My kids and I are big text messagers. Whether they are at school, or I am at work, they are with friends, or I am out doing errands, our lives don’t lend themselves to phone conversations. And goodness knows, with a 16 and an 18 year old, actual face time is limited to the one dinner and one weekend day per week that we brainstormed everyone could spare without seriously effecting their social standing.

So, we tap out our messages, on our cell phones, in a modern day Morse Code.

From the common, everyday stuff:

* Can we go to Red Lobster tonight?
* We can’t afford it. Doctor bills have us pretty broke until payday.
* Okay. Dollar menu at BK, then?

or

* Help! I have a bag of Doritos on my bed that I need for a class party in English. Can you bring them to school please?
* That’s exactly how I’d dreamed of spending my day off! Sure.

To the comical:

* I didn’t get raptured. You?
* I’m at Target, so I can’t tell.

or

* Pooping so much in the IHOP bathroom. There’s NO WAY the people in the restaurant can’t hear it.
* Well, I’m glad you had your phone with you to share this moment with me.
* Smartypants. Okay, gotta go pretend the noises were someone else. Love you!

To the touching base to let each other know that we care:

* Hey mother, did you know you are the coolest, awesomest mom in the entire world?
* Did you know you are the best daughter? Besides Dakota Fanning, I mean. Duh. I loves you.

or

* How was your doctor’s appointment? Did they figure out that you are a zombie?
* No, I went brain-free the entire time! But now I’m starved!!
* So you’re okay? I was worried. Good about the brains, though.

When Jeff Conaway died recently, I knew my daughter would take it hard. I didn’t want her to hear it from someone else, so I texted her.

* Goddamn it, Jeff Conaway died.
* Oh. He had a hard life.
* Should we talk about this when I get home?
* Yes.

When I got home, we did talk about it. She asked if he had finally died of an overdose.

We took to the internet for more info. She nodded as I read the details out loud. Pneumonia. Coma. Life support. Terminated.

We both had tears in our eyes.

Why should the death of a 60-year-old, washed up actor, matter to a 16-year-old high school sophomore and her checkout girl mother? Yes, we both grew up on the movie Grease, knowing every word of every song, and dreaming of our dream parts should the movie version of a Broadway play ever need a fresh-faced remake. But there’s more. An undercurrent to every sensational, drug-related Hollywood death. Corey Haim. Michael Jackson. Greg Giraldo. All, the same reaction.

A look cross-wise. A second where we meet each other’s gaze and time stops, then we look away and life is back to normal.

We love an addict.

My brother, her uncle, struggles with addiction.

Born when I was 16, my brother, now 22, is more like my child than sibling. For the first three years of his life, I helped care for him, before marrying and having children of my own. My kids have grown up with him, spending weekends and school vacations with him, and embracing him more as a brother than an uncle. And we all love him, right down to our core.

Time and tide took us away from our hometown of San Diego and landed us in Richmond. And, while we had all kept in touch, I hadn’t actually seen my brother in two years when I got a call from my dad.

“Your brother is a heroin addict.”

Confusion. Tears, yes. Anger, yes. But, mostly, confusion.

I mean, sure, we come from alcoholics and eaters, but heroin? What was that, even?

My brother went to rehab, while I went to educate myself. He learned 12 steps while I learned what he’d been going through for five years. He struggled with his demons, while I struggled to revise, in my head, the image of the boy that I thought I knew inside and out. Guilt over not having been there gave way to a vow to be there now, even though I’m not actually there.

And he still struggles, daily. One step forward, two steps back. Two steps forward, one step back. We believe in him. And love him, as much as we ever did. More, in fact, because now we are loving him for who he really is, not who we thought he was.

But every middle of the night phone call brings the same cross-wise look, as my children and I meet in the living room to check the caller ID. There’s a slight feeling of sadness when we recall family fun from the past, and a slight feeling of worry when we talk about the future.

And I text them a bit more. Sometimes to tell them to watch out for dog poo when they get home because I saw it while I was running out the door but was already late for work, and sometimes to tell them that I love them and am proud of the choices they are making.

Will my brother overcome this? My heart will only allow me to believe yes. The thought of any other possibility leaves me paralyzed, and I have things to do. And his struggle has brought my children and I closer, more willing to express our feelings because we know that tomorrow is a promise not always kept.

As for Jeff Conaway, I read, about a year ago, that he wanted to die at home, and was requesting a Viking funeral, including being burned on a boat and sent out to sea. While he didn’t get those things in the end, he got peace. We all do, some of us just need it more than others.

I heard his voice out of the corner of my ear, emanating from the television that was shouting out headlines, as I got ready for work.

“Something-something-something missing 16-year-old son. Something-something-something tornado in Joplin, Missouri. Something-something-something calling his cell phone, hoping he’ll pick up.”

I glanced over and saw the image of a man, crying uncontrollably, and clutching a picture of a boy, who looked much like my own teenage son.

I stopped what I was doing and stood in front of the television, having gone from passively listening for current event tidbits about which I could make small talk with customers for the day to captivated by this dad’s story.

He was Mike Hare, the father of 16-year-old Lantz Hare, a boy sucked from his car by the EF-5 tornado that leveled huge portions of the city of Joplin, Missouri, a week ago Sunday. A friend, who was in the car with Lantz at the time the tornado struck, was found alive, but badly injured.

As I stood before the television, Mike Hare described, through tears and breath-stealing sobs, the family’s growing desperation and how, in addition to constantly phoning hospitals, help agencies, and morgues, he was also frequently calling Lantz’s cell phone.

“It rang for the first day and a half, and now it goes straight to voice mail. But just in case he gets it, I want him to know his dad loves him.”

My heart stopped. My eyes welled. My gut knotted. I had to sit down.

Since the hot Hawaiian day I gave birth for the first time in January 1993, I have been warned.

“Oh, you’re children are so darling. JUST WAIT until they are teenagers.”

As they edged toward teendom, the seemingly well-meaning and opinionated, grew more ominous in their predictions.

“Your son and daughter are 10 and 12? You are in for a rough few years!”

When they reached the magic ages, the same people looked at me the way one would gaze upon a martyr.

“13 and 15? I don’t know how you do it!”

I was regaled with stories about other people’s wild teens, and about what wild teens the people, themselves, were. I was cautioned about drug use, promiscuity, and just plain spawn of the devil-type evil.

But I knew my children. They are the two halves to my whole heart. I’ve never understood someone so intimately as I do the pair to which I gave birth. I can finish their sentences. I can see hurt. I can feel disturbances in their force, and, even when we aren’t together, can send an “I love you” or “call me if you need me” text at exactly the right time, as if by magic.

And I’ve also never been understood so intimately. No one can see through me as well as those two, or cut right through me, when they so choose. Criticism from others? Shit, I’m a strong woman and I know myself so don’t even try it. Criticism from them? Devestating. But they are sensitive enough to look at the clock, notice I’m not home, and send an “I’m sorry you have to work late, does this mean no dinner? Haha.” text, as well.

But, as someone who could easily have won “Miss Completely Uncertain of Her Parenting Skills” for 18 years running, I worried. What if those soothsayers of doom, those harbingers of rebellion and anarchy knew more than I did?

As one who has always been honest with her children, to the point of “Mom! We don’t NEED to know all this about you!!”, they know I’ve been battening down the hatches for years. From time to time, we’ll disagree about something and I’ll say “Is this it? Is this the moment when you start hating me and start planning your facial tattoos and back seat babymaking?”

But they are 16 and 18 now, and I’m still waiting. Waiting for them to be less than my everything. Waiting for my heart to break. And, nothing.

When I saw Mike Hare talking about Lantz, the son who looked so much like my own, I felt something well beyond sympathy. I felt oneness. I, too, would be calling my lost boy’s cell phone, maybe even for the rest of my life.

Lantz’s body was located in a morgue on Thursday, through the efforts of a community who had come together for this family. Heartbreakingly, there are dozens more stories, just like his. The numbers rise and fall, daily, but, at last count, at least 126 people in Joplin had died due to the storm, and the number unaccounted for stands at 44.

That’s 170 hearts, missing halves.

If you want to help the tornado victims, abc News has put together a list of organizations that are doing just that, and ways that you can contribute to them.

Why?

Well, my new project is one that people are either really getting or really, really not getting.

So, check it out here: JenniferSleeps.com and decide if you think it’s brilliant art, an interesting social experiment, or a whole lotta what the fuck.

Also, speaking of moons and space, I have a new column today, and it’s getting rave reviews. It’s about my feelings on the Space Shuttle program, and its imminent demise. Bittersweet memories abound.

This week’s column is about why I brag, why I taught my kids to brag, and why you should, too. Leave a brag in the comments, if you want. It feels good.

“Mom, please tell me you chose cable.”

Things are tight in the Fuck Yeah household, but not any tighter than usual.

Due to the fact that I’m crap with money, the cable/internet is off for a week or so, which has lead to two sullen teens. “I’m bored” and, consequently, “I’m hungry” are heard echoing through our apartment, making this place sound like the orphanage in a modern day version of Annie. The kids discuss all the wonderful shows they’ll watch (Which have magically transformed into the best things ever, due to their unattainable nature. “Remember Hannah Montana? The ‘Cheese Jerky’ song is a work of genius!”) and computer games they’ll play, when our bill is paid.

But the pouting doesn’t last long. We all know we’re on this ship together and, if we don’t work as a team, we are headed straight for that iceberg.

We go to the grocery store and the girl, who is pragmatic above all else, says “Okay, how much do we have and how many days do we need to shop for?” She then pulls out two carts, pushes one at the boy, and instructs him as to where he should start. We roam the aisles, looking for bargains, careful about “specials” that really aren’t and recipes that require too many ingredients. We always use our store discount card at the end, so we can see how much we’ve saved.

When we come home, he pulls out his guitar, and she the ukulele full of barf (She’s cleaned the strings and says “Who the heck is going to look inside my ukulele or smell it, anyway?”) and they say “Let’s play” and we pick out a few tunes very slowly (He’s a true virtuoso, as are she and I. But only in our own minds.) and discuss names for this new supergroup which has coalesced seemingly by the hand of god and also the hand of poverty. She says “Let’s make our own show! Turn on your webcam!” and we film the opening sequence to the smash hit new series “The Dog and Cat and Girl and Lady Show”, complete with theme song, written and played by us. We laugh until we are exhausted.

I wish it weren’t necessary, but the truth is, we’re good at being poor. When the going gets tough, we get going. We could, all three of us, teach classes in how to make a penny seem like a dollar and how to make a dollar seem like fifty. Even when it’s a hard knock life, we still believe that the sun will come out tomorrow. Especially if tomorrow is when “The Dog and Cat and Girl and Lady Show” premiers. That thing is a phenomenon waiting to happen.

“It’s okay,” said the technician, because what else are you going to say to that sort of thing?

I had my first mammogram.

It all started a few weeks ago, when I went to the doctor for a desperate case of WTF, Period Edition — Mood swings that typically left me in a heap of tears and self-loathing, cramps like a kick in the gut from an angry robot (robots are strong, guys), blood that flowed like boxed wine at a bunco party.

She did the usual poking around, and when she got to my breasts, she poked a little more deliberately. Turned out I had a lump and would need to have it checked.

But there was no “booby” talk this time. No murmurs of reassurance. No promises of fixing what was broken. It was all business. Serious medical business. There was a job to do, and it was getting done.

I had initially wanted to go to the appointment alone, so that I could deal with any news I got in whatever way felt right, without worrying about whomever was escorting me. But a friend convinced me that wasn’t a good idea, and my teen daughter was not about to let me out of her sight, anyway. I dressed in some finery, convincing myself that bravery wore lipstick, popped some painkiller on the advice of twitter, and we headed out to the local hospital.

The waiting room was filled with elderly women, escorted by slightly less elderly women, and I thought it concrete proof that women live longer than men, but it’s not necessarily a comfortable or worry-free 5-10 years. I was called back rather quickly, which is the beauty of being the first appointment of the morning, and shown to a small dressing room, not unlike the ones in a department store where voices whisperlie that those ultra low cut jeans look fabulous on you and you should ignore the giant tsunami of fat rolling over the top, because all the cool kids have it. I was handed an extremely short gown, and a robe that was even shorter, wondered if Hugh Hefner weren’t going to pop out and deem me unfit for the grotto, in a new reality show “Who Wants Legionnaire’s Disease?” I was told I could keep everything on from the waist down.

“Um, I’m not wearing pants,” I said, gesturing down to my dress in a way that was embarrassingly obvious.

“Oh, well, that’s okay,” the nurse said, “I’m sure we’ve seen worse.”

Great.

I was shown back to a small room with a big machine. There was no question what it was for.

“This is Theresa, she’ll be performing your mammogram, then you’ll have an ultrasound to examine your lump.”

“Hi, Theresa. I’m not wearing pants.”

Theresa took a series of pictures of my breasts. I slipped first my left arm out of my gown and robe, while they hung off my right, then switched. My girls were kneaded, prodded, and pulled across a flat plate, then another plate came down and sandwiched them in a way that I didn’t know was possible. The pain was something akin to Mike Tyson punching me square in the tit, and then throwing in his infamous bite/tear. No joke, it was horrible.

When it was all, um, grammed, I was told a doctor would look at the scans and while I waited. I was shown to a room with a large table full of magazines, a television blaring a Meredith Viera-heavy segment of the Today show, and a single cup coffee maker. Two women, also in shorty robes, but wisely wearing pants, sat, flipping through magazines. No one spoke.

“Does anyone know where the bathroom is?” I asked, “I’m pretty sure that Theresa just squeezed the pee out of me. Anatomy lesson, your bladder is in your right breast!”

Both looked up, one pointed to a door down the hall.

I started to worry about trusting these people with my extremely vulnerable parts.

When I returned to the waiting room, a third medical person was standing there, waiting to talk to me. She said that the pictures from my breasts showed some abnormalities and I would need another set, to see if maybe it was a problem with the scans.

I was a fool for not heeding the obvious red flag in the restroom.

“I’m Diane. Theresa is busy, but it’s good to get different people to do them, anyway, because we all have different techniques.”

I don’t need technique. I don’t need style. I need a clean mammogram so I can get on with my life.

I had the second set of pictures, after apologizing to Diane for not wearing pants.

“I just didn’t know you could, you know?”

The second set of pics were unclear, as well. Theresa, who had finished with her patient, was called back into the room to see if she could figure out how to capture my apparently rogue breasts. The two women pored over the scans on a monitor in the corner of the room, and spoke as if I weren’t just feet away, about how the concerning spots appeared in some, but not others.

“Sorry!” I wanted to shout over to them. “Sorry about my breasts!”

Another set of pictures were taken, with both women working together to “roll the breast” and “position the lump, properly”. They were politely frustrated.

I was shown back to the waiting room, where two different women in robes — again, pants — were sitting quietly. One woman and I spoke about how she was here for her bi-yearly recheck, having defeated breast cancer a few years before. The other woman chimed in with the story of how her mother and grandmother had both died from breast cancer, and she got checked every six months, just in case.

I got nervous.

Diane came back in, and said they needed another picture or two. By this time, Mike Tyson had punched my tits numb, and I just wanted to get it over with.

After the last set, I was shown to an ultrasound room. I sighed and told Kim, the tech, my pants story, but it had lost some of its whimsy and I was over being embarrassed.

The ultrasound was just like the ones I had when I was pregnant with my children, but a little higher, and decidedly more grim. This was not the room where they saw a penis, or lack of, and told excited parents whether the bun in their oven was an Apple or a Moses. The good news that came from here was “life”.

After the unsexy, goop-assisted breast massage, sans happy ending, but while I was still lying flat on my back, pantsless, a man in a white coat came in and introduced himself as the doctor who had been looking at my scans, behind the scenes. I didn’t even bother with the pants apology. It was obvious I wasn’t wearing them, and he didn’t seem fazed.

He told me that the spots in my breasts were inconsistent, from mammogram to mammogram, meaning they were probably in my skin and that’s why they jumped around so much. He saw my confusion and assured me that was good. He also said I would need to come back in six months, just to make sure that was the case.

I was sent back to the dressing room, where I finally put some clothes on, four hours after donning the gown and robe, and stopped by the receptionist’s desk to schedule an October appointment.

Guess what somebody is getting for her 40th birthday? Titty punches!

“Okay. What test did you need?”

“A mammogram.”

“Fine. Let me get some information from you.”

She asked all the pertinent stuff — Name, Phone Number, Insurance Info. She asked if she could have my social security number or would I rather not. Stuff like that doesn’t freak me out in the least. Please, if someone were to steal my identity, they could only improve it.

“I’d rather not,” I said, surprising myself.

When she asked my date of birth, she automatically assumed.

“So, routine screening, then?”

“No, ma’am. Diagnostic.”

I have a lump in my breast.

I went to the doctor, yesterday, for a myriad of reasons. The breast lump was not one of them. I was, in fact, aware of its existence, but it had slipped my mind. I was more worried about the extreme PMS I was having. PMS so bad that, every month, I think, “I’d rather die than go through this again.” And it was only getting worse.

A few days ago, I had reached my breaking point. I was at work, doing the usual Monday stuff, when tears came. I wasn’t crying, per se, just tearing. Madly. I put down the cards I was organizing and marched over to my boss.

“I need to go to the doctor.”

“Okay, when?”

“Right now.”

He seemed confused. To be fair, while he is an idiot, it was confusing. We had spoken just a few minutes before and I was holding it together just fine.

“I’ll call you,” I said,on my way out the door.

I showed up at the local clinic and waited two hours to be called to the back. Then two more hours before seeing a doctor. I didn’t care. I couldn’t afford four hours off of work, but I also couldn’t afford the breakdown I was having.

The clinic doctor seemed worried. She called and got me a GYN appointment for the next morning, something almost unheard of, especially for the upscale practice she scored it with.

“Go home and rest,” she said, “Help is coming.”

I called my boss and told him I’d not be back in. Also, that I was going to be late the next day, because I had to see a specialist. He didn’t even ask.

The next morning, I showed up to the “Women’s Center”, located in a local hospital. I was wearing a cute babydollish top, and was asked twice when I was due. I wasn’t mad, I am fat and the place was packed with pregnant ladies. Besides, I got to say “Me? Oh, I’m barren” twice, which is my favorite.

I was made to undress, gown open in the front, and sit on the white paper. I didn’t really feel like checking twitter or reading any of the lady mags (did you know Women’s Day is still in business?), so I stared at an oil painting hanging on the wall. The subject was a field of red flowers. Really red. The paint stood out in peaks, impossibly thick, dark red.

“Note to self,” I thought, “Ask if art was painted with menstrual blood. That will lighten the mood and, also, I need to know.”

A young, unfairly beautiful Nurse Practitioner came in and ruined my cool with the sympathetic look on her face.

“I got the notes from your doctor. I’m so sorry. Let’s help you.”

We went through the routine. We chatted about pregnancies and birth control and my horrible periods and other body stuff. She asked why it had been six years since I had seen a Gynecologist and I answered truthfully.

“It didn’t seem important.”

“It is.”

She came up next to me and went straight to second base but it didn’t seem like a big deal because she was about to have me scooch down and hit a home run with nothing but a latex glove and a speculum.

She stopped her movement and felt around a little more intently. She felt around a little more, and her mouth made the tiniest frown movement. Tiny, but not imperceivable.

I scooched, and she hit her home run.

“Everything looks good down there,” she said, after I had sat up, “but I want to talk to you about your boobies.”

Normally, I would roll my eyes at her use of such a childish term for what were obviously bangin’ tits, but I let it go, as my memory had flooded with the fact that the last few (dozen) times I had, uh, pleasured myself, I felt something that struck me as not right.

“Oh. The right one?”

“Yes. There is a lump in there that we need to get checked out.”

Her voice had changed. Her bedside manner was spot on, but she had gone from girlfriendy to doctory, just like that.

We also discussed my mood swings and depression associated, apparently, with hormone fluctuations. Turns out it was beyond PMS, into something called PMDD and it was real and I wasn’t even making it up or being dramatic, at all.

She also handed me a pamphlet about Polycystic Ovary Syndrome.

“I’m going to schedule an ultrasound. I suspect they will find this, so I just want you to have the information.”

A syndrome now? This was too much.

She prescribed me a mild antidepressant, scheduled the ultrasound, and handed me a paper with a crude drawing of my breasts, a circle right in the same spot I had felt the lump, and some phone numbers on it. She held on to that paper just a second longer than she needed to.

“You have to schedule the mammogram yourself, but I need you to do it right away, okay?”

I nodded, having suddenly developed an extreme case of brain fog.

I headed to the lab to have some blood drawn, clutching the pile of paperwork that said I was right to see a doctor, but making me wish I hadn’t. I was sure I was going to this appointment to be dismissed with “Nothing’s wrong” and “Lose weight, fatty”, but I wasn’t. I was taken seriously, about serious issues.

The NP emailed me today, with my bloodwork results. I’ve gone, in the span of 24 hours, from being someone who prided herself on taking no medications to someone who is taking five pills a day. Someone with follow up appointments. Someone who is suddenly uncomfortable in her own body. Feeling betrayed. Seeing it as unreliable.

I want, more than anything, to go back to not knowing.

I’m going to need those antidepressants.

Still. Damn you, laws of physics.

In other news, my last two columns are awaiting your peepers. This week’s is about the police with pepper spray vs 8 year old Colorado boy and last week’s examines the world’s fascination with Suri Cruise.

Drum roll, please…

Fuck Yeah, Space Ring!!

While I have short, smallish hands (like a carny), I have really wide palms and am kind of self-conscious about it. I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention that I look like I could palm an entire planet. Thanks.

It’s hard to tell in these pictures, but, you guys, the ring is gorgeous. The black diamonds are super sparkly and the aquamarine is the most beautiful robin’s egg blue. It’s delicate but dramatic. I can’t get over how much I love it.

Thanks to everyone who voted. Thanks to everyone who didn’t, but had an opinion. Thanks to everyone who just loves cake.

This went so well, I think I’ll let the internet pick my dress.

I don’t know what’s going on in this picture, but I fully endorse it. FULLY. It’s like a Benetton ad, about to get dirty. And why are they all looking down at the blond guy’s crotch? I feel like I’m missing out on something wonderful. Kittens, probably.

Actually, we’re more like a chubby version of this, without the Sex and the City drinks, fashionable clothing, and rich mahogany…

And we’ve got a romantic song….

Click here to view the embedded video.

Yes, technically, it’s about abortion. What of it? Abortions can be romantic, you know. Besides, 90′s music could euphemize anything!

Now (well, not NOW now, but at the end of the year), we’ve got wedding bells. Wait, does the Justice of the Peace have wedding bells? Maybe wedding car horns? Wedding typewriters?

And, because we are the kind of people who can’t make up our minds about shit we love and respect you all so much, we are letting you pick the ring.

How excited are you?

Well, don’t get too excited, we’ve already narrowed it down to two.

First, a little about us. He’s a brainiac whose style is sweat pants (This term infuriates him so. OBVIOUSLY they are track pants, Jennifer!) and quirky tees, while I’m a loudmouthed cut-up whose style is fat Punky Brewster, slutted up with some fat Katy Perry. We are two grownass people on a budget, who would prefer something that doesn’t look traditional and does look like a piece you’d get at an estate sale. Basically, a ring that your crazy, hoardy Aunt Katherine might have worn before she went to meet her maker by being crushed under every US Weekly ever published (Since 1977! Stars, they’re just like US!) and having her toes nibbled off by her cats.

So, without further ado, SPARKLES!

Choice #1 is a lovely little number in pink gold with a heart-shaped morganite (pinkish-peachish stone, in the same family as aquamarines and emeralds), an attractive leaf design, and tiny diamonds.

Pros: Pink! Looks like a princess ring. Can be worn with a wedding band, should we decide to go that route.

Choice #2 is a fetching creation in white gold with aquamarine (they’re brothers!) and black diamonds.

Pros: Looks old timey. One scientific theory (What? Will there be a quiz?) is that black diamonds were created by meteorite impact so, you know, SPACEY!

Now, for the democracy:

So, come on, relative strangers, PICK MY RING!