Last week, my friend Julie posted about a small innocent looking mole on her belly. It turned out to be dysplasic. She posted a picture of it and said she had to have it removed.

Huh.

Once I was done reading her post, I lifted my shirt up and stared down at the brown blips connecting the Big Dipper. Her mole looked a whole lot like so many of mine. In fact, I think I had her mole about five times over just where I had lifted up my shirt.

I don’t think five minutes had passed before I was on the phone with the closest Dermatologist I could find. They could see me next Monday. Perfect. I’ll be there.

Today is Monday and, after being looked over with a very fancy brand of flashlight in the doctor’s office this afternoon, the verdict is in. I too have a small innocent looking mole camped out on my tum that needs to go. Just like Julie, it shows signs of mild dysplasia which means it may harbor potentially pre-cancerous cells. After next Monday, the Big Dipper won’t be quite so big after all.

So how do I feel about all of this? Actually, I feel pretty good. I am glad I made that call and had my mole-gazing done by a professional. I am thrilled that there is nothing too serious going on. And I am relieved I caught this one sly spot before it it turned on me and potentially changed my life down the road.

And I am kind of inspired by the power of blogging connections and the change writers can affect just through words. Julie’s post slapped some sense into me. Duh. Go get checked. I live in Florida – land of excessive and uber damaging sunlight – and I have a history of skin cancer in my family. What, did I need sky writers to get me there?

Nope. Just a writer, another blogger, telling her story.

I hope I inspire some of you to go get checked. And if you would like to learn more about taking responsibility for your health, check out the American Cancer Society’s new campaign called Choose You.

So back to mole gazing but with a decidedly more watchful eye.

I think… yep, I think I just found Orion’s Belt.

But just because I have dentist issues doesn’t mean my children should.

Isn’t it ironic how your children so often have you facing your greatest fears?

My two boys happen to have teeth. And yes, as fate would have it, they need to see a dentist. So after hearing about a fabulous pediatric dentist in the Tampa area, I made appointments. My six year old had been for a cleaning there a year or so ago and I was amazed by how well he did. Sure, they are out of network and cost and arm and a leg. But they are just so gentle there. And come hell or high water, my boys aren’t going to hate the dentist the way I do. Deep breaths, let’s sign them up. Because I’m a good Mommy like that.

So I marched them both in yesterday for cleanings. Of course, they did very well. How could they not? Super sweet hygienists carefully peered into their mouths while they wore headphones and watched movies on monitors suspended from the ceiling. They were given bubble gum tasting things and prize coins for doing a good job. And it seems Patch Adams himself is their dentist. Corny as hell, he blew up glove balloons and made them laugh while going over their x-rays with me.

Oh yeah. Real world. X-rays. My six year old had two cavities. They were in permanent molars. They needed fillings. Oh my God, my baby.

So I ushered them out the door with smiles on their faces and new toothbrush gear under their arms. A smile for all to see was on mine too. But there was also a lump in my throat. How would I tell my boy that he had to get fillings and that it was no big deal? The dentist assured me they had their “ways” (nitrous oxide, gels) to keep the pain to a minimum, but I wasn’t convinced. Drills and higher dental bills for my child’s pain. It was all horrible.

Thanks to a cancellation (yeah, thanks a lot), my six year old was able to get in this morning to have his first cavitiy filled. On the way there, we had chats about holes in enamel and fillings and turning his nerves off and wearing a mask. He seemed facinated at best. Truly, he was hardly fazed. No dentist issues what so ever. He amazed me.

While he played in the waiting room, my heart thudded. Every once in awhile, I folded him into my arms and asked him if he had any questions about today. Nope. Can I go play that Spongebob video game again? Wow. Really. No issues. None. They were all mine to enjoy.

So in we went. He picked a grape smell for the nitrous oxide. He laid back and they switched the ceiling monitor over to Cartoon Network for him. He breathed in. His ankles were crossed, trusting them entirely. Surely, I wouldn’t bring him anywhere that would hurt him. Surely.

I chatted with the wonderfully kind dentist who showed me his x rays. She reminded me of a mom from some 80s sitcom, I wasn’t sure which. I eyed my child’s nitrous oxide. Did that come in a grape flavored Mommy size? My heart was pounding.

Remember a few paragraphs ago when I said that children make parents face their greatest fears? I was not leaving my boy’s side. So. I got to see all the drilling, and pushing, and popping, and sucking, and metal rings, and the very long metal syringes they used. Long, shiny, sharp, scary metal syringes. Stuck deep into my child’s mouth. Thanks to the laughing gas, he never flinched. He never even squeezed my hand. I never squeezed his, but it took everything in me not to. Through all of it, I just focused over their gloved hands at my son’s one visible brown lashed eye watching TV or watching them or sometimes watching me. I smiled calmly. I stroked his hand slowly.

(It’s all good baby. Nothing to see here. That horrid high pitched “wheeeeeeeeeee” drilling sound is a good thing. It’s helping you. I have you here doing this because it will fix you. I would never put you in harms way. You’re doing so so great.)

“wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…”

Sucking, snapping, popping.

And suddenly it was over. They leaned him up, now hopped up on pure oxygen. He did great, they said. What a fabulous patient. And he did do great. His numb lip hardly fazed him. He had no reaction to the nitrous oxide. And while sucking on a smoothie a half hour later, he claimed he never felt a thing - and I believe him.

We go back for round two in a week or so.

More sucking, snapping, popping, wheeeeeeeeeeeeee….

I still have dentist issues. In fact, seeing my little boy under-go all of that up close and personal didn’t exactly extinguish any of my denstist issues in the slightest. And I expect that many more rounds of these types of visits or future dental emergencies or possible braces will thoroughly fuel my issues’ fire. But for now, he is safe from having any of those issues. And that’s the entire point.

So while I never got any nitrous oxide in grape flavor today, I did get a small bottle of white wine in Pinot Grigio flavor. It’s chilling now. Wheeeeee.

My mother did not die from breast cancer. In fact, she was diagnosed many years ago. We found out she had a malignant lump in her breast days before her 50th birthday in 1993. The lump was small and hidden close to her armpit – she could not feel it no matter how hard she tried. But it was detected and it had begun to metastasize.

We have a long history of breast cancer in our family. My grandmother, my aunt and my grandfather’s sister are all survivors. They were all diagnosed after menopause and they all survived. And knowing her history, my mother marched in for annual screenings. Did she feel that it was only a matter of time? I think so. And so do I.

But here’s the kicker to her story. She only found it because she had two mammograms. You’d think one mammogram would be enough, right? The first screening saw “something” but they had determined it was only a cyst. Not to worry. Yeah, not my mom. So she went and got a second opinion. She sought out the best of the best. And they confirmed what she feared.

It was not a cyst.

After a lumpectomy and further testing, her malignancy lead to six months of chemotherapy and radiation. And hair loss, and sickness, and depression, and a nice schnazzy wig to top it off (that she often muttered “never looks quite right”).

But here’s my point. My mother went on to survive another sixteen years after her diagnosis. She went on to have an amazing career working with food aid, traveling the globe and trudging through rice paddies in Asia. She went on to watch both of her children graduate and marry and have three grandchildren. She went on family trips and work trips – trumping my father’s record number of countries visited. She lived those next sixteen years fully. Sixteen years she may not have had if she were not aware of her breast cancer risks. Sixteen years she may not have had if she never followed up with a second opinion and mammogram. Sixteen years she might not have had if she didn’t get amazing care and thorough treatment (that she could luckily afford).

My mother may have passed this summer but she was a breast cancer survivor for sixteen years. And for those sixteen years, her entire family is extraordinarily grateful.

Find out your family’s history. Do monthly checks. Have annual mammograms if it is recommended at your age. Talk to your doctor. Consider all of your options. Don’t ignore anything. Be your own best advocate.

To contribute to my my mother’s Susan G. Komen memorial fund, please click on her icon at the top of this post. Thank you.

At least I was prepared for it.

While rooting around the medicine cabinet for the children’s ibuprofen, I was already on hold with my Pediatrician’s office. And then, no there were no appointments available today but we could call the after hours office and schedule an appointment when it opened at 5:30. Ok. And then they gave me the Florida Flu Information Hotline: 1-877-352-3581 and encouraged me to check out this CDC website.

At the stroke of 5:30, I called. Again on hold. A few minutes later I was told the earliest appointment they had was for 2 hours from then. While I was on hold, that many patients had already beat me to the earlier appointments? Wow.

And what did the Dr. say? Well, the swab testing for the flu came back slightly positive. But my three year old had all the symptoms of the swine flu: fever, lethargy, chesty cough, diarrhea, and headache. He said it’s all he’s seeing right now and thinks we were lucky to catch it early. He prescribed Tamiflu and encouraged we dose him that night. And we did.

So. Here we are. Three days into the Swine Flu. And what does it look like?

Here you go… scary stuff.

I am sure we’re lucky since we caught it early and cranked the anti-viral meds within hours of the first symptoms. But, I gotta tell you, it ain’t so bad. Fever, sniffles, cough, a little ibuprofen, some Tamiflu and…? We’re good. It’s simply the flu people. Just a crazy kind of contagious.

So I wonder. Which of us gets it next? We’ll see.

The ENT’s office was efficient and, within minutes of arriving, paying our co-pay and submitting our paperwork, I was sitting across from the ENT herself. She was smart (I could just tell she was), she had a dry sense of humor and a kind, approachable personality. While clearly not one to be condescending to her young patients, she was also not one to shy from the facts with the parents either. We took the time to go through his history in detail. And then with a half smile and a calming approach, she examined my son’s ears.

“Well. Fluid wouldn’t cause this kind of loss, I’m afraid.” Yes, she did see some fluid but not enough to warrant the sort of loss he is experiencing. She went on to explain the test results to me. There are two sorts of reasons for  hearing loss. In layman terms (because I really don’t know any other sort of terms yet), loss can be a result of either something external which affects the conduction of sound (fluid in ear, wax, ear drum issues) or the loss is a result of the nerve not transmitting the sounds accurately. The audiologist had tested for both sorts of loss in his left ear. To test the nerve itself, she had measured his hearing through the bone. And since both tests in the left ear showed the same results, it is likely his loss is a neural issue. To that end, some inner ear fluid would not affect the neural test either.

So what does that mean? This sort of loss is permanent. And yes, there is a chance it could get worse.

The good news? His other ear is a rock star. She said that because we (parents and teachers)  have not noticed any loss before this, his right ear is probably doing an amazing job compensating for the left ear’s loss. Usually parents see behavior changes, confusion, less participation in school, lower grades, etc. with hearing loss. And while he isn’t the chattiest kid around (yes, he IS related to me, I promise), he has been doing fantastic at school and has never given any of us any obvious signs he can’t hear well enough.

Will he need a hearing aid? He might. We’ll see. She thinks that since he is coping just fine as is, an expensive hearing aid might just get lost and not worn anyway. She doesn’t think its worth it. Yet. She did mention that she wants to retest his ears in two months and maybe do a CT scan of his inner ear structure. We’ll reconsider the hearing aid possibility then.

So how do I feel about all this? I’m disappointed. I wanted his hearing issues to miraculously clear up with a little Claritan. (What parent wouldn’t?) But I am also not surprised. It just didn’t seem to make sense that fluid would explain months of failed hearing tests. I knew it was too good to be true.

I am also not disheartened. His right ear is getting it done. As I have mentioned before, he seems no worse for wear. He has been coping well with this loss all along and he is doing great at school. Shoot, without those audiologist results, we never would have even known he had a loss in the first place. Besides, so many readers, friends and family have pointed out that a mild or moderate hearing loss is kind of no big deal. Really. He’s good. Especially if his loss does not change.

But that’s the key. That he stays as is. That his hearing loss does not get worse.

While I am writing this, my five year old is watching Pinky Dinky Doo. (Nothing like a little after-school downtime with Noggin.) And do you know what he just did? He turned the volume up, slightly. And the other day I noticed that while he as speaking to his beloved uncle, he had the phone on his left ear and almost immediately put the speaker phone on.

Huh.

Oh. Right. I get it now. Or at least, I am trying really reeeeally hard to get it. Maybe I am only now noticing his hearing behavior when I never did before. But this is a learning process. That’s what parenting is after all. We try to learn to be better parents everyday. I am simply just adding one more thing I need to get better at to the list.

(Because, for real, what the hell do I know about all this anyway?)

And guess what our pediatrician found? Fluid. In fact he found a significant amount in his left ear particularly. Clear fluid, not infected fluid, but it is chronic enough – he thinks – to cause this sort of hearing loss. So, yes, he needs to see an ENT. He thinks that sort of fluid could even be related to an allergy issue. Perhaps once this fluid is cleared up, his hearing issues will be resolved.

*Blink*

What? But the audiologist examined him and his ears thoroughly. And these tests have taken place over a period of months. We’ve never heard anything about fluid. (And if it was fluid, could he have had fluid in there all this time?) We were told that his ears were healthy, he responded well to the tests and the results showed that this loss was most likely permanent. We were told that it will affect how he learns at school. And that we’d need plans and procedures and all sort of official paper work done.

Clearly, there are differing opinions. (Those with experience in the medical world are shocked, I am sure.)

So off to the ENT we go. For a third opinion. I am very curious what he’ll have to say now. And while we wait to for our appointment, we’re working on clearing up this fluid with some Claritin.

(It can’t all be as simple as that, can it? Just clearing up some fluid? Shaking my head here. But we’ll see…)

Meanwhile, my kid goes along with it all, shrugging his shoulders at the whole bit. And apart from falling apart alone in the car after dropping him off at school that morning (only hours after hearing the news) I have taken cues from my son and really relaxed about it all myself. I am new to all of this and only just learning what it means to have any degree of hearing loss. But thanks to friends and family alike giving me their personal insight, I have learned that life with a hearing loss is doable. Obviously its doable. Hes been doing it all along as it is. At this point, I just want to know what the situation is so that if accommodations are needed, they are made. That’s all.

I get how minor this is in the grand scheme of it all – believe you me.

And if I was worked up about his potential hearing loss for those few hours after I heard the news, cut me some slack. When a mother finds out news about her children’s health – no matter what it is – it takes a moment to regroup.

But back to the point, my kid is great. Who knows what that left ear of his is up to.  But right now, he is heading into school today to show his class a project he did about asteroids. I am extraordinarily proud of him. Did you know the biggest asteroid is about as wide as Florida? Did you know that some asteroids have moons? I can’t wait to find out how it goes.

A few weeks ago I got a call from an audiologist doing screenings at my child’s school. In one long breath, she told me that my son had failed two hearing tests and would need follow up with an audiologist and referrals are being sent and I needed to wait to hear from them as they would set up the appointment – and that’s all the information she has.

Um, ok.

So I waited. They called eventually. They set up the appointment. I explained to my kid what was going on. But. I wasn’t worried.

I mean after all, he never turned up the TV or computer or seemed unable to hear something. He is doing great at school, his teachers have never mentioned any issues and he never seems confused. And surely when he doesn’t respond to my questions, that is just his personality. He is stubborn and reserved and sometimes he just doesn’t say anything when he doesn’t want to talk about something. That’s all.

Ugh. That is exactly something a mom would say to cover for her kid, isn’t it?

So today, my five year old and I marched in to see the audiologist. I was looking forward to having this over with so I could smugly declare “See? You all had it wrong. My kid hears fine. He just didn’t feel like raising his hand to the pesky beeps.”

The audiologist’s office had a sound proof booth which my son stepped right on into. He is so good about taking direction and obliged every command. I watched carefully through the window, willing his hand up every few seconds (even though I couldn’t hear a thing from where I stood).

After a variety of tests, the doctor handed my son a “I HADE A HEARING TEST TODAY!” sticker and sat down across from me.

“Your son has a mild to moderate hearing loss in his left ear. It is likely it is permanent. And considering how well he took the test, my guess is that this test is accurate.”

She went on to explain follow up tests, forms to bring to school, how we could help him. Sure, kids with this sort of hearing loss get hearing aides. But for one ear, it may not be necessary since the other ear accommodates for the loss.

Hearing aide?

She said it’s hard to know how it happened or if its something genetic but now we should follow up and watch it carefully.

Genetic? I could have passed this down to him? And what about my two year old? He must be tested right away. No wonder he can barely talk. Oh shit. How have I not noticed this hearing loss before? How? And I never followed up with that bilateral hearing test when he was younger. I didn’t want anything to be wrong. Is this from his birth trauma? Will this loss get worse?

I thanked her and left with my son skipping besides me. I forgot to ask her if this could get worse. What if this gets worse? Shit. Don’t panic.

“So, you know how mom has really bad eyes? And you know how if I take off my contacts, I can’t see really well?”

“Yeah. You could walk into a wall!”

“Uh, right. Well, I was born with eyes like that. Turns out you were born with one ear that doesn’t work as well as the other. No big deal. And that’s what all these tests are for.”

“Ok.”

“And maybe that explains why you can’t always hear me from the backseat when we’re driving. …Although, I can’t always here YOU from the front seat either…”

“I think then I got my bad ear from you mom.”

“Heh. Yeah.”

He could care less. And for the rest of the way to school, he munched happily on his Dunkin Donut, dreaming of his T-ball practice tonight.  These results don’t change HIS world, its been this way for awhile.

I was calmer then too. And one fact comforted me the most: his birth trauma. Things could have been SO much worse. If this is it? If this is all we get for what could have been? This is no big deal. One thing those 11 days in the NICU gave me was perspective. This is fine. We can absolutely handle this.

By the time I arrived at his school, I had gathered myself. Cool, calm, a mommy in charge, I walked in and explained our morning.

“Oh.” She suddenly had a concerned look on her face. “I think you need to explain all this to someone else….” she trailed off as she ducked into the back office. Out came someone more “in charge” and after she heard the deal, she started rattling off procedures for a 504 plan and preferential seating and she would try and have him observed by someone or other who was coming in tomorrow and there will be forms to fill out and you will be called by so and so…

I didn’t feel so calm all of the sudden. Plans? Procedures? Huh?

She looked at me carefully then. “This must be very overwhelming for you dear.” She had a warm face and seemed very sympathetic.

Gulp. Finally a lump in my throat appeared. I chattered away about this and that and how I just want someone to be sure to check in with him because he won’t advocate for himself. He’s very shy and self conscious and I will be emailing his teacher and look forward to speaking to someone about his… er… 504 plan. Thank you.

Out I rushed to the car. And cried. My baby. He has a hearing loss.

(An update can be found here and here.)

Well, we’re still talking about the girls here on Morningside Mom. As you know, I have been stressing about a mystery pain in rightie, so I went to the doctor last week. Two days ago, I had a mammogram. And in the name of promoting breast health everywhere (well… at least here on this humble little blog), I just gotta do it. I gotta blog the whole dang experience.

Now I shouldn’t get you too pumped up. It honestly wasn’t nearly as heart stopping of an experience as its reputation might lead you to believe. I think it took longer to fill out the paper work than to actually go through the entire mammogram itself. No, in fact, I am sure it did. But I do think it is worth sharing how its done. There are plenty of friends of mine who have yet to have their first. And I also think there are plenty of women who are afraid of going through with one. As my dear blogger friend Ilinap has described it, “who wants to go have a car door slammed on your breasts?” While I had a good laugh at her description, I swear on my left breast (the good one) that it’s really not that bad. So here we go…

Once my paper work was completed, I waited. And there is no doubt about it. Even though this was my second rodeo (I had a baseline mammorgram at 32 due to my family’s history), I was nervous. In fact, I had been nervous all day. What if while their scanning, the tech sees something? What if the tech, calls the radiologist and the radiologist calls a doctor and they all mumble in hushed tones from across the room behind my file, glancing over at me now and then, shaking their heads back and forth? What if? So I was all kinds of worked up.

And do you know the most irksome part of the whole process? I couldn’t wear any deodorant (powders and lotions are not allowed either). So there I sat in the waiting room, my stomach a pit of nerves, and generally feeling “not so fresh”. Thank goodness it is Florida’s version of winter. Can you imagine getting a mammogram in the dead of summer?

But I digress.

So, after staring at the same page in my book for about 10 minutes, the tech opened the door and called my name. In I went and I followed her to a dressing room where she asked me to take my top half of clothing off and put on a pepto-bismal pink gown, opening in the front. Once dressed, she lead me into the room where the mammography machine loomed before me. Ok, I am being dramatic. It was just a machine – a digital x-ray machine actually – that stood taller than myself, and across the room was a monitoring station where the technician can view each digital image.

It was thankfully fairly warm in the room. The technician was very kind and professional. She led me right up to the machine and asked me to lean forward while she adjusted the machine to my height. There is a horizontal plate that is chest hight and then there is a plastic plate above which is lowered down also.

Now, all I did was stand there. She did the adjusting and arranging. To get a good, comprehensive picture, every bit of me needed to be resting on that plate. And… well… let’s just say it didn’t take very long to get me all on there.

Once I was set, the plastic plate above was lowered slowly. That’s where the “car door” analogy comes in. But there isn’t any slamming. Its just lowered enough to… pancake you a bit.

How does it feel? How did I react? Well, it didn’t hurt. At all. Neither mammogram that I’ve had have hurt. But both times, my reaction has been to giggle. Its all a very strange situation, you know? And I would advise you not to do what I did and look down at the plastic square pancaking your chest. Oh goodness. I had to bite down on my cheek to keep from breaking into a long belly laugh. You know that “face pressed up against the glass” kind of look? Yeah, it’s worth a laugh in my book.

She took two pictures of each breast. I got the “pancake” first horizontally and then vertically. After each take, she checked the monitor (I assume) to be sure that the picture was clear. Once she was done, she lead me back to the dressing room to wait while she spoke to the radiologist. She said that she wanted to be sure he didn’t need any other shots taken before she could let me go.

Ok. So I sat again. And my wheels starting turning again and my heart rate jumped right back up. And I stared at the same page in my book. If the radiologist wants to take more shots, that must mean they see something… Right? So they are looking right now. They could see something at this very moment…

“You’re all set!” They didn’t need any more pictures? I was free to go? Ha! As I got dressed, I rationalized that this meant one of two things. Either there was a mass there so obvious that no further pictures were needed. Or there was nothing there that the radiologist could see. Or. The radiologist wasn’t very good at his job and he missed something that is there after all! There goes the heartbeat again. Cheese and crackers, get me home to me deodorant.

So that was that. Not so bad, I swear to you. I am going to call my doctor by the end of the week if I haven’t heard anything. I usually assume that no news is good news – but still. Peace of mind is a very valuable thing. Obviously, since I felt nothing and he felt nothing and the radiologist (assuming he or she is capable) didn’t need more shots, I am assuming all will be well. As always, I will keep you posted.

Now to those of you who have put off your mammograms? Make an appointment already. It’s not so bad. Besides, you could probably use a good laugh.

Further desciptions and FAQs about mammograms can be found here:

• Cancer.org
• Women’s Health.org

***UPDATE***

Best words ever to read in a letter from a Radiology facility:

“NO MAMMOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE OF CANCER”

So today I had my annual gynecology exam. A thrilling day, no doubt. Gotta love those scratchy paper robes and the cold lubricating gel. Ew. But I am religious about going. I also had a cervical cancer scare before T. was born. So pap away, Dr. I have no reservations.

After the exam was over, the Dr. and I got on the topic of breast cancer. I am 35 in a month. (…dramatic pause… 35. Older-than-35 ladies, please don’t be annoyed when I say this but 35 seems like a gateway to “old”. 40 is just years away. What the hell! Ok, I’m over it.) I already had a baseline mammogram before C. was born. All was well. He said we could probably wait until I was 40 (gulp) before we did one again. But he was very adamant about the next bit of advice: “Do your breast exams.”

And you know what? I haven’t been. I know, I know! Its like playing Russian roulette – what am I, nuts? Nah, just clearly in denial. Breast cancer is for old women who don’t get their period. Not me. Not a… 35 year old. Uh oh.

So seeing my face, the Dr. told me a little story. And I want to share it with you all. He told me about a 41 year old patient this past March who got her mammogram, and it was clear. In April, during a self breast exam, she felt a lump. By the end of that month, she was diagnosed with malignant breast cancer. It was early but she probably saved her own life. Think about it – for a lump to show up so fast (also taking into account that mammograms are by NO means perfect) – well, it’s a real lesson for me. I MUST check my boobies. Once a month. When? He said after your period. Or a good reminder is the day you start your first pill pack. So, this is my resolution to myself, heading into 35 in almost a month to the day. I WILL CHECK MY BOOBIES. And if you got ‘em, you should too.

Another point about this. Did you notice how unsure I was about my family’s history at the start of this post? Interestingly, one of my cousins (the daughter of my aunt who had breast cancer) just happens to be in Florida for a conference and is coming for dinner on Saturday. I have decided to hassle her for her family’s entire breast cancer history. And I will get together mine. My plan is to collect it all and compose some sort of document that we four of cousins can share. Its time to buck up.

B.R.E.A.S.T. C.A.N.C.E.R. , dude. Its not just for old ladies, anymore. It’s for people like me.