Have you seen the movie Friends with Kids? There is one particularly uncomfortable scene where the couples go for a ski weekend in a log cabin where Jon Hamm (you know, the hottie from Madmen), having had a few too many (one over the eight for my English readers), refers to Megan Fox’s character as “Titty McTittenheimer.” This, during a rant in which he declares that the romance between the male protagonist and Megan Fox’s character will never work because she is basically just an immature pleasure-seeking pair of tits who isn’t interested in settling down.

Why the fuck am I telling you this? You might ask. Well, ever since that scene and my deflation many months ago (see Smaller Tits in Sixty Seconds if you have no idea what I am talking about), I have wanted to have a reason to write a post with this title. And the day has come, my friends. The day has come.

I realise I ain’t no Megan Fox. But a year ago I had a reasonably sized set so it wouldn’t have been totally out of the question to refer to me as Titty McTittenheimer. What? About a month ago when I went to my plastic surgeon, you may have read, I was turned away… no enhancement to be had. Some mumbo-jumbo about wanting things to settle down a bit more post-radiation. I walked out of that office rather pissed off. Realised I had been totally prepared to bust out of there, literally.

Last Thursday I went back. Expecting to be turned down for the second time in a month. Turned loose once again on the streets of London sporting the small-chested waif look. Listen, by the way, if you are flat-chested or small-chested, please do not be offended. This isn’t about you and how great you look flat-chested. Because I could give a shit that being flat-chested is a good look. It is a good look and I even got used to that look on my own body. You can argue all you want but believe you me it is just plain weird to have a very different-sized body part that has been a part of you for most of your life suddenly gone, or at least drastically changed. It may be a good look but it just hasn’t been my look. You dig?

Anyhow, about five minutes after I went into the office I found myself on the table getting bigger jumblies by way of a magnetic device resembling a stud sensor, a generously sized hypodermic needle and some saline.

I went to a dinner party that night and in front of all the guests I asked my husband if he noticed anything different about me. In case he needed help, I gestured to my chest. Don’t worry, all the guests are friends and knew what was going on. Not that I mightn’t have done the same in front of complete strangers, mind you, because Honey Badger really does NOT give a shit.

Then it dawned on me. I have truly become shameless. It’s sort of free license for me to be the complete ass that I always have been. Now I just have an excuse.

I can now get away with statements such as “hey, how do you like my tits?” And “want to have a feel?” And these are received as completely normal and some people even take me up on the offer. (NB: do not have a feel uninvited because I been working out and I’ll kick your ass, MF). Our friend Peter wanted to know if my temporary boobies were filled with air. I said hell no, it’s helium! Wouldn’t that be a trip. So to speak.

Okay let’s get serious for a moment. What the heck is going on? So we are doing this all in preparation for phase two of my reconstruction, or as my friend Mark puts it, my “intercambio de tetas” a/k/a tit exchange iffa ju don speek eh-Spanich.

We are “preparing the pockets” for my silicone buzzies. I am supposed to get them in February. And finally after some progress I am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Or should I say the mountains at the end of the valley. I told my surgeon I was going to rewrite the song All I Want for Christmas in light of recent developments. Stay tuned for my inspired version in a future post…

The last year has been a real doozie. And soon I will put myself in the hands of my surgeon once more (well, not just any surgeon, but Mr Titty McTittenheimer, to be precise). This time the directive will be a little more lighthearted. This time he won’t be excising a life-threatening tumour to save my life. This time, he will be, simply, making me my own version of Titty McTittenheimer. Restoring balance and order to the universe. What goes up must come down. What gets cut out must be put back. And so forth. You know the drill. Just call me TM for short.