online banking passwords?????



Dear Steve,

A few days ago, a strange man in a white pickup truck (very similar to Mike’s and yet a different truck entirely) pulled up to the house.  Thinking it was my husband, I pointedly ignored it (like I always do) but when one of my children came panting out to the garden (where I was admirably pulling weeds) and told me that there was a MAN who wanted to TALK to me, I trudged up to the porch.  But as I was trudging towards the porch, the man was trudging towards the garden.  We met halfway (in front of the Dwarf Korean Lilacs) and it was then that I learned that he was collecting info for the US Census.

Which I willingly gave him.

And now I completely regret it.

Because I am worried that if the government is keeping track of how many kids I have and knows that they are all boys, they are far more likely to think of my family as draft-able into any war that might be cooking on the back burner.

Sorry if that was a bit too much paranoia for the average Malin to handle, but it is part of the story.

And all this is stated just to let Steve know that I freely gave out information to a perfect stranger in a white truck and yet still have not responded  to Steve’s email demanding my personal info.  As far as I can figure, the Malin’s know where we are.  And they certainly seem to be able to contact us.  Why then does Steve require this info yet again?

If these questions are ever answered, I will happily participate.

Until then,



Dear Rechelle,

I am glad to report that my “man with a white truck” ruse worked.  I was able to issue the latest Malin Family Data by posing as a census worker and collecting data from those of you that are, somewhat dizzy gardeners, reluctant patriots and not yet all out separatists.

I regret to inform those of you who fell for my performance that another “real” census worker is likely to visit in the near future.  Just remember census worker don’t typically sport witty banter, dashing mustaches and ready access to your family trivia.  I mean really Rechelle, one of your sons names on the form you signed was filled in as Ethan Michael Motorcycle.

Oh, and relax Christi that information you gave me about JJ and his “time” in Costa Rico will never make it to the Department of Immigration or Justice for that matter, just as long as that little checky shows up on time each month that is… ;)

Jason, where was it that your mother was born again? And what was her maiden name?


Do you see!


I will work tirelessly to destroy him.


You can thank me later.

A Mammogram and a MURDER!

June 7th, 2010

My first mammogram appointment took place at a clinic in Topeka.  As  I waited in the lobby for the nurse to call my name, I glanced over the various magazines.  Strangely, they were all sports magazines.   Sports Illustrated, Inside Sports, ESPN…. men don’t typically get mammograms do they?  Not that men are the only ones who read sports magazines, but the sheer amount of sport magazines on those tables seemed strangely out of whack for the waiting room of a mammogram clinic.  I asked the receptionist if I had time to run out to my car.  I wanted to get my camera and document this strange anomaly, but she told me that I had better just stay put.  So I sat back down wishing for a People to take my mind off of what was soon to come.

A few minutes later, a nurse invited me back.  She showed me to a small changing room and instructed me to remove my shirt and my bra and to tie the robe in the front.  “Not in the back,” she repeated, “the front”.

Oh yeah… right… gotcha!

So I changed into the cotton hospital gown trying to secure the ties as well as I could.  Clutching the gown to keep things covered, I stepped out into the hallway where the nurse, who actually turned out to be the ‘mammogrammer’…or… uh… the… mammogramophotographer?… or… the… uh… mammogrammerista?…. directed me back to a small room that was maybe six feet by ten feet (trust me, the size of the room plays a critical role later in this story).  In only a few seconds this skilled mammographonerator had me hog tied, trussed up, cinched in, and splayed open so that the machine was gripping my boob with all the tenderness of a semi-tractor trailer.

A pattern quickly developed.

She would reposition me, crank down that machine, smoosh my boob into oblivion,and then say “don’t breathe.”

The “don’t breathe” statement quickly became problematic for me.  Because I am an anticipator. Once I find out what it is that people want from me, I try to anticipate it. I try to already have or do, whatever it is, that I know that they prefer, before they even ask for it.

It’s like the great line from Gosford Park. You know the one!  Helen Mirren plays Mrs. Wilson, who years ago had a baby by her evil boss and she gives the baby up for adoption only to discover him years later at the estate where she now works as a housekeeper and then she realizes that her son has come to… to… well… to… uh… to… uh…  Oh!  I can’t tell you!  It will ruin the whole story!  But her famous line goes like this..

What gift do you think a good servant has that separates them from the others? It’s the gift of anticipation. And I’m a good servant. I’m better than good. I’m the best. I’m the perfect servant. I know when they’ll be hungry and the food is ready. I know when they’ll be tired and the bed is turned down. I know it before they know it themselves.

Like Mrs. Wilson, I too anticipate people’s needs.  If I know what you like, I will have it ready for you and it is even worse if I don’t know you very well.  Then I really go off the deep end with the whole anticipation thing.  So having just met this ‘mammographerator’, I was determined to anticipate her needs thereby making her life so blissfully easy that she would come to think of me as her best patient EVER!  She would begin to anticipate my yearly mammogram almost as much as I anticipated her mammographarian needs!

And all I had to do was stop breathing!

As soon as I realized that she was going to say “don’t breathe” every single time she stepped away to take the photo, I began to anticipate her saying it.  So I stopped breathing WELL BEFORE she said it!  I was trying to make her life EASIER!  I was trying to say “hey mammographerer lady! You don’t have to tell me to not breathe because LOOKY!  I am already not breathing!   See!  SEE!  I already stopped breathing two minutes ago!  So you don’t have to say it anymore!  Because I am already doing it!  See what a GOOD patient I am!  I already stopped!  I already know!  So you can take a vacation from telling me!  Just take it easy!  See what a good person I am!  I am SO TAKING CARE OF YOU!”

So there I was…

Dangling by my boob…

From a cold hearted machine…

Trying to make someone else’s life EASIER

Which almost caused me to asphyxiate inside of the boob crusher.

Oh Great!  I stopped breathing too SOON!  Now I am going to pass out!  Shit!  Why didn’t I wait to stop breathing when SHE SAID STOP BREATHING!  What happens if I take a tiny breath? Will she notice if I suck a few molecules of air into my lungs?  Don’t breathe… Don’t breathe… Don’t breathe RECHELLE!  Crap!  I need to breathe!  Shit!  She just said, ‘Don’t breathe again!’  Does she not realize that I stopped breathing two minutes ago!  Could she not at least NOTICE that I am trying to take care of her!

But she didn’t notice.

She just kept repositioning me…

And my boobs….

Twisting us… turning us… mixing and making us… stirring and baking us…

And telling us not to breathe.

Even though we were ALREADY not breathing!

Not only was this particular mammographanista impervious to my desire to make her life easier by not breathing, she was also something of a miracle worker when it came to turning two loaves into twenty.  She managed to come up with more boob on my body than I ever thought possible.  She just kept scooping it up and rolling it out.  I had no idea I had enough… uh… material… to uh… create that large of a pancake!  I kind of thought that once the mammographerator saw how little flesh she had to work with on my body, I might get off with just a cursory exam.  Maybe flat chested women like me would only have to be examined with a hand held magnifying glass.  Shouldn’t we get SOMETHING!   Even if I had a lump the size of a pencil eraser, it would practically double the size of my chest.  So I was mightily impressed with the amount of substance she was able to extrude into that machine. She gathered it from my shoulders, my armpits, my rib cage and my back.  She just kept smooshing and wadding and flattening it out until she had an enormous amount of my most tender flesh crushed inside of an X-ray machine.  I only wish she had been able to make it stick!

And then once she had me squashed, leveled, cranked and not breathing – she walked away!

It was the walking…

The steps…

Why the STEPS!


You are hanging from a machine by your flattened boob and then the technician STEPS AWAY to take the photo!


It’s like maybe nine… maybe twelve steps!?!??!

Could they not figure out a way to ELIMINATE the STEPS!

You could easily save FIVE WHOLE SECONDS of AGONY for every patient if they just eliminated the steps!


Can’t they get a remote!

Or attach the screen to the boob clamp?

There SHOULD NOT BE ANY STEPS in this process!

This should be a one step process!

No, wait!

This should be a NO STEP process!

C’mon you X-ray machine inventor people!  Figure out a way to eliminate those steps!

I am hanging by my TITS HERE!

Fortunately – the mammographerina was able to release the clamp immediately after she took the photo from her remote location.

The machine makes a big gushing sound as it releases your boob.

Or maybe that was the sound of my lungs re-filling with air after not breathing for so long.

And when it was all over…

When I was dressed and heading out of the clinic…

I have to tell you…

My boobs felt GREAT!

They felt ALIVE!


They had just received a brutal massage and they were ready for some ACTION!

It was like they were saying, “Hey!  HEY!  HEY YOU!!! Remember us!  Remember how we used to RESPOND!  Well… WE ARE BACK!

So I took my boobs shopping and out to lunch and neither of them were really satisfied with this choice, but it was the best I could do.

Overall, the entire process took less than fifteen minutes.

Of that fifteen minutes – only about forty seconds were really painful enough to be impressive.

Anyone out there that has been putting off a mammogram for those forty seconds…

You need to get a grip!

Get it!


Ha ha ha har ho hee hee hah hah HWAH!

Okay – I am going to go watch Gosford Park and fold laundry now.

With my tame boobs.

Because they aren’t tingling anymore.

But maybe Clive Owens can bring them back to life!

Oooooooh!  It’s working already!

Is the conservative navy of this ensemble appropriately fighting the contrived edginess of the skirt? Does it exude forty but not THAT forty! Does this outfit seem to say, “Listen you X-ray tech person you!  You can squash my boob into a machine, but damn it! I still care about my accessories!”

I need to feel like more than a number when I walk into this ordeal.

Will this little number help?

I have a good friend who has been fighting breast cancer for years. Every time I see her she asks me, “Have you had a mammogram yet?”

I always say no.

After today – I will finally be able to say yes.

“Yes!  I got the freakin’ mammogram!  And I wore the navy tank with the denim skirt!”

I think that she of all people – will understand.