2003 Erma Bombeck Humor Writing Award Winning Submission by Leigh Anne Jasheway-Bryant

The first mammogram is the worst. Especially when the machine catches on fire. That’s what happened to me.

The technician, Gail, positioned me exactly as she wanted me (think a really complicated game of Twister – right hand on the blue, left shoulder on the yellow, right breast as far away as humanly possible from the rest of your body). Then she clamped the machine down so tight, I think my breast actually turned inside out. I’m pretty sure Victoria’s Secret doesn’t have a bra for that.

Suddenly, there was a loud popping noise. I looked down at my right breast to make sure it hadn’t exploded. Nope, it was still flat as a pancake and still attached to my body.

“Oh no!” Gail said loudly. These are, perhaps, the words you least want to hear from any health professional. Suddenly, she came flying past me, her lab coat whipping behind her, on her way out the door. She yelled over her shoulder, “The machine’s on fire, I’m going to get help!”

Okay, I was wrong, ‘The machine’s on fire,” are the worst words you can hear from a health professional. Especially if you’re all alone and semi-permanently attached to A MACHINE and don’t know if it’s THE MACHINE in question.

struggled for a few seconds trying to get free, but even Houdini couldn’t have escaped. I decided to go to plan B: yelling at the top of my lung (the one that was still working).

I hadn’t seen anything on fire, so my panic hadn’t quite reached epic proportions. But then I started to smell smoke coming from behind the partition. This is ridiculous, I thought. I can’t die like this. What would they put in my obituary? Cause of death: Breast entrapment?

I may have inhaled some fumes because I started to hallucinate. An imaginary fireman rushed in with a fire hose and a hatchet. “Howdy ma’am,” he said. “What happened here?” he asked, averting his eyes.
“My breasts were too hot for the machine,” I quipped, as my imaginary fireman ran out of the room again. “This is gonna take the Jaws of Life!”

In reality, Gail returned with a fire extinguisher and put out the fire. She gave me a big smile and released me from the machine, “That’s the first time that’s ever happened. Why don’t you take a few minutes to relax before we finish up?”

At least I think that’s what she said. I was running across the parking lot in my backless paper gown at the time. After I’d relaxed for a few years, I figured I might go back. But I was bringing my own fire extinguisher.

They say that politics makes strange bedfellows, but George W. Bush and Nancy Pelosi have nothing on me and the woman I shared a bed with at a recent writers’ conference.

The bed I shared was king-sized and the woman, another writer, was one of “them.” By “them,” I mean, the opposite of me in every way except gender. She’s a practicing Catholic with six kids as proof of her devotion to the church. I’m a lapsed Mormon-Southern Baptist-Reincarnationist NKJD (No Kids, Just Dogs). I may have had children in a previous lifetime, but at this point, I can’t really remember.

She’s a Republican, although she doesn’t push her political persuasion on anyone. I’m a Democrat with my feelings posted all over the bumper of my old Honda Accord. And if you give me two minutes alone with someone in an elevator, I’ll gladly debate any political hot topic. In fact, I recently converted my lifelong Republican husband into a Democrat. I’m that persuasive. I worked for Move-On and Kerry Oregon in the last presidential election. She worked for Stay Right Where You Are, We Like it Just Fine Here.

She’s pro-life, I’m pro-choice. We are both, however, pro-chocolate. When I returned home after the conference, I found a bag of milk chocolates in my luggage, to which she had attached an anti-abortion pamphlet. But that’s okay, I slapped a “Friends don’t let friends vote Republican” bumper sticker on the bottom of her purse.

She’s one of the 23% of voters who will like President Bush even if starts dressing up like Elvis and getting into Rush Limbaugh’s stash of prescription medications. I feel about this president the way I do when watching a horror movie, I keep screaming “Don’t go in the basement!, I mean Iran or North Korea.”

She believes most of what the administration says, because as she put it, “I have six kids and I know when I’m being lied to.” I think the reporters of The National Enquirer could easily take over the cabinet jobs under G.W. and continue to make up stuff about alien abductions and 45-pound babies being born to 65-year old grandmothers and no one would notice the difference.

So did we duke it out all weekend? One of us come back black and blue (or black and red, in her case)? You may be wondering just how did it work out with us in such close quarters sharing a bed, a bathroom, and once almost, a toothbrush? Or you may be wondering where you can get some chocolate, now that I brought that up. In a word it worked out… swell! I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather share a hotel room with. Well, maybe George Clooney, but he hasn’t offered.

Sure, the enemy and I were drunk part of the time. But I liked her before she got me all liquored up. And she wasn’t trying to sway my political leanings (or, as my husband suggested, get me to cuddle). And sure, she did help me get undressed. Calm down, it wasn’t like that. I have a bum shoulder and have trouble getting in and out of clothing. Good thing I’m middle-aged and really no longer have the option of falling back on stripping as my back-up career.

It was yet another one of those learning experiences. One in which I learned that it’s not really that difficult to get along as long as you remember that underneath all our beliefs we’re still human. So go ahead, sleep with the enemy. Just make sure the bed is king-sized and there are margaritas available at the bar.

I bought a mini-trampoline this weekend. I was looking for a piece of home fitness equipment that met one specific requirement -- it had to fit into a 3-foot square area of my bedroom. All those infomercials promising muscle toning, core-strengthening, or cardio training neglect to mention this very important issue: Will it fit in your house without having to remove a major piece of furniture such as the sofa, causing all your guests to have to perch along the edge of the AbFlexGlideExerAtor whenever they come over for margaritas and tofu chili?

Maybe you have a 3600 square foot house with a room designated as ”the home gym," but I'm lucky to have a room designated as "the bathroom." The rule around here is nothing new comes in without something being donated to Goodwill. I'm sure my husband wonders when he's
going to have to make that one-way trip because I've found a new end table or floor lamp I can't live without that takes up the same amount of space he does. Perhaps that explains his recent obsession with losing weight.

So when I found the mini-tramp... love that word, by the way... at a local sporting goods store and realized it would fit in the bedroom without having to take anything out, I was ecstatic. It didn't hurt that it was only $39 and that it came in a single box. I've had experience purchasing exercise equipment that arrived in multiple boxes and required a screwdriver, wrench, hammer, ratchet set, drill press, circular saw, latex gloves, and a dozen tequila chasers to assemble. Of course, it was usually the case that putting together the weight bench or the Nordic ski machine was the most exercise I ever got from them. Except for dragging them out to the garage sale.

My husband and I managed to put the mini-trampoline together in less than 15 minutes. It required no tools and now sits in the bedroom corner. It's small AND bouncy AND has the name tramp in it -- what's not to love?

The best part, though, is the yellow laminated Trampoline Use Instructions that the manual told me to "Post in a highly visible place." Just in case someone breaks in and decides to give the tramp a try, I guess. Here are some of the rules:
o Do not allow more than one person on the trampoline at a time. As far as I can tell, the only way that would be possible is if you had a small infant strapped to your chest. So please, if you break into my house with a small infant strapped to your chest, remove said infant prior to getting on the equipment.
o Use trampoline only with mature, knowledgeable supervision. Well drat! Now I'm going to have to find someone mature? I have no idea where to even look.
o While keeping the head erect, focus eyes on the trampoline toward the perimeter. Sure, I can do that. How about I also insert my elbow in my ear and touch my tongue to my nose? That way I'll work out every part of my body at the same time.
o Do not use the trampoline while under the influence of alcohol or drugs. I'm willing to forgo the booze prior to working out, but what kind of drugs are they talking about? 'Cuz I'm on the estrogen patch. Maybe I should call my doctor.
o Do not use when trampoline is wet or in windy conditions. Well, duh, the wet part is why I wear the patch now isn't it? But I guess I'll have to avoid bouncing when the heater kicks on. Because that 3 square feet of bedroom is right next to the air duct.
o Do not use or if you have bladder control issues. Okay, it didn't say that, but it should. So I scribbled it on the bottom of the list. Don't want anyone taking chances.

I'm off. I have some bouncing to do. If, that is, I can find a mature person in the next half hour.